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diff --git a/old/69217-h/69217-h.htm b/old/69217-h/69217-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index d305dec..0000000 --- a/old/69217-h/69217-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,4953 +0,0 @@ -<!DOCTYPE html> -<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> -<head> - <meta charset="UTF-8"> - <title> - The Hampstead Mystery, by Florence Marryat—A Project Gutenberg eBook - </title> - <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> - <style> /* <![CDATA[ */ - -body { - margin-left: 10%; - margin-right: 10%; -} - - h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { - text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ - clear: both; -} - -p { - margin-top: .51em; - text-align: justify; - margin-bottom: .49em; - text-indent: 1em; -} - -.p2 {margin-top: 2em;} -.p4 {margin-top: 4em;} - -hr { - width: 33%; - margin-top: 2em; - margin-bottom: 2em; - margin-left: 33.5%; - margin-right: 33.5%; - clear: both; -} - -hr.tb {width: 45%; margin-left: 27.5%; margin-right: 27.5%;} -hr.chap {width: 65%; margin-left: 17.5%; margin-right: 17.5%;} -@media print { hr.chap {display: none; visibility: hidden;} } - -hr.r5 {width: 5%; margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 47.5%; margin-right: 47.5%;} - -div.chapter {page-break-before: always;} -h2.nobreak {page-break-before: avoid;} - -table { - margin-left: auto; - margin-right: auto; -} -table.autotable { border-collapse: collapse; width: 60%;} -table.autotable td, -table.autotable th { padding: 4px; } -.x-ebookmaker table {width: 95%;} - -.tdr {text-align: right;} -.page {width: 3em; vertical-align: top;} - -.pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ - /* visibility: hidden; */ - position: absolute; - left: 92%; - font-size: smaller; - text-align: right; - font-style: normal; - font-weight: normal; - font-variant: normal; - text-indent: 0; -} - -.blockquot { - margin-left: 5%; - margin-right: 5%; -} - - -.center {text-align: center; text-indent: 0em;} - -.right {text-align: right; text-indent: 0em;} - -.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} - -/* Transcriber's notes */ -.transnote {background-color: #E6E6FA; - color: black; - font-size:smaller; - padding:0.5em; - margin-bottom:5em; - font-family:sans-serif, serif; } - -.xbig {font-size: 2em;} -.big {font-size: 1.2em;} -.small {font-size: 0.8em;} - -abbr[title] { - text-decoration: none; -} - - /* ]]> */ </style> -</head> -<body> -<p style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Hampstead mystery, Volume 2 (of 3), by Florence Marryat</p> -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The Hampstead mystery, Volume 2 (of 3)</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Florence Marryat</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: October 23, 2022 [eBook #69217]</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>Produced by: Emmanuel Ackerman and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)</p> -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY, VOLUME 2 (OF 3) ***</div> - - - -<h1>THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY.</h1> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> - - -<p class="center xbig"><i>The Hampstead Mystery.</i></p> -<p class="center big">A Novel.</p> -<p class="center p4"><span class="small">BY</span><br> -<span class="big">FLORENCE MARRYAT,</span><br> -<br> -<span class="small">AUTHOR OF ‘LOVE’S CONFLICT,’ ‘VÉRONIQUE,’ ‘MY OWN CHILD,’ ‘MY SISTER THE ACTRESS,’ ‘HOW LIKE A WOMAN,’ ‘PARSON JONES,’ ETC., ETC.</span></p> -<p class="center p4"><i>IN THREE VOLUMES.</i><br> -VOL. II.</p> -<p class="center p4">LONDON: -<br> -<span class="big">F. V. WHITE & CO.,<br> -14 BEDFORD STREET, STRAND, W.C.</span></p> -<hr class="r5"> -<p class="center">1894. -</p> - -</div> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CONTENTS"><i>CONTENTS.</i></h2> -</div> -<hr class="r5"> - -<table class="autotable"> -<tr><th></th><th class="tdr">PAGE</th></tr> -<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I.,</a></td><td class="tdr page"><a href="#Page_1">1</a></td></tr> -<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II.,</a></td><td class="tdr page"><a href="#Page_24">24</a></td></tr> -<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III.,</a></td><td class="tdr page"><a href="#Page_48">48</a></td></tr> -<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV.,</a></td><td class="tdr page"><a href="#Page_76">76</a></td></tr> -<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V.,</a></td><td class="tdr page"><a href="#Page_96">96</a></td></tr> -<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_VI">CHAPTER VI.,</a></td><td class="tdr page"><a href="#Page_123">123</a></td></tr> -<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_VII">CHAPTER VII.,</a></td><td class="tdr page"><a href="#Page_150">150</a></td></tr> -<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">CHAPTER VIII.,</a></td><td class="tdr page"><a href="#Page_172">172</a></td></tr> -<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_IX">CHAPTER IX.,</a></td><td class="tdr page"><a href="#Page_199">199</a></td></tr> -<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_X">CHAPTER X.,</a></td><td class="tdr page"><a href="#Page_219">219</a></td></tr> -</table> - - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="center xbig"> -THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</span></p> - - - -</div> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="center xbig"> -<i>The Hampstead Mystery.</i></p> - -<hr class="r5"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I.</h2> -</div> - - -<p>In a few seconds the door opened again, to admit Frederick Walcheren, -leaning on the arm of his cousin, Philip. At first the jury wished the -latter to withdraw, but he refused to do so.</p> - -<p>‘Is it not sufficient,’ he cried, ‘for you to look at this unfortunate -man, to see what he is suffering, and that he is incapable of -confronting you alone? I refuse to leave him; if you insist upon it, -we will both withdraw. This is a court of inquiry, not of justice; how -dare you<span class="pagenum" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</span> treat this gentleman as if he were a criminal?’</p> - -<p>‘I am not aware that the jury were doing so, Mr Walcheren,’ retorted -Mr Procter. ‘However, as he seems ill, and you insist upon remaining -by his side, let it be so. It is not, however, the usual thing for a -witness to be examined in the presence of another person.’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t care if it is the custom or not,’ replied Philip firmly. ‘You -may commit me for contempt of court, if you like, but my cousin is too -ill to stand by himself, and I refuse to leave him.’</p> - -<p>‘Very well, sir, very well!’ replied the coroner tartly, ‘if Mr -Frederick Walcheren answers the questions put to him, nothing more will -be said about it.’</p> - -<p>Frederick did indeed look more like a criminal than anything else. His -dark hair, which he wore rather long for the general fashion, was dull -and damp with the sweat which agony had forced from him. His features -were pinched and his eyes sunk, whilst his clear olive complexion<span class="pagenum" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</span> had -assumed a yellow, waxen hue. The whole man seemed to have collapsed -under the force of his grief. He did not raise his eyes to the faces of -his inquisitors, but sat leaning back in his chair, with his gaze fixed -on the ground, and his hands clasped together between his knees.</p> - -<p>‘Rouse yourself, if you please, sir,’ commenced the coroner, ‘and let -us have as succinct an account as you can of all you know concerning -this distressing affair. Do you recognise the deceased, Jane Emily -Walcheren, as your late wife?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes!’ answered Frederick in a low voice.</p> - -<p>‘Speak up, if you please! The jury cannot hear your replies. When did -you see the deceased lady last?’</p> - -<p>‘On Saturday morning.’</p> - -<p>‘Well, well, what more?’ cried Mr Procter, impatiently; ‘tell us all -about it. Where did you see her, and when did you part with her, and -what did you do in the interim? We want the whole story, and can’t go -dragging it from you piecemeal.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</span></p> - -<p>‘Say all you know, Frederick,’ whispered Philip, ‘it will be so much -the sooner over and done with.’</p> - -<p>The unhappy young man made a visible effort, and said,—</p> - -<p>‘I saw her last alive on Saturday morning at the Castle Warden Hotel -at about half-past eleven or twelve o’clock. We had just finished -breakfast, and I left her to have a swim. I never saw her again until I -came—here.’</p> - -<p>‘How long were you away from the hotel?’</p> - -<p>‘I did not return till nearly three. That hour was fixed for our -luncheon.’</p> - -<p>‘Three hours is a long time to be taking a swim. What were you doing -for the rest of the time?’</p> - -<p>‘I was occupied in the water, all, or nearly, all the time,’ replied -Frederick.</p> - -<p>But Mr Procter, who had never indulged in a bath but once in his life, -and that was the day before his wedding, when he caught such a cold -that he had never ventured into the water since, was not<span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</span> to be taken -in by so transparent an untruth.</p> - -<p>‘In the water for three hours, sir! Do you expect the jury to believe -that?’</p> - -<p>‘I was in the sea for the best part of the time, swimming and doing -feats of skill. Some part of it must be allowed for dressing and -undressing myself. But the day was fine, and I did not care to come out -sooner than was necessary.’</p> - -<p>‘I believe I am right, Mr Walcheren, in saying that you were only -married to the deceased on the Friday previous?’</p> - -<p>‘That is the case.’</p> - -<p>‘Is it usual for a bridegroom to leave his bride alone for three hours -the day after their wedding in order that he may have a swim?’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t know,’ said Frederick, wearily; ‘but I did.’</p> - -<p>‘Well, when you came back at three o’clock you found your wife was -gone?’</p> - -<p>‘I did.’</p> - -<p>‘Was it not rather strange, considering that you had gone to the beach, -that she<span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</span> did not go to the beach also, in order to find you?’</p> - -<p>‘At first I thought she must have done so, but I searched the beach and -the town, and, finally, the cliffs, without finding any trace of her.’</p> - -<p>‘And then you returned to the hotel! At what time might that have been?’</p> - -<p>‘I am not sure. At about five, or half-past, I think.’</p> - -<p>‘With the exception, then, of a run home for a few minutes, you were -absent from the Castle Warden from half-past eleven to half-past -five—six hours? And all that time you were bathing or looking for your -wife?’</p> - -<p>‘I have already told you so,’ answered Frederick.</p> - -<p>‘Who saw you during that time, Mr Walcheren? What witnesses can you -bring forward to testify that it was spent as you tell us?’</p> - -<p>‘Witnesses!’ reiterated Frederick, with a stare. ‘How can I bring -witnesses from a place where I am utterly unknown? I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</span> have never been -in Dover to stay a night before now. Nobody in the town knows me. I -have not spoken to an individual, excepting a young man who accosted -me whilst swimming, and a girl whom I asked if she had seen—had -seen—my—my—wife.’</p> - -<p>‘That is unfortunate,’ remarked the coroner, drily. ‘Now, Mr Walcheren, -am I right in supposing that your marriage was not conducted very -regularly—that it was undertaken, in fact, entirely against, and in -opposition to, the wishes of the parents of the deceased?’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t know what the devil business that is of yours!’ exclaimed -Frederick, roused from his lethargic condition by the impertinence of -the question.</p> - -<p>‘Everything is my business, sir, in the pursuit of my duty, and, if you -address me again in that manner, I shall commit you for contempt of -court. I understand, further, that not only was your marriage with the -deceased an irregular one, but that you took a false oath in order to -procure a licence for it, by stating the deceased<span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</span> to be of age, when -she wanted a year of that time.’</p> - -<p>‘I did, if you will have it so!’ said the young man, sullenly.</p> - -<p>‘Are you aware, Mr Walcheren, that in consequence of your behaviour in -the matter, your father-in-law, Mr Crampton, altered his will and cut -his daughter’s name out of it?’</p> - -<p>‘Of course I knew it.’</p> - -<p>‘Who told you of it?’</p> - -<p>‘I forget. My wife, I suppose!’</p> - -<p>‘Mr Crampton never informed you of the fact himself?’</p> - -<p>‘Not that I remember.’</p> - -<p>‘You did not hear of it, in fact, until after your unfortunate marriage -had taken place beyond recall. Can you deny it, sir?’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t know if I did or did not. I cannot remember. My head is so -dazed by the events that have taken place since that I cannot trust my -memory in anything.’</p> - -<p>‘Perhaps I can jog it for you. You took a false oath in order to enable -you to marry the deceased, whom you believed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</span> to be an heiress, and it -was not until you had brought her down here that you found out your -mistake. Your wife told you of the fact, and you probably had a few -words on the matter, before you left her so suddenly in the hotel.’</p> - -<p>‘It’s a lie!’ cried Frederick vehemently, as he sprang up from his -chair, an action which caused the coroner to dodge behind two of the -jury in case his witness might prove dangerous. ‘It’s a lie, I tell -you, we never had a word of misunderstanding between us, and if you -dare to mention her in that way to me again, I will knock your dirty -head against the wall for you.’</p> - -<p>He would have sprung at the coroner in reality, if his cousin had not -restrained him.</p> - -<p>‘Frederick! Frederick! for <em>her</em> sake, restrain yourself. You -would not mix up her name or memory with a low row.’</p> - -<p>‘Gentlemen of the jury!’ exclaimed the coroner, ‘another such insult on -the part of that witness and I will put him in arrest for assault. You -have heard him threaten me. The whole case is one of suspicion, in my<span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</span> -opinion. This man runs away with a lady under age, whom he believes to -be an heiress, and the very day he finds out his mistake she is found -thrown over the cliffs, under every appearance of there having been -foul play. The witness would have us believe that he, a bridegroom not -two days married, left his young wife for six mortal hours to indulge -in swimming—that when she was missed, he made every effort to find -her, that he even went along the cliffs where she lay dead, and never -saw her body.’</p> - -<p>‘But the body lay <em>under</em> the cliffs,’ interposed a juror; ‘and -the gentleman walked along them. He couldn’t have found her unless he -had descended to the beach.’</p> - -<p>‘That’s right, Mr Colly,’ said Procter, spitefully; ‘always interrupt -at the most important moments. The witness has eyes in his head. I -suppose he could have looked over—if he had been very energetic in his -search he <em>would</em> have looked over. And what was he doing all that -time?<span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</span> And is it likely the deceased would have ascended the cliffs by -herself, in a place where she had never been before. You have heard the -witness of the landlord and waiters of the hotel, to the effect that -they never saw the deceased leave the hotel after her husband—that -she must have been gone almost as long as he was, for another witness, -Mr Hindes, called twice with the view of seeing her, and each time -she was out. Now, where was she all that time, if she were not, as is -most probable, with her husband? Dr M’Coll gave us his opinion that -the deceased might have been thrown over the cliffs, or she might have -fallen over, or she might have thrown herself over on purpose. Now, -it seems to me highly improbable that a young woman of twenty should -tumble over such a place by mistake—still less that she should have -committed suicide the very day after her marriage; but words lead to -quarrels, gentlemen, and quarrels lead to pushing sometimes, and a -hasty push is a very dangerous thing, you know,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</span> when near a steep -cliff. I don’t wish to bias your decision in this matter in any degree. -If you find the deceased came by her death by misadventure you will -give your verdict to that effect, but if you think the circumstances -are such as to demand a stricter inquiry, you will say so. I leave the -case in your hands now, and I feel sure you will do it justice!’</p> - -<p>The jury shambled out of the room, and Frederick looked up into his -cousin’s face with open eyes that were half mystified and half alarmed.</p> - -<p>‘Philip! what does that man mean? He cannot—no! it would be too -gross—too impossible!—he cannot mean us to understand that he -suspects me—<em>me</em> of having had any hand in this misfortune?’</p> - -<p>‘Hush! Fred; hush!’ replied Philip, laying his hand soothingly on the -other’s arm; ‘never mind what he says or thinks. He is a cad—any one -can see that—in mind as well as breeding. Let the brute think what he -likes. He cannot make others agree with him, and all your friends will<span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</span> -know that you are innocent in the matter as far as the poor girl’s -death is concerned.’</p> - -<p>‘But to be suspected, and by a creature like that—I, who would have -given my worthless life for hers a thousand times over. My God! it is -hard!’</p> - -<p>Philip squeezed his hand.</p> - -<p>‘I know it! It is part of the trial, but it will soon be over now! Here -are the jury! They have not been long in coming to a decision.’</p> - -<p>‘Well, gentlemen, and what is your verdict?’ demanded Mr Procter, with -an unctuous smack of his lips, as if he longed to hear them say they -considered that there had been foul play in the matter.</p> - -<p>‘Our verdict, sir,’ replied the spokesman; ‘is that the deceased came -by her death from a fall over the cliffs, but whether she was thrown -over or fell over by accident there is not sufficient evidence to show!’</p> - -<p>‘It is unsatisfactory that your verdict should be undecided,’ said the -coroner; ‘had you not better reconsider it?’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</span></p> - -<p>‘We are quite unanimous on the subject, sir; and we would like to add -a rider to the effect that some sort of fence should be put along the -edge of the cliffs to prevent accidents in future.’</p> - -<p>‘Very well, if you are agreed, it is no use detaining you any longer,’ -said Procter, with an aggrieved air, for he had quite made up his own -mind that Frederick Walcheren had killed his wife; ‘you have only to -sign the papers and end the proceedings.’</p> - -<p>As soon as they were set at liberty, Philip hurried his cousin out of -the room, for Frederick was in that reckless condition that he dreaded -what he might say or do to the coroner. Here they found that the body -of poor Jenny had already been moved to an upper chamber by the orders -of Mr Crampton, and was being prepared by women’s hands for its last -receptacle. That she should have been touched without his authority -made her husband furious.</p> - -<p>‘Who has dared to do this?’ he exclaimed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</span> wrathfully, as he glared at -Mr Crampton and Henry Hindes.</p> - -<p>‘<em>I</em> have dared, sir,’ replied the father, determinedly. ‘You -stole my living daughter from me, but you shall not have her now -that she is dead! I have ordered, or rather my kind friend Hindes -here has ordered, every preparation to be made for the conveyance of -her precious remains to Hampstead, where I shall take her by train -to-morrow, and there our connection ends. You have done me all the -injury in your power, and I never wish to see your face again, either -in this world or the next.’</p> - -<p>‘But you shall not have her, I say,’ cried Frederick in a fury, ‘she -was my wife, and I defy you to take her from me, dead or alive! I shall -take her myself to my brother’s place in Northampton and see her laid -in the family vault of the Walcherens’. That is the only place where my -wife shall lie.’</p> - -<p>‘She was <em>not</em> your wife,’ exclaimed the old man; ‘you married her -under false<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</span> pretences, and if you attempt to cross me in my purpose -I will appeal to the law to see me righted, and give me back all that -your villainy has left me of my child.’</p> - -<p>‘By Heaven you sha’n’t!’ said the younger man, as he made a rush -forward as if he would have seized Mr Crampton by the throat; ‘if you -persist in your intention I will fight you inch by inch, old man as you -are, for the possession of her remains.’</p> - -<p>‘Frederick!’ interposed Philip, restraining him, ‘think what you are -saying and doing. Is such wrangling seemly in the very presence of the -dead? You know what this gentleman says is the truth. You <em>did</em> -rob him of his daughter, and by a fraud. In strictest justice, -therefore, she belongs to him now, as she did whilst alive. But even -were it not so, cannot you make up your mind to yield your wishes to -his? Think of all he has lost, of how little he has remaining, and -don’t deny him this sad consolation of laying his daughter to rest -where he can see her<span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</span> grave. It is really of so little consequence -when you come to think of it! And if it is a sacrifice on your part, -cannot you make it as a little expiation for what has gone before, an -atonement which Heaven may accept for the wrong you did them both. Be -reasonable, Fred! After to-day neither you nor her father will ever see -her in this world again. Why deny him the sorry comfort of taking her -body home for her poor mother to weep over? Come, my dear fellow, yield -this little point gracefully. I fancy your dear young wife, could we -ask her, would rather choose to lie at Hampstead amongst the flowers -than in our musty old vault at Northampton, where you never go.’</p> - -<p>Frederick gave a tremendous gulp.</p> - -<p>‘Perhaps so,’ he answered, ‘perhaps so.’ Then to Mr Crampton, ‘Take -her, sir, then, take my angel back to her own people, but let me bid -her a last farewell before she is carried away from me.’</p> - -<p>‘Certainly, certainly,’ said Mr Crampton, shamed out of his brawling -manner by the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</span> other’s submission, ‘and I thank you for yielding the -point, but I feel it is my right—the only right, unfortunately, which -you have left me.’</p> - -<p>Philip drew Frederick upstairs. He felt the less these two men met in -the future the better. The room where Jenny now lay was already set -to rights, and she was stretched upon the bed, clad in fair, fresh -raiment, with her hands crossed meekly on her breast. She looked -very different, poor child, from the saucy, merry, wilful girl who -had run away with her lover, without giving a single thought to the -consequences. The women had smoothed her hair upon her forehead, her -eyes were sunk, her mouth pathetically closed and rigid. The little -perfect nose, her lover had so much admired, was drawn and pinched -almost out of all likeness to itself, and the inside of the hands were -turning purple. Her unhappy husband prostrated himself with a cry of -anguish by the side of the bed, and Philip withdrew and left him for -a little while, whilst he made<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</span> arrangements for their departure for -London. He felt that Frederick could have no possible desire to remain -in Dover when Jenny’s body had been removed thence, and that the sooner -he left it the better.</p> - -<p>Mr Crampton and Henry Hindes had decided to remain there till the -following day, when the sad preparations for their return to Hampstead -would be completed, and Philip Walcheren was glad to see them leave the -‘Bottle and Spurs’ for a hotel, where they had arranged to pass the -night. He accompanied them to the town, and, when the coast was clear, -he secured a close carriage and returned to the public-house for his -unfortunate cousin.</p> - -<p>‘Come, dear Frederick,’ he said, as he re-entered the room where the -body lay; ‘let me take you away from here. I have settled your bill at -the Castle Warden, and your portmanteau is waiting us at the station. -The—the other things there, I have arranged with Mr Crampton to take -away. It is best that we should return to London at once.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</span></p> - -<p>‘And is this the last—last time that I shall ever see her?’ asked -Frederick, in a tone of unutterable woe.</p> - -<p>‘On this earth, my dear cousin, yes,’ replied Philip, ‘and it is just -as well. The sight can only increase your misery. In a very short time -the undertakers will be here to do their work. Why not spare yourself -the extra pain of watching them. And after they are gone, what will -there be for you to gaze upon? A box of wood! Be a man, my dear fellow, -and say good-bye to her.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! Philip, Philip, if you only knew what that word costs me. It is -like dragging my very entrails out to pronounce it.’</p> - -<p>‘I do know it, but it must be done. Better now than before strangers.’</p> - -<p>‘Good-bye, good-bye, my angel,’ cried the young man, as he kissed -the corpse from head to feet. ‘Don’t forget your wretched husband in -the land you have gone to, but remember he has but one wish left on -earth—to join you there. Good-bye, my only love! No other woman can<span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</span> -ever take your place with me. I dedicate the rest of my unhappy life to -your sweet memory. Oh, Philip, how can I tear myself away from her!’</p> - -<p>‘You have forgotten to take this, Frederick,’ said his cousin, drawing -off poor Jenny’s fatal wedding-ring and holding it out to him. ‘It is -yours by right to keep for her till you meet again.’</p> - -<p>‘Sacred and inviolate!’ exclaimed Frederick, as he pressed the pledge -of their married love to his lips. ‘My God, hear me swear that this -ring shall keep me faithful to my darling’s memory for ever, that with -it I pledge myself to fidelity and virtue as long as my life may last.’</p> - -<p>‘And God has heard the oath,’ said Philip, solemnly. ‘Come, Frederick, -the carriage is waiting at the door. Do not prolong this trying scene -any more.’</p> - -<p>‘Shall I see anybody?’ asked his cousin in a fearful manner, as they -gained the outside of the door at last; ‘shall we encounter either -of those men again, Crampton or Hindes, I mean, or those<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</span> dreadful -creatures who wanted to accuse me—My God, Philip,’ he continued, -stopping short, ‘of what was it they wanted to accuse me?’</p> - -<p>‘Of nothing, nothing, Frederick,’ replied Philip, soothingly, ‘you must -not think of it again. It is the business of a jury to make everything -look as black as possible, and they never think of the pain they may -inflict by their unworthy suspicions. Try and forget it, with all the -other incidents of this most trying day. You will meet no one, unless -it be the people of the house. You may take my word for that! Just put -yourself in my hands and I will manage everything for us both.’</p> - -<p>Frederick was only too thankful to be relieved of all responsibility, -for he was utterly worn-out with grief, and incapable of thinking or -acting for himself, so he clung to the arm of his cousin, who hurried -him into the carriage and off to the railway station before he hardly -knew where they were going. But as they<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</span> neared London, he roused -himself sufficiently to ask their destination.</p> - -<p>‘I intend to take you to my house first,’ replied Philip, cheerfully, -‘for you are not fit in your present condition to look after yourself, -nor would I allow you to go back alone to your flat in Nevern Mansions. -In our house you shall have a couple of rooms to yourself, and Marion -will take care that you are undisturbed. When you are better, you shall -decide what to do. At present you must resign yourself into my hands.’</p> - -<p>Frederick pressed his cousin’s hand and murmured ‘Thank you,’ without -making the slightest objection to the plan.</p> - -<p>He was, indeed, too intensely miserable and worn-out to care about -anything, and when their journey came to an end, he allowed Philip to -do with him exactly as he chose.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II.</h2> -</div> - - -<p>A telegraphic message, early in the day, had told Mrs Walcheren the -time to expect them, and warned her to keep herself and the children -out of the way, so that, when the travellers arrived in Kensington -Gardens Square, they encountered no one but the servant who opened the -door to them, and Frederick was conveyed to his apartments, without -meeting another soul. Two rooms, adjoining one another, had been -prepared for his reception, and, as he cast himself languidly upon a -couch, he stretched out his hand to his cousin.</p> - -<p>‘What you have done for me yesterday and to-day, Philip, I shall never -forget, and can never repay. I think<span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</span> you have saved my reason. God -bless you for it!’</p> - -<p>‘To hear you say that, my dear Frederick, is more than sufficient to -repay me for any trouble I may have taken on your behalf. But now, will -you not try to take a little refreshment and rest? Have a warm bath! It -is ready for you in the next room.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes! I should like to have a bath,’ said Frederick, with a distorted -smile; ‘although that beast Procter did seem to imagine it was -impossible that I should care to go into the water. Water is about the -only luxury I could never dispense with. And I feel so dirty,’ with a -heavy sigh.</p> - -<p>‘All right, then, go at once,’ replied his cousin; ‘everything is -prepared for you, and don’t be afraid of meeting anybody. You are as -much alone on this floor as if you were in your own flat. No one will -come near you unless you ring, and for to-night I shall wait on you -myself.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</span></p> - -<p>‘How good you are to me!’ said Frederick, as he went into the bathroom.</p> - -<p>When he came out again, with the taint of death, as it were, washed -off him, he found a tray awaiting him, with a basin of strong soup, -and a decanter of sherry, and Philip insisted upon his taking some -refreshment before he dressed himself anew. His portmanteau had been -unstrapped, and a fresh suit of grey tweed laid out for him to put -on, but, unfortunately, it was the one which he had worn on Saturday -morning, and the sight of it made him break down weakly again, as -people will after having sustained a prolonged nervous strain.</p> - -<p>‘My darling! my darling!’ he sobbed, ‘how little I thought, when I -left you on that fatal morning, that I should never see you again, -except—except—’</p> - -<p>‘Come, Frederick, take your soup and drink a glass of sherry. You -needn’t be afraid of two or three glasses, for it is the oldest in my -cellar, and you know I am<span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</span> rather a connoisseur in wine. Never mind -dressing yourself again; there is no occasion. Your dressing-gown will -be far more suitable, and then you can lie down comfortably on the -sofa. You must be sadly in want of rest.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, I do feel rather tired,’ replied Frederick, as he drank several -glasses of the generous wine, and lay down as his cousin directed him; -‘and I almost think that I could sleep a little. I suppose one does go -on sleeping and eating as long as one lives, even if one <em>has</em> -lost everything one cared for in the world,’ he added, with a wintry -smile.</p> - -<p>‘Well, then I will leave you for a little while, and see my wife and -children,’ said Philip, taking no notice of his remark. ‘Try and -compose yourself. Rest will do you more good than anything else; and I -will be with you again in an hour, sooner if you care to have me, and -will ring your bell.’</p> - -<p>‘No, no! go to Marion,’ said Frederick, in a drowsy voice. ‘I have been -trouble<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</span> enough to you already.’ And Philip, seeing that he was really -inclined to rest, left him to himself.</p> - -<p>Of course his wife had much to hear, and he to tell, of the unhappy -scenes he had passed through, and an hour slipped away before he -went up to his cousin’s room again. He opened the door softly and -peeped in. Frederick was still lying on the couch in an attitude of -extreme exhaustion. He was breathing heavily, and catching his breath -in his sleep, sobbingly, as children do; whilst, ever and anon, a -half-muttered word, showed how grief pursued him, even in his dreams. -Philip watched him for a few moments and then withdrew, and left him to -his slumbers. Heavy, as he knew the awakening must be, Frederick needed -strength above all other things, in order to bear what lay before him. -Physically he had never been a very strong man, and his dissipated life -had further tended to undermine his constitution, so that his cousin -had feared for the effect of so violent a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</span> grief upon his health. When -he descended to his family again he found the party augmented by the -arrival of Father Tasker, who had come to hear what news Marion had -received from Dover. Philip welcomed him warmly.</p> - -<p>‘You have come in the very nick of time,’ he exclaimed. ‘But I felt -your good angel would direct your footsteps hither. Frederick is far -more resigned than I hoped to see him, but then, he is so exhausted at -the present moment that one can hardly judge. I left him asleep on the -sofa in his room. It is the first time he has closed his eyes since -this terrible calamity overtook him—’</p> - -<p>‘Say, rather, my son, since this great blessing was vouchsafed him, -for I fully believe that this visitation, dreadful as it appears at -first sight, is simply the voice of God calling to His unhappy child to -repent and be saved.’</p> - -<p>‘I believe you are right, father,’ said Philip. ‘For his sorrow has -already made a great change in Frederick. He swore<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</span> before me, on his -dead wife’s wedding-ring, to pledge himself to virtue and fidelity for -the rest of his life. I am sure he regards her death as a species of -punishment for his former sins.’</p> - -<p>‘May he continue to do so,’ replied the priest. ‘But such feelings are -but too often evanescent. If we are to take advantage of this softening -on his part, Philip, it must be while his memory is still fresh—his -feelings yet lacerated. We must strike whilst the iron is hot, or -with time and forgetfulness his heart may harden, as did the heart of -Pharaoh, and this salutary lesson be lost.’</p> - -<p>‘I do not think his sorrow for her loss will soon pass, father. I never -remember to have seen Frederick so prostrated with grief before. I -believe this poor girl must have been, as he says, the one love of his -life.’</p> - -<p>‘To the exclusion of the Church and his religious duties, my son. Yes, -perhaps so, but those are the very loves that the Lord is jealous -of—that He will not<span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</span> permit, and so cuts off, in order that we may -find our joy in Him alone.’</p> - -<p>‘Stay to dinner with us, father,’ said Philip eagerly. ‘Poor Frederick -may be glad to see you, later on, and you can direct his thoughts to -these great truths. Marion, my dear, the father will stay with us, I -know. Let the servants know that he will do so.’</p> - -<p>Philip peeped once more into his cousin’s apartments before he -descended to the dining-room, only to find him still sleeping, though -brokenly, and it was not until dinner was concluded, that he ventured -upstairs again. But then his worst fears were realised. Frederick had -woke up with strength renewed by his temporary relief, to the full -horror of his bereaved position. His cousin found him prostrated on the -couch in an agony of suffering, during which he was calling upon the -Almighty to put an end to his existence, or to give him back that of -which He had so cruelly robbed him.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</span></p> - -<p>‘Frederick! this is blasphemy!’ cried Philip in a tone of horror, -‘God’s will is not to be altered by man’s ravings. Your wife is in -His keeping. Has that thought no power to calm your transports? Would -you have her back again, even if you could, in this world of pain and -disappointment?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, I would, I would!’ returned the young man, ‘a thousand times -over. Do you suppose that my darling can enjoy even heaven without me, -whom she loved so tenderly? No, no! She is weeping for me, as I weep -for her. You told me yourself that you did not believe that she was -happy. Oh, my love—my love, would God I might have died for you, or -with you.’</p> - -<p>‘Frederick, Father Tasker is below. Would you like him to come up and -speak to you? He can make the reason of such things clearer to you than -I can.’</p> - -<p>‘Father Tasker!’ exclaimed Frederick, ‘No. He will only talk to me of -submission and obedience to God’s will, and make me more miserable. I -<em>can’t</em> submit; it’s no use telling me to do so, and I can’t see<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</span> -God’s love in the matter, either. I can only see hard-heartedness and -cruelty, and utter indifference to my trouble. I have only one wish -left—to die too, and join my darling, wherever she may be!’</p> - -<p>‘If you were sure of joining her, certainly that would be the easiest -plan out of it all. But, Frederick, Father Tasker will tell you the -best way—the only way—by which you can hope to join your wife when -your time comes. Believe me, he has no intention or desire to wound you -by any allusion to your trouble, unless you desire it. He has come to -see you only as a friend who deeply sympathises with your pain.’</p> - -<p>‘Let him come up, then,’ replied Frederick in a muffled voice, and in -another minute the priest entered the room, whilst Philip discreetly -remained downstairs. Father Tasker went up to the couch where the -stricken man still lay, and kindly laid his hand on his.</p> - -<p>‘God bless you, my son, and comfort you,’ he said.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</span></p> - -<p>‘How can God comfort me?’ demanded Frederick. ‘He will not give me my -lost wife back again.’</p> - -<p>‘Not in this world; but is this world all we live for? At the best we -are here but for a few short years, whilst the next will last for all -eternity. Had you the choice of fifty years spent with your late wife, -Frederick, or fifty thousand, which would you prefer?’</p> - -<p>‘How can you ask me, when you know she was the life of my life! Father, -you have heard so much of my loose style of living, that you may think -my love for her was like the rest, but it was no more to be compared to -them than light to darkness. I loved her—I loved her—all the other -feelings I have ever experienced for women look like horrible nightmare -dreams, or flimsy shadows, beside the strong, deep passion she evoked -in me. I should have become a better man for her sake. Perhaps even -religious, like Philip,—who knows? The possession of her—the -knowledge of her love for me—made<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</span> me feel so grateful, that I might -have ended by loving God in very gratitude for what He had given me in -her. And now—now, it is all over.’</p> - -<p>‘It is not all over, my son. It has but just begun.’</p> - -<p>Frederick raised his swollen features to gaze with astonishment in the -priest’s face.</p> - -<p>‘I mean what I say! Love cannot die! Your wife is gone from your mortal -gaze, but she still exists and her love exists with her. And now is the -time for you to show the world if you did love her or not. I am not -questioning your passion for her earthly body. I understand she was -very beautiful, and such things take a great hold on men’s fancies. But -her body is no longer here for you to lavish your affection upon. What -are you going to do for her soul?’</p> - -<p>‘Were I a good man, I would pray for it; but who would hear the prayers -of such a sinner as I am? Besides, my darling was infinitely purer and -better<span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</span> than myself! She can have no need of my prayers.’</p> - -<p>‘That is to say, then, that she was not mortal, for all mortals have -need of each other’s help. Besides, if she had no need of your prayers, -have you none of your own?’</p> - -<p>‘Ah! father, you touch me on the raw there. I have felt, even since I -comprehended what the awful news they brought me meant, as if it were -a judgment upon me for my sins—as if the Lord had taken my innocent -darling in His exceeding wrath at my past wickedness.’</p> - -<p>‘In His love, not His wrath,’ interposed the priest gently; but -Frederick did not heed him.</p> - -<p>‘Ever since I lost her,’ he went on, with the tears streaming down his -cheeks, ‘I have done nothing but think of Rhoda Berry, and that girl -down at Southampton, and other certain black marks on my unhappy life. -But is God so hard as that? Can He have stricken down my angel by so -cruel a death, just as she was happy with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</span> me, because I have made a -beast of myself? Why her, and not me? I was the sinner. I should have -been the sufferer.’</p> - -<p>‘And you are suffering greatly, my son; but it is a suffering which may -result in exceeding joy. Why did the Almighty not take you, instead -of your wife—the girl whom you led to fly in the face of her parents -and to err greatly on that account. I think I can tell you. He was too -gracious to cut you off in the midst of your sins, without giving you -a chance of reparation, and, by taking her instead, he has left you -behind to pray for the salvation of her soul. Frederick, that poor -child is even now holding out her pale hands to you, through the gates -of purgatory, and saying, “Husband! it was you who led me astray; it -is to you I look to release me from these purgatorial fires. Show your -great love for me, by dedicating the rest of your life to this pious -purpose, so that, when I have risen, I may join my prayers to yours, -and requite your goodness by praying for you.” This poor girl was not -of our faith; she was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</span> a heretic, so much the more does it behove all -those who loved her to entreat the Blessed Mother of God to use her -interest with her Son in order to gain her salvation. If you love her, -Frederick, as you say you do, now is the time to prove it. Come back to -the Church you have deserted, and spend your future life so as you may -meet your wife again, when your time comes to leave this world.’</p> - -<p>‘You mean,’ said Frederick, ‘that I shall give up my fortune to the -Church, as my godfather intended I should do. Well, if you will use it -in masses for the repose of my poor darling’s soul, you may have it. It -is worth nothing to me now. My life, to all intents and purposes, is -over.’</p> - -<p>‘I do not mean only that,’ replied the priest; ‘I do not think that -the Church would accept your money without yourself. But you must not -forget, Frederick, what was your sainted mother’s wish and aim. She -designed you, her favourite son, for the service of the Church—she -educated you for that purpose, but, as soon as you<span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</span> were left without -her counsel and guidance, you abandoned your studies and elected to go -your own way. But the Church has never given you up. She considers you -still as her child and disciple, and is ready at any time to welcome -you back into her ranks. A very few more months of study would fit you -to pass the necessary examination for ordination as a priest. Is it -no inducement to you to know that, in that capacity, you might offer -the Mass, every time you celebrated it, for the repose of your wife’s -soul—that you would live, as it were, in the presence of God, pleading -for her, and for your eternal re-union? If you really desire her -everlasting salvation—if you long to meet her again, and in a state of -bliss—if you regret your past life and desire to lead a purer one in -the future, you will take it up where you dropped it at your mother’s -death, and fit yourself for eternity.’</p> - -<p>‘I <em>do</em> wish all that you say,’ cried Frederick, whose body was -sorely weakened, and whose mental calibre had never<span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</span> been too strong -(for his love of vicious courses in the past, proved the weakness of -his moral character). ‘I care nothing more for money, or the pleasures -that money bring, and I have but one desire—to be assured of my -darling’s happiness, and that we shall meet again hereafter. Oh! -father, if these things are to be gained by my entering the Church, let -me do so as quickly as I may, for if you do not find me occupation and -distraction, I shall go mad.’</p> - -<p>‘The Holy Church will take care of you, my son,’ said Father Tasker, as -he rose to leave the room. ‘She will envelop you with her arms like a -loving mother, and soothe all your sorrows and your fears to rest upon -her holy breast. And the Blessed Mother of God, who is weeping tear for -tear with you every moment, will rejoice so exceedingly to regain her -lost child, that she will do her utmost to reward you by the salvation -of your wife, whom she will accept as her child too, because of her -great love for you. You could not have chosen a truer means to ensure -the happiness<span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</span> of both. You will live, my son, to call this sad time -the most blessed of all your life.’</p> - -<p>‘But, meantime, I must live without <em>her</em>!’ cried Frederick, -relapsing into a storm of grief.</p> - -<p>‘Not without her,’ replied the priest, ‘but with her, in spirit, -every hour. This is where our blessed faith comforts us exceedingly -over those of less favoured people. They <em>talk</em> of the Communion -of Saints, but <em>act</em> as though the dead, once removed from -our sight, had no more part nor lot with mortal flesh. But we know -that this doctrine is erroneous, else what would become of our many -instances of saints and angels appearing to men after their demise? -The dead, so-called, are not beyond the reach of our prayers and our -tears. They hear us and see us and pray for us. And it is our blessed -privilege to ask their prayers, as in the case of your sainted mother -(who has, doubtless, wearied the throne of God with her entreaties on -your behalf—now about<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</span> to be so mercifully and almost miraculously -answered); or to give them ours, as in the case of your young wife, who -will, in after years, rise up and call you blessed for what you have -done for her, as you have cause to call your dear mother.’</p> - -<p>‘I am hers and the Church’s for evermore,’ exclaimed Frederick, in a -fervour of exaltation, as he stretched forth his hands and clasped -those of the father; ‘only tell me what to do and I will do it!’</p> - -<p>‘Take a day or two to think over the idea, my son, and then, if you are -still of the same mind, I will speak to my old friend, Canon Bulfil, -on the subject, and see if he cannot receive you into his college, -until you are ready to pass for Holy Orders. I am persuaded that a few -months’ study is all you will require to regain what you may have lost.’</p> - -<p>‘And then—and then,’ exclaimed Frederick, with raised eyes and clasped -hands, ‘I shall offer the blessed Mass for the repose of her soul every -day, five and six<span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</span> times a day, if they will let me do so. I shall tell -them that they cannot give me too much work. If it kills me, so much -the better. It will send me all the sooner to her.’</p> - -<p>He remained in this mingled state of despair and hope for many days to -come, and it was whilst in this condition that Philip Walcheren and the -priest took advantage of him, and persuaded him to give himself and his -fortune to the Church. Not that they entertained the slightest idea of -fraud or chicanery in doing so. On the contrary, they honestly rejoiced -in their success, believing that they were securing the salvation of -his soul, and the commendation of their superiors in the faith. They -were both good men in their way, and earnest to promote the cause of -the Catholic Church and their religion.</p> - -<p>We judge our fellow creatures too hardly in this world, on the -supposition that what is good for Tom and Dick, must, necessarily, -be good for Harry. A Protestant can see nothing but idolatry in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</span> the -worship paid by a Catholic to the image of his patron, but he is quite -blind to the fact that, when he exclaims with horror if one stands -on a ginger-bread covered bible in order to increase one’s stature, -he practises the same idolatry in another form. The Catholic regards -the Protestant as a heretic, because he does not bow his head at -the elevation of the Mass; but when the Catholic Church forbids her -children to kneel in prayer with their Protestant brethren, she is as -openly contemptuous of their faith as she believes them to be of hers. -Such extremes are folly, and go far to make one disbelieve in the -uses of religion at all, except as a plea for fighting. Intolerance -has caused more people to forsake the ordinances of their childhood -than anything else, and those who set the faction going and the flame -alight, will have much to answer for, if the day of judgment, which -they foretell, ever comes to pass.</p> - -<p>Both Catholics and Protestants may do many things which appear -intolerant to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</span> outsiders, and yet act in the most perfect faith and -desire to serve God. This was how Philip Walcheren and Father Tasker -acted with regard to Frederick. They wanted to help him save his -soul—they thought they saw a way of doing it—and they brought all -their arguments to bear upon that way.</p> - -<p>And Frederick was as tinder in their hands. His whole mind was absorbed -with the idea that his sins had, in a measure, brought this awful -calamity upon him, and that the loss of Jenny was due to himself alone. -He loathed the thought of his past life with its licentiousness and -folly. He wanted to put it right out of his head—to forget it had -ever been—to lose sight of anything that should remind him of it. The -idea of a cloister and hard study, strange to say, held no horror, -at that moment, for this man of the world, who had lived his life on -race-courses, and behind the scenes of theatres. All he longed for was -oblivion, and he hoped to find it<span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</span> in the exercise of religion. Have -we not all felt so at times, when the hopes of earth were shattered at -our feet, and we could turn nowhere in the world for comfort? It is -then, and especially when death has removed what we loved best from our -sight, that we feel as if we must <em>make</em> the heaven for ourselves, -in which we only half believe.</p> - -<p>That is well enough. It is the cry of the human heart for the love -of God, without which it cannot exist. If it could be followed by a -realisation of the presence of God, the soul would be satisfied and -all life changed. The burdens of earth would roll off our shoulders -as Christian’s bundle rolled off his back in the <i>Pilgrim’s -Progress</i>, and, instead of despairing mortals, reviling our fate and -the Almighty’s ordinances, we should be contented, grateful children, -waiting patiently till our Father saw fit to call us home!</p> - -<p>But the mistake is, to suppose that religious ceremonies, designed of -men,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</span> will heal our wounds, unless God’s balm has dropped upon them -first. Church-going is all very well for those who like it, but it -should never be made a superstition, as so many people make it, since -it was only instituted to do honour to God (which mission it too often -sadly fails in), and God is everywhere ready to be done honour to.</p> - -<p>Yet we are too apt to fly to it in our sorrow, and believe, as -Frederick Walcheren believed, that, by making a great sacrifice of all -his pleasures, and making a great sweep of all his sins at one and the -same time, he would be pleasing God and securing his own happiness.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III.</h2> -</div> - - -<p>Of all the people who suffered, and were destined to suffer, from Jenny -Walcheren’s death, the heart that bled the most has been mentioned -the least, because it bled so silently and unobtrusively. Poor Mrs -Crampton! Who can estimate the depth and length and breadth of a -mother’s love?</p> - -<p>Whilst Mr Crampton had been noisily giving way to his indignation and -suspicions down at Dover, and Frederick Walcheren had been lapped in -despair, and Henry Hindes had been compelled to hide his dastardly -dread under an assumption of friendly concern, she had been bowed -beneath the weight of her sorrow at home. It was so hard to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</span> believe -it. Her Jenny!—whom she had never parted from since she was a little -baby at her breast. She sat passive, silent and incredulous, in her -darkened room, trying to realise that Jenny would never come home -again, except in her coffin. Her husband had wired her to say that he -and Mr Hindes would return on the Tuesday evening, bringing <em>that</em> -with him, which was all that was left of their daughter. The poor, -stricken mother could not believe it. She tried to make herself do so. -She kept on talking to Aunt Clem about Jenny, of her childhood, her -wilfulness, and her beauty, but still the tears would not come, and the -poor heart was unrelieved.</p> - -<p>‘I wish I could cry, Clem,’ she said pathetically, ‘I wish I could cry; -but, whenever I think it is coming, a great, hard lump seems to rise in -my throat and drive it back again. I fancy I should feel better in my -head if I could cry. Talk to me, Clem, of when she was a little girl.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</span></p> - -<p>‘She was a sweet little girl,’ said poor Aunt Clem, mendaciously, ‘a -little fond of her own way, perhaps, but very loving and obedient.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! no, Clem, not obedient, I think,’ replied Mrs Crampton, ‘but -always loving. I remember, when she was a baby, how I used to look -at her and wonder if she would ever grow up to be a woman. I had -lost so many of them, you see, Clem—five darlings buried, one after -another—until I was quite afraid to grow fond of a baby for fear it -should be taken from me. I can never forget those burials. They used -to tear my heart in two, and bury a piece of it every time. I went to -see the two first buried,—those were little John and Edmund, you know, -Clem; but, afterwards, I couldn’t bear the sight. It seemed so hopeless -my having any children, until my Jenny came, so different from all the -others, who had been sickly little creatures; but she was so fat and -bonny that the doctor said to me, “Well, you’ve got a thriving child -this<span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</span> time, Mrs Crampton.” And yet it was many years, Clem, before -I dared to spend my whole love on her. I felt as if she were to go -too—that I must die. And yet you see she has gone, and I can sit and -talk about it to you, and do not even cry. It is very strange; I am -afraid there must be something wrong with my head,’ and she passed her -hand in a puzzled manner over her forehead as she spoke.</p> - -<p>‘Oh! my dear sister,’ exclaimed Aunt Clem, whose own features were -almost indistinguishable from the effect of her tears, ‘do try and cry. -I am sure it would do you good.’</p> - -<p>‘It has not done you any good, Clem,’ replied the poor mother. -‘Besides, we may expect her home at any moment now, and John has never -been very patient of my tears. I should not like to meet them—I mean -him—with my eyelids swollen. It might upset him. For we must be -very quiet over it, you know, Clem. It is a very solemn occasion. Is -everything ready for her reception?’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</span></p> - -<p>‘Yes, dear; I have arranged they shall carry her into your boudoir. It -will make the room more dear to you afterwards, Ellen. Bradshaw helped -me to remove the ornaments and drape the tables in white, and decorate -the room with flowers. I think you will like it when you see it, dear. -At least, I have done my best.’</p> - -<p>‘I remember,’ said the mother, in a monotone, ‘how averse I was to call -her Jane. John would have it so, because his sister Jane had only died -a month before her birth, but I thought it such a plain name. I had -set my heart upon calling her Ethel, after the heroine in Thackeray’s -story of the Newcomes, but her father said it was romantic nonsense on -my part, and he would have her nothing but plain “Jane.” But Mrs Sellon -stood godmother to her, so she was called Emily, also, after her. Ah, -well,’ with a heavy, deep-drawn out sigh, ‘it doesn’t signify now, does -it?’</p> - -<p>‘Hark!’ exclaimed Miss Bostock, changing colour, as the sound of -carriage wheels<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</span> was heard slowly advancing up the drive. ‘What is -that?’</p> - -<p>Mrs Crampton rose, trembling. They both knew but too well. It was the -funeral coaches which they heard, coming back from the station where -they had been ordered to await the nine o’clock train.</p> - -<p>‘Let me go!’ cried Mrs Crampton wildly, rousing herself from her -apparent apathy for the first time, ‘let me go to my child, my Jenny. I -must be there to meet her.’</p> - -<p>But Miss Bostock held her back.</p> - -<p>‘Dear, dear Ellen,’ she said, ‘pray don’t go down stairs till John has -come to fetch you; there is so much to be done yet. Stay here quietly, -there’s a dear, till the arrangements are complete. Bradshaw promised -to meet John and tell him where they were to carry her. Don’t make a -scene in the hall. You know how he objects to any publicity.’</p> - -<p>‘A scene in the hall, Clem,’ said Mrs Crampton, in a voice of surprise. -‘And when I am going to meet my own child<span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</span> and welcome her home? I -don’t understand you! Let me see, though. Isn’t she married? Didn’t -she marry that Mr Walcheren, or is it a mistake? It must be a mistake, -Clem, or why should she come back to us? My pretty Jenny, the beauty -of Hampstead, as they call her! How glad I shall be to have her home -again.’</p> - -<p>‘Good God!’ cried Miss Bostock, in an agony of terror, ‘her brain is -going. John, John!’ she called out over the banisters, ‘come here quick -to Ellen, she is very ill!’</p> - -<p>The mournful <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">cortège</i> had, by this time, entered the house, -and deposited their burden on the white-draped table in the boudoir -on the ground floor. The coffin had been temporarily closed, but the -undertakers, who had met it at the station, unclosed it again, and -Jenny Walcheren lay revealed, placid and immovable, under her father’s -roof. Mr Crampton, hearing his sister-in-law’s appeal, and thinking -his wife had fainted, ran upstairs at once, but was surprised to meet -her on the landing<span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</span> with a strange look in her eyes, but an unmoved -countenance, as she extended her hand to him.</p> - -<p>‘John!’ she said, in a muffled voice, ‘our Jenny has come home. I heard -her enter the house. Take me down to see her without delay.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, John!’ whispered the terrified Aunt Clem, ‘it will kill her. Ought -she to see her? I believe she is going out of her mind with grief.’</p> - -<p>‘Poor soul! and well she may,’ replied Mr Crampton, as he looked into -his wife’s staring eyes. ‘But let her come; the sight can’t make her -worse than she is. Come, Ellen,’ he added, affectionately, ‘come and -see your lamb, then. God has taken her from us, Nelly, but there is no -help for it, and railing won’t bring her back again. Come and see how -peacefully she sleeps.’</p> - -<p>He led the bereaved mother downstairs and into the boudoir as he spoke. -The servants, who had been gazing tearfully on the remains of their -young mistress, withdrew<span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</span> respectfully, as they saw the approach of -their employers; and, as they entered the room, Mr Crampton closed the -door behind them. The most expensive coffins that Dover could produce -had been procured to convey poor Jenny’s remains to Hampstead, and -there she lay in a white satin-lined shell, enclosed in a polished oak -sarcophagus, heavily clamped and ornamented with brass. Mrs Crampton -had had her Jenny before her mental eyes all day, dead indeed, but -plump and filled-out as when she had parted with her. She was prepared -to see a corpse, but a corpse that was only a marble likeness of her -child, and when her husband reverently and solemnly lifted the cambric -cloth that hid the features of the deceased, and she perceived a -little, shrunken and fallen-in body with a pallid face, looking half -the size it used to be, and flattened hands with purple nails and -palms, she drew one gasping breath, and gave a scream that echoed and -re-echoed through the mansion.</p> - -<p>‘<em>That</em> my Jenny?’ she exclaimed; ‘<em>that</em><span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</span> my child—my -daughter? Oh, God! be merciful, be merciful!’ and dropped upon the -floor in a dead faint.</p> - -<p>Miss Bostock, who was sobbing at the sad sight before her as if her -heart would break, flung herself down in terror beside her prostrate -sister.</p> - -<p>‘John, John,’ she cried, ‘it has killed her. I told you it would.’</p> - -<p>‘Don’t say that, Clem,’ exclaimed the unhappy man, ‘for, if I lose her -as well, I shall have nothing left to live for. Go and send William for -Dr Sewell at once.’</p> - -<p>‘Where is Mr Hindes?’ said Miss Bostock. ‘Did he not travel with you?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, but he would not enter the Cedars. There was no need, and he -feared to intrude on our sorrow at this sad home-coming. But he did -everything for me whilst at Dover, and worked night and day in my -behalf to save me trouble. I can never repay him for all his goodness. -But send for Sewell, Clem, and tell Bradshaw to come here and help me -carry poor Nelly to her room. She<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</span> must not come back to her senses -here.’</p> - -<p>Mrs Bradshaw, who was the house-keeper, appearing at that moment, they -lifted the poor mother between them and conveyed her upstairs, and, -when she came to herself again and remembered what had occurred, a -violent burst of weeping relieved her overcharged brain and rendered -her grief more natural, and, consequently, less acute.</p> - -<p>The sad days which succeeded, until that of the funeral arrived, were -spent in silence and gloom, in a darkened house, where meals were -prepared as usual, but never touched, and even the domestics spoke -with bated breath, and went about their work with red-rimmed eyes. The -preparations for the interment went on, and were conducted without -the slightest regard to expenditure. Mr Crampton felt a melancholy -pleasure in determining that it should be the most magnificent funeral -that had ever taken place in Hampstead, and be succeeded by the most -magnificent<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</span> monument that had ever been erected over so young and -insignificant a girl. He would have an inscription on it, he said -to himself, that should hand down her cruel story to posterity, and -be a standing shame against Frederick Walcheren forever more. And -all Hampstead sympathised in his ambition. If Jenny had not been -an universal favourite during her lifetime, she became so upon her -death. The girls who had been jealous of her unusual beauty, and -the admiration which it excited, were shocked at her sudden removal -from amongst them, and the young men were as deeply moved. Everyone -sympathised with the unfortunate parents who had lost the hope of their -old age, and, when the day of the funeral arrived, there was hardly a -household in Hampstead who did not send a wreath of flowers to place -upon the bier, and a representative to swell the crowd about the grave.</p> - -<p>Mr Crampton’s city friends, too, turned out in large numbers to -pay their last token of respect to his daughter, so that the line<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</span> -of carriages seemed unlimited, and the cemetery was filled with -spectators. Mr Crampton had purchased a large plot of ground in the -principal avenue, with the intention of making a garden round the -grave, and here assembled, on that beautiful August afternoon, old and -young, rich and poor, friends and strangers, to see his lovely daughter -laid to rest in the warm bosom of her Mother Earth—all but the man -who, humanly speaking, had caused all the trouble, but who was about to -expiate it by a sacrifice greater than anyone else would have thought -of dedicating to Jenny’s memory.</p> - -<p>Amongst the chief mourners, and standing next to old Mr Crampton, was -Henry Hindes, clad in a suit of the deepest black, and with a face the -colour of ashes. The bystanders, even those least well acquainted with -the principal performers in the tragedy, remarked that he seemed to -suffer as much, if not more, than the father did.</p> - -<p>‘He did not weep so openly, as poor<span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</span> Mr Crampton,’ said a woman who had -stood near him, ‘but he shook so violently that I could see him do it. -And, when the clergyman came to the part of “Dust to dust, and ashes to -ashes,” Mr Hindes swayed as if he was going to fall into the grave. I -was quite frightened. I thought every moment that he would faint.’</p> - -<p>‘Ah! well,’ replied her companion, ‘he is one of the firm, you see, and -a great friend of the family; I daresay he has known the poor girl ever -since she was born! I wonder who the Cramptons will leave their money -to now! Some one told me that this is the last of their family, and the -sixth child they have lost, and they have no heir left. It’ll be a nice -pot of money for whoever gets it! They are reported to be as rich as -Crœsus.’</p> - -<p>Mr Crampton said something of the same thing to Henry Hindes that -evening, as they sat together in the library at The Cedars. The old man -had insisted<span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</span> upon his friend accompanying him home, and the latter had -not known how to refuse with any grace.</p> - -<p>‘Why I want to speak to you, my dear Hindes, is this,’ said Mr -Crampton as they sat in the gloaming together. ‘You see it behoves me -now to make a new will! Everything I had was to have gone to my poor -girl—that is, after her mother’s death—but that’s all over now; in -fact, everything is over for me, and I don’t fancy I shall last long -myself.’</p> - -<p>‘You mustn’t say that, my dear friend,’ replied Hindes, in the strange, -muffled voice he had adopted of late, and which he attributed to a bad -sore throat, ‘you are hale and hearty, and have many years of life, I -hope, before you yet, and—when this—this terrible event has somewhat -faded from your memory—of enjoyment also.’</p> - -<p>‘No, Hindes, no! I am too old a man to forget so easily. You see it is -not as if it were the first nor the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</span> second, and it has given me my -death-blow, I am certain of that. We men don’t make so much noise about -our troubles as the women do, poor things; not that they don’t feel as -keenly, perhaps, but their tears are their salvation. Now people, to -have heard me talk over this business, might have thought, maybe, that -all I cared for was my revenge on the scoundrel who stole my pretty -one from me. But it isn’t so—only the other feeling lies too deep for -words. But, I am sure of one thing—and that is, that my wife there -will outlive me, and that it won’t be so long, either, before she’s a -widow. Now, of course, she’ll be provided for amply, and her sister -into the bargain; but two women of such quiet tastes and habits can -never use one half of the money I have to leave behind me; and who are -they to leave it to, when they die? They stand alone in the world. Of -course I had meant—I had intended—to leave my Jenny more than half of -it—that’s<span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</span> what I’ve been working for all these years—but as it is—’</p> - -<p>Here the old man stopped, and, leaning his head on his hand, pressed -the burning eyeballs which refused to shed tears, but let his dry heart -feed upon itself.</p> - -<p>‘My dear friend,’ interposed Hindes, ‘do not pursue this torturing -subject to-night, I entreat you. Think of the trial you have already -gone through, and have some pity on yourself.’</p> - -<p>‘No, Hindes, I wish to say what I have to say to-night, and I am quite -equal to it. I must see Throgmorton, my solicitor, about my will -to-morrow, without fail, for the next day I intend taking my wife and -her sister to Scotland for a change. But I will be as brief as I can. I -mean, therefore, to alter my will with respect to the names, but not to -disposition of property. To my wife and her sister, I shall leave, for -their lifetimes, the half of my fortune, and the other half—my poor -Jenny’s share—to you.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</span></p> - -<p>‘To <em>me</em>,’ exclaimed Henry Hindes, starting from his chair. ‘No, -no, it is impossible. The very idea is horrible to me. I will not take -it.’</p> - -<p>Mr Crampton gazed at this sudden eruption in mute surprise.</p> - -<p>‘But why not you, my dear Hindes?’ he said, after a pause. ‘You are -the best—I may say—the nearest and dearest friend I possess; and now -that <em>she’s</em> gone, your children are the only ones in whom I feel -any interest. I can never thank nor repay you for all you have done for -me during this sad time. I do not mean to offer you my fortune as a -requital, only to show you how deeply I have felt your goodness to me, -and how truly I value your friendship and the love you felt for my poor -girl.’</p> - -<p>‘I cannot take it—it is impossible,’ gasped Hindes, as he nervously -swept his brow, over and over again, with his handkerchief.</p> - -<p>‘I know you are rich enough for every ordinary purpose, my dear fellow, -but<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</span> wealth is never unwelcome. Even with our combined fortunes, -you will not be a Rothschild. And, even if you were, you have three -children to spend it on, and may have more. If you absolutely refuse to -be my heir, I will make little Walter so. You will not refuse to let me -benefit your child, to pass on to him that which was intended for my -own.’</p> - -<p>‘I would rather not indeed!’ repeated Hindes. ‘Walter will have plenty. -The idea of his being your heir is painful to me. Surely there are -members amongst your own or your wife’s family who would be thankful to -be remembered by you, and need your kindness more than my children do.’</p> - -<p>Mr Crampton looked puzzled and a little vexed. He had wished to show -his appreciation of the Hindes’s affection for his dead daughter, and -his partner’s determined refusal of his offer wounded him. It is not -pleasant to have an intended kindness thrown back in one’s face. But -all he said was,—</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</span></p> - -<p>‘You have disappointed me!’</p> - -<p>‘I am sorry,’ said Hindes, spasmodically, ‘but it took me by surprise. -It is more than I deserve at your hands—I feel as if I had no right to -accept your bounty. People might think it strange—they might begin to -question—’</p> - -<p>‘What could they question? What right would they have to think it -strange?’ demanded Mr Crampton, querulously. ‘Have I not a right to -dispose of my money in my own way? Come, Hindes, if it is not to be -you, it must be your son, so I give you fair warning, and you can -divide your own money amongst your children as you choose. But little -Walter will be my heir—will take the place of my poor murdered Jenny, -whether you like it or no. I will give Throgmorton the necessary -directions to-morrow.’</p> - -<p>‘My God, my God!’ groaned Hindes, below his breath.</p> - -<p>‘My poor friend, I know you are feeling this trouble almost as much -as myself,’ continued Mr Crampton, ‘that is what has endeared<span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</span> you so -to me since it occurred. I wonder what that fellow Walcheren, who has -been the cause of it all, is thinking of at the present moment. If he -has a conscience, by Jove! I don’t envy him the possession of it. Say -what you will, Hindes, I shall always look upon him as her murderer. If -he didn’t push her over the cliff, which I am half inclined sometimes -to believe, his carelessness was the real cause of it. Why did he -leave her alone, such a wild, thoughtless, heedless creature as she -was—plucky to a fault, and ready to dare anything. Why wasn’t he by -her side, either to defend her against the villain who assaulted her, -or to save her from her own wilfulness?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! sir, pray do not discuss the matter any more, at least to-night,’ -said Hindes, in a voice of abject entreaty. ‘Suppose you found out the -truth, how could it alter matters now? Try to think that no one was to -blame—that it was the will of Heaven—and that—’</p> - -<p>‘No! no! Hindes, I cannot think that!’<span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</span> replied the old man. ‘Her death -may always be shrouded in mystery, but God never designed so young -and beautiful a creature to die so foully. There is some villainy at -the bottom of it, and I have not done with it yet, for, if ever I can -discover the real author of the mischief, I will kill him with my own -hand. I will, if he proves to be a prince of the blood royal.’</p> - -<p>Henry Hindes did not answer for a few minutes, and then he said in a -low voice,—</p> - -<p>‘Have I your permission to go home, Mr Crampton? I am not well, and -this conversation has upset me. It is all too new, too fresh, my dear -friend; it will not bear discussion yet. If you can do without me, I -should be thankful to try and procure a little rest at home. We have to -be early at the office to-morrow.’</p> - -<p>‘Go then, Hindes, by all means. I am afraid I am sadly selfish, but -it is a relief in such cases to have a friend to unbosom oneself to. -God bless you<span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</span> for all you have done for me. I could never have gone -through that ceremony to-day if you had not stood by my side. I will go -up to my poor wife now, and see what I can do or say to comfort her.’</p> - -<p>He grasped Hindes’ hand as he spoke, and the two men separated for -the night. Hannah was anxiously expecting her husband’s return. She -knew his emotional nature, and how he suffered after any trial to his -feelings. She had been suffering through the day very much herself. In -Jenny Walcheren, she had lost the female friend whose society she had -enjoyed the most, and her sympathy with the bereaved and heart-broken -parents was extreme. She wept more for their sakes than for her own, -and she knew that her husband felt for them, equally with herself. But, -as he entered her presence, she was shocked to see the ravages of grief -upon his countenance. It seemed unnatural to her that he should mourn -so deeply as this—as if, too, something more than grief mingled<span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</span> with -his feelings—if it had not seemed derogatory to his manhood, she would -have said he must have become superstitious since Jenny’s death, for -he seemed to have grown frightened of shadows, and to glance about him -with a startled air, as if he expected to see something that was not -there. She was a sweet, placid-tempered woman herself, with a strong -sense of religion, who would never have been alarmed at the idea of -any supernatural appearances; who did not believe in them in the first -place, and, if she had done so, would have said they came of God, and -therefore could never harm those who believed and trusted in Him.</p> - -<p>She could not, therefore, account for her husband’s altered appearance, -unless, indeed, there was something in his constitution which unfitted -him for resisting the attacks of sorrow. And she had always been aware -that he loved the dead girl equally with herself.</p> - -<p>‘My dearest!’ she said, as soon as they<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</span> were alone, and he had cast -himself upon a sofa, ‘you must not give way like this, you must not -indeed. You will make yourself ill if you fret so continuously, and you -have your work to do, remember.’</p> - -<p>‘Do leave me alone,’ he answered sulkily; ‘it’s all very well to -preach, but everybody’s not so cold-blooded as yourself.’</p> - -<p>‘Cold-blooded! Henry,’ she exclaimed. ‘Oh, don’t say I am that with -regard to our darling Jenny. I think I mourn her loss as much as you -do. But you frighten me, my dear. You can have no idea how altered you -have become in these few days. You are like a wreck of your former -self.’</p> - -<p>‘It’s enough to make a man a wreck, to pass through such trying scenes -as I have been doing. You seem to forget that everything has fallen to -my share. From that terrible inquest, to this afternoon’s ceremony, Mr -Crampton has depended on me for every mortal detail. You would feel -like a wreck if you had done as much.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</span></p> - -<p>‘Yes, yes, dear,’ she answered, soothingly, ‘for without having seen it -all, I cannot get it out of my head. I have been trying so hard this -afternoon to picture darling Jenny to myself, as she used to be—as I -have seen her, a thousand times and more—with her bright, merry face -and her saucy smile, driving those cobs of hers at such a rate through -the town, without a fear or a care. But I can’t. I can only see that -little, mournful, pale face which I looked on in her coffin, with its -sunken eyes and closed lips, and—’</p> - -<p>‘Damn it all!’ cried Hindes, furiously, as he leapt from the couch, -‘you have the most ingenious faculty of any woman I ever knew for -torturing a man. Why on earth can’t you leave these harrowing details -alone? What good does it serve to rake them up <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">ad nauseam</i>? Is -that the way to make one forget? I cannot stand it any longer, I shall -go to bed.’</p> - -<p>And without another word, he rushed from the room.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</span></p> - -<p>Hannah was in dismay. She did not know what she had said to make her -husband so angry with her. His irritation raised her suspicions. Had -there been more in Henry’s affection for Jenny Crampton than she had -ever thought of? She was not a prying or curious woman by nature, but -Hindes’ behaviour was enough to make anyone suspicious. The mere idea -was a revelation to her. Never in the whole course of their married -life, now extending to eight years, had she conceived the slightest -notion but that her husband cared for herself alone. He had never been -very demonstrative, but, on the other hand, he had never been unkind. -And yet, when she remembered how very lovely the dead girl was, she -wondered she had never seen danger in Henry’s familiar intercourse with -her. She could not feel jealous of poor little Jenny now, lying so -meekly, with her hands crossed upon her breast, out in the cemetery, -but Hannah did feel very sorry for herself, and less effusive than -usual towards her<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</span> husband. Yet, after all, as she told herself, it was -only a supposition—it might turn out to be a delusion on her part—but -she would watch Henry carefully, and find out the truth for herself.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV.</h2> -</div> - - -<p>Henry Hindes had passed through the fearful ordeals of the inquest and -bringing home and funeral of Jenny Walcheren with surprising boldness -and equanimity, never having been betrayed into displaying more emotion -than was considered becoming under the circumstances; but, now that all -possible danger was over—that all inquiries had ceased—and that the -dead girl was laid in her grave, safe from prying curiosity, his nerve -forsook him, and he was haunted by his own memory.</p> - -<p>The dread which had oppressed him, ever since that fatal moment on -the cliff, was set at rest. There was no chance that Jenny would -bear witness<span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</span> against him from her grave. The world had accepted -what appeared to be the most natural version of the tragedy that had -befallen her, and no tongue would reveal the truth, until the judgment -day.</p> - -<p>He was safe—his children’s good name was safe—he might sit down -securely amongst his Lares and Penates, and comment on the shocking -number of murders, that were reported in the newspapers, with impunity.</p> - -<p>Why, then, did his native audacity take that opportunity to desert him, -and leave him a prey to his doubts and remorse? During the suspense and -fear he had endured, he had never given a thought to anything but his -possible danger; he had had no time, as it were, to grieve over the -loss of the girl he loved; but, now that the danger was past, he could -think of nothing else but Jenny, done to death by his own hand.</p> - -<p>Had he been a better man, the terrible deed would never have been -committed,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</span> and, had he been a worse man, he would have sat down at -this juncture, congratulating himself that all had ended so well for -him, and banished the thought of her thenceforward. But Henry Hindes -was neither a villain nor a hero. He was common clay, like the rest of -us. And he had loved Jenny Crampton very dearly. He had not realised -how much he loved her, nor how much he had longed to possess her, until -the fatal truth was revealed to him by her marriage with Frederick -Walcheren. He had seen her blossom into a bonny maiden day by day, and -knew that her presence pleased and excited him; but he had not dreamt -that his affection for her came between him and his duty to Hannah, -until her lover came on the scene and she resented all interference -between them. <em>Then</em> he realised what his true feeling for his -partner’s lovely daughter was; but subsequent events had caused him to -think of nothing but the awful risk he ran. But now, the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</span> worst was -over—the high tension to which his nerves had been strung for the -last few days was relaxed—and he had leisure to dwell upon what had -occurred, and to recognise what his love for the murdered girl really -was, and to feel that he would give his miserable life a thousand times -over, if the sacrifice could only bring back hers.</p> - -<p>He saw her, as well as Hannah, but in a dozen shifting moods. Now, -she was flourishing her whip at him, as she drove clattering down -the principal street of Hampstead, and then she was laughing at some -funny story, or teasing her parents or himself, or pouting her pretty -lips because they thwarted her, or thanking him with those lovely -eyes of hers for the American candies, or the illustrated papers, or -the hot-house flowers, he had brought her from town. But the picture, -however fascinating, always changed to give place to that in which -she stood at the edge of the cliff on the last day of her young life, -defying him<span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</span> with the contemptuous words,—‘I hate you! I hate you!’ -He would go through the scene again and again; would hear her mocking -voice—see her indignant, flashing eyes—give the fatal push that -snuffed out her bright being like the flame of a candle—and then stand -gazing at the empty space where she had been but a moment before, and -which now was void and silent.</p> - -<p>In fancy, the wretched man would see what he’d never seen in -reality—her slender body falling down the steep declivity, dashing -against the pointed crags and projections of chalk every instant, and -then arriving with a dull thump at the bottom, and lying on the rough -shingles, without life or sense or motion. In fancy, he would cast -himself down beside her and entreat her forgiveness, by every means of -speech in his power—would tell her how passionately, how truly, how -devotedly he loved her—that he hated and cursed himself for having -given way to the impulse that prompted<span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</span> him to touch her, and would -die a million deaths to restore her bright beauty to life and strength -again. This was the state of mind into which Henry Hindes fell as soon -as Jenny Walcheren was buried.</p> - -<p>He went up to his bed that night, a shivering craven. He had always -professed to disbelieve in ghosts or anything supernatural, and to -condemn those who credited the possibility of their appearance as fools -or madmen.</p> - -<p>But now he glanced around him as he entered his own apartment, as if -he feared to meet the wraith of Jenny Walcheren lurking in the corner, -ready to confront and accuse him.</p> - -<p>The Hindes had always adopted the foreign plan of occupying separate -rooms, so that he was alone, although his wife slept next him, with a -door between them. Hindes wished that night that it were not so, for -the sense of solitude bore in upon him very heavily, yet he did not -like to propose seeking her companionship for fear she should guess<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</span> -the agony he was undergoing. So he crept into his own bed, and lay -there, sleepless, and staring vaguely into the darkness, as if he -dared not close his eyes, lest a ghostly hand might be placed upon his -shoulder, or a ghostly voice whisper in his ear. Hannah, following her -husband upstairs, about an hour after, peeped into his room, to see if -he required anything.</p> - -<p>‘What, still awake, Henry!’ she exclaimed, seeing his eyelids quiver as -the light of her candle fell upon them; ‘are you in pain? Shall I get -you anything?’</p> - -<p>‘No! no! I am all right! All I want is rest and quiet!’</p> - -<p>‘Well, I will leave you! But you forgot your usual visit to the bairns -this evening. I’ve just come from the nursery. You must have infected -Wally with your wakefulness, for I found him sitting up in bed and -crying for his dada.’</p> - -<p>‘Wally wants me!’ exclaimed Hindes, springing out of bed; ‘give me my -dressing-gown. I will go to him!’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</span></p> - -<p>‘He is quiet now, my dear. You need not disturb yourself,’ said Hannah.</p> - -<p>But her husband was already out of the room and on his way up to the -nursery.</p> - -<p>‘My Wally, my Wally,’ he thought, as he sat with the little boy closely -folded in his arms, ‘if anything should happen to him! If God should be -revenged on me, by taking my child—I couldn’t bear it! I couldn’t; it -would kill me!’</p> - -<p>Then he remembered that his friends had more than once said the same -thing in his presence, and Jenny seemed to be standing on the opposite -side of the carved cot, and whispering, ‘As you killed me! as you -killed me!’ and he laid little Wally hastily down again.</p> - -<p>‘Dada’s boy will go to sleep now,’ he said to him, with a kiss.</p> - -<p>But Master Wally liked better lying in his father’s arms, and was quite -cunning enough to know how to get his own way.</p> - -<p>‘No; Wally wants dada,’ he replied<span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</span> fretfully, and but half-awake. -‘Wicked peoples come out of corners and frighten poor Wally.’</p> - -<p>‘Wicked peoples! What do you mean, Wally?’ demanded Hindes, the -perspiration breaking out immediately upon his face with apprehension. -‘There is no one here to frighten my Wally! Only Elsie and Laurie -sleeping like good little girls in their beds, and nursie in the next -room, with the door wide open.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, yes; there is,’ replied the little boy, oracularly; ‘peoples with -black faces and white faces, and ladies with ribbons—’</p> - -<p>‘Good God!’ exclaimed his father, with unnecessary fervour, -‘<em>what</em> ladies, Wally? Not a pretty lady, with curling hair—’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, yes,’ cried the child, delighted to have found a theme to build -his fables on; a ‘boo-ful young lady with long hair, just like Jenny -that used to love me and bring me sugar plums. Dada, where is my Jenny? -She hasn’t been to see Wally for a long, long time.’</p> - -<p>So he was babbling on in his childish<span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</span> ignorance and cunning combined, -when Hindes suddenly left his side and called the nurse from the -adjoining room.</p> - -<p>‘Rosa, you must get up and attend to Master Wally. He is very restless -to-night, and cannot sleep. Come at once.’ And then, with a hasty kiss -to the child, he said, ‘Nurse is coming, darling. She will stay with -you. Dada must go now,’ and bolted from the nursery.</p> - -<p>Was it possible that Jenny had appeared to the boy? Would her coming -portend good or evil? Surely she could never have the heart to harm the -little child, on whom all his hopes were set. ‘As you harmed me! as you -harmed me!’ he seemed to hear whispered through the darkness.</p> - -<p>Had the man been in his sober senses, he would have recalled how -many times Master Wally had invented the most marvellous stories of -things which he declared he had heard and seen, in order to detain his -parents by his side—things which, they both knew, existed only in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</span> -their little son’s imagination. But to-night the childish fibs assumed -gigantic proportions in the eyes of his craven-hearted father. He lay -in his own bed trembling, as he recalled how fond Jenny had always -seemed of Wally above the other children—how often she spent her money -on toys for him—and how eagerly the little fellow used to welcome her -appearance. Was it true she had visited his bedside, and had she come -in love or anger?</p> - -<p>He found it more and more impossible to sleep after this exciting -incident, so he crept out of bed softly, that his wife should not hear -him, and took a dose of the morphia which he had used before for the -same purpose. He wished, as he drank it, that he had the courage to -take the whole contents of the bottle, and so end his perplexities and -regrets at once. But he had <em>not</em> the courage for that. Life was -not yet a sufficiently heavy burden to him. The world had condoned his -offence, and there were, doubtless, many years of peace and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</span> prosperity -before him. And, for the sake of Wally and the others, it was his duty -to live on and struggle to forget. So he only took a rather full dose -of the narcotic, and, after many moans and groans and restless turnings -and tossings on his bed, nature succumbed to its influence and he fell -asleep.</p> - -<p>When he first woke in the morning, he thought he was all right again. -His long sleep had removed his lassitude, and his mind was in a dreamy -condition from the effects of the morphia, so that he was not in a fit -state to worry himself by idle fears or expectations.</p> - -<p>‘Come! come!’ he thought as he was dressing, ‘this is better! I was -sure my nerves were unnaturally upset last night. If the feeling -returns, all I need do is to have recourse to my little friend here. -The worry I have gone through is enough to make any man ill. To make -him exaggerate matters into the bargain, and see everything in its -worst light. It was an accident, which might have happened<span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</span> to scores -of people who have not troubled themselves about the matter. I am not -even sure, at this date, if I really caused the disaster! I put out my -hand, I know, but I could not swear that I touched her. She stepped -backwards, most likely of her own accord, and so fell over, without -any aid from me! I believe it was so; it is best I should believe it, -for all our sakes. I shall mourn her loss none the less, dear, darling -girl, because I persuade myself that it was Heaven’s will and not my -hasty temper that caused it.’</p> - -<p>His wife was surprised to see the placid humour in which he descended -to the breakfast-table. He did not eat much, it is true, but all his -appearance of despair had vanished, until she began to think she must -have been mistaken, and that his mood of the night before had been due -to the cause to which he had ascribed it—over-fatigue and worry. Mr -Crampton being about to start for the Highlands that evening, there was -a good deal to arrange before they parted, so Henry Hindes went<span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</span> off -in good time to the city, and for the rest of the morning was immersed -in business. The appearance of the poor father in his deep sables, and -with his lowered tones and depressed air, did prick his conscience a -little, but the influence of the morphia was still upon him, and a -few glasses of wine soon dispersed the feeling. The first thing which -renewed the discomfort of the night before, was the fact of Mr Crampton -leaving the office, to seek that of his solicitor, Mr Throgmorton. -Henry Hindes knew what he was going for, and tried to prevent him.</p> - -<p>‘My dear friend,’ he said, in an expostulating voice, ‘I hope you -are not thinking of putting the idea you mooted to me yesterday into -execution. You must not, indeed. You will give me great pain if you do, -for I neither deserve it, nor desire it.’</p> - -<p>But the old man would not listen to him.</p> - -<p>‘My dear Hindes, I shall tell you nothing about my intentions. They -are<span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</span> locked in my own breast. I do not know but that I shall not take -your advice after all. My wife, as you reminded me, has many needy -relatives who will be thankful to be remembered in my will. But you -acknowledge the necessity for an alteration. You will come and see us -off from Euston, at eight o’clock this evening, won’t you? I know that -my wife and Miss Bostock would be grieved to leave without shaking -hands with you.’</p> - -<p>‘I will be there, without fail,’ replied Hindes, as he walked to the -office door with his partner.</p> - -<p>‘What a terrible change in Mr Crampton, sir,’ remarked the clerk, who -was waiting to speak to him on his return.</p> - -<p>‘Do you think so, Mr Davidson?’ said Hindes, mechanically.</p> - -<p>‘Think so, sir? Why! it’s the talk of the whole office. There’s death -marked in the poor gentleman’s face. He won’t be with us long, sir, I -feel sure of that.’</p> - -<p>‘I trust you are mistaken, Davidson.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</span> Mr Crampton’s going away for -change to Scotland to-night, and will not return to business until his -health is quite restored.’</p> - -<p>‘I hope it may be, sir; I hope, I’m sure, with all my heart, that it -may be, for Mr Crampton’s been very good to all of us; but if you ask -me my opinion, I don’t believe he’ll ever come back at all.’</p> - -<p>‘Well, I didn’t ask your opinion, Davidson,’ replied Mr Hindes, -fretfully; ‘and as Mr Crampton has the very best of advice, I think we -may safely leave him in the hands of his doctor.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! yes, sir, of course; and I hope I haven’t said too much. But he -does look very bad indeed—not like the same gentleman,’ repeated the -clerk, as he went back to his work.</p> - -<p>This little conversation disconcerted Henry Hindes, and his uneasy -condition was augmented by the entrance of an old friend, a Colonel -Brinsley, whom he had known for years.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</span></p> - -<p>‘My dear Hindes,’ exclaimed the colonel, as he threw himself in an -arm-chair, ‘you might knock me down with a feather. I was on my way -here, when I met poor Mr Crampton. Never saw such a change in any man -in my life. Why, he’s the shadow of his former self. Of course I’ve -heard about the sad loss he has sustained, but, hang it all! Hindes, -although it is a terrible thing to lose a child, it doesn’t as a rule -shrivel a man up to half his usual size. He is a mere skeleton. His -clothes hang upon him in bags. I never was more shocked in my life.’</p> - -<p>‘She was his only child, and he cared for her very much,’ replied -Hindes, in a low voice, as he played nervously with a paper-knife.</p> - -<p>‘Ah! yes! yes! doubtless, and he lost her by some terrible accident or -other, didn’t he? What was it? Some people say she committed suicide, -but that doesn’t seem likely to me. Only, the young people of the -present day think no more<span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</span> of taking their lives than of threading a -needle. How did it happen?’</p> - -<p>‘It was an accident—a pure accident,’ said Hindes; ‘she fell over the -cliffs at Dover.’</p> - -<p>‘Very dreadful! No wonder the poor old fellow feels it! She was very -pretty, was she not? The beauty of Hampstead, so they tell me. And only -married a few days. How sad! Is it true that it was a runaway match?’</p> - -<p>‘It was, but I think my partner would rather the matter were forgotten -now that she is gone,’ replied Hindes.</p> - -<p>‘God bless my soul, Hindes, you look very ill too, now I come to look -at you!’ exclaimed the colonel; ‘have you taken it to heart as much as -that?’</p> - -<p>‘It has been a trying time for everyone concerned, naturally,’ replied -his companion, ‘but I rather fancy my looks may be attributable to my -having had a bad faceache lately, and been obliged to take morphia to -induce sleep. It always leaves me feeling more ill than<span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</span> before. But it -is impossible to keep a head for business without rest.’</p> - -<p>‘True, but why don’t you try opium by inhalation? That’s the stuff to -make you feel jolly! My wife says I shall ruin my health by it, but, as -I’ve practised it now for twenty years and am none the worse, I fancy -I shall continue it till I die. But only now and then, you know, only -now and then. I contracted the habit whilst I was in China, where I -suffered terribly from ague and fever, and it has never quite left me, -so when I feel a fit coming on, out comes my hookah and, by Jove! in a -quarter of an hour I’m ready to dance a jig.’</p> - -<p>‘It must be wonderful stuff,’ said Henry Hindes, musingly.</p> - -<p>‘It’s magical in its effects—perfectly magical,’ returned the colonel, -enthusiastically. ‘I don’t care if it’s injurious, or not. I shall -never part with my hookah till I die. You try it next time you have the -toothache, my boy, and you’ll thank me evermore.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</span></p> - -<p>‘But where is it to be procured?’ demanded Hindes. ‘I thought the sale -of opium was prohibited in England.’</p> - -<p>‘So are the sale of several other articles that are in general use,’ -said Colonel Brinsley, laughing, ‘but where’s a will, there’s a way, -you know, Hindes.’</p> - -<p>And thereupon he gave him all the necessary information for purchasing -the deadly narcotic and using it as an anæsthetic, and took his leave, -fully persuaded that he had done his friend Hindes an inestimable -benefit.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V.</h2> -</div> - - -<p>Mr Crampton’s prognostications, with regard to himself, proved to be -but too true. He had intended to take his wife and sister-in-law to a -lovely place called Fochabers, in the Highlands of Scotland, but, on -the way thither, he was taken so ill, that it was thought advisable -they should stop at Aberdeen for the sake of medical advice, within a -month of which time the old man had an apoplectic fit, and died without -recovering consciousness. The news of this disaster was a fresh blow -to Henry Hindes, but the intimation of it was accompanied by such an -earnest appeal from the widow that he would go to them and help them in -this calamity, as he had done in the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</span> last, that he was obliged to pack -his portmanteau at once and start for Aberdeen, to go through the same -painful scenes he had done before.</p> - -<p>Mr Crampton’s last wish was that he should be carried back to Hampstead -and laid by Jenny’s side. So the same melancholy preparations had to -be made, the same melancholy coming-home to be gone through, and the -same melancholy funeral rites to be solemnised, till Mr Hindes almost -thought the former misery must have been a dream, and that Jenny -Walcheren was only now being laid in her untimely grave.</p> - -<p>No wonder that he looked ill and distracted, people said. The high -estimation in which he had been held by the dead man was proved by the -fact that he had left him half his fortune. No! not to him, perhaps, -but to his son, which amounted to the same thing. For what Henry -Hindes had dreaded and tried to prevent had indeed come to pass. His -late partner’s will left half his fortune,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</span> which was to remain in the -business, to Walter James Henry Hindes, the son of his best friend, -Henry Hindes; the other half to be his wife’s for her lifetime, and, -after her death, her sister’s, on the same terms; and, when both were -deceased, it was to be divided between the child or children of his -best friend aforesaid, Henry Hindes. So he was forced to take it; to -benefit by Jenny’s death; to see his offspring in the enjoyment of that -wealth which her father had accumulated for her; and which, but for -himself, she might have lived half a century to take advantage of.</p> - -<p>Hannah was naturally delighted that their old friend had remembered her -little son in his will, and could not understand why her husband would -not hear the subject alluded to. However unhappy he may have been made -by Jenny’s death, still, as the dear girl was gone beyond recall, she -could not see why their darling Wally, who surely must be more to his -father than any friend, however<span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</span> missed and mourned, should not benefit -by Mr Crampton’s generosity.</p> - -<p>The elaborate monument which Mr Crampton had designed for his -daughter’s grave, and had set in hand before he left for Scotland, -was now complete and ready to be erected. This task also fell to -Mr Hindes, for the widow was incapable of acting for herself, and -looked to him for everything. It was a massive column of red granite, -lettered in gold. It stood twenty feet high, and could be seen over -all the monuments in the cemetery. A second inscription had been -added to commemorate the father’s death, and, a few weeks after Mr -Crampton’s funeral, the masons having sent Hindes word that their work -was completed and the monument placed in the cemetery, he walked down -by himself to see if the orders given had been properly carried out, -before payment was made. He dreaded the task beyond everything. He -had been alternately fortifying his courage during the last few weeks -by doses of morphia, pipes<span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</span> of opium, and glasses of brandy, until he -had made himself physically, as well as mentally, ill. But he must go -through this trial once, he said to himself, once and for all, for he -had left off going to church lately. He was too great a coward to pass -by the spot where <em>she</em> lay, twice every Sunday. But Mrs Crampton -had commissioned him to see that the monument to her husband and -daughter was properly erected, so he was compelled to do so. He could -not afford to neglect the wishes of the widow of the man who had so -greatly benefited his son. That cursed legacy would bind him her slave -for life.</p> - -<p>He entered the cemetery with folded arms, and his eyes cast on the -ground. The plot of earth surrounding Jenny’s grave had already been -made beautiful by cartloads of flowering geraniums and other plants, -transferred from the garden at The Cedars, and in the centre of them -now reared the head of the red granite column. Henry Hindes knew the -inscription by heart. He had seen it glaring at<span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</span> him through the -darkness of the night, and had repeated it to himself until it seemed -to be written in letters of fire on the tablets of his memory. But he -had not calculated what it would look like, revealed in the glaring -light of day, calling out, as it were, by its golden letters, to all -men to come and read of his infamy. He looked up at it, and it seemed -to blind his eyes. Something floated before them like a mist that -prevented his seeing distinctly, and yet the very stones seemed to cry -out the words:</p> - -<p>‘Sacred to the memory of Jane Emily Crampton, the only child of John -Crampton, Esq., of this parish, who was killed by a fall over the Dover -cliffs on the 14th of August, 1875, in the twentieth year of her age. -“Thou God knowest.”’ After which was written: ‘Also to the memory of -John William Crampton, her father, who survived her loss only five -weeks. “Vengeance is mine! I will repay, saith the Lord.”’</p> - -<p>Not a word of her marriage—not a mention of Frederick Walcheren’s -name—only<span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</span> those words and quotations, which, to those who knew the -circumstances of the case, revealed but too plainly what the friends -of the dead girl thought about her mysterious death. To the guilty -conscience of Henry Hindes, it was almost as if the monument cried -out to the whole world to come and read how <em>he</em> had thrown the -daughter over the cliff, and killed her father into the bargain. It -terrified and alarmed him. He would have liked to have rooted it all -up again. But he knew it must stand there for ever—for centuries, -perhaps, after his own death, an enduring testimony to his shame and -remorse and disgrace. And it was Jenny—Jenny, whom he loved, who lay -there, condemning him! The unhappy man sunk down on his knees before -the red granite column, and sighed forth the anguish of his soul.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, my darling! my darling!’ he groaned within himself. ‘You know, -don’t you, that I never thought of the awful consequences of my hasty -act—that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</span> I never meant to harm you, that it was your unkind words -that led me on until I was no longer master of my self. You know I -didn’t want to take your father’s money—<em>your</em> money, Jenny, and -I would give it back, with all that I possess myself, to undo the fatal -accident of that day. For it <em>was</em> an accident, my darling—you -must know that now, and how your miserable lover is suffering for his -rashness. Oh, Jenny! if I could only think so! if I could only think -so!’</p> - -<p>He had buried his face in his hands, and was unaware of the approach -of any one until he was roused by the voice of Frederick Walcheren -demanding indignantly,—</p> - -<p>‘And pray, Mr Hindes, may I ask by what right I find you weeping over -my wife’s grave?’</p> - -<p>He had come as privately as possible to see the spot where they had -laid his Jenny, intending to give himself the poor consolation of -praying above her ashes for the repose of her soul; but, to find<span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</span> -his intentions forestalled, and by the man he so much disliked and -distrusted, roused all the old Adam in him again. At the imperious -question, Henry Hindes also felt the fighting spirit rise in his -breast. The instinct of self-preservation made him resent the idea that -it was anything out of the way for him to be found kneeling on the -grave of his friends. He drew himself up haughtily and replied,—</p> - -<p>‘I am not aware, Mr Walcheren, that this cemetery belongs exclusively -to you, or that you have any right to forbid my mourning the loss of my -friends. There are two victims beneath this stone. The father, as well -as the daughter, owes his death to your behaviour. He has only survived -her five weeks.’</p> - -<p>‘My God!’ murmured Frederick below his breath, and then, looking at the -inscription, he added, ‘But why is <em>my</em> name not recorded here? -Why is there no mention that she was my wife? Whom have I to thank for -this insult?’</p> - -<p>‘The monument was designed, and the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</span> inscription written by Mr Crampton -himself, sir, before he died,’ replied Hindes.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t believe it,’ cried Frederick, hotly. ‘And these texts! They -are a positive reflection upon me. They say as plainly as possible -that there is a doubt about the manner of my darling’s death—that she -was not killed by accident but design. Is this some of your doing, Mr -Hindes, as well as the suppression of my wife’s real name?’</p> - -<p>‘I have already told you that the whole thing is of Mr Crampton’s -ordering. He did not believe in the legality of your marriage—that I -know. As to the texts, he had his own reasons, doubtless, for selecting -them, but he did not confide them to me.’</p> - -<p>‘And I have told you that I do not believe you. You were in all Mr -Crampton’s confidences, and a precious bad use you made of your -knowledge. My poor girl told me as much as that. She said several times -how much she feared and suspected you. She said you were<span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</span> against her -in everything, that you were always persuading her father to thwart her -wishes and refuse her requests, and that she hated you for it.’</p> - -<p>‘She—Jenny—said—she hated me, and to—you!’ exclaimed Henry Hindes. -‘It is impossible. You are deceiving me. We were the greatest friends.’</p> - -<p>‘You may have thought so—<em>she</em> did not. And I will thank you to -speak of my dead wife by her proper name, as Mrs Walcheren,’ cried -Frederick, in a fury. ‘You should never have been allowed to call her -by her Christian name, and I forbid you to do so now.’</p> - -<p>Henry Hindes’s natural impulse would have been to retort by saying that -Mr Walcheren had no rights whatever in the matter, and he should call -his late friend by what name he chose, but his former assertion was -still rankling in his memory.</p> - -<p>‘Jenny said she hated me,’ he murmured to himself, ‘and to <em>him</em>! -It was not on the impulse of the moment, then, as I hoped—as I have -believed. She meant it—good<span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</span> heavens!—she meant it, and I—I loved -her so.’</p> - -<p>His face was white as ashes as he turned it towards Frederick Walcheren.</p> - -<p>‘We will not quarrel, sir,’ he said, ‘and especially here. I came -to the cemetery this afternoon at Mrs Crampton’s request to see if -her orders had been carried out, with respect to the initialing and -erection of this monument, with neither of which, as I told you, have -I anything to do. But since you doubtless would wish to be left in -privacy, I will withdraw.’</p> - -<p>Saying which, he made a low bow and walked out of the cemetery. But he -had left his sting behind him. Frederick Walcheren no longer felt in -the disposition for prayer, or even tears.</p> - -<p>‘What is it about that man that makes him so repulsive to me?’ he -thought, as he found himself alone. ‘He speaks fair enough, but there -is something behind it all that I cannot understand. Well, they have -taken care between them that I shall not want to visit this spot too -often. My<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</span> poor darling! What must she think of their depriving her of -the title which made her my wife. I was a weak fool for letting them -take her from me so easily. But I little thought they would insult us -both in this manner. Perhaps it is as well. She <em>is</em> my wife. -No false inscription can unmake her that, God be thanked! And Father -Tasker says I must wean my heart from all these earthly longings as -soon as may be. One is squashed at any rate. I shall never want to look -upon her grave again, with those vile texts written beneath her dear -name. “Thou God knowest.” Yes, God <em>does</em> know that I am innocent -of all blame in this matter, except of tempting her to leave her home. -Well, well, it is not to be thought of. The sooner I turn my mind to -other things the better.’</p> - -<p>He stooped down and gathered two or three little blue flowers that were -blossoming above Jenny’s remains, and, kissing them, put them carefully -between<span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</span> the folds of his pocket-book. Then he knelt down and said a -prayer above her, and, dashing his hand across his eyes, turned slowly -away. Meanwhile, Henry Hindes was walking back to The Old Hall, with -his heart on fire. He had been trying hard to persuade himself lately -that Jenny had meant nothing by the hasty words she had used to him -just before her death. Hannah had reiterated so often how fond the -girl had been of them both, and it had pleased him to think that she -was right, and that, when he met Jenny again, there would be no cloud -between them, but only the old feeling of affection. He had begun to -address her, in the solitude of his own chamber, as his darling and -his love and his true wife, from whom he had been separated only by -the conflicting circumstances of the world. But Walcheren’s statement -had blown all his airy fancies away at a breath. She had really meant -what she said. It had not been the meaningless outcome of a young<span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</span> -girl’s petulance. It was ante-dated to the moment. Jenny had even -told her bridegroom of a day of the feelings she entertained against -her father’s friend. The truth made him feel fierce and wretched and -revengeful all at once. For the moment he was not sorry that he had -pushed her over the cliff and deprived her and her husband of their -life’s happiness. But this feeling did not last, and it was succeeded -by a paroxysm of unusual despair, in which both Earth and Heaven -seemed to have arrayed themselves against him. He retired to his room -on the plea of a headache, and there indulged in the custom which was -fast becoming habitual to him—of inhaling opium until his senses -were stupefied and all his fears laid to rest. He remained alone all -the evening, and retired to bed without seeing his wife again. This -was now so much his custom that Hannah was beginning to think nothing -of it. She believed that her husband suffered from acute<span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</span> neuralgia -which necessitated his taking a soporific, after which it was unwise -to disturb him. So she walked over to The Cedars, where she was always -very welcome now, and tried to cheer up the two lonely women, who -would persist in sitting down with their grief in their laps, instead -of doing their utmost to dispel it. Hannah almost talked them into a -promise that evening that they would spend the winter abroad. They had -never visited Paris, and she pressed them so hard to have a little -pity on themselves that Mrs Crampton actually authorised her to make -inquiries about the best means of getting there, and which hotel -would be the most suitable for her sister and herself to stay at. She -therefore returned home, well satisfied with her success, and feeling -she had done a good night’s work. It was past her usual bed hour when -she reached The Hall, so that, after a brief visit to the nursery, -Hannah retired herself.</p> - -<p>She was not very sleepy, however, so,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</span> having dismissed her maid, she -sat down in her room to discuss a new novel that Mrs Crampton had lent -her. It was an interesting tale, and engrossed her attention to that -extent that she pored over it much longer than she had intended.</p> - -<p>She was first roused to a sense how time was going on by hearing a -noise, as she imagined, in the passage outside her door, and glancing -at the clock on the mantelpiece, found, to her surprise, that it was -past two.</p> - -<p>The household must have long retired to rest. What, then, could the -noise be which she had heard on the landing? Hannah was not a nervous -woman as a rule, but it had sounded so much like voices, that she began -to fear that some one might have got into the house with the intent -to steal. She rose, therefore, and listened attentively. A moment’s -consideration showed her that the sound proceeded not from the passage, -but her husband’s bedroom. Perhaps he<span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</span> was ill, and, perceiving the -light in her room, had called to her. So she unclosed the door between -them and peeped in. What she saw there paralysed her into a silent -witness. She did not speak to him, but stood leaning against the -door-post, listening with all her ears. She felt her flesh creep as the -full meaning of his words riveted itself upon her memory, but she did -not scream out, nor do anything to disturb the speaker.</p> - -<p>Henry Hindes was in his night-shirt, sitting on, or rather leaning -against, the side of the bed. He was not asleep; at least his eyes were -wide open, but it was evident that he neither saw nor heard anything -around him. The sweat was pouring off his face, and his hair was damp -with it, but it did not appear to inconvenience him, as he stared -wildly into the darkness and muttered to himself,—</p> - -<p>‘It was an accident, Jenny—you know it was an accident—I did -not push<span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</span> you intentionally—How could I tell it would cause -your death?—Why did you aggravate me so?—Why should you hate -me?—<em>I</em>, who love you—love you—My God! don’t say it—I cannot -bear it—cannot bear it! And to <em>him</em>, too—my rival—the man who -stole you from me! Jenny! Jenny!—don’t look so—don’t speak so, or I -shall push you over the cliff!—Ah! she is gone!—it is done! Why did -I do it?—Why did I do it?—I have killed her, Jenny! My God! this is -hell—hell—hell!’</p> - -<p>He glared with his opium-laden eyes straight before him, and had just -sense enough left to catch sight of Hannah’s white night-dress as she -stood, horror-stricken, at the open doorway, through which a light -streamed from her bedroom.</p> - -<p>‘Ah!’ he screamed in terror, ‘don’t come near me! Don’t touch me—I -didn’t mean to do it, Jenny! It was the devil prompted me to push -you!—Have<span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</span> mercy! Don’t haunt me. Don’t haunt me, or you will drive me -mad—mad—mad!’</p> - -<p>He slid down upon his bare knees as he concluded, hiding his face in -his hands, and Hannah had just strength left to withdraw herself and -close and lock the door between them.</p> - -<p>She understood it all now! Her husband’s unaccountable grief and -sleeplessness and irritable temper. He was pursued by an undying -remorse. And for what? Oh! it was terrible, terrible! Hannah reached -her bed, but it was only to sink down by the side of it, and pour out -her soul in prayer for her wretched husband and herself. And when she -was exhausted with prayer and weeping, she threw her dressing-gown -around her, and sat down to consider what she ought to do about the -dreadful truth that had been made known to her.</p> - -<p>Her husband was a murderer! There was no end served by disguising the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</span> -horrid truth from herself. He had pushed sweet, darling Jenny Crampton -over the Dover Cliffs. Oh! how could he have done it? How <em>could</em> -he have done it? Their pretty, loving Jenny! It was too awful to think -of, but it was true! She had heard him confess it with his own lips! -But the idea that she could desert him on that account, or deliver him -up to justice on his own confession, never entered the wife’s mind. -He was hers, and she was his, for better or worse; there must be no -treachery between them. He had told his secret to the darkness; with -the darkness it must remain!</p> - -<p>Only, how ought she to act herself, so as not to become a <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">particeps -criminis</i>; what steps should she take to prevent further wrong? To -betray Henry, even if she could have made up her mind to do so, would -not bring back poor, murdered Jenny, or the old father who had followed -her so quickly to the grave.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</span></p> - -<p>But the money which Mr Crampton had left in such good faith to the son -of his ‘best friend,’ Wally should not touch it, now or ever. She would -not let her innocent child’s hands be stained by the touch of blood -money. It must be spent on some other purpose. It should never go to -Wally.</p> - -<p>Hannah sat and pondered over these puzzles all night, how could she do -her duty to her husband and children, and yet not become a participator -in his crime—a crime which must, under any circumstances, have caused -a great revulsion in her feelings towards him, but when connected with -Jenny Crampton, made her feel as if it were impossible for her to live -with him again. Yet, if she left him, what depths might he not fall to? -The only hope for him seemed to be in her presence and protection.</p> - -<p>But, for her children, it was different. At all risks, she would -separate her girls, now growing old enough to understand the meaning -of most things that took place<span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</span> around them, from so tainted a father! -Elsie and Laurie must leave home. Hannah felt as if she could not -endure to see him kiss them again, or touch them with the hands that -had sent their darling Jenny to her death.</p> - -<p>She was not aware that her husband had adopted the fatal practice of -inhaling opium. She attributed the strange manner which he occasionally -exhibited, to too much alcohol, or the doses of morphia which he said -he took for toothache. She would have borne patiently with all that, -to whatever lengths he had carried it, but what she had heard was -beyond the limits of woman’s forbearance to tolerate. <em>Her</em> duty, -perhaps, was to remain by him, but her children should, at all risks, -be saved from contamination.</p> - -<p>Henry Hindes came down the next morning, looking haggard and stupid and -heavy-eyed, after the fashion of men who indulge too much in any sort -of narcotic, but he could scarcely have looked worse than Hannah, who -was as<span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</span> white as her gown, and trembling with dread of what lay before -her.</p> - -<p>‘Henry,’ she said, as soon as their breakfast was concluded, ‘I wish to -speak to you. Will you come into the library?’</p> - -<p>‘What’s up now?’ he grumbled, as he followed his wife’s footsteps.</p> - -<p>‘I will soon tell you. I have come to the conclusion that it will be -better for my daughters to leave home. I intend to take them over to my -old friend, Mrs Tredgold, this afternoon, and leave them with her for -their education.’</p> - -<p>‘What on earth do you mean?’ exclaimed Henry Hindes. ‘Send the girls -away! Are you mad?’</p> - -<p>‘I think not. You will understand my reason if you think a little. I do -not consider that they ought to live any longer at home. And if Wally -were old enough to leave my care, I should send him away too.’</p> - -<p>‘I never heard of such an extraordinary thing in my life,’ said -her husband, who, nevertheless, was becoming rather uncomfortable<span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</span> -under the coldness and decision of her manner, so different from the -gentleness of Hannah’s general demeanour. ‘What the h—l will you do -next? How long have you arrived at this decision?’</p> - -<p>‘Not long,’ she answered, passing her hand in a weary manner over her -aching brow, ‘but this is not all, Henry! The money that Mr Crampton -left to Wally. The child shall not keep it. It must be drawn out of the -business at once, and if it is useless to try and persuade Mrs Crampton -to take it back again, it must be spent in charity. No child of mine -shall touch it.’</p> - -<p>‘Hannah!’ said her husband fiercely, catching her by the wrist, ‘what -does all this mean? You have some latent reason for talking to me in -this fashion. What is it? I insist upon knowing.’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t think there is any necessity to force me to put my meaning -into so many words, Henry,’ replied his wife, quietly, but with a -fast-beating heart, as she disengaged her wrist from his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</span> grasp; ‘the -reason is, that you have taken to talking in your sleep of late, and -last night you were so noisy that I opened the door between our rooms, -and I heard—<em>all</em>!’</p> - -<p>Hindes became as white as a sheet, as he stood gazing at her, and -breathing hard. After a long pause he said,—</p> - -<p>‘Well, and what are you going to do?’</p> - -<p>‘The money must be given up, of course,’ she answered, as quietly as if -they were discussing the most ordinary topic, ‘and the children must be -removed from home. It seems hard, but I could not—I could not bear to -see them—playing with you, or caressing you.’</p> - -<p>Hindes groaned and turned away. That he had rendered himself an unfit -associate for his little ones, was perhaps the worst thing he had been -yet called upon to bear.</p> - -<p>‘And you, Hannah,’ he whispered after a moment’s pause, ‘what shall you -do?’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</span></p> - -<p>‘I am your wife, Henry,’ she answered, simply; ‘my place is with you.’</p> - -<p>‘You will stay by me—knowing all—hating all?’ he asked, fearfully.</p> - -<p>‘Knowing all and hating all,’ she said softly, ‘but not necessarily -hating <em>you</em>.’</p> - -<p>He crept to her side and, burying his face in the folds of her dress, -burst into a flood of tears.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VI">CHAPTER VI.</h2> -</div> - - -<p>The town of Luton is almost entirely devoted to the business of -plaiting straw for hats and bonnets. The windows of the cottages are -filled with specimens of the art, from the finest plait possible, -for the manufacture of Tuscan and Leghorn straw, to the coarse, -rustic twist that has been so fashionable of late years. The town is, -consequently, full of young women who, instead of going to service, -earn their livelihood by plaiting straw. Amongst them was Rhoda Berry, -who lived with her widowed mother in a cottage on the outskirts of the -town.</p> - -<p>Mrs Berry enjoyed a world-wide repute for being, what was called in -olden times, ‘a wise woman,’ but who, in these<span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</span> more enlightened days, -would be spoken of as a clairvoyante. By whatever name one chose to -call her, however, there was no doubt that she was a very wonderful -woman, and possessed occult powers in no small degree. Had Mrs Berry -been in a position to rent apartments in Bond Street, and to keep -clean nails and a courtly manner, half the aristocratic ladies in -London would have besieged her door for admittance. But, being unknown, -excepting to the good people of Luton, she was fain to be content with -the credit they accorded her, and the sixpences they could spare, in -return for the prophecies she made for them. Notwithstanding the source -from which she derived the best part of her income, Mrs Berry was -held in high respect, and not a little fear, by her fellow-townsmen, -and there were few found bold enough to taunt or jest with her on the -misfortune which befell her daughter Rhoda.</p> - -<p>Rhoda’s story was a very common and a very sad one. About a year -previous<span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</span> to the time when we first see her, she had received an offer, -from a London house in connection with the firm for which she worked -in Luton, to take up her residence in town, in order to do some of the -finishing work which was necessary after the straw had been made into -shapes. She was a particularly skilled workwoman in the department, -and the salary offered her was double what she could earn at home. Mrs -Berry had not wished her daughter to leave her. She had foretold all -sorts of disasters which would befall her in London, but the girl was -dazzled by the advantages she was promised, and the pleasant life she -anticipated leading. So she laughed her mother’s prophecies to scorn, -told her that ‘forewarned was forearmed,’ and that she would be very -careful to avoid the dangers she prognosticated. So Mrs Berry let her -go, with a sad heart, but she never ceased to lay the cards for her -absent child, and to foretell a disastrous coming-home for her.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</span></p> - -<p>And so it turned out! Rhoda Berry met Frederick Walcheren at some place -of public amusement, from which he, struck with her beauty, followed -her to her lodgings, made acquaintance with her, and pursued it until a -fatal intimacy was established between them.</p> - -<p>It was the old game of the moth and the candle! The young man, -thoughtless and dissipated, dreamt of nothing higher than amusing -himself; whilst the girl, flattered by his attentions and with all -sorts of romantic stories, such as the Prince and Cinderella, and King -Cophetua and the Beggar Maid, floating through her brain, believed -that love must conquer over every obstacle, and Fred would make her -an honest woman in the end. And the end was—disgrace, dismissal and -despair. Mrs Berry was sitting one evening, laying the cards for her -daughter with a foreboding heart, when Rhoda rushed into the cottage -with wild eyes and incoherent words, and a face of crimson, which she -could only hide in her mother’s lap. The<span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</span> poor are much better to their -relations in distress, or poverty, or shame, than the rich are to -theirs. They don’t hound them down, or turn them from their doors, or -refuse to share their bite and sup with their less fortunate brethren. -It is only the well-bred and well-educated and rich people who do -such things. Mrs Berry received her daughter back with a good deal of -regret. She often told her that she was a shame and a disgrace to her, -and that her dead father would turn in his grave if he knew how badly -she had behaved. But for all that, she kept her whilst she could not -work, and nursed her through her illness, and would have stood up for -her against any who had dared to cast a stone at her. But, as has been -said, the wise woman was thought to be so powerful, and held in such -awe by the residents of Luton, that no one would have risked offending -her through her daughter. And Rhoda was a favourite amongst her young -companions also. She was a superior sort<span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</span> of girl. Her father had been -a respectable city tradesman, who had failed before his death, and -left his widow and orphan to shift for themselves. Rhoda had therefore -received an education far above that of most of her associates, which -should, indeed, have saved her from the fault she had fallen into, did -we not know that it is a fault which is committed by ladies of every -degree, though money, like charity, has the power to cover ‘a multitude -of sins.’</p> - -<p>When Rhoda’s baby was born, Mrs Berry had, unknown to her daughter, -written to Frederick Walcheren to inform him of the event, and ask -him what he intended to do to remedy the wrong he had inflicted on -her child. His answer was that, much as he regretted the unfortunate -termination to his friendship with Rhoda, it was out of his power -to remedy it, as he was just about to be married to another woman. -He enclosed a cheque for a hundred pounds, with best wishes for the -girl’s health<span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</span> and happiness, and hoped she would forgive him for the -unintentional injury he had done her.</p> - -<p>Some people in the position of Mrs Berry would have said that Mr -Walcheren had done ‘the handsome thing’ by her daughter, and that she -was lucky to have got so well out of the scrape. But Rhoda’s mother -thought differently. She enclosed the cheque in another letter and -sent it back to Frederick Walcheren, with an intimation that she could -support his son without his help, and that she wanted no hush money for -her daughter’s misfortune. But she warned him that the curse of Heaven -was on his marriage, and that it would come to no good, nor he either. -When Frederick received this letter, he was on the eve of running away -with Jenny Crampton, and, full of hope as he was, it still had the -power to make him feel uncomfortable. But he had paid no heed to it. -Rhoda Berry, in his estimation, was only a girl who had thrown herself -into his arms, and he<span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</span> thought a hundred pounds was very handsome pay -for his amusement. If the old woman wouldn’t take it, that wasn’t his -fault.</p> - -<p>But he remembered it afterwards. He told both his cousin Philip and -Father Tasker that, whilst he was bending in agony over the remains -of his wife, he fancied he saw Rhoda Berry gibing at his misery, and -rejoicing in it. It was the very last thing that poor Rhoda would have -done; she had loved the <i>vaurien</i> too well to take any pleasure in -what troubled him, but his conscience told him he deserved her scorn, -and so he fancied she gave it him. Poor Rhoda did not have a very good -time with her mother after her baby’s birth, for Mrs Berry could not -forgive her for having so totally disregarded all her warnings against -the trouble that loomed in the future for her. There was not another -girl in Luton, she declared, who would not have declined the London -situation after what she had told her, but her daughter thought less -of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</span> her prophecies than strangers did. Had she not laid the cards for -her the very evening before she left home, and did she not warn her, as -plainly as she could speak, to beware of a gentleman with dark eyes and -hair, who would promise her all sorts of fine things, but would leave -her with a curse upon her back. And hadn’t everything come to pass just -as she had foretold, and wasn’t the curse sleeping in a cradle at their -feet that moment, in the shape of a little boy, as black as a crow?</p> - -<p>It was the end of November by this time. Poor Jenny had been laid for -months in her untimely grave, and Frederick Walcheren was hard at work -studying for his ordination. Rhoda Berry had returned to her work of -straw-plaiting at Luton, and everything went on the same in the cottage -where her mother lived—except for the little child, and her subdued -spirits.</p> - -<p>‘Come! Rhoda,’ exclaimed Mrs Berry tartly, but not unkindly, ‘there’s -that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</span> brat of yours crying again. Take him up, do! Nothing’s good -enough for him, I suppose, as it wasn’t for his father before him! My -gracious! I believe he grows uglier and uglier every day. You’re as -unlike as light and darkness. The child’s a perfect nigger!’</p> - -<p>Rhoda did not make any retort. She was a fair, slender girl of about -nineteen, with blue eyes and yellow hair, a very elegant young woman -in appearance, but of a sad countenance. She raised her youngster in -her arms and kissed him fondly. He was certainly unusually dark for so -young an infant, but bore unmistakably Frederick Walcheren’s features -and complexion.</p> - -<p>‘Have you heard the news?’ said Mrs Berry. ‘Mr Jenkins has come in -for five hundred pounds by the death of an uncle in Australia that he -never remembers to have heard of. Mrs Jenkins is half out of her mind -with joy. She couldn’t believe me last week when I told her there was -money on the road<span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</span> for them. She said there wasn’t a creature in the -wide world that it could possibly come from. But I’m always right. The -cards never fail me, never. There’s Fanny Benson pronounced out of -danger this morning, notwithstanding all the doctors’ verdicts. I met -her mother in the street just now, and she says she’s wonderful; been -sitting up in bed and eating rice pudding. Why, when Mrs Benson came to -me last Thursday, crying her eyes out because the doctor had said there -was no hope, I told her it was all nonsense, and there was no death in -her cards, nor nothing like it. I wish you’d let me lay the cards for -you, Rhoda. It’s ages since I’ve done so.’</p> - -<p>‘No! no! mother,’ cried the girl, shrinking backwards. ‘I would rather -not, really!’</p> - -<p>‘But why not?’ asked Mrs Berry, who was very proud of her gift of -second sight, and could not bear to hear it discredited. ‘You know -how right they<span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</span> came before you went to London. If you’d followed the -cards then, you’d never have had that young crow upon your lap now. And -I’ve never laid them for you, with your own cutting, since. Don’t you -believe in them, Rhoda?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, yes, mother. Perhaps it is because I believe in them so much that -I don’t care to see them laid for me. Troubles come soon enough without -our knowing them beforehand. And if you were to tell me anything -unpleasant—that I should lose my baby, or have some other trouble—I -don’t think I could bear it, mother, not just yet. I’m so eaten up with -disappointment already.’</p> - -<p>‘My poor girl,’ said Mrs Berry, compassionately, ‘you mustn’t mind all -I say about that little crow, Rhoda! He reminds me too much of your -misfortune; that’s why I speak short of him sometimes. But, bless you! -I wish him no harm, nor will he come to harm either. He’ll live to be a -man, and a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</span> comfort to you yet. I can read that in his face.’</p> - -<p>‘Thank God for it!’ replied the girl, as she lifted the baby’s brown -hand to her lips and kissed it fondly. ‘I know he’s a disgrace, mother, -but it would kill me to part with him now. He’s all I’ve got left of -Fred.’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t know that, my girl. I’ve dreamed some strange things about -that Fred (as you call him) lately. That’s why I want to lay the cards -for you. That marriage of his hasn’t turned out well. I feel sure of -it, though we’ve heard nothing of him since the letter he sent me to -say it was coming off. He’s in trouble of some sort, as sure as he -lives. I can see so much by the influences round the child, and I -verily believe it’s death.’</p> - -<p>‘Not for him, mother,’ cried Rhoda, quickly.</p> - -<p>‘If it’s not for him, it’s very near him; but, if you won’t cut the -cards, I can’t say more. Your fate and his are so mixed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</span> up, that I -can’t read one without the other.’</p> - -<p>‘Very well, mother, I will cut them,’ replied Rhoda, as she laid her -boy in his cradle, and seated herself at the table. ‘You make me uneasy -when you speak of Fred so, and I shall not rest till I know the worst.’</p> - -<p>Mrs Berry produced her favourite pack of cards, which had been laid for -all the inhabitants of Luton, and, having withdrawn some from the pack, -directed her daughter to cut and shuffle the remainder, and lay them on -the table in three portions, with their faces downwards. As she raised -and dealt them out, she went on rapidly with her reading.</p> - -<p>‘There he is, you see,’ she commenced, pointing to the king of clubs, -‘as black as the little crow yonder. And I was right. There’s death -round him. If it hasn’t come, it’s coming, and it’s for his wife, not -for himself. See how he counts to the marriage ring in the lap of -death. There’s no escaping it for him, one way<span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</span> or another. Shuffle -them again, my dear, and cut as before.’</p> - -<p>Rhoda did as she was desired, and her mother scrutinised the cards -attentively.</p> - -<p>‘There’s trouble around him, as sure as he lives, and danger threatens -him very nearly.’</p> - -<p>‘Danger, mother? What danger?’ exclaimed the girl, in a voice of alarm.</p> - -<p>‘Not illness or death, my dear, so you needn’t look so frightened. -But he seems to me to be surrounded by a net of some sort—as if -there were people about him who are trying to take advantage of -him—to rob him, perhaps, or to entangle him in difficulties. He is -full of perplexities. I don’t like the look of this fair man who is -mixed up with him. He’s an enemy of his, and has done him, or will do -him, a great mischief. He’s been a bad man to you, this Mr Frederick -Walcheren, but he ought to be warned against those who are about him, -and especially of this fair man, or he will get into more trouble -still.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</span></p> - -<p>‘Mother,’ said Rhoda, timidly, ‘do you really think that Fred has -behaved so very badly to me? He never promised to marry me, you -know—he never mentioned such a thing. I don’t say that <em>I</em> didn’t -think of it, and hope for it, perhaps, but it was very foolish of me to -do so. How could he have married me? He comes of a very high family, -I have heard, and, under any circumstances, I am not fit to be his -wife. Of course, I should have thought of that before, and weighed -the consequences of my weakness, but then, mother, you see I loved -him, and Fred loved me in his way, so we were equally to blame. Cannot -you think of this trouble as you would if two children had gone out -to play together, and the weaker of the two had fallen down and cut -himself, whilst the stronger came back safe and well? We were equally -thoughtless and equally wrong. Why should Fred be blamed more than I, -because I have brought the worse trouble on myself.’</p> - -<p>She looked up shyly to see how her<span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</span> mother had taken her argument, -when she saw, to her surprise, that Mrs Berry had sunk back in her -chair in a trance. She was not alarmed, for it was an usual thing for -her to pass under control; but it struck the girl with a sense of awe. -Presently her mother sat upright, and addressed her in her ordinary -tone of voice.</p> - -<p>‘If you love this man,’ she said gravely, ‘you must try to save him. -In a few days it will be too late. He is about to imprison himself -for life—to deliver up his will, his mind, his very senses, into the -keeping of others, and he will be miserable under the discipline. -You will not be able to dissuade him from his purpose now, but your -visit to him will have a good effect. Don’t worry him about your own -troubles. Only ask him to pause before he delivers himself over, body -and soul, a prisoner for life. His wife has passed over. He thinks she -died by an accident. It was not an accident. There was a man mixed -up<span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</span> with it—not very tall and rather stout, with light hair, plainly -parted in the middle, blue eyes, a straight nose, and a pleasant -smile. He is very particular about his hands and nails. He has been -your lover’s worst friend—and <em>her</em> worst friend, he—he—he -pushed—her—over!’</p> - -<p>Here Mrs Berry’s control took flight, and she yawned once or twice and -opened her eyes.</p> - -<p>‘Have I been asleep?’ she said, as she met her daughter’s startled gaze.</p> - -<p>‘Yes, mother,’ replied Rhoda, who was much excited, ‘and you have been -telling me the most extraordinary things.’</p> - -<p>‘Who was it?’ demanded Mrs Berry. ‘Paul, or Daisy?’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t know,’ said the girl, in a bewildered manner; ‘I never asked. -But they said—I mean, you said—that is, whoever it was, said, that -Fred is in great danger of some kind, and I must go up to London and -warn him to be careful. And, his wife is dead—you were right—and they -said something I couldn’t understand,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</span> about someone being pushed over -somewhere. And they described a man who is Fred’s worst friend. I don’t -know, how—but I am to warn him against him. And oh! mother, may I go -to town and see him?’ she concluded with glistening eyes.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t half like the idea, Rhoda,’ replied Mrs Berry. ‘What should -you go thrusting yourself into this man’s way again for? He may quite -misconstrue your motives.’</p> - -<p>The girl drew herself up proudly.</p> - -<p>‘No, mother, he could hardly do that. I would not let him do that. -Besides, Fred is a gentleman, remember. If I go to warn him, and ask -him to consider before he takes any important step, he will know I only -do it as a friend. And his poor wife is so lately dead, too. Please, -mother, do me more justice than that.’</p> - -<p>‘I know, child, I know; but when there has once been such intimacy, it -is hard to break through or forget it. However, if the controls urge -you to go,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</span> go you must. Do you know where Mr Walcheren is now?’</p> - -<p>‘No, but I know his flat in Nevern Mansions, and, doubtless, I can find -out his present address there.’</p> - -<p>‘I won’t say anything for it, nor against it, Rhoda, but you mustn’t -take the child. I won’t have my daughter calling at a gentleman’s house -with a baby in her arms. Remember who your dear father was, and don’t -make him turn in his grave, poor man.’</p> - -<p>‘No, no, mother!’ replied Rhoda, as if such a feat were possible; ‘but -I’m afraid it will be such a trouble to you if I leave baby behind me.’</p> - -<p>‘You mean you think I’ll smack the little crow as soon as your back is -turned. No, my girl, I’m not quite such a brute as that, though the -sight of the little rascal does make me swear sometimes. But it’s only -for your sake, Rhoda; I’ve no spite against the poor, innocent baby. -After all, isn’t he yours before anyone else’s, and aren’t you the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</span> -only one I ever had to call my own? No, my dear, whatever happens, -we’ll stick to the little crow, you and I, and bring him up between us, -and be mother and father both to him.’</p> - -<p>And so saying, Mrs Berry lifted her little grandson from his cot and -held him to her heart.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, mother, mother, when you talk like that, you do make me feel so -happy,’ exclaimed poor Rhoda, as she embraced Mrs Berry; ‘indeed, I -know what a trouble and a shame I’ve been to you, and baby too, but I -can’t help loving him, mother, never mind what he is. And you needn’t -be afraid I’ll say anything to Fred to remind him of his obligations to -me. I’m much too proud for that. Only, if he is in danger, and I can -warn him, I feel it’s my duty to do so; but if I find it’s a mistake, -and the lady is living still, I shall come straight away again, without -seeing him.’</p> - -<p>‘It’s no mistake, Rhoda; she’s gone, sure enough, but I’ve no idea what -danger<span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</span> Mr Walcheren can be in, unless he’s got into another scrape.’</p> - -<p>Rhoda reddened like a rose.</p> - -<p>‘Oh! no, mother, indeed; it’s something to do with men. The controls -said so. It’s all very misty to me, but one thing’s clear—that I’m to -go and see him, and my visit is to do him good. I sha’n’t be more than -three or four hours gone, mother, and I’m sure baby will be good with -you for that time.’</p> - -<p>So, the following day, the injured girl set forth, with her heart full -of nothing but love and concern for the man who had ruined her good -name, and an earnest desire to return him good for evil. How some women -can forgive! How they revel in forgiving! They seem always ready to -take their betrayers and traducers back into their loving arms, as a -mother receives her child, at the first note of repentance.</p> - -<p>Rhoda would have suffered very keenly at any other time on re-visiting -London. Here it was that she had dreamed such<span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</span> delicious dreams, and -woke up to find them delusions! Here it was that she had been publicly -dishonoured and disgraced, and told to go home to her mother, and -receive her reproaches, alone, friendless, and without protection!</p> - -<p>But she forgot all that trouble now that she was on her mission of -mercy to Frederick Walcheren. She went to his flat in the Nevern -Mansions first, and found it had been let, furnished, to new tenants.</p> - -<p>‘Can you,’ she asked timidly of the servant who had opened the door, -‘give me the present address of Mr Frederick Walcheren?’</p> - -<p>At this appeal, the mistress of the apartments came to have a look at -her, and seeing that she was not a beggar, said she <em>had</em> received -Mr Walcheren’s address, for the purpose of forwarding his letters, but -she did not know if he would receive any visitors.</p> - -<p>‘I can but try,’ replied Rhoda, gently; ‘and if I cannot see him, they -may deliver a message for me.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</span></p> - -<p>‘That is true,’ said the lady; ‘and, if you are a friend of his, you -may as well take a packet of newspapers that have been waiting an -opportunity to go to him.’ She gave Rhoda a large parcel of papers and -magazines as she spoke, and added: ‘Mr Walcheren is staying at present -at Canon Bulfil’s college in Winters’ Lane, Southwark.’</p> - -<p>‘Thank you very much,’ returned Rhoda; and then she said wistfully, -‘May I ask you, madam, if the report I have heard of the death of Mr -Walcheren’s wife is true?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! dear, yes. That happened months ago,’ replied the lady, as she -closed the door again.</p> - -<p>One part of her mother’s revelation was true then, and so might the -rest be. Rhoda knew that Frederick was a Catholic, but also that he -had been a very lax one, as he had been lax in everything else, and -could not help wondering what on earth he could be doing in a college. -And, whilst sheltered within its walls, what danger could threaten -him? He had been<span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</span> such a joyous, devil-may-care young fellow when she -knew him, that she could not fancy him mured up in a religious house. -What sympathy could he have with its inmates? What pleasure could he -derive from its customs or mode of living? However, she would fulfil -her mission, whether her warnings were needed or not. It was a long -journey down to Southwark, but Rhoda reached it at last, and found her -way, by dint of inquiries, to Canon Bulfil’s college. It was a large, -red brick building, more like a jail than anything else she could liken -it to, and Rhoda felt very timid as she pulled the iron chain which -sustained the bell, and heard the loud echoes it evoked in the vaulted -hall beyond. It was answered by a lay brother, who demanded, in a grave -voice, what was her business.</p> - -<p>‘I have come with a packet and message for Mr Frederick Walcheren, and -wish to see him,’ replied Rhoda.</p> - -<p>The man unlocked the massive door, and admitted her to a cold-looking -passage<span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</span> with brick walls, unpapered and unpainted.</p> - -<p>‘What name shall I say?’ asked the lay brother, as if he were -conducting a funeral.</p> - -<p>‘Say, please, that I have come from Mrs Pattison,’ replied Rhoda, who -had ascertained that was the name of the tenant of the flat in Nevern -Mansions.</p> - -<p>After what appeared to her to be an unconscionable delay, the man -returned and ushered her into a parlour, the only furniture in which -was a piece of matting on the oaken floor, a large table, four -rush-bottomed chairs, and a fald stool placed in front of an oil -painting of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin. Rhoda, remembering -the luxury in which Frederick Walcheren used to live and revel in, -thought it all very cold-looking and uncomfortable and precise, and -wondered how he enjoyed himself there, and what could make him stay.</p> - -<p>In a few minutes the door opened, and Frederick himself appeared. For -the first<span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</span> moment, Rhoda did not recognise him. His dark hair was cut -close to his head, he had shaved off his moustache, and wore a long, -black cassock, which reached to his heels. His face was pale and -careworn, and darker than usual. As he recognised his visitor, he gave -a slight cry and staggered to a chair.</p> - -<p>‘Rhoda,’ he exclaimed, faintly, ‘what on earth have you come to see me -for?’</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VII">CHAPTER VII.</h2> -</div> - - -<p>The girl was almost as taken aback as he was.</p> - -<p>‘Is this you, Fred?’ she said, in a tone of the utmost astonishment. -‘What have you done to yourself? I hardly knew you.’</p> - -<p>But he only asked again,—</p> - -<p>‘Why have you come? What do you want with me? I thought our -acquaintanceship was at an end.’</p> - -<p>‘I have not come to ask anything of you, Fred,’ said Rhoda, in a -reproachful voice. ‘I think you might know that without my telling you. -I am here as your friend only. I heard that you were in trouble, and I -wanted to see if I could be of any use to you.’</p> - -<p>‘Thank you, thank you,’ he replied<span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</span> nervously. ‘It is kind of you to -have thought of it. Won’t you sit down?’</p> - -<p>Rhoda seated herself on one of the rush-bottomed chairs, whilst -Frederick took another as far as possible from her.</p> - -<p>‘What is it that I can do for you?’ he commenced, in a stiff voice.</p> - -<p>‘Nothing,’ replied the girl, ‘only tell me about yourself. Is it true -that you are a widower? I am so sorry for you! And why are you living -in this place? What have you to do with a training college?’</p> - -<p>‘I am here as a probationer, or novice, Rhoda. It is evident you know -nothing about me. I am about to enter the Church and become a priest.’</p> - -<p>‘A priest! Oh, Fred, never! <em>You</em> a priest? You’ll never stick to -it. You will be tired to death of it in three months.’</p> - -<p>This prophecy seemed to offend the young man exceedingly, the more so -as he had occasional doubts whether it might not be true.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</span></p> - -<p>‘You do not know what you are talking of,’ he returned, -grandiloquently. ‘A priest once is a priest for ever. There will be no -going back. Once ordained, my fate is fixed for life.’</p> - -<p>‘Will there be <em>no</em> getting out of it; not even if you thought it -right?’ exclaimed Rhoda, with open eyes.</p> - -<p>‘Certainly not. Once admitted to the Church, there can be no leaving -her without everlasting disgrace and loss of one’s salvation.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, Fred!’ cried the girl, ‘think twice before you take such an -irrevocable step. You will repent it; I am sure you will. But what made -you think of it? What put such an idea into your head?’</p> - -<p>‘The Almighty, in His infinite goodness,’ replied Frederick. ‘You have -heard, you say, of my great loss. It was that which first brought me to -my senses. It was so sudden—so terrible! I could see God’s finger of -wrath so plainly in it, that it mercifully opened my eyes to my true -condition.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</span></p> - -<p>‘Do you think, then,’ said the girl, timidly, ‘that God revenges -Himself on us for our petty, thoughtless sins, by torturing or cutting -off the life of some one we love? If <em>you</em> were the sinner, why -should <em>she</em> have died to bring you to a sense of your wickedness? -Why should an innocent girl be used as a burnt-offering for your sins? -And how can you better matters by becoming a priest? Are there not -plenty of priests? Is it impossible to show God that you are sorry for -the past in some other way?’</p> - -<p>‘Rhoda, as you truly say, you do not understand. You have not been -brought up in our blessed faith. I wish you had. Then you would know -there is no expiation for sin without blood shedding. When my beloved -wife was taken from me I was nearly mad—’</p> - -<p>‘Tell me of her,’ interposed Rhoda, softly. ‘I would rather hear about -her than the Church.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! Rhoda!’ exclaimed Frederick,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</span> with the selfishness of grief, not -heeding how his praises of the dead might sting the girl before him, -‘she was so young, so loving, so beautiful. She was the most perfect -creature I have ever seen. And we had been married only one day, when -she met with a terrible accident that deprived me of her. She fell over -the cliffs at Dover and was killed on the spot. It nearly drove me out -of my mind.’</p> - -<p>‘Poor Frederick!’ said Rhoda, kindly. ‘But are you sure it was an -accident?’</p> - -<p>‘I am sure of nothing, except that my darling parted from me in health -and spirits, and that I never saw her alive again. She was found at -the foot of the cliffs, crushed to death. Some thought she might have -thrown herself over, but I am sure she did not do that; but whether -some villain insulted her, or tried to rob her, and so made her take a -false step, in agitation and alarm, I cannot say. No one will ever know -the truth now. The only<span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</span> thing certain is, that God has taken her from -me, and that I shall never see her again this side Eternity.’</p> - -<p>‘Poor Frederick,’ repeated the girl, gently. ‘But why should you become -a priest because of that? It will not bring your wife back to you.’</p> - -<p>‘Not in this world, Rhoda, but in the next. I need not mind saying to -you that I have been a very bad man, and led a sinful life. You know it -only too well. My mother intended me for the service of the Church, and -educated me, up to the age of twenty, with that end in view. But, as -soon as she died and I became my own master, I left college and entered -the world, and you know the bad use I made of my time whilst there. I -have to ask your pardon, Rhoda, for the way in which I treated you.’</p> - -<p>‘Don’t, don’t,’ said Rhoda, quickly. ‘I can’t bear it. I have not -reproached you, Frederick. Nor, in my own heart, have I blamed you. -I always spoke my mind, you know. We were very happy whilst<span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</span> we knew -each other, and thought we cared for each other, and if we have had to -“pay for our whistle,” let us do so bravely, and without any cant. I -have borne my share without crying out. Do the same by yours. God will -accept our secret grief and prayers quite as soon as any public display -of regret.’</p> - -<p>‘I daresay you are right,’ replied the young man, who, however, did -not like being cut short in his protestations of repentance; ‘but to -return to what we were talking of. My godfather, Sir Frederick Ascher, -who died before I can remember him, left me all his property, coupled -with a hope that I should either enter the Church, when it would be -confiscated to its use, or, failing that, that I should leave it to the -Church at my own death, or endow some ecclesiastical building with it. -This behest I laughed at, and had no intention of obeying until my eyes -were so mercifully opened to the sins of which I had been guilty, and I -saw that the only reparation<span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</span> I could make to Heaven, would be to do as -my dear mother and godfather wished me, and become a priest.’</p> - -<p>‘But how,’ demanded Rhoda, ‘will that repair the wrong you have done in -the world? It seems to me that it benefits really no one.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, Rhoda! you speak in ignorance,’ said Frederick Walcheren. ‘In -right of my blessed office, I shall have the privilege of offering the -Mass for the repose of the souls of those I have loved and injured, -every day. I shall live, as it were, in the sight of Heaven, and weary -it with prayers for the pardon of my own sins, and the sins of those -I have led, by my example or otherwise, into error; I shall live, I -trust, blameless, henceforth, in the eyes of God and men, so that, when -my time comes to leave the world, I may be found worthy to join my -friends and relatives, and to live in the sight of God and angels for -evermore.’</p> - -<p>‘And could you not effect these objects<span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</span> just as well by living in the -world, instead of burying yourself alive?’ asked Rhoda drily.</p> - -<p>‘I could not trust myself to do it, Rhoda. My aspirations are good, but -my flesh is frail, and the temptations of this life might prove too -strong for me.’</p> - -<p>‘Then I don’t see much good in your repentance, Fred,’ said the girl. -‘If you are obliged to shut yourself up to prevent your sinning, your -abstinence cannot be of much value in God’s eyes. Your virtue will lie -in the four walls of your clergy house, not in yourself.’</p> - -<p>The young man sat silent. He did not like the tone adopted by his -former friend. It was too much an echo of something which he could not -drive out of his mind, nor his heart.</p> - -<p>‘Is this all you have to say to me, Rhoda?’ he asked after a pause.</p> - -<p>‘No, Fred. I came up from Luton this morning expressly to see you. -I heard, through my mother—you know<span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</span> <em>how</em>—that you were in -trouble and danger, and I see now that both reports were true. I -couldn’t think what the danger might be! I was told that you were being -entangled in a net that would close round you, and deliver over your -soul and body into the keeping of others. I understand what they meant -now! When you have become a priest, you will no longer be a man. You -will be a slave, obliged to go here, or there, or do this or give up -the other, as your superiors choose.’</p> - -<p>‘But it will be all for my good, Rhoda. I am not fit to look after, or -take care of, myself.’</p> - -<p>‘Perhaps so, but I entreat of you, Fred, not to do this thing in too -great a hurry! You are not in a fit state to judge for yourself at this -moment! You are so grieved by the loss of your wife, that you have but -one wish—to give up the world and everything in it, and be left to -yourself and your own thoughts for ever. I know what the feeling is! -Do<span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</span> you suppose that I have not felt it also? Do you suppose that I do -not know what it is to despair of God’s existence, and to believe that -He neither sees nor hears what His unfortunate creatures are doing or -suffering?’</p> - -<p>‘<em>You</em>, Rhoda, you? But what trouble have you had to make you -despair like this?’</p> - -<p>The girl turned and looked him full in the face. Was it possible that -he could be so selfish and absorbed in his own sorrows, as entirely to -have forgotten hers?</p> - -<p>‘You don’t mean to tell me that you cared for me as much as all that?’ -demanded Frederick, with a touch of the old vanity.</p> - -<p>‘No!’ she answered, ‘no! I did not care for you as much as all that, -and if I had done so, the time is past for telling you of it! Let -me finish what I was going to say to you! Be warned by me! If you -become a priest, you will regret it. You are not fitted by<span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</span> nature or -constitution, for such an artificial life, neither is your present -feeling a permanent one. I feel it! Something tells me so! Your mind -has been upset, and you are not capable of judging for yourself! Don’t -take the final step without further consideration. And tell me one -thing! Do you know a man, not very tall but rather stout—with blue -eyes and fair hair, parted down the middle—a man with a pleasant smile -and manner, and who is especially natty about his hands and nails?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, yes!’ cried the young man; ‘what of him? I recognise your -description perfectly.’</p> - -<p>‘He is an enemy of yours, Fred!’ replied Rhoda. ‘I was told to tell you -that he—’</p> - -<p>‘Stop!’ cried Frederick, suddenly. ‘<em>Who</em> told you?’</p> - -<p>‘Mother did, last night, or some of her controls. I told you, ages ago, -you may remember, that she has the gift of second sight.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</span></p> - -<p>‘A soothsayer—a woman with a familiar spirit—condemned alike of God -and our holy Church!’ exclaimed her companion excitedly, ‘and you bring -me warnings and admonitions from such a source! Away—silence! I will -hear no more of it. I sin each moment that I listen. My poor friend, -do you know the danger you run by giving heed to anything you may hear -from such a source? You are playing with the devil—listening to his -advice, delivering your soul into his hands. You must promise me never -to have any dealings with such people again, or you will imperil your -immortal soul.’</p> - -<p>But Rhoda, though deeply attached to the man before her, was too -sensible a woman not to have opinions of her own, and the courage to -stick up for them, into the bargain.</p> - -<p>‘Not have dealings with my own mother!’ she retorted; ‘what will you -tell me next, I wonder! If you don’t choose to heed what I say to you, -it’s no fault<span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</span> of mine, Fred, but I’ve done my duty in telling you what -was told to me. And as for its being wrong, I don’t believe it. If my -mother’s controls were evil spirits, why did they warn me against you -before ever I came to London, and say that nothing but trouble would -come of our intimacy? Why didn’t they tell me that life was short in -this world, and I had better make the most of it whilst it lasted, -instead? No! that was <em>your</em> teaching, not theirs; but you’d like -to make out your principles the better of the two! You may not take my -advice. I can’t help that, but don’t set up your own against it, for -you’ll only anger me, and I came to see you from a pure wish to do you -good.’</p> - -<p>And with that, and a suspicious sound in her voice as if she could not -trust herself to speak any more, Rhoda gathered up a little shawl she -had carried over her arm, and her umbrella, and prepared to quit the -room.</p> - -<p>‘Rhoda, don’t be vexed with what I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</span> said,’ replied Frederick. ‘You did -it in good faith, I am sure, but I must obey the teachings of our most -holy Church on the subject. She strictly forbids all tampering with -such knowledge—with any communications from spirits of the dead. We -are taught to regard them with horror, as temptations from the Evil -One, and sent in order to lure us to our own damnation.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ said Rhoda, incredulously. ‘But I thought that saints in the -Roman Catholic Church were often made so, because they had seen or -talked with spirits of the dead, and that the Pope called a convocation -to decide if such reports were true, and, if they were, the saintship -was confirmed.’</p> - -<p>‘That may be correct, Rhoda, but it is very different!’</p> - -<p>‘How?’</p> - -<p>Frederick began to fidget.</p> - -<p>‘Well, you see, the reports, as you say, are confirmed by a court of -inquiry, and established by the approval of the Church,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</span> so that there -remains no doubt of their honesty and—’</p> - -<p>‘You need say no more, Fred! My mother is as much to me as your Church -is to you—perhaps a little more—and I have the same faith in her -honesty, and impossibility of dealing with the devil, so that we may -cry quits.’</p> - -<p>‘I hope I have not offended you,’ said Frederick, ‘but I dare not -listen to communications from such a source! If not actually ordained, -I am pledged to become a minister of the Church, and am bound to follow -her commands in everything.’</p> - -<p>‘Poor Fred!’ said the girl, compassionately, ‘I can do nothing more -for you, so I had better go. Good-bye! Believe how I sympathise in -your great trouble—that I would have saved you from it, if I could. I -don’t suppose that I shall ever see you again, but I shall never forget -you—never!’</p> - -<p>She held out her hand to him as she spoke, and the warm human touch -seemed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</span> to Frederick Walcheren like a last farewell of the world he had -loved so much.</p> - -<p>‘One moment, Rhoda,’ he said tremblingly; ‘you said, just now, that -you had had sorrow enough to make you despair. What was it? Was it -connected with me?’</p> - -<p>‘You know how you left me,’ she answered, colouring; ‘surely I needn’t -remind you of that.’</p> - -<p>‘No, no; but I thought, perhaps—I hoped, as you had said nothing of -it, that—that—’</p> - -<p>‘That God had mercifully buried the proof of your treatment of me, with -your other sins, I suppose, Fred,’ replied the girl, scornfully.</p> - -<p>‘Your mother wrote me a letter some time ago now, I remember (but later -events have put it out of my head), and I sent her a cheque for one -hundred pounds, for expenses, but she returned it to me, and said she -did not want it. And not having heard since—’</p> - -<p>‘You flattered yourself you would never<span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</span> hear again,’ retorted Rhoda. -‘Well, you were right! You never will! Good-bye!’</p> - -<p>But he would not let her go.</p> - -<p>‘Tell me,’ he urged, ‘tell me everything! Don’t think, because I’m -going to be a priest, that I have lost all trace of human feeling. Is -the child alive and well? Is it a boy or a girl?’</p> - -<p>‘What is the good of my telling you?’ asked Rhoda, dashing away the -tears that had risen to her eyes. ‘You’ll never see him, nor will he -call you “father.” But since you ask me, he is a boy, and strong and -healthy, and I love him dearly. Is that sufficient?’</p> - -<p>‘My little son,’ said Frederick, musingly. ‘The only child I shall ever -have, and him I have disgraced, God forgive me! Rhoda, you must let me -settle some money on this boy before my fortune passes out of my hands. -He is mine; you have no right to refuse me.’</p> - -<p>‘No, no, I will not have it; he shall not take it!’ exclaimed Rhoda, -passionately.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</span> ‘Mother and I have enough for him, and he shall never -know who his father is. Don’t be afraid but that he will be well looked -after. He is all—all—’ with a sudden break in her voice—‘that I have -left.’</p> - -<p>In a moment the injury he had done this girl, whose existence he had -almost forgotten, flashed across Frederick Walcheren’s mind.</p> - -<p>‘Oh! let me make you some amends,’ he cried. ‘Don’t leave me with this -remorse tearing at my heart. If you do, the child and you will come -between me and my prayers. The money is my own still, to do as I will -with. Let me put a thousand pounds in the bank—only a thousand pounds, -Rhoda—in your name, that you may have something to fit the boy out -with when he is of an age to enter the world.’</p> - -<p>But she shook her head.</p> - -<p>‘I will not take your money,’ she said. ‘I will not be paid for my -love.’</p> - -<p>‘Then what can I do for you?’ he<span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</span> cried, in a voice of despair. ‘How -can I show you how sorry I am for the past—how much I would do to -repair it?’</p> - -<p>‘If you wish to make me happier,’ she answered, turning so as to face -him, ‘<em>don’t become a priest</em>. Give up this mad idea. You will -regret it bitterly if you do not. Ah, Fred,’ she continued, drawing -closer to him, ‘I don’t ask—I don’t wish to be anything to you ever -again, but come back to the world and live in it a little longer before -you take a step you can never recall. I do not expect, nor ask to -receive, your love. I know that has gone from me to the girl you made -your wife, but if I can comfort you by my friendship and my devotion, -it will be yours to your life’s end. Come back and let me try and -comfort you for all you have lost. I will be your servant and your -friend, and nothing more, so long as I can smooth your path in life. -Dear, dear Fred, you know I loved you! Let us go away to some distant -land together till your grief is assuaged and your mind<span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</span> is more fit to -decide upon your future plans.’</p> - -<p>She laid her hand affectionately upon his arm as she spoke, but he -flung it from him as if it had been a serpent.</p> - -<p>‘Woman!’ he cried, ‘have you been sent from the devil to torture me -and tempt me to forsake my duty? Leave this hallowed spot. Go back -and wallow in the Slough of Despond from which I have been lifted. -Are you mad to speak to me like this? What hellish design have you in -your brain regarding me? Do you want to drag me down to the abyss with -yourself? Go, and never come near me more! You have planted a sword in -my breast that it will take weeks, perhaps months, to draw forth again. -Go, go! Don’t let me curse you! Oh, God! have I not suffered enough -without this? Is it Thy will to crucify me afresh? <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Sancta Maria! Ora -pro nobis!</i>’</p> - -<p>And, with a look of agonised entreaty at the pictured face that hung -above the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</span> mantelpiece, Frederick Walcheren crossed himself and fled -from the college parlour, and Rhoda saw him no more.</p> - -<p>She was a little offended and very much hurt to have her overtures -received in so ungracious a manner. She cried bitterly as she took her -way back to Luton, but she told her mother nothing beyond the bare -facts of the case. Fred was no longer the gay, <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">debonnair</i> young -man she had given her heart to. So much the easier, she told herself, -to forget all about him. Still, as she dreamt over the past, she could -not but believe that, some day, she and the father of her child would -meet again.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VIII">CHAPTER VIII.</h2> -</div> - - -<p>As soon as Frederick Walcheren had left Rhoda’s presence, he hurried -to his private study and locked himself in. His interview with her had -greatly disturbed him. For not only had it brought back the past in all -its vividness, but made him conscious how dear that past had been to -him—how dear it was still!</p> - -<p>He sat down by the table and buried his face in his clasped hands. -How plainly he could see all that he had promised to relinquish. -The racecourse and the cricket field, the regattas and the football -matches, the private theatricals and the picnics. And then the midnight -revelries. The theatres and music-halls and dances he had attended -and enjoyed with all the zest<span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</span> of youth and health combined. Was it -possible he should never, let him live to the age of a hundred, see -them evermore?</p> - -<p>It was not that Frederick mourned the loss of such pleasure now. Jenny, -and Jenny’s cruel death, were still uppermost in his thoughts, and the -idea of dissipation of any sort was repulsive to him. His passion for -the pretty, petulant, self-willed daughter of old Crampton had been -no chimera of his passing fancy. It was an ingrained feeling of his -soul; a love which he would never forget nor replace to the last day of -his life! But Jenny had now been gone for some months, and the fierce -desire that had first obtained the mastery over him, to kill himself, -or hide himself for ever from the world, was not so vehement as it had -been. Rhoda’s warnings had affected him chiefly because he felt that -they were needed—that she was right in saying that he might live to -repent the step he was about to take, and that he would do well to -pause and consider before he made it irrevocable.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</span></p> - -<p>He had bade the poor girl begone, and told her she was an emissary of -the devil, because her entreaties, that he would give up the idea of -entering the Church, and go to some distant land with her, had taken so -pleasant a hold on his imagination. In fancy, he had beheld himself in -the wilds of Northern India or South America, wandering through totally -new scenes, and Jenny’s memory becoming fainter and fainter as time -went on. The picture had been too fascinating! He dared not dwell on it.</p> - -<p>And instead, he had chosen the cloister and the interminable services, -and the strict standard of living and seclusion of a priest! Had he -been wise? Had he been wise?</p> - -<p>In the solitude of his own chamber, and to his own heart, the young -man could not deny that the future held but few charms for him. In the -violence of his untutored grief, he had seized at the first rope held -out to him that seemed likely to guide him to a haven of peace.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</span> He -had been willing then to sacrifice everything for the chance of seeing -his beloved again, to secure their re-union, to make sure they should -not be parted for ever. But Rhoda’s searching questions had shown him -what was really in his heart, and increasing instead of diminishing his -discomfort. He was terribly afraid he had mistaken his vocation. He -might make a priest, for he was clever and highly educated; he would -also, he hoped, faithfully stick to his duty, but would he be an honest -and conscientious one?</p> - -<p>Frederick shuddered when he thought of the answer to that question, for -his ordination was drawing very near. The day when he would take the -final vows upon himself was close at hand, and, after that, there would -be no drawing back. All would be fixed and settled for him. After that, -the rising at dawn to celebrate early mass for the rest of his life, -the daily services, the administering of sacraments, the cloistered -prayers, the grave address, the repression of all laughter and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</span> jesting -and pleasure for evermore. And yet, his heart had beat faster to think -of worldly amusements and merriment and brave companionship.</p> - -<p>As he mused over these things, Frederick groaned within his clasped -hands. Could he stand it all, he thought—could he go on for the rest -of his life—he was only just thirty, he might have another half -century of work before him—in a service so utterly opposed to all his -tastes and habits?</p> - -<p>He was still pondering on the subject, when a second visitor was -announced for him. It was his cousin Philip, who followed on the steps -of his messenger.</p> - -<p>‘Well, Frederick,’ he commenced, shaking hands, ‘I thought I would not -pass another day without coming to see you. Father Tasker tells me you -have made such rapid progress with your studies that you are going up -for ordination some weeks sooner than was intended. I congratulate you -heartily. Your fate is now settled. Your life for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</span> this world and the -next provided for. What a blessed privilege! Were it not for Marion -and the children, I could find it in my heart to chuck up everything -and follow your example. It must be a state of such complete calm and -security and happiness. The very gate of Heaven. You lucky fellow!’</p> - -<p>‘Do you think so?’ demanded Frederick, in a melancholy tone.</p> - -<p>‘<em>Think so?</em> My dear friend, there’s no thinking in the matter. It -is an assured certainty. You have dedicated the remainder of your life -to the Church, and in return she gives you everlasting bliss. There can -be no doubt on the matter. From the day of your consecration to her -service, she will stand security for your salvation. What can be more -assuring—more consolatory?’</p> - -<p>‘The Church can only stand security for my everlasting happiness if -I fulfil my duties from my heart. What about Luther and his nun? Had -they not pledged themselves to God’s service for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</span> ever? Did that secure -their salvation? Will the Church allow they are in Heaven at the -present moment?’</p> - -<p>‘My dear Frederick, what put those two unfortunate heretics in your -head? Surely, you do not liken yourself to either of them?’</p> - -<p>‘Perhaps I am not so good as they were! No, Philip, I do not wish to -liken myself to anybody, but I sometimes fear that I am not worthy of -the high calling I propose to take upon myself. I find my heart is -still too much with the world—not sufficiently weaned from earthly -things, and though my trouble is still so fresh that I have no -inclination to mix in the scenes I used to love, I am afraid it only -needs time to make me enjoy them as much as heretofore.’</p> - -<p>‘My dear cousin, before that time arrives, you will be folded in the -bosom of the Church, and she will keep you safe from all the dangers -you have so mercifully escaped since you turned your eyes once more -towards her. Have no<span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</span> fear! Once ordained, your sacred calling will -wrap you round as a mantle, and keep you from every harm. You will have -nothing to do with the world. Her voice will be drowned in that of God.’</p> - -<p>‘You do not understand me, Philip. If the devil is in my heart, nothing -will eradicate him. My sacred vestments will become a mockery—a -falsehood. I am afraid I have been too hasty in deciding on this. I -was so mad with grief when it was first suggested to me, that I hardly -calculated what I was signing my name to. But I see more plainly now, -and I feel afraid. This ordination must be put off. I will not go up -for it with these feelings in my mind. It would be a sacrilege.’</p> - -<p>Philip Walcheren now felt really alarmed. If Frederick once left the -college again, they might lose him for ever. And his money would go -with him. It was not to be thought of for a moment. At all costs, the -notion he had got into his head must be battled with and overcome. But -not by force—by suasion.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</span></p> - -<p>‘My dear Frederick,’ he commenced mildly, ‘these feelings do honour -to you. They prove your modesty—your want of self-esteem—your high -standard of the duties that lie before you. But, at the same time, they -are a worse temptation to you than those of the world you were speaking -of. Your thoughts come straight from the devil, Frederick, who, under -the guise of humility, is trying his utmost to dissuade you from -pursuing the glorious career you have dedicated your life to.’</p> - -<p>‘Even if my fears do come from the devil, Philip, it is better that -I should not do this thing without further consideration. There is -no real hurry. Next month, or next year, will do just as well for my -ordination. I don’t think the world will lose much from the want of my -ministrations. And if I am in the same mind then, it is easy enough to -carry out my plans.’</p> - -<p>‘If you are in the same mind then. Oh, Frederick, how you make my heart -ache by those words. How do you know<span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</span> that God will permit you to be -in the same mind then?—that He will not have delivered you over to -the machinations of the Evil One—that you may not, like Esau, fail to -find repentance, though you seek it carefully and with tears? My dear -cousin, I beg of you to put all such terrible doubts out of your head -at once, for they are only temptations sent to try your faith. Have -you not read that often, when dying Christians are at their last gasp, -Satan is permitted to try them, by implanting blasphemous doubts in -their minds of the truth of God or Christ’s salvation. It is so with -you. You have been allowed to reach, as it were, the very gates of -Heaven, and the devil attempts to drag you thence. Resist him by every -means in your power, Frederick! Stamp these unnatural doubts under -foot, and think only of the great good before you, and the few steps -left to gain it.’</p> - -<p>Still Frederick was unconvinced.</p> - -<p>‘It will not be good if I find I am unable to perform the duties -required of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</span> me, conscientiously and with my whole heart. Philip, this -is not a new fear with me. I have experienced it often during the last -few months, and I cannot believe but that it is sent as a warning. -I have tried hard to keep such thoughts out of my head, but it is -impossible. When I sleep, I dream of the world, of the scenes I used -to mix in, the amusements I engaged in, the people I associated with, -and I wake, feverish, excited, and anxious to see them all again. What -feelings are these with which to enter the Church?’</p> - -<p>‘All temptations, diabolical temptations,’ said Philip, with a look of -distress.</p> - -<p>‘But I cannot help them, they are unavoidable,’ replied his cousin, -‘and if they continue when I am a priest, what shall I do?’</p> - -<p>‘Have you any doubt? Do as I have told you; stamp on them as you -would on the head of the Old Serpent himself. Frederick! beware how -you give way to such fancies. You have been plucked as<span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</span> a brand from -the burning. You have consecrated your life to the service of our -Church—your prayers to gaining the salvation of your young wife, who -was hurled into Eternity without a care for her soul—and, at your -peril, renounce these sacred objects for a mere dream. What! have you -forgotten Jenny so soon, that you no longer desire to work out her -salvation by the sacrifice of your own inclinations? Have you lost -the wish to meet her again, purified from the sins which bound you -together, and free to enjoy Heaven in each other’s company?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! no! no! my poor darling, never!’ cried Frederick, in a burst of -remorse.</p> - -<p>‘You will forfeit it all, if you do not fight against this horrible -snare,’ replied Philip, sternly. ‘I knew that such doubts were likely -to oppress you, Frederick, but I little thought to find you so weak -in dispelling them. Do you suppose that any priests are entirely free -from such feelings—that each one is not obliged at times to wrestle -with the earthly part of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</span> his nature, and kill the old man within him? -But where would be their crown of glory, without their cross to carry? -Is it to be earned for nothing? Are the angels to record no deeds of -valour on the roll of the martyrs’ names, to counteract the dark plots -which might otherwise efface them? If you imagined the road you elected -to travel was one of roses, I am sorry for you. I thought you had more -sense.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes! yes! you are right. I see I have been very weak,’ said Frederick, -as he sat upright and assumed a more cheerful aspect. ‘It was a -devilish temptation, as you say, Philip! The fact is, I had been -talking with an old friend this morning, and it brought the past back a -little too vividly. The dark cloud has passed again, and I feel braver. -Please don’t think of it any more.’</p> - -<p>But Philip Walcheren did think of it. He made inquiries, before he left -the college, as to what visitors his cousin had received, and heard -that a young woman had been closeted with him for nearly<span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</span> an hour in -the early part of the day. So he went straight to Father Tasker with -the story, the result of which was that the priest also paid Frederick -a visit, and had a long conversation with him upon the subject. Philip -had told him that his cousin showed such signs of wavering that, if -he were allowed to converse with many more young women, or to renew -his old worldly associations, there were grave doubts if he might not -give up the idea of being a priest altogether. And that meant, in the -estimation of them both, not only the loss of his fortune for the -Church, but the loss of himself for heaven.</p> - -<p>So the father used his utmost casuistry to persuade the novice that the -feelings he complained of were only so many signs of God’s interest in -him, and that it was because He loved His son so much that He permitted -him to be chastised by doubts and perplexities. He ran over the old -gauntlet of Jenny’s peril in purgatory; of her present sufferings,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</span> -which Frederick would augment tenfold by any defalcation; of his -promises to offer the Mass daily for her relief, and of the probability -that if he drew back, after he had put his hand to the plough, -<em>she</em> would be the innocent victim of his defalcation.</p> - -<p>He raked up the old wound, now gradually closing, till it streamed -with blood; he made his disciple writhe under his scathing reminders; -and, finally, he made him look so mean in his own eyes, that the young -man was fairly baited into retracting all he had said to his cousin, -and declaring he had never had any intention of giving up the Church, -or going back from his plighted word. The priest, however, was not -satisfied, and sought an early interview with his Superior, during -which they decided that, for the good of the Church, and this poor, -wavering soul, Frederick Walcheren’s ordination had better take place -as soon as possible, for which purpose several letters passed between -them and higher authorities, and the day for the ceremony was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</span> fixed -for a much earlier date than had been at first intended.</p> - -<p>Meantime, Frederick was silenced, but not convinced. Had he been less -sick of the world and its gaieties at the time—had his nerves not been -so unstrung from the shock they had received—he would not have given -in a second time so easily, but he was too tired (mentally) to argue -the point. It was less trouble to say ‘Yes,’ than to keep on repeating -‘No,’ and he really did not seem to care which way it turned out; so he -yielded with a sigh, and tried to persuade himself that it was of no -consequence—that nothing would be of any consequence to him evermore.</p> - -<p>But though he returned to his studies, he could not fix his attention -on them as heretofore, for the face of Rhoda Berry would come between -him and the written page. He feared he had spoken unkindly and roughly -to her, and, if so, he was a brute. The poor girl had never harmed him; -the wrong had been all on the other side. He had never been really -attached<span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</span> to her, but he had been fond of her during the days of their -courtship, and he could remember that he had regretted the fact of her -birth precluding the idea of his asking her to be his wife.</p> - -<p>He could remember also that he thought her a very intelligent and -well-read girl, and a most interesting companion, more interesting, -perhaps, and sensible than his sweet Jenny, who needed nothing but -her own beauty to make all men worship her. Rhoda was a pretty girl -too, not quite in his style, perhaps, for how could he admire blue -eyes and yellow hair, with Jenny’s big hazel orbs and chestnut locks -forever before his mental vision? Still—whatever Rhoda was like, he -had deeply wronged her, and she had never even reproached him for -his baseness—never hinted that he had behaved badly to her, or that -he ought to be ashamed of himself for deserting her and her child, -in order to marry another woman. It was awfully good of her. Almost -angelic, and he could weep tears of blood when he thought of it. He -said one<span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</span> or two long prayers on her behalf, and then returned to his -books, and tried to banish her from his mind.</p> - -<p>But it was in vain! Strive as hard as Frederick would to fix his -thoughts on Saint Augustine, or Saint Chrysostom, or any other of the -holy fathers of the Church, their revered memories had to give way to a -pair of tearful blue eyes and a willowy figure bearing a little image -of himself in its arms.</p> - -<p>He felt that he could settle to nothing until he had made peace with -his conscience by making such amends as lay in his power for the -grievous wrong he had done poor Rhoda Berry.</p> - -<p>‘Hang it all!’ he said to himself, after a most unclerical fashion, -‘I must make some provision for that child, whether Rhoda likes it or -not. I can’t make up my mind to give thousands to a Church, who is as -rich as old Crœsus, whilst I leave my own flesh and blood unprovided -for. But she never even told me the little beggar’s name, and, if I -write to her for it,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</span> she will refuse again to take the money. Well! I -can settle it on her instead. I must see Mr Sinclair on the subject at -once!’</p> - -<p>This resolution, on his part, resulted in his sending a request to his -solicitor to call on him as soon as convenient, when he received him in -his private room.</p> - -<p>‘I have asked to see you, Mr Sinclair,’ he commenced, ‘in order to -place a confidence in you. You are aware, I believe, that, in a very -short time, I am to be admitted to Holy Orders, and that, when that -happens, my money, of which you have hitherto had the charge, will be -confiscated to the Church.’</p> - -<p>‘I have heard so, Mr Walcheren, and, frankly, I was very sorry to hear -it.’</p> - -<p>‘Ah, well, never mind that. It is all settled, so the less said soonest -mended. But, before the deeds are drawn up in favour of the Church, I -wish to make the disposition of a small portion of my property to an -old friend. I conclude I am at perfect liberty to do so?’</p> - -<p>‘Most certainly, Mr Walcheren; you<span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</span> can give, or will, the whole of it -away, if you like. The money was left absolutely to you for your own -use. Pray, don’t be persuaded into thinking that you are in any way, -morally or legally, bound to give it to the Church.’</p> - -<p>‘No, no, I am aware of that. I make it over of my own free will. Only, -I should like to make this little provision first. What does my income -really amount to, Mr Sinclair? I have been such a careless dog, that I -never made myself master of the amount.’</p> - -<p>‘You have the estate of Tetley, in Shropshire, you know, Mr Walcheren, -which brings in about five hundred a year, and forty thousand pounds -in consols, and from fifteen to twenty thousand in scrip. It’s a tidy -little fortune, and might be greatly increased by judicious handling. -I’m truly sorry to find you throwing it away.’</p> - -<p>‘Hush! hush! man, what would the reverend fathers think if they heard -you speak of increasing the revenues of the Church by such a term? And -it will be all<span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</span> one, you know, when I am ordained. What good will money -be to me then? I shouldn’t be allowed to spend it if I had it.’</p> - -<p>‘True, but is it quite impossible that you may not yet change your -mind?’</p> - -<p>‘Quite so; but let us keep to the matter in hand. I need not tell you, -Mr Sinclair, who have known me through my “green sallet” days, that -I have been a bit wild at times, and, amongst other peccadilloes, I -deeply wronged a young friend of mine, named Rhoda Berry. In fact, -she—she—has a little child of mine, and it is this child I am -desirous of providing for, but the mother has refused to take any money -from me. Cannot it be settled on her without any consent on her part?’</p> - -<p>‘Most certainly! any amount you like, provided you are in possession of -the young woman’s full name.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes! Her only names are Rhoda Berry, and she lives with her mother at -Elm Cottage, Harrow Lane, Luton.’</p> - -<p>‘Very good,’ replied the solicitor, as<span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</span> he noted down the information, -‘And the amount to be settled?’</p> - -<p>‘Five thousand pounds,’ replied Frederick, promptly.</p> - -<p>‘That’s a large sum, Mr Walcheren, for a case like this. It means a -couple of hundred a year, remember.’</p> - -<p>‘And which do you suppose wants it most; this poor girl, who is thrown -probably on her own resources for life, with a child to keep into -the bargain, and all through my beastly selfishness, or the Catholic -Church, who has thousands of benefactors, and is rich in every sort of -treasure?’</p> - -<p>’Oh! I am not blaming you,’ replied Mr Sinclair, who, being a -Protestant, would rather have seen the money thrown into the gutter -than go to enrich the coffers of the Roman Church. ‘I think you -are quite right, and doing most handsomely by the young lady—most -handsomely indeed!’</p> - -<p>‘No money can make amends for sin,’ said Frederick, sententiously.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</span></p> - -<p>‘And how is this sum to be settled on Miss Berry, Mr Walcheren?’ -demanded the solicitor. ‘In trust for the child, or unconditionally on -herself?’</p> - -<p>‘Unconditionally on herself, please. I know, if she uses it at all, it -will be for the benefit of the boy. Keep a note of my directions, Mr -Sinclair, but don’t draw up the deed until you do the two together. -There will be less chance then, I think, of my being bothered from -either side. When you draw the five thousand pounds, take it from the -sum in consols. There will be the less chance of its being missed. Oh, -dear! how glad I shall be when all this worry is over, and matters -settled for good and all!’</p> - -<p>‘Am I to draw out this sum, and re-invest it in Miss Berry’s name?’</p> - -<p>‘No, put it back in consols. It is a lower rate of interest than Rhoda -could get elsewhere, but it is safer; and women are idiots about -money matters. When you write and tell her about my<span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</span> present, perhaps -you will advise her not to take it out on the chance of getting more -interest. And, Sinclair, I wish you to have five hundred pounds, over -and above what I may owe you.’</p> - -<p>‘I couldn’t think of taking such a sum, Mr Walcheren. It is far too -much.’</p> - -<p>‘Nonsense! You were a good friend to me when I was knocking about town, -and got me out of many a scrape, and I know no one whom I would rather -give it to. Why, what’s the odds to me? I sha’n’t have a halfpenny in -my own hands in a fortnight’s time. Why shouldn’t I have the pleasure -of making my old friends a little present whilst I can.’</p> - -<p>‘You’re very good, Mr Walcheren, and I don’t say that the sum will -not give me pleasure, and be very useful to me; but, believe me, when -I add that I would rather, a thousand times over, see it in your own -hands. This step you contemplate makes me very uneasy. It seems so -unnatural—so sudden!’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</span></p> - -<p>‘It is sudden, Sinclair, but not unnatural. In losing my beloved wife, -I have lost everything, and I don’t care what becomes of the rest of -my life. The vocation I am about to adopt is the one chosen for me by -my mother, and I am only following her express wishes by entering the -Church. It appears unnatural to you, because you have never known me, -except as a wild, devil-may-care fellow, up to any pranks, and utterly -careless all round. But you don’t know the complete difference a shock, -like the one I have experienced, makes in a man. It opens his eyes in a -moment, as it were, to the folly and wickedness of his past life, and -makes him see that there is only one thing worth living and striving -for, and that is—the next. Once convinced of that truth, there can be -no returning to the past existence. It fades away like a dream, and -nothing can content one in the future, but hard, solid, substantial -work.’</p> - -<p>‘Very true, Mr Walcheren. I suppose that time comes to every man after -a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</span> certain period of carelessness. You remember the old song, sir, -“Each dog must have his day.” And when the best part of the day is -over, we all feel, if we have any sense, that it is time to give up -play. But you can work whilst you remain in the world, Mr Walcheren, -and set a good example to your neighbours, into the bargain.’</p> - -<p>The same axiom that Rhoda had hurled at his head, though clothed in -other words. Frederick recognised it at once, and the recognition made -him assume a colder air towards the solicitor.</p> - -<p>‘No doubt, Mr Sinclair,’ he responded, ‘no doubt, but we all have -different tastes, and the Church is mine. I am afraid I shall have to -dismiss you now, as the time is getting on for refectory, and I have -some preparations to make before the bell sounds. You will bear all my -instructions in mind, I am sure. Good morning!’</p> - -<p>‘Good morning! Mr Walcheren. I cannot thank you enough for your kind<span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</span> -intentions respecting myself, for which you know that I should receive -your instructions in writing. And if I have, in my sincere regard and -friendship for you, said more than I should, I hope you will forgive -me. I had not the least intention to offend.’</p> - -<p>‘I am sure of that, Sinclair, but there are things that will not bear -talking of. I am fairly sick of life, my dear old friend—terribly sick -and tired of it, and one lot is quite as good as another in my eyes. My -greatest wish is that it may all be over as quickly as possible, and I -may join my darling girl again.’</p> - -<p>He held out his hand to his companion as he spoke, and as Mr Sinclair’s -eyes met the careworn, haggard face of the young man, whom he -remembered as one of the handsomest, most <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">débonnair</i> fellows -about town, they became so moist that he could hardly see, and, -grasping the hand offered him firmly, he quickly left the room.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_IX">CHAPTER IX.</h2> -</div> - - -<p>The whole talk of the employés in the firm of Messrs Hindes & Son, -late Hindes & Crampton, was of the extraordinary change that had taken -place in their employer. Clerks, whether they be head or under clerks, -are shy, as a rule, of whispering anything so derogatory to the head -of their firm, as the suspicion that he takes ‘more than is good for -him.’ But there was really no other possible reason to be adduced -for the condition in which Henry Hindes constantly presented himself -in the office. Formerly, he had been a keen, vigorous, active man of -business, always ready to detect an error in the accounts, or to make -a good bargain for himself and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</span> his partner. But, since Mr Crampton’s -death, he seemed as if he had lost all his capacity. Vendors, bearing -samples of their wares, walked in and out of the counting-house, -shaking their heads over Mr Hindes’ altered condition, and wondering -what had become of the powerful brain and courteous manners, to which -they had been accustomed for so long. The cashier declared he might as -well take in his books to be checked by a child, for all the attention -the ‘governor’ accorded them, and the younger clerks affirmed that, -when they carried a message to the inner office, they had to shout at -him, sometimes three or four times, before he seemed to hear them, -or understand what they were saying. Had he gone deaf, they inquired -amongst themselves, or was he growing stupid? He seemed to be always -more or less asleep, and when roused to take an active part in the -affairs of the firm, was not always as good-tempered as he might be. -One lad had given him notice<span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</span> because, he said, he could not stand Mr -Hindes’ bullying any longer, and this was the more remarkable, because -the senior partner had ever been distinguished for his urbanity, and -soft-spoken ways with all the younger members of the firm. But his -office companions were on Alfred Jones’ side, for the change in Henry -Hindes was too remarkable to be denied. He, who had been noted for -being so well dressed and perfectly appointed, who was wont to come -each morning to town in a suit of the latest fashion, with a flower in -his button-hole, and his white hands carefully encased in well-fitting -gloves—would now lounge in at all hours, sometimes disgracefully late, -in a shooting-coat or a rough suit of tweed, with sleepy eyes and -careless hair, looking as if he had just tumbled out of his bed. His -manner, which had had the credit of being so polite, even when under -the necessity of telling an unpleasant truth, that even strangers were -warned, before they set foot in the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</span> office to ask, for the senior -partner had become curt, irritable, and sometimes exceedingly rude, so -that intending customers went away offended, and never showed their -faces there again. Mr Bloxam, who had been cashier to the firm for -forty years past, and known Henry Hindes from his cradle, used to -shake his head, and say that the business was fast going to the devil, -and the sooner they put the shutters up, the better. The younger men -whispered and made jokes amongst themselves, and hinted that ‘Old -Harry’ (as he was familiarly termed amongst his employés) had been -looking at the outside of a whisky bottle, and things would go on much -better if he would stay at home and leave them to manage the business.</p> - -<p>But these comments, naturally, never reached the ears of the man they -pointed at. The unfortunate ‘governor’ still continued to attend the -office and furnish jokes for the lads under him. He was little aware of -how well he deserved<span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</span> them. His gait had now become slouching and he -trembled as he walked. His hands shook so, that it was with difficulty -he could sign his name intelligibly, and, more than once, the manager -of the bank he lodged his money with, had sent over to identify his -signature, it was so unlike what it used to be. He always seemed to be -asleep, or nearly so. He would rouse himself with a start when spoken -to, and then curse the intruder for having addressed him in so low a -tone. More than one youth followed Jones out of the office, because -Hindes declared he mumbled on purpose to annoy him, and he threw a -heavy book at the head of a third, because, on having failed to make -his master hear, he rang a hand-bell which stood at his elbow.</p> - -<p>The office, where all had been conducted so pleasantly, was now the -scene of continual quarrelling, and Henry Hindes bid fair to be left -alone in his glory.</p> - -<p>The man’s whole appearance had<span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</span> changed. His clear, keen eyes were -bloodshot and dropsical looking—his nails were permitted to grow, -and the skin about them to become irregular—he often appeared with -an unshaven chin, and a limp collar. Mr Bloxam was the only person -in the office he ever spoke to, and him he took, curiously, into -his confidence, playing uncertain notes on him, as on an instrument -of which he was not quite sure, but from which he longed to extract -harmony.</p> - -<p>There was a case occupying the attention of the papers just then, in -which Mr Hindes seemed to take an unusual interest. A man had given -himself up to justice for having committed a murder twenty years -before, and the persons, who might have borne witness against him, -being dead, he had provided all the necessary information himself, even -taking the police to the spot where he had committed the crime, and -making them disinter the dust and bones that remained of his victim. -The reason the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</span> case attracted particular attention was on account of -the length of time that had elapsed since the murder, and also that -the murderer had been very prosperous and esteemed since, occupied a -good position in society—and had a wife and family to be plunged into -disgrace by his confession.</p> - -<p>‘I can’t understand the motive of Rayner’s confession, Bloxam,’ Henry -Hindes would observe confidentially to his cashier. ‘It would never -have been found out to the day of his death, and what good does the -disclosure effect? Here is a respectable tradesman, with a wife and -family dependent on him—respected by his friends and customers—rich -and flourishing in his trade—and he throws it all away for the sake of -confessing his participation in a crime which the world has forgotten -ages ago, and which he cannot rectify, even by swinging on the gallows.’</p> - -<p>‘That is true, sir,’ replied Mr Bloxam, ‘but you don’t take into -consideration<span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</span> that Rayner’s conscience would not, in all probability, -let him keep silence any longer. A murder must lie pretty heavy on a -man’s soul, Mr Hindes. I don’t suppose he has had much rest at night, -poor creature, however much he may have prospered outwardly. And he is -an old man too—sixty the papers say—and begins to think, no doubt, of -meeting his Maker, face to face, with that sin unconfessed. My wonder -is how he has managed to live through so many years with such a burthen -on his conscience. He must have led a terrible life!’</p> - -<p>Hindes’ face grew very yellow during this exordium, but the subject -fascinated him, as fire is said to fascinate some people, and a -precipice others, until they can hardly resist the temptation to cast -themselves down headlong.</p> - -<p>‘But why should a murder, dreadful as it is, lie so much heavier on -a man’s conscience than his other sins? Look! how many murders are -committed by most of us! We strike a blow, perhaps, which<span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</span> might -have killed a fellow. If it had, we should have been arraigned as a -murderer; since it does not, we go scot-free. But the feeling of murder -was there all the same. We are just as guilty in the sight of Heaven. -Why should we vex ourselves about one sin more than the other?’</p> - -<p>‘I’m not fit to argue the point with you, Mr Henry,’ answered the -cashier, ‘but there’s surely a difference! We don’t always mean to -murder a friend when we hit him. If we <em>do</em> kill him, even by -accident, we have to pay the penalty. But when a man deliberately -injures another, knowing it <em>must</em> kill him, like this Rayner, -who strikes a fellow creature on the head with a hammer—why, that was -deliberate murder—he <em>meant</em> to kill Thompson, and he must be -a thorough bad man to have kept the secret in his breast for twenty -years. Hanging’s too good for him; that’s what everybody says.’</p> - -<p>‘But telling won’t bring Thompson back again, that’s my argument,’ said -Henry Hindes, sullenly. ‘Rayner hangs himself<span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</span> by his confession, and -does no one any good.’</p> - -<p>‘Except himself, sir! He’ll save his own soul, maybe, by the expiation -of his crime, however tardy. See! what a hypocritical life he must -have been leading. Mixing with all sorts of people, who would have -spurned him with their feet had they known his real character—kissing -his innocent children and wife—setting up for a respectable member of -society, when he’s the lowest creature amongst them all. The deceit has -been too much for him at last, Mr Hindes, and he feels now, doubtless, -that he would rather be standing on the gallows platform, as an honest -man, than keep his place and go on deceiving. Why, he must have been -thoroughly miserable. No one could enjoy life, however wealthy, under -such circumstances. It must have been nothing but a burden to him.’</p> - -<p>Henry Hindes sat for a few minutes musing silently. Bloxam, thinking -the interview was over, prepared to leave the office.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</span></p> - -<p>‘Don’t go, Bloxam,’ exclaimed his employer, rousing himself. ‘Stay a -little longer. This subject interests me. I feel so much for this poor -fellow. I wonder if he is in his right mind.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! yes, sir, there’s no doubt of that! Why, he remembers everything -connected with the murder, as if it happened yesterday. He described -the whole scene to the officers with the minutest details, such as -a lock of poor Thompson’s hair getting stuck on the hammer with the -blood, and his holding the hammer in the flame of the candle afterwards -till it was completely cleansed. He could tell exactly what the poor -fellow wore, and mentioned a gold ring he had on his little finger. And -when they found the bones and dust under the cellar flooring, there was -the ring amongst them, just as he said.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes; I read that. But wouldn’t it have been wiser and better of -Rayner to have kept this secret to the end, for the sake of his wife -and children? He had kept it so long, you see; and, as I said<span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</span> before, -confession could not remedy the evil he had done.’</p> - -<p>‘No, sir; but we are not sure, you see, that he <em>had</em> entirely -kept the secret to himself. He has a wife, and women are powerfully -’cute about such matters. Married men don’t keep secrets long. I can -say that on my own authority. I know I shouldn’t care to have one that -Mrs Bloxam wasn’t to find out. Perhaps Rayner’s wife got at his, and -had threatened him with discovery. It isn’t unlikely, and then he had -better be beforehand with her.’</p> - -<p>At this proposition, Hindes went positively grey.</p> - -<p>‘But—but—’ he stammered, ‘I thought, Bloxam—I always have been told -that the evidence of a wife cannot be taken against her husband in a -court of law.’</p> - -<p>‘I’ve heard the same, sir; but, bless you, if a woman once got hold of -a secret like that, she’d have a hundred ways of bringing the walls of -a man’s<span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</span> house about his ears, without meaning it. Women can’t help -gossiping. It’s their nature; and if a thing of that sort once gets -repeated, the police would soon get hold of it. I wouldn’t trust my -neck to Mrs Bloxam’s tender mercies; I know that, though she’s a good -woman, and fond of me in her way; but news leaks through women. There’s -no other name for it. It leaks through them.’</p> - -<p>‘Do you think so?’ asked Hindes, with a shiver.</p> - -<p>‘I’m sure of it, sir. Many a woman has been murdered for gossiping -alone. They taunt the men with the things they may have done, and -threaten to expose them, till they aggravate them into kicking or -beating them to death. Half the cases of manslaughter come through -women’s taunts. They’re not generous, as a rule.’</p> - -<p>‘Don’t you think,’ said Hindes, putting a suppositious case, ‘that it -would have been much wiser for Rayner to have gone out to the States or -Australia, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</span> have commenced a new life there under another name? He -appears to have plenty of money. I think, instead of making confession, -that I would sooner leave my wife and children comfortable, and fly -the country, pretend to be lost overboard, or to die on reaching my -haven—lose myself to the world, in fact, and begin life over anew. I -am sure that if I did that—’</p> - -<p>‘You—you—if <em>you</em> did that, Mr Henry!’ exclaimed Mr Bloxam, in a -voice of surprise.</p> - -<p>Henry Hindes, recalled to the trip his tongue had made, changed -countenance to a kind of dull red purplish hue.</p> - -<p>‘I—I—’ he stammered, ‘did I say <em>I</em>? I must have been dreaming! -We were talking of poor Rayner, surely. Why didn’t he take a sum of -money and go away and make a new name for himself in a new country? Did -you suppose that I was talking of myself, Bloxam? Why should I say such -things of myself? Do I look as if I had committed a—a—the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</span> thing that -Rayner did?’ And he finished up his sentence with a feeble, cackling -laugh.</p> - -<p>‘God forbid! Mr Henry,’ responded the cashier, solemnly. ‘I knew, of -course, you were speaking of that unhappy man! Why shouldn’t he have -fled the country instead, sir? Why, because it would have been of no -use. Wherever he went he couldn’t have left his conscience behind him, -and, once that was awakened, he would have had to confess his guilt, -whether he found himself in England or Australia. He might have run -away from his wife and children, Mr Hindes, but he couldn’t have run -away from his crime. That would have followed him anywhere, even to the -ends of the earth. Poor wretch! I pity him from the bottom of my heart. -He’d better by far have given himself up to justice at once. Fancy the -life he must have been living for the last twenty years, lying down -and getting up, with the ghost of his poor murdered victim always by -his side, looking<span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</span> at him with his reproachful eyes, and asking him -silently what right he had to be eating and drinking and making merry, -whilst he lay in his unhallowed grave! But it was bound to come out at -last, sir. Murder always does.’</p> - -<p>‘Always! Does it always, Bloxam?’ demanded his employer, fearfully. -‘Do you mean to say that <em>no</em> murders have ever been successfully -concealed?’</p> - -<p>‘Very few, sir, if any. They lie too heavy on the conscience for that. -Why, isn’t Rayner a case in point? If any have been kept dark for ever -it must be amongst Roman Catholics, for they can ease their consciences -by confession, and, if they receive absolution, they are set at rest. -They have such entire faith in the power of their priests to absolve -them from their sins. I have a friend of that religion, and it’s -wonderful how bright he seems after he’s been to confession, quite a -different creature.’</p> - -<p>‘But if a man were to confess a murder in the confessional, the priest -would give<span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</span> him up to justice, surely?’ said Henry Hindes.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, no, he wouldn’t, begging your pardon. My friend tells me that the -secrets of the confessional are inviolate. No priest would dare reveal -them, on penalty of being stripped of his cloth. What he hears there -never passes his lips again, not even to another priest.’</p> - -<p>‘I shouldn’t like to trust him, all the same,’ said Hindes; ‘human -nature is subject to too many accidents. A priest might lose his brain -and babble everything he had heard.’</p> - -<p>‘I fancy, Mr Henry,’ replied Bloxam, laughing, ‘that he hears so many -things, good, bad, and indifferent, that he forgets them as soon as he -has heard them. And he doesn’t know the names of half his penitents. A -Catholic may go to any confessor he likes. It is his director only that -he does not change.’</p> - -<p>‘You seem to know a lot about it,’ said Hindes, indifferently.</p> - -<p>‘Only what my friend tells me, sir,’<span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</span> replied the cashier; ‘but -Catholics seem to derive so much consolation from confession, that I -often wonder the practice is not more largely used in other churches. -Will you see the books now, Mr Henry?’</p> - -<p>‘No, not now,’ replied Hindes, in a languid voice; ‘I’m awfully tired.’</p> - -<p>‘But you did not see them last week, sir, and, if you’ll excuse my -saying so, it is too long to let them run on without casting an eye -over them.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, they’re sure to be all right, Bloxam. I can trust you better than -myself.’</p> - -<p>‘I hope you may trust me, Mr Henry, after forty years’ service with -your honoured father and yourself, but still it would be a satisfaction -if you would look into matters a little more closely than you have done -of late. You’re not yourself, sir, if you’ll forgive my saying so, -since poor Mr Crampton’s death.’</p> - -<p>Hindes roused himself directly, and, sitting upright in his chair, -pulled the ledger towards him.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</span></p> - -<p>‘<em>Why</em>, since Mr Crampton’s death, Bloxam,’ he said irritably, -‘I’ve had plenty of time to get over that. But I’m not well, I haven’t -been for months, and I ought to go away—go away,’ he continued, -muttering to himself. ‘Now, what’s the matter with these confounded -ledgers?’</p> - -<p>He stuck his fingers through his hair, and stared in a vague way at the -rows of figures before him.</p> - -<p>‘There’s nothing the matter, sir, I trust,’ replied the cashier; ‘I -can detect no error in them, but here are the bills of lading and the -accounts of sale, for you to compare with the entries. Mackintosh & -Prome of Antwerp sent us five hundred bales of the December order, but, -in consequence of a fire taking place on the wharf, they were unable to -complete the order—’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, hang it, man, take the beastly things back, do,’ cried Hindes, -pushing the books across the table, ‘and look into them yourself. I’m -not well enough.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</span> My eyesight has failed terribly of late, and the long -rows of figures dazzle me. I trust it all to you—all to you. Do as you -think best, but don’t worry me about it! I’m going home!’</p> - -<p>And, reaching down for his hat and coat, Mr Hindes stumbled out of -his office, followed by the winking eyes of the clerks, who, with -their tongues stuck in their cheeks, whispered to each other that the -governor had, ‘got ’em again.’ But poor old Bloxam returned to his -desk, shaking his head, and repeating that the business was going to -the devil.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_X">CHAPTER X.</h2> -</div> - - -<p>Henry Hindes reached Hampstead quite early in the afternoon, and his -wife met him with a foreign letter in her hand.</p> - -<p>Hannah was much changed by this time as well as himself. Always quiet -and refined, her manner had settled down into a general melancholy. -She tried to smile sometimes, and to look cheerful for the sake of her -little Wally, whom it was sad to think should be brought up between -such a father and mother, but the attempt was usually abortive. How -could she smile, whilst memory remained to her? But she never mentioned -the terrible secret between them to her husband. Only he could see, but -too plainly by the expression<span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</span> of her eyes, that she never forgot it, -and it made him nervous and uneasy in her presence. They had been as -happy as most husbands and wives before, and much happier than some; -but though Hannah clung to him through a sense of duty, she shuddered -if he touched her, or attempted to caress her, and Henry Hindes saw -it. The little girls, too, being banished from home, made a great -difference in ‘The Old Hall.’ Elsie and Laurie never came back, even -for the holidays, though their mother saw them frequently, and their -father dared not ask to see them. Wally, too, was confined to the -nursery whenever he was indoors, and if he wanted to see him, it was -almost by stealth he was obliged to accomplish it. So the house, which -once had rung with childish laughter, was very much changed, as well -as everybody in it; and the servants, though not admitted to their -employer’s confidence, saw and heard enough to make them participators -in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</span> the fact, that something very unpleasant had come between the -master and the mistress. But, on that particular day, as Hannah met him -with the foreign letter in her hand, she tried to assume one of her old -smiles, and to welcome her husband cheerfully.</p> - -<p>‘Here is a letter from Arthur, Henry,’ she said; ‘it came by the twelve -o’clock post, just after you had driven away this morning.’</p> - -<p>She held out a large, thin envelope to him as she spoke, and with a -species of grunt, which was the usual salutation Henry Hindes accorded -her, he took the letter and tore it open. The contents did not appear -to please him.</p> - -<p>‘Here’s a pretty kettle of fish,’ he exclaimed; ‘the doctors out there -say that Edith must not pass another hot season in Bombay, so Arthur -has applied for furlough, and they are all coming home as soon as they -can pack up their traps.’</p> - -<p>This announcement took Hannah completely by surprise. Captain Arthur<span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</span> -Hindes was her husband’s younger and only brother, indeed, his only -near relation, who had married a very nice girl from their house some -seven years before, and taken her out to Bombay, where they had a -family of five children. They had visited England once during that -period, when they had resided for a year at ‘The Old Hall,’ and now -they were coming home again, and expected evidently to do the same -thing—<em>now</em>, when they least expected them—least needed them.</p> - -<p>‘Coming back so soon,’ she faltered. ‘Why! in one of her last letters, -Edith said they were bound to remain in Bombay for at least three years -more. Why doesn’t Arthur send her to the hills instead? Does he mention -it as a settled thing?’</p> - -<p>‘If you don’t believe me, read for yourself and see!’ replied her -husband, as he tossed the letter across the table. Hannah picked it up, -and read,—</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>‘<span class="smcap">Dear Harry</span>,—You’ll be surprised, but I hope not sorry, -to hear that we<span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</span> are all on the hop for home again. Edith has had a -nasty attack lately—uncommonly like cholera—and it has left her -so weak, that the doctor says I must not keep her in Bombay another -hot season. We thought of the Hills at first, but he so strongly -recommends England, that I have applied for my long leave, and, -as all our fellows are here, have no doubt that I shall get it. I -think, after all, it is just as well we should make a move. Fanny and -Hal have grown so tall and thin that they look more as if they had -been run up through gas-pipes than ever; and the last addition has -suffered terribly with its teething, so we shall be none the worse for -seeing dear old England again. We shall be there three years, so as -to settle the elder chicks at school before we return to India. How -I am longing to see The Old Hall again, and your lovely garden. It -will be in its spring dress by the time we arrive. I hope the son and -heir is flourishing, and not grown too proud to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</span> acknowledge his poor -relations under his accession to the fortune that has come to him. -There are only six months between him and my little Charlie. They will -be nice playmates. What a jolly old fellow Mr Crampton must have been. -How you must regret his loss! Our best love to Hannah and the girls. -You may expect to see us home about the middle of April, or beginning -of May. Good-bye, old chappie.—Ever your affectionate brother,</p> - -<p class="right"> -<span class="smcap">Arthur Hindes</span>.’ -</p> -</div> - -<p>Hannah read the letter through in silence, and laid it down.</p> - -<p>‘Well!’ ejaculated her husband, ‘you see they are coming, and mean to -share The Old Hall with us, as they did last time. Let me see! How long -is it since they were in England? Three years, isn’t it—or nearly so? -And a couple more youngsters in that time. Artie will have his hands -full before he has done.’</p> - -<p>Still she was silent.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</span></p> - -<p>‘What’s the row now?’ demanded Hindes. ‘Are you going to set your back -up against their coming here? There’s plenty of room; all the more now -the girls have gone to school. The children can have the whole of the -top floor. They need not inconvenience you.’</p> - -<p>‘Henry,’ said his wife, slowly, ‘they cannot come here!’</p> - -<p>‘Cannot come here,’ he repeated, reddening. ‘What do you mean? Is the -house yours or mine? It’s a pretty thing when you commence to shut my -doors against my own relations. But they expect to come here, and they -must.’</p> - -<p>‘They cannot come here,’ repeated Hannah, decidedly.</p> - -<p>‘Why not?’ said Hindes, boldly.</p> - -<p>She lifted her eyes and looked him full in the face.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, you’re <em>there</em>, are you?’ he exclaimed, dropping his own. -‘You want to make what you learnt by your eavesdropping public -property. You will prevent my brother entering my house, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</span> make him -curious to learn the reason; cause a quarrel between us, and drive me -into a corner until I let the cat out of the bag. That’s your object, -is it? A neat way to get rid of me altogether.’</p> - -<p>‘I want none of these things, Henry,’ she replied; ‘but you must act -honestly in this matter. You must not let your brother and his wife and -children do anything for which they may reproach you in after years. -You must think of an excuse to keep them away. They shall not take -up their residence here, to be brought in hourly contact with—to be -contaminated by association with—with—’</p> - -<p>‘Say it out at once,’ retorted Hindes, angrily. ‘Let all the world -know what you know. Run up to the house-top and bawl it out from the -roof, that all Hampstead may hear the story of your devotion to me. Why -don’t you ring the bell and assemble the servants and tell them what a -master they are serving—a man who is not to be trusted with his own -children, nor to associate with his brother. You’ve<span class="pagenum" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</span> been itching to do -it ever since that accursed night. You women can never keep a secret. -I might have been prepared for that from the beginning. But mark my -words, madam, the first moment you hint at such a thing, you go out of -my house, and never see your children more. They’re <em>my</em> children, -and I will submit to no more of your tantrums concerning them. You -only say these things to try and show your power over me. But, after -all, what power have you? Where are your witnesses? A man cannot be -convicted on the testimony of a nightmare. It <em>was</em> a nightmare! -All these silent accusations of yours are the outcome of your own vivid -imagination. You have no more power over me than <em>that</em>,’ snapping -his fingers in her face, ‘and I defy you to injure me—I defy you.’</p> - -<p>He sank down exhausted in a chair after this outbreak, and shook like -an aspen. The habits he had contracted had robbed him of all physical -and moral<span class="pagenum" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</span> courage. Hannah stood for a few moments in silence, until he -was in a fitter state to listen to her, and then she said,—</p> - -<p>‘It is true that, legally speaking, I may have no power over you, nor -would I wield it if I had. But, if you show so little sorrow for what I -know to be a fact, so little consideration for Arthur and his family, -I will not stay in The Old Hall to be a partaker in it. If you cannot, -or will not, devise some plan by which you can induce your brother to -take up his quarters elsewhere, I shall leave you to entertain them -by yourself. I shall go back to my mother, and take my children with -me. The law still permits me the custody of two of them, but, if you -attempt to touch any one of the three, I will appeal to its protection, -and tell all I know in extenuation of my conduct. You must accept this, -Henry, as my ultimatum. I will <em>not</em> remain here to receive your -brother’s family.’</p> - -<p>Was it possible that this was Hannah—Hannah,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</span> who was renowned for her -gentleness and meekness and docility. Her face did not flush as she -spoke, nor did she show any signs of anger, but she stood facing her -husband, calm and pale, but perfectly decided. Guilt had made a coward -of him, and he turned from her shuddering, and hid his face in the sofa -cushion.</p> - -<p>‘You want to ruin me!’ he murmured.</p> - -<p>‘No, Henry, no. I want to make you regard your past in its true light, -and to make what amends for it you can. What if this terrible secret -should ever come out? Do you wish to involve others in your disgrace? -Would you rather be quoted as having led the life of a hypocrite, or -that of a penitent man?’</p> - -<p>‘Come out—come out,’ he echoed, ‘how can it come out, unless you -betray me?’</p> - -<p>‘You need not be afraid of that, but God has His own ways of working. -If it is His will to reveal it, no efforts of ours will prevent it. -But the more persons you have in the house, the more risk you run.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</span> -Who can answer for what servants and children overhear? You are so -strange sometimes, even in the middle of the day, that I hardly know -what to think of you. You do not seem like yourself, or as if you had -your proper senses. You ramble at such times, and are not safe. I am -protecting instead of betraying you, by advising you not to let Arthur -bring his family to The Old Hall.’</p> - -<p>A grey shade passed over Hindes’ features.</p> - -<p>‘Do I talk much?’ he inquired fearfully. ‘Do I talk of <em>her</em>? What -do you do at such times, Hannah? How do you keep the servants out?’</p> - -<p>She crossed the room then to the sofa where he lay, and sitting down -beside him, took his head and laid it on her bosom. As he felt the warm -touch, he clung to her, as a child clings to its mother in the dark.</p> - -<p>‘Don’t be afraid, dear,’ she said softly. ‘Neither servants nor friends -shall gain access to you at such times. I guard you<span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</span> too well for that. -Should you be downstairs, I take you to your bedroom; if the fit comes -on whilst you are in your own room, I lock the door. Have no fear on -that score. I will never leave you whilst you are true to yourself.’</p> - -<p>He sunk his face lower and lower in her bosom, and kissed her arm and -her shoulder and any part of her that came within his reach.</p> - -<p>‘Don’t leave me, don’t leave me,’ he murmured, ‘my only hope is in you.’</p> - -<p>‘But, Henry,’ said Hannah, thinking this a favourable opportunity for -remonstrance, ‘are you not taking too much morphia, or brandy, or -something, for your health? You must be careful, or you will circumvent -the object you have in view.’</p> - -<p>‘I must take it, Hannah! <em>I must!</em> I have such dreadful dreams -without it. I cannot sleep, or think, or act. It is my salvation. You -mustn’t take it from me.’</p> - -<p>‘No! no! I had no thought of that,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</span> and if you suffer from neuralgia, I -do not see how you could go through your daily work without some sort -of remedy. Only morphia is dangerous if taken in too large quantities, -and you mustn’t cloud your active brain, or where will the business be?’</p> - -<p>‘How I <em>hate</em> the business,’ he said. ‘Hannah, we have more -than enough for our need. Couldn’t we go away together somewhere; -all together, and let me begin a new life? Out in Australia, or -New Zealand, in a purer air, you would trust me with the children, -wouldn’t you? I will be so good, darling, if you would. I will -try so hard not to bring any further disgrace upon their name, or -yours. But <em>here</em> life is killing me. It is so full of bitter -memories—bitter associations. Sometimes I feel as if I could cry on -these stones of Hampstead to cover me; I feel so desperate. But in a -newer air and amidst new scenes, perhaps—if you will let me have the -children—I may—forget.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</span></p> - -<p>The tears were running fast down Hannah’s cheeks by this time. The man -she held in her arms was no longer the one she had feared and shrunk -from, and almost loathed in her contempt, for months past, but the -lover of her girlhood—the husband of her youth—the father of her -children—and her heart went out with a mighty compassion towards him, -notwithstanding his weakness and his sin.</p> - -<p>‘Would you come with me?’ he whispered in her ear. ‘Would you try to -forget everything, but that once we loved each other very dearly?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes! yes! I would,’ she answered, as she kissed his forehead. ‘You are -right, Harry. We ought to have thought of it before. We will leave this -country together; it is too full of hateful memories for both of us, -and see if it will please God to prosper us in another land. How soon -can we start, dear? How soon can we be ready? The sooner the better.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</span></p> - -<p>‘It cannot be done in a moment,’ replied Hindes. ‘A business like -mine requires time to wind up. But I will put it in hand as soon as -possible. Yet on what plea?’</p> - -<p>‘Your health, Henry. I am sure it is bad enough for anything. Mr -Moreton said yesterday that you looked as if you were in a decline. -Heaps of people have commented on your looks before me. I am sure they -would accept your state of health as a plea for anything.’</p> - -<p>‘But Arthur—Arthur is coming home,’ said Hindes, with the old look of -fear.</p> - -<p>‘I will manage Arthur’s business for you,’ returned his wife, with -decision. ‘I will write to him at once and say that we are very sorry, -but the state of your health and nerves is so bad, that we have been -obliged to send Elsie and Laura away from home, and you are quite -unequal to standing the noise of children about the house. That will be -sufficient explanation for everything. And soon, I hope, we shall be -far beyond the need of explaining our actions to anybody.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</span></p> - -<p>‘There will be a great deal to do first, you know, Hannah,’ said her -husband. ‘“The Old Hall” must be put up for sale, or to let. I wonder -what Arthur will say to that?’</p> - -<p>‘If you wish to reach the goal you have set before you, Henry,’ replied -Hannah; ‘you must cease to think what people will say to your decision. -They have no right to say anything, and your anxiety may betray your -motive. You have proposed this plan very suddenly. You had better -consider it well before you decide. But oh! my dear, if I saw you -trying to purify yourself by leading a newer and better life, I should -be happier than I ever expected to be in this world.’</p> - -<p>‘We must see about it, we must see,’ said Hindes, as he staggered to -his feet; ‘but what I am thinking of now is, what Arthur will say.’</p> - -<p>She found it useless to try and lead his mind back to the softening -mood which had for awhile possessed it, so she let him maunder on in -his old style, but took care<span class="pagenum" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</span> to write the letter to her brother-in-law -before she retired to rest that night.</p> - -<p>Captain Arthur Hindes was very much surprised, and just a little put -out, when he received it, which was just as he was on the point of -starting for home with his wife and family. It arrived too late to -enable him to make any alteration in his plans; but to spend a long -furlough in England on his own account, and to live with his brother, -paying a complimentary sum towards the housekeeping, were two different -things. The Henry Hindes had appeared so pleased to receive them, on -the former occasion of their visiting home, and The Old Hall was such -a big place, that want of room there could never be an excuse for not -taking them in.</p> - -<p>‘I never was so vexed in my life, Edie,’ he observed to his wife, as -they read the letter together. ‘I had so hoped and expected that the -former arrangement would have held good, and Hannah would have taken -all the trouble of housekeeping off your hands. You’re not in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</span> a fit -state to be worried about anything, just now. I feel almost inclined to -chuck it all up and go to the hills instead.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, no, Arthur, don’t do that,’ said his wife, who was ready to cry -over the disappointment. ‘Perhaps Henry will feel better after a while, -and able to receive us. You see, you mustn’t forget, dear, that we are -two more in number since we were in England last, and seven people are -really a formidable addition to any household.’</p> - -<p>‘Nonsense, my dear. The Old Hall contains about twenty bedrooms, and -Hannah says their own girls are away. And with their seven or eight -servants, what difference should we make, especially as you take your -nurses? I’m afraid there is some other reason than the one given. I -can’t fancy old Hal being nervous, or seedy. He has always been so -jolly and hearty and strong. There can’t be anything wrong with the -business, surely?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, no, not likely; but don’t you<span class="pagenum" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</span> remember, Artie, that when those -poor Cramptons died, Hannah told us that Henry was terribly upset. -Perhaps he has not recovered the shock yet.’</p> - -<p>‘No, my dear, I’m afraid that sentimental explanation won’t hold -water. Men don’t mourn their partner’s demise quite so long as all -that, particularly when they remember their sons so handsomely in -their wills. Let me see. How long has old Crampton been dead, quite -nine months, if not more. Hal has had plenty of time to get over that, -however much it may have shocked him at the time. He must have worked -too hard at the business. That’s what shatters men’s nerves more than -anything.’</p> - -<p>‘But what shall we do, Arthur, when we get home?’ inquired Mrs Hindes.</p> - -<p>‘That’s easily enough settled, dear. I see Hannah offers to look out -for a furnished house near them; but it will be best to go a little -further off. If we are too near, there will always be a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</span> temptation to -run in and out, and that will be more distracting to Henry’s nerves, -I should imagine, than if we lived there altogether. I shall take you -on arrival to a hotel in London, and when we have been there for a few -weeks, and seen a few sights, we will get a cottage in the country -somewhere, where I can have a little fishing, and you can keep your -cocks and hens, and have a pony carriage to drive about the lanes in.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, Artie, dear, that will be delightful! I like the idea better that -the other. I never had you a moment to myself last time we were in -England.’</p> - -<p>And thereupon Mrs Arthur embraced her husband so heartily, that it -was evident that here, at least, was a happy couple, with no secrets -between them.</p> - -<p>They reached their native land about the time they had intimated; and -the first thing they did, was naturally to go down to Hampstead and -see their relatives. It was about nine o’clock one evening that they -were suddenly announced.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</span> Hannah was sitting alone in the drawing-room, -occupied with needlework, when the footman showed her brother and -sister-in-law into her presence. She rose in the utmost confusion, -letting her crewels and canvas fall to the ground without noticing it.</p> - -<p>‘Edith! Arthur!’ she exclaimed, nervously. ‘Oh, how you have taken me -by surprise! I did not think the mail was due till to-morrow, or next -day. When did you arrive? Where are you staying? How glad I am to see -you.’</p> - -<p>But she did not appear glad, to judge from the tremulous sound of her -voice.</p> - -<p>‘My dear Hannah,’ replied Captain Hindes, ‘Henry might have told you -the mail was due this morning. We reached London at noon, and only -waited to settle the little ones at a hotel and see their creature -comforts attended to before we came on here. We couldn’t wait till -to-morrow, you know, to see you and dear old Hal. By the way, where is -he? Not out, I hope!’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</span></p> - -<p>‘No,’ replied Hannah, in the same timid manner, ‘he is not out. He -never goes out of an evening now; but he is in bed. He retired quite an -hour ago.’</p> - -<p>‘Hal in bed at eight o’clock!’ exclaimed Arthur. ‘Oh, impossible! -What’s come to him? I must go and wake him again. I never heard of such -a lazy fellow in my life.’</p> - -<p>He was about to suit the action to the word, when Hannah stopped him.</p> - -<p>‘No, Arthur, please don’t go. You must not wake him, indeed. He sleeps -very badly, and is sometimes quite light-headed if roused unexpectedly. -I cannot let him be disturbed.’</p> - -<p>Captain Hindes sat down with a serious face.</p> - -<p>‘So bad as that?’ he said; ‘you quite alarm me, Hannah! -Light-headed—what should make him that?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! nothing very serious, if he is only left to himself,’ she -answered, trying to smile; ‘Henry suffers from neuralgia, you know, and -he often takes morphia to dull<span class="pagenum" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</span> the pain. It always causes a person to -ramble and talk nonsense if disturbed.’</p> - -<p>‘But why does he not consult the doctor for this neuralgia?’ asked -Arthur. ‘My wife has suffered very much from it at times, but it has -always yielded to medicine.’</p> - -<p>‘Henry is not much addicted to doctors, you may remember,’ replied -Hannah.</p> - -<p>‘No; he never needed them. I never saw a stronger or healthier man -than he used to be. What is he suffering from? What has caused the -difference?’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t know,’ said Hannah, shaking her head; ‘but he has much gone -off in strength and appearance lately. You will see a great difference -in him when you meet.’</p> - -<p>‘He’s been moping, I suppose, over this Crampton business,’ returned -Captain Hindes; ‘but, now I’ve come home, I won’t let him mope any -more. I’ll make the old boy come out with me and show me round town. We -used to have no<span class="pagenum" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</span> end of larks in the old days. We’ll have them again. -But now come, Hannah,’ he added, taking his sister-in-law’s hand, ‘just -tell me the plain truth. What is the matter with him?’</p> - - -<p class="center p2">END OF VOL. II.</p> - -<hr class="tb"> -<p class="center">COLSTON AND COMPANY, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.</p> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> - -<div class="chapter transnote"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="Transcribers_Notes">Transcriber’s Notes</h2> - - -<p>Errors in punctuation have been fixed.</p> - -<p><a href="#Page_23">Page 23</a>: “and and murmured” changed to “and murmured”</p> - -<p><a href="#Page_30">Page 30</a>: “heart of Pharoah” changed to “heart of Pharaoh”</p> - -<p><a href="#Page_31">Page 31</a>: “we me may” changed to “we may”</p> - -<p><a href="#Page_80">Page 80</a>: “he never seen” changed to “he’d never seen”</p> - -<p><a href="#Page_147">Page 147</a>: “with its nmates” changed to “with its inmates”</p> - -<p><a href="#Page_190">Page 190</a>: “he commmenced,” changed to “he commenced,”</p> - -<p><a href="#Page_193">Page 193</a>: “Roman Chnrch.” changed to “Roman Church.”</p> - -<p><a href="#Page_218">Page 218</a>: “reaching down his hat” changed to “reaching down for his hat”</p> -</div> -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY, VOLUME 2 (OF 3) ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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