CHAPTER II.
WHAT I am going to tell you, gentlemen, happened when I was a very youngman, and when I was just setting up in business on my own account.
My father had been well acquainted for many years with Mr. Fauntleroy,of the famous London banking firm of Marsh, Stracey, Fauntleroy &Graham. Thinking it might be of some future service to me to makemy position known to a great man in the commercial world, my fathermentioned to his highly-respected friend that I was about to start inbusiness for myself in a very small way, and with very little money. Mr.Fauntleroy received the intimation with a kind appearance of interest,and said that he would have his eye on me. I expected from this that hewould wait to see if I could keep on my legs at starting, and that, ifhe found I succeeded pretty well, he would then help me forward if itlay in his power. As events turned out, he proved to be a far betterfriend than that, and he soon showed me that I had very much underratedthe hearty and generous interest which he had felt in my welfare fromthe first.
While I was still fighting with the difficulties of setting up myoffice, and recommending myself to my connection, and so forth, I gota message from Mr. Fauntleroy telling me to call on him, at thebanking-house, the first time I was passing that way. As you may easilyimagine, I contrived to be passing that way on a particularly earlyoccasion, and, on presenting myself at the bank, I was shown at onceinto Mr. Fauntleroy's private room.
He was as pleasant a man to speak to as ever I met with--bright, andgay, and companionable in his manner--with a sort of easy, hearty,jovial bluntness about him that attracted everybody. The clerks allliked him--and that is something to say of a partner in a banking-house,I can tell you!
"Well, young Trowbridge," says he, giving his papers on the table abrisk push away from him, "so you are going to set up in business foryourself, are you? I have a great regard for your father, and a greatwish to see you succeed. Have you started yet? No? Just on the point ofbeginning, eh? Very good. You will have your difficulties, my friend,and I mean to smooth one of them away for you at the outset. A word ofadvice for your private ear--Bank with us."
"You are very kind, sir," I answered, "and I should ask nothing betterthan to profit by your suggestion, if I could. But my expenses are heavyat starting, and when they are all paid I am afraid I shall have verylittle left to put by for the first year. I doubt if I shall be able tomuster much more than three hundred pounds of surplus cash in the worldafter paying what I must pay before I set up my office, and I should beashamed to trouble your house, sir, to open an account for such a trifleas that."
"Stuff and nonsense!" says Mr. Fauntleroy. "Are _you_ a banker? Whatbusiness have you to offer an opinion on the matter? Do as I tellyou--leave it to me--bank with us--and draw for what you like. Stop! Ihaven't done yet. When you open the account, speak to the head cashier.Perhaps you may find he has got something to tell you. There! there! goaway--don't interrupt me--good-by--God bless you!"
That was his way--ah! poor fellow, that was his way.
I went to the head cashier the next morning when I opened my littlemodicum of an account. He had received orders to pay my drafts withoutreference to my balance. My checks, when I had overdrawn, were tobe privately shown to Mr. Fauntleroy. Do many young men who start inbusiness find their prosperous superiors ready to help them in that way?
Well, I got on--got on very fairly and steadily, being careful not toventure out of my depth, and not to forget that small beginningsmay lead in time to great ends. A prospect of one of those greatends--great, I mean, to such a small trader as I was at thatperiod--showed itself to me when I had been some little time inbusiness. In plain terms, I had a chance of joining in a first-ratetransaction, which would give me profit, and position, and everythingI wanted, provided I could qualify myself for engaging in it by gettinggood security beforehand for a very large amount.
In this emergency, I thought of my kind friend, Mr. Fauntleroy, and wentto the bank, and saw him once more in his private room.
There he was at the same table, with the same heaps of papers about him,and the same hearty, easy way of speaking his mind to you at once, inthe fewest possible words. I explained the business I came upon withsome little hesitation and nervousness, for I was afraid he might thinkI was taking an unfair advantage of his former kindness to me. When Ihad done, he just nodded his head, snatched up a blank sheet of paper,scribbled a few lines on it in his rapid way, handed the writing to me,and pushed me out of the room by the two shoulders before I could saya single word. I looked at the paper in the outer office. It was mysecurity from the great banking-house for the whole amount, and formore, if more was wanted.
I could not express my gratitude then, and I don't know that I candescribe it now. I can only say that it has outlived the crime, thedisgrace, and the awful death on the scaffold. I am grieved to speakof that death at all; but I have no other alternative. The course ofmy story must now lead me straight on to the later time, and to theterrible discovery which exposed my benefactor and my friend to allEngland as the forger Fauntleroy.
I must ask you to suppose a lapse of some time after the occurrence ofthe events that I have just been relating. During this interval, thanksto the kind assistance I had received at the outset, my position as aman of business had greatly improved. Imagine me now, if you please, onthe high road to prosperity, with good large offices and a respectablestaff of clerks, and picture me to yourselves sitting alone in myprivate room between four and five o'clock on a certain Saturdayafternoon.
All my letters had been written, all the people who had appointmentswith me had been received. I was looking carelessly over the newspaper,and thinking about going home, when one of my clerks came in, and saidthat a stranger wished to see me immediately on very important business.
"Did he mention his name?" I inquired.
"No, sir."
"Did you not ask him for it?"
"Yes, sir. And he said you would be none the wiser if he told me what itwas."
"Does he look like a begging-letter writer?"
"He looks a little shabby, sir, but he doesn't talk at all like abegging-letter writer. He spoke sharp and decided, sir, and said itwas in your interests that he came, and that you would deeply regret itafterward if you refused to see him."
"He said that, did he? Show him in at once, then."
He was shown in immediately: a middling-sized man, with a sharp,unwholesome-looking face, and with a flippant, reckless manner, dressedin a style of shabby smartness, eying me with a bold look, and not sooverburdened with politeness as to trouble himself about taking off hishat when he came in. I had never seen him before in my life, and I couldnot form the slightest conjecture from his appearance to guide me towardguessing his position in the world. He was not a gentleman, evidently;but as to fixing his whereabouts in the infinite downward gradationsof vagabond existence in London, that was a mystery which I was totallyincompetent to solve.
"Is your name Trowbridge?" he began.
"Yes," I answered, dryly enough.
"Do you bank with Marsh, Stracey, Fauntleroy & Graham?"
"Why do you ask?"
"Answer my question, and you will know."
"Very well, I _do_ bank with Marsh, Stracey, Fauntleroy & Graham--andwhat then?"
"Draw out every farthing of balance you have got before the bank closesat five to-day."
I stared at him in speechless amazement. The words, for an instant,absolutely petrified me.
"Stare as much as you like," he proceeded, coolly, "I mean what I say.Look at your clock there. In twenty minutes it will strike five, and thebank will be shut. Draw out every farthing, I tell you again, and looksharp about it."
"Draw out my money!" I exclaimed, partially recovering myself. "Are youin your right senses? Do you know that the firm I bank with representsone of the first houses in the world? What do you mean--you, who area total stranger to me--by taking this extraordinary interest in myaffairs? If you want me to act on your advice, why don't you explainyourself?"
"I have explained myself. Act on my advice or not, just as you like. Itdoesn't matter to me. I have done what I promised, and there's an end ofit."
He turned to the door. The minute-hand of the clock was getting on fromthe twenty minutes to the quarter.
"Done what you promised?" I repeated, getting up to stop him.
"Yes," he said, with his hand on the lock. "I have given my message.Whatever happens, remember that. Good-afternoon."
He was gone before I could speak again.
I tried to call after him, but my speech suddenly failed me. It was veryfoolish, it was very unaccountable, but there was something in the man'slast words which had more than half frightened me.
I looked at the clock. The minute-hand was on the quarter.
My office was just far enough from the bank to make it necessary forme to decide on the instant. If I had had time to think, I am perfectlycertain that I should not have profited by the extraordinary warningthat had just been addressed to me. The suspicious appearance andmanners of the stranger; the outrageous improbability of the inferenceagainst the credit of the bank toward which his words pointed; thechance that some underhand attempt was being made, by some enemy ofmine, to frighten me into embroiling myself with one of my best friends,through showing an ignorant distrust of the firm with which he wasassociated as partner--all these considerations would unquestionablyhave occurred to me if I could have found time for reflection; and, asa necessary consequence, not one farthing of my balance would have beentaken from the keeping of the bank on that memorable day.
As it was, I had just time enough to act, and not a spare moment forthinking. Some heavy payments made at the beginning of the week had sofar decreased my balance that the sum to my credit in the banking-bookbarely reached fifteen hundred pounds. I snatched up my check-book,wrote a draft for the whole amount, and ordered one of my clerks torun to the bank and get it cashed before the doors closed. What impulseurged me on, except the blind impulse of hurry and bewilderment, I can'tsay. I acted mechanically, under the influence of the vague inexplicablefear which the man's extraordinary parting words had aroused in me,without stopping to analyze my own sensations--almost without knowingwhat I was about. In three minutes from the time when the stranger hadclosed my door the clerk had started for the bank, and I was alone againin my room, with my hands as cold as ice and my head all in a whirl.
I did not recover my control over myself until the clerk came back withthe notes in his hand. He had just got to the bank in the nick of time.As the cash for my draft was handed to him over the counter, the clockstruck five, and he heard the order given to close the doors.
When I had counted the bank-notes and had locked them up in the safe,my better sense seemed to come back to me on a sudden. Never have Ireproached myself before or since as I reproached myself at that moment.What sort of return had I made for Mr. Fauntleroy's fatherly kindnessto me? I had insulted him by the meanest, the grossest distrust of thehonor and the credit of his house, and that on the word of anabsolute stranger, of a vagabond, if ever there was one yet. It wasmadness--downright madness in any man to have acted as I had done. Icould not account for my own inconceivably thoughtless proceeding. Icould hardly believe in it myself. I opened the safe and looked at thebank-notes again. I locked it once more, and flung the key down onthe table in a fury of vexation against myself. There the money was,upbraiding me with my own inconceivable folly, telling me in theplainest terms that I had risked depriving myself of my best and kindestfriend henceforth and forever.
It was necessary to do something at once toward making all the atonementthat lay in my power. I felt that, as soon as I began to cool down alittle. There was but one plain, straight-forward way left now out ofthe scrape in which I had been mad enough to involve myself. I took myhat, and, without stopping an instant to hesitate, hurried off to thebank to make a clean breast of it to Mr. Fauntleroy.
When I knocked at the private door and asked for him, I was told thathe had not been at the bank for the last two days. One of the otherpartners was there, however, and was working at that moment in his ownroom.
I sent in my name at once, and asked to see him. He and I were littlebetter than strangers to each other, and the interview was likely to be,on that account, unspeakably embarrassing and humiliating on my side.Still, I could not go home. I could not endure the inaction of the nextday, the Sunday, without having done my best on the spot to repair theerror into which my own folly had led me. Uncomfortable as I felt atthe prospect of the approaching interview, I should have been far moreuneasy in my mind if the partner had declined to see me.
To my relief, the bank porter returned with a message requesting me towalk in.
What particular form my explanations and apologies took when I tried tooffer them is more than I can tell now. I was so confused and distressedthat I hardly knew what I was talking about at the time. The onecircumstance which I remember clearly is that I was ashamed to refer tomy interview with the strange man, and that I tried to account for mysudden withdrawal of my balance by referring it to some inexplicablepanic, caused by mischievous reports which I was unable to trace totheir source, and which, for anything I knew to the contrary, might,after all, have been only started in jest. Greatly to my surprise, thepartner did not seem to notice the lamentable lameness of my excuses,and did not additionally confuse me by asking any questions. A weary,absent look, which I had observed on his face when I came in, remainedon it while I was speaking. It seemed to be an effort to him even tokeep up the appearance of listening to me; and when, at last, I fairlybroke down in the middle of a sentence, and gave up the hope of gettingany further, all the answer he gave me was comprised in these few civilcommonplace words:
"Never mind, Mr. Trowbridge; pray don't think of apologizing. We are allliable to make mistakes. Say nothing more about it, and bring the moneyback on Monday if you still honor us with your confidence."
He looked down at his papers as if he was anxious to be alone again,and I had no alternative, of course, but to take my leave immediately.I went home, feeling a little easier in my mind now that I had paved theway for making the best practical atonement in my power by bringing mybalance back the first thing on Monday morning. Still, I passed a wearyday on Sunday, reflecting, sadly enough, that I had not yet made mypeace with Mr. Fauntleroy. My anxiety to set myself right with mygenerous friend was so intense that I risked intruding myself on hisprivacy by calling at his town residence on the Sunday. He was notthere, and his servant could tell me nothing of his whereabouts. Therewas no help for it now but to wait till his weekday duties brought himback to the bank.
I went to business on Monday morning half an hour earlier than usual, sogreat was my impatience to restore the amount of that unlucky draft tomy account as soon as possible after the bank opened.
On entering my office, I stopped with a startled feeling just inside thedoor. Something serious had happened. The clerks, instead of being attheir desks as usual, were all huddled together in a group, talking toeach other with blank faces. When they saw me, they fell back behind mymanaging man, who stepped forward with a circular in his hand.
"Have you heard the news, sir?" he said.
"No. What is it?"
He handed me the circular. My heart gave one violent throb the instantI looked at it. I felt myself turn pale; I felt my knees trembling underme.
Marsh, Stracey, Fauntleroy & Graham had stopped payment.
"The circular has not been issued more than half an hour," continuedmy managing clerk. "I have just come from the bank, sir. The doors areshut; there is no doubt about it. Marsh & Company have stopped thismorning."
I hardly heard him; I hardly knew who was talking to me. My strangevisitor of the Saturday had taken instant possession of all my thoughts,and his words of warning seemed to be sounding once more in my ears.This man had known the true condition of the bank when not anothersoul outside the doors was aware of it! The last draft paid across thecounter of that ruined house, when
the doors closed on Saturday, wasthe draft that I had so bitterly reproached myself for drawing; the onebalance saved from the wreck was my balance. Where had the stranger gotthe information that had saved me? and why had he brought it to my ears?
I was still groping, like a man in the dark, for an answer to those twoquestions--I was still bewildered by the unfathomable mystery of doubtinto which they had plunged me--when the discovery of the stopping ofthe bank was followed almost immediately by a second shock, far moredreadful, far heavier to bear, so far as I was concerned, than thefirst.
While I and my clerks were still discussing the failure of the firm,two mercantile men, who were friends of mine, ran into the office, andoverwhelmed us with the news that one of the partners had been arrestedfor forgery. Never shall I forget the terrible Monday morning when thosetidings reached me, and when I knew that the partner was Mr. Fauntleroy.
I was true to him--I can honestly say I was true to my belief in mygenerous friend--when that fearful news reached me. My fellow-merchantshad got all the particulars of the arrest. They told me that two of Mr.Fauntleroy's fellow-trustees had come up to London to make arrangementsabout selling out some stock. On inquiring for Mr. Fauntleroy at thebanking-house, they had been informed that he was not there; and,after leaving a message for him, they had gone into the City to makean appointment with their stockbroker for a future day, when theirfellow-trustee might be able to attend. The stock-broker volunteered tomake certain business inquiries on the spot, with a view to saving asmuch time as possible, and left them at his office to await his return.He came back, looking very much amazed, with the information that thestock had been sold out down to the last five hundred pounds. The affairwas instantly investigated; the document authorizing the selling outwas produced; and the two trustees saw on it, side by side with Mr.Fauntleroy's signature, the forged signatures of their own names. Thishappened on the Friday, and the trustees, without losing a moment, sentthe officers of justice in pursuit of Mr. Fauntleroy. He was arrested,brought up before the magistrate, and remanded on the Saturday. Onthe Monday I heard from my friends the particulars which I have justnarrated.
But the events of that one morning were not destined to end even yet. Ihad discovered the failure of the bank and the arrest of Mr. Fauntleroy.I was next to be enlightened, in the strangest and the saddest manner,on the difficult question of his innocence or his guilt.
Before my friends had left my office--before I had exhausted thearguments which my gratitude rather than my reason suggested to me infavor of the unhappy prisoner--a note, marked immediate, was placed inmy hands, which silenced me the instant I looked at it. It was writtenfrom the prison by Mr. Fauntleroy, and it contained two lines only,entreating me to apply for the necessary order, and to go and see himimmediately.
I shall not attempt to describe the flutter of expectation, the strangemixture of dread and hope that agitated me when I recognized hishandwriting, and discovered what it was that he desired me to do. Iobtained the order and went to the prison. The authorities, knowing thedreadful situation in which he stood, were afraid of his attempting todestroy himself, and had set two men to watch him. One came out as theyopened his cell door. The other, who was bound not to leave him, verydelicately and considerately affected to be looking out of window themoment I was shown in.
He was sitting on the side of his bed, with his head drooping and hishands hanging listlessly over his knees when I first caught sight ofhim. At the sound of my approach he started to his feet, and, withoutspeaking a word, flung both his arms round my neck.
My heart swelled up.
"Tell me it's not true, sir! For God's sake, tell me it's not true!" wasall I could say to him.
He never answered--oh me! he never answered, and he turned away hisface.
There was one dreadful moment of silence. He still held his arms roundmy neck, and on a sudden he put his lips close to my ear.
"Did you get your money out?" he whispered. "Were you in time onSaturday afternoon?"
I broke free from him in the astonishment of hearing those words.
"What!" I cried out loud, forgetting the third person at the window."That man who brought the message--"
"Hush!" he said, putting his hand on my lips. "There was no better manto be found, after the officers had taken me--I know no more abouthim than you do--I paid him well as a chance messenger, and risked hischeating me of his errand."
"_You_ sent him, then!"
"I sent him."
My story is over, gentlemen. There is no need for me to tell you thatMr. Fauntleroy was found guilty, and that he died by the hangman's hand.It was in my power to soothe his last moments in this world by taking onmyself the arrangement of some of his private affairs, which, while theyremained unsettled, weighed heavily on his mind. They had no connectionwith the crimes he had committed, so I could do him the last littleservice he was ever to accept at my hands with a clear conscience.
I say nothing in defense of his character--nothing in palliation of theoffense for which he suffered. But I cannot forget that in the time ofhis most fearful extremity, when the strong arm of the law had alreadyseized him, he thought of the young man whose humble fortunes he hadhelped to build; whose heartfelt gratitude he had fairly won; whosesimple faith he was resolved never to betray. I leave it to greaterintellects than mine to reconcile the anomaly of his reckless falsehoodtoward others and his steadfast truth toward me. It is as certain asthat we sit here that one of Fauntleroy's last efforts in this world wasthe effort he made to preserve me from being a loser by the trust that Ihad placed in him. There is the secret of my strange tenderness for thememory of a felon; that is why the word villain does somehow still grateon my heart when I hear it associated with the name--the disgracedname, I grant you--of the forger Fauntleroy. Pass the bottles, younggentlemen, and pardon a man of the old school for having so longinterrupted your conversation with a story of the old time.
THE TENTH DAY.
THE storm has burst on us in its full fury. Last night the stout oldtower rocked on its foundations.
I hardly ventured to hope that the messenger who brings us our lettersfrom the village--the postman, as we call him--would make his appearancethis morning; but he came bravely through rain, hail and wind. The oldpony which he usually rides had refused to face the storm, and, soonerthan disappoint us, our faithful postman had boldly started for The GlenTower on foot. All his early life had been passed on board ship, and,at sixty years of age, he had battled his way that morning through thestorm on shore as steadily and as resolutely as ever he had battled itin his youth through the storm at sea.
I opened the post-bag eagerly. There were two letters for Jessie fromyoung lady friends; a letter for Owen from a charitable society; aletter to me upon business; and--on this last day, of all others--nonewspaper!
I sent directly to the kitchen (where the drenched and weary postman wasreceiving the hospitable attentions of the servants) to make inquiries.The disheartening answer returned was that the newspaper could not havearrived as usual by the morning's post, or it must have been put intothe bag along with the letters. No such accident as this had occurred,except on one former occasion, since the beginning of the year. Andnow, on the very day when I might have looked confidently for news ofGeorge's ship, when the state of the weather made the finding of thatnews of the last importance to my peace of mind, the paper, by someinconceivable fatality, had failed to reach me! If there had been theslightest chance of borrowing a copy in the village, I should havegone there myself through the tempest to get it. If there had been thefaintest possibility of communicating, in that frightful weather, withthe distant county town, I should have sent there or gone there myself.I even went the length of speaking to the groom, an old servant whomI knew I could trust. The man stared at me in astonishment, and thenpointed through the window to the blinding hail and the writhing trees.
"No horse that ever was foaled, sir," he said, "would face _that_ forlong. It's almost a miracle that the postman
got here alive. He sayshimself that he dursn't go back again. I'll try it, sir, if you orderme; but if an accident happens, please to remember, whatever becomes of_me,_ that I warned you beforehand."
It was only too plain that the servant was right, and I dismissed him.What I suffered from that one accident of the missing newspaper I amashamed to tell. No educated man can conceive how little his acquiredmental advantages will avail him against his natural human inheritanceof superstition, under certain circumstances of fear and suspense, untilhe has passed the ordeal in his own proper person. We most of us soonarrive at a knowledge of the extent of our strength, but we may pass alifetime and be still ignorant of the extent of our weakness.
Up to this time I had preserved self-control enough to hide the realstate of my feelings from our guest; but the arrival of the tenth day,and the unexpected trial it had brought with it, found me at the end ofmy resources. Jessie's acute observation soon showed her that somethinghad gone wrong, and she questioned me on the subject directly. My mindwas in such a state of confusion that no excuse occurred to me. I lefther precipitately, and entreated Owen and Morgan to keep her in theircompany, and out of mine, for the rest of the day. My strength topreserve my son's secret had failed me, and my only chance of resistingthe betrayal of it lay in the childish resource of keeping out ofthe way. I shut myself into my room till I could bear it no longer. Iwatched my opportunity, and paid stolen visits over and over again tothe barometer in the hall. I mounted to Morgan's rooms at the top of thetower, and looked out hopelessly through rain-mist and scud for signsof a carriage on the flooded valley-road below us. I stole down again tothe servants' hall, and questioned the old postman (half-tipsy by thistime with restorative mulled ale) about his past experience of stormsat sea; drew him into telling long, rambling, wearisome stories,not one-tenth part of which I heard; and left him with my nervousirritability increased tenfold by his useless attempts to interest andinform me. Hour by hour, all through that miserable day, I opened doorsand windows to feel for myself the capricious changes of the storm fromworse to better, and from better to worse again. Now I sent once morefor the groom, when it looked lighter; and now I followed him hurriedlyto the stables, to countermand my own rash orders. My thoughts seemedto drive over my mind as the rain drove over the earth; the confusionwithin me was the image in little of the mightier turmoil that ragedoutside.
Before we assembled at the dinner-table, Owen whispered to me that hehad made my excuses to our guest, and that I need dread nothing morethan a few friendly inquiries about my health when I saw her again. Themeal was dispatched hastily and quietly. Toward dusk the storm began tolessen, and for a moment the idea of sending to the town occurred to meonce more. But, now that the obstacle of weather had been removed, theobstacle of darkness was set up in its place. I felt this; I felt that afew more hours would decide the doubt about George, so far as this lastday was concerned, and I determined to wait a little longer, havingalready waited so long. My resolution was the more speedily taken inthis matter, as I had now made up my mind, in sheer despair, to tellmy son's secret to Jessie if he failed to return before she left us.My reason warned me that I should put myself and my guest in a falseposition by taking this step, but something stronger than my reasonforbade me to let her go back to the gay world and its temptationswithout first speaking to her of George in the lamentable event ofGeorge not being present to speak for himself.
We were a sad and silent little company when the clock struck eight thatnight, and when we met for the last time to hear the last story.The shadow of the approaching farewell--itself the shade of the longfarewell--rested heavily on our guest's spirits. The gay dresses whichshe had hitherto put on to honor our little ceremony were all packedup, and the plain gown she wore kept the journey of the morrow cruellybefore her eyes and ours. A quiet melancholy shed its tenderness overher bright young face as she drew the last number, for form's sake,out of the bowl, and handed it to Owen with a faint smile. Even ourpositions at the table were altered now. Under the pretense that thelight hurt my eyes, I moved back into a dim corner, to keep my anxiousface out of view. Morgan, looking at me hard, and muttering under hisbreath, "Thank Heaven, I never married!" stole his chair by degrees,with rough, silent kindness, nearer and nearer to mine. Jessie, after amoment's hesitation, vacated her place next, and, saying that she wantedto sit close to one of us on the farewell night, took a chair at Owen'sside. Sad! sad! we had instinctively broken up already, so far as ourplaces at the table were concerned, before the reading of the last storyhad so much as begun.
It was a relief when Owen' s quiet voice stole over the weary silence,and pleaded for our attention to the occupation of the night.
"Number Six," he said, "is the number that chance has left to remaintill the last. The manuscript to which it refers is not, as you may see,in my handwriting. It consists entirely of passages from the Diary of apoor hard-working girl--passages which tell an artless story of loveand friendship in humble life. When that story has come to an end, I mayinform you how I became possessed of it. If I did so now, I should onlyforestall one important part of the interest of the narrative. I havemade no attempt to find a striking title for it. It is called, simplyand plainly, after the name of the writer of the Diary--the Story ofAnne Rodway."
In the short pause that Owen made before he began to read, I listenedanxiously for the sound of a traveler's approach outside. At shortintervals, all through the story, I listened and listened again. Still,nothing caught my ear but the trickle of the rain and the rush of thesweeping wind through the valley, sinking gradually lower and lower asthe night advanced.
BROTHER OWEN'S STORY of ANNE RODWAY.
[TAKEN FROM HER DIARY.]
...MARCH 3d, 1840. A long letter today from Robert, which surprisedand vexed me so that I have been sadly behindhand with my work eversince. He writes in worse spirits than last time, and absolutelydeclares that he is poorer even than when he went to America, and thathe has made up his mind to come home to London.
How happy I should be at this news, if he only returned to me aprosperous man! As it is, though I love him dearly, I cannot lookforward to the meeting him again, disappointed and broken down, andpoorer than ever, without a feeling almost of dread for both of us. Iwas twenty-six last birthday and he was thirty-three, and there seemsless chance now than ever of our being married. It is all I can do tokeep myself by my needle; and his prospects, since he failed in thesmall stationery business three years ago, are worse, if possible, thanmine.
Not that I mind so much for myself; women, in all ways of life, andespecially in my dressmaking way, learn, I think, to be more patientthan men. What I dread is Robert's despondency, and the hard strugglehe will have in this cruel city to get his bread, let alone makingmoney enough to marry me. So little as poor people want to set up inhousekeeping and be happy together, it seems hard that they can't get itwhen they are honest and hearty, and willing to work. The clergyman saidin his sermon last Sunday evening that all things were ordered for thebest, and we are all put into the stations in life that are properestfor us. I suppose he was right, being a very clever gentleman who fillsthe church to crowding; but I think I should have understood him betterif I had not been very hungry at the time, in consequence of my ownstation in life being nothing but plain needlewoman.
March 4th. Mary Mallinson came down to my room to take a cup of tea withme. I read her bits of Robert's letter, to show her that, if she has hertroubles, I have mine too; but I could not succeed in cheering her.She says she is born to misfortune, and that, as long back as she canremember, she has never had the least morsel of luck to be thankful for.I told her to go and look in my glass, and to say if she had nothingto be thankful for then; for Mary is a very pretty girl, and would lookstill prettier if she could be more cheerful and dress neater. However,my compliment did no good. She rattled her spoon impatiently in hertea-cup, and said, "If I was only as good a hand at needle-work as youare, Anne, I would change faces with the ugliest girl in London." "N
otyou!" says I, laughing. She looked at me for a moment, and shook herhead, and was out of the room before I could get up and stop her. Shealways runs off in that way when she is going to cry, having a kind ofpride about letting other people see her in tears.
March 5th. A fright about Mary. I had not seen her all day, as she doesnot work at the same place where I do; and in the evening she never camedown to have tea with me, or sent me word to go to her; so, just beforeI went to bed, I ran upstairs to say good-night.
She did not answer when I knocked; and when I stepped softly in the roomI saw her in bed, asleep, with her work not half done, lying about theroom in the untidiest way. There was nothing remarkable in that, and Iwas just going away on tiptoe, when a tiny bottle and wine-glass on thechair by her bedside caught my eye. I thought she was ill and had beentaking physic, and looked at the bottle. It was marked in large letters,"Laudanum--Poison."
My heart gave a jump as if it was going to fly out of me. I laid hold ofher with both hands, and shook her with all my might. She was sleepingheavily, and woke slowly, as it seemed to me--but still she did wake.I tried to pull her out of bed, having heard that people ought tobe always walked up and down when they have taken laudanum but sheresisted, and pushed me away violently.
"Anne!" says she, in a fright. "For gracious sake, what's come to you!Are you out of your senses?"
"Oh, Mary! Mary!" says I, holding up the bottle before her, "if I hadn'tcome in when I did--" And I laid hold of her to shake her again.
She looked puzzled at me for a moment--then smiled (the first time I hadseen her do so for many a long day)--then put her arms round my neck.
"Don't be frightened about me, Anne," she says; "I am not worth it, andthere is no need."
"No need!" says I, out of breath--"no need, when the bottle has gotPoison marked on it!"
"Poison, dear, if you take it all," says Mary, looking at me verytenderly, "and a night's rest if you only take a little."
I watched her for a moment, doubtful whether I ought to believe what shesaid or to alarm the house. But there was no sleepiness now in her eyes,and nothing drowsy in her voice; and she sat up in bed quite easily,without anything to support her.
"You have given me a dreadful fright, Mary," says I, sitting down byher in the chair, and beginning by this time to feel rather faint afterbeing startled so.
She jumped out of bed to get me a drop of water, and kissed me, and saidhow sorry she was, and how undeserving of so much interest being takenin her. At the same time, she tried to possess herself of the laudanumbottle which I still kept cuddled up tight in my own hands.
"No," says I. "You have got into a low-spirited, despairing way. I won'ttrust you with it."
"I am afraid I can't do without it," says Mary, in her usual quiet,hopeless voice. "What with work that I can't get through as I ought, andtroubles that I can't help thinking of, sleep won't come to me unless Itake a few drops out of that bottle. Don't keep it away from me, Anne;it's the only thing in the world that makes me forget myself."
"Forget yourself!" says I. "You have no right to talk in that way, atyour age. There's something horrible in the notion of a girl of eighteensleeping with a bottle of laudanum by her bedside every night. We all ofus have our troubles. Haven't I got mine?"
"You can do twice the work I can, twice as well as me," says Mary. "Youare never scolded and rated at for awkwardness with your needle, and Ialways am. You can pay for your room every week, and I am three weeks indebt for mine."
"A little more practice," says I, "and a little more courage, and youwill soon do better. You have got all your life before you--"
"I wish I was at the end of it," says she, breaking in. "I am alone inthe world, and my life's no good to me."
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself for saying so," says I. "Haven'tyou got me for a friend? Didn't I take a fancy to you when first youleft your step-mother and came to lodge in this house? And haven't Ibeen sisters with you ever since? Suppose you are alone in the world, amI much better off? I'm an orphan like you. I've almost as many thingsin pawn as you; and, if your pockets are empty, mine have only gotninepence in them, to last me for all the rest of the week."
"Your father and mother were honest people," says Mary, obstinately. "Mymother ran away from home, and died in a hospital. My father was alwaysdrunk, and always beating me. My step-mother is as good as dead, for allshe cares about me. My only brother is thousands of miles away in foreignparts, and never writes to me, and never helps me with a farthing.My sweetheart--"
She stopped, and the red flew into her face. I knew, if she went on thatway, she would only get to the saddest part of her sad story, and giveboth herself and me unnecessary pain.
"_My_ sweetheart is too poor to marry me, Mary," I said, "so I'm notso much to be envied even there. But let's give over disputing which isworst off. Lie down in bed, and let me tuck you up. I'll put a stitch ortwo into that work of yours while you go to sleep."
Instead of doing what I told her, she burst out crying (being very likea child in some of her ways), and hugged me so tight round the neck thatshe quite hurt me. I let her go on till she had worn herself out,and was obliged to lie down. Even then, her last few words before shedropped off to sleep were such as I was half sorry, half frightened tohear.
"I won't plague you long, Anne," she said. "I haven't courage to goout of the world as you seem to fear I shall; but I began my lifewretchedly, and wretchedly I am sentenced to end it."
It was of no use lecturing her again, for she closed her eyes.
I tucked her up as neatly as I could, and put her petticoat over her,for the bedclothes were scanty, and her hands felt cold. She looked sopretty and delicate as she fell asleep that it quite made my heart acheto see her, after such talk as we had held together. I just waited longenough to be quite sure that she was in the land of dreams, then emptiedthe horrible laudanum bottle into the grate, took up her half-done work,and, going out softly, left her for that night.
March 6th. Sent off a long letter to Robert, begging and entreatinghim not to be so down-hearted, and not to leave America withoutmaking another effort. I told him I could bear any trial except thewretchedness of seeing him come back a helpless, broken-down man, tryinguselessly to begin life again when too old for a change.
It was not till after I had posted my own letter, and read over part ofRobert's again, that the suspicion suddenly floated across me, for thefirst time, that he might have sailed for England immediately afterwriting to me. There were expressions in the letter which seemed toindicate that he had some such headlong project in his mind. Andyet, surely, if it were so, I ought to have noticed them at the firstreading. I can only hope I am wrong in my present interpretation of muchof what he has written to me--hope it earnestly for both our sakes.
This has been a doleful day for me. I have been uneasy about Robert anduneasy about Mary. My mind is haunted by those last words of hers: "Ibegan my life wretchedly, and wretchedly I am sentenced to end it." Herusual melancholy way of talking never produced the same impression onme that I feel now. Perhaps the discovery of the laudanum-bottle is thecause of this. I would give many a hard day's work to know what to dofor Mary's good. My heart warmed to her when we first met in thesame lodging-house two years ago, and, although I am not one of theover-affectionate sort myself, I feel as if I could go to the world'send to serve that girl. Yet, strange to say, if I was asked why I was sofond of her, I don't think I should know how to answer the question.
March 7th. I am almost ashamed to write it down, even in this journal,which no eyes but mine ever look on; yet I must honestly confess tomyself that here I am, at nearly one in the morning, sitting up in astate of serious uneasiness because Mary has not yet come home.
I walked with her this morning to the place where she works, and triedto lead her into talking of the relations she has got who are stillalive. My motive in doing this was to see if she dropped anything inthe course of conversation which might suggest a way of helpingher intere
sts with those who are bound to give her all reasonableassistance. But the little I could get her to say to me led to nothing.Instead of answering my questions about her step-mother and her brother,she persisted at first, in the strangest way, in talking of her father,who was dead and gone, and of one Noah Truscott, who had been the worstof all the bad friends he had, and had taught him to drink and game.When I did get her to speak of her brother, she only knew that he hadgone out to a place called Assam, where they grew tea. How he was doing,or whether he was there still, she did not seem to know, never havingheard a word from him for years and years past.
As for her step-mother, Mary not unnaturally flew into a passion themoment I spoke of her. She keeps an eating-house at Hammersmith, andcould have given Mary good employment in it; but she seems always tohave hated her, and to have made her life so wretched with abuse and illusage that she had no refuge left but to go away from home, and do herbest to make a living for herself. Her husband (Mary's father) appearsto have behaved badly to her, and, after his death, she took the wickedcourse of revenging herself on her step-daughter. I felt, after this,that it was impossible Mary could go back, and that it was the hardnecessity of her position, as it is of mine, that she should struggleon to make a decent livelihood without assistance from any of herrelations. I confessed as much as this to her; but I added that I wouldtry to get her employment with the persons for whom I work, who payhigher wages, and show a little more indulgence to those under them thanthe people to whom she is now obliged to look for support.
I spoke much more confidently than I felt about being able to do this,and left her, as I thought, in better spirits than usual. She promisedto be back to-night to tea at nine o'clock, and now it is nearly one inthe morning, and she is not home yet. If it was any other girl I shouldnot feel uneasy, for I should make up my mind that there was extra workto be done in a hurry, and that they were keeping her late, and I shouldgo to bed. But Mary is so unfortunate in everything that happens to her,and her own melancholy talk about herself keeps hanging on my mind so,that I have fears on her account which would not distress me about anyone else. It seems inexcusably silly to think such a thing, much moreto write it down; but I have a kind of nervous dread upon me that someaccident--
What does that loud knocking at the street door mean? And those voicesand heavy footsteps outside? Some lodger who has lost his key, Isuppose. And yet, my heart--What a coward I have become all of a sudden!
More knocking and louder voices. I must run to the door and see what itis. Oh, Mary! Mary! I hope I am not going to have another fright aboutyou, but I feel sadly like it.
March 8th.
March 9th.
March 10th.
March 11th. Oh me! all the troubles I have ever had in my life are asnothing to the trouble I am in now. For three days I have not been ableto write a single line in this journal, which I have kept so regularlyever since I was a girl. For three days I have not once thought ofRobert--I, who am always thinking of him at other times.
My poor, dear, unhappy Mary! the worst I feared for you on that nightwhen I sat up alone was far below the dreadful calamity that has reallyhappened. How can I write about it, with my eyes full of tears and myhand all of a tremble? I don't even know why I am sitting down at mydesk now, unless it is habit that keeps me to my old every-day task,in spite of all the grief and fear which seem to unfit me entirely forperforming it.
The people of the house were asleep and lazy on that dreadful night,and I was the first to open the door. Never, never could I describe inwriting, or even say in plain talk, though it is so much easier, what Ifelt when I saw two policemen come in, carrying between them what seemedto me to be a dead girl, and that girl Mary! I caught hold of her, andgave a scream that must have alarmed the whole house; for frightenedpeople came crowding downstairs in their night-dresses. There was adreadful confusion and noise of loud talking, but I heard nothingand saw nothing till I had got her into my room and laid on my bed. Istooped down, frantic-like, to kiss her, and saw an awful mark of a blowon the left temple, and felt, at the same time, a feeble flutter of herbreath on my cheek. The discovery that she was not dead seemed to giveme back my senses again. I told one of the policemen where the nearestdoctor was to be found, and sat down by the bedside while he was gone,and bathed her poor head with cold water. She never opened her eyes, ormoved, or spoke; but she breathed, and that was enough for me, becauseit was enough for life.
The policeman left in the room was a big, thick-voiced, pompous man,with a horrible unfeeling pleasure in hearing himself talk before anassembly of frightened, silent people. He told us how he had found her,as if he had been telling a story in a tap-room, and began with saying:"I don't think the young woman was drunk."
Drunk! My Mary, who might have been a born lady for all the spirits sheever touched--drunk! I could have struck the man for uttering the word,with her lying--poor suffering angel--so white, and still, and helplessbefore him. As it was, I gave him a look, but he was too stupid tounderstand it, and went droning on, saying the same thing over and overagain in the same words. And yet the story of how they found her was,like all the sad stories I have ever heard told in real life, so very,very short. They had just seen her lying along on the curbstone a fewstreets off, and had taken her to the station-house. There she had beensearched, and one of my cards, that I gave to ladies who promise meemployment, had been found in her pocket, and so they had brought herto our house. This was all the man really had to tell. There was nobodynear her when she was found, and no evidence to show how the blow on hertemple had been inflicted.
What a time it was before the doctor came, and how dreadful to hear himsay, after he had looked at her, that he was afraid all the medical menin the world could be of no use here! He could not get her to swallowanything; and the more he tried to bring her back to her senses theless chance there seemed of his succeeding. He examined the blow on hertemple, and said he thought she must have fallen down in a fit of somesort, and struck her head against the pavement, and so have given herbrain what he was afraid was a fatal shake. I asked what was to be doneif she showed any return to sense in the night. He said: "Send for medirectly"; and stopped for a little while afterward stroking her headgently with his hand, and whispering to himself: "Poor girl, so youngand so pretty!" I had felt, some minutes before, as if I could havestruck the policeman, and I felt now as if I could have thrown my armsround the doctor's neck and kissed him. I did put out my hand when hetook up his hat, and he shook it in the friendliest way. "Don't hope, mydear," he said, and went out.
The rest of the lodgers followed him, all silent and shocked, exceptthe inhuman wretch who owns the house and lives in idleness on the highrents he wrings from poor people like us.
"She's three weeks in my debt," says he, with a frown and an oath."Where the devil is my money to come from now?" Brute! brute!
I had a long cry alone with her that seemed to ease my heart a little.She was not the least changed for the better when I had wiped away thetears and could see her clearly again. I took up her right hand,which lay nearest to me. It was tight clinched. I tried to unclasp thefingers, and succeeded after a little time. Something dark fell out ofthe palm of her hand as I straightened it.
I picked the thing up, and smoothed it out, and saw that it was an endof a man's cravat.
A very old, rotten, dingy strip of black silk, with thin lilac lines,all blurred and deadened with dirt, running across and across the stuffin a sort of trellis-work pattern. The small end of the cravat washemmed in the usual way, but the other end was all jagged, as if themorsel then in my hands had been torn off violently from the rest ofthe stuff. A chill ran all over me as I looked at it; for that poor,stained, crumpled end of a cravat seemed to be saying to me, as thoughit had been in plain words: "If she dies, she has come to her death byfoul means, and I am the witness of it."
I had been frightened enough before, lest she should die suddenly andquietly without my knowing it, while we were alone together; but I goti
nto a perfect agony now, for fear this last worst affliction shouldtake me by surprise. I don't suppose five minutes passed all that wofulnight through without my getting up and putting my cheek close to hermouth, to feel if the faint breaths still fluttered out of it. They cameand went just the same as at first, though the fright I was in oftenmade me fancy they were stilled forever.
Just as the church clocks were striking four I was startled by seeingthe room door open. It was only Dusty Sal (as they call her in thehouse), the maid-of-all-work. She was wrapped up in the blanket off herbed; her hair was all tumbled over her face, and her eyes were heavywith sleep as she came up to the bedside where I was sitting.
"I've two hours good before I begin to work," says she, in her hoarse,drowsy voice, "and I've come to sit up and take my turn at watching her.You lay down and get some sleep on the rug. Here's my blanket for you. Idon't mind the cold--it will keep me awake."
"You are very kind--very, very kind and thoughtful, Sally," says I, "butI am too wretched in my mind to want sleep, or rest, or to do anythingbut wait where I am, and try and hope for the best."
"Then I'll wait, too," says Sally. "I must do something; if there'snothing to do but waiting, I'll wait."
And she sat down opposite me at the foot of the bed, and drew theblanket close round her with a shiver.
"After working so hard as you do, I'm sure you must want all the littlerest you can get," says I.
"Excepting only you," says Sally, putting her heavy arm very clumsily,but very gently at the same time, round Mary's feet, and looking hard atthe pale, still face on the pillow. "Excepting you, she's the only soulin this house as never swore at me, or give me a hard word that I canremember. When you made puddings on Sundays, and give her half, shealways give me a bit. The rest of 'em calls me Dusty Sal. Exceptingonly you, again, she always called me Sally, as if she knowed me in afriendly way. I ain't no good here, but I ain't no harm, neither; and Ishall take my turn at the sitting up--that's what I shall do!"
She nestled her head down close at Mary's feet as she spoke those words,and said no more. I once or twice thought she had fallen asleep, butwhenever I looked at her her heavy eyes were always wide open. She neverchanged her position an inch till the church clocks struck six; then shegave one little squeeze to Mary's feet with her arm, and shuffled out ofthe room without a word. A minute or two after, I heard her down below,lighting the kitchen fire just as usual.
A little later the doctor stepped over before his breakfast-time to seeif there had been any change in the night. He only shook his head whenhe looked at her as if there was no hope. Having nobody else to consultthat I could put trust in, I showed him the end of the cravat, and toldhim of the dreadful suspicion that had arisen in my mind when I found itin her hand.
"You must keep it carefully, and produce it at the inquest," he said."I don't know, though, that it is likely to lead to anything. The bitof stuff may have been lying on the pavement near her, and her handmay have unconsciously clutched it when she fell. Was she subject tofainting-fits?"
"Not more so, sir, than other young girls who are hard-worked andanxious, and weakly from poor living," I answered.
"I can't say that she may not have got that blow from a fall," thedoctor went on, locking at her temple again. "I can't say that itpresents any positive appearance of having been inflicted by anotherperson. It will be important, however, to ascertain what state ofhealth she was in last night. Have you any idea where she was yesterdayevening?"
I told him where she was employed at work, and said I imagined she musthave been kept there later than usual.
"I shall pass the place this morning" said the doctor, "in goingmy rounds among my patients, and I'll just step in and make someinquiries."
I thanked him, and we parted. Just as he was closing the door he lookedin again.
"Was she your sister?" he asked.
"No, sir, only my dear friend."
He said nothing more, but I heard him sigh as he shut the door softly.Perhaps he once had a sister of his own, and lost her? Perhaps she waslike Mary in the face?
The doctor was hours gone away. I began to feel unspeakably forlorn andhelpless, so much so as even to wish selfishly that Robert might reallyhave sailed from America, and might get to London in time to assist andconsole me.
No living creature came into the room but Sally. The first time shebrought me some tea; the second and third times she only looked in tosee if there was any change, and glanced her eye toward the bed. I hadnever known her so silent before; it seemed almost as if this dreadfulaccident had struck her dumb. I ought to have spoken to her, perhaps,but there was something in her face that daunted me; and, besides, thefever of anxiety I was in began to dry up my lips, as if they wouldnever be able to shape any words again. I was still tormented by thatfrightful apprehension of the past night, that she would die without myknowing it--die without saying one word to clear up the awful mysteryof this blow, and set the suspicions at rest forever which I still feltwhenever my eyes fell on the end of the old cravat.
At last the doctor came back.
"I think you may safely clear your mind of any doubts to which thatbit of stuff may have given rise," he said. "She was, as you supposed,detained late by her employers, and she fainted in the work-room. Theymost unwisely and unkindly let her go home alone, without giving herany stimulant, as soon as she came to her senses again. Nothing is moreprobable, under these circumstances, than that she should faint a secondtime on her way here. A fall on the pavement, without any friendly armto break it, might have produced even a worse injury than the injurywe see. I believe that the only ill usage to which the poor girl wasexposed was the neglect she met with in the work-room."
"You speak very reasonably, I own, sir," said I, not yet quiteconvinced. "Still, perhaps she may--"
"My poor girl, I told you not to hope," said the doctor, interruptingme. He went to Mary, and lifted up her eyelids, and looked at her eyeswhile he spoke; then added, "If you still doubt how she came by thatblow, do not encourage the idea that any words of hers will everenlighten you. She will never speak again."
"Not dead! Oh, sir, don't say she's dead!"
"She is dead to pain and sorrow--dead to speech and recognition. Thereis more animation in the life of the feeblest insect that flies thanin the life that is left in her. When you look at her now, try to thinkthat she is in heaven. That is the best comfort I can give you, aftertelling the hard truth."
I did not believe him. I could not believe him. So long as she breathedat all, so long I was resolved to hope. Soon after the doctor was gone,Sally came in again, and found me listening (if I may call it so) atMary's lips. She went to where my little hand-glass hangs against thewall, took it down, and gave it to me.
"See if the breath marks it," she said.
Yes; her breath did mark it, but very faintly. Sally cleaned theglass with her apron, and gave it back to me. As she did so, she halfstretched out her hand to Mary's face, but drew it in again suddenly, asif she was afraid of soiling Mary's delicate skin with her hard, hornyfingers. Going out, she stopped at the foot of the bed, and scraped awaya little patch of mud that was on one of Mary's shoes.
"I always used to clean 'em for her," said Sally, "to save her handsfrom getting blacked. May I take 'em off now, and clean 'em again?"
I nodded my head, for my heart was too heavy to speak. Sally took theshoes off with a slow, awkward tenderness, and went out.
An hour or more must have passed, when, putting the glass over her lipsagain, I saw no mark on it. I held it closer and closer. I dulled itaccidentally with my own breath, and cleaned it. I held it over heragain. Oh, Mary, Mary, the doctor was right! I ought to have onlythought of you in heaven!
Dead, without a word, without a sign--without even a look to tell thetrue story of the blow that killed her! I could not call to anybody, Icould not cry, I could not so much as put the glass down and give hera kiss for the last time. I don't know how long I had sat there withmy eyes burning, a
nd my hands deadly cold, when Sally came in with theshoes cleaned, and carried carefully in her apron for fear of a soiltouching them. At the sight of that--
I can write no more. My tears drop so fast on the paper that I can seenothing.
March 12th. She died on the afternoon of the eighth. On the morning ofthe ninth, I wrote, as in duty bound, to her stepmother at Hammersmith.There was no answer. I wrote again; my letter was returned to me thismorning unopened. For all that woman cares, Mary might be buried witha pauper's funeral; but this shall never be, if I pawn everything aboutme, down to the very gown that is on my back. The bare thought of Marybeing buried by the workhouse gave me the spirit to dry my eyes, and goto the undertaker's, and tell him how I was placed. I said if he wouldget me an estimate of all that would have to be paid, from firstto last, for the cheapest decent funeral that could be had, I wouldundertake to raise the money. He gave me the estimate, written in thisway, like a common bill:
A walking funeral complete............Pounds 1 13 8 Vestry.......................................0 4 4 Rector.......................................0 4 4 Clerk........................................0 1 0 Sexton.......................................0 1 0 Beadle.......................................0 1 0 Bell.........................................0 1 0 Six feet of ground...........................0 2 0
------ Total Pounds 2 8 4
If I had the heart to give any thought to it, I should be inclined towish that the Church could afford to do without so many small chargesfor burying poor people, to whose friends even shillings are ofconsequence. But it is useless to complain; the money must be raisedat once. The charitable doctor--a poor man himself, or he would notbe living in our neighborhood--has subscribed ten shillings toward theexpenses; and the coroner, when the inquest was over, added five more.Perhaps others may assist me. If not, I have fortunately clothes andfurniture of my own to pawn. And I must set about parting with themwithout delay, for the funeral is to be to-morrow, the thirteenth.
The funeral--Mary's funeral! It is well that the straits anddifficulties I am in keep my mind on the stretch. If I had leisure togrieve, where should I find the courage to face to-morrow?
Thank God they did not want me at the inquest. The verdict given, withthe doctor, the policeman, and two persons from the place where sheworked, for witnesses, was Accidental Death. The end of the cravat wasproduced, and the coroner said that it was certainly enough to suggestsuspicion; but the jury, in the absence of any positive evidence, heldto the doctor's notion that she had fainted and fallen down, and so gotthe blow on her temple. They reproved the people where Mary workedfor letting her go home alone, without so much as a drop of brandy tosupport her, after she had fallen into a swoon from exhaustion beforetheir eyes. The coroner added, on his own account, that he thought thereproof was thoroughly deserved. After that, the cravat-end was givenback to me by my own desire, the police saying that they could make noinvestigations with such a slight clew to guide them. They may think so,and the coroner, and doctor, and jury may think so; but, in spite of allthat has passed, I am now more firmly persuaded than ever that thereis some dreadful mystery in connection with that blow on my poor lostMary's temple which has yet to be revealed, and which may come to bediscovered through this very fragment of a cravat that I found in herhand. I cannot give any good reason for why I think so, but I knowthat if I had been one of the jury at the inquest, nothing should haveinduced me to consent to such a verdict as Accidental Death.
After I had pawned my things, and had begged a small advance of wagesat the place where I work to make up what was still wanting to payfor Mary's funeral, I thought I might have had a little quiet time toprepare myself as I best could for to-morrow. But this was not to be.When I got home the landlord met me in the passage. He was in liquor,and more brutal and pitiless in his way of looking and speaking thanever I saw him before.
"So you're going to be fool enough to pay for her funeral, are you?"were his first words to me.
I was too weary and heart-sick to answer; I only tried to get by him tomy own door.
"If you can pay for burying her," he went on, putting himself in frontof me, "you can pay her lawful debts. She owes me three weeks' rent.Suppose you raise the money for that next, and hand it over to me? I'mnot joking, I can promise you. I mean to have my rent; and, if somebodydon't pay it, I'll have her body seized and sent to the workhouse!"
Between terror and disgust, I thought I should have dropped to the floorat his feet. But I determined not to let him see how he had horrifiedme, if I could possibly control myself. So I mustered resolution enoughto answer that I did not believe the law gave him any such wicked powerover the dead.
"I'll teach you what the law is!" he broke in; "you'll raise money tobury her like a born lady, when she's died in my debt, will you? And youthink I'll let my rights be trampled upon like that, do you? See if Ido! I'll give you till to-night to think about it. If I don't have thethree weeks she owes before to-morrow, dead or alive, she shall go tothe workhouse!"
This time I managed to push by him, and get to my own room, and lockthe door in his face. As soon as I was alone I fell into a breathless,suffocating fit of crying that seemed to be shaking me to pieces. Butthere was no good and no help in tears; I did my best to calm myselfafter a little while, and tried to think who I should run to for helpand protection.
The doctor was the first friend I thought of; but I knew he was alwaysout seeing his patients of an afternoon. The beadle was the next personwho came into my head. He had the look of being a very dignified,unapproachable kind of man when he came about the inquest; but he talkedto me a little then, and said I was a good girl, and seemed, I reallythought, to pity me. So to him I determined to apply in my great dangerand distress.
Most fortunately, I found him at home. When I told him of the landlord'sinfamous threats, and of the misery I was suffering in consequence ofthem, he rose up with a stamp of his foot, and sent for his gold-lacedcocked hat that he wears on Sundays, and his long cane with the ivorytop to it.
"I'll give it to him," said the beadle. "Come along with me, my dear.I think I told you you were a good girl at the inquest--if I didn't, Itell you so now. I'll give it to him! Come along with me."
And he went out, striding on with his cocked hat and his great cane, andI followed him.
"Landlord!" he cries, the moment he gets into the passage, with a thumpof his cane on the floor, "landlord!" with a look all round him as if hewas King of England calling to a beast, "come out!"
The moment the landlord came out and saw who it was, his eye fixed onthe cocked hat, and he turned as pale as ashes.
"How dare you frighten this poor girl?" says the beadle. "How dare youbully her at this sorrowful time with threatening to do what you knowyou can't do? How dare you be a cowardly, bullying, braggadocio of anunmanly landlord? Don't talk to me: I won't hear you. I'll pull you up,sir. If you say another word to the young woman, I'll pull you up beforethe authorities of this metropolitan parish. I've had my eye on you, andthe authorities have had their eye on you, and the rector has had hiseye on you. We don't like the look of your small shop round the corner;we don't like the look of some of the customers who deal at it; we don'tlike disorderly characters; and we don't by any manner of means likeyou. Go away. Leave the young woman alone. Hold your tongue, or I'llpull you up. If he says another word, or interferes with you again,my dear, come and tell me; and, as sure as he's a bullying, unmanly,braggadocio of a landlord, I'll pull him up."
With those words the beadle gave a loud cough to clear his throat, andanother thump of his cane on the floor, and so went striding out againbefore I could open my lips to thank him. The landlord slunk back intohis room without a word. I was left alone and unmolested at last,to strengthen myself for the hard trial of my poor love's funeralto-morrow.
March 13th. It is all over. A week ago her head rested on my bosom.It is laid in the churchyard now; the fresh earth lies h
eavy over hergrave. I and my dearest friend, the sister of my love, are parted inthis world forever.
I followed her funeral alone through the cruel, hustling streets. Sally,I thought, might have offered to go with me, but she never so much ascame into my room. I did not like to think badly of her for this, and Iam glad I restrained myself; for, when we got into the churchyard, amongthe two or three people who were standing by the open grave I saw Sally,in her ragged gray shawl and her patched black bonnet. She did not seemto notice me till the last words of the service had been read and theclergyman had gone away; then she came up and spoke to me.
"I couldn't follow along with you," she said, looking at her raggedshawl, "for I haven't a decent suit of clothes to walk in. I wish Icould get vent in crying for her like you, but I can't; all the crying'sbeen drudged and starved out of me long ago. Don't you think aboutlighting your fire when you get home. I'll do that, and get you a dropof tea to comfort you."
She seemed on the point of saying a kind word or two more, when, seeingthe beadle coming toward me, she drew back, as if she was afraid of him,and left the churchyard.
"Here's my subscription toward the funeral," said the beadle, giving meback his shilling fee. "Don't say anything about it, for it mightn'tbe approved of in a business point of view, if it came to some people'sears. Has the landlord said anything more to you? no, I thought not.He's too polite a man to give me the trouble of pulling him up. Don'tstop crying here, my dear. Take the advice of a man familiar withfunerals, and go home."
I tried to take his advice, but it seemed like deserting Mary to go awaywhen all the rest forsook her.
I waited about till the earth was thrown in and the man had left theplace, then I returned to the grave. Oh, how bare and cruel it was,without so much as a bit of green turf to soften it! Oh, how much harderit seemed to live than to die, when I stood alone looking at the heavypiled-up lumps of clay, and thinking of what was hidden beneath them!
I was driven home by my own despairing thoughts. The sight of Sallylighting the fire in my room eased my heart a little. When she was gone,I took up Robert's letter again to keep my mind employed on the onlysubject in the world that has any interest for it now.
This fresh reading increased the doubts I had already felt relativeto his having remained in America after writing to me. My grief andforlornness have made a strange alteration in my former feelings abouthis coming back. I seem to have lost all my prudence and self-denial,and to care so little about his poverty, and so much about himself, thatthe prospect of his return is really the only comforting thought I havenow to support me. I know this is weak in me, and that his coming backcan lead to no good result for either of us; but he is the only livingbeing left me to love; and--I can't explain it--but I want to put myarms round his neck and tell him about Mary.
March 14th. I locked up the end of the cravat in my writing-desk. Nochange in the dreadful suspicions that the bare sight of it rouses inme. I tremble if I so much as touch it.
March 15th, 16th, 17th. Work, work, work. If I don't knock up, I shallbe able to pay back the advance in another week; and then, with a littlemore pinching in my daily expenses, I may succeed in saving a shillingor two to get some turf to put over Mary's grave, and perhaps even a fewflowers besides to grow round it.
March 18th. Thinking of Robert all day long. Does this mean that he isreally coming back? If it does, reckoning the distance he is at from NewYork, and the time ships take to get to England, I might see him by theend of April or the beginning of May.
March 19th. I don't remember my mind running once on the end of thecravat yesterday, and I am certain I never looked at it; yet I had thestrangest dream concerning it at night. I thought it was lengthenedinto a long clew, like the silken thread that led to Rosamond's Bower.I thought I took hold of it, and followed it a little way, and then gotfrightened and tried to go back, but found that I was obliged, in spiteof myself, to go on. It led me through a place like the Valley of theShadow of Death, in an old print I remember in my mother's copy ofthe Pilgrim's Progress. I seemed to be months and months following itwithout any respite, till at last it brought me, on a sudden, face toface with an angel whose eyes were like Mary's. He said to me, "Go on,still; the truth is at the end, waiting for you to find it." I burst outcrying, for the angel had Mary's voice as well as Mary's eyes, and wokewith my heart throbbing and my cheeks all wet. What is the meaning ofthis? Is it always superstitious, I wonder, to believe that dreams maycome true?
* * * * * * *
April 30th. I have found it! God knows to what results it may lead; butit is as certain as that I am sitting here before my journal that Ihave found the cravat from which the end in Mary's hand was torn. Idiscovered it last night; but the flutter I was in, and the nervousnessand uncertainty I felt, prevented me from noting down this mostextraordinary and unexpected event at the time when it happened. Let metry if I can preserve the memory of it in writing now.
I was going home rather late from where I work, when I suddenlyremembered that I had forgotten to buy myself any candles the eveningbefore, and that I should be left in the dark if I did not manage torectify this mistake in some way. The shop close to me, at which Iusually deal, would be shut up, I knew, before I could get to it; so Idetermined to go into the first place I passed where candles were sold.This turned out to be a small shop with two counters, which did businesson one side in the general grocery way, and on the other in the rag andbottle and old iron line.
There were several customers on the grocery side when I went in, so Iwaited on the empty rag side till I could be served. Glancing about mehere at the worthless-looking things by which I was surrounded, my eyewas caught by a bundle of rags lying on the counter, as if they had justbeen brought in and left there. From mere idle curiosity, I looked closeat the rags, and saw among them something like an old cravat. I took itup directly and held it under a gaslight. The pattern was blurred lilaclines running across and across the dingy black ground in a trellis-workform. I looked at the ends: one of them was torn off.
How I managed to hide the breathless surprise into which this discoverythrew me I cannot say, but I certainly contrived to steady my voicesomehow, and to ask for my candles calmly when the man and woman servingin the shop, having disposed of their other customers, inquired of mewhat I wanted.
As the man took down the candles, my brain was all in a whirl withtrying to think how I could get possession of the old cravat withoutexciting any suspicion. Chance, and a little quickness on my part intaking advantage of it, put the object within my reach in a moment. Theman, having counted out the candles, asked the woman for some paper towrap them in. She produced a piece much too small and flimsy for thepurpose, and declared, when he called for something better, that theday's supply of stout paper was all exhausted. He flew into a ragewith her for managing so badly. Just as they were beginning to quarrelviolently, I stepped back to the rag-counter, took the old cravatcarelessly out of the bundle, and said, in as light a tone as I couldpossibly assume:
"Come, come, don't let my candles be the cause of hard words betweenyou. Tie this ragged old thing round them with a bit of string, and Ishall carry them home quite comfortably."
The man seemed disposed to insist on the stout paper being produced; butthe woman, as if she was glad of an opportunity of spiting him, snatchedthe candles away, and tied them up in a moment in the torn old cravat. Iwas afraid he would have struck her before my face, he seemed in such afury; but, fortunately, another customer came in, and obliged him to puthis hands to peaceable and proper use.
"Quite a bundle of all-sorts on the opposite counter there," I said tothe woman, as I paid her for the candles.
"Yes, and all hoarded up for sale by a poor creature with a lazy bruteof a husband, who lets his wife do all the work while he spends allthe money," answered the woman, with a malicious look at the man by herside.
"He can't surely have much money to spend, if his wife has no betterwork to do than picking up rags," said I.
/> "It isn't her fault if she hasn't got no better," says the woman, ratherangrily. "She's ready to turn her hand to anything. Charing, washing,laying-out, keeping empty houses--nothing comes amiss to her. She's myhalf-sister, and I think I ought to know."
"Did you say she went out charing?" I asked, making believe as if I knewof somebody who might employ her.
"Yes, of course I did," answered the woman; "and if you can put a jobinto her hands, you'll be doing a good turn to a poor hard-workingcreature as wants it. She lives down the Mews here to the right--name ofHorlick, and as honest a woman as ever stood in shoe-leather. Now, then,ma'am, what for you?"
Another customer came in just then, and occupied her attention. I leftthe shop, passed the turning that led down to the Mews, looked up atthe name of the street, so as to know how to find it again, and then ranhome as fast as I could. Perhaps it was the remembrance of my strangedream striking me on a sudden, or perhaps it was the shock of thediscovery I had just made, but I began to feel frightened withoutknowing why, and anxious to be under shelter in my own room.
If Robert should come back! Oh, what a relief and help it would be nowif Robert should come back!
May 1st. On getting indoors last night, the first thing I did, afterstriking a light, was to take the ragged cravat off the candles, andsmooth it out on the table. I then took the end that had been in poorMary's hand out of my writing-desk, and smoothed that out too. Itmatched the torn side of the cravat exactly. I put them together, andsatisfied myself that there was not a doubt of it.
Not once did I close my eyes that night. A kind of fever got possessionof me--a vehement yearning to go on from this first discovery andfind out more, no matter what the risk might be. The cravat now reallybecame, to my mind, the clew that I thought I saw in my dream--the clewthat I was resolved to follow. I determined to go to Mrs. Horlick thisevening on my return from work.
I found the Mews easily. A crook-backed dwarf of a man was loungingat the corner of it smoking his pipe. Not liking his looks, I did notinquire of him where Mrs. Horlick lived, but went down the Mews till Imet with a woman, and asked her. She directed me to the right number.I knocked at the door, and Mrs. Horlick herself--a lean, ill-tempered,miserable-looking woman--answered it. I told her at once that I had cometo ask what her terms were for charing. She stared at me for a moment,then answered my question civilly enough.
"You look surprised at a stranger like me finding you out," I said."I first came to hear of you last night, from a relation of yours, inrather an odd way."
And I told her all that had happened in the chandler's shop, bringing inthe bundle of rags, and the circumstance of my carrying home the candlesin the old torn cravat, as often as possible.
"It's the first time I've heard of anything belonging to him turning outany use," said Mrs. Horlick, bitterly.
"What! the spoiled old neck-handkerchief belonged to your husband, didit?" said I, at a venture.
"Yes; I pitched his rotten rag of a neck-'andkercher into the bundlealong with the rest, and I wish I could have pitched him in after it,"said Mrs. Horlick. "I'd sell him cheap at any ragshop. There he stands,smoking his pipe at the end of the Mews, out of work for weeks past, theidlest humpbacked pig in all London!"
She pointed to the man whom I had passed on entering the Mews. My cheeksbegan to burn and my knees to tremble, for I knew that in tracing thecravat to its owner I was advancing a step toward a fresh discovery. Iwished Mrs. Horlick good evening, and said I would write and mention theday on which I wanted her.
What I had just been told put a thought into my mind that I was afraidto follow out. I have heard people talk of being light-headed, and Ifelt as I have heard them say they felt when I retraced my steps up theMews. My head got giddy, and my eyes seemed able to see nothing but thefigure of the little crook-backed man, still smoking his pipe in hisformer place. I could see nothing but that; I could think of nothing butthe mark of the blow on my poor lost Mary's temple. I know that I musthave been light-headed, for as I came close to the crook-backed man Istopped without meaning it. The minute before, there had been no ideain me of speaking to him. I did not know how to speak, or in what way itwould be safest to begin; and yet, the moment I came face to face withhim, something out of myself seemed to stop me, and to make me speakwithout considering beforehand, without thinking of consequences,without knowing, I may almost say, what words I was uttering till theinstant when they rose to my lips.
"When your old neck-tie was torn, did you know that one end of it wentto the rag-shop, and the other fell into my hands?"
I said these bold words to him suddenly, and, as it seemed, without myown will taking any part in them.
He started, stared, changed color. He was too much amazed by my suddenspeaking to find an answer for me. When he did open his lips, it was tosay rather to himself than me:
"You're not the girl."
"No," I said, with a strange choking at my heart, "I'm her friend."
By this time he had recovered his surprise, and he seemed to be awarethat he had let out more than he ought.
"You may be anybody's friend you like," he said, brutally, "so long asyou don't come jabbering nonsense here. I don't know you, and I don'tunderstand your jokes."
He turned quickly away from me when he had said the last words. He hadnever once looked fairly at me since I first spoke to him.
Was it his hand that had struck the blow? I had only sixpence in mypocket, but I took it out and followed him. If it had been a five-poundnote I should have done the same in the state I was in then.
"Would a pot of beer help you to understand me?" I said, and offered himthe sixpence.
"A pot ain't no great things," he answered, taking the sixpencedoubtfully.
"It may lead to something better," I said. His eyes began to twinkle,and he came close to me. Oh, how my legs trembled--how my head swam!
"This is all in a friendly way, is it?" he asked, in a whisper.
I nodded my head. At that moment I could not have spoken for worlds.
"Friendly, of course," he went on to himself, "or there would have beena policeman in it. She told you, I suppose, that I wasn't the man?"
I nodded my head again. It was all I could do to keep myself standingupright.
"I suppose it's a case of threatening to have him up, and make himsettle it quietly for a pound or two? How much for me if you lay hold ofhim?"
"Half."
I began to be afraid that he would suspect something if I was stillsilent. The wretch's eyes twinkled again and he came yet closer.
"I drove him to the Red Lion, corner of Dodd Street and Rudgely Street.The house was shut up, but he was let in at the jug and bottle door,like a man who was known to the landlord. That's as much as I can tellyou, and I'm certain I'm right. He was the last fare I took up at night.The next morning master gave me the sack--said I cribbed his corn andhis fares. I wish I had."
I gathered from this that the crook-backed man had been a cab-driver.
"Why don't you speak?" he asked, suspiciously. "Has she been telling youa pack of lies about me? What did she say when she came home?"
"What ought she to have said?"
"She ought to have said my fare was drunk, and she came in the way ashe was going to get into the cab. That's what she ought to have said tobegin with."
"But after?"
"Well, after, my fare, by way of larking with her, puts out his leg forto trip her up, and she stumbles and catches at me for to save herself,and tears off one of the limp ends of my rotten old tie. 'What do youmean by that, you brute?' says she, turning round as soon as she wassteady on her legs, to my fare. Says my fare to her: 'I means to teachyou to keep a civil tongue in your head.' And he ups with his fist,and--what's come to you, now? What are you looking at me like that for?How do you think a man of my size was to take her part against a man bigenough to have eaten me up? Look as much as you like, in my place youwould have done what I done--drew off when he shook his fist at you,and swore he'd be
the death of you if you didn't start your horse in notime."
I saw he was working himself up into a rage; but I could not, if my lifehad depended on it, have stood near him or looked at him any longer.I just managed to stammer out that I had been walking a long way, andthat, not being used to much exercise, I felt faint and giddy withfatigue. He only changed from angry to sulky when I made that excuse. Igot a little further away from him, and then added that if he would beat the Mews entrance the next evening I should have something more tosay and something more to give him. He grumbled a few suspicious wordsin answer about doubting whether he should trust me to come back.Fortunately, at that moment, a policeman passed on the opposite side ofthe way. He slunk down the Mews immediately, and I was free to make myescape.
How I got home I can't say, except that I think I ran the greater partof the way. Sally opened the door, and asked if anything was the matterthe moment she saw my face. I answered: "Nothing--nothing." She stoppedme as I was going into my room, and said:
"Smooth your hair a bit, and put your collar straight. There's agentleman in there waiting for you."
My heart gave one great bound: I knew who it was in an instant, andrushed into the room like a mad woman.
"Oh, Robert, Robert!"
All my heart went out to him in those two little words.
"Good God, Anne, has anything happened? Are you ill?"
"Mary! my poor, lost, murdered, dear, dear Mary!"
That was all I could say before I fell on his breast.
May 2d. Misfortunes and disappointments have saddened him a little, buttoward me he is unaltered. He is as good, as kind, as gently and trulyaffectionate as ever. I believe no other man in the world could havelistened to the story of Mary's death with such tenderness and pity ashe. Instead of cutting me short anywhere, he drew me on to tell morethan I had intended; and his first generous words when I had done wereto assure me that he would see himself to the grass being laid and theflowers planted on Mary's grave. I could almost have gone on my kneesand worshiped him when he made me that promise.
Surely this best, and kindest, and noblest of men cannot always beunfortunate! My cheeks burn when I think that he has come back with onlya few pounds in his pocket, after all his hard and honest struggles todo well in America. They must be bad people there when such a man asRobert cannot get on among them. He now talks calmly and resignedly oftrying for any one of the lowest employments by which a man can earn hisbread honestly in this great city--he who knows French, who can writeso beautifully! Oh, if the people who have places to give away onlyknew Robert as well as I do, what a salary he would have, what a post hewould be chosen to occupy!
I am writing these lines alone while he has gone to the Mews to treatwith the dastardly, heartless wretch with whom I spoke yesterday.
Robert says the creature--I won't call him a man--must be humored andkept deceived about poor Mary's end, in order that we may discover andbring to justice the monster whose drunken blow was the death of her. Ishall know no ease of mind till her murderer is secured, and till I amcertain that he will be made to suffer for his crimes. I wanted to gowith Robert to the Mews, but he said it was best that he should carryout the rest of the investigation alone, for my strength and resolutionhad been too hardly taxed already. He said more words in praise ofme for what I have been able to do up to this time, which I am almostashamed to write down with my own pen. Besides, there is no need;praise from his lips is one of the things that I can trust my memory topreserve to the latest day of my life.
May 3d. Robert was very long last night before he came back to tell mewhat he had done. He easily recognized the hunchback at the corner ofthe Mews by my description of him; but he found it a hard matter, evenwith the help of money, to overcome the cowardly wretch's distrust ofhim as a stranger and a man. However, when this had been accomplished,the main difficulty was conquered. The hunchback, excited by the promiseof more money, went at once to the Red Lion to inquire about the personwhom he had driven there in his cab. Robert followed him, and waited atthe corner of the street. The tidings brought by the cabman were ofthe most unexpected kind. The murderer--I can write of him by no othername--had fallen ill on the very night when he was driven to the RedLion, had taken to his bed there and then, and was still confined toit at that very moment. His disease was of a kind that is brought on byexcessive drinking, and that affects the mind as well as the body. Thepeople at the public house call it the Horrors.
Hearing these things, Robert determined to see if he could not find outsomething more for himself by going and inquiring at the public house,in the character of one of the friends of the sick man in bed upstairs.He made two important discoveries. First, he found out the name andaddress of the doctor in attendance. Secondly, he entrapped the barmaninto mentioning the murderous wretch by his name. This last discoveryadds an unspeakably fearful interest to the dreadful misfortuneof Mary's death. Noah Truscott, as she told me herself in the lastconversation I ever had with her, was the name of the man whose drunkenexample ruined her father, and Noah Truscott is also the name of theman whose drunken fury killed her. There is something that makes oneshudder, something supernatural in this awful fact. Robert agrees withme that the hand of Providence must have guided my steps to that shopfrom which all the discoveries since made took their rise. He says hebelieves we are the instruments of effecting a righteous retribution;and, if he spends his last farthing, he will have the investigationbrought to its full end in a court of justice.
May 4th. Robert went to-day to consult a lawyer whom he knew in formertimes. The lawyer was much interested, though not so seriously impressedas he ought to have been by the story of Mary's death and of the eventsthat have followed it. He gave Robert a confidential letter to take tothe doctor in attendance on the double-dyed villain at the Red Lion.Robert left the letter, and called again and saw the doctor, who saidhis patient was getting better, and would most likely be up again in tendays or a fortnight. This statement Robert communicated to the lawyer,and the lawyer has undertaken to have the public house properly watched,and the hunchback (who is the most important witness) sharply lookedafter for the next fortnight, or longer if necessary. Here, then, theprogress of this dreadful business stops for a while.
May 5th. Robert has got a little temporary employment in copying for hisfriend the lawyer. I am working harder than ever at my needle, to makeup for the time that has been lost lately.
May 6th. To-day was Sunday, and Robert proposed that we should go andlook at Mary's grave. He, who forgets nothing where a kindness is to bedone, has found time to perform the promise he made to me on the nightwhen we first met. The grave is already, by his orders, covered withturf, and planted round with shrubs. Some flowers, and a low headstone,are to be added, to make the place look worthier of my poor lost darlingwho is beneath it. Oh, I hope I shall live long after I am married toRobert! I want so much time to show him all my gratitude!
May 20th. A hard trial to my courage to-day. I have given evidence atthe police-office, and have seen the monster who murdered her.
I could only look at him once. I could just see that he was a giant insize, and that he kept his dull, lowering, bestial face turned towardthe witness-box, and his bloodshot, vacant eyes staring on me. Foran instant I tried to confront that look; for an instant I kept myattention fixed on him--on his blotched face--on the short, grizzledhair above it--on his knotty, murderous right hand, hanging loose overthe bar in front of him, like the paw of a wild beast over the edge ofits den. Then the horror of him--the double horror of confrontinghim, in the first place, and afterward of seeing that he was an oldman--overcame me, and I turned away, faint, sick, and shuddering.I never faced him again; and, at the end of my evidence, Robertconsiderately took me out.
When we met once more at the end of the examination, Robert told me thatthe prisoner never spoke and never changed his position. He was eitherfortified by the cruel composure of a savage, or his faculties had notyet thoroughly recovered from the disease that
had so lately shakenthem. The magistrate seemed to doubt if he was in his right mind; butthe evidence of the medical man relieved this uncertainty, and theprisoner was committed for trial on a charge of manslaughter.
Why not on a charge of murder? Robert explained the law to me when Iasked that question. I accepted the explanation, but it did not satisfyme. Mary Mallinson was killed by a blow from the hand of Noah Truscott.That is murder in the sight of God. Why not murder in the sight of thelaw also?
* * * * *
June 18th. To-morrow is the day appointed for the trial at the OldBailey.
Before sunset this evening I went to look at Mary's grave. The turf hasgrown so green since I saw it last, and the flowers are springing upso prettily. A bird was perched dressing his feathers on the low whiteheadstone that bears the inscription of her name and age. I did notgo near enough to disturb the little creature. He looked innocent andpretty on the grave, as Mary herself was in her lifetime. When he flewaway I went and sat for a little by the headstone, and read the mournfullines on it. Oh, my love! my love! what harm or wrong had you everdone in this world, that you should die at eighteen by a blow from adrunkard's hand?
June 19th. The trial. My experience of what happened at it is limited,like my experience of the examination at the police-office, to the timeoccupied in giving my own evidence. They made me say much more than Isaid before the magistrate. Between examination and cross-examination,I had to go into almost all the particulars about poor Mary and herfuneral that I have written i n this journal; the jury listening toevery word I spoke with the most anxious attention. At the end, thejudge said a few words to me approving of my conduct, and then therewas a clapping of hands among the people in court. I was so agitated andexcited that I trembled all over when they let me go out into the airagain.
I looked at the prisoner both when I entered the witness-box and whenI left it. The lowering brutality of his face was unchanged, but hisfaculties seemed to be more alive and observant than they were at thepolice-office. A frightful blue change passed over his face, and he drewhis breath so heavily that the gasps were distinctly audible while Imentioned Mary by name and described the mark or the blow on her temple.When they asked me if I knew anything of the prisoner, and I answeredthat I only knew what Mary herself had told me about his having beenher father's ruin, he gave a kind of groan, and struck both his handsheavily on the dock. And when I passed beneath him on my way out ofcourt, he leaned over suddenly, whether to speak to me or to strike meI can't say, for he was immediately made to stand upright again by theturnkeys on either side of him. While the evidence proceeded (as Robertdescribed it to me), the signs that he was suffering under superstitiousterror became more and more apparent; until, at last, just as the lawyerappointed to defend him was rising to speak, he suddenly cried out, ina voice that startled every one, up to the very judge on the bench:"Stop!"
There was a pause, and all eyes looked at him. The perspiration waspouring over his face like water, and he made strange, uncouth signswith his hands to the judge opposite. "Stop all this!" he cried again;"I've been the ruin of the father and the death of the child. Hang mebefore I do more harm! Hang me, for God's sake, out of the way!" As soonas the shock produced by this extraordinary interruption had subsided,he was removed, and there followed a long discussion about whether hewas of sound mind or not. The matter was left to the jury to decideby their verdict. They found him guilty of the charge of manslaughter,without the excuse of insanity. He was brought up again, and condemnedto transportation for life. All he did, on hearing the dreadfulsentence, was to reiterate his desperate words: "Hang me before I domore harm! Hang me, for God's sake, out of the way!"
June 20th. I made yesterday's entry in sadness of heart, and I have notbeen better in my spirits to-day. It is something to have brought themurderer to the punishment that he deserves. But the knowledge that thismost righteous act of retribution is accomplished brings no consolationwith it. The law does indeed punish Noah Truscott for his crime, butcan it raise up Mary Mallinson from her last resting-place in thechurchyard?
While writing of the law, I ought to record that the heartless wretchwho allowed Mary to be struck down in his presence without making anattempt to defend her is not likely to escape with perfect impunity.The policeman who looked after him to insure his attendance at the trialdiscovered that he had committed past offenses, for which the law canmake him answer. A summons was executed upon him, and he was takenbefore the magistrate the moment he left the court after giving hisevidence.
I had just written these few lines, and was closing my journal, whenthere came a knock at the door. I answered it, thinking that Robert hadcalled on his way home to say good-night, and found myself face to facewith a strange gentleman, who immediately asked for Anne Rodway. Onhearing that I was the person inquired for, he requested five minutes'conversation with me. I showed him into the little empty room at theback of the house, and waited, rather surprised and fluttered, to hearwhat he had to say.
He was a dark man, with a serious manner, and a short, stern way ofspeaking. I was certain that he was a stranger, and yet there seemedsomething in his face not unfamiliar to me. He began by taking anewspaper from his pocket, and asking me if I was the person whohad given evidence at the trial of Noah Truscott on a charge ofmanslaughter. I answered immediately that I was.
"I have been for nearly two years in London seeking Mary Mallinson, andalways seeking her in vain," he said. "The first and only news I havehad of her I found in the newspaper report of the trial yesterday."
He still spoke calmly, but there was something in the look of his eyeswhich showed me that he was suffering in spirit. A sudden nervousnessovercame me, and I was obliged to sit down.
"You knew Mary Mallinson, sir?" I asked, as quietly as I could.
"I am her brother."
I clasped my hands and hid my face in despair. Oh, the bitterness ofheart with which I heard him say those simple words!
"You were very kind to her," said the calm, tearless man. "In her nameand for her sake, I thank you."
"Oh, sir," I said, "why did you never write to her when you were inforeign parts?"
"I wrote often," he answered; "but each of my letters contained aremittance of money. Did Mary tell you she had a stepmother? If she did,you may guess why none of my letters were allowed to reach her. I nowknow that this woman robbed my sister. Has she lied in telling me thatshe was never informed of Mary's place of abode?"
I remembered that Mary had never communicated with her stepmother afterthe separation, and could therefore assure him that the woman had spokenthe truth.
He paused for a moment after that, and sighed. Then he took out apocket-book, and said:
"I have already arranged for the payment of any legal expenses that mayhave been incurred by the trial, but I have still to reimburse you forthe funeral charges which you so generously defrayed. Excuse my speakingbluntly on this subject; I am accustomed to look on all matters wheremoney is concerned purely as matters of business."
I saw that he was taking several bank-notes out of the pocket-book, andstopped him.
"I will gratefully receive back the little money I actually paid, sir,because I am not well off, and it would be an ungracious act of pride inme to refuse it from you," I said; "but I see you handling bank-notes,any one of which is far beyond the amount you have to repay me. Pray putthem back, sir. What I did for your poor lost sister I did from my loveand fondness for her. You have thanked me for that, and your thanks areall I can receive."
He had hitherto concealed his feelings, but I saw them now begin to getthe better of him. His eyes softened, and he took my hand and squeezedit hard.
"I beg your pardon," he said; "I beg your pardon, with all my heart."
There was silence between us, for I was crying, and I believe, at heart,he was crying too. At last he dropped my hand, and seemed to changeback, by an effort, to his former calmness.
"Is there no one belonging to you to whom I can be of service?
" heasked. "I see among the witnesses on the trial the name of a youngman who appears to have assisted you in the inquiries which led to theprisoner's conviction. Is he a relation?"
"No, sir--at least, not now--but I hope--"
"What?"
"I hope that he may, one day, be the nearest and dearest relation to methat a woman can have." I said those words boldly, because I was afraidof his otherwise taking some wrong view of the connection between Robertand me
"One day?" he repeated. "One day may be a long time hence."
"We are neither of us well off, sir," I said. "One day means the daywhen we are a little richer than we are now."
"Is the young man educated? Can he produce testimonials to hischaracter? Oblige me by writing his name and address down on the back ofthat card."
When I had obeyed, in a handwriting which I am afraid did me no credit,he took out another card and gave it to me.
"I shall leave England to-morrow," he said. "There is nothing now tokeep me in my own country. If you are ever in any difficulty or distress(which I pray God you may never be), apply to my London agent, whoseaddress you have there."
He stopped, and looked at me attentively, then took my hand again.
"Where is she buried?" he said, suddenly, in a quick whisper, turninghis head away.
I told him, and added that we had made the grave as beautiful as wecould with grass and flowers. I saw his lips whiten and tremble.
"God bless and reward you!" he said, and drew me toward him quickly andkissed my forehead. I was quite overcome, and sank down and hid my faceon the table. When I looked up again he was gone.
* * * * * * *
June 25th, 1841. I write these lines on my wedding morning, when littlemore than a year has passed since Robert returned to England.
His salary was increased yesterday to one hundred and fifty pounds ayear. If I only knew where Mr. Mallinson was, I would write and tellhim of our present happiness. But for the situation which his kindnessprocured for Robert, we might still have been waiting vainly for the daythat has now come.
I am to work at home for the future, and Sally is to help us in our newabode. If Mary could have lived to see this day! I am not ungrateful formy blessings; but oh, how I miss that sweet face on this morning of allothers!
I got up to-day early enough to go alone to the grave, and to gather thenosegay that now lies before me from the flowers that grow round it. Ishall put it in my bosom when Robert comes to fetch me to the church.Mary would have been my bridesmaid if she had lived; and I can't forgetMary, even on my wedding-day....
THE NIGHT.
THE last words of the last story fell low and trembling from Owen'slips. He waited for a moment while Jessie dried the tears which AnneRodway's simple diary had drawn from her warm young heart, then closedthe manuscript, and taking her hand patted it in his gentle, fatherlyway.
"You will be glad to hear, my love," he said, "that I can speak frompersonal experience of Anne Rodway's happiness. She came to live in myparish soon after the trial at which she appeared as chief witness,and I was the clergyman who married her. Months before that I knew herstory, and had read those portions of her diary which you have justheard. When I made her my little present on her wedding day, and whenshe gratefully entreated me to tell her what she could do for me inreturn, I asked for a copy of her diary to keep among the papers thatI treasured most. 'The reading of it now and then,' I said, 'willencourage that faith in the brighter and better part of human naturewhich I hope, by God's help, to preserve pure to my dying day.' In thatway I became possessed of the manuscript: it was Anne's husband who madethe copy for me. You have noticed a few withered leaves scattered hereand there between the pages. They were put there, years since, by thebride's own hand: they are all that now remain of the flowers that AnneRodway gathered on her marriage morning from Mary Mallinson's grave."
Jessie tried to answer, but the words failed on her lips. Between theeffect of the story, and the anticipation of the parting now so near athand, the good, impulsive, affectionate creature was fairly overcome.She laid her head on Owen's shoulder, and kept tight hold of his hand,and let her heart speak simply for itself, without attempting to help itby a single word.
The silence that followed was broken harshly by the tower clock. Theheavy hammer slowly rang out ten strokes through the gloomy night-timeand the dying storm.
I waited till the last humming echo of the clock fainted into deadstillness. I listened once more attentively, and again listened in vain.Then I rose, and proposed to my brothers that we should leave our guestto compose herself for the night.
When Owen and Morgan were ready to quit the room, I took her by thehand, and drew her a little aside.
"You leave us early, my dear," I said; "but, before you go to-morrowmorning--"
I stopped to listen for the last time, before the words were spokenwhich committed me to the desperate experiment of pleading George'scause in defiance of his own request. Nothing caught my ear but thesweep of the weary weakened wind and the melancholy surging of theshaken trees.
"But, before you go to-morrow morning," I resumed, "I want to speak toyou in private. We shall breakfast at eight o'clock. Is it askingtoo much to beg you to come and see me alone in my study at half pastseven?"
Just as her lips opened to answer me I saw a change pass over herface. I had kept her hand in mine while I was speaking, and I must havepressed it unconsciously so hard as almost to hurt her. She may evenhave uttered a few words of remonstrance; but they never reached me: mywhole hearing sense was seized, absorbed, petrified. At the very instantwhen I had ceased speaking, I, and I alone, heard a faint sound--a soundthat was new to me--fly past the Glen Tower on the wings of the wind.
"Open the window, for God's sake!" I cried.
My hand mechanically held hers tighter and tighter. She struggled tofree it, looking hard at me with pale cheeks and frightened eyes. Owenhastened up and released her, and put his arms round me.
"Griffith, Griffith!" he whispered, "control yourself, for George'ssake."
Morgan hurried to the window and threw it wide open.
The wind and rain rushed in fiercely. Welcome, welcome wind! They allheard it now. "Oh, Father in heaven, so merciful to fathers on earth--myson, my son!"
It came in, louder and louder with every gust of wind--the joyous, rapidgathering roll of wheels. My eyes fastened on her as if they could seeto her heart, while she stood there with her sweet face turned on me allpale and startled. I tried to speak to her; I tried to break away fromOwen's arms, to throw my own arms round her, to keep her on my bosom,till _he_ came to take her from me. But all my strength had gone in thelong waiting and the long suspense. My head sank on Owen's breast--butI still heard the wheels. Morgan loosened my cravat, and sprinkled waterover my face--I still heard the wheels. The poor terrified girl ran intoher room, and came back with her smelling-salts--I heard the carriagestop at the house. The room whirled round and round with me; but I heardthe eager hurry of footsteps in the hall, and the opening of the door.In another moment my son's voice rose clear and cheerful from below,greeting the old servants who loved him. The dear, familiar tones justpoured into my ear, and then, the moment they filled it, hushed mesuddenly to rest.
When I came to myself again my eyes opened upon George. I was lyingon the sofa, still in the same room; the lights we had read by in theevening were burning on the table; my son was kneeling at my pillow, andwe two were alone.
THE MORNING.
THE wind is fainter, but there is still no calm. The rain is ceasing,but there is still no sunshine. The view from my window shows me themist heavy on the earth, and a dim gray veil drawn darkly over the sky.Less than twelve hours since, such a prospect would have saddened me forthe day. I look out at it this morning, through the bright medium ofmy own happiness, and not the shadow of a shade falls across the steadyinner sunshine that is poring over my heart.
The pen lingers fondly in my hand, and yet it is little, very little,that I h
ave left to say. The Purple Volume lies open by my side, withthe stories ranged together in it in the order in which they were read.My son has learned to prize them already as the faithful friends whoserved him at his utmost need. I have only to wind off the little threadof narrative on which they are all strung together before the volume isclosed and our anxious literary experiment fairly ended.
My son and I had a quiet hour together on that happy night before weretired to rest. The little love-plot invented in George's interests nowrequired one last stroke of diplomacy to complete it before we all threwoff our masks and assumed our true characters for the future. When myson and I parted for the night, we had planned the necessary stratagemfor taking our lovely guest by surprise as soon as she was out of herbed in the morning.
Shortly after seven o'clock I sent a message to Jessie by her maid,informing her that a good night's rest had done wonders for me, and thatI expected to see her in my study at half past seven, as we had arrangedthe evening before. As soon as her answer, promising to be punctual tothe appointment, had reached me, I took George into my study--left himin my place to plead his own cause--and stole away, five minutes beforethe half hour, to join my brothers in the breakfast-room.
Although the sense of my own happiness disposed me to take the brightestview of my son's chances, I must nevertheless acknowledge that somenervous anxieties still fluttered about my heart while the slow minutesof suspense were counting themselves out in the breakfast-room. I had aslittle attention to spare for Owen's quiet prognostications of successas for Morgan's pitiless sarcasms on love, courtship, and matrimony. Aquarter of an hour elapsed--then twenty minutes. The hand moved on, andthe clock pointed to five minutes to eight, before I heard the studydoor open, and before the sound of rapidly-advancing footsteps warned methat George was coming into the room.
His beaming face told the good news before a word could be spoken oneither side. The excess of his happiness literally and truly deprivedhim of speech. He stood eagerly looking at us all three, withoutstretched hands and glistening eyes.
"Have I folded up my surplice forever," asked Owen, "or am I to wear itonce again, George, in your service?"
"Answer this question first," interposed Morgan, with a look of grimanxiety. "Have you actually taken your young woman off my hands, or haveyou not?"
No direct answer followed either question. George's feelings had beentoo deeply stirred to allow him to return jest for jest at a moment'snotice.
"Oh, father, how can I thank you!" he said. "And you! and you!" headded, looking at Owen and Morgan gratefully.
"You must thank Chance as well as thank us," I replied, speaking aslightly as my heart would let me, to encourage him. "The advantage ofnumbers in our little love-plot was all on our side. Remember, George,we were three to one."
While I was speaking the breakfast-room door opened noiselessly, andshowed us Jessie standing on the threshold, uncertain whether to joinus or to run back to her own room. Her bright complexion heightened toa deep glow; the tears just rising in her eyes, and not yet falling fromthem; her delicate lips trembling a little, as if they were still shylyconscious of other lips that had pressed them but a few minutes since;her attitude irresolutely graceful; her hair just disturbed enoughover her forehead and her cheeks to add to the charm of them--she stoodbefore us, the loveliest living picture of youth, and tenderness,and virgin love that eyes ever looked on. George and I both advancedtogether to meet her at the door. But the good, grateful girl hadheard from my son the true story of all that I had done, and hoped, andsuffered for the last ten days, and showed charmingly how she felt it byturning at once to _me_.
"May I stop at the Glen Tower a little longer?" she asked, simply.
"If you think you can get through your evenings, my love," I answered."'But surely you forget that the Purple Volume is closed, and that thestories have all come to an end?"
She clasped her arms round my neck, and laid her cheek fondly againstmine.
"How you must have suffered yesterday!" she whispered, softly.
"And how happy I am to-day!"
The tears gathered in her eyes and dropped over her cheeks as she raisedher head to look at me affectionately when I said those words. I gentlyunclasped her arms and led her to George.
"So you really did love him, then, after all," I whispered, "though youwere too sly to let me discover it?"
A smile broke out among the tears as her eyes wandered away from mineand stole a look at my son. The clock struck the hour, and the servantcame in with breakfast. A little domestic interruption of this kindwas all that was wanted to put us at our ease. We drew round the tablecheerfully, and set the Queen of Hearts at the head of it, in thecharacter of mistress of the house already.
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