A MAY BREEZE.
As fragrant blooms by blushing orchard shed,
When spring's advancing season ripens fast,
Oh! such the blossoms which the heart has fed
With all the dewy sweetness of the past.
But like those winds whose stormy passage sweeps
The wailing trees, yet leaves fair fruit behind,
Life's changing scenes, which man still hourly weeps.
Pledge fruit, than blooms more constant and more kind.
From the Lamp.
UNCONVICTED; OR, OLD THORNELEY'S HEIRS.
CHAPTER II.
WHICH IS ELUCIDATORY AND RETROSPECTIVE.
Before resuming the thread of my narrative I must needs go back a little, and see in what relation the different people who are to play the principal parts in this true history stand to one another.
I have said that Hugh Atherton and I had been friends from the time we were boys at school, he being some five years my junior. He and Lister Wilmot were nephews, on their mother's side, of old Gilbert Thorneley, and, as every one supposed, his nearest relatives. They were both orphans; both brought up and educated by their uncle, and both were given to understand that they would equally inherit his immense fortune at his death. But Thorneley had made his money by the sweat of his brow,--beginning by sweeping his master's office, and ending by being the possessor of some million of money,--and he did not choose, as he said, to leave it to two idle dogs. He had worked, and so should they: they might choose their own profession or business, and he would do all that was requisite to forward them in life; but work in one way or another they should. Hugh, guided very much by my advice, went to college, and then read for the bar. His career at Oxford had not been a brilliant one, but he had passed his "great go" very creditably, and taken his bachelor's degree with fair honor to himself. Then he came to London, took chambers in the Temple, and set himself down to read with steady earnestness of purpose; after a while he was called to the bar and his first brief was held for a client of mine. It was a righteous cause, and he gained it by his straightforward grappling with the evidence, his simple yet manly eloquence. At the time when the events happened which are now recorded, and cast one great lasting shadow over his life and mine, he was in very fair practice. But one thing I ever noticed about him, and it was that he was almost invariably retained for the defense. I don't think he could have conducted a case for prosecution; I don't think he could have stood up and pleaded for the conviction of any poor wretched miserable criminal shivering at the bar, brought thither by what crushing amount of degradation, want, or luring temptation to sin God only knew,--God only, in His infinite mercy, would remember. Do you recollect that portrait in one of Mr. Dickens's works of the barrister, who was always retained at the Old Bailey by great criminals, and who never refused to defend them, guilty or not guilty--that man, with the unpoetical name of Jaggers, who used to wash his hands after coming from the court or dismissing a client? Well, that man always reminded me of Hugh Atherton; and when I read the book, I did homage to my friend in his person. You don't see at first what Mr. Dickens is driving at, nor the whole of his conception in the character of Jaggers; but after a while it bursts upon you what a raft he must have been for the poor drowning wretches going to their trial to catch at.
With a fund of good common-sense, a dear head, and sound judgment, Atherton possessed what gave such a charm to him and won so many hearts,--the boyish lightheartedness which clung to him; with his genial manner, his kindly words and deeds. He had his faults--he was passionate and hot-headed, obstinate in his likes and dislikes; but he [{444}] had what few young men of his age could boast, a freedom from vice, a guilelessness of soul, which in the midst of all the corruption, the temptations, and snares of London life, carried him through unscathed. I never knew but one other who was like him in that respect,--though indeed I have heard that such have been, but are now gone to their grave,--who, with the brave undaunted heart of a thoroughly English youth, carried within him the mark of innocence, and wore it stamped upon his open brow. He is thousands of miles away now, and these lines may never reach him; but those who love him and long for his return will recognize the son and brother whose worth, perchance, we never fully knew until the parting came.
Of Lister Wilmot I had seen comparatively but very little. He was a weak puny lad, unfit for roughing it in a public school, and had therefore received his education from private tutors and governors. Through his uncle's interest he obtained a civil appointment in one of the government-offices, and though fond of dress and amusements, I never heard much harm of him, beyond an inclination to extravagance, which I imagined old Thorneley knew well how to keep in check. Yet, I don't know how it was, I never liked Wilmot. Hugh was fond of him, and very anxious that he and I should be friends; certainly it was not Wilmot's fault that a greater amount of cordiality did not exist between us. He was very agreeable, very civil, very amiable, very attentive to me; but I could not bear him. I often took myself severely to task for this unreasonable antipathy; and I decided it could only be because he was such a contrast to Hugh in everything that I did not take to him. Not that I pitched their relative goodness, and drew conclusions against him; as I said before, I knew no harm of him, but simply I did not like him. A story went about that his mother (Thorneley's sister) had made a very unhappy marriage, and died soon after her son's birth. What had become of his father no one ever seemed to know; and if Wilmot did, he never named him.
About a year before the story opens Hugh Atherton was engaged to be married. Let me relate all this very clearly, very calmly; it is needful I should; and while I write, let me think only, as before heaven I have ever tried to think, of the interests of two beings who always were and always will be dearest to me on earth.
A client of mine left me at his death the joint guardianship with his wife of an only daughter. She was heiress to a considerable fortune; blest with a mother who was none of the wisest of guides for a young girl who was beautiful, high-spirited, and gifted with no ordinary intellect. I fulfilled my dead friend's trust with all the care, vigilance, and tenderness in my power. I watched Ada Leslie grow up into girlhood, and from girlhood into womanhood,--for I was a young man in years when that charge was committed to me, though old in character, and old and grim in looks,--I saw her beauty of face and form unfold, her winning gracefulness become more graceful and more winsome; I marked the powers of her mind and intellect develop, and all the noble qualities of her heart reveal themselves in a thousand ways. I watched her with the solicitude of a father, with the affection of a brother; I never thought of myself in any other light with regard to her; but her confidence in me became very precious, her companionship very sweet.
One day I took Hugh Atherton with me to Mrs. Leslie's, and in that first visit I foresaw how all would end; it was but the precursor of many more visits, and after a while they both told me how things stood between them. There was no difficulty. Money, in the mother's eye, was all that was needed to make a good match, and Hugh was well enough off now, and likely to be a rich man in the future; money was all that Gilbert Thorneley required for his nephew's future bride, and Ada Leslie's fortune was ample, even to his sordid mind. I knew she could have [{445}] no worthier man for husband than Hugh Atherton. I knew--ah, who should know better?--that he could find no woman worthier of his tenderest love and honor than my ward; and so I bade God to bless them and sanctify their union. If for a while my life was somewhat more lonely than it had seemed before; if a few years were added to thought and feeling, and I began then more solemnly to realize what a gray old bachelor I should appear to Hugh's little children when they climbed about my knee,--well, it was but a foolishness that was quickly buried down deep in my heart and would never more rise to the surface. And Hugh's full tide of happiness and her deep but tender joy soon kindled bright again in the chambers of my soul a light that for a time had been very dim; and I learnt the best lesson life can teach us, and which in more ways than one is intimated to us by the words, "It is more blessed to give than to receive." They would have been married before this, but Ada's father bad specified his wish that she should not marry until she was twenty-one, unless her guardians judged it otherwise expedient, and she was desirous of abiding by that decision. She would be of age the third of this coming December, and after Christmas the wedding was to take place.
I noticed there was something peculiar in their manner of mentioning to me the day they had fixed on for their marriage. It was the day before I started on this last trip to my favorite Swiss mountains; we had all gone down to Kew by water, and we were strolling about the gardens enjoying the cool of the evening air after a day of unusual sultriness. Mrs. Leslie, Wilmot, and I, were walking together, whilst the other two went away by themselves. We had not spoken very much--at least I had not, for many thoughts were busy within me. Presently Ada came back alone, and putting her arm in mine she drew me aside into a little shady walk where the trees met overhead and the air was laden with the perfume of the lime-blossom. In the last summer of my life, at eventide I shall see that narrow pathway with its leafy covering, and smell those fragrant trees; I shall hear the nightingale's note as it sang to me (so I thought) the refrain of a simple ballad I had often heard my mother sing in early childhood.
"Loyal je serai durant la vie."
"Dear friend," said Ada, looking up into my face with her soft, kind, brown eyes, so truthful and sincere, "Hugh and I have been speaking of the future;" and the bright warm color came into her cheek, and the long golden lashes fell as she spoke.
"Yes, Ada, that is right. What says Hugh?"
"He says we had better settle when it is to be. You know I am of age in December, and he thinks of after Christmas; and do you know he wants it to be on the day but one after the Epiphany? because he says--that funny old Hugh!--that it is your birthday; or if it isn't, that it ought to be; and insists on it. However, he has set his mind on it. He wanted to come and ask you, for I said I would not have it fixed until you had been asked. And then I thought I would rather come myself."
The kind eyes were looking at me again, just a little anxiously, I thought. For a moment there seemed to be a choking sensation in my throat. I turned my head away, and the evening bird sang out once more, clear and silvery in the calm still air,
"Loyal je serai durant la vie."
"Listen, Ada; do you hear what the nightingale is singing? She is bidding me say 'God bless you both!' Let it be when Hugh thinks best. Go and tell him so."
She took my hand and pressed it to her lips; there was a warm tear on it when she let it go. I turned aside and walked away for a little while by myself. Then I went back to them, and we left the gardens.
Hugh and I walked home together that night; and as we parted at his door he told me all was settled between him and Ada, very gently, very softly, as if he were breaking some news to me. There was no need. I bade him God speed with my cheeriest voice, and told him the heartfelt truth--that to no other man would I have trusted her with such perfect trust.
I had happy letters from them both whilst I was abroad. Hugh had taken a very pretty house some ten miles from town; workmen were busily engaged in alterations, fittings-up, and decorations, whilst he and Ada were full of the furniture and all those numerous etceteras which help to make the home such a one as should be prepared to receive a fair young bride. Mr. Thorneley had behaved very liberally to his nephew, and given him carte blanche in the matter of the expenditure; if his nature were capable of loving any human being, I think he was fond of Hugh Atherton, and I am quite sure that Hugh, in his generous oversight of all that must have jarred upon and shocked his mind, was sincerely and gratefully attached to his uncle, who, he often said to me, had acted a father's part by him. Thus, amidst much sunshine and little shade, all was hastening on toward the consummation of their union, and as the new year tided round it was to find them man and wife.
And now I must relate a circumstance which happened about a fortnight before I started for the Continent. I had been dining at the house of my married sister, who lived at Highgate. She was one of those ladies who are very fond of collecting about them the heterogeneous society of all the nondescripts, hangers-on, and adventurers who are only too willing to frequent the houses of those gifted with a taste for such companionship. With good-nature verging, I often told her, on absolute idiotcy, she could not be made to see how eccentricity of manner, person, or conversation was often but the veil thrown over a character too stained or doubtful to be revealed in its proper light. It is true that in many cases her hospitality was rewarded; equally true that in the majority it was abused; and my brother-in-law, good man, suffered severely for it in the matter of his pocket.
To return: amongst the various guests I met at dinner that evening was one man who strangely riveted my attention, aided by the feeling so well known to most people, that I had somewhere or other seen him before, but in other guise, and when a much younger man. His manner was quiet and reserved, but scarcely gentlemanlike; and I noticed that in many of the little convenances of society he was quite at a loss. I judged him to be about fifty or fifty-five years of age, his hair was grey, and he wore a thick beard and moustache; at first I took him for a foreigner until I heard him speak, and then I perceived the broad Irish accent betraying his nationality in a most unmistakable manner.
"Who's your Irish friend, Elinor?" I asked of my sister when I got her quietly in the drawing-room after dinner.
"Which one do you mean, John? There's the O'Callaghan of Callaghan, who sat by me at dinner; and there's Mr. Burke, who writes those spirited patriotic articles in the Emerald-Green Gazette; and there's Phelim O'Mara, the author of Gems---"
"I know them all, my dear."
"Then who can you mean, for there isn't another Irishman here? These three wouldn't have been asked together--for they are all of different politics, and I have been on thorns all the evening lest they should get into a discussion--but I couldn't well avoid it; for you know--"
Again I was obliged to use a brother's delightful privilege and be rude, for Elinor, though an excellent woman and a pattern wife, was discursive in conversation, and I saw her husband trying to catch her eye for some purpose; so I said:
"Yes, I know all about it--there's Henry looking for you. The man I mean sat opposite to me; grey beard--there he is, standing by Montague."
"Oh! he? he is my last treasure-trove: he's not Irish, my dear; he's half French and half English. An author, but very rich; has travelled all over the world. Here," beckoning to him, "Mr. de Vos, allow me to introduce you to my brother, Mr. Kavanagh."
O Elinor, you good blind soul, your Frenchman was no more French and no more English than the man in the moon, though certainly I am not acquainted with the nationality of that gentleman. I saw it in two minutes. We talked commonplaces for a little, till some one came up and asked me if it were true that Atherton was engaged to my ward, Miss Leslie. I answered in the affirmative.
"You know Mr. Atherton very well then, I conclude," said De Vos.
"I have known him from a boy; no one knows him better than I."
"How very interesting!" he said; and I could not make out whether his tone was earnest or satirical, for his face betrayed nothing. "I have heard of Mr. Atherton from a friend of mine in Paris."
"Ah! that little enthusiastic Gireaud, I dare say," replied I; for I knew all Hugh's friends, and he was the only one I could think of as being in Paris.
"Yes, from Gireaud;" and he was turning away.
"How is he?" I asked, meaning Gireaud; "have you seen him lately?"
"No, not lately--that is, three or four months back."
This was strange; it was only a month since the Frenchman had left England, only three months since we had first made his acquaintance, and he had been in England all the time. I felt suspicious; I often did towards my sister's friends, by reason of divers small sums borrowed in past times by them from me, and kept in memoriam I suppose. I thought I would pursue the inquiry.
"Did you know M. Gireaud when he was in England?"
"No abroad--in Paris;" and he changed color and shifted uneasily on his feet.
"Did he succeed in tracing out the evidence in that celebrated cause he was conducting?" I continued pertinaciously.
"I really don't know; excuse me--how very warm this room is! I will go into the balcony and see if it is possible to get a little air;" and he turned on his heel and left me.
"So so," thought I, "you wanted to fasten yourself upon me with the dodge of knowing my friends, did you? It won't do, my fine fellow;" and I determined to give my brother-in-law a hint that his wife's "last treasure-trove" would need watching. But I found no opportunity; and when I inquired for Mr. de Vos later in the evening, I heard he had gone away, feeling very unwell. Said I to myself, "He'll be worse when he meets me again." I little recked the words then, or what they might import.
It was a beautiful August night when our party broke up; and resisting my sister's wish that I should sleep there, I determined to enjoy a moonlight walk home, smoke a cigar, and think over a difficult case I had just then in hand. My nearest way into town from Elinor's house was down Swain's Lane and round by the cemetery; it was a lonely, ghostly kind of walk, not tempting on a dark winter's night; but with a brilliant harvest-moon overhead, a stout stick, and myself standing six feet without shoes, I feared neither man nor ghost. The tombstones looked white and ghastly enough in the bright moonlight, and the trees cast their heavy shadows across my path, whilst their tops were stirred by a gentle soughing breeze. I had passed the cemetery, and was rapidly nearing the end of the lane, which turns into the high-road by the Duke of St. Alban's public-house, of omnibus notoriety, when I fancied I heard the sound of voices pitched high, as if [{448}] in some angry dispute. I took out my watch; it was just upon twelve o'clock. Drunken revellers, I thought, turned out of the inn. Swain's Lane winds about until you are close upon the road, and then there is a straight piece with fields upon either side. I looked ahead as I came to this latter bit, but there was no one to be seen, although the voices sounded closer and closer. I was walking on the turf beside the road, so that my footsteps falling upon the soft grass were inaudible. I passed a gate leading into a field, and then I became aware that the voices were close to me on the other side of the hedge. Not caring to be seen lest I should get drawn into some drunken row, I stooped my head and shoulders, inconveniently high just then, and was in the act of passing swiftly on when a name arrested me. "I tell you Hugh Atherton never shall marry that girl!"
"And I tell you he will! You let every chance slip by you, you poor spiritless fool. He'll marry her, and come in for the best share, if not the whole of Gil Thorneley's money."
There was no mistaking the brogue of my Irish Anglo-French acquaintance of this evening--my sister's "last treasure-trove, the talented author, the rich man." But the other voice, whose was it? It sounded strange at first; then light began to dawn upon me. I knew it--yes, surely I knew it. Ha, by Jove! Lister Wilmot!--it must be Lister Wilmot's.
They were speaking again, quite unconscious of their auditor on the other side of the hedge.
"You are the biggest fool, and a scoundrel too, coming here, dogging my footsteps, and following me about just to bring ruin upon me with your confounded interference; going there too, and meeting the very man you ought to avoid, that lawyer fellow, Kavanagh; why, he'll scent you out in less than no time." (Much obliged to you, Mr. Wilmot, thought I, for your involuntary tribute to my shrewdness: it has been deserved this time at any rate.) "You must leave London at once--to-morrow, do you hear?--or I'll whisper a certain affair about, which may make this quarter of the world unpleasant to you."
"I'll not stir without that fifty pounds. You blow upon me, and I'll blow upon you in a quarter you wouldn't care to have those small bits of paper shown that I've got in my pocket-book here."
The remark seemed to have been untimely.
"Scoundrel!" shouted the other voice I believed to be Wilmot's, and I heard them close together and struggle.
At the same moment I leaped the gate, determined to make sure of their identity; but with singular ill-luck I caught my foot against the topmost bar, and fell with no small force my whole length on the other side. The noise and sight of me disturbed the combatants, and before I could rise or recover myself, they had separated, and fled in opposite directions across the field. Pursuit was a vain thought. I had twisted my ankle in the fall, and for a few moments the pain was unbearable; when I could put my foot to the ground both fugitives were out of sight. There was nothing left for me but to hobble back, gain the road, and seize upon the first empty cab returning to London to convey me to my chambers.
I mentioned the adventure to Atherton on the following morning, and my conviction that Lister Wilmot was one of the two men.
"It is impossible," replied Hugh; "Lister was with me last evening till eleven o'clock, and then he went home to bed."
"Did you see him home?" I asked.
"Yes, and went in with him; saw him undressed, and ready to get into bed. He was not well, poor fellow. One of his bad colds seemed to be threatening him, and he was very out of spirits. I am afraid he's exceeding his allowance, and getting into debt. He asked me to lend, him twenty pounds for a month."
"Which of course you didn't do?"
"Which of course I did, and told him he was heartily welcome to it; but I wished he'd draw in his expenses, for I was certain if Uncle Gilbert heard of his being in difficulty, there would be no end to pay. I'll get him to make a clean breast of it some day soon to me, and see what I can do to help him and set him right."
So like Hugh, with his generous impulses ever ready to do a kindness.
"Well, but it is very odd. I could have sworn it was Lister in the field; as for the other fellow, why there is not the smallest shadow of a doubt about him. If I hadn't recognized his brogue, why, the words of his companion pointed him out as the De Vos of the dinner-party. Do you know such a man, Hugh?" and I gave a graphic description of him.
Hugh shook his head.
"Don't know such a bird as that, Jack. Can't think who it can be, nor what they both meant. The 'girl,' indeed! Did they mean Ada, forsooth? I'd like to punch their skulls for daring to name her. I say, let's go to Lister's at once and ask him if he knows a man answering to the name De Vos."
We drove to Wilmot's lodgings in the Albany--he affected aristocratic-bachelor neighborhoods--and found him over a late breakfast, looking very pale and haggard. Hugh attacked him in his straightforward blunt manner.
"What did you go up to Highgate for, last night. Lister, when I thought you were going to bed?"
Wilmot's fork fell on the floor and he stooped to pick it up before answering. Then he looked up with an air of the greatest astonishment.
"Go up to Highgate last night! I! Are you mad, Hugh?"
"I heard your voice last night in a field close by the Highgate Road, or I never was more mistaken in my life," I said.
He turned his face to me: there was the most unaffected surprise and bewilderment written on it as he stared at me.
"Are you out of your senses too?" he asked at last with a loud laugh. "Why, Hugh saw me into bed almost. You must have been wandering, or Mr. Craven's" (my brother-in-law) "wines were too potent for your sober brain."
I was completely at a nonplus. "Do you know that Mr. de Vos is in England?" I said, resolved to try another "dodge."
"Who is Mr. de Vos?" was the answer, given in the most unconcerned tone.
Hugh broke in: "Tell him all about it, John."
I did so, relating word for word what I had heard, with my eye fixed upon his face. He never flinched once, and there was not the smallest embarrassment in his look or manner.
"You were of course entirely mistaken," he said; "I never left my room last night after Hugh went away. Of this Mr. de Vos I know nothing--not even by name."
There was nothing for it but to be satisfied, and yet somehow I was not. I suppose my old dislike of Wilmot got the better of me and made me distrustful. Then such dear--such precious interests had been called in question--were perhaps in danger; and I could not rid myself of the great anxiety which oppressed me.
The next move was after De Vos. He had utterly and totally disappeared by the time I had obtained his address from my sister and hunted out the wretched doubtful sort of lodgings he had inhabited near Leicester Square. So the affair died a natural death, and I left England for the Continent. Could I but have foreseen what my return would bring forth!
CHAPTER III.
THE DAY AFTER THE WEDDING.
It was all true--dreadfully, awfully true--and no hideous dream. Gilbert Thorneley was dead--poisoned, murdered; and Hugh Atherton was in the hands of justice, suspected, if not actually accused, of the murder. When I came back, sick and giddy, to consciousness, there was old Hardy bending over me with a face blanched almost as white as my own must have been, and Jones the detective standing by, the deepest concern written on his countenance. Do you know what it is, that "coming to," as women express it, after a sudden mental blow has prostrated you and hurled you into the dark oblivion of insensibility? I daresay you do. You know what the return to life is; what the realization of the stunning evil which has befallen you. But God help you if you remember that your last words when conscious criminated the friend you would willingly die to save. God help you if you know you must be forced into admitting what you had rather cut out your tongue than utter, and which in your inadvertence or brainless stupidity you let pass your lips. I say again, heaven help you, for it is one of the bitterest moments of your life.
As the physical indisposition wore off, and the whole situation of affairs became clearer to my scattered senses, the remembrance of what I had done was maddening.
"Oh, blind fool," I cried, "not to see, not to know what I was doing! Jones and Hardy, I call you both to witness most solemnly that I believe as firmly, as entirely in Mr. Atherton's innocence as I do in an eternal life to come. I charge you both, that, whatever testimony you may be forced to give, whatever miserable words have been wrung from me--I charge you both, by all you hold most sacred, to give evidence likewise that I believe him innocent."
"We will, sir," said the two men gravely.
Then a desperate idea seized me, and I motioned Hardy to leave the room.
"Jones," I said, when the clerk was gone, "you are a poor man, I know, and have many children to provide for. Get me off attending the inquest, and I will write you a cheque on the spot for any sum in reason you like to name."
"Bless your heart, sir, it an't in my power. Inspector Jackson has been in Wimpole street investigating it all; and I know your name's booked as one of the principal witnesses. You'll have your summons this evening for to-morrow, as safe as I'm here."
"Where is Mr. Atherton?" I asked.
"Inspector Jackson took him to Marylebone street, sir. He'll go before the magistrate at two o'clock. They won't get his committal, though, I expect until after the inquest; there is not sufficient evidence; but we're getting it as fast as we can."
"Yes," I said in the bitterness of my heart; "and if I had known your errand here, I'd have flung you down the stairs before you should have had access to my rooms."
"You can't be sorrier than I am, Mr. Kavanagh. I believe, like you, that he's an innocent man: but everything looks against him at present. The housekeeper's evidence is enough to hang him."
"The housekeeper! What, Mrs. Haag?"
"Yes, sir, that's her name, I believe. She's only half English, or married a foreigner, or something of the sort. But I think she must be foreign, for she has a mighty broad accent. Yes, indeed, sir; and if I may make bold to say it,--I don't know what your friendship for Mr. Atherton may lead you to do,--but it's of no use your not saying where you saw him last night, for she saw him go in and come out of that shop, and she heard him address you, sir, by name."
A light flashed across me. That was the woman I had met in Vere Street. I didn't know the housekeeper by sight, but I had often heard both Atherton and Wilmot speak of her. Wilmot!--another light.
"Did you know that Mr. Thorneley's other nephew was with him last night? He met Mr. Atherton in Wimpole Street."
"Yes, sir, and left nearly an hour before Mr. Atherton went away."
"Still, why is he not suspected as much as the other?"
"He had not been traced in and out of a chemist's shop; he had no dispute with his uncle; he was not heard to make use of threatening words. I can't tell you more, sir; and I must be going. I have done what need be done here. Mr. Kavanagh, believe me I am acting only in my official capacity; and I'd rather, sir, have been at the bottom of the sea than engaged in this affair. But I mustn't forget the message, sir."
"What message?"
"From Mr. Atherton. He wanted to write or to send for you to come; but they wouldn't let him. You see, sir, we know you are an important witness against him, and Jackson--he's a sharp one--wouldn't have him communicating with you. Poor gentleman! he was stunned-like at first when he was told. Then when he saw me, 'Jones,' said he, 'you go to Mr. Kavanagh; tell him what has happened. Tell him I'm an innocent man, so help me God! I wouldn't have hurt a gray hair of the old man's head. But I was angry with him, I confess.' Then we warned him not to say anything which might criminate himself, so he only bent his head reverently, and said again, 'My God, Thou knowest I am innocent.' Then he turned to me suddenly and caught my arm. 'Tell Mr. Kavanagh to go at once to Mrs. Leslie's, and see that the news doesn't come upon them too suddenly. Tell him I trust to him. ' Those were his words, sir, two or three times,--'Tell him I trust to him.'"
O Hugh! my poor Hugh; you might trust me then; you might have trusted me always. But you didn't. A world of damning doubt and evidence rose up between us, and it seemed to point at me as your worst enemy, and never more again would you place confidence in me; never more would the perfect trust of friendship draw us together, and make our interests one.
Ay, and that too had been one of the despairing thoughts which rushed across my mind as the truth of what had happened forced itself upon me. Ada! What if such news were carried suddenly, inconsiderately to her ears? What if such an awful, unlooked-for blow fell, crushing the bright hopes and darkening the radiant happiness of her young life? I tell all this in a bewildered way now; I was far more bewildered then. I was mad. There was the remembrance of the last evening,--my interview with Thorneley, the strange secret still ringing in my ears, the chance meeting with Hugh, and what was to come of it; and the present tidings,--the old man dead, Hugh arrested and accused of murdering him; and I in my blindness had helped to corroborate the worst testimony against him. All this was rushing through my brain; and then, above all, the thought of Ada Leslie--and the last thought roused me to action.
"Go back, Jones, to Mr. Atherton; tell him I am going off immediately to Mrs. Leslie's, and that he may trust to me in that. And stay, has he got legal assistance?"
"No, sir; I fancy he thought you'd see to all that. He didn't seem to think how it might be with your having to give evidence."
"You'd better go to Smith and Walker's, and see one of the partners. They must watch proceedings for him to-day."
"They can't, sir; they are to watch on the part of the Crown."
"On the part of the Crown!--whose management is that?"
"I believe they offered and wished it. They feel bound to discover the murderer of their late client; they couldn't act for the man accused of murdering him."
"True--too true. I'll send Hardy to Mr. Merrivale; he is a great friend [{452}] of his--I can trust him. Tell Mr. Atherton what I say, and what has been done."
"Very good, sir;" and Jones withdrew.
It took me less than an hour to reach Hyde-Park Gardens, where Mrs. Leslie and my ward dwelt; and on the road I resolved as well as I could how to break the news. Pray Heaven only to give her strength to bear it! I was shown into the dining-room, for I had asked to see Miss Leslie alone. There were the sounds of music up-stairs, and I heard Ada's clear thrilling voice singing one of the beautiful German songs I knew, and that he loved so well. Presently her light step was on the threshold, and she burst gaily into the room.
"Oh, Hugh, how late you are!" and then she stopped suddenly, seeing it was I--only I. But she came forward in a moment with a kind eager welcome, a welcome back to England, laughing and blushing at her mistake. "I heard the street-door open, and ran down at once; for Hugh said he would come early to take me out this morning, and I thought it was he. Oh, but I am so glad to see you, dear Mr. Kavanagh. But how dreadfully ill you are looking--what is the matter?"
Perhaps she saw my own misery, and the unutterable pity and tenderness for her which filled my heart, written in my face; but a change passed over her countenance.
"What is the matter?" she repeated in a breathless sort of manner.
"Hugh sends his love," I said; hardly knowing, indeed, what words were passing my lips, or that I was really "breaking it" to her;--"his dear love; he is quite well, but something prevents him from coming to you to-day."
"To-day!" She repeated the same word after me, still in a breathless way; and her large eyes were fixed on me as in mute agonized appeal against what was coming.
"Something very important--very painful--has happened to detain him. Mr. Thorneley died very suddenly last night."
I stopped, and turned away. Heaven help me! I could not go on, with those eyes upon me. There was one deep-drawn sigh of relief.
"Is that all!"
Was it not better to tell the truth to her at once? After all, he was innocent. I acknowledged that with all the loyalty of my soul--so would she; and that thought would bear her up. Yes, it would be best to tell her. I took her hand, and led her to a chair.
"Ada, it is not all; can you bear the rest?" Her white trembling lips moved as if assenting, but I could not hear the words. "Thorneley died very suddenly--was found dead. It is thought he has been poisoned. I don't know the particulars--I have only just heard of it. Hugh was with him late last night; it is necessary he should be examined to-day by a magistrate."
Again I paused, praying that the truth might dawn upon her--that I might not have to stab her with the terrible revelation. But--dreading, fearing, as I could see she was--no shadow of the reality seemed to cross her mind.
"Where is Hugh now?" at last she asked with startling suddenness.
"O Ada, my poor child! try to bear it. Hugh is as innocent as you are of this fearful crime; but he has been arrested."
The words were said--she knew all now. To my dying day I shall never forget the awful change which passed over her face. She did not faint or scream, but she sat there motionless, rigid, white as a marble statue. I took her hand; it was icy cold, and lay passive in mine.
"Ada, for God's sake speak to me! Shall I call your mother to you?"
Her stillness was frightful. There was some water on the sideboard, and I poured out some and brought it to her, almost forcing the glass between her set teeth. At last she swallowed [{453}] some, and then heavy sighs seemed to relieve both heart and brain.
"I must go to him," she said at last in a hoarse whisper.
"You cannot, Ada,--at least not today; they would not suffer it. Besides, my dearest child, he has need of all his firmness and presence of mind, and the sight of you would only unnerve him. Let him hear how bravely you are bearing it; let him think of you as believing that our Father who is in heaven will defend the innocent."
"I do, I do," she said, the hot tears slowly welling from her eyes, and falling in burning drops upon my hand--and upon my heart. They were blessed tears of relief. "But you too will do your utmost for him. You are his dearest friend, and he would have full confidence in whatever you did. Go to him at once!--why do you stay here?" she continued more vehemently; "why are you not with him, helping and defending him?"
Could I tell her the truth now? Could I undeceive her and say I have done as much and perhaps more to condemn him than any one--that I should have to bear witness against him? Could I tell her this, with her eyes looking into mine in such unutterable anguish, with her little hand placed in mine so confidingly, and with the thought of him before me? I could not. I said all should be done for him that was in the power of mortal man to do, and I promised to send messengers constantly to keep her fully informed during the day of all that passed; Before going I asked her if I should tell her mother; but she refused--she would rather do it herself.
"Tell him," were her last words, "that my heart is with him, and my love--oh I my dearest love!"
"Write it, Ada," I said, "it is better he should have that message direct from you."
So I left her, bearing her little note to him, poor fellow. How precious it would be, that tiny missive, coming from her loving hand and faithful heart.
It was just upon one o'clock when I arrived at my chambers, and at two Atherton was to be taken before the magistrate. There was no fresh news; so I decided upon going at once to Merrivale's office, and seeing him if possible before he went to the police-court. I met him on the stairs returning to his office.
"I have just been with poor Atherton," he said; and he looked very grave. "Come in here; I was going to send for you. By the bye, have you been to the Leslies? he is most anxious about that. I don't think he'll be calm enough to think for himself until he knows all is right in that quarter."
"I have a note from Miss Leslie for him,"
"All right. Give it to me; I'll enclose it, and send it at once."
Merrivale despatched the messenger, and then locked his room door. "The case is dead against him," he said as he sat down, "and he knows it now, poor fellow,--he knows it."
"He is innocent," I said; "I could swear he is innocent!"
"Yes, so I think, and so do others; but the evidence against him is frightfully strong. That woman, Mrs. Haag, will make a most criminating statement of what occurred last night."
"I don't know the particulars,--tell me what they are?"
"You ought to be able to throw considerable light upon it," said Merrivale, unheeding my question. "You were with poor old Thorneley last night, it seems. Just tell me all that passed. In fact, I ought to know every thing. I hear too that you are to be summoned as witness against Atherton. How is that?"
I then related to him how I had gone to Wimpole street at Mr. Thorneley's request about a matter of business; the hour I had left him; my meeting with Hugh; his wish to come home with me, and my refusal; the meeting also with the woman, and the conclusions which I had drawn from it.
"What was the nature of the business with Mr. Thorneley?"
I replied that my word of honor was passed to keep it secret.
"Had it any bearing upon the unhappy catastrophe, either directly or indirectly?"
"No; none that I could see."
"Would it affect Atherton or his prospects?"
I could not answer further, I replied; but in no way could it touch him either for good or evil in the present unfortunate affair. Merrivale was fairly at a nonplus.
"Now," said Mr. Merrivale, "I will tell you what passed after you went away, as I learnt it from Atherton; and whatever further light you can throw upon the mystery, which is my business now to sift to the bottom, well, I think, Kavanagh, you are bound, by all the ties of your long friendship with that poor fellow now under arrest, to speak out openly to me."
I felt Merrivale's sharp searching eyes upon me; but the time to speak had not come, and I could in no way serve Hugh by breaking silence--at least I did not see that I could. After a short pause, Merrivale continued:
"Atherton tells me that when he reached his uncle's house, he found his cousin, Lister Wilmot, had just arrived; and they both went to Thorneley's room together, Wilmot said to him on the way, 'I must get some money to-night out of the governor, if possible, for I'm dreadfully hard-up. I've had to dodge three duns to-day; and there'll be a writ out against me to-morrow as sure as I'm alive, if he doesn't fork out handsomely.' Atherton asked him what he called handsomely, with a view, I imagine, to helping him himself if he could; but Wilmot mentioned a sum so large that there could be no further thought of his doing so. They found the old man unusually preoccupied and taciturn. Nevertheless, in spite of unfavorable circumstances, Wilmot broached the subject of his difficulties to him, and abruptly asked for 500l. Thorneley was furious; and it seems, curiously enough, that he turned his fury upon Atherton; accused him of leading Wilmot astray, of teaching him to be extravagant; of making a tool of him for purposes of his own; in short, making the most unheard-of accusations against poor Atherton, and throwing the entire blame on him. Atherton says he felt convinced that some one must have been carrying false stories to his uncle, or in some way poisoning his mind against himself; but knowing how broken in health he was, he tried at first to soothe him, and quietly contradict his assertions, and Wilmot indorsed all he said, distinctly stating that his cousin was entirely free from all blame in the matter, and that it was his own extravagance which had brought him into difficulties; and much more to the same effect. And now comes the terrible part. Thorneley only waxed wrother and more wroth; swore at Atherton, and told him he might pay his cousin's debts for him; and if he couldn't out of his own money, he might get his future wife's guardian to advance him some of hers; and that if Wilmot had looked half-sharp he might have married the girl himself. As it was, he dared say she would marry Kavanagh in the end. You may suppose this vexed Atherton not a little; his blood was up, and he spoke out hot and angrily to his uncle, telling him amongst other things that he would bitterly repent on the morrow what he had said last night. He tells me he distinctly remembers the words he used. In the heat of the dispute--he thinks it must have been just at the moment he said this--the housekeeper came in with the tray. It seems that Thorneley always took bitter-ale the last thing at night, with hard biscuits. Almost directly after he had spoken Atherton repented having got angry with the old man, remembering what his temperament was; and as a sort of propitiatory action, went and fetched him his glass of ale from the table. Gilbert Thorneley took it from Atherton's hand, and--drank it. There was poison in that glass of ale!"
I sat confronting Merrivale, dazed, sickened, dumbfounded. Now I knew the full weight of the evidence I should be forced to give. Now I knew, when everything was revealed, the cry that would go up from Hugh's heart against me. But I never swerved from my allegiance to him; I never thought him guilty--no, not for the brief shadow of an instant.
After a while Merrivale continued, "Whoever put in that fatal drug, and whatever it was, the effects must have taken place subsequent to Atherton's leaving Wimpole Street. He says that Wilmot went away very shortly after his uncle drank the ale, receiving a very cold good-night from the latter; and that after in vain trying to reason with Mr. Thorneley, and bring him into good-humor again, he also left him,--the old man utterly refusing to shake hands or to part friends. The poor fellow seems to feel that bitterly; he is terribly cut up at remembering that the last intercourse with his uncle should have been unfriendly. No; I could venture my oath he is innocent; his sorrow at Thorneley's death cannot by put on. However, the end of it all is, that Mr. Thorneley went to bed last night directly after Atherton went away; and this morning when the servant went into his room as usual at half-past six, to call him, and see whether he wanted anything before getting up--he kept to his old early hours as much as possible, I fancy--the man found him dead in his bed. The housekeeper was roused, and they sent off directly for a doctor. When he came, he declared his suspicion that he had died from the effects of poison, and demanded what he had taken last. He had touched nothing since the bitter-ale; the glass had not been washed, and traces of strychnine were found in the few drops left in the tumbler. Smith and Walker have called in Dr. Robinson since then; and he with this doctor who first saw the corpse are making a post-mortem examination now. The contents of the stomach, to make sure of everything, are to be sent to Professor T---- for analysis. When the inspectors arrived from Scotland Yard, the housekeeper immediately volunteered her evidence of what I have related to you. Putting all these facts together," continued Merrivale, looking over his notes, "coupled with the evidence you will be forced to give of where you met him, I apprehend the whole case to be dead against poor Atherton. Yes, the entire thing will turn upon that visit to the chemist in Vere street; if we can dispose of that satisfactorily, I shan't despair. At present it is the most criminating to my mind, and will just damn him with the jury at the inquest."
"What account does he give himself of going to the chemist's?"
"Simple enough, to any one who knows him as you and I do, and who would believe a man who never yet lied,--who is, I think, incapable of a lie to save his own life. He says he went in to purchase some camphor; he has been taking it lately for headaches; the bottle was found in his coat-pocket; but there was also found a small empty paper labelled 'Strychnine,' with the Vere-street chemist's name upon it. Of that paper he most solemnly denies all knowledge, and I believe him; but how will the jury dispose of such circumstantial evidence?"
"No expense must be spared in defending him, Merrivale," I said; "draw on me to the last farthing for whatever is wanted."
"None shall be spared. I have written to Sir Richard Mayne, whom I know very well, asking for a certain detective officer whoso experience I can rely on from past dealings; and if the dastardly wretch lives who has done this deed, and thrown the brunt of it on Atherton, he or she shall be hunted down and brought to justice. I must be off now. The proceedings to-day will be but nominal. I will come round by your office on my way back. What we have to do at present is to gain time. For this we must [{456}] prepare all the contrary evidence in our power against to-morrow. By the way, see Wilmot as soon as you can, and bring him back with you."
I returned home; wrote a few words, as comforting and encouraging as I could, to Ada, and despatched a messenger with the note; then I went to the Albany and asked for Lister Wilmot. He was out; had been summoned to the police-court to be present at the inquiry. I left my card, with a pencilled injunction to come on to me the moment he returned; and then, impelled by a horrible fascination, I took my way toward Marylebone street, longing, yet dreading, to see and hear--my heart aching for a sight of the manly form and noble face of him to whom my soul had cleaved as to a brother.
There was a dense crowd outside the gates of the courtyard and round the private door through which the magistrates enter, when I arrived there. With my hat slouched over my brows, I made my way through with difficulty to the door of the court where the proceedings were going on,--the noise and din of the crowd buzzing about me, and scraps of talk which goes on in such places and among such people as collect there, reaching me in broken snatches.
"Who'd ha' thought he'd a done it? such a nice-looking chap as er is."
"Yer see, it's the money as he wanted. The old man was mortal rich; they say the Bank of England couldn't 'old 'is money. Yes, the gowld did it."
"Pisen! Ah, he'd be glad of pisen hisself now. What's that feller sayin'? Oh, that's the lawyer wot's defending him. He'll have tough work, he will."
"Remanded!--that's the way; why can't they commit him at once? Givin' folks all the trouble to come twice afore they knows what to do with un."
"'Ere he comes. Now, six-footer, who pisened the old man?"
And then came groans and hisses as the mob were made to open and divide themselves, whilst policemen cleared the way for the prisoner--yes, it had come to that--the prisoner!--to pass to the van waiting for him. I looked up as he advanced,--we were almost of the same height, he and I; taller perhaps by some inches than the majority around, who were mostly women,--and our eyes met. O God! shall I ever forget the look he gave me? Pale and calm and firm, he passed on--his noble brow erect, his clear eyes shining with the light of conscious innocence; with the whole expression of his countenance subdued--hallowed, I might say--with the sorrow and trouble which had befallen him. On he came, heedless of the hisses and jeers of the fallen degraded herd who pressed round; heedless of the jibes and groans uttered by the companions of those for whom, more then likely, his genial voice had been raised in defence, in pleading against the justice they deserved, but which he had never merited. On he came, unmindful of everything that was going on about him, as if his spirit were faraway, communing with that unseen Presence that was never absent from his mind. I lifted my hat and stood bareheaded as he passed into that dark dismal van that was polluted with the breath, contaminated by the touch, of men whose hands were dyed by the blackest crimes.
When it had driven off I turned away and hailed a passing cab. Just as I was stepping into it I was arrested by the sound of a voice near me.
"He's safe to be condemned, as shure as yer name's Mike."
It was an Irish voice. I bounded back. Disappearing rapidly, threading in and out of the now-dispersing crowd, were the high square shoulders, the gray locks and beard, the swaggering air of Mr. de Vos, the "treasure-trove," the hero of Swain's Lane. He was gone before I was fully aware of his identity.
CHAPTER IV.
A GLIMMER OF LIGHT.
A popular writer of the day says there is this to be observed in the physiology of every murder, "that before the coroner's inquest the sole object of public curiosity is the murdered man; while immediately after that judicial investigation the tide of feeling turns; the dead man is hurried and forgotten, and the suspected murderer becomes the hero of men's morbid imaginations." If this be true--as it is--in the generality of cases, there are also exceptions in which just the contrary takes place. So was it now. Amidst the hue and cry which arose against Hugh Atherton, the suspected murderer of his uncle, Gilbert Thorneley, the murdered man, was almost forgotten. The announcement in the morning papers of the inquest to be held that same day following the discovery of the murder was hailed but as an acceleration of the justice which was to hunt him down to a felon's death. Three executions had taken place during that summer in London, and they had but whetted the public appetite. Like a wild beast that had tasted blood, it ravened and hungered for more; it could not sicken at the sight of a human creature, a fellow-man, strung up like a dog, strangled like an animal; it could not shudder to behold the quivering limbs, the covered face, the convulsed form, as it swung from the gibbet. They had become used to the sight, familiar with the whole scene in its awful solemnity; but they were far from satiated; and eagerly did the public voice clamor for another victim on whom to gloat their inhuman eyes. Ah! that is a fearful responsibility which England has taken upon herself in these public executions--in baring to such a gaze as that which is fastened upon the small black-draped platform outside the walls of Newgate the solemn, awful spectacle of a creature going to meet his Creator, of an immortal soul passing into the dread presence of its God! Much has been said for, much against, those exhibitions of public justice; I doubt if a true view will ever be arrived at until the question has been considered as one vitally affecting England as a Christian nation.
Hugh Atherton was a suspected man, and the press did its work well that morning in trying to criminate him. Already in those brief four-and-twenty hours his name--the name of one incapable of hurting the tiniest insect that lay across his path--had become a byword and a reproach in the mouths, not of many, but of multitudes, throughout the length and breadth of the land.
Gilbert Thorneley had been a rich man--a notedly rich man--a millionaire; and we may not touch the rich with impunity. He had not been a good man nor a useful man, nor philanthropic; none had loved him, not a few had hated him, many had disliked and dreaded him; but he was rich--he had wealth untold, and it did wonders for him in the eyes of the world after his death. Yet withal he was forgotten, comparatively speaking, whilst the interest of the public was riveted upon his supposed-to-be-criminal nephew. The scanty evidence elicited at the police-court was twisted and turned against him by ingenious compilers of leading-articles, and only one journal ventured to raise a dissenting voice in his favor. It was a paper that had vindicated many a man before; that had done for accused persons what perhaps their poverty would not permit them to do for themselves,--in ventilating facts and clearing up evidence with the care and eloquence of a paid counsel. It was a paper hated by many in authority, by big wigs and potentates, and was to many country magistrates a perfect nightmare; nevertheless its influence told largely upon the public mind and led to the rooting out of many an evil.
The inquest on Gilbert Thorneley was appointed for two o'clock, and I was cited to appear as one of the witnesses. I had gone late the evening before to Hyde-Park Gardens with all the tidings that could be gathered, and left poor Ada more calm and composed than could almost have been hoped for. Still, what her fearful grief and anxiety was, heaven only knew; for her only thought seemed to be that Hugh should hear she was keeping up bravely for his sake. After the inquest, I promised to try and obtain that she should see him: But I went away, haunted by her poor pale face, her heavy sleepless eyes, her look of suppressed anguish; haunted by an overwhelming dread of the morrow; haunted by the vision of a future laden with sorrow and suffering for us all. And at last the morning dawned of the day which would bring forth such important results, and affect the fate of Hugh Atherton so very gravely. I went early to Merrivale's office, and found him full of business and very anxious. Lister Wilmot had never appeared; and repeated messengers sent to the Albany only brought back word that he had not been home since he went to the police-court the preceding day. He had neither dined nor slept at home.
Smith and Walker were savage and taciturn, refusing all information, although their clerk let out that Wilmot had been there several times; and Merrivale's hopes were all centred in the detective he was employing, but who had not been seen since he had received his instructions.
The hours wore round, and at twelve o'clock I was to be at the Leslies'. As I left Mr. Merrivale's office in Lincoln's-Inn Square, a man bowed to me in passing. It was Jones the detective. A sudden thought struck me, and I turned back after him.
"Jones," I said, "do you happen to know a Mr. de Vos, who lodged some two months ago at No. 13 Charles street, Leicester Square?"
"No, sir; not by that name. What is he like?"
I described him; but he shook his head.
"I don't recognize him, sir; but, if you'll allow me, I'll make a note of it. Have you any particular reason for wishing to hear about him?"
"Yes; and I should be glad to know anything you can gather concerning the man."
"I'll be on the look-out, sir." And Jones touched his hat and went off.
The old butler came to the door in Hyde-Park Gardens, and in answer to my inquiries informed me that Miss Leslie was "very middling indeed, and that Mr. Wilmot had just been there."
"Mr. Wilmot!"
"Yes, sir; he wished partiklar to see Miss Ada--which he did, sir, and her ma too: very nice gentleman he seems, and terrible cut up about his poor uncle and his cousin. A shocking thing, sir, for you to have to witness against Mr. Atherton."
Against Mr. Atherton! Then it had reached here--this news, these tidings--that I was to help to condemn the man I loved best on earth! What was known in the servants'-hall had no doubt been discussed in the drawing-room, and Ada must now fully be aware of what I had found no courage to tell her yesterday. How had she received the intelligence? what was she thinking of it--of me? Reflecting thus, I followed Kings into the library, and found Mrs. Leslie alone. Now that lady and I never got on as amicably as we might have done; joint guardians seldom do, especially when they are of opposite genders; and this I say with no sort of reflection upon the fairer sex, simply mentioning it as a fact which, during a long legal course of experience, has come before me. I considered Mrs. Leslie frivolous, weak, and extravagant, very unlike her child, very far from fit to be instrusted with the sole guidance of a mind such as Ada's. But I kept my own counsel [{459}] on the subject, and tried by action rather than words to counteract and shield Ada from evils arising from her mother's foolish conduct. She thought me very uncompromising, very particular and rigid in my notions, often perhaps very crusty and disagreeable, nor spared she any pains to conceal her thought. That I did not mind; for Ada trusted me implicitly in all things, and it was all I cared for. This morning there was a stiffness and less of cordiality than ever in Mrs. Leslie's manner of receiving me.
"How is Ada?" I asked.
"She passed a very restless night, poor dear, very restless; and is fit for nothing this morning. Indeed, I am almost in the same state myself, I have been so terribly upset by this affair, and my nerves are very delicate. Most trying too! I have had to put off our réunion musicale for next Thursday, and the Denison's dinner-party for to-morrow. I can't think how Hugh came to do it--for of course he must have done it, though Ada won't hear a word against him."
"He did not do it, Mrs. Leslie! Ada is right, as she always is."
"Ah! well, so Lister Wilmot tried to make me believe; but then he says everything is against poor Hugh, and that even you feel obliged to give evidence against him. I must say, John Kavanagh, that I think it very strange of you to have volunteered to give evidence. Wilmot was explaining it all to us, and said you couldn't help yourself; for the first words you had said to the policeman when he came to you criminated your friend."
A glimmer of light was beginning to dawn in my mind; but its ray was very faint and dim as yet; and after all it might only prove a will-o'-the-wisp. Still I would not lose it if possible.
"Wilmot told you that, did he? Does Ada know?"
"Yes; she was here when he came. He told us everything that had passed all that had been said by his uncle the last evening he saw him alive. He mentioned a great deal which had been kept back--purposely I suppose, and for some motive we don't understand now, but which will come out by and by, no doubt," said Mrs. Leslie with a burst of spite in her voice.
"Would you have the goodness to send word to Ada that I am here?" I said very stiffly.
"Oh! I forgot. She desired her kindest regards when you called, but she could not see you this morning. She will write."
I looked at her, and something convinced me she was telling a lie. I got up very quietly and rang the bell.
"Let Miss Leslie know I am here, Kings."
"Yes, sir."
Then Mrs. Leslie's anger broke forth. How dared I presume so far-- take such a liberty in her house! I forgot myself; I was no gentleman, but a meddling, interfering man, disappointed and soured because I had not secured Ada and her fortune for myself. She had seen it all along. So she raved on--so I let her rave; and when she ceased I answered her:
"If I have taken a liberty in giving an order under your roof and to your servant, I beg your pardon. But this is no time to stop at trifles or considerations of mere etiquette involving no real breach of good breeding. So long as your daughter is a minor I shall hold myself responsible for the trust her dead father confided to me conjointly with yourself; and, so help me God, I will perform the sacred duty to its utmost limits and regardless of human respect! There is foul play going on around us, and some influence--I know not yet whose--is at work to undermine the happiness of us all. There is bitter need that no fatal misunderstanding should arise between my ward and myself; that no subtle representations of interested persons should shake the reliance upon my integrity and honor, which hitherto Ada has placed in her father's friend. A life more precious to her than her own, and [{460}] dear to me as a brother's, is at stake; and I foresee, though dimly and darkly, that it imports far more than perhaps we dream of now to keep everything clear between us in our several relations with each other. At any rate I will allow no foolish fancies, no weak pride, to stand between your daughter and myself, her legal guardian and sole trustee. "
I spoke very sternly, and purposely laid a stress upon my last words, knowing the woman with whom I was dealing, and the full weight they would have with her. Nor was I mistaken. She burst into a feeble querulous fit of crying; and the servant returning at that moment with a message from Ada asking me to go up-stairs, I left Mrs. Leslie to her reflections.
My ward was in her little morning-room. She was writing at the table, and the room was partially darkened, as if she could not bear the full sunlight of that bright autumn day. There were birds and flowers and music around her; but the birds had hushed their song, the flowers drooped their heads, as if missing the careful hand that tended them; and the music that generally greeted one there was silent. Oh! when would she sing again? I felt something about my feet as I advanced towards her, and heard a piteous whine I looked down; it was a little rough shaggy terrier,--Hugh's dog. Poor Dandie! He recognized me, and looked for one with whom he was so accustomed to see me.
"I sent for him," said Ada, lifting her weary wan face as I stood beside her. "I fancied he would be happier here--less lonely; but he is not--he wants him. "
The dog seemed to understand her; for he came and, putting his forepaws upon her knee, laid his head upon them, and looking toward me whined again. She laid her cheek down upon his rough head and caressed him.
"Not yet, Dandie,--not yet. We must be patient, doggie, and he will come to us again."
It was a few moments before I could speak; but time was hastening on apace. Whilst I stood by the fire thinking how best to begin the subject I had at heart, Ada came and laid her hand on my arm.
"I have been wishing for you; I thought you would never come."
Then her mother had told a lie; but I said nothing.
"Lister Wilmot has been here this morning, talking a good deal." She stopped and hesitated.
To help her, I said, "Yes; so your mother tells me."
She looked at me inquiringly. "Has she told all that passed--all that he said?"
"She told me a great deal; but I would rather hear everything from you. My child, don't hesitate to confide in me. You don't know how it may help to clear matters up, which seem to be so fearfully complicated now."
I think she understood me, for she sighed wearily, and I heard her murmur to herself, "Poor mamma!"
"Lister was very kind this morning, and was in dreadful trouble about --him. He said he had thought of me more than any one, and would have come yesterday, but had so much to arrange and see to."
And then Ada went on to relate what passed, a great deal of which I had gathered from Mrs. Leslie.
"There is one thing," she concluded, "which I did not and would not believe. He says you have volunteered to give evidence against him," (it seemed as if she could not bring herself to mention Hugh by name;) "but I said it could not be,--that there must have been a mistake. What is the worst of all is, that since Lister was here, mamma persists in saying he is guilty; somehow, though his words defended, his tone and manner implied he thought his cousin guilty."
"Ada, it is true I shall have to give evidence which may help to criminate Hugh; but it is more than equally false that I ever volunteered to bear [{461}] witness against him. You were right; never believe it. "
Then I told her how it was, and how I had shrunk from letting her know it before.
"And now, my child, I must go. You know the inquest is to take place this afternoon, and I have to be there; but first I must return to Merrivale's, and settle many things with him."
"You will come back to me afterward."
"Surely; as soon as it is over."
"Do you think he will be present?"
"I trust not, oh! I trust not! But perhaps he will wish to watch the proceedings himself, as well as Merrivale. God be with you, Ada, and good-bye!"
I was on the threshold of the door when she called me back.
"I am very foolish, guardian, not to have said it before; but I could not--and yet I ought and must."
Her hand was resting on a well-worn morocco case. I knew it well--it was Hugh's likeness, and a faint color tinged her white cheeks; but she mastered the shy feeling, whatever it was, and looked clearly and earnestly at me.
"Something was said by Lister Wilmot of what had dropped from poor Mr. Thorneley the last night of his life about you and me. I don't know why he should have repeated it; but as it is, I wanted to ask you not to mind it; at least, not to notice what may be said by others--by my mother. I only fear lest anything of the kind being said should come between us, and destroy our confidence in one another, because we understand each other so well--you and I and Hugh,"--how lingeringly she spoke his name!--"and we have no secrets between us that all three may not share. And I have feared lest this worse than foolishness, dragged out publicly, should change anything in our intercourse, or prevent you from acting, as hitherto, a parent's part toward a fatherless girl."
"Nothing, Ada, can change me toward you; and when people think of you and then of me, they will not heed the childish babble that may go about."
"Thanks, guardian."
"Worse than foolishness!"--I said the words over to myself many times as I drove back to Lincoln's Inn; and in the hazy distant future I saw a weary wayworn pilgrim slowly toiling along life's lonely road, who, looking back to this past year come and gone, would still repeat, "Worse than foolishness!"
I found Merrivale in deep conference with a mean-looking little man with a short stubbly head of hair that bristled up like a scrubbing-brush, and of a melancholy cast of countenance, as if accustomed to view life darkly, through the medium of duns and such-like evils to which man is heir. His eyes were the only redeeming point about him, and they really were two of the sharpest, most intelligent orbs I ever saw in my life. They lighted upon me the moment I entered the room, and seemed to take in my whole exterior and interior person with a knowingness that was perfectly alarming.
"This is the gentleman, I suppose, sir, who was with the defunct party the night of the murder," said a wonderfully soft voice.
"Yes; Mr. Kavanagh.--This is Inspector Keene, the very clever officer I mentioned to you, Kavanagh."
I acknowledged Mr. Keene's salute with becoming deference.
"Have you any news?" I asked.
"Well, sir," with a quick cautious glance at Merrivale, "I have and I have not. Before I say anything further, I should be glad to ask the gentleman a few questions, Mr. Merrivale, if agreeable."
"By all means," I answered.
He put me through a sharp cross-questioning on every point with which the reader is acquainted, making rapid notes of all my answers and remarks. Then he sat silently scraping his chin and gnawing his nails for some minutes. At last he looked up suddenly.
"The funeral, I understand, is fixed [{462}] for next Tuesday, and after that is over the Will is to be read. Perhaps that may throw some light on the subject."
I could not for the life of me repress a start, and Inspector Keene made a mental note of it, I knew.
"Good-day, gentlemen. I will call on you, Mr. Merrivale, to-morrow. I think I am on the scent. "
"Come," said Merrivale, "we must be off, or we shall be late."
TO BE CONTINUED.
[ ORIGINAL. ]