True to his Colours / The Life that Wears Best

by Theodore P. Wilson

“Oh, we never thought about the book; it’s never crossed my mind from that day to this. I suppose we forgot all about it, we was so taken up with the other thing. I daresay the landlady’s daughter found it under the table; and if she did, she’d be sure to keep it snug and not say anything about it, as it might have told tales.”

“Perhaps so, Ned. And what did you do next?”

“Why, we went our ways home; and Joe Wright took charge of the bag, as his house was nearest the road as leads to the cutting. We all met at poor Joe’s at half-past nine, and walked together to the wooden bridge. It were a rainy night, and the timbers of the bridge was very slippy. It was proposed for Joe to drop the bag, and he were quite willing. I was in a bit of a fright about him all the time, for he’d drunk more than any of us, and his legs and hands wasn’t over steady. Howsomever, we’d no time to lose, so Joe got over the side of the bridge, and down among the timbers, and the train came rushing on, and, as we stooped over the side, we could see as the bag fell plump on to the top of the carriage. We knowed afterwards as that were all right; for if the bag had dropped on one side, or been shook off, the police would have been sure to have found it. And then poor Joe—eh! It were awful; I can’t bear to think of it. The Lord forgive me for having had aught to do with it!—he tried to climb back, poor chap; but the great big beams was wide to grasp, and very slippy with the rain, and he weren’t used to that sort of thing, and so he lost his hold, and down he fell on to the rails, quite stunned; and, afore any on us could get at him, the stopping train were on him, and he were a dead man.”

The sick man, having thus finished his story, sank back exhausted; but, recovering himself after a while, he said, “Well, Thomas, I’ve eased my mind: you know all. If it hadn’t been for me, poor Joe’d never have come to that shocking end. I hope the Lord’ll forgive me. But you may be sure neither me nor my mates meant any harm to poor Joe.”

“That’s quite clear, Ned,” replied Bradly, gravely; “it was indeed a wild and foolish thing to do, but when the liquor’s in the wit’s out. No doubt you’ve much to repent of, but certainly you aren’t answerable as if you’d killed poor Joe. Only, see how one thing leads to another. If you’d only loved the inside of your home as much as you loved the inside of the public, you’d have kept out of the way of temptation, and have escaped a deal of misery. Well, Ned, cast this burden on the Lord. Tell him all about it, as you’ve told me; and ask him to wash away all your sins in his precious blood, and he’ll do it.”

“I will, I will, Thomas,” said the poor sufferer.

When Bradly left Ned Taylor’s house, he walked home very slowly, revolving many thoughts in his mind, and, according to his fashion, giving them expression in a talk, half out loud, to himself, as follows:— “Well, now, we’ve got another step on the road to set poor Jane straight; and yet it looks like a step, and a good long step too, back’ards. It’s all explained now what’s become of the bag and the bracelet, but we’re further off from getting them than ever. I don’t know; p’raps it’s lying at the left-luggage office in London. I’ll send up and see. But I mustn’t say anything about it at present to Jane. But, suppose it shouldn’t be there—what then? Why, we’ve lost all clue to it; we’re quite in the dark. Stop, stop, Thomas Bradly! What are you about? What are you stumbling on in that fashion for, without your two walking-sticks—‘Do the next thing,’ ‘One step at a time’? Ay, that’s it, to be sure. And the next thing’s to send to the left-luggage office in London; and the rest’s to be left with the Lord.”

So that evening Bradly spoke to one of the guards, a fellow-abstainer, and a man with whom he was on intimate terms, telling him as much of the story of the losing of the bag as was necessary, without mentioning his sister’s name, and asked him to make full inquiries in London. His friend accordingly did so without delay, but brought back the sorrowful tidings that nothing answering to the bag described was lying at the left-luggage office, or had been seen or heard of by any of the officials.

Poor Thomas! He could not help feeling a little disheartened. He had hoped, as Ned Taylor proceeded with his confession, that something was coming that would lead to the discovery of the long-lost and earnestly-desired evidence of Jane’s innocence; and now that confession only showed that the bag had been carried hopelessly out of their reach. Had it been hidden away somewhere in Crossbourne, there would have been a good hope of hunting it out; but now that it had been conveyed away to the great metropolis, and had been carried off from the railway terminus, further search and inquiry seemed absolutely useless. Of course, if an honest man had accidentally got hold of it, and found out his mistake, it was possible he might have found some clue to the rightful owner in Hollands’ letter, if he discovered that letter in the bag; but as nearly half a year had now gone by since the loss, there was no reason to suppose that the bag had fallen into the hands of any one willing, or, if willing, able to restore it. If, on the other hand, a dishonest person had got hold of it, of course the bracelet would have been broken up, or hopelessly sold away, and the bag destroyed.

It was now the beginning of June, when one evening Bradly was sitting in his arm-chair at home, with a shadow on his face, as he meditated on these things. Jane, whose quick eye marked every change in her brother’s countenance, was persuaded that there was something more than usually amiss, for the light on Bradly’s habitually cheerful face to be clouded, and gently asked the cause.