Such was Hugh Atherton as a boy; such was he as a man,--ever generous and noble-hearted. I thought of him as then, I thought of him as now, remembering all our long friendship, our close intimacy, with the weight of that dread secret upon me, and with the indescribable sense of coming evil clinging to me. I wished I had yielded to his request, and allowed him to accompany me home; I wished I had persevered in going after him; in short, I wished anything but what then was. Were those desires troubling me a taste of the vain, futile, heart-bitter wishes which the morrow was to bring forth? So, with the cold wind whistling round me, and scattering the dead leaves across the desolate square, where stood the house wherein I dwelt, the rain beating against my face, and the sky above black and lowering, I reached my home, wet and weary.
Methodical habits to a man brought up to the law, who has any pretence of doing well in his profession, become like second nature; and when I had divested myself of my wet garments, I took out my journal and made an entry as usual of the date, object, etc., of my visit to Mr. Thorneley; and then I wrote out a brief memorandum of the same, which I addressed to Hugh Atherton in case of my death, and carefully locked it up with some [{409}] very private papers of my own, about which he already had my instructions. This done, I smoked a cigar, drank a tumbler of hot brandy-and-water, and went to bed, thoroughly tired out. But I could not sleep. For hours I tossed restlessly from side to side; now and then catching a few moments' repose, which was disturbed by the most horrible and distressing dreams. Toward morning, I suppose, I must at last have fallen into a deep slumber--so profound that I never heard the old laundress's hammering at the door, nor the arrival of my clerk, nor the postman's knock.
At last I awoke, or rather was awakened. The day had advanced some hours; all traces of last night's rain seemed to have vanished, and the sun shown full and bright in at the windows. Beside my bed stood Hardy, my old clerk.
"God bless you, sir, I thought you'd never wake!"
"I wish I never had, for I am awfully tired. How are you. Hardy? and how is all going on?"
"Quite well, sir, thank you; and I hope you're the same. We've wanted you badly enough. There's that Williams, he's been here almost every day, teasing and tormenting about having his mortgage called in; and Lady Ormskirk, she called twice, and seemed in some trouble. Then there was a queer young chap from the country with a long case about some inheritance; in short, sir, if you had been at home we might have been no end busy--what with the old ones and what with the new;" and Hardy cast a sigh after the possible tips and fees of which my absence had deprived him.
"Well, I'll see to it all as soon as I have dressed and had some breakfast. I suppose they've brought it up, and also the hot water?"
"Some time ago, sir; you slept so late that I ventured to come in."
"All right. I shall be ready directly."
Hardy still lingered, and I knew by his face there was some news coming.