In the Liverpool prison late Robert Bradley the elder, biding his trial for the murder of his wife; and from his lips we were to learn yet more to complete the history of the past. Once, and once only, the father and son met. In the bitterness of his trouble and his newly wakened penitence, Lister had turned and clung to the one who had ministered to his dying mother, and in Father Maurice, after God, he found his best friend. At his request the old priest went with him to that single interview with his father.
"I never meant to kill your mother, Robert," the convict said to his son. "Heaven is my witness, I never had a thought of harm to her when I went after her in Cross street. I loved her, ay, I loved her, little as you may think it now. I loved her though she left me, though she hid my boy away, though she brought him up not know his father; though she branded me with a crime I never committed, and got me sent to prison and chains, and a life in comparison with which death will be sweet; though she spurned me and defied me, I loved her with all the might of my heart, all the passionateness with which I loved her when she came to me a fair young bride. Away in that penal settlement, amongst that hideous gang, beneath that burning sky, I had longed and thirsted more for one look at her face, for one touch of her hand, then [{243}] ever longed for a drop of water to slake my parching thirst or cool the fever of my lips. They tell me she has revealed the story of our lives—all is misery and shame. I have heard a few particulars. In one thing I believe I have wronged her; I thought her guilty of Mrs. Thornely's death; I thought she wished to usurp her place. I used the threat of what I suspected to induce her to make out with me; but she spurned me from her; she told me she would die on the gallows rather than live with me again; and then the madness seized me; I struck her—once—twice—and killed her."
Of all that passed in that single meeting between the two Robert Bradleys little was heard; it was not meet that much should be known. They met solemnly, in bitterness, in shame, with agony in either heart, with a world of anguish, of feelings surging over their souls to which they dared not give utterance. They parted solemnly, but in peace: the son who had never you known his father until now—and then in what a terrible manner! the father who had never looked on his child since the time when he had taken him on his knee and listened to his infant prattle. Parted, never more to meet on this side the grave.
I saw the convict once or twice before his trial came on, and I found from him that he had known Sullivan of De Vos all his life. That he was on his wife's track when she went down to the Grange, and De Vos was with him. That the latter, seeing I was bound thither likewise, and having reason to fear me both for his own and Bradley's sake, had given me the stupefying dose in my coffee at Peterborough Station, trusting to the results which did really happen. That it was his appearance which must have alarmed his wife and caused her to relinquish her visit to the Grange. Further than that he could give me no information. Strangely enough, the bad companion of the father had proved the bad companion of the son, though in totally different ways. There is nothing more to tell of Robert Bradley. He was tried, condemned, and sentenced to death; but the sentence was commuted to transportation for life by the exertions of his son. Father Maurice had the satisfaction of receiving from his lips the assurance before he left the Liverpool Docks bound for his final journey, that he accepted his sentence as the only expiation he could make for his long career of sin.
And what of those who were once so near and dear to me—dear still, though far away, Hugh Atherton and Ada, now for many years his wife— what of them! We never met again; humanly speaking, we never more shall meet upon this earth. There is a writer—to my mind the essayist par excellence of this age, with power to touch the finest chords and sound the most hidden depths in the heart of man—who says that he knows no word of equal pathos to the little word "gone." And it is the word which expresses the long blank, the great vacuum of all these latter years since they went away—since they have been among the "gone." And how is it, you will ask, my readers, that still they should be far away when all the storms and clouds which had shadowed their horizon passed away, and the sunshine and fair blue sky once again greeted them? Well, it was in this wise:
Tidings of all that took place in Liverpool were instantly forwarded to Hugh Atherton at Melbourne, and we thought we should welcome them all back to England ere long; but he did not come—he never will come now. He wrote that the thought of returning to England was insupportable to both himself and Ada; that they would remain where they were, and where he had received the greatest happiness of his life—his true and tender wife. They settled in Australia, some miles from Melbourne, doing much for the new colony in the way of usefulness; and Hugh devoted [{244}] himself to the interests of his adopted country. His name is well known there, and it is coupled with everything that is good and great. I hear sometimes from them, most often from Ada. Her mother died a few years ago, and she has lost two children. They have three living, two boys and a girl; the youngest boy is called John after me. She would have it so. No, the old friendship between me and Hugh has never been rekindled into the same warmth; we are friends, but not the friends of yore. I do not blame him; he was blind, blind; and so we drifted away from one another, or rather he from me. It was just one of those clouds which come between human hearts because they are human; and then we see through a glass darkly whilst earth clings so closely about us. By and by all will be clear. He thought I should have confided his uncle's secret to him or Merrivale under the circumstances. Perhaps I ought. If I was mistaken, if I kept my solemn promise to the dead too rigidly, God pardon me; I did it for the best. But we may make mistakes in our shortsightedness, in our finite views, in our imperfect comprehension of events over which we have no control, and in which we have very little hand. If he outlives me, he will perhaps know this; and the knowledge of it, the memory of our ancient friendship will bring back the tenderness of his heart for me; he will feel, I pray not too sadly, that he also was mistaken when he withdrew the trust and confidence that never before heaven had for one moment been betrayed.
Some years ago I buried Gilbert Thorneley's idiot son; he lived with me up to the time of his death, harmless, but irrational to the last. It was a satisfaction to his guardian that with me he would receive every kindness and attention; and the poor fellow died in my arms, repeating in his indistinct and childish manner the words I had taught him to address to his Father in heaven—he who had never known a father's love on earth.
I am alone in my old study, and I turn to write the last page of my story.
The stillness of evening is creeping on afast, and the fire burns low; before it lies old Dandie—he is blind now and stiff with age. Neither he nor I can ramble out far into the country lanes, or across Hempstead Heath, as once we used. Years have come and gone, and the little golden circlet on my finger has grown thin and worn, but it will last my days. Shadows of the past are around me, and voices of the past are busily whispering in my ear. What is this that has fallen upon my hand? O Ada! is this "worse than foolishness," the tears should rush to your old guardian's eyes when he thinks of you, and writes your name for the last time? Nay, that has passed—past with the bygone years that have rolled on into eternity. A little longer, and the dark strait that divides us from our beloved shall "narrowed to the thread-like mere;" a little longer spent in hope and patience, and then the hand will come. Not now, Hugh—not now, Ada: I shall see you by and by.