"Quite," replied Jeremiah, in whose heart now reigned a cold, ferocious cunning; but his voice was very humble. "You force me to confess."
"I thought I should succeed in that, at least. But no confessions will satisfy me without my money, you vile, ungrateful thief! My money! Do you hear?—my money!
"You shall have it; you shall not lose one farthing by me."
"Good! good! You are rich, then? You have robbed me systematically! You villainous knave!"
"I am not rich. I have saved a little, and I have friends who will assist me in the misfortune which has overtaken me. I have not robbed you systematically; you do me an injustice, as you will learn when the accountant has gone through the books. I court inquiry—I invite it—Iwillhave it, now that you have accused me, and I will compel you to admit that I have served you faithfully. My character is dear to me, and I will not allow you to cast suspicion upon it. As for the bracelet, Ididbelieve that the stones were genuine; and if theyweregenuine they would have been worth ten times the sum you lent on them. I laugh at the public exposure with which you threaten me. Me it cannot harm; you, it can. For, after all, I am only your servant; you are the principal. That the business of the bracelet was introduced to me by a man whose character will not bear investigation is true. I did not know this at the time; but what if I did? He did not askmeto lend him the money, he asked me to apply toyou. Is it the first questionable transaction you have been mixed up in? Perhaps I could give evidence on that point. It is pretty well known that Miser Farebrother would do anything for money; if he could sell his soul for it he would not hesitate long. You mustn't mind my speaking in this way; I have nothing to fear, and I am defending myself."
Miser Farebrother was not in the least discomposed by Jeremiah's defence of himself. "Words, Jeremiah, words!" he said, with a sneering laugh. "Are you a fool as well as a rogue? What you have said is as so much air, and will not save you from the felon's fate. In everything I have done the law is on my side; I have seen to that. As to what is between us, let matters be settled quickly. You have saved a little, you say; you have friends who will assist you. Good! By noon to-morrow pay me the money you induced me to advance upon the bracelet. If this is not done, at one o'clock I will place it in the hands of the police, with a faithful description of the manner in which it came into my possession. The police are looking for you, you shallow knave, and I will set them on your track. Then see if you can save yourself. The office accounts will come afterward. If you have stolen, you shall repay—with interest, you thief!"
"I will not use abusive words in return," said Jeremiah. "There is nothing for which I am to blame, except the bracelet, and I was an innocent victim. You have it, of course?"
"Trust me for that," replied Miser Farebrother; "I have it safe enough. Do you think I have been simple enough to part with it?"
"Well, give it to me," said Jeremiah, "and before twelve to-morrow morning I will return you the money you advanced on it."
Miser Farebrother burst out into a loud laugh. "Give it to you, Jeremiah, and simply for the asking! You miserable knave, do you think I am in my second childhood? No, Jeremiah, no! When you give me back my money you shall have it—not till then. Fail in this restitution, and you have but a few hours of freedom before you. By my blood! by my life! I will abide by what I say?"
"Then there is an end of it," said Jeremiah, "and itshallbe as you say. I must get back to London to-night so that I may be here in time to-morrow."
"Be sure youarein time, Jeremiah!"
"Iwillbe sure!" said Jeremiah, and left the room.
The moment he closed the door behind him he felt his mother's hand clasp his. She led him down the stairs, and Jeremiah, hearing the sound of his own footsteps, did not wonder that he did not hear hers. It would have been difficult, she trod so softly, and she had taken off her boots. She accompanied him like a spirit: not the only one which walked beside and before him. By his blood! By his life! Miser Farebrother's words. Well, it might come to that. What other road of escape was left open?
In the kitchen below, Mrs. Pamflett put her forefinger to her lips.
"Speak low, Jeremiah. I listened outside, and heard all. He has the heart of a devil! That is his gratitude for faithful service. His life has been in my hands for years past. I could have sent him to his grave and no one the wiser. I am your cat-mother, am I? And he will fling us into the gutter, and laugh at us? He and his daughter are a pair. He has had the best years of our lives, and he spits in our faces. Have you told me the whole truth, Jeremiah? About the books and the safe—is there anything against you there? Can he get you into further trouble?"
"Mother," said Jeremiah, "if he calls in an accountant, as he threatens to do, I am lost. There is no hope of escape for me. If I don't get back that bracelet, I am lost. And he has money, too, here, hidden away, and not a soul knows it but him and ourselves."
"Not a soul, Jeremiah."
"No one comes to the house but us?"
"Not a person has been here for a month past."
"But—attend to me, mother—there comes here to-night, late, a man to see Miser Farebrother. It might be!"
"It might be," his mother echoed, gazing at her son with a fierce expectancy in her eyes.
"This man has been here frequently before; he has been in the habit of coming once in every six or seven weeks, and Miser Farebrother expects and receives him. They talk in secret in Miser Farebrother's room, with the door locked. You are never admitted. You are sent to bed, and sometimes you have awoke in the middle of the night, and have heard sounds in the miser's room, which proved that the man was still there. You never knew at what hour he went away, but it must have been nearly always not earlier than two or three in the morning. It might be!"
"It might be."
"That he came upon business is a reasonable construction, and that this business was of a nature which would not bear the light is another reasonable construction. Once, passing the miser's room on the way to your own, you heard them quarrelling and you heard the miser say, 'I have but to lift my finger, and I could send you back to the hulks! I will give you twenty pounds for the bonds, and no more.' A reasonable story, mother?"
"Perfectly reasonable, Jeremiah. Living here in seclusion as he has done for so many years, with no servant but me, who is to dispute it? That is not the end, Jeremiah."
"That is not the end. To-night, late, the man comes again, and is admitted. You go to bed as usual, and leave them together as usual. To-morrow morning you get up, and wait for Miser Farebrother to ring his bell for breakfast. He does not ring it, mother," and Jeremiah put his lips close to her ear. "Can you guess the reason why he does not ring his bell?"
"I can guess the reason, Jeremiah," she replied, in a cold, malignant voice. "After to-morrow he will never raise his hand again!"
"And I am safe!" said Jeremiah.
"And you are safe, my dear, dear lad; and he is punished as he deserves to be."
"He has been in the grounds at night very often these last few weeks, mother?"
"Very often, Jeremiah."
"Whether he dies in the house or out of the house, the story holds good."
"The story holds good," she echoed.
"You can describe the man's dress and appearance: there is nothing like being exact in these matters: there are peculiarities about him by which you will be able to recognise him when he is arrested."
"Leave all that to me, Jeremiah. I will show you what I am capable of. And you—where will you be in the morning?"
"In the office in London, as usual, having possessed myself of the keys which he tricked out of me upstairs. Give me a drink of brandy—ah! that puts life into one! And some bread and meat—no, I cannot eat."
"You must, Jeremiah; you must! It will give you strength. That's right. Force yourself to eat. Don't drink much. Keep cool for what is to come! Now go—and keep out of sight. You must not be seen in the village. The monster upstairs never wanders near the beeches; you will be safe there. I will come to you in an hour or two."
Stealthily, warily, Jeremiah crept from the house, and proceeded in the direction indicated by his mother. The sun was setting, and blood was in the sky. It shone upon the rising ground and upon the topmost branches of the trees. His eyes did not rest upon the glories of a lovely sunset, but upon blotches and streaks of blood. Once, standing where he could not himself be seen, he turned to the house, and watched the blood-red stains in the windows. Behind the crimson panes lurid shadows moved; the rooms were alive with murderous shapes and forms engaged in fierce conflict. Above him and all around him lurked the spirit of murder!
"Oh Aunt Leth, Aunt Leth!" cried Phœbe. "Can nothing be done?—nothing, nothing!"
"I fear not, dear child," said Aunt Leth, in a voice of quiet despair. "Your uncle and I have thought of every possible way in which our dear home might be saved, but thinking and talking will not stave off impending ruin. To-morrow we shall be beggared and disgraced."
There was no light in the room. On a stool sat Uncle Leth, with his face buried in his hands; Aunt Leth sat on a chair by his side with her arm upon his neck, vainly striving to console him; Fanny lay upon the sofa, sobbing; Robert sat moodily in a corner. To-morrow the acceptance for three hundred pounds was due, and they had not a shilling to meet it.
They had been talking in the dark for an hour, and the parents had deemed it right that their children should be made acquainted with the blow that was about to fall upon them. Phœbe, as one of the family, could not be left in ignorance, although they would cheerfully have spared her the grief into which they were plunged. All was now known, and ruin stared them in the face.
Aunt Leth was the least demonstrative of the group, and she suffered perhaps the most. Her trembling limbs, her quivering voice, her pitiful glances as her eyes wandered around, denoted the agony of her soul. Phœbe could not bear to look toward her. Dark as was the room, she saw and understood it all, and she was racked with anguish.
Had it been any other person than Jeremiah Pamflett from whom the money had been borrowed, they believed that some respite would have been granted them; but he was their bitterest enemy, and they were convinced that he was the moving spirit through whom the relentless decree had been issued that not a day's grace would be allowed. Troubles and griefs had fallen to the lot of Aunt Leth in the course of her happy married life, and she had met them cheerfully; but this overwhelming stroke had broken her down. There are shocks against which the bravest cannot contend, and this was one.
"It is I," suddenly cried Uncle Leth, starting up, and pacing the room in a frenzy of excitement—"It is I who have brought this ruin and disgrace upon the beloved ones I should have shielded and protected! This is how I have repaid them for the love which has been showered upon me! Wretch that I am!—I do not deserve to live!"
They clung about him, and besought him to be calm. They called him by the most endearing names. Only Phœbe did not move from her chair.
It was terrible to witness his agony; but so sweet and tender and true were their ministerings that they succeeded in their loving endeavours. He burst into tears, and sank upon the stool, and laid his head upon his wife's knees.
"This morning," he said, presently, in a voice so pitiful that their tears flowed afresh, "as I walked to the bank I had a dream of hope. It was foolish, I know, and neither manly nor practical—for life's troubles are not to be surmounted by dreams—but I could not help it. These dreams have happened to me, and I should have done my duty better to my dear ones here had I not encouraged them." He passed his hand across his forehead with the air of a man upon whom a sudden mental bewilderment had fallen. "What was I saying, mother?"
"You had a dream of hope," said Aunt Leth, raising his hand to her lips and kissing it, "as you walked to the bank this morning."
"I do not remember what it was," he said, helplessly; "only that an angel came forward and saved us."
Phœbe stole softly out of the room—so softly through the darkness that they did not for a little while observe her absence. To a certain extent she had kept aloof from them during the last hour.
She went up to the bedroom occupied by her and Fanny. She wanted to be alone. What was it her uncle had said? That an angel had come forward and saved them! The words impressed themselves upon her mind.
How kind these dear ones had been to her from her earliest remembrance! Giving her ever of their best, eager that she should share their joys and pleasures, making dresses for her, and bringing light into her life, which but for them would have been utterly devoid of it. How sweet, how good they had been!
What had she given them in return? Nothing. True, they had not asked for anything, had not expected anything. All the more precious their tender services of love.
Their more than love. The unselfish sacrifices they had made for her, of which they spoke never a word. Not to be measured by a human standard.
It was only on the afternoon of this dolorous day that it had come to her knowledge that her aunt had paid a doctor's bill for her of some seven or eight pounds, and she knew that her illness must have considerably increased the household expenses of the once happy home, now on the point of being wrecked.
An angel had come forward to save them? No, not an angel, but a loving, grateful girl! It was in her power, at least, to make an effort which by a happy chance might be successful. She could go to her father and appeal to him. She would humble herself to him; she would implore him on her knees; she would promise to obey him in everything—
"In everything?" Yes, in everything. She shuddered as she thought of Jeremiah Pamflett. But even that sacrifice she would make if all else failed.
The effort must be made at once—this very night—and it must be made without first consulting Aunt Leth. Full well did she know that the dear woman would divine the sacrifice she was prepared to make, and would endeavour to prevent it.
She put on her hat and mantle, and quietly left the house. A few doors down the street she met 'Melia Jane.
"Why, Miss Phœbe!" cried that model servant-of-all-work. "Where are you going all alone?"
"If my aunt or my cousin asks for me," said Phœbe, hurriedly, "tell them I have gone to Parksides to see my father."
Before 'Melia Jane could reply, Phœbe had turned the corner of the street, and was hastening to the railway station.
At five o'clock of the following afternoon two men paused in front of Uncle Leth's house in Camden Town, and looked up at the windows.
"This is the number," said one.
"Yes," replied the other; "she lives here."
A rat-tat with the knocker brought 'Melia Jane to the street door.
"Is Mr. Lethbridge at home?" asked one of the men.
"No, sir," replied 'Melia Jane; "he's at his bank."
"Is Mrs. Lethbridge in?"
"Yes, sir."
"Her niece, Miss Phœbe Farebrother, is stopping here, is she not?"
"Yes, sir."
"Isshein?"
"Yes, sir; but you can't see her, if that's what you've come for."
"Why can't we see her?"
"'Cause she's too ill to be seen by anybody but us. Poor thing! she's no sooner out of one fit than she's into another."
"Ah!" And the speaker glanced at his companion. "I'm sorry to hear it—very, very sorry." His voice was soothing and sympathizing, and 'Melia Jane, who had not been too favourably impressed by the strangers, became instantly mollified. "How long has she been ill?"
"Oh, come!" exclaimed 'Melia Jane, relapsing into her original view. "Youdon't belong to the family, as I'm aware of."
"No, we do not, my good girl," observed the man; "but that would not prevent me from feeling pity for any young lady who is ill, I hope." He smiled so kindly upon 'Melia Jane that she did not know what to think of him. "Perhaps it's what occurred last night that has upset her?"
"I don't know what occurred last night," said 'Melia Jane, sharply; "do you?"
"Why, my girl, a number of things occur every night. Which particular one do you refer to?"
"I once knowed a girl," said 'Melia Jane, with an air of scornful defiance, "who knowed another girl who had a friend who lived in Pump Court."
"Well?" said the stranger, seemingly much amused.
"In Pump Court he lived," said 'Melia Jane. "And he livedbyit as well asinit. Lor' bless you! The artful way in which he'd pump people, so's to get out of 'em every blessed thing he wanted to know—it was a sight, that's what it was!"
The man laughed heartily. "So you think we've come to pump you, my good girl! Perhaps you're right and perhaps you're wrong. Now if I were to ask you whether Miss Phœbe Farebrother slept at home last night—I mean here, in her aunt's house—I suppose you would call that pumping?"
"I should—and I shouldn't answer you."
"But why, my good girl?—why? Is there any reason for secrecy in so simple a matter? However, I willnotask you, and in proof that I'm not quite the bad sort of fellow you take me for, I will just inquire whether this brooch belongs to Miss Farebrother."
He produced the brooch which Mrs. Pamflett had given to Phœbe on her birthday.
"Yes, it's hern," said 'Melia Jane, holding out her hand for it.
"Did she wear it yesterday?"
"Pumping ag'in!"
"My good girl, you're enough to put one out of patience. Isn't it an act of kindness to restore lost property? But one must be sure first that it gets back into the hands of the right owner. Can you remember whether Miss Farebrother wore this brooch yesterday?"
"No, I can't remember. And now I come to think of it, I 'ain't seen her wear it for a long time past."
"But she wore this yesterday." He produced a veil.
"Yes," said 'Melia Jane, a little eagerly; "she had it on when she went away last night to—"
"Why don't you finish, my good girl? When she went away last night to Parksides." He returned the brooch and the veil to his pocket. "I won't trouble you any more. Be kind enough to tell Mrs. Lethbridge that we wish to see her."
"What name shall I say?"
"Never mind the name; she will not know it. You can say, on particular business."
Leaving the men in the passage with the street door open, 'Melia Jane went up to Phœbe's bedroom, and gave the message to her mistress, who came down at once, and asked the stranger what his business was.
"It will be best for me to speak to you in private," said the man.
Aunt Leth led the visitors into the parlour, and the one who had spoken all through commenced the conversation.
"My name is Beeminster, and I am attached to the police force. I am engaged upon an inquiry of a serious nature, and it has, in the first place, led me to your house."
Aunt Leth's heart fainted within her. Knowing nothing whatever of business, or of the pains and penalties attending the dishonouring of an acceptance for three hundred pounds, she feared that the terrible anxieties through which she had passed with respect to her husband's liability were about to be renewed. She had believed that this special difficulty had been happily tided over for a time, and her reason for this belief needs in this place a word of explanation.
Almost heart-broken, Uncle Leth had left his home on this morning to walk to the bank in which he had held an honourable though humble position all his life. He could not touch his breakfast; he could not speak; he could scarcely see before him. So utterly prostrate was he that his wife had refrained from uttering a single word upon another anxious subject which filled her with alarm. Phœbe had been absent all the night, and had returned as Uncle Leth was getting out of bed. Her condition was so pitiable as to cause Aunt Leth and Fanny the utmost distress. There were marks of violence upon her, she was bruised and bleeding, her clothes were torn, her mind was distraught. They could get nothing from her but sobs and tears. On the previous night when her absence was remarked, and they learnt from 'Melia Jane that she had gone to Parksides, they were almost distracted. Tom Barley, being off duty, was sought for immediately, and upon being made acquainted with what had taken place, had started off instantly for Parksides to protect Phœbe and bring her back. He had not much time to spare, as he had to go on his beat again early in the morning; but he managed to get to Parksides and to reconnoitre for half an hour. He did not succeed in finding Phœbe, and he was compelled to return to London without her—determined, however, to go back to Parksides when he was free again, and restore Phœbe to her relatives. Phœbe's reappearance in Camden Town rendered the carrying out of his resolution unnecessary. He had seen something at Parksides which perplexed and troubled him; but he had mentioned it to no one.
Utterly absorbed and overwhelmed by the disgrace and ruin with which he was threatened, Uncle Leth knew nothing of Phœbe's absence or return, and he started for his bank with so heavy a weight upon his heart that he almost prayed for death. No day-dreams on this morning; the reality was too crushing. He thought it was a dull morning; but the sun was shining and the air was sweet So he walked on—to ruin, as he believed.
But a wonderful thing occurred, and yet a simple thing. For, surely, when, within a quarter of a mile of the bank he was clapped on the shoulder by Fred Cornwall, an incident so trivial was scarcely worth a second thought. But when he reflected upon it afterward, he was of the opinion that it was worth much more than a second thought, and that indeed it was the most wonderful thing that ever happened to him, that for the first time in his life he should be clapped on his shoulder by Fred Cornwall while he was walking to business. Not only the most wonderful thing, but the most fortunate, as it turned out.
Fred greeted him heartily and cordially, and he made no reply. At first Fred did not notice his strange silence, for the young man was bubbling over with an event of great importance which had on this morning occurred in his own career. He had received a brief in a case in which some hundreds of thousands of pounds were involved, and he was in high feather about it. With great animation he made Uncle Leth acquainted with this piece of good fortune, and went on talking and talking until Uncle Leth's singular silence and abstraction had their effect upon him, and he suddenly paused and asked Uncle Leth whether he was unwell.
"Pardon me, Mr. Cornwall," said Uncle Leth humbly; "I have not understood a word of what you were saying."
The "Mr." Cornwall struck strangely upon Fred's ears. It had always been Fred; but the fact was, Uncle Leth, feeling that he had lost his honoured place in the world, deemed the familiarity an act of presumption on his part. Therefore the "Mr." instead of Fred.
Then Fred, bending down to look into Uncle Leth's face, saw that there were tears in his eyes. Uncle Leth was as tall as Fred, but on this morning he stooped lower than usual; if he could have hid his face from the sight of all men, he would have been glad to do so.
"Uncle Leth," said Fred gently, "what is the matter?"
"Don't speak to me like that," sobbed Uncle Leth, turning away; "don't speak to me like that!"
"Ah, but I must," said Fred, hooking his arm in Uncle Leth's. "You are in trouble, and you want me to run. Not likely, Uncle Leth. I love you and yours too deeply. Only one word first. Has Phœbe anything to do with it?"
"No, Fred."
"Youarein trouble?"
"Yes."
"About money?"
"Yes."
"Then tell me all about it. I give you my honest word I will not leave you till you do. You have a good ten minutes to spare. You started from home earlier than usual this morning."
It was a fact, but until this moment Uncle Leth had not been aware of it.
"Now tell me, Uncle Leth."
And so, in less than the ten minutes there were to spare, the story of the impending ruin was told.
"And is that all?" cried Fred, to Uncle Leth's astonishment.
Uncle Leth strove to disengage his arm from Fred's. It was cruel of the young man to make light of such a blow. But Fred held Uncle Leth's arm all the tighter, and he could not release himself.
"Do they know it at home?" asked Fred.
"Yes."
"And you have left all of them in trouble?"
"They are heart-broken," sobbed Uncle Leth; "and so am I!"
"Now, Uncle Leth," said Fred, with a comfortable squeeze at Uncle Leth's arm, "just you listen to me a moment. There is nothing to be heart-broken about when you have a friend like me at your elbow."
"Don't mock me, Fred."
"God forbid that I should! What! After all your sweet goodness to my darling Phœbe! after all your kindness to me, to think that I should mock you! I am going to get you out of your trouble. A nice thing friendship would be if it wasn't equal to such a little matter as this!"
"A little matter, Fred! You call it a little matter!"
"Of course I do. On my word and honour as a man, as a true friend, you shall have the acceptance for three hundred pounds in your hands, if not to-night, at all events to-morrow. Give me the name and address of the man who holds it and who demands his pound of flesh. He shall have it to the last grain. Leave it to me, and go to your work with a cheerful heart."
"Do you mean it, Fred?" asked Uncle Leth, solemnly.
"As truly as I stand here! As truly as I love my Phœbe, the dearest girl in all the wide world, of whom I should be unworthy if I failed you at such a pinch—as truly as I hope, despite all obstacles, to make her my wife, and to live a long and happy life with her! Quick, now, your time is almost up. Give me Shylock's name and address, and the thing is done. Ah; that is it, is it? I shall be able to settle the affair with him."
"God bless you, Fred!" said Uncle Leth, carried away by the young man's impetuous enthusiasm. "God in heaven bless you!"
"I hope so. And you and yours, and my own dear girl! Why, here's a telegraph office, three doors from the bank! We have just forty-five seconds to send a telegram to Aunt Leth. I will write it out. 'My dear Wife,—Do not worry about the bill. It is paid, and I am happy. God bless all at home! Uncle Leth.' How much? One-and-a-penny-ha'penny. How is that? Oh yes, the address! Quite right. Tenpence-ha'penny change. Thank you. Now, here we are outside, and there's your bank; and—hi!—here's a hansom. Good-bye, Uncle Leth. What a lovely morning!"
He rung Uncle Leth's hand, gave him a bright smile, jumped into the cab, and was whirled away.
How he managed it need not be here recapitulated. Sufficient that hedidmanage it, and that the affair was arranged before one o'clock. Perhaps he borrowed a trifle from a friend or two; perhaps he scraped up every shilling of his own; perhaps he paid a business visit to a gentleman whose trade-mark was three beautiful golden balls; perhaps he left another acceptance for a smaller amount than the original bill, with his own and a good friend's name on it, in Shylock's hands. But all the "perhapsing" in the world would have been useless had he not succeeded in bringing the matter to a satisfactory issue. And there he was at the bank exactly as the clock struck one, and asking to be allowed to say a word to Mr. Lethbridge, whispered in his ear, "It is all right."
After this breaking out of the sun in the dear home in Camden Town, with respect to the money trouble, Aunt Leth's heart, as has been stated, fainted within her when Mr. Beeminster, introducing himself, said that he had called upon an inquiry of a serious nature. She mustered courage to say: "Is it anything about a debt? Is it anything about my husband?"
Mr. Beeminster stared at her, and answered: "No, not that I am aware of. The inquiry upon which I am engaged relates to Miss Farebrother—your niece—and her father."
A sigh of relief escaped Aunt Leth's bosom, and Mr. Beeminster stared the harder at her.
"Have you heard anything?" he asked. "Do you know what has occurred?"
"I do not understand you," she replied.
"Miss Farebrother has resided with you for—how long?"
"I cannot exactly say. For some time; since she left her father's house and came to us. But why do you question me?"
"You are not compelled to answer. It may be that you have something to conceal."
"I have nothing to conceal," said Aunt Leth indignantly.
"Or that, Miss Farebrother having got herself into trouble, it is your wish to screen her."
"My niece has not got herself into trouble," said Aunt Leth, feeling herself in a certain sense helpless in the hands of this man. "She is not capable of doing anything wrong. I will answer any reasonable questions you may put to me."
"It may be as well. Otherwise you might be suspected of a guilty knowledge. Miss Farebrother left her father's house and came to reside with you?"
"Yes; she has been in the habit of coming and stopping with us, from time to time, since she was a child."
"But never for so long a time as this?"
"That is true. We have a deep love for her. Our home is hers."
"She ought to be grateful for it."
"She is."
"Her friends will best serve her by being open and frank."
"But what has our dear child done?" asked Aunt Leth, in an imploring tone. "What has she done?"
"You will hear presently, if you have a little patience. On this last occasion of her coming to you did she do so with her father's consent?"
"It is a family secret," replied Aunt Leth despairingly.
"It will tell against her if you refuse to answer. I am here in the cause of justice."
"Of justice?"
"Yes, of justice. You refuse, then, to say whether she left her home in Parksides with her father's consent?"
"I do not refuse. Her father was not kind to her; he turned her from his house."
"Then when she came here they were not upon friendly terms. It is the construction which every person would place upon it. Have you any objection to say why he turned her from his house?"
"He wished to force her into a hateful marriage; she would not consent."
"Were you and her father upon friendly terms?"
"We were not."
"You harboured her, then, against his wish?"
"She had no other shelter. We have always regarded her as a child of our own. Her mother was my sister."
"I know it. Since she has been living permanently with you has Miss Farebrother heard from her father?"
"He wrote to her, but not in answer to any letter of hers."
"Did he not say in his communication that if she would obey him she could return to Parksides?"
"Yes," said Aunt Leth, amazed at the extent of Mr. Beeminster's knowledge, and in an agony of apprehension.
"Did Miss Farebrother reply to that letter?"
"No, she did not."
"I suppose that her conduct met with your approval? She would be guided by you?"
"I endeavoured to guide her aright. Her father showed no love for her."
"But you may be prejudiced. Since your marriage there has been no love lost between you and Miser Farebrother?"
"I cannot deny it."
"I beg your pardon; these are matters which, perhaps, I should not go into. They will, no doubt, be investigated elsewhere. They are, however, an evidence of prejudice. Did Miss Farebrother leave your house last night?"
"She did."
"With your knowledge and consent?"
"We did not know of it until she was gone. She met our servant, and gave her a message to us that she had gone to Parksides."
"Did you send after her?"
"We did."
"Who was your messenger?"
"A young man of the name of Barley."
"Barley!" said Mr. Beeminster, turning to his companion with a look of intelligence. "Tom Barley?"
"Yes."
"There is a man of that name in the force."
"It is the same. He is a policeman."
"Ah! Did he obtain any information of her?"
"No. He could not remain long away. He had to return to his duty here in London."
"So that he came back alone?"
"Yes."
"Miss Farebrother, however, came back?"
"Yes."
"She is in the house now?"
"She is."
"I believe she is not well?"
"She is very ill, and I am anxious to go to her."
"A little patience, please, and all will be cleared up. At what hour of the night or morning did she come back?"
"At between nine and ten o'clock this morning."
"A strange hour for a young lady to come home. Had she been to Parksides?"
"I do not know to a certainty."
"She has not told you?"
"No."
"Did she see her father?"
"I cannot say."
"You do not know? She has not told you?"
"She has not."
"Then if she went to Parksides and saw her father, she is concealing the fact from you?" Aunt Leth did not reply. These cold, relentless questions, with their strange and close adherence to fact, bewildered her. "When she left this house last night she was in good health. Contradict me if such is not the case, and in anything I may say which is opposed to the truth. She was in good health at that time. She returned this morning, sick and ill. Has she worn this veil lately?" He produced it, and handed it to Aunt Leth.
"She wore it yesterday."
"She must have worn it when she went out last night. It was found in the grounds of Parksides to-day. Therefore Miss Farebrother must have been there. Do you recognize this brooch?"
He handed her the brooch he had shown to 'Melia Jane.
"It was given to my dear niece by her father's house-keeper."
"Mrs. Pamflett?"
"Yes."
"It was found in the grounds of Parksides to-day." Mr. Beeminster took his companion aside and whispered a few words to him; the man nodded and left the room. Aunt Leth heard him close the street door behind him. "When, within your knowledge, did Miss Farebrother wear this brooch last?"
"I cannot say positively; it is a long time since. I believe she did not bring it away with her from Parksides when she left her father's house to come to us."
"Can you swear to that?"
"No; but my niece will be able to tell you."
"I shall not ask her; it might be used in evidence against her."
"In evidence against her! For God's sake tell me what you are here for! Do not keep me any longer in suspense!"
"Not for a moment longer. Miser Farebrother is dead."
"Dead!"
"Dead. Found murdered this morning in the grounds at Parksides. A cruel murder. I have brought a copy of an evening paper with me containing the information. It was just out as I came here. Would you like to read it? But you do not seem in a fit state. I will read it to you."
Mr. Beeminster unfolded the paper and read:
"Frightful Murder.—A Mysterious Case.
"This morning, at eleven o'clock, the discovery was made of a horrible murder committed on a small estate known as Parksides, on the outskirts of Beddington.
"For a number of years Parksides has been inhabited by a man who, from some cause or other, was generally spoken of as Miser Farebrother. He was a man, it is understood, of penurious habits, and the only servant in the house was a house-keeper, Mrs. Pamflett. He had one child, a daughter, who for some time past has not resided with him, but who found a home with an aunt and uncle living in London. Mrs. Pamflett bore the reputation of being an attentive and capable servant, and of faithfully performing her duty. Like her master, however, she was not a favourite in the village. The establishment altogether was not in good repute, although the only charge that can be brought against the inmates is that they did not court society, and kept themselves from their neighbours. This remark does not apply to Miser Farebrother's daughter. She was generally liked, and has been in the habit of going frequently to London and paying long visits to her aunt and uncle. The only persons in Parksides yesterday, until the afternoon, were Miser Farebrother and Mrs. Pamflett, the house-keeper. Then the house-keeper was sent by her master to the telegraph office with a message to his manager in London, requesting him to come down to Parksides, presumably upon business. The business conducted in London was a money-lending business, and—Miser Farebrother being confined to his house by gout and rheumatism—the confidential manager here was Mr. Jeremiah Pamflett, the son of the house-keeper. Before the telegram could reach him in London Mr. Pamflett was on his way to his master, having an important matter of business to discuss with him. The business settled, Mr. Pamflett left for London.
"At about ten o'clock last night a man called at Parksides to see Miser Farebrother, and being expected, was admitted to Miser Farebrother's room. For the last three or four years this man has been in the habit of paying periodical visits to Miser Farebrother: he always came at night, and always departed after the house-keeper had retired to rest. This was in accordance with her master's orders. Last night as usual she retired to her room while her master and his visitor were closeted together. Before seeking her rest, however, she paused outside the door of her master's apartment, and inquired whether she could do anything for him. He called out to her that he did not require anything further from her, and that she was to go to bed. She obeyed him, and getting into bed, was soon asleep. She describes herself as a sound sleeper, and difficult to awake. It was strange, therefore, that she should awake in the middle of the night, with an impression that some person had entered the house. She looked at her watch; it was twenty minutes past one o'clock. Not being satisfied with a mere impression, she left her room in her night-dress and went down to the kitchen. There, to her surprise, she saw Miser Farebrother's daughter. The house-keeper does not know how she got into the house, nor for how long a time she had been there. Miss Farebrother asked her angrily why she came down without being summoned, and the house-keeper, in explanation, replied that she had been awakened by a sound of some person moving in the house, and that she naturally came down to see what it was. Still speaking in anger, Miss Farebrother said that she was mistress there, and she ordered the house-keeper back to her room. After this order there was no apparent reason why the house-keeper should remain, and she retired from the kitchen and went to bed again. As she left the kitchen she observed a large knife, with a horn handle, which she frequently used for rough work, lying on the table.
"As she lay in bed the house-keeper shortly afterward heard the voices of two persons in altercation in the grounds, and she recognised the voices of her master and his daughter. It seemed to her that they were wrangling violently, but this was not an unusual occurrence when Miss Farebrother was at Parksides. Miser Farebrother was, besides, a person of eccentric habits. He was frequently in the habit of wandering through his grounds in the middle of the night. The sounds grew fainter, as though the miser and his daughter were walking away; or, as the house-keeper explains, they may have entered the house and ceased their dispute. However it was, she fell asleep again, and did not awake till morning. Going down to her work, she found everything as she had left it on the previous night, with the exception that the knife with the horn handle was missing.
"Miser Farebrother usually rang for the house-keeper at nine o'clock in the morning. On this morning, however, he did not summon her at the accustomed time. Neither to this circumstance did she attach any particular importance.
"When ten o'clock struck, however, the house-keeper felt it strange that she did not hear her master's bell. She waited another half-hour, and then she went to his room. She knocked, and received no answer. Then she opened the door, and found that the room was empty, and that there was no appearance of the bed having been slept in. Somewhat alarmed, but still not suspecting the dreadful truth, she went to her young mistress's room. That also was empty, and the bed had not been occupied.
"Her alarm increased. She searched the grounds for her master and mistress. Her mistress she did not find. Her master she did. He was lying upon the ground, at some distance from the house. Bending over him, she was horrified by the discovery that he was dead—not only that he was dead, but that he had been cruelly, ruthlessly murdered! A dreadful wound was in his breast, and near him was the knife with the horn handle, clotted with blood.
"She rushed into the village, and brought assistance back—a doctor and a policeman, who were followed by two or three idlers. It needed only a slight examination on the part of the doctor to prove that a frightful murder had been committed.
"Here, for the present, the matter rests. The inquest will be held to-morrow.
"Certain discoveries have already been made which it would be premature here to refer to. The affair is in the hands of the police, who are confident they will succeed in bringing the murderer to justice."
Aunt Leth listened to the account of the murder with a feeling of unutterable horror. Quiet and observant, Mr. Beeminster carefully folded the newspaper and put it into his pocket, saying as he did so:
"The 'certain discoveries' to which the newspaper reporter says it would be premature to refer are Miss Farebrother's brooch and veil which were picked up in the grounds."
"Gracious God!" cried Aunt Leth, with a pallid face and horror-struck eyes. "You do not—you cannot suspect—"
"Best to say as little as possible," said Mr. Beeminster, rising.
"You brought a companion in with you," said Aunt Leth. "What was it you whispered to him, and why did he go away?"
Mr. Beeminster was standing near the window, which faced the street. He looked out, and Aunt Leth's eyes followed the direction of his. The man she referred to was on the opposite side of the road, strolling a few steps leisurely this way and that, but never too far to lose a clear view of the house upon which his eyes were fixed.
"Have you placed him there to watch us?" asked Aunt Leth, faintly. "And for what reason?"
"A murder has been committed," replied Mr. Beeminster. "Miss Farebrother will most likely be served with a notice to attend the inquest to-morrow."
"It will kill her! it will kill her!" cried Aunt Leth.
Mr. Beeminster, without replying, quietly left the room.
So overwhelming was Aunt Leth's despair after Mr. Beeminster's departure that she almost lost her senses. She could not think coherently, but she had a vague consciousness that something—she knew not what—must be immediately done, and she put her hands over her face and pressed her forehead hard in the endeavour to recall her wandering thoughts. She was not successful; her mind grew more confused, and she might have remained for a long time in this most terrible bewilderment had it not been for a loud and rapid knocking at the street door. The interruption had a salutary effect upon her; it caused her to start to her feet, and to become sensible to what was actually occurring. What did that knocking portend? Some fresh calamity?
"Fred! Fred!" she cried.
He hastened into the room, and she fell into his arms, and sobbed there hysterically.
"Aunt Leth! Aunt Leth!" said Fred, in a soothing tone. "There, there, be calm! You have heard the dreadful news, then?"
"And you," whispered Aunt Leth, amazed that he should be so cool: his voice was solemn, it is true, but there was in it no note of despair: "you know all?"
"All," he replied. "I bought a newspaper, and came here at once. Has Phœbe been told?"
"No."
"My poor girl!" said Fred. "How will she bear it?"
"What paper did you buy?" asked Aunt Leth, bewildered by his manner.
He gave it to her, and wiping the tears from her eyes and looking at the column he pointed out, she saw that it was a different newspaper from that which Mr. Beeminster had brought with him. Fred's newspaper contained the simple announcement that Miser Farebrother had been found dead in his grounds at Parksides under such circumstances as would lead to the belief that he had been murdered.
"You do not know the worst," said Aunt Leth; and then, in as calm a voice as she could command, she related what had occurred.
He listened in horror and amazement. Until this moment he had been ignorant of Phœbe's visit to Parksides on the previous night, and of her return to Camden Town at ten o'clock that morning; and he instantly saw that his darling girl was in peril. The name of the paper from which Mr. Beeminster had read the account of the murder was being called in the street by a newspaper boy, and Fred darted out and purchased a copy. After perusing the report he remained quiet for a minute or two, with his head resting in his hand. "We must be calm, Aunt Leth," he said. "There is in this paper the first notes of a terrible accusation against our dear girl. It is due to Mrs. Pamflett's malice. She shall be punished for it—she and her infamous son!"
"You will protect Phœbe!" implored Aunt Leth, laying her hand on Fred's arm. "You will save her!"
"I will protect and save her. My poor Phœbe! my poor Phœbe! But she will be able to clear up the mystery, although she may not lead us immediately to the discovery of the actual murderer. She can give us an explanation of her own movements. What has she told you, Aunt Leth?"
"I have not got one sensible word from her, Fred, since she came home."
"What does the doctor say?"
"That she must be kept quiet. He is coming again this evening."
"I must see her, if only for a moment. I will not agitate her, but it is imperative that we learn something from her which will enable us to act. Take me to her, Aunt Leth."
Aunt Leth recognized the reasonableness of Fred's request, and she led him upstairs to the bedroom. Fanny was there, her eyes red with weeping.
"Has she spoken, Fanny?" asked Aunt Leth. "Has she said anything?"
"Only one word, mamma. Oh, Fred, isn't this dreadful! There, mamma, that is all she says—'Father! father!'"
"Go out of the room for a little while, Fanny," said Fred Cornwall. "You can return when we leave." And then to Aunt Leth, when Fanny was gone, "Does Fanny know of Mr. Beeminster's visit?"
"She knows nothing, Fred," replied Aunt Leth.
It required a supreme effort on Fred's part to control his agitation as he gazed upon the white pitiful face of his dear girl. Her body was quite still, but her head tossed from side to side on the pillow, and in her distressful moans there could be distinguished but one word—"Father! father! father!" repeated incessantly.
"Phœbe!" whispered Fred, bending over her.
"She recognizes no one, Fred," whispered Aunt Leth; "not even me or Fanny."
They remained with the suffering girl for a quarter of an hour, and then they stole softly from her bedside and went down-stairs. Fred was very grave; he realized that his dear one was in no light peril.
"Mr. Beeminster set a man to watch the house," said Aunt Leth, pointing to the window.
Fred looked out, and then, saying he would not be gone a minute, left the house.
"There is a man watching also at the back of the house," he said, when he returned.
"Oh, Fred," cried Aunt Leth, "what does it all really mean?"
"The meaning is clear enough," replied Fred, and the concentrated expression on his face showed how busily his mind was employed; "there has been a suspicion of the horrible crime thrown upon the suffering angel upstairs. If I were only Phœbe's lover, Aunt Leth, I should be in a fury of rage at the wicked accusation; but I am her champion and her defender, and I must keep my feelings well under control, or I shall not be able to serve her. Some devilish plot has been invented, and we must meet it. Phœbe, by her actions last night and this morning, even by the state in which she now lies, unfortunately gives some colour to the vile, infernal accusation. Everything depends upon coolness. Such strange cases are being daily brought to light that the public are ready to believe anything. Now tell me: what was Phœbe's motive in leaving last night for Parksides without first letting you know?"
"I can only guess at it, Fred; but I am sure it is the truth. We were in the most dreadful trouble—I thought nothing worse could happen to us, but I was mistaken; this is a thousand times more terrible!"
"Don't give way, Aunt Leth. Remember what I said: everything depends upon coolness. I know of your trouble, and that you are, thank God! out of it; it was a money trouble, and the money is paid."
"Yes, Fred; but how did you know?"
"Never mind; go on about Phœbe."
"We were sitting in the dark, talking and mourning over it. My husband was in despair. There was only one way to prevent ruin, and that was to obtain a sum of money at once—it was three hundred pounds, Fred; a fortune—and we saw no way. So we sat talking, and trying to console each other. Suddenly I missed Phœbe; she had left the room so quietly that we did not observe it. A little while afterward 'Melia Jane told us that she had met Phœbe, who had given her a message to us that she had gone to Parksides to see her father. There was but one reason for her doing this; it was to try and obtain the money from her father that would prevent us being turned into the streets. She must have left us just as my husband was saying that as he walked to the bank he had a dream of hope, and that an angel had come forward to save us. Then, I suppose, the idea occurred to our dear girl to go to her father and entreat him to help us. If she had spoken to me first, I should have convinced her of the impossibility of her errand meeting with success."
"You have placed the right construction upon her leaving unknown to you. She felt that if you suspected her intention she would be unable to carry it out. When you put her to bed this morning did you search her pockets?"
"Yes, Fred; and I hoped to find something that would clear up the mystery. I found nothing."
"You found something," said Fred. "Her handkerchief, her purse?"
"Yes, of course, those; and her gloves."
"She was not wearing them, then?"
"No."
"Was there any money in her purse?"
"Not one penny, Fred."
"I hear 'Melia Jane's step on the stairs; I must have a word with her." He went to the door and called the girl, who entered the room. "I want to ask you a question or two," he said to her. "In answering me do not say a word you are not certain of."
"I won't, Mr. Cornwall," said 'Melia Jane.
"When you met Miss Phœbe last night did she seem very much agitated?"
"Very much, Mr. Cornwall. More nor I can express. She was crying, but she didn't want me to see. She tried to keep her face from me."
"You did not attempt to stop her? You asked her no questions?"
"Lor', Mr. Cornwall, she didn't give me time to get out a single word! She said what she had got to say, and she ran away like lightning."
"Did she wear a veil?"
"Yes, Mr. Cornwall, she did. The veil that man as come 'ere this afternoon showed me, and arksed me whether Miss Phœbe wore it last night when she went away. 'Owever he got 'old of it is more than I can guess."
"When he asked you whether Miss Phœbe wore the veil, what did you say?"
"I sed, yes, she did. And he showed me a brooch, and wanted to git me to say that she wore that last night; but I didn't, because I ain't seen that brooch on Miss Phœbe for a long time."
"You could swear," said Fred, eagerly, "that she did not wear a brooch when you saw her last night?"
"No, Mr. Cornwall, I couldn't swear that. I could swear I didn't see it—that's all. But I could swear to the veil."
Fred bit his lip. "If any man you don't know asks you any further questions about Miss Phœbe, do not answer him."
"I won't, Mr. Cornwall; they sha'n't pump me. That feller tried to, but he didn't git very much."
"He got enough," thought Fred, and said aloud, "That will do, 'Melia Jane; you can go. And now, Aunt Leth, quite apart from the statement which Mrs. Pamflett gave the reporters, it is proved that Phœbe was at Parksides last night. How did she get there?"
"I really can't say, Fred. I think she must have been too late for the last train."
"Have you an 'A B C' in the house?"
"No."
"I must see at what time the last train starts. Do you think she came back to London by the train this morning?"
"I don't know, Fred. Poor child! her feet were very much blistered."
"Good God! Surely she could not have walked!" He paced the room in great excitement. "About the brooch, Aunt Leth? Can you fix any definite time—any particular day—on which you last saw it in Phœbe's possession?"
"No, Fred; but I am sure I haven't seen it for a good many weeks."
"That she has not worn it for a good many weeks?"
"Not to my knowledge."
"You could not swear she has not worn it?"
"No."
"You could not swear she did not wear it last night?"
"No. But it is scarcely likely, with her feelings toward that wretch Mrs. Pamflett, that she would ever wear it after she was turned out of her father's house. What I am saying seems to trouble you."
"It does trouble me. I pray that I may be wrong in my impressions, but I fear that dark days are before us."
"If we speak the truth, Fred, there is nothing to fear."
"I am not so sure," said Fred, gloomily.
"But wemustspeak the truth, Fred!"
"Yes; it must be spoken—by us at least."
"Your fears may be groundless, Fred."
"I am afraid not."
"All we can do is to hope for the best."
"Not at all, Aunt Leth. What we have to do is to work for the best. Hoping never yet overcame a villainous plot. I must go now. There is much to do. I shall be here again in the evening."
The following report of the inquest appeared in the special editions of the evening papers on the following evening:
"The inquest upon the body of the gentleman known as 'Miser' Farebrother, who was found dead in the grounds of Parksides, was held in Beddington this morning.
"The coroner, addressing the jury, said that they were about to investigate what there was little reason to doubt was a foul murder. Certain witnesses were present whose evidence would enable them to decide under what circumstances death had taken place. He was informed that one witness was absent whose evidence might have an important bearing upon the inquiry, although it would not probably alter the verdict which would be given. Their first duty was to identify the body of the dead man.
"This being done, the actual inquiry commenced. The first witness called was Mrs. Deborah Pamflett. Before she was examined, however, Mr. Frederick Cornwall, barrister, rose, and asked to be allowed to say a few words.
"The Coroner: 'Have they any bearing upon this inquiry?'
"Mr. Cornwall: 'A direct bearing. I appear here to watch the case on behalf of the only child of the murdered man, and I request permission to put some questions to the witnesses, if I consider it necessary to do so.'
"The Coroner: 'I shall have no objection to pertinent questions being put to the witnesses, but it must be done through me.'
"Mr. Cornwall: 'I thank you, sir. You have referred to the absence of a witness whose evidence would be likely to have an important bearing upon this inquiry. I assume that the witness referred to is the lady I represent. An unhappy circumstance prevents her attendance. I hand you a certificate, signed by two doctors, to the effect that Miss Farebrother is suffering from brain-fever, and that she is not in a fit state to be removed from the house in which she is lying, or to be examined either there or here. Were she well enough she would be present on this occasion, painful as it would be to her.'
"The Coroner: 'In whose house is Miss Farebrother being nursed?'
"Mr. Cornwall: 'In her aunt's house in Camden Town. You will find the exact address on the certificate.'
"The certificate was handed in, and the examination of Mrs. Pamflett was proceeded with.
"'Your name is Deborah Pamflett?'—'Yes.'
"'You are a widow?'—'Yes.'
"'In the service of the deceased?'—'Yes.'
"'In what capacity?'—'As his house-keeper.'
"'How long have you been so employed?'—'Eighteen years.'
"'Were there any other servants in the house?'—'None.'
"'Not at any time during your service?'—'Not at any time.'
"'Of how many persons did the household of the deceased consist?'—'Usually of three—himself, his daughter and me.'
"'Why do you say usually?'—'Because his daughter was frequently absent on visits to her aunt and uncle, in London.'
"'Was she absent on the day of the death of your master?'—'She had been absent from the house for some weeks, but on the night my master met his death she was present.'
"'Relate the occurrences of that day, as far as your memory will serve you.'—'My memory is pretty faithful. My master rose at his usual hour, and the day passed quietly. He received one visitor in the afternoon—my son, who managed his business for him in London, and who, I believe, will be examined here. Before my son arrived my master sent me to the telegraph office with a message to him, asking him to come upon business. My son, however, anticipated the message, and alighted from the train just as I sent off the message. He met me in the village, and we walked to Parksides together. When I went to my master and told him that my son had arrived, he expressed himself as being very pleased. Between my master and my son the most friendly and cordial relations existed; they never had a word of difference. This made my own service in the house very pleasant, so far as my master was concerned. I was present during some portion of the time my son was with our master, who spoke in great praise of the way my son was conducting the London business. They had tea together in my master's room, and after that my son left for London.'
"'At what hour did he leave?'—'At about seven o'clock. I did not take particular note of the time, there being no occasion for it, but that was about the hour, within a few minutes one way or another. At eight o'clock my master rang the bell for me, and I went up to him. I was in the habit of sitting with him often when there was no one else in the house, and sometimes of reading the paper to him. He was very lonely, and very much troubled and unhappy about his daughter.'
"Mr. Cornwall (rising): 'I submit, sir, that these observations do not come within the scope of the present inquiry.'
"The Coroner: 'I think the witness is giving her evidence fairly. It will, however, be as well that she should confine herself as much as possible to facts.'
"Witness: 'I am stating facts, sir.'
"The Coroner: 'I mean facts relating to the death of the deceased. It is sufficient, perhaps, at present to know that there was some disturbance of those affectionate relations which should exist between father and daughter.' To witness: 'Under what circumstances did Miss Farebrother, on the last occasion, leave her father's house? I must request you not to interrupt the proceedings, Mr. Cornwall. You are here only upon courtesy.'
"Mr. Cornwall: I might contest that, sir; but I will interrupt as little as possible.'
"The Coroner (to witness): 'Answer my question.'—'I do not know the precise circumstances, sir. All I know is that they had a violent quarrel late at night, and that Miss Farebrother left against her father's wish, and without his consent. After her departure he was very unhappy, and shed tears.'
"The Coroner: 'Proceed now with the events of the day you are describing.'—'I sat with my master till ten o'clock, and then there was a ring at the gate bell. My master said it was a visitor he was expecting, and I went down and admitted him. I do not know his name, but for the last three or four years he came perhaps four or five times a year—always at night—and he and my master would be closeted together for two or three hours. On this occasion that he was with my master I went down to the kitchen, and did my work there. I put everything in order, and saw that the things were in their right places. Among other things, the knives, which I kept in the dresser drawer.'
"'Have you any reason for particularly mentioning the knives?'—'Yes, sir. Among them was a large knife with a horn handle, which I had recently sharpened. My work being finished, I went up to my bedroom, stopping on my way outside my master's door, and asking him whether he wanted anything. He answered no, and that I was to get to bed. It was his usual answer, and I obeyed him; there was nothing to excite my suspicions. At a little after eleven I was in bed and asleep. I slept for over two hours, and then I awoke. Sounds in the lower part of the house had roused me. I listened, and heard some one moving about. Lighting a candle, I looked at my watch. It was twenty minutes past one. I was not easy in my mind, and I went down-stairs. I listened a moment at my master's door, but all was still in the room. There was a light there, however, and I knocked softly. I got no answer, and I gently tried the handle; the door was unlocked, and I took a step into the room. There was no one there but my master, and he was asleep in his chair. He sometimes slept so for a few hours; he suffered greatly from gout and rheumatism, and he has said to me that he felt easier in that position than in bed. I closed the door quietly and went down to the kitchen, and there, to my astonishment, I saw Miss Farebrother. She had a knife in her hand, the knife with a horn handle, and she put it hastily on the table as I entered. The drawer in which I kept my knives was open; when I went to bed I left it closed. Miss Farebrother was very angry at my making my appearance, and she asked me how I dared to play the spy upon her. I told her that I was not playing the spy, and that I had been disturbed in my sleep by a noise in the house, and I came down to see what it was. I said something, too, about how astonishing it was that she should come home at such an hour, and she replied that it was no business of mine, and that I was to go to my room at once, or she would have me bundled out of the house the first thing in the morning. It was no use answering her; she was my mistress, and I had to obey her; so I went up to my room again. I can't exactly say how long it was afterward, but it could not have been very long—perhaps half an hour or three-quarters, bringing the time to past two o'clock—that I heard the voices of my master and his daughter outside the house. Whether she had gone up to him and woke him, or whether he had gone out, as he sometimes did in the middle of the night, I don't know, but at the time I heard them they were in the grounds. They both seemed to be very angry. Miss Farebrother, as well as I could make out, was insisting that her father should give her a sum of money, and she was using threats toward him. Presently he spoke in a more gentle tone to her, and I heard him say, "Wait till I am dead and it will all be yours, if you will come back and behave as a dutiful and affectionate daughter to me." And I heard her answer: "I will do as I please and go where I please. You ought to have been dead long ago! You had better be careful!" After that the voices grew fainter and fainter, as if they were moving away.'
"The Coroner: 'Hearing what you did, why did you not go down to them?'—'I did not like to; and, to tell the truth, it would have been as much as my situation was worth to interfere. They had often quarrelled like that, though not in the exact words I heard then; and twice, some time ago, when I did interfere, I was sent away, and told not to mix myself up with family quarrels.'
"'Who used these words to you?'—'Principally Miss Farebrother; but my master also said, very sorrowfully, that I had better never trouble myself, and that my interference would only make things worse.'
"'Had they ever quarrelled in the middle of the night before?'—'Yes; and she was continually threatening him, so that there was nothing very unusual in this quarrel, although it was as bad as any that ever reached my ears.'
"'When you could no longer hear them, did you fall asleep?'—'Not immediately; perhaps not for half an hour; I can't be sure.'
"'Did you hear them return to the house?'—'I heard nothing more of them.'
"'Well, then, you fell asleep. At what hour in the morning did you awake?'—'At a little before seven—my usual time. By seven o'clock I was in the kitchen, going on with my work.'