CHAPTER IX.
The whole talk of the employés in the firm of Messrs Hindes & Son, late Hindes & Crampton, was of the extraordinary change that had taken place in their employer. Clerks, whether they be head or under clerks, are shy, as a rule, of whispering anything so derogatory to the head of their firm, as the suspicion that he takes ‘more than is good for him.’ But there was really no other possible reason to be adduced for the condition in which Henry Hindes constantly presented himself in the office. Formerly, he had been a keen, vigorous, active man of business, always ready to detect an error in the accounts, or to make a good bargain for himself andhis partner. But, since Mr Crampton’s death, he seemed as if he had lost all his capacity. Vendors, bearing samples of their wares, walked in and out of the counting-house, shaking their heads over Mr Hindes’ altered condition, and wondering what had become of the powerful brain and courteous manners, to which they had been accustomed for so long. The cashier declared he might as well take in his books to be checked by a child, for all the attention the ‘governor’ accorded them, and the younger clerks affirmed that, when they carried a message to the inner office, they had to shout at him, sometimes three or four times, before he seemed to hear them, or understand what they were saying. Had he gone deaf, they inquired amongst themselves, or was he growing stupid? He seemed to be always more or less asleep, and when roused to take an active part in the affairs of the firm, was not always as good-tempered as he might be. One lad had given him noticebecause, he said, he could not stand Mr Hindes’ bullying any longer, and this was the more remarkable, because the senior partner had ever been distinguished for his urbanity, and soft-spoken ways with all the younger members of the firm. But his office companions were on Alfred Jones’ side, for the change in Henry Hindes was too remarkable to be denied. He, who had been noted for being so well dressed and perfectly appointed, who was wont to come each morning to town in a suit of the latest fashion, with a flower in his button-hole, and his white hands carefully encased in well-fitting gloves—would now lounge in at all hours, sometimes disgracefully late, in a shooting-coat or a rough suit of tweed, with sleepy eyes and careless hair, looking as if he had just tumbled out of his bed. His manner, which had had the credit of being so polite, even when under the necessity of telling an unpleasant truth, that even strangers were warned, before they set foot in theoffice to ask, for the senior partner had become curt, irritable, and sometimes exceedingly rude, so that intending customers went away offended, and never showed their faces there again. Mr Bloxam, who had been cashier to the firm for forty years past, and known Henry Hindes from his cradle, used to shake his head, and say that the business was fast going to the devil, and the sooner they put the shutters up, the better. The younger men whispered and made jokes amongst themselves, and hinted that ‘Old Harry’ (as he was familiarly termed amongst his employés) had been looking at the outside of a whisky bottle, and things would go on much better if he would stay at home and leave them to manage the business.
But these comments, naturally, never reached the ears of the man they pointed at. The unfortunate ‘governor’ still continued to attend the office and furnish jokes for the lads under him. He was little aware of how well he deservedthem. His gait had now become slouching and he trembled as he walked. His hands shook so, that it was with difficulty he could sign his name intelligibly, and, more than once, the manager of the bank he lodged his money with, had sent over to identify his signature, it was so unlike what it used to be. He always seemed to be asleep, or nearly so. He would rouse himself with a start when spoken to, and then curse the intruder for having addressed him in so low a tone. More than one youth followed Jones out of the office, because Hindes declared he mumbled on purpose to annoy him, and he threw a heavy book at the head of a third, because, on having failed to make his master hear, he rang a hand-bell which stood at his elbow.
The office, where all had been conducted so pleasantly, was now the scene of continual quarrelling, and Henry Hindes bid fair to be left alone in his glory.
The man’s whole appearance hadchanged. His clear, keen eyes were bloodshot and dropsical looking—his nails were permitted to grow, and the skin about them to become irregular—he often appeared with an unshaven chin, and a limp collar. Mr Bloxam was the only person in the office he ever spoke to, and him he took, curiously, into his confidence, playing uncertain notes on him, as on an instrument of which he was not quite sure, but from which he longed to extract harmony.
There was a case occupying the attention of the papers just then, in which Mr Hindes seemed to take an unusual interest. A man had given himself up to justice for having committed a murder twenty years before, and the persons, who might have borne witness against him, being dead, he had provided all the necessary information himself, even taking the police to the spot where he had committed the crime, and making them disinter the dust and bones that remained of his victim. The reason thecase attracted particular attention was on account of the length of time that had elapsed since the murder, and also that the murderer had been very prosperous and esteemed since, occupied a good position in society—and had a wife and family to be plunged into disgrace by his confession.
‘I can’t understand the motive of Rayner’s confession, Bloxam,’ Henry Hindes would observe confidentially to his cashier. ‘It would never have been found out to the day of his death, and what good does the disclosure effect? Here is a respectable tradesman, with a wife and family dependent on him—respected by his friends and customers—rich and flourishing in his trade—and he throws it all away for the sake of confessing his participation in a crime which the world has forgotten ages ago, and which he cannot rectify, even by swinging on the gallows.’
‘That is true, sir,’ replied Mr Bloxam, ‘but you don’t take into considerationthat Rayner’s conscience would not, in all probability, let him keep silence any longer. A murder must lie pretty heavy on a man’s soul, Mr Hindes. I don’t suppose he has had much rest at night, poor creature, however much he may have prospered outwardly. And he is an old man too—sixty the papers say—and begins to think, no doubt, of meeting his Maker, face to face, with that sin unconfessed. My wonder is how he has managed to live through so many years with such a burthen on his conscience. He must have led a terrible life!’
Hindes’ face grew very yellow during this exordium, but the subject fascinated him, as fire is said to fascinate some people, and a precipice others, until they can hardly resist the temptation to cast themselves down headlong.
‘But why should a murder, dreadful as it is, lie so much heavier on a man’s conscience than his other sins? Look! how many murders are committed by most of us! We strike a blow, perhaps, whichmight have killed a fellow. If it had, we should have been arraigned as a murderer; since it does not, we go scot-free. But the feeling of murder was there all the same. We are just as guilty in the sight of Heaven. Why should we vex ourselves about one sin more than the other?’
‘I’m not fit to argue the point with you, Mr Henry,’ answered the cashier, ‘but there’s surely a difference! We don’t always mean to murder a friend when we hit him. If wedokill him, even by accident, we have to pay the penalty. But when a man deliberately injures another, knowing itmustkill him, like this Rayner, who strikes a fellow creature on the head with a hammer—why, that was deliberate murder—hemeantto kill Thompson, and he must be a thorough bad man to have kept the secret in his breast for twenty years. Hanging’s too good for him; that’s what everybody says.’
‘But telling won’t bring Thompson back again, that’s my argument,’ said Henry Hindes, sullenly. ‘Rayner hangs himselfby his confession, and does no one any good.’
‘Except himself, sir! He’ll save his own soul, maybe, by the expiation of his crime, however tardy. See! what a hypocritical life he must have been leading. Mixing with all sorts of people, who would have spurned him with their feet had they known his real character—kissing his innocent children and wife—setting up for a respectable member of society, when he’s the lowest creature amongst them all. The deceit has been too much for him at last, Mr Hindes, and he feels now, doubtless, that he would rather be standing on the gallows platform, as an honest man, than keep his place and go on deceiving. Why, he must have been thoroughly miserable. No one could enjoy life, however wealthy, under such circumstances. It must have been nothing but a burden to him.’
Henry Hindes sat for a few minutes musing silently. Bloxam, thinking the interview was over, prepared to leave the office.
‘Don’t go, Bloxam,’ exclaimed his employer, rousing himself. ‘Stay a little longer. This subject interests me. I feel so much for this poor fellow. I wonder if he is in his right mind.’
‘Oh! yes, sir, there’s no doubt of that! Why, he remembers everything connected with the murder, as if it happened yesterday. He described the whole scene to the officers with the minutest details, such as a lock of poor Thompson’s hair getting stuck on the hammer with the blood, and his holding the hammer in the flame of the candle afterwards till it was completely cleansed. He could tell exactly what the poor fellow wore, and mentioned a gold ring he had on his little finger. And when they found the bones and dust under the cellar flooring, there was the ring amongst them, just as he said.’
‘Yes; I read that. But wouldn’t it have been wiser and better of Rayner to have kept this secret to the end, for the sake of his wife and children? He had kept it so long, you see; and, as I saidbefore, confession could not remedy the evil he had done.’
‘No, sir; but we are not sure, you see, that hehadentirely kept the secret to himself. He has a wife, and women are powerfully ’cute about such matters. Married men don’t keep secrets long. I can say that on my own authority. I know I shouldn’t care to have one that Mrs Bloxam wasn’t to find out. Perhaps Rayner’s wife got at his, and had threatened him with discovery. It isn’t unlikely, and then he had better be beforehand with her.’
At this proposition, Hindes went positively grey.
‘But—but—’ he stammered, ‘I thought, Bloxam—I always have been told that the evidence of a wife cannot be taken against her husband in a court of law.’
‘I’ve heard the same, sir; but, bless you, if a woman once got hold of a secret like that, she’d have a hundred ways of bringing the walls of a man’shouse about his ears, without meaning it. Women can’t help gossiping. It’s their nature; and if a thing of that sort once gets repeated, the police would soon get hold of it. I wouldn’t trust my neck to Mrs Bloxam’s tender mercies; I know that, though she’s a good woman, and fond of me in her way; but news leaks through women. There’s no other name for it. It leaks through them.’
‘Do you think so?’ asked Hindes, with a shiver.
‘I’m sure of it, sir. Many a woman has been murdered for gossiping alone. They taunt the men with the things they may have done, and threaten to expose them, till they aggravate them into kicking or beating them to death. Half the cases of manslaughter come through women’s taunts. They’re not generous, as a rule.’
‘Don’t you think,’ said Hindes, putting a suppositious case, ‘that it would have been much wiser for Rayner to have gone out to the States or Australia, andhave commenced a new life there under another name? He appears to have plenty of money. I think, instead of making confession, that I would sooner leave my wife and children comfortable, and fly the country, pretend to be lost overboard, or to die on reaching my haven—lose myself to the world, in fact, and begin life over anew. I am sure that if I did that—’
‘You—you—ifyoudid that, Mr Henry!’ exclaimed Mr Bloxam, in a voice of surprise.
Henry Hindes, recalled to the trip his tongue had made, changed countenance to a kind of dull red purplish hue.
‘I—I—’ he stammered, ‘did I sayI? I must have been dreaming! We were talking of poor Rayner, surely. Why didn’t he take a sum of money and go away and make a new name for himself in a new country? Did you suppose that I was talking of myself, Bloxam? Why should I say such things of myself? Do I look as if I had committed a—a—thething that Rayner did?’ And he finished up his sentence with a feeble, cackling laugh.
‘God forbid! Mr Henry,’ responded the cashier, solemnly. ‘I knew, of course, you were speaking of that unhappy man! Why shouldn’t he have fled the country instead, sir? Why, because it would have been of no use. Wherever he went he couldn’t have left his conscience behind him, and, once that was awakened, he would have had to confess his guilt, whether he found himself in England or Australia. He might have run away from his wife and children, Mr Hindes, but he couldn’t have run away from his crime. That would have followed him anywhere, even to the ends of the earth. Poor wretch! I pity him from the bottom of my heart. He’d better by far have given himself up to justice at once. Fancy the life he must have been living for the last twenty years, lying down and getting up, with the ghost of his poor murdered victim always by his side, lookingat him with his reproachful eyes, and asking him silently what right he had to be eating and drinking and making merry, whilst he lay in his unhallowed grave! But it was bound to come out at last, sir. Murder always does.’
‘Always! Does it always, Bloxam?’ demanded his employer, fearfully. ‘Do you mean to say thatnomurders have ever been successfully concealed?’
‘Very few, sir, if any. They lie too heavy on the conscience for that. Why, isn’t Rayner a case in point? If any have been kept dark for ever it must be amongst Roman Catholics, for they can ease their consciences by confession, and, if they receive absolution, they are set at rest. They have such entire faith in the power of their priests to absolve them from their sins. I have a friend of that religion, and it’s wonderful how bright he seems after he’s been to confession, quite a different creature.’
‘But if a man were to confess a murder in the confessional, the priest would givehim up to justice, surely?’ said Henry Hindes.
‘Oh, no, he wouldn’t, begging your pardon. My friend tells me that the secrets of the confessional are inviolate. No priest would dare reveal them, on penalty of being stripped of his cloth. What he hears there never passes his lips again, not even to another priest.’
‘I shouldn’t like to trust him, all the same,’ said Hindes; ‘human nature is subject to too many accidents. A priest might lose his brain and babble everything he had heard.’
‘I fancy, Mr Henry,’ replied Bloxam, laughing, ‘that he hears so many things, good, bad, and indifferent, that he forgets them as soon as he has heard them. And he doesn’t know the names of half his penitents. A Catholic may go to any confessor he likes. It is his director only that he does not change.’
‘You seem to know a lot about it,’ said Hindes, indifferently.
‘Only what my friend tells me, sir,’replied the cashier; ‘but Catholics seem to derive so much consolation from confession, that I often wonder the practice is not more largely used in other churches. Will you see the books now, Mr Henry?’
‘No, not now,’ replied Hindes, in a languid voice; ‘I’m awfully tired.’
‘But you did not see them last week, sir, and, if you’ll excuse my saying so, it is too long to let them run on without casting an eye over them.’
‘Oh, they’re sure to be all right, Bloxam. I can trust you better than myself.’
‘I hope you may trust me, Mr Henry, after forty years’ service with your honoured father and yourself, but still it would be a satisfaction if you would look into matters a little more closely than you have done of late. You’re not yourself, sir, if you’ll forgive my saying so, since poor Mr Crampton’s death.’
Hindes roused himself directly, and, sitting upright in his chair, pulled the ledger towards him.
‘Why, since Mr Crampton’s death, Bloxam,’ he said irritably, ‘I’ve had plenty of time to get over that. But I’m not well, I haven’t been for months, and I ought to go away—go away,’ he continued, muttering to himself. ‘Now, what’s the matter with these confounded ledgers?’
He stuck his fingers through his hair, and stared in a vague way at the rows of figures before him.
‘There’s nothing the matter, sir, I trust,’ replied the cashier; ‘I can detect no error in them, but here are the bills of lading and the accounts of sale, for you to compare with the entries. Mackintosh & Prome of Antwerp sent us five hundred bales of the December order, but, in consequence of a fire taking place on the wharf, they were unable to complete the order—’
‘Oh, hang it, man, take the beastly things back, do,’ cried Hindes, pushing the books across the table, ‘and look into them yourself. I’m not well enough.My eyesight has failed terribly of late, and the long rows of figures dazzle me. I trust it all to you—all to you. Do as you think best, but don’t worry me about it! I’m going home!’
And, reaching down for his hat and coat, Mr Hindes stumbled out of his office, followed by the winking eyes of the clerks, who, with their tongues stuck in their cheeks, whispered to each other that the governor had, ‘got ’em again.’ But poor old Bloxam returned to his desk, shaking his head, and repeating that the business was going to the devil.