As has been already stated, it was about a year before Mr. Hazeldine's tragical end that Frank Derison had been made the confidant by his friend Winton of a secret which the latter was not justified in revealing to anyone. He had been told that there was a deposit of twelve hundred pounds standing to the credit of Hermia Rivers, in Umpleby's Bank at Dulminster, and the news had given a spur to his lagging affections, and had decided him to propose to Hermy with the least possible delay.
All his life Frank had been used to talk freely to his mother, and as soon as he reached home that evening, he did not fail to tell her what had passed between Winton and himself, as far as it related to Miss Rivers.
"What a dear, noble-hearted girl she is!" he wound up by saying. "I love her to distraction, and have done so for ever so long. Of course, twelve hundred pounds isn't to be despised, but if she hadn't a shilling I should love her just the same. She's the only girl in the world I could ever be happy with."
Mrs. Derison listened to the boy's rhodomontade with a smile which he took to be one of sympathy, but which in reality was one of bitterness. She had heard precisely the same sort of nonsense--in that case addressed to herself--from the lips of Frank's father a quarter of a century before; and at that time she had been simple and inexperienced enough to pin her faith to it. What had it resulted in as far as she was concerned? In Dead-sea fruit--in dust and ashes. And so would it be with any girl who might lend an ear to Frank's vows, and entrust her future to his keeping; for in him Mrs. Derison recognized an exact counterpart of his father; handsome, gay, not without a certain surface cleverness; lazy and good-natured, with a manner that rarely failed to charm, but with a heart that was thoroughly selfish at the core, although the owner of it was totally unconscious of the fact. With such natures self-deception--unconscious self-deception--is one of the primary laws of their being.
"Yes," said Mrs. Derison, with a somewhat dubious air, "I do not doubt that Miss Rivers is a very charming girl, nor that you fancy yourself very deeply in love with her; and certainly, as you say, in our circumstances a fortune of twelve hundred pounds is by no means to be despised. But, on the other hand, it is not always advisable for a very young man--which you still are--to tie himself down for life, unless his future, to some extent at least, is already mapped out for him, and he is in a position to form some idea how far it may be affected by an early and perhaps imprudent marriage. Your future, I am sorry to say, is anything but an assured one; still, it may contain hidden possibilities of which at present you and I know nothing." Then she went on to hint darkly at certain possible contingencies in connection with his position at the Bank. Mr. Avison, senior, was a very old man; there was little likelihood that Mr. Avison, junior, would ever marry; Frank was a relative--though a distant one--and if only he had the sense to play his cards properly, and to wait patiently, who could say what might not come to pass? In any case, it would be well to pause and consider before committing himself seriously with any young woman, however charming she might be.
Mrs. Derison's words had the effect she intended them to have. They threw an effectual chill for the time being over Frank's love aspirations. Hitherto he had had no faith that any special advancement at the Bank would accrue to him more than to others; indeed, it had often seemed to him that he would have stood a better chance of promotion had he not been a relation of his employer. Still, after all, might there not be more in his mother's hints than she was willing to let appear on the surface? He knew that she went occasionally to see old Mr. Avison, and had she not had good grounds for doing so, she would not have said as much as she had said. His brain was of the sanguine, castle-building order, and almost unconsciously his daydreams began to assume an auriferous tinge, such as they had ever lacked before. It would be as well, perhaps, not to be too precipitate in the matter of Hermia. She was a darling girl, and he loved her passionately; still----. Even in his thoughts he got no farther than that.
But there came a day, two or three weeks later, when, not for the first time, Frank and Hermia found themselves on the river together. Frank pulled up stream till all the other boats that were out were left behind; then, in a quiet shallow, he fastened the painter round the root of an old tree, and prepared to enjoy a smoke. It was an afternoon in early winter. The sun was drawing towards the west, and in its softened radiance, Hermia sat like a creature glorified. Never had she seemed so lovely in Frank's eyes as then. For once the fervor of passion overcame him; for once he flung prudence and all care for his worldly advancement to the winds; for once his heart spoke without an afterthought. A couple of minutes sufficed for him to say what he had to say, and then he paused, leaning forward towards her, his eyes glowing as they had never glowed before, his whole being instinct with an emotion which was almost as great a surprise to himself as it was to the girl sitting opposite him: for Hermia, much as she liked Frank, had not thought of him as a possible lover. She was heart-whole and fancy-free, and the revelation came on her with the shock of a great surprise.
There is no need to describe in detail the scene that followed. Frank combated Hermia's objections and scruples one by one, and, in the end, was provisionally accepted. The affair was to be kept a secret from everybody for twelve months, during which time they would hold themselves as being, to a certain extent, engaged to each other. At the end of that time, either of them who might so choose, would be free to break the compact; but should neither of them wish to do so, then the engagement should be formally ratified and made known to those whom it might concern. It was a foolish arrangement to enter into, but excusable on Hermia's part, on the score of her ignorance of the world and its ways, as well as of the possibilities of her own heart. She loved no one else, and it seemed to her that she never should. She thought to be the same always as she was at nineteen. She had known and had liked Frank for years, and would fain have had the relationship between them continue the same in the future as it had been in the past; but if it made Frank happy to love her, and if he was really sincere in wishing her to become his wife, why, in that case, she would try to love him a little in return. Yes, she actually told herself that she would try to love. Foolish girl! As if love comes by trying for! But she was soon to be made wiser, after that sweet old fashion which yet seems such a surprising fashion when first it makes itself felt and known.
Having given her word, Hermia would not revoke it; but the compact was one which, for her at least, had no element of happiness in it. She hated the secrecy which it involved, and as time went on she began to find that her heart, instead of being drawn closer to Frank by the bond between them, seemed rather to be repelled thereby. She felt like one who had sold her freedom and got nothing in return. Then Clement Hazeldine appeared on the scene, and Hermia slowly awoke to the fact that she had made a terrible mistake.
Meanwhile, Frank kept on in his old happy, careless way. He loved Hermia after a fashion, and probably as much as it was in him to love anyone, while the secret between them lent a piquancy to the feeling he had for her which he did not fail to appreciate.
John Brancker and his sister could not help seeing something of what was going on, and smiled and talked to themselves about it; and although, as time went on, they wondered a little that Frank did not speak out, they decided to take no apparent notice, but to let the affair develop of its own accord.
But now the year was hurrying to its close, soon the last of the twelve months would be here, and Hermia began to dread more and more the coming of the day when she would be called upon to decide whether her engagement to Frank should be broken off, or whether the bond that held them should be drawn still closer, and so merge at last into that closest bond of all. That Frank would hold to his part of the engagement she had no reason to doubt. What, then, ought she to do? She could no longer hide from herself that her heart belonged not to Frank, but to another; the awakening had come at last, but she would have found it hard to say whether the knowledge made her happy or the reverse.
Before this time, however, Clement Hazeldine had discovered that he, too, had lost his heart; but, as he told himself not once but a hundred times, he had found Hermia too late: she belonged to another; for that there was some sort of an understanding between her and Derison he felt nearly sure, although why there should be any secrecy about it he altogether failed to comprehend. As we have already seen, he was in the habit of going to John Brancker's house twice a week, ostensibly for the purpose of forming one in a musical quintets, but the magnet which really drew him there was something far different. Then, for two brief hours he could bask in Hermia's loveliness, he could gaze unrebuked into the depths of her violet eyes, and listen to the music of her voice, and steep his senses in the sweet fragrance of her presence. Frank, in whose ears the click of a billiard ball was far sweeter music than any discoursed by violin and piano, looked in occasionally on the musical evenings, when he played an indifferent second to Clem's first fiddle. He felt no jealousy at seeing the young Doctor so often at the Cottage; he was blessed with too good an opinion of himself to feel jealous of anyone. The limit of time would soon be reached to which he and Hermy had bound themselves by a conditional promise. He told himself that he still loved her as much as ever, and when the time should come for him to declare his intentions one way or the other, he felt nearly--but not quite--sure that he should say to Hermy: "I cannot live without you. Be my wife."
Such was the state of affairs when the peaceful current of events was broken by the tragic death of Mr. Hazeldine and the subsequent arrest of John Brancker. Then followed a terribly anxious time for Miss Brancker and her niece, during which both Clement and Frank called often at Nairn Cottage. It is in such seasons of trial that a man's real qualities are most conspicuously made manifest. Clement's sympathy was so evidently genuine and heartfelt; wherever it was possible to ease their cares, or transfer any portion of their trouble, however small, from their shoulders to his own, it was done so quietly and unobtrusively, that they could not feel otherwise than touched by so much devotion to them and their interests. On the other hand, Frank's sympathy was so obviously forced and unreal; the whole state of affairs was so palpably distasteful to him, that even simple-hearted Miss Brancker began to suspect that perhaps she and her brother had been misreading the young man's character all along, and had been attributing to him qualities very different from any which he really possessed. But Frank was essentially a creature of the sunshine, a being to whom sickness and trouble and the thousand-and-one anxieties to which our poor humanity is liable, were utterly alien. When the skies began to lower and thunder filled the air, he was as much out of his element as a butterfly on a rainy day.
The year of waiting agreed upon between the two young people came to an end while John Brancker was awaiting his trial. Of course, at such a time any talk about love affairs was out of the question. By Frank the delay was hailed gladly, since it put off till a future time the necessity of arriving at a decision as to which he was still as far as ever from having made up his mind one way or the other. Far was he from suspecting that to Hermia the delay was a relief at least equal to that felt by himself.
It was a dark and anxious time for Edward Hazeldine. Knowing what he did, he felt bound to proclaim aloud his belief in John Brancker's innocence. There was no other course open to him, and for this reason it was that, without consulting anyone, he secured the services of Mr. Burgees, the eminent criminal advocate, for the defence.
It was indeed very bitter to him to think that he, who had always prided himself on his rigid sense of justice--one of the chief maxims of whose life had been to do unto others as he would have them do unto him--should allow an innocent man to be cast into prison and be too timid of soul to speak the word that would have set him free. But the day had now gone by for revealing to the world, except at the last extremity, that which his father's letter had told him. He had allowed the man to be brought in guilty by a coroner's jury, he had allowed him to be committed by the magistrates, he had, allowed him to linger through long, weary weeks in prison with an accusation the most terrible of all accusations hanging over his head, and yet he had not opened his lips. To do so now would be moral and social suicide. He had gone so far that to turn back would be worse than to go forward. He must take the risk, happen what might. If John Brancker were acquitted then might all yet be well, but should the verdict go against him, then--and only then--the dread secret must be told. Not for a thousand such secrets should an innocent man go to the gallows. After that, let ruin, hopeless and irremediable, be his portion.
The winter assizes at Dulminster were held early in December, so that John Brancker had not many weeks to lie in prison before being called upon to stand his trial for the murder of James Hazeldine. The grand jury found a true bill against the prisoner, and one crisp, sunny morning, John found himself in a sort of a pen in the centre of a densely crowded court, the one object on which several hundred pairs of curious eyes, some of them helped by opera-glasses, were focused. He was pale, but quite composed, and when called upon in the usual form to plead to the indictment, his low but emphatic "Not guilty" was clearly audible to everyone there.
His sister and his niece had been permitted to have an interview with him on the eve of the trial, and he had contrived to infuse into them some of the courage which he felt, or professed to feel, as to the morrow's result. They were staying with some friends in Close Street, and Clement Hazeldine, who had given his patients into the charge of a brother practitioner for a couple of days, had arranged to send them frequent messages from the Court during the progress of the trial. The prisoner's defence had been entrusted to the hands of the well-known Mr. Burgees, with whom was Mr. Timperly as junior. Mr. Mulgrave had been specially retained as counsel for the Crown.
It was none other than the murdered man's eldest son who had retained Mr. Burgees to defend the prisoner. This was a point which had been much commented upon by the good people of Ashdown, and one that had told strongly with them in John Brancker's favor. If a clear, hard-headed man of the world like Edward Hazeldine had such faith in his innocence, how would it be possible for any jury to bring him in guilty? Then again, was it not a well-known fact that the younger son, Clement, was a frequent visitor at Mr. Brancker's house, and among such of the wiseacres as made it their business to pry into every little matter in any way connected with the affair, there were not wanting whispers of an engagement between the young doctor and the accused man's niece. No, John Brancker must be an innocent man, they decided among themselves; and yet, on the face of it, the evidence against him seemed terribly conclusive, nor, so far as was known, had anything likely to shake it been brought to light since the date of the prisoner's committal. Strenuous efforts had been made to find the man and woman whom John stated that he had encountered, quarrelling fiercely, while on his way back from Strong's cottage, and one of whom, the woman, had flung a stone at him, which had contused his forehead. But nowhere could any traces of them be found, neither had the offer of a reward, if they would come forward and give evidence, been productive of any result.
On the morning of the trial Edward Hazeldine drove over to Dulminster in his dog-cart, and put up his horse at the "Eagle" Hotel, which is exactly opposite the Court-house. His intention had been to find a seat near the counsel for the defence, but he abandoned the idea at the last moment. Happening to look at himself in the glass he started at the sight of his haggard visage, and this morning his hands trembled so much that not for a hundred pounds could he have signed his own name. He felt that he could not face the ordeal of the Court, that he could not bear the scrutiny of the crowd of coldly-curious eyes which would focus themselves on him as being the eldest son of the murdered man. He hired a private room on the first floor overlooking the entrance to the Court, and arranged for a messenger to bring him half-hourly tidings of the progress of the trial; and there he sat throughout the day, with a decanter of brandy at his elbow, he who, under ordinary circumstances, was one of the most abstemious of men. He had his father's letter buttoned up in the breast-pocket of his coat. It was not expected that the trial would extend over more than one day, and he had arranged that the moment the jury brought in their verdict its purport should be made known to him. Then, if the fatal word "Guilty" were pronounced, he would at once rush across to the Court, and before the Judge would have had time to assume the black cap, he would proclaim to the world the innocence of the man at the bar. His fevered imagination rehearsed the scene again and again, always with some fresh features or added details, but always he seemed to see the horror that would creep into the eyes of that vast crowd as he told his tale word by word, and proclaimed himself for the vile coward that he was.
There was one other person, Ephraim Judd, to wit, who had also made up his mind that, should the prisoner at the bar be adjudged guilty, he must at once crave leave to speak, and to tell all present certain things which were known to himself alone, but which would go far towards proving the innocence of John Brancker. He must relate how he saw the prisoner leave the Bank, when the latter went to fetch his umbrella, within five minutes of the time he entered it. He must explain all about the blood-smears in the prisoner's drawer, and the marks on the floor. He must confess to what he saw when he looked through the fan-light over Mr. Hazeldine's office door. He was fully alive to the fact that to do this would be to effect his own ruin, he was quite aware that he ought to have told all he knew at the first examination before the Coroner; at that time he had been deterred from speaking by a fear of the consequences which would accrue to himself, but should the worst come to the worst, no such fear should hold him back to-day. Be the consequences to himself what they might, John Brancker must not be condemned to die, until he, Ephraim Judd, had told all that which he had till now so carefully hidden. It was in no enviable frame of mind that he walked down to the court on the morning of the trial.
It is not needful that any detailed account should be given here of the progress of the trial. The evidence of the various witnesses was little more than a recapitulation of that given by them at the inquest. No fresh facts had come to light in the interim, neither did the cross-examination of the witnesses tend to elicit any further point which told materially either for or against the prisoner. As before, Brill, the man from whom the knife had been purchased by which Mr. Hazeldine had come by his death, would neither swear positively that the prisoner was the man to whom he had sold the weapon, nor that he was not. He, the prisoner, was like the man, and yet he wasn't like the man; he couldn't be positive, and he wouldn't take an oath one way or the other.
William Strong, the organ-blower, was still as positive as ever that he had not left home on the night of the murder, and that if the prisoner had knocked at the door of his cottage he could not have failed to hear him.
Ephraim Judd, Obed and Amanda Sweet, Doctor Barton and Mr. Mace, were each called upon in turn, and were each submitted to a cross-examination more or less severe, which, however, in no case brought to light anything of consequence tending to the exculpation of the prisoner.
Last of all, two people who had not been examined at the inquest were called and sworn. The first of them was a clerk from the Bank of England, who deposed to having changed notes for gold to the amount of twelve hundred pounds on the day of the murder, and who, on being shown a photograph of Mr. Hazeldine, recognized it as a likeness of the person for whom he had effected the exchange in question.
The second person who was called upon was Mr. Avison. He had no positive evidence to offer in the case, beyond the fact that the Bank had been robbed of an amount a little in excess of four thousand pounds; but what the Counsel for the Prosecution was desirous of eliciting from him was his opinion as to whether such a crime, considered in all its bearings, could have been perpetrated by anyone who was not well acquainted with the habits of the murdered man, as well as with the working of the inner machinery of the Bank. Mr. Avison was clearly of opinion that the crime was the result of a carefully arranged plan, the inception, if not the carrying out, of which was due to someone who had an intimate knowledge of certain details, such as it was next to impossible for any outsider to have.
The examination of Mr. Avison brought the evidence to an end. Then a number of witnesses were called to testify to the accused man's character, among the rest being Mr. Avison. This might have gone on for an indefinite time if the Judge had not at length expressed himself as being perfectly satisfied that it was impossible for any man's character to stand higher in the estimation of those who had known him intimately for years than that of the prisoner at the bar. Then, after the counsel on both sides had been heard, his Lordship proceeded to charge the jury.
This he did in a dispassionate and unbiassed manner, reviewing the evidence carefully, weighing each item in the judicial scales, and giving to each its just preponderance as it told for or against the prisoner. He was most careful in pointing out that the evidence was entirely of a circumstantial character. On the one hand, there was the certainty that the crime was committed some time between half-past ten o'clock and half-past eleven, and the fact that the prisoner entered the Bank by means of his pass-key about twenty minutes past ten and did not reach home till close upon midnight; and that the account he gave of having walked all the way to Strong's house during that interval of time, and of having knocked at his door, was, so far as regarded the latter part of the prisoner's assertion, emphatically denied by Strong himself.
Then there were the blood-smears in his private drawer at the office and on the floor, close by, for which he professed himself utterly unable to account. Then again, the facts of the case would seem clearly to indicate that the criminal was thoroughly acquainted both with the murdered man's habits as also with the interior economy of the Bank--that he knew where to look for the key of the strong-room, and on which day of the week the largest amount of gold was to be found there. He, the Judge, advised the jury not to attach too much importance to the evidence of Brill, the man who sold the knife. His experience had led him to the conclusion that it was impossible to be too cautious in accepting evidence as to personal identity, more especially after any considerable lapse of time; and Brill had very rightly declined to swear to a point as to which his memory was evidently at fault.
There were several points in the prisoner's favor, his Lordship went on to remark, to which the jury would not fail to give due weight in their deliberations. In the first place, there was the entire absence of any conceivable motive on the prisoner's part tending to the commission of such a crime. He and the murdered man had been friends and fellow-workers for years, and, as far as was known, they had always been on the best of terms towards each other. Further, none of the stolen property had been traced home to the prisoner; although, of course, it was no very difficult matter to hide away a large sum in notes and gold where it would be next to impossible for anyone to find it. Finally, the testimony they had heard given to the very high character borne by the prisoner, was a point which would doubtless receive due consideration at their hands.
It was five o'clock when the jury quitted the court, and it wanted twenty minutes to seven when they returned. As soon as Miss Brancker and Hermia heard that the jury had retired to consider their verdict, they left the house in Close Street, where they had been staying, and accompanied by Clement Hazeldine, made their way to the Court-house where, through Clem's influence, they were accommodated with seats in a private room. As the slow minutes passed without bringing any news, the strain upon them grew almost too intense to be endured.
Clement was utterly perplexed by the non-appearance of his brother. From hour to hour he looked for him, but in vain. Surely, Edward would have let nothing less than illness keep him away! Clem had felt very grateful to him for his outspoken championship of John Brancker, although, perhaps, knowing as he did something of the hardness of his brother's character, he had been a little surprised at the attitude taken up by him from the first day of the inquiry. Somehow, it scarcely seemed to harmonize with the idea of Edward, which had unconsciously formulated itself in his mind; but that, as he told himself, only served to prove what erroneous views one may form even of those who are closest to us, and whom we flatter ourselves we know and understand best.
His Lordship, the jury, and the prisoner being all back in their places, and silence having been proclaimed in Court, the Foreman of the Jury, in reply to the usual question put by the Clerk of Arraigns, said, in a voice which every ear there was strained to catch:
"We find the prisoner at the bar 'Not guilty.'"
A murmur that seemed half a sigh at first ran through the crowd, and then swiftly rose and swelled into a great cheer, such as the rafters of the old Court-house had rarely, if ever, echoed before.
Three minutes later his sister's arms were round John Brancker's neck, while Edward Hazeldine's messenger was speeding to him with the good news.
John stayed in a private room until the Court had emptied and the crowd dispersed. He was particularly anxious to reach home with as little observation as possible, so it was arranged that he and his sister and Hermia, with Clement Hazeldine by way of escort, should be driven to Ashdown in a fly, instead of returning by train.
Accordingly, a fly was brought, and John Brancker stepped out into the open air a free man. For a few moments the sensation was overpowering; a mental vertigo possessed him; but Clem's strong arm was within his, supporting him, and presently the feeling passed. They were all in the fly, a constable had shut the door, and the driver was on the point of starting, when a figure sprang out of the darkness into the circle of light radiated by the lamp over the Court-house door, and pushing his way through the little crowd of officials, laid a detaining hand on the vehicle. The lamplight brought into relief a haggard, sinister-looking face and two furtive, red-rimmed eyes.
"Mr. Brancker, sir," said the fellow, speaking in hoarse, drink-sodden tones, "if such a wretch as I may be allowed to thank heaven for anything, then I thank it that you are once more a free man. You don't remember me, perhaps? I am Richard Varell, your old clerk. Ah, you recollect me now. Changed, ain't I? But no matter about that. From the first I swore that whoever else might be guilty of Mr. Hazeldine's death, you at least were innocent. As for him--curse him!--he hounded me to my ruin, and he deserved his fate. For him no pity is needed. But as for you, sir, I say again, thank heaven you are free!" He threw up one arm as though it were a signal of farewell, and falling back, was lost next moment in the darkness.
That night Edward Hazeldine slept a deep, dreamless sleep for the first time since his father's death.
It is to be hoped that the reader has not quite forgotten Miss Pengarvon and her sister, although we have heard nothing of them since that December night, now many years ago, when poor, unforgiven Isabel was found lying in the snow in front of the great door of Broome.
To the two lonely sisters, wearing out their uneventful lives in the gray old house, the changes wrought by time were few indeed. Their dark hair had slowly silvered, their long, thin faces had grown longer and thinner, their tall figures looked a little more gaunt than of yore, but that was all. To them the summer and winter of one year were so like the summer and winter of another, that they almost forgot the passage of time. They worked hard at their embroidery, and sold the proceeds of their labor; they pinched and scraped, and saved in every possible way, growing more miserly with every year. Barney Dale and his wife were still with them. No thought of leaving Broome ever crossed the mind of either. Other servants might come and go, but they stayed on, nor ever dreamed of change.
At length there came a morning, early in the autumn of the same year as that in which John Brancker was committed to take his trial for the murder of Mr. Hazeldine, when Miss Letitia found herself unable to rise from her bed. She had been ailing for some time from the effects of a bad cold, but during the last few days the symptoms had become considerably aggravated, and now she could hold up no longer. Miss Pengarvon had hinted more than once as to the advisability of calling in Doctor Bland, but this Miss Letitia had emphatically begged of her not to do. Neither she nor her sister had known a day's illness in their lives; her cold was a simple affair which a few days would put to rights; no Doctor had set foot in Broome since the late Lady Pengarvon's death, now nearly forty years ago; and after the lapse of so long a time she was not going to be the first to have one called in. She well remembered that Doctor Grantley's bill on the occasion of his attendance on Lady Pengarvon amounted to thirty guineas, yet, after all, his patient died. Doctors were an extravagance in which only rich people had a right to indulge. But although Miss Letitia refused to see a Doctor, Joanna Dale, despite all her remonstrances, insisted on lighting a fire in the sick lady's chamber. Miss Letitia was terribly afraid her sister would look upon even that small luxury as a piece of wasteful extravagance, and her first words to Miss Pengarvon, when the latter went upstairs to see her, were, "It is all Joanna's doing. She would insist on my having a fire."
Miss Pengarvon let her cold hand rest for a moment or two on her sister's fevered forehead, and then she said in her usual quiet way, "If Joanna had been a woman of sense, she would have gone and fetched Doctor Bland without saying a word to anyone, as soon as she had lighted your fire."
Miss Letitia stared at her sister, and then in a little while she said to herself, "Barbara must fancy that I'm far worse than I am, or she would not talk about a doctor in that off-hand kind of way."
As it fell out, however, no doctor was sent for till the following morning. Miss Pengarvon herself made her sister some gruel after a recipe in her mother's writing, which she hunted up out of a cupboard of odds-and-ends. Miss Letitia thought it exceedingly kind of Barbara, and drank a little of the gruel gratefully. It was not nearly so nice as the gruel Joanna had made her, but not for worlds would she have said so to anyone.
When at length Doctor Bland was called in, he seemed to think that his patient was suffering from nothing worse than a feverish cold. He advised her to keep her bed for the present, sent her a composing draught, and promised to call again next day.
"There will be no need for him to call after to-morrow," remarked Miss Letitia, still thinking of the expense. "Indeed, I am far from sure that there was any occasion for him to call at all. Poor people always doctor themselves for colds, and why should not I do the same?"
To this Miss Pengarvon made no reply. There was something in her sister's looks that made her more uneasy than she cared to admit, even to herself. She took her work into the sick woman's room, and sat with her all through the dull October day, and till far into the night. Miss Letitia was strangely drowsy, and could scarcely keep her eyes open for longer than a few minutes at a time.
"It must be something in this nasty medicine that makes me sleep so," she said once or twice with a touch of irritation. "I am sorry to be such poor company, Barbara."
Miss Barbara smiled a little grimly at this. At the best of times poor Letitia's company was never anything more than mildly depressing.
The following morning Dr. Bland found his patient no better. The feverish symptoms were more pronounced than before. He changed the medicine at once, and promised to call again next day.
"If he were of opinion that there were the slightest danger, he would call again before to-morrow," argued Miss Pengarvon with herself.
The bedrooms of the sisters adjoined each other, with a door of communication between. This door was always left open at night, so that there was a sense of companionship through the dark hours which was not unpleasant to either sister, although they never admitted it in so many words. Miss Pengarvon was always a light sleeper, and to-night she got up several times and stalked into her sister's room--a tall, gaunt figure in a long white night-dress and a ruffled nightcap. Miss Letitia was talking a great deal in her sleep, and it was her half-sister Isabel's name which she mentioned oftener than that of anyone else. Isabel seemed to be nearly always in some great peril, from which Letitia seemed to be vainly trying to rescue her. Once or twice when she opened her eyes she did not seem to recognize Barbara; and later on, when she woke up and asked for a drink, she fancied that it was her mother she was speaking to, and that she and her sister were on the point of setting out to gather blackberries in the wood. A great dread began to take possession of Miss Pengarvon's heart.
Dr. Bland came as usual in the course of the forenoon. Miss Pengarvon followed him out of the sick woman's room. "My sister is much worse this morning," she said. There was a sort of menace in her voice, and a fierce, angry light in her eyes as she spoke, that half frightened the little Doctor. It was as though she implied that it was his fault her sister was no better.
"Scarcely worse, I think," responded the Doctor in his most soothing tones, "although, perhaps, there is hardly that improvement in her I had hoped to find. But these things take time, my dear madam, time."
"You know in your heart that she won't get better--that she will die," answered Miss Pengarvon, with a quiver of her thin, colorless lips.
"Bless my heart, madam, I know nothing of the kind!" responded the little man, a spot of angry red showing suddenly in each cheek; "on the contrary, I have every reason for thinking that your sister will soon be quite herself again."
"It is very doubtful to me, sir, whether you understand her case. If she is not better by to-morrow, I shall call in some further advice."
"As you please, madam, as you please," responded the Doctor, as he took himself off in a huff. "Was there ever so much fuss made about an old woman before?" he muttered to himself, shutting the door behind him more noisily than as a medical man he ought to have done.
Miss Letitia's mind wandered a good deal in the course of the day, but towards evening her senses came back to her, clear and fresh, and the feverish symptoms seemed to be abating. Miss Pengarvon did not retire to her own room until past midnight, and then she left her sister in what seemed to be a quiet and refreshing sleep. A light was kept burning in each of the rooms, and the door between was left open.
Miss Pengarvon was thoroughly tired out, and was soon asleep. She awoke with a start and a sudden sensation of fright. The candle was still burning, and the clock on the chimney-piece pointed to half-past two. Everything seemed quiet in the next room, and yet, at the very moment of waking, it had seemed to her that she heard a sound as of someone opening a door. Still listening, she sat up in bed. A cinder or two dropped from the grate in the next room, and then all was silent again.
All at once the flame of the candle seemed to flicker as though caught by a draught of wind. Next moment Miss Pengarvon was out of bed, and an instant later she was in the next room. The candle there was still alight, but her sister's bed was empty, and the door into the corridor was wide open. What had become of Letitia? Whither had she gone?
Pausing only to push her feet into a pair of slippers, and to fling a shawl over her shoulders, Miss Pengarvon passed out into the corridor, holding a candle above her head. All was cold, dark, and silent. She stood for a minute or two, listening intently, then she thought she heard a noise as of a door being opened downstairs. Taking this sound as a guide, she hurried along the corridor and then down the broad, shallow flight of stairs which led to the ground-floor of the old house. Some instinct seemed to direct her steps towards the Green Parlor. There was no light anywhere save that of the candle she carried. The shadows seemed to vanish before her as she advanced, only to crowd more darkly behind her the moment she had passed. Suddenly a plaintive voice was heard speaking in the darkness. "Isabel, Isabel, speak to me again. I cannot find you."
Miss Pengarvon stood stock still for a moment or two and shuddered. Then, hesitating no longer, she strode swiftly forward until she reached the Green Parlor. The door was wide open; she had shut and locked it carefully, as she always did, before retiring for the night. She gazed around with anxious eyes, and for the first moment or two, so faint was the light shed by her candle, it seemed to her that the room was empty, but a second glance revealed to her her sister's figure, clad in a dark-grey dressing-gown, crouching on the floor against the old carved bureau that stood in one corner of the room, with her fevered face pressed to its cold, polished panels. Miss Pengarvon put down her candlestick, walked across the floor, and laid a hand gently on her sister's shoulder.
"Letitia, what are you doing here?" she asked.
Miss Letitia rose to her feet with a sigh, and pushed back her long locks, streaked with grey, which had fallen over her forehead.
"Where is Isabel? I followed her here, and now I can't find her," she said, gazing questioningly at her sister, with eyes that were full of an eager, burning light--the light of fever.
"This is nonsense, Letitia. You have been dreaming. Come back to your room at once," answered Miss Pengarvon, coldly.
"Dreaming, Barbara! Oh, no, it was far too vivid for a dream. I had been fast asleep for I don't know how long, when suddenly I was awakened by hearing my name pronounced quite close to me, as if the speaker were bending over my bed. A second time my name was spoken, and then I knew that it was Isabel who was calling me. I sat up and gazed around, but no one was visible. Then Isabel called me again, and this time the voice seemed to come from outside the door. I got out of bed, put on my dressing-gown, and went out into the corridor. Still, no one was there. Then the voice spoke again, simply calling my name, nothing more; but this time it sounded further away--away down the corridor, and near the head of the stairs. While I was looking and listening, I seemed to see a white figure, very faint and vaguely defined, standing in the dim starlight, near the staircase window, and beckoning to me to follow it. I followed without hesitation, for I had no fear; and yet that seems very strange. As I advanced the figure vanished, and then, when I reached the head of the stairs, I heard my name spoken again, as if from below. Then I descended the stairs and followed the voice till it led me here--here, Barbara! Do you not understand?"
Miss Pengarvon's sallow cheeks grew still more sallow. She understood only too well. But before she could say a word, Miss Letitia went on in a strangely eager way:
"But now that I am here she does not speak. I have called her, but she will not answer; and yet she must be in trouble, for it was enough to make one weep to hear the way she spoke my name. It is strange--very strange! She has brought me all the way here, and now she hides herself from me."
"Strange indeed, Letitia; but we will talk more fully in the morning," answered Miss Pengarvon, with an unwonted tremor in her voice. "It is very late now, and very cold; and we had better go back to bed."
"But what if Isabel were to call again? What if she were really to want me for something?"
"I will sit up and listen, and if she--if anyone should call you, I shall be there to attend to the summons."
"But you will wake me, will you not, if Isabel should ask for me again?"
"I promise you that I will."
"Then I will go back to bed; though how you can say it is a cold night, Barbara, is more than I can think. I am all in a glow; feel at my hands."
Miss Pengarvon said no more, but drew one of her sister's hot hands under her arm, and hurried her away.
Miss Letitia went back to bed as obediently as a little child, and turning her face to the wall, in five minutes was fast asleep. But there was no more sleep that night for Miss Pengarvon. She made up the fire, wrapped a shawl round her shoulders, and sat there hour after hour, as upright as a mummy--and nearly as motionless--staring into the fire with unwavering eyes, and conjuring up in the glowing embers, who shall say what strange pictures of the past--pictures, some of them, which for years she had done her utmost to forget, but which the torch of memory, kindled by her sister's random words, now lighted up for her again, as vividly as though the events which they depicted were but those of yesterday. How thankfully she watched the breaking of the coming day! Then the shadows that haunt our thoughts and weigh upon our spirits during the dread watches of the night take to themselves wings, and vanish as though they had never been, before the first rays of the rising sun.
Day had not yet fully broken when Miss Letitia sat up suddenly in bed. In her eyes there was a light which seemed of another world than this. Stretching forth her arms, she said, "Oh, Barbara. The baby--the baby! So cold! So cold!"
They were her last words. She sighed softly, twice, and sank back on the pillows.
Among those who had crowded round John Brancker in order to congratulate him the moment he was a free man was neither Mr. Edward Hazeldine nor Mr. Avison, and their absence caused him a little pang of disappointment. Edward had all along not only expressed his unflinching belief in John's innocence, but at his own cost had engaged Mr. Burgees to defend him, so that his absence on the day of the trial seemed doubly strange. John had seen Mr. Avison in court, and had looked for a word of congratulation from him when all was over, but he looked in vain. Besides, it was now Saturday evening, and he was anxious to know whether Mr. Avison would expect him to be in his place at the Bank at nine o'clock on the following Monday morning, just as if nothing had occurred to break the continuity of his service there. He was not, however, destined to be kept long in doubt on the latter point. Soon after he got home a note from Mr. Avison reached him, in which he was requested to see that gentleman in his private room at the Bank at half-past ten on Monday forenoon.
Next day was Sunday, and John stayed quietly indoors. It seemed to him the most blessed Sabbath he had ever spent. To feel that the prison walls no longer shut him in; that he was free to come and go even as other men were; to know that the foul charge which had hung over him for so long a time was at length dispelled, and that he was back once more in his dear little home with those he loved best on earth--all made up a sum of happiness which was almost oppressive in its fullness. One needs to go through some experience analogous to that of John Brancker before one learns to appraise at their real value those common blessings of everyday life which to most of us seem so much a matter of course.
Clement Hazeldine called at Nairn Cottage in the course of the afternoon. He and Mr. Kittaway were the only visitors that day. It must be recorded of the latter that he had made a prompt offer to Miss Brancker of pecuniary help in case funds should be needed to defray the cost of her brother's defence; but, as we have seen, thanks to the action of Edward Hazaldine, nothing of the kind was required.
"I thought that perhaps we should have seen Frank Derison to-day," said John to his sister, as they were on the point of sitting down to supper.
"Hem! We have not been troubled with much of Master Frank's company for some time past," replied Miss Charlotte, a little coldly.
"Indeed! How do you account for that?"
"Oh! I've nothing to do with accounting for it. I'm merely stating the fact."
"You surprise me. But perhaps there's nothing more than a little tiff at the bottom of his absence."
"If you mean as between Frank and Hermia, I must tell you that I don't think Hermy cares twopence about him in the way you imply."
John stared blankly at his sister.
"My eyes have been opened of late," went on Miss Charlotte. "Whether it's owing to trouble, or something else, I don't know, but I seem to see many things now in a different light from that which I used to see them in, and you may depend upon it, dear, that if our girl cares for anybody, it's not for Frank Derison."
"Which means that she cares for someone else. But who is there?"
"What say you to Clement Hazeldine?"
"To be sure!--though I never thought of him in that connection. But do you mean to say----?"
"I mean to say nothing, though I may have my suspicions."
"Don't you think the time has nearly come when she ought to be told?" said John, with a significant look at his sister.
"It will be a great shock to her."
"I don't doubt that, still----"
But at this moment Hermia entered the room, and for the time nothing more was said.
Frank had his reasons for not calling at the Cottage on Sunday. A few days previously his mother had said to him, in her enigmatical way:
"Whatever may be the result of Mr. Brancker's trial, I think it advisable that you should keep away from his house just at present. I have my reasons for asking this."
That was all she had said, but Frank knew that she had paid one of her periodical visits to old Mr. Avison a few days before, and he could only conclude that the interdiction--for it was little less--which had been laid upon him, had had its origin in the visit in question. It was an easy matter for him to carry out his mother's wishes.
At a few minutes past nine o'clock on Monday morning, Edward Hazeldine's dog-cart stopped at the gate of Nairn Cottage. John, who had seen it from the window, walked down through the little front garden to the gate. The hands of the two men met in a cordial grip.
"I was not well enough to see you on Saturday," said Edward, "but I had a messenger to bring me the news of the verdict the moment it was known. I felt sure of your innocence all along, and the jury by their verdict have merely given emphatic utterance to that which all right-thinking men must have been convinced of from the first. I congratulate you with all my heart!"
"I have a great deal to thank you for Mr. Edward, and I assure you that both I and my sister are fully sensible of all that we owe to yourself and your brother in this terrible business. I can conscientiously say that it was your outspoken belief in my innocence, which all through did more to uphold and strengthen me than anything else. I can never, never forget what I owe to you."
Edward sighed involuntarily. If John had but known the truth, what would he not have thought and said! After a little further conversation the two men parted, with renewed expressions of good-will.
It was with a confluence of emotions which he would have found it impossible to analyze that John Brancker left home for the Bank. The familiar streets seemed as fresh and strange to him as if his feet had not trodden their pavements for years. On his way he met more than one friend who stopped and shook hands with him, and would fain have detained him, had he not been in a hurry to keep his appointment; others there were who greeted him with a smile and a cheery "Good-morning;" while others again--such as merely knew him by sight--stared him hard in the face as they drew near, and then turned to stare again when he had passed.
On reaching the Bank he avoided the general office, and going straight to the door of Mr. Avison's room, he knocked. A sigh that was half a sob caught his breath as he passed the unforgotten door of Mr. Hazeldine's room. What had not he gone through since he set eyes on it last!
A voice, which he recognized as Mr. Avison's, bade him enter, and he went in.
The Banker was a tall chin, grizzled man, with a natural stoop of the shoulders, a high, narrow forehead, features pinched by chronic ill-health, cold and somewhat glassy-looking eyes, a long upper lip, and a hard yet querulous-looking mouth. He was an able financier, and loved his profession; and it was only in obedience to his doctor's positive orders that he had torn himself away from it even for a time. He was a man who prided himself on being strictly just in his dealings with others; but your very just men are liable to forget that there is another goddess called Mercy, who is twin-sister to her at whose shrine they bend the knee. This was a fact which Mr. Avison either did not know, or else failed to recognize. Without being himself aware of it, he was what is commonly called a "hard man." For the ordinary weaknesses and foibles of his fellows he had nothing but a sort of cold contempt. Temptations such as those which are supposed to follow in the train of riches passed him by and left him unmoved. There were many points of resemblance, both mental and ethical, between Mr. Avison and Edward Hazeldine.
Although John Brancker had been acquitted by a jury of his countrymen, the banker felt far from satisfied in his own mind that John, without being the actual criminal, was not, in some way or other, privy to the crime. What fortified him in this opinion was the conviction, of which he could not rid himself, that the combined robbery and murder could only have been perpetrated by someone, or with the aid and connivance of someone, who had an intimate knowledge of the interior economy of the Bank. But even with such a conviction strong in his mind, there would have been no reason why, in his thoughts, he should have connected John Brancker with the crime, rather than any other member of his staff, had it not been for those other links of circumstantial evidence which made the case as against him seem so black, while failing to cast a shadow of suspicion on anyone else. By right, both of position and length of service, John Brancker ought, in the ordinary course of events, to have succeeded to Mr. Hazeldine's post; but with such a disquieting suspicion holding possession of his mind, and refusing to be dislodged, Mr. Avison felt that it was altogether out of the question for him to induct John into the onerous duties of managing-clerk. If only at his trial he had been able to disprove, or otherwise explain away, those damaging items of evidence which, when considered as a whole, made up such a black indictment against him, why, in that case he, Mr. Avison, would have been the first man in the world to do him justice. As the case stood, however----.
"Take a seat, Mr. Brancker," said Mr. Avison, indicating a chair on the other side of the table, facing his own. "Of course, I need scarcely tell you how heartily glad I am that the jury, by their verdict, have exonerated you from all share or participation in the murder of our poor friend Hazeldine, and--and in the robbery which formed not the least mysterious feature of the case." Then Mr. Avison paused to cough. With that ugly suspicion lurking in the background, had he any right, he asked himself, to congratulate Brancker on the result of the trial? Would it not have been much more satisfactory if the criminal had been tracked down and convicted, even though he should have been proved to be the man now sitting opposite him? But it was not an opportune moment for putting casuistical questions to himself.
"After, however, having taken all the circumstances of the affair into consideration, which I have done most carefully," he resumed, "it has seemed to me, Mr. Brancker, that you would be much more comfortable, in time to come, and more at your ease in every way, if a situation were found for you elsewhere, where you would be altogether removed from the painful associations connected with your late sphere of labor and its surroundings, which cannot fail to cling to your memory as long as you live. In view of all this, I have much pleasure in informing you that I have been able to obtain for you a situation in a Bank in the West of England in which my half-cousin, Mr. Pencathlow, is a chief partner. Your new position will be somewhat more of a subordinate one than the one you have held with us, but with your industry and ability, you cannot fail to rise, and that rapidly. The salary, too, will be rather less than the one you have been in receipt of for some years past, but I am given to understand that----"
"Pardon me, Mr. Avison," said John, with an unwonted break in his voice, as he bent forward and laid a hand heavily on the table, "but does all this mean that you are anxious to dispense with my services?"
"I have not said so, Brancker, and I think you have no right to draw any such inference," responded the Banker, with a slight flushing of his sallow cheeks. "What I have done has been out of pure consideration for you and your interests."
"I thank you, sir, for the kindly feeling which has prompted you to act as you have, but I am far from having any desire to break up my home, and leave Ashdown, where I have lived for a great part of my life, in order to settle in a strange place."
"But consider the associations, Brancker; the very painful associations which this place cannot fail to have for you in time to come."
"That they will be painful, I do not doubt, sir. Mr. Hazeldine and I were ever the best of friends, and there was no man in the world whom I respected more; but most of us have many painful things to bear as we go through life, and, in my case, this will merely be one more added to the number."
"Mr. Avison mused for a few moments frowningly, then he said:
"My allusions were not so much intended to apply to poor Hazeldine's death as to other matters. I was certainly under the impression that, after so terrible a charge had been laid at your door, and after having undergone the ignominy of being imprisoned and brought to trial, you would be grateful to anyone who was willing to assist you to find a home elsewhere."
The color in John's face deepened and then paled. The look of bewilderment that had shone out of his eyes for a moment or two changed to one of indignation. He seemed to swallow something down, then with quiet dignity he said, "You must pardon me, Mr. Avison, if I altogether fail to see where what you term the ignominy comes in. Through a series of unfortunate accidents, some of which I frankly confess myself utterly at a loss to explain, a terrible suspicion was cast upon me; of that suspicion my imprisonment and subsequent trial were the inevitable outcome. But, sir, the verdict of a jury of my countrymen has cleared me from any complicity in a crime of which you, knowing me as you do, ought to be one of the last men in the world to believe me guilty."
Mr. Avison chose to ignore the latter part of John's dignified protest. "Yes," he said, in his chilliest tones, "it is precisely because there are so many circumstances connected with the case which still lack explanation, that----" Then he paused, staring with glassy, contracted eyes at John.
John started to his feet with flaming eyes and quivering nostrils.
"Do you mean to imply, sir, that any suspicion, even the slightest, still lingers in your mind that I was in any way privy to the death of Mr. Hazeldine?"
"I mean to imply nothing, Brancker. I am not in the habit of dealing in implications. After careful consideration of all the circumstances, I have deemed it advisable that you and I should part, at least for a time; for which reason it is that I have interested myself in your favor with my relative, Mr. Pencathlow, who will, I am sure----"
"Mr. Avison, not another word is needed," broke in John, with an abrupt wave of his arm. "If those are your sentiments towards me, then, indeed, the sooner you and I part the better."