THE HOUSE OF MOURNING.
Dead! had been dead for half an hour!--so said the first man with an
approach to medical knowledge who was called in, and who indeed was a
worthy chemist who lived in the neighbourhood, and who, on the
strength of a square shop fitted with an oil-cloth floor, with a
little fountain in the centre (in the basin of which half-a-dozen
bottles of aerated water were always cooling), of a counter bearing
glazed cases of scents and cosmetics, of a nest of drawers labelled
with illegible half-words, and of three large shining coloured bottles
in the window, was regarded by the servants in the vicinity as a weird
practitioner indeed. A servant had been despatched in a cab for Dr.
Prater; but in the interval pending that luminary's arrival, Mr.
Canthar, of the Medical Hall, was master of the position, and all
those who were left with the body hung upon his words. It--it had
already come to be called "it"--still lay in the library, where it had
been found. Mrs. Schröder, who had hurried in close behind Barbara,
had, at the very first glimpse of the state of affairs, gone off into
a violent fit of hysterics, and had been removed to her room, whither
Barbara had followed her, and where the latter was now in close
attendance upon her stricken friend. When Mr. Canthar arrived (he had
stripped off his black-calico apron and thrown it into the cork-drawer
on being summoned, and completed his toilette _en route_ by running
his fingers through such hair as remained on the sides of his head),
he found Mr. Schröder's body stretched out on the sofa in the library,
and attended solely by the kitchen-maid and by a page-boy, who, partly
from love to the kitchen-maid, partly from gratitude to his employers,
bore her company. The other servants had declined having any thing to
do with such horrors, as not coming within their engagements. The
great butler had retired to the housekeeper's room, taking with him a
bottle of brown sherry, and there these supreme functionaries sat,
discussing future prospects; the French cook had gone out to announce
to a friend of his, who was steward at a crack club, that he was now
open to an engagement; the two footmen, great hulking masses of
ignorance and vanity, with faces whiter than the powder on their
heads, sat in the pantry, shaking over one glass of hot gin-and-water,
and solemnly glozing over the probability of a suggestion made by one
of them that "he" (they had never named him) had died of "spuntanus
kymbustium." When Mr. Canthar's sharp ring came at the bell, they both
trembled violently, and went up together to open the door. The
announcement that their master was dead,--an announcement made by Mr.
Canthar after a very cursory examination,--utterly failed in
reassuring them; on the contrary, it produced the liveliest symptoms
of fright, and they incontinently hurried down stairs to the pantry
again. Mr. Canthar required but a very short examination to arrive at
his verdict. He placed his finger on the pulse, his ear to the
waistcoat; then he took a candle from the attendant kitchen-maid, and
looked for an instant into the half-closed glazed eyes. Gently
depositing the hand, he said, "Dead! quite dead! been dead for
half-an-hour, I suppose. I'm not called upon to state to you my
opinion of the cause of death; indeed, it would be quite useless;
and as no member of the family has done me the honour to be
present,--well, no matter, never mind." Then, in a whisper, "I'd
put a cloth round the jaws, don't you know? just bind it together,
because--ugly appearance, you understand, Martha--good-night;" and Mr.
Canthar tripped out of the house, and devoted the remainder of the
evening to working out a composition for the nutriment of the hair,
which, under the name of Canthar's Crinibus, has an enormous
circulation over the infant heads of Albertopolis.
Half-an-hour after he had received the message from the servant who
had been despatched for him, Dr. Prater spun up in his little low
carriage,--hung on C springs to prevent the doctor's highly sensitive
organisation being disturbed by bumps or jolts over the horrible
pavement,--and drawn by a pair of little bays, which might have been
the property of any _millionaire_ in the land. The great butler
condescended to leave the society of the housekeeper, and to rouse
himself so far as to hold open the drawing-room door for the doctor's
entrance; also to produce a decanter and a couple of glasses; and
placing them at the doctor's elbow, to croak out, "Our '20, sir!" and
to fill a wine-glass.
"Ah, thank ye, Pilkington," said the little doctor, taking up the
glass, and holding it between his eye and the candle; "this is a
dreadful thing, Pilkington."
"Yes, sir," said the butler, shortly; "it's ill-conwenient. Do you
find the wine agreeable to your taste, sir?"
"Yes, yes, thank ye. I want you now to show me--ah, here's some one
coming;" and the door opened, and Barbara Churchill entered the room.
"Mrs. Schröder is very ill, doctor; you must see her before you go, if
you please; in her absence I will conduct you. Pilkington--oh, there
are lights, I suppose?--this way, doctor;" and she led the way to the
library. This had been Barbara's first experience of death, and it was
a severe trial for her, broken down as she was with her other
miseries; but she saw how utterly helpless poor little Alice Schröder
was, and she determined to help to bear the misery of her sudden
misfortune. So she preceded Dr. Prater to the library; and when she
had opened the door, she beckoned to the kitchen-maid and page-boy, who
were sitting bolt upright on the edge of their chairs, and let the
doctor enter by himself, she returning to the dining-room. In a very
few minutes she was joined by the little doctor, who had in the
passage composed his face to its usual aspect by this time. "Not the
slightest hope, my dear madam,--not the slightest hope. If I had been
here the minute after, I could not have been of the least assistance.
Must have been instantaneous, my dear madam,--instantaneous,--disease
of the heart,--under which I long knew he laboured; but I never told
him. What was the need? I've said to myself fifty times, 'Prater, you
should tell Mr. Schröder of his danger;' and then, again, I've said to
myself, 'What's the use? Mr. Schröder's not a man to relax those
gigantic enterprises in which he is engaged, on the mere word of a
theorist like myself. He'll only be annoyed at my interference.' There
was no cause for any excitement, any special excitement, my dear miss?
Pardon me; to whom have I the pleasure of speaking?"
"I am Mrs. Churchill,--I was Miss Lexden,--a very intimate friend of
Mrs. Schröder's before her marriage."
"Ay, ay, ay! of course! how very remiss of me not to bear it in mind!
Pleasure of including your husband, Mrs. Churchill, among my
distinguished literary friends. I hope he's quite himself. Ay, ay;
Miss Lexden that was, eh? Think I've had the pleasure of meeting you,
before you took rank as a matron, in the house of my dear old friend
Sir Marmaduke Wentworth? Ah! I thought so. Ill now, poor dear
fellow,--ill in the Pyrenees; hum, ha! And no cause for any special
excitement in the present lamentable case, you say, my dear Mrs.
Churchill?--hum! Well, well; death from natural causes, of course. I
can testify as to his heart-disease. Still, I'm afraid, my dear madam,
there'll have to be a horrible--what we call a _post-mortem_. The
ridiculous laws of this country are not satisfied with a professional
man's word in such cases, and though--of course I'll take care there's
no annoyance. Bad thing for Mrs. Schröder,--very! I'll go up and see
her directly. By the way, my dear Mrs. Churchill," added the little
doctor, edging himself very close to Barbara, and looking more than
ever like an owl; "here's a paper which I picked off the floor of the
library when I went in to see our poor late friend just now. I haven't
looked at it myself, of course; but perhaps it might be well to put it
away, and not to let Mrs. Schröder see it just yet; and," continued
the doctor, examining with great attention the pattern of the Turkey
carpet, "I don't see that there's any necessity to mention its
existence before the coroner's people,--no one else seems to have seen
it,--and these things are better kept quiet;" and the doctor handed
Barbara a folded paper, which she at once placed in her pocket, and
bowed himself out.
Then there fell upon that house confusion, and silence, and sadness,
and a general mistiness and ignorance. No one spoke above their
breath; no one knew what day of the month it was, or what day of the
week, or what length of time had elapsed since the occurrence of the
event which had given rise to this state of affairs. All normal laws
were suspended; the _carte_ for the proposed dinner did not go up as
usual in the morning; the great butler suspended his customary
inspection of the plate and reviews of the china and glass; the young
lady really born in Picardy, but passing current as a Parisian, who
was called "Mumzell" by the other servants, and who was attached as
special retainer to Mrs. Schröder, had no interviews with her lady on
toilet subjects, and found her health undoubtedly improved by being
relieved from mental anxiety on the subject of the perpetual invention
of new styles of head-dress. The tradesmen seemed to take Mr.
Schröder's dying out of the season as a kind of personal affront. Had
it happened when every thing was in full swing, the poulterer had
remarked, and when parties had the greatest worrit in supplying what
parties ordered, why parties might have been glad of a lull; but now,
in the slack time of year, when there was few families in town, and
what was mostly supplied with game from friends as had shooting, to
have a large and reg'lar customer's orders suddenly stopped, as might
be said, in this way, was not what parties expected and might be said
to look for. Perhaps the retainers attached to the stable-department
took the pleasantest view of matters. It were a bad business, they
allowed; but, after all, there muss be money left, and the
establishment wouldn't be broke up; and besides, a missis were easier
to serve than a master, and couldn't pry; not that any thing of that
sort could be said of their late guv'nor, for a more innocenter man
never breathed. He were a bad whip, always a tuggin' at the 'orses'
mouths; but a good master. Meanwhile 'orses must be kep' exercised;
and so Mrs. Edwards the coachman's wife, and Nancy and Billy her young
'uns, and Susan Gilbert, what was keeping company with Strapper the
under-coachman, and one or two convivial friends, had two or three
very pleasant days at Richmond and Hampton, proceeding thither in what
they called a "weggynet," borrowed from the corn-chandler at the
corner of the mews, and drawn now by the chestnuts which Mr. Schröder
used to spin along in his mail-phaeton, now by the iron-grays which
concentrated attention on Mrs. Schröder's equipage in the ring. And in
every department of the servants' hall and in the outlying regions
connected therewith, there seemed to be an impression of the
over-weening necessity for going in for good eating and drinking, as
if to counteract the baleful effect of the calamity which had
occurred. In the house itself, the kitchen-maid, relieved from
attendance in that dread library, gave herself up to the cooking of
mighty joints for discussion at the "one-o'clock dinner." The
housekeeper and the great butler had little refections, washed down
with brown sherry, in the still-room; while one of the two-gallon
stone jars of brown brandy,--originally ordered for preserve-purposes,
and of a very different quality from the eau-de-vie-de-cognac in the
tapering bottles--was apportioned by the butler to the nightly grog of
the servants' hall. Then it was that Rawbert, one of the six-foot
Johns, and son of an Oxford scout, first showed his remarkable talent
for brewing punch; under the influence of which the assemblage grew so
jolly, that some of them were only restrained from breaking into
harmony by the representation of others as to what was lying upstairs.
What was lying upstairs had been moved from the library to a spare
bedroom, had been handed over to the charge of such horrible ghoulish
women as only appear at such dread times, and had been left all placid
and composed and cold and statuesque by itself. What was lying
upstairs had had visitors. The coroner--a fat man with a red face,
smeared black clothes, beady black eyes, and boots slit here and there
as a necessary accommodation for gout--had visited it; had stood at
the head of the bed where it lay, and had it not been for thick
carpeting and double doors, would have sent his opinion of it clanging
to the ears of her whom it once cherished as its own heart's blood.
The jury had visited it (some of them at least, nearly half were too
frightened to come beyond the bedroom-door), and had said, "Oh!" and
"Deary me!" and had looked at the coroner and gone away again to the
Coburg Arms; and then and there, over hot brandy-and-water,
administered as a corrective, and strongly recommended by the coroner,
had found a verdict of "Death from natural causes." Then it had other
visitors--men in black, who took off their coats at the door and left
their boots outside, putting on list slippers, and who had foot-rules,
and who whistled to themselves softly as they went about their ghastly
work. These men came again at night with others, blundering up the
stairs under the weight of a horrible burden, and the room assumed a
different aspect, and what lay therein seemed further removed from
humanity and less kin to any thing it had hitherto claimed kinship
with. And after that, it had yet another visitor; a white-robed woman,
who stole in at night and knelt at the side of its black prison-house,
and implored pardon for past waywardness and thoughtlessness and
girlish follies, and prayed for strength and succour and support; then
rising, pressed her lips on its cold forehead, and was led from the
room in a half-hysterical state.
Yes; Alice Schröder had begun to wake to the realities of life, to
find that opera-boxes and drums and sealskin cloaks and equipages and
money, all good things in their way, were powerless against Death; and
that Death was not merely the bugbear which he had been always
painted, but had other qualities horrific in their nature, which she
at least had never imputed to him. He was a thought-compeller, and up
to that time little Alice had never known what thinking was. But now
she thought long and earnestly. She thought of her earlier days, long
before she had received her father's orders as to her marriage; she
thought of her school-girl flirtations and hopes and fears and
intentions as to matrimony; recalling the cavalry cornet, the
light-whiskered curate, and the Italian singing-master vividly in her
memory. Then she had a vague recollection of her coming-out and her
town-life, through all which there loomed a shadowy presentment of
Captain Lyster, standing specially boldly out in her remembrance of
her stay at Bissett Grange; and than came Mr. Townshend's imperative
decision, and her acceptance of her dead husband's offer. Had she
behaved well to that dead husband, who had behaved so kindly to her?
Ah, how painfully, as though with an actual sting, came back the
recollection of his kindness, of his lavish generosity; how with
clumsy action and ill-chosen words, but showing in the highest degree
the warmth of his affection and the delicacy of his mind, he had
loaded her with gifts, and had endeavoured to forestall her every
wish! How, with an evident straggle,--for had he not been matured to
it from his youth up?--yet successfully, he had weaned himself from
the cares of business (at one time his greatest pleasure), and learnt
a new life in the society of his wife, and in manifesting his devotion
to her. Had she brought him such wealth of affection as he had
showered upon her? Had she even met him half-way? When she was a girl,
she was fond of being considered "highly romantic" by her companions;
she thought herself the essence of romance; and yet what was her
romance compared to that shown by that elderly gray-headed German
merchant, who had changed the whole tenor of his life for a woman's
love? And had he possessed that love? that was the bitterest
question of all. Respect, yes; honour, yes; but did she respect Mr.
Beresford,--she certainly did not honour him,--who had so often been
her companion during her husband's lifetime? had she not had a warmer
feeling towards that accomplished cavalier? had she not permitted him
to speak in somewhat slighting terms, to which she by her silence had
given tacit approval of the dead man; ridiculing his age and habits,
unfitting him for finding favour in ladies' eyes, and protesting
against the hard fate which cast such pearls before such swine? All
this came up clear and fresh in Alice Schröder's memory; and as it
rose she hated Beresford with all her strength; and, struck with
deepest remorse, wished--oh, how she wished!--that the time would come
over again, that she might dower her husband with her love, and show
how she appreciated his devotion to her.
Then what was lying there lay no longer. There came a morning when the
boys in the neighbouring mews, who had been on the look-out for some
little time, passed the word to each other that it was all right for
that day, and forthwith coming trooping out, took up their positions
in available spots close by. The mutes in their preposterous scarves,
and bearing their hideous banners, mounted guard at the door; and the
hearse and the mourning-coaches pulled-up close by; and the red-nosed
men got ready the trays of feathers, and the long staves, and the
velvet trappings, and all the funeral insignia, which would be
ridiculous were they not disgusting. And the company arrived at the
house: there were two of the dead man's brothers, representing the
firm respectively in Hamburg and Paris; uncles and cousins, pillars of
the London Exchange; the clerk from the office, who had acted as the
dead man's private secretary, and who was a very presentable young
man, the delight of the evening-party-givers of Surbiton; Mr.
M'quiddit from Bedford Row, who was met on the door-step by his clerk,
who presented him with an oblong packet, which the lawyer deposited in
the library before joining the rest of the company; and little Dr.
Prater, looking preternaturally solemn and wise,--all these gathered
together to see Gustav Schröder to his grave. On the dining-room table
were cold fowls (already cut up, and tied together with pieces of
black crape) and cold viands; but save Mr. M'Quiddit, who had come up
from his country-house at Datchet and was hungry, no one tasted food.
The decanters, however, were put into requisition; and the great
butler took occasion to whisper in Dr. Prater's ear a recommendation
of some Vino di Pasta as being something special. Then came that most
horrid time of all, when there was a bumping and a scuffling on the
stairs, and a creaking of the bannisters. Every body knew what caused
it and what it meant; and there was an involuntary silence which made
the talk, when they began again to talk, seem more hollow and forced
than it had been before. Then, draped in bilk scarves, and wearing
hats swaddled in crape, the mourners ascended the coaches, walking to
them through a lane of boys, and were borne off to Kensal Green; on
alighting at the gates of which dismal necropolis, they were
marshalled into proper order by the head undertaker, and so marched in
procession to the grave. There a gentleman, who really could not be
complained of when it was remembered that he had done duty four times
already that day, and expected to do it three times again, half
drawled, half cantered through the most beautiful service of the
Church, that for the burial of the dead, without the smallest atom of
expression, and apparently without knowing what he was about; then
he shut his book, and the bystanders one by one looked into the
grave--and all was over. The mourning-coaches, which had come so
slowly, went merrily back; the Schröders went to the City house, and
sent telegrams and read share-lists, and talked of how soon Gustav's
share in the concern ought to be realised; the uncles and cousins did
much the same; the presentable clerk had a holiday, and met a few lady
friends at the Zoological Gardens; Dr. Prater lunched at a rich
patient's, where he told the story of Mr. Schröder's death, and dined
at another rich patient's where he told it again; and Mr. M'Quiddit
had an interview with the widow and gave her a short abstract of the
will, which was eminently satisfactory.
It had been proposed by the deceased gentlemen's brothers, who
were his executors, that the widow should leave town for a few
weeks,--should run down to Brighton or Tunbridge Wells,--and thus, in
change of scene, shake off the excess of grief under which they found
her to be really labouring. But under a strange state of feeling which
is scarcely describable, but which originated in an idea that her
determination to do her duty to the utmost would not be properly
carried out, were she to allow herself any thing like indulgence, poor
little Alice decided upon stopping in Saxe-Coburg Square and
thenceforward entering upon the useful state of life which she had
proposed to herself. Perhaps in this decision she was a little guided
by her feeling for Barbara: the regard which had always existed
between them (regard on Barbara's side mingled with a sense of
superiority leading to pity, the regard which a grand Scotch deerhound
might feel for a little thin-limbed Italian greyhound pet) had very
much increased since the recent calamity. Alice had experienced a
sisterly tenderness at Barbara's hands which she had never thought
Barbara capable of feeling; Barbara had seen in Alice a fixed
propriety of purpose such as she had never given Alice credit for. And
Alice was by no means so selfish or so thoroughly wrapped up in her
own grief as not to see that, although Barbara pretended to look upon
her own married career as entirely at an end, yet in reality she had
by no means given up all hope of a happy reconciliation with Frank. A
sudden peal at the bell would make her cheek flame; her nervousness at
the sight of Pilkington entering the room with letters was
unmistakable; and in a thousand other ways she gave evidence of he
heart's yearnings. So Alice felt that while this unsettled state of
affairs lasted, Barbara's home must be with her, and that a removal
from town would be highly antagonistic to any chance of a settlement
which might transpire; and as this entirely coincided with her own
views, she elected to remain in town.
Mr. Schröder's will had been made a few months before his death, and
was in accordance with the general tenor of his married life. It
ordered that his share in the City firm should be realised at the
earliest favourable opportunity, and that it and all his other
investments should be lodged in the name of trustees for his wife's
use and disposal. As this represented a very large annual income, and
as the details of the will soon became public through the medium of
the press, the "kind-inquiries" cards began to shower down in
Saxe-Coburg Square. You, who are rich, find these amicable condolences
sent in at once, in such times. You, who are poor, know that in
general there is a little hanging fire until it is understood what
will be the future position of the family. In the present day the vast
proportion of middle-class people occupy a factitious position in
society; factitious, that is to say, thus far--that its existence
depends entirely on the life of the father, husband, breadwinner. So
long as his good income is made, so good; but when he dies, despite
all his attempts at laying-by, his precautions in insuring his life,
the whole thing changes; all the little luxuries have to be given up,
and the family sinks into a decidedly lower circle of society. That is
why the great law-giver Society waits to hear the will read before he
nods approval on visits of condolence being paid. In this case there
could be not much doubt about money; but there were some peculiar
features,--"a sudden death, my dear, and that sort of thing;" and it
was thought better by Mrs. Grundy, and her set, to wait a little,
until there could be no possible doubt on the matter: After a little
time, the intimates of the house were admitted. Old Mr. Townshend was
still away on the Continent; and there never seemed to have been any
other member of the Townshend family; but the Schröders came down in
flocks. The wives of the brothers, and the sisters, and the daughters'
nieces, and cousins twice removed,--who so kind as they in time of
trouble? Their husbands and fathers might be money-grubbers in the
City of London; in them was nothing but the good old German spirit of
kindness, of brotherhood and sisterhood, of honest help and
openhanded affection, which had first flourished when they were all
poor stragglers in the Frankfort Judengasse, which had lasted until
they were among the most opulent of the earth. And Dr. Prater was
there, of course, every day, chirrupping softly about the house, and
going from thence up and down and into the ends of the London world,
and talking of the enormous wealth left by his poor deceased friend
Mr. Schröder to his interesting patient Mrs. Schröder. And Captain
Lyster came, sending up his card, and proffering his services in any
manner in which they might be required; and then Barbara saw him; and
after a little time Alice saw him; and his services were brought into
requisition, and proved to be eminently useful. For when Fred Lyster
chose to shake off his drawl, and to apply himself, there were few men
with a quicker or a keener appreciation of what ought to be; and in
settling affairs, there were numerous cases arose in which a lady
could not possibly interfere, and in which the intervention of some
one prompt, clear-headed, and business-like, was indispensable. And as
Fred Lyster had never any thing to do, he had full leisure to attend
to these matters, and entered into them with an eagerness and a
perseverance which astonished all who saw him--save Barbara, who
perhaps might have made a shrewd guess as to the mainspring of his
actions. Poor George Pringle had called too. He had been a good deal
cut up by the death of Mr. Schröder, whom he had been accustomed to
describe as "a good old cock, sir; a worthy old party; kind-hearted
and all that, and giving no end good feeds;" and he had, in his rough
way, great sympathy for his cousin Alice,--"a poor little thing, sir;
left alone, with nothing to console her."
With consolation-end in view, Mr. Pringle arrived one Sunday afternoon
at the door of the house in Saxe-Coburg Square, in a hansom cab,
whence he extracted a smooth English white terrier, with a black patch
over one eye. Taking this animal under his arm, he, after making due
inquiries after Mrs. Schröder's health, transferred it to the
frightened grasp of Pilkington, requesting that it might be
at once carried upstairs with his love. Pilkington was horribly
frightened,--he "never could abide dawgs;" and so no sooner was the
door closed than he set the animal down in the hall, where, catching
sight of the well-fed calves of Rawbert the footman, it presently
began to lick its lips, and growled in a very ominous manner.
Mr. Beresford called three times: once immediately after the
announcement of the death, when he simply left his card; once on the
day after the funeral, when, besides his card, he left a warm message
of inquiry; once a fortnight after, when "he hoped he might be
permitted to see Mrs. Schröder." Barbara was with Alice in her boudoir
when this message arrived; and she noticed that the poor little woman
went deadly white as she listened, and then flushed deeply.
"Oh, no, no!" she exclaimed; "I cannot see him. Barbara darling, I
never will see him again. I hate the mention of his name; it jars upon
me now; I cannot tell you how--oh, no, no!" And so Barbara framed a
polite reply in Alice's name, and Mr. Beresford went away.
That night, as Barbara sat in her own room, feeling very weary and
worn, and with an irrepressible yearning towards her husband and her
home, the tears rose in her eyes; and, determined not to indulge in
the luxury of "a good cry," she drew out her handkerchief, and with it
a paper, which fell to the ground at her feet. Looking down at it as
it lay there, she recognised the paper which had been found in the
library, and handed to her by Dr. Prater, on the night of Mr.
Schröder's death, and which had ever since entirely escaped her
recollection. She picked it up from the carpet, and opened it; but no
sooner had her eyes fallen on the inside than she gave a start of
astonishment, and uttered a low cry. The same!--unquestionably the
same handwriting! The circumstances connected with both previous
occasions of her having seen it far too deeply impressed it on her
mind to allow of her being mistaken. It was that long scrawly
handwriting--unmistakably that of a woman only partially educated--in
which the letters to Frank Churchill--that delivered at Bissett, and
the envelope found in the dressing-room--had both been addressed. If
Barbara's heart beat fast when her eyes first fell upon the lines, how
much more disturbed was she when she read their contents, as follows:
"Your wife is false to you, and is carrying on with a Mr. Beresford.
They meet every day, ride together, and deceive you. Watch them, and
you will find this out. It has been going on for some time--for
months. It is a thing that Beresford has meant for a long time; and he
always carries out what he means. I know him well.
"A FRIEND."
It was, then, the receipt of this letter which had had such fatal
effect on poor Mr. Schröder. He had fallen, pierced to the heart by
this anonymous stab. Any excitement, any worry, or anxiety, coming
suddenly on him, might have ended his life at any time, Dr. Prater had
said; and so--Dr. Prater? It was he who had picked up this paper from
the library-floor, on to which it had fallen from the dead man's hand.
The doctor had asked her whether there had been any cause for sudden
excitement; had suggested that the paper should not be shown to Mrs.
Schröder; that its existence need not be mentioned before the coroner.
He had read it, then. Barbara had no need to think twice to assure
herself on that point. That the imputations on Alice which the
anonymous letter conveyed were unfounded, Barbara had not the smallest
doubt. She knew that her friend, though thoughtless, had never, even
in thought, been guilty; and knew that she now bitterly repented her
levity and silliness. It would be worse than cruel to let her know of
the existence of this document; it must be kept from her at all
hazards. Alice's horror of Mr. Beresford was now so great as to
require no fanning; and Barbara was certain that of her own free will
the widow would never see him again. But in the event of Mr.
Beresford's demanding an interview, what was to be done then? Poor
Barbara found it impossible to answer this self-proposed question; and
there was no one to whom she could apply for advice. Captain Lyster
had been her mainstay in several cases; but this was a delicate
matter, which it was impossible to make him acquainted with. Oh, if
she only had Frank to turn to! and that sent her thoughts reverting to
the handwriting. Whose could it be?--who could be the owner of that
fatal _griffe_, which seemed to bring desolation with it wherever it
arrived? And at the end of her reverie, finding herself no clearer in
her suspicions than she was at first, Barbara locked the note into her
desk, and determined to leave to chance the use she might eventually
make of it.