Henry Hindes had passed through the fearful ordeals of the inquest and
bringing home and funeral of Jenny Walcheren with surprising boldness
and equanimity, never having been betrayed into displaying more emotion
than was considered becoming under the circumstances; but, now that all
possible danger was over--that all inquiries had ceased--and that the
dead girl was laid in her grave, safe from prying curiosity, his nerve
forsook him, and he was haunted by his own memory.
The dread which had oppressed him, ever since that fatal moment on
the cliff, was set at rest. There was no chance that Jenny would
bear witness against him from her grave. The world had accepted
what appeared to be the most natural version of the tragedy that had
befallen her, and no tongue would reveal the truth, until the judgment
day.
He was safe--his children’s good name was safe--he might sit down
securely amongst his Lares and Penates, and comment on the shocking
number of murders, that were reported in the newspapers, with impunity.
Why, then, did his native audacity take that opportunity to desert him,
and leave him a prey to his doubts and remorse? During the suspense and
fear he had endured, he had never given a thought to anything but his
possible danger; he had had no time, as it were, to grieve over the
loss of the girl he loved; but, now that the danger was past, he could
think of nothing else but Jenny, done to death by his own hand.
Had he been a better man, the terrible deed would never have been
committed, and, had he been a worse man, he would have sat down at
this juncture, congratulating himself that all had ended so well
for him, and banished the thought of her thenceforward. But Henry
Hindes was neither a villain nor a hero. He was common clay, like the
rest of us. And he had loved Jenny Crampton very dearly. He had not
realised how much he loved her, nor how much he had longed to possess
her, until the fatal truth was revealed to him by her marriage with
Frederick Walcheren. He had seen her blossom into a bonny maiden day
by day, and knew that her presence pleased and excited him; but he
had not dreamt that his affection for her came between him and his
duty to Hannah, until her lover came on the scene and she resented all
interference between them. _Then_ he realised what his true feeling for
his partner’s lovely daughter was; but subsequent events had caused
him to think of nothing but the awful risk he ran. But now, the worst
was over--the high tension to which his nerves had been strung for the
last few days was relaxed--and he had leisure to dwell upon what had
occurred, and to recognise what his love for the murdered girl really
was, and to feel that he would give his miserable life a thousand times
over, if the sacrifice could only bring back hers.
He saw her, as well as Hannah, but in a dozen shifting moods. Now,
she was flourishing her whip at him, as she drove clattering down
the principal street of Hampstead, and then she was laughing at some
funny story, or teasing her parents or himself, or pouting her pretty
lips because they thwarted her, or thanking him with those lovely
eyes of hers for the American candies, or the illustrated papers, or
the hot-house flowers, he had brought her from town. But the picture,
however fascinating, always changed to give place to that in which
she stood at the edge of the cliff on the last day of her young life,
defying him with the contemptuous words,--‘I hate you! I hate you!’
He would go through the scene again and again; would hear her mocking
voice--see her indignant, flashing eyes--give the fatal push that
snuffed out her bright being like the flame of a candle--and then stand
gazing at the empty space where she had been but a moment before, and
which now was void and silent.
In fancy, the wretched man would see what he’d never seen in
reality--her slender body falling down the steep declivity, dashing
against the pointed crags and projections of chalk every instant, and
then arriving with a dull thump at the bottom, and lying on the rough
shingles, without life or sense or motion. In fancy, he would cast
himself down beside her and entreat her forgiveness, by every means of
speech in his power--would tell her how passionately, how truly, how
devotedly he loved her--that he hated and cursed himself for having
given way to the impulse that prompted him to touch her, and would
die a million deaths to restore her bright beauty to life and strength
again. This was the state of mind into which Henry Hindes fell as soon
as Jenny Walcheren was buried.
He went up to his bed that night, a shivering craven. He had always
professed to disbelieve in ghosts or anything supernatural, and to
condemn those who credited the possibility of their appearance as fools
or madmen.
But now he glanced around him as he entered his own apartment, as if
he feared to meet the wraith of Jenny Walcheren lurking in the corner,
ready to confront and accuse him.
The Hindes had always adopted the foreign plan of occupying separate
rooms, so that he was alone, although his wife slept next him, with a
door between them. Hindes wished that night that it were not so, for
the sense of solitude bore in upon him very heavily, yet he did not
like to propose seeking her companionship for fear she should guess
the agony he was undergoing. So he crept into his own bed, and lay
there, sleepless, and staring vaguely into the darkness, as if he
dared not close his eyes, lest a ghostly hand might be placed upon his
shoulder, or a ghostly voice whisper in his ear. Hannah, following her
husband upstairs, about an hour after, peeped into his room, to see if
he required anything.
‘What, still awake, Henry!’ she exclaimed, seeing his eyelids quiver as
the light of her candle fell upon them; ‘are you in pain? Shall I get
you anything?’
‘No! no! I am all right! All I want is rest and quiet!’
‘Well, I will leave you! But you forgot your usual visit to the bairns
this evening. I’ve just come from the nursery. You must have infected
Wally with your wakefulness, for I found him sitting up in bed and
crying for his dada.’
‘Wally wants me!’ exclaimed Hindes, springing out of bed; ‘give me my
dressing-gown. I will go to him!’
‘He is quiet now, my dear. You need not disturb yourself,’ said Hannah.
But her husband was already out of the room and on his way up to the
nursery.
‘My Wally, my Wally,’ he thought, as he sat with the little boy closely
folded in his arms, ‘if anything should happen to him! If God should be
revenged on me, by taking my child--I couldn’t bear it! I couldn’t; it
would kill me!’
Then he remembered that his friends had more than once said the same
thing in his presence, and Jenny seemed to be standing on the opposite
side of the carved cot, and whispering, ‘As you killed me! as you
killed me!’ and he laid little Wally hastily down again.
‘Dada’s boy will go to sleep now,’ he said to him, with a kiss.
But Master Wally liked better lying in his father’s arms, and was quite
cunning enough to know how to get his own way.
‘No; Wally wants dada,’ he replied fretfully, and but half-awake.
‘Wicked peoples come out of corners and frighten poor Wally.’
‘Wicked peoples! What do you mean, Wally?’ demanded Hindes, the
perspiration breaking out immediately upon his face with apprehension.
‘There is no one here to frighten my Wally! Only Elsie and Laurie
sleeping like good little girls in their beds, and nursie in the next
room, with the door wide open.’
‘Oh, yes; there is,’ replied the little boy, oracularly; ‘peoples with
black faces and white faces, and ladies with ribbons--’
‘Good God!’ exclaimed his father, with unnecessary fervour, ‘_what_
ladies, Wally? Not a pretty lady, with curling hair--’
‘Oh, yes,’ cried the child, delighted to have found a theme to build
his fables on; a ‘boo-ful young lady with long hair, just like Jenny
that used to love me and bring me sugar plums. Dada, where is my Jenny?
She hasn’t been to see Wally for a long, long time.’
So he was babbling on in his childish ignorance and cunning combined,
when Hindes suddenly left his side and called the nurse from the
adjoining room.
‘Rosa, you must get up and attend to Master Wally. He is very restless
to-night, and cannot sleep. Come at once.’ And then, with a hasty kiss
to the child, he said, ‘Nurse is coming, darling. She will stay with
you. Dada must go now,’ and bolted from the nursery.
Was it possible that Jenny had appeared to the boy? Would her coming
portend good or evil? Surely she could never have the heart to harm the
little child, on whom all his hopes were set. ‘As you harmed me! as you
harmed me!’ he seemed to hear whispered through the darkness.
Had the man been in his sober senses, he would have recalled how
many times Master Wally had invented the most marvellous stories of
things which he declared he had heard and seen, in order to detain his
parents by his side--things which, they both knew, existed only in
their little son’s imagination. But to-night the childish fibs assumed
gigantic proportions in the eyes of his craven-hearted father. He lay
in his own bed trembling, as he recalled how fond Jenny had always
seemed of Wally above the other children--how often she spent her money
on toys for him--and how eagerly the little fellow used to welcome her
appearance. Was it true she had visited his bedside, and had she come
in love or anger?
He found it more and more impossible to sleep after this exciting
incident, so he crept out of bed softly, that his wife should not hear
him, and took a dose of the morphia which he had used before for the
same purpose. He wished, as he drank it, that he had the courage to
take the whole contents of the bottle, and so end his perplexities and
regrets at once. But he had _not_ the courage for that. Life was not
yet a sufficiently heavy burden to him. The world had condoned his
offence, and there were, doubtless, many years of peace and prosperity
before him. And, for the sake of Wally and the others, it was his duty
to live on and struggle to forget. So he only took a rather full dose
of the narcotic, and, after many moans and groans and restless turnings
and tossings on his bed, nature succumbed to its influence and he fell
asleep.
When he first woke in the morning, he thought he was all right again.
His long sleep had removed his lassitude, and his mind was in a dreamy
condition from the effects of the morphia, so that he was not in a fit
state to worry himself by idle fears or expectations.
‘Come! come!’ he thought as he was dressing, ‘this is better! I was
sure my nerves were unnaturally upset last night. If the feeling
returns, all I need do is to have recourse to my little friend here.
The worry I have gone through is enough to make any man ill. To make
him exaggerate matters into the bargain, and see everything in its
worst light. It was an accident, which might have happened to scores
of people who have not troubled themselves about the matter. I am not
even sure, at this date, if I really caused the disaster! I put out my
hand, I know, but I could not swear that I touched her. She stepped
backwards, most likely of her own accord, and so fell over, without
any aid from me! I believe it was so; it is best I should believe it,
for all our sakes. I shall mourn her loss none the less, dear, darling
girl, because I persuade myself that it was Heaven’s will and not my
hasty temper that caused it.’
His wife was surprised to see the placid humour in which he descended
to the breakfast-table. He did not eat much, it is true, but all his
appearance of despair had vanished, until she began to think she must
have been mistaken, and that his mood of the night before had been due
to the cause to which he had ascribed it--over-fatigue and worry. Mr
Crampton being about to start for the Highlands that evening, there was
a good deal to arrange before they parted, so Henry Hindes went off
in good time to the city, and for the rest of the morning was immersed
in business. The appearance of the poor father in his deep sables, and
with his lowered tones and depressed air, did prick his conscience a
little, but the influence of the morphia was still upon him, and a
few glasses of wine soon dispersed the feeling. The first thing which
renewed the discomfort of the night before, was the fact of Mr Crampton
leaving the office, to seek that of his solicitor, Mr Throgmorton.
Henry Hindes knew what he was going for, and tried to prevent him.
‘My dear friend,’ he said, in an expostulating voice, ‘I hope you
are not thinking of putting the idea you mooted to me yesterday into
execution. You must not, indeed. You will give me great pain if you do,
for I neither deserve it, nor desire it.’
But the old man would not listen to him.
‘My dear Hindes, I shall tell you nothing about my intentions. They
are locked in my own breast. I do not know but that I shall not take
your advice after all. My wife, as you reminded me, has many needy
relatives who will be thankful to be remembered in my will. But you
acknowledge the necessity for an alteration. You will come and see us
off from Euston, at eight o’clock this evening, won’t you? I know that
my wife and Miss Bostock would be grieved to leave without shaking
hands with you.’
‘I will be there, without fail,’ replied Hindes, as he walked to the
office door with his partner.
‘What a terrible change in Mr Crampton, sir,’ remarked the clerk, who
was waiting to speak to him on his return.
‘Do you think so, Mr Davidson?’ said Hindes, mechanically.
‘Think so, sir? Why! it’s the talk of the whole office. There’s death
marked in the poor gentleman’s face. He won’t be with us long, sir, I
feel sure of that.’
‘I trust you are mistaken, Davidson. Mr Crampton’s going away for
change to Scotland to-night, and will not return to business until his
health is quite restored.’
‘I hope it may be, sir; I hope, I’m sure, with all my heart, that it
may be, for Mr Crampton’s been very good to all of us; but if you ask
me my opinion, I don’t believe he’ll ever come back at all.’
‘Well, I didn’t ask your opinion, Davidson,’ replied Mr Hindes,
fretfully; ‘and as Mr Crampton has the very best of advice, I think we
may safely leave him in the hands of his doctor.’
‘Oh! yes, sir, of course; and I hope I haven’t said too much. But he
does look very bad indeed--not like the same gentleman,’ repeated the
clerk, as he went back to his work.
This little conversation disconcerted Henry Hindes, and his uneasy
condition was augmented by the entrance of an old friend, a Colonel
Brinsley, whom he had known for years.
‘My dear Hindes,’ exclaimed the colonel, as he threw himself in an
arm-chair, ‘you might knock me down with a feather. I was on my way
here, when I met poor Mr Crampton. Never saw such a change in any man
in my life. Why, he’s the shadow of his former self. Of course I’ve
heard about the sad loss he has sustained, but, hang it all! Hindes,
although it is a terrible thing to lose a child, it doesn’t as a rule
shrivel a man up to half his usual size. He is a mere skeleton. His
clothes hang upon him in bags. I never was more shocked in my life.’
‘She was his only child, and he cared for her very much,’ replied
Hindes, in a low voice, as he played nervously with a paper-knife.
‘Ah! yes! yes! doubtless, and he lost her by some terrible accident or
other, didn’t he? What was it? Some people say she committed suicide,
but that doesn’t seem likely to me. Only, the young people of the
present day think no more of taking their lives than of threading a
needle. How did it happen?’
‘It was an accident--a pure accident,’ said Hindes; ‘she fell over the
cliffs at Dover.’
‘Very dreadful! No wonder the poor old fellow feels it! She was very
pretty, was she not? The beauty of Hampstead, so they tell me. And only
married a few days. How sad! Is it true that it was a runaway match?’
‘It was, but I think my partner would rather the matter were forgotten
now that she is gone,’ replied Hindes.
‘God bless my soul, Hindes, you look very ill too, now I come to look
at you!’ exclaimed the colonel; ‘have you taken it to heart as much as
that?’
‘It has been a trying time for everyone concerned, naturally,’ replied
his companion, ‘but I rather fancy my looks may be attributable to my
having had a bad faceache lately, and been obliged to take morphia to
induce sleep. It always leaves me feeling more ill than before. But it
is impossible to keep a head for business without rest.’
‘True, but why don’t you try opium by inhalation? That’s the stuff to
make you feel jolly! My wife says I shall ruin my health by it, but, as
I’ve practised it now for twenty years and am none the worse, I fancy
I shall continue it till I die. But only now and then, you know, only
now and then. I contracted the habit whilst I was in China, where I
suffered terribly from ague and fever, and it has never quite left me,
so when I feel a fit coming on, out comes my hookah and, by Jove! in a
quarter of an hour I’m ready to dance a jig.’
‘It must be wonderful stuff,’ said Henry Hindes, musingly.
‘It’s magical in its effects--perfectly magical,’ returned the colonel,
enthusiastically. ‘I don’t care if it’s injurious, or not. I shall
never part with my hookah till I die. You try it next time you have the
toothache, my boy, and you’ll thank me evermore.’
‘But where is it to be procured?’ demanded Hindes. ‘I thought the sale
of opium was prohibited in England.’
‘So are the sale of several other articles that are in general use,’
said Colonel Brinsley, laughing, ‘but where’s a will, there’s a way,
you know, Hindes.’
And thereupon he gave him all the necessary information for purchasing
the deadly narcotic and using it as an anæsthetic, and took his leave,
fully persuaded that he had done his friend Hindes an inestimable
benefit.