Mr Crampton’s prognostications, with regard to himself, proved to be
but too true. He had intended to take his wife and sister-in-law to a
lovely place called Fochabers, in the Highlands of Scotland, but, on
the way thither, he was taken so ill, that it was thought advisable
they should stop at Aberdeen for the sake of medical advice, within a
month of which time the old man had an apoplectic fit, and died without
recovering consciousness. The news of this disaster was a fresh blow
to Henry Hindes, but the intimation of it was accompanied by such an
earnest appeal from the widow that he would go to them and help them in
this calamity, as he had done in the last, that he was obliged to pack
his portmanteau at once and start for Aberdeen, to go through the same
painful scenes he had done before.
Mr Crampton’s last wish was that he should be carried back to Hampstead
and laid by Jenny’s side. So the same melancholy preparations had to
be made, the same melancholy coming-home to be gone through, and the
same melancholy funeral rites to be solemnised, till Mr Hindes almost
thought the former misery must have been a dream, and that Jenny
Walcheren was only now being laid in her untimely grave.
No wonder that he looked ill and distracted, people said. The high
estimation in which he had been held by the dead man was proved by the
fact that he had left him half his fortune. No! not to him, perhaps,
but to his son, which amounted to the same thing. For what Henry
Hindes had dreaded and tried to prevent had indeed come to pass. His
late partner’s will left half his fortune, which was to remain in the
business, to Walter James Henry Hindes, the son of his best friend,
Henry Hindes; the other half to be his wife’s for her lifetime, and,
after her death, her sister’s, on the same terms; and, when both were
deceased, it was to be divided between the child or children of his
best friend aforesaid, Henry Hindes. So he was forced to take it; to
benefit by Jenny’s death; to see his offspring in the enjoyment of that
wealth which her father had accumulated for her; and which, but for
himself, she might have lived half a century to take advantage of.
Hannah was naturally delighted that their old friend had remembered her
little son in his will, and could not understand why her husband would
not hear the subject alluded to. However unhappy he may have been made
by Jenny’s death, still, as the dear girl was gone beyond recall, she
could not see why their darling Wally, who surely must be more to his
father than any friend, however missed and mourned, should not benefit
by Mr Crampton’s generosity.
The elaborate monument which Mr Crampton had designed for his
daughter’s grave, and had set in hand before he left for Scotland,
was now complete and ready to be erected. This task also fell to
Mr Hindes, for the widow was incapable of acting for herself, and
looked to him for everything. It was a massive column of red granite,
lettered in gold. It stood twenty feet high, and could be seen over
all the monuments in the cemetery. A second inscription had been
added to commemorate the father’s death, and, a few weeks after Mr
Crampton’s funeral, the masons having sent Hindes word that their work
was completed and the monument placed in the cemetery, he walked down
by himself to see if the orders given had been properly carried out,
before payment was made. He dreaded the task beyond everything. He
had been alternately fortifying his courage during the last few weeks
by doses of morphia, pipes of opium, and glasses of brandy, until he
had made himself physically, as well as mentally, ill. But he must go
through this trial once, he said to himself, once and for all, for he
had left off going to church lately. He was too great a coward to pass
by the spot where _she_ lay, twice every Sunday. But Mrs Crampton had
commissioned him to see that the monument to her husband and daughter
was properly erected, so he was compelled to do so. He could not afford
to neglect the wishes of the widow of the man who had so greatly
benefited his son. That cursed legacy would bind him her slave for life.
He entered the cemetery with folded arms, and his eyes cast on the
ground. The plot of earth surrounding Jenny’s grave had already been
made beautiful by cartloads of flowering geraniums and other plants,
transferred from the garden at The Cedars, and in the centre of them
now reared the head of the red granite column. Henry Hindes knew the
inscription by heart. He had seen it glaring at him through the
darkness of the night, and had repeated it to himself until it seemed
to be written in letters of fire on the tablets of his memory. But he
had not calculated what it would look like, revealed in the glaring
light of day, calling out, as it were, by its golden letters, to all
men to come and read of his infamy. He looked up at it, and it seemed
to blind his eyes. Something floated before them like a mist that
prevented his seeing distinctly, and yet the very stones seemed to cry
out the words:
‘Sacred to the memory of Jane Emily Crampton, the only child of John
Crampton, Esq., of this parish, who was killed by a fall over the Dover
cliffs on the 14th of August, 1875, in the twentieth year of her age.
“Thou God knowest.”’ After which was written: ‘Also to the memory of
John William Crampton, her father, who survived her loss only five
weeks. “Vengeance is mine! I will repay, saith the Lord.”’
Not a word of her marriage--not a mention of Frederick Walcheren’s
name--only those words and quotations, which, to those who knew the
circumstances of the case, revealed but too plainly what the friends
of the dead girl thought about her mysterious death. To the guilty
conscience of Henry Hindes, it was almost as if the monument cried out
to the whole world to come and read how _he_ had thrown the daughter
over the cliff, and killed her father into the bargain. It terrified
and alarmed him. He would have liked to have rooted it all up again.
But he knew it must stand there for ever--for centuries, perhaps,
after his own death, an enduring testimony to his shame and remorse
and disgrace. And it was Jenny--Jenny, whom he loved, who lay there,
condemning him! The unhappy man sunk down on his knees before the red
granite column, and sighed forth the anguish of his soul.
‘Oh, my darling! my darling!’ he groaned within himself. ‘You know,
don’t you, that I never thought of the awful consequences of my hasty
act--that I never meant to harm you, that it was your unkind words
that led me on until I was no longer master of my self. You know I
didn’t want to take your father’s money--_your_ money, Jenny, and I
would give it back, with all that I possess myself, to undo the fatal
accident of that day. For it _was_ an accident, my darling--you must
know that now, and how your miserable lover is suffering for his
rashness. Oh, Jenny! if I could only think so! if I could only think
so!’
He had buried his face in his hands, and was unaware of the approach
of any one until he was roused by the voice of Frederick Walcheren
demanding indignantly,--
‘And pray, Mr Hindes, may I ask by what right I find you weeping over
my wife’s grave?’
He had come as privately as possible to see the spot where they had
laid his Jenny, intending to give himself the poor consolation of
praying above her ashes for the repose of her soul; but, to find
his intentions forestalled, and by the man he so much disliked and
distrusted, roused all the old Adam in him again. At the imperious
question, Henry Hindes also felt the fighting spirit rise in his
breast. The instinct of self-preservation made him resent the idea that
it was anything out of the way for him to be found kneeling on the
grave of his friends. He drew himself up haughtily and replied,--
‘I am not aware, Mr Walcheren, that this cemetery belongs exclusively
to you, or that you have any right to forbid my mourning the loss of my
friends. There are two victims beneath this stone. The father, as well
as the daughter, owes his death to your behaviour. He has only survived
her five weeks.’
‘My God!’ murmured Frederick below his breath, and then, looking at the
inscription, he added, ‘But why is _my_ name not recorded here? Why is
there no mention that she was my wife? Whom have I to thank for this
insult?’
‘The monument was designed, and the inscription written by Mr Crampton
himself, sir, before he died,’ replied Hindes.
‘I don’t believe it,’ cried Frederick, hotly. ‘And these texts! They
are a positive reflection upon me. They say as plainly as possible
that there is a doubt about the manner of my darling’s death--that she
was not killed by accident but design. Is this some of your doing, Mr
Hindes, as well as the suppression of my wife’s real name?’
‘I have already told you that the whole thing is of Mr Crampton’s
ordering. He did not believe in the legality of your marriage--that I
know. As to the texts, he had his own reasons, doubtless, for selecting
them, but he did not confide them to me.’
‘And I have told you that I do not believe you. You were in all Mr
Crampton’s confidences, and a precious bad use you made of your
knowledge. My poor girl told me as much as that. She said several times
how much she feared and suspected you. She said you were against her
in everything, that you were always persuading her father to thwart her
wishes and refuse her requests, and that she hated you for it.’
‘She--Jenny--said--she hated me, and to--you!’ exclaimed Henry Hindes.
‘It is impossible. You are deceiving me. We were the greatest friends.’
‘You may have thought so--_she_ did not. And I will thank you to speak
of my dead wife by her proper name, as Mrs Walcheren,’ cried Frederick,
in a fury. ‘You should never have been allowed to call her by her
Christian name, and I forbid you to do so now.’
Henry Hindes’s natural impulse would have been to retort by saying that
Mr Walcheren had no rights whatever in the matter, and he should call
his late friend by what name he chose, but his former assertion was
still rankling in his memory.
‘Jenny said she hated me,’ he murmured to himself, ‘and to _him_! It
was not on the impulse of the moment, then, as I hoped--as I have
believed. She meant it--good heavens!--she meant it, and I--I loved
her so.’
His face was white as ashes as he turned it towards Frederick Walcheren.
‘We will not quarrel, sir,’ he said, ‘and especially here. I came
to the cemetery this afternoon at Mrs Crampton’s request to see if
her orders had been carried out, with respect to the initialing and
erection of this monument, with neither of which, as I told you, have
I anything to do. But since you doubtless would wish to be left in
privacy, I will withdraw.’
Saying which, he made a low bow and walked out of the cemetery. But he
had left his sting behind him. Frederick Walcheren no longer felt in
the disposition for prayer, or even tears.
‘What is it about that man that makes him so repulsive to me?’ he
thought, as he found himself alone. ‘He speaks fair enough, but there
is something behind it all that I cannot understand. Well, they have
taken care between them that I shall not want to visit this spot too
often. My poor darling! What must she think of their depriving her of
the title which made her my wife. I was a weak fool for letting them
take her from me so easily. But I little thought they would insult us
both in this manner. Perhaps it is as well. She _is_ my wife. No false
inscription can unmake her that, God be thanked! And Father Tasker says
I must wean my heart from all these earthly longings as soon as may be.
One is squashed at any rate. I shall never want to look upon her grave
again, with those vile texts written beneath her dear name. “Thou God
knowest.” Yes, God _does_ know that I am innocent of all blame in this
matter, except of tempting her to leave her home. Well, well, it is not
to be thought of. The sooner I turn my mind to other things the better.’
He stooped down and gathered two or three little blue flowers that were
blossoming above Jenny’s remains, and, kissing them, put them carefully
between the folds of his pocket-book. Then he knelt down and said a
prayer above her, and, dashing his hand across his eyes, turned slowly
away. Meanwhile, Henry Hindes was walking back to The Old Hall, with
his heart on fire. He had been trying hard to persuade himself lately
that Jenny had meant nothing by the hasty words she had used to him
just before her death. Hannah had reiterated so often how fond the
girl had been of them both, and it had pleased him to think that she
was right, and that, when he met Jenny again, there would be no cloud
between them, but only the old feeling of affection. He had begun to
address her, in the solitude of his own chamber, as his darling and
his love and his true wife, from whom he had been separated only by
the conflicting circumstances of the world. But Walcheren’s statement
had blown all his airy fancies away at a breath. She had really meant
what she said. It had not been the meaningless outcome of a young
girl’s petulance. It was ante-dated to the moment. Jenny had even
told her bridegroom of a day of the feelings she entertained against
her father’s friend. The truth made him feel fierce and wretched and
revengeful all at once. For the moment he was not sorry that he had
pushed her over the cliff and deprived her and her husband of their
life’s happiness. But this feeling did not last, and it was succeeded
by a paroxysm of unusual despair, in which both Earth and Heaven
seemed to have arrayed themselves against him. He retired to his room
on the plea of a headache, and there indulged in the custom which was
fast becoming habitual to him--of inhaling opium until his senses
were stupefied and all his fears laid to rest. He remained alone all
the evening, and retired to bed without seeing his wife again. This
was now so much his custom that Hannah was beginning to think nothing
of it. She believed that her husband suffered from acute neuralgia
which necessitated his taking a soporific, after which it was unwise
to disturb him. So she walked over to The Cedars, where she was always
very welcome now, and tried to cheer up the two lonely women, who
would persist in sitting down with their grief in their laps, instead
of doing their utmost to dispel it. Hannah almost talked them into a
promise that evening that they would spend the winter abroad. They had
never visited Paris, and she pressed them so hard to have a little
pity on themselves that Mrs Crampton actually authorised her to make
inquiries about the best means of getting there, and which hotel
would be the most suitable for her sister and herself to stay at. She
therefore returned home, well satisfied with her success, and feeling
she had done a good night’s work. It was past her usual bed hour when
she reached The Hall, so that, after a brief visit to the nursery,
Hannah retired herself.
She was not very sleepy, however, so, having dismissed her maid, she
sat down in her room to discuss a new novel that Mrs Crampton had lent
her. It was an interesting tale, and engrossed her attention to that
extent that she pored over it much longer than she had intended.
She was first roused to a sense how time was going on by hearing a
noise, as she imagined, in the passage outside her door, and glancing
at the clock on the mantelpiece, found, to her surprise, that it was
past two.
The household must have long retired to rest. What, then, could the
noise be which she had heard on the landing? Hannah was not a nervous
woman as a rule, but it had sounded so much like voices, that she began
to fear that some one might have got into the house with the intent
to steal. She rose, therefore, and listened attentively. A moment’s
consideration showed her that the sound proceeded not from the passage,
but her husband’s bedroom. Perhaps he was ill, and, perceiving the
light in her room, had called to her. So she unclosed the door between
them and peeped in. What she saw there paralysed her into a silent
witness. She did not speak to him, but stood leaning against the
door-post, listening with all her ears. She felt her flesh creep as the
full meaning of his words riveted itself upon her memory, but she did
not scream out, nor do anything to disturb the speaker.
Henry Hindes was in his night-shirt, sitting on, or rather leaning
against, the side of the bed. He was not asleep; at least his eyes were
wide open, but it was evident that he neither saw nor heard anything
around him. The sweat was pouring off his face, and his hair was damp
with it, but it did not appear to inconvenience him, as he stared
wildly into the darkness and muttered to himself,--
‘It was an accident, Jenny--you know it was an accident--I did
not push you intentionally--How could I tell it would cause your
death?--Why did you aggravate me so?--Why should you hate me?--_I_, who
love you--love you--My God! don’t say it--I cannot bear it--cannot bear
it! And to _him_, too--my rival--the man who stole you from me! Jenny!
Jenny!--don’t look so--don’t speak so, or I shall push you over the
cliff!--Ah! she is gone!--it is done! Why did I do it?--Why did I do
it?--I have killed her, Jenny! My God! this is hell--hell--hell!’
He glared with his opium-laden eyes straight before him, and had just
sense enough left to catch sight of Hannah’s white night-dress as she
stood, horror-stricken, at the open doorway, through which a light
streamed from her bedroom.
‘Ah!’ he screamed in terror, ‘don’t come near me! Don’t touch me--I
didn’t mean to do it, Jenny! It was the devil prompted me to push
you!--Have mercy! Don’t haunt me. Don’t haunt me, or you will drive me
mad--mad--mad!’
He slid down upon his bare knees as he concluded, hiding his face in
his hands, and Hannah had just strength left to withdraw herself and
close and lock the door between them.
She understood it all now! Her husband’s unaccountable grief and
sleeplessness and irritable temper. He was pursued by an undying
remorse. And for what? Oh! it was terrible, terrible! Hannah reached
her bed, but it was only to sink down by the side of it, and pour out
her soul in prayer for her wretched husband and herself. And when she
was exhausted with prayer and weeping, she threw her dressing-gown
around her, and sat down to consider what she ought to do about the
dreadful truth that had been made known to her.
Her husband was a murderer! There was no end served by disguising the
horrid truth from herself. He had pushed sweet, darling Jenny Crampton
over the Dover Cliffs. Oh! how could he have done it? How _could_ he
have done it? Their pretty, loving Jenny! It was too awful to think of,
but it was true! She had heard him confess it with his own lips! But
the idea that she could desert him on that account, or deliver him up
to justice on his own confession, never entered the wife’s mind. He was
hers, and she was his, for better or worse; there must be no treachery
between them. He had told his secret to the darkness; with the darkness
it must remain!
Only, how ought she to act herself, so as not to become a _particeps
criminis_; what steps should she take to prevent further wrong? To
betray Henry, even if she could have made up her mind to do so, would
not bring back poor, murdered Jenny, or the old father who had followed
her so quickly to the grave.
But the money which Mr Crampton had left in such good faith to the son
of his ‘best friend,’ Wally should not touch it, now or ever. She would
not let her innocent child’s hands be stained by the touch of blood
money. It must be spent on some other purpose. It should never go to
Wally.
Hannah sat and pondered over these puzzles all night, how could she do
her duty to her husband and children, and yet not become a participator
in his crime--a crime which must, under any circumstances, have caused
a great revulsion in her feelings towards him, but when connected with
Jenny Crampton, made her feel as if it were impossible for her to live
with him again. Yet, if she left him, what depths might he not fall to?
The only hope for him seemed to be in her presence and protection.
But, for her children, it was different. At all risks, she would
separate her girls, now growing old enough to understand the meaning
of most things that took place around them, from so tainted a father!
Elsie and Laurie must leave home. Hannah felt as if she could not
endure to see him kiss them again, or touch them with the hands that
had sent their darling Jenny to her death.
She was not aware that her husband had adopted the fatal practice of
inhaling opium. She attributed the strange manner which he occasionally
exhibited, to too much alcohol, or the doses of morphia which he said
he took for toothache. She would have borne patiently with all that, to
whatever lengths he had carried it, but what she had heard was beyond
the limits of woman’s forbearance to tolerate. _Her_ duty, perhaps, was
to remain by him, but her children should, at all risks, be saved from
contamination.
Henry Hindes came down the next morning, looking haggard and stupid and
heavy-eyed, after the fashion of men who indulge too much in any sort
of narcotic, but he could scarcely have looked worse than Hannah, who
was as white as her gown, and trembling with dread of what lay before
her.
‘Henry,’ she said, as soon as their breakfast was concluded, ‘I wish to
speak to you. Will you come into the library?’
‘What’s up now?’ he grumbled, as he followed his wife’s footsteps.
‘I will soon tell you. I have come to the conclusion that it will be
better for my daughters to leave home. I intend to take them over to my
old friend, Mrs Tredgold, this afternoon, and leave them with her for
their education.’
‘What on earth do you mean?’ exclaimed Henry Hindes. ‘Send the girls
away! Are you mad?’
‘I think not. You will understand my reason if you think a little. I do
not consider that they ought to live any longer at home. And if Wally
were old enough to leave my care, I should send him away too.’
‘I never heard of such an extraordinary thing in my life,’ said
her husband, who, nevertheless, was becoming rather uncomfortable
under the coldness and decision of her manner, so different from the
gentleness of Hannah’s general demeanour. ‘What the h--l will you do
next? How long have you arrived at this decision?’
‘Not long,’ she answered, passing her hand in a weary manner over her
aching brow, ‘but this is not all, Henry! The money that Mr Crampton
left to Wally. The child shall not keep it. It must be drawn out of the
business at once, and if it is useless to try and persuade Mrs Crampton
to take it back again, it must be spent in charity. No child of mine
shall touch it.’
‘Hannah!’ said her husband fiercely, catching her by the wrist, ‘what
does all this mean? You have some latent reason for talking to me in
this fashion. What is it? I insist upon knowing.’
‘I don’t think there is any necessity to force me to put my meaning
into so many words, Henry,’ replied his wife, quietly, but with a
fast-beating heart, as she disengaged her wrist from his grasp; ‘the
reason is, that you have taken to talking in your sleep of late, and
last night you were so noisy that I opened the door between our rooms,
and I heard--_all_!’
Hindes became as white as a sheet, as he stood gazing at her, and
breathing hard. After a long pause he said,--
‘Well, and what are you going to do?’
‘The money must be given up, of course,’ she answered, as quietly as if
they were discussing the most ordinary topic, ‘and the children must be
removed from home. It seems hard, but I could not--I could not bear to
see them--playing with you, or caressing you.’
Hindes groaned and turned away. That he had rendered himself an unfit
associate for his little ones, was perhaps the worst thing he had been
yet called upon to bear.
‘And you, Hannah,’ he whispered after a moment’s pause, ‘what shall you
do?’
‘I am your wife, Henry,’ she answered, simply; ‘my place is with you.’
‘You will stay by me--knowing all--hating all?’ he asked, fearfully.
‘Knowing all and hating all,’ she said softly, ‘but not necessarily
hating _you_.’
He crept to her side and, burying his face in the folds of her dress,
burst into a flood of tears.