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