CONCLUSION.
The summer and the day were alike on the wane. It was the end of July,
and a dull evening. Mr. Greatorex was sitting alone in the coming
twilight, in the large and handsome dining-room, where we first saw
him at the beginning of this history. Haggard he had looked then
waiting to hear the particulars of his favourite nephew's death; far
more haggard he looked now, for the truth in regard to it was at
length disclosed to him.
He wore deep mourning. The son, whose appearance of ill health had of
late given him so much concern, was dead: Bede. Alas! it was not
illness of body that had ailed Bede Greatorex, and turned his days to
one ever-moving, never-ceasing tumultuous sea of misery, but that far
worse affliction, illness of mind. In bodily sickness there may arise
intervals of light, when the suffering is not felt so keenly, or the
heavenly help is nearer for support; in mental sickness, grave as
Bede's was, such intervals never come.
After quitting home at the turn of Christmas, and travelling for a
month or two hither and thither, Bede settled down in a remote French
town. There was a very small colony of English in it, and an English
chaplain, who did the duty for nothing. Bede had not intended to make
it a permanent halting place, but his weakness increased greatly, and
he seemed never willing to attempt another move onwards. Mrs. Bede
grumbled woefully: she called the town a desert and their lodgings a
barn: truth to say, the rooms were spacious and had as good as nothing
in them. She amused herself--such amusement as it was--by taking
drives in the early spring freshness, and talking French, for
improvement, with a fashionable Parisian femme de chambre, whom she
had found herself lucky enough to engage. In June, Bede died: and the
date of his death happened, by a rather singular coincidence, to be
that of Roland Yorke's wedding day. But that can pass.
With Bede's death, a month ago now, things in the office had undergone
some fresh arrangements. Frank Greatorex was his father's sole partner
in the practice. Frank was soon to bring home his wife and it was to
be hoped she would make a happier home of the dwelling than its late
mistress had done. There could be little doubt of it: and Mr.
Greatorex stood a fair chance of regaining some of his domestic
comforts. The prospects of Bede's widow were not flourishing. Bede had
not left a shilling behind him; a little debt, in fact, instead; that
is, _she_ was in debt: and the bills for his funeral and other
incidental expenses, had come over to Mr. Greatorex. There had been no
marriage settlement on Louisa Joliffe: she was now left to the mercy
of her father-in-law: and though a generous man by nature and habit,
Mr. Greatorex was not showing himself generous in this. In a cool,
business-like letter, conveyed to her personally by a trustworthy
clerk, Mr. Greatorex had informed her that henceforward she would be
allowed two hundred pounds a year. One hundred pounds in addition he
made her a present gift of. The clerk, despatched with the letter and
money, was Mr. Brown, who had entirely resumed his name of Winter:
the office, not getting into the new habit readily, usually called
him Mr. Brown-Winter. Mr. Winter was commissioned to discharge the
above-mentioned bills, and to see a stone placed over the grave, the
inscription for which had been written down by Mr. Greatorex. It was
short as might be: only the following words, with the date of death.
BEDE GREATOREX.
AGED THIRTY-NINE.
"Come unto me all ye that labour and are heavy laden."
Mr. Winter had executed his charges, and was back again. The clerks
heard with very little surprise that he was to be promoted amidst
them: the confidential manager in future under Mr. Greatorex and his
son; one whom the office would have to look up to as a master. Rumour
went that Mr. Winter was about to become a qualified solicitor: not
from any view of setting up for himself, but that he might be more
efficient for his duties in the house of Greatorex and Greatorex. His
salary would be handsome: it had been already considerably augmented
since the month of January last. Mr. Winter had taken a small, pretty
house, and would, soon bring a wife home to it: Alletha Rye was to
change her name to Alletha Winter. The clerks in general looked upon
it that Mr. Winter's promotion took its rise in his undoubted business
merit and capacity: but in point of fact it was owing to a few lines
written by Bede to his father.
"The man is of sterling merit: he has forgotten self in striving
patiently to benefit and shield me: reward him for my sake. I am sure
he will repay in faithfulness all you can do for him."
Little more than this did Bede say; not a word as to the nature of
what the benefit or the shielding had been. Mr. Greatorex knew now,
for a revelation had been made to him through Judge Kene. Bede, only
the day before his death, had posted a letter to Sir Thomas Kene, one
that he had spent a week in writing, getting to it at intervals.
The anguish that communication, and other things, brought to Mr.
Greatorex, was very sharp still. He was feeling it as he sat there in
the evening twilight. Bede's death he had, in one sense, almost ceased
to mourn: knowing now what a happy release from mental pain it must
have been. But he could not think with the smallest patience of Bede's
wife: never again, never again. _She_ had been the primary author of
all the misery: but for her, his son--ay, and someone else, dear to
him as a son--had been, in all human probability, living now, happy,
peaceful, and playing a good and busy part on the world's stage.
"Will you admit visitors sir?"
"Eh! what!"--and Mr. Greatorex started up half in alarm as the servant
spoke, so deeply had he been buried in far-away thoughts. "Visitors
this evening!--no. Stay, Philip. Who are they?"
"Sir Roland and Lady Yorke, sir."
"Oh, I'll see them," said Mr. Greatorex. "Ask them to walk up."
Roland and his wife, passing through London from their wedding tour,
part of which had been spent in Ireland, at Lord Carrick's, had halted
for a night at one of the hotels.
"To see old friends," said Roland. Not that he had many to see: Mrs.
J. and Mr. Greatorex nearly comprised them. Whinny Yorke and her
children were in Wales with her mother. Gerald had sent them, "as a
temporary thing," till he could get "a bit straight." When that
desirable epoch might be expected to dawn, was hidden in the mystery
of the future. Gerald had been a good month in Whitecross Street
prison, done to death pretty nearly with his creditors' reproaches,
who used to go down in a body to abuse him when they found there was
no chance of their getting a farthing. He and his chambers had been
sold up; and altogether Gerald had come to considerable grief. Just
now he was in Paris, enjoying himself on a sum of money that Lord
Carrick had been induced to give him, and on the proceeds from an
article that he supplied twice a week to a London newspaper. He
thought himself terribly hard worked; and slightly relieved his bile
by telling everybody that his brother Roland was the greatest villain
under the sun. Roland meant to find him a post if he could, and
meanwhile took care of Winny and the little ones: Gerald quietly
ignored that.
"Sir Roland and Lady Yorke."
Mr. Greatorex met them with outstretched hands, giving Annabel a
fatherly kiss on her blushing face. He quite forgot her new elevation,
remembering her only as the sweet and simple girl who had made
sunshine in his house at odd moments. She looked sweet and simple
still, quite unaltered. Roland, on his part, had not attained the
smallest additional dignity: he clattered in just as of yore. They
were going to Sunny Mead on the morrow, and he began telling of his
future plans for the happy home life.
Mr. Greatorex smiled as he listened. "I don't fancy you will give us
much work, Sir Roland, in the way of incurring debts and trouble, and
coming to us to get you clear of them," he observed.
"No thank you, I leave that to Gerald. Mr. Greatorex," added Roland,
his eyes shining with honest light, his face meeting that of his
ex-master, "I promised Vincent when he was dying that I'd keep clear
of trouble; I as good as promised Hamill: I'd not go from my word to
_them_, you know. And, what's more, I shall never wish to."
"I see. You will be a dead loss to us. The Yorkes in general have been
profitable clients."
Roland took the words seriously, and his mouth fell a little.
"I'm very sorry, sir. I--I'll give you a present every year to make up
for the deficiency, if you'll accept it. A golden inkstand, or
something of that sort."
Mr. Greatorex looked at him with a smile, never speaking. Roland
resumed, thoroughly in earnest, his voice low.
"It's such an awful deal of money, you see; four thousand a year,
besides a house and lots of other things. Two people could never spend
it, and if we could, we don't think it would be doing right. Annabel
and I see things alike. We mean to put aside half of our income;
against a rainy day, say; or--there are so many people who want help.
You see, Mr. Greatorex, we have both learnt to live on little. But I'm
sure I shall be sorry, if you look upon me as a loss."
"You can repay me, Roland, better than by a golden inkstand," said Mr.
Greatorex, laying his hand on the young man's shoulder. "Let me come
to you for a week annually when the summer roses are in bloom; and do
you tell me, year by year, that you have adhered to your proposed
simple mode of life."
Roland was in the skies at once. "It is a bargain, mind that," he
said. "You will come to us always with the summer roses. As to a week
only, we'll talk about that."
"And Jane shall meet you, sir," interposed Annabel with shy joy. "She
is very happy at her school; I often have letters from her. Roland and
I were thinking of having her at Christmas, if you don't mind."
"And Nelly Channing too, if her mother will spare her," put in Roland.
"And we have talked about those three little mites in Wales. It would
be good to have the lot together, and give them a bit of pleasure.
They should have a jolly Christmas tree; and we'd get over some boxes
of lumps of delight from Turkey, by one of the P. and O. steamers; and
I'd bring them up to the waxwork. Annabel and I both love children."
"And I hope to my heart you may have some of your own to bless you!"
rejoined Mr. Greatorex with unaccountable emotion. "To bless you when
they are young; to bless you when they--when they--shall be grown. God
grant you may never have cause to weep for them in tears of blood!
Many of earth's sorrows are hard to bear, but that is the weightiest
that Heaven can inflict upon us."
Roland stared a little. The thing seemed nearly as incomprehensible to
his view of social life as that he should have to weep for some defect
in the moon.
"We'd bring them up in the best way, Mr. Greatorex," was the simple
answer. "Annabel would, you may be sure, and I'd try to. I don't think
I got brought up in the best way myself: there was too much scuffling
and scrambling. Mrs. J. once said--I beg your pardon, Annabel."
For Annabel was trying to express to Mr. Greatorex their regret at his
son's death. The strange emotion that had shaken him she knew must be
felt for Bede.
"We are both of us very sorry, sir, for him and for you," she said.
"My dear, you need not be," spoke Mr. Greatorex, in a low sad tone.
"His life had grown weary; and death, to him must have been like a
welcome rest at the close of day. A little sooner, a little later--what
does it matter?"
"And for the muffs of doctors not to be able to cure him! Mr.
Greatorex, when I remember him, and Vincent Yorke, and Hamish
Channing, my respect for the medical profession does not go up.
Halloa! who's this?" broke off Roland.
Philip was coming in with a cloud of surprise on his face, while a
rustle as of extensive petticoats might be heard in his rear. He
addressed his master with deprecation, conscious of something to tell
that might not be very agreeable.
"It is Mrs. Bede Greatorex, sir."
"Who?" hurriedly exclaimed Mr. Greatorex.
"Mr. Bede's widow, sir. She has arrived with a French maid and a cab
full of boxes."
No need to reiterate the news, for Mrs. Bede stood in view. Mr.
Greatorex seized his servant by the coat like one in alarm, and gave a
private order.
"Keep the cab. Don't unload the boxes. Mrs. Bede Greatorex will not
remain here."
Mrs. Bede Greatorex, a widow of a month, was not less fashionable in
appearance than when she was a wife. Rather more so, of the two. Her
dress of rich silk and crape was a model for the mode books, her hair
was wonderful to behold. A small bob of something white peeped out
atop of the chignon; looking close, it might be discovered to be an
inch of quilled net: and its wearer called it a widow's cap with all
the brass in life.
She held out her hand to Mr. Greatorex, but he seemed not to see it.
That his resentment against this woman was one of bitterness, could
not be mistaken. Mrs. Bede did not appear to notice the coldness of
the greeting. Brushing past Annabel, she cast a rather contemptuous
look towards her, and said some slighting words.
"What! are _you_ here again? I thought the house was rid of you."
"This is my wife; Lady Yorke," spoke Roland in as haughty a tone as it
was possible for him to assume. "Don't forget it, if you please, Mrs.
Bede Greatorex."
She looked from one to the other of them. That Roland had succeeded to
the family honours, she knew, but she had not heard of his marriage.
The poor young governess, whom she had put upon and made unhappy, Lady
Yorke! A moment's pause: Mrs. Bede's manner changed as if by magic,
and she kissed Annabel on both cheeks, French fashion. Nobody knew
better than she on which side her bread was buttered.
"Ah, dear me, it's fine to be you, Annabel! What changes since we last
met. You a wife, and I a widow."
Mr. Greatorex took an impatient step forward, as if to speed her
departure. She turned to him, speaking of her husband.
"I think Bede might have got well if he would. I used to tell him so.
The doctors made an examination afterwards, and found, as you have
heard, that there was no specific disease whatever. He wasted away;
wasted and wasted; it was like as though there were a consuming fire
ever within him burning him away to death."
"My goodness!" cried Roland. "Poor Bede."
"It was most unsatisfactory: I never saw anything like it in my life
before," tartly retorted Mrs. Bede, for her husband's death had not
pleased her, and she resented it openly. Not for the loss or love of
him, but for the loss of his means. "I think he might have got well
had he struggled for it. If you'll believe me, only the day before he
died, he went out in a carriage to the post office, that he might post
a letter himself to Sir Thomas Kene."
No one answered her, or made any comment.
"Is my old room ready for me?"
Mr. Greatorex, to whom the question was more particularly put,
motioned her towards the door, and moved thither himself. "I wish to
speak with you in private for a minute," he said. "Pardon me Sir
Roland, I will be back directly."
That Mrs. Bede Greatorex had come to take the house by storm, hoping
thereby to resume her late footing in it, Mr. Greatorex knew just as
well as she. His letter to her, delivered by George Winter, was
unmistakably plain; and he did wonder at the hardihood which had
brought her hither, after its receipt.
"You cannot have misunderstood my communication," he said to her as
they turned into the room that had once been her boudoir. "I must beg
to refer you to it. This house can never shelter you again."
"But it must," she answered.
"Never again; never again."
"At least, I must stay here for some days, until I can decide where my
residence shall be," she persisted, her voice taking the unpleasant
shriek that it always took in anger. "You can't deny me that."
Mr. Greatorex raised his hand as if to waive off the argument and the
words. "Philip shall see you to an hotel, if you feel incompetent to
drive to one with your maid," he said, slightly sarcastic. "But, under
my roof; it once sheltered in happiness my poor son; you may not
remain."
"I was your son's wife," she passionately said.
"I will tell you what you were to him, if you wish. I don't press it."
"Well?"
"His curse."
"Thank you."
"His curse before marriage; his curse after it."
As he stood there, with his face of pain, speaking not in an angry
tone, but one mournfully subdued, certain items connected with the
past rose up to fill the mind of Mrs. Bede Greatorex. She was aware
then that he knew all; she had some little shame left in her, and her
very brow grew crimson.
"I cannot imagine what you may have heard, or be suspecting," she
said, falteringly. "The past is past. I did nothing very wrong.
Nothing but what plenty of other girls do."
"May God forgive you, Louisa Greatorex; as I know He has forgiven
_him_."
It was surging up in her mind like angry waves, that far gone-by time,
one event replacing another. During her prolonged visit to this very
house as Louisa Joliffe, she had suffered Bede to become passionately
attached to her. Suffered?--it was she who drew him and drew him on.
She engaged herself to him privately; a solemn engagement; and Bede
acceded to her request that it should be kept secret for a time. She
did not like Bede; she was playing an utterly false part; she coveted
the good income and position that would be hers as his wife, but she
rather disliked him. Her motive in demanding that their engagement
should be concealed, was a hope that some offer more desirable might
turn up. Oh that Bede had suspected it! He looked for her to be his
wife as surely as he looked for Heaven. After her return home from her
visit, and John Ollivera, was sojourning at Helstonleigh, she played
exactly the same game over with him. Drawing him on to love her, and
engaging herself to him in private. She liked him, but she did not
like to have to wait an indefinite number of years, until the young
barrister should find himself in a position to marry. Which of the two
she would eventually have chosen, was a matter that must remain in
uncertainty for ever; most likely (she acknowledged so to herself)
Bede and his wealth. Things went on smoothly enough, she corresponding
ardently with both of them in secret, until the time of the March
assizes--so often told of--and the fatal night when Bede Greatorex
came down to Helstonleigh on a mission to his cousin. The contretemps,
the almost certainty of discovery, the very probable fear that she
should lose both her lovers, nearly drove Louisa out of her senses.
That something in connection with it had passed between Bede and his
cousin, she knew from Bede's manner that evening at her mother's; how
much, she did not dare to ask. The following morning, when the news
was brought to her that Mr. Ollivera had destroyed himself, she felt
like a guilty woman. Whatever might have been the mystery of the
death: whether he had really committed suicide, or whether Bede had
shot him in the passion of his hot Spanish blood--and it was
impossible but that she should have her latent doubts--she was the
primary cause; and she knew it, and felt it. Had she gone out and
killed him herself, she could not have felt it more. She became aware
of another thing--that Bede Greatorex, searching amidst the effects of
the dead on the following day, must have found her love-letters: more
impassioned letters than she was wont to write to _him_. Bede did not
visit her again during his stay at Helstonleigh, and she would not
have dared to seek him. Some months later they met by accident in
London: were thrown together three or four times. Bede renewed his
offer of marriage, and she accepted him at once; the doubt in her
mind, as to the part he might have taken in John Ollivera's death,
never having been solved. She conveniently ignored it, for the glowing
prospect of an establishment was all in all. But what sort of a wife
did she make him?--how much did Bede, in his chivalric devotion, have
to bear? She alone knew; she knew it now as she stood there; and her
attempt to carry it off with a high hand to Mr. Greatorex failed
signally. If ever the true sense of her sin should be brought home by
Heaven to Louisa Greatorex, its weight, as connected with the
treatment of her husband, would be well-nigh greater than she could
bear. A curse to him before marriage; a curse to him after: Mr.
Greatorex had well said it.
"Am I to starve in future, that you won't give me a home?" she burst
forth, driving other thoughts away from her. "What's two hundred a
year? How am I to live?"
"My recommendation to you was, that you should live in Boulogne; with
or near your mother," Mr. Greatorex answered calmly. "The two hundred
pounds will be amply sufficient for that."
"Two hundred pounds!" she retorted, rudely. "I shall spend that on my
dress."
"As you please, of course. It is the sum that will be paid you in
quarterly instalments of fifty pounds, as long as I live. At my death,
the half of it only would be secured to you. Should you marry again,
the payments would altogether cease. All this I stated to you in my
letter: I repeat it now. Not another shilling will you receive from
me--in life, or after death."
She saw her future; saw it all laid out before her as on a map; and
her face took a blank look, betraying mortification and despair. No
more ravishing toilettes or French waiting maids; no more costly
dinner-givings, or magnificent kettle-drums. Mrs. Bede Greatorex and
society must henceforth live tolerably far apart. The home she had so
despised, this that she was now being turned from, would be a very
palace compared with the lodgings in Boulogne.
"To prolong this interview will not be productive of further result,"
spoke Mr. Greatorex, taking a step towards the door. "I must beg to
remind you that friends are waiting for me."
"And my clothes, that I left here? And the ornaments that were mine?"
"Everything belonging to you has been packed ready for removal. The
cases shall be all sent to whatever place you may name."
She turned away without another word. Mr. Greatorex rang the bell.
Outside, sitting underneath one of the white statues, near the small
conservatory, was the French maid, inwardly railing against the want
of politeness of these misérable Anglishe. Trusty Philip had warned
her that she need not go up higher.
The cab drove away with them, and Mr. Greatorex returned to the
dining-room with a relieved heart.
"She is done with at last, thank Heaven! Let us have tea together,
Roland," he added, with a hearty smile. "Lady Yorke will take off her
bonnet, and make it for us; as she did when she was my little friend
Annabel Channing."
* * * * * *
_Copy of the letter received by Judge Kene from Bede Greatorex_.
"As you know so much, Sir Thomas, I owe it to you and to myself to
afford some further explanation. You have shown yourself a true
friend: add to the obligation, by imparting the details I now write to
Henry William Ollivera.
"When I was despatched to Helstonleigh on that fatal mission, I was
engaged to be married to Louisa Joliffe, and loved her passionately.
The engagement had existed several months, but it was at her request
kept a secret to ourselves. After delivering the message and business
I was charged with to John, we sat on, in his room, talking of
indifferent matters. I said that I should spend the evening with the
Joliffes: John laughed a little, and said perhaps he should. One word
led to another, and at last he told me, premising it must be in
confidence, that he was engaged to Louisa. I thought he was joking; my
answer annoyed him; and he went on to say things about Louisa's love
for him and their future marriage that nearly drove me wild. What, I
hardly know now. It seemed to me that he had treacherously stepped in
to strive to take my bride from me, to win her for himself, my one
little ewe lamb. We recriminated on each other: she had deceived us
both, but neither of us suspected it then: and we felt something like
rival tiger cats; at least I know I did. Whenever my Spanish blood got
up I was a madman--as you may remember, Kene, for you saw me so once
or twice in earlier days--I was nothing else that wicked evening. At
some taunt of his, or it sounded like one to me, I took up the pistol,
that lay on the table underneath my hand, and fired it at him. Before
Heaven, where I shall so soon stand, I declare that I had no
deliberate intention of killing him. I did not know whether the pistol
was loaded or not. I do not even think I knew what I was doing, or
that I had caught up the pistol: in my mad rage I was conscious of
nothing. The shot killed him instantaneously, even in the midst of his
cry. I cried out too--with horror at what I had done; my passion faded
and I stood still as he was. Before I crossed the step or two to his
succour, I saw that he was dead. How horribly I have repented since
that I did not fling open the door and call out for assistance, none,
save myself, can know. Self-preservation lies instinctively within us
all, and I suppose that stopped me. Oh, the false coward that I have
since ever called myself!--the years of concealment and misery it
would have saved All I thought of then, was--to get away. A short
while I listened, but no sound told that any one had been within
earshot; I softly opened the door to escape, putting out my head first
to reconnoitre; and--found myself nearly face to face with a man. He
stood on the stairs in an attitude of listening, and our eyes met in
the gas-light. I never forgot his; they seemed to shine out from a
mass of black hair; those same eyes afterwards puzzled my memory for
years. When the eyes of my subsequent clerk, Mr. Brown, had used to
strike some unpleasant chord on my memory, but what I could not
fathom, I never connected them with those other eyes; for Brown had
put off his disguise then, and looked entirely another person. Ah,
Kene! don't you see the obligation I lie under to this man, George
Winter? Not at that moment did he know I had committed murder, but in
a short period of time, as soon as the newspapers supplied details of
the night's doings, he could but become aware of it. Had a doubt
remained on his mind, when he entered our office and knew me for Bede
Greatorex, the thing must have been made clear to him as daylight. To
shield me he has remained under a cloud himself: I hope my father will
reward him. Even when he was giving his evidence before you and the
rest, he told a lie to save me. For he said that when he saw the face
at the door it was _after_ the departure of Mr. Bede Greatorex. It was
my face he saw, Kene; no other. All through these years he has watched
my misery; and in his great compassion for what he knew my sufferings
must be, has been silently lightening life to me where he could. But,
to go back to the time.
"I should think we gazed at each other for the space of half a minute,
the man on the stairs and I: the fright of seeing someone there nearly
paralyzed me; and then I went in again and shut the door. It was
perhaps the sight of him that caused me to attempt to throw the
suspicion off myself: certainly I had not thought of it before. I put
the pistol on the carpet by the chair, as if it had fallen from John's
right hand; and next, looking about on the table, I found the
unfinished letter, and added the lines you know of. I seemed to be
doing it in a dream; that it was not myself but somebody else, and all
in a desperate hurry, for I grew afraid of stopping. Then it occurred
to me to put out the lamp; I don't know why; and, upon that, I went
out resolutely, for I did not like the dark. Luck seemed to be against
me. As I opened the door this second time, some young man (not the
first) was passing by. Instinct caused me to turn round and make
believe to be speaking to John. What words I really said, I should
never have remembered but for hearing the young man, Alfred Jones,
repeat them at the coroner's inquest. They served me more than I
thought: for Alfred Jones unconsciously took up the natural
supposition that John was also speaking to me; this version went forth
to the public, and it was assumed that what happened, happened after
my departure. There's no doubt that it was the chief element in
throwing suspicion off me. He showed me out of the house, and
thenceforward I had to try and act the part of an innocent man. I went
to the Star and Garter and drank some brandy-and-water: I went thence
to Mrs. Joliffe's: how I did it all, with that horrible thing upon me,
I have never known. I said a few cautious words to Louisa, and by her
answers, I felt sure that John's boast had been (at least in part) a
vain one. As I returned up High Street, some tradesman was standing
just within his side-door. He did not know I saw him. Halting, I
looked at John Ollivera's windows, just opposite, and said something
to the effect that John must have gone to bed--all for the man to hear
me. Just afterwards I met you, Kene,--do you remember it? You were
going to call on John, but I said he had gone to bed and the people of
the house, too, I supposed, as there was no light to be seen. I shrank
from the discovery, and would fain have put it off for ever. What a
night that was for me! As I had stirred the tea at Mrs. Joliffe's, as
I stirred the brandy-and-water at the hotel, John's face seemed to be
in the liquid, staring up at me. In the dark of the bedroom, after the
candle had burnt out, I saw him in his chair, just as I had left him.
I had not dared to ask for a night-light, lest it might excite
suspicion; how could I answer for it that the hotel would not get to
learn I was not in the habit of burning one?
"You know the rest: the discovery and the inquest that followed. Did I
act my part well, Kene? I suppose so, by the result. That day--the
first--you were with me when we examined John's desk: it was advised
that I should look over his letters for any clue that perhaps they
might show to the motive of his self-inflicted death. The large bundle
of letters, Kene, came, I found, from Louisa Joliffe, and poor John's
was no vain boast: she had been all to him that she had professed to
be to me, and a traitor to both.
"Why did I marry her, you will naturally ask. Ah, why! why! Because my
love for her fooled me into it: because, if you will, I was mad. When
we met again, months afterwards, the passion that I thought I had
killed within me, rose up with ten-fold force, and I yielded to it. To
do so was not much less sinful (looking at it as I look now) than the
other and greater crime. I saw it even as I stood with her before the
altar, I saw it afterwards clearer and clearer. But I loved her even
in spite of my better judgment; I love her even yet: and I have
striven to do my duty by her in all indulgence, to shield her from the
cares of the world.
"And there's my life's history. Oh, Kene, if I have been more sinful
than other men, my merciful God knows what my expiation has been. Can
you even faintly picture it to yourself? From a few minutes after the
breath went out of poor John's body, my punishment set in. It was only
fear just at first; it was the bitterest remorse afterwards that ever
made a wreck of mortal man. I am not a murderer by nature, and John
and I were dear friends. My days have been one long, wearing penance:
regret for him and his shortened life, dread of my crime's discovery;
one or the other filling every moment: remorse and repentance,
repentance and remorse: and that it has been so is owing to Heaven's
mercy. Not an hour of the day or night, but I would gladly have given
up my own life to restore his. After the first confused horror had
passed, I should have declared the truth at the time but for my
mother's sake: in her state of health it would have killed her. When
she died, the time had gone by for it: I had my father and my wife to
consider later, and remained perforce silent. My father has thought my
bodily health failed: in one sense so it did, for I have been wasting
away from the first, dying slowly inch by inch.
"And that's all, Kene. When you shall have heard news of my death--it
will be with you very close upon this letter--disclose the whole to
Henry William Ollivera. With regard to my father, I leave the matter
to you. If he in the slightest degree suspects me--and I can but think
he must, after Winter's confession, and from the easy acquiescence he
gave to my coming on the Continent for an indefinite period--then tell
him the whole. Heaven bless you all, and grant you the peace that can
spring alone of Jesus Christ's atonement! I have dared to think it
mine for some little time now.
"BEDE GREATOREX."
When the tidings of Bede's death reached him, Sir Thomas Kene went out
to seek an interview with Mr. Ollivera. The clergyman read the letter,
and bent his head in prolonged silence.
"After all, I suppose John's grave will have to remain undisturbed,"
spoke the Judge. "Winter cleared his memory."
"Yes; better so, perhaps," was the slow, thoughtful reply. "If I had
never before been thankful that I read the burial service over him, I
should be so now. You see, I was right, Kene. God be merciful to us
all, for we are all miserable sinners!"
THE END.