lest a false step should precipitate you into a chaos of darkness;
holding the end of an intricate web in your hand, yet not daring to
follow the lead, lest you should lose yourself in its mazes--so I
felt on the morning succeeding my visit with Detective Jones to
Blue-Anchor Lane; so, likewise, had that astute officer and faithful
friend expressed himself when we had parted the night before.
"You see, sir," he said, "the whole of what we have gathered this
evening may only mean that Mr. Wilmot has got mixed up with this De
Vos or Sullivan in some-gambling transaction, who, hearing that he's
left sole heir to poor Thorneley's fortune, means to hold whatever
knowledge he possesses as a threat over him to extort money. Then, as
to what passed at 'Noah's Ark,' why, it may mean a good deal, and it
may just mean nothing, as not referring to the parties we know of. I
don't wish to raise your hopes, sir; and until I've consulted with
Inspector Keene and seen what he's ferreted out, I wouldn't like to
say that we'd gained as much as I thought we should from our move
tonight."
On my table I found a broad black-bordered letter. It was a formal
invitation on the part of Lister Wilmot, as sole executor, to attend
old Thorneley's funeral on the following Tuesday.
The intervening days were dark, and blank with the blankness of
despair. Vigilant, energetic, and penetrating as was that secret,
silent search of the detectives, no real clue was found to the mystery
of the murdered man's death; no light thrown upon the black page in
the history of that fatal Tuesday evening, save what our own miserable
suspicions or fallacious hopes suggested. De Vos had entirely
disappeared from the scene, leaving no truce of his whereabouts.
Wilmot's public movements, though closely watched by the lynx-eyed
functionaries of the law, were perfectly satisfactory: and the
housekeeper remained closeted in her own room, intent, apparently,
upon making up her mourning garments for her late master, and fairly
baffling Inspector Keene in his insidious attempts to elicit a word
further, or at variance to what she stated at the inquest, by her
cool, collected, and straightforward replies to his 'cute
cross-questioning. And yet, in concluding the short interviews between
Mr. Inspector and Merrivale, at which I was generally present, after a
silent scrape at his chin, and a hungry crop at his nails, he would
still repeat with a certain little air of quiet confidence, "Good-day,
gentlemen. I think I am on the scent."
Meanwhile the verdict at the inquest had gone forth and done its work;
and Hugh Atherton was fully committed for trial next sessions at the
Old Bailey. These were to take place early in November, and the
thought of how terribly short a time was left till then filled us with
a fearful, heart-sickening dread lest all, upon which hung the issues
of life or death, could not be accomplished in so little space. True
that a respite {739} might be asked, and the trial postponed until the
following sessions; but upon what plea could the request be preferred?
Some evidence not yet forthcoming. What evidence could we hope for?
upon what future revelation could we rely? At present there was
nothing, absolutely nothing, but our vague conjectures, our blind
belief in the acuteness of the police officers whom we were employing.
And Ada Leslie, what of her? Every day, and twice a day, I went to
Hyde-Park Gardens, sometimes with Merrivale, sometimes alone,
repeating every detail, every minute particular, every circumstance,
and going though everything with her said or done by each one
concerned. It seemed to be her only comfort and support, after that
better and higher consolation promised to the weary and heavy-laden,
and which both she and Hugh knew well how to seek.
"Tell me all," she would say--"the good and bad. I can bear it better
if I know nothing is kept back. To deceive me would be no real
kindness; and who has a better right to know everything than I, who am
part of himself? We shall be man and wife soon, in the sight of God
and the world, and then nothing can separate us in other men's minds:
but till then I am truly and faithfully one with him; and what touches
him touches me, only infinitely more because it is for him. Don't you
know what the idyl says about the fame and shame being mine equally if
his? But better and holier words still have been spoken, and I say
them often to myself now when I think of the time which is coming:
'They two shall be one flesh.'"
Strangely enough, though fully conscious of Atherton's danger, of the
awful position in which he stood, she never seemed to take count for
one instant that the simple plea of innocence on his part, and the
belief of it on ours, would not weigh one feather's weight in the
heavy balance of evidence against him.
Since my encounter with Mrs. Leslie, that lady and I had been cold and
distant, conversing the least possible within our power, and avoiding
one another by mutual consent. But one thing I noted, that come when I
would, early or late, with news or without, alone or accompanied by
Merrivale, whose visits seemed a great comfort to Ada, Lister Wilmot
was certain to have forestalled me, and given in his version, either
personally or by letter, of whatever had happened. And I found the
effect of this was, that Mrs. Leslie was speaking of Hugh as guilty,
though "poor Lister still persists in trying to think him innocent;"
and was publishing about wherever she could that I had _volunteered_
to give evidence against him. Ada took a different view of Wilmot's
conduct.
"I think, guardian, that Lister is almost mad," she said one day. "He
talks quite wildly sometimes to me. We never thought he had a very
clear head; and now he seems to be so incoherent and contradictory in
all he says, and this confuses mamma, and makes her get wrong notions
about it all. But he is so kind and good to me now. Once I thought he
didn't like me; but he is quite changed now."
On the Saturday she was allowed to see Hugh, now lodged in Newgate
Prison. She went with Wilmot and her mother; but she saw him alone,
with only the warder present. Contrary to my expectations, she was
calmer and happier, if one can use such a word, knowing all the
anguish of the heart, than before. They had mutually strengthened and
comforted each other. She repeated to me a great deal of what passed
when I saw her in the evening; but she never said one word of what had
passed about myself; she never brought me any message; and when I
asked her if Hugh had expressed a wish to see me, she only replied,
"No, he thinks it is best not--at least at present." The same reply
came through {740} Merrivale, who seemed puzzled by it; the same
through Lister Wilmot, who was offensively regretful for me. I could
not bear it, and I gave utterance to the pent-up feeling which raged
within me. I told him that none of his meddling was needed between
myself and Hugh Atherton, and I hinted that the _rôle_ he had taken
upon himself to play now would before many days were over be changed
in a very unpleasant manner. A covert sneer curled his thin lips, and
there was an evil light in his eyes, as he replied that he was not
afraid of any plot that might be hatched against him, and he could
make excuses for my excited feelings "As to myself," he concluded, "_I
am prepared for everything_."
Tuesday, the day appointed for the burial of Gilbert Thorneley, at
last arrived; and those invited to attend assembled for the time in
Wimpole street to pay their tribute of homage to the man who had swept
his master's office in his youth, and died worth more than a million
of money in the Funds. They flocked thither at the bid of his nephew
and reported heir; his comrades on 'change, his compeers in wealth,
his fellow-citizens; those men who had passed through the same
evolutions of barter and exchange, of tare and tret, of selling out
and buying in, of all that busy tumult of money-making in which the
dead man lying in his silver-plated coffin upstairs, and covered by
the handsome velvet pall, had borne his share even to the fullest. For
Wilmot had given orders for the funeral to be conducted on a scale
befitting the magnificence of the fortune which his uncle left behind
him; and the management of the affair had been placed in the hands of
an undertaker whose reputation for conducting people to their grave
with every mournful splendor of state and style was irreproachable.
But amid those funeral plumes, those heavy trappings, those sombre
mantles, those long hat-bands new and scarfs of richest silk, there
was no eye wet with sorrow, no brow shadowed by regret, no heart that
was heavier for the loss of the one going to his grave. It was a
funeral without a mourner. On Lister Wilmot's face was the
half-concealed triumph and elation, under an affected grief too
evidently put on for the dullest man to believe in; and the only one
who would have mourned, nay who did mourn, for the murdered man, lay
in his cell within the walls of Newgate, stigmatized with the brand of
wilful murder of him. So the gloomy pageant set out with its
hearse-and-four, its dozen mourning-coaches, its string of private
carriages belonging to the rich men invited there that day. So we went
to Kensal Green and laid Gilbert Thorneley in the new vault prepared
for him, lonely and alone--"dust to dust, ashes to ashes"--until the
resurrection.
When the last solemn words had been read over the open grave and the
earth thrown with hollow sound upon the coffin, we turned to depart. A
greater portion of the large assembly dispersed in their carriages on
their various ways, and a few were asked to return to Wimpole street
and be present at the reading of the will. Whether bidden or not, I
had a reason for being there likewise, and had made up my mind what to
do; but to my surprise Mr. Walker came up as we were leaving the
cemetery, and invited me in Wilmot's name to go back with them.
In the dining room where the inquest had been held we gathered once
again--some dozen of Thorneley's oldest acquaintances, the two
doctors, the rector of the parish with his three curates, myself, the
housekeeper, and the other servants of the dead man's household. The
guests grouped themselves in different knots round the room, talking
and gossiping together on the money market, the state of the country,
of trade, of politics, of I know not what, but mostly of the past and
future concerning the house in which we were assembled, of {741} the
murdered and the supposed murderer, whilst we waited for Lister Wilmot
and his two lawyers. The servants placed themselves in a row near the
door, the housekeeper somewhat apart behind the rest, as if shrinking
from notice. Very striking she looked in her deep mourning, gown,
fitting with perfect exactitude, her light hair streaked here and
there with silver threads braided beneath a close tulle-cap, very pale
very self-possessed, but with that dangerous look in the cold blue
eyes and peculiar motion of the eyelids which Merrivale had described
as "a scintillating light and a shivering."
In less than a quarter of an hour the three came in--Thorneley's
executor and two lawyers; Smith, the senior partner--one of those
pompous old men who are met up and down the world, embodying, only in
a wrong sense, the conception of a late spiritual writer of "a man of
one idea," that idea being self--carrying in his hand a large
parchment folded in familiar form and indorsed in the orthodox
caligraphy of a law-office. The hum of conversation ceased as they
entered and advanced to the top of the room, where a small table was
placed, upon which the lawyer deposited the document. I glanced round
the room. All eyes were turned upon the three, who were now seating
themselves at the table in question, with the eager curiosity of men
going to hear news. The expression of triumph upon Lister Wilmot's
face had deepened yet more visibly; but underneath I fancied I
perceived a lurking anxiety, and especially when his eye fell with a
quick, sharp glance upon myself, and then as quickly looked away. The
two lawyers appeared very full of their own importance, and were very
obsequious to their new client. Lastly I looked at the housekeeper.
Two hectic spots now burned upon her singularly pale cheeks, and her
lips were tightly compressed; her hands, delicate and white for a
woman in her position, wandered restlessly over each other. Perhaps it
was but very natural agitation, for those who had served so long and
faithfully were no doubt expecting to be remembered in the will of
their late master.
"Are you ready, Mr. Wilmot?" asked Smith, wiping his gold spectacles
and adjusting them on his nose.
Wilmot bowed assent; and the lawyer unfolding the parchment, read in
loud, high, nasal tones, "The last will and testament of the late
Gilbert Thorneley, squire, of 100 Wimpole street, in the parish of St.
Mary-le-bone, London, and of the Grange, Warnside, Lincolnshire."
A dead silence reigned throughout the room; as the saying is, you
might have heard a pin drop. One thing only was audible to my ear,
sitting a few feet distant, and that was the heavy pant of the
housekeeper's breathing. Smith read on.
The said Gilbert Thorneley bequeathed to his nephew, Hugh Atherton,
the sum of £5000, free of legacy-duty; to his housekeeper an annuity
of £100 per annum for life; to his butler and coachman annuities of
£50 per annum for life, all free of legacy-duty, and £20 to the other
servants for mourning, with a twelvemonth's wages; to his nephew,
Lister Wilmot, the whole of his landed property, all moneys vested in
the Funds, all personal property, furniture, carriages, horses, and
plate, as sole residuary legatee.
This was the gist and pith of Gilbert Thorneley's will, which further
bore date of the 19th of August in the present year, and was witnessed
by William Walker, of the firm of Smith and Walker, and Abel
Griffiths, Smith and Walker's clerk. By it Lister Wilmot came into an
annual income of something like £100,000; by it Hugh Atherton was cut
off with a mere nominal sum from the joint inheritance which his uncle
had from his boyhood upward in the most unequivocal manner and words
taught him to expect. A murmur of surprise ran through the company
assembled. {742} The equal position of the two nephews with regard to
their uncle had been too publicly known for the present declaration
not to excite the most unbounded astonishment. So certain did it seem
that the cousins would be co-heirs of Thorneley 'a enormous wealth,
that whispers had gone about pretty freely of that being the motive
which induced Hugh Atherton to commit the crime imputed to him--the
desire of entering into possession of the old man's money. I gathered
the thought in each person's mind by the broken words which fell from
them. "Then _why_ did he do it?" I heard one of the curates whisper to
the other, and I knew that they thought and spoke of Hugh, believing
him to be guilty.
I waited for a few minutes after Mr. Smith had finished his pompous
delivery of this document, purporting to be the last will and
testament of the late Gilbert Thorneley, and then I rose from the
remote comer where I had placed myself and confronted the two lawyers.
"Gentlemen," I said, "I take leave to dispute that will which has just
been read."
A thunderbolt falling in the midst of us could not have had a more
astounding effect than those few words.
"Dispute the will!" shouted old Smith, purple in the face.
"Dispute the will!" echoed Walker.
"Dispute the will!" reverberated all round.
"God bless my soul, sir!" continued Smith, rising from his chair and
literally shaking with excitement, "what do you mean by that? Dispute
this will!" striking the open parchment with his closed hand; "upon
what grounds, Mr. Kavanagh--upon what grounds and by what authority
do you dare to dispute it, made by _us_, witnessed by _us_, and which
_we_ know to be the genuine and latest testament of our late client?
What do you mean by it?"
"I dispute that will on the ground of there existing another and a
later will of Mr. Thorneley; and I dispute it on the part of those in
whose favor it is made. Gentlemen, I have a statement to make, to the
truth of which I am prepared to affix my oath."
Involuntarily I glanced at Lister Wilmot. He was deadly pale; but he
returned my gaze very steadily, and I noticed the same evil light in
his eye as I had once before seen. Smith drew himself up and settled
his thick bull-throat in his white choker, whilst his junior partner
ran his hand through his hair, and seemed to prepare himself for
whatever was coming with a sort of "Do your worst--I don't care for
you" air.
"I hold in my hand," I continued, "a memorandum from my journal, and
dated October 23, 185--, last Tuesday, gentlemen; and I beg your
particular attention to the extract I am going to read to
you--'Received a note from Mr. Gilbert Thorneley, of 100 Wimpole
street, requesting me to call on him this evening. Went at seven
o'clock; made and executed _a will_ for the same, under solemn promise
not to reveal the transaction until after his funeral had taken place.
In case of my death, to leave a memorandum of the same addressed to
Mr. Hugh Atherton. Saw the will signed by Mr. Thorneley and witnessed
by his footman and coachman. Made memorandum of same for H. A., as
desired. Put it with private papers, addressed to H. A.' That will,
gentlemen, being of later date, will, if forthcoming, upset the will
just read, and which is dated two months back."
There was a profound silence for some moments, broken only by the two
servants. Barker the footman and Thomas the coachman, who both
murmured in low but distinct tones, "Right enough, sir; we did put our
names to that there dockiment."
{743}
"I don't quite understand your 'statement,' Mr. Kavanagh," said Smith
at last, with an air which plainly said, "And I consider myself
insulted by your making it."
"It is quite plain and straightforward, Mr. Smith, though, of course,
you are taken by surprise. Allow me to hand you this copy of the
memorandum I have read to you, and to which I have signed my name."
"But _where_ is that will, sir? Statements and memoranda go for
nothing, if you can't produce your proofs; and the will itself is the
only proof."
"Where it is," I replied, "is best known to Mr. Wilmot, or yourselves,
or to both. I never saw it after leaving Mr. Thorneley's study on the
evening of the 23d."
The two lawyers turned simultaneously to Wilmot.
"Did you know anything of this transaction, sir?" asked Walker.
"Only so far as came out at the inquest yesterday. Where is the will?
I ask. Let Mr. Kavanagh produce it."
There was a world of defiance in his glittering eyes as he rose and
faced me.
"Yes," he cried again, with a hard, ringing voice, "let Mr. John
Kavanagh produce it."
"Gently, Mr. Wilmot," said Walker in an insinuating voice. "Allow us
to deal with this matter; it is really only proper that we should."
"Only proper that we should," echoed old Smith in his peculiar nasal
twang.
But Lister Wilmot waved them both imperiously aside; and advancing a
step forward, he said with an evident effort to control himself:
"I don't see, Kavanagh, what you can gain by bringing forward this
absurd statement. Of course we all imagined that the mysterious
business upon which you saw my deceased uncle the last evening of his
life was in some way connected with making his will; and Mr. Smith,
Mr. Walker, and myself searched through his papers with the utmost
care, and with this idea in our minds; but no will, no codicil, no
letter, nor memorandum of later date than the one just read could
anywhere be found. Knowing what an eccentric character he was, we came
to the conclusion that, if any will posterior to this were made, he
had destroyed it immediately afterward.--Is this not so?" he turned to
the two lawyers.
"It is so," answered Walker, for self and partner. "We made the
minutest investigation, and were all three together when the seals
were removed which had been placed on everything by the police in
charge of the house. Nothing could have been tampered with."
I was fairly baffled, and stood considering what was the next best
thing to do, when an old gray-headed man stepped forward and said
that, if he might suggest, it would be satisfactory to hear in what
particulars the deed I had drawn up differed from the one just made
known.
"Yes," said Wilmot, with something like a sneer; "let us hear what
were the contents of this will which you say you drew up."
"Wilmot," I answered, "the one whom that will, to my mind, most
affected, for reasons which will presently be obvious to all who
listen to me now, was the only one who loved the old man in life whose
remains we have just followed to the grave--the only one who, I know,
mourns his death with all the sincerity of his true and noble heart.
In his presence I would never publicly have dragged forward a history
which is full of sin, of sorrow, of remorse. But he lies in a felon's
cell, charged, through a dark mysterious combination of events, and I
firmly believe a deeply-laid scheme to work his ruin, with a felon's
crime. In his interest therefore, first of all, I must speak. There is
also that of another concerned, who comes before most of those present
as a complete stranger; whether to _all_ I know not.--Gentlemen, I,
like you, believed until this day week that Gilbert Thorneley died
childless and a bachelor. {744} Five-and twenty years ago he married a
young and beautiful girl, an orphan, but possessed of an immense
fortune. He married her for her money. It was a joyless marriage,
without love, without happiness. One son was born to them, and shortly
after _the young wife died_. The boy grew up an idiot, hated, loathed
by his father, who sent him far away from his sight, and who for more
than fifteen years before he died never saw his child's face. Remorse
at last seems to have surged up in his heart, and he took a resolution
to make what reparation he could for his past neglect. This is all
which the deceased, Mr. Thorneley, confided to me in plain words; at
the rest I can only darkly guess; but that much more might have been
told which never passed his lips, that some terrible secret of the
past remains still unrevealed, I am bound to say I feel convinced from
the manner in which that little was revealed to me. Gentlemen, the
will which I executed last Tuesday evening, and saw witnessed by the
two servants now present, after bequeathing £10,000 a year to his
nephew, Hugh Atherton, left the whole and entire of Gilbert
Thorneley's property, landed, personal, and in the funds, to his idiot
son, Francis Gilbert Thorneley, now living; and constituted Hugh
Atherton as sole guardian of his cousin. With the exception of the
same small legacies to the domestics of his household, no other
bequest whatever was made; no other name mentioned. This will was
executed as a tardy reparation for some wrong done to his dead wife."
There was the sound of a dull, heavy fall, and a cry from one of the
women in the room. Mrs. Haag, the housekeeper, had fainted away.
CHAPTER VIII.
INSPECTOR KEENE SEES DAYLIGHT AT LAST.
"And pray, may I ask who was left executor in this wonderful will,
since that item seems to have been omitted from an otherwise
well-concocted story?" said Mr. Walker, as soon as the housekeeper had
been carried out of the room, and order restored.
"Mr. Atherton and myself were named executors."
"For which little business," he continued with unutterable irony, "you
were doubtless to receive some _small_ compensation?"
"You are mistaken," I replied quietly; "my name is not otherwise
mentioned than as being appointed to act with Hugh Atherton. No legacy
was left to me, and I did not even receive the usual fee for drawing
up the will. I mention this to remove any false impression which my
previous statement may have given."
"Most disinterested conduct on your part, I am sure, Mr. Kavanagh,"
was the reply in the same sarcastic tones. "It was, however, probably
understood that the securing £10,000 a year to your friend would not
pass unrewarded by him."
I was losing my temper under the man's repeated insults, and an angry
reply had risen to my lips, when Wilmot interposed. He had entirely
regained his usual self-possession, and more than his usual
confidence. Evidently, he had resolved to change his tactics, and
treat me civilly.
"We don't wish to dispute your word, Kavanagh, but you must own there
is some excuse for our unbelief. Here are all three of us--Smith,
Walker, and myself--ready to take oath that no other will save the
document just read was or is to be found amongst my late uncle's
papers; not so much as a hint of such a thing existing. And here are
you, without a shadow of proof in your hand, stating that a will,
posterior to this one lying here, was made by you on the evening
previous to my uncle's death. The natural inference drawn is, that
that will must now exist; we know it does not exist, or we must have
found it, unless my uncle _destroyed it_ immediately {745} after it
was made, namely, before he went to bed this day week. Do I put the
case clearly and fairly, gentlemen?" he continued, turning to the
assembled company.
The same old gentleman who had spoken before now again advanced. "I
have known Gilbert Thorneley," he said, "more than thirty years; but
that he was ever married, or had a child living, is as great news to
me as to any here present who had known him but as a recent
acquaintance. Still, if what Mr. Kavanagh says be true--and no offence
to him--that son of whom he speaks must be living now, and must be
found. You, Mr. Wilmot, have asked, as proof of this strange statement
being true, where is the will? I now ask likewise, as proof of its
genuineness, where is the _heir_? Where is the son of my old friend?
Where is Francis Gilbert Thorneley?"
I was fearfully staggered by the question. Never before had it
occurred to me that there would be a difficulty in finding the poor
idiot when the time came for him to enter upon his inheritance. No
doubt, no passing misgiving, had crossed my mind but that, along with
the will I had drawn up, papers would be left and found, giving
all-sufficient information of his whereabouts. For the first time the
thought flashed across me that perhaps, after all, I had not acted
wisely in maintaining the silence which had been exacted from me by
solemn promise. And that solemn promise! What had been old Thorneley's
motive in exacting it? Why should he wish such inevitable risks to be
run, as he, a shrewd man of the world, would know must be run, of that
final will being suppressed by the parties interested in the other one
lodged at his lawyers'? Of what, of whom, had he been afraid? Was the
secret and mystery of the will in any way connected with the secret
and mystery of the murder? As these questions crowded themselves upon
me during the brief moment which succeeded the last speaker's queries,
I looked round unconsciously on the eager, curious faces turned upon
us, the actors in this scene; and suddenly my eye lighted upon a
little man dressed in a dapper black suit, with a profusion of curly
brown hair, and long beard, standing behind a group near the door. His
eyes were fixed on mine--sharp, intelligent, piercing, black
eyes--with an expression in them which plainly bespoke a desire of
attracting my attention; eyes that were familiar to me, whilst the
rest of the man's face and appearance was that of a stranger. Then one
hand was lifted to his lips, and I saw him give a voracious bite at
his nails. In a moment light broke upon darkness, and I knew him in
spite of flowing wig and beard, in spite of funeral black and
well-fitting clothes, to be Inspector Keene. I suppose he saw a gleam
of intelligence pass over my countenance, for he began a series of
evolutions on his closely-cropped fingers, and I, luckily, could spell
the words: "Close this; see Merrivale." I seized the idea, and turning
to Wilmot and his lawyers, I said, "This matter is too serious to be
dealt with otherwise than in legal form and place. Mr. Merrivale or
myself will communicate with Messrs. Smith and Walker. There is
nothing further to be said at present;" and I left the room,
exchanging another glance with the inspector, who I knew would quickly
follow me.
Nor was I mistaken. I drove to Merrivale's, and whilst in full tide of
relating what had transpired in Wimpole street, the little man
arrived, still in mourning trim, but minus his wig and beard; and I am
bound to confess that, despite the seriousness of the moment, I was
almost overpowered by the ludicrous change which the doffing of those
appendages had wrought in him--he looked so like a broom that had had
its bristles cut short off.
"You are a clever fellow, Keene," said Merrivale; "how upon earth did
you contrive to pass muster amongst those city swells?"
{746}
The inspector bowed to the compliment, but seemed no way abashed. "I
showed the inside of your purse, Mr. Merrivale, There was no
difficulty in sight of _that_. Please go on, Mr. Kavanagh, and I'll
wait."
I concluded in as few words as possible, anxiously desiring to hear
what Keene had to say; and immediately that I had finished, Merrivale
turned toward him:
"What do you think of it all, in heaven's name?"
Mr. Inspector scraped his chin, and waited some moments before
replying, his bright keen eyes glancing alternately from one to
another of us. "If I were to tell you, sirs, all I _think_, you'd be
tired of hearing me, for I've been thinking as hard as my brains could
go for the last week past. If you'd have made a friend, Mr. Kavanagh,
of Mr. Merrivale or your humble servant in the matter you just now
revealed, it might have helped me not a trifle--not a trifle. However,
I believe you did it for the best; and after all I think we'll be even
with them yet. But it is as confoundedly black a business as it ever
fell to my lot to deal with; and I've had businesses, gentlemen, as
black as--well, as old Harry himself. You see there's three points to
follow up; and if we can tackle _one_ securely, why, I consider we
shall tackle all, for I believe they hang together. First," checking
it off on his thumb, "there's the murder; and the point there is to
find _who_ really bought that grain of strychnine which the chemist
has booked. It rests between master and man to reveal; and I incline
to the latter, and have my eye on him. Never tell me," said the
detective, warming with his subject, "that neither of them don't know;
I tell you one of them _does_ know, and my name's not Keene if I don't
have it out of them yet. That's one point, an't it, Mr. Merrivale?"
Merrivale assented. "Then the second," checking number two off on his
stumpy fore-finger, "includes four parties, and their connection with
each other; the man De Vos or Sullivan, the man O'Brian, Mr. Lister
Wilmot, and the housekeeper."
"The housekeeper, Mrs. Haag!" I exclaimed.
"Yes, sir; Mrs. _Haag_, if that's her name."
"You think it is not?"
"I _know_ it isn't."
"You know it?"
"I do. When Jones showed me his notes, and repeated to me what you and
he had heard in Blue-Anchor Lane last Thursday night, I _smelt_ a rat,
Mr. Kavanagh, and I followed my nose, sir. When I said I was on the
scent, I meant it. From that hour I wrote down in my note-book, 'Mrs.
Haag, _alias_ Bradley--Bradley, _alias_ O'Brian; her husband, escaped
convict from New South Wales.' For Jones identified that man by a
description in the hands of all of us in the force. To have taken him
there and then would simply have been madness, and insured your both
being murdered in that villainous hole. But to follow out the
connection between the housekeeper and him, him and Sullivan, Sullivan
and Mr. Wilmot, is another point, an't it, Mr. Merrivale?"
Again Merrivale assented, his usually impassible face now stirred with
the deepest, most anxious interest.
"Is 'Sullivan' De Vos's right name?" he asked.
"I believe it is, sir. He's thoroughly Irish; but O'Brian isn't,
though he's taken an Irish name. Sullivan's been known to the police
also in his time, and I fancy there's a little matter in the wind
which might introduce him again to us. They've both had their warning,
though, from some quarter, and are in safe hiding somewhere or other
as yet."
"Have you more to tell us about O'Brian?"
"Nothing more, sir, at present. There's some dark secret and mystery
hanging over him--a terrible story, I am afraid; but I can't speak for
certain just now.--Mr. Kavanagh," suddenly glancing up at me, "did you
never see a likeness to any one in Mr. Wilmot?"
{747}
"No, not that I know of. We have often said he was like none of his
relatives living, that was his uncle and cousin. Have you?"
"It's fancy, sir, no doubt. His mother died when he was very young,
didn't she? and his father?"
"Mrs. Wilmot died soon after his birth. His father I never heard of.
He was a _mauvais sujet_, I believe."
"Ah! The inspector drew a long breath and relapsed into one of his
silent moods, during which the process of scraping and gnawing was
resumed with avidity.
"And your third point?" said I, to arouse him.
"My third point, gentlemen," waking up lively, and dabbing at his
middle finger, "which, considering Mr. Atherton's position at the
present moment, seems to be the least important or pressing, is,
nevertheless, the one I am for pursuing immediately,--to find this
heir of whom mention has been made, Mr. Thorneley's idiot son."
"Surely there is no hurry about that!" we both exclaimed.
"It would appear not, gentlemen, perhaps to you, but there does to me.
Supposing," said the detective, leaning forward, and speaking very
much more earnestly than he had hitherto done--"supposing that the
will you made, Mr. Kavanagh, was stolen, then secreted or destroyed on
the night of Mr. Thorneley's death, that being what I might call the
_dead_ evidence of the truth of what you stated publicly to-day, and
supposing the parties who suppressed that will knew of the whereabouts
of the heir, they would, I conclude, be equally anxious to suppress
the _living_ evidence also--_to get him out of the way_. Do you follow
me, gentlemen?"
"Yes, yes," we both exclaimed, for we felt he had a purpose in
speaking; "you are right."
"Then, sirs, we must prosecute a search for this poor idiot fellow. I
see my way at present very dimly and darkly; but something tells me
that on our road to find Mr. Francis Gilbert Thorneley we shall find
also other links in the broken chain we are trying to piece together."
"How do you propose setting to work, Keene?" asked Merrivale.
"Mr. Atherton, being situated as he is, cannot act; it is therefore
for Mr. Kavanagh to take it upon himself, being named executor. I have
ascertained that Mr. Thorneley never went near his place in
Lincolnshire. Why? Because his son lived there. Do you follow me, Mr.
Kavanagh?"
"I do. You think I must visit the Grange immediately?"
"Yes, sir."
Light then at last seemed to be gleaming on our darkness; not only a
glimmer, but a full bright ray. There was consistency and connection
in all that the inspector had put before us, though only as yet, to a
great degree, in supposition. Merrivale, agreeing with me that he
would send us on no wild-goose chase, it was settled I should go down
by the five-o'clock express train.
In less than an hour I was standing at King's Cross Terminus, and five
minutes past five I was whirling away from London at the rate of
thirty miles an hour. At Peterborough we stopped for half-an-hour to
change carriages, and I went into the waiting-room to get some
refreshment. It was very full, for numbers of passengers were
travelling by that train to be present at some local races, and for
some minutes I could not approach the counter. At last I contrived to
edge in next to a rather tall man, very much enveloped in wraps,
wearing a travelling-cap and blue spectacles. I asked for a cup of
coffee and a sandwich. Every one knows the degree of heat to which
railway coffee is brought; and waiting awhile for the sake of my
throat before drinking it, I suddenly bethought myself of setting my
watch by the clock in the room. I put up my glass to look for it; it
{748} was at the opposite end, and I turned my back upon my tall
neighbor whilst altering the watch. When I turned round he was gone. I
finished my coffee and paid for it. Bah! how mawkish a taste it had
left in my mouth; what stuff they sell in England for real Mocha! So I
thought as I stepped out on the platform and walked up and down,
awaiting the train and reading in a sort of dreamy, unconscious manner
the advertisements and placards covering the walls. Taylor Brothers,
Parkins and Gotto, Heal and Son, Mudie's Library, and all the rest, so
well known Ha! what is this? "MURDER: £100 Reward," for information
leading to the detection of the murderer of Mr. Gilbert Thorneley; and
beneath, another, "Reward of £50 offered for the apprehension of
Robert Bradley," _alias_ O'Brian, escaped convict, with a full
description of his personal appearance appended. "Inspector Keene's
work," thought I to myself. One solitary female figure stood before
me, reading the placard; a neat trim figure, clad in deep mourning
garments, motionless, mute, and absorbed as it were in the interest of
what she was perusing. What was it that made me start and shiver as my
eye fell upon that statue-like form? what was it that, amidst an
overpowering and unaccountable drowsiness creeping over me, seemed to
sting me into life and vigilance? The answer was plain before me:
staring at me with wildly-gleaming eyes, with a face startled out of
its habitual calmness and self-possession, with fear and rage and a
hundred passions at work in her countenance, was old Thorneley's
housekeeper. "Mrs. Haag!" I exclaimed; and almost as I spoke, a change
sudden and rapid as thought took place in her, and she regained the
cold passionless expression I had noticed that same afternoon.
"The same, Mr. Kavanagh;" and, inclining her head, she was passing on.
"Stay!" I said, catching her by the arm. "What are you doing here?
Where are you going?"
"By what right do you ask me, sir?" was the reply in very calm and
perfectly respectful tones.
"By what right!" I cried with headlong impetuosity. "By the best right
that any man could have--the right of asking, or saying, or doing
anything that may help me to detect the guilty and clear the innocent.
Woman, there is some deadly mystery hanging around yon, some guilty
secret in which you have played your part, and which, by the heavens
above us, I will unearth and bring to light! I will, I will!"
What was the matter with me? My brain was dizzy; the lights, the
station, the faces around me, the woman I was addressing, seemed to be
going round and round, and I became conscious that my speech was
getting incoherent.
"You have been drinking, Mr. Kavanagh," I heard a hard voice saying to
me, with a slight foreign accent. Then a bell rang, and I was hurried
forward by the crowd who were flocking on the platform; hurried on
toward a train that had come into the station whilst I had been
engaged with the housekeeper. I remember entering a carriage and
sinking down on a cushioned seat; then I lost all consciousness, until
I heard a voice shouting in my ear, "Your ticket, sir, please."
I started up.
"Where am I?"
"Lincoln; ticket--quick, sir."
I handed out my ticket.
"This is for Stixwould, four stations back on the line. Two extra
shillings to pay."
"Good heavens! I must have been asleep. How am I to get back?"
"Don't know, sir; no train tonight."
The money is paid, the door banged to, and we are shot into Lincoln
station at nine o'clock. There was no help for it now but to make my
way to the nearest hotel, and see what {749} means were to be had of
returning to Stixwould--the nearest station to the Grange, and that
was ten miles from it--or else pass the night here and take the
earliest train in the morning. I bade a porter take my bag, and show
me to some hotel; and I followed him, shivering in every limb, my head
aching as I had never felt it ache before--sick, giddy, and scarcely
able to draw one foot after another. Then I knew what had happened to
me; it flashed across me all in a moment. That man, disguised and in
spectacles, standing next to me at the refreshment-counter at
Peterborough, was De Vos, and he had dragged my coffee. I felt not a
doubt of it.
In ten minutes we stopped at the Queen's Hotel, and after engaging a
room, I despatched a porter for the nearest doctor. To him I confided
the object of my journey, what I believed had occurred to me, and the
necessity there was for my taking such prompt remedies as should
enable me to recover my full strength, energies, and wits for the
morrow. Following his advice, after swallowing his medicine, I
relinquished all notion of proceeding that night on my journey, and
went to bed. The next morning I awoke quite fresh and well; but what
precious hours had been lost! hours sufficient to ruin all hope of my
journey bearing any fruits, of finding even a shadowy clue to the
tangled web that seemed closing in around us. And Hugh Atherton lay in
prison and Ada, my poor sorrowful darling, was breaking her heart
beneath the load of misery which had come upon her. By eight o'clock I
had started for Stixwould, and in half an hour alighted at that small
station. I was the only passenger for that place, and I had to wait
whilst the train moved off for the solitary porter to take my ticket.
Just as the bell had rung, a man passed out from some door and went up
to one of the carriages. "Could you oblige me with a fusee, sir?" I
heard him say.
Some one leaned forward and handed out what was asked for; it was the
tall man in spectacles who had stood next to me at Peterborough
station. The train moved off just as I rushed forward, rushed almost
into the arms of the other man who had asked for the fusee. Wonders
would never cease! It was Inspector Keene.
"Thank God, it is you!"
"Yes, sir--myself. In a moment--I must telegraph up to town;" and he
ran into the office.
"Now, sir," he said when he came out, "what has happened to bring you
here this morning from Lincoln?"
I told him, and expressed my astonishment at seeing him.
"We heard last night that Mrs. _Haag_ had left London and taken her
ticket for this place. I took the night mail to look after the lady
and warn you, sir. Now we had best post off directly for the Grange.
I've already ordered a fly and a pair of horses. We'll bribe the man,
and be there in something less than an hour and a half.
"That man you spoke to in the train was De Vos," I said when we had
started.
"I know it, sir. He was sent to watch you, I suspect; and treat you to
that little dose in your coffee."
"And the housekeeper?"
"Oh! she, I imagine, is safe ahead there at the Grange. At any rate,
she has not returned up the line; every station has been watched, and
they would have telegraphed to me."
O the dreariness of that drive! Rain poured down from the leaden,
lowering sky and concentrated into a thick midst over the dismal
wolds. Patter, patter, slush, slush, as we drove along the wet miry
roads, the horses urged on to the utmost of their wretched,
broken-down speed; and the damp chill air penetrating the old rotten
vehicle and entering the very marrow of one's bones. So we arrived at
last before a low stone lodge that guarded some ponderous iron gates.
A gaunt ill-favored man came out at the sound of the wheels, and
stared at us in no friendly manner.
{750}
"Whar are ye from?" ho called out.
"From Mr. Wilmot," answered the inspector.
"Dunna b'lieve ye. Orders is for ne'run to go up to the house."
Keene opened the door of the fly and sprang out.
"Look here, my man," he said, producing his staff; "I'm a
police-officer from London, and I've come down here about the murder
of your master. Open the gate in the name of the law!"
The man stared, pulled the keys out of his pocket, unlocked the gates
and threw them open. The inspector jumped up beside the driver and
bade him go on.
A short avenue, lined on either side with magnificent trees, brought
us to the gate of extensive but ill-kept pleasure-grounds, and so to
the stone portico of the Grange. A peal of the bell brought an old
woman to the door, who peered out suspiciously, and demanded what we
wanted.
"I am a detective-officer from London, and have a warrant for
searching this house;" and Keene putting the old hag aside, we passed
into the hall.
"Ye mun show me yer warrant or I'll have ye put out agin in
double-quick time," she said, scowling at the inspector. For reply the
staff of office was again out of his pocket in a twinkling, and
flourished before her eyes.
"You take yourself off and show us over the house instantly, or it
will be the worse for you."
The woman cowered, and muttering to herself, led the way across the
spacious hall, and threw open a door on the left. The house apparently
was a low rambling building of ancient date, with panelled walls and
high casement-windows. We traversed several rooms, bare in furniture
and that struck one with a sense of utter cheerlessness and want of
comfort. This, then, was the desolate isolated house which Gilbert
Thorneley had owned and yet shunned so carefully during life; this was
the place where his idiot boy had probably dragged on the greater
number of his miserable years. But I need not dwell upon our search
through the house.
High and low Inspector Keene ranged; looking into cupboards and dark
closets, sounding the panelled walls and poking at imaginary
trapdoors. With the exception of the old crone, who accompanied us,
and a great tabby cat lying before the kitchen-fire, no trace of
living soul was visible.
"Where's young Mr. Thorneley?" said the inspector to her when our
visitation was made.
"Never heard on him."
"Who lives here?"
"Only myself."
"Where's the lady who came here yesterday evening?"
A curious gleam shot from the old woman's eyes.
"Dunno; no lady here."
"I shall take you into custody, if you won't tell."
"Then you mun do it--I'se nothing to say."
Keene turned to me.
"Our visit has been useless, sir. I used the threat, but I can't take
the woman on no charge; there is nothing left but to--"
Hark! what sound was that which rang out upon our ears, which made our
hair stand on end, and our hearts stand still! Shriek upon shriek of
the most horrible, wild, unearthly laughter pealing from somewhere
overhead. The old woman made a dash forward to the staircase, and
called some name that was drowned in the echoes of that terrible
mirth. But in a second we had bounded past her and up the flight of
stairs, and there, at the far end of the corridor, gesticulating and
jabbering at us as we approached him with all the fearful, revolting
madness of idiocy, was the man in whose features was stamped the
perfect likeness of old Gilbert Thorneley.
{751}
CHAPTER IX.
THE TRIAL.
Inspector Keene's third point had been followed up and worked out:
Francis Gilbert Thorneley, the lost heir was found; and the living
evidence in favor of the will I had made was in our actual possession.
That it should be so seemed a merciful interposition of Providence;
for we had little doubt but that it had been intended I should, under
the influence of the stupefying drug administered by Do Vos, be
delayed on my journey, and so give time for him or the housekeeper, or
both, to visit the Grange and effect whatever purpose they had in
view. What had defeated them, or caused their failure, remained as yet
a mystery. Equally mysterious was the way in which both the
conspirators had managed to elude the vigilance of the police; and
bitter seemed the Inspector's disappointment when, on arriving in
London, he found no intelligence awaiting him of either man or woman.
We brought up the poor idiot with us; and I took him to my own
chambers, engaging a proper attendant to take charge of him,
recommended by the physician whom I called in to examine him. He
seemed to be perfectly harmless, and tractable as a child, but totally
bereft of sense or reason, amusing himself with toys, picture-books,
and other infantile diversions, by the hour. We tried to get some
coherent account of himself from him, but to no purpose; he knew his
name and the name of the old man and woman who had been his sole
guardians and companions, apparently for years. But beyond that, no
information could be elicited; and to all questions he would reply
with some sort of childish babble or jabber. This was the heir to old
Thorneley's immense wealth.
There now remained the two other points marked by the Inspector to
follow up. Oh! how time was fast rushing on!--time that was so
precious for life or death--and so little done as yet toward clearing
away all that mountain of condemning evidence which would infallibly,
in the eyes of any English jury, bring sentence of death upon the
suspected murderer. The question forever rang in my ears, "_Who_
bought that grain of strychnine on the 23d of October?" Upon the
discovery and identification of that person both Merrivale and myself,
as also the counsel whom he had engaged for the defence, felt
everything would hang. But up to the present moment, except in our own
minds, not the shadow of a clue could be found. The 16th November, the
day appointed for the trial of Hugh Atherton, approached with terrible
nearness; and our confidence in all but God's mercy and justice was
ebbing fast away. After finding and bringing the lost heir to London,
I wrote to Atherton by Merrivale, detailing all that old Thorneley had
confided to me, the contents of the will, and my journey into
Lincolnshire. I wrote, entreating him to see me; to let no cloud come
between us, who had been such close friends from boyhood, at such a
moment; to turn a deaf ear to all influence that might suggest that I
was acting otherwise than I had always done toward him. I wrote all
the bitter sorrow of my heart at having been forced involuntarily to
give evidence that might be turned against him; all the self-reproach
I felt for not having yielded to his wish of returning home with me
that terrible evening.
He answered me in cold distant words, that _under the circumstances_
it was best we should not meet; that Merrivale would act for him in
all as he judged best; that he did not wish to be disturbed again
before his trial. I showed the letter to Merrivale, and he told me he
could not make it out, for that Hugh was quite unreserved with him on
all points save this, and {752} to every suggestion he had made to him
of seeing me, he had invariably given the same reply, and declined to
enter upon the subject. Then I had recourse to Ada Leslie; but she
only obtained the same result.
"I told him, guardian," she said, "how true you were to him, how
earnest and indefatigable in doing all you could for him, how sure I
was that you loved him better than any thing on earth. But all the
answer I got was, 'No, Ada; not better than anything. Don't let us say
anything more on the subject.' What can he mean? for I am sure he
meant something particular."
Was it hard to look in her face, meet her clear trusting eyes, and
answer back, "_You_ were right, Ada; he is laboring under some
delusion?" Were they false words I spoke, my own heart giving them the
lie? Thank God, no. I was true to her, true to him.
The time between my journey into Lincolnshire and the day of the trial
seems, on looking back, to be one dead blank, inasmuch as, do what we
would, we were no nearer the solution of the mystery after those three
weeks of research and watchfulness than we were on the morning
succeeding the murder. There were the prolonged conferences of lawyers
with counsel, of counsel with prisoner, of both with the detectives;
and day by day I saw Merrivale's face growing more careworn, stern,
and anxious; I saw both Inspector Keene's and Jones's baffled looks;
and--worse, far worse than all--I saw Ada Leslie wasting away before
me, withering beneath the blighting sorrow that had fallen upon her
young life. Oh! the terrible anguish written upon that wan, worn face
that would be lifted up to mine each time I saw her, the unspeakably
painful eagerness of her tones as she would ask, "is there any news?"
and the touching calmness of her despairing look succeeding the answer
which blasted the hopes that kept cruelly rising in her breast only to
be crushed!
So the morning of the 16th of November dawned upon us. For the defence
Merrivale had engaged two of the most acute lawyers and most eloquent
pleaders then practising at the English bar, Sergeant Donaldson and
Mr. Forster, Q.C. They were both personal friends of Hugh Atherton,
both equally convinced of his innocence. On the part of the Crown the
Solicitor-General, Sergeant Butler, and a Mr. Frost were retained--all
eminent men. The judges sitting were the Lord Chief-Justice and Baron
Watson. Although we arrived very early, the Court was crowded to
suffocation; and it was only by help of the police-officers and
authorities that we could find entrance, although engaged in the
principal case coming on. Special reporters of the press, for London
and the country, were eagerly clamoring for seats in the reporters'
bench; and even foreign journals had sent over their "own
correspondents," such a general stir and sensation had the murder of
Gilbert Thorneley made far and near.
Two or three trivial cases of embezzlement and stealing came first
before the Common Sergeant, whilst preparations for the one great
trial were made, the witnesses collected, and the counsel on either
side holding their final conferences. At a quarter to eleven the
Chief-Justice, followed by his brother judge, entered amidst profound
silence and took his seat. They were both men who had grown old and
gray in the administration of justice, who had for years sat in
judgment upon the guilty and the not guilty--men whose ears were
familiar with the details of almost every misery and crime known to
human nature--men who had had their own griefs and trials; and on the
venerable face of the superior judge many a deep furrow had been left
to tell its tale, whether engraven by private sorrow, or sympathy for
the mass of woe and suffering which passed so constantly before his
eyes. I had the honor of being personally acquainted {753} with his
lordship. How well I remembered an evening, not so long ago, spent at
his house with Hugh Atherton; when he, that eminent judge, that
distinguished lawyer, had come up to me and talked of Hugh, of his
talents, his eloquence, his growing reputation! I remembered the sad,
wistful expression of his eye as it dwelt upon my friend, and the tone
of his voice, as he said with a deep sigh, "If my boy had lived, I
could have wished him to have been such a one as _he_." He remembered
it also, if I might judge from the sorrowful gravity of his
countenance. I was standing beside Merrivale beneath the prisoner's
dock, facing the judge's chair; and in a few moments there was a
rustle and stir throughout the court, and I saw the Chief-Justice pass
his hand before his eyes for a brief second. Then was heard the loud
harsh voice of the clerk of the court addressing some one before him:
"Philip Hugh Atherton, you stand there charged with the wilful
murder of your uncle, Mr. Gilbert Thorneley. How say you, prisoner
at the bar--are you guilty or not guilty?"
A voice, low, deep-toned, and thrilling in its distinctness, replied:
"Not guilty, my lord; not guilty, so help me, O my God!" and turning
round, once again my eyes met those of Hugh Atherton.
A great change had been wrought in him during the last three weeks, he
had grown so thin and worn; and amongst the waving masses of his dark
hair I could trace many and many a silver thread. Twenty years could
not have aged him more than these twenty days passed in that felon's
cell, beneath the imputation of that savage crime. Who could look at
him and think him guilty; who could gaze upon his open, manly face, so
noble in its expression of mingled firmness and gentleness, in its
guileless innocence and conscious rectitude of purpose, and say, "That
man has committed murder"? My heart went out to him, as I looked on
his familiar face once more, with all the love and honor with which I
had ever cherished his friendship.
A special jury were then sworn in. All passed unchallenged; and the
Solicitor-General rose to open the case for the prosecution, and began
by requesting that all the witnesses might be ordered to leave the
court. It is needless to say that I had been subpoenaed by the crown
to repeat the wretched evidence already given at the inquest; needless
also to say that, not being personally present during the whole trial,
I have drawn from the same sources as before for an account of it.
We had been given to understand that no other witnesses than those
examined before the coroner would be called against the prisoner; why
should they want more? They had enough evidence to bring down
condemnation twice over. On the part of the defence I have before said
up to that morning nothing fresh had been discovered that could in any
way be used as a direct refutation of what had already been adduced,
and would be brought forward again on this day.
After the examination of the medical men I was called into the
witness-box, and examined by the Solicitor-General. To my former
evidence I now added an account of what had passed between myself and
the murdered man on the evening of the 23d, the contents of the will,
my journey to the Grange, and the discovery of Thorneley's idiot son.
I likewise gave an account of my visit with Jones to Blue-Anchor lane.
I noticed that this was ill-received by the Crown counsel; but the
judges overruled the Solicitor-General's attempt to squash my
statements, and insisted upon my having a full hearing. At the end
Sergeant Donaldson rose to cross-question me.
"Did Mr. Thorneley mention in whose favor his previous will had been
made?"
"He did not. Simply that he intended the will drawn up then to cancel
all others."
{754}
"Can you remember the words in which he alluded to his wife and son?"
"Perfectly; I wrote them in the memorandum addressed to Mr. Atherton,
and which Mr. Merrivale has communicated to you."
The Chief-Justice: "Read the extract, brother Donaldson."
Sergeant Donaldson read as follows: "'Five-and-twenty years ago I
married one much younger than myself, an orphan living with an aunt,
her only relative, and who died shortly after our marriage. My ruling
passion was speculation; and I married her, not for love, but for her
fortune, which was large; I coveted it for the indulgence of my
passion. She was not happy with me, and I took no pains to make her
happier. Few knew of our marriage. I kept her at the Grange till she
died. Only _I_ and _one other person_ were with her at her death. She
gave birth to one child, a boy. Ho grew up an idiot, and I hated him.
But I wish to make reparation to my dead wife in the person of her
son--not out of love to her memory, but to _defeat the plans of
others, and in expiation of me wrong done to her_. I have never loved
any one in my life but my twin-sister, Hugh Atherton's mother: and him
for her sake and his own.' And then, my lord, follow the instructions
for the will given to Mr. Kavanagh." To the witness: "Did Mr.
Thorneley give you any clue to the '_other person_' who was with him
at his wife's death?"
"None at all."
"When you met the prisoner in Vere street, did he say he was going to
visit his uncle then?"
"No; on the contrary, he seemed anxious to come home with me. I should
imagine it was an after-thought."
"Mr. Wilmot has stated that you _volunteered_ to give evidence against
the prisoner: is it so?"
"No; it is most false. I was surprised by detective Jones into an
admission; and when I found that it would be used against Mr.
Atherton, I did all in my power to get off attending the inquest."
Reëxamined by the Solicitor-General: "It was against your consent that
the prisoner was engaged to your ward Miss Leslie, was it not?"
"Against my consent! Assuredly not. She bad my consent from the
beginning."
"You may go, Mr. Kavanagh."
The witness who succeeded me was the housekeeper. It was observed that
she did not maintain the same calmness as at the inquest; but her
evidence was perfectly consistent, given perhaps with more eagerness,
but differing and varying in no essential point from her previous
depositions.
Questioned as to whether she had been aware of Mr. Thorneley's
marriage, replied she had not, having always been in charge of his
house in town, first in the city and afterward in Wimpole street. He
had often been from home for many weeks together, but she never knew
where he went.
Cross-examined.--Could swear she had poured no ale out in the tumbler
before taking it into the study--Barker had been with her all the
time--nor yet in the room.
Sergeant Donaldson: "Now, Mrs. Haag, attend to me. How long have you
been a widow?"
"Fifteen years."
"What was your husband?"
"A commercial traveller. He was not successful, and I went into
service soon after I married."
"Had you any children?"
"One son. He died."
"When?"
"Years ago."
"How many years ago?"
"Twenty years ago."
"Is Haag your married name?"
"Yes."
"Did you bear the name of Bradley?"
"I never bore such a name. I am a Belgian; so was my husband."
{755}
A paper was here passed in to Sergeant Donaldson, and handed by him to
the judges.
The Chief-Justice: "This is a certificate of marriage celebrated at
Plymouth between Maria Haag, spinster, and Robert Bradley, bachelor,
dated June, 1829, and witnessed in proper legal form."
Witness: "I know nothing of it. My name is Haag by marriage. I am very
faint; let me go away."
A chair and glass of water were brought to the witness. In a few
moments she had recovered and the cross-examination was renewed.
"How came it that you were met in the middle of Vere street, when, by
your own showing, you must then have turned out of the street before
Mr. Kavanagh could have overtaken you?"
"Mr. Kavanagh did not meet me. I have so said before. I went straight
home after passing him and Mr. Atherton at the chemist's shop. He is
mistaken."
"What took you to Peterborough on the 30th of last month?"
"I went to visit a friend at Spalding."
"How was it, then, that you returned to London by the twelve o'clock
train the following day--I mean arrived in London at that hour?"
Witness hesitated for some time, and at last looked up defiantly.
"What right have you to ask me such a question?"
Baron Watson: "You are bound to answer, Mrs. Haag."
Witness confusedly: "I did not find my friend at home."
Sergeant Donaldson: "Do you mean to say you took that journey with the
chance of finding your friend away?"
"I did."
To the Chief-Justice: "My lord, I am informed by Inspector Keene, of
the detective service, that Mrs. Haag never visited Spalding at all;
that she took a ticket for Stixwould, at which station she got out,
and from which station she returned the following day."
Baron Watson: "I don't see what you are trying to prove, brother
Donaldson."
"I am trying to prove, my lord, that Mrs. Haag is not a witness upon
whose veracity we can rely."
The Chief-Justice: "You must be well aware, Mrs. Haag, that the
mystery of this second will, and discovery of your late master's son,
bear direct influence upon the charge of which the prisoner is
accused. I think it highly necessary that you should be able to give a
clear account of that journey of yours on the 30th of last month. For
your own sake, do you understand?"
Witness violently: "Of what do you suspect me? I have related the
truth."
Sergeant Donaldson: "Excuse me, my lord, I shall call two witnesses
presently who will throw some light upon this person's movements. I
have no further questions to put to her now."
Barker the footman and the other servants were next examined, and
deposed as before, with no additions nor variations.
Mr. Forster in cross-examination drew from the cook a yet more
confident declaration that she had heard footsteps on the front-stairs
leading from the third to the second floor on the night of the murder.
Also that the housekeeper had "gone on awful at her for saying so; but
she had stuck to her word and told Mrs. 'Aag as she wasn't a-going to
be badgered nor bullied out of her convictions for any 'ousekeeper;
and that afterwards Mrs. 'Aag had come to her quite soft and civil,
your lordships, and said, 'Here's a suverin, cook, not to mention what
you heerd; for if you says a word about them steps, why,' says she,
'you'll just go and put it into them lawyers' 'eads as some of us did
it,' says she. But a oath's a oath, my lordships; and a being close
and confined is what I could never abide or abear; and that's every
bit the truth, and here's her suverin back again, which I never
touched nor broke into."
{756}
Baron Watson: "On your oath, then, you declare you heard a footstep on
the front-stairs during the night of the 23d but you don't know at
what hour?"
"As certain sure, my lord, as that you are a sittin' on your cheer."
After eliciting a few more confirmatory details, the witness was
dismissed and Mr. Wilmot called. Nothing further was got out of him
than what he had stated before the coroner. Either he was most
thoroughly on his guard, or he really was, as he professed to be,
ignorant of his cousin Thorneley's existence up to the day of the
funeral; ignorant of the contents of his uncle's will, until it was
opened at Smith and Walker's; totally unacquainted with the man
Sullivan or De Vos; innocent of having written the note seized upon
the boy in Blue-Anchor Lane by detective Jones, all knowledge of or
complicity with which he absolutely and solemnly denied.
Questioned as to his motive for saying that Miss Leslie had been
refused the consent of her guardian, Mr. Kavanagh, to her marriage,
replied he had been distinctly told so by Mrs. Leslie, who had
mentioned also that Mr. Kavanagh was attached to Miss Leslie himself,
and had tried to make her break off the engagement.
Inspector Jackson and Thomas Davis, the chemist, next gave evidence.
The latter was cross-questioned by Sergeant Donaldson. Could not swear
he did not leave the shop on the evening of the 23d between the time
when he had sold the camphor and nine o'clock, his supper-hour; had
tried hard to recollect since attending at the inquest, and had spoken
to his wife and his assistant. The former thought he had; that she had
heard him go into the back-parlor whilst she was down in the kitchen;
the latter had said he had not left the shop until nine o'clock. Could
swear he had sold no strychnine himself that day. The entry was,
however, in his own handwriting. He had talked over the matter
repeatedly with James Ball, his assistant, but had gathered no light
on the subject. The latter had been in a very odd state of mind since
then. The murder seemed to have taken great effect upon him. He had
become very nervous, forgetful, and absent; and he (Davis) had been
obliged to admonish him several times of late, that if he went on so
badly he must seek another situation.
James Ball replaced his master in the witness-box. He looked very
haggard and excited, and answered the questions put to him, in an
incoherent, unsatisfactory manner, very different from his conduct at
the inquest. Admonished by the Chief-justice that he was upon his oath
and giving evidence in a matter of life and death, had cried out
passionately that he wished he had been dead before that wretched
evening.--Ordered to explain what he meant, became confused, and said
he had felt ill ever since the inquest.
Cross-questioned by Mr. Forester: "Does your master keep an
errand-boy?"
"Yes."
"Was he in the shop on the evening of the 23d?"
"I don't remember."
"Oh! you don't remember! Do you remember receiving a letter on the
afternoon of the 24th containing a Bank-of-England £10 note?"
"I did not receive any letter."
"But you received what is called an 'enclosure' of a £10 note, did you
not?"
No answer.
"Did you hear my question, sir? Did you or did you not receive it?--on
your oath, remember!"
No answer.
The Chief-Justice: "You must answer that gentleman, James Ball."
Still no answer.
The Chief-Justice: "Once more I repeat my learned brother's question.
Did you or did you not receive that £10 note on the 24th of October
last? If you do not answer, I shall commit you for contempt of court."
{757}
Witness, defiantly: "Well, if I did, what's that to any one here? I
suppose I can receive money from my own mother."
Mr. Forster: "You know very well that it did not come from your
mother, but that it was _hush-money_ sent you by the person to whom
you sold the grain of strychnine on the evening of the 23d." The
Chief-Justice: "Is this so? Speak the truth, or it will be the worse
for you."
Witness (in a very low voice): "It is."
Mr. Forster: "Who was the person?"
"I don't know--indeed I don't; but
it wasn't _he_," (pointing to the prisoner.)
"Was it a man or a woman?"
"A woman."
"Was it the housekeeper?"
"I don't know."
The Chief-Justice: "Let Mrs. Haag be summoned into court."
The housekeeper was brought in and confronted with the witness. She
was unveiled, and she looked Ball steadily in the face, the dangerous
dark light in her eyes.
The Chief-Justice: "Is that the person?"
"No; I can't identify her." (The witness spoke with more firmness and
assurance than he had done.)
Mr. Forster, to Mrs. Haag: "Is this your handwriting?" (A letter is
passed to her.)
"No; it is not"
"On your oath?"
"On my oath."
"You can leave the court, Mrs. Haag."
"Now, witness, relate what took place about that strychnine."
"A lady came into the shop that evening, just before that gentleman
came in for the camphor, and asked for a grain of strychnine. I
refused to sell it. She said, 'It's for my husband; he's a doctor, and
wants to try the effect on a dog.' I said, 'Who is he?' She said,
'He's Mr. Grainger, round the corner, at the top of Vere Street.' I
knew Mr. Grainger lived there--a doctor. I thought it was all right,
and gave her one grain of strychnine. I said, 'I shall run round
presently and see if it's all right' She said, 'Very well; come now if
you like.' I made sure now more than ever that it was all right. She
paid me and left the shop. I told my master of selling it, along with
a lot of other medicines. In the morning I heard that Mr. Thorneley
had been poisoned by strychnine, and in the afternoon I received by
post a ten-pound note and that letter."--(Letter read by Mr. Forster:
"Say nothing, and identify no one. You shall receive this amount every
month.")--"I guessed then it was from the person who had bought the
strychnine, and that they had murdered old Thorneley. I am very poor,
and my family needed the money. That is all."
Mr. Forster: "I have nothing further to ask."
The Chief-Justice: "Remove the witness, and let him be detained in
custody for the present."
The Solicitor-General: "This, my lord, closes the evidence for the
prosecution."
Sergeant Donaldson then rose to address the jury for the defence.
TO BE CONTINUED.
------
{758}
[ORIGINAL.]
PROBLEMS OF THE AGE.
VI.
THE TRINITY OF PERSONS INCLUDED IN THE ONE DIVINE ESSENCE.
The full explication of the First Article of the Creed requires us to
anticipate two others, which are its complement and supply the two
terms expressing distinctly the relations of the Second and Third
Persons to the First Person or the Father, in the Trinity. "Credo in
Unum Deum Patrem," gives us the doctrine of the Divine Unity, and the
first term of the Trinity, viz., the person of the Father. "Et in Unum
Dominum Jesum Christum Filium Dei Unigenitum, et ex Patre natum ante
omnia saecula; Deum de Deo, Lumen de Lumine; Deum Verum de Deo Vero;
Genitum non Factum, consubstantialem Patri, per quem omnia facta
sunt:" gives us the second term or the person of the Son. "Et in
Spiritum Sanctum, Dominum et Vivificantem, qui ex Patre Filioque
procedit, quicum Patre et Filio simul adoratur et conglorificacur:"
gives us the third term or the person of the Holy Spirit. Both these
are necessary to the explanation of the term "Patrem." The proper
order is, therefore, to begin with the eternal, necessary relations of
the Three Persons to each other in the unity of the Divine Essence,
and then to proceed with the operations of each of the Three Persons
in the creation and consummation of the Universe.
Our purpose is not to make a directly theological explanation of all
that is contained in this mystery, but only of so much of it as
relates to its credibility, and its position in regard to the sphere
of intelligible truth. With this mystery begins that which is properly
the objective matter of revelation, or the series of truths belonging
to a super-intelligible order, that is, above the reach of our natural
intelligence, proposed to our belief on the veracity of God. It is
usually considered the most abstruse, mysterious, and incomprehensible
of all the Christian dogmas, even by believers; though we may perhaps
find that the dogma of the Incarnation is really farther removed than
it from the grasp of our understanding. Be that as it may, the fact
that it relates to the very first principle and the primary truth of
all religion, and appears to confuse our apprehension of it, namely,
the Unity of God--causes us to reflect more distinctly upon its
incomprehensibility. Many persons, both nominal Christians and avowed
unbelievers, declare openly, that in their view it is an absurdity so
manifestly contrary to reason that it is absolutely unthinkable, and,
of course, utterly incredible. How then is the relation between this
mystery and the self-evident or demonstrable truths of reason adjusted
in the act of faith elicited by the believer? What answer can be made
to the rational objections of the unbeliever? If the doctrine be
really unthinkable, it is just as really incredible, and there can be
no act of faith terminated upon it as a revealed object. Of course,
then, no inquiry could be made as to its relation with our knowledge,
for that which is absurd and incapable of being intellectually
conceived and apprehended cannot have any relation to knowledge. It is
impossible for the human mind to believe at one and the same time that
a proposition is {759} directly contrary to reason, and also revealed
by God. No amount of extrinsic evidence will ever convince it. Human
reason cannot say beforehand what the truths of revelation are or
ought to be; but it can say in certain respects what they cannot be.
They cannot be contradictory to known truths and first principles of
reason and knowledge. Therefore, when they are presented in such a way
to the mind, or are by it apprehended in such a way, as to involve a
contradiction to these first truths and principles, they cannot be
received until they are differently presented or apprehended, so that
this apparent contradiction is removed. This is so constantly and
clearly asserted by the ablest Catholic writers, men above all
suspicion for soundness in the faith, that we will not waste time in
proving it to be sound Catholic doctrine. [Footnote 183] Of course
all rationalists, and most Protestants, hold it as an axiom already.
If there are some Protestants who hold the contrary, they are beyond
the reach of argument.
[Footnote 183: See among others, Archbishop Manning on the Temporal
Mission of the Holy Ghost.]
The Catholic believer in the Trinity apprehends the dogma in such a
way that it presents no contradiction to his intellect between itself
and the first principles of reason or the primary doctrine of the
unity of the divine nature. God, who is the Creator and the Light of
reason, as well as the author of revelation, is bound by his own
attributes of truth and justice, when he proposes a doctrine as
obligatory on faith, to propose it in such a way that the mind is able
to apprehend and accept it in a reasonable manner. This is done by the
instruction given by the Catholic Church, with which the supernatural
illumination of the Holy Spirit concurs. The Catholic believer is
therefore free from those crude misapprehensions and misconceptions
which create the difficulty in the unbelieving mind. He apprehends in
some degree, although it may be implicitly and confusedly, the real
sense and meaning of the mystery, as it is apprehensible by analogy
with truths of the natural order. What it is he apprehends, and what
are the analogies by which it can be made intelligible, will be
explained more fully hereafter. It is enough here to note the fact.
This apprehension makes the mystery to him thinkable, or capable of
being thought. That is, it causes the proposition of the mystery in
certain definite terms to convey a meaning to his mind, and not to be
a mere collocation of words without any sense to him. It makes him
apprehend what he is required to assent to, and puts before him an
object of thought upon which an intellectual act can be elicited. It
presents no contradiction to reason, and therefore there is no
obstacle to his giving the full assent of faith on the authority of
God.
It is otherwise with one who has been brought up in Judaism,
Unitarianism, or mere Rationalism; or whose merely traditional and
imperfect apprehension of Christian dogmas has been so mixed up with
heretical perversions that his mature reason has rejected it as
absurd. There is an impediment in the way of his receiving the mystery
of the Trinity as proposed by the Catholic Church, and believing it
possible that God can have revealed it. He may conceive of the
doctrine of the Trinity as affirming that an object can be one and
three in the same identical sense, which destroys all mathematical
truth. Or he may conceive of it, as dividing the divine substance into
three parts, forming a unity of composition and not a unity of
simplicity. Or he may conceive of it as multiplying the divine
essence, or making three co-ordinate deities, who concur and
co-operate with each other by mutual agreement. These conceptions are
equally absurd with the first, although it requires more thought to
discern their absurdity. It is necessary then to remove the apparent
absurdity of the doctrine, before any evidence of its being a {760}
revealed truth is admissible. The first misconception is so extremely
crude, that it is easily removed by the simple explanation that unity
and trinity are predicated of God in distinct and not identical
senses. The second, which is hardly less crude is disposed of by
pointing out the explicit statements in which the simplicity and
indivisibility of the divine substance in all of the Three Persons is
invariably affirmed. The third is the only real difficulty, the only
one which can remain long in an educated and instructed mind. The
objection urged on theological or philosophical grounds by really
learned men against the dogma of the Trinity, is, that it implies
Tritheism. The simplest and most ordinary method of removing this
objection, is by presenting the explicit and positive affirmation of
the church that there is but one eternal principle of self-existent,
necessary being, one first cause, one infinite substance possessing
all perfections. This is sufficient to show that the church denies and
condemns Tritheism, and affirms the strict unity of God. But, the
Unitarian replies, you hold a doctrine incompatible with this
affirmation, viz., that there are three Divine Persons, really
distinct and equal. This is met by putting forward the terms in which
the church affirms that it is the one, eternal, and infinite essence
of God which is in each of the Three Persons. The Unitarian is then
obliged to demonstrate that this distinction of persons in the Godhead
is unthinkable, and that unity of nature cannot be thought in
connection with triplicity of person. This he cannot do. The relation
of personality to nature is too abstruse, especially when we are
reasoning about the infinite, which transcends all the analogies of
our finite self-consciousness, to admit of a demonstration proving
absolutely that unity of nature supposes unity of person, and _vice
versa_, as its necessary correlative. The church affirms the unity of
substance in the Godhead in the clearest manner, sweeping away all
ground for gross misconceptions of a divided or multiplied deity; but
affirms also trinity in the mode of subsistence, or the distinction of
Three Persons, in each one of whom the same divine substance subsists
completely. This affirmation is above the comprehension of reason, but
not contrary to reason. Even Unitarians, in some instances, find no
difficulty in accepting the statement of the doctrine of the trinity
made by our great theologians, when it is distinctly presented to
them; and in the beautiful Liturgical Book used in some Unitarian
congregations, the orthodox doxology, "Glory be to the Father, and to
the Son, and to the Holy Ghost," has been restored.
The absurd misconception of what the church means by the word Trinity
being once removed, the evidence that her doctrine is revealed, or
that God affirms to us the eternal, necessary distinction of three
subsistences in his infinite being, becomes intelligible and credible.
Reason cannot affirm the intrinsic incompatibility of the proposition,
God reveals himself as subsisting in three persons, with the
proposition, there is one God; and therefore cannot reject conclusive
evidence that he does so reveal himself through the Catholic Church.
For aught reason can say, he may have so revealed himself. If
satisfactory evidence is presented that he has done so, reason is
obliged, in consistency with its principles, to examine and judge of
the evidence, and assent to the conclusion that the Trinity is a
revealed truth. This is enough for all practical purposes, and as much
as the majority of persons are capable of. But is this the _ultimatum_
of reason? Is it not possible to go further in showing the conformity
of the revealed truth with rational truths? Several eminent
theologians have endeavored to take this further step, and to
construct a metaphysical argument for the doctrine of the Trinity.
Some of the great contemplatives of the church, who are really the
most profound and sublime of her {761} theologians and philosophers,
have also through divine illumination appeared to gain an insight into
the depths of this mystery. For instance, St. Ignatius and St. Francis
de Sales both affirm that the truth and the mutual harmony of all the
divine mysteries were made evident to their intelligence in
contemplation. In modern times, Bossuet, Lacordaire, and Dr. Brownson
have reasoned profoundly on the rational evidence of the Trinity, and
a Roman priest, the Abbate Mastrofini, has published a work entitled
"Metaphysica Sublimior," in which he proposes as his thesis, Given
divine revelation, to prove the truth of all its dogmas by reason. The
learned and excellent German priest Günther attempted the same thing,
but went too far, and fell into certain errors which were censured by
the Roman tribunals, and which he himself retracted. It is necessary
to tread cautiously and reverently, like Moses, for we are on holy
ground, and near the burning bush. We will endeavor to do so, and,
taking for our guide the decisions of the Church and the judgment of
her greatest and wisest men, to do our best to state briefly what has
been attempted in the way of eliciting an eminent act of reason on
this great mystery, without trenching on the domain of faith.
First, then, it is certain that reason cannot discover the Trinity of
itself. It must be first proposed to it by revelation, before it can
apprehend its terms or gain anything to reason upon. Secondly, when
proposed, its intrinsic necessity or reason cannot be directly or
immediately apprehended. If it can be apprehended at all, it must be
mediately, or through analogies existing in the created universe. Are
there such analogies, that is, are there any reflections or
representations of this divine truth in the physical or intellectual
world from which reason can construct a theorem parallel in its own
order with this divine theorem? Creation is a copy of the divine idea.
It represents God as a mirror. Does it represent him, that is, so far
as the human intellect is capable of reading it, not merely as he is
one in essence, but also as he is three in persons? Assuming the
Trinity as an hypothesis, which is all we can do in arguing with an
unbeliever, can we point out analogies or representations in creation
of which the Trinity is the ultimate reason and the infinite original?
If we can, do these analogies simply accord and harmonize with the
hypothesis that God must subsist in three persons, or do they indicate
that this is the most adequate or the only conceivable hypothesis, or
that it is the necessary, self-evident truth, without which the
existence of these analogies would be unthinkable and impossible? Do
these analogies, as we are able to discover them, represent an
adequate image of the complete Catholic dogma of the Trinity, or only
an inadequate image of a portion of it?
It is evident, in the first place, that some analogical representation
of the Trinity must be made in order to give the mind any apprehension
whatever of a real object of thought on which it can elicit an act of
faith. The terms in which the doctrine is stated, as for instance.
Father, Son, Holy Spirit, eternal generation, procession or spiration,
person, etc., are analogical terms, representing ideas which are
otherwise unspeakable, by images or symbols. It is impossible for the
mind to perceive that a proposed idea is simply not absurd, without
apprehending confusedly what the idea is, and possessing some positive
apprehension of its conformity to the logical, that is, the real
order. Every distinct act of belief in the Trinity, therefore, however
rudimental and imperfectly evolved into reflective cognition, contains
in it an apprehension of the analogy between it and creation. If we
proceed, therefore, to explicate this confused, inchoate conception,
we necessarily proceed by way of explicating the analogy spoken of,
because we must proceed by explaining the terms in which the doctrine
is stated, {762} which are analogical; and by pointing out what the
analogy is which the terms designate. What is meant by calling God
Father, Son, and Holy Spirit? Why is the relation of the Son to the
Father called filiation? Why is the relation of the Holy Spirit to
both called procession? The Niceno-Constantinopolitan and Athanasian
Creeds, all the other definitions of the church respecting the
Trinity, and all Catholic theology deduced from these definitions and
from Scripture and tradition by rational methods, are an explication
of the significance of these analogical terms. The only question which
can be raised then, is, in regard to the extent of the capacity of
human reason to discern the analogy between inward necessary relations
of the Godhead, and the outward manifestation of these relations in
the creation. The hypothesis of the Trinity assumes that this analogy
exists, and is to some extent apprehensible. We will now proceed to
indicate the process by which Catholic theologians show this analogy,
beginning with those terms of analogy which lie in the material order,
and ascending to those which lie in the order of spirit and
intelligence.
First, then, it is argued, that the law of generation in the physical
world, by which like produces like, represents some divine and eternal
principle. Ascending from the lower manifestation of this law to man,
we find this physical relation of generation the basis of a higher
filiation in which the soul participates. Man generates the image of
himself, in his son, who is not merely his bodily offspring, but
similar and equal to himself in his rational nature. As St. Paul says,
the principal of this paternity must be in God, and must therefore be
in him essential and eternal. But this principle of eternal, essential
paternity, within the necessary being of God, is the very principle of
distinct personal relations.
Again, the multiplicity of creation indicates that there is some
principle in the Divine Nature, corresponding in an eminent sense and
mode to this multiplicity. The relations of number are eternal truths,
and have some infinite transcendental type in God. If there were no
principle in the Divine Nature except pure, abstract unity, there
would be no original idea, from which God could proceed to create a
universe; which is necessarily multiplex and constituted in an
infinitude of distinct relations, yet all radically one, as proceeding
from one principle and tending to one end. Here is an analogy
indicating that unity and multiplicity imply and presuppose one the
other.
These two arguments combine when we consider the law of generation and
the principle of multiplicity as constituting human society and
building up the human race. Society, love, mutual communion,
reciprocal relations, kind offices, diversity in equality, constitute
the happiness and well being of man; they are an image and a
participation of the divine beatitude. All the good of the creature,
all the perfections of derived, contingent existences, have an eminent
transcendental type in God. Love, friendship, society, represent
something in the divine nature. If there were no personal relations in
God, but a mere solitude of being existing in a unity and singularity
exclusive of all plurality and society, it would seem that, supposing
creation possible, the rational creature would copy his archetype, be
single of his kind, and find his happiness in absolute solitude. It is
otherwise, however, with the human race. The human individual is not
single and solitary. Human nature is one in respect of origin and
kind, derived from one principle which is communicated by generation
and exists in plurality of persons. Society is necessary to the
perpetuation, perfection, and happiness of the human race. This
society is constituted primarily in a three-fold relation between the
father, the mother, and {763} the child, which makes the family; and
the family repeated and multiplied makes the tribe, the nation, and
the race. Taking now the hypothesis of three persons in one nature as
constituting the Godhead, it is plain that we have a clearer idea of
that in God which is represented and imitated in human society, and
which is the archetype of the life, the happiness, the love, existing
in the communion of distinct persons in one common nature, than we can
have in the hypothesis of an absolute singularity of person in the
deity. That good which man enjoys by fellowship with his equal and his
like, is a participation in the supreme good that is in God. In that
supreme good, this participated good must exist in an eminent manner.
God must have in himself infinite, all-sufficing society, fellowship,
love. He must have it in his necessary and eternal being, for he
cannot be dependent on that which is contingent and created. Supposing
therefore that it is consistent with the unity of his nature to exist
in three distinct and equal persons, not only is the analogy of his
creation to himself more manifest, but the conception we can form of
the perfection of his being is more complete and intelligible.
There is another analogy in the intellectual operation of the human
mind. The intellective faculty generates what may be called the
interior word, or image of the mind, the archetype of that which is
outwardly expressed in a philosophical theory, a poem, a picture, a
statue, or a work of architecture. Through this word, the great
creative mind lives and attains to the completion and happiness of
intellectual existence. It loves it as proceeding from and identical
with itself. Through it, it acts upon other minds, controls and
influences their thought and life; and thus the spirit proceeding from
the creative mind, through its generated word, is the completion of
its inward and outward operation. Thus, argue the theologians, the
Father contemplating the infinitude of his divine essence generates by
an infinite thought, the Word, or Son. Being infinite and uncreated,
his necessary act is infinite and uncreated, in all respects equal to
himself, and therefore the Word is equal to the Father; possesses the
plenitude of the divine essence, intelligence and personality. The
divine act of generation is not a purely intellectual cognition, but a
contemplation in which love is joined with knowledge. The Father
beholds the Son, and the Son looks back upon the Father, with infinite
love, which is the spiration of the divine life. This spiration or
spirit, proceeding from the Father and the Son, is the consummating,
completing term of their unity, and contains the divine being which is
in the Father and the Son in all its plenitude; constituting a third
person, equal to the first and second. The operation of a limited,
finite, created soul presents only a faint, imperfect analogy of the
Trinity, because it is itself limited, as being the operation of a
soul participating in being only to a limited extent. Individual
existences possess each one a limited portion of being. But in God, it
is not so. There is no division in his nature, because the eternal,
self-existing cause and principle of its unity is a simultaneous cause
of its absolute plenitude by which it exhausts all possible being.
This plenitude of being is in the eternal generation of the second
person, and the eternal spiration of the third person in the Godhead,
on account of the necessary perfection of the most pure act in which
the being of God consists; wherefore personality is predicable, as one
of the perfections of being, of each of the three terms of relation in
God. The word of human reason and its spirit, are not equal to itself,
or personal, because of the limited and imperfect nature of human
reason, and its operations. The Word or Son of the Eternal Father, and
the Holy Spirit, are equal to him and personal, because the Father is
God, and his act is infinite.
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This prepares the way for a different method of presenting the
argument from analogy, based on the conception of God as _actus
purissimus_, or most pure act. This is clearly and succinctly stated
by Dr. Brownson as follows:
"The one, or naked and empty unity, even in the Unitarian mind is
not the equivalent of God. When he says one, he still asks, one
what? The answer is, one God, which implies even with him something
more than unity. It implies unity and its real and necessary
contents as living or actual being. Unity is an abstract conception
formed by the mind operating on the intuition of the concrete, and
as abstract, has no existence out of the mind conceiving. Like all
abstractions, it is in itself dead, unreal, null. God is not an
abstraction, not a mere generalization, a creature, or a theorem of
the human mind, but one living and true God, existing from and in
himself, _ad se et se_. He is real being, being in its plenitude,
eternal, independent, self-living, and complete in himself. To live
is to act. To be eternally and infinitely living is to be eternally
and infinitely acting, is to be all act; and hence philosophers and
theologians term God, in scholastic language, most pure act, _actus
purissimus_. But act, all act demands, as its essential conditions,
principle, medium, and end. Unity, then, to be actual being, to be
eternally and purely act in itself, must have in itself the three
relations of principle, medium, and end, precisely the three
relations termed in Christian theology Father, Son, and Holy
Ghost--the Father as principle, the Son as medium, and the Holy
Ghost as end or consummation of the divine life. These three
interior relations are essential to the conception of unity as one
living and true God. Hence the radical conception of God as triune
is essential to the conception of God as one God, or real,
self-living, self-sufficing unity. There is nothing in this view of
the Trinity that asserts that one is three, or that three are one;
nor is there anything that breaks the divine unity, for the
triplicity asserted is not three Gods, or three divine beings, but a
threefold interior relation in the interior essence of the one God, by
virtue of which he is one actual, living God. The relations are in
the essence of the one God, and are so to speak the living contents
of his unity, without which he would be an empty, unreal
abstraction; one--nothing." [Footnote 184]
[Footnote 184: Brownson's Review, July, 1863, pp. 266, 267.]
There is still another way of stating the argument, founded on the
necessary relation between subject and object. In the rational order,
subject is that which apprehends and object that which is apprehended.
Intelligence is subject and the intelligible is object. The mere power
or capacity of intelligence, if it is conceived of in an abstract
manner as existing alone without relation to its object, must be
conceived of as not in actual exercise. Intelligence in act implies
something intelligible which terminates the act of intelligence. Even
supposing that the object of the intelligence is identical with the
subject, that is, that the rational mind contemplates itself as a
really existing substance, nevertheless there is a distinction between
the mind considered as the subject which contemplates, and the mind
considered as the object which is contemplated. The reason
contemplated must be projected before itself and regarded as an object
distinct from the contemplating reason in the act of contemplation.
The eye which sees objects external to itself, does not actually see
or bring its visual power into act until an object is presented before
it; and the individual does not become conscious that he can see or is
possessed of a visual faculty, except in the act of seeing an object.
The eye cannot see itself immediately by the mere fact that it is a
visual organ, but only sees itself as reflected in a mirror and made
objective to itself. God is the absolute intelligence and the absolute
intelligible, as has been proved in a previous chapter. He
contemplates and comprehends himself, and in this consists his active
being and life. Thus in the divine being there is the distinction of
subject and object. God considered as infinite intelligence is
subject, and considered as the infinite intelligible is his own
adequate object. The hypothesis of the Trinity presents to us God as
subject for intelligence in the person of the Father, as object, or
the intelligible, in the person of the Son. The Son is the image of
the Father, as the reflection of a man's form in the mirror is the
image of himself. The eternal generation of the Son is the {765}
eternal act of the Father contemplating his own being, and is
terminated upon the person of the Son as its object. As this act is
within the divine being, the image of the Father is not a merely
phenomenal, apparent, unsubstantial reflection of his being, but real,
living, and substantial. The Son is consubstantial with the Father.
The being of God is in the act of intelligence or contemplation,
whether we consider God as the subject or the object in this infinite
act, that is, as intelligent and contemplating, or as intelligible and
contemplated. The consummating principle of love, complacency, or
beatitude, which completes this act, vivifies it, and unites the
person of the Father with the person of the Son in one indivisible
being, is the Holy Spirit, equal to the Father and the Son, and
identical in being, because a necessary term of the most pure act in
which the divine life and being consists. All that is within the
circle of the necessary, essential being of God, as most pure,
intelligent, living act, is uncaused, self-existent, infinite,
eternal. By the hypothesis, we must conceive of God as subsisting in
the three persons, Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, in order to conceive
of him as _ens in actu_, or in the state of actual, living, concrete
being, and not as a mere abstraction or possibility existing in
thought only; as infinite intelligence, and the adequate object of his
own intelligence, self sufficing and infinitely blessed in himself.
Therefore the Father is God, the Son is God, and the Holy Ghost is
God. It is only by this triplicity of personal relations that the
unity of God as a living, concrete unity, or the unity of one,
absolute, perfect, infinite being, containing in himself the actual
plenitude of all that is conceivable or possible, can subsist or be
vividly apprehended. Therefore there cannot be, by the hypothesis, a
separate and distinct Godhead in each of the three persons, since
triplicity of person enters into the very essential idea of Godhead.
The hypothesis of the Trinity, therefore, absolutely compels the mind
to believe in the unity of God, and shuts out all possibility that
there should be more Gods than one, because it shuts out all
possibility of imagining any mode or form of necessary being which is
not included in the three personal relations of the one God. Unity and
plurality, singularity and society, capacity of knowing, loving, and
enjoying the true, the beautiful, and the good, and the adequate
object of this capacity, or the true, beautiful, and good _in se_, the
subject and the object of intelligent and spiritual life and activity,
intelligence and the intelligible, love and the loved, blessedness and
beatitude, subsist in him in actual being, which is infinite and
exhausts in its most pure act all that is in the uncreated, necessary,
self-existent principle of being and first cause. The adequate reason
and type of all contingent and created existences is demonstrated also
to be in the three personal relations of the one divine essence, in
such a way, that the hypothesis of the Trinity, as a theorem,
satisfactorily takes up, accounts for, and explains all discoverable
truths as well in regard to the universe as in regard to God.
This last statement indicates the answer which we think is the most
correct one to the question proposed in the beginning of this chapter,
as to the full logical force of the rational argument for the Trinity.
That is, we regard it as a hypothesis which in the first place is
completely insusceptible of rational refutation. In the second place,
contains certain truths which are established by very strong probable
arguments and analogies. In the third place, suggests a conception of
God which harmonizes with all the truth we know, or can see to be
probable, and at the same time is more perfect and sublime than any
which can be made, excluding the hypothesis. We do not claim for it
the character of a strict demonstration. To certain minds it seems to
approach {766} very near a demonstration, probably because their
intellectual power of vision is unusually acute. To others it appears
nearly or quite unintelligible. Probably but few persons comparatively
can grasp it in such a way as to attain a true intellectual insight
into the relation between the doctrine of the Trinity and philosophy.
Yet all those who have thought much on the doctrine, and who find
their great difficulty in believing it to consist in a want of
apparent connection with other truths, ought to be able to appreciate
the philosophical argument by which the connection is shown. They must
have an aptitude for apprehending arguments of this nature, otherwise
they would not think on the subject so intently. All they can justly
expect is that the impediment in their minds against believing that
the doctrine is credible, or not incredible, supposing it revealed,
should be removed. This is done by the arguments of Catholic
theologians. If the doctrine be revealed, it is credible; that is, an
intelligent person can in perfect consistency with the dictates of
reason assent to the proposition that God has revealed it, and that it
is therefore credible on his veracity. The ground of the positive and
unwavering assent of the mind is in the veracity of God, and remains
there, no matter how far the reasoning process may be carried; for
without the revelation of God, the conception of the Trinity,
supposing it once obtained, would for ever remain a mere hypothesis,
though the most probable of all which could be conceived.
As already explained, it is only by a supernatural grace that the mind
is elevated to a state in which it clearly and habitually contemplates
the object of faith as revealed by God. By divine faith, the intellect
believes without doubting the mystery of the three persons in one
divine nature, and incorporates this belief into its life, as a
vivifying truth and not a dead, inert, abstract speculation or
theorem. When it is thus believed, and taken as a certain truth, the
intellect, if it is capable of apprehending the argument from analogy,
may be able to see that the Trinity is really that truth which is the
archetype that has been copied in creation, and is indicated in the
analogies already pointed out. It may see that one cannot think
logically unless he is first instructed in the doctrine of the Trinity
and proceeds from it as a given truth or datum of reasoning. Thus, he
may by the light of faith attain an elevated kind of science, or
eminent act of reason, which really rests on indubitable principles.
Yet it will not be properly science or knowledge of the revealed
mysteries, since one of these indubitable principles on which all the
consequences depend, is revelation itself, which really constitutes
the mind in a certitude of that which on merely rational principles
remains always inevident. Probably this is what is meant by those who
maintain that the Trinity can be rationally demonstrated. Given, that
the Trinity is a revealed truth, it explains and harmonizes in the
sphere of reason what is otherwise inexplicable. It is the same with
other revealed truths, and to prove that it is so is the principal
object of this essay. Presented in this light, the Catholic dogma of
the Trinity vindicates its claim to be a necessary part of religious
belief; an essential dogma of Christianity, revealed and made
obligatory for an intelligible reason, and essential to the formation
of a complete and adequate theology and philosophy. It is no longer
regarded as a naked, speculative, isolated proposition; to which a
merely intellectual assent is required by a precept of authority, and
which has no living relation to other truths or to the practical,
spiritual life of the soul. It is shown to be a universal and
fundamental truth, the basis of all truth and of the entire real and
logical order of the universe.
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This can be shown much more easily, and to the majority of minds more
intelligibly, in relation to the other truths of Christianity, than to
those truths which are more recondite and metaphysical. It is
necessary to an adequate explication of the creation, of the destiny
of rational existences, of the supernatural order, of the character
and mission of Christ, of the regeneration of man through him, and of
his final end or supreme and eternal beatitude and glorification in
the future life, as will be shown hereafter. Deprived of this dogma,
Christianity is baseless, unmeaning, and worthless; and is infallibly
disintegrated and reduced to nihilism, by the necessary laws of
thought. This is true also of theism, or natural theology. And this
suggests a powerful subsidiary argument in a different line of
reasoning, proving that the doctrine of the Trinity is necessary to
the perfection and perpetuity of the doctrine of the unity of God.
The same universal tradition which has handed down the pure, theistic
conception, and has instructed mankind in the true, adequate knowledge
of God, has handed down the Trinity, and traces of it are even found
in heathen theosophy and the more profound heathen philosophy.
Wherever the doctrine of the Trinity has been preserved, there the
clear conception of the one God and his attributes has been preserved.
And where this doctrine has been corrupted or lost, the conception of
God as one living being of infinite perfection, the first and final
cause of all things, has passed away into polytheism or pantheism or
scepticism. Wherever God is apprehended as the supreme creator and
sovereign, the supreme object of worship, obedience, and love, in
intimate personal relations to man, he is apprehended in the personal
relations which subsist in himself, that is, in the Trinity. His
interior personal relations are the foundation of all external
personal relations to his creatures. This is even true of Unitarians,
so long as they retain the Christian ethical and spiritual temper
which connects them with the Christian world of thought and life, and
do not slide into some form of infidelity. They retain some imperfect
conception of the relations of Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, and in
proportion as they become more positive in religion, they revive and
renew this conception. The effort to make a system of living,
practical theistic religion is feeble and futile, and what little
consistency and force it has is derived from the conception of the
fatherhood of God borrowed from Christian theology; but imperfect
without the two additional terms which constitute the complete
conception of the Trinity. All this is a powerful argument for a
Theist or a Unitarian in favor of the divine origin and authority of
the Catholic dogma. The instruction which completes the inward
affirmation of God in the idea of reason, and is the complement of the
creative act constituting the soul rational, must be from the Creator.
He alone can complete his own work. It is contrary to all rational
conceptions of the wisdom of God to suppose that he has permitted that
the same instruction which teaches mankind to know, to worship, to
love, and to aspire after himself, should hand down in inseparable
connection with the eternal truth of the unity of his essence, the
doctrine of the threefold personal relations within this unity, if
this were an error diametrically its opposite, and not a truth equally
necessary and eternal.
------
{768}
From The Month.
CAIRO AND THE FRANCISCAN MISSIONS ON THE NILE.
On the 25th November, 186--, a small but crowded steamer was seen
ploughing its way through the waves at the entrance to the port of
Alexandria. Its living freight was of a motley description: there were
the usual proportion of Indian passengers--Indian officers returning
with their wives after sick-leave; engineer officers going out to lay
down the electric telegraph--one of whom, young in years but old in
knowledge, whose distinguished merit had already raised him to the
first place in his profession, was never again destined to see his
native shores. Then there were others seeking health, and about to
exchange the damp, foggy climate of England for the warm, dry,
invigorating air of Nubia and the Upper Nile. They had had a horrible
passage, in a small and badly-appointed steamer, of which all the
port-holes had to be closed on account of the gale, leaving the
wretched inhabitants of the cabins in a state of suffocation difficult
to describe. So that it was with intense joy that the jetty was at
last reached; and in the midst of a noise and confusion impossible to
describe, the passengers were landed on the dirty quay, and were
dragged rather than led into the carriages which were to convey them
to the hotel. It was the feast of St. Catharine, the patron saint of
Alexandria, to whom the great cathedral is dedicated; and in
consequence the town was more than usually gay. Towards evening a
beautiful procession was formed, and Benediction sung in the
cathedral, which is served by the Lazarist fathers. It was the best
day to arrive at Alexandria, and the prayers of the virgin saint and
martyr were earnestly invoked by some of the party for a blessing on
their voyage and a safe and happy return.
To one who has been for a long time in the East, Alexandria appears a
motley collection of half European, half Arabian houses, and the
refuse of the populations of each; but on first landing, everything
appears new, beautiful, and strange. The long files of camels, the
veiled women, the variety of the dresses are all striking; but the one
thing which even the most hackneyed Nile traveller cannot fail to
admire is the vegetation. Enormous groves of date-palms and bananas,
with an underwood of poncettias, their scarlet leaves looking like red
flamingos amid the dark-green leaves, and ipomeas of every shade--
lilac, yellow, and above all turquoise-blue--climbing over every
ruined wall, and exquisite in color as in form, delight an eye
accustomed to see such things carefully tended in hothouses only, or
paid for at the rate of five shillings a spray in Covent Garden. The
sisters of Charity of St. Vincent de Paul have two very large
establishments here--one a hospital, to which is attached a large
dispensary, attended daily by hundreds of Arabs; the other a school
and orphanage of upwards of 1000 children. There are thirty-seven
sisters, and their work is bearing its fruit, not only among the
Christian but the native population. To our English travellers the
very sight of their white "cornettes" was an assurance of love and
kindness and welcome in this strange land; and it was with a glad and
thankful heart that they found themselves once more kneeling in their
chapel, and felt that no bond is like that of charity, uniting as in
one great family every nation upon earth.
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