When Henry Hindes left the presence of Frederick Walcheren, he hailed a
hansom and ordered the driver to take him back to Hampstead. He was not
only unable to stand or walk, he was incapable of thinking. He lolled
back in the hansom like a dead body, and had barely strength to alight
at his own door. The servant who admitted him, used as he had been to
see his master look ill of late, ran down to the lower regions to say
that he believed ‘The guv’ner was dying, he seemed that bad.’ Hannah,
who, having heard his entrance, came smiling out into the hall to meet
him, was struck by his altered appearance, and exclaimed,--
‘What is the matter with you? Have you been ill? Are you in any pain?’
To all which, Hindes only said in answer,--
‘Be quiet! Hold your tongue! Am I destined never to have any peace?’
He pushed his way past her to the library, where she followed him.
‘How can you be so unkind and ungrateful, Henry? I was coming to tell
you a piece of good news, that I knew you would be glad to hear.’
‘Good news! What good news can there ever be for me again?’
‘I believe you will think it the very best you could receive. Doctor
Sewell has been here this afternoon, and brought Mr Lyndhurst with
him. They made a thorough examination of Wally, and Mr Lyndhurst says
we may set our minds completely at rest with regard to his spine being
permanently affected. It received a great shock by the concussion, but
all the dangerous symptoms have abated, and I am to let him get up for
a few hours to-morrow, and so gradually put him on his feet again. Now,
isn’t that good news?’ Hannah said sweetly, as she put her hand upon
her husband’s arm.
But Hindes did not smile, nor look at her. He jerked his arm roughly
from her detaining clasp instead, and, sinking down upon a sofa,
murmured,--
‘Too late! too late!’
‘Too late!’ exclaimed his wife, in a tone of surprise, ‘what do you
mean, Henry? Too late to have our dear child restored to us, safe and
sound again. I thought that was what you were praying for, with myself.
I thought the news would make you wild with joy. What are you thinking
of?’
‘Just what I say! I am thankful for the child’s sake, of course, but
the news comes too late for me. My secret is known, Hannah! I have
betrayed myself. The bloodhounds of justice are on my track.’
‘Good God!’ she said under her breath, ‘how did it happen? To whom did
you speak? What made you do it?’
‘My evil genius, I suppose,’ replied Hindes, grovelling on the sofa. ‘I
could not bear the misery and the suspense any longer. It was burning
into my soul like a red-hot iron, and I thought, if I confessed it, I
might find consolation. So I went into a Roman Catholic confessional
one day last week, and told my story to the priest. And who do you
suppose he turned out to be?’
‘How can I tell? I know no priests.’
‘Frederick Walcheren!’
‘Frederick Walcheren!’ cried his wife; ‘but how came he to be in a
confessional?’
‘He _is_ a priest! He entered the Church, it seems, after--after--you
know what! And I happened to enter his confessional! Was it not the
irony of Fate? The finger of Heaven, or the devil tracking me to my
destruction?’
‘But, Henry, the secrets of the confessional are sacred! I know so
much! It was most unfortunate that you should have committed such an
error as to confess your sin to _him_. But he cannot make any use of
his knowledge. So far, you are safe!’
‘But that is not the worst of it, Hannah! He recognised my voice and,
as I was leaving the accursed place, he showed his face at the open
door. It made me dread the worst. I thought he might find means to let
others learn what he had, or perhaps reveal it altogether. You never
know what these Roman Catholics may do. They have no honour!’
‘Don’t blame others, Henry,’ interposed Hannah, gently, ‘whilst you are
blameworthy yourself. Remember how deeply you have wronged this man.
Yet, Mr Walcheren was always a gentleman and a man of honour, and I do
not believe he would reveal a secret, however terrible, that had come
to his knowledge through such a channel.’
‘I wish I had thought the same. I wish I had consulted you before,’
groaned her husband, ‘but I feared the worst, and it weighed so on
my mind that I determined to visit him privately, and learn what he
intended to do. When I asked him, he said, as you do, that he was
forbidden, under the most heavy penalties, to repeat anything that he
might hear during his office as confessor. If I had only been content
with that. But his manner made me feel secure, and I wanted to make
myself look as little guilty as possible in his eyes, so I told him the
story over again, and then--’
‘Well, what then, Henry? Was there any harm in that?’ inquired Hannah.
‘I have d--d myself by it, that’s all!’ exclaimed Hindes, despairingly.
‘I had hardly finished when he told me that, although secrets told
under the seal of confession were inviolate, we were not in a
confessional at that moment, and it lay within his discretionary powers
to make what use of my revelation he chose.’
‘Oh! Henry, Henry!’ cried Hannah, ‘what have you done? What misery and
disgrace have you not brought upon us all?’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ he answered roughly; ‘think of the children and
yourself before me. And it’s all your fault, from beginning to end. Who
was it urged me to confess my sins and obtain forgiveness for them? Who
was it said that, if I humiliated myself, Heaven might have mercy on
Wally and give us back his health in exchange?’
‘And so He has!’ said Hannah, joyfully. ‘He _has_ accepted the painful
effort you have made, Henry, and rewarded it by giving us this fresh
hope of the boy’s recovery. Oh! my poor husband! have I been harsh to
you? I did not mean it! I was only shocked to think of the danger you
ran! But have no fear, dearest! I feel sure that God, who put it into
your heart to confess, will not let it lead you to public disgrace.
Frederick Walcheren will not betray your secret. I am sure of it! Let
_me_ go to him, Henry, and plead to him for mercy and forbearance in
the name of myself and my little children. I feel certain he will not
refuse me, if it were only for dear Jenny’s sake, and my great love for
her.’
‘No, no!’ said Hindes, hoarsely; ‘you must do no such thing! You don’t
know him. He would spurn you from him. A woman cannot realise a man’s
feelings in such a matter. He loved her--he must feel like a wild
beast deprived of his prey. He would tread on you, or anyone who stood
in his path. He is thirsting for his revenge! He told me so, and when
I craved him for mercy in your name and the children’s, he only asked
what mercy I had shown him. Hannah! it is useless to ignore the fact.
My doom is fixed! If it is not the gallows, it is public and utter
disgrace.’
All the woman rose in Hannah’s breast at these words, and the man
before her was one to be protected and solaced and thought for.
‘It shall be neither, my dearest,’ she answered firmly; ‘only trust to
me. I have pondered over the difficulties that might happen in your
case, Henry, and I think I have found a way out of them. You are tired
and worn out with misery and suspense, my poor love. Let me think
for you. You must go to your room now, and try to rest. I will bring
you some dinner myself, for you mustn’t let the servants see you in
this state. I will sit up to-night, and get your clothes ready, and
pack your portmanteau, and to-morrow, instead of going to the city,
you shall take the train for Liverpool, and the first steamer for the
Argentine Republic. _There_ you will be safe from English laws, and
pursuit will be useless. As soon as you are fairly off, I will wind up
your affairs, and join you with the children. Trust everything to me.
Only look after your own safety.’
Henry Hindes raised his tear-stained face from the sofa cushions, and
stared at his wife.
‘_You!_’ he exclaimed, wonderingly. ‘_You_ will undertake to do all
this? But you have never been used to business in your life, Hannah.
How do you propose to take such a burden on your shoulders, and to
accomplish it?’
‘My love for you will teach me, Henry,’ she said simply. ‘Besides, do
not think I am so presumptuous as to suppose I can do it all by myself.
My uncle, Bailey, is an excellent man of business, remember, and our
solicitor will help me. The business may be sold something under value,
perhaps, but I promise I will consent to nothing rash, and all I shall
strive for is to realise the bulk of your money, and transmit it to
you in the Argentine, that you may make a home for me and the children
there.’
‘But it will be exile for life, Hannah. I shall never be able to show
my face in England again, remember.’
‘I only remember that I would rather spend the rest of my life in
the desert with you, Henry, than live without you anywhere,’ replied
Hannah, with a watery smile.
‘And you can feel thus for _me_--a murderer!’ said Hindes, wonderingly.
But she laid her hand upon his mouth.
‘I will not let you call yourself by that name, Henry,’ she said. ‘I
never think of you as such. I begin to believe, as you have sometimes
told me, that it was the effects of an unfortunate accident.’
‘God bless you! God bless you!’ cried the wretched man, bursting into
tears, as she took him in her arms and laid his weary head upon her
faithful bosom.
They talked over the plan she had suggested a little longer, and then
Hannah persuaded him to take some refreshment and to go upstairs to
his own room and rest. But, left alone again, all his fears returned.
The presence of his wife had a magnetic effect upon him, but, as soon
as she had withdrawn, he became a prey to the phantoms raised by his
uneasy conscience. He could not rest in his bed, but kept starting up,
fancying that he heard voices in the hall, or on the stairs, people
inquiring for him, demanding to see and speak with him, forcing their
way up to his bedroom, whilst Hannah tried in vain to bar their ingress.
She, on the contrary, though feeling a little nervous and uneasy at the
story her husband had brought home, fancied she saw a happier future
before them than she had dared to hope for. It was better for them
all, she thought, that matters had come to a crisis, and they were
compelled to leave the country, where they could never again live in
any comfort.
Once Henry was out of England, she would seek an interview with Mr
Walcheren, and ask his forbearance for the sake of her poor children,
who would have their innocent lives stained by the publicity of their
father’s crime. Once her husband was safe, she was sure she could
arrange everything to her own satisfaction, and, when she joined him,
they would begin a new life, unshadowed by fear or deceit.
She sat down quite cheerfully to her dinner, at which the master so
seldom appeared now that his absence was nothing remarkable, and
succeeded in making the attendants think that there was nothing more
wrong than usual. After dinner, she carried a cup of coffee up to her
husband with her own hands, but found him in an unaccountably nervous
condition, considering how hopeful he had been when she parted with
him.
‘Who is that downstairs?’ he asked, glancing fearfully at the door by
which she had entered, as if he thought someone would steal in after
her. ‘I heard voices. Whom have you been talking to?’
‘No one, dear, except the servants,’ replied his wife. ‘I met Ellen on
the stairs just now coming from Wally’s room, and she says the little
rogue is so free from pain to-night that he has been romping over the
bed.’
‘No, no! Not that!’ replied Hindes, fretfully. ‘There was someone else.
Don’t try to deceive me. A man’s voice. I heard it distinctly.’
‘Why should I deceive you, Henry?’ said Hannah, mildly. ‘I assure you,
you are mistaken. I have been quite alone since you came upstairs.’
‘I don’t believe it! You’re lying to me!’ he answered, glaring at her
with demoniacal eyes.
She was used to his vagaries, and found it best not to argue against
them. So she put the bedclothes over him carefully again, and,
stooping down, kissed him, and bade him go to sleep.
‘I shall come up very early to-night, you know, dear, in order to
arrange your things, and, if you wish it, I will rouse you then, but it
will be much better if you will try and sleep. You said just now, you
know, that you would be good, and let me manage everything for you--and
so I will. Only try and rest, for you will have so much fatigue
to-morrow.’
Her soothing had its usual effect on him, and he lay down and closed
his eyes, and murmured something about not deserving to have so good a
wife, which was eminently true.
Hannah occupied herself a little about the adjoining apartment, until
she thought he had dropped off again, and then went softly downstairs
again. What was her amazement to be met at the foot by one of her
servants, with the intelligence that a gentleman was waiting in the
drawing-room to see her.
‘A gentleman!’ she echoed; ‘what is his name, James?’
‘He did not give his name, ma’am. He asked for the master first, but I
said I thought he had gone up to bed, and then he said he would wait
and see. I think he’s some sort of a priest, if you please, ma’am; at
least, he looks like it.’
_Some sort of a priest!_ Hannah’s heart stood still at the words,
but she resolved to know what he came for. Perhaps it was Frederick
Walcheren himself, and, in that case, she would plead her own cause
to him. Without a moment’s delay, she passed down the corridor, and
entered the drawing-room. It _was_ Walcheren who stood before her!
Altered as he was by his dress, and the terrible experience he had
passed through, she recognised him at once. But he seemed rather taken
aback at her appearance. He had evidently not expected to see her,
and he neither came forward to meet her nor offered his hand. As for
Hannah, she stood trembling before him, as if he had been a judge.
‘Mrs Hindes, I believe,’ began Frederick, courteously, ‘but I am sorry
they troubled you, madam. It was your husband I came to see. I have a
little business with him.’
‘Yes, yes, I know. He has told me,’ replied poor Hannah. ‘We have no
secrets from each other, Mr Walcheren, and Henry has related to me the
whole account of his seeing you in the confessional and visiting you at
your private residence afterwards.’
‘He has told you his motives and what has passed between us?’ said the
young man, in astonishment.
‘Everything, sir, and I have known it from the beginning. Oh, Mr
Walcheren,’ she went on rapidly, ‘I was going to see you about it. I
wanted to plead to you for mercy for my poor children and myself. I
have no excuses to make for my unhappy husband. How could I have, when
Jenny’--here Hannah’s tears commenced to flow and her utterance became
choked with her sobs--‘when she was my very, very dearest friend? No
one mourned her loss more than I did, and to think--to think-- But my
wretched husband has lived in hell since that miserable day. He has
never known one happy moment. If any man ever repented a sin, he has
done his. Can you not find it in your heart, Mr Walcheren, to show him
a little mercy? It would be very noble of you if you would. Henry shall
never annoy you by his presence again. We are intending to leave the
country, never to return. Only, if you could find it in your heart to
spare him--to forgive as you hope to be forgiven--for the sake of his
little children, sir--’
She attempted to fall at his feet, but he raised her.
‘Mrs Hindes, you greatly distress me,’ he said. ‘I did not expect, nor
wish to see you when I came here to-night. I had but one object in
doing so--’
‘Yes, yes,’ she interposed, ‘I know it. To tell him to prepare for the
worst--to say you must, in justice to yourself and _her_ dear memory,
let the law take its course--and if you had only waited a few days, I
should have got him out of your reach.’
‘But, indeed, you are mistaken,’ replied Walcheren, ‘that was not my
intention. Of course, I don’t pretend to deny the awful feelings for
revenge which his story evoked in my breast against him. I loved--I
loved _her_ very dearly, Mrs Hindes--’
‘Oh, my darling, my darling,’ broke out Hannah.
‘And you loved her too,’ he proceeded, tenderly, ‘and must understand
what I felt on first hearing the awful story of her death. But that was
my first impression. I have reflected since--a friend of mine has been
probing my heart and motives for me, and setting things generally in a
clearer light, and the conclusion I have arrived at is, that I shall do
nothing more in the matter. I will bury my resentment in my lost wife’s
grave, and, though you must feel that I could never see, nor speak to
your husband again, yet he is safe from me. His secret is also safe, as
far as I am concerned. My lips shall never disclose it. I came here
to-night to tell him so.’
‘How--how can we ever thank you,’ whispered Hannah, through her tears.
‘Your thanks are not due to me, but to my friend. If she had not led my
thoughts the right way, they would not have gone there by themselves.
Set your mind at rest, therefore, Mrs Hindes. The matter is done with.
Will you tell your husband so from me?’
‘Oh! gladly, thankfully, Mr Walcheren. You have saved him. You have
saved us all. May God bless you and your friend for it!’
‘Thank you,’ he returned quietly, as he bowed and walked out into the
hall.
Hannah followed him there.
‘Do you go back by the station?’ she inquired. ‘May I send you home in
the carriage?’
‘No thank you!’ he answered, shuddering at the idea of using anything
that belonged to Henry Hindes. ‘I am a poor man now, and not used to
such luxuries. The station will suit me best.’
And then, without any greeting less formal than an inclination of his
head, Frederick Walcheren passed out of the hall door and went on his
way. Hannah guessed the reason. Dearly as she had loved the dead girl,
he could not persuade himself to shake hands with the wife of her
murderer. Perhaps it was best so. Frederick Walcheren would now pass
out of their lives for ever.
Henry Hindes, with his ears quickened by fear, had heard the opening
and shutting of the front door, and the slight conversation passing in
the hall. He had sprung out of his bed to listen, and crouched behind
his bedroom door. He had recognised Frederick Walcheren’s voice, and
caught the word ‘station’ twice repeated. Why had he come? What was
he there for? And what ‘station’ could he be speaking off? There was
but one solution of the mystery in the morbid ideas of Henry Hindes.
The conscience that makes cowards of us all, had transformed him
into a trembling poltroon, incapable of judging or arguing. Frederick
Walcheren was in The Old Hall, and there could be but one reason for
his coming there--to publicly denounce him as a murderer--to have him
arrested and dragged to prison--to pursue him until he landed him on
the scaffold, and saw the rope pulled that should hang him by the neck
till he was dead. But he shouldn’t--he shouldn’t--he had means by
which he could escape it yet. Why didn’t Hannah come up to tell him
what was going on? Could she be in league with his tormentors, after
all the protestations she had made to him an hour ago? Perhaps--it was
not unlikely--women were such arch deceivers, they would smile in your
face one moment, and draw a knife across your throat the next. Well!
he would escape her too!--no one should triumph over his public fall.
As he thought thus, Henry Hindes crept round to his chest of drawers
and groped in the dark for the lock, which he opened with the keys he
kept beneath his pillow. He found a bottle there--a bottle the shape
of which he knew full well, for had it not been his daily and nightly
companion for many months past? He knew it, and it knew him, he said
to himself, with a sardonic smile, that was half a sneer, and they
had never known each other better, nor valued each other more, than
they would do that night. But as he was about to re-enter his bed, he
remembered his little Wally lying in the next room, and thought he
would like to take a look at him first. So he crept into the adjoining
chamber, where the boy lay fast asleep, with one arm, thinned by
sickness, thrown above his head. Hindes put his lips reverently on the
little arm and then softly lay down beside his child.
Meanwhile, Hannah was feeling almost too thankful for words. How happy
she would make poor Henry when he next woke. No need for packing up in
a hurry now, and slinking out of England like a condemned criminal.
He might stay on in safety till he had wound up his own affairs, and
could start for the new land surrounded by his family.
‘What a relief! what a relief!’ she thought, as she went upstairs. ‘I
shall love and pray for the name of Walcheren to the last day of my
life!’
She peeped into Wally’s chamber first! There lay her child flushed with
sleep, and beside him, with one arm thrown round the boy’s body, was
her husband, white and weary looking, but apparently sound asleep as
well.
‘Poor fellow!’ mused Hannah, as she stood and gazed at him. ‘He is
utterly worn-out. I wonder what made him fancy getting into bed with
the child. Perhaps it was to make sure that I should not come up
without waking him. Henry dear,’ she said aloud, as she touched the
sleeper gently. ‘Henry! I have such good news, such lovely news for
you. Our worst troubles are over, darling! Wake up and hear what I have
to tell you!’
She stooped and kissed his cold cheek as she spoke, and the truth was
instantly revealed to her. Her husband slept so deeply that he would
never wake in this world again.
At the very moment when his doubts and fears were to be set at rest, he
had taken the law into his own hands and gone from this sphere to work
out his life’s punishment in another.