MAGNA EST VERITAS.
Fifteen or sixteen months are come and gone, and the faces of people and
things are but little changed. Yes, one of our dramatic personages is a
good deal altered for the worse--Alan Wyverne. He became sadder and
wiser in this wise.
I forgot to tell you that the delicate state of Mrs. Rawdon Lenox's
health, and of her affairs, had made a lengthened Continental tour very
desirable. She remained abroad nearly two years, and did not return to
England till the summer immediately following the Clydesdale marriage.
It was late in the autumn when she and Alan met. If the latter had been
forewarned of the _rencontre_, it is probable he would have avoided it
by declining the invitation to Guestholme Priory; but when he found
himself actually under the same roof with the "Dark Ladye" (so some
friend or enemy had re-christened her), he felt a certain satisfaction
in the idea of clearing up a mystery that had never ceased to perplex
and torment him. Their first greeting was rather cold and constrained on
both sides; but things could not remain on this footing long. Nina had
no fancy for an armed neutrality with an ancient ally, and always
brought the question of war or peace to an issue with the least possible
delay.
When Alan came into the drawing-room after dinner, Mrs. Lenox's look was
a sufficient summons, even without the significant movement of the fan,
which she managed like a Madrilena. He sat down by her side, his pulse
quickening a little with expectation; but curiosity was the sole
excitement. For awhile they talked about their travels and other
indifferent subjects. The lady got tired of that child's-play first, and
broke ground boldly.
"I suppose the interdict is taken off now?" she said. "Will you believe,
that I am really sorry that there is no longer a cause for your avoiding
me? Will you believe, that no one regretted it, and felt for you more
than I did, when I heard your engagement was broken off? Do tell me,
that neither I nor my unfortunate affairs had anything to do with it. I
have been worrying myself ever since with the fancy that your great
kindness to me may have cost you very dear."
Wyverne was gifted with coolness and self-control quite exceptional, but
both as nearly as possible broke down at that moment. He certainly
deserved infinite credit for answering, after a minute's silence, so
calmly,
"Then it would be a satisfaction to you to know this? Have you any
doubts on the subject?"
"Well, I suppose I ought not to have any," Nina said, frankly. "The
engagement lasted for months after those wretched anonymous things were
written, and I am sure I did all I could to set matters straight. My
letter was everything that is meek and quiet and proper, was it not? And
it was honest truth, too, every word of it."
"Your letter? Yes, of course--the letter you wrote in answer to mine;
but the other--the other?"
He spoke absently and almost at random, like a man half awake.
"What on earth are you talking about?" Mrs. Lenox said, with manifest
impatience. "What other letter? Did you suppose me capable of writing
one other line beside that necessary reply? What have you suspected? I
_will_ know. Alan, I believed you more generous. Yon have a right to
think lightly of me, and to say hard things, but not--not to insult me
so cruelly."
There were tears in the low, tremulous voice, but none in the deep dark
eyes that had dilated at first wonderingly, and were now so sad in their
passionate reproach that Wyverne did not dare to meet them. He knew that
Nina was capable of much that was wild and wicked, but that very
recklessness made dissimulation with her simply impossible. If she had
been pure and cold as St. Agnes, Alan would not have felt more certain
of the truth and sincerity of her meaning and words. The fraud, that he
had vaguely suspected at the time, stood out black and distinct enough
now. He hated himself so intensely that for the moment all other
feelings were swallowed up in self-contempt--even to the craving for
vengeance on the conspirators who had juggled him, which ever afterwards
haunted him like an evil spirit. Wyverne had always cherished, you know,
a simple, generous faith in the dignity of womanhood; if his chivalry
had carried him one step further--if, in despite of the evidence of his
senses, he had refused to believe in womanhood's utter debasement--it
would have been perhaps the very folly of romance; but he might have
defied the forger. He took the wisest course now, by telling Nina the
whole truth, as briefly and considerately as possible.
"You see, I did you fearful wrong," he said. "Though I have paid for it
heavily already, and shall suffer to my life's end, that is no reason
why you should forgive me. I don't even ask you to do so."
Mrs. Lenox was, indeed, bitterly incensed. A perfectly immaculate matron
might have laughed such a conspiracy against her fair fame to scorn:
Nina could not afford to be maligned unjustly. Nevertheless all her
indignation was levelled at the unknown framer of the fraud; not a whit
rested on Alan. She had been used to see people commit themselves in
every conceivable way, and make the wildest sacrifices, for her sake;
but she had learned to appreciate these follies at their proper worth.
Strong selfish desire and the hope of an evil reward was at the bottom
of them all. Truly, when a man ruins himself simply to gratify his
ruling passion, the lover deserves little more credit than the gambler.
But the present case was widely different. She had not a shadow of a
claim on Alan's service or forbearance.
Though he seemed to see no merit in a single act of duty, she knew right
well what it had cost him to destroy the supposed evidence of her shame;
and now, instead of expecting thanks, he was reproaching himself for
having misjudged her while believing his own eyes. As she thought on
these things, Nina's hard battered heart grew fresh and young again. Not
a single unholy element mingled in the tenderness of her gratitude; but,
if time and place had not forbidden, she would scarcely have confined
her demonstrations to a covert pressure of Wyverne's hand.
"Forgive you?" she said, piteously. "It drives me wild to hear you speak
so. I would give up every friend I have in the world to keep _you_. The
best of them would not have done half as much for me. And we can never
be friends--really. My unhappy name has dragged you down like a
millstone; don't attempt to deceive yourself; you must hate the sound of
it now and always. Ah, do try to believe me. I would submit to any pain,
or penance, or shame, and not think it hard measure, if I could only
give you back what you have lost through me."
In despite of his exasperation, the sweet voice fell soothingly on
Alan's ear. A man need not greatly glorify himself for having simply
acted up to his notions of right and honour; nevertheless, appreciation
in the proper quarter must be gratifying to all except the _very_
superior natures. Many are left among us still who "do good by stealth,"
but the habit of "blushing to find it known" is antiquated to a degree.
So, as he listened, Wyverne's mood softened; and he began quite
naturally to play the part of consoler, trying to prove to Nina that she
had been an innocent instrument throughout, and that if the
conspirators had been foiled in this instance, they would surely have
found some other engine to work out the same result.
"But it was such base, cruel treachery," she said, trembling with
passion. "Will you not try to trace it, for my sake if not for your own?
You must have some suspicions. If I were a man, and could act and move
freely, I should never sleep soundly till I was revenged."
Wyverne answered very slowly, and, as he spoke, his face hardened and
darkened till it might have been carved in granite.
"You may spare the spur; there is no fear of my sleeping over it. I'm
not made of wax or snow, to be moulded like this into a puppet for their
profit or pleasure, and I owe you a vengeance besides. Yes, I have
suspicions; I'll make them certainties, if I live. Your never having got
my note, telling you of my burning the first of the two letters, gives
me a clue. They may double as they like, they won't escape, if I once
fairly strike the trail. Now, we will never speak of this again till--I
give you _the name_."
The change of Alan's character dated from that night; most of his
friends noticed it before long. He was never morose or sullen, but
always moody, and absent, and pre-occupied; without exactly avoiding
society, he found himself alone, unwontedly often, and solitude did him
far more harm than good. To speak the truth, his credit as a pleasant
companion began sensibly to decline. A Fixed Idea, even if it be as rosy
as Hope, interferes sadly with a man's social merits; if it chance to be
sombre or menacing in hue, the influence is simply fatal to
conviviality.
But autumn and winter passed, and it was spring again, before Wyverne
could set his foot on more solid ground than vague surmises. He felt
certain that Lady Mildred had countenanced, if not directed, the
plot--the note having miscarried from Dene was strong evidence--but he
was equally sure that her delicate hands were clear of the soil of
actual fraud. Who had been the working instrument? For a moment his
thoughts turned to Max Vavasour, but he soon rejected this idea,
remembering that the latter was not in England that Christmas-tide;
besides which, he could not fancy his cousin superintending the
practical details of a vulgar forgery; he would far sooner have
suspected Clydesdale, but there was not the faintest reason, so far, to
connect the Earl with foul play. So he went groping on, for months, in
the twilight, without advancing a step, growing more gloomy and
discontented every day. It was a curious chance that put him on the
right scent at last.
An Inn of Court is not exactly the spot one would select for setting a
"trap to catch a sunbeam;" a wholesome amount of light and air is about
as much as one can expect to find in such places; heavy, grave decorum
pervades them, very fittingly; but it may be doubted if any quarter of a
populous city, respectable in its outward seeming, has a right to be so
depressingly dull and dingy, as is the Inn of Gray; the spiders of all
sorts, who lurk thereabouts, had best not keep the flies long in their
webs, or the victims would scarce be worth devouring.
Some such thoughts as these were in Wyverne's mind as he wandered
through the grim quadrangle, one cold evening towards the end of March,
looking for "Humphrey and Gliddon's" chambers. The firm had an evil
name; men said, that if it was difficult to find out their den, it was
twice as hard to escape from it without loss of plumage. Alan's temper
had certainly changed for the worse, but his good-nature stood by him
still; so, when a comrade wrote from the country, to beg him to act as
proxy in a delicate money transaction with the aforesaid attorneys, he
assented very willingly, and was rather glad to have something to employ
his afternoon. He had just come up from his hunting quarters, where the
dry, dusty ground rode like asphalte, and scent was a recollection of
the far past.
After some trouble he lighted on the right staircase. Raw and murky as
the outer atmosphere might be, it was pure aether compared to that of the
low-browed office into which the visitor first entered; at any hour or
season of the year, you could fancy that room maintaining a good,
steady, condensed dusk of its own, in which fog, and smoke, and dust,
had about equal shares. Two clerks sat there, writing busily. The one
nearest the door--a thick-set, sullen man, past middle age--looked up as
Alan came in, and stretching out a grimy hand, said, in a dull,
mechanical voice,
"Your card, sir, if you please--Sir Alan Wyverne wishes to see Mr.
Humphrey."
It was evidently the formula of reception in that ominous ante-chamber.
The other clerk had not lifted his head when the door opened; but he
started violently when he heard the name, so as nearly to upset the
inkstand in which he chanced to be dipping his pen, and turned round
with a sort of terror on his haggard, ruined face. It might have been a
very handsome face once, but the wrinkled, flaccid flesh had fallen away
round the hollow temples and from under the heavy eyes; the complexion
was unhealthy, pale, and sodden; the features pinched and drawn, to
deformity; the lines on the forehead were like trenches, and the
abundant dark hair was, not sprinkled, but streaked and patched,
irregularly, with grey.
But, at the first glance, Wyverne recognised the face of a very old
friend; he recognised it the more easily because, when he saw it last,
it wore almost the same wild, scared look--on the memorable Derby day
when "Cloanthus" swept past the stand, scarcely extended, the two
leading favourites struggling vainly to reach his quarters.
All his self-command was needed to enable him to suppress the
exclamation that sprang to his lips; but he rarely made a mistake when
it was a question of tact or delicacy. He followed his conductor into
the next room, silently; it chanced to be vacant at that moment; then
Alan laid his hand on the clerk's shoulder, as he stood with averted
eyes, shaking like an aspen, and said, in tones carefully lowered--
"My God! Hugh Crichton--you here?"
"Hush," the other answered, in a lower whisper still; "that's not my
name now. You wouldn't spoil my last chance, if you could help it? If
you want to see me, wait five minutes after you leave this place, and
I'll come to you in the square."
"I'll wait, if it's an hour," Wyverne said, and so passed into the inner
room without another word. His business was soon done; even Humphrey and
Gliddon could find no pretext for detaining clients who came with money
in their hand. Alan did not exchange a glance with either of the
occupants of the clerks'-room as he went out; he breathed more freely
when he was in chill March air again. As he walked up and down the
opposite side of the square, which was nearly deserted, his thoughts
were very pitiful and sad.
Hardly a year passes without the appearance of one or more comets in
society; none of these have sparkled more briefly and brilliantly than
Hugh Crichton. Everybody liked, and many admired him, but the world had
hardly begun to appreciate his rare and versatile talents, when he shot
down into the outer darkness. He had friends who would have helped him
if they could, but all trace of him was lost, and none could say for
certain whether he lived or no.
Wyverne had not waited many minutes, when a bent, shrunken figure came
creeping slowly, almost stealthily, towards him, keeping well in the
shadow of the buildings. In another moment, Alan was grasping both his
ancient comrade's hands, with a cordial, honest gripe, that might have
put heart and hope into the veriest castaway.
"Dear old Hugh! how glad I am to light on you again, though you are so
fearfully changed. Why, they said you had died abroad."
"No such luck," the other answered, with a dreary laugh. "I did go
abroad, and stayed there till I was nearly starved; then I came back.
London's the best hiding place, after all; and if you have hands and
brain, you can always earn enough to buy bread, and spirits, and
tobacco. I've been in this place more than a year; I get a pound a week,
and I think of 'striking' soon for an advance of five shillings. They
won't lose me if they can help it; I save them a clerk, at least; old
Gliddon never asked me another question after he saw me write a dozen
lines. My work is all indoors, that's one comfort; they haven't asked me
to serve a writ yet; my senior--you saw him--the man with a strong cross
of the bull about the head--does all that business, and likes it. But
the firm don't trust me much, and they would be more unpleasant still,
if they knew 'Henry Carstairs' was a false name. No one has much
interest now in hunting me down; it's old friends' faces I've always
been afraid of meeting. But I did think that none of our lot would ever
have set foot in that den, and I had got to fancy myself safe. You
didn't come on your own affairs, Alan, I know. I had an extra grog the
night I heard you had fallen in for Castle Dacre. I rather think I am
glad to see you, after all."
He jerked out the sentences in a nervous, abrupt way, perpetually
glancing round, as if he were afraid of being watched; he was so
manifestly ill-at-ease that Wyverne had not the heart to keep him there;
besides it was cruelty to expose the emaciated frame, so thinly clad, a
minute longer than was necessary, to the keen evening air.
"Why, Hugh, of course you're glad to see me," Alan said, forcing himself
to speak cheerily; "the idea of doubting about it! But it's too cold to
stand chattering here. I'm staying at the Clarendon: you'll come at
seven, sharp, won't you? We'll dine in my rooms, quite alone, and have a
long talk about old days, and new ones, too. I'll have thought of
something better for you by that time, than this infernal
quill-driving."
Hugh Crichton hesitated visibly for a few seconds, and appeared to make
up his mind, with a sudden effort, to something not altogether
agreeable.
"Thank you: you're very good, Alan. Yes, I'll come, the more because
I've something on my mind that I ought to tell you; but I should never
have had the pluck to look you up, if you had not found me. I hope your
character at the Clarendon can stand a shock; it will be compromised
when they hear such a scare-crow ask for your rooms. I can't stay a
moment longer, but I'll be punctual."
He crept away with the same weak, stealthy step, and his head seemed
bent down lower than when he came.
Nevertheless, when, at the appointed hour, the guest sat down opposite
his host, the contrast was not so very striking. The office-drudge was
scarcely recognisable; he seemed to freshen and brighten up wonderfully,
in an atmosphere that had once been congenial. Even so, those bundles of
dried twigs that Eastern travellers bring home, and enthusiasts call
"Roses of Sharon" (such Roses!), expand under the influence of warmth
and moisture, so as to put forth the feeble semblance of a flower. The
black suit was terribly threadbare, and hung loosely round the shrunken
limbs, but it adapted itself to the wearer's form, with the easy,
careless grace for which Hugh Crichton's dress had always been
remarkable; his neck-tie was still artistic in its simplicity, and the
hair swept over his brow with the old classic wave; his demeanour bore
no trace of a sojourn in Alsatia, and a subtle refinement of manner and
gesture clung naturally to the wreck of a gallant gentleman. Some plants
you know--not the meanest nor the least fragrant--flourish more kindly
in the crevices of a ruin than in the richest loam.
It was a pleasant dinner, on the whole, though not a very lively one;
for Alan had too much tact to force conviviality. Crichton ate
sparingly, but drank deep; he did not gulp down his liquor, though,
greedily, but rather savoured it with a slow enjoyment, suffering his
palate to appreciate every shade of the flavour; the long, satisfied
sigh that he could not repress as he set down empty the first beaker of
dry champagne, spoke volumes.
They drew up to the fire when the table was cleared, and they were left
alone. Wyverne rose suddenly, and leant over towards his companion with
a velvet cigar-case in his hand, that he had just taken from the
mantelpiece.
"You must tell me your story for the last few years," he said; "but put
that case in your pocket before you begin. There are some regalias in
it, of the calibre you used to fancy, and--a couple of hundreds, in
notes, to go on with. You dear, silly old Hugh! Don't shake your head
and look scrupulous. Why, I won thrice as much of you at _ecarte_ in the
week before that miserable Derby, and you never asked for your revenge.
You should have it now if either you or I were in cue for play.
Seriously--I want you to feel at ease before you begin to talk; I want
you to feel that your troubles are over, and that you never need go near
that awful _guet-a-pens_ again. I've got a permanent arrangement in my
head, that will suit you, I hope, and set you right for ever and a day.
Hugh, you know if our positions were reversed, I should ask you for help
just as frankly as I expect you will take it from me."
Crichton shivered all over, worse than he had done out in the cold March
evening.
"Put the case down," he said hoarsely. "It will be time enough to talk
about that and your good intentions half-an-hour hence. I'll tell you
what I have been doing, if you care to hear."
Now, though the story interested Wyverne sincerely, it would be simple
cruelty to inflict it on you; with very slight variations, it might have
applied to half the _viveurs_ that have been ruined during the last
hundred years. Still, not many men could have listened unmoved to such a
tale, issuing from the mouth of an ancient friend. When he had come to a
certain point in his story, the speaker paused abruptly.
"Poor Hugh!" Alan said. "How you must have suffered. Take breath now;
I'm certain your throat wants moistening, and the claret has been
waiting on you this quarter of an hour. It's my turn to speak; I'm
impatient to tell you my plan. The agent at Castle Dacre is so
wonderfully old and rheumatic, that it makes one believe in miracles
when he climbs on the back of his pony. I would give anything to have a
decent excuse for pensioning him off. I shall never live there much, and
the property is so large, that it ought to be properly looked after. If
you don't mind taking care of a very dreary old house, there's L800 a
year, and unlimited lights and coals, (they used to burn about ten tons
a week, I believe,) and all the snipe and fowl you like to shoot,
waiting for you. I shall be the obliged party if you'll take it; for it
will ease my conscience, which at present is greatly troubled. The work
is not so hard, and you've head enough for anything."
Not pleasure or gratitude, but rather vexation and confusion showed
themselves in Crichton's face.
"Can't you have patience!" he muttered, irritably. "Didn't I ask you to
wait till you had heard all? There's more, and worse, to tell; though I
don't know, yet, how much harm was done."
He went on to say, that about the time when things were at the worst
with him, he had stumbled upon Harding Knowles; they had been
contemporaries at Oxford, and rather intimate. Harding did not appear to
rejoice much at the encounter; though he must have guessed at the first
glance the strait to which his old acquaintance was reduced, he made no
offer of prompt assistance, but asked for Crichton's address, expressing
vague hopes of being able to do something for him; Hugh gave it with
great reluctance, and only under a solemn promise of secrecy. He did not
the least expect that Knowles would remember him, and was greatly
surprised when the latter called some five or six weeks afterwards.
Harding's tone was much more cordial than it had been at their first
meeting; he seemed really sorry at having failed, so far, in finding
anything that would suit Crichton, and actually pressed him to borrow
L10--or more if it was required--to meet present emergencies. An
instinctive suspicion almost made Hugh refuse the loan; he felt as if he
would rather be indebted to any man alive than to the person who offered
it; but he was so fearfully "hard up" that he had not the courage to
decline. Knowles came again and again, with no ostensible object except
cheering his friend's solitude, and each time was ready to open his
purse. "We must get you something before long, and then you can repay
me," he would say. Crichton availed himself of these offers more than
once, moderately; he began to think that he had done his benefactor
great injustice, and looked for his visits eagerly; indeed, few
_causeurs_, when he chose to exert himself, could talk more pleasantly
than Knowles.
One evening the conversation turned, apparently by chance, to old
memories of college days.
"That was the best managed thing we ever brought off," Harding said at
last, "when we made Alick Drummond carry on a regular correspondence
with a foreign lady of the highest rank, who was madly in love with him.
How did we christen the Countess? I forget. But I remember the letters
you wrote for her; the delicate feminine character was the most perfect
thing I ever saw. Have you lost that talent of imitating handwriting? It
must have been a natural gift; I never saw it equalled."
"Write down a sentence or two," Hugh replied; "I'll show you if I have
lost the knack."
He copied them out on two similar sheets of paper, and gave the three to
Knowles after confusing them under the table: the latter actually
started, and the admiration that he displayed was quite sincere: the
_fac similes_, indeed, were so miraculously like the original, that it
was next to impossible to distinguish them.
"I can guess what is coming," Alan whispered softly, seeing the speaker
pause. "Go on straight and quick to the end, for God's love, and keep
nothing back. Don't look at me."
The white working lips had no need to say more: the other saw the whole
truth directly. He clenched his hand with a savage curse, but Alan's sad
deprecating eyes checked the passionate outbreak of remorse and anger.
Sullenly and reluctantly--like a spirit forced to reveal the secrets of
his prison-house--Hugh Crichton went through all the miserable details.
Knowles had represented himself as being on such very intimate terms
with Wyverne, as fully to justify him in attempting a practical joke.
"Alan's the best fellow in the world," he said, airily, "but he believes
that it is impossible to take him in about womankind. There's the finest
possible chance just now, and it can be managed so easily, if you will
only help me."
Hugh's natural delicacy and sense of honour, dulled and weakened by
drink and degradation, had life enough left to revolt suspiciously. But
the other brought to bear pretexts and arguments, specious enough to
have deluded a stronger intellect and quieted a keener conscience: he
particularly insisted on the point that the lady's character could bear
being compromised, and that the secret would never go beyond Alan and
himself. Hugh had to contend, besides, against a sense of heavy
obligation, and the selfish fear of offending the only friend that was
left to back him. Of course, eventually he consented. The next morning
Harding brought a specimen of the handwriting--a long and perfectly
insignificant note, with the signature torn off--(he was a great
collector of autographs): he was also provided with paper and envelopes,
both marked with a cypher, which he took pains to conceal. Crichton
could not be sure of the initials, but he caught a glimpse of their
colour--a brilliant scarlet. The tone of the fictitious letter, though
the expressions were guardedly vague, seemed strangely earnest for a
mere mystification; certainly an intimate acquaintance was implied
between the writer and the person to whom it was addressed. The copyist
was more than half dissatisfied; he grumbled a good many objections
while employed on his task, and was very glad when it was over. The
signature was simply "N.," an initial which occurred more than once in
the specimen note, so that it was easy to reproduce a very peculiar wavy
flourish. The imitation was a masterpiece, and Knowles was profuse of
thanks and praises.
He did not allude to the matter more than once during the next few
weeks, and then only to remark, in a careless, casual way, that the plot
was going on swimmingly. This struck Crichton as rather odd; neither the
pleasure of Knowles's society nor the comparative luxuries which liberal
advances supplied, could keep him from feeling very uncomfortable at
times. One morning, late in December, a note came, begging him to dine
with Harding that night in the Temple; the writer "was going into the
country almost immediately."
It was a very succulent repast, and poor Hugh, as was his wont, drank
largely; nevertheless, when, late in the evening, Knowles asked him to
repeat his calligraphic feat, and showed the draft of a letter, it
became evident, even to his clouded brain, that something more than
"merry mischief" was intended; at first he refused flatly and rudely.
Indeed, any rational being, unless very far gone in drink or
self-delusion, must have suspected foul play. Not only was the tone of
the letter passionate to a degree, but it contained allusions of real
grave import; and one name was actually mentioned--Helen Vavasour's.
Knowles was playing his grand _coup_, and necessarily had to risk
something. He was not at all disconcerted at the resistance he
encountered; he had a plausible explanation ready to meet every
objection. "He was going down to Dene the next day, on purpose to enjoy
the _denouement_; it would be such a pity to spoil it now. Miss Vavasour
was a cousin who had known Alan from her infancy; she would appreciate
the trick as well as any one; but, of course, she was never to know of
it. This was the very last time he would ask his friend's help." So the
tempter went on, alternately ridiculing and cajoling Hugh's scruples,
all the while drenching him with strong liquor: at length he prevailed.
Crichton was one of those men whose hand and eye, often to their own
detriment, will keep steady when their brain is whirling. He executed
his task with a mechanical perfection, though he was scarcely aware of
the meaning of each sentence as he wrote it down. Knowles took
possession of the letter as soon as it was done, and locked it up
carefully.
The revel became an orgie: the last thing that Hugh remembered
distinctly was--marking a devilish satisfaction on his companion's
crafty face, that made his own blood boil. After that everything was
chaos. He had a vague recollection of having tried to get back the
letter--of high words and a serious quarrel--even of a blow exchanged;
but the impressions were like those left by a painful nightmare. He woke
from a long heavy stupor, such as undrugged liquor could scarcely
produce, and found himself on a door-step in his own street, without a
notion of how he had got there, subject to the attentions of a
benevolent policeman, who would not allow him to enjoy, undisturbed, "a
lodging upon the cold ground." The next day came a curt contemptuous
note from Harding Knowles, to say "that he was glad to have been of some
assistance to an old friend, and that he should never expect repayment
of his advances; but that nothing would induce him to risk a repetition
of the painful scene of last night." They had never met since. Crichton
was constantly haunted with the idea of having been an accessory to some
base villany; and would have communicated his suspicions, long ago, to
Wyverne, if it had not been for the false pride which made him keep
aloof from all ancient acquaintance, as if he had been plague-stricken.
Alan sat perfectly quiet and silent, till the other had finished, only
betraying emotion by a convulsive twisting of the fingers that shaded
his eyes. All at once he broke out into a harsh bitter laugh.
"You thought it was a practical joke? So it was--a very practical one,
and right well played out. Do you know what it cost me? The hope and
happiness of my life--that's all. Why, if I were to drain that lying
hound's blood, drop by drop, he would be in my debt still!"
Then his head sank on his crossed arms, and he began to murmur to
himself--so piteously--
"Ah, my Helen! my lost Helen!"
The beaten-down, degraded look possessed the castaway's face stronger
than ever.
"Didn't I ask you to wait till I had told you all?" he muttered. "I knew
how it would be; that was why I hesitated to accept your invitation
to-day. Let me go now; I cannot comfort you or help you either. You
meant kindly though, old friend, and I thank you all the same.
Good-bye."
Alan lifted his head quickly. His eyes were not angry--only
inexpressibly sad.
"Sit down, Hugh," he said, "and don't be hasty. You might give one a
moment's breathing-time after a blow like that. I haven't spirits enough
for argument, much less for quarrelling. I know well if you had been in
your sober senses, and had thought it would really harm me, no earthly
bribe would have tempted you to pen one line. You can help me very much;
and I will trust you so far from the bottom of my heart; as for
comfort--I must trust to God. I hold to every word of my offers. I am so
very glad I made them before I heard all this; for I can ask you to
serve me now without your suspecting a bribe."
Length of misery tames stoicism as it crushes better feelings: a spirit
nearly broken yields easily to weakness that would shame hearts
inexperienced in sorrow. The pride of manhood could not check the big
drops that wetted Crichton's hollow cheeks before Wyverne had finished
speaking.
They talked long and seriously that night. Alan did not trust by halves;
he forced himself to go into every detail that it was necessary the
other should know, though some words and names seemed to burn his lips
in passing. Before they parted their plan was fully arranged. Hugh was
to resign his clerkship at once, so as to devote himself exclusively to
completing the chain of proofs that would criminate at least the main
movers in the plot. Alan clung persistently to the idea that Clydesdale
had a good deal to do with it.
It is needless to say that the amateur detective worked with all his
heart, and soul, and strength. His temperance was worthy of an
anchorite; and, when he kept his senses about him, Crichton could be as
patient and keen-scented as the most practised of legal bloodhounds.
Before a week was over, he had collected evidence, conclusive and
consecutive enough, to have convinced any Court of Honour, though
perhaps it would not have secured a verdict from those free and
enlightened Britons who will make a point of acquitting any murderer
that does not chance to be caught "red-handed." Truly ours is a noble
Constitution, and Trial by Jury is one of its fairest pillars; but I
have heard a paragon Judge speak blasphemy thereanent. If the Twelve
were allowed the French latitude of finding "extenuating circumstances,"
I believe the coolest on the Bench would go distraught, in helpless
wrath and contempt.
Wyverne knew the shop that Mrs. Lenox patronized for _papeterie_. They
ascertained there that a man answering exactly to the description of
Knowles had called, one day in that autumn, and had asked for a packet
of envelopes and note-paper, stating that he was commissioned to take
them down in the country, and producing one of the lady's cards as a
credential. The stationer particularly remembered it from the fact of
the purchase having been paid for on the spot. Trifling as the amount
was--only a few shillings--it was a curious infraction of Nina's
commercial system, which was, as a rule, consistently Pennsylvanian.
Crichton had certainly contracted no new friendships during his office
servitude, but he had made a few acquaintances at some of the haunts
frequented nightly by revellers of the clerkly guild. He worked one of
these engines of information very effectually. Harding had more than
once given him a cheque to a small amount, which he had got cashed
through one of the subordinates of the bank, whom he had chanced to
fraternize with at the "Cat and Compasses," or some such reputable
hostel. At the expense of much persuasion, and a timely advance to the
official, whose convivial habits were getting him into difficulties,
Hugh was in a position to prove that Knowles had paid into his account,
early in the January following that eventful Christmas, a cheque for
L5000, signed by Lord Clydesdale. The money remained standing to his
credit for some time, but had since been drawn out for investment. The
dates of the composition of the fictitious letters corresponded exactly
with the times at which Alan had received them.
Altogether, the case seemed tolerably clear, and a net of proof was
drawn round Harding Knowles that it would puzzle even his craft to
escape from.
I do not enter into the question whether the influences of high
Civilization are sanctifying, or the reverse; but on some grounds, it
surely ought to improve our Christianity, if it were only for the
obstacles standing in the path of certain pagan propensities. One would
think that even an infidel might see the folly of letting the sun go
down on futile wrath. In truth, nowadays, the prosecution of a purely
personal and private vengeance is not alone immoral in itself, but
exceedingly difficult to carry out. You cannot go forth and smite your
enemy under the fifth rib, wheresoever you may meet, after the simple
antique fashion. You must lure him across the Channel before you can
even proceed after the formula of the polite _duello_--supposing always
that the adversary had not infringed the criminal code.
Alan Wyverne's nature was not sublime enough to admit a thought of
forgiveness, now. Since he held the instruments of retaliation in his
hand, he had never faltered for one moment in his vindictive purpose;
but--how best to complete it--was a problem over which he brooded
gloomily for hours, without touching the solution.