LAST WORDS.
The next day, Tuesday, I was very busy, hurrying forward to get down
to Clapham in time for dinner in the evening. Lennard's report in the
morning had been that Captain Heriot was no worse, and that Mr.
Purfleet, who had paid him an early visit, said there might be no
change for a week or more.
In the afternoon I received a brief note from Mr. Serjeant
Stillingfar, asking me to be in Russell Square the following morning
by eight o'clock: he wished to see me very particularly.
Knowing that when he named any special hour he meant it, and that he
expected everyone who had dealings with him to be as punctual as
himself, I came up to town on the Wednesday morning, and was at his
house a few minutes before eight o'clock. The Serjeant was just
sitting down to breakfast.
"Will you take some, Charles?" he asked.
"No, thank you, uncle. I have just come up from Clapham, and
breakfasted before starting."
"How is Mrs. Brightman going on?"
"Quite well. It will be a long job, the doctors say, from something
unusual connected with the fracture, but nothing dangerous."
"Sit down, Charles," he said. "And tell me at once. Is Captain
Heriot," lowering his voice, "in a state to be got away?"
The words did not surprise me. The whole night it had been in my mind
that the Serjeant's mandate concerned Tom Heriot.
"No; it would be impossible," I answered. "He has to be moved gently,
from bed to sofa, and can only walk, if he attempts it at all, by
being helped on both sides. Three or four days ago, a vessel on the
lungs broke; any undue exertion would at once be fatal."
"Then, do I understand you that he is actually dying?"
"Undoubtedly he is, sir. I was with him on Monday night, and saw in
his face the gray hue which is the precursor of death. I am sure I was
not mistaken----"
"That peculiar hue can never be mistaken by those who have learnt from
sad experience," he interrupted dreamily.
"He may linger on a few days, even a week or so, I believe the doctor
thinks, but death is certainly on its road; and he must die where he
is, Uncle Stillingfar. He cannot be again moved."
The Serjeant sat silent for a few moments. "It is very unfortunate,
Charles," he resumed. "Could he have been got away it would be better
for him, better for you all. Though, in truth, it is not I who ought
to suggest it, as you well know; but sometimes one's private and
public duties oppose each other."
"Have you heard anything, uncle?"
"I have heard from a sure source that the authorities know that
Captain Heriot is in London. They know it positively: but not, I
think, where he is concealed. The search for him will now commence in
earnest."
"It is, indeed, unfortunate. I have been hoping he would be left to
die in peace. One thing is certain: if the police find him they can
only let him remain where he is. They cannot remove him."
"Then nothing can be done: things must take their course," sighed the
Serjeant. "You must take precautions yourself, Charles. Most probably
the movements of those connected with him will now be watched, in the
hope that they may afford a clue to his hiding-place."
"I cannot abandon him, Uncle Stillingfar. I must see him to the end.
We have been as brothers, you know. He wants to see Blanche, and I
have written about it to Lord Level."
"Well, well, I cannot advise; I wish I could," he replied. "But I
thought it my duty to let you know this."
"A few days will, in any case, see the ending," I whispered as I bade
him goodbye. "Thank you for all your sympathy, uncle."
"My boy, there is One above," raising his hand reverently, "who has
more pity for us than we have for one another. He can keep him in
peace yet. Don't forget that, Charles."
To my office, then, and the morning letters. Amidst them lay Lord
Level's answer. Some of its contents surprised me.
"Marshdale House,
"Tuesday Evening.
"DEAR CHARLES,
"If you like to undertake the arrangement of the visit you
propose, do so. I have no objection. For some little time now
I have thought that it might be better that my wife should know
the truth. You see she is, and has been, liable to hear it at
any moment through some untoward revelation, for which she
would not be prepared; and the care I have taken to avoid this
has not only been sometimes inconvenient to myself, but
misconstrued by Blanche. When we were moving about after our
marriage, I kept her in unfrequented places, as far as I could,
to spare her the chance of this; men's lips were full of it
just then, as you know. Blanche resented that bitterly, putting
it all down to some curious purposes of my own. Let her hear
the truth now. I am not on the spot to impart it to her myself,
and shall be glad if you will do so. Afterwards you can take
her to see the invalid. I am sorry for what you say of his
state. Tell him so: and that he has my sympathy and best
wishes.
"Blanche has been favouring me lately with some letters written
in anything but a complimentary strain. One that I received
this morning coolly informs me that she is about to 'Take
immediate steps to obtain a formal separation, if not a
divorce.' I am not able to travel to London and settle things
with her, and have written to her to tell her to come here to
me. The fact is, I am ill. Strange to say, the same sort of low
fever which attacked me when I was at Marshdale last autumn has
returned upon me now. It is not as bad as it was then, but I am
confined to bed. Spare the time to bring Blanche down, there's
a good fellow. I have told her that you will do so. Come on
Thursday if convenient to you, and remain the night. She shall
hear what I have to say to her; after that, she can talk of a
separation if she likes. You shall hear it also.
"Ever truly yours,
"LEVEL."
Whilst deliberating upon the contents of this letter, and how I could
best carry out its requests, Lennard came in, as usual on his arrival
for the day, to give me his report of Tom Heriot. There was not any
apparent change in him, he said, either for the better or the worse. I
informed Lennard of what I had just heard from the Serjeant.
Then I despatched a clerk to Gloucester Place with a note for Blanche,
telling her I should be with her early in the evening, and that she
must not fail to be at home, as my business was important.
Twilight was falling when I arrived. Blanche sat at one of the windows
in the drawing-room, looking listlessly into the street in the fading
light. Old Mrs. Guy, who was staying with her, was lying on the
dining-room sofa, Blanche said, having retired to it and fallen asleep
after dinner.
How lovely Blanche looked; but how cross! She wore a pale blue silk,
her favourite colour, with a gold necklace and open bracelets, from
which drooped a heart set with sapphires and diamonds; and her fair,
silken hair looked as if she had been impatiently pushing it about.
"I know what you have come for, Charles," she said in fretful tones,
as I sat down near her. "Lord Level prepared me in a letter I received
from him this morning."
"Indeed!" I answered lightly. "What did the preparation consist of?"
"I wrote to him," said Blanche. "I have written to him more than once,
telling him I am about to get a separation. In answer, my lord
commands me down to Marshdale"--very resentfully--"and says you are to
take me down."
"All quite right, Blanche; quite true, so far. But----"
"But I don't know that I shall go. I think I shall not go."
"A wife should obey her husband's commands."
"I do not intend to be his wife any longer. And you cannot wish me to
be, Charles; you ought not to wish it. Lord Level's conduct is simply
shameful. What right has he to stay at Marshdale--amusing himself down
there?"
"I fancy he cannot help staying there at present. Has he told you he
is ill?"
She glanced quickly round at me.
"Has he told _you_ that he is so?"
"Yes, Blanche; he has. He is too ill to travel."
She paused for a moment, and then tossed back her pretty hair with a
scornful hand.
"And you believed him! Anything for an excuse. He is no more ill than
I am, Charles; rely upon that."
"But I am certain----"
"Don't go on," she interrupted, tapping her dainty black satin slipper
on the carpet; a petulant movement to which Blanche was given, even as
a child. "If you have come for the purpose of whitening my husband to
me, as papa is always doing. I will not listen to you."
"You will not listen to any sort of reasoning whatever. I see that, my
dear."
"Reasoning, indeed!" she retorted. "Say sophistry."
"Listen for an instant, Blanche; consider this one little item: I
believe Lord Level to be ill, confined to his bed with low fever, as
he tells me; you refuse to believe it; you say he is well. Now,
considering that he expects us both to be at Marshdale to-morrow, can
you not perceive how entirely, ridiculously void of purpose it would
be for him to say he is seriously ill if he is not so?"
"I don't care," said my young lady. "He is deeper than any fox."
"Blanche, my opinion is, and you are aware of it, that you misjudge
your husband. Upon one or two points I _know_ you do. But I did not
come here to discuss these unpleasant topics--you are in error there,
you see. I came upon a widely different matter: to disclose something
to you that will very greatly distress you, and I am grieved to be
obliged to do it."
The words changed her mood. She looked half frightened.
"Oh!" she burst forth, before I had time to say another word. "Is it
my husband? You say he is ill! He is not dead?"
"My dear, be calm. It is not about your husband at all. It is about
some one else, though, who is very ill--Tom Heriot."
Grieved she no doubt was; but the relief that crept into her face,
tone and attitude proved that the one man was little to her compared
with the other, and that she loved her husband yet with an impassioned
love.
By degrees, softening the facts as much as possible, I told the tale.
Of Tom's apprehension about the time of her marriage; his trial which
followed close upon it; his conviction, and departure for a penal
settlement; his escape; his return to England; his concealments to
evade detection; his illness; and his present state. Blanche shivered
and cried as she listened, and finally fell upon her knees, and buried
her face in the cushions of the chair.
"And is there _no_ hope for him, Charles?" she said, looking up after
a while.
"My dear, there is no hope. And, under the circumstances, it is
happier for him to die than to continue to live. But he would like to
see you, Blanche."
"Poor Tom! Poor Tom! Can we go to him now--this evening?"
"Yes; it is what I came to propose. It is the best time. He----"
"Shall I order the carriage?"
The interruption made me laugh. My Lord Level's state carriage and
powdered servants at that poor fugitive's door!
"My dear, we must go in the quietest manner. We will take a cab as we
walk along, and get out of it before turning into the street where he
is lying. Change this blue silk for one of the plainest dresses that
you have, and wear a close bonnet and a veil."
"Oh, of course; I see. Charles, I am too thoughtless."
"Wait an instant," I said, arresting her as she was crossing the room.
"I must return for a moment to our controversy touching your husband.
You complained bitterly of him last year for secluding you in dull,
remote parts of the Continent, and especially for keeping you away
from England. You took up the notion, and proclaimed it to those who
would listen to you, that it was to serve his own purposes. Do you
remember this?"
"Well?" said Blanche timidly, her colour coming and going as she stood
with her hands on the table. "He did keep me away; he did seclude me."
"It was done out of love for you, Blanche. Whilst your heart felt
nothing but reproach for him, his was filled with care and
consideration for you; where to keep you, how to guard you from
hearing of the disgrace and trouble that had overtaken your brother.
_We_ knew--I and Mr. Brightman--Lord Level's motive; and Major Carlen
knew. I believe Level would have given years of his life to save you
from the knowledge always and secure you peace. Now, Blanche, my dear,
as you perceive that, at least in that one respect, you misjudged him
then, do you not think you may be misjudging him still?"
She burst into tears. "No, I don't think so," she said. "I wish I
could think so. You know that he maintains some dreadful secret at
Marshdale; and that--that--wicked Italians are often staying
there--singers perhaps; I shouldn't wonder; or ballet-dancers--anyway,
people who can have no right and no business to be there. You know
that one of them stabbed him--Oh yes, she did, and it was a woman with
long hair."
"I do not know anything of the kind."
"Charles, you look at me reproachfully, as if the blame lay with me
instead of him. Can't you see what a misery it all is for me, and that
it is wearing my life away?" she cried passionately, the tears falling
from her eyes. "I would rather _die_ than separate from him, if I were
not forced to it by the goings on at that wretched Marshdale. What
will life be worth to me, parted from him? I look forward to it with a
sick dread. Charles, I do indeed; and now, when I know--what--is
perhaps--coming----"
Blanche suddenly crossed her arms upon the table, hid her face upon
them, and sobbed bitterly.
"What is perhaps coming?"
"I'm afraid it is, Charles."
"But what is?"
"An heir, perhaps."
It was some moments before I took in the sense of the words. Then I
laughed.
"Oh well, Blanche! Of course you ought to talk of separation with
_that_ in prospect! Go and put your things on, you silly child: the
evening is wearing away."
And she left the room.
* * * * *
Side by side on the sofa, Blanche's fair head pillowed upon his
breast, his arm thrown round her. She had taken off her bonnet and
mantle, and was crying quietly.
"Be calm, my dear sister. It is all for the best."
"Tom, Tom, how came you to do it?"
"I didn't do it, my dear one. That's where they were mistaken. I
should be no more capable of doing such a thing than you are."
"Then why did they condemn you--and say you were guilty?"
"They knew no better. The guilty man escaped, and I suffered."
"But why did you not tell the truth? Why did you not accuse him to the
judge?"
"I told the judge I was innocent; but that is what most prisoners say,
and it made no impression on him," replied Tom. "For the rest, I did
not understand the affair as well as I did after the trial. All had
been so hurried; there was no time for anything. Yes, Blanche, you may
at least take this solitary bit of consolation to your heart--that I
was not guilty."
"And that other man, who was?" she asked eagerly, lifting her face.
"Where is he?"
"Flourishing," said Tom. "Driving about the world four-in-hand, no
doubt, and taking someone else in as he took me."
Blanche turned to me, looking haughty enough.
"Charles, cannot anything be done to expose the man?" she cried. Tom
spoke again before I could answer.
"It will not matter to me then, one way or the other. But, Charley, I
do sometimes wish, as I lie thinking, that the truth might be made
known and my memory cleared. I was reckless and foolish enough, heaven
knows, but I never did that for which I was tried and sentenced."
Now, since we had been convinced of Tom Heriot's innocence, the
question whether it would be possible to clear him before the world
had often been in my mind. Lake and I had discussed it more than once.
It would be difficult, no doubt, but it was just possible that time
might place some advantage in our hands and open up a way to us. I
mentioned this now.
"Ay, difficult enough, I dare say," commented Tom. "With a hundred
barriers in the way--eh, Charley?"
"The chief difficulty would lie, I believe, in the fact you
acknowledged just now, Tom--your own folly. People argue--they argued
at the time--that a young man so reckless as you were would not stick
at a trifle."
"Just so," replied Tom with equanimity. "I ought to have pulled up
before, and--I did not. Well; you know my innocence, and now Blanche
knows it, and Level knows it, and old Carlen knows it; you are about
all that are near to me; and the public must be left to chance.
There's one good man, though, I should like to know it, Charles, and
that's Serjeant Stillingfar."
"He knows it already, Tom. Be at ease on that score."
"Does _he_ think, I wonder, that my memory might ever be cleared?"
"He thinks it would be easier to clear you than it would be to trace
the guilt to its proper quarter; but the one, you see, rests upon the
other. There are no proofs, that we know of, to bring forward of that
man's guilt; and----"
"He took precious good care there should be none," interrupted Tom.
"Let Anstey alone for protecting himself."
"Just so. But--I was going to say--the Serjeant thinks you have one
chance in your favour. It is this: The man, Anstey, being what he is,
will probably fall into some worse crime which cannot be hidden or
hushed up. When conviction overtakes him, he may be induced to confess
that it was he, and not Captain Heriot, who bore the lion's share in
that past exploit for which you suffered. Rely upon this, Tom--should
any such chance of clearing your memory present itself, it will not be
neglected. I shall be on the watch always."
There was silence for a time. Tom was leaning back, pale and
exhausted, his breath was short, his face gray, wan and wasted.
"Has Leah been to see you?" Blanche asked him.
"Yes, twice; and she considers herself very hardly dealt by that she
may not come here to nurse me," he replied.
"Could she not be here?"
I shook my head. "It would not be safe, Blanche. It would be running
another risk. You see, trouble would fall upon others as well as Tom,
were he discovered now: upon me, and more especially upon Lennard."
"They would be brought to trial for concealing me, just as I was
brought to trial for a different crime," said Tom lightly. "Our
English laws are comprehensive, I assure you, Blanche. Poor Leah says
it is cruel not to let her see the end. I asked her what good she'd
derive from it."
Blanche gave a sobbing sigh. "How can you talk so lightly, Tom?"
"Lightly!" he cried, in apparent astonishment. "I don't myself see
very much that's light in that. When the end is at hand, Blanche, why
ignore it?"
She turned her face again to him, burying it upon his arm, in utmost
sorrow.
"Don't, Blanche!" he said, his voice trembling. "There's nothing to
cry for; nothing. My darling sister, can't you see what a life mine
has been for months past: pain of body, distress and apprehension of
mind! Think what a glorious change it will be to leave all this for
Heaven!"
"Are you _sure_ of going there, dear?" she whispered. "Have you made
your peace?"
Tom smiled at her. Tears were in his own eyes.
"I think so. Do you remember that wonderful answer to the petition of
the thief on the cross? The promise came back to him at once, on the
instant: 'Verily, I say unto thee, To-day shalt thou be with Me in
Paradise.' He had been as much of a sinner as I, Blanche."
Blanche was crying softly. Tom held her to him.
"Imagine," he said, "how the change must have broken on that poor man.
To pass from the sorrow and suffering of this life into the realms of
Paradise! There was no question as to his fitness, you see, or whether
he had been good or bad; all the sin of the past was condoned when he
took his humble appeal to his Redeemer: 'Lord, remember me when Thou
comest into Thy kingdom!' Blanche, my dear, I know that He will also
remember me."