EPHRAIM JUDD'S REMORSE.
Ephraim Judd's breakdown and collapse on that memorable Sunday morning
was attributed by everyone there, except the unhappy young man
himself, to a sudden attack of illness, and many were the inquiries at
his mother's house later in the day by sympathizing Templetonians, who
were afraid lest his unaccountable seizure might result in something
still more serious. But Ephraim arose next morning and set out for the
Bank at his usual time, to outward seeming as well as ever he had
been, but with an inner consciousness pervading every fibre of his
being, that never again would he be the same man that yesterday
morning had seen him. The "gift" on which he had secretly prided
himself more than on aught else life held for him, had been recalled
without a moment's warning. The fountain of living water had been
suddenly dried up within him. Now that by his own act he had rendered
himself no longer worthy to preach the "Word" to others, the power of
doing so had been withheld from him. He knew as well as if a thousand
voices had dinned the fact into his ears, although others knew it not,
that he stood condemned at the bar of his own conscience, as one who
had wandered from the right path, for whom there was no return
possible, save through the narrow gateway of confession and full
acknowledgment of his grievous fault. His despair, although unseen of
anyone, was none the less profound and abiding.
That winter was a long and inclement one. About the middle of March,
Ephraim caught a severe cold, which he would probably have got rid of
in the course of a few days--as he had of many previous colds--had he
but taken ordinary care of himself. As it fell out, however, he
neglected to do so, being at the time in one of those moods in which
whether one lives or dies seems a matter of equal indifference. His
cold became worse, and presently developed into an acute attack of
pneumonia. Then, without saying a word to her son, Mrs. Judd sent for
Dr. Hazeldine.
Ephraim's face flushed suddenly, and then as suddenly paled, when
Clement was ushered into his room. A very brief examination sufficed
to convince the young surgeon that his patient was in a somewhat
critical condition. Ephraim's chest had always been delicate, besides
which, at the best of times, his general health had never been robust;
so that it now became a question whether his constitution would not
succumb to an attack from which a stronger man would have rallied
without much difficulty. There was one point in his favor; he had two
capital nurses in Mrs. Judd and her daughter Eliza, the latter of whom
chanced just then to be at home, while looking out for another
situation.
Next morning Ephraim was decidedly worse. His bright, feverish eyes,
fixed intently on Doctor Hazeldine's face, did not fail to note the
grave expression which crept over it like a shadow, while listening to
his patient's labored breathing, and counting the quickened beats of
his pulse. Then Ephraim drew his own inference, which was little more
than a confirmation of the doubts--one could scarcely have called them
fears--which had beset him almost from the beginning of his illness.
"I am going to die," he said to himself, "and Clement Hazeldine knows
it. But, first of all, I've something to say to him."
"Yes, I had only a poor night," he said aloud, in reply to a question
of Clement; "hour after hour I lay awake, tossing and turning from
side to side. Just now I feel sleepy, and not up to much talking; but
there's one thing I wish you would do for me, Mr. Clement."
Among the Bank staff Mr. Hazeldine's sons had always been spoken of as
"Mr. Edward" and "Mr. Clement."
"I shall be glad to do anything for you that I can, Ephraim."
"I wish you would come and sit with me this afternoon when your busy
time is over, and you have half-an-hour to spare. I shall, perhaps,
feel a bit stronger by that time, and I have something particular that
I am anxious to tell you--something very particular, which I dare not
put off any longer for fear I may not be able to tell it at all."
"Since it is your wish, I will certainly come and see you this
afternoon," answered Clement. "But you must not allow your spirits to
get depressed. I sincerely trust that to-morrow morning will find you
much better than you are to-day."
Ephraim smiled faintly.
"You and I know better than that, Mr. Clement," was all he said, as he
shut his eyes with an air of weariness.
At four o'clock Clement called again, and was shown by Eliza Judd into
her brother's room. Clem felt nothing more than a very mild curiosity
as to the nature of the confession, or whatever it might prove to be,
which Ephraim was about to impart to him. Sick men have often strange
fancies, and attach a spurious importance to things which are of no
real consequence, although at such times they seem to be.
Ephraim seemed stronger and brighter than he had been earlier in the
day, but Clement's experienced eyes told him that it was merely a
"flash in the pan"--a condition of things which might change for the
worse at any moment.
"I must ask you to put anything you have to say to me in the fewest
possible words," he said gently; "indeed, I would much rather you
should defer it entirely till another time."
"Another time may never come," answered Ephraim, with a sigh. "No, you
must hear me now while a little strength is left me. I will promise to
be as brief as possible." He was breathing hard, and his sentences
were uttered brokenly and with difficulty. After closing his eyes for
a few moments as if to collect his thoughts, he said: "You were at the
trial of Mr. Brancker, were you not, Mr. Clement? You listened to the
evidence right through from beginning to end?"
"I don't think a single point of the evidence, as sworn to by the
various witnesses, escaped me."
"You will not have forgotten that one of the facts which told strongly
against Mr. B., and one which he professed himself totally unable to
explain, was that some of the papers in his private drawer were
smeared with blood, and that there was a similar smear on the floor
close by?"
"I have not forgotten. The circumstance has always struck me as being
a very peculiar one."
"I am the only person who could have explained it."
Clem gave vent to an exclamation of surprise, and with that the sick
man went on to relate what is known to the reader already--how, led on
by an insatiable curiosity, he opened the drawer with a duplicate key;
how, while groping among the contents, his hand encountered the blade
of the knife and was cut by it; how the blood spurted out among the
papers, and how it kept dropping on the floor while he stood talking
to Obed Sweet, afraid to stir.
"And why did you omit to tell all this at the trial?" demanded Clem
sternly, as the other ceased speaking, breathless and exhausted.
"That you shall learn presently. There's more to tell yet," gasped
Ephraim.
Clem administered a restorative. Had his patient's revelation had
reference to any matter of lesser importance than the rehabilitation
of John Brancker's good name in the eyes of the world, he would have
positively forbidden him to say another word; but there was no knowing
how he might be on the morrow, and it might prove of vital consequence
that he should tell all he knew while there was still a possibility of
his being able to do so.
"Both at the inquest and the trial I perjured myself," went on the
sick man. "I was asked whether I saw Mr. Brancker leave the Bank after
he had parted from me, and had entered it with the avowed purpose of
fetching his umbrella. My answer was that I did not see him leave the
Bank. My saying so was a lie. I saw him leave it within four minutes
of the time he entered it. He was there just long enough to enable him
to find his umbrella, but not long enough to commit either murder or
robbery, much less both, even supposing him to have been wishful of
doing so.
"But what was your object in thus perjuring yourself?" demanded
Clement, with an air of stupefaction. "What end had you to gain by not
speaking the truth?"
"By telling the truth I should have brought about my own ruin. Mr.
Avison would never have forgiven me had I confessed to opening John
Brancker's drawer with a false key. He would have discharged me on the
spot."
"I can understand the reasons for your reticence so far as that part
of the case is concerned, but why did you swear that you had not seen
Mr. Brancker leave the Bank?"
"Because I was a moral coward. When the coroner put the question to me
I was flurried in my mind, and hardly knew what answer I was giving.
My chief thought at the time was to divert suspicion from myself; in
saying what I did I had not the slightest notion that it would tell in
any way against Mr. Brancker, but having once sworn that such was the
truth, I was afraid to go back from it at the trial." Then, after a
little space of silence, he added: "I want you to believe this, Mr.
Clement: if Mr. Brancker had been brought in guilty, I should have
told all I knew, whatever might have been the cost to myself. And that
is the solemn truth."
Clem was at a loss what reply to make to the strange statement of
which he had been made the recipient. Both reproach and vituperation,
even had he been willing to indulge in either, were out of the
question with a man in his patient's condition. At length he said:
"I presume you have no objection to my telling Mr. Brancker what you
have just told me, leaving him to act in the matter in whatever way
may seem most advisable to him?"
"That is exactly what I am desirous you should do; and do not forget,
please, to tell him how sincerely I regret the injury I have done him.
That he will accord me his forgiveness is more than I dare hope."
Clement rose and took up his hat.
"I have not quite done yet," said the sick man. "What I am now about
to tell you may seem of little or no consequence to you--in other
words, you may take a different view of it from the one taken by
me--but, in any case, it is only right that you should be told."
Clement sat down again, and waited in silence till Ephraim was ready
to continue.
"You may remember," he resumed, "that at the Bank there is a spiral
staircase which gives access to a couple of rooms under the roof, used
chiefly as a storage place for old ledgers and documents of various
kinds connected with the business?"
Clement nodded.
"The staircase in question," continued Ephraim, "is exactly opposite
the door of Mr. Hazeldine's room, and anyone going up it, or coming
down it, can, if so minded, obtain a view of the interior of the
office through the fanlight over the door--a fact which my curiosity
had led me to take advantage of on more occasions than one. On the
night of Mr. Hazeldine's death, after John Brancker had gone and I had
put my own work away, led by a vague curiosity, I stole halfway up the
staircase and peered through the fanlight. Mr. Hazeldine's table, with
Mr. Hazeldine seated at it, were clearly visible to me. Sir--Mr.
Clement--while I was looking, I saw your father take out of a drawer
in his table the very knife which was found near him on the floor next
morning, and with which he was said to have been stabbed! He stared at
it for a moment or two and tested its point with his thumb; then he
unbuttoned his waistcoat, and with his left hand seemed to feel for
the exact spot over his heart. Then he let the knife drop, and leaning
forward over the table, he covered his face with his hands. With that,
being not a little scared, I waited to see no more."
Clement sat with ashen face and horror-fraught eyes, waiting till the
shock which Ephraim's words had caused him should in some measure have
spent its force.
"You drew an inference of some kind from what you saw through the
fanlight," he at length contrived to say, "What was the inference?"
"That Mr. Hazeldine came by his death by his own hand," replied
Ephraim in a whisper.
When Clement Hazeldine called on his patient next morning he found him
delirious, and on the following day Ephraim died.