THE BROTHERS.
Ephraim Judd's deathbed confession naturally divided itself into two
parts in Clement Hazeldine's afterthoughts, of which the first had
reference exclusively to John Brancker, while the second, which in
Clem's eyes far exceeded the other in importance, concerned almost
wholly his brother and himself. The horror with which he had listened
to the latter portion of Ephraim's narrative toned itself down by
degrees to a feeling of doubt, and from that, by an easy transition,
to one of absolute incredulity. His father commit suicide! The bare
idea of such a thing, to anyone who had known the man, was utterly
preposterous. But supposing for a moment that the case had been as
Ephraim implied, there still remained the robbery of the safe, which
had been a concomitant incident of Mr. Hazeldine's death, to be
accounted for. The truth was that the sick man's mind had wandered in
the course of the previous night, and he had imagined circumstances
which had never really happened. During illness the boundary line
which divides the realm of fancy from that of fact is easily
overpassed, and the weakened mind of the patient is unable to
distinguish between the two. That such was the explanation in
Ephraim's case it seemed impossible to doubt.
"Yet, if the latter part of his confession has no basis of fact, why
assume that the first part had any more valid claim to credence?" Clem
asked himself this question more than once, but was unable to answer
it to his satisfaction. He could not but admit that that part of the
confession which related to John Brancker seemed to bear upon it the
stamp of truth; the facts, if facts they were, as told by Ephraim,
might very easily have happened; there was nothing intrinsically
improbable about them, as there was about that other statement which
had reference to Mr. Hazeldine.
Most of us have an easy habit of trying to persuade ourselves that
things are as we wish them to be, and this was what Clement strove to
do in the present instance, but not altogether successfully. The first
portion of Ephraim's confession might be true, and probably was so, he
told himself; but the second part was almost as surely fictitious--a
vision conjured up by the disordered brain of a sick man.
Clement was anxious to see his brother at the earliest possible
moment, and unburthen his mind to him; but it was not till the day
after Ephraim's death that he found time to go over to Beecham. On
arriving at the Brewery he walked straight into his brother's office
feeling pretty sure that he should find him there. Nor was he
mistaken. Edward, who was busy writing a letter as he entered, looked
up and nodded, and with that Clem sat down to wait till he should be
at liberty.
"Glad to see you," said Edward, as he applied the blotting-paper to
his letter. "But, you look a bit worried. Anything the matter?"
"Ned," said the younger brother, leaning forward a little, and fixing
his eyes intently on the other's face, "have you ever had any cause or
reason to suspect that our father, instead of meeting his death at the
hand of another, as everyone believed he did, committed suicide?"
On the instant every vestige of color fled from Edward Hazeldine's
face; he drew a deep breath that was almost a gasp, and set his teeth
hard.
"Great heavens! Edward, you do know, or suspect something of the
sort!" cried Clement, staring at his brother's white face and drawn
mouth, and feeling for the moment as if the foundations of his life
were crumbling under him.
"Yes, I do know," said Edward, after a space of silence, speaking in
cold, and, as it seemed, half-defiant tones. "I have known it all
along. James Hazeldine was not murdered. He died by his own hand, in
order to avert disgrace and ruin from himself and those belonging to
him."
Then, before Clement could find a word to say, he rose, and crossing
to a safe imbedded in the wall, he unlocked it, and from one of the
drawers drew forth his father's letter.
"Read and believe," he said with stern brevity, as he pushed the
letter across the table to Clem.
He had been so taken by surprise; the question so abruptly put to him,
had afforded him no clue as to how much or how little of the truth was
known to his brother, that for the moment his presence of mind had
deserted him, and before he had time to recover himself, Clem had
challenged the truth.
"Well, he has got the truth now, and much good may it do him," said
Edward, grimly, to himself. "Why should he not share it with me? The
burthen has been a bitter one to bear. It has led me to do things such
as at one time I would have believed no power on earth could have
forced me into doing. Yes, let Clem take his share. He is a grown man;
why should we not halve the secret? I am not sorry that it has come
about as it has. But how and from whom did he obtain the clue?"
Clem read the letter twice over, the first time quickly, and then
slowly and deliberately, so that the pith and almost the exact words
of each sentence burned themselves indelibly into his memory. Then he
refolded it and passed it back to his brother, and then the two sat
and looked at each other for a little while in sorrowful silence.
Clement was the first to speak.
"You have known this all along, and yet you never told me," he said,
with an accent of reproach.
"Where was the need? What good end would it have served? It was enough
that one of us should have to carry such a secret about with him. I
was the elder, and the burden devolved of right upon me. Besides, my
father evidently relied upon my telling no one--not even you."
"It was my duty and my right to have shared it with you. In any case,
I am glad--if, indeed, one can be glad about anything in connection
with so terrible a secret--that the knowledge has come to me now
instead of later on."
"Could I have had my way, it would never have come to you. But before
we discuss the matter further, tell me what led you to put that
question to me which you flung at my head, as it were, with such
startling suddenness."
Thereupon Clement proceeded to enlighten his brother as to all that
had passed between himself and Ephraim Judd.
"It is a strange story," said Edward, when he had finished; "but I see
no reason for doubting its credibility. All along I have been
possessed by a sort of intuitive certainty that one day the truth
would leap to light in a way the least expected, and now it has done
so. After all, it will be a relief to have someone to share the secret
with."
"You should have shared it with me from the first. But the question
now is, what ought to be done next?"
"I scarcely follow you."
"I mean, as regards John Brancker. Ought he not to be told?"
"Told what?"
"What Ephraim Judd told me. It was the last wish of the dying man, as
expressed by him to me, that such reparation should be made as was
still possible."
"Just so! You would tell John Brancker all about the blood-smears, and
also reveal to him the fact that Judd saw him quit the Bank five
minutes after he had entered it, although at the trial he swore to the
contrary. This you would tell, leaving Brancker to deal with the
statement in whatever way might seem most advisable to him."
"That is precisely what I have thought of doing. So far everything
seems perfectly clear. But, as regards the latter portion of the
confession--supplemented as it is by our father's letter--that
concerns John Brancker infinitely more than all the rest."
For the second time the eyes of the brothers met in a long, steady
gaze.
"John Brancker was tried for a crime of which he was innocent, and was
acquitted," said Edward, in a hard, cold voice. "To-day he is a free
man--as free as you or I."
"But is that all? You know as well as I that it is not. Think of all
he has suffered and gone through. Consider----"
"I have considered--for I can foresee all you would urge. I have
thought it over long ago from every possible point of view. It is for
you to consider and to realize that there is an altogether different
way of looking at the affair from the one you have chosen to adopt,
one, too, which concerns you and me very nearly. With your good leave,
I will proceed to make clear to you what I mean."
He got up, and crossing to a side table, poured out for himself a
glass of water.
"It was within a couple of hours of hearing of my father's death,"
resumed Edward, "that I read the letter which you have seen to-day for
the first time. The news had been broken to me by the very man we have
been talking of--I mean by Judd--and I had just come back from the
Bank after viewing my father's body. I will leave you to imagine the
effect the letter had on me at such a time. Knowing what I did, no one
could have been more surprised than I at the turn taken by the affair
at the inquest, when one little piece of circumstantial evidence after
another cropped up, all tending to bring home the crime to John
Brancker, and it was a great shock to me when he was committed for
trial. Had you been in my place, rather than let him go to prison, in
all probability you would have made public the facts embodied in your
father's letter."
"I certainly should have done so," said Clement, gravely.
"I preferred to hold on, taking care, meanwhile, to secure an eminent
advocate for the defense. There were many weak links in the chain of
evidence, and it seemed to me that no jury would convict the prisoner
without something stronger to go upon. The event proved that I was
right in my belief. John Brancker was acquitted."
"Truly so; but can you even faintly realize the mental torture he must
have suffered meanwhile? Can you----"
Edward held up his hand. "My dear fellow, I hope you do not for one
moment imagine that I did not feel keenly for Brancker. My heart bled
for him many and many a time. I seemed to myself to have added ten
years to my age during those weeks that he lay in prison. I would
willingly have given half of all I had in the world if by so doing I
could have reversed the verdict of the Coroner's jury. But all that
belongs to the past. What I want you to do now is to realize for
yourself what would have been the effect on the fortunes of those he
left behind him had I made known the contents of my father's letter.
In the first place, your mother and sister would have been reduced to
pauperism, or next door to it."
"How could that have come about?" demanded Clem, with a startled look.
"Because, had it become known that my father committed suicide
deliberately and intentionally, and without any mitigating plea of
mental derangement, his life policy of twelve thousand pounds would
have been forfeited; and that, as you are aware, forms nearly the sole
resource of your mother and sister."
"I had not thought of that," responded Clem. Neither had he. He had
been so shocked at finding that the manner of his father's death had
been known to Edward from the first, and that he had chosen to hush it
up, that for the time being his mind had failed to grasp any of the
consequences, near or remote, on which his brother had based his
action in the affair.
"That would have been bad enough in all conscience," resumed Edward,
"but worse, much worse, would have followed. Had my father's case been
one of simple suicide, that might have been got over, painful though
it would have been; but his letter has told you what there was in the
background. One would have been only a misfortune, such as might
happen in any family, but the other meant disgrace and social ruin to
everyone connected with him. Could either you or I have ever held up
our heads again in Ashdown? I am quite sure that I could not. I should
have had to give up my position and all my prospects in life, and go
away to some place where the name of Hazeldine had no taint of
disgrace attached to it. Then, again, think what it would have meant
to my mother and Fanny. They, too, would have had to seek some distant
home, with poverty for their abiding companion. It would have gone far
towards breaking my mother's heart, if it did not altogether do so,
and who would knowingly marry the daughter of a man who----? But,
surely, not another word is needed."
"It is a terrible picture that you have drawn," said Clement, with an
involuntary catching of his breath. In one brief half-hour he felt as
if he had taken leave of his youth forever.
"Is it in any one respect an overcharged picture? You cannot
conscientiously say that it is."