THE WIDOW VARREL.
Miss Brancker, so far as her means allowed, was one of the most
charitable of women. She had always a number of pensioners on hand,
chiefly elderly spinsters, with whom life was a continual struggle,
and widows left forlorn without son or daughter to help them in their
declining years.
Miss Brancker had a small--a very small--private income, the whole of
which of late years, since her brother's salary had more than sufficed
for the needs of the little household, she had given away in charity,
not by any means always in the form of money, but in a score of other
ways in which help, judiciously administered, may be made still more
precious to its recipients. As Hermia grew up, she got into the way of
accompanying her aunt on her weekly visits among those whom Miss
Brancker held it to be a part of her duty to call upon at their own
homes. During the last year and a half, however, in consequence of an
affection of the knee-joint, which made much walking painful to Aunt
Charlotte, Hermia had, in the majority of cases, been compelled to do
the visiting alone.
Among others whom Hermia made a point of calling upon at least once a
week was a' certain poor widow, Mrs. Varrel by name, who was slowly
dying of an incurable malady. She had lost her husband, a retired
sergeant-major with a small service pension, several years before, and
latterly her sole means of livelihood had been a few shillings a week
allowed her by a daughter of her former mistress, for at one time Mrs.
Varrel had been maid to a lady of quality; a fact she was careful to
impress upon all who were brought into contact with her. There had
been a time after her husband's death, a period extending over several
years, when her only son was in a position to help her, and when, in
point of fact, he did help her liberally in accordance with his means.
Then something dreadful had come to pass, and Richard Varrel had been
able to help his mother no more.
It was this same Richard Varrel who, as the reader may or may not
remember, had been one of the first on the day of the trial to
congratulate John Brancker on his acquittal. He it was who, when John
and those who were with him had settled themselves in the fly in which
they were to be driven home, had pushed his way through the little
crowd of onlookers and laid a detaining hand on the vehicle. "Mr.
Brancker, sir," he said, in a voice coarsened with drink, "if such a
wretch as I maybe allowed to thank heaven for anything, then I thank
it that you are once more a free man. From the first I swore that
whoever else might be guilty of Mr. Hazeldine's death, you were
innocent. As for him--curse him! he hounded me to my ruin, and he
deserved his fate. For him no pity is needed."
Up to a certain point the fortunes of Richard Varrel and Ephraim Judd
had moved upon almost parallel lines. The mother of each was a widow
in poor circumstances; they had both been educated at the same school,
where they had both been show scholars; the elder Mr. Avison had taken
a fancy to both of them, and had found humble berths for them in the
Bank, where, in the course of time, they had worked themselves up to
positions of trust and responsibility. But there the likeness between
the two had ended, for while Ephraim Judd was a painstaking plodder,
slow but sure, handsome Dick Varrel carried everything with a dash and
a laughing quick-wittedness which made light of every obstacle that
stood in the way of his upward career. There had been a time when he
was one of the most popular young fellows in the town; but it was his
social success and his fondness for company that proved his ruin. In a
moment of weakness, when hard pressed by petty monetary difficulties,
he did a certain thing which rendered him liable to a prosecution for
felony. Detection followed. By this time the elder Mr. Avison had
retired from business, and the younger one was abroad. To the latter
the details of the case were reported by Mr. Hazeldine in due course,
who went as far as he durst venture in his endeavors to induce the
banker to take a lenient view of the affair. But Mr. Avison, while
being a strictly just man, was also an inflexible one, and he sent
positive orders, by return, that Varrel should be proceeded against.
Mr. Hazeldine had no option but to carry out his employer's
instructions, the consequence being that the handsome and popular Dick
Varrel was tried and sentenced to a short term of penal servitude.
That term had expired about a year before he accosted John Brancker on
the day of the latter's acquittal. How long Varrel had been in the
town prior to that date, and how long he stayed there after it, John
had no means of knowing. In any case, he saw him no more.
Mrs. Varrel rented a couple of rooms in one of the humblest parts of
the town. Even on her bed of sickness, which she was quite aware that
she should never leave till she had drawn her last breath, she held
herself somewhat proudly aloof from the class of persons around her.
"It is my misfortune to be compelled to live among them," she would
sometimes remark to Hermia, "but I never allow them to consider that
they are in any way my equals." Even with the hand of death upon her,
she could not forget that for five years she had been confidential
maid to Lady Warlingham. How near to breaking her heart her son's
crime and its punishment had gone no one ever knew but herself. At the
time she had in a measure set the world at defiance, by her
protestations that Dick had been convicted on false evidence; and the
world, or that infinitesimal section of it to which she had appealed,
compassionating her as a mother, had made believe (while in her sight
and hearing) to indorse her view of the case. For some time past,
however, no one had heard her mention her son's name. He seemed as one
lost to her for ever.
Mrs. Varrel always seemed especially glad to see Hermia. "You never
preach at me as nearly all my other lady visitors do, and that's what
I like you for," she would say. "As for them, they can't leave me an
ounce of tea without reminding me that I'm not long for this world--as
if I didn't know it already--and exhorting me to seek forgiveness of
my sins. By the way some of them talk I might be one of the vilest of
sinners. Yet, I suppose, if I were to reply that, so far as I am
aware, I have led just as good a life as they, and stand no more in
need of forgiveness than they do, they would be highly indignant. I
only wish some of them could be made to change places with me for a
single week. It would teach them a lesson they wouldn't forget to
their dying day."
Hermia was in the habit of taking wine and grapes and whatever else
Aunt Charlotte thought might tempt the sick woman's appetite, or help
to keep up her strength; for during the last few weeks her illness had
made great strides, and day by day it became more evident that the end
could not much longer be delayed. Sometimes Hermia read to her;
sometimes she simply chatted with her, telling her such items of local
gossip as she thought would interest her. Sometimes Mrs. Varrel, when
she felt a little stronger, would talk to the girl about her early
life and things that had happened years before; but never once, till
the end was drawing very near, did she make any mention of her son.
At length, however, there came a day when, after lying for a little
space with closed eyes, she said:
"Do you know, Miss Hermy, what the one wish is I have now left in this
world?"
Hermia smiled and shook her head.
"I might guess a dozen times without guessing aright. But tell me what
it is you wish, Mrs. Varrel."
"It is to see my son Richard for the last time--him, you know, that
was said to have gone wrong years ago."
"Surely that is a wish which ought to be very easily gratified," said
Hermia. "I am, of course, assuming that you know where he may be
found."
"Where he himself is I cannot say, but when I saw him last he gave me
a certain address in London where he said a letter would always find
him."
"Then let me write to him in your name," said Hermia, eagerly. "He
cannot be aware how ill you are, or he would have been to see you
before now."
But it was not till the following day that the widow could be induced
to let Hermia write, and not then till she had given her promise not
to reveal to any one Richard Varrel's address.
It was just a week before the end came that Hermia wrote, but day
passed after day without bringing a response of any kind. The dying
woman listened with an eagerness painful to witness, for her son's
footfall on the stairs, but listened in vain.
"Who knows but that he's in trouble again and can't come," she moaned
wearily to herself more than once.
During those last few days Hermia was a great deal with her. The
person in whose house Mrs. Varrel lodged happened also to be ill at
the time, and could not wait upon her as she had been in the habit of
doing. As the dying woman's weakness increased she began to wander in
her mind, but in all her wanderings her son seemed somehow to be mixed
up. As far as Hermia could make out, he appeared to be always in some
dire trouble from which his mother was vainly trying to extricate him;
but there was nothing coherent about her utterances--they were merely
a jumble of disconnected sentences, the gaps between which her
listener lacked the knowledge needful to enable her to fill up. But,
indeed, Hermia took very little heed of anything that fell from the
widow's lips at such times, but waited patiently till the light of
reason came back to her poor bewildered brain, for such wanderings
were only occasional; the greater part of the time she was as mentally
clear as ever she had been.
One day, however--it was the third day before she died--while one of
her wandering fits was on her, she gave utterance to a remark which
startled Hermia not a little. "There's blood on the notes!" she
exclaimed. "Why should you want me to have charge of them? Take them
back! I won't touch them!" Then her voice died away in an inarticulate
murmur. After that it was impossible for Hermia to do otherwise than
listen.
About an hour later, after a long silence, the dying woman cried out
in a voice which sent a shiver through the girl, "No, no, I won't
believe it! What! My boy--my Richard! Anyone but him--anyone but him!"
Then later still, as before, "There's blood on the notes! I won't
touch them!"
Hermia went home that night in a maze of perplexity and wonder. She
felt as if she were standing on the verge of some dark mystery which
might or might not be presently illumined for her by some unexpected.
flash. She knew not what to think, what to do. What, indeed, could she
do? She told herself nothing.
Next day Mrs. Varrel was perceptibly weaker, and although her mind
wandered at times, her voice was so faint that it was only now and
then it rose above a whisper. One connected sentence and no more, but
one full of significance, reached the ears of the wondering girl.
"Thirty--forty--fifty bright new sovereigns. Not one of them will I
touch till you have told me where you got them from--not one!"
Did she fancy she was addressing her son? If not, whom?
It was an hour or two later. Mrs. Varrel had been asleep. Suddenly she
awoke, and sat up in bed without help, a thing she had not been able
to do for several weeks. The clear light of sanity had come back to
her eyes. Laying a hand on Hermia's wrist, she said in a quavering
voice. "He won't come now. I feel it--I know it. Before it is too
late--and very soon it will be--I have something to give into your
charge, Miss Hermy--something which I want you to promise to send to
my boy after I'm gone, with just a line to say how his mother longed
to see him before she died, but that she loved him to the last in
spite of all." Then, after glancing round, although there was no one
but themselves in the room, she drew Hermia closer to her and
whispered, "It's money--money, my dear Miss Hermy, that I want to give
into your charge."
"Whatever I can do in the way of helping you to carry out your wishes,
Mrs. Varrel, you may rely upon my doing," replied the girl, in her
most earnest tones.
Thereupon, by the widow's direction, she searched for and found two
small packets which had been hidden away between the mattress and the
bed. One of them was a stout envelope sealed with red wax, containing
some soft substance, the nature of which Hermia was at a loss to make
out. The other was a small canvas bag full of money. Then, still by
the dying woman's request, she procured paper, and string and made the
two up into one parcel, which she addressed to Richard Varrel, at the
same place to which the letter had been addressed.
"You will send it to him by post, dear Miss Hermy, after I'm gone,
won't you, with just a line, as you promised?" gasped Mrs. Varrel.
"But seeing that your son has failed to respond to the note I wrote
him," replied Hermia, "is it not possible that he may have gone away
without informing you; and should that be the case what will become of
the money?"
"I never thought of that," gasped Mrs. Varrel, with a sudden scared
look. "And yet he must have the money--he must! Tell me--tell me, Miss
Hermy, what is to be done?"
For a few moments Hermia did not answer--she could not. Her nerves had
just undergone a shock which had left her as white and trembling as if
she had seen a ghost. Drawing a deep breath, and speaking as steadily
as she could force herself to do, she presently said:
"I will myself take the parcel to London, and if it be anyhow
possible, I will find your son and deliver it into his hands and into
those of no one else."
The dying woman thanked her and blessed her. It was evident that a
great weight had been lifted off her mind.
Next day when Hermia went to see her she was unconscious, and a few
hours later she breathed her last.
What was it that had so strangely affected Hermia; that had sent the
blood surging round her heart, and had caused the room and its
contents to rock before her eyes as though shaken by an earthquake?
On the envelope which she had made up into a parcel with the bag of
gold her eye had been caught by these words, written in pencil, "Given
into my charge by my son Richard on the 6th of October."
The 6th of October was the day on which Mr. Hazeldine had been found
on the floor of his office, stabbed to the heart!