THE IRON BOX.
The shock of the news sobered Alfred instantly; the full disgrace of
his condition came upon him, and made him ashamed to look his sister
in the face.
"You--you have been very hard to me, grandfather," he said
hesitatingly.
"I have been to you as you deserved, Alfred. Has your conduct to-night
been such as should make me affectionate to you?"
"I have no excuse to make," replied Alfred, thoroughly humbled; "but
you will do me the justice to believe that it would not have been so
with me had I known."
"The remorse of a too-late repentance, Alfred, is a bitter
experience."
A resentful answer rose to Alfred's lips, but he checked it.
"When--when did mother die, sir?" he asked.
The words were long in coming. It seemed to him a hard question to
ask.
"An hour ago. I saw a change come over her, and Mr. Gribble ran for
the doctor." Alfred remembered seeing Gribble junior tear along,
struggling with his coat, and it was another sting to him that a
stranger should have performed his duty. "When the doctor came she had
passed away."
"What did she say? Did she ask for me?"
"She did not speak; she was unconscious."
"And she died without a word to you or Lily, grandfather? without a
thought of me?"
"Who can tell her thoughts? Her mind may have been awake. She passed
away in her sleep--peacefully, thank God! Her life has not been a
happy one; and it is God's mercy that she was spared in her last
moments the pain of seeing you as you are. It would have recalled her
bitterest memories."
"I am better now, grandfather. May I see her?"
"Yes. Lily, my darling!" and the old man took her in his arms and
kissed her; "you must go to bed--you are tired."
But she clung to him, and entreated to be allowed to sit up with them.
"No, dear child," he said; "we shall want you to be strong to-morrow.
What is that you say? You are frightened! Nay, nay, dear child! Sleep
will compose you. Alfred and I have much to talk of, and we must be
alone. Good night, dear child!"
When they left the room, Lily looked round and shuddered. The silence
was full of terrors for her, and it was with difficulty she restrained
herself from calling out. The events of the night had unnerved her.
She went into the passage, and, listening, heard the buzz of voices in
her grandfather's room. She could not catch the words, but it was a
comfort to her to hear the sound; it was companionship. She crouched
upon the ground, and lay there, with her head against the wall. A
thousand fancies crowded her brain: the music-hall, with its glare of
lights, and its great concourse of people, laughing, and drinking and
applauding, presented itself to her in a variety of fantastic shapes,
each image being perfect in itself and utterly engrossing, and yet
fading entirely away in a moment, and giving place to a successor as
vivid and as engrossing as any that had gone before. Other images
presented themselves. Mr. Sheldrake, with his studied polished manner,
and his smooth voice; Alfred and she in the dark passage; her
grandfather, with a stern bearing quite unusual to him: the doctor,
with his grave face and measured tones; and her mother lying dead,
with grey stony face. Everything but the image of her mother was quick
with life; through all the bustle and vivid movements of the other
figures in her fevered fancies, that one figure presented and intruded
itself in many strange ways, but always cold, and grey, and still.
Presently the entire interest of her dreams centred itself in this
image. Between her and her mother no great love had ever existed; the
dead woman's nature had been repressive; an overwhelming grief had
clouded her life, and she had yielded to it and sunk under it. She had
hugged this grief close, as it were, and so wrapped herself in it,
that her natural love had become frozen. So that the feeling which
Lily experienced now in her dreams, for her dead mother, had nothing
in it of that agonising grief which springs from intense love. And yet
she shuddered at the part she was playing towards that grey cold form.
It was lying before her, and she, dressed in bright colours, was
dancing and singing round it. The contrast between her own gaiety and
the dreadful stillness of the form she was dancing and singing to,
impressed her with horror, and she strove to be still, but could not.
Her struggles made her hysterical in her sleep--for Lily was sleeping
now--when suddenly peace stole upon her, and she was calm. But it was
not a comforting, refreshing peace; it was oppressive and painfully
intense. A man stood before her, with his eyes fixed steadily upon
hers. This man was one who, a few weeks before, had performed for a
benefit at the music-hall. He was an electro-biologist, and Lily had
been terrified by his performances. He had stolen away the wills of
some of the persons upon whom he had operated, and made them do this
and that at his pleasure; to pull down the moon; to drink water and
believe it wine, then soapsuds; to shiver with cold; to be oppressed
with heat; to dance; to stand still; to be transfixed like stone; to
form friendships, hatreds, and a hundred other things as strange and
inexplicable. She watched him do all these things. When the
performance was over, the man, coming off the stage, had noticed the
interest with which she had followed his experiments, and had said to
her, "You are a good subject; I could do with you as I please." She
was terrified at his words, and tried to move away from him, but could
not, and could not take her eyes from his face. Perceiving this, he
said to her, "Stretch out your arm," and she obeyed him; "Take my
hand," and she took it, surrendering her will entirely to him. At this
point they were interrupted, and she escaped him, thankfully; but for
hours afterwards she was dazed, and thought much of the incident,
dreading to meet the man again. Now he stood before her in her dreams,
and commanded her to rise; she had no power to resist him, and she
rose at his bidding. Here a diversion occurred by the word "Father!"
falling upon her ears. It was not fancy, being uttered rather loudly
by one of the speakers in the room, and it raised the image of her
father. The last time she saw him, she was quite a little child, and
then he was drunk, and was leaving her mother with words of anger on
his lips. As he turned his face, in her sleeping fancies, towards the
form of her mother lying dead before her, it suddenly changed to the
face of Alfred, and she was pained and grieved at the likeness between
father and son. Thus far the running commentary of her dreams.
Meantime an impressive scene was being enacted between her brother and
her grandfather. Alfred went behind the screen, and uncovered the face
of his mother. It was hard and cold in death, as it had been hard and
cold in life. The light of love had not illumined her latter days, and
strength had not been given her to fight with grief. Alfred was awed
into good resolution as he looked at the dumb inanimate clay. "I won't
drink so much," he thought, "I'll try and be better. If Christopher
Sly wins the Northumberland Plate, I shall be able to be better." And
then a strange half-prayer dwelt in his mind, that Christopher Sly
might win the race.
To his side came old Wheels.
"She looks like an old woman," he said; "almost too old to be my
daughter."
Alfred turned his eyes to the old man's face. Youth had not departed
from it; it seemed indeed younger than the face of his dead daughter.
"You were her first-born, Alfred. Think of the joy that filled her
when she first pressed you in her arms, and look at her now. Time is
but a breath--but a breath--but a breath!"
Old Wheels mused of the time gone by, and wondered, as we all must
wonder when we think of them and now, and of the changes that have
occurred in our lives. The gay spirit chilled; the cheerful heart
dulled by long suffering; the hope that made life bright dead and cold
long, long ago--killed in the battle we have fought! But if love be
left!----
Ay, if love be left, all the bruises we have received in the fight,
all the hurts and wounds, shall not make life despairing. The flowers
we have gathered and held to our hearts shall never wither if love be
left!
"She looks very peaceful, grandfather," said Alfred almost in a
whisper.
"She _is_ at peace; she is with God and nature."
Better influences were stirred into action by the old man's words, and
Alfred sank upon his knees by the bedside, and perhaps loved her
better at that moment than ever he had done before.
"I have heard," continued the old man, "that many faces in death
assume the beauty they possessed in youth. I would give much that it
had been so with your mother, and that you might have seen her face as
it was when she was young."
The old man's thoughts travelled back to the time when he first looked
upon the baby-face of the cold hard grey form before him. He recalled
the thrills of pleasure that hurried through him as he held the pretty
child in his arms, and looked at his wife smiling happily in bed. His
wife had died soon after the birth of this their only child, who had
been a comfort to him until trouble came. It was all over now, and a
new life had commenced for her.
"I have thought sometimes," he said aloud, pursuing the commentary of
his thoughts, "of the strangeness of spirits meeting under certain
conditions of things."
Alfred looked up in wonder, and the old man answered the look.
"Ay, of spirits meeting. If you believe in immortality, you must
believe in the meeting of spirits. What shape or form do they bear?
Here, before us, is my daughter and your mother, an old woman in
looks, aged by a grief that was hard enough to bear without being made
harder by constant brooding. When my wife died, your mother was a
babe, and my wife was almost a girl. So they parted. How do they meet
now? This child of mine looks old enough to be the mother of my wife.
How do they meet?--as mother and babe again? It is a strange thought,
not to be answered. Yet by and by it shall be made plain to us."
Alfred listened and wondered. Although he had not been unaccustomed to
hear his grandfather speak of such matters, he had never before been
impressed by them. As he bowed his head to the bed, other thoughts
than selfish ones came to him,--thoughts which brought with them a
consciousness of something higher than the aspirations by which he had
hitherto been guided. If such influences as those which softened him
and made him better for the time were less fleeting and more
endurable, we should be the gainers. But in most cases they are as
intangible in their effect as a breeze that touches us lightly. Winds
come, and rain, and heavy clouds; and the unhealthful passion and
desire that are stirred by the storm sweep the chastening thought into
a lost oblivion.
The old man looked hopefully upon the form of his grandson in its
attitude of contrition and softened feeling, and he waited long before
he desired Alfred to rise. With a distinct purpose, which he was
anxious not to disguise, he at the same time moved the screen, so
that, as he and Alfred sat at the table, the bed upon which the dead
daughter and mother lay was not hidden from sight.
"Alfred," the old man said, after a slight pause, "have you anything
to tell me?"
"What should I have to tell you, grandfather, except--except to repeat
that I am ashamed of myself for coming home dr---- not quite sober,
and that I beg your pardon?"
The old man did not look up; he toyed with Lily's workbox, which was
on the table, and said gently, pointing to the bed,
"Ask pardon there. But you have done that, I think."
"Yes, grandfather, indeed."
"That is something. At such a time as this we should be considerate of
one another. These occasions happily come but seldom in life, and
sometimes they open the road to amendment. Tell me, Alfred, have I
been kind to you?"
"Yes, grandfather."
"And you look upon me as a friend?"
"Yes."
"Yet you have nothing to say to me--no confidence to repose in me?"
"Nothing particular that I can think of."
A shade of disappointment passed across the old man's face like a
cloud. But a rift of light chased it away as he said,
"You love Lily?"
"Indeed I do that, grandfather."
"She has but you and me, Alfred, as protectors; and she needs
protection. She is surrounded by temptation. I am growing very old; my
strength may fail me any day, and you may be called upon suddenly to
play the part of guardian to her. You are young for it."
"But I'm strong enough, don't fear, grandfather. Lily will be all
right; I'll see to that! I'll take her away from the music-hall soon.
I don't like her being there----"
"You forget, Alfred, she earns our living."
"Yes, I know; but it isn't to be expected that she should always do
that."
"I am glad to hear you say so. Yet you yourself are doing but little
at present; you only earn----"
"Fifteen shillings a week. I know! Tickle and Flint are the stingiest
old brutes in London. Of course I can't do much out of fifteen
shillings a week. I must have clothes, and other things; and I can't
help spending a shilling or two, and somehow or other it all goes. I
must do as other young men do. I asked Tickle and Flint for a rise
once; but the old screws shook their heads, referred to the agreement,
and told me not to ask again."
"They were right. If you are industrious and painstaking, a prosperous
future is before you."
"O, but it's too slow!" exclaimed Alfred, with an impatient shake of
the head. "I am bound to them for three years more before I can make a
start. It's preposterous! Never mind, I'll show them! I know a way."
"What way?" asked the old man suddenly, looking at his grandson.
"Never mind now," replied Alfred evasively. "You'll see by-and-by."
"There is but one way," observed the old man quietly--"the straight
way. Alfred, go to the cupboard, and bring me a small iron box you
will see there."
A sudden paleness came over Alfred's face.
"A small iron box, grandfather?" he echoed, with a curious indecision,
and with a nervous trembling of the lips.
"Yes," said the old man sadly; "you know the box. You have seen it
many times."
Alfred hesitated for one moment only, and then, as if much depended
upon prompt action, walked swiftly to the cupboard, and taking out a
small iron box, laid it before his grandfather. The old man took a key
from his pocket, and put it into the lid, but did not turn the lock.
"I daresay," he said, slowly and distinctly, "you have often wondered
what was in this little box. Every house, every family, has its
skeleton. This box has contained ours."
"Why speak of it to-night, grandfather?" asked Alfred, nervously.
"Surely it is time to go to bed. Leave this matter till to-morrow."
"Nay, it must be spoken of now, in the presence of your dead mother
and my daughter. I asked you a few minutes since if you had anything
to tell me. You answered not in the manner I hoped and expected. I ask
you again now. Have you anything to say to me? Is there anything on
your mind that it would relieve you to speak of? Think a little.
Errors may be repaired; but a time comes when it is too late for
reparation. Look at your mother, and say if it is not too late to
make reparation for unatoned suffering. If I wrong you in speaking
thus to you, I ask your pardon, my boy; but I am speaking with a
strong fear upon me--a fear that a life may be wrecked by wrong-doing,
as was one very near to you."
Alfred, who had listened with eyes averted from the table, caught
eagerly at the last sentence.
"You _do_ me wrong, grandfather," he said, in tones which he vainly
strove to make firm--"a cruel wrong--in speaking in this way to me! I
don't understand you. It is not the first time to-night that you have
thrown out these insinuations. What did you mean by saying to me that
the remorse of a too-late repentance is a bitter experience? And then,
saying, God keep me free from crime?"
"I repeat it, Alfred. Once more I pray to God to keep you from crime!
Once more I say that the remorse of a too-late repentance is the
bitterest of experiences!"
"I deny your right to say these things to me!" cried Alfred violently.
"I deny it entirely. I'll not stand it, grandfather! I shall go!"
"Stay!" exclaimed the old man in a tone of command. "I made a promise
to your mother to speak to you this night of your father."
"My father!" Alfred caught at the table, and his heart beat wildly at
the thought of what was to come.
"I have never spoken of him to you before, but the wishes of the dead
must be respected. Sit down and listen. In this box I have been
accustomed for years to put by small savings for a special purpose, of
which you shall presently hear. Lily's earnings lately and my own
trifling pittance were more than sufficient for our wants, and money
was saved, little by little, until a fortnight ago I had very nearly
one hundred pounds in this box. When you learn to what purpose this
money was to be applied, you will better understand my motives for
speaking of it in this manner. One hundred pounds was the exact sum
required, and I hoped in a month to have counted it out, and to have
completed a tardy atonement for a life's disgrace." Alfred turned to
his grandfather in amazement, but did not speak. "Shilling by
shilling," continued the old man steadily, "the little heap grew and
grew. No miser ever valued gold and silver more than I did the money
this box contained. I hoarded it, counted it, reckoned upon my fingers
how many days would elapse before the sum was reached. No one knew of
it, as I thought, but your mother and I. Certainly no one but we two
knew the purpose to which it was to be applied. Three weeks this
night, leaving the box in the cupboard, I went to bring Lily home from
the hall. I was away for more than an hour. When I returned, I found
your mother strangely agitated, but could not ascertain the cause. I
questioned her, but learned nothing. The following day I opened this
box. It was empty. The money was gone!"
He turned the key and opened the box. It contained nothing but two
pieces of faded yellow paper.
"See," said the old man, directing Alfred's attention to the box;
"there is nothing in it but these sheets of paper. Every shilling was
stolen."
"I see, grandfather," said Alfred, with a furtive look into the box.
"Do you know who took the money?"
"No, I do not know."
"Did mother know?"
"I am not sure."
"How not sure, grandfather?" asked Alfred, with an effort to appear at
his ease. "Did mother speak of it?"
"No; and I spared her the grief that telling her of the loss would
have caused her."
"Then how can you say you are not sure whether mother knew? If she had
known, she would have spoken. You know," added Alfred, his manner,
which had hitherto been moody and embarrassed, brightening a little,
"that I am going to be a lawyer, and lawyers are fond of asking
questions."
The change in Alfred's manner produced a singular effect upon the old
man; it rendered him more sad and troubled. Hitherto he had exhibited
a strange eagerness when Alfred showed most embarrassment; and as this
disappeared, and Alfred became more at his ease, an expression of
absolute grief stole into the old man's face.
"The lock has not been tampered with," observed Alfred, examining the
box carefully; "how could it have been opened? You kept the key in
your pocket always, of course?"
"I have been foolish enough on occasions to leave it on the
mantelshelf, but on those occasions I think I may say with certainty
that the cupboard in which the box was placed was always locked. I was
never without one key or the other. Say that once when this occurred,
the thief, knowing that the box contained money, watched me out of the
house. That then he entered the room, and, going to the cupboard,
found it locked. That, being baffled by this circumstance, he saw upon
the mantelshelf a key, which he guessed was the key of the iron box;
that he took an impression of this key----"
"In what?" interrupted Alfred, almost gaily. "In wax or putty? If he
had either by him he must be a professional burglar. There are plenty
of lodgers in the house, but I hardly suspected there was a person of
that description here."
"I don't think there is a person of that description in the house.
Remember, Alfred, that what I am narrating is merely guess-work."
"Capital guess-work, I should say, grandfather; you ought to have been
a lawyer. But go on."
"That he took an impression of this key," continued the old man, "in
wax or putty, as you suggest. He may have come in prepared, or taking
an impression in either may have been an afterthought. That from this
impression he had a false key made. That on this night three weeks,
when I had gone to the music-hall for Lily, the thief entered the
room, found the cupboard open--it _was_ open, I remember--and
completed the robbery."
"A good case, grandfather, but quite circumstantial, you know."
"Yes, I know, Alfred; quite circumstantial. In my thoughts I go
farther even than this. I think that when the thief was opening the
box, your mother may have been awake, or perhaps in that half-wakeful
condition during which fancy and reality are so strangely commingled
as not to be distinguishable one from the other. I think that, being
in this condition, she saw the robbery committed, and that perhaps she
knew the thief----"
"Grandfather!" The exclamation was forced from Alfred's trembling
lips; he could not have repressed it for his life.
"What is the matter, Alfred?"
"Nothing," stammered the young man; "it is late, and I was not well
when I came home. Go on."
"That knowing the thief, and not knowing whether what she saw was
reality or a trick of the imagination, she dreaded, for a reason you
shall presently be made acquainted with, to assure herself of the
truth. I saw the dread in her watchful face and manner whenever I went
to the cupboard; I saw the subject upon her lips and the fear to
speak. I saw gratefulness struggling with doubt, as day after day went
by and I did not refer to the loss. She yearned to know, and dreaded
to ask. For had she asked and learned the truth, the bitterness of the
past would have been sweet compared to the bitterness of the present!
And so she passed away and was not sure."
"I don't understand all this," said Alfred sullenly; "you are speaking
in enigmas, and I'm not good at solving them. I have no doubt that one
of the lodgers took the money."
"It would not be very difficult to ascertain, Alfred. There were notes
in the box of which I have the numbers, and a shrewd detective would
most likely soon discover where the false key was made. But I have
resolved to let the matter rest; perhaps I, like your mother, dread to
know the truth."
"Suppose you leave it to me, grandfather?" suggested Alfred with
nervous eagerness: "it will be practice for me you know."
"Yes, Alfred, I will leave it to you; I promise not to stir in the
matter myself. You may be able to recover the money, or part of it,
and it may be applied to its original purpose."
Alfred gave a sigh of relief, and his manner brightened again, as he
inquired what was the purpose to which his grandfather referred.
"Do you remember your father?" was the question asked in return by the
old man after a pause.
"But slightly grandfather. I was very young when we lost him."
"When we lost him!" mused the old man. "What memories come to light at
the thought of that time! To what end your mother made me promise to
tell you the story of her life and to speak plainly of your father, it
is not for me to say, but I believe she intended it to act as a
warning to you."
"There again!" exclaimed Alfred fretfully. "Why as a warning?"
"That is for you to answer. Perhaps she saw in you the faults that
brought shame to your father, misery to her. As you sit before me now,
so sat your father when he asked me for my daughter's hand. I did not
know the vices that were in him, or I would have seen her dead at my
feet rather than have given her to him. She loved him and had already
pleaded with me for him. We were living then near Gravesend. I had
money and a house of my own. Remembrance of the happy life she lived
there before she was married caused her last week to express a wish to
be buried there, and I shall respect her wish. Your father, I thought,
had a fair future before him. I gave him my daughter's hand, and they
came to London to live--not in such poor lodgings as these, but after
a better fashion. I gave my daughter such a dower as I could afford,
and they started in life with the fairest of prospects. It was not
long before troubles came; it was not long before your mother learned
that she had married a drunkard--worse, that she had married a
gambler. These things are hard for me, your mother's father, to tell,
and hard for you, your father's son to hear. But they are true, and if
they serve to point a warning finger to the quicksands of life where,
if you do not avoid them, all that is honourable and good for you may
be engulfed, they will not be told in vain! I spare you the pain of a
long recital; I simply tell you that step by step your father sank,
and dragged your mother with him. He would not work, and constant
appeals were made to my purse to supply the means of living. I gave
and gave; spoke to your father again and again; appealed to his self
respect, to his feelings of honour; and received in return--_promises_
of amendment, promises of amendment, promises forgotten as soon as
each temporary want was provided for. Shall I tell you more? Shall I
tell you that, so low did drink and gambling bring him, he raised his
hand against his wife----"
"No, no, sir!" cried Alfred, with a beating heart.
"It is true," said the old man sternly; "it is true, and it must be
told. He raised his hand against the wife who had loved him and been
faithful to him. And yet there was a time when he would have been as
shocked as you are now, had such an accusation been made against him;
but he was weak and easily misled; unstable as water, as Reuben was;
selfish in his desires and pleasures; with no gratitude for love; with
no thought that life has solemn duties, and that there is in it
something purer, brighter, sweeter, than the false glitter that
attracts weak minds; therefore he wrecked his life and broke your
mother's heart--your mother, whose sufferings you can imagine when I
tell you that she was once as trustful as Lily, as tender as Lily! You
were born; Lily was born. The downward course went on, and he and all
of you sank into deeper misery, deeper shame, until I thought the
worst had been reached. But I was mistaken."
The old man paused, reluctant to proceed; but Alfred said,
"Go on, sir; I must hear all now."
"It is right that you should. You will understand how, under these
miserable influences, your mother's nature changed; how gradually,
from a light-hearted trustful girl, she became a hopeless despairing
woman. I gave up my house, and came to live with her. Your father was
away sometimes for days together, and your mother had no dependence
but me. One night late, long after we had retired, your father came
home without warning. He stole into my room stealthily, and roused me.
He had been in hiding for weeks; the police were after him, and were
hunting him down; a warrant was out for him. He told me the shameful
tale. I knew that he was a drunkard and a gambler, but I did not know
before that night that he was a thief!"
Alfred sank on his knees in uncontrollable agitation, and hid his face
in his hands.
"Circumstances had unfortunately placed it in his power to embezzle a
large sum of money; he obtained possession of it, and drank and
gambled it away. What was to be done? The name that I bore had never
had a stain upon it. I and mine had lived honourable lives. I loved
your mother, loved you and Lily. I had no others belonging to me--you
were my all. If I made no attempt to save him, we should in the eyes
of the world be sharers of his crime and his disgrace. His shame would
have clung to you all your lives. He gave me the name of the man whom
he had robbed. By daylight I was in the wronged man's house, by his
bedside. This man loved money better than justice. I represented to
him that he could not have both. He chose the first. I made terms with
him, and sacrificed all but a bare pittance. Between us we compounded
a felony. But I had not sufficient to pay the whole of his claim. I
promised, however, to pay the rest as I could, and he took my word.
Alfred, little by little I have been all my life since that time
wiping off the debt of disgrace. One hundred pounds only remained to
be paid, and very nearly that sum has been stolen from this iron box.
Whoever stole that money stole the honour of our family!"
A long pause ensued. A new day was dawning, and the faint light rested
upon the solemn face of the dead woman, to whom peace had come at
last. Alfred turned his eyes towards it, and shuddered. Then he turned
to the old man, and said in a low voice,
"And my father, sir?"
"In this iron box are two papers," said the old man; "one from him,
promising never to trouble his wife and children more, and one from
the man he wronged, giving quittance of what is set down as a debt.
Your father kept his word. I have never seen him since that time."
Alfred kissed his mother's face, and covered it. Then he held out his
hand to his grandfather, who took it in silence, and looked at him
wistfully. But Alfred only said, humbly,
"I am tired, sir. You have been very good to us, and I will try to
deserve it."
They went to the door, and the old man opened it, and saw Lily lying
on the ground.
"Lily!" he cried, in alarm.
The girl slowly rose and stood before him. Her eyes were closed; she
was asleep.
"Lily, my darling!" he said, tenderly placing his arm round her, "why
have you been sleeping here?"
The girl did not answer, but nestled in his arms as if she found
comfort there. He led her into the room, and she accompanied him
unresistingly.
"She has been overwrought, poor child," said the old man in a troubled
voice.
They stood in silence for a few moments, almost fearing to speak; she
still sleeping, with her sweet face turned towards the morning light,
which, gradually growing brighter, illumined the strange group.