“Did he mention his name?” I inquired.

“No, sir.”

“Did you not ask him for it?”

“Yes, sir. And he said you would be none the wiser if he told me what

it was.”

“Does he look like a begging-letter writer?”

“He looks a little shabby, sir, but he doesn’t talk at all like a

begging-letter writer. He spoke sharp and decided, sir, and said it was

in your interests that he came, and that you would deeply regret it

afterward if you refused to see him.”

“He said that, did he? Show him in at once, then.”

He was shown in immediately: a middling-sized man, with a sharp,

unwholesome-looking face, and with a flippant, reckless manner, dressed

in a style of shabby smartness, eying me with a bold look, and not so

overburdened with politeness as to trouble himself about taking off his

hat when he came in. I had never seen him before in my life, and I

could not form the slightest conjecture from his appearance to guide me

toward guessing his position in the world. He was not a gentleman,

evidently; but as to fixing his whereabouts in the infinite downward

gradations of vagabond existence in London, that was a mystery which I

was totally incompetent to solve.

“Is your name Trowbridge?” he began.

“Yes,” I answered, dryly enough.

“Do you bank with Marsh, Stracey, Fauntleroy & Graham?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Answer my question, and you will know.”

“Very well, I _do_ bank with Marsh, Stracey, Fauntleroy & Graham—and

what then?”

“Draw out every farthing of balance you have got before the bank closes

at five to-day.”

I stared at him in speechless amazement. The words, for an instant,

absolutely petrified me.

“Stare as much as you like,” he proceeded, coolly, “I mean what I say.

Look at your clock there. In twenty minutes it will strike five, and

the bank will be shut. Draw out every farthing, I tell you again, and

look sharp about it.”

“Draw out my money!” I exclaimed, partially recovering myself. “Are you

in your right senses? Do you know that the firm I bank with represents

one of the first houses in the world? What do you mean—you, who are a

total stranger to me—by taking this extraordinary interest in my

affairs? If you want me to act on your advice, why don’t you explain

yourself?”

“I have explained myself. Act on my advice or not, just as you like. It

doesn’t matter to me. I have done what I promised, and there’s an end

of it.”

He turned to the door. The minute-hand of the clock was getting on from

the twenty minutes to the quarter.

“Done what you promised?” I repeated, getting up to stop him.

“Yes,” he said, with his hand on the lock. “I have given my message.

Whatever happens, remember that. Good-afternoon.”

He was gone before I could speak again.

I tried to call after him, but my speech suddenly failed me. It was

very foolish, it was very unaccountable, but there was something in the

man’s last words which had more than half frightened me.

I looked at the clock. The minute-hand was on the quarter.

My office was just far enough from the bank to make it necessary for me

to decide on the instant. If I had had time to think, I am perfectly

certain that I should not have profited by the extraordinary warning

that had just been addressed to me. The suspicious appearance and

manners of the stranger; the outrageous improbability of the inference

against the credit of the bank toward which his words pointed; the

chance that some underhand attempt was being made, by some enemy of

mine, to frighten me into embroiling myself with one of my best

friends, through showing an ignorant distrust of the firm with which he

was associated as partner—all these considerations would unquestionably

have occurred to me if I could have found time for reflection; and, as

a necessary consequence, not one farthing of my balance would have been

taken from the keeping of the bank on that memorable day.

As it was, I had just time enough to act, and not a spare moment for

thinking. Some heavy payments made at the beginning of the week had so

far decreased my balance that the sum to my credit in the banking-book

barely reached fifteen hundred pounds. I snatched up my check-book,

wrote a draft for the whole amount, and ordered one of my clerks to run

to the bank and get it cashed before the doors closed. What impulse

urged me on, except the blind impulse of hurry and bewilderment, I

can’t say. I acted mechanically, under the influence of the vague

inexplicable fear which the man’s extraordinary parting words had

aroused in me, without stopping to analyze my own sensations—almost

without knowing what I was about. In three minutes from the time when

the stranger had closed my door the clerk had started for the bank, and

I was alone again in my room, with my hands as cold as ice and my head

all in a whirl.

I did not recover my control over myself until the clerk came back with

the notes in his hand. He had just got to the bank in the nick of time.

As the cash for my draft was handed to him over the counter, the clock

struck five, and he heard the order given to close the doors.

When I had counted the bank-notes and had locked them up in the safe,

my better sense seemed to come back to me on a sudden. Never have I

reproached myself before or since as I reproached myself at that

moment. What sort of return had I made for Mr. Fauntleroy’s fatherly

kindness to me? I had insulted him by the meanest, the grossest

distrust of the honor and the credit of his house, and that on the word

of an absolute stranger, of a vagabond, if ever there was one yet. It

was madness—downright madness in any man to have acted as I had done. I

could not account for my own inconceivably thoughtless proceeding. I

could hardly believe in it myself. I opened the safe and looked at the

bank-notes again. I locked it once more, and flung the key down on the

table in a fury of vexation against myself. There the money was,

upbraiding me with my own inconceivable folly, telling me in the

plainest terms that I had risked depriving myself of my best and

kindest friend henceforth and forever.

It was necessary to do something at once toward making all the

atonement that lay in my power. I felt that, as soon as I began to cool

down a little. There was but one plain, straight-forward way left now

out of the scrape in which I had been mad enough to involve myself. I

took my hat, and, without stopping an instant to hesitate, hurried off

to the bank to make a clean breast of it to Mr. Fauntleroy.

When I knocked at the private door and asked for him, I was told that

he had not been at the bank for the last two days. One of the other

partners was there, however, and was working at that moment in his own

room.

I sent in my name at once, and asked to see him. He and I were little

better than strangers to each other, and the interview was likely to

be, on that account, unspeakably embarrassing and humiliating on my

side. Still, I could not go home. I could not endure the inaction of

the next day, the Sunday, without having done my best on the spot to

repair the error into which my own folly had led me. Uncomfortable as I

felt at the prospect of the approaching interview, I should have been

far more uneasy in my mind if the partner had declined to see me.

To my relief, the bank porter returned with a message requesting me to

walk in.

What particular form my explanations and apologies took when I tried to

offer them is more than I can tell now. I was so confused and

distressed that I hardly knew what I was talking about at the time. The

one circumstance which I remember clearly is that I was ashamed to

refer to my interview with the strange man, and that I tried to account

for my sudden withdrawal of my balance by referring it to some

inexplicable panic, caused by mischievous reports which I was unable to

trace to their source, and which, for anything I knew to the contrary,

might, after all, have been only started in jest. Greatly to my

surprise, the partner did not seem to notice the lamentable lameness of

my excuses, and did not additionally confuse me by asking any

questions. A weary, absent look, which I had observed on his face when

I came in, remained on it while I was speaking. It seemed to be an

effort to him even to keep up the appearance of listening to me; and

when, at last, I fairly broke down in the middle of a sentence, and

gave up the hope of getting any further, all the answer he gave me was

comprised in these few civil commonplace words:

“Never mind, Mr. Trowbridge; pray don’t think of apologizing. We are

all liable to make mistakes. Say nothing more about it, and bring the

money back on Monday if you still honor us with your confidence.”

He looked down at his papers as if he was anxious to be alone again,

and I had no alternative, of course, but to take my leave immediately.

I went home, feeling a little easier in my mind now that I had paved

the way for making the best practical atonement in my power by bringing

my balance back the first thing on Monday morning. Still, I passed a

weary day on Sunday, reflecting, sadly enough, that I had not yet made

my peace with Mr. Fauntleroy. My anxiety to set myself right with my

generous friend was so intense that I risked intruding myself on his

privacy by calling at his town residence on the Sunday. He was not

there, and his servant could tell me nothing of his whereabouts. There

was no help for it now but to wait till his weekday duties brought him

back to the bank.

I went to business on Monday morning half an hour earlier than usual,

so great was my impatience to restore the amount of that unlucky draft

to my account as soon as possible after the bank opened.

On entering my office, I stopped with a startled feeling just inside

the door. Something serious had happened. The clerks, instead of being

at their desks as usual, were all huddled together in a group, talking

to each other with blank faces. When they saw me, they fell back behind

my managing man, who stepped forward with a circular in his hand.

“Have you heard the news, sir?” he said.

“No. What is it?”

He handed me the circular. My heart gave one violent throb the instant

I looked at it. I felt myself turn pale; I felt my knees trembling

under me.

Marsh, Stracey, Fauntleroy & Graham had stopped payment.

“The circular has not been issued more than half an hour,” continued my

managing clerk. “I have just come from the bank, sir. The doors are

shut; there is no doubt about it. Marsh & Company have stopped this

morning.”

I hardly heard him; I hardly knew who was talking to me. My strange

visitor of the Saturday had taken instant possession of all my

thoughts, and his words of warning seemed to be sounding once more in

my ears. This man had known the true condition of the bank when not

another soul outside the doors was aware of it! The last draft paid

across the counter of that ruined house, when the doors closed on

Saturday, was the draft that I had so bitterly reproached myself for

drawing; the one balance saved from the wreck was my balance. Where had

the stranger got the information that had saved me? and why had he

brought it to my ears?

I was still groping, like a man in the dark, for an answer to those two

questions—I was still bewildered by the unfathomable mystery of doubt

into which they had plunged me—when the discovery of the stopping of

the bank was followed almost immediately by a second shock, far more

dreadful, far heavier to bear, so far as I was concerned, than the

first.

While I and my clerks were still discussing the failure of the firm,

two mercantile men, who were friends of mine, ran into the office, and

overwhelmed us with the news that one of the partners had been arrested

for forgery. Never shall I forget the terrible Monday morning when

those tidings reached me, and when I knew that the partner was Mr.

Fauntleroy.

I was true to him—I can honestly say I was true to my belief in my

generous friend—when that fearful news reached me. My fellow-merchants

had got all the particulars of the arrest. They told me that two of Mr.

Fauntleroy’s fellow-trustees had come up to London to make arrangements

about selling out some stock. On inquiring for Mr. Fauntleroy at the

banking-house, they had been informed that he was not there; and, after

leaving a message for him, they had gone into the City to make an

appointment with their stockbroker for a future day, when their

fellow-trustee might be able to attend. The stock-broker volunteered to

make certain business inquiries on the spot, with a view to saving as

much time as possible, and left them at his office to await his return.

He came back, looking very much amazed, with the information that the

stock had been sold out down to the last five hundred pounds. The

affair was instantly investigated; the document authorizing the selling

out was produced; and the two trustees saw on it, side by side with Mr.

Fauntleroy’s signature, the forged signatures of their own names. This

happened on the Friday, and the trustees, without losing a moment, sent

the officers of justice in pursuit of Mr. Fauntleroy. He was arrested,

brought up before the magistrate, and remanded on the Saturday. On the

Monday I heard from my friends the particulars which I have just

narrated.

But the events of that one morning were not destined to end even yet. I

had discovered the failure of the bank and the arrest of Mr.

Fauntleroy. I was next to be enlightened, in the strangest and the

saddest manner, on the difficult question of his innocence or his

guilt.

Before my friends had left my office—before I had exhausted the

arguments which my gratitude rather than my reason suggested to me in

favor of the unhappy prisoner—a note, marked immediate, was placed in

my hands, which silenced me the instant I looked at it. It was written

from the prison by Mr. Fauntleroy, and it contained two lines only,

entreating me to apply for the necessary order, and to go and see him

immediately.

I shall not attempt to describe the flutter of expectation, the strange

mixture of dread and hope that agitated me when I recognized his

handwriting, and discovered what it was that he desired me to do. I

obtained the order and went to the prison. The authorities, knowing the

dreadful situation in which he stood, were afraid of his attempting to

destroy himself, and had set two men to watch him. One came out as they

opened his cell door. The other, who was bound not to leave him, very

delicately and considerately affected to be looking out of window the

moment I was shown in.

He was sitting on the side of his bed, with his head drooping and his

hands hanging listlessly over his knees when I first caught sight of

him. At the sound of my approach he started to his feet, and, without

speaking a word, flung both his arms round my neck.

My heart swelled up.

“Tell me it’s not true, sir! For God’s sake, tell me it’s not true!”

was all I could say to him.

He never answered—oh me! he never answered, and he turned away his

face.

There was one dreadful moment of silence. He still held his arms round

my neck, and on a sudden he put his lips close to my ear.

“Did you get your money out?” he whispered. “Were you in time on

Saturday afternoon?”

I broke free from him in the astonishment of hearing those words.

“What!” I cried out loud, forgetting the third person at the window.

“That man who brought the message—”

“Hush!” he said, putting his hand on my lips. “There was no better man

to be found, after the officers had taken me—I know no more about him

than you do—I paid him well as a chance messenger, and risked his

cheating me of his errand.”

“_You_ sent him, then!”

“I sent him.”

My story is over, gentlemen. There is no need for me to tell you that

Mr. Fauntleroy was found guilty, and that he died by the hangman’s

hand. It was in my power to soothe his last moments in this world by

taking on myself the arrangement of some of his private affairs, which,

while they remained unsettled, weighed heavily on his mind. They had no

connection with the crimes he had committed, so I could do him the last

little service he was ever to accept at my hands with a clear

conscience.

I say nothing in defense of his character—nothing in palliation of the

offense for which he suffered. But I cannot forget that in the time of

his most fearful extremity, when the strong arm of the law had already

seized him, he thought of the young man whose humble fortunes he had

helped to build; whose heartfelt gratitude he had fairly won; whose

simple faith he was resolved never to betray. I leave it to greater

intellects than mine to reconcile the anomaly of his reckless falsehood

toward others and his steadfast truth toward me. It is as certain as

that we sit here that one of Fauntleroy’s last efforts in this world

was the effort he made to preserve me from being a loser by the trust

that I had placed in him. There is the secret of my strange tenderness

for the memory of a felon; that is why the word villain does somehow

still grate on my heart when I hear it associated with the name—the

disgraced name, I grant you—of the forger Fauntleroy. Pass the bottles,

young gentlemen, and pardon a man of the old school for having so long

interrupted your conversation with a story of the old time.

THE TENTH DAY.

The storm has burst on us in its full fury. Last night the stout old

tower rocked on its foundations.

I hardly ventured to hope that the messenger who brings us our letters

from the village—the postman, as we call him—would make his appearance

this morning; but he came bravely through rain, hail and wind. The old

pony which he usually rides had refused to face the storm, and, sooner

than disappoint us, our faithful postman had boldly started for The

Glen Tower on foot. All his early life had been passed on board ship,

and, at sixty years of age, he had battled his way that morning through

the storm on shore as steadily and as resolutely as ever he had battled

it in his youth through the storm at sea.

I opened the post-bag eagerly. There were two letters for Jessie from

young lady friends; a letter for Owen from a charitable society; a

letter to me upon business; and—on this last day, of all others—no

newspaper!

I sent directly to the kitchen (where the drenched and weary postman

was receiving the hospitable attentions of the servants) to make

inquiries. The disheartening answer returned was that the newspaper

could not have arrived as usual by the morning’s post, or it must have

been put into the bag along with the letters. No such accident as this

had occurred, except on one former occasion, since the beginning of the

year. And now, on the very day when I might have looked confidently for

news of George’s ship, when the state of the weather made the finding

of that news of the last importance to my peace of mind, the paper, by

some inconceivable fatality, had failed to reach me! If there had been

the slightest chance of borrowing a copy in the village, I should have

gone there myself through the tempest to get it. If there had been the

faintest possibility of communicating, in that frightful weather, with

the distant county town, I should have sent there or gone there myself.

I even went the length of speaking to the groom, an old servant whom I

knew I could trust. The man stared at me in astonishment, and then

pointed through the window to the blinding hail and the writhing trees.

“No horse that ever was foaled, sir,” he said, “would face _that_ for

long. It’s almost a miracle that the postman got here alive. He says

himself that he dursn’t go back again. I’ll try it, sir, if you order

me; but if an accident happens, please to remember, whatever becomes of

_me,_ that I warned you beforehand.”

It was only too plain that the servant was right, and I dismissed him.

What I suffered from that one accident of the missing newspaper I am

ashamed to tell. No educated man can conceive how little his acquired

mental advantages will avail him against his natural human inheritance

of superstition, under certain circumstances of fear and suspense,

until he has passed the ordeal in his own proper person. We most of us

soon arrive at a knowledge of the extent of our strength, but we may

pass a lifetime and be still ignorant of the extent of our weakness.

Up to this time I had preserved self-control enough to hide the real

state of my feelings from our guest; but the arrival of the tenth day,

and the unexpected trial it had brought with it, found me at the end of

my resources. Jessie’s acute observation soon showed her that something

had gone wrong, and she questioned me on the subject directly. My mind

was in such a state of confusion that no excuse occurred to me. I left

her precipitately, and entreated Owen and Morgan to keep her in their

company, and out of mine, for the rest of the day. My strength to

preserve my son’s secret had failed me, and my only chance of resisting

the betrayal of it lay in the childish resource of keeping out of the

way. I shut myself into my room till I could bear it no longer. I

watched my opportunity, and paid stolen visits over and over again to

the barometer in the hall. I mounted to Morgan’s rooms at the top of

the tower, and looked out hopelessly through rain-mist and scud for

signs of a carriage on the flooded valley-road below us. I stole down

again to the servants’ hall, and questioned the old postman (half-tipsy

by this time with restorative mulled ale) about his past experience of

storms at sea; drew him into telling long, rambling, wearisome stories,

not one-tenth part of which I heard; and left him with my nervous

irritability increased tenfold by his useless attempts to interest and

inform me. Hour by hour, all through that miserable day, I opened doors

and windows to feel for myself the capricious changes of the storm from

worse to better, and from better to worse again. Now I sent once more

for the groom, when it looked lighter; and now I followed him hurriedly

to the stables, to countermand my own rash orders. My thoughts seemed

to drive over my mind as the rain drove over the earth; the confusion

within me was the image in little of the mightier turmoil that raged

outside.

Before we assembled at the dinner-table, Owen whispered to me that he

had made my excuses to our guest, and that I need dread nothing more

than a few friendly inquiries about my health when I saw her again. The

meal was dispatched hastily and quietly. Toward dusk the storm began to

lessen, and for a moment the idea of sending to the town occurred to me

once more. But, now that the obstacle of weather had been removed, the

obstacle of darkness was set up in its place. I felt this; I felt that

a few more hours would decide the doubt about George, so far as this

last day was concerned, and I determined to wait a little longer,

having already waited so long. My resolution was the more speedily

taken in this matter, as I had now made up my mind, in sheer despair,

to tell my son’s secret to Jessie if he failed to return before she

left us. My reason warned me that I should put myself and my guest in a

false position by taking this step, but something stronger than my

reason forbade me to let her go back to the gay world and its

temptations without first speaking to her of George in the lamentable

event of George not being present to speak for himself.

We were a sad and silent little company when the clock struck eight

that night, and when we met for the last time to hear the last story.

The shadow of the approaching farewell—itself the shade of the long

farewell—rested heavily on our guest’s spirits. The gay dresses which

she had hitherto put on to honor our little ceremony were all packed

up, and the plain gown she wore kept the journey of the morrow cruelly

before her eyes and ours. A quiet melancholy shed its tenderness over

her bright young face as she drew the last number, for form’s sake, out

of the bowl, and handed it to Owen with a faint smile. Even our

positions at the table were altered now. Under the pretense that the

light hurt my eyes, I moved back into a dim corner, to keep my anxious

face out of view. Morgan, looking at me hard, and muttering under his

breath, “Thank Heaven, I never married!” stole his chair by degrees,

with rough, silent kindness, nearer and nearer to mine. Jessie, after a

moment’s hesitation, vacated her place next, and, saying that she

wanted to sit close to one of us on the farewell night, took a chair at

Owen’s side. Sad! sad! we had instinctively broken up already, so far

as our places at the table were concerned, before the reading of the

last story had so much as begun.

It was a relief when Owen’s quiet voice stole over the weary silence,

and pleaded for our attention to the occupation of the night.

“Number Six,” he said, “is the number that chance has left to remain

till the last. The manuscript to which it refers is not, as you may

see, in my handwriting. It consists entirely of passages from the Diary

of a poor hard-working girl—passages which tell an artless story of

love and friendship in humble life. When that story has come to an end,

I may inform you how I became possessed of it. If I did so now, I

should only forestall one important part of the interest of the

narrative. I have made no attempt to find a striking title for it. It

is called, simply and plainly, after the name of the writer of the

Diary—the Story of Anne Rodway.”

In the short pause that Owen made before he began to read, I listened

anxiously for the sound of a traveler’s approach outside. At short

intervals, all through the story, I listened and listened again. Still,

nothing caught my ear but the trickle of the rain and the rush of the

sweeping wind through the valley, sinking gradually lower and lower as

the night advanced.

BROTHER OWEN’S STORY of ANNE RODWAY.

[TAKEN FROM HER DIARY.]

...MARCH 3d, 1840. A long letter today from Robert, which surprised and

vexed me so that I have been sadly behindhand with my work ever since.

He writes in worse spirits than last time, and absolutely declares that

he is poorer even than when he went to America, and that he has made up

his mind to come home to London.

How happy I should be at this news, if he only returned to me a

prosperous man! As it is, though I love him dearly, I cannot look

forward to the meeting him again, disappointed and broken down, and

poorer than ever, without a feeling almost of dread for both of us. I

was twenty-six last birthday and he was thirty-three, and there seems

less chance now than ever of our being married. It is all I can do to

keep myself by my needle; and his prospects, since he failed in the

small stationery business three years ago, are worse, if possible, than

mine.

Not that I mind so much for myself; women, in all ways of life, and

especially in my dressmaking way, learn, I think, to be more patient

than men. What I dread is Robert’s despondency, and the hard struggle

he will have in this cruel city to get his bread, let alone making

money enough to marry me. So little as poor people want to set up in

housekeeping and be happy together, it seems hard that they can’t get

it when they are honest and hearty, and willing to work. The clergyman

said in his sermon last Sunday evening that all things were ordered for

the best, and we are all put into the stations in life that are

properest for us. I suppose he was right, being a very clever gentleman

who fills the church to crowding; but I think I should have understood

him better if I had not been very hungry at the time, in consequence of

my own station in life being nothing but plain needlewoman.

March 4th. Mary Mallinson came down to my room to take a cup of tea

with me. I read her bits of Robert’s letter, to show her that, if she

has her troubles, I have mine too; but I could not succeed in cheering

her. She says she is born to misfortune, and that, as long back as she

can remember, she has never had the least morsel of luck to be thankful

for. I told her to go and look in my glass, and to say if she had

nothing to be thankful for then; for Mary is a very pretty girl, and

would look still prettier if she could be more cheerful and dress

neater. However, my compliment did no good. She rattled her spoon

impatiently in her tea-cup, and said, “If I was only as good a hand at

needle-work as you are, Anne, I would change faces with the ugliest

girl in London.” “Not you!” says I, laughing. She looked at me for a

moment, and shook her head, and was out of the room before I could get

up and stop her. She always runs off in that way when she is going to

cry, having a kind of pride about letting other people see her in

tears.

March 5th. A fright about Mary. I had not seen her all day, as she does

not work at the same place where I do; and in the evening she never

came down to have tea with me, or sent me word to go to her; so, just

before I went to bed, I ran upstairs to say good-night.

She did not answer when I knocked; and when I stepped softly in the

room I saw her in bed, asleep, with her work not half done, lying about

the room in the untidiest way. There was nothing remarkable in that,

and I was just going away on tiptoe, when a tiny bottle and wine-glass

on the chair by her bedside caught my eye. I thought she was ill and

had been taking physic, and looked at the bottle. It was marked in

large letters, “Laudanum—Poison.”

My heart gave a jump as if it was going to fly out of me. I laid hold

of her with both hands, and shook her with all my might. She was

sleeping heavily, and woke slowly, as it seemed to me—but still she did

wake. I tried to pull her out of bed, having heard that people ought to

be always walked up and down when they have taken laudanum but she

resisted, and pushed me away violently.

“Anne!” says she, in a fright. “For gracious sake, what’s come to you!

Are you out of your senses?”

“Oh, Mary! Mary!” says I, holding up the bottle before her, “if I

hadn’t come in when I did—” And I laid hold of her to shake her again.

She looked puzzled at me for a moment—then smiled (the first time I had

seen her do so for many a long day)—then put her arms round my neck.

“Don’t be frightened about me, Anne,” she says; “I am not worth it, and

there is no need.”

“No need!” says I, out of breath—“no need, when the bottle has got

Poison marked on it!”

“Poison, dear, if you take it all,” says Mary, looking at me very

tenderly, “and a night’s rest if you only take a little.”

I watched her for a moment, doubtful whether I ought to believe what

she said or to alarm the house. But there was no sleepiness now in her

eyes, and nothing drowsy in her voice; and she sat up in bed quite

easily, without anything to support her.

“You have given me a dreadful fright, Mary,” says I, sitting down by

her in the chair, and beginning by this time to feel rather faint after

being startled so.

She jumped out of bed to get me a drop of water, and kissed me, and

said how sorry she was, and how undeserving of so much interest being

taken in her. At the same time, she tried to possess herself of the

laudanum bottle which I still kept cuddled up tight in my own hands.

“No,” says I. “You have got into a low-spirited, despairing way. I

won’t trust you with it.”

“I am afraid I can’t do without it,” says Mary, in her usual quiet,

hopeless voice. “What with work that I can’t get through as I ought,

and troubles that I can’t help thinking of, sleep won’t come to me

unless I take a few drops out of that bottle. Don’t keep it away from

me, Anne; it’s the only thing in the world that makes me forget

myself.”

“Forget yourself!” says I. “You have no right to talk in that way, at

your age. There’s something horrible in the notion of a girl of

eighteen sleeping with a bottle of laudanum by her bedside every night.

We all of us have our troubles. Haven’t I got mine?”

“You can do twice the work I can, twice as well as me,” says Mary. “You

are never scolded and rated at for awkwardness with your needle, and I

always am. You can pay for your room every week, and I am three weeks

in debt for mine.”

“A little more practice,” says I, “and a little more courage, and you

will soon do better. You have got all your life before you—”

“I wish I was at the end of it,” says she, breaking in. “I am alone in

the world, and my life’s no good to me.”

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself for saying so,” says I. “Haven’t

you got me for a friend? Didn’t I take a fancy to you when first you

left your step-mother and came to lodge in this house? And haven’t I

been sisters with you ever since? Suppose you are alone in the world,

am I much better off? I’m an orphan like you. I’ve almost as many

things in pawn as you; and, if your pockets are empty, mine have only

got ninepence in them, to last me for all the rest of the week.”

“Your father and mother were honest people,” says Mary, obstinately.

“My mother ran away from home, and died in a hospital. My father was

always drunk, and always beating me. My step-mother is as good as dead,

for all she cares about me. My only brother is thousands of miles away

in foreign parts, and never writes to me, and never helps me with a

farthing. My sweetheart—”

She stopped, and the red flew into her face. I knew, if she went on

that way, she would only get to the saddest part of her sad story, and

give both herself and me unnecessary pain.

“_My_ sweetheart is too poor to marry me, Mary,” I said, “so I’m not so

much to be envied even there. But let’s give over disputing which is

worst off. Lie down in bed, and let me tuck you up. I’ll put a stitch

or two into that work of yours while you go to sleep.”

Instead of doing what I told her, she burst out crying (being very like

a child in some of her ways), and hugged me so tight round the neck

that she quite hurt me. I let her go on till she had worn herself out,

and was obliged to lie down. Even then, her last few words before she

dropped off to sleep were such as I was half sorry, half frightened to

hear.

“I won’t plague you long, Anne,” she said. “I haven’t courage to go out

of the world as you seem to fear I shall; but I began my life

wretchedly, and wretchedly I am sentenced to end it.”

It was of no use lecturing her again, for she closed her eyes.

I tucked her up as neatly as I could, and put her petticoat over her,

for the bedclothes were scanty, and her hands felt cold. She looked so

pretty and delicate as she fell asleep that it quite made my heart ache

to see her, after such talk as we had held together. I just waited long

enough to be quite sure that she was in the land of dreams, then

emptied the horrible laudanum bottle into the grate, took up her

half-done work, and, going out softly, left her for that night.

March 6th. Sent off a long letter to Robert, begging and entreating him

not to be so down-hearted, and not to leave America without making

another effort. I told him I could bear any trial except the

wretchedness of seeing him come back a helpless, broken-down man,

trying uselessly to begin life again when too old for a change.

It was not till after I had posted my own letter, and read over part of

Robert’s again, that the suspicion suddenly floated across me, for the

first time, that he might have sailed for England immediately after

writing to me. There were expressions in the letter which seemed to

indicate that he had some such headlong project in his mind. And yet,

surely, if it were so, I ought to have noticed them at the first

reading. I can only hope I am wrong in my present interpretation of

much of what he has written to me—hope it earnestly for both our sakes.

This has been a doleful day for me. I have been uneasy about Robert and

uneasy about Mary. My mind is haunted by those last words of hers: “I

began my life wretchedly, and wretchedly I am sentenced to end it.” Her

usual melancholy way of talking never produced the same impression on

me that I feel now. Perhaps the discovery of the laudanum-bottle is the

cause of this. I would give many a hard day’s work to know what to do

for Mary’s good. My heart warmed to her when we first met in the same

lodging-house two years ago, and, although I am not one of the

over-affectionate sort myself, I feel as if I could go to the world’s

end to serve that girl. Yet, strange to say, if I was asked why I was

so fond of her, I don’t think I should know how to answer the question.

March 7th. I am almost ashamed to write it down, even in this journal,

which no eyes but mine ever look on; yet I must honestly confess to

myself that here I am, at nearly one in the morning, sitting up in a

state of serious uneasiness because Mary has not yet come home.

I walked with her this morning to the place where she works, and tried

to lead her into talking of the relations she has got who are still

alive. My motive in doing this was to see if she dropped anything in

the course of conversation which might suggest a way of helping her

interests with those who are bound to give her all reasonable

assistance. But the little I could get her to say to me led to nothing.

Instead of answering my questions about her step-mother and her

brother, she persisted at first, in the strangest way, in talking of

her father, who was dead and gone, and of one Noah Truscott, who had

been the worst of all the bad friends he had, and had taught him to

drink and game. When I did get her to speak of her brother, she only

knew that he had gone out to a place called Assam, where they grew tea.

How he was doing, or whether he was there still, she did not seem to

know, never having heard a word from him for years and years past.

As for her step-mother, Mary not unnaturally flew into a passion the

moment I spoke of her. She keeps an eating-house at Hammersmith, and

could have given Mary good employment in it; but she seems always to

have hated her, and to have made her life so wretched with abuse and

ill usage that she had no refuge left but to go away from home, and do

her best to make a living for herself. Her husband (Mary’s father)

appears to have behaved badly to her, and, after his death, she took

the wicked course of revenging herself on her step-daughter. I felt,

after this, that it was impossible Mary could go back, and that it was

the hard necessity of her position, as it is of mine, that she should

struggle on to make a decent livelihood without assistance from any of

her relations. I confessed as much as this to her; but I added that I

would try to get her employment with the persons for whom I work, who

pay higher wages, and show a little more indulgence to those under them

than the people to whom she is now obliged to look for support.

I spoke much more confidently than I felt about being able to do this,

and left her, as I thought, in better spirits than usual. She promised

to be back to-night to tea at nine o’clock, and now it is nearly one in

the morning, and she is not home yet. If it was any other girl I should

not feel uneasy, for I should make up my mind that there was extra work

to be done in a hurry, and that they were keeping her late, and I

should go to bed. But Mary is so unfortunate in everything that happens

to her, and her own melancholy talk about herself keeps hanging on my

mind so, that I have fears on her account which would not distress me

about any one else. It seems inexcusably silly to think such a thing,

much more to write it down; but I have a kind of nervous dread upon me

that some accident—

What does that loud knocking at the street door mean? And those voices

and heavy footsteps outside? Some lodger who has lost his key, I

suppose. And yet, my heart—What a coward I have become all of a sudden!

More knocking and louder voices. I must run to the door and see what it

is. Oh, Mary! Mary! I hope I am not going to have another fright about

you, but I feel sadly like it.

March 8th.

March 9th.

March 10th.

March 11th. Oh me! all the troubles I have ever had in my life are as

nothing to the trouble I am in now. For three days I have not been able

to write a single line in this journal, which I have kept so regularly

ever since I was a girl. For three days I have not once thought of

Robert—I, who am always thinking of him at other times.

My poor, dear, unhappy Mary! the worst I feared for you on that night

when I sat up alone was far below the dreadful calamity that has really

happened. How can I write about it, with my eyes full of tears and my

hand all of a tremble? I don’t even know why I am sitting down at my

desk now, unless it is habit that keeps me to my old every-day task, in

spite of all the grief and fear which seem to unfit me entirely for

performing it.

The people of the house were asleep and lazy on that dreadful night,

and I was the first to open the door. Never, never could I describe in

writing, or even say in plain talk, though it is so much easier, what I

felt when I saw two policemen come in, carrying between them what

seemed to me to be a dead girl, and that girl Mary! I caught hold of

her, and gave a scream that must have alarmed the whole house; for

frightened people came crowding downstairs in their night-dresses.

There was a dreadful confusion and noise of loud talking, but I heard

nothing and saw nothing till I had got her into my room and laid on my

bed. I stooped down, frantic-like, to kiss her, and saw an awful mark

of a blow on the left temple, and felt, at the same time, a feeble

flutter of her breath on my cheek. The discovery that she was not dead

seemed to give me back my senses again. I told one of the policemen

where the nearest doctor was to be found, and sat down by the bedside

while he was gone, and bathed her poor head with cold water. She never

opened her eyes, or moved, or spoke; but she breathed, and that was

enough for me, because it was enough for life.

The policeman left in the room was a big, thick-voiced, pompous man,

with a horrible unfeeling pleasure in hearing himself talk before an

assembly of frightened, silent people. He told us how he had found her,

as if he had been telling a story in a tap-room, and began with saying:

“I don’t think the young woman was drunk.”

Drunk! My Mary, who might have been a born lady for all the spirits she

ever touched—drunk! I could have struck the man for uttering the word,

with her lying—poor suffering angel—so white, and still, and helpless

before him. As it was, I gave him a look, but he was too stupid to

understand it, and went droning on, saying the same thing over and over

again in the same words. And yet the story of how they found her was,

like all the sad stories I have ever heard told in real life, so very,

very short. They had just seen her lying along on the curbstone a few

streets off, and had taken her to the station-house. There she had been

searched, and one of my cards, that I gave to ladies who promise me

employment, had been found in her pocket, and so they had brought her

to our house. This was all the man really had to tell. There was nobody

near her when she was found, and no evidence to show how the blow on

her temple had been inflicted.

What a time it was before the doctor came, and how dreadful to hear him

say, after he had looked at her, that he was afraid all the medical men

in the world could be of no use here! He could not get her to swallow

anything; and the more he tried to bring her back to her senses the

less chance there seemed of his succeeding. He examined the blow on her

temple, and said he thought she must have fallen down in a fit of some

sort, and struck her head against the pavement, and so have given her

brain what he was afraid was a fatal shake. I asked what was to be done

if she showed any return to sense in the night. He said: “Send for me

directly”; and stopped for a little while afterward stroking her head

gently with his hand, and whispering to himself: “Poor girl, so young

and so pretty!” I had felt, some minutes before, as if I could have

struck the policeman, and I felt now as if I could have thrown my arms

round the doctor’s neck and kissed him. I did put out my hand when he

took up his hat, and he shook it in the friendliest way. “Don’t hope,

my dear,” he said, and went out.

The rest of the lodgers followed him, all silent and shocked, except

the inhuman wretch who owns the house and lives in idleness on the high

rents he wrings from poor people like us.

“She’s three weeks in my debt,” says he, with a frown and an oath.

“Where the devil is my money to come from now?” Brute! brute!

I had a long cry alone with her that seemed to ease my heart a little.

She was not the least changed for the better when I had wiped away the

tears and could see her clearly again. I took up her right hand, which

lay nearest to me. It was tight clinched. I tried to unclasp the

fingers, and succeeded after a little time. Something dark fell out of

the palm of her hand as I straightened it.

I picked the thing up, and smoothed it out, and saw that it was an end

of a man’s cravat.

A very old, rotten, dingy strip of black silk, with thin lilac lines,

all blurred and deadened with dirt, running across and across the stuff

in a sort of trellis-work pattern. The small end of the cravat was

hemmed in the usual way, but the other end was all jagged, as if the

morsel then in my hands had been torn off violently from the rest of

the stuff. A chill ran all over me as I looked at it; for that poor,

stained, crumpled end of a cravat seemed to be saying to me, as though

it had been in plain words: “If she dies, she has come to her death by

foul means, and I am the witness of it.”

I had been frightened enough before, lest she should die suddenly and

quietly without my knowing it, while we were alone together; but I got

into a perfect agony now, for fear this last worst affliction should

take me by surprise. I don’t suppose five minutes passed all that woful

night through without my getting up and putting my cheek close to her

mouth, to feel if the faint breaths still fluttered out of it. They

came and went just the same as at first, though the fright I was in

often made me fancy they were stilled forever.

Just as the church clocks were striking four I was startled by seeing

the room door open. It was only Dusty Sal (as they call her in the

house), the maid-of-all-work. She was wrapped up in the blanket off her

bed; her hair was all tumbled over her face, and her eyes were heavy

with sleep as she came up to the bedside where I was sitting.

“I’ve two hours good before I begin to work,” says she, in her hoarse,

drowsy voice, “and I’ve come to sit up and take my turn at watching

her. You lay down and get some sleep on the rug. Here’s my blanket for

you. I don’t mind the cold—it will keep me awake.”

“You are very kind—very, very kind and thoughtful, Sally,” says I, “but

I am too wretched in my mind to want sleep, or rest, or to do anything

but wait where I am, and try and hope for the best.”

“Then I’ll wait, too,” says Sally. “I must do something; if there’s

nothing to do but waiting, I’ll wait.”

And she sat down opposite me at the foot of the bed, and drew the

blanket close round her with a shiver.

“After working so hard as you do, I’m sure you must want all the little

rest you can get,” says I.

“Excepting only you,” says Sally, putting her heavy arm very clumsily,

but very gently at the same time, round Mary’s feet, and looking hard

at the pale, still face on the pillow. “Excepting you, she’s the only

soul in this house as never swore at me, or give me a hard word that I

can remember. When you made puddings on Sundays, and give her half, she

always give me a bit. The rest of ’em calls me Dusty Sal. Excepting

only you, again, she always called me Sally, as if she knowed me in a

friendly way. I ain’t no good here, but I ain’t no harm, neither; and I

shall take my turn at the sitting up—that’s what I shall do!”

She nestled her head down close at Mary’s feet as she spoke those

words, and said no more. I once or twice thought she had fallen asleep,

but whenever I looked at her her heavy eyes were always wide open. She

never changed her position an inch till the church clocks struck six;

then she gave one little squeeze to Mary’s feet with her arm, and

shuffled out of the room without a word. A minute or two after, I heard

her down below, lighting the kitchen fire just as usual.

A little later the doctor stepped over before his breakfast-time to see

if there had been any change in the night. He only shook his head when

he looked at her as if there was no hope. Having nobody else to consult

that I could put trust in, I showed him the end of the cravat, and told

him of the dreadful suspicion that had arisen in my mind when I found

it in her hand.

“You must keep it carefully, and produce it at the inquest,” he said.

“I don’t know, though, that it is likely to lead to anything. The bit

of stuff may have been lying on the pavement near her, and her hand may

have unconsciously clutched it when she fell. Was she subject to

fainting-fits?”

“Not more so, sir, than other young girls who are hard-worked and

anxious, and weakly from poor living,” I answered.

“I can’t say that she may not have got that blow from a fall,” the

doctor went on, looking at her temple again. “I can’t say that it

presents any positive appearance of having been inflicted by another

person. It will be important, however, to ascertain what state of

health she was in last night. Have you any idea where she was yesterday

evening?”

I told him where she was employed at work, and said I imagined she must

have been kept there later than usual.

“I shall pass the place this morning” said the doctor, “in going my

rounds among my patients, and I’ll just step in and make some

inquiries.”

I thanked him, and we parted. Just as he was closing the door he looked

in again.

“Was she your sister?” he asked.

“No, sir, only my dear friend.”

He said nothing more, but I heard him sigh as he shut the door softly.

Perhaps he once had a sister of his own, and lost her? Perhaps she was

like Mary in the face?

The doctor was hours gone away. I began to feel unspeakably forlorn and

helpless, so much so as even to wish selfishly that Robert might really

have sailed from America, and might get to London in time to assist and

console me.

No living creature came into the room but Sally. The first time she

brought me some tea; the second and third times she only looked in to

see if there was any change, and glanced her eye toward the bed. I had

never known her so silent before; it seemed almost as if this dreadful

accident had struck her dumb. I ought to have spoken to her, perhaps,

but there was something in her face that daunted me; and, besides, the

fever of anxiety I was in began to dry up my lips, as if they would

never be able to shape any words again. I was still tormented by that

frightful apprehension of the past night, that she would die without my

knowing it—die without saying one word to clear up the awful mystery of

this blow, and set the suspicions at rest forever which I still felt

whenever my eyes fell on the end of the old cravat.

At last the doctor came back.

“I think you may safely clear your mind of any doubts to which that bit

of stuff may have given rise,” he said. “She was, as you supposed,

detained late by her employers, and she fainted in the work-room. They

most unwisely and unkindly let her go home alone, without giving her

any stimulant, as soon as she came to her senses again. Nothing is more

probable, under these circumstances, than that she should faint a

second time on her way here. A fall on the pavement, without any

friendly arm to break it, might have produced even a worse injury than

the injury we see. I believe that the only ill usage to which the poor

girl was exposed was the neglect she met with in the work-room.”

“You speak very reasonably, I own, sir,” said I, not yet quite

convinced. “Still, perhaps she may—”

“My poor girl, I told you not to hope,” said the doctor, interrupting

me. He went to Mary, and lifted up her eyelids, and looked at her eyes

while he spoke; then added, “If you still doubt how she came by that

blow, do not encourage the idea that any words of hers will ever

enlighten you. She will never speak again.”

“Not dead! Oh, sir, don’t say she’s dead!”

“She is dead to pain and sorrow—dead to speech and recognition. There

is more animation in the life of the feeblest insect that flies than in

the life that is left in her. When you look at her now, try to think

that she is in heaven. That is the best comfort I can give you, after

telling the hard truth.”

I did not believe him. I could not believe him. So long as she breathed

at all, so long I was resolved to hope. Soon after the doctor was gone,

Sally came in again, and found me listening (if I may call it so) at

Mary’s lips. She went to where my little hand-glass hangs against the

wall, took it down, and gave it to me.

“See if the breath marks it,” she said.

Yes; her breath did mark it, but very faintly. Sally cleaned the glass

with her apron, and gave it back to me. As she did so, she half

stretched out her hand to Mary’s face, but drew it in again suddenly,

as if she was afraid of soiling Mary’s delicate skin with her hard,

horny fingers. Going out, she stopped at the foot of the bed, and

scraped away a little patch of mud that was on one of Mary’s shoes.

“I always used to clean ’em for her,” said Sally, “to save her hands

from getting blacked. May I take ’em off now, and clean ’em again?”

I nodded my head, for my heart was too heavy to speak. Sally took the

shoes off with a slow, awkward tenderness, and went out.

An hour or more must have passed, when, putting the glass over her lips

again, I saw no mark on it. I held it closer and closer. I dulled it

accidentally with my own breath, and cleaned it. I held it over her

again. Oh, Mary, Mary, the doctor was right! I ought to have only

thought of you in heaven!

Dead, without a word, without a sign—without even a look to tell the

true story of the blow that killed her! I could not call to anybody, I

could not cry, I could not so much as put the glass down and give her a

kiss for the last time. I don’t know how long I had sat there with my

eyes burning, and my hands deadly cold, when Sally came in with the

shoes cleaned, and carried carefully in her apron for fear of a soil

touching them. At the sight of that—

I can write no more. My tears drop so fast on the paper that I can see

nothing.

March 12th. She died on the afternoon of the eighth. On the morning of

the ninth, I wrote, as in duty bound, to her stepmother at Hammersmith.

There was no answer. I wrote again; my letter was returned to me this

morning unopened. For all that woman cares, Mary might be buried with a

pauper’s funeral; but this shall never be, if I pawn everything about

me, down to the very gown that is on my back. The bare thought of Mary

being buried by the workhouse gave me the spirit to dry my eyes, and go

to the undertaker’s, and tell him how I was placed. I said if he would

get me an estimate of all that would have to be paid, from first to

last, for the cheapest decent funeral that could be had, I would

undertake to raise the money. He gave me the estimate, written in this

way, like a common bill:

A walking funeral complete............Pounds 1 13 8

Vestry.......................................0 4 4

Rector.......................................0 4 4

Clerk........................................0 1 0

Sexton.......................................0 1 0

Beadle.......................................0 1 0

Bell.........................................0 1 0

Six feet of ground...........................0 2 0

———

Total Pounds 2 8 4

If I had the heart to give any thought to it, I should be inclined to

wish that the Church could afford to do without so many small charges

for burying poor people, to whose friends even shillings are of

consequence. But it is useless to complain; the money must be raised at

once. The charitable doctor—a poor man himself, or he would not be

living in our neighborhood—has subscribed ten shillings toward the

expenses; and the coroner, when the inquest was over, added five more.

Perhaps others may assist me. If not, I have fortunately clothes and

furniture of my own to pawn. And I must set about parting with them

without delay, for the funeral is to be to-morrow, the thirteenth.

The funeral—Mary’s funeral! It is well that the straits and

difficulties I am in keep my mind on the stretch. If I had leisure to

grieve, where should I find the courage to face to-morrow?

Thank God they did not want me at the inquest. The verdict given, with

the doctor, the policeman, and two persons from the place where she

worked, for witnesses, was Accidental Death. The end of the cravat was

produced, and the coroner said that it was certainly enough to suggest

suspicion; but the jury, in the absence of any positive evidence, held

to the doctor’s notion that she had fainted and fallen down, and so got

the blow on her temple. They reproved the people where Mary worked for

letting her go home alone, without so much as a drop of brandy to

support her, after she had fallen into a swoon from exhaustion before

their eyes. The coroner added, on his own account, that he thought the

reproof was thoroughly deserved. After that, the cravat-end was given

back to me by my own desire, the police saying that they could make no

investigations with such a slight clew to guide them. They may think

so, and the coroner, and doctor, and jury may think so; but, in spite

of all that has passed, I am now more firmly persuaded than ever that

there is some dreadful mystery in connection with that blow on my poor

lost Mary’s temple which has yet to be revealed, and which may come to

be discovered through this very fragment of a cravat that I found in

her hand. I cannot give any good reason for why I think so, but I know

that if I had been one of the jury at the inquest, nothing should have

induced me to consent to such a verdict as Accidental Death.

After I had pawned my things, and had begged a small advance of wages

at the place where I work to make up what was still wanting to pay for

Mary’s funeral, I thought I might have had a little quiet time to

prepare myself as I best could for to-morrow. But this was not to be.

When I got home the landlord met me in the passage. He was in liquor,

and more brutal and pitiless in his way of looking and speaking than

ever I saw him before.

“So you’re going to be fool enough to pay for her funeral, are you?”

were his first words to me.

I was too weary and heart-sick to answer; I only tried to get by him to

my own door.

“If you can pay for burying her,” he went on, putting himself in front

of me, “you can pay her lawful debts. She owes me three weeks’ rent.

Suppose you raise the money for that next, and hand it over to me? I’m

not joking, I can promise you. I mean to have my rent; and, if somebody

don’t pay it, I’ll have her body seized and sent to the workhouse!”

Between terror and disgust, I thought I should have dropped to the

floor at his feet. But I determined not to let him see how he had

horrified me, if I could possibly control myself. So I mustered

resolution enough to answer that I did not believe the law gave him any

such wicked power over the dead.

“I’ll teach you what the law is!” he broke in; “you’ll raise money to

bury her like a born lady, when she’s died in my debt, will you? And

you think I’ll let my rights be trampled upon like that, do you? See if

I do! I’ll give you till to-night to think about it. If I don’t have

the three weeks she owes before to-morrow, dead or alive, she shall go

to the workhouse!”

This time I managed to push by him, and get to my own room, and lock

the door in his face. As soon as I was alone I fell into a breathless,

suffocating fit of crying that seemed to be shaking me to pieces. But

there was no good and no help in tears; I did my best to calm myself

after a little while, and tried to think who I should run to for help

and protection.

The doctor was the first friend I thought of; but I knew he was always

out seeing his patients of an afternoon. The beadle was the next person

who came into my head. He had the look of being a very dignified,

unapproachable kind of man when he came about the inquest; but he

talked to me a little then, and said I was a good girl, and seemed, I

really thought, to pity me. So to him I determined to apply in my great

danger and distress.

Most fortunately, I found him at home. When I told him of the

landlord’s infamous threats, and of the misery I was suffering in

consequence of them, he rose up with a stamp of his foot, and sent for

his gold-laced cocked hat that he wears on Sundays, and his long cane

with the ivory top to it.

“I’ll give it to him,” said the beadle. “Come along with me, my dear. I

think I told you you were a good girl at the inquest—if I didn’t, I

tell you so now. I’ll give it to him! Come along with me.”

And he went out, striding on with his cocked hat and his great cane,

and I followed him.

“Landlord!” he cries, the moment he gets into the passage, with a thump

of his cane on the floor, “landlord!” with a look all round him as if

he was King of England calling to a beast, “come out!”

The moment the landlord came out and saw who it was, his eye fixed on

the cocked hat, and he turned as pale as ashes.

“How dare you frighten this poor girl?” says the beadle. “How dare you

bully her at this sorrowful time with threatening to do what you know

you can’t do? How dare you be a cowardly, bullying, braggadocio of an

unmanly landlord? Don’t talk to me: I won’t hear you. I’ll pull you up,

sir. If you say another word to the young woman, I’ll pull you up

before the authorities of this metropolitan parish. I’ve had my eye on

you, and the authorities have had their eye on you, and the rector has

had his eye on you. We don’t like the look of your small shop round the

corner; we don’t like the look of some of the customers who deal at it;

we don’t like disorderly characters; and we don’t by any manner of

means like you. Go away. Leave the young woman alone. Hold your tongue,

or I’ll pull you up. If he says another word, or interferes with you

again, my dear, come and tell me; and, as sure as he’s a bullying,

unmanly, braggadocio of a landlord, I’ll pull him up.”

With those words the beadle gave a loud cough to clear his throat, and

another thump of his cane on the floor, and so went striding out again

before I could open my lips to thank him. The landlord slunk back into

his room without a word. I was left alone and unmolested at last, to

strengthen myself for the hard trial of my poor love’s funeral

to-morrow.

March 13th. It is all over. A week ago her head rested on my bosom. It

is laid in the churchyard now; the fresh earth lies heavy over her

grave. I and my dearest friend, the sister of my love, are parted in

this world forever.

I followed her funeral alone through the cruel, hustling streets.

Sally, I thought, might have offered to go with me, but she never so

much as came into my room. I did not like to think badly of her for

this, and I am glad I restrained myself; for, when we got into the

churchyard, among the two or three people who were standing by the open

grave I saw Sally, in her ragged gray shawl and her patched black

bonnet. She did not seem to notice me till the last words of the

service had been read and the clergyman had gone away; then she came up

and spoke to me.

“I couldn’t follow along with you,” she said, looking at her ragged

shawl, “for I haven’t a decent suit of clothes to walk in. I wish I

could get vent in crying for her like you, but I can’t; all the

crying’s been drudged and starved out of me long ago. Don’t you think

about lighting your fire when you get home. I’ll do that, and get you a

drop of tea to comfort you.”

She seemed on the point of saying a kind word or two more, when, seeing

the beadle coming toward me, she drew back, as if she was afraid of

him, and left the churchyard.

“Here’s my subscription toward the funeral,” said the beadle, giving me

back his shilling fee. “Don’t say anything about it, for it mightn’t be

approved of in a business point of view, if it came to some people’s

ears. Has the landlord said anything more to you? no, I thought not.

He’s too polite a man to give me the trouble of pulling him up. Don’t

stop crying here, my dear. Take the advice of a man familiar with

funerals, and go home.”

I tried to take his advice, but it seemed like deserting Mary to go

away when all the rest forsook her.

I waited about till the earth was thrown in and the man had left the

place, then I returned to the grave. Oh, how bare and cruel it was,

without so much as a bit of green turf to soften it! Oh, how much

harder it seemed to live than to die, when I stood alone looking at the

heavy piled-up lumps of clay, and thinking of what was hidden beneath

them!

I was driven home by my own despairing thoughts. The sight of Sally

lighting the fire in my room eased my heart a little. When she was

gone, I took up Robert’s letter again to keep my mind employed on the

only subject in the world that has any interest for it now.

This fresh reading increased the doubts I had already felt relative to

his having remained in America after writing to me. My grief and

forlornness have made a strange alteration in my former feelings about

his coming back. I seem to have lost all my prudence and self-denial,

and to care so little about his poverty, and so much about himself,

that the prospect of his return is really the only comforting thought I

have now to support me. I know this is weak in me, and that his coming

back can lead to no good result for either of us; but he is the only

living being left me to love; and—I can’t explain it—but I want to put

my arms round his neck and tell him about Mary.

March 14th. I locked up the end of the cravat in my writing-desk. No

change in the dreadful suspicions that the bare sight of it rouses in

me. I tremble if I so much as touch it.

March 15th, 16th, 17th. Work, work, work. If I don’t knock up, I shall

be able to pay back the advance in another week; and then, with a

little more pinching in my daily expenses, I may succeed in saving a

shilling or two to get some turf to put over Mary’s grave, and perhaps

even a few flowers besides to grow round it.

March 18th. Thinking of Robert all day long. Does this mean that he is

really coming back? If it does, reckoning the distance he is at from

New York, and the time ships take to get to England, I might see him by

the end of April or the beginning of May.

March 19th. I don’t remember my mind running once on the end of the

cravat yesterday, and I am certain I never looked at it; yet I had the

strangest dream concerning it at night. I thought it was lengthened

into a long clew, like the silken thread that led to Rosamond’s Bower.

I thought I took hold of it, and followed it a little way, and then got

frightened and tried to go back, but found that I was obliged, in spite

of myself, to go on. It led me through a place like the Valley of the

Shadow of Death, in an old print I remember in my mother’s copy of the

Pilgrim’s Progress. I seemed to be months and months following it

without any respite, till at last it brought me, on a sudden, face to

face with an angel whose eyes were like Mary’s. He said to me, “Go on,

still; the truth is at the end, waiting for you to find it.” I burst

out crying, for the angel had Mary’s voice as well as Mary’s eyes, and

woke with my heart throbbing and my cheeks all wet. What is the meaning

of this? Is it always superstitious, I wonder, to believe that dreams

may come true?

* * * * * * *

April 30th. I have found it! God knows to what results it may lead; but

it is as certain as that I am sitting here before my journal that I

have found the cravat from which the end in Mary’s hand was torn. I

discovered it last night; but the flutter I was in, and the nervousness

and uncertainty I felt, prevented me from noting down this most

extraordinary and unexpected event at the time when it happened. Let me

try if I can preserve the memory of it in writing now.

I was going home rather late from where I work, when I suddenly

remembered that I had forgotten to buy myself any candles the evening

before, and that I should be left in the dark if I did not manage to

rectify this mistake in some way. The shop close to me, at which I

usually deal, would be shut up, I knew, before I could get to it; so I

determined to go into the first place I passed where candles were sold.

This turned out to be a small shop with two counters, which did

business on one side in the general grocery way, and on the other in

the rag and bottle and old iron line.

There were several customers on the grocery side when I went in, so I

waited on the empty rag side till I could be served. Glancing about me

here at the worthless-looking things by which I was surrounded, my eye

was caught by a bundle of rags lying on the counter, as if they had

just been brought in and left there. From mere idle curiosity, I looked

close at the rags, and saw among them something like an old cravat. I

took it up directly and held it under a gaslight. The pattern was

blurred lilac lines running across and across the dingy black ground in

a trellis-work form. I looked at the ends: one of them was torn off.

How I managed to hide the breathless surprise into which this discovery

threw me I cannot say, but I certainly contrived to steady my voice

somehow, and to ask for my candles calmly when the man and woman

serving in the shop, having disposed of their other customers, inquired

of me what I wanted.

As the man took down the candles, my brain was all in a whirl with

trying to think how I could get possession of the old cravat without

exciting any suspicion. Chance, and a little quickness on my part in

taking advantage of it, put the object within my reach in a moment. The

man, having counted out the candles, asked the woman for some paper to

wrap them in. She produced a piece much too small and flimsy for the

purpose, and declared, when he called for something better, that the

day’s supply of stout paper was all exhausted. He flew into a rage with

her for managing so badly. Just as they were beginning to quarrel

violently, I stepped back to the rag-counter, took the old cravat

carelessly out of the bundle, and said, in as light a tone as I could

possibly assume:

“Come, come, don’t let my candles be the cause of hard words between

you. Tie this ragged old thing round them with a bit of string, and I

shall carry them home quite comfortably.”

The man seemed disposed to insist on the stout paper being produced;

but the woman, as if she was glad of an opportunity of spiting him,

snatched the candles away, and tied them up in a moment in the torn old

cravat. I was afraid he would have struck her before my face, he seemed

in such a fury; but, fortunately, another customer came in, and obliged

him to put his hands to peaceable and proper use.

“Quite a bundle of all-sorts on the opposite counter there,” I said to

the woman, as I paid her for the candles.

“Yes, and all hoarded up for sale by a poor creature with a lazy brute

of a husband, who lets his wife do all the work while he spends all the

money,” answered the woman, with a malicious look at the man by her

side.

“He can’t surely have much money to spend, if his wife has no better

work to do than picking up rags,” said I.

“It isn’t her fault if she hasn’t got no better,” says the woman,

rather angrily. “She’s ready to turn her hand to anything. Charing,

washing, laying-out, keeping empty houses—nothing comes amiss to her.

She’s my half-sister, and I think I ought to know.”

“Did you say she went out charing?” I asked, making believe as if I

knew of somebody who might employ her.

“Yes, of course I did,” answered the woman; “and if you can put a job

into her hands, you’ll be doing a good turn to a poor hard-working

creature as wants it. She lives down the Mews here to the right—name of

Horlick, and as honest a woman as ever stood in shoe-leather. Now,

then, ma’am, what for you?”

Another customer came in just then, and occupied her attention. I left

the shop, passed the turning that led down to the Mews, looked up at

the name of the street, so as to know how to find it again, and then

ran home as fast as I could. Perhaps it was the remembrance of my

strange dream striking me on a sudden, or perhaps it was the shock of

the discovery I had just made, but I began to feel frightened without

knowing why, and anxious to be under shelter in my own room.

If Robert should come back! Oh, what a relief and help it would be now

if Robert should come back!

May 1st. On getting indoors last night, the first thing I did, after

striking a light, was to take the ragged cravat off the candles, and

smooth it out on the table. I then took the end that had been in poor

Mary’s hand out of my writing-desk, and smoothed that out too. It

matched the torn side of the cravat exactly. I put them together, and

satisfied myself that there was not a doubt of it.

Not once did I close my eyes that night. A kind of fever got possession

of me—a vehement yearning to go on from this first discovery and find

out more, no matter what the risk might be. The cravat now really

became, to my mind, the clew that I thought I saw in my dream—the clew

that I was resolved to follow. I determined to go to Mrs. Horlick this

evening on my return from work.

I found the Mews easily. A crook-backed dwarf of a man was lounging at

the corner of it smoking his pipe. Not liking his looks, I did not

inquire of him where Mrs. Horlick lived, but went down the Mews till I

met with a woman, and asked her. She directed me to the right number. I

knocked at the door, and Mrs. Horlick herself—a lean, ill-tempered,

miserable-looking woman—answered it. I told her at once that I had come

to ask what her terms were for charing. She stared at me for a moment,

then answered my question civilly enough.

“You look surprised at a stranger like me finding you out,” I said. “I

first came to hear of you last night, from a relation of yours, in

rather an odd way.”

And I told her all that had happened in the chandler’s shop, bringing

in the bundle of rags, and the circumstance of my carrying home the

candles in the old torn cravat, as often as possible.

“It’s the first time I’ve heard of anything belonging to him turning

out any use,” said Mrs. Horlick, bitterly.

“What! the spoiled old neck-handkerchief belonged to your husband, did

it?” said I, at a venture.

“Yes; I pitched his rotten rag of a neck-’andkercher into the bundle

along with the rest, and I wish I could have pitched him in after it,”

said Mrs. Horlick. “I’d sell him cheap at any ragshop. There he stands,

smoking his pipe at the end of the Mews, out of work for weeks past,

the idlest humpbacked pig in all London!”

She pointed to the man whom I had passed on entering the Mews. My

cheeks began to burn and my knees to tremble, for I knew that in

tracing the cravat to its owner I was advancing a step toward a fresh

discovery. I wished Mrs. Horlick good evening, and said I would write

and mention the day on which I wanted her.

What I had just been told put a thought into my mind that I was afraid

to follow out. I have heard people talk of being light-headed, and I

felt as I have heard them say they felt when I retraced my steps up the

Mews. My head got giddy, and my eyes seemed able to see nothing but the

figure of the little crook-backed man, still smoking his pipe in his

former place. I could see nothing but that; I could think of nothing

but the mark of the blow on my poor lost Mary’s temple. I know that I

must have been light-headed, for as I came close to the crook-backed

man I stopped without meaning it. The minute before, there had been no

idea in me of speaking to him. I did not know how to speak, or in what

way it would be safest to begin; and yet, the moment I came face to

face with him, something out of myself seemed to stop me, and to make

me speak without considering beforehand, without thinking of

consequences, without knowing, I may almost say, what words I was

uttering till the instant when they rose to my lips.

“When your old neck-tie was torn, did you know that one end of it went

to the rag-shop, and the other fell into my hands?”

I said these bold words to him suddenly, and, as it seemed, without my

own will taking any part in them.

He started, stared, changed color. He was too much amazed by my sudden

speaking to find an answer for me. When he did open his lips, it was to

say rather to himself than me:

“You’re not the girl.”

“No,” I said, with a strange choking at my heart, “I’m her friend.”

By this time he had recovered his surprise, and he seemed to be aware

that he had let out more than he ought.

“You may be anybody’s friend you like,” he said, brutally, “so long as

you don’t come jabbering nonsense here. I don’t know you, and I don’t

understand your jokes.”

He turned quickly away from me when he had said the last words. He had

never once looked fairly at me since I first spoke to him.

Was it his hand that had struck the blow? I had only sixpence in my

pocket, but I took it out and followed him. If it had been a five-pound

note I should have done the same in the state I was in then.

“Would a pot of beer help you to understand me?” I said, and offered

him the sixpence.

“A pot ain’t no great things,” he answered, taking the sixpence

doubtfully.

“It may lead to something better,” I said. His eyes began to twinkle,

and he came close to me. Oh, how my legs trembled—how my head swam!

“This is all in a friendly way, is it?” he asked, in a whisper.

I nodded my head. At that moment I could not have spoken for worlds.

“Friendly, of course,” he went on to himself, “or there would have been

a policeman in it. She told you, I suppose, that I wasn’t the man?”

I nodded my head again. It was all I could do to keep myself standing

upright.

“I suppose it’s a case of threatening to have him up, and make him

settle it quietly for a pound or two? How much for me if you lay hold

of him?”

“Half.”

I began to be afraid that he would suspect something if I was still

silent. The wretch’s eyes twinkled again and he came yet closer.

“I drove him to the Red Lion, corner of Dodd Street and Rudgely Street.

The house was shut up, but he was let in at the jug and bottle door,

like a man who was known to the landlord. That’s as much as I can tell

you, and I’m certain I’m right. He was the last fare I took up at

night. The next morning master gave me the sack—said I cribbed his corn

and his fares. I wish I had.”

I gathered from this that the crook-backed man had been a cab-driver.

“Why don’t you speak?” he asked, suspiciously. “Has she been telling

you a pack of lies about me? What did she say when she came home?”

“What ought she to have said?”

“She ought to have said my fare was drunk, and she came in the way as

he was going to get into the cab. That’s what she ought to have said to

begin with.”

“But after?”

“Well, after, my fare, by way of larking with her, puts out his leg for

to trip her up, and she stumbles and catches at me for to save herself,

and tears off one of the limp ends of my rotten old tie. ‘What do you

mean by that, you brute?’ says she, turning round as soon as she was

steady on her legs, to my fare. Says my fare to her: ‘I means to teach

you to keep a civil tongue in your head.’ And he ups with his fist,

and—what’s come to you, now? What are you looking at me like that for?

How do you think a man of my size was to take her part against a man

big enough to have eaten me up? Look as much as you like, in my place

you would have done what I done—drew off when he shook his fist at you,

and swore he’d be the death of you if you didn’t start your horse in no

time.”

I saw he was working himself up into a rage; but I could not, if my

life had depended on it, have stood near him or looked at him any

longer. I just managed to stammer out that I had been walking a long

way, and that, not being used to much exercise, I felt faint and giddy

with fatigue. He only changed from angry to sulky when I made that

excuse. I got a little further away from him, and then added that if he

would be at the Mews entrance the next evening I should have something

more to say and something more to give him. He grumbled a few

suspicious words in answer about doubting whether he should trust me to

come back. Fortunately, at that moment, a policeman passed on the

opposite side of the way. He slunk down the Mews immediately, and I was

free to make my escape.

How I got home I can’t say, except that I think I ran the greater part

of the way. Sally opened the door, and asked if anything was the matter

the moment she saw my face. I answered: “Nothing—nothing.” She stopped

me as I was going into my room, and said:

“Smooth your hair a bit, and put your collar straight. There’s a

gentleman in there waiting for you.”

My heart gave one great bound: I knew who it was in an instant, and

rushed into the room like a mad woman.

“Oh, Robert, Robert!”

All my heart went out to him in those two little words.

“Good God, Anne, has anything happened? Are you ill?”

“Mary! my poor, lost, murdered, dear, dear Mary!”

That was all I could say before I fell on his breast.

May 2d. Misfortunes and disappointments have saddened him a little, but

toward me he is unaltered. He is as good, as kind, as gently and truly

affectionate as ever. I believe no other man in the world could have

listened to the story of Mary’s death with such tenderness and pity as

he. Instead of cutting me short anywhere, he drew me on to tell more

than I had intended; and his first generous words when I had done were

to assure me that he would see himself to the grass being laid and the

flowers planted on Mary’s grave. I could almost have gone on my knees

and worshiped him when he made me that promise.

Surely this best, and kindest, and noblest of men cannot always be

unfortunate! My cheeks burn when I think that he has come back with

only a few pounds in his pocket, after all his hard and honest

struggles to do well in America. They must be bad people there when

such a man as Robert cannot get on among them. He now talks calmly and

resignedly of trying for any one of the lowest employments by which a

man can earn his bread honestly in this great city—he who knows French,

who can write so beautifully! Oh, if the people who have places to give

away only knew Robert as well as I do, what a salary he would have,

what a post he would be chosen to occupy!

I am writing these lines alone while he has gone to the Mews to treat

with the dastardly, heartless wretch with whom I spoke yesterday.

Robert says the creature—I won’t call him a man—must be humored and

kept deceived about poor Mary’s end, in order that we may discover and

bring to justice the monster whose drunken blow was the death of her. I

shall know no ease of mind till her murderer is secured, and till I am

certain that he will be made to suffer for his crimes. I wanted to go

with Robert to the Mews, but he said it was best that he should carry

out the rest of the investigation alone, for my strength and resolution

had been too hardly taxed already. He said more words in praise of me

for what I have been able to do up to this time, which I am almost

ashamed to write down with my own pen. Besides, there is no need;

praise from his lips is one of the things that I can trust my memory to

preserve to the latest day of my life.

May 3d. Robert was very long last night before he came back to tell me

what he had done. He easily recognized the hunchback at the corner of

the Mews by my description of him; but he found it a hard matter, even

with the help of money, to overcome the cowardly wretch’s distrust of

him as a stranger and a man. However, when this had been accomplished,

the main difficulty was conquered. The hunchback, excited by the

promise of more money, went at once to the Red Lion to inquire about

the person whom he had driven there in his cab. Robert followed him,

and waited at the corner of the street. The tidings brought by the

cabman were of the most unexpected kind. The murderer—I can write of

him by no other name—had fallen ill on the very night when he was

driven to the Red Lion, had taken to his bed there and then, and was

still confined to it at that very moment. His disease was of a kind

that is brought on by excessive drinking, and that affects the mind as

well as the body. The people at the public house call it the Horrors.

Hearing these things, Robert determined to see if he could not find out

something more for himself by going and inquiring at the public house,

in the character of one of the friends of the sick man in bed upstairs.

He made two important discoveries. First, he found out the name and

address of the doctor in attendance. Secondly, he entrapped the barman

into mentioning the murderous wretch by his name. This last discovery

adds an unspeakably fearful interest to the dreadful misfortune of

Mary’s death. Noah Truscott, as she told me herself in the last

conversation I ever had with her, was the name of the man whose drunken

example ruined her father, and Noah Truscott is also the name of the

man whose drunken fury killed her. There is something that makes one

shudder, something supernatural in this awful fact. Robert agrees with

me that the hand of Providence must have guided my steps to that shop

from which all the discoveries since made took their rise. He says he

believes we are the instruments of effecting a righteous retribution;

and, if he spends his last farthing, he will have the investigation

brought to its full end in a court of justice.

May 4th. Robert went to-day to consult a lawyer whom he knew in former

times. The lawyer was much interested, though not so seriously

impressed as he ought to have been by the story of Mary’s death and of

the events that have followed it. He gave Robert a confidential letter

to take to the doctor in attendance on the double-dyed villain at the

Red Lion. Robert left the letter, and called again and saw the doctor,

who said his patient was getting better, and would most likely be up

again in ten days or a fortnight. This statement Robert communicated to

the lawyer, and the lawyer has undertaken to have the public house

properly watched, and the hunchback (who is the most important witness)

sharply looked after for the next fortnight, or longer if necessary.

Here, then, the progress of this dreadful business stops for a while.

May 5th. Robert has got a little temporary employment in copying for

his friend the lawyer. I am working harder than ever at my needle, to

make up for the time that has been lost lately.

May 6th. To-day was Sunday, and Robert proposed that we should go and

look at Mary’s grave. He, who forgets nothing where a kindness is to be

done, has found time to perform the promise he made to me on the night

when we first met. The grave is already, by his orders, covered with

turf, and planted round with shrubs. Some flowers, and a low headstone,

are to be added, to make the place look worthier of my poor lost

darling who is beneath it. Oh, I hope I shall live long after I am

married to Robert! I want so much time to show him all my gratitude!

May 20th. A hard trial to my courage to-day. I have given evidence at

the police-office, and have seen the monster who murdered her.

I could only look at him once. I could just see that he was a giant in

size, and that he kept his dull, lowering, bestial face turned toward

the witness-box, and his bloodshot, vacant eyes staring on me. For an

instant I tried to confront that look; for an instant I kept my

attention fixed on him—on his blotched face—on the short, grizzled hair

above it—on his knotty, murderous right hand, hanging loose over the

bar in front of him, like the paw of a wild beast over the edge of its

den. Then the horror of him—the double horror of confronting him, in

the first place, and afterward of seeing that he was an old

man—overcame me, and I turned away, faint, sick, and shuddering. I

never faced him again; and, at the end of my evidence, Robert

considerately took me out.

When we met once more at the end of the examination, Robert told me

that the prisoner never spoke and never changed his position. He was

either fortified by the cruel composure of a savage, or his faculties

had not yet thoroughly recovered from the disease that had so lately

shaken them. The magistrate seemed to doubt if he was in his right

mind; but the evidence of the medical man relieved this uncertainty,

and the prisoner was committed for trial on a charge of manslaughter.

Why not on a charge of murder? Robert explained the law to me when I

asked that question. I accepted the explanation, but it did not satisfy

me. Mary Mallinson was killed by a blow from the hand of Noah Truscott.

That is murder in the sight of God. Why not murder in the sight of the

law also?

June 18th. To-morrow is the day appointed for the trial at the Old

Bailey.

Before sunset this evening I went to look at Mary’s grave. The turf has

grown so green since I saw it last, and the flowers are springing up so

prettily. A bird was perched dressing his feathers on the low white

headstone that bears the inscription of her name and age. I did not go

near enough to disturb the little creature. He looked innocent and

pretty on the grave, as Mary herself was in her lifetime. When he flew

away I went and sat for a little by the headstone, and read the

mournful lines on it. Oh, my love! my love! what harm or wrong had you

ever done in this world, that you should die at eighteen by a blow from

a drunkard’s hand?

June 19th. The trial. My experience of what happened at it is limited,

like my experience of the examination at the police-office, to the time

occupied in giving my own evidence. They made me say much more than I

said before the magistrate. Between examination and cross-examination,

I had to go into almost all the particulars about poor Mary and her

funeral that I have written in this journal; the jury listening to

every word I spoke with the most anxious attention. At the end, the

judge said a few words to me approving of my conduct, and then there

was a clapping of hands among the people in court. I was so agitated

and excited that I trembled all over when they let me go out into the

air again.

I looked at the prisoner both when I entered the witness-box and when I

left it. The lowering brutality of his face was unchanged, but his

faculties seemed to be more alive and observant than they were at the

police-office. A frightful blue change passed over his face, and he

drew his breath so heavily that the gasps were distinctly audible while

I mentioned Mary by name and described the mark or the blow on her

temple. When they asked me if I knew anything of the prisoner, and I

answered that I only knew what Mary herself had told me about his

having been her father’s ruin, he gave a kind of groan, and struck both

his hands heavily on the dock. And when I passed beneath him on my way

out of court, he leaned over suddenly, whether to speak to me or to

strike me I can’t say, for he was immediately made to stand upright

again by the turnkeys on either side of him. While the evidence

proceeded (as Robert described it to me), the signs that he was

suffering under superstitious terror became more and more apparent;

until, at last, just as the lawyer appointed to defend him was rising

to speak, he suddenly cried out, in a voice that startled every one, up

to the very judge on the bench: “Stop!”

There was a pause, and all eyes looked at him. The perspiration was

pouring over his face like water, and he made strange, uncouth signs

with his hands to the judge opposite. “Stop all this!” he cried again;

“I’ve been the ruin of the father and the death of the child. Hang me

before I do more harm! Hang me, for God’s sake, out of the way!” As

soon as the shock produced by this extraordinary interruption had

subsided, he was removed, and there followed a long discussion about

whether he was of sound mind or not. The matter was left to the jury to

decide by their verdict. They found him guilty of the charge of

manslaughter, without the excuse of insanity. He was brought up again,

and condemned to transportation for life. All he did, on hearing the

dreadful sentence, was to reiterate his desperate words: “Hang me

before I do more harm! Hang me, for God’s sake, out of the way!”

June 20th. I made yesterday’s entry in sadness of heart, and I have not

been better in my spirits to-day. It is something to have brought the

murderer to the punishment that he deserves. But the knowledge that

this most righteous act of retribution is accomplished brings no

consolation with it. The law does indeed punish Noah Truscott for his

crime, but can it raise up Mary Mallinson from her last resting-place

in the churchyard?

While writing of the law, I ought to record that the heartless wretch

who allowed Mary to be struck down in his presence without making an

attempt to defend her is not likely to escape with perfect impunity.

The policeman who looked after him to insure his attendance at the

trial discovered that he had committed past offenses, for which the law

can make him answer. A summons was executed upon him, and he was taken

before the magistrate the moment he left the court after giving his

evidence.

I had just written these few lines, and was closing my journal, when

there came a knock at the door. I answered it, thinking that Robert had

called on his way home to say good-night, and found myself face to face

with a strange gentleman, who immediately asked for Anne Rodway. On

hearing that I was the person inquired for, he requested five minutes’

conversation with me. I showed him into the little empty room at the

back of the house, and waited, rather surprised and fluttered, to hear

what he had to say.

He was a dark man, with a serious manner, and a short, stern way of

speaking. I was certain that he was a stranger, and yet there seemed

something in his face not unfamiliar to me. He began by taking a

newspaper from his pocket, and asking me if I was the person who had

given evidence at the trial of Noah Truscott on a charge of

manslaughter. I answered immediately that I was.

“I have been for nearly two years in London seeking Mary Mallinson, and

always seeking her in vain,” he said. “The first and only news I have

had of her I found in the newspaper report of the trial yesterday.”

He still spoke calmly, but there was something in the look of his eyes

which showed me that he was suffering in spirit. A sudden nervousness

overcame me, and I was obliged to sit down.

“You knew Mary Mallinson, sir?” I asked, as quietly as I could.

“I am her brother.”

I clasped my hands and hid my face in despair. Oh, the bitterness of

heart with which I heard him say those simple words!

“You were very kind to her,” said the calm, tearless man. “In her name

and for her sake, I thank you.”

“Oh, sir,” I said, “why did you never write to her when you were in

foreign parts?”

“I wrote often,” he answered; “but each of my letters contained a

remittance of money. Did Mary tell you she had a stepmother? If she

did, you may guess why none of my letters were allowed to reach her. I

now know that this woman robbed my sister. Has she lied in telling me

that she was never informed of Mary’s place of abode?”

I remembered that Mary had never communicated with her stepmother after

the separation, and could therefore assure him that the woman had

spoken the truth.

He paused for a moment after that, and sighed. Then he took out a

pocket-book, and said:

“I have already arranged for the payment of any legal expenses that may

have been incurred by the trial, but I have still to reimburse you for

the funeral charges which you so generously defrayed. Excuse my

speaking bluntly on this subject; I am accustomed to look on all

matters where money is concerned purely as matters of business.”

I saw that he was taking several bank-notes out of the pocket-book, and

stopped him.

“I will gratefully receive back the little money I actually paid, sir,

because I am not well off, and it would be an ungracious act of pride

in me to refuse it from you,” I said; “but I see you handling

bank-notes, any one of which is far beyond the amount you have to repay

me. Pray put them back, sir. What I did for your poor lost sister I did

from my love and fondness for her. You have thanked me for that, and

your thanks are all I can receive.”

He had hitherto concealed his feelings, but I saw them now begin to get

the better of him. His eyes softened, and he took my hand and squeezed

it hard.

“I beg your pardon,” he said; “I beg your pardon, with all my heart.”

There was silence between us, for I was crying, and I believe, at

heart, he was crying too. At last he dropped my hand, and seemed to

change back, by an effort, to his former calmness.

“Is there no one belonging to you to whom I can be of service?” he

asked. “I see among the witnesses on the trial the name of a young man

who appears to have assisted you in the inquiries which led to the

prisoner’s conviction. Is he a relation?”

“No, sir—at least, not now—but I hope—”

“What?”

“I hope that he may, one day, be the nearest and dearest relation to me

that a woman can have.” I said those words boldly, because I was afraid

of his otherwise taking some wrong view of the connection between

Robert and me

“One day?” he repeated. “One day may be a long time hence.”

“We are neither of us well off, sir,” I said. “One day means the day

when we are a little richer than we are now.”

“Is the young man educated? Can he produce testimonials to his

character? Oblige me by writing his name and address down on the back

of that card.”

When I had obeyed, in a handwriting which I am afraid did me no credit,

he took out another card and gave it to me.

“I shall leave England to-morrow,” he said. “There is nothing now to

keep me in my own country. If you are ever in any difficulty or

distress (which I pray God you may never be), apply to my London agent,

whose address you have there.”

He stopped, and looked at me attentively, then took my hand again.

“Where is she buried?” he said, suddenly, in a quick whisper, turning

his head away.

I told him, and added that we had made the grave as beautiful as we

could with grass and flowers. I saw his lips whiten and tremble.

“God bless and reward you!” he said, and drew me toward him quickly and

kissed my forehead. I was quite overcome, and sank down and hid my face

on the table. When I looked up again he was gone.

* * * * * * *

June 25th, 1841. I write these lines on my wedding morning, when little

more than a year has passed since Robert returned to England.

His salary was increased yesterday to one hundred and fifty pounds a

year. If I only knew where Mr. Mallinson was, I would write and tell

him of our present happiness. But for the situation which his kindness

procured for Robert, we might still have been waiting vainly for the

day that has now come.

I am to work at home for the future, and Sally is to help us in our new

abode. If Mary could have lived to see this day! I am not ungrateful

for my blessings; but oh, how I miss that sweet face on this morning of

all others!

I got up to-day early enough to go alone to the grave, and to gather

the nosegay that now lies before me from the flowers that grow round

it. I shall put it in my bosom when Robert comes to fetch me to the

church. Mary would have been my bridesmaid if she had lived; and I

can’t forget Mary, even on my wedding-day....

THE NIGHT.

The last words of the last story fell low and trembling from Owen’s

lips. He waited for a moment while Jessie dried the tears which Anne

Rodway’s simple diary had drawn from her warm young heart, then closed

the manuscript, and taking her hand patted it in his gentle, fatherly

way.

“You will be glad to hear, my love,” he said, “that I can speak from

personal experience of Anne Rodway’s happiness. She came to live in my

parish soon after the trial at which she appeared as chief witness, and

I was the clergyman who married her. Months before that I knew her

story, and had read those portions of her diary which you have just

heard. When I made her my little present on her wedding day, and when

she gratefully entreated me to tell her what she could do for me in

return, I asked for a copy of her diary to keep among the papers that I

treasured most. ‘The reading of it now and then,’ I said, ‘will

encourage that faith in the brighter and better part of human nature

which I hope, by God’s help, to preserve pure to my dying day.’ In that

way I became possessed of the manuscript: it was Anne’s husband who

made the copy for me. You have noticed a few withered leaves scattered

here and there between the pages. They were put there, years since, by

the bride’s own hand: they are all that now remain of the flowers that

Anne Rodway gathered on her marriage morning from Mary Mallinson’s

grave.”

Jessie tried to answer, but the words failed on her lips. Between the

effect of the story, and the anticipation of the parting now so near at

hand, the good, impulsive, affectionate creature was fairly overcome.

She laid her head on Owen’s shoulder, and kept tight hold of his hand,

and let her heart speak simply for itself, without attempting to help

it by a single word.

The silence that followed was broken harshly by the tower clock. The

heavy hammer slowly rang out ten strokes through the gloomy night-time

and the dying storm.

I waited till the last humming echo of the clock fainted into dead

stillness. I listened once more attentively, and again listened in

vain. Then I rose, and proposed to my brothers that we should leave our

guest to compose herself for the night.

When Owen and Morgan were ready to quit the room, I took her by the

hand, and drew her a little aside.

“You leave us early, my dear,” I said; “but, before you go to-morrow

morning—”

I stopped to listen for the last time, before the words were spoken

which committed me to the desperate experiment of pleading George’s

cause in defiance of his own request. Nothing caught my ear but the

sweep of the weary weakened wind and the melancholy surging of the

shaken trees.

“But, before you go to-morrow morning,” I resumed, “I want to speak to

you in private. We shall breakfast at eight o’clock. Is it asking too

much to beg you to come and see me alone in my study at half past

seven?”

Just as her lips opened to answer me I saw a change pass over her face.

I had kept her hand in mine while I was speaking, and I must have

pressed it unconsciously so hard as almost to hurt her. She may even

have uttered a few words of remonstrance; but they never reached me: my

whole hearing sense was seized, absorbed, petrified. At the very

instant when I had ceased speaking, I, and I alone, heard a faint

sound—a sound that was new to me—fly past the Glen Tower on the wings

of the wind.

“Open the window, for God’s sake!” I cried.

My hand mechanically held hers tighter and tighter. She struggled to

free it, looking hard at me with pale cheeks and frightened eyes. Owen

hastened up and released her, and put his arms round me.

“Griffith, Griffith!” he whispered, “control yourself, for George’s

sake.”

Morgan hurried to the window and threw it wide open.

The wind and rain rushed in fiercely. Welcome, welcome wind! They all

heard it now. “Oh, Father in heaven, so merciful to fathers on earth—my

son, my son!”

It came in, louder and louder with every gust of wind—the joyous, rapid

gathering roll of wheels. My eyes fastened on her as if they could see

to her heart, while she stood there with her sweet face turned on me

all pale and startled. I tried to speak to her; I tried to break away

from Owen’s arms, to throw my own arms round her, to keep her on my

bosom, till _he_ came to take her from me. But all my strength had gone

in the long waiting and the long suspense. My head sank on Owen’s

breast—but I still heard the wheels. Morgan loosened my cravat, and

sprinkled water over my face—I still heard the wheels. The poor

terrified girl ran into her room, and came back with her

smelling-salts—I heard the carriage stop at the house. The room whirled

round and round with me; but I heard the eager hurry of footsteps in

the hall, and the opening of the door. In another moment my son’s voice

rose clear and cheerful from below, greeting the old servants who loved

him. The dear, familiar tones just poured into my ear, and then, the

moment they filled it, hushed me suddenly to rest.

When I came to myself again my eyes opened upon George. I was lying on

the sofa, still in the same room; the lights we had read by in the

evening were burning on the table; my son was kneeling at my pillow,

and we two were alone.

THE MORNING.

The wind is fainter, but there is still no calm. The rain is ceasing,

but there is still no sunshine. The view from my window shows me the

mist heavy on the earth, and a dim gray veil drawn darkly over the sky.

Less than twelve hours since, such a prospect would have saddened me

for the day. I look out at it this morning, through the bright medium

of my own happiness, and not the shadow of a shade falls across the

steady inner sunshine that is poring over my heart.

The pen lingers fondly in my hand, and yet it is little, very little,

that I have left to say. The Purple Volume lies open by my side, with

the stories ranged together in it in the order in which they were read.

My son has learned to prize them already as the faithful friends who

served him at his utmost need. I have only to wind off the little

thread of narrative on which they are all strung together before the

volume is closed and our anxious literary experiment fairly ended.

My son and I had a quiet hour together on that happy night before we

retired to rest. The little love-plot invented in George’s interests

now required one last stroke of diplomacy to complete it before we all

threw off our masks and assumed our true characters for the future.

When my son and I parted for the night, we had planned the necessary

stratagem for taking our lovely guest by surprise as soon as she was

out of her bed in the morning.

Shortly after seven o’clock I sent a message to Jessie by her maid,

informing her that a good night’s rest had done wonders for me, and

that I expected to see her in my study at half past seven, as we had

arranged the evening before. As soon as her answer, promising to be

punctual to the appointment, had reached me, I took George into my

study—left him in my place to plead his own cause—and stole away, five

minutes before the half hour, to join my brothers in the

breakfast-room.

Although the sense of my own happiness disposed me to take the

brightest view of my son’s chances, I must nevertheless acknowledge

that some nervous anxieties still fluttered about my heart while the

slow minutes of suspense were counting themselves out in the

breakfast-room. I had as little attention to spare for Owen’s quiet

prognostications of success as for Morgan’s pitiless sarcasms on love,

courtship, and matrimony. A quarter of an hour elapsed—then twenty

minutes. The hand moved on, and the clock pointed to five minutes to

eight, before I heard the study door open, and before the sound of

rapidly-advancing footsteps warned me that George was coming into the

room.

His beaming face told the good news before a word could be spoken on

either side. The excess of his happiness literally and truly deprived

him of speech. He stood eagerly looking at us all three, with

outstretched hands and glistening eyes.

“Have I folded up my surplice forever,” asked Owen, “or am I to wear it

once again, George, in your service?”

“Answer this question first,” interposed Morgan, with a look of grim

anxiety. “Have you actually taken your young woman off my hands, or

have you not?”

No direct answer followed either question. George’s feelings had been

too deeply stirred to allow him to return jest for jest at a moment’s

notice.

“Oh, father, how can I thank you!” he said. “And you! and you!” he

added, looking at Owen and Morgan gratefully.

“You must thank Chance as well as thank us,” I replied, speaking as

lightly as my heart would let me, to encourage him. “The advantage of

numbers in our little love-plot was all on our side. Remember, George,

we were three to one.”

While I was speaking the breakfast-room door opened noiselessly, and

showed us Jessie standing on the threshold, uncertain whether to join

us or to run back to her own room. Her bright complexion heightened to

a deep glow; the tears just rising in her eyes, and not yet falling

from them; her delicate lips trembling a little, as if they were still

shyly conscious of other lips that had pressed them but a few minutes

since; her attitude irresolutely graceful; her hair just disturbed

enough over her forehead and her cheeks to add to the charm of them—she

stood before us, the loveliest living picture of youth, and tenderness,

and virgin love that eyes ever looked on. George and I both advanced

together to meet her at the door. But the good, grateful girl had heard

from my son the true story of all that I had done, and hoped, and

suffered for the last ten days, and showed charmingly how she felt it

by turning at once to _me_.

“May I stop at the Glen Tower a little longer?” she asked, simply.

“If you think you can get through your evenings, my love,” I answered.

“‘But surely you forget that the Purple Volume is closed, and that the

stories have all come to an end?”

She clasped her arms round my neck, and laid her cheek fondly against

mine.

“How you must have suffered yesterday!” she whispered, softly.

“And how happy I am to-day!”

The tears gathered in her eyes and dropped over her cheeks as she

raised her head to look at me affectionately when I said those words. I

gently unclasped her arms and led her to George.

“So you really did love him, then, after all,” I whispered, “though you

were too sly to let me discover it?”

A smile broke out among the tears as her eyes wandered away from mine

and stole a look at my son. The clock struck the hour, and the servant

came in with breakfast. A little domestic interruption of this kind was

all that was wanted to put us at our ease. We drew round the table

cheerfully, and set the Queen of Hearts at the head of it, in the

character of mistress of the house already.