While I was employed in the Bank of Loan and Discount (said Mr.
Applegarth, smiling the smile with which he always prefaced a nice old
story), there was another clerk there, named Dennison--a quiet,
reticent fellow, the very soul of truth, and a great favourite with
us all. He always wore crape on his hat, and once when asked for whom
he was in mourning he replied his wife, and seemed much affected. We
all expressed our sympathy as delicately as possible, and no more was
said upon the subject. Some weeks after this he seemed to have arrived
at that stage of tempered grief at which it becomes a relief to give
sorrow words--to speak of the departed one to sympathizing friends;
for one day he voluntarily began talking of his bereavement, and of
the terrible calamity by which his wife had been deprived of her head!
This sharpened our curiosity to the keenest edge; but of course we
controlled it, hoping he would volunteer some further information with
regard to so singular a misfortune; but when day after day went by and
he did not allude to the matter, we got worked up into a fever of
excitement about it. One evening after Dennison had gone, we held a
kind of political meeting about it, at which all possible and
impossible methods of decapitation were suggested as the ones to which
Mrs. D. probably owed her extraordinary demise. I am sorry to add that
we so far forgot the grave character of the event as to lay small
wagers that it was done this way or that way; that it was accidental
or premeditated; that she had had a hand in it herself or that it was
wrought by circumstances beyond her control. All was mere conjecture,
however; but from that time Dennison, as the custodian of a secret
upon which we had staked our cash, was an object of more than usual
interest. It wasn't entirely that, either; aside from our paltry
wagers, we felt a consuming curiosity to know the truth for its own
sake. Each set himself to work to elicit the dread secret in some way;
and the misdirected ingenuity we developed was wonderful. All sorts
of pious devices were resorted to to entice poor Dennison into
clearing up the mystery. By a thousand indirect methods we sought to
entrap him into divulging all. History, fiction, poesy--all were laid
under contribution, and from Goliah down, through Charles I., to Sam
Spigger, a local celebrity who got his head entangled in mill
machinery, every one who had ever mourned the loss of a head received
his due share of attention during office hours. The regularity with
which we introduced, and the pertinacity with which we stuck to, this
one topic came near getting us all discharged; for one day the cashier
came out of his private office and intimated that if we valued our
situations the subject of hanging would afford us the means of
retaining them. He added that he always selected his subordinates with
an eye to their conversational abilities, but variety of subject was
as desirable, at times, as exhaustive treatment.
During all this discussion Dennison, albeit he had evinced from the
first a singular interest in the theme, and shirked not his fair share
of the conversation, never once seemed to understand that it had any
reference to himself. His frank truthful nature was quite unable to
detect the personal significance of the subject. It was plain that
nothing short of a definite inquiry would elicit the information we
were dying to obtain; and at a "caucus," one evening, we drew lots to
determine who should openly propound it. The choice fell upon me.
Next morning we were at the bank somewhat earlier than usual, waiting
impatiently for Dennison and the time to open the doors: they always
arrived together. When Dennison stepped into the room, bowing in his
engaging manner to each clerk as he passed to his own desk, I
confronted him, shaking him warmly by the hand. At that moment all
the others fell to writing and figuring with unusual avidity, as if
thinking of anything under the sun except Dennison's wife's head.
"Oh, Dennison," I began, as carelessly as I could manage it; "speaking
of decapitation reminds me of something I would like to ask you. I
have intended asking it several times, but it has always slipped my
memory. Of course you will pardon me if it is not a fair question."
As if by magic, the scratching of pens died away, leaving a dead
silence which quite disconcerted me; but I blundered on:
"I heard the other day--that is, you said--or it was in the
newspapers--- or somewhere--something about your poor wife, you
understand--about her losing her head. Would you mind telling me how
such a distressing accident--if it was an accident--occurred?"
When I had finished, Dennison walked straight past me as if he didn't
see me, went round the counter to his stool, and perched himself
gravely on the top of it, facing the other clerks. Then he began
speaking, calmly, and without apparent emotion:
"Gentlemen, I have long desired to speak of this thing, but you gave
me no encouragement, and I naturally supposed you were indifferent. I
now thank you all for the friendly interest you take in my affairs. I
will satisfy your curiosity upon this point at once, if you will
promise never hereafter to allude to the matter, and to ask not a
single question now."
We all promised upon our sacred honour, and collected about him with
the utmost eagerness. He bent his head a moment, then raised it,
quietly saying:
"My poor wife's head was bitten off!"
"By what?" we all exclaimed eagerly, with suspended breath.
He gave us a look full of reproach, turned to his desk, and went at
his work.
We went at ours.
* * * * *