THE REWARD OF CRIME.
At half-past eleven on the following morning, Mr. Torrens entered the
office of Mr. Howard, the solicitor.
His countenance wore a smile of satisfaction, in spite of the various
events which had lately occurred to harass him; for he was about to
receive a large sum of money—and his fingers itched to grasp the
bank-notes and the gold which he had seen stowed away in the safe on the
preceding day.
He already beheld his debts paid—his mind freed from pecuniary
anxieties—and his speculations prospering in a manner giving assurance
of the realization of a splendid fortune; and these pleasing visions,
with which his imagination had cheered itself during the drive from the
Cottage to the attorney's office, naturally tended to bestow on his
countenance the expansiveness of good humour.
And, after all, it is a pleasant thing to enter a place where one is
about to receive a good round sum of money, even though the amount will
not remain long in pocket, but must be paid away almost as soon as
fingered.
Mr. Torrens had never felt more independent than he did on this
occasion; and the look which he bestowed upon a poor beggar-woman with a
child in her arms, as he ascended the steps leading to the front-door of
Mr. Howard's abode, was one of supreme contempt—as if a pauper were
indeed a despicable object!
Well—Mr. Torrens entered the office with a smiling countenance:—but he
was immediately struck by the strange aspect of things which there
presented itself.
The place was in confusion. The clerks were gathered together in a group
near the window, looking particularly gloomy, and conversing in
whispers;—several gentlemen were busily employed in examining the
japanned boxes which bore their names and contained their
title-deeds;—and two or three females were weeping in a corner, and
exchanging such dimly significant observations as—"Oh! the rascal!"—"The
villain!"—"To rob us poor creatures!"
Mr. Torrens recoiled, aghast and speechless, from the contemplation of
this alarming scene. A chill struck to his heart: and, in common
parlance, any one might have knocked him down with a straw.
"Good heavens! gentlemen," he exclaimed, at length recovering the use of
his tongue: "what is the meaning of this?"
"Ask those youngsters there, sir," said one of the individuals engaged
in examining the tin-boxes: and the speaker pointed towards the clerks
in a manner which seemed to imply that the news were too shocking for
_him_ to unfold, and that it was moreover the duty of the lawyer's
subordinates to give the required information.
"Well, gentlemen, what _is_ the matter?" demanded Mr. Torrens, turning
to the clerks. "Has any thing sudden happened to Mr. Howard?"
"Oh! very sudden indeed, sir," was the answer vouchsafed by one of the
persons thus appealed to, and accompanied by a sinister grin.
"Is he dead?" enquired Mr. Torrens, his excitement now becoming
absolutely intolerable.
"No, sir—he isn't dead exactly—but——"
"But what?" cried Torrens, trembling from head to foot.
"He's bolted, sir!" was the astounding answer.
"Absconded!" murmured Mr. Torrens faintly;—and, reeling like a drunken
man, he would have fallen had he not come in contact with the wall.
Yes—it was indeed too true: Mr. Howard—the cold, phlegmatic,
matter-of-fact, business-like lawyer—had decamped no one knew whither,
though numbers had to mourn or curse his flight!
"Are you ill, sir?" enquired one of the clerks, at the expiration of a
few moments; for Mr. Torrens was leaning against the side of the room,
his countenance pale as death, his eyes rolling wildly in their sockets,
and his limbs trembling convulsively.
"No—no—I shall be better in a minute," groaned the unhappy man. "But
this blow—is cruel—indeed!" he gasped in a choking voice. "Two thousand
pounds—ruin—ruin!"
"Ah! there's many who'll be ruined by this smash, sir," said the clerk:
"you're not the only one—and that's a consolation."
A consolation indeed!
It was none for Mr. Torrens, who saw himself ruined beyond all hope of
redemption,—ruined in spite of the immense sacrifices he had made to
avert the impending storm—the sacrifice of his daughter's innocence to
Sir Henry Courtenay, and the sacrifice of himself to an abandoned and
profligate woman!
Miserable—miserable man! what hast thou earned by all thine
intriguings—thy schemings—thy black turpitude—and thy deplorable
self-degradation? Oh! better—better far is it to become the
grovelling, whining beggar in the streets, than to risk
happiness—character—name—honour—all, on such chances as those on which
thou didst reckon!
And now, behold him issue forth from that office into which he had
entered with head erect, self-sufficient air, and smiling
countenance:—behold him issue forth—bent down—crushed—overcome—ten years
more aged than he was a few minutes previously,—and an object of pity
even for that poor beggar-woman whom ere now he had treated with such
sovereign contempt!
Miserable—miserable man! has not thy punishment commenced in this
world?—is there not a hell upon earth?—and is not thy heart already a
prey to devouring flames, and thy tongue parched with the insatiate
thirst of burning fever, and thy soul tortured by the undying worm? Oh!
how canst thou return to thy house in the vicinity of which lies
interred a corpse the discovery of which may at any time involve thee in
serious peril?—how canst thou go back to that dwelling whence thine
injured daughter has fled, and over the threshold of which thou hast
conducted a vile strumpet as thy bride?
When we consider how fearfully we are made,—how manifold are the chances
that extreme grief—sudden ruin—and overwhelming anguish may cause a
vessel in the surcharged heart to burst, or the racked brain to become a
prey to the thunder-clap of apoplexy,—it is surprising—it is truly
wondrous that man can support such an enormous weight of care without
being stricken dead when it falls upon him!
And yet to what a degree of tension may the fibres of the heart be
wrung, ere they will snap asunder!—and what myriads of weighty and
maddening thoughts may agitate in the brain, ere reason will rock on its
throne, or a vein burst with the gush of blood!
* * * * *
In the meantime occurrences of importance were taking place at Torrens
Cottage.
Mrs. Torrens—late Mrs. Slingsby—was whiling away an hour in unpacking
her boxes and disposing of her effects in the wardrobe and cupboards of
her bed-chamber; congratulating herself all the time on the success
which her various schemes had experienced. She had obtained a husband to
save her from disgrace; and that husband had set out to receive, as she
fancied, a considerable sum of money, which would relieve him of his
difficulties, and enable him to pursue his undertakings in such a manner
as to yield ample revenues for the future! She was moreover rejoiced
that Rosamond had quitted the house;—for, shameless as this vile woman
was, she could not have failed to be embarrassed and constrained in her
new dwelling, had that injured girl met her there!
While Mrs. Torrens was thus engaged with her domestic avocations and her
self-gratulatory thoughts in her bed-chamber, the stable-boy, who had
been hired on the preceding day, was occupying himself in the garden.
"Well, what do you think of your new missus?" he said to the
maid-servant, who had just been filling a stone-pitcher at the pump in
the yard.
"She seems a decent body enow," was the reply. "But I haven't seen much
of her yet. What are you doing there, Harry?"
"Why, you must know that I'm rather a good hand at gardening," answered
the lad, desisting from his occupation of digging a hole in the ground,
and resting on his spade: "and I'm going to move that young tree to this
spot here—because it's all in the shade where it stands now, and will
never come to no good."
[Illustration]
"Ah! that's one of the young trees that Jeffreys planted—him who went
away so suddenly yesterday morning, and which made me come and fetch you
to help us here," observed the maid. "But, come—go on with your work,"
she added, laughing; "and let me see whether you really know how to
handle a spade."
"Well—you shall see," returned the boy; and he fell to work again with
the more alacrity because a pretty girl was watching his progress. "But
I'll tell you fairly," he said, after a few minutes' pause in the
conversation, "this digging here is no proof of what I can do; because
the ground is quite soft—and the more I dig, the surer I am that the
earth has been turned up here very lately."
"That I am certain it has not," exclaimed the maid-servant.
"But I say that it has, though," persisted Harry. "Look here—how easy it
is to dig out! Do you think I don't know?"
"You fancy yourself very clever, my boy," said the female-domestic,
laughing: "but you're wrong for once. We had no man-servant here before
Jeffreys come—and he never dug there, I declare."
"Now, I just tell you what I'll do for the fun of the thing," cried the
lad. "I'll dig out all the earth as far down as it has been dug out
before—because I can now see that a hole _has been dug_ here," he added
emphatically.
"You're an obstinate fellow to stand out so," said the maid. "But I'll
come back in five minutes and see how you get on."
The good-natured servant hastened into the kitchen with the pitcher of
water in her hand; and the lad continued his delving occupation in such
thorough earnest that the perspiration poured down his forehead.
By the time the maid-servant returned to the spot where he was digging,
he had thrown out a great quantity of earth, and had already made a hole
at least three feet deep.
"Still hard at work?" she said. "Why, you have made a place deep enough
to bury that little sapling in! And what a curious shape the hole is, to
be sure! Just for all the world like as if it was dug to put a dead body
in! I wish you wouldn't go on digging in that way, Harry—I shall dream
of nothing but graves——"
A cry of horror, bursting from the lips of the boy, interrupted the
maid-servant's good-natured loquacity.
"What is it, Harry?" she demanded, peeping timidly into the hole, from
which the boy hastily scrambled out.
"You talk of dead bodies," he cried, shuddering from head to foot, and
with a countenance ashy pale;—"but look there—a human hand——"
The maid shrieked, and darted back into the kitchen, uttering
ejaculations of horror.
Mrs. Torrens heard those sounds of alarm, and hastily descended the
stairs.
"Oh! missus," cried the boy, whom she encountered in the passage leading
from the hall to the back door of the house; "such a horrible sight—Oh,
missus! what shall we do?—what will become of us?"
"Speak—explain yourself!" said Mrs. Torrens, amazed and frightened at
the strange agitation and convulsed appearance of the boy.
"Oh! missus," he repeated, his eyes rolling wildly, and his countenance
denoting indescribable terror; "in that hole there—a dead body—a man's
hand——"
"Merciful heavens!" shrieked Mrs. Torrens, now becoming dreadfully
agitated in her turn—for, rapid as lightning-flash, did the thought
strike her that the corpse of Sir Henry Courtenay was discovered.
"Yes, missus—'tis a man's hand, peeping out of the earth," continued the
lad; "and I'm afraid I hacked it with the shovel—but I'm sure I didn't
mean to do no such a thing!"
The newly-married lady staggered, as these frightful words fell upon her
ears—and a film spread over her eyes.
But a sudden and peremptory knock at the front-door recalled her to
herself; and she ordered the trembling maid, who was now standing at the
kitchen entrance, to hasten and answer the summons.
The moment the front-door was opened, two stout men, shabby-genteel in
appearance, and smelling uncommonly of gin-and-peppermint, walked
unceremoniously into the hall.
"Is Mrs. Torrens at home, my dear?" said one, who carried an ash-stick
in his hand: "'cos if she is, you'll please to tell her that two
genelmen is a waiting to say a word to her."
"What name?" demanded the servant-maid, by no means well pleased at the
familiar tone in which she was addressed.
"Oh! what name?" repeated the self-styled gentleman with the ash-stick:
"well—you may say Mr. Brown and Mr. Thompson, my dear."
"_I_ am Mrs. Torrens, gentlemen," said that lady, who having overheard
the preceding dialogue, now came forward; "and I suppose that you are
the persons sent by the auctioneer about the sale of my furniture in Old
Burlington Street."
"Well—not exactly that neither, ma'am," returned the individual with the
ash-stick. "The fact is we're officers——"
"Officers!" shrieked the miserable woman, an appalling change coming
over her.
"Yes—and we've got a warrant agin you for forgery, ma'am," added the Bow
Street runner, who was no other than the reader's old acquaintance Mr.
Dykes.
Mrs. Torrens uttered a dreadful scream, and fell senseless on the floor.
"Come, young o'oman, bustle about, and get your missus some water, and
vinegar, and so on," exclaimed Dykes. "Here, Bingham, my boy, lend a
helping hand, and we'll take the poor creatur into the parlour."
The two officers accordingly raised the insensible woman and carried her
into the adjacent room, where they deposited her on the sofa—that sofa
which had proved the death-bed of her paramour! In the meantime the
servant-maid, though almost bewildered by the dreadful occurrences of
the morning, hastened to procure the necessary articles to aid in the
recovery of her mistress; and in a few minutes Mrs. Torrens opened her
eyes.
Gazing wildly around her, she exclaimed, "Where am I?"—then,
encountering the sinister looks of the two runners, she again uttered a
piercing scream, and clasping her hands together, murmured, "My God! my
God!"
For a full sense of all the tremendous horror of her situation burst
upon her; and there was a world of mental anguish in those ejaculations.
"She's a fine o'oman," whispered Dykes to his friend, while the
good-natured servant endeavoured to console her mistress.
"Yes, she be," replied Bingham; "what a pity 'tis that she's sure to be
scragged!"
"So it is," added Mr. Dykes. "And now, you stay here, old chap—while I
just make a search about the place to see if I can find any of the blunt
raised by the forgery."
Thus speaking, the officer quitted the room.
"Oh! ma'am, pray don't take on so," said the good-natured servant-maid,
endeavouring to console her mistress. "It must be some mistake—I know it
is,—you never could have done what they say! I wish master would come
home—he'd soon put 'em out of the place."
"My God! my God! what will become of me?" murmured Mrs. Torrens,
pressing her hand to her forehead. "Oh! what shall I do? what will the
world say? Just heavens! this is terrible—terrible!"
At that moment the parlour door was opened violently, and Mr. Dykes made
his appearance, dragging in the lad Harry, who was straggling to get
away, and blubbering as if his heart were ready to break.
"Hold your tongue, you damned young fool!" cried Dykes, giving him a
good shake, which only made him bawl out the more lustily: "no one ain't
a going to do you no harm—but we must keep you as a witness. Bless the
boy—I don't suppose you had any hand in the murder."
These last words brought back to the mind of Mrs. Torrens the dread
discovery which had ere now been made in the garden, and the remembrance
of which had been chased away by the appalling peril that had suddenly
overtaken her: but at the observation of the Bow Street runner to the
boy, she uttered a faint hysterical scream, and fell back in a state of
semi-stupefaction.
"Murder did you say, old fellow?" demanded Bingham.
"Yes—summut in that way," returned Dykes. "At all events there's a man
with his throat cut from ear to ear lying at the bottom of a hole in the
garden——"
"You don't mean to say he was left all uncovered like that?" exclaimed
Bingham.
"No—no," answered Dykes. "Them as did for him, buried him safe enough;
and it seems that this boy has been a-digging there, and comes to a hand
sticking out of the ground. So he's too much afeared to go down any
farther; but I deuced soon shovelled out the earth—and, behold ye! there
lies the dread-fullest spectacle you ever see, Bingham, in all your
life. But it wont do to waste time in talking here. You cut over to
Streatham and get a couple of constables—'cos there's plenty of work for
us all in this house, it seems."
Bingham departed to execute the commission thus confided to him; and
Dykes remained behind in charge of the premises.
It would be impossible to describe the wretchedness of the scene which
was now taking place in the parlour. The lad Harry was crying in one
corner, despite the assurances which Dykes had given him;—the
maid-servant, horrified and alarmed at all the incidents which had
occurred within the last quarter of an hour, was anxious to depart from
a house which circumstances now rendered terrible; but she could not
make up her mind to leave Mrs. Torrens, who was in a most deplorable
condition;—for the unhappy woman lay, gasping for breath and moaning
piteously, on the sofa—her countenance distorted with the dreadful
workings of her agitated soul, and her eyes fixed and glassy beneath
their half-closed lids!
Dykes accosted the boy, and, was beginning to put some questions to him
with a view to ascertain when it was likely that Mr. Torrens would
return, when that gentleman suddenly drove up to the door in his gig.
"Now, my lad," said Dykes, "go and open the door, and mind and don't
utter a word about what has taken place here this morning."
The boy hastened to admit Mr. Torrens, who passed him by without even
appearing to notice his presence, and proceeded straight to the parlour
in a mechanical kind of manner, which showed how deeply his thoughts
were occupied with some all-absorbing subject.
But the moment the ruined, wretched man opened the door, he shrank back
from the scene which offered itself to his view; for the condition of
his wife, and the presence of so suspicions-looking a person as Mr.
Dykes told the entire tale at once—the forgery had been discovered!
"Oh! master," exclaimed the servant-maid, "I am so glad you're come
back;—for your poor dear lady——"
"Yes, master—and that dreadful sight in the garden," interrupted the
boy, whimpering again,—"the murdered man in the hole——"
Mr. Torrens staggered—reeled—and would have fallen, had not Dykes caught
him by the arm, saying, "Sit down, sir—and compose yourself. I'm very
sorry that I should have been the cause of unsettling your good lady so,
sir: but I'm obleeged to do my dooty. And as for t'other business in the
garden—I s'pose——"
"I presume you are an officer?" cried Mr. Torrens, suddenly recovering
his presence of mind, as if he had called some desperate resolution to
his aid.
"That's just what I am, sir," answered Dykes.
"And you have come here to—to——"
"To arrest Mrs. Slingsby that was—Mrs. Torrings that is—for forgery, was
my business in the first instance," continued Dykes; "and now its grown
more serious, 'cos of a orkard discovery made in the garden——"
"What?" demanded Torrens, with strange abruptness: but he was a prey to
the most frightful suspense, and was anxious to learn at once whether
any suspicion attached itself to him relative to that discovery, the
nature of which he could full well understand.
"The dead body—the murdered gentleman, master!" exclaimed the lad Harry,
throwing terrified glances around him.
"I do not understand you!" said Mr. Torrens, in a hoarse-hollow tone:
"what do you mean? All this is quite strange—and therefore the more
alarming to me."
But the ghastly pallor and dreadful workings of his countenance
instantly confirmed in the mind of Dykes the suspicion he had already
entertained—namely, that Mr. Torrens was not ignorant of the shocking
deed now brought to light: and the officer accordingly had but one
course to pursue.
"Mr. Torrens, sir," he said, "the less you talk on this here business,
perhaps the better; 'cos every word that's uttered here must be repeated
again elsewhere; and it will be my dooty to take you afore a
magistrate——"
"Take me!" ejaculated the wretched man: and his eyes were fixed in
horrified amazement on the officer.
"I'm sorry to say I must do so," answered Dykes.
"Martha—Martha!" ejaculated Torrens, starting from the seat in which
the officer had just now deposited him, and speaking in such wild,
unearthly tones that those who heard him thought he had suddenly
gone raving mad: "why do you lie moaning there? Get up—and face the
danger bravely—bravely! Ah! ah! here is a fine ending to all our
glorious schemes!"—and he laughed frantically. "Howard has run
away—absconded—gone, I tell you! Yes—gone, with the two thousand
pounds! But I did not murder Sir Henry Courtenay!" he continued,
abruptly reverting to the most horrible of all the frightful
subjects which racked his brain. "No—it was not I who murdered
him—you know it was not, Martha!"
And he sank back, exhausted and fainting, in the seat from which he had
risen.
"Sir Henry Courtenay!" cried Dykes. "Well—this _is_ strange; for it's on
account of forging his name that the lady is arrested—and notice of his
disappearance was given at our office this morning."
* * * * *
Late that evening the entire metropolis was thrown into amazement by the
report "that a gentleman, named Torrens, who had hitherto borne an
excellent character, and was much respected by all his friends and
acquaintances, had been committed to Newgate on a charge of murder, the
victim being Sir Henry Courtenay, Baronet." And this rumour was coupled
with the intelligence "that the prisoner's wife, to whom he had only
been married on the previous day, and who was so well known in the
religions and philanthropic circles by the name of Slingsby, had been
consigned to the same gaol on a charge of forgery."