THE VOICE OF DUTY
Elsie in her studio was at work. She was painting a fancy portrait. You
have seen how, before her interview with Mr. Dering, she transformed him
from a hard and matter-of-fact lawyer into a genial, benevolent old
gentleman. She was now elaborating this transformation. It is a
delightful process, known to every portrait-painter, whereby a face
faithfully represented becomes the face of another person, or the face
as it might be, so that a hard and keen face, such as Mr. Dering's, may
become a face ennobled with spiritual elevation, benevolence, charity,
and kindness of heart. Or, on the other hand, without the least change
of feature, this hard keen face may become, by the curve of a line or
the addition of a shadow, the face of a cruel and pitiless Inquisitor.
Or, again, any face, however blurred and marred by the life of its
owner, may by the cunning portrait-painter be restored to the face
intended by its Maker, that is to say, a sweet and serious face. Great
indeed is the power, marvellous is the mystery, of the limner's art.
'Now,' Elsie murmured, 'you look like some great philanthropist--a
thoughtful philanthropist, not a foolish person: your high forehead and
your sharp nostril proclaim that you are no impulsive gusher: your
kindly eyes beam with goodness of heart: your lips are firm because you
hate injustice. Oh, my dear guardian, how much I have improved you!
Something like this you looked when you told me of my fortune--and like
this when you spoke of your dream, and your illusions--something like
this you looked.'
She went on working at her fantasy, crooning a simple ditty, composed of
many melodies running into one, as girls use when they are quite happy.
The afternoon was hot. Outside, Elsie's windows looked upon a nest of
little London gardens, where nasturtiums twisted round strings upon the
walls; hollyhocks and sunflowers, which love the London smoke, lifted
their heads; and Virginia creepers climbed to the house-tops. The
little London gardens do sometimes look gay and bright in the yellow
glow of a July afternoon. The window was open, and the room was almost
as hot as the street outside; we get so few hot days that one here and
there cannot be too hot. On the table lay a photograph of her lover;
over the mantel hung her own drawing in Pastel of that swain; on her
finger was his ring: round her neck lay his chain: all day long she was
reminded of him, if she should cease for a moment to think of him. But
there was no need of such reminder. It was Friday afternoon, four days
after the great Discovery. Elsie had been informed of the event, the
news of which she received after the feminine manner, with an
ejaculation of surprise and an interjection of sympathy. But one cannot
expect a girl on the eve of her marriage to be greatly distressed
because her guardian, a rich man, is annoyed by the temporary loss of
certain shares. And as to finding the criminal and getting back those
shares--it was man's work. All the troublesome and disagreeable part of
the world's work belongs to man.
It was nearly five o'clock. Elsie was beginning to think that she had
done enough, and that, after tea, a walk in the Gardens might be
pleasant. Suddenly, without any noise or warning of steps outside, her
door was opened and her sister Hilda appeared. Now, so swift is the
feminine perception, that Elsie instantly understood that something had
happened--something bad--something bad to herself. For first, the door
was opened gently, as in a house of mourning; and next, Hilda had on a
dress--lavender with heliotrope, costly, becoming, sympathetic, and
sorrowful--a half-mourning dress--and she stood for a moment at the door
with folded hands, her classical head inclined a little downward to the
left, and her eyes drooping--an artistic attitude of sadness. Hilda not
only said the right thing and held the proper sentiments, but she liked
to assume the right attitude and to personate the right emotion. Now it
is given to woman, and only to her when she is young, tall, and
beautiful, to express by attitude all or any of the emotions which
transport or torture her fellow-creatures. Hilda, you see, was an
artist.
'Come in, dear,' said Elsie. 'I am sure that you have got something
disagreeable to tell me.'
Hilda kissed her forehead. 'My poor child,' she murmured. 'If it could
have been told you by anybody else!'
'Well--let us hear it. Is it anything very disagreeable?'
'It is terrible. I tremble--I dare not tell you. Yet I must. You ought
to know.'
'If you would go on. It is much more terrible to be kept in suspense.'
'It is about George.'
'Oh!' said Elsie, flaming. 'I have had so much trouble about George
already, that I did think----'
'My dear, all opposition of the former kind is removed, as you know.
This is something very different. Worse,' she added in a hollow
voice--'far worse.'
'For Heaven's sake, get along.'
'He has told you about the dreadful robbery. Of course you have talked
about nothing else since it happened. I found my mother full of it.'
'Yes--George is in charge of the case. He says that everything must be
recovered, and that Mr. Dering will in the end suffer no more injury
than the trouble of it.'
'That may be so. Elsie--I hardly dare to tell you--there is a clue.
Checkley has got that clue, and has told Sir Samuel everything. He is
following up the clue. I shudder to think of it. The man is as
relentless as a bloodhound.'
'Does that clue concern me?' Her cheek became pale because she
guessed--she knew not what.
'Sir Samuel, against his will, is convinced that Checkley has found the
clue. He has told me the whole. He has consented to my telling the
dreadful story to my mother and to you--and now I am afraid. Yet I
must.'
Elsie made a gesture of impatience.
'Go back, Elsie, eight years, if you can. Remember the wretched business
of our unworthy brother.'
'I remember it. Not unworthy, Hilda. Our most unfortunate brother. Why,
they have found the very notes he was charged with stealing. They were
found in the safe on the very day when they made the other discovery.
Have they not told you?'
'Checkley told Sir Samuel. He also remembers seeing Athelstan place the
packet in the safe.'
'Oh! Does he dare to say that? Why, Hilda, the robbery was proved to lie
between himself and Athelstan. If he saw that, why did he not say so? He
keeps silence for eight long years, and then he speaks.'
Hilda shook her head sadly. 'I fear,' she said, 'that we cannot accept
the innocence of our unfortunate brother. However, Athelstan was accused
of forging Mr. Dering's handwriting and signature. In this new forgery,
the same handwriting is found again--exactly the same. The forger is the
same.'
'Clearly, therefore, it cannot be Athelstan. That settles it.'
'Yes--unfortunately--it does settle it. Because, you see, Athelstan is
in London. He is said to have been living in London all the time--in
some wretched place called Camberwell, inhabited, I suppose, by runaways
and low company of every kind. He has lately been seen in the
neighbourhood of Gray's Inn, apparently passing under his own name.
Checkley has seen him. Another person has seen him.'
'Have you come to tell me that Athelstan is charged with this new
wickedness?'
'The forger must have had an accomplice in the office; a man able
to get at the safe: able to intercept the post: acquainted with Mr.
Dering's ways: such a man as--say--Checkley--or--the only other
possible--George.' Hilda paused.
'Oh! This is too absurd. You are now hinting that George--my George,'
she said proudly, 'was the confederate of Athelstan--no--of a forger.'
'They have been seen together. They have been seen together at the house
from which the forger addresses his letters. Has George told you that he
has known all along--for eight years--of Athelstan's residence in
London?'
Observe how that simple remark made in the _Salutation_ Parlour, that
Athelstan must have been living in Camberwell, had by this time grown
into a complete record of eight years' hiding, eight years' disgraceful
company on the part of one, and eight years' complicity and guilty
knowledge on the part of the other. Hilda had not the least doubt. It
was quite enough for her that Checkley said so. Half the contents of our
newspapers are conducted on the same confiding principle.
'If George has not told me,' Elsie replied, 'it must be for some good
reason. Perhaps he was pledged to secrecy.'
'My dear'--Hilda rose impressively with fateful face-'the hand that
forged the letters is the hand that forged the cheque--your brother's
hand. The hand that took the certificates from the safe'--she laid her
own upon Elsie's hand--'the hand of the confederate, my poor sister,
is--your lover's hand.'
'I knew,' said the girl, 'that you were coming to this. I have felt it
from the beginning.'
'Remember, the thing was done in the months of February, March, and
April. First of all, Athelstan was then, as now, desperately poor: the
life that he has led for the last eight years--the life of
a--a--Camberwell profligate'--she spoke as if that respectable suburb
was the modern Alsatia-'has certainly destroyed whatever was left of
honour and of principle. There comes a time, I have read, in the career
of every wicked man when he hesitates no longer whatever means are
offered him of making money. Athelstan it was--so they believe--who
devised this scheme, which has been as successful as it is disgraceful.
My dear Elsie, this is the most terrible disgrace that has ever befallen
my family: the most dreadful and the most unexpected calamity for you.'
Elsie caught her sister by the wrist. 'In the name of God, Hilda, are
you telling me what is proved and true, or what is only suspected?'
'I am telling you what is as good as proved. More than suspected.'
'As good as proved. Oh!' Elsie drew a long breath. 'As good as proved.
That is enough. Like Athelstan's guilt eight years ago,' she flared out
suddenly, springing up again and walking about the room. 'Oh! it is
wonderful!' she cried--'wonderful! What a family we are! We had a
brother, and we believed that he was an honourable gentleman, as the son
of his father must be. Then there was a charge, a foolish charge, based
upon nothing but may--have--been and must--have--been---- We believed
the charge----'
'Because we had no choice but to believe, Elsie,' her sister
interrupted. 'Do you think we wanted to believe the charge?'
'We should have believed him innocent until the thing was proved. We did
not. We cast him out from among us; and now, after eight years--he has
come back poor, you say, and sunk so low that he is ashamed to see his
people, and we are going to believe another charge based on may have
been and must have been. No, Hilda. I will not believe it--I will
not.--And then there is George. If I cease to believe in his honour and
his truth, I cease to believe in everything. I cannot believe in Heaven
itself unless I believe in my lover. Why, his heart is light about this
business: he is not concerned: he laughs at that old man's ravings.
Ravings? If Athelstan is right, then his is the hand that has done it
all--his--Hilda--Checkley is the man concerned with both crimes.'
Hilda shook her head. 'No, Elsie, no. The old man is above suspicion.'
'Why should he be above suspicion more than George? And you ask me on
the first breath of accusation to treat George as you treated Athelstan.
Well--Hilda, I will not.'
'I make every allowance for you, Elsie. It is a most dreadful
business--a heart-breaking business. You may misrepresent me as much as
you please-- I will continue to make allowances for you. Meantime, what
will you do?'
'Do? What should I do? Nothing, nothing, nothing. I shall go on as if
this thing had never happened.'
'Sir Samuel ordered me to warn you most seriously. If you consent to see
him again----'
'Consent? Consent? Why should I refuse? In a fortnight he will be my
husband and my master, whom I must obey. He calls me his mistress now,
but I am his servant. Consent to see him?' She sat down and burst into
tears.
'If you see him again,' her sister continued, 'warn him to leave the
country. The thing is so certain that in a day or two the proofs will be
complete, and it will then be too late. Make him leave the country. Be
firm, Elsie. Better still, refuse to see him at all and leave him to his
fate. What a fate! What madness!'
'We allowed Athelstan to leave the country. He ought to have stayed. If
I advise George at all I shall advise him to stick to his post and see
the business through. If he were to leave the country, I would go with
him.'
'You are infatuated, Elsie. I can only hope that he may fly the country
of his own accord. Meantime, there is one other point----'
'What is it? Pray, don't spare me, Hilda. After what has gone before, it
must be a very little point.'
'You are bitter, Elsie, and I don't deserve your bitterness. But that is
nothing. At such a moment everything must be pardoned and permitted. The
point is about your wedding. It is fixed for the 12th of next month,
less than three weeks from to-day. You must be prepared to put it off.'
'Indeed! Because you say that a thing impossible is as good as proved!
Certainly not, Hilda.'
'I have come here to-day, Elsie, by Sir Samuel's express wish, in order
to soften the blow and to warn you. Whether you will tell--that unhappy
young man or not, is for you to decide. Perhaps, if you do, he may
imitate our unworthy brother and run away. If he does not, the blow will
fall to-morrow--to-day--the day after to-morrow--I know not when. He
will be arrested: he will be taken before a magistrate: he will be
remanded: he will be out on bail. Oh, Elsie, think of marrying a man out
on bail! One might as well marry a man in convict dress. Oh! Horrible!'
'I would rather marry George in convict dress than any other man in fine
raiment. Because, once more, the thing is impossible.'
'You carry your faith in your lover beyond bounds, Elsie. Of course a
girl is right to believe in a man's honour. It makes her much more
comfortable, and gives her a sense of security. Besides, we always like
to believe that we are loved by the best of men. That makes us feel like
the best of women.--But in this case, when I tell you that Sir Samuel--a
man who has always lived among money--so to speak--and knows how money
is constantly assailed--is firmly convinced of George's complicity, I do
think that you might allow something for human frailty. In the case of
Athelstan, what did Mr. Dering say? Everything is possible. So I say of
George Austin, everything is possible.'
'Not everything. Not that.'
'Yes, even that.--What do you know of his private life? Why has he
concealed the fact of Athelstan's residence in London? Why has he never
told us of his friendship with that unfortunate outcast?'
'I don't know. He has his reasons.'
'It is a most dreadful thing for you,' Hilda went on. 'And after getting
to believe in the man and--well--becoming attached to him--though such
attachments mean little and are soon forgotten--and after going the
length of fixing the day and ordering the dress and the wedding-cake,
and putting up the banns---- Oh! it is a wretched business--a horrible
misfortune. The only thing to be said is that in such a case, the fact
being known to everybody, no one can blame a girl; and perhaps, in the
long run, she will suffer no injury from it. Our circle, for instance,
is so different from that of this young man's friends, that the thing
would not even be known among us.'
'I believe, Hilda, you will drive me mad.'
'My dear, one must look ahead. And remember that I look ahead for you.
As for the young man, I dissociate him henceforth from you. What he does
and where he goes I do not inquire or care about, any more than I
trouble myself about a disgraceful brother. Some acts cut a man off from
his mistress--from his sisters--from the world.'
'Do not talk any more,' said Elsie. 'Let the blow, as you call it, fall
when it pleases. But as for me, I shall not warn George that he is to be
charged with dishonesty, any more than I will believe him capable of
dishonesty.'
'Well, my dear, there is one comfort for us. You may resolve on marrying
him. But a man charged with a crime--out on bail--cannot marry any girl.
And he will be charged, and the evidence is very strong.'
'No doubt. As good as proved--as good as proved. Poor George! Who never
had ten pounds in the world until he was made a partner----'
'True. And there we have the real motive. Seek the motive, Sir Samuel
says, and we shall find the criminal. Here you have the reason of the
secret partnership with Athelstan. Poverty is the tempter--Athelstan is
the suggested.'
Elsie shook her head impatiently.
'Mr. Dering was to give you away. Who will now? Athelstan? How can
we--Sir Samuel and I--assist at a wedding where the bridegroom lies
under such a charge?--by one so near to us as Mr. Dering? How can your
mother be present? Oh, Elsie, think!'
Elsie shook her head again, with greater impatience.
'Think what a fate you may be dragging upon yourself! Think of possible
children with such a brand upon them!'
'I think only of an honourable and an innocent man.'
'I have just come from my mother, Elsie. She says positively that if the
charge is brought, the wedding must be put off until the man is cleared.
And for the moment she does not feel strong enough to meet him. You can
receive him here if you please. And she desires that there may be no
disputes or arguments about it.'
'It is truly wonderful!' Elsie walked to the open window and gasped as
if choking. 'Wonderful!' she repeated. 'The same fate--in the same
manner--threatens George that fell upon Athelstan. And it finds us as
ready to believe in the charge and to cast him out. Now, Hilda, go to my
mother and tell her that though the whole world should call George--my
George--a villain, I will marry him. Tell her that though I should have
to take him from the prison door, I will marry him. Because, you see,
all things are not possible. This thing is impossible.'
'We shall have trouble with Elsie,' Lady Dering told her mother. 'Call
her soft and yielding? My dear, no mule was ever more stubborn. She will
marry her convict, she says, even at the prison door.'