JOSEPH HORN'S TESTIMONY.
"Some one is waiting to see you, sir," said one of Mr. Grubb's
servants to him, as he entered the house on his return from church.
"Who is it?"
"Mr. Dalrymple's man, sir. He has been waiting nearly an hour."
Reuben came forward from the back of the hall. The moment Mr. Grubb
caught sight of his face, usually so full of healthy bloom, now pale
and woe-begone, he was seized with a presentiment of evil.
"Come into the library, Reuben," he said. "Have you brought ill news
of any kind?" he added, shutting the door. "What is it?"
And to make matters more intelligible to you, reader, we will go back
to the past Friday night, when Robert Dalrymple left his lodgings in
the company of Mr. Piggott, leaving poor Reuben in distress and
despair.
Reuben sat up the livelong night. The light dawned after the brief
interval of darkness, very brief in June, the sun came out, the cries
and bustle in the streets gradually set in, and London had begun
another day. At six o'clock Reuben lay down on his bed for an hour,
and then got himself a bit of breakfast--which he could not eat. His
master did not come.
Fearing he knew not what, and attaching more importance, in his vague
uneasiness, to Robert's having stayed out than he might have done at
another time, at nine o'clock Reuben betook himself to Mr. Piggott's.
That gentleman did not live in very fashionable lodgings, and his
address was usually given at his club, not there. Reuben, however,
knew it. Some time before, Reuben had gone on a fishing tour, to catch
what information he could as to the private concerns of Mr. Piggott
and Colonel Haughton, and had found out where each lived.
The slipshod servant who came to the door could say nothing as to
whether Mr. Dalrymple was staying the night there; all she knew was,
that Mr. Piggott "warn't up yet." Reuben inquired as to the locality
of Mr. Piggott's chamber, went up to it without opposition, and
knocked at the door; a sharp, loud knock.
"Who's there?"
Another knock, sharper still.
"Come in."
Reuben walked in at once. "Sir," was his unceremonious address, "do
you know anything of my master?"
"I!" cried Mr. Piggott, when he had recovered his surprise, and
speaking from the midst of his bedclothes. "I do not. Why?"
"I thought you might know, sir, as you took him out last night. He
said he was going to play with you and Colonel Haughton. He has not
returned home, which I think very strange; and, as there is some
important business waiting for him, I want to find him."
Reuben spoke out freely. But the "important business" was only an
invention. He did not care to betray how uneasy he was, yet wanted an
excuse for inquiring. Poor man! the fate of his early master lay
ominously on his mind.
"He left us last night between twelve and one o'clock; to go home, as
I suppose," said Mr. Piggott, somewhat taken aback.
"Between twelve and one, sir?"
"Close upon one it may have been; it had not struck. I know nothing
more."
"Did he go home with Colonel Haughton?"
"That I am sure he did not. Colonel Haughton and I walked away
together. I left the colonel at his own door."
"Away from Jermyn Street, I suppose you mean, sir!"
"You have no right to suppose anything of the kind," roared Mr.
Piggott, aroused to anger. "What is it to you? Go out, and shut the
door."
Reuben did as he was bid; there seemed to be no use in staying. He
sought out Colonel Haughton, who (remembering past events) was civil,
and who possibly felt some undefined uneasiness at the disappearance
of Robert. His story was the same as Piggott's--that the young man had
left them a little before one o'clock.
Trusting these gentlemen just as far as he could see them, and no
farther, or their word either, Reuben went to the gambling-house in
Jermyn Street. After some difficulty--for every impediment seemed put
in the way of any inquiry; and, to judge by appearances, the place
might have been the most innocent in the world--Reuben found a man
attached to the house who knew Mr. Dalrymple. This man happened to be
at the front-door when Mr. Dalrymple went out the previous night; it
wanted about five or ten minutes to one. He watched him walk away.
"Which way did he go?" asked Reuben. "Towards home--South Audley
Street?"
"No; the other way. He staggered a bit, as if not quite sober."
"Through the machinations of the wicked people that have been hunting
him; he never drank but when incited to it by them," spoke Reuben, in
his pain.
Back he went to South Audley Street, in the hope that his master might
have now reached it. Not so. The day wore on, and he did not come.
Reuben was half distracted. In the evening, he went to various
police-stations, and told his tale--his master, Mr. Robert Dalrymple,
had disappeared. It may, perhaps, seem to you, reader, that all this
was premature; hardly called for; but the faithful old servant's state
of mind must plead his excuse.
Another night passed. Sunday morning arose, and then tidings came of
Robert and his probable fate. The police had been making inquiries,
and one of them came to Reuben.
A hat had been found in the Thames, the previous day, floating away
with the tide. Inside it was written "R. Dalrymple." The policeman had
it in his hand; bringing it to Reuben to be owned or disowned. Reuben
recognized it in a moment. It was the one his unfortunate master had
worn on Friday night. How could it have got in the water?--and where,
then, was Robert Dalrymple?
Little need to speculate. Some bargemen who were in their vessel,
lying close to the side of Westminster Bridge, had disclosed to the
police that about two o'clock on Saturday morning they had heard a
weight drop into the water, seemingly from the bridge--"as if," said
one of them, "a body had throwed hisself right on to the Thames o'
purpose to make a hole in it."
It was this disastrous news that Reuben had now brought to Mr. Grubb.
That gentleman sat aghast as he listened. The old man, seated opposite
to him, broke down with a burst of anguish as he concluded, the salt
tears raining on his cheeks.
"Can he have wilfully destroyed himself?" breathed Mr. Grubb.
"Only too sure, sir," wailed Reuben; "only too sure."
"And the motive? Embarrassment?"
"Not a doubt of it, sir: he was quite ruined."
"If he had only applied to me!--if he had only applied to me!"
bewailed Mr. Grubb, rising from his chair to pace the room in
excitement. "I would have saved and helped him."
"A dreadful set had got hold of him, poor young man," sobbed Reuben.
"The same gamblers--one of them's the same, at any rate--that got hold
of and ruined his uncle. Doubtless you know that story, sir. On this
last Friday evening that ever was, I told it to Mr. Robert, hoping it
would turn him back. But those wretched men had laid too fast a hold
upon him. One was waiting for him outside in the street then. My
belief is, sir, he _couldn't_ break with them."
"Had the tale no effect upon him?"
"Some little it had; not enough. He must go forth to play that night,
he said to me; he had given his word to Piggott to go, and, besides,
he thought the luck would turn and favour him; but once the night was
over, he would know that Haughton and the rest of the set no more. And
I think he would have kept his word, sir."
"I suppose luck did not favour him? That shall, if possible, be
ascertained."
Reuben shook his head. "No need to doubt, sir. The worst is--the worst
is--I hardly like to say it."
"Can anything be worse, Reuben, than what you have told me?" was Mr.
Grubb's sad rejoinder, as he took his seat again.
"Ay, but I meant as to his means, sir; his losses. He was quite
cleared out; he told me that; everything, including Moat Grange, so
far as his life interest in it went, was staked and gone. But that
last night"--Reuben's voice dropped to a dread whisper--"he took out
with him what was not his to stake. And, no doubt, lost it."
"What was it?" questioned Mr. Grubb, in the same hushed tone, feeling
rather at sea, yet afraid of he knew not what.
"It was a cheque that had come up that morning from Netherleigh.
Farmer Lee wanted some money invested in some particular security, and
he got my master to undertake to do it for him, to save himself the
journey up. Mr. Robert had told me all about it--he mostly did tell me
things. Ah, sir, his disposition was open and generous as the day."
"And the money came?"
"The cheque came, sir. It was for five hundred pounds. Piggott called
that Friday afternoon and scented the cheque; saw it, most likely. He
took Mr. Robert out to dinner, and plied him with wine, and between
ten and eleven he brought him back again, staying outside while my
master came in--come in for the cheque. It was then I tried to pull
him up by telling him about his uncle Claude--how the man Haughton had
lured Mr. Claude to his destruction, just as he was now luring Mr.
Robert. He said he would have no more to do with Haughton after that
night; but he went out to Piggott with the cheque in his pocket, and
they walked away together arm-in-arm."
Mr. Grubb took out his pocketbook, and made a note in pencil. He
would get that cheque back from the gamblers, if possible. At any
rate, he would have a good try for it.
Reuben had not much more to tell. Mr. Grubb put on his hat and went
with him to see the police inspector who had the case in hand. It was
a terrible blow: terrible in all ways: Francis Grubb was feeling it to
be so--and what then would it be to his sister Mary?
The inspector pointed out to Mr. Grubb that, in spite of the finding
of the hat in the Thames, which hat was, beyond all doubt, Mr.
Dalrymple's, it did not follow that Mr. Dalrymple was himself in the
Thames; and the splash heard by the men in the barge might have been
made by any one else. There was no proof, he urged, that Mr. Dalrymple
had been on Westminster Bridge, or near it. And all this seemed so
reasonable that Mr. Grubb felt his heart's weight somewhat lightened.
But, ere the Sunday afternoon closed in, testimony on this point was
forthcoming, and rather singularly. It chanced that a young man, named
Horn, who was an assistant to Robert Dalrymple's tailor, and had often
measured Robert for clothes, was spending the Friday with some friends
at South Lambeth. Horn, a very respectable and steady man, had stayed
late, for it was a wedding feast, beyond the time of omnibuses, and
had to walk home to his lodgings near Leicester Square. In passing
over Westminster Bridge, it was then close upon two o'clock, he saw
some one mounted on the top, leaning right over the parapet, hanging
over it, as if he had a mind to fling himself into the water. Horn,
startled at the sight, ran up, and pulled the man back; and then, to
his unbounded astonishment, he found it was Mr. Dalrymple.
"I beg your pardon, sir," he said in apology. "I had no idea it was
you."
"Good-night, Horn," replied Robert.
"Good-night, sir," returned Horn; and walked on.
But Horn felt uneasy; especially so at the remembrance of Mr.
Dalrymple's face, for it looked full of trouble; and he turned back
again. Robert was then standing with his arms folded, apparently
looking down quietly on the water.
"Can I do anything for you, sir?" he asked. "Nothing has happened, I
hope?"
"Oh, nothing at all," replied Robert. "I don't want anything done;
thank you all the same, Horn. The night is warm, and I am enjoying the
air: one gets it here, if anywhere. Good-night."
Joseph Horn wished him good-night again and walked finally away. On
this day, Sunday, chancing to hear that Mr. Dalrymple was missing--for
inquiries were now being made extensively--he came forward and related
this.
It was just the one link that had been wanting. Poor Robert Dalrymple,
utterly ruined, soon now to be pointed at as a felon, had found his
trouble greater than he could bear, and had put an end to it. Of that
there could exist no reasonable doubt. The melancholy tale speedily
fled over London--how quickly such news does fly! Robert Dalrymple had
drowned himself--another victim to Play.
"It runs in the family," quoth some careless people who remembered the
former catastrophe. "Like uncle, like nephew! The name of Dalrymple
must be a fated one."
"I would at least have used a pistol, and gone out of the world like a
gentleman," was the bad remark of that bad man, Colonel Haughton, as
he stood on the Sunday night--yes, the Sunday night--and listened to
the news in that place with the hot name.
But the colonel changed his tone the following day, when Francis
Grubb, the great East India merchant, whom all men, high and low,
looked up to and respected, stood before him, and quietly informed him
he must give up a certain cheque belonging to Mr. Lee of Netherleigh,
or its value if it had been cashed; give it up, or submit to appear
before a magistrate, and run the gauntlet of public exposure. After
putting himself to a great deal of trouble, in the way of
remonstrance, excuse, and grumbling, to which Mr. Grubb made no sort
of reply, as he calmly waited the result, the colonel returned the
cheque--which had not been cashed. Possibly the disappearance of
Robert Dalrymple had put him and Mr. Piggott on their guard.
Meanwhile the Grange remained in ignorance of what was passing; but
the terrible tidings would soon have to be carried thither.
When Mrs. Dalrymple returned home on Friday evening from dining at
Court Netherleigh, she did not say much to Oscar about her son; but on
the following morning, after breakfast, Oscar having slept at the
Grange, she questioned him. Without making exactly the worst of it,
Oscar disclosed the truth--that is, that Robert was undoubtedly
falling into trouble through his gambling habits. He deemed it lay in
his duty to tell this; and Mrs. Dalrymple, as the reader must
remember, had been already warned by Reuben's letter. That letter had
been a great shock to her; she knew how fatal the vice had already
proved in the family.
It was a lovely midsummer morning, and she and Selina were sitting on
the bench under the great elm-tree. The bees were humming, the
butterflies sporting, the birds singing around them. The grass was
green at foot; overhead, the blue sky could be seen through the
branches of the flickering trees. Oscar leaned against the trunk of an
opposite tree as he talked to them.
"What can be done?--what can be done?" exclaimed Mrs. Dalrymple,
clasping her hands in distress. "Oscar, you ought to have brought him
down with you."
"He positively refused to come. I might as well have tried to bring a
mountain. Something ought to be done, and must be done," added Oscar;
"you are quite right in saying that. The question is--what is it that
can be?"
"The root of the evil lies in his having gone to London," said Mrs.
Dalrymple. "He ought to have taken up his own proper station here, and
ourselves have found a house elsewhere. But, in his chivalrous
affection for me, Robert would listen to no remonstrance; some implied
promise to his father, when he was on his death-bed, I believe, swayed
him. Robert was always so good-hearted--and so impulsive. He--here is
Alice," she broke off, in lowered tones.
Alice, with her sweet face, her slight figure, and her quite
perceptible limp, came across the grass. "May I not be admitted to the
conference?" she asked pleadingly. "I know you are talking of Robert."
"Oh, my dear, it is nothing that you need trouble yourself about,"
said her mother, soothingly. "Go back to your tatting."
"I have my tatting with me. Mamma--Oscar--do you not see that it will
be _well_ for me to hear what there is to hear. I know something is
wrong about Robert; I could not sleep all last night, no, nor the
night before, for dwelling on it. Whatever there is to hear, it cannot
make me more anxious than I am--and it would end this suspense."
"Well, well, sit down," said Mrs. Dalrymple, giving way. "I hardly
know myself how much or how little of evil there is to hear, Alice."
And she went on to speak without reservation: "Robert had fallen into
gambling habits; and there was no telling how deeply. All his own
means were undoubtedly gone. Of course things must get worse night by
night," she concluded. "Any night he may stake the Grange."
"Stake the Grange!" echoed Alice. "Mamma, what do you mean?"
"Stake it and lose it," confirmed Oscar. "When the mania for play sets
in on a man, he is not content to confine his ventures to trifles."
"But I do not understand," returned Alice. "How could he stake the
Grange? It is in the Dalrymple family, and cannot go out of it?"
"He might stake its value. Mortgage it, that is, for his own life."
"And could we not remain in it?" she quickly asked.
"Scarcely. It might take every shilling of its incomings to pay off
the interest. You could not remain here upon nothing."
"Would it be sacrificed; useless to us for so long as Robert lived?"
questioned Selina, not quite comprehending.
Oscar nodded. "I am only saying that he might do it: I do not say he
will. He might so hamper himself, so involve the estate, that he could
never derive further benefit from it. Or his family either, so long as
he lived."
"Does it return to us at Robert's death? I wish to goodness he would
be more careful of himself," added Selina, in her quick way. "Sitting
up till daylight, night after night, cannot be good for him."
"It--would return into the family," spoke Oscar, hesitatingly.
Alice Dalrymple looked up from a reverie. A contingency had occurred
to her which she had never thought of before: so entirely had the
Grange been theirs in their father's recent lifetime, and in the
certainty of its descending to Robert afterwards. "Suppose anything
were to happen to Robert," she said, "whose would the Grange be?
Mamma's?"
No one answered her.
"Oscar, I ask you, would it go to mamma?"
"No."
"To whom, then?"
"My dear," interposed Mrs. Dalrymple, "it would be Oscar's. It goes in
the male line."
The answer took both the young ladies by surprise. They were really
very ignorant of these matters. Each of them stole a glance at Oscar:
a red, conscious light had flown into his usually pale cheek.
"I never knew it," breathed Selina.
"And it is of little import your knowing it now," gently spoke Oscar.
"I am as likely to come into the Grange as I am of being made prime
minister. Robert is a younger man than I am."
"Poor Robert!" lamented Alice. "He has been left to himself up in that
great wicked town, he has had no one to turn to for advice or counsel,
and I dare say he has only done what he has done from thoughtlessness.
A word from mamma may set him right. Mamma, do you not think you ought
to go to him?"
"Yes, Alice. It is what I have been resolving to do, now, as you were
talking. And you must stay here over tomorrow, and go with me, Oscar.
We will start by the nine-o'clock train on Monday morning."
"So be it," acquiesced Oscar. "It is the only thing. He may listen to
you."
So Oscar Dalrymple stayed with them at the Grange until the Monday,
revelling in the society of the one only being he loved on
earth--Selina.
Mrs. Dalrymple had made ready for the journey--and how fervent, how
imploringly earnest her prayers were that it might bear happy fruit,
she and Heaven alone know. They all sat down to an early breakfast:
even Alice, whose lameness was an apology for not rising betimes in
general. In the midst of breakfast, James came in, and looked at Oscar
Dalrymple.
"Will you please to step here, sir, for a minute?"
"What for?"
"Just for a minute, sir," repeated the man; and his eyes seemed to
telegraph a momentary entreaty with the words.
Oscar went out hurriedly, for there was no time to spare, and the
carriage to take them to the station had already come round. James
shut the door.
"Here's Reuben come down, sir, by the early train," he whispered. "He
told me to fetch you out to him, quietly, but not to say who it was."
Oscar walked quickly across the hall. Reuben awaited him in an empty
room.
"What is it, Reuben? What has brought you from town?"
The old servant trembled with agitation, and grasped hold of the back
of a chair. "Oh, Mr. Oscar, it is all over. My poor young master is
gone."
Oscar sat down, seemingly unconscious what he did, and the red light
came again into his cheeks.
"The very night after you left London, sir, those men drew him out
again. Before he went, I spoke to him, trying to stop him, and he told
me he was ruined and worse than ruined. He never came back. He has
just followed in the steps of Mr. Claude Dalrymple, and has met with
the same fate."
"Surely he has not destroyed himself?" breathed Oscar.
"He has; he has."
"But how? In what manner?"
"By drowning, sir. He jumped over Westminster Bridge right into the
water during that same night. About two o'clock, they say. Oh, what
distraction his poor mind must have been in, to urge him to such a
death as that!"
Oscar rose and looked from the window. Cold as was his nature, the
news could not fail to shock him--although he was the inheritor of the
Grange.
"Has he been found?" he presently asked.
"No. Perhaps never will be. The officers say that not half the bodies
that get into the Thames ever see the light again. But his fate is as
sure and certain, sir, as though he had been found, and the drags are
yet at work. Mr. Oscar, I'd rather it was my own death that had to be
told of than his," added Reuben, breaking into sobs.
"It is sad indeed," cried Oscar, feeling, truth to say, terribly cut
up. "I and Mrs. Dalrymple were on the point of starting for London. It
is no use to go now. At least she must not."
"His hat was found in the Thames," said poor Reuben, regaining some
composure; "and, curious to say, one Joseph Horn, a young man,
who----"
"Oscar," called out the voice of Mrs. Dalrymple, "where are you? We
have not any more time to spare."
"How shall I break it to them?" wailed Oscar to himself, knowing that
it must be done, and without delay. "It is a terrible mission. Reuben,
don't show yourself for a minute."
He walked across the hall, now his own, and re-entered the
breakfast-room. He proceeded with his task as well as he could, and
got through it, not telling them the worst, only that some accident
had happened to Robert. By intuition however, they seemed to seize on
the truth--that he was dead. Oscar felt almost thankful that Alice
fainted and fell to the floor, because it caused some diversion to
Mrs. Dalrymple's death-like shock.
And, ere the midday sun was at its height, the estate was ringing
with the news that its generous young landlord had passed away, with
his faults and follies, and that Oscar Dalrymple would reign at the
Grange.