The next morning Henry Hindes received a scrawl, in a hand which he
could not recognise as that of Mr Crampton’s, containing but three
words, ‘Come to me.’
He guessed at once what they meant. He had just returned from church
with his wife and elder children. He had not dared to refuse to go, for
he was a regular attendant there, and the omission would have looked
peculiar. So he had stood and knelt and sat through a service of two
mortal hours, whilst his eyes gazed into space and his mind was a
blank, and he only followed mechanically what the others said or did.
He walked home with Hannah on his arm and Elsie and Laurie trotting
before them, for the Hindes were far too strict a family to have out
their horses on a Sunday, but all the while that acquaintances were
bowing and smiling and exchanging civilities with himself and his wife,
he was wondering how soon the news would reach Hampstead, and if it
would come by telegraph or post, or if Walcheren would send a special
messenger to break it to the old people at ‘The Cedars.’ And as soon as
he re-entered his own house, the note was handed to him with the fatal
words ‘Come to me!’ He knew then that the worst was known--that the
poor parents had been told of their bereavement, and that it was his
mission to fly to comfort them.
‘What can be the matter?’ questioned Hannah. ‘Can they have already
heard from Jenny, or do you think it possible she can be in Hampstead?
Oh, Henry! if they meet, surely Mr Crampton cannot refuse to speak to
her!’
‘I know no more than you do,’ he answered, ‘but I suppose I must go!
The old man may have been taken ill. He looked bad enough for anything
yesterday evening.’
‘Oh! certainly, Henry dear, you must go at once, and you can take your
luncheon with them. But I shall be impatient to hear what he wants you
for. If Jenny should be there--oh, Henry, you _will_ let me know, won’t
you? for I should love to give the dear girl a kiss, and assure her of
my faithful friendship. You will send someone over to tell me, in that
case, won’t you, dearest?’
‘Yes, yes; of course I will,’ he answered, quickly, ‘but there is no
likelihood of such a thing. Good-bye, I had better be off at once.’
And so he left her. The scene he encountered at ‘The Cedars’ is easier
imagined than described. Mr Crampton received him in his library, in
the presence of his wife, and sister-in-law, and Dr M‘Coll. The old
man looked as if he had suddenly crumpled up. His features were drawn
and shrivelled, and his complexion the colour of parchment. His wife
was laid face downwards on a couch at the further end of the room,
stupefied with the shock of the news they had just heard, whilst Miss
Bostock sat by her, silent and motionless, with her hands hanging
passively on her lap. No one stirred except the doctor, as Henry
Hindes, white and trembling, but with the assumption of being at his
ease, entered the room.
‘Well, my dear friend,’ he commenced cheerily, ‘what is it?’
Mr Crampton turned to the doctor, and muttered in a croaking voice,
‘Tell him.’
‘I have the misfortune to be the bearer of very bad news to Mr and
Mrs Crampton, sir,’ said Dr M‘Coll, in obedience to his instructions.
‘Their daughter, Mrs Walcheren, met with a terrible accident on the
Dover cliffs yesterday afternoon, and is, in fact--has not recovered
the injuries inflicted--is lying at this moment--dead!’
Henry Hindes’ face went crimson instead of pale.
‘Dead, sir!’ he ejaculated slowly, as if he were choosing his words,
‘are you sure she is dead? An accident? How can you tell it was an
accident? Might not someone have done it on purpose--have pushed her
over?’
Then he paused, as if he thought he had been talking too fast, and
repeated his first question: ‘But are you sure that she will not
recover? She is very young, you know,’ after which, perceiving the
grief of all around him, he broke down, exclaiming, ‘Oh! Jenny dead!
Impossible! Impossible! Why, I went to see her only yesterday! She
can’t be dead! my dear, dear friend!’ seizing old Crampton’s hand;
‘don’t give way! It is impossible!’
‘You are only buoying this gentleman up with false hopes, sir,’ said Dr
M‘Coll. ‘There is no doubt of the truth of the news, distressing as it
may be, and I am commissioned by Mr Walcheren to break it to all whom
it may concern. As to your suggestion that it may be due to foul play,
there is nothing whatever to point to it, but it will cause the subject
of the inquiry at the inquest to-morrow. Your presence will, of course,
be necessary, also Mr Crampton’s. I understand, as you say yourself,
that you went down to Dover yesterday to see the unfortunate lady, so
that your testimony may be valuable to the coroner, and the marriage
having been, I am told, a little irregular, there is the more necessity
that everything should be made perfectly clear.’
‘An inquest!’ stammered Hindes. ‘But surely there is no need of our
undergoing such a painful ordeal? Why, it will nearly kill Mr Crampton.
My dear friend, you must not think of attending it.’
‘Not go?’ cried the old man, suddenly rousing himself from the lethargy
into which he had temporarily fallen. ‘What are you saying, Hindes? Of
course we must go. Don’t you see how this has come about? That villain
has murdered her; he stole her from me first, and then he killed her.
Who else would have pushed her over the cliff? My poor butchered lamb!
my pretty Jenny! my beautiful, innocent daughter! Oh! but we will be
avenged on him, never fear; we’ll see him brought to justice and give a
hand to set him swinging. My poor child! my murdered darling! I can see
how the whole damnable trick was done!’
‘You must not heed what he says,’ whispered the doctor to Henry Hindes,
‘the shock has been too much for him, though I broke it as gently as
I could. You must get him to bed and give him a sleeping draught, but
don’t listen to any nonsense he may talk. There never was a clearer
case of misadventure. The poor girl went out on the cliffs alone and
fell over them. The coroner can bring in no other verdict.’
‘But why, then, need we attend?’ asked Hindes, with quivering lips; ‘it
will be a fearful trial for all of us. What do we need more than your
assurance of the calamity that has befallen?’
‘You may need nothing more, Mr Hindes, but the law needs your
deposition as to what you know of the matter.’
‘I know nothing--nothing--’ repeated Hindes.
‘Then you can say so,’ answered Dr M‘Coll, shortly.
‘No, we know nothing as yet,’ exclaimed Mr Crampton, eagerly, ‘but we
_will_ know it. We will not rest till we have got at the bottom of this
infamy. If ever a poor child was murdered, my girl has been.’
‘Papa, papa,’ wailed Mrs Crampton from the sofa, ‘don’t speak like
that, or you will break my heart.’
‘Ay, my poor woman,’ said her husband, ‘you’ve plenty of cause to
greet. They’ve taken your ewe lamb from you. You had but one left, and
the Lord let her be done to death, without stretching forth His hand
to save. And yet they say He cares for us! But the murderer shall be
brought to justice, never fear. I’ll see to that.’
‘Oh! if he goes on like this he’ll kill me,’ sobbed the tortured mother.
‘Mr Crampton,’ interposed the doctor, ‘we all feel deeply for you in
this sore affliction, but you must not bring unmeaning accusations
against anyone. There is no question of how your poor daughter came by
her death. It was an unfortunate accident, nothing more.’
‘I know better, sir, I know better,’ replied Mr Crampton. ‘You can’t
deceive me. My lamb was murdered, and may God’s deepest curse rest--’
‘Oh! stop, stop,’ cried Henry Hindes, holding up his hand. ‘It is
terrible to hear you blaspheming in this manner, without the least
authority to do so. It will not ease your own pain, Crampton, and may
add to it hereafter. For your wife’s sake and your own, let me take you
to your room, where you can think over this terrible news in quiet.
Trust in God, Crampton, trust in God. There is nothing else to be done
in a time like the present.’
But the old man, usually so acquiescent in all that his partner said,
turned round on him, on this occasion, in a fury.
‘Don’t preach to me, Hindes!’ he exclaimed, angrily. ‘It’s all very
well for you to talk of trusting in God, whilst your own kids are
safe at home, but lose five, my boy, lose five--three boys and two
girls--and set all your hopes and chances of happiness on the remaining
one, and have her murdered before your eyes, and then talk of trusting
in God. You’re a hypocrite, sir, a d--d hypocrite.’
‘Mr Crampton,’ said Henry Hindes, deeply wounded, ‘I never thought to
hear you speak to me like this.’
‘For shame, John, for shame!’ exclaimed his wife, rousing herself for
a moment. ‘What are you thinking of? Mr Hindes, too, who loved our
darling almost as if she had been his own child, and who has always
been so kind to her and us all.’
‘Ah, well, well,’ said the old man in a tired voice, ‘I suppose I was
wrong, and I ask your pardon for it, Hindes. But I don’t seem to quite
know what I am saying. My head keeps going round so. I suppose you
are right, and I should be better by myself for a few hours. Give me
your arm, and take me to my own room. I leave this gentleman in your
hands, Hindes. See that he is attended to, and arrange everything for
our going down to Dover. Good-morning, sir!’ and with that Mr Crampton
rose, and, leaning on the arm of his friend, quitted the apartment.
There was a less difficult task with the women, whose sorrow was too
deep for words. Then Dr M‘Coll agreed with Mr Hindes that they had
better travel down to Dover by an early train on the morrow, as every
endeavour was being made to have the inquest on that day, on account
of the hot weather rendering it desirable to get the burial over as
quickly as possible. Hindes shuddered at the thought, but showed no
emotion beyond that which was evinced by his white face and silent
demeanour. Luncheon was then served for the doctor, and he departed to
interview Mr Philip Walcheren on the matter, when Henry Hindes was free
to return home.
Here, as may be imagined, he had a difficult task before him, but he
felt freer, for, in the presence of his wife, who had loved Jenny
Crampton so dearly, he was not ashamed to break down himself, and give
some relief to his overcharged feelings. Hannah’s grief was extreme,
but she tried to curb it for the sake of her husband, who only rose in
her estimation for the tears and moans which he felt he might indulge
in at last.
Both husband and wife had quite exhausted themselves with their
emotion, when a servant entered to announce that a constable desired to
speak to his master. Hannah could not help observing how vividly white
Henry became at this intimation. She could not understand it, unless
the sad events of the day had so undermined his usual intrepidity as to
make him start at shadows.
‘Only a constable, Henry, dear,’ she repeated, seeing how he trembled.
‘It is probably something to do with this unhappy business! Will you
see him here?’
‘No! no!’ replied her husband, as he wiped the sweat from his
forehead, ‘not here! Let him wait, Johnson! I will be with him
presently--presently!’
Could anything have been discovered? he thought to himself, as he leant
against the form of his wife for support, and she passed her cambric
handkerchief across his wet hair. Was it possible he had dropped any
article belonging to him on the spot where he and Jenny had stood
together? Had this man come to tell him that he was suspected, and must
consider himself under arrest until the inquest had been held on the
morrow?
He pushed Hannah’s kindly ministrations away and stood upright.
‘I cannot see him in this condition,’ he said, alluding to his swollen
eyelids and stained cheeks. ‘I must go to my room first and smooth my
hair.’
He escaped by a back way as he spoke, and gaining his dressing-room,
arranged his toilet a little. Then he searched in a drawer for a bottle
of morphia, which he had been occasionally in the habit of taking to
induce sleep, for the condition of his mind regarding Jenny Crampton
had not been conducive to sound and restful repose.
‘If I am taken away from here,’ he thought, ‘I will not reach Dover.
They shall see I know a trick worth two of that.’
He thrust the vial in his breast and descended to the hall to interview
the constable. But he had come on a very simple errand. He had received
information from the Dover police that the inquiry on the death of Mrs
Walcheren had been fixed for the morrow, and that Mr Hindes’ presence
would be necessary.
‘You see, sir,’ said the man, fumbling with his papers, ‘we’re sorry
to trouble you, but as you went down to Dover to see the lady, it
is necessary the coroner should hear the why and the wherefore of
everything to come to a right understanding of the case. It’s a sad
thing, ain’t it, sir? A poor young creature done to death in a moment,
as you may say, and only married on the Friday.’
‘A frightful thing, indeed, constable!’ replied Hindes.
‘The poor gentleman, they say, is almost out of his senses, as he well
may be,’ continued the policeman; ‘they can’t get him away from the
corpse, and he turns round like a madman on any one who proposes of it.
Perhaps so be you’re a relation, sir!’
‘No, no; only a friend,’ said Hindes, quickly.
‘Well, he ought to have some friend by him now, if all they tell me is
true, for the shock seems to have unsettled his mind. The inquiry won’t
be till three o’clock to-morrow afternoon, sir, at the ‘Bottle and
Spurs’ public-house, where the poor lady lies. If you’re there, sir,
they’ll get it over at once, but if so be as you’re not there, the jury
will have to be called to attend another day.’
‘I shall be there,’ replied Henry Hindes, and then he went upstairs
again and replaced the vial in the drawer before he rejoined his wife.
‘Only a notice to attend this miserable inquest, my dear,’ he said in
explanation as he threw himself on a couch and buried his face in his
hands.
‘Oh, Henry, how much I wish it were not necessary for you to go! I know
how bitterly you will feel it! To have to be questioned by a man who
cares nothing for our poor dear darling, and who will rake up all sorts
of things to wound you and make the remembrance still more bitter than
it is; but it is your duty, and you must go! Shall you see her, Harry?’
she added, in a whisper.
Her husband shuddered.
‘I suppose so! That is, if I must!’
‘But you wouldn’t like our sweet Jenny to go to her grave without a
last look, dear, I am sure! And may I send some flowers to put over
her? Will you take them from me?’
‘No! no! for God’s sake, no!’ cried Hindes, covering his face again; ‘I
cannot enter into all these harrowing details like women can. I shall
go down and come away again as quickly as possible; the sight of the
poor child would kill me! I have no morbid inclination for gazing at
corpses, Hannah.’
‘But our poor Jenny,’ said his wife, regretfully; ‘it would seem to
me like refusing to look at Elsie or Laurie if they were taken from
us. Thank God they are not. Oh, poor Mrs Crampton,’ continued Hannah,
breaking down again; ‘what must she be feeling at this moment! How I
pity her with my whole, whole heart!’
Meanwhile, Philip Walcheren, having heard the news of Jenny’s death
from Dr M‘Coll, had hastened to the presence of Father Tasker.
‘A judgment, a judgment, my dear father!’ he exclaimed. ‘I have just
heard the most terrible piece of news. Poor, misguided Frederick’s
young wife was killed yesterday by a fall over the cliffs at Dover!’
‘Heaven rest her soul!’ said the priest, crossing himself. ‘Who told
you of it?’
‘A medical man called M‘Coll, who came from Dover, at Frederick’s
request, to break the news to me. There is to be an inquest held on
the remains of the poor, young creature to-morrow, and Frederick would
like me to support him on the occasion. Can you manage to accompany me,
father? Your presence might have a great effect on my cousin.’
‘No, my son, I think not! You had better go alone! This is not a
time for exhortation or reproof. It is the time for affection and
kindness. Your poor cousin will, as you say, feel very desolate, and
as if Heaven had forsaken him. Let him find if he has lost a wife
he has found a brother. If ever we are to succeed in our plans for
him--if ever our hopes of persuading him to enter the Church are to
be realised, it is now--now, when he will feel as if the world had
given way beneath him. Go down to-night by all means and comfort him
as best you can. This marriage was entered into, you tell me, without
the consent of the lady’s parents. Possibly, they may be the more set
against him in consequence of this event, though it happened from no
fault of his own. Let him see that his misfortunes bind us more nearly
to him--make us more anxious that he should seek comfort where it is
only to be obtained--in the exercise of his religion. Heaven’s workings
are very mysterious, my son. I see already in this sad dispensation,
a glimmer of hope for your cousin’s future. Perhaps this, and nothing
else, would have made him regard your exhortations and my entreaties in
a proper light.’
‘God grant you may be right, father,’ answered Philip. ‘If I could see
Frederick fulfilling my good Aunt Alicia’s wishes, and his godfather’s
intentions, by entering our Holy Church, and dedicating his money to
her use, I should feel my life had not been wasted by devoting it to
such a purpose.’