HOME, IN DESPAIR.
The Reverend Mr. Prattleton literally recoiled at the words, and
staggered back a few steps in his dismay. Not at first could he recover
his amazement. The suggestion was so dreadful, so entirely, as he
believed, uncalled for, that he began to doubt whether poor Mrs.
Dundyke's trouble had not turned her brain.
"It surely, surely is so!" she impressively repeated. "He has been
murdered, and by Mr. Hardcastle."
"Good heavens, my dear lady, you must not allow your imagination to run
away with you in this manner!" cried the shocked clergyman. "A gentleman
in Mr. Hardcastle's position of life----"
"Oh, stop! stop!" she interrupted; "_is_ it his position of life? Is he
indeed Mr. Hardcastle?"
And she began, in her agitation, to pour out forthwith the whole tale:
the various half doubts of the Hardcastles, suppressed until now. Her
conviction that Mrs. Hardcastle was certainly not a lady, their
embarrassments for money, and other little items. Then there had been
the long absence of Mr. Hardcastle on the day of the disappearance; his
sneaking upstairs quietly on his return, hurt and scratched, warm and
dusty, as if he had walked far; his sudden change of colour when she
asked after her husband, and the angry look turned upon his wife when
she suggested that he had possibly been with Mr. Dundyke. There was the
description given by the Swiss peasant of the two gentlemen he had seen
walking together that day, and the furious quarrel she had heard at
night, when her husband's name was mentioned. All was told to Mr.
Prattleton, what she knew, what she thought; all with an exception: the
one faint suspicion that had crossed her as to whether Mr. Hardcastle
could be Benjamin Carr. She did not mention that. Perhaps it had faded
from her memory; and Benjamin Carr, a gentleman born, would be no more
likely to commit a murder than the real Mr. Hardcastle. However it may
have been, she did not mention it, then, or at any other time.
How _could_ the pencil have got back to the hotel, and into that room,
unless brought by Mr. Hardcastle? The testimony of the Swiss peasant, of
the two gentlemen he had seen walking together, was terribly significant
now. Mr. Prattleton, who had never been brought into contact with
anything like murder in his life, felt as if he were on the eve of some
awful discovery.
"It was so strange that people of the Hardcastles' position should be up
here in one small room on the third floor of the hotel!" cried Mrs.
Dundyke, mentioning the thought that had often struck her. "Mrs.
Hardcastle said no other room was vacant when they came, and that may
have been so; but would they not have changed afterwards?"
Mr. Prattleton went downstairs. He sought an interview with the host,
and gleaned what information he could, not imparting a hint of these new
suspicions. Could the host inform him who Mr. Hardcastle was?
The host supposed Mr. Hardcastle was--Mr. Hardcastle. Voila tout!
Although he did think that the name given in to the hotel at first was
not so long as Hardcastle, but he was not quite sure; it had not been
written down, only the number of the room they occupied. Monsieur and
Madame had very much resented being put up on the third floor. It was
the only room then vacant in all the hotel, and at first Madame said she
would not take it, she would go to another hotel; but she was tired, and
stopped, and the luggage, too, had been all brought in. Afterwards, when
Madame was settled in it, she did not care to change. In what name were
Monsieur's letters addressed--Hardcastle? Ma foi, yes, for all he knew;
but Monsieur's letters stopped at the post-office, as did those of three
parts of the company in the hotel, and Monsieur went for them himself.
Money? Well, Monsieur did seem short of money at times; but he had
plenty at others, and he had paid up liberally at last. Other gentlemen
sometimes ran short, when their remittances were delayed.
There was not a word in this that could tell really against Mr.
Hardcastle. The host evidently spoke in all good faith; and Mr.
Prattleton began to look upon Mrs. Dundyke's suspicions as the morbid
fancies of a woman in trouble. He put another question to the
landlord--what was his private opinion of this singular disappearance of
Mr. Dundyke?
The landlord shook his head; he had had but one opinion upon the point
for some days past. The poor gentleman, there was not the least doubt,
had in some way got into the lake and been drowned. But the notes in his
pocket-book? urged the clergyman--the money that had been changed at the
money-changer's? Well, the fact must be, the host supposed, that his
pocket-book was left upon the grass, or had floated on the water, and
some thief had come across it and appropriated the contents.
Mr. Prattleton, after due reflection, became convinced that this must
have been the case; and for the pencil-case, he believed that Mrs.
Dundyke was in error in supposing her husband took it out with him.
Mrs. Dundyke was not so easily satisfied. She urged the strange fact of
Mr. Hardcastle's appearance when he returned that day: his scratched
face, his dusty clothes, his altogether disordered look, his sneaking up
the stairs as if he did not want to be seen. But upon inquiry it was
found that a gentleman, whose appearance tallied with the person of Mr.
Hardcastle, did so fall on the dusty flint stones, in trying to avoid a
restive horse, and his face was scratched and his hand hurt in
consequence; and, as Mr. Prattleton observed, he really might be trying
to avoid observation in coming up the hotel stairs, not caring to be met
in that untidy state. The pencil-case was next shown to the boatmen; but
they could not say whether it was the one the gentleman had written the
note with. They were tired with the row in the hot sun, and did not take
particular notice. One of them was certain that, whatever pencil the
gentleman had used, he took it from his pocket; and he saw him tear the
leaf out of the pocket-book to write upon.
Altogether it amounted to just this--that while Mr. Hardcastle _might_
be guilty, he probably was innocent. Mr. Prattleton inclined to the
latter belief; and as the days went on, Mrs. Dundyke inclined to it
also. The points fraught with suspicion began to lose their dark hue,
and when there arrived a stranger at the hotel, who happened to know
that old Mr. Hardcastle's nephew was travelling on the continent, and
was much inclined to spend money faster than he got it, though otherwise
honourable, Mrs. Dundyke's suspicions faded, and she reproached herself
for having entertained them.
But nothing further could be heard of Mr. Dundyke; nothing further was
heard, and it became useless to linger on in Geneva. That he was in
Geneva's lake, she never doubted, and the place became hateful to her.
She travelled towards home in company with Mr. Prattleton and his
daughter. At Paris they parted; they remaining in it for a few days, she
proceeding to London direct, which she reached in safety. Poor Mrs.
Dundyke! As she sat alone in the dark cab which was to take her to her
now solitary home at Brixton, she perhaps felt the loss, the dreadful
circumstances of it altogether, more keenly than she had felt them yet.
She sat with dry eyes, but a throbbing brain, feeling that life for her
had ended; that she was left in a world whose happiness had died out.
It was a very pretty white villa, with a lawn before it, and encircled
by carriage drive, with double gates. As the man drove in at one, and
stopped before the entrance, and the door was thrown open to the light
of the hall, Mrs. Dundyke became aware that some gentleman was standing
there, behind the servant.
"Who is that, John?" she whispered.
"It's a stranger, ma'am; a gentleman who has just called. He seemed so
surprised when I said you had not returned yet; but you drove up at the
moment. And master, ma'am?"
Mrs. Dundyke did not answer. The servants knew that something was amiss;
but she had not courage to explain then; in fact, she could scarcely
suppress her emotion sufficiently to speak with composure. The stranger
came forward to meet her, and she recognised the gentleman who had
assisted them in Grenoble, and had given his name as Robert Carr.
"You see I have availed myself of your invitation to call," he said. "It
is curious I should happen to come to-night when you are only returning.
I fancied you did not intend to remain away so long. But where is Mr.
Dundyke?"
She turned with him into one of the sitting-rooms--an elegant room of
good proportions. The chandelier was lighted; a handsome china
tea-service, interspersed with articles of silver, stood on the table;
cold meats and other good things were ready; and altogether it was a
complete picture of home comfort, of easy competency. The thought that
_he_, who had been the many years partner of her life, would never come
back to this again, combined with the home question of the Rev. Mr.
Carr, struck out of her what little composure she had retained, and Mrs.
Dundyke sank down in an easy chair, and burst into a storm of sobs.
To say that the young clergyman stood in consternation, would be saying
little. He was not used to scenes, did not like them; and he felt
inwardly uncomfortable, not knowing what he ought to say or do.
"Pray, forgive me," she murmured, when she had recovered sufficiently to
speak. "You asked after my husband. He is lost--he is gone. He will
never come home again."
"Lost!" repeated Robert Carr.
Mrs. Dundyke told her tale, and the young man listened in utter
astonishment. He had never heard of such a thing in all his life; had
never imagined anything so strange. It seemed that he could not be tired
of asking questions--of hazarding conjectures. He _wished_ he had been
there, he said; he was sure that the search _he_ would have instituted
would have found him, dead or alive. And it was a somewhat remarkable
fact that everybody, forthwith destined to hear the story, said the
same. So prone are we to under-rate the exertions of other people, and
over-rate our own.
But simple, courteous Mrs. Dundyke, could not forget the duties of
hospitality amid her great sorrow. She went upstairs for a minute to
take off her travelling things, and then quietly made tea for Robert
Carr, asking him questions about himself as he drank it.
He had come straight to London from Grenoble, on business connected with
an assistant ministry he expected to get in November, and then went to
Holland. He had been back in London now about a week, but should soon be
returning to Holland, as his wife was not in good health.
"His wife!" Mrs. Dundyke repeated in surprise. She thought he looked too
young to have a wife.
Robert Carr laughed. He had a wife and two children, he said; he had
married young.
Mrs. Dundyke told him that she thought they were connected--in fact, she
knew they were, for old Mrs. Dundyke used to say so. "I do not quite
remember how she made it out," continued Mrs. Dundyke; "I think she was
a cousin in the second degree to the Miss Hughes's of Westerbury. They
were----"
Mrs. Dundyke stopped short. None were more considerate than she of the
feelings of others; and it suddenly struck her that the young clergyman
before her, a gentleman himself, might not like to be reminded of these
things.
"They were dressmakers, if you speak of my mother's sisters," he quietly
said; "I have heard her say so. She was a lady herself in mind and
manners; but her family were quite inferior."
Mrs. Dundyke did not feel her way altogether clear. She remembered
hearing of the elopement; she remembered certain unpleasant subsequent
rumours--that Martha Ann Hughes remained with Mr. Carr in Holland,
although the ceremony of marriage had not passed between them. Always
charitably judging, she supposed now that they must have been married at
some subsequent period; and this, their eldest son, called himself
Robert _Carr_. But it was not a topic that she felt comfortable in
pursuing.
"You say that your mother is dead?" she resumed.
"She has been dead about five years. We are three of us: I; my brother
Thomas, who was born two years after me; and my sister, Mary Augusta,
who is several years younger. There were two other girls between my
brother and Mary, but they died."
"Mr. Carr is in business in Rotterdam?"
"Yes; partner in a merchant's house there. He has saved money, and is
well off."
Mrs. Dundyke faintly smiled; she was glad for a moment to make a
semblance of forgetting her own woes. "Those random young men often make
the most sober ones when they settle down. Your father was wild in his
young days."
"Was he? I'm sure I don't know. You should see him now: a regular
steady-going old Dutchman, fat and taciturn, who smokes his afternoons
away in the summer-house. He has not been very well of late years; and I
tell him he ought to spend his hours of recreation in taking exercise,
not in sitting still and smoking."
"Does he keep up any intercourse with his relatives in Westerbury?"
asked Mrs. Dundyke, for she had heard through Mildred Arkell that
Westerbury never heard anything of its renegade son, Robert Carr, and
did not know or care whether he was dead or alive--in fact, had
forgotten all remembrance of him.
"Not any--not the least. I fancy my father and mother must have had some
disagreement with their home friends, for they never spoke of them. I
remember, when I was a little boy, my mother getting news of the death
of a sister; but how it came to her I'm sure I don't know."
"She had two sisters, and she had a brother," said Mrs. Dundyke. "I
heard that Mary died. Are the other sister and the brother living?"
"I really do not know. If we had possessed no relatives in the world, we
could not have lived more completely isolated from them. I believe my
grandfather is living, and in Westerbury--at least, I have not heard of
his death."
"Have you lived entirely in Rotterdam?" she asked, her interest very
much awakened, she scarcely knew why, for this young man. Perhaps it
took its rise in the faint, sad thought, which _would_ keep arising in
spite of herself, that a terrible blow might be in future store for him,
of whose possible existence he was evidently in utter ignorance.
"Our home has been in Rotterdam, but I and my brother have been educated
in England. We were with a clergyman for some years in London, and then
went to Cambridge. It would not have done for me to preach with a
foreign accent," he added, with a smile.
"But you speak with a perfect accent," said Mrs. Dundyke; "as well as if
you had never been out of England. Do you speak Dutch?"
"As a native; in fact, I suppose it may be said that I _am_ a native.
Dutch, English, German, and French--we speak them all well."
Poor Mrs. Dundyke heaved a bitter sigh. The words brought to her
remembrance what her husband had said about their rubbing on with "we"
and "no;" but she would not let it go on again to emotion. She observed
the same delicate look on this young man that had struck her at
Grenoble; and he coughed rather frequently, always putting his hand to
his chest at the time, as if the cough gave him pain.
"Will you let me ask you if you are very strong?" she said. "I do not
think you look so."
"I was strong," he replied, "no one more so, until I met with a hurt. In
riding one day at Cambridge, the horse threw me, and kicked me here,"
touching his chest. "Since then, I have had a cough, more or less, and
am sometimes in slight pain. My father despatched me on that tour, when
I met you, with a view of making me strong."
"Was the injury great at the time?"
"No, I think not; the doctors said not. I believe some of the small
arteries were ruptured. I spit blood for some time after it; and, do you
know," he added, looking suddenly up at her, "the last day or two I have
been spitting it a little again."
"You must take care of yourself," said Mrs. Dundyke, after a pause.
"So I do. I am going to a doctor to-morrow morning, for I want to get
into duty again, and should be vexed if anything stopped it."
"Have you ever done duty?"
"Of course; for a twelvemonth. I had my title in the diocese of Ely. I
am in full orders now, and hope to be at work in November."
A doubt came over Mrs. Dundyke as she looked at his slender hands and
his hollow cheek, whether he would ever work again. Robert Carr rose to
bid her good-bye.
"Can I be of any service to you in any way?" he said, in a low, earnest
tone, as he held her hand in his. "You cannot tell what a strange
impression this tale has made upon me; and I feel as if I should like to
go to Geneva, and prosecute the search still."
"You are very kind," she said; "but indeed there is nothing else that
can be done. The environs of Geneva were scoured, especially on the side
where, as I have told you, two gentlemen were seen who bore the
resemblance to my husband and Mr. Hardcastle."
"I don't like that Mr. Hardcastle," cried the young man; "no, I don't.
He ought not to have gone away, and left you in the midst of your
distress. It was an unfeeling thing to do."
"He could not help it. He said he had urgent business at Genoa."
"The business should have waited, had it been mine. Well, if I can do
anything for you, Mrs. Dundyke, now or later, do let me. If what you
say is correct--that we are related--I have a right to help you."
"Thank you very much. And remember," she added, in a voice almost as low
as a whisper, "that should you ever be in--in--trouble, or distress, or
need a friend in any way, you have only to come to me."
What was in Mrs. Dundyke's mind as she spoke? What made her say it? She
was thinking of that shock which might be looming for him in the future,
it was hard to say how near or how distant. And she felt that she could
love this young man almost like a son.
"I will see you again, Mrs. Dundyke, before I leave town," were his last
words.
But he did not. When he reached his lodgings that night, he found a
telegraphic despatch awaiting him from Rotterdam, saying that his father
was taken dangerously ill.
And the Reverend Robert Carr hastened to Dover by the first train, en
route for Holland.