Volume 4 — CHAPTER XI. FOUND!

Yes, most undoubtedly, most undeniably, a strong likeness did exist between Lister Wilmot, old Thorneley's nephew, and Maria Haag, Thorneley's housekeeper,—a likeness that, as I walked home from the Old Bailey and recalled the various points in their features and expressions, grew yet more striking to my mental vision. The housekeeper was fair, with sandy hair; so was Lister Wilmot. The housekeeper's eyes were of that peculiar blue-grey, cold, passionless in their expression; so were Wilmot's. Mrs. Haag's features were cast in a perfectly Flemish mould, unmarked, broad, flat; Wilmot's were better defined, especially the nose, and yet they were of the same stamp, allowing for that difference. But the peculiar resemblance lay in a character of the tightly-drawn lips, in the dark, evil, scintillating light that gleamed from time to time in both his and her eyes; the expression so often alluded to in these pages, full of danger, of defiance; a glance that sent your blood shivering back to your heart; a look that told, as playing as words could speak, of unscrupulousness and utter relentlessness in the pursuit of any selfish purpose. And as this forced itself with distinct clearness upon my mind, I remembered the question put to me in Merrivale's office on the day of the funeral by Inspector Keene,—"Did you ever see a likeness to any one in Mr. Wilmot?" and my answer, "No, not that I know of. We have often said he was like none of his relative living." But how to account for this likeness established so suddenly? I tried to recollect all I had ever heard about Wilmot. Thorneley had acknowledged and treated him in all respects as his nephew; he was thus named in the will made by Smith and Walker, and Hugh Atherton had told me Lister was the son of Gilbert Thorneley's, his own aunt; that the marriage had been an unhappy one; that she died soon after her son's birth; and that of Mr. Wilmot, his uncle-in-law, he knew nothing. How had this strange and striking likeness arisen? Had he been privately married to Mrs. Haag? Surely not; and then I remembered what had come out in court to-day about her connection with Bradley, alias O'Brian. Old Gilbert Thorneley certainly was no fool; he would have been too wide awake to be tricked into a marriage with a woman of whose antecedents {95} he had not made himself perfectly sure. The conjecture of Haag being his wife was dismissed almost as soon as it was entertained. Fairly at a nonplus, and yet feeling that much might come out of this new conviction, I resolved to send for Inspector Keene as soon as possible, and impart to him all the crowd of thoughts and speculations and ideas to which the impression received this evening had given birth. Meanwhile it is necessary I should relate events as they happened after the trial.

Discharged and yet disgraced, Hugh Atherton left the court that day with his future blasted, with a blot on his shield and a stain upon his name. The jury could not convict him, but public opinion hooted him down, and the press wrote him down. His character was not simply "blown upon" by the insidious soft breath of undertoned scandal, but caught up and shivered to pieces in a whirlwind of shame and ignominy. Friends shunned him, acquaintances cut him; society in general tabooed him, and "this taboo is social death." Society set its ban upon him; but Lister Wilmot stuck to him. Stuck to him tight and fast—after this manner: He went about from one person to another, from this house to that, and talked of "his poor cousin Atherton, his unfortunate relative, his much-injured friend." He would ask So-and-so to dinner, and then when the invitation was accepted, he would add, "You won't mind meeting my cousin, poor Atherton; he is very anxious to do away with that unfortunate impression made at the trial; I do assure you that he is innocent."

The consequences are evident. You may damn a man with faint praise; you may doubly damn a man by overstrong patronage. And this was done to perfection by Wilmot. He—a young, agreeable, and not bad-looking man—was a far different person in the eyes of the world from rough old Gilbert Thorneley; and when he stepped into the enormous wealth of his uncle—when, in spite of the existence of the son and heir, no will was forthcoming, no legal grounds could be found on which to dispute his possession, the world made her best bow to him, and society knelt at his feet, offered up her worship and swung her censers before him. And I had to stand aside and see it all—stand aside with the bitter smart of broken friendship, of rejected affection, rankling in my breast. That fatal evening, oh that fatal evening! One word, and he had turned with me, friends for evermore; one word, and all the anguish and misery, the blight and the sorrow, of the past weeks had been saved!

Hugh and I never met after his trial but once. It was on the 3d of December, the day on which Ada Leslie attained her majority, that I saw him for the last and only time. I went to Hyde Park Gardens early in the morning, to offer her my congratulations for her birthday, to relinquish my guardianship, and to settle many matters which were necessary on her coming of age.

I need not say that it cost me something to give up the sweet relationship of guardian and ward; that it was like bidding a farewell to almost the only brightness that had been cast across my path in life. There was much business to settle that day, and perforce I was obliged to detain Ada for a long time in the dining-room. Just before I rose to leave, Hugh came in. He greeted Ada, and then turning to me simply bowed. My blood was up; now or never should he explain the meaning of his past conduct; now or never should the cloud which had intervened between us be cleared away; now or never should the misunderstanding be removed.

"Atherton," I said, "I have a right to demand the cause of this change in you; I have a right to know what or who it is that is murdering our friendship. No, Ada, do not go away. Be my interpreter with him. You know how much cause he has had to doubt me."

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I saw his face working as if powerful emotions were contending for mastery in him; but he answered in very cold, measured tones: "If I have been mistaken, if the heavy load of trouble I have had to go through has warped my judgment, I trust I may be forgiven; but I see no reason at present to wish that our former intimacy should be renewed."

"But why? in heaven's name, why?"

He looked towards Ada, who was standing near him, and then at me.

"If your own heart, Kavanagh, does not supply the reason, I have nothing more to say." And then, as if a sudden impulse had come over him, he stretched out his hand to me, and as I grasped it he said in a voice that shook with agitation: "It is best for us both, John; we can only forgive and forget."

"Hugh!" said Ada, laying her hand upon his arm, "do be friends with him. I cannot imagine what has made you think so ill of your best and truest friend."

But for reply he shook his head and quickly left the room. I took my leave of Ada and went away. And thus we parted—Hugh and I, after more than twenty years passed almost entirely together in the most intimate communion of friendship—a friendship that I for one had never thought could have been broken save by death, and which even then would have risen strengthened, purified, and perfect beyond the grave.

Weeks passed on after this last meeting. I was very much occupied with business that had been accumulating during the past three months, and I was thankful to plunge into it, and drown in the overpress of work bitter thoughts that rose but too constantly for my peace. I seldom if ever went to Hyde Park Gardens. How could I after Hugh Atherton's steady refusal of any explanation? for I knew I should constantly meet him there, and it would prove only a source of pain to us all. Poor young Thorneley remained under my care; Marrivale had then told by Hugh he should not interfere in any way, excepting to make over the 5000l. left him by his uncle to the idiot. Further, I learnt that he had withdrawn his name from the barrister's roll; but nothing more as to his future movements transpired. The housekeeper had suddenly disappeared, and with her had likewise disappeared Inspector Keene. Jones told me he believe he had gone, on his own responsibility, "to keep an eye on her." So December went by, Christmas had gone, and the new year had set in. "I shall hear of their marriage soon," I thought to myself. "Surely they will let me know that." And it was now the end of January, when one day, as I was deep over some papers, the door of my private office opened, and a young clerk who was replacing Hardy, laid up with a fit of gout, looked in. "A lady, sir, wants to see you."

"What is her name? I'm very busy. If it's nothing particular, ask her to call to-morrow."

"She says it's most particular, and she won't give her name. She's very young, and I think she's crying."

"Then show her in."

And in a moment Ada Leslie stood before me.

"Ada! my dear child, what is it?"

She was trembling violently.

"Gone!" she said in her heart-broken accents.

"Gone!" I repeated. "Who?"

"Hugh, Gone to Australia. Look here!" and she thrust a crumpled letter into my hand. It was indeed a farewell from him—a farewell written with all the passionate tenderness of his love for her, but admitting not the shadow of a hope that he would falter in his determination. It was more than he could bear, he said, the disgrace that had been heaped upon him; more than he could stand, to meet the cold averted looks, the sneers, the innuendos which fell so thickly on his path. Nor would he condemn her to share his lot; the shame that had come {97} on him should never be reflected on her. He bade her farewell with many a vow and many a prayer. She had been his first love, she would be his last; and to know she was happy would be all he would ever care to hear from the land he was leaving, even if that happiness were shared with another. Much more he said, and I read it on to the end.

"How could he! Oh, how could he!" she cried, wringing her hands, when I had finished and laid down the letter. "Did he not know my whole heart and soul were bound up in him? Did he not know that he was my very life? And he has gone from me, left me."

I could not answer for a minute. I was thinking deeply.

"Ads" I said at last, "this is not entirely his own doing. It is Lister Wilmot's."

"No, no!" she said, moaning and rocking herself backwards and forwards; "you are mistaken. He is in great distress about it. This letter was inclosed to him last night; he knew nothing of it."

"Ada, I feel convinced that he did and that he does know. Child, let me speak to you once more as your guardian and your dead fathers friend. Take your mind back to that morning before the inquest, and to a conversation which passed between us then. You remember that Wilmot had been at your house before me, and repeated something which poor old Thorneley said the evening of his death—something about you and me. You called it then, Ada, 'worse than foolishness;' so I will call it now. Do you remember?'

"I do," she said faintly, the color rising to her cheeks.

"That has been dragged out several times since, privately and publicly—always by Wilmot himself or at his instigation. Has Hugh never spoken about it with you?"

"Yes," she answered in the same low tones. "He spoke of it once, very lately. I was trying to persuade him to be friends with you. It was the only time he ever said an unkind word to me; but he was angry then." A sob broke from her at the remembrance.

"I don't wish to distress you; but just think if those thoughts and feelings were put into his mind and harped upon, traded with by one professing himself to be so staunch a friend just now,—can we wonder at the results?"

She looked at me as if she hardly understood.

"I mean," I said, speaking as calmly as I could, "that he was led to believe it true. He thought I was attached to you, and desirous of winning you from him."

She was silent for some moments.

"What am I to do?" she said at last.

And I too was silent. One thing presented itself to my mind, if only I had the heart to speak it out, if only the courage. Suddenly she looked up with a happy light in her eyes and almost a smile on her lips. She leaned forward with breathless earnestness. I felt instinctively she had thought on the same thing, and that she had resolved to act upon it.

"I can go after him. That is the right thing for me to do, is it not, guardian?"

For a moment my heart stood still. I knew she would go.

"Can you bear the voyage, Ada?"

"I could bear anything,—all for his sake."

And I felt that her answer was but a faint shadowing of the great truth that filled her heart.

"Then go," I said; "and may God's blessing go with you!"

I rose, turned my face towards the window, and looked out into the desolate square with its leafless trees, its snow-covered walks; looked out into the dull blank future, into the cheerlessness of coming years.

There and then it was settled she should follow Atherton to Australia by the overland route, and thus reach Melbourne before his ship could arrive. I asked her if she would not find great difficulty in persuading her mother to {98} accompany her, and without whom she could not go; but she told me she thought not; Mrs. Leslie would rather enjoy the excitement of travelling. We talked long and earnestly that morning, and I expressed to her my strong convictions that the day would come before long when we should see Atherton cleared from the remotest suspicion of his uncle's murder. All the sweet old confidence of former days seemed to have come back, and she opened her heart fully and freely to me. I learnt from her very much of Wilmot's late conduct, of which I mentally made notes; it was all, though she little thought it then, valuable information to guide me on to the one thing I had set my heart on doing, viz., sifting the mystery of Thorneley's murder and the discovery of the lost will. Before she left me I had exacted a promise that of her intended journey nothing should be said to Wilmot; and finally we fixed on the 4th of February for her to start.

The days flew by with more than usual fleetness, so it seemed to me; and the 1st of February found Ada and her mother with every preparation completed for their long journey. Up to that moment the promise made to me had been rigidly kept, and Lister Wilmot was still in ignorance of their intended movements. His absence from town for a fortnight rendered this a comparatively easy task, and he was not expected to return until after the 6th. On the evening of the 1st I received a note from Miss Leslie.

"I have been greatly taken by surprise and much distressed," she wrote; "this morning's post brought me an offer of marriage from Lister Wilmot. He speaks of Hugh's heartless desertion and his own long attachment. Either he is mad or deliberately insults me. I entreat you to act as if you still were, and what I shall always consider you, my guardian, and answer it for me. A horrible fear of him possesses me, and all I pray is that he may know nothing of this journey until we are well on our road."

"This then," said I to myself, as I sat down to do Ada's bidding, "is the reason why Hugh was got so suddenly and secretly. The secret is out at last, Master Wilmot; but you have overshot your mark. This time you have not a trusting friend, not a confiding girl, to deal with; but with me, a man of law; and I'll be even with you yet. I've a heavy grudge to wipe out against you, and you shall smart with a bitter smart."

But before all it was necessary to be prudent, and I answered his letter to Ada with temperate words and calm politeness in her name. At present, I wrote, she had commissioned me to say she could not entertain the subject of his letter. In a month's time she would be glad to see him. Only let him fall into that trap, and she would be safely on her road to Hugh.

How anxiously I waited for a reply, I need hardly say. It came at last to Ada (I had told her what and why I had thus written). He would wait a month, a year, ten years, if only at last she could learn to love him. The bait had taken; and we breathed again.

The 4th of February came, and they started. I had engaged an experienced and trusty courier to travel with them, and they took an old confidential servant to act as maid. I accompanied them to Dover, and saw them on board the packet. Before it started Ada took me aside.

"John."

For the first time and the last she called me by my Christian name.

"Yes, Ada."

"Will you keep this for my sake, in case we never meet again? and remember, oh remember, that I shall always cherish you as the dearest friend I ever had!"

She took my hand and slipped on my finger a twisted circlet of gold, in which one single stone was set, engraven with the word "Semper." It lies there now, it will lie there when I am in my grave.

"I will keep it for ever and ever, Ada."

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One kiss I took from her uplifted tearful face—that too the first and last; and praying God to bless and guard her, left her. Until far out at sea, till the last faint speck of the departing vessel had disappeared beyond the horizon, till daylight had verged into the grey of approaching night, and shore and sea and sky were all blended in the thickening gloom, I watched from the desolate pier-head, with the winter wind whistling around me, and the dashing spray, the roaring waves, beneath. O Ada, fare you well! I have looked for the last time on your fair loved face, for the last time gazed into your tender eyes, for the last time pressed your kindly hand! Is it "worse than foolishness" now to kiss this little ring, and hold it to my heart to still the dull pain there? See now, as I write these lines my eyes grow dim looking back to the hour when I turned away from that distant view. Not on earth, Ada, shall we meet again, but in the better land, "the land beyond the sea."

. . . . .

Two months had passed away since they had all gone,—Hugh, Mrs. Leslie, Ada. By this time they had reached that distant land for which they were bound; and I sat one evening in April by my solitary hearth, with my books and pipe by my side, and little Dandie, Hugh's dog, lying at my feet. I had begged hard of Ada to leave him with me. Both my clerks had long since gone home, and office hours were past, when a sharp double knock came at the outer door. I went and opened it. A man rushed in, took the door forcibly from me, closed it, and then seizing my hand wrung it till my arm ached. It was Inspector Keene.

"Found it!" he cried, flourishing his hat in the air. "Hurrah! found it."

I thought he had been drinking; and lugging hold of him by the collar of his coat, I drew him into my room, and sat him down in a chair.

"What the deuce is all this about? What have you found? Can't you speak?" I cried, giving him a shake; for he had only flourished his hat again in reply to my first question, and cried "Hurrah!"

"Excuse me, Mr. Kavanagh, but I'm beside myself to-night."

"So it seems," I answered drily. "What have you been drinking for?"

He was sobered in a moment.

"I've touched nothing but a cup of coffee since this morning, sir."

"Then what is the matter with you? What have you found?"

"Mr. Kavanagh, I've found the will!"

"Nonsense! Where?"

"In the house in Wimpole street. Do you recognize this, sir?" he said, drawing a document from his breast-pocket, crumpled and dirtied.

"Merciful heavens! it is the will I drew up!"

"You could swear to it, sir?"

"Yes, ten thousand times yes!" I had it unfolded and laid before me. There was the firm, bold signature of old Gilbert Thorneley; and below the crooked, ill-formed writing of John Barker, footman, and Thomas Spriggs, coachman. In the corner the date, and my own name which I had signed.

"In the name of heaven, where and how did you find this, Keene?"

"In the housekeeper's bedroom in Wimpole street, concealed under a loose plank in the floor. You know, sir, I have had my thoughts and suspicions for long; I have watched and waited. To-day my time came. The house is being done up. The plumber who has the doing of it is a friend of mine. One workman more or less made no difference: I have done odder things before than use the white-washing brush. I have been in that house for the last three days, and to-day I whitewashed the ceiling in Mrs. Haag's bedroom."

"I understand. And searched it besides?"

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"Just so, sir. She had done it cleverly; but I'm her match in cunning. I found the plank that had been disturbed, and I found the will under it and here I am."

A text came to my mind,—"Be sure your sin will find you out;" and I repeated it half aloud.

The inspector heard me. "Yes, sir, yes," he said gravely. "And there's another and a worse crime than stealing her master's will that I'm fearful she's guilty of."

"You mean the murder?"

"I do."

TO BE CONCLUDED IN OUR NEXT.