CHAPTER XXVI
AT THE BANK
In telling that sad tale my faithful and soft-hearted nurse had oftenproved her own mistake in saying, as she did, that tears can ever beexhausted. And I, for my part, though I could scarcely cry for eagerlistening, was worse off perhaps than if I had wetted each sad fact asit went by. At any rate, be it this way or that, a heavy and soreheart was left me, too distracted for asking questions, and almost toodepressed to grieve.
In the morning Mrs. Strouss was bustling here and there and every where,and to look at her nice Welsh cheeks and aprons, and to hear how shescolded the butcher's boy, nobody would for a moment believe that herheart was deeper than her skin, as the saying of the west countryis. Major Hockin had been to see me last night, for he never forgot apromise, and had left me in good hands, and now he came again in themorning. According to his usual way of taking up an opinion, he wouldnot see how distracted I was, and full of what I had heard overnight,but insisted on dragging me off to the bank, that being in his opinionof more importance than old stories. I longed to ask Betsy somequestions which had been crowding into my mind as she spoke, and whileI lay awake at night; however, I was obliged to yield to the business ofthe morning, and the good Major's zeal and keen knowledge of the world;and he really gave me no time to think.
"Yes, I understand all that as well as if I had heard every word of it,"he said, when he had led me helpless into the Hansom cab he came in, andhad slammed down the flood-gates in front of us. "You must never thinktwice of what old women say" (Mrs. Strouss was some twenty years youngerthan himself); "they always go prating and finding mares'-nests, andthen they always cry. Now did she cry, Erema?"
I would have given a hundred dollars to be able to say, "No, not onedrop;" but the truth was against me, and I said, "How could she helpit?"
"Exactly!" the Major exclaimed, so loudly that the cabman thought he wasordered to stop. "No, go on, cabby, if your horse can do it. My dear, Ibeg your pardon, but you are so very simple! You have not been among theeye-openers of the west. This comes of the obsolete Uncle Sam."
"I would rather be simple than 'cute!'" I replied; "and my own Uncle Samwill be never obsolete."
Silly as I was, I could never speak of the true Uncle Sam in this farcountry without the bright shame of a glimmer in my eyes; and with this,which I cared not to hide, I took my companion's hand and stood upon thefootway of a narrow and crowded lane.
"Move on! move on!" cried a man with a high-crowned hat japanned atintervals, and, wondering at his rudeness to a lady, I looked at him.But he only said, "Now move on, will you?" without any wrath, and as ifhe were vexed at our littleness of mind in standing still. Nobody heededhim any more than if he had said, "I am starving," but it seemed a rudething among ladies. Before I had time to think more about this--forI always like to think of things--I was led through a pair of narrowswinging doors, and down a close alley between two counters full ofpeople paying and receiving money. The Major, who always knew how to geton, found a white-haired gentleman in a very dingy corner, and whisperedto him in a confidential way, though neither had ever seen the otherbefore, and the white-haired gentleman gazed at me as sternly as if Iwere a bank-note for at least a thousand pounds; and then he said, "Stepthis way, young lady. Major Hockin, step this way, Sir."
The young lady "stepped that way" in wonder as to what English Englishis, and then we were shown into a sacred little room, where the daylighthad glass reflectors for it, if it ever came to use them. But as itcared very little to do this, from angular disabilities, three brightgas-lights were burning in soft covers, and fed the little room with arich, sweet glow. And here shone one of the partners of the bank, a verypleasant-looking gentleman, and very nicely dressed.
"Major Hockin," he said, after looking at the card, "will you kindly sitdown, while I make one memorandum? I had the pleasure of knowing youruncle well--at least I believe that the late Sir Rufus was your uncle."
"Not so," replied the Major, well pleased, however. "I fear that I amtoo old to have had any uncle lately. Sir Rufus Hockin was my firstcousin."
"Oh, indeed! To be sure, I should have known it, but Sir Rufus beingmuch your senior, the mistake was only natural. Now what can I do toserve you, or perhaps this young lady--Miss Hockin, I presume?"
"No," said his visitor, "not Miss Hockin. I ought to have introducedher, but for having to make my own introduction. Mr. Shovelin, this ladyis Miss Erema Castlewood, the only surviving child of the late CaptainGeorge Castlewood, properly speaking, Lord Castlewood."
Mr. Shovelin had been looking at me with as much curiosity as goodmanners and his own particular courtesy allowed. And I fancied that hefelt that I could not be a Hockin.
"Oh, dear, dear me!" was all he said, though he wanted to say, "Godbless me!" or something more sudden and stronger. "Lord Castlewood'sdaughter--poor George Castlewood! My dear young lady, is it possible?"
"Yes, I am my father's child," I said; "and I am proud to hear that I amlike him."
"That you well may be," he answered, putting on his spectacles. "You areastonished at my freedom, perhaps; you will allow for it, or at least,you will not be angry with me, when you know that your father was mydearest friend at Harrow; and that when his great trouble fell uponhim--"
Here Mr. Shovelin stopped, as behooves a man who begins to outrunhimself. He could not tell me that it was himself who had found all themoney for my father's escape, which cost much cash as well as much goodfeeling. Neither did I, at the time, suspect it, being all in the darkupon such points. Not knowing what to say, I looked from the banker tothe Major, and back again.
"Can you tell me the exact time?" the latter asked. "I am due in theTemple at 12.30, and I never am a minute late, whatever happens."
"You will want a swift horse," Mr. Shovelin answered, "or else this willbe an exception to your rule. It is twenty-one minutes past twelve now."
"May I leave my charge to you, then, for a while? She will be veryquiet; she is always so. Erema, will you wait for me?"
I was not quick enough then to see that this was arranged between them.Major Hockin perceived that Mr. Shovelin wished to have a talk with meabout dearer matters than money, having children of his own, and being(as his eyes and forehead showed) a man of peculiar views, perhaps, butclearly of general good-will.
"In an hour, in an hour, in less than an hour"--the Major intensifiedhis intentions always--"in three-quarters of an hour I shall be back.Meanwhile, my dear, you will sit upon a stool, and not say a word, normake any attempt to do any thing every body is not used to."
This vexed me, as if I were a savage here; and I only replied with avery gentle bow, being glad to see his departure; for Major Hockin wasone of those people, so often to be met with, whom any one likes ordislikes according to the changes of their behavior. But Mr. Shovelinwas different from that.
"Miss Castlewood, take this chair," he said; "a hard one, but betterthan a stool, perhaps. Now how am I to talk to you--as an inquirer uponbusiness matters, or as the daughter of my old friend? Your smile isenough. Well, and you must talk to me in the same unreasonable manner.That being clearly established between us, let us proceed to thenext point. Your father, my old friend, wandered from the track, andunfortunately lost his life in a desolate part of America."
"No; oh no. It was nothing like that. He might have been alive, and hereat this moment, if I had not drunk and eaten every bit and drop of his."
"Now don't, my dear child, don't be so romantic--I mean, look at thingsmore soberly. You did as you were ordered, I have no doubt; GeorgeCastlewood always would have that. He was a most commanding man. You donot quite resemble him in that respect, I think."
"Oh, but did he do it, did he do it?" I cried out. "You were at schoolwith him, and knew his nature. Was it possible for him to do it, Sir?"
"As possible as it is for me to go down to Sevenoaks and shoot my dearold father, who is spending a green and agreeable old age there. Notthat your grandfather, if I may say it wit
hout causing pain to you, waseither green or agreeable. He was an uncommonly sharp old man; I mighteven say a hard one. As you never saw him, you will not think me rude insaying that much. Your love, of course, is for your father; and if yourfather had had a father of larger spirit about money, he might havebeen talking to me pleasantly now, instead of--instead of all these sadthings."
"Please not to slip away from me," I said, bluntly, having so often metwith that. "You believe, as every good person does, that my father waswholly innocent. But do tell me who could have done it instead. Somebodymust have done it; that seems clear."
"Yes," replied Mr. Shovelin, with a look of calm consideration;"somebody did it, undoubtedly; and that makes the difficulty of thewhole affair. 'Cui bono,' as the lawyers say. Two persons only couldhave had any motive, so far as wealth and fortune go. The first andmost prominent, your father, who, of course, would come into every thing(which made the suspicion so hot and strong); and the other, a very nicegentleman, whom it is wholly impossible to suspect."
"Are you sure of that? People have more than suspected--they havecondemned--my father. After that, I can suspect any body. Who is it?Please to tell me."
"It is the present Lord Castlewood, as he is beginning to be called.He would not claim the title, or even put forward his right in any way,until he had proof of your dear father's death; and even then he behavedso well--"
"He did it! he did it!" I cried, in hot triumph. "My father's name shallbe clear of it. Can there be any doubt that he did it? How very simplethe whole of it becomes! Nothing astonishes me, except the stupidity ofpeople. He had every thing to gain, and nothing to lose--a bad man, nodoubt--though I never heard of him. And putting it all on my father, ofcourse, to come in himself, and abide his time, till the misery killedmy father. How simple, how horribly simple, it becomes!"
"You are much too quick, too hot, too sudden. Excuse me a minute"--as asilver bell struck--"I am wanted in the next room. But before I go, letme give you a glass of cold water, and beg you to dismiss that new ideafrom your mind."
I could see, as I took with a trembling hand the water he poured out forme, that Mr. Shovelin was displeased. His kind and handsome face grewhard. He had taken me for a nice young lady, never much above thefreezing-point, and he had found me boil over in a moment. I was sorryto have grieved him; but if he had heard Betsy Bowen's story, and seenher tell it, perhaps he would have allowed for me. I sat down again,having risen in my warmth, and tried to quiet and command myself bythinking of the sad points only. Of these there were plenty to makepictures of, the like of which had kept me awake all night; and I knewby this time, from finding so much more of pity than real sympathy, thatmen think a woman may well be all tears, but has no right to even theshadow of a frown. That is their own prerogative.
And so, when Mr. Shovelin returned, with a bundle of papers which hadalso vexed him--to judge by the way in which he threw them down--I spokevery mildly, and said that I was very sorry for my display of violence,but that if he knew all, he would pardon me; and he pardoned me in amoment.
"I was going to tell you, my dear Miss Castlewood," he continued,gently, "that your sudden idea must be dismissed, for reasons which Ithink will content you. In the first place, the present Lord Castlewoodis, and always has been, an exemplary man, of great piety and truegentleness; in the next place, he is an invalid, who can not walk a milewith a crutch to help him, and so he has been for a great many years;and lastly, if you have no faith in the rest, he was in Italy at thetime, and remained there for some years afterward. There he received andsheltered your poor father after his sad calamity, and was better than abrother to him, as your father, in a letter to me, declared. So you seethat you must acquit him."
"That is not enough. I would beg his pardon on my knees, since he helpedmy father, for he must have thought him innocent. Now, Mr. Shovelin, youwere my father's friend, and you are such a clever man--"
"How do you know that, young lady? What a hurry you are always in!"
"Oh, there can be no doubt about it. But you must not ask reasons, ifI am so quick. Now please to tell me what your own conclusion is. I cantalk of it calmly now; yes, quite calmly, because I never think of anything else. Only tell me what you really believe, and I will keep itmost strictly to myself."
"I am sure you will do that," he answered, smiling, "not only from thepower of your will, my dear, but also because I have nothing to say. Atfirst I was strongly inclined to believe (knowing, from my certainty ofyour father, that the universal opinion must be wrong) that the old lordhad done it himself; for he always had been of a headstrong and violentnature, which I am sure will never re-appear in you. But the wholeof the evidence went against this, and little as I think of evidence,especially at an inquest, your father's behavior confirmed what wassworn to. Your father knew that his father had not made away withhimself in a moment of passion, otherwise he was not the man to breakprison and fly trial. He would have said, boldly, 'I am guiltless; thereare many things that I can not explain; I can not help that; I willface it out. Condemn me, if you like, and I will suffer.' From your ownremembrance of your father's nature, is not that certainly the course hewould have taken?"
"I have not an atom of doubt about it. His flight and persistent dreadof trial puzzle me beyond imagination. Of his life he was perfectlyreckless, except, at least, for my sake."
"I know that he was," Mr. Shovelin replied; "as a boy he was wonderfullyfearless. As a man, with a sweet wife and a lot of children, he mighthave begun to be otherwise. But when all those were gone, and only apoor little baby left--"
"Yes, I suppose I was all that."
"Forgive me. I am looking back at you. Who could dream that you wouldever even live, without kith or kin to care for you? Your life was savedby some good woman who took you away to Wales. But when you were such apoor little relic, and your father could scarcely have seen you, tohave such a mite left must have been almost a mockery of happiness. Thatmotive could not have been strong enough to prevent a man of proud honorfrom doing what honor at once demanded. Your father would have returnedand surrendered as soon as he heard of his dear wife's death, if in thebalance there had been only you."
"Yes, Mr. Shovelin, perhaps he would. I was never very much as acounter-balance. Yet my father loved me." I could have told him of thepledge exchanged--"For my sake," and, "Yes, for your sake," with loveand wedded honor set to fight cold desolate repute--but I did not say aword about it.
"He loved you afterward, of course. But a man who has had seven childrenis not enthusiastic about a baby. There must have been a larger motive."
"But when I was the only one left alive. Surely I became valuable then.I can not have been such a cipher."
"Yes, for a long time you would have been," replied the Saturnianbanker. "I do not wish to disparage your attractions when you were afortnight old. They may have begun already to be irresistible. Excuseme; you have led me into the light vein, when speaking of a most sadmatter. You must blame your self-assertion for it. All I wish to conveyto you is my belief that something wholly unknown to us, some darkmystery of which we have no inkling, lies at the bottom of this terribleaffair. Some strange motive there must have been, strong enough evento overcome all ordinary sense of honor, and an Englishman's pride insubmitting to the law, whatever may be the consequence. Consider thathis 'flight from justice,' as it was called, of course, by every one,condemned his case and ruined his repute. Even for that he would nothave cared so much as for his own sense of right. And though he was avery lively fellow, as I first remember him, full of tricks and jokes,and so on, which in this busy age are out of date, I am certain that healways had a stern sense of right. One never knows how love affairs andweakness about children may alter almost any man; but my firm convictionis that my dear old school-fellow, George Castlewood, even with a wifeand lovely children hanging altogether upon his life, not only wouldnot have broken jail, but would calmly have given up his body to behanged--pardon me, my dear, for putting it so coarsely--if the
re had notbeen something paramount to override even apparent honor. What it canhave been I have no idea, and I presume you have none."
"None whatever," I said at once, in answer to his inquiring gaze. "I amquite taken by surprise; I never even thought of such a thing. It hasalways seemed to me so natural that my dear father, being shamefullycondemned, because appearances were against him, and nobody could enterinto him, should, for the sake of his wife and children, or even of onechild like me, depart or banish himself, or emigrate, or, as they mightcall it, run away. Knowing that he never could have a fair trial, it wasthe only straightforward and good and affectionate thing for him to do."
"You can not see things as men see them. We must not expect it of you,"Mr. Shovelin answered, with a kind but rather too superior smile, whichreminded me a little of dear Uncle Sam when he listened to what, in hisopinion, was only female reason; "but, dear me, here is Major Hockincome! Punctuality is the soul of business."
"So I always declare," cried the Major, who was more than three-quartersof an hour late, for which in my heart I thanked him. "My watch keepstime to a minute, Sir, and its master to a second. Well, I hope youhave settled all questions of finance, and endowed my young maid with afortune."
"So far from that," Mr. Shovelin replied, in a tone very different fromthat he used to me, "we have not even said one word of business; allthat has been left for your return. Am I to understand that you are byappointment or relationship the guardian of this young lady?"
"God forbid!" cried Major Hockin, shortly. I thought it very rude ofhim, yet I could not help smiling to see how he threw his glasses up andlifted his wiry crest of hair. "Not that she is bad, I mean, but good,very good; indeed, I may say the very best girl ever known outside of myown family. My cousin, Colonel Gundry, who owns an immense estate inthe most auriferous district of all California, but will not spoil hissplendid property by mining, he will--he will tell you the very samething, Sir."
"I am very glad to hear it," said the banker, smiling at me, while Iwondered what it was, but hoped that it meant my praises. "Now I reallyfear that I must be very brief, though the daughter of my oldest friendmay well be preferred to business. But now we will turn at once tobusiness, if you please."
Erema; Or, My Father's Sin Page 26