by Ellen Wood
Greatorex generally liked to call him — whose usually placid countenance was changed by the scarlet hectic on its thin cheeks. Bede saw that something, great or little, was about to be disclosed, and wished himself away again: for some time past he had felt no patience with the fancies and crotchets of Henry Ollivera.
It was Mr. Greatorex who disclosed what there was to tell. Bede received it ungraciously; that is, in spite of disbelieving mockery. Henry Ollivera was accustomed to these moods of his. The clergyman did not resent it openly; he simply stood with his deep eyes fixed watchingly on Bede’s face, as if the steady gaze, the studied silence, carried their own reproof.
“I believe, if some wight came down on a voyage from the moon, and fed you with the most improbable fable ever invented by the erratic imagination of man, you would place credence in it,” said Bede, turning sharply on Mr. Ollivera.
“Edmund Willett has not come from the moon,” quietly spoke the clergyman.
“But Charles Willett — lost man! — is no better than a lunatic in his drinking bouts,” retorted Bede.
“At any rate, he was neither a lunatic nor drunk to-day.”
“His story does not hold water,” pursued Bede. “Is it likely — is it possible, I should almost say, — that had he been the man with whom the appointment was held that afternoon, he would have kept the fact in until now? — and when so much stir and enquiry were made at the time?”
“Edmund Willett says it is just exactly the line of conduct his brother might have been expected to pursue,” said Mr. Ollivera. “He was always of an ill-conditioned temper — morose, uncommunicative. That what Charles Willett says is perfectly true, I am as sure of as I am that I stand here. You had better see him yourself, Bede.”
“To what end?”
“That you may be also convinced.”
“And if I were convinced?” questioned Bede, after a pause. “What then?”
“I think the enquiry should be reopened,” said Mr. Ollivera, addressing chiefly his uncle. “When I have spoken of pursuing it before, I was always met, both by Butterby and others, with the confuting argument that this letter was in my way. To say the truth, I found it a little so myself always. Always until this day.”
“Don’t bring up Butterby as an authority, William,” interposed Mr. Greatorex. “If Butterby cannot conduct other cases better than he has conducted the one concerning our lost cheque, I’d not give a feather for him and his opinions.”
For the purloiner of that cheque remained an undiscovered puzzle; and the house of Greatorex and Greatorex (always excepting one of them) felt very sore upon the point, and showed it.
“William is right, Bede. This discovery removes a mountain of uncertainty and doubt. And if, by ventilating the unhappy affair again, we can unfold the mystery that attaches to it, and so clear John’s name and memory, it ought to be done.”
“But what can be tried, sir, or done, more than has been?” asked Bede, in a tone of reasoning.
“I don’t know. Something may be. Of one thing I have felt a conviction all along — that if John’s life was rudely taken by man’s wicked hand, heaven will in time bring it to light. The old saying, that ‘Murder will out,’ is a very sure one.”
“I do not think it has proved so in every instance,” returned Bede, dreamily carrying his recollection backwards. “Some cases have remained undiscovered always.”
“Yes, to the world,” acquiesced Mr. Greatorex. “But there lies a firm belief in my mind that no man — or woman either — ever committed a wilful murder, but some one or other suspected him in their secret heart, and saw him in all his naked, miserable sin.”
“Don’t bring woman’s name in, father. I never like to hear it done.”
Bede spoke in the somewhat fractious tone he had grown often to use; that it was but the natural outlet of some inward pain none could doubt. Mr. Greatorex put it down chiefly to bodily suffering.
“Women have done worse deeds than men,” was the elder man’s answer. And Mr. Ollivera took a step forward.
“Whether man or woman did this — that is, took my dear brother’s life — and then suffered the slur to rest on his own innocent self — suffered him to be buried like a dog — suffered his best relatives to think of him as one who had forfeited Heaven’s redeeming mercy, I know not,” said the clergyman. “But from this time forward, I vow never to slacken heart, or hand, or energy, until I shall have brought the truth to light. The way was long and dark, and seemed hopeless; it might be that I lost patience and grew slack and weary: perhaps this discovery has arisen to reprove me and spur me on.”
“But what can you do in it?” again asked Bede.
“Whatever I do in it, I shall not come to you to aid me, Bede,” was the reply. “It appears to me — and I have told you this before — that you would rather keep the dark cloud on my brothers name than help to lift it. What had he ever done to you in life that you should so requite him?”
“Heaven knows my heart and wish would be good to clear him,” spoke Bede, with an earnestness that approached agitation. “But if I am unable to do it, — if I cannot see how it may be done, — if the power of elucidation does not lie with me — what would you?”
“You have invariably thrown cold water upon every effort of mine. My most earnest purposes you have all but ridiculed.”
“No, Henry. I have been sorry, vexed if you will, at what I thought the mistaken view you take up. Over-reiteration of a subject leads to weariness. If I was unable to see any other probable solution than the one arrived at by the coroner and jury, it was not my fault. As to John — if by sacrificing my own life, at any moment since I saw him lying dead, could have restored his, I would willingly have offered it up.”
“I beg your pardon, Bede; I spoke hastily,” said the man of peace. “Of course I had no right to be vexed that you and others cannot see with my eyes. But, rely upon it, the avowal now made by Charles Willett is true.”
“Yes, perhaps it may be,” acknowledged Bede.
“William,” interrupted Mr. Greatorex, lifting his head after a pause of thought — and his voice had sunk to a whisper. “It could not be that — that — Charles Willett was the one to slink in, and harm him?”
A kind of eager light flashed into the dark eyes of Bede Greatorex, as he turned them on his cousin. If it did not express a belief in the possibility of the suggestion, it at least betrayed that the idea stirred up his interest.
“No,” said Mr. Ollivera. “No, no. Charles Willett has not behaved in a straightforward manner over it, but he is cool and open now. He says he has made it a rule for many years never to interfere voluntarily in the remotest degree with other people’s business; and therefore he did not mention this until questioned to-day. Had he never been questioned, he says, he would never have spoken. I cannot understand such a man; it seems to me a positive sin not to have disclosed these facts at the time; but I am sure he tells the whole of the truth now. And now I must wish you good evening, for I have an engagement.”
Bede went along the passage with his cousin, and thence was turning to ascend the staircase. His father called him.
“What is it?” Bede asked, advancing.
“What is it? — why I want to talk to you about this.”
“Another time, father. The dinner’s waiting.”
“You would go to dinner if the house were falling,” spoke Mr. Greatorex, in his hasty vexation.
“Will you not come, sir?”
“No. I don’t want dinner. I shall get tea here and a chop with it. Things that are happening worry me, Bede; if they don’t you.”
Bede went away with a heavy sigh. Perhaps he was more worried, and had greater cause for it too, than his father; but he did not choose to let more of it than he could help be seen.
Guests were at his table this evening, only some three or four; they were bidden by Mrs. Bede, preparatory to going to the opera together. It is more than probable that the suspicion of this assembly of gues
ts kept Mr. Greatorex away.
The dinner was elaborate and expensive as usual. Bede ate nothing. He sat opposite to his wife and talked with the company, and took viand after viand on his plate when handed to him; but only to toy with the morsel for a few moments, and send it away all but untasted. Why did his wife gather around her this continual whirl of gaiety? — he nearly asked it aloud with a groan. Did she want to get rid of care? as, heaven knew, he did. A looker-on, able to dive into Bede’s heart, might rather have asked, “Nay, why did he suffer her to gather it?”
The heat of the room oppressed him; the courses were long, but he sat on — on, until quiescence became intolerable. When lights came in, he rose abruptly, went to the furthermost window, and threw it wide open. Twilight encompassed the earth with her soft folds; the day’s bold garishness was over for at least some welcome hours. A woman was singing in the street below, her barefooted children standing round her with that shrinking air peculiar to such a group, and she turned up a miserable, sickly, famine-stricken face to Bede, in piteous, mute appeal. It was not ineffectual. Whatever his own cares and illness might be, he at least could feel for others. Just as he flung the woman a shilling, his wife came to him with a whisper, whose tone had an unpleasant ring of taunt in it.
“Have you, as usual, the headache, to-night?”
“Headache and heartache, both, Louisa.”
“I should suppose so, by your quitting the table. You might have apologized.”
“And you might give the house a little rest. How far I am from wishing to complain or interfere unnecessarily, you must know, Louisa; but I declare that this incessant strain of entertaining people will drive me crazy. It is telling upon my nerves. It is telling in a different way upon my father.”
“I shall entertain people every day, when I am not engaged out myself,” said Mrs. Bede Greatorex. “Take a house for me away, in Hyde Park, or Belgravia; or I’d not mind Portland Place; and then we should not annoy Mr. Greatorex. As long as you are obstinate about the one, I shall be about the other.” Bede seized her hand; partly in anger, partly — as it seemed — in tenderness; and drew her nearer, that she might hear his impressive whisper.
“I am not sure but your wish, that we should quit the house, will be gratified — though not as you expect. My father’s patience is being tried. He is the real owner of the house; and any moment he may say to us, Go out of it. Louisa, I have thought of mentioning this to you for some little time; but the subject is not a pleasant one.”
“I wish he would say it.”
“But don’t you see the result? You are thinking of a west-end mansion. My means would not allow me to take a dwelling half so good as this one. That’s the simple truth, Louisa.”
She flung his hand from her with a defiant laugh of power, as she prepared to rejoin her guests. “You might not, but I would.”
And Bede knew that to run him helplessly into debt would have been fun, rather than otherwise, to his wife.
Coffee came in at once, and Bede took the opportunity to escape. There was no formal after-dinner sitting this evening, or withdrawal of the ladies. As he passed along the corridor, Miss Channing was standing at the door of the study. He enquired in a kind tone if she wanted anything.
“I am waiting for Mrs. Greatorex — to ask her if I may go for an hour to my brother’s,” answered Annabel. “Old Dalla will take me.”
“Go by all means, if you wish,” he said. “Why did you think it necessary to ask? Do make yourself at home with us, Miss Channing, and be as happy as you can.”
Annabel thanked him, and he went down-stairs, little supposing how very far from happy it was possible for her to be, exposed to all the caprices of his wife. Halting at the door for a moment he wandered across the street, and stood there in the shade, mechanically listening to the ballad woman’s singing, wafted faintly from the distance, just as he mechanically looked up at his own lighted windows, and heard the gay laughter that now and again came forth from them.
“I never ought to have married her,” said the voice of conscience, breathing its secrets from the cautious depths of his inmost heart. “Every law, human and divine, should have warned me against it. I was infatuated to blindness: nay, not to blindness; I cannot plead that: but to folly. It was very wrong: it was horribly sinful: and heaven is justly punishing me. The fault was mine: I might have kept aloof from her after that miserably eventful night. I ought to have done so; to have held her at more than arm’s distance evermore. Ought! — lives there another man on the face of the earth, I wonder, who would not? The fault of our union was mine wholly, not hers; and so, whatsoever trials she brings on me I will bear, patiently, as I best may. I sought her. She would never have dared to seek me, after that night and the discovery I made the day subsequently in poor John’s room: and the complication of ill arising, or to arise, from our marriage, I have to answer for. I am nearly tired of the inward warfare: three years of it! Three years and more, since I committed the mad act of tying myself to her for life: for better or for worse: and it has been nothing for me but one prolonged, never-shifting scene of self-repentance. We are wearing a mask to each other: God grant that I may go to my grave without being forced to lift it! For her sake; for her sake!”
He paused to raise his hat from his brow and wipe the sweat that had gathered there. And then he took a step forward and a step backward in the dim shade. But he could not drive away, even for a moment, the care ever eating away his heart, or turn his vision from the threatening shadow that always seemed looming in the distance.
“Of all the wild infatuation that ever took possession of the heart of man for woman, surely mine for Louisa Joliffe was the worst! Did Satan lead me on? It must have been so. ‘Be sure your sin shall find you out!’ Since that fatal moment when I stood at the altar with her, those ominous words have never, I think, been quite absent from my memory. Every hour of my life, every minute of the day and night as they pass, does my sin find me. Knowing what I did know, could I not have been content to let her go her own way, while I went mine? Heaven help me! for I love her yet, as man rarely has loved. And when my father, or any other, casts a reflection on her, it is worse to me than a dagger’s thrust. So long as I may, I will shield her from—”
It was at this moment that the soliloquy, so pregnant with weighty if vague revelation, was broken in upon by Mr. Roland Yorke. Little guessed careless Roland what painful regrets he had put a temporary stop to. Bede, as was previously seen, went indoors, and Roland departed with Miss Channing on her evening visit, dismissing Dalla without the smallest ceremony.
The carriage, to convey Mrs. Bede Greatorex and her friends abroad, drove up. Bede, somewhat neglectful of the rest, came out with his wife and placed her in it.
“Are you not coming with us?” she bent forward to whisper, seeing he was about to close the door.
“Not to-night. I have some work to do.”
“Sulky as usual, Bede?”
His lips parted to retort, but he closed them, and endured meekly. Sulky to her he had never been, and she knew it. The carriage moved away with her; and Bede lifted his hat; a smile, meant to deceive the world, making his face one of careless gaiety.
Whether he had work to do, or not, he did not get to it. Sauntering away from the door, away and away, hardly knowing and not heeding whither, he found himself presently in the Strand, and thence at the river-side. There he paced backwards and forwards with unequal steps, his mind lost in many things, but more especially in the communication made that day by Henry Ollivera.
The fragmentary letter connected with that long-past history, and the appointment, spoken of by Mr. Kene, that John Ollivera went out of court to keep, had been as much of a puzzle to Bede Greatorex as it was to other people. Upon reflection, he came now to think that the present solution of the affair was the true one. Would it lead to further discovery? Very fervently he hoped that it would not. There were grave reasons, as none knew better than Bede, for keeping all further discov
ery back; for, if it came, it would hurl down confusion, dismay, and misery, upon innocent heads as well as guilty ones.
The river, flowing on in its course, was silent and dull in the summer’s night. A line of light illumined the sky in the west where the sultry sun had gone down in heat: and as Bede looked towards it and thought of the All-seeing Eye that lay beyond that light, he felt how fruitless it was for him to plot and plan, and to say this shall be or this shall not be. The course of the future rested in the hands of one Divine Ruler, and his own poor, short-sighted, impotent will was worse than nothing.
CHAPTER XXIII.
Laid with his Forefathers.
So great a man as Sir Richard Yorke must of course be honoured with a great funeral. He had died on a Thursday; the interment was fixed for the next Friday week: which, taking the heat of the weather and sundry other trifles into consideration, was a little longer than it need have been. Sir Vincent, his new dignity as head of the Yorke family lying upon him with a due and weighty self-importance, was determined (like Jonas Chuzzlewit of wide memory) that the public should see he did not grudge to his late father any honour in the shape of plumes and mutes and coaches and show, that it was in his power to accord to him. There were three costly coffins, one of them of lead, and at the very least three and sixty sets of towering feathers. So that Portland Place was as a gala that day, and windows and pavements were alike filled with sight-gazers.
The Rev. William Yorke, Minor Canon of Helstonleigh Cathedral, Chaplain of Hazledon, and Rector of Coombe Lee, was bidden to it. He was not very nearly related to the deceased (his father and Sir Richard had been second cousins), but he was undoubtedly a rising man in the Church, and Sir Vincent thought fit to remember the connection. The clergyman stood in the relationship of brother-in-law to Hamish Channing; and it was at Hamish’s house he stayed during the brief stay — two days — of his sojourn in town.