by Ellen Wood
“What brought it on?”
“I don’t know: unless it was that I drank a draught of cold water when I was hot. I have not been very strong for some time, and a little thing sends me into a violent heat. I had a long walk, four miles, and I made nearly a run of it half the way, being pressed for time. When I got in, I asked Leah for some water, and drank two glasses of it, one after the other. It seemed to strike a chill to me at the time.”
“It was at the office, then. Four miles! Why did you not ride?”
“It was not your business I was out on, sir; it was my own. But whether that was the cause or not, the illness came on, and it cannot be remedied now. If I am to die, I must die; God is over all: but I cannot go without making a confession to you. How the fear of death’s approach alters a man’s views and feelings!” he went on, in a different tone. “Yesterday, had I been told I must make this confession to you, I should have said, Let me die, rather; but it appears to me now to be an imperative duty, and one I must nerve myself to perform.”
Lennard lay on his pillow, and looked fixedly at me, and I not less fixedly at him. What, in the shape of a “confession,” could he have to make to me? He had been managing clerk in Mr. Brightman’s office long before I was in it, a man of severe integrity, and respected by all.
“The night Mr. Brightman died,” he began under his panting breath, “the bag of gold was missing — George Coney’s. You remember it.”
“Well?”
“I took it.”
Was Lennard’s mind wandering? He was no more likely to take gold than I was. I sat still, gazing at him.
“Yes, it was I who took it, sir. Will you hear the tale?”
A deep breath, and the drawing of my chair closer to his bedside, was my only answer.
“You are a young man, Mr. Strange. I have taken an interest in you since you first came, a lad, into the office, and were under my authority — Charles, do this; Charles, do the other. Not that I have shown any especial interest, for outwardly I am cold and undemonstrative; but I saw what you were, and liked you in my heart. You are a young man yet, I say; but, liking you, hoping for your welfare, I pray Heaven that it may never be your fate, in after-life, to be trammelled with misfortunes as I have been. For me they seem to have had no end, and the worst of them in later years has been that brought upon me by an undutiful and spendthrift son.”
In a moment there flashed into my mind my later trouble in Tom Heriot: I seemed to be comparing the one with the other. “Have you been trammelled with an undutiful son?” I said aloud.
“I have been, and am,” replied Lennard. “It has been my later cross. The first was that of losing my property and position in life, for, as you know, Mr. Strange, I was born and reared a gentleman. The last cross has been Leonard — that is his name, Leonard Lennard — and it has been worse than the first, for it has kept us down, and in a perpetual ferment for years. It has kept us poor amongst the poor: my salary, as you know, is a handsome one, but it has chiefly to be wasted upon him.”
“What age is he?”
“Six-and-twenty yesterday.”
“Then you are not forced to supply his extravagance, to find money for his faults and follies. You are not obliged to let him keep you down.”
“By law, no,” sighed poor Lennard. “But these ill-doing sons sometimes entwine themselves around your very heartstrings; far rather would you suffer and suffer than not ward off the ill from them. He has tried his hand at many occupations, but remains at none; the result is always trouble: and yet his education and intellect, his good looks and perfect, pleasant manners, would fit him for almost any responsible position in life. But he is reckless. Get into what scrape he would, whether of debt, or worse, here he was sure of a refuge and a welcome; I received him, his mother and sisters loved him. One of them is bedridden,” he added, in an altered tone.
“I went first by mistake into the next room. I probably saw her.”
“Yes, that’s Maria. It is a weakness that has settled in her legs; some chronic affection, I suppose; and there she has lain for ten months. With medical attendance and sea air she might be restored, they tell me, but I can provide neither. Leonard’s claims have been too heavy.”
“But should you waste means on him that ought to be applied to her necessities?” I involuntarily interrupted.
He half raised himself on his elbow, and the effort proved how weak he was, and his eyes and his voice betrayed a strange earnestness. “When a son, whom you love better than life itself, has to be saved from the consequences of his follies, from prison, from worse disgrace even than that, other interests are forgotten, let them be what they may. Silent, patient needs give way to obtrusive wants that stare you in the face, and that may bear fear and danger in their train. Mr. Strange, you can imagine this.”
“I do. It must ever be so.”
“The pecuniary wants of a young man, such as my son is, are as the cry of the horse-leech. Give! give! Leonard mixes sometimes with distant relatives, young fellows of fashion, who are moving in a sphere far above our present position, although I constantly warn him not to do it. One of these wants, imperative and to be provided for in some way or other, occurred the beginning of February in this year. How I managed to pay it I can hardly tell, but it stripped me of all the money I could raise, and left me with some urgent debts upon me. The rent was owing, twelve months the previous December, and some of the tradespeople were becoming clamorous. The landlord, discerning the state of affairs, put in a distress, terrifying poor Maria, whose illness had then not very long set in, almost to death. That I had the means to pay the man out you may judge, when I tell you that we had not the money to buy a joint of meat or a loaf of bread.”
Lennard paused to wipe the dew from his brow.
“Maria was in bed, wanting comforts; Charlotte was worn out with apprehension; Leonard was away again, and we had nothing. Of my wife I will not speak: of delicate frame and delicately reared, the long-continued troubles have reduced her to a sort of dumb apathy. No credit anywhere, and a distress in for rent! In sheer despair, I resolved to disclose part of my difficulty to Mr. Brightman, and ask him to advance me a portion of my next quarter’s salary. I hated to do it. A reduced gentleman is, perhaps, over-fastidious. I know I have been so, and my pride rose against it. In health, I could not have spoken to you, Mr. Charles, as I am now doing. I went on, shilly-shallying for a few days. On the Saturday morning Charlotte came to me with a whisper: ‘That man in the house says if the rent is not paid to-night, the things will be taken out and sold on Monday: it is the very last day they’ll give.’ I went to the office, my mind made up at length, and thinking what I should say to Mr. Brightman. Should I tell him part of the truth, or should I urge some plea, foreign to it? It was an unusually busy day: I dare say you remember it, Mr. Charles, for it was that of Mr. Brightman’s sudden death. Client after client called, and no opportunity offered for my speaking to him in private. I waited for him to come down, on his way out in the evening, thinking I would speak to him then. He did not come, and when the clients left, and I went upstairs, I found he was stopping in town to see Sir Edmund Clavering. I should have spoken to him then, but you were present. He told me to look in again in the course of the evening, and I hoped I might find him alone then. You recollect the subsequent events of the night, sir?”
“I shall never forget them.”
“When I came in, as he directed me, between seven and eight o’clock, there occurred that flurry with Leah — the cause of which I never knew. She said Mr. Brightman was alone, and I went up. He was lying in your room, Mr. Charles; had fallen close to his own desk, the deep drawer of which stood open. I tried to raise him; I sprinkled water on his face, but I saw that he was dead. On the desk lay a small canvas bag. I took it up and shook it. Why, I do not know, for I declare that no wrong thought had then come into my mind. He appeared to have momentarily put it out of the drawer, probably in search of something, for his private cheque-book and the ke
y of the iron safe, that I knew were always kept in the drawer, lay near it. I shook the bag, and its contents sounded like gold. I opened it, and counted thirty sovereigns. Mr. Brightman was dead. I could not apply to him; and yet money I must have. The temptation upon me was strong, and I took it. Don’t turn away from me, sir. There are some temptations too strong to be resisted by a man in his necessities.”
“Indeed, I am not turning from you. The temptation was overwhelmingly great.”
“Indeed,” continued the sick man, “the devil was near me then. I put the key and the cheque-book inside, and I locked the drawer, and placed the keys in Mr. Brightman’s pocket, where he kept them, and I leaped down the stairs with the bag in my hand. It was all done in a minute or two of time, though it seems long in relating it. Where should I put the bag, now I had it? Upon my person? No: it might be missed directly, and inquired for. I was in a tumult — scarcely sane, I believe — and I dashed into the clerks’ office, and, taking off the lid of the coal-box, put it there. Then I tore off for a surgeon. You know the rest. When I returned with him you were there; and the next visitor, while we were standing round Mr. Brightman, was George Coney, after his bag of money. I never shall forget the feeling when you motioned me to take Mr. Brightman’s keys from his pocket to get the bag out of the drawer. Or when — after it was missed — you took me with you to search for it, in the very office where it was, and I moved the coal-box under the desk. Had you only happened to lift the lid, sir!”
“Ah!”
“When the search was over, and I went home, I had put the bag in my breastpocket. The gold saved me from immediate trouble, but — —”
“You have sent it back to me, you know — the bag and the thirty pounds.”
“Yes, I sent it back — tardily. I could not do it earlier, though the crime coloured my days with remorse, and I never knew a happy moment until it was restored. But Leonard had been back again, and restoration was not easy.”
Miss Lennard opened the door at this juncture. “Papa, the doctor is here. Can he come up? He says he ought to see you.”
“Oh, certainly, he must come up,” I interposed.
“Yes, yes, Charlotte,” said Lennard.
The doctor came in, and stood looking at his patient, after putting a few questions. “Well,” said he, “you are better; you will get over it.”
“Do you really think so?” I asked joyfully.
“Decidedly I do, now. It has been a sharp twinge, but the danger’s over. You see, when pain suddenly ceases, mortification sometimes sets in, and I could not be sure. But you will do this time, Mr. Lennard.”
Lennard had little more to say; and, soon after the doctor left, I prepared to follow him.
“There’s a trifle of salary due to me, Mr. Strange,” he whispered; “that which has been going on since Quarter Day. I suppose you will not keep it from me?”
“Keep it from you! No. Why should I? Do you want it at once? You can have it if you do.”
Leonard looked up wistfully. “You do not think of taking me back again? You will not do that?”
“Yes, I will. You and I shall understand each other better than ever now.”
The tears welled up to his eyes. He laid his other hand — I had taken one — across his face. I bent over him with a whisper.
“What has passed to-night need never be recurred to between us; and I shall never speak of it to another. We all have our trials and troubles, Lennard. A very weighty one is lying now upon me, though it is not absolutely my own — brought upon me, you see, as yours was. And it is worse than yours.”
“Worse!” he exclaimed, looking at me.
“More dangerous in its possible consequences. Now mind,” I broke off, shaking him by the hand, “you are not to attempt to come to Essex Street until you are quite strong enough for it. But I shall see you here again on Monday, for I have two or three questions to ask you as to some of the matters that have transpired during my absence. Good-night, Lennard; keep up a good heart; you will outlive your trials yet.”
And when I left him he was fairly sobbing.
CHAPTER VI.
DANGER.
Mrs. Brightman was certainly improving. When I reached her house with Annabel on the following day, Sunday, between one and two o’clock, she was bright and cheerful, and came towards the entrance-gates to meet us. She, moreover, displayed interest in all we told her of our honeymoon in the Isle of Wight, and of the places we had visited. Besides that, I noticed that she took water with her dinner.
“If she’ll only keep to it,” said Hatch, joining me in her unceremonious fashion as I strolled in the garden later, smoking a cigar. “Yes, Mr. Charles, she’s trying hard to put bad habits away from her, and I hope she’ll be able to do it.”
“I hope and trust she will!”
“Miss Brightman went back to Hastings the day after the wedding-day,” continued Hatch; “but before she started she had a long interview with my mistress, they two shut up in missis’s bedroom alone. For pretty nigh all the rest of the day, my missis was in tears, and she has not touched nothing strong since.”
“Nothing at all!” I cried in surprise, for it seemed too good to be true. “Why, that’s a fortnight ago! More than a fortnight.”
“Well, it is so, Mr. Charles. Not but that missis has tried as long and as hard before now — and failed again.”
It was Monday evening before I could find time to go round to Lake’s — and he did not come to me. He was at home, poring over some difficult law case by lamp-light.
“Been in court all day, Charley,” he cried. “Have not had a minute to spare for you.”
“About Tom?” I said, as I sat down. “You seemed to say that you had more unpleasantness to tell me.”
“Aye, about Tom,” he replied, turning his chair to face me, and propping his right elbow upon his table. “Well, I fear Tom is in a bad way.”
“In health, you mean?”
“I do. His cough is frightful, and he is more like a skeleton than a living being. I should say the illness has laid hold of his lungs.”
“Has he had a doctor?”
“No. Asks how he is to have one. Says a doctor might (they were his own words) smell a rat. Doctors are not called in to the class of people lodging in that house unless they are dying: and it would soon be seen by any educated man that Tom is not of their kind. My opinion is, that a doctor could not do him much good now,” added Lake.
He looked at me as he spoke; to see, I suppose, whether I took in his full meaning. I did — unhappily.
“And what do you think he is talking of now, Charles?” returned Lake. “Of giving himself up.”
“Giving himself up! What, to justice?”
Lake nodded. “You know what Tom Heriot is — not much like other people.”
“But why should he think of that? It would end everything.”
“I was on the point of asking him why,” said Lake. “Whether I should have had a satisfactory answer, I cannot say; I should think he could not give one; but we were interrupted. Miss Betsy Lee came in.”
“Who? What?” I cried, starting from my chair.
“The young lady you told me of who lives in Lambeth — Miss Betsy Lee. Sit down, Charley. She came over to bring him a pot of jelly.”
“Then he has let those people know where he is, Lake! Is he mad?”
“Mad as to carelessness,” assented Lake. “I tell you Tom Heriot’s not like other people.”
“He will leave himself no chance.”
“She seems to be a nice, modest little woman,” said Lake; “and I’ll go bail her visit was quite honest and proper. She had made this jelly, she told Tom, and she and her father hoped it would serve to strengthen him, and her father sent his respects, and hopes to hear that Captain Strange was feeling better.”
“Well, Lake, the matter will get beyond me,” I said in despair. “Only a word dropped, innocently, by these people in some dangerous quarter, and where will Tom be?”
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“That’s just it,” said Lake. “Policeman Wren is acquainted with them.”
“Did you leave the girl there?”
“No. Some rough man came into the room smoking, and sat down, evidently with the intention of making an evening of it; he lives in the same house and has made acquaintance with Tom, or Tom with him. So I said good-night, and the girl did the same, and we went down together. ‘Don’t you think Captain Strange looks very ill, sir?’ said she as we got into the street. ‘I’m afraid he does,’ I answered. ‘I’m sure he does, sir,’ she said. ‘It’s a woeful pity that somebody should be coming upon him for a big back debt just now, obliging him to keep quiet in a low quarter!’ So that is what Tom has told his Lambeth friends,” concluded Lake.
Lake gave me the address in Southwark, and I determined to see Tom the next evening. In that, however, I was disappointed. One of our oldest clients, passing through London from the country on his way to Pau, summoned me to him on the Tuesday evening.
But I went on Wednesday. The stars were shining overhead as I traversed the silent street, making out Tom’s lodgings. He had only an attic bedroom, I found, and I went up to it. He was partly lying across the bed when I entered.
I almost thought even then that I saw death written in his face. White, wan, shadowy it looked; much changed, much worn from what it was three weeks before. But it lighted up with a smile, as he got up to greet me.
“Halloa, Charley!” cried he. “Best congratulations! Made yourself into a respectable man. All good luck to yourself and madam. I’m thinking of coming to Essex Street to pay the wedding visit.”
“Thank you,” said I, “but do be serious. My coming here is a hazard, as you know, Tom; don’t let us waste in nonsense the few minutes I may stay.”
“Nonsense!” cried Tom. “Why, do you think I should be afraid to venture to Essex Street? — what nonsense is there in that? Look here, Charley!”
From some box in a dark corner of the room, he got out an old big blue cloak lined with red, and swung it on. The collar, made of some black curly wool, stood up above his ears. He walked about the small room, exhibiting himself.