The Catholic World Volume Iii Part 76

Gilbert Thorneley had been a rich man--a notedly rich man--a millionaire; and we may not touch the rich with impunity. He had not been a good man nor a useful man, nor philanthropic; none had loved him, not a few had hated him, many had disliked and dreaded him; but he was rich--he had wealth untold, and it did wonders for him in the eyes of the world after his death. Yet withal he was forgotten, comparatively speaking, whilst the interest of the public was riveted upon his supposed-to-be-criminal nephew. The scanty evidence elicited at the police-court was twisted and turned against him by ingenious compilers of leading-articles, and only one journal ventured to raise a dissenting voice in his favor. It was a paper that had vindicated many a man before; that had done for accused persons what perhaps their poverty would not permit them to do for themselves,--in ventilating facts and clearing up evidence with the care and eloquence of a paid counsel. It was a paper hated by many in authority, by big wigs and potentates, and was to many country magistrates a perfect nightmare; nevertheless its influence told largely upon the public mind and led to the rooting out of many an evil.

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The inquest on Gilbert Thorneley was appointed for two o'clock, and I was cited to appear as one of the witnesses. I had gone late the evening before to Hyde-Park Gardens with all the tidings that could be gathered, and left poor Ada more calm and composed than could almost have been hoped for. Still, what her fearful grief and anxiety was, heaven only knew; for her only thought seemed to be that Hugh should hear she was keeping up bravely for his sake. After the inquest, I promised to try and obtain that she should see him: But I went away, haunted by her poor pale face, her heavy sleepless eyes, her look of suppressed anguish; haunted by an overwhelming dread of the morrow; haunted by the vision of a future laden with sorrow and suffering for us all. And at last the morning dawned of the day which would bring forth such important results, and affect the fate of Hugh Atherton so very gravely. I went early to Merrivale's office, and found him full of business and very anxious. Lister Wilmot had never appeared; and repeated messengers sent to the Albany only brought back word that he had not been home since he went to the police-court the preceding day.

He had neither dined nor slept at home.

Smith and Walker were savage and taciturn, refusing all information, although their clerk let out that Wilmot had been there several times; and Merrivale's hopes were all centred in the detective he was employing, but who had not been seen since he had received his instructions.

The hours wore round, and at twelve o'clock I was to be at the Leslies'. As I left Mr. Merrivale's office in Lincoln's-Inn Square, a man bowed to me in pa.s.sing. It was Jones the detective. A sudden thought struck me, and I turned back after him.

"Jones," I said, "do you happen to know a Mr. de Vos, who lodged some two months ago at No. 13 Charles street, Leicester Square?"

"No, sir; not by that name. What is he like?"

I described him; but he shook his head.

"I don't recognize him, sir; but, if you'll allow me, I'll make a note of it. Have you any particular reason for wis.h.i.+ng to hear about him?"

"Yes; and I should be glad to know _anything_ you can gather concerning the man."

"I'll be on the look-out, sir." And Jones touched his hat and went off.

The old butler came to the door in Hyde-Park Gardens, and in answer to my inquiries informed me that Miss Leslie was "very middling indeed, and that Mr. Wilmot had just been there."

"Mr. Wilmot!"

"Yes, sir; he wished partiklar to see Miss Ada--which he did, sir, and her ma too: very nice gentleman he seems, and terrible cut up about his poor uncle and his cousin. A shocking thing, sir, for you to have to witness _against_ Mr. Atherton."

Against Mr. Atherton! Then it had reached here--this news, these tidings--that I was to help to condemn the man I loved best on earth!

What was known in the servants'-hall had no doubt been discussed in the drawing-room, and Ada must now fully be aware of what I had found no courage to tell her yesterday. How had she received the intelligence? what was she thinking of it--of me? Reflecting thus, I followed Kings into the library, and found Mrs. Leslie alone. Now that lady and I never got on as amicably as we might have done; joint guardians seldom do, especially when they are of opposite genders; and this I say with no sort of reflection upon the fairer s.e.x, simply mentioning it as a fact which, during a long legal course of experience, has come before me. _I_ considered Mrs. Leslie frivolous, weak, and extravagant, very unlike her child, very far from fit to be instrusted with the sole guidance of a mind such as Ada's. But I kept my own counsel {459} on the subject, and tried by action rather than words to counteract and s.h.i.+eld Ada from evils arising from her mother's foolish conduct. She thought _me_ very uncompromising, very particular and rigid in my notions, often perhaps very crusty and disagreeable, nor spared she any pains to conceal her thought. That I did not mind; for Ada trusted me implicitly in all things, and it was all I cared for. This morning there was a stiffness and less of cordiality than ever in Mrs. Leslie's manner of receiving me.

"How is Ada?" I asked.

"She pa.s.sed a very restless night, poor dear, very restless; and is fit for nothing this morning. Indeed, I am almost in the same state myself, I have been so terribly upset by this affair, and my nerves are very delicate. Most trying too! I have had to put off our _reunion musicale_ for next Thursday, and the Denison's dinner-party for to-morrow. I can't think how Hugh came to do it--for of course he _must_ have done it, though Ada won't hear a word against him."

"He did _not_ do it, Mrs. Leslie! Ada is right, as she always is."

"Ah! well, so Lister Wilmot tried to make me believe; but then he says everything is against poor Hugh, and that even you feel obliged to give evidence against him. I must say, John Kavanagh, that I think it very strange of you to have volunteered to give evidence. Wilmot was explaining it all to us, and said you couldn't help yourself; for the first words you had said to the policeman when he came to you criminated your friend."

A glimmer of light was beginning to dawn in my mind; but its ray was very faint and dim as yet; and after all it might only prove a will-o'-the-wisp. Still I would not lose it if possible.

"Wilmot told you that, did he? Does Ada know?"

"Yes; she was here when he came. He told us everything that had pa.s.sed all that had been said by his uncle the last evening he saw him alive.

He mentioned a great deal which had been kept back--purposely I suppose, and for some motive we don't understand now, but which will come out by and by, no doubt," said Mrs. Leslie with a burst of spite in her voice.

"Would you have the goodness to send word to Ada that I am here?" I said very stiffly.

"Oh! I forgot. She desired her kindest regards when you called, but she could not see you this morning. She will write."

I looked at her, and something convinced me she was telling a lie. I got up very quietly and rang the bell.

"Let Miss Leslie know I am here, Kings."

"Yes, sir."

Then Mrs. Leslie's anger broke forth. How dared I presume so far-- take such a liberty in her house! I forgot myself; I was no gentleman, but a meddling, interfering man, disappointed and soured because I had not secured Ada and her fortune for myself. _She had seen it all along_. So she raved on--so I let her rave; and when she ceased I answered her:

"If I have taken a liberty in giving an order under your roof and to your servant, I beg your pardon. But this is no time to stop at trifles or considerations of mere etiquette involving no real breach of good breeding. So long as your daughter is a minor I shall hold myself responsible for the trust her dead father confided to me conjointly with yourself; and, so help me G.o.d, I will perform the sacred duty to its utmost limits and regardless of human respect!

There is foul play going on around us, and some influence--I know not yet whose--is at work to undermine the happiness of us all. There is bitter need that no fatal misunderstanding should arise between my ward and myself; that no subtle representations of interested persons should shake the reliance upon my integrity and honor, which hitherto Ada has placed in her father's friend. A life more precious to her than her own, and {460} dear to me as a brother's, is at stake; and I foresee, though dimly and darkly, that it imports far more than perhaps we dream of now to keep everything clear between us in our several relations with each other. At any rate I will allow no foolish fancies, no weak pride, to stand between your daughter and myself, her legal guardian and _sole trustee_."

I spoke very sternly, and purposely laid a stress upon my last words, knowing the woman with whom I was dealing, and the full weight they would have with her. Nor was I mistaken. She burst into a feeble querulous fit of crying; and the servant returning at that moment with a message from Ada asking me to go up-stairs, I left Mrs. Leslie to her reflections.

My ward was in her little morning-room. She was writing at the table, and the room was partially darkened, as if she could not bear the full sunlight of that bright autumn day. There were birds and flowers and music around her; but the birds had hushed their song, the flowers drooped their heads, as if missing the careful hand that tended them; and the music that generally greeted one there was silent. Oh! when would she sing again? I felt something about my feet as I advanced towards her, and heard a piteous whine I looked down; it was a little rough s.h.a.ggy terrier,--Hugh's dog. Poor Dandie! He recognized me, and looked for one with whom he was so accustomed to see me.

"I sent for him," said Ada, lifting her weary wan face as I stood beside her. "I fancied he would be happier here--less lonely; but he is not--he wants _him_."

The dog seemed to understand her; for he came and, putting his forepaws upon her knee, laid his head upon them, and looking toward me whined again. She laid her cheek down upon his rough head and caressed him.

"Not yet, Dandie,--not yet. We must be patient, doggie, and he will come to us again."

It was a few moments before I could speak; but time was hastening on apace. Whilst I stood by the fire thinking how best to begin the subject I had at heart, Ada came and laid her hand on my arm.

"I have been wis.h.i.+ng for you; I thought you would never come."

Then her mother had told a lie; but I said nothing.

"Lister Wilmot has been here this morning, talking a good deal." She stopped and hesitated.

To help her, I said, "Yes; so your mother tells me."

She looked at me inquiringly. "Has she told all that pa.s.sed--all that he said?"

"She told me a great deal; but I would rather hear everything from _you_. My child, don't hesitate to confide in me. You don't know how it may help to clear matters up, which seem to be so fearfully complicated now."

I think she understood me, for she sighed wearily, and I heard her murmur to herself, "Poor mamma!"

"Lister was very kind this morning, and was in dreadful trouble about --_him_. He said he had thought of me more than any one, and would have come yesterday, but had so much to arrange and see to."

And then Ada went on to relate what pa.s.sed, a great deal of which I had gathered from Mrs. Leslie.

"There is one thing," she concluded, "which I did not and would not believe. He says you have volunteered to give evidence against _him_,"

(it seemed as if she could not bring herself to mention Hugh by name;) "but I said it could not be,--that there must have been a mistake.

What is the worst of all is, that since Lister was here, mamma persists in saying _he_ is guilty; somehow, though his words defended, his tone and manner implied he thought his cousin guilty."

"Ada, it is true I shall have to give evidence which may help to criminate Hugh; but it is more than equally false that I ever volunteered to bear {461} witness against him. You were right; _never believe it_."

Then I told her how it was, and how I had shrunk from letting her know it before.