The Catholic World Volume Iii Part 74

"Inspector Jackson took him to Marylebone street, sir. He'll go before the magistrate at two o'clock. They won't get his committal, though, I expect until after the inquest; there is not sufficient evidence; but we're getting it as fast as we can."

"Yes," I said in the bitterness of my heart; "and if I had known your errand _here_, I'd have flung you down the stairs before you should have had access to my rooms."

"You can't be sorrier than I am, Mr. Kavanagh. I believe, like you, that he's an innocent man: but everything looks against him at present. The housekeeper's evidence is enough to hang him."

"The housekeeper! What, Mrs. Haag?"

"Yes, sir, that's her name, I believe. She's only half English, or married a foreigner, or something of the sort. But I think she must be foreign, for she has a mighty broad accent. Yes, indeed, sir; and if I may make bold to say it,--I don't know what your friendship for Mr.

Atherton may lead you to do,--but it's of no use your not saying where you saw him last night, for _she_ saw him go in and come out of _that shop_, and she heard him address you, sir, by name."

A light flashed across me. That was _the woman_ I had met in Vere Street. I didn't know the housekeeper by sight, but I had often heard both Atherton and Wilmot speak of her. Wilmot!--another light.

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"Did you know that Mr. Thorneley's other nephew was with him last night? He met Mr. Atherton in Wimpole Street."

"Yes, sir, and left nearly an hour before Mr. Atherton went away."

"Still, why is he not suspected as much as the other?"

"_He_ had not been traced in and out of a chemist's shop; _he_ had no dispute with his uncle; _he_ was not heard to make use of _threatening words_. I can't tell you more, sir; and I must be going. I have done what need be done here. Mr. Kavanagh, believe me I am acting only in my official capacity; and I'd rather, sir, have been at the bottom of the sea than engaged in this affair. But I mustn't forget the message, sir."

"What message?"

"From Mr. Atherton. He wanted to write or to send for you to come; but they wouldn't let him. You see, sir, we know you are an important witness against him, and Jackson--he's a sharp one--wouldn't have him communicating with you. Poor gentleman! he was stunned-like at first when he was told. Then when he saw me, 'Jones,' said he, 'you go to Mr. Kavanagh; tell him what has happened. Tell him I'm an innocent man, so help me G.o.d! I wouldn't have hurt a gray hair of the old man's head. But I was angry with him, I confess.' Then we warned him not to say anything which might criminate himself, so he only bent his head reverently, and said again, 'My G.o.d, Thou knowest I am innocent.' Then he turned to me suddenly and caught my arm. 'Tell Mr. Kavanagh to go at once to Mrs. Leslie's, and see that the news doesn't come upon them too suddenly. Tell him I _trust to him_.' Those were his words, sir, two or three times,--'Tell him I trust to him.'"

O Hugh! my poor Hugh; you might trust me then; you might have trusted me always. But you didn't. A world of d.a.m.ning doubt and evidence rose up between us, and it seemed to point at me as your worst enemy, and never more again would you place confidence in me; never more would the perfect trust of friendship draw us together, and make our interests one.

Ay, and that too had been one of the despairing thoughts which rushed across my mind as the truth of what had happened forced itself upon me. Ada! What if such news were carried suddenly, inconsiderately to her ears? What if such an awful, unlooked-for blow fell, crushing the bright hopes and darkening the radiant happiness of her young life? I tell all this in a bewildered way now; I was far more bewildered then.

I was mad. There was the remembrance of the last evening,--my interview with Thorneley, the strange secret still ringing in my ears, the chance meeting with Hugh, and what was to come of it; and the present tidings,--the old man dead, Hugh arrested and accused of murdering him; and I in my blindness had helped to corroborate the worst testimony against him. All this was rushing through my brain; and then, above all, the thought of Ada Leslie--and the last thought roused me to action.

"Go back, Jones, to Mr. Atherton; tell him I am going off immediately to Mrs. Leslie's, and that he may trust to me in _that_. And stay, has he got legal a.s.sistance?"

"No, sir; I fancy he thought you'd see to all that. He didn't seem to think how it might be with your having to give evidence."

"You'd better go to Smith and Walker's, and see one of the partners.

They must watch proceedings for him to-day."

"They can't, sir; they are to watch on the part of the Crown."

"On the part of the Crown!--whose management is that?"

"I believe they offered and wished it. They feel bound to discover the murderer of their late client; they couldn't act _for_ the man accused of murdering him."

"True--too true. I'll send Hardy to Mr. Merrivale; he is a great friend {452} of his--I can trust him. Tell Mr. Atherton what I say, and what has been done."

"Very good, sir;" and Jones withdrew.

It took me less than an hour to reach Hyde-Park Gardens, where Mrs.

Leslie and my ward dwelt; and on the road I resolved as well as I could how to break the news. Pray Heaven only to give her strength to bear it! I was shown into the dining-room, for I had asked to see Miss Leslie alone. There were the sounds of music up-stairs, and I heard Ada's clear thrilling voice singing one of the beautiful German songs I knew, and that _he_ loved so well. Presently her light step was on the threshold, and she burst gaily into the room.

"Oh, Hugh, how late you are!" and then she stopped suddenly, seeing it was I--only I. But she came forward in a moment with a kind eager welcome, a welcome back to England, laughing and blushing at her mistake. "I heard the street-door open, and ran down at once; for Hugh said he would come early to take me out this morning, and I thought it was he. Oh, but I am so glad to see you, dear Mr. Kavanagh. But how dreadfully ill you are looking--what is the matter?"

Perhaps she saw my own misery, and the unutterable pity and tenderness for her which filled my heart, written in my face; but a change pa.s.sed over her countenance.

"What is the matter?" she repeated in a breathless sort of manner.

"Hugh sends his love," I said; hardly knowing, indeed, what words were pa.s.sing my lips, or that I was really "breaking it" to her;--"his dear love; he is quite well, but something prevents him from coming to you to-day."

"To-day!" She repeated the same word after me, still in a breathless way; and her large eyes were fixed on me as in mute agonized appeal against what was coming.

"Something very important--very painful--has happened to detain him.

Mr. Thorneley died very suddenly last night."

I stopped, and turned away. Heaven help me! I could not go on, with those eyes upon me. There was one deep-drawn sigh of relief.

"Is that _all!_"

Was it not better to tell the truth to her at once? After all, he was innocent. I acknowledged that with all the loyalty of my soul--so would she; and that thought would bear her up. Yes, it would be best to tell her. I took her hand, and led her to a chair.

"Ada, it is not all; can you bear the rest?" Her white trembling lips moved as if a.s.senting, but I could not hear the words. "Thorneley died very suddenly--was found dead. It is thought he has been poisoned. I don't know the particulars--I have only just heard of it. Hugh was with him late last night; it is necessary he should be examined to-day by a magistrate."

Again I paused, praying that the truth might dawn upon her--that I might not have to stab her with the terrible revelation.

But--dreading, fearing, as I could see she was--no shadow of the reality seemed to cross her mind.

"Where is Hugh now?" at last she asked with startling suddenness.

"O Ada, my poor child! try to bear it. Hugh is as innocent as you are of this fearful crime; but he has been arrested."

The words were said--she knew all now. To my dying day I shall never forget the awful change which pa.s.sed over her face. She did not faint or scream, but she sat there motionless, rigid, white as a marble statue. I took her hand; it was icy cold, and lay pa.s.sive in mine.

"Ada, for G.o.d's sake speak to me! Shall I call your mother to you?"

Her stillness was frightful. There was some water on the sideboard, and I poured out some and brought it to her, almost forcing the gla.s.s between her set teeth. At last she swallowed {453} some, and then heavy sighs seemed to relieve both heart and brain.

"I must go to him," she said at last in a hoa.r.s.e whisper.

"You cannot, Ada,--at least not today; they would not suffer it.

Besides, my dearest child, he has need of all his firmness and presence of mind, and the sight of you would only unnerve him. Let him hear how bravely you are bearing it; let him think of you as believing that our Father who is in heaven will defend the innocent."

"I do, I do," she said, the hot tears slowly welling from her eyes, and falling in burning drops upon my hand--and upon my heart. They were blessed tears of relief. "But you too will do your utmost for him. You are his dearest friend, and he would have full confidence in whatever you did. Go to him at once!--why do you stay here?" she continued more vehemently; "why are _you_ not with him, helping and defending him?"

Could I tell her the truth now? Could I undeceive her and say I have done as much and perhaps more to condemn him than any one--that I should have to bear witness against him? Could I tell her this, with her eyes looking into mine in such unutterable anguish, with her little hand placed in mine so confidingly, and with the thought of him before me? I could not. I said all should be done for him that was in the power of mortal man to do, and I promised to send messengers constantly to keep her fully informed during the day of all that pa.s.sed; Before going I asked her if I should tell her mother; but she refused--she would rather do it herself.

"Tell him," were her last words, "that my heart is with him, and my love--oh I my dearest love!"

"Write it, Ada," I said, "it is better he should have that message direct from you."

So I left her, bearing her little note to him, poor fellow. How precious it would be, that tiny missive, coming from her loving hand and faithful heart.