Darkly and wearily the days of my recovery went on. After that first
outburst of sorrow on the evening when I recognised my sister, and
murmured her name as she sat by my side, there sank over all my
faculties a dull, heavy trance of mental pain.
I dare not describe what remembrances of the guilty woman who had
deceived and ruined me, now gnawed unceasingly and poisonously at my
heart. My bodily strength feebly revived; but my mental energies never
showed a sign of recovering with them. My father's considerate
forbearance, Clara's sorrowful reserve in touching on the subject of
my long illness, or of the wild words which had escaped me in my
delirium, mutely and gently warned me that the time was come when I
owed the tardy atonement of confession to the family that I had
disgraced; and still, I had no courage to speak, no resolution to
endure. The great misery of the past, shut out from me the present and
the future alike--every active power of my mind seemed to be destroyed
hopelessly and for ever.
There were moments--most often at the early morning hours, while the
heaviness of the night's sleep still hung over me in my
wakefulness--when I could hardly realise the calamity which had
overwhelmed me; when it seemed that I must have dreamt, during the
night, of scenes of crime and woe and heavy trial which had never
actually taken place. What was the secret of the terrible influence
which--let her even be the vilest of the vile--Mannion must have
possessed over Margaret Sherwin, to induce her to sacrifice me to him?
Even the crime itself was not more hideous and more incredible than
the mystery in which its evil motives, and the manner of its evil
ripening, were still impenetrably veiled.
Mannion! It was a strange result of the mental malady under which I
suffered, that, though the thought of Mannion was now inextricably
connected with every thought of Margaret, I never once asked myself,
or had an idea of asking myself, for days together, after my
convalescence, what had been the issue of our struggle, for him. In
the despair of first awakening to a perfect sense of the calamity
which had been hurled on me from the hand of my wife--in the misery of
first clearly connecting together, after the wanderings of delirium,
the Margaret to whom with my hand I had given all my heart, with the
Margaret who had trampled on the gift and ruined the giver--all minor
thoughts and minor feelings, all motives of revengeful curiosity or of
personal apprehension were suppressed. And yet, the time was soon to
arrive when that lost thought of inquiry into Mannion's fate, was to
become the one master-thought that possessed me--the thought that gave
back its vigilance to my intellect, and its manhood to my heart.
One evening I was sitting alone in my room. My father had taken Clara
out for a little air and exercise, and the servant had gone away at my
own desire. It was in this quiet and solitude, when the darkness was
fast approaching, when the view from my window was at its loneliest,
when my mind was growing listless and confused as the weary day wore
out--it was exactly at this time that the thought suddenly and
mysteriously flashed across me: Had Mannion been taken up from the
stones on which I had hurled him, a living man or a dead?
I instinctively started to my feet with something of the vigour of my
former health; repeating the question to myself; and feeling, as I
unconsciously murmured aloud the few words which expressed it, that my
life had purposes and duties, trials and achievements, which were yet
to be fulfilled. How could I instantly solve the momentous doubt which
had now, for the first time, crossed my mind?
One moment I paused in eager consideration--the next, I descended to
the library. A daily newspaper was kept there, filed for reference. I
might possibly decide the fatal question in a few moments by
consulting it. In my burning anxiety and impatience I could hardly
handle the leaves or see the letters, as I tried to turn back to the
right date--the day (oh anguish of remembrance!) on which I was to
have claimed Margaret Sherwin as my wife!
At last, I found the number I desired; but the closely-printed columns
swam before me as I looked at them. A glass of water stood on a table
near me--I dipped my handkerchief in it, and cooled my throbbing eyes.
The destiny of my future life might be decided by the discovery I was
now about to make!
I locked the door to guard against all intrusion, and then returned to
my task--returned to my momentous search--slowly tracing my way
through the paper, paragraph by paragraph, column by column.
On the last page, and close to the end, I read these lines:
"MYSTERIOUS OCCURRENCE.
"About one o'clock this morning, a gentleman was discovered lying on
his face in the middle of the road, in Westwood Square, by the
policeman on duty. The unfortunate man was to all appearance dead. He
had fallen on a part of the road which had been recently macadamised;
and his face, we are informed, is frightfully mutilated by contact
with the granite. The policeman conveyed him to the neighbouring
hospital, where it was discovered that he was still alive, and the
promptest attentions were immediately paid him. We understand that the
surgeon in attendance considers it absolutely impossible that he could
have been injured as he was, except by having been violently thrown
down on his face, either by a vehicle driven at a furious rate, or by
a savage attack from some person or persons unknown. In the latter
case, robbery could not have been the motive; for the unfortunate
man's watch, purse, and ring were all found about him. No cards of
address or letters of any kind were discovered in his pockets, and his
linen and handkerchief were only marked with the letter M. He was
dressed in evening costume--entirely in black. After what has been
already said about the injuries to his face, any recognisable personal
description of him is, for the present, unfortunately out of the
question. We wait with much anxiety to gain some further insight into
this mysterious affair, when the sufferer is restored to
consciousness. The last particulars which our reporter was able to
collect at the hospital were, that the surgeon expected to save his
patient's life, and the sight of one of his eyes. The sight of the
other is understood to be entirely destroyed."
With sensations of horror which I could not then, and cannot now
analyse, I turned to the next day's paper; but found in it no further
reference to the object of my search. In the number for the day after,
however, the subject was resumed in these words:
"The mystery of the accident in Westwood Square thickens. The sufferer
is restored to consciousness; he is perfectly competent to hear and
understand what is said to him, and is able to articulate, but not
very plainly, and only for a moment or so, at a time. The authorities
at the hospital anticipated, as we did, that, on the patient's
regaining his senses, some information of the manner in which the
terrible accident from which he is suffering was caused, would be
obtained from him. But, to the astonishment of every one, he
positively refuses to answer any questions as to the circumstances
under which his frightful injuries were inflicted. With the same
unaccountable secrecy, he declines to tell his name, his place of
abode, or the names of any friends to whom notice of his situation
might be communicated. It is quite in vain to press him for any reason
for this extraordinary course of conduct--he appears to be a man of
very unusual firmness of character; and his refusal to explain himself
in any way, is evidently no mere caprice of the moment. All this leads
to the conjecture that the injuries he has sustained were inflicted on
him from some motive of private vengeance; and that certain persons
are concerned in this disgraceful affair, whom he is unwilling to
expose to public odium, for some secret reason which it is impossible
to guess at. We understand that he bears the severe pain consequent
upon his situation, in such a manner as to astonish every person about
him--no agony draws from him a word or a sigh. He displayed no emotion
even when the surgeons informed him that the sight of one of his eyes
was hopelessly destroyed; and merely asked to be supplied with writing
materials as soon as he could see to use them, when he was told that
the sight of the other would be saved. He further added, we are
informed, that he was in a position to reward the hospital authorities
for any trouble he gave, by making a present to the funds of the
charity, as soon as he should be discharged as cured. His coolness in
the midst of sufferings which would deprive most other men of all
power of thinking or speaking, is as remarkable as his unflinching
secrecy--a secrecy which, for the present at least, we cannot hope to
penetrate."
I closed the newspaper. Even then, a vague forewarning of what
Mannion's inexplicable reserve boded towards me, crossed my mind.
There was yet more difficulty, danger, and horror to be faced, than I
had hitherto confronted. The slough of degradation and misery into
which I had fallen, had its worst perils yet in store for me.
As I became impressed by this conviction, the enervating remembrance
of the wickedness to which I had been sacrificed, grew weaker in its
influence over me; the bitter tears that I had shed in secret for so
many days past, dried sternly at their sources; and I felt the power
to endure and to resist coming back to me with my sense of the coming
strife. On leaving the library, I ascended again to my own room. In a
basket, on my table, lay several unopened letters, which had arrived
for me during my illness. There were two which I at once suspected, in
hastily turning over the collection, might be all-important in
enlightening me on the vile subject of Mannion's female accomplice.
The addresses of both these letters were in Mr. Sherwin's handwriting.
The first that I opened was dated nearly a month back, and ran thus:
"North Villa, Hollyoake Square.
"DEAR SIR,
"With agonised feelings which no one but a parent, and I will add, an
affectionate parent, can possibly form an idea of, I address you on
the subject of the act of atrocity committed by that perjured villain,
Mannion. You will find that I and my innocent daughter have been, like
you, victims of the most devilish deceit that ever was practised on
respectable and unsuspecting people.
"Let me ask you, Sir, to imagine the state of my feelings on the night
of that most unfortunate party, when I saw my beloved Margaret,
instead of coming home quietly as usual, rush into the room in a state
bordering on distraction, with a tale the most horrible that ever was
addressed to a father's ears. The double-faced villain (I really can't
mention his name again) had, I blush to acknowledge, attempted to take
advantage of her innocence and confidence--all our innocences and
confidences, I may say--but my dear Margaret showed a virtuous courage
beyond her years, the natural result of the pious principles and the
moral bringing up which I have given her from her cradle. Need I say
what was the upshot? Virtue triumphed, as virtue always does, and the
villain left her to herself. It was when she was approaching the
door-step to fly to the bosom of her home that, I am given to
understand, you, by a most remarkable accident, met her. As a man of
the world, you will easily conceive what must have been the feelings
of a young female, under such peculiar and shocking circumstances.
Besides this, your manner, as I am informed, was so terrifying and
extraordinary, and my poor Margaret felt so strongly that deceitful
appearances might be against her, that she lost all heart, and fled at
once, as I said before, to the bosom of her home.
"She is still in a very nervous and unhappy state; she fears that you
may be too ready to believe appearances; but I know better. Her
explanation will be enough for you, as it was for me. We may have our
little differences on minor topics, but we have both the same manly
confidence, I am sure--you in your wife, and me in my daughter.
"I called at your worthy father's mansion, to have a fuller
explanation with you than I can give here, the morning after this
to-all-parties-most-distressing occurrence happened: and was then
informed of your serious illness, for which pray accept my best
condolences. The next thing I thought of doing was to write to your
respected father, requesting a private interview. But on maturer
consideration, I thought it perhaps slightly injudicious to take such
a step, while you, as the principal party concerned, were ill in bed,
and not able to come forward and back me. I was anxious, you will
observe, to act for your interests, as well as the interests of my
darling girl--of course, knowing at the same time that I had the
marriage certificate in my possession, if needed as a proof, and
supposing I was driven to extremities and obliged to take my own
course in the matter. But, as I said before, I have a fatherly and
friendly confidence in your feeling as convinced of the spotless
innocence of my child as I do. So will write no more on this head.
"Having determined, as best under all circumstances, to wait till your
illness was over, I have kept my dear Margaret in strict retirement at
home (which, as she is your wife, you will acknowledge I had no
obligation to do), until you were well enough to come forward and do
her justice before her family and yours. I have not omitted to make
almost daily inquiries after you, up to the time of penning these
lines, and shall continue so to do until your convalescence, which I
sincerely hope may be speedily at hand; I am unfortunately obliged to
ask that our first interview, when you are able to see me and my
daughter, may not take place at North Villa, but at some other place,
any you like to fix on. The fact is, my wife, whose wretched health
has been a trouble and annoyance to us for years past, has now, I
grieve to say, under pressure of this sad misfortune, quite lost her
reason. I am sorry to say that she would be capable of interrupting us
here, in a most undesirable manner to all parties, and therefore
request that our first happy meeting may not take place at my house.
"Trusting that this letter will quite remove all unpleasant feelings
from your mind, and that I shall hear from you soon, on your
much-to-be-desired recovery,
"I remain, dear Sir,
"Your faithful, obedient servant,
"STEPHEN SHERWIN.
"P. S.--I have not been able to find out where that scoundrel Mannion,
has betaken himself to; but if you should know, or suspect, I wish to
tell you, as a proof that my indignation at his villany is as great as
yours, that I am ready and anxious to pursue him with the utmost
rigour of the law, if law can only reach him--paying out of my own
pocket all expenses of punishing him and breaking him for the rest of
his life, if I go through every court in the country to do it!--S. S."
Hurriedly as I read over this wretched and revolting letter, I
detected immediately how the new plot had been framed to keep me still
deceived; to heap wrong after wrong on me with the same impunity. She
was not aware that I had followed her into the house, and had heard
all from her voice and Mannion's--she believed that I was still
ignorant of everything, until we met at the door-step; and in this
conviction she had forged the miserable lie which her father's hand
had written down. Did he really believe it, or was he writing as her
accomplice? It was not worth while to inquire: the worst and darkest
discovery which it concerned me to make, had already proclaimed
itself--she was a liar and a hypocrite to the very last!
And it was this woman's lightest glance which had once been to me as
the star that my life looked to!---it was for this woman that I had
practised a deceit on my family which it now revolted me to think of;
had braved whatever my father's anger might inflict; had risked
cheerfully the loss of all that birth and fortune could bestow! Why
had I ever risen from my weary bed of sickness?--it would have been
better, far better, that I had died!
But, while life remained, life had its trials and its toils, from
which it was useless to shrink. There was still another letter to be
opened: there was yet more wickedness which I must know how to
confront.
The second of Mr. Sherwin's letters was much shorter than the first,
and had apparently been written not more than a day or two back. His
tone was changed; he truckled to me no longer--he began to threaten. I
was reminded that the servant's report pronounced me to have been
convalescent for several days past: and was asked why, under these
circumstances, I had never even written. I was warned that my silence
had been construed greatly to my disadvantage; and that if it
continued longer, the writer would assert his daughter's cause loudly
and publicly, not to my father only, but to all the world. The letter
ended by according to me three days more of grace, before the fullest
disclosure would be made.
For a moment, my indignation got the better of me. I rose, to go that
instant to North Villa and unmask the wretches who still thought to
make their market of me as easily as ever. But the mere momentary
delay caused by opening the door of my room, restored me to myself. I
felt that my first duty, my paramount obligation, was to confess all
to my father immediately; to know and accept my future position in my
own home, before I went out from it to denounce others. I returned to
the table, and gathered up the letters scattered on it. My heart beat
fast, my head felt confused; but I was resolute in my determination to
tell my father, at all hazards, the tale of degradation which I have
told in these pages.
I waited in the stillness and loneliness, until it grew nearly dark.
The servant brought in candles. Why could I not ask him whether my
father and Clara had come home yet? Was I faltering in my resolution
already?
Shortly after this, I heard a step on the stairs and a knock at my
door.--My father? No! Clara. I tried to speak to her unconcernedly,
when she came in.
"Why, you have been walking till it is quite dark, Clara!"
"We have only been in the garden of the Square--neither papa nor I
noticed how late it was. We were talking on a subject of the deepest
interest to us both."
She paused a moment, and looked down; then hurriedly came nearer to
me, and drew a chair to my side. There was a strange expression of
sadness and anxiety in her face, as she continued:
"Can't you imagine what the subject was? It was you, Basil. Papa is
coming here directly, to speak to you."
She stopped once more. Her cheeks reddened a little, and she
mechanically busied herself in arranging some books that lay on the
table. Suddenly, she abandoned this employment; the colour left her
face; it was quite pale when she addressed me again, speaking in very
altered tones; so altered, that I hardly recognised them as hers.
"You know, Basil, that for a long time past, you have kept some secret
from us; and you promised that I should know it first; but I--I have
changed my mind; I have no wish to know it, dear: I would rather we
never said anything about it." (She coloured, and hesitated a little
again, then proceeded quickly and earnestly:) "But I hope you will
tell it all to papa: he is coming here to ask you--oh, Basil! be
candid with him, and tell him everything; let us all be to one another
what we were before this time last year! You have nothing to fear, if
you only speak openly; for I have begged him to be gentle and
forgiving with you, and you know he refuses me nothing. I only came
here to prepare you; to beg you to be candid and patient. Hush! there
is a step on the stairs. Speak out, Basil, for my sake--pray, pray,
speak out, and then leave the rest to me."
She hurriedly left the room. The next minute, my father entered it.
Perhaps my guilty conscience deceived me, but I thought he looked at
me more sadly and severely than I had ever seen him look before. His
voice, too, was troubled when he spoke. This was a change, which meant
much in him.
"I have come to speak to you," he said, "on a subject about which I
had much rather you had spoken to me first."
"I think, Sir, I know to what subject you refer. I--"
"I must beg you will listen to me as patiently as you can," he
rejoined; "I have not much to say."
He paused, and sighed heavily. I thought he looked at me more kindly.
My heart grew very sad; and I yearned to throw my arms round his neck,
to give freedom to the repressed tears which half choked me, to weep
out on his bosom my confession that I was no more worthy to be called
his son. Oh, that I had obeyed the impulse which moved me to do this!
"Basil," pursued my father, gravely and sadly; "I hope and believe
that I have little to reproach myself with in my conduct towards you.
I think I am justified in saying, that very few fathers would have
acted towards a son as I have acted for the last year or more. I may
often have grieved over the secresy which has estranged you from us; I
may even have shown you by my manner that I resented it; but I have
never used my authority to force you into the explanation of your
conduct, which you have been so uniformly unwilling to volunteer. I
rested on that implicit faith in the honour and integrity of my son,
which I will not yet believe to have been ill-placed, but which, I
fear, has led me to neglect too long the duty of inquiry which I owed
to your own well-being, and to my position towards you. I am now here
to atone for this omission; circumstances have left me no choice. It
deeply concerns my interest as a father, and my honour as the head of
our family, to know what heavy misfortune it was (I can imagine it to
be nothing else) that stretched my son senseless in the open street,
and afflicted him afterwards with an illness which threatened his
reason and his life. You are now sufficiently recovered to reveal
this; and I only use my legitimate authority over my own children,
when I tell you that I must now know all. If you persist in remaining
silent, the relations between us must henceforth change for life."
"I am ready to make my confession, Sir. I only ask you to believe
beforehand, that if I have sinned grievously against you, I have been
already heavily punished for the sin. I am afraid it is impossible
that your worst forebodings can have prepared you--"
"The words you spoke in your delirium--words which I heard, but will
not judge you by--justified the worst forebodings."
"My illness has spared me the hardest part of a hard trial, Sir, if it
has prepared you for what I have to confess; if you suspect--"
"I do not _suspect_--I feel but too _sure,_ that you, my second son,
from whom I had expected far better things, have imitated in secret--I
am afraid, outstripped--the worst vices of your elder brother."
"My brother!--my brother's faults mine! Ralph!"
"Yes, Ralph. It is my last hope that you will now imitate Ralph's
candour. Take example from that best part of him, as you have already
taken example from the worst."
My heart grew faint and cold as he spoke. Ralph's example! Ralph's
vices!--vices of the reckless hour, or the idle day!--vices whose
stain, in the world's eye, was not a stain for life!--convenient,
reclaimable vices, that men were mercifully unwilling to associate
with grinning infamy and irreparable disgrace! How far--how fearfully
far, my father was from the remotest suspicion of what had really
happened! I tried to answer his last words, but the apprehension of
the life-long humiliation and grief which my confession might inflict
on him--absolutely incapable, as he appeared to be, of foreboding even
the least degrading part of it--kept me speechless. When he resumed,
after a momentary silence, his tones were stern, his looks
searching--pitilessly searching, and bent full upon my face.
"A person has been calling, named Sherwin," he said, "and inquiring
about you every day. What intimate connection between you authorises
this perfect stranger to me to come to the house as frequently as he
does, and to make his inquiries with a familiarity of tone and manner
which has struck every one of the servants who have, on different
occasions, opened the door to him? Who is this Mr. Sherwin?"
"It is not with him, Sir, that I can well begin. I must go back--"
"You must go back farther, I am afraid, than you will be able to
return. You must go back to the time when you had nothing to conceal
from me, and when you could speak to me with the frankness and
directness of a gentleman."
"Pray be patient with me, Sir; give me a few minutes to collect
myself. I have much need for a little self-possession before I tell
you all."
"All? your tones mean more than your words--_they_ are candid, at
least! Have I feared the worst, and yet not feared as I ought?
Basil!--do you hear me, Basil? You are trembling very strangely; you
are growing pale!"
"I shall be better directly, Sir. I am afraid I am not quite so strong
yet as I thought myself. Father! I am heart-broken and spirit-broken:
be patient and kind to me, or I cannot speak to you."
I thought I saw his eyes moisten. He shaded them a moment with his
hand, and sighed again--the same long, trembling sigh that I had heard
before. I tried to rise from my chair, and throw myself on my knees at
his feet. He mistook the action, and caught me by the arm, believing
that I was fainting.
"No more to-night, Basil," he said, hurriedly, but very gently; "no
more on this subject till to-morrow."
"I can speak now, Sir; it is better to speak at once."
"No: you are too much agitated; you are weaker than I thought.
To-morrow, in the morning, when you are stronger after a night's rest.
No! I will hear nothing more. Go to bed now; I will tell your sister
not to disturb you to-night. To-morrow, you shall speak to me; and
speak in your own way, without interruption. Good-night, Basil,
good-night."
Without waiting to shake hands with me, he hastened to the door, as if
anxious to hide from my observation the grief and apprehension which
had evidently overcome him. But, just at the moment when he was
leaving the room, he hesitated, turned round, looked sorrowfully at me
for an instant, and then, retracing his steps, gave me his hand,
pressed mine for a moment in silence, and left me.
After the morrow was over, would he ever give me that hand again?