CHAPTER III.

THE DAY AFTER THE WEDDING.

It was all true--dreadfully, awfully true--and no hideous dream. Gilbert Thorneley was dead--poisoned, murdered; and Hugh Atherton was in the hands of justice, suspected, if not actually accused, of the murder. When I came back, sick and giddy, to consciousness, there was old Hardy bending over me with a face blanched almost as white as my own must have been, and Jones the detective standing by, the deepest concern written on his countenance. Do you know what it is, that "coming to," as women express it, after a sudden mental blow has prostrated you and hurled you into the dark oblivion of insensibility? I daresay you do. You know what the return to life is; what the realization of the stunning evil which has befallen you. But God help you if you remember that your last words when conscious criminated the friend you would willingly die to save. God help you if you know you must be forced into admitting what you had rather cut out your tongue than utter, and which in your inadvertence or brainless stupidity you let pass your lips. I say again, heaven help you, for it is one of the bitterest moments of your life.

As the physical indisposition wore off, and the whole situation of affairs became clearer to my scattered senses, the remembrance of what I had done was maddening.

"Oh, blind fool," I cried, "not to see, not to know what I was doing! Jones and Hardy, I call you both to witness most solemnly that I believe as firmly, as entirely in Mr. Atherton's innocence as I do in an eternal life to come. I charge you both, that, whatever testimony you may be forced to give, whatever miserable words have been wrung from me--I charge you both, by all you hold most sacred, to give evidence likewise that I believe him innocent."

"We will, sir," said the two men gravely.

Then a desperate idea seized me, and I motioned Hardy to leave the room.

"Jones," I said, when the clerk was gone, "you are a poor man, I know, and have many children to provide for. Get me off attending the inquest, and I will write you a cheque on the spot for any sum in reason you like to name."

"Bless your heart, sir, it an't in my power. Inspector Jackson has been in Wimpole street investigating it all; and I know your name's booked as one of the principal witnesses. You'll have your summons this evening for to-morrow, as safe as I'm here."

"Where is Mr. Atherton?" I asked.

"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 God! 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 God, 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 damning 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 assistance?"

"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 passed 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 passing 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 assenting, 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 passed 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 passive in mine.

"Ada, for God'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 glass 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 hoarse 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 passed; 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.

It was just upon one o'clock when I arrived at my chambers, and at two Atherton was to be taken before the magistrate. There was no fresh news; so I decided upon going at once to Merrivale's office, and seeing him if possible before he went to the police-court. I met him on the stairs returning to his office.

"I have just been with poor Atherton," he said; and he looked very grave. "Come in here; I was going to send for you. By the bye, have you been to the Leslies? he is most anxious about that. I don't think he'll be calm enough to think for himself until he knows all is right in that quarter."

"I have a note from Miss Leslie for him,"

"All right. Give it to me; I'll enclose it, and send it at once."

Merrivale despatched the messenger, and then locked his room door. "The case is dead against him," he said as he sat down, "and he knows it now, poor fellow,--he knows it."

"He is innocent," I said; "I could swear he is innocent!"

"Yes, so I think, and so do others; but the evidence against him is frightfully strong. That woman, Mrs. Haag, will make a most criminating statement of what occurred last night."

"I don't know the particulars,--tell me what they are?"

"_You_ ought to be able to throw considerable light upon it," said Merrivale, unheeding my question. "You were with poor old Thorneley last night, it seems. Just tell me all that passed. In fact, I ought to know _every thing_. I hear too that you are to be summoned as witness against Atherton. How is that?"

I then related to him how I had gone to Wimpole street at Mr. Thorneley's request about a matter of business; the hour I had left him; my meeting with Hugh; his wish to come home with me, and my refusal; the meeting also with the woman, and the conclusions which I had drawn from it.

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"What was the nature of the business with Mr. Thorneley?"

I replied that my word of honor was passed to keep it secret.

"Had it any bearing upon the unhappy catastrophe, either directly or indirectly?"

"No; none that I could see."

"Would it affect Atherton or his prospects?"

I could not answer further, I replied; but in no way could it touch him either for good or evil in the present unfortunate affair. Merrivale was fairly at a nonplus.

"Now," said Mr. Merrivale, "I will tell you what passed after you went away, as I learnt it from Atherton; and whatever further light you can throw upon the mystery, which is my business now to sift to the bottom, well, I think, Kavanagh, you are bound, by all the ties of your long friendship with that poor fellow now under arrest, to speak out openly to me."

I felt Merrivale's sharp searching eyes upon me; but the time to speak had not come, and I could in no way serve Hugh by breaking silence--at least I did not see that I could. After a short pause, Merrivale continued:

"Atherton tells me that when he reached his uncle's house, he found his cousin, Lister Wilmot, had just arrived; and they both went to Thorneley's room together, Wilmot said to him on the way, 'I must get some money to-night out of the governor, if possible, for I'm dreadfully hard-up. I've had to dodge three duns to-day; and there'll be a writ out against me to-morrow as sure as I'm alive, if he doesn't fork out handsomely.' Atherton asked him what he called handsomely, with a view, I imagine, to helping him himself if he could; but Wilmot mentioned a sum so large that there could be no further thought of his doing so. They found the old man unusually preoccupied and taciturn. Nevertheless, in spite of unfavorable circumstances, Wilmot broached the subject of his difficulties to him, and abruptly asked for 500_l_. Thorneley was furious; and it seems, curiously enough, that he turned his fury upon Atherton; accused him of leading Wilmot astray, of teaching him to be extravagant; of making a tool of him for purposes of his own; in short, making the most unheard-of accusations against poor Atherton, and throwing the entire blame on him. Atherton says he felt convinced that some one must have been carrying false stories to his uncle, or in some way poisoning his mind against himself; but knowing how broken in health he was, he tried at first to soothe him, and quietly contradict his assertions, and Wilmot _indorsed all he said_, distinctly stating that his cousin was entirely free from all blame in the matter, and that it was his own extravagance which had brought him into difficulties; and much more to the same effect. And now comes the terrible part. Thorneley only waxed wrother and more wroth; swore at Atherton, and told him he might pay his cousin's debts for him; and if he couldn't out of his own money, he might get his future wife's guardian to advance him some of hers; and that if Wilmot had looked half-sharp he might have married the girl himself. As it was, he dared say she would marry Kavanagh in the end. You may suppose this vexed Atherton not a little; his blood was up, and he spoke out hot and angrily to his uncle, telling him amongst other things that he would _bitterly repent on the morrow what he had said last night_. He tells me he distinctly remembers the words he used. In the heat of the dispute--he thinks it must have been just at the moment he said this--the housekeeper came in with the tray. It seems that Thorneley always took bitter-ale the last thing at night, with hard biscuits. Almost directly after he had spoken Atherton repented having got angry with the old man, remembering what his temperament was; and as a sort of propitiatory action, went and fetched him his glass of ale from the table. Gilbert Thorneley took it from Atherton's hand, and--drank it. _There was poison in that glass of ale!_"

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I sat confronting Merrivale, dazed, sickened, dumbfounded. _Now_ I knew the full weight of the evidence I should be forced to give. Now I knew, when everything was revealed, the cry that would go up from Hugh's heart against me. But I never swerved from my allegiance to him; I never thought him guilty--no, not for the brief shadow of an instant.

After a while Merrivale continued, "Whoever put in that fatal drug, and whatever it was, the effects must have taken place subsequent to Atherton's leaving Wimpole Street. He says that Wilmot went away very shortly after his uncle drank the ale, receiving a very cold good-night from the latter; and that after in vain trying to reason with Mr. Thorneley, and bring him into good-humor again, he also left him,--the old man utterly refusing to shake hands or to part friends. The poor fellow seems to feel that bitterly; he is terribly cut up at remembering that the last intercourse with his uncle should have been unfriendly. No; I could venture my oath he is innocent; his sorrow at Thorneley's death _cannot_ by put on. However, the end of it all is, that Mr. Thorneley went to bed last night directly after Atherton went away; and this morning when the servant went into his room as usual at half-past six, to call him, and see whether he wanted anything before getting up--he kept to his old early hours as much as possible, I fancy--the man found him dead in his bed. The housekeeper was roused, and they sent off directly for a doctor. When he came, he declared his suspicion that he had died from the effects of poison, and demanded what he had taken last. He had touched nothing since the bitter-ale; the glass had not been washed, and traces of strychnine were found in the few drops left in the tumbler. Smith and Walker have called in Dr. Robinson since then; and he with this doctor who first saw the corpse are making a _post-mortem_ examination now. The contents of the stomach, to make sure of everything, are to be sent to Professor T---- for analysis. When the inspectors arrived from Scotland Yard, the housekeeper immediately volunteered her evidence of what I have related to you. Putting all these facts together," continued Merrivale, looking over his notes, "coupled with the evidence you will be forced to give of where you met him, I apprehend the whole case to be dead against poor Atherton. Yes, the entire thing will turn upon that visit to the chemist in Vere street; if we can dispose of that satisfactorily, I shan't despair. At present it is the most criminating to my mind, and will just damn him with the jury at the inquest."

"What account does he give himself of going to the chemist's?"

"Simple enough, to any one who knows him as you and I do, and who would believe a man who never yet lied,--who is, I think, incapable of a lie to save his own life. He says he went in to purchase some camphor; he has been taking it lately for headaches; the bottle was found in his coat-pocket; but there was also found a small empty paper labelled 'Strychnine,' _with the Vere-street chemist's name upon it_. Of that paper he most solemnly denies all knowledge, and I believe him; but how will the jury dispose of such circumstantial evidence?"

"No expense must be spared in defending him, Merrivale," I said; "draw on me to the last farthing for whatever is wanted."

"None shall be spared. I have written to Sir Richard Mayne, whom I know very well, asking for a certain detective officer whoso experience I can rely on from past dealings; and if the dastardly wretch lives who has done this deed, and thrown the brunt of it on Atherton, he or she shall be hunted down and brought to justice. I must be off now. The proceedings to-day will be but nominal. I will come round by your office on my way back. What we have to do at present is to gain time. For this we must {456} prepare all the contrary evidence in our power against to-morrow. By the way, see Wilmot as soon as you can, and bring him back with you."

I returned home; wrote a few words, as comforting and encouraging as I could, to Ada, and despatched a messenger with the note; then I went to the Albany and asked for Lister Wilmot. He was out; had been summoned to the police-court to be present at the inquiry. I left my card, with a pencilled injunction to come on to me the moment he returned; and then, impelled by a horrible fascination, I took my way toward Marylebone street, longing, yet dreading, to see and hear--my heart aching for a sight of the manly form and noble face of him to whom my soul had cleaved as to a brother.

There was a dense crowd outside the gates of the courtyard and round the private door through which the magistrates enter, when I arrived there. With my hat slouched over my brows, I made my way through with difficulty to the door of the court where the proceedings were going on,--the noise and din of the crowd buzzing about me, and scraps of talk which goes on in such places and among such people as collect there, reaching me in broken snatches.

"Who'd ha' thought he'd a done it? such a nice-looking chap as er is."

"Yer see, it's the money as he wanted. The old man was mortal rich; they say the Bank of England couldn't 'old 'is money. Yes, the gowld did it."

"Pisen! Ah, he'd be glad of pisen hisself now. What's that feller sayin'? Oh, that's the lawyer wot's defending him. He'll have tough work, he will."

"Remanded!--that's the way; why can't they commit him at once? Givin' folks all the trouble to come twice afore they knows what to do with un."

"'Ere he comes. Now, six-footer, who pisened the old man?"

And then came groans and hisses as the mob were made to open and divide themselves, whilst policemen cleared the way for the prisoner--yes, it had come to that--the prisoner!--to pass to the van waiting for him. I looked up as he advanced,--we were almost of the same height, he and I; taller perhaps by some inches than the majority around, who were mostly women,--and our eyes met. O God! shall I ever forget the look he gave me? Pale and calm and firm, he passed on--his noble brow erect, his clear eyes shining with the light of conscious innocence; with the whole expression of his countenance subdued--hallowed, I might say--with the sorrow and trouble which had befallen him. On he came, heedless of the hisses and jeers of the fallen degraded herd who pressed round; heedless of the jibes and groans uttered by the companions of those for whom, more then likely, his genial voice had been raised in defence, in pleading against the justice they deserved, but which he had never merited. On he came, unmindful of everything that was going on about him, as if his spirit were faraway, communing with that unseen Presence that was never absent from his mind. I lifted my hat and stood bareheaded as he passed into that dark dismal van that was polluted with the breath, contaminated by the touch, of men whose hands were dyed by the blackest crimes.

When it had driven off I turned away and hailed a passing cab. Just as I was stepping into it I was arrested by the sound of a voice near me.

"He's safe to be condemned, as shure as yer name's Mike."

It was an Irish voice. I bounded back. Disappearing rapidly, threading in and out of the now-dispersing crowd, were the high square shoulders, the gray locks and beard, the swaggering air of Mr. de Vos, the "treasure-trove," the hero of Swain's Lane. He was gone before I was fully aware of his identity.

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