"Yes--George is in charge of the case. He says that everything must be recovered, and that Mr. Dering will in the end suffer no more injury than the trouble of it."
"That may be so. Elsie--I hardly dare to tell you--there is a clue.
Checkley has got that clue, and has told Sir Samuel everything. He is following up the clue. I shudder to think of it. The man is as relentless as a bloodhound."
"Does that clue concern me?" Her cheek became pale because she guessed--she knew not what.
"Sir Samuel, against his will, is convinced that Checkley has found the clue. He has told me the whole. He has consented to my telling the dreadful story to my mother and to you--and now I am afraid. Yet I must."
Elsie made a gesture of impatience.
"Go back, Elsie, eight years, if you can. Remember the wretched business of our unworthy brother."
"I remember it. Not unworthy, Hilda. Our most unfortunate brother. Why, they have found the very notes he was charged with stealing. They were found in the safe on the very day when they made the other discovery.
Have they not told you?"
"Checkley told Sir Samuel. He also remembers seeing Athelstan place the packet in the safe."
"Oh! Does he dare to say that? Why, Hilda, the robbery was proved to lie between himself and Athelstan. If he saw that, why did he not say so? He keeps silence for eight long years, and then he speaks."
Hilda shook her head sadly. "I fear," she said, "that we cannot accept the innocence of our unfortunate brother. However, Athelstan was accused of forging Mr. Dering"s handwriting and signature. In this new forgery, the same handwriting is found again--exactly the same. The forger is the same."
"Clearly, therefore, it cannot be Athelstan. That settles it."
"Yes--unfortunately--it does settle it. Because, you see, Athelstan is in London. He is said to have been living in London all the time--in some wretched place called Camberwell, inhabited, I suppose, by runaways and low company of every kind. He has lately been seen in the neighbourhood of Gray"s Inn, apparently pa.s.sing under his own name.
Checkley has seen him. Another person has seen him."
"Have you come to tell me that Athelstan is charged with this new wickedness?"
"The forger must have had an accomplice in the office; a man able to get at the safe: able to intercept the post: acquainted with Mr.
Dering"s ways: such a man as--say--Checkley--or--the only other possible--George." Hilda paused.
"Oh! This is too absurd. You are now hinting that George--my George,"
she said proudly, "was the confederate of Athelstan--no--of a forger."
"They have been seen together. They have been seen together at the house from which the forger addresses his letters. Has George told you that he has known all along--for eight years--of Athelstan"s residence in London?"
Observe how that simple remark made in the _Salutation_ Parlour, that Athelstan must have been living in Camberwell, had by this time grown into a complete record of eight years" hiding, eight years" disgraceful company on the part of one, and eight years" complicity and guilty knowledge on the part of the other. Hilda had not the least doubt. It was quite enough for her that Checkley said so. Half the contents of our newspapers are conducted on the same confiding principle.
"If George has not told me," Elsie replied, "it must be for some good reason. Perhaps he was pledged to secrecy."
"My dear"--Hilda rose impressively with fateful face-"the hand that forged the letters is the hand that forged the cheque--your brother"s hand. The hand that took the certificates from the safe"--she laid her own upon Elsie"s hand--"the hand of the confederate, my poor sister, is--your lover"s hand."
"I knew," said the girl, "that you were coming to this. I have felt it from the beginning."
"Remember, the thing was done in the months of February, March, and April. First of all, Athelstan was then, as now, desperately poor: the life that he has led for the last eight years--the life of a--a--Camberwell profligate"--she spoke as if that respectable suburb was the modern Alsatia-"has certainly destroyed whatever was left of honour and of principle. There comes a time, I have read, in the career of every wicked man when he hesitates no longer whatever means are offered him of making money. Athelstan it was--so they believe--who devised this scheme, which has been as successful as it is disgraceful.
My dear Elsie, this is the most terrible disgrace that has ever befallen my family: the most dreadful and the most unexpected calamity for you."
Elsie caught her sister by the wrist. "In the name of G.o.d, Hilda, are you telling me what is proved and true, or what is only suspected?"
"I am telling you what is as good as proved. More than suspected."
"As good as proved. Oh!" Elsie drew a long breath. "As good as proved.
That is enough. Like Athelstan"s guilt eight years ago," she flared out suddenly, springing up again and walking about the room. "Oh! it is wonderful!" she cried--"wonderful! What a family we are! We had a brother, and we believed that he was an honourable gentleman, as the son of his father must be. Then there was a charge, a foolish charge, based upon nothing but may--have--been and must--have--been---- We believed the charge----"
"Because we had no choice but to believe, Elsie," her sister interrupted. "Do you think we wanted to believe the charge?"
"We should have believed him innocent until the thing was proved. We did not. We cast him out from among us; and now, after eight years--he has come back poor, you say, and sunk so low that he is ashamed to see his people, and we are going to believe another charge based on may have been and must have been. No, Hilda. I will not believe it--I will not.--And then there is George. If I cease to believe in his honour and his truth, I cease to believe in everything. I cannot believe in Heaven itself unless I believe in my lover. Why, his heart is light about this business: he is not concerned: he laughs at that old man"s ravings.
Ravings? If Athelstan is right, then his is the hand that has done it all--his--Hilda--Checkley is the man concerned with both crimes."
Hilda shook her head. "No, Elsie, no. The old man is above suspicion."
"Why should he be above suspicion more than George? And you ask me on the first breath of accusation to treat George as you treated Athelstan.
Well--Hilda, I will not."
"I make every allowance for you, Elsie. It is a most dreadful business--a heart-breaking business. You may misrepresent me as much as you please-- I will continue to make allowances for you. Meantime, what will you do?"
"Do? What should I do? Nothing, nothing, nothing. I shall go on as if this thing had never happened."
"Sir Samuel ordered me to warn you most seriously. If you consent to see him again----"
"Consent? Consent? Why should I refuse? In a fortnight he will be my husband and my master, whom I must obey. He calls me his mistress now, but I am his servant. Consent to see him?" She sat down and burst into tears.
"If you see him again," her sister continued, "warn him to leave the country. The thing is so certain that in a day or two the proofs will be complete, and it will then be too late. Make him leave the country. Be firm, Elsie. Better still, refuse to see him at all and leave him to his fate. What a fate! What madness!"
"We allowed Athelstan to leave the country. He ought to have stayed. If I advise George at all I shall advise him to stick to his post and see the business through. If he were to leave the country, I would go with him."
"You are infatuated, Elsie. I can only hope that he may fly the country of his own accord. Meantime, there is one other point----"
"What is it? Pray, don"t spare me, Hilda. After what has gone before, it must be a very little point."
"You are bitter, Elsie, and I don"t deserve your bitterness. But that is nothing. At such a moment everything must be pardoned and permitted. The point is about your wedding. It is fixed for the 12th of next month, less than three weeks from to-day. You must be prepared to put it off."
"Indeed! Because you say that a thing impossible is as good as proved!
Certainly not, Hilda."
"I have come here to-day, Elsie, by Sir Samuel"s express wish, in order to soften the blow and to warn you. Whether you will tell--that unhappy young man or not, is for you to decide. Perhaps, if you do, he may imitate our unworthy brother and run away. If he does not, the blow will fall to-morrow--to-day--the day after to-morrow--I know not when. He will be arrested: he will be taken before a magistrate: he will be remanded: he will be out on bail. Oh, Elsie, think of marrying a man out on bail! One might as well marry a man in convict dress. Oh! Horrible!"
"I would rather marry George in convict dress than any other man in fine raiment. Because, once more, the thing is impossible."
"You carry your faith in your lover beyond bounds, Elsie. Of course a girl is right to believe in a man"s honour. It makes her much more comfortable, and gives her a sense of security. Besides, we always like to believe that we are loved by the best of men. That makes us feel like the best of women.--But in this case, when I tell you that Sir Samuel--a man who has always lived among money--so to speak--and knows how money is constantly a.s.sailed--is firmly convinced of George"s complicity, I do think that you might allow something for human frailty. In the case of Athelstan, what did Mr. Dering say? Everything is possible. So I say of George Austin, everything is possible."
"Not everything. Not that."
"Yes, even that.--What do you know of his private life? Why has he concealed the fact of Athelstan"s residence in London? Why has he never told us of his friendship with that unfortunate outcast?"
"I don"t know. He has his reasons."
"It is a most dreadful thing for you," Hilda went on. "And after getting to believe in the man and--well--becoming attached to him--though such attachments mean little and are soon forgotten--and after going the length of fixing the day and ordering the dress and the wedding-cake, and putting up the banns---- Oh! it is a wretched business--a horrible misfortune. The only thing to be said is that in such a case, the fact being known to everybody, no one can blame a girl; and perhaps, in the long run, she will suffer no injury from it. Our circle, for instance, is so different from that of this young man"s friends, that the thing would not even be known among us."