Adventures of Susan Hopley/Volume 1/Chapter 12
CHAPTER XII.
THE ALARM.
It's a very odd thing," said Mrs. Wetherall, when she was pouring out the tea, a day or two after the visit of Dobbs, mentioned in the last Chapter, "Susan's been telling me something about a letter that was left here for her, and that must have got amongst our papers, and been torn up. You didn't take it in, did you, Mr. Lyon?"
"No," replied Mr. Lyon, "I have never taken in any letter."
"And it isn't likely you should, Wetherall," continued the lady, "unless it was left on a Sunday. You didn't, did you?"
"What?" inquired Mr. Wetherall, looking. up from the newspaper on which he was intent.
"You haven't at any time taken in a letter for Susan, have you?"
"Not I," replied Mr. Wetherall, helping himself to another slice of bread and butter, and resuming his perusal of the paper.
"Well," said Mrs. Wetherall, "it's a very remarkable thing! How it can have got here, I can't conceive. I'm sure I never saw it."
"Did it come by the post," said Mr. Lyon.
"She don't know how it came," replied Mrs. Wetherall; "nor, indeed, is it clear that the letter was addressed to her at all. It appears to have been written to a friend of her's called Dobbs—"
"Dobbs?" said Mr. Wetherall, looking up suddenly from his paper.
"Yes, Dobbs," answered his wife—"that's the person that recommended Susan to me; she's housekeeper to a family in Parliament Street, and—"
"In Parliament Street?" reiterated Mr. Wetherall.
"Yes," replied his wife, "and there the letter was directed. But it seems Dobbs never got it nor did she know a letter had been sent, till the man who wrote it sent a second to inquire for the answer."
"It was forwarded by a private hand and never delivered, probably," said Mr. Lyon.
"Well, but the most extraordinary part of the business is," continued Mrs. Wetherall, "that Susan found the letter torn up, and partly consumed, lying under the grate. Look, my dear Wetherall, you're dipping the paper into the slop basin."
"She must have been very much gratified with the warmth of the epistle," said Mr. Lyon, facetiously. "But it's really singular."
"It certainly is," answered Mrs. Wetherall. "How it should have come here being directed to Parliament Street, and who could have taken it in, I can't make out. My dear Wetherall, do come and finish your tea; you've no time to lose. What are you looking out of the window at?"
"He's looking for the lost letter," said Mr. Lyon.
"You don't know how late it is," said Mrs. Wetherall. But Mr. Wetherall, with his body stretched half out of the window, paid no attention to the summons.
"What the devil are you looking at?" said Mr. Lyon, giving his host a smart slap on the shoulder, and thrusting his own head out to ascertain what was to be seen.
"D—n it, I wish you'd keep your hands to yourself!" ejaculated Mr. Wetherall, turning round, at last, and discovering a face as white as the handkerchief that was round his throat.
To Mr. Lyon, who had seen a good deal of the world and something of the indifferent part of it, this sudden ebullition of temper in a man usually so forbearing and patient of jests, combined with the altered hue of the complexion, was a trait de lumière.
"My dear Wetherall, you're not well," said his wife rising, and concluding that he had been hanging out of the window to breathe the air.
"I'm very well," replied the husband; "give me another cup of tea, as strong as you can."
"I'm sure you are not," said she, taking the cup and saucer from his hand, which were rattling against each other as he held them out. "Can't you eat your bread and butter?" said she.
"No," said he. "I'm thirsty, give me some more tea. I suppose it's time I was off," added he, as he tossed off the fourth cup.
"It is," replied Mr. Lyon, who had for the last few minutes been standing with his eyes fixed on him in a state of painful surprise. "As we're going the same road, I'll walk part of the way with you."
"I really believe I am not quite well," said Mr. Wetherall, as he staggered across the room to look for his hat; "have you any brandy in the house, Eliza?"
His wife fetched him a glass of brandy, which having swallowed, he said he didn't doubt but it would set him right; but in attempting to place the glass on the table, he set it on one side and it fell to the ground. "I feel giddy," said he, "and I have a dimness before my eyes, but it will go off when I get into the air," and accompanied by Mr. Lyon, who seeing the condition he was in, offered him his arm, he left the house.
"It's a singular thing about that letter," said Mr. Lyon, when they had walked a little way; "isn't it?"
"Letter?" said Mr. Wetherall, interrogatively.
"The letter found under the grate," replied Mr. Lyon. "I wonder how it came there; or indeed how it ever got to the house at all."
"Oh, servants' letters are so ill directed that there are constant mistakes about them," said Mr. Wetherall.
"But it's being ill directed wouldn't account for its getting under your parlour grate," returned Mr. Lyon, "it certainly was not directed there."
"No, it wouldn't account for that, certainly," answered Mr. Wetherall.
"Nor for its coming to the house at all, you know, when it was legibly directed to Parliament Street."
"No, it wouldn't," said Mr. Wetherall.
"I hope there was no money in it," observed Mr. Lyon.
"I dare say not," replied Mr. Wetherall. "Nobody said there was, did they?"
"I believe not," answered Mr. Lyon, "but we shall hear more on the subject, no doubt. But I must step out now, for I'm late, so good by."
When Mr. Lyon left him, Mr. Wetherall was very near his office, but instead of going straight towards it he turned down towards Cheapside. He wanted a little time to compose his countenance and his demeanour before he presented himself to what he now apprehended would be the scrutinizing eyes of his fellow clerks; for although it was but an hour and a half since he quitted them, who could tell what might have occurred in that brief space? No doubt, the person who wrote the letter, as well as the one to whom it was addressed, would lose no time in applying to the post-office for an explanation; and it would be easily ascertained that it had passed through his department. To present himself with an agitated countenance was meeting discovery half way; and he felt that if he could only get over this if he could but escape suspicion this time, no embarrassment, no temptation however powerful, should ever again induce him to risk his soul's tranquillity on such a fearful cast.
But it is not easy for a man with his hat over his brow, and his hands behind his back to compose his thoughts in Cheapside, where he stumbled over a truck one minute, and was pushed off the pavement the next, and Mr. Wetherall, after making the experiment, found that he was staying away from his office, which was itself an offence, and might look suspicious, without any chance of regaining the requisite composure, so he braced his nerves as well as he could, and walked in.
"Mr. Wetherall!" cried one; "Mr. Wetherall!" cried another—"You're wanted directly—Mr. Russel wants you—you're to go to his room—-he has sent out half a dozen times to inquire if you were come." More dead than alive Mr. Wetherall turned his steps to Mr. Russel's room. You're late, Sir," said that gentleman in a tone of displeasure. "I have been wanting you this half hour to speak about a very unpleasant affair that has occurred in your department—But you're ill, Sir," added he, observing that Mr. Wetherall had sought the support of the table to keep himself from falling.
"I am not very well," answered Mr. Wetherall, passing his hand over his brow.
"Then I had better put off what I have to say to another opportunity," said Mr. Russel.
"Oh no, Sir," replied Mr. Wetherall, somewhat relieved by this last speech, which seemed to imply that the thing was not so very important. "I feel better now. There's been no neglect in my department, I hope, Sir?"
"There has been something very wrong in your department," replied Mr. Russel, "but I have got to learn who is the delinquent—but I see you're getting ill again, Sir; you had better send for a coach and go home. Here, Bingham," continued he, opening a door, "just step here and look to Mr. Wetherall a moment. You had better go home, Sir; what I have to say will do as well at any other time as now."
So that all this agony of apprehension had been suffered about a communication that was of so little weight, that it would do as well at one time as another! Such a tyrant is conscience, and so does it play the bully with our fears!
However, relieved of his terrors for the moment, Mr. Wetherall declared himself better again, and forthwith addressed himself to the business of his office with what attention he could command.
On the same evening, not long after Mr. Lyon and Mr. Wetherall had left the house, Susan was surprised by another visit from Dobbs, who accosting her as before, with "Here's a kettle of fish!" announced that she had had a letter from Mr. Jeremy, by which she learned that the former despatch had contained a present of ten pounds for Susan, from Miss Wentworth, who was to be married in a few days; and who had heard from Jeremy of the misfortune the poor girl had sustained on her first arrival in London.
"Now," said Dobbs, "that's a loss not to be put up with; and I'm going to the post-office to have it inquired into. But I thought I'd step round here first, to ask you if you'd mentioned it to Mrs. Wetherall?"
"I did," answered Susan, "but she knows nothing about it; and just now, when I was taking away the tea-things, she told me she'd been asking the gentlemen about it; and they know no more than she does."
"Well then," said Dobbs, "there's nothing to do, but to go at once to the post-office. There's nothing like going to the fountain head—and the sooner it's done the more chance there is of the truth coming out."
"I should like to go with you," said Susan, "if Mrs. Wetherall can spare me. I think I'll go and ask her."
"Do," said Dobbs, "for as the money was yours, you've the best right to complain;" and Susan's leave being obtained, the two friends were soon on their way to the post-office; pausing only, for a moment, at the end of the street, to borrow an umbrella of Miss Geddes the milliner, as it was just beginning to rain.
In the mean time, Mr. Lyon, when he left Mr. Wetherall, had proceeded to the theatre, and taken his seat in the orchestra, in a state of mind little less agitated than his friend. He was a roué sort of young man, of dissipated habits enough, but neither bad-hearted nor ill-natured. He had never taken the trouble to consider whether the Wetheralls could or could not afford the expense they were at in entertaining the pleasant fellows he had introduced at their table, nor what might be the consequences if they were exceeding their means; but now that these consequences burst upon his view, and that reflection told him he was in a great degree the cause of the mischief, he was struck with terror, remorse, and pity. From the condition in which he had left Mr. Wetherall, he could not help fearing that the slightest accident would make him betray himself; and he regretted very much that he had not been bolder, and persuaded him, under the pretext of illness, to stay from the office, till he had himself tried what he could do by speaking to Susan on the subject, to prevent an exposure.
Under these circumstances it may be imagined that the instrument he held did not contribute very much to the harmony of the evening. He made all sorts of mistakes; played when he should have rested, and rested when he should have played; threw the leader into a passion, and drove an unfortunate debutant whom he was to accompany in "Water parted from the sea," almost insane, by forgetting every direction he had given him at rehearsal. At length finding he was of no use where he was, and eager to learn what was going on at the post-office, he pleaded indisposition, and obtained leave to retire.
"I'll make some pretence or another to go in and speak to Wetherall," thought he; and urged by anxiety, he walked at a rapid pace towards the office. When he reached it, however, he found he had not made up his mind under what plea he was to excuse his unexpected appearance; for as Mr. Wetherall believed him at the theatre, he would naturally be surprised, and perhaps alarmed, at so unusual a visit. Whilst he was considering this matter, and as he did so, pacing backwards and forwards before the door, two women passed him, one of whom held an umbrella. As he was wrapped in reflection, and looking on the ground, he did not observe them till the umbrella happened to come in contact with his hat, which it nearly knocked off. "I beg your pardon," said the woman—the voice struck him as familiar, and he turned to look after her. The two women were just stepping into the office, but the one that carried the umbrella turned round to shake off the wet before she put it down the light of a lamp at the door fell upon her face and he saw that it was Susan!
"Gracious Heavens!" cried he, darting forward and seizing her by the arm, "what are you doing here?"
"I'm only going to speak about a little business—about a letter, Sir," answered Susan, surprised by the vehemence of his address.
"Stop," said he, "I beg of you to stop a moment whilst I speak to you—who is this woman?"
"She's a friend of mine, Sir, Mrs. Dobbs," replied Susan. "The letter was sent to her, but there was some money in it for me, and we're going to mention that it has never come to hand."
"If you'll leave this business in my hands, Susan," " said Mr. Lyon, "I will undertake to say you shall not lose your money—you'll oblige me very particularly if you'll not stir further in it, at present—I can't explain my reasons to you now, but—"
"There's no occasion, Sir," replied Susan, who from the energy of his manner, and his evident agitation, began to suspect something like the truth—"we'll go back directly, and I'm very glad I met you; I'm sure I wouldn't be the occasion of any thing unpleasant for twice the money."
"You're a good girl, Susan," said he; "and you shall lose nothing by it, depend on it. Say nothing on the subject to any body till you and I have had some conversation; and if you can persuade your friend to be equally cautious—"
"I'll answer for her," replied Susan, and thinking better of Mr. Lyon than she had ever done before, Susan turned her face homewards; whilst he, relieved from present anxiety, resolved not to disturb Mr. Wetherall at the office, but to speak to him after supper.
"They say there's many a slip betwixt the cup and the lip," said Dobbs, as Susan and she commented on what had passed, "and so I suppose there is betwixt a man's neck and the halter."
But all was not so secure yet as they and Mr. Lyon imagined.