Adventures of Susan Hopley/Volume 1/Chapter 14
CHAPTER XIV.
THE RENCONTRE AND THE DISCOVERY.
Great was Mr. Wetherall's relief when the hour arrived that released him from his confinement, and from the importunate eyes of his fellow labourers. As he stepped off the threshhold he turned his eyes back upon the building which he doubted he should ever enter again as a free man, and then with a slow and melancholy pace he sauntered onwards. He felt that he could not go home to encounter the anxious though unsuspecting inquiries of his wife, nor the scrutinizing questions of Mr. Lyon; so instead of bending his steps towards Wood Street, he turned them in the direction of the river.
The streets were nearly empty now, and he could deliberate without interruption on the unhappy situation to which his folly and crime had reduced him. He was a man untried in affliction; for till that one fatal error had planted a thorn in his pillow, his days had passed in cheerful contentment and his nights in unbroken sleep. From that moment he had been restless, abstracted, and occasionally irritable; humours so unusual with him, that his wife had imagined him ill; he had denied it; but the moment was now come when concealment and denial could no longer avail—probably the next post—at all events a few hours must tell her all, and expose him to the vengeance of the law, and the scorn of mankind. It was true, there might be yet time to fly if he mounted one of the earliest coaches, he might possibly reach the coast, and be across the channel before pursuit could be commenced. But in the first place he had no money; in the second he felt remorse at the idea of taking care of himself and leaving his poor wife to bear the horror of the surprise, and the ignominy of the exposure alone—and thirdly, he hadn't energy for the enterprise. He was utterly cast down and depressed—what would be the use of escaping? He could never be happy. Even if he could find the means of supporting life, it would not be worth supporting—and, but for the disgrace and horror of a public execution, he would have preferred death.
As he sauntered forwards in this mood, he kept almost insensibly bending his steps towards the river—"there," thought he, as his eye glanced on the broad expanse, "there is a quiet bed where a man might sleep;"—but then rose again the thought of his poor wife—it was so cowardly to desert her—to leave her to weather the storm alone. But on the other hand, would she not rather—would she not rather know him dead, and at rest, than see him dragged a prisoner from his home? Than behold him a culprit at the bar, a criminal at the scaffold! "If we could only escape together—but the thing's impossible without money —and wouldn't this be the next best alternative for her interest, as well as for myself? She'd be deeply grieved—but time alleviates all grief when it's unaccompanied by remorse —and how much better it were, than to drag her from her home, her country, her friends, to pass her life in an exile of poverty and wretchedness, with a husband disgraced and broken hearted—a criminal escaped from justice!" Thus he reasoned, and every glance of the river became more inviting, and every review of life, of such a life as must henceforth await him, less so.
"She, too, and the world, will see that I preferred encountering death to shame. My name will not stand in the calendar of crime, a disgrace to all connected with me. At first, they'll think I have fled—and there'll be a reward offered—and the police will seek me—and the coast will be on the alert—but, ere long, the body will be found and my fate ascertained—there'll be a little noise about it—a few remarks in the newspapers and then the whole will be forgotten;" and so saying he quickened his pace and walked briskly forwards towards Blackfriars Bridge. "That will be the best place," thought he—"a leap from the parapet and all is done—and since my mind's made up, there shall be no pause—" he stepped upon the bridge—"since I am to die, hesitation would be weakness—and how much better is it thus to die a death of my own choosing, than to have my shame and my agonies made a scoff and a spectacle to assembled thousands!—Farewell Eliza," he whispered, as he prepared to mount the parapet—"farewell, dear wife! Forgive me, and be happy!"
At that moment a cry reached his ears—absorbed in his own reflections, he had looked neither to the right nor to the left—but at the sound of a human voice, he lifted up his eyes and beheld on the opposite side of the bridge the figure of a woman exactly in the very act he had himself contemplated a moment before—she too had been for an instant arrested by the cry, and in that interval he rushed across the road and caught her by the dress.
He had scarcely lifted her to the ground, when a gentleman, out of breath with haste, came running towards him from the further extremity of the bridge—"Thank God!" cried he, as soon as he perceived the group—"when I lost sight of her, I didn't know which side she'd gone down—I was afraid she was in the water—child and all!"
"I was but just in time," said Mr. Wetherall—"another moment and she'd have been gone."
"And I should never have forgiven myself," said Mr. Simpson, that I hadn't stayed to relieve her the first time I passed."
During these brief words they were both supporting the unfortunate woman, who either from weakness or agitation, appeared unable to support herself. "Give me the child," said Mr. Simpson, taking it from her arms.
"I'm so hungry!" said the little girl in a feeble voice.
"Oh give her food!" cried the mother—"or let me die at once—for I cannot live and hear that cry!"
"She shall have food, and plenty!" said Mr. Simpson—"God! that such things should be! Have you a home?" he asked—"Where can we take you?"
"I've no home," replied she—"I've no roof to shelter myself, nor my child, nor a bit of bread to give her!"
"Where can we take her?" said Mr. Simpson, abruptly. "She should go home with me, but I have no woman in the house—it's so late that no respectable place will be open—besides, unless they know us, they will object to let her in. I don't like to take her to the watchhouse."
"She shall go home with me, Sir," said Mr. Wetherall, carried away by his own good-nature, and the benevolence of the stranger. "I can give her shelter for to-night, at least."
"God will reward you for it," returned Mr Simpson—"after to-night she shall be no burden to you—I'll take her off your hands tomorrow. But I don't think she can walk—we must look for a coach."
This they had no great difficulty in finding and handing her into it, Mr. Simpson still keeping the child in his arms, they proceeded to Wood Street; whilst Mr. Wetherall was so bewildered, and the current of his ideas so changed, that he almost forgot his own misfortunes and the dread he had entertained of meeting his family. Besides, the presenting himself accompanied by the two strangers under circumstances that would necessarily turn attention from himself, was very different to going home alone to be the subject of scrutiny and wonder.
The moment the coach stopped at the door, Mrs. Wetherall, Mr. Lyon, and Susan, rushed into the passage—the first expecting to see him brought home ill—the two last expecting something much worse.
"My dear Wetherall, how you have frightened us!" cried his wife. "Mr. Lyon was just going off to the office in search of you."
"Never mind me!" answered Mr. Wetherall, "but see what you can do for this poor woman."
"Whose life your husband has been fortunate enough to save, with that of her child," said Mr. Simpson, carrying the little girl into the parlour, where the mother was laid on a sofa by the fire, whilst the worthy clerk began rubbing the child's hands and feet, which were numbed by cold and starvation; and when in a few minutes, by the active kindness of Mrs. Wetherall and Susan, food was placed on the table, he fed her like a young bird, bit by bit, lest the too hasty indulgence of her eager appetite should injure her.
In the mean time the circumstances under which the party had met were narrated—and Mrs. Wetherall was loud in her wonder as to what could have taken her husband to Blackfriars Bridge at that time of night—"he that always comes home the moment he is released from the post-office! I dare say he never did such a thing in his life before. Did you Wetherall?"
"I believe not," replied he. "But there were a great many letters to sort to-night; and I came away with such a headache, that I thought a walk would do me good."
"Do you belong to the post-office, Sir?" inquired Mr. Simpson.
"I do," replied Mr. Wetherall, casting down his eyes, for he said to himself, "you'll learn that soon from other channels."
"Well," said Mr. Simpson, that is very singular! I have been all this day wishing I knew somebody connected with the postoffice, whom I might consult confidentially about an awkward circumstance that has occurred—but it's a matter I shall not trouble you with to-night. To-morrow, if you will allow me; I shall take the liberty of calling, to make some arrangement for this poor woman and her child; and then we can talk it over at our leisure."
"But Wetherall is out all day," said the wife.
"I feel so unwell that I think I shall not be able to go to the office to-morrow," said Mr. Wetherall—for he felt in the first place that he could never go voluntarily to the office again; and in the second place, he couldn't help feeling some curiosity to hear Mr. Simpson's communication.
Soon after this the worthy clerk took his leave; and the poor woman and her child were conducted to a comfortable bed that Susan had prepared for them.
"You don't remember me, Ma'am?" said Susan to the stranger, after Mrs. Wetherall had left the room.
"No," replied the other.
"I have good reason never to forget you, Ma'am," returned Susan; "for you gave me food and shelter when I needed it as much as you did to-night."
"Oh, no!" replied Julia, "for you had no child! ah, I remember you now," said she; "and I remember your words, too, when you refused the five shillings. I had never known the agony then of seeing Julia want bread."
"I went to Oxford Street, Ma'am, to inquire for you the first moment I could, but you had left the lodging, and I couldn't learn where you were gone," answered Susan. "But I won't talk more to you to-night. Please to stay in bed till I come to you in the morning, and bring you some breakfast.—Please God, your worst days are over; for I think that gentleman, by his looks, means to be a friend to you."
During the progress of all this bustle and interest, Mr. Wetherall had scarcely leisure to remember that he was a criminal with the sword of the law suspended over him; and that probably after the post came in on the following morning, he should be torn from his home, and dragged away to a prison; but as soon as he lay down in his bed, and the world was quiet around him, whilst his wife slept the calm sleep of innocence, he, with burning hands and throbbing brow, was tossing from side to side in all the agonies of terror and remorse. How few people, if they had sufficient acquaintance with the nature of the human mind to calculate the sufferings consequent on crime, would ever commit it! and how necessary it must be to educate them into his acquaintance, and to dissipate the ignorance that veils the future from their view!
Now, that the excitement was over, he looked back with regret at the interruption his design had met with—a moment more and all would have been over, and he at rest. The struggle was past, his mind was made up—in short, the worst part of the desperate enterprise was overcome; but it was not easy to work his resolution up to the same point—his sufferings returned on him with two-fold force, but he had lost the energy necessary to fly from them. In vain, he painted to himself the horrors of being seized—-the arrival of the police officers—the tears of his wife—the wonder of his neighbours—the ill-natured triumph of the discontented butcher, baker, and publican, he was carried past their doors—the imprisonment—the trial—the execution. In vain, he asked himself why it was too late to escape it all still by the very means he had intended—the river still awaited him; his wife slept soundly, and would never miss him from her side—but the rain was pattering against the windows, and the wind blew—and it is altogether a different thing to rise deliberately from a warm bed to jump into the water from the parapet of a bridge, to performing the same feat on the spur of a sudden resolution and in the fever of excitement.
In this way like one of Dante's wretched souls on the burning lake, he tossed and turned till morning dawned, then came brief and uneasy slumbers, filled with confused and dreadful visions dimly figuring forth the fate that awaited him, till he opened his eyes and found that it was broad day, that his wife had already risen, and that he was now irretrievably tied to the stake, the hour for escape being past. "Ere this," thought he, "the morning mails are in and they'll soon be here." And at every knock and ring, and at every foot on the stairs, his heart sunk within him. His wife brought him some breakfast, and told him she had requested Mr. Lyon to call at the office when he went to rehearsal, and say he was ill; and willingly Mr. Lyon undertook the commission; for he thought no place so safe for Mr. Wetherall as his bed, where he could not betray himself, until he had an opportunity of speaking to him in private on the subject of the ten pounds; a thing he had neither had the means of accomplishing, nor the resolution to attempt.
But time crept on—the hour for the arrival of the mails passed—and an interval sufficient to admit of the éclaircissement at the office, and the police being sent in pursuit of him, elapsed also. The letter then could not have reached the postmaster, and there was another day left at his disposal; and perhaps another night; and then he might yet execute his first intention, and leave his shame and his sorrows behind him.
Under these circumstances, towards the middle of the day he ventured to rise and come down stairs, and he had not been long in the parlour, when his wife, who was standing at the window, announced the approach of Mr. Simpson.
With a cordial and friendly salutation the good man entered, and was pleased to learn that his protegées of the night before were still in bed, which Mrs. Wetherall thought the best place for them, at present, "for," said she, "although I have made no inquiries about her history yet, I am sure the poor things have been for many days exposed to cold and want; and that a good warm clean bed must be the greatest luxury they can enjoy."
"I love and honour you for your goodness, Madam," said Mr. Simpson. "How few of your sex there are, especially of the young and handsome members of it, (and here by a bow he appropriated the compliment to Mrs. Wetherall,) would have admitted this poor creature under their roof and given her a night's lodging, until they had ascertained the cause of her destitution, and whether her child was born in lawful wedlock. But you opened your doors and administered food and shelter to the wretched, without demanding that poverty should be perfect, or human frailty, exposed to temptations that the prosperous never know, exempt from error. Yours, Madam, is real charity, and I feel honoured in having made your acquaintance. With respect to this poor creature, as you think she is not yet fit to be moved, and are willing to give her another night's shelter, I'll not disturb her to-day; and perhaps by to-morrow you may have learned something of her history, and in what manner I can best serve her. That she is not altogether blameless, is extremely probable; but young, and pretty, as amidst all her wretchedness she is, I am inclined to think she need not have been reduced to the extremity in which we found her, if there had not been some virtue left in her; and her devotion to her child, to my mind, speaks volumes in her favour."
After this matter had been sufficiently discussed, Mr. Simpson turning to Mr. Wetherall, reminded him that he wanted to speak a few words with him in private; upon which hint the lady having retired, he drew his chair closer to his host, and having given three taps on the lid of his gold snuff box, and refreshed his nose with an ample supply from its contents, he drew a letter from his pocket, and opened the business as follows.
"The affair that I want to consult you about is one of a very delicate nature; and I must premise, before I begin, that the communication I am about to make, must be upon honour, strictly private between us. It is not that I have so bad an opinion of human nature—and still less of yours, of whose character as well as that of your amiable wife, I have formed the most favourable opinion—as to suspect mankind of wishing to injure and expose each other gratuitously; but there are contending interests and enmities, and Heaven knows what, in the world, that one must guard against; especially where the reputation, and probably the life of a fellow creature are at stake. The fact is," continued he, unfolding the letter he held in his hand, "there has been something wrong about a letter—a money letter, sent from the country by a worthy friend of mine—at least, he was the esteemed servant of a very dear friend who is unfortunately dead—and he has written to me to request I will go to the post-office, and inquire into the business. The letter came from a place called Mapleton, and contained ten pounds; and it was addressed to a woman in Parliament Street. My friend Jeremy says, that he has no suspicion of the people at the country post-office, and that he put the letter in himself. He therefore feels assured that the delinquent is to be looked for in London; either at the office, or amongst the men that deliver the letters. Now, Sir, no man respects the laws more than I do; and I am aware of the great importance in a commercial country of viewing breach of confidence as a capital crime. Still, I confess, I am one of those who think we are apt to make too free with human life—very young men are sometimes placed in situations of great temptation—a single error, and perhaps the hope of a family—the only son of a widowed mother—a kind brother, or a beloved husband, perishes on the scaffold. I know the laws cannot afford to make these distinctions, nor descend to the detail of private suffering; but, as an individual, before I have recourse to the law, I think it my duty to weigh all these considerations.—I don't know, Sir, how far your views on the subject may accord with mine—" here Mr. Simpson, who had been hitherto bending forward, with his eyes directed to the letter in his hand, raised them to Mr. Wetherall's face. What he saw there, it would be vain to attempt to describe. Whatever it was, it occasioned him, for a moment to draw himself up erect—se redresser, as the French would say—and then to stoop forward again and bend his eyes on the letter more perseveringly than before—"What I mean to say, Sir, is," continued he, "that I—I—should be sorry—I wouldn't for the world be the occasion of—of any thing—" and he stammered, and got red in the face, and finally broke down in his oration altogether; whilst the unfortunate culprit before him laid his head upon the table and wept like a child.
Mr. Simpson arose and walked to the window—took out his handkerchief and blew his nose—and cleared his throat—and wiped away the tears that were gathering in his eyes. At that moment there came a loud double knock at the street door—Mr. Wetherall started from his seat, rushed to the door of the room and turned the key, and then trembling like a leaf in the autumn blast, he sank pale and breathless on a chair.
"It is only some women—visitors to your wife," said Mr. Simpson, interpreting his fear aright. It proved so, and Mrs. Wetherall being denied, they went away; but this little shock had broken the ice. Mr. Simpson turned round, and advancing to Mr. Wetherall, held out his hand, saying—"Come, Sir, let us talk over this matter coolly;" and leading him back to his former seat, took one beside him—"Perhaps," said he, "you have some interest in the person who has been guilty of this breach of trust?"
But Mr. Wetherall was not a person to have recourse to a subterfuge on such an occasion. He understood the man he had to deal with; and he now opened his bosom, and poured out the whole truth, as he might have done to an earthly father, or to his Father in heaven; and never was confidence better placed. "It was my first and my last crime," said he. "An urgent necessity, a pressing occasion for a few pounds, made me do it—but I have never known a moment's peace since. So confused, indeed, was I at the time, that it appears I didn't even destroy the letter; and it was found and recognised by our servant, who, strangely enough, happens to be acquainted with the woman in Parliament Street to whom it was addressed. I am afraid, therefore, I am not yet even safe, in spite of your kindness and indulgence; for they will naturally speak of the circumstance, and endeavour to recover the money; and, God knows, I have not ten pounds in the world to replace it. In short, to confess the truth, such has been my imprudence, that I am in hourly dread of being arrested; in which case, whether the letter business is discovered or not, I shall probably lose my situation."
"How much do you owe ?" inquired Mr. Simpson.
"I'm afraid, almost two hundred pounds," replied the other.
"Well, Sir," said Mr. Simpson, "you shall not lose your situation for two hundred pounds. For your wife's sake, as well as your own, I'll lend you the money. You can pay me by quarterly instalments; and the habits of economy that this will require, will be beneficial in their effects, and bring you round to a more prudent way of living. With respect to this woman, your servant, if you'll give me leave, I'll speak a few words to her in private, and find out how she's to be dealt with."
With a heart glowing with gratitude, and lightened of a load of care, Mr. Wetherall thanked his benefactor, and retired to send up Susan to the conference.
Poor Susan entered the room with a very nervous feeling. She judged from Mr. Wetherall's disturbed countenance and agitated manner, that she was going to be interrogated about the letter, and with what intention she could not tell. Mr. Simpson, for any thing she knew, might belong to the post-office, and her testimony might be of the most fatal importance to her master; and poor as she was she would not have been instrumental in bringing him into trouble, for a hundred times the sum she had lost.
"Come this way," said Mr. Simpson, beckoning her to advance, when she had closed the door. "You have a friend called Dobbs, I believe, who lives in Parliament Street?"
"Yes, I have, Sir," replied Susan.
"I understand there has been some mistake about a letter addressed to her?"
"Has there, Sir?" said she.
"So I understood," returned Mr. Simpson. "I thought you were aware of it?"
"No, Sir," answered Susan.
"Come a little nearer," said he. "Are you not aware that a letter, containing a ten pound note, which was sent to this Mrs. Dobbs, is missing?"
"No, Sir," persisted Susan, turning at the same time very pale.
"Excellent girl!" said Mr. Simpson to himself. "Then I am to understand," continued he; "that you know nothing at all of the affair in question?"
"Nothing in the world, Sir," answered growing still paler than before.
"But your friend does, I suppose? This Mrs. Dobbs, I dare say, knows all about it?" said Mr. Simpson.
"I don't think she knows more about it than I do," replied Susan.
"Do you mean to say that you don't think she could give me any information on the subject?"
"I'm sure she couldn't, Sir," answered Susan.
" Then it would be useless for me to question her about it?"
"Quite useless, Sir," returned she.
"Well," said Mr. Simpson, nodding his head and smiling, "of course if any body has lost any money it will be repaid. How long have you lived here?"
"About nine months, Sir," said she.
"You appear to me a sensible, good-hearted girl," said he; "my name is John Simpson, and I'm a wine merchant, in Mark Lane."
"Are you, Sir?" said Susan, thrown off her guard, for she recognised immediately who she was speaking to.
"Yes," returned he. "Why are you surprised at that?"
"I thought I'd heard the name before, that's all, Sir," replied she; for she apprehended that the acknowledgment of who she was would not recommend her to the favour of her new acquaintance. "Then you don't belong to the post-office, Sir?"
"No," returned Mr. Simpson. "What, you thought I did?"
"I didn't know but you might, Sir," answered she, casting down her eyes and blushing.
"No," replied he—"I'm a friend of your master's. But what I was about to say is, that my name is John Simpson, and that if I can ever be of any service to you, you may apply to me. I've taken a liking to you."
"Thank you, Sir," answered Susan, curtseying as she left the room; "Ah!" thought she, "I should soon lose his favor if he but heard my name."
"I can never be grateful enough for your goodness, Sir," said Mr. Wetherall, when he learned the result of this interview; "and I think, considering my obligations, it would be wrong of me to conceal from you, that the same motive that took the poor woman, above stairs, to the bridge, took me there also."
"Merciful Heavens!" exclaimed Mr. Simpson—"then my opportune midnight walk has been the means of saving three lives!"
Little did he or Mr. Wetherall imagine that Mr. Simpson's effort to save the life of another, had been the means, under Heaven, of saving his own.