The child's coffin lies in the mother's grave,in Flatfield churchyard.The child himself--as surely as I live and breathe,is living and breathing now--a castaway and a prisoner in that villainous house!"I sank back in my chair.
"It's guess-work,so far,but it is borne in on my mind,for all that,as truth.Rouse yourself,ma'am,and think a little.The last I hear of Barsham,he is attending Mr.Forley's disobedient daughter.The next I see of Barsham,he is in Mr.Forley's house,trusted with a secret.He and his mother leave Pendlebury suddenly and suspiciously five years back;and he and his mother have got a child of five years old,hidden away in the house.Wait!please to wait--I have not done yet.The will left by Mr.Forley's father,strengthens the suspicion.The friend I took with me to Doctors'
Commons,made himself master of the contents of that will;and when he had done so,I put these two questions to him.'Can Mr.Forley leave his money at his own discretion to anybody he pleases?''No,'my friend says,'his father has left him with only a life interest in it.''Suppose one of Mr.Forley's married daughters has a girl,and the other a boy,how would the money go?''It would all go,'my friend says,'to the boy,and it would be charged with the payment of a certain annual income to his female cousin.After her death,it would go back to the male descendant,and to his heirs.'
Consider that,ma'am!The child of the daughter whom Mr.Forley hates,whose husband has been snatched away from his vengeance by death,takes his whole property in defiance of him;and the child of the daughter whom he loves,is left a pensioner on her low-born boy-cousin for life!There was good--too good reason--why that child of Mrs.Kirkland's should be registered stillborn.And if,as Ibelieve,the register is founded on a false certificate,there is better,still better reason,why the existence of the child should be hidden,and all trace of his parentage blotted out,in the garret of that empty house."He stopped,and pointed for the second time to the dim,dust-covered garret-windows opposite.As he did so,I was startled--a very slight matter sufficed to frighten me now--by a knock at the door of the room in which we were sitting.
My maid came in,with a letter in her hand.I took it from her.
The mourning card,which was all the envelope enclosed,dropped from my hands.
George Forley was no more.He had departed this life three days since,on the evening of Friday.
"Did our last chance of discovering the truth,"I asked,"rest with HIM?Has it died with HIS death?""Courage,ma'am!I think not.Our chance rests on our power to make Barsham and his mother confess;and Mr.Forley's death,by leaving them helpless,seems to put that power into our hands.With your permission,I will not wait till dusk to-day,as I at first intended,but will make sure of those two people at once.With a policeman in plain clothes to watch the house,in case they try to leave it;with this card to vouch for the fact of Mr.Forley's death;and with a bold acknowledgment on my part of having got possession of their secret,and of being ready to use it against them in case of need,I think there is little doubt of bringing Barsham and his mother to terms.In case I find it impossible to get back here before dusk,please to sit near the window,ma'am,and watch the house,a little before they light the street-lamps.If you see the front-door open and close again,will you be good enough to put on your bonnet,and come across to me immediately?Mr.
Forley's death may,or may not,prevent his messenger from coming as arranged.But,if the person does come,it is of importance that you,as a relative of Mr.Forley's should be present to see him,and to have that proper influence over him which I cannot pretend to exercise."The only words I could say to Trottle as he opened the door and left me,were words charging him to take care that no harm happened to the poor forlorn little boy.
Left alone,I drew my chair to the window;and looked out with a beating heart at the guilty house.I waited and waited through what appeared to me to be an endless time,until I heard the wheels of a cab stop at the end of the street.I looked in that direction,and saw Trottle get out of the cab alone,walk up to the house,and knock at the door.He was let in by Barsham's mother.A minute or two later,a decently-dressed man sauntered past the house,looked up at it for a moment,and sauntered on to the corner of the street close by.Here he leant against the post,and lighted a cigar,and stopped there smoking in an idle way,but keeping his face always turned in the direction of the house-door.
I waited and waited still.I waited and waited,with my eyes riveted to the door of the house.At last I thought I saw it open in the dusk,and then felt sure I heard it shut again softly.
Though I tried hard to compose myself,I trembled so that I was obliged to call for Peggy to help me on with my bonnet and cloak,and was forced to take her arm to lean on,in crossing the street.
Trottle opened the door to us,before we could knock.Peggy went back,and I went in.He had a lighted candle in his hand.
"It has happened,ma'am,as I thought it would,"he whispered,leading me into the bare,comfortless,empty parlour."Barsham and his mother have consulted their own interests,and have come to terms.My guess-work is guess-work no longer.It is now what Ifelt it was--Truth!"
Something strange to me--something which women who are mothers must often know--trembled suddenly in my heart,and brought the warm tears of my youthful days thronging back into my eyes.I took my faithful old servant by the hand,and asked him to let me see Mrs.
Kirkland's child,for his mother's sake.
