I inquired, as I dare say, other young ladies would.
“He looked like a Jew, my dear. He had a horrid brown coat with a velvet cape, curling black hair over his collar, and great whiskers, very high shoulders, and he was puffing a cigar straight up into the air. I was shocked to see Silas in such company.”
“And did his keys discover anything?” I asked.
“On opening his travelling desk and a small japanned box within it a vast deal less money was found than was expected — in fact, very little. Your uncle said that he had won some of it the night before at play, and that Clarke complained to him when tipsy of having had severe losses to counterbalance his gains on the races. Besides, he had been paid but a small part of those gains. About his book it appeared that there were little notes of bets on the backs of letters, and it was said that he sometimes made no other memorandum of his wagers — but this was disputed — and among those notes there was not one referring to Silas. But, then, there was an omission of all allusion to his transactions with two other well-known gentlemen. So that was not singular.”
“No, certainly; that was quite accounted for,” said I.
“And then came the question,” continued she, “what motive could Mr. Clarke possibly have had for making away with himself.”
“But is not that very difficult to make out in many cases?” I interposed.
“It was said that he had some mysterious troubles in London, at which he used to hint. Some people said that he really was in a scrape, but others that there was no such thing, and that when he talked he was only jesting. There was no suspicion during the inquest that your uncle Silas was involved, except those questions of Mr. Manwaring’s.”
“What were they?” I asked.
“I really forget; but they greatly offended your uncle, and there was a little scene in the room. Mr. Manwaring seemed to think that some one had somehow got into the room. Through the door it could not be, nor down the chimney, for they found an iron bar across the flue, near the top in the masonry. The window looked into a court-yard no bigger than a ball-room. They went down and examined it, but, though the ground beneath was moist, they could not discover the slightest trace of a footprint. So far as they could make out, Mr. Clarke had hermetically sealed himself into his room, and then cut his throat with his own razor.”
“Yes,” said I, “for it was all secured — that is, the window and the door — upon the inside, and no sign of any attempt to get in.”
“Just so; and when the walls were searched, and, as your uncle Silas directed, the wainscoting removed, some moths afterwards, when the scandal grew loudest, then it was evident that there was no concealed access to the room.”
“So the answer to all those calumnies was simply that the crime was impossible,” said I. “How dreadful that such a slander should have required an answer at all!”
“It was an unpleasant affair even then, although I cannot say that anyone supposed Silas guilty; but you know the whole thing was disreputable, that Mr. Clarke was a discreditable inmate, the occurrence was horrible, and there was a glare of publicity which brought into relief the scandals of Bartram–Haugh. But in a little time it became, all on a sudden, a great deal worse.”
My cousin paused to recollect exactly.
“There were very disagreeable whispers among the sporting people in London. This person, Clarke, had written two letters. Yes — two. They were published about two months after, by the villain to whom they were written; he wanted to extort money. They were first talked of a great deal among that set in town; but the moment they were published they produced a sensation in the country, and a storm of newspaper commentary. The first of these was of no great consequence, but the second was very startling, embarrassing, and even alarming.”
“What was it, Cousin Monica?” I whispered.
“I can only tell you in a general way, it is so very long since I read it; but both were written in the same kind of slang, and parts as hard to understand as a prize fight. I hope you never read those things.”
I satisfied this sudden educational alarm, and Lady Knollys proceeded.
“I am afraid you hardly hear me, the wind makes such an uproar. Well, listen. The letter said distinctly, that he, Mr. Clarke, had made a very profitable visit to Bartram–Haugh, and mentioned in exact figures for how much he held your uncle Silas’s I.O.U.‘s, for he could not pay him. I can’t say what the sum was. I only remember that it was quite frightful. It took away my breath when I read it.”
“Uncle Silas had lost it?” I asked.
“Yes, and owed it; and had given him those papers called I.O.U.‘s promising to pay, which, of course, Mr. Clarke had locked up with his money; and the insinuation was that Silas had made away with him, to get rid of this debt, and that he had also taken a great deal of his money.
“I just recollect these points which were exactly what made the impression,” continued Lady Knollys, after a short pause; “the letter was written in the evening of the last day of the wretched man’s life, so that there had not been much time for your uncle Silas to win back his money; and he stoutly alleged that he did not owe Mr. Clarke a guinea. It mentioned an enormous sum as being actually owed by Silas; and it cautioned the man, an agent, to whom he wrote, not to mention the circumstance, as Silas could only pay by getting the money from his wealthy brother, who would have the management; and he distinctly said that he had kept the matter very close at Silas’s request. That, you know, was a very awkward letter, and all the worse that it was written in brutally high spirits, and not at all like a man meditating an exit from the world. You can’t imagine what a sensation the publication of these letters produced. In a moment the storm was up, and certainly Silas did meet it bravely — yes, with great courage and ability. What a pity he did not early enter upon some career of ambition! Well, well, it is idle regretting. He suggested that the letters were forgeries. He alleged that Clarke was in the habit of boasting, and telling enormous falsehoods about his gambling transactions, especially in his letters. He reminded the world how often men affect high animal spirits at the very moment of meditating suicide. He alluded, in a manly and graceful way, to his family and their character. He took a high and menacing tone with his adversaries, and he insisted that what they dared to insinuate against him was physically impossible.”
I asked in what form this vindication appeared.
“It was a letter, printed as a pamphlet; everybody admired its ability, ingenuity, and force, and it was written with immense rapidity.”
“Was it at all in the style of his letters?” I innocently asked.
My cousin laughed.
“Oh, dear, no! Every since he avowed himself a religious character, he had written nothing but the most vapid and nerveless twaddle. Your poor dear father used to send his letters to me to read, and I sometimes really thought that Silas was losing his faculties; but I believe he was only trying to write in character.”
“I suppose the general feeling was in his favour?” I said.
“I don’t think it was, anywhere; but in his own county it was certainly unanimously against him. There is no use in asking why; but so it was, and I think I would have been easier for him with his unaided strength to uproot the Peak than to change the convictions of the Derbyshire gentlemen. They were all against him. Of course there were predisposing causes. Your uncle published a very bitter attack upon them, describing
