He tried every other resource first; but at last he came to his wife, to borrow her £1900. The security he offered was a mortgage on twelve carcasses, or houses the bare walls and roofs of which were built.
Mrs. Little wrote at once to Mr. Raby for her money.
Instead of lending the trust-money hastily, Raby submitted the proposal to his solicitor, and that gentleman soon discovered the vaunted security was a second mortgage, with interest overdue on the first; and so he told Guy, who then merely remarked, “I expected as much. When had a tradesman any sense of honor in money matters? This one would cheat his very wife and child.”
He declined the proposal, in two words, “Rotten security!”
Then Mr. James Little found another security that looked very plausible, and primed his wife with arguments, and she implored Guy to call and talk it over with them both.
He came that very afternoon, and brought his father's will.
Then Edith offered the security, and tried to convey to the trustee her full belief that it was undeniable.
Guy picked terrible holes in it, and read their father's will, confining the funds to consols, or a first mortgage on land. “You take the money on these conditions: it is almost as improper of you to wish to evade them, as it would be of me to assist you. And then there is your child; I am hound in honor not to risk his little fortune. See, here's my signature to that.”
“My child!” cried Edith. “When he comes of age, I'll go on my knees to him and say, 'My darling, I borrowed your money to save your father's credit.' And my darling will throw his arms round me, and forgive me.”
“Simpleton!” said Guy. “And how about your daughters and their husbands? And their husbands' solicitors? Will they throw their arms round your neck, and break forth into twaddle? No! I have made inquiries. Your husband's affairs are desperate. I won't throw your money into his well; and you will both live to thank me for seeing clearer than you do, and saving this £1900 for you and yours.”
James Little had writhed in his chair for some time: he now cried out wildly,
“Edith, you shall demean yourself no more. He always hated me: and now let him have his will, and seal my dishonor and my ruin. Oblige me by leaving my house, Mr. Raby.”
“Oh, no, James!” cried Edith, trembling, and shocked at this affront. But Guy rose like a tower. “I've noticed this trait in all tradespeople,” said he grimly. “They are obsequious to a gentleman so long as they hope to get the better of him; but, the moment they find it is impossible to overreach him, they insult him.” And with this he stalked out of the house.
“Oh, my poor James, how could you?” said Edith.
“Forgive me,” said he, quietly. “It is all over. That was our last chance.”
Guy Raby walked down the street, stung to the quick. He went straight to his solicitor and arranged to borrow £1900 on his own property. “For,” said he, “I'll show them both how little a snob can understand a gentleman. I won't tamper with her son's money, but I'll give her my own to throw into his well. Confound him! why did she ever marry him?”
When the business was virtually settled, he came back to the house in great haste.
Meantime Mr. James Little went up to his dressing-room, as usual, to dress for dinner; but he remained there so long that, at last, Mrs. Little sent her maid to tell him dinner was ready.
The girl had hardly reached the top of the stairs, when she gave a terrible scream that rang through the whole house.
Mrs. Little rushed upstairs, and found her clinging to the balusters, and pointing at the floor, with eyes protruding and full of horror. Her candle-stick had fallen from her benumbed hand; but the hall-lamp revealed what her finger was quivering and pointing at: a dark fluid trickling slowly out into the lobby from beneath the bedroom door.
It was blood.
The room was burst into, and the wretched, tottering wife, hanging upon her sobbing servants, found her lover, her husband, her child's father, lying on the floor, dead by his own hand; stone dead. A terrible sight for strangers to see; but for her, what words can even shadow the horror of it!
I drop the veil on her wild bursts of agony, and piteous appeals to him who could not hear her cries.
The gaping wound that let out that precious life, her eye never ceased to see it, nor her own heart to bleed with it, while she lived.
She was gently dragged away, and supported down to another room. Doctor Amboyne came and did what he could for her; and that was—nothing.
At this time she seemed stupefied. But when Guy came beaming into the room to tell her he had got her the money, a terrible scene occurred. The bereaved wife uttered a miserable scream at sight of him, and swooned away directly.
The maids gathered round her, laid her down, and cut her stays, and told Guy the terrible tidings, in broken whispers, over her insensible body.
He rose to his feet horrified. He began to gasp and sob. And he yearned to say something to comfort her. At that moment his house, his heart, and all he had, were hers.
But, as soon as she came to herself, and caught sight of him, she screamed out, “Oh, the sight of him! the sight of him!” and swooned away again.
Then the women pushed him out of the room, and he went away with uneven steps, and sick at heart.
He shut himself up in Raby Hall, and felt very sad and remorseful. He directed his solicitor to render Mrs. Little every assistance, and supply her with funds. But these good offices were respectfully declined by Mr. Joseph Little, the brother of the deceased, who had come from Birmingham to conduct the funeral and settle other matters.
Mr. Joseph Little was known to be a small master-cutler, who had risen from a workman, and even now put blades and handles together with his own hands, at odd times, though he had long ceased to forge or grind.
Mr. Raby drew in haughtily at this interference.
It soon transpired that Mr. James Little had died hopelessly insolvent, and the £1900 would really have been ingulfed.
Raby waited for this fact to sink into his sister's mind; and then one day nature tugged so at his heart-strings, that he dashed off a warm letter beginning—“My poor Edith, let bygones be bygones,” and inviting her and her boy to live with him at Raby Hall.
The heart-broken widow sent back a reply, in a handwriting scarcely recognizable as hers. Instead of her usual precise and delicate hand, the letters were large, tremulous, and straggling, and the lines slanted downward.
“Write to me, speak to me, no more. For pity's sake let me forget there is a man in the world who is my brother and his murderer.
“EDITH.”
Guy opened this letter with a hopeful face, and turned pale as ashes at the contents.
But his conscience was clear, and his spirit high. “Unjust idiot!” he muttered, and locked her letter up in his desk.
Next morning he received a letter from Joseph Little, in a clear, stiff, perpendicular writing:
“SIR—I find my sister-in-law wrote you, yesterday, a harsh letter, which I do not approve; and have told her as much. Deceased's affairs were irretrievable, and I blame no other man for his rash act, which may God forgive! As to your kind and generous invitation, it deserves her gratitude; but Mrs. Little and myself have mingled our tears together over my poor brother's grave, and now we do not care to part. Before your esteemed favor came to hand, it had been settled she should leave this sad neighborhood and keep my house at Birmingham, where she will meet with due respect. I am