Chapter XXXV: Esperance, April 10

"MY DEAR SIR,--

"I begin a letter to you under peculiarly afflicting circumstances.
Your son-in-law, the favorite of every one on board, one of the
nicest young gentlemen I have had the luck to meet, fell overboard
last night, between nine and ten o'clock, when a very heavy sea was
running. He was standing at the wheel, talking to a sailor of the
name of Loggan. Loggan said he was very cheerful and keen to watch
the storm. He was helping to tighten up a bit of rope when the boat
gave a lurch. Loggan shouted to him to take care, but he was taken
off his feet, and the next moment was in the water. We put out the
boats and did all in our power, but in addition to the storm the
night was very dark, and we never saw nor heard anything more of
the unfortunate young gentleman. The night was so rough he must
have gone to the bottom almost directly. I cannot express to you,
sir, what a gloom this has cast upon all on board. As I said
already, your son-in-law was beloved by passengers and sailors
alike. His death was due to the most ordinary accident.

"Well, sir, regrets are useless, but if regrets would bring Mr.
Wyndham back, he would be safe and well now; he was one of the most
taking young men I ever came across, and also one of the best.
Please give my respectful condolences to his poor young widow----"

Here there was a break in the narrative. It was taken up some days later.

"I had scarcely written the last when an awful thing happened.
There was a fearful crash on board, and in short, sir, our funnel
was blown down. I can scarcely go into particulars now, but for
many days we lay at the mercy of the waves, and I never thought to
see land any more. It speaks well for the worthiness of the
_Esperance_ that she weathered such a gale. But for many days and
nights the destruction to your property, for the water poured in in
all parts, and the miserable state of the passengers, baffles
description. The ship was in such a condition that we could not use
steam, and when the storm abated had to drift as best we could.
For our main masts were also broken, and we could put on scarcely
any sail. Our provisions were also becoming short.

"A week ago, by the mercy of God, we came within hail of the
steamer _Salamanca_, which towed us into port, and the _Esperance_
has been put into dock at Melbourne for repairs.

"Under these appalling circumstances, Mr. Wyndham's loss has not
been forgotten, but to a certain extent cast on one side. Perhaps I
ought to say here; sir, that when your son-in-law commenced his
voyage to Sydney under my auspices, he appeared to be in such a
state of agitation, and in such distress of mind, that I feared for
his brain, and wondered if you had sent him on this voyage by a
doctor's orders. He made also a request to me which seemed to
confirm this view. He begged me not to let out to anyone on board
the smallest particulars (I really did not know any) of his
history. In especial he did not wish his wife spoken of. He looked
strange when he made these requests, and even now I can see the
despair in his eyes when I refused--you will remember, sir, by your
express desire--to touch at Plymouth. I may as well say frankly,
that had Mr. Wyndham continued as depressed as he was the first few
days of the voyage, I should have scarcely considered his untimely
end altogether due to accident. But I am happy to be able to
reassure your mind on that point. That he felt the separation from
his wife terribly at first there is no doubt, but there is also no
doubt that he got over this feeling, that he was healthily happy,
and altogether the brightest fellow on board. In short, sir, he was
the life of the ship; even now we are never done lamenting him.
Untimely as his fate was, no one could have been more ready to rush
suddenly into the presence of his Maker. I enclose with this a
formal certificate of Mr. Wyndham's death, with the latitude and
longitude of the exact spot where he must have gone down accurately
described. This certificate is duly attested by the Consul here,
and I delayed one day in writing to you in order that it should go.

"I remain, sir,

"Yours respectfully,

"HARRY JELLYBY."

"P.S.--I forgot to mention that two of our boats have been absolutely
lost; but I will send you a full list of casualties by next mail."

Helps had never felt more restless than he did that morning; he could not attend to his ordinary avocations. Truth to tell, Helps' position in the house of Paget Brothers had always been more or less a dubious one. It was patent to all that he was confided in to a remarkable degree by the head of the house. It was also observed that he had no special or defined post. In short that he did a little of everybody's work, and seemed to have nothing absolutely depending on himself.

All the same, when Helps was away the whole establishment felt a loss. If the old clerk was useful for no other purpose, he was at least valuable as a scape-goat. He could bear blame which belonged to others. It was convenient to make excuses, and to shift uncomfortable omissions of all sorts from one's own shoulders.

"Oh, I thought Helps would have seen to that."

Helps saw to a great deal, and was perfectly indifferent to these inuendoes. Of one thing he was certain, that they would never reach the chief's ears.

On this particular morning Helps would assist no one; he had ten pounds in his pocket, and he knew that the future owner of the great business lay in his cradle at Jewsbury-on-the-Wold. Little cared he for that.

"What news of Mr. Wyndham?" This was his thought of thoughts. "What secret lies hidden within that sealed packet? What is my master doing now? When will he ring for me? How soon shall I know the best and the worst? Oh, God, why did I let that young man go? Why didn't I split? What's prison, after all? My God, what _is_ prison compared to a heart on fire!"

Helps pottered about. He was a very wizened grey little fellow. The clerks found him decidedly in the way. They muttered to one another about him, and Mr. Manners, one of the juniors, requested him in a very cutting voice to shut the door and go away.

Helps obeyed the command to the very letter. By this time his state of mind might have been described as on the rack. For two hours Mr. Paget had been reading that letter. Impossible; no letter would take that time to read. Why had he not rung? Surely he must know what Helps was enduring. Surely at this crisis of his fate--at this crisis of both their fates--he must want to see his faithful servant. Why then did he not ring?

At last in despair Helps knocked at the door of the outer office. There was no answer. He turned the handle, pushed the door ajar and went in. The room was empty. Mr. Paget's pile of ordinary business letters lay unopened on his desk. Helps went up to the door of the inner room, and pressed his ear against the keyhole. There was not a stir within. He knocked against a chair, and threw down a book on purpose. If anything living would bring Mr. Paget out it was the idea of anyone entering, or disarranging matters in his office. Helps disarranged matters wildly; he threw down several books, he upset more than one chair; still the master did not appear. At last he knocked at the door of the inner room. There was no response. Then he knocked again, louder. Then he hammered with his fists. Then he shook the door. No response. The inner room might as well have been a grave. He rushed away at last for tools to break open the door. He was terribly frightened, but even now he had sufficient presence of mind not to bring a third person to share his master's secret. He came back with a pick-lock, a hammer and one or two other implements. He locked the door of the outer office, and then he set boldly to work. He did not care what din he made; he was past all thought of that now. The clerks outside got into a frantic state of excitement; but that fact, had he known it, would have made no difference to Helps.

At last his efforts were crowned with success. The heavy door yielded, and flew open with a bang. Helps fell forward into the room himself. He jumped up hastily. A quiet, orderly, snug room! The picture of a fair and lovely girl looking down from the wall! a man with grey hair stretched on the hearthrug under the picture! a man with no life, nor motion, nor movement. Helps flew to his master. Was he dead? No, the eyes were wide open; they looked at Helps, and one of the hands was stretched out, and clutched at Helps' arm, and pulled it wildly aside.

"What is it, my dear master?" said the man, for there was that in the face which would have melted any heart to pity.

"Don't! Stand out of my light," said Mr. Paget. "Hold me--steady me--let me get up. He's there--there by the window!"

"Who, my dear sir? Who?"

"The man I've murdered! He's there. Between me and the light. It's done. He's standing between me and the light. Tell him to move away. I have murdered him! I know that. Between me and the light--the _light_! Tell him to move away--tell him--tell him!"

Mortimer Paget gave a great shriek, and covered his terrified eyes with his trembling hands!