Page:010 Once a week Volume X Dec 1863 to Jun 64.pdf/446

 438 delivered at Mrs. Gould’s untouched, in the same state that it was given to you.”

“Yes, that it was, sir,” was the boy’s ready answer, and they could tell by his manner that he was speaking the truth.

Telling him ho might go to sleep again, they went down to the surgery. No one was in it then, and the gas was turned very low. Mr. Stephen turned it on, and brought in the steps from the recess outside, where they were kept. In a remote corner of the highest shelf was a glass jar, labelled “Hydrocyanic Acid;” he mounted the steps and reached it down.

“See!” he exclaimed, “actually cobwebs upon it, woven from the stopper to the jar, and the dust on it an inch thick! that proves it has not been touched for some time. Why, it must be six weeks at least since we had occasion to use it.”

It was the only preparation of prussic acid in their possession of any sort, whether diluted or otherwise, and the seeing the jar in this state completely did away with the half doubt on John Grey’s mind touching his brother—he saw that he could not have used it. They leaned their elbows on the counter where the medicines were usually compounded, and talked together over the affair, unable to offer any conjecture or surmise which might tend to solve it.

Thus absorbed, they did not notice the movements of Frederick. He, ever restless, ever seeking to be in action, as boys of that age are sure to be, laid hold of the white linen duster kept in the surgery, and dusted well the gloss containing the poison. John Grey caught sight of the feat just as it was accomplished.

“O, Frederick! what have you done?”

“Only taken off the dust and cobwebs, uncle,” answered the lad, wondering at the tone of alarm.

“Do you know,” cried John Grey, speaking sharply in his excitement, “that that meddling action of yours may cost your father his life? Or, at least, his reputation.”

The crimson of emotion rushed violently into the face of Frederick. He made no answer.

“So long as that dust was on the jar, it was a sure proof that it had not been opened. Did you see the cobwebs spun from the stopper to the jar? What could have afforded more certain evidence that the stopper had not been taken out? These friendly cobwebs might have saved your father.”

Frederick Grey felt as if a ball had come into his throat and was choking him: as if it would take his whole life to atone for the imprudence of which he had been guilty.

“It is not likely they suspect my father,” he exclaimed; “and as to accusing him—no, uncle, they will not do that.”

“Whom will they accuse, think you? you or me? The medicine went out of this house, and was delivered untampered with to Nurse Pepperfly, was administered untampered with also to the patient, so far as we can learn or suspect. Mr. Carlton, a man in honourable practice, as we are, testifies that the draught did smell of prussic acid when the nurse put it into his hand; he spoke of it at once, as the nurse testifies. To whom, then, will people’s suspicions be directed but to him who made up the medicine? You have faith in your father and I have faith in my brother that he could not be, and was not, guilty of the careless error of putting poison in the sleeping draught; but that cobwebbed, dusty jar would have been proof that he had not, for those who have not faith in him. And now you have destroyed it! Go home to bed, boy! you have done enough mischief for one night.”

The words, in all their full sting, told on Frederick Grey. A remorse, amounting to positive agony, was taking possession of him for the imprudence he had committed. He did not reply; he was too completely subdued; he only longed to be away from all eyes, where he might indulge his sorrow and his repentance—where he might consider the means, if there were any, of repairing his fault, and pray to God to turn away the evil. He fished his uncle good night in a humble voice, and turned to his father.

“Good night, and God bless you, my darling boy!” said Mr. Stephen, warmly. “You did not do wrong intentionally. Be at ease; I am conscious of my own innocence, and I can put my hearty faith in God to make it plain.”

Frederick Grey went home and threw himself on his bed, sobbing as if his heart would break, in spite of his sixteen years. There was nobody to whom he could turn for comfort. He was an only child, and his mother, whom he loved better than anything on earth, was away in a foreign land, gone to it in search of health.

Mr. John Grey and his brother remained in the surgery, and were joined by their assistant, Mr. Whittaker, who was a qualified surgeon. They talked the matter over with him, but no solution of it whatever could be arrived at.

“That the draught was given to the boy as Mr. Stephen left it, I and Frederick can both testify,” said the assistant. “Dick, it appears, delivered it intact to Mrs. Pepperfly, who took it straight to Mr. Carlton, and he at once smelt the prussic acid. I can’t make it out at all. I have heard of magic, but this beats it