Before the expiring of the month from the date of the deception practiced upon me I had put into execution a plan I formed while Maxwell was threatening me. To continue to live in England persecuted by his malignant ingenuity would have been an act of folly; to purchase intervals of peace at the cost of being reduced to beggary in a year or two would have been no less. At all hazards I was determined that some small sum should be secured to Ellen, to shield her and our child from penury, and to this end I made over to her the balance of my fortune, securely invested in Consols, the interest on which she would receive monthly from my solicitor, the principal reverting to her at my death. I take this opportunity of expressing my heartfelt thanks to this gentleman for the faithful manner in which he has carried out my instructions and executed the delicate business I entrusted to him. For my own immediate necessities I took one hundred pounds, which indeed was all that remained after the investment which secured to Ellen one pound a week during my lifetime. It was my desire at first, that she should accompany me to Australia, but my solicitor argued against it; and his arguments were strengthened by a medical opinion that neither the voyage nor the Australian climate would be good for my dear Ellen's health.
In the winding up of this business and the preparations for my departure, I exercised the greatest caution and secrecy, in order that my enemies should have no suspicion of the locality in which it was determined that Ellen should reside. We chose London as offering the greatest security for her, and because she would be within hail of my solicitor, to whom she was to apply for protection in the event of molestation. The knowledge that I had baffled my pursuers was a satisfaction to me, and more than once I put successfully into practice the tactics I adopted when I first discovered I was being watched and followed. With respect to our correspondence I arranged that my letters to Ellen, and Ellen's to me, should be sent under cover to my solicitor, who would forward them to their correct address. It was probable that I should be shifting from place to place in Australia, and Ellen might have occasion to remove. During the month a number of communications from Maxwell reached me through my solicitor. Some contained threats, some invited me to a meeting in which a modification of his terms could be discussed. I did not acknowledge one of these letters, and in the last I received Maxwell wrote: "I have discovered that it is your intention to leave England with Madame Virtue and your precious infant. If you think you will escape me you are mistaken. Go where you will you will be shadowed and not allowed to rest until you come to terms. Be wise in time, dear John." This threat did not alarm me; the discovery he announced was probably mere guesswork; even if it were not, my departure would strengthen the chances of Ellen's safety. Before I left there was still a neglected duty to perform—to inform Ellen that I had deceived her as to my real name. She evinced no surprise, and did not reproach me, nor did it shake her faith in me. From the hour we met my dear Ellen has never uttered a word to cause me pain. Humbly do I ask forgiveness for the sorrows I have brought upon her.
At length the day of our separation arrived. I had put off my departure to the latest moment, and was to travel by the night train to meet my ship.
We sat together in Ellen's humble room, her head on my shoulder, our child in my arms. Though he could not yet speak an intelligible word he had, thank God, learned to love me. What Ellen and I had to say was but a repetition of the fond assurances we had exchanged that we would be true to each other to the last hour of our lives. She was outwardly more cheerful than I; such women as she have a strength of endurance denied to man, whose courage often deserts him at the supreme moment of a moral crisis.
Ellen rose to spread the cloth for our last meal together, and it touched me to observe how she had consulted my tastes in what she had placed upon the table. To please her I forced myself to eat, and supper ended, she gave her babe the breast, her eyes shining with tenderness and love.
"You must be brave, dear," she said. "You must never lose heart—never for one single moment."
"And you, Ellen, you must also be brave."
"I am—I shall be; and cheerful, too. If I were to mope, dear, baby would suffer—and that would never do, would it, darling?"
I see her now a picture of sweetest motherhood, as she sat crooning to the little fellow, who was drawing life and goodness from nature's fount. In the dark watches of my lonely life the picture rose before me, and I saw the dear woman with her baby at her breast, her tender eyes shining upon me. It taught me patience, and never failed to comfort me. Across the seas a heart was throbbing with love for the wanderer, a mother was whispering to her babe of the absent father; an invisible link stretched from the quiet bush to the fevered city, along which, in hours of unrest, sped the spiritual message: "I am thinking of you. Dear love, dear love, do not lose heart; I am thinking of you."
And so we parted. The last words were spoken, the last kiss given. I turned and saw, through tears, Ellen standing at the door, a blessing on her lips, her soul in her eyes. "Farewell, dear heart, farewell!"
It is not pertinent to my story to dwell at any length upon my Australian experiences. As I am not writing for literary purposes, brief allusion to them will suffice.
I went out steerage in a sailing vessel, and was brought into contact with new phases of life and adventure. Had I been less anxious about myself and those connected with me, I should have found ample scope for contemplation and study in these novel pictures of human life and struggle; and even as it was, they frequently afforded me a healthy diversion from my own private cares. My time on board was chiefly occupied upon a diary which I subsequently sent home to Ellen, and being written for her I took pains to make it interesting. It interested me too, and I was amused at the importance with which trivial incidents were insensibly invested. I was, it is true, subject to fits of depression, but the salt breezes, the rough life, the open air, the alternations of storm and sunshine, invigorated me, and helped to shake them off. I had with me, besides, an infallible charm in the portraits of Ellen and our child, which I wore close to my heart. Whenever I gazed upon these pictures Ellen's words recurred to me: "Dear love, dear love, I am thinking of you," and hope bloomed like a flower within me.
At home I had given little thought to the special groove in which I should strive to obtain a livelihood in the Colonies. I was ready and willing to undertake any kind of work, but I was certainly not prepared for the difficulties I encountered. The market was crowded with unemployed labor; on all sides I heard the cry of hard times, and yet money seemed to be abundant. Surely, thought I, there must be some place for me, a man of education, in this great city, but this very quality of education seemed to stop the way. Gentlemen were at a discount; bone and muscle were the staple, despite the fact that bone and muscle were striking against capital. The wages rejected by rough workingmen I should have been glad to accept, and had I been a bricklayer, a carpenter, or a stonemason, I should soon have been in a situation; having no special trade to back me, I went to the wall. After weeks of vain endeavor, I determined to go up country and see what I could do on the goldfields. I could wield a pick if I could do nothing else.
I had lived very sparingly, but my little store of money was dwindling fast, and would, even with extreme frugality, be exhausted in a month or two. No time, therefore, to lose in idleness. To the goldfields I set my face, tramping it alone through the bush, seeking employment on the way, which I did not obtain. The golden days of the Colonies were over, and the familiar and magic cry of "Rush, O!" was seldom heard. Still, gold was being dug from the earth, and nuggets were as much my property as any man's—if I could only get on the track of them. I did not. For me Tom Tiddler's ground was nearly barren, the few pennyweights of gold I managed to extract from alluvial soil being scarcely sufficient to provide me with the commonest necessaries. Strangely enough, certain qualities which should have served me in good stead tended rather to retard me, and indeed made me unpopular with the class I mixed with. For instance, my sobriety. I was frequently invited to drink, and my steady refusal was regarded with disfavor, occasionally with contempt. Lucky diggers celebrate their good fortune by "going on the spree," and standing treat to one and all. No inducement could prevail upon me to join them; I held aloof from them, and they showed their feelings by refusing to associate with me. I regretted this the more because as a rule they were a set of free-hearted men, whose instincts were generous, if not exactly prudent. The consequence was that I made no friends, which did not help me in the battle I was waging. In this fight for fortune my greatest consolation was derived from Ellen's letters. Every month I received from my lawyer, through the Melbourne Post Office, a packet containing Ellen's letters, and one from himself upon business matters. His communications were brief. There was nothing of importance to report concerning my wife; her allowance was drawn regularly, and there was no improvement in her habits; Maxwell had called several times, and on one occasion would not depart without an interview, which was granted. He expressed anxiety about my welfare, and made efforts to ascertain where I was; the information not being supplied he retired, after indulging in mysterious threats—as to which, my lawyer said, I need not be in the least degree alarmed.
Ellen's letters were longer, and I need hardly say I read them again and again with delight. Not in one of them was to be found a complaining word; instinctively she always took the bright and cheerful view, and I knew that for my sake she would make light of crosses. How did her letters run? She was happy and in good health; she was comfortable in her lodgings, and the landlady was kindness itself; our child was wonderfully well, and was growing "so big" that I would hardly know him; his eyes were more beautiful than ever; everybody noticed them, everybody fell in love with him; it made her so proud to see people look admiringly at him, and "you would not believe the notice he takes of things"; he had learned already to lisp "mamma" and "papa;" and he sent his love to his dear papa, and a thousand, thousand kisses; she had obtained some needlework by which she was earning a few shillings a week, "not that through your great kindness we have not enough to live upon, but I want to put something by for a rainy day;" I was to be sure not to order her to give up the work, because she had too much idle time on her hands, and the hours flew by more quickly when she was fully employed; "when my needle is in my hand my thoughts are always on baby's dear father, and I am wondering what he is doing at that precise moment—but indeed, my love, you are never out of my thoughts;" and so on, and so on. Not a detail of her domestic life which she believed would afford me pleasure was omitted, "and I hope I am not worrying you by speaking of these small matters, but it is such a pleasure to me; I write every night when baby is asleep and my work is done." The tender expressions of concern for my welfare were inexpressibly comforting to me. In my lonely tent I saw with my mind's eye the dear woman in her London lodging sitting pen in hand at her labor of love, with baby asleep in his little crib, and everything in the humble room clean and sweet and orderly, and I thanked God she was happy and well.
Things went from bad to worse with me. Driven by necessity I wandered from place to place, and there seemed to be no rest for the sole of my foot. When I plied my pick on the goldfields I worked as "a hatter," by which is meant a man who works singlehanded. I spent weeks and weeks prospecting for gold and finding none. Bad luck dogged me wherever I went, whatever I undertook. I had a reasonable longing for money—for the sake of my dear Ellen and my boy, and once I missed a great fortune.
I had been compelled to part with all my belongings except a short-handled pick. All my other tools were gone, and tent and blankets as well; not a shilling in my pockets, but happily the best part of a cake of cavendish and a cutty. No man knows the comfort that lies in a pipe of tobacco as a bushman does; it has sustained the courage of many a man in as desperate a plight as I was in on that day. I had started in the early morning for a cattle station where I had heard there was the chance of a job, and towards evening found that I had missed my way. Had there been such twilight as we enjoy in England there would have been time to get into the right track, but in Australia night treads close upon the shadows of evening. It was not the first time I had been "bushed," and I accepted the position as cheerfully as my circumstances would permit. The night was fine, the sky was filled with stars, the air was sweet and warm. I had camped out under more favorable conditions, but I made the best of this, comforting myself with the reflection that I had only a few hours to wait before I obtained a meal at the cattle station I had missed. Meanwhile I smoked my pipe, and soon afterwards fell asleep upon a bed of dry leaves.
I was up with the sun, and was about to resume my search for the lost track when my eyes fell upon a range of hills studded with quartz. I thought of the stories I had heard of rich reefs being accidentally discovered by men who had lost their way in the bush, and considered that it was as likely to happen to me as to another. It is true I was hungry, but I could hold on a bit longer, and I determined to spend an hour or two in prospecting. So to it I went, selecting the most likely-looking hill, on the uppermost ridge of which rested a huge boulder of quartz, which a vivid imagination might have converted into the fantastic image of a human monster. Detaching some pieces of stone from the base of this boulder I saw fine specks of gold in them in sufficient quantity to give promise of a paying reef. The specks were so finely distributed that they could only be won by the aid of fire, water, and quicksilver, and the pulverizing stamps of a crushing machine. The discovery was therefore valueless to me in its power to relieve my present necessities, but I marked the spot and determined to return to it when my circumstances were more favorable to the opening of a new reef.
I reached the cattle station in the evening, and to my disappointment learned that there was no work for me. The kind-hearted people on the station gave me a plentiful supper and a shake-down, and when I rose the next morning to continue my wanderings I was not allowed to depart empty-handed. The life I led in the Colonies was rough and hard, but it was studded with stars of human kindness which I can never forget.
Six months afterwards I was in a position—having a few pounds in my pocket—to visit the quartz ranges I had prospected, my intention being to mark off a prospector's claim and set to work. Other men were before me; every inch of ground north and south was marked off for miles, and a thousand miners were at work. The huge boulder in which I had found specks of gold had been blasted away, and I was informed that a wonderful amount of gold had been taken from it. The claim upon which it had stood was the richest on the line of reef, the stone averaging five or six ounces to the ton. A quartz crushing machine had been erected, and was merrily pounding away.
With a sigh I turned my back upon the el dorado I was the first to discover. Hundreds of other men on the goldfields have missed fortune in the same manner by a hair's breadth.
I will not prolong this record of my three years' sojourn in Australia. At the expiration of this time a stroke of good fortune really fell to my share, and then it was that I received news of an event which changed the current of my life and led to the unconscious committal of the crime for which I must answer to the law. On a partially deserted goldfield, where there were still a few miners at work on claims which were supposed to be worked out, I took possession of a shaft, and in one of the pillars I found a "pocket" of gold which in less than a fortnight yielded me between fifty and sixty ounces.
Mammon worship is an evil instinct, but gold can bring unalloyed joy to suffering hearts. It brought joy to mine.
I was sorely tempted. Longing for home, for a sight of Ellen and my boy, had for some time past assailed me; there had been hours when I rebelled against my lot, when it needed all my moral strength to overcome the anguish of my soul. I had now the means to gratify my cherished desire—why should I not do so? Debating the risks of the adventure, I was tossed this way and that, now held back by the fear that my presence in London might be discovered by my enemies to the disturbance of the life of peace which Ellen was enjoying, now encouraged by my ardent wish to clasp my dear ones in my arms. The question, however, was decided for me.
A mail from home was due, and I was expecting my monthly packet of letters, which I had directed to be forwarded to a neighboring township. So anxious was I that I set off for this township in the middle of the night.
The mail had arrived and was being delivered. Scores of bearded men were clustered about the wooden building in anxious expectation. Some came away from the little window with joy on their faces, some fell back with a sigh of disappointment. The strength of the human tie which binds heart to heart is nowhere more strikingly displayed than on these distant shores, where groups of rough, stalwart men hurry to the post office in the hope of receiving letters from home.
My packet was handed to me, and I stood aside to open it. Ellen's budget I put into my pocket; I could not read her loving words with prying eyes around me. The lawyer's letter was bulkier than usual, and I tore it open. I read but a few lines when I reeled.
"Hold up, mate," cried a man, catching me by the arm. "Bad news?"
"No, no," I muttered, and the denial struck me like a spiritual blow the moment it was uttered.
To some men the news which caused this shock would have brought a never-to-be-forgotten sorrow. To me it brought release from a chain which had galled my soul. Barbara was dead!
It would be the worst kind of hypocrisy to say that I felt as a man feels at the loss of one who is dear to him. It was impossible—impossible. There are those who deem it fitting to assume a grief which finds no place in their hearts; it is common to see white handkerchiefs held before tearless eyes. Let it tell against me that I neither felt nor assumed such sorrow. Equally wrong—and at the same time unjust to myself—would it be to say that I rejoiced. But an immense weight was lifted from my heart. Barbara was dead and I was free!
Yes, free to marry Ellen, to commence a new and purer life, to have a home which I could enter without fear; a home where love awaited my coming, where I could look in my child's face without shame, where I could show by my devotion how deeply I appreciated the sacrifices his dear mother had made for me. To remove the stigma which in the eyes of the world was attached to Ellen through her association with me—to give her my name, to call her "wife"—was this nothing to be grateful for? Was it for this that I should put on a mournful face and conjure false tears into my eyes? No. Heaven had sent me relief, had proclaimed that my long agony was over, had lifted the curse from me. It was not for me to play the hypocrite.
My agitation somewhat subdued, I set myself to the perusal of the lawyer's letter.
The details of Barbara's death were shocking and startling. Her depraved habits had been the cause of a miserable tragedy. The letter stated that the first intelligence the writer received of the event was through the newspapers, cuttings from which he enclosed. My wife, it seems, had not removed from her lodging in Islington where I last saw her. In the middle of the night an alarm of fire was raised, and the lodgers in the house had great difficulty in escaping. Barbara had not been thought of. She did not make her appearance and no cries proceeded from her room. When she was missed the firemen made their way to her apartment, and brought out her charred body. The fire, it was proved, had originated in her bedroom, and it was supposed that she overturned a lighted candle, and so caused the catastrophe.
Among the newspaper cuttings was a report of the inquest, which my solicitor had attended, and evidence was given of Barbara's depraved habits, one witness stating that "she was drunk from night till morning, and from morning till night," a statement which Maxwell declared was a calumny.
His sister had dreadful troubles; her married life was most unhappy, but she suffered in silence. His attempts to bring obloquy upon me were frustrated by my solicitor, and by the evidence of the doctors. The latter proved that she must have been a confirmed dipsomaniac for years; the former produced receipts for the allowance I made her. The verdict was in accordance with the evidence.
After the funeral, the arrangements for which were made by my solicitor, Maxwell called upon him with a document purporting to be Barbara's will, in which she left everything to him, including the £300 a-year I had allowed her. Upon my solicitor suggesting that he should take legal steps to obtain what he called "his rights," he offered to compromise and to forego his claim for a stated sum. This being scouted, he asked whether it would not be worth my while to give him a smaller sum to get rid of him forever. My solicitor replied that that was a matter for my consideration upon my return home, but that he should advise me not to give him a shilling, and there the matter ended. My solicitor said he gathered from my letters that I had not prospered in the Colonies, that my presence at home was necessary for the settlement of my financial affairs, and that he enclosed me a draft for £200 to defray the expenses of my passage and outfit.
Ellen's letter was of the usual affectionate nature, somewhat steadier in tone because of the tragedy which she had read in the papers. She expressed herself most pitifully towards Barbara, whose errors were expiated by her death.
"She is now at peace, and I am sure you will have none but tender thoughts for her." Nobility of soul, in alliance with the tenderest feeling and the purest sentiments shone forth in every line. It softened my heart towards the dead; it made me solemnly grateful for the living. She said not a word about her position and my intentions. She trusted me and had faith in me. Conscious that I would do what it was right to do, she made not the most remote reference to our future.
Our future! How brightly it spread before me! There was a new sweetness in the air, a fairer color in the skies. How strangely, how strangely are woe and joy commingled! Blessed with a good woman's love, with no fear of poverty before me, I would not have changed places with the highest in the world. The money I had capitalized to secure Barbara's allowance was now without a charge upon it, and reverted to me. The future was assured, the way was clear, the sun shone upon a flower-strewn path. Alas! the reality!
There was nothing to detain me a day longer in the Colonies; the richest claim on the goldfields would not have tempted me to delay my journey home. I had money enough for content, and love made me rich. I looked through the shipping advertisements in a Melbourne newspaper. A mail steamer was advertised to leave for London this very day; I could not catch it, and I should have to wait a fortnight for the next. Another merchant steamer was to leave for Liverpool in two days. I determined to take passage in it. I could get to Melbourne in time.
As I walked to the telegraph office, the man who had saved me from falling when I opened my solicitor's letter passed by and looked me in the face.
"Better, mate?" he asked.
"Yes," I answered.
"It was good news, then?" he said.
"Yes," I said, mechanically, and caught my breath.
What if I had told him that the good news was the death of my wife?
From the telegraph office I dispatched three messages. One to the shipping agent in Melbourne to secure a cabin in the outgoing steamer; the second to my solicitor in London, announcing my intended departure from the colony; the third to Ellen—"I am coming home."
Wonderful was the contrast between this sea voyage and the last I had undertaken. For the greater part of the time I think I must have been the happiest man on board. On the first voyage I had schooled myself into resignation and submission to my fate, and had taken but a fitful interest in the novel aspects of life by which I was surrounded. Now they appealed to me sympathetically, and I instinctively responded to the appeal. I chatted and made friends. I found zest in the simple amusements of ship life. I spent many happy hours in contemplation of the future, and in arranging the details. Ellen and I would go to some quiet country place, where we were not known, and there we would get married. Deciding not to live in London, we would discuss together in what part of England we would make our home. The sunniest months of my life had been passed in Swanage, and I would have chosen that delightful spot because of its memories, and because it would have been Ellen's choice, had I not been restrained by the thought of Maxwell. Although with Barbara's death his power over me had practically disappeared, still in the circumstances of our life in Swanage—Ellen a single woman and I a married man living apart from my wife—Maxwell's malice might sow thorns in our path. As far as was possible, this must be avoided. We would select some part of England where we were strangers, where the people we mixed with had no personal experience of our past. There, in a little cottage with a garden we would pass our days, and there I would resume my literary labors, and under a nom de plume strive to obtain a footing in the field most congenial to me. My adventures on the goldfields would supply me with attractive themes.
In this endeavor I had no personal vanity to serve; it was simply that I recognized the mischief of living an idle life. I would have no more wasted days. If I did not succeed with the pen I would bring my muscles into play. I laughed as the idea occurred to me that I might eventually become a market gardener, a cultivator of fruits. Straightway my thoughts traveled gaily in that direction.
Towards the end of the voyage I became impatient. The nearer we got to England the greater was my eagerness to see Ellen. I was on the threshold of a new existence, and I was in a fever to cross it. This uncontrollable desire burnt within me to the exclusion of every other topic. I became restless and abstracted, and I withdrew from cordial relationship with my fellow-passengers. This mood—for which I cannot account except on the grounds of pure selfishness—lasted a week, and then I took myself to task and endeavored to make myself companionable; but I was not regarded with the same favor, and my society was not courted. It taught me a lesson, and I inwardly reproached myself with ingratitude.
It is perhaps necessary to mention that I still retained the name I had adopted, and that I appeared on the passenger list as John Fletcher. Time enough, I thought, to resume my own name when Ellen and I were married. But my principal reason for retaining the name of Fletcher was the fear that some of the passengers might have read the account of the fire in which Barbara perished. Newspapers nowadays deal largely in horrors, and accounts of the fire had been published in the Melbourne journals. Naturally I shrank from identification.
The date of my arrival in Liverpool was the 30th of November, and I landed late at night in the midst of a snowstorm. From a railway guide on board ship I noted that a train for London started from Lime Street at midnight, and by this train I had decided to travel to London. Fatal decision! Had I been struck down dead in the streets, my fate would have been the happier!
It is at this point of my story that I cannot entirely trust my memory. I am, however, sufficiently clear-minded as to the course of events up to the moment when, in a street, the name of which is unknown to me, an attack was made upon my life. That a watch had been kept upon my movements, and that the attack was premeditated, I have no reason to doubt; but it is almost incredible that hatred could be so far-seeing and vindictive.
As I have said, the snow was falling heavily. It was the first time I had been in Liverpool, and I was therefore not familiar with its thoroughfares. So inclement was the weather, and so thickly did the snow lay upon the ground, that I could not obtain a vehicle to take me to the railway station, the two or three cabs which were available being snapped up before I could reach them. I had no alternative but to walk to Lime Street. There was ample time to get to the station, and I was proof against much more serious obstacles than a snowstorm and a gale of wind.
I was in joyous spirits at the prospect of soon embracing Ellen and my boy, and I walked along (after inquiring my way at the docks) with buoyant steps and a song on my lips. It may have been that this preoccupation of mind made me absent-minded, or that I had been misdirected, for in the midst of my pleasant musings a doubt arose as to whether I was on the right road. I remember stopping by a lamp-post to look at my watch, which I had purchased before I left Melbourne; I remember the time, five minutes to eleven, and my feeling of satisfaction that I had nearly an hour to get to the station. But which was the right way? There was not a person in sight of whom I could make inquiries, and at hap-hazard I turned down the street to which I have referred. It was a narrow, ill-lighted street, and I did not notice whether the houses in it were places of business or private residences.
Suddenly, either from one of the houses or from some dark courtway, a man rushed out and attacked me with such violence that had I been less powerful than I am his first onslaught would have accomplished his purpose. As it was, I grappled with him at the moment of his attack, and a furious struggle began—a struggle for life. Maddened by the attempt to dash the cup of happiness from my lips I put forth all my strength.
And here it is that memory fails me. The recollection of the salient features of this desperate encounter may doubtless be depended upon as correct, but I can go no further in my recountal of the issue of it. One maddening thought, I know, was dominant throughout—the thought that I was fighting for Ellen and love.
The struggle must have lasted a considerable time.
I could not see the face of my assailant, and it is my impression that he strove to avoid recognition; nor did he speak. We struck at each other savagely and in silence. From first to last, so far as I am aware, not a word passed between us. We swayed this way and that, each man's hand at the other's throat; then I felt myself lifted from my feet—a wrestling trick—and flung into the air. But I was up like lightning, and as I seized him again I was dimly conscious of the sight of blood dropping on the snow—whether his blood or mine I cannot say. It seemed to be his purpose to drag me into a house, the door of which was open, and in this he succeeded.
Grappling and raining blows upon each other in the dark passage, we fell upon the stairs, and struggling to our feet without losing our hold, continued the contest. The only weapon I had about me was a fossicking knife in its sheath, and this I must have drawn, as was proved by the result, though I am unable to say whether I drew it in the street or in the house. I cannot account for the fatal use I made of this weapon except upon the supposition that a weapon of some kind was being used against me, and that I was prompted by a savage instinct of self-preservation. In such an emergency a man has no time to reflect upon the consequences of his acts; reason is lost, instinct rules. My aim was to escape into the street, his to drag me from it—and he prevailed. At what period of the brutal conflict we gained the landing of the first floor, at what period we stumbled into a room, and when I dealt the fatal stroke which gave me a frightful victory—all this is hidden from me.
Scores of times since that night have I said to myself, "Let me think, let me think!" and vainly endeavored to follow the progress of the awful struggle. In the moment of victory I must have received a blow which might have proved deadly, for darkness fell upon me, and I sank to the ground in a state of unconsciousness.
When I came to my senses I found myself in an apartment lighted up by two lamps and half-a-dozen candles. The oil in the lamps was almost exhausted. The candles were guttering down. The scattered furniture denoted the savage nature of the struggle in which I had been engaged. Chairs had been flung here and there, a large table was upset; had the candles or lamps been upon it the house would have been set on fire. Against the wall, in front of me, was a sideboard garnished with bottles and glasses, among them a syphon of mineral water.
This was all I discerned in the first few moments of returning consciousness.
I put my hand to my face, and drawing it away found blood upon it; my other hand and my clothes were also stained with blood.
This caused me to think of my assailant, whose condition could have been scarcely worse than my own. What had become of him? Why had he left me here without finishing his work? Was he so badly wounded that he had no strength to kill me?
All was silent in the house. Not a sound of its being inhabited reached my ears. I must fly from it directly my own strength returned, thankful that I had come with life out of the desperate encounter.
Gradually my sight grew clearer, and I rose to my feet. My throat was parched. I went to the sideboard, and pouring out a glass of mineral water, raised it to my lips. In the act of doing this, I turned mechanically, and brought into view that part of the room which I had not yet seen. The glass dropped from my trembling hand, the water untasted.
On the floor, close to the opposite wall, lay the motionless form of a man. This was he, then, who had sought my life, this still form, struck down by my own hand. What I could distinguish of his clothing proclaimed him to belong to the well-to-do classes; a silk hat and gloves, which I had not previously observed, were on a small side table. A nameless horror stole upon me. With slow, stealthy steps I approached and knelt by his side, unconscious at the moment that I was kneeling in a pool of blood. There, gazing with terrified eyes upon him, I waited for a sign which did not come. Not a breath, not the vibration of a pulse. His arm lay across his face. Tremblingly I lifted it aside, and let it fall with a cry of terror on my lips. The face I had uncovered was that of my half-brother Louis! He was dead, and I had killed him! The scar on his forehead was blood-red, and though I was guiltless of causing it, seemed to accuse me; blood was on his face and clothes, there was a wound in his breast—his death-blow—delivered by me whom he hated, by me, who had hated him in life. Oh, cruel fate that made me his murderer!
The shock of the discovery overwhelmed me. I knew what his death meant for me. It did not dawn upon my mind; it came in one sudden, blasting flash. All that had gone before was light in comparison with this mortal blow, which dealt by my own hand, destroyed beyond redemption the newly-born hopes which had filled my heart with gladness. My dream was over. Ellen and I were forever parted.
Oh, God!
I can hear again the echo of the cry of anguish to which I gave in voluntary utterance.
Oh, God! Oh, God!
But of what use appeal to Him? Rather appeal to man, by whom I should be judged; relate my story to the earthly judge before whom I should be arraigned; hide nothing from first to last; expose the remorseless persecution, the vile cunning, the unspeakable degradation which had made my home a hell upon earth; state how I had only landed this night; how, passing through the street I was suddenly attacked and had simply defended myself, as any man would have done under similar circumstances——
Pshaw! Who would believe such a tale? It would be scouted with derision.
If an angel were to come down to testify to the truth of my story he would not be believed. How, then, could I expect to be believed when human witnesses would testify to the hate I bore the man whose spirit was now before God's Judgment Seat? To hope that I could break the chain of evidence that would be brought against me was the hope of a madman.
One by one the candles had gone out; the room was now in semi-darkness. I stood in thought.
Whoso sheddeth his brother's blood—yes, but I was innocent of murderous design. Why, then, should I declare myself a murderer and bring despair upon Ellen, bring ignominy and shame upon her and our child? Life-long despair, life-long ignominy. Every man's finger would be pointed at her. In my child's ears would ring the words, "Your father is a murderer!" Better for him never to have been born.
I had not myself alone to think of, to act for, Ellen could never now be my wife, the delights of home would never be mine. But for her, a lesser evil, though she would never realize it, was to be found in my concealment of my crime. It would be necessary for me to keep apart from her, for in her presence I should be continually confronted by the temptation to betray myself, to make confession, and to do this would be to inflict upon her frightful suffering. Sweet and patient as she was, and implicit as was her faith in me, the duplicities I should be compelled to practice in order to prevent any meeting between us, could not but injure me in her eyes. Setting love aside—an inconceivable hypothesis, for I never loved her as I did in this despairing hour—honor and honest dealings called upon me to give her the name of wife. She would grieve that I did not make amends to her for the sacrifices she had made for me; but far better that I should sink in her esteem than inflict upon her the crushing horror of seeing me condemned for murder. For her sake, then, silence and secrecy, if they could be compassed.
There had been no witnesses of the tragic incidents of the night. I was alone with the dead. The silence that reigned in the house favored my design of secret flight. If any persons resided there they must have heard the sounds of the struggle, the stumbling on the stairs, the dashing into the room, the upsetting of the furniture. I would make sure, however, that the house was uninhabited.
The oil in the lamps was nearly exhausted; but I had matches in a box which Ellen had given me before my departure for Australia. I crept into the passage and listened above, below. No sound. Striking matches as I proceeded I went all over the house from basement to attic, and saw no signs of habitation. The rooms on the ground floor had been partially dismantled, and presented the appearance of having been used for offices, while those on the upper floors had served for private residence, the most completely furnished apartment being that in which Louis lay dead. I made my investigations cautiously and quietly, and kept myself prepared for a possible attack. Once, when I was taking a match out of the box it slipped from my hand, and though I groped for it in all directions I could not find it. There was no time to waste; every moment that I remained in the house was charged with danger, and I was so beset by terrors springing from the perturbed state of my mind that the flapping of a door, the wind tearing through the street, even the slightest sound which fell unexpectedly on my ears, set all my nerves quivering.
The storm had increased in violence. Through an uncurtained window on the top floor I saw the snow descending thick and fast, the wind whirling it furiously onward and upward. A wild night, but I had reason to be thankful for it. The conflict of the elements lessened my chances of being caught red-handed.
Standing by the uncurtained window I felt for my watch; it had not occurred to me before to ascertain the time. The watch was gone, the chain hung loose; but the pocket-book in which I kept my money was safe. The loss of my watch did not induce the suspicion that robbery was the motive for the attack; it must have been jerked out of my pocket in the course of the struggle. It was dangerous to leave it in the house; it was more dangerous to remain. I consoled myself with the thought that I might have lost it in the street, and that it would be found by some person who would be satisfied to retain it without making inquiries. In any circumstances there was no name engraved on it to prove that I was the owner.
A faint scratching on the wainscot at this point of my reflections drove my heart into my mouth. So harmless a creature as a mouse was sufficient to inspire terror. I felt my way down to the fatal room, having no means of obtaining a light. It was quite dark now, and my footsteps were dogged by phantoms created by the fever of my blood. I saw the forms of struggling men, watched by glaring eyes and haunted by formless shadows; incidents of the struggle which remained in my memory repeated themselves with monstrous exaggeration; my brain teemed with startling images. I must get from this house of terror quickly; in the white snow the phantoms would fade away.
These imaginings did not cause me to lose sight of my purpose to avoid the consequences of my unpremeditated crime. A dual process of thought was going on within me, one belonging to the real, the other to the unreal world. Reason cautioned me to arm myself against the chances of detection. Such as lay in the stains of blood on my hands and face. The snow would serve me here. From my blood-bespattered clothes the stains could not be removed so easily. I should not have returned to the death-room had I not noticed an ulster coat thrown across a chair which, in the open air, would render me reasonably safe from observation. I groped for the chair, found it, thrust my arms into the ulster, and buttoned it up.
All was still as death—and death itself, a muffled figure, my father's son, lay outlined near the opposite wall. The deep darkness did not shut it from my sight.
As I made my way to the street door my foot touched an object on the stairs. I stooped and picked up a watch, which I put into my pocket with a feeling of relief at a danger averted. I had a little difficulty in opening the door, and when this was accomplished and I closed it behind me, I did not linger a moment. Every step I took from it added to my chance of safety. Turning into another street I bathed my hands and face in snow, and removed all traces of the bloody conflict. The storm was now a gale; the wind tore and shrieked through the streets, the snow, whirling furiously into my face, almost blinded me. Not a soul was about, and I walked on unobserved, with no idea in which direction I was proceeding. Chance favored me, for my hap-hazard wanderings led me to the Lime Street station. I looked up at the clock—two minutes past four. I took a first-class single to Euston, it being safer, I thought, to travel first-class than third. My fingers were numbed, and I was rather slow in picking up my change.
"You had better hurry, sir," said the clerk, "if you want to catch the 4:5."
I hurried off, followed by a porter.
"Any luggage, sir?"
"No."
"What class, sir?"
"First."
"Not that way, sir," said the porter; "the train goes from this platform."
He showed me to the carriage and thanked me for the tip. I had barely time to take my seat before the train started.
Being the only passenger in the carriage I could, without fear of interruption, deliver myself up wholly to my reflections. Needless to say, they were of the most melancholy nature. The incidents in my life which were in some way connected with my present position, rose to my memory with fatal clearness, and formed a chain of events which might have been forged by a spiritual agency bent upon my destruction. An inexorable fatality had attended all my actions, and used them as weapons against myself. In every instance the circumstantial evidence was overwhelming; my own bare, valueless word was the only testimony of my innocence. Additional support of this fatalistic theory was supplied in the course of my reflections. Taking out the watch I picked up on the stairs, I discovered that it was not my own. There was an inscription on the case: "To Louis from his Loving Mother." In the struggle Louis' watch had been torn from his pocket as well as my own, and it was now in my possession.
I argued out my position to a possible and logical point. As thus: The body of a murdered man having been found in the house an hour or so after my departure, the attention of the police was immediately directed to the early morning trains for London. At four o'clock, a gentleman, looking flurried and anxious, had presented himself at the ticket-office and paid a first-class fare to Euston. He was so agitated that it was with difficulty he gathered his change. He wore a long gray ulster coat and had no luggage—not even a bag, a most unusual circumstance. He betrayed his ignorance of the platform from which the London train started by proceeding in a wrong direction, and was set right by the porter; presumably, therefore, he was a stranger in Liverpool. Telegrams were at once dispatched to the stations en route, and to Euston, to detain the passenger unless he could give a satisfactory account of himself. His explanation affording grounds for suspicion, he was searched, and there was found upon him a watch with the inscription: "To Louis, from his Loving Mother." By his own previous admission, his name was not Louis. Questioned as to how he came into possession of the watch, he gave no answer. There was also found upon his person a leather sheath, into which a gold-digger's knife with which the fatal wound had been inflicted exactly fitted.
When this damning piece of evidence presented itself to my mind,' I felt for the knife. I had left it behind me. The sheath was empty.
What now was left to me to do? Leave matters to chance, and in the event of the worst not happening, protect myself by every possible means, or give myself up to the authorities? The deed I had done was beyond recall, and would ever stand as a black mark against me. If I could have harbored a hope of proving that it was done in self-defense I should not have hesitated, but this was impossible. For Ellen's sake I would adhere, as far and as long as lay in my power, to my plan of silence and secrecy.
Tortured as I was, I felt relieved when I came to this final decision, and I began to consider how to provide for my safety. To attempt to get rid of the watch and the ulster coat would be attended with danger, inasmuch as there were at present no other means of ridding myself of them than by flinging them out of the window or leaving them in the carriage, and thus courting the attention I desired to avoid. Until a safer course presented itself I must therefore retain them.
But brain and body were exhausted, and I could not continue my deliberations. Lifting the dividing arms between the seats I sank upon the cushions, and closed my eyes in sleep.
The train arrived at Euston at half-past eight in the morning. It marked an epoch in my fate. Though I showed in my manner neither haste nor hesitation, it was with apprehension that I alighted from the carriage, with relief that I walked through the gates, a free man!
The snow was falling in London as in Liverpool, but not so heavily, and the wind was less fierce. The weather was dreary enough, and I was in wretched spirits, uncertain what to do and where to go. But in order that my movements should not attract observation it was imperative that my uncertainty should not be apparent; I must act with an appearance of decision.
Being now in a locality with which I was familiar, I made my way to a thoroughfare where cheap clothes' shops abounded, and at one of these, the shutters of which had just been taken down, I purchased a suit of clothes, an overcoat, and a shirt, without trying them on, and a Gladstone bag in which I directed them to be packed. Hailing a cab I drove to a Turkish bath in Euston Road, and, bathing there, changed my clothes, as is not infrequently done in such establishments. I then drove to an hotel, where I engaged a room, informing the manager that my stay would depend upon letters which I expected to receive. Then I breakfasted, scarcely realizing until I sat down how sorely I was in need of food. Refreshed by the meal I retired to my room, where, locking the door, like a criminal engaged in a desperate endeavor to escape justice, I bent my thoughts again upon the perilous situation into which I had been plunged. Well did I know that it was a subject which would never leave me.
The motive for Louis' attack upon my life. Let me first fix that definitely. I could think of no other than that of obtaining possession of the few thousands of pounds which, through Barbara's death, reverted back to me. My own death proved—whether by natural means or murder mattered not—and leaving (as was rightly presumed) no will, my property would fall to my half-brother Louis and his mother, as next-of-kin. Undoubtedly this was the motive; but in what way information had been obtained of my arrival from Australia, and by whom I had been tracked from the Liverpool dock to the deserted street, it was not in my power to fathom.
Did Louis have an accomplice? If so, who more likely than Maxwell? The conjecture was natural, but I soon dismissed it. Two men would have made short work of me. Revenge and greed would have chained Maxwell to Louis' side, and I should not now be alive and comparatively uninjured. There had been blood on my face and hands, but it had not come from me—a proof that I had not, as I supposed, been attacked with a knife. The only weapon used in the struggle was used by me, and it had only to be established as belonging to me to serve as fatal evidence against me. And yet it was strange that in an attack deliberately premeditated and thought out, my assailant should have had no weapon at his command. There was, however, no certainty of this. Knowing; that I was a powerful man he would hardly have trusted to his own physical strength to overcome me. The reasonable presumption was that he had a weapon, which he had either been unable to draw or had dropped in the scuffle. I adopted these conclusions as facts beyond dispute. He had no accomplices, he had a weapon. The former fact added to my chances of safety, for having confided his savage purpose to no one, the secret was confined to his own breast. And he died without revealing it.
For the deed itself I did not, I could not, hold myself any more responsible than if I had been attacked by a wild beast. Discovered, I must bear the consequences, but I was justified in keeping it secret, and in leaving to others the task of detection. And, indeed, it was now too late for me to take the initiative. My flight and the property in my possession were sufficient proofs of guilt. Innocent (it would be argued), what had I to fear? Justice never errs—never! What mockery! Being guilty, I had done what all guilty men do. What could be clearer?
I was now afflicted with the doubt whether I had acted wisely in adopting a policy of concealment. It is in the nature of such a labyrinth of circumstance as that in which I was wandering never to be sure of the road, to be ever in doubt whether the right track has not been hopelessly missed. There are no sadder reflections than those inspired by what is and what might have been. Lost moments—lost opportunities—if I had done this, if I had done that! So do we torture ourselves when the fatal issue is before us. But I had chosen my course, and it was now too late to retrace my steps.
I deemed it fortunate that in my cable messages to Ellen and my solicitor I had not stated the name of the vessel by which I had taken passage home, my intention having been to give my dear one a delightful surprise. I had time for further deliberation, to more fully mature my plans. It would be necessary that my lawyer should be made acquainted with the facts of my arrival, but I need not communicate with him for a few day. My present concern was to learn from the newspapers of the discovery of Louis' body, and what was said about it. In the afternoon I went out and bought copies of the evening papers, taking care to show myself only in those thoroughfares where I deemed myself safe. The leading principle of all my movements at this period was caution, and I did not lose sight of it even in so trifling a matter as the purchase of a few newspapers. I evinced no anxiety to read them, but put them into my pocket with assumed carelessness, as though I were not interested in their contents. Two or three times I fancied that I was being followed, and I put it to the test, and satisfied myself that my fears had misled me. Returning to the hotel, I looked through the papers in the solitude of my room, without meeting with any reference to a Liverpool tragedy. Neither in the papers of the following day was any allusion made to it.
I put the true construction upon this silence. The house in which I had left Louis' body was practically untenanted, and no indication of anything unusual had been found in the street. But it would have been folly on my part to suppose that the murder could remain forever undiscovered. The suspense was dreadful.
So several days passed by. I removed from the hotel, and took apartments in the north of London. From that address I wrote to my solicitor, requesting him to call upon me in the evening, and asking him to say nothing of my return home. At the appointed hour we were closeted together.
After the first few words of greeting he spoke of Barbara's death, and said it was a happy release for her and for me. He then spoke of Ellen, and I gathered that he had formed a high opinion of her; but he made no inquiries as to my intentions with respect to her. He asked, however, whether it was my wish that she should not be informed of my return. I replied that I wished nobody to know, and he promised to preserve absolute silence. If he felt surprise, he evinced none.
"Have you seen much of her?" I asked.
"Very little," he replied. "Altogether, I think, not more than four or five times. I send her her allowance every month through the post, and she sends me an acknowledgment by return. Am I to continue to send the money?"
"Yes; it is hers for life, whatever becomes of me." He raised his eyes. "Life is uncertain," I added. "And I shall feel obliged by your forwarding any letters to her which I may address to your care, and by your forwarding her letters to any address I may give you. My reasons for concealment are such as I cannot confide to you."
"My dear sir," he returned, and I observed a coldness in his tone, "this is purely a matter of business, and it is my practise never to inquire into reasons or motives. All I have to do, as your solicitor, is to carry out your instructions. When you ask for my advice I shall be ready to give it."
We then went into accounts, and he said that on his next visit he would bring papers for my signature, which would place me in possession of the money which had been set aside to secure my allowance to Barbara. It was in the afternoon of the day on which this visit was to be paid that I carried into execution my cherished design of seeing my dear Ellen. An effectual disguise was imperative, and for this purpose I had purchased in another neighborhood a false beard which I had no difficulty in slipping on, unobserved, in a quiet street. Thus protected, with my overcoat drawn up to my ears, and my hat shading my eyes, I proceeded to the house in which she resided.
I had to wait some time before she appeared. She came out alone, and as she crossed the road she raised her eyes to an upper window, disclosing in that mother's glance the room in which she had left her darling boy. She entered a provision shop a few doors off to make a purchase, and was absent from him not longer than five minutes. Her eye was bright, her step elastic, her face wore an expression of content. How sweet, how beautiful she was! Oh, cruel fate, that kept me from the shelter of her love, that held me bound in bonds I dared not break! I groaned in agony of spirit. But she was happy—yes, happy with her boy, and through her faith in the man to whom she had given her heart. I should have been grateful for that; and I was; but none the less did I suffer, and sigh for the happiness which I had hoped would be mine.
She left the shop, and returned quickly to the house. Is there no way, I thought, is there no way? Could we not live together in some distant country where there would be no fear of detection? There had not been a word in the papers of the Liverpool tragedy; perhaps the danger was already over. I had but to keep the secret safely locked in my breast, to keep a seal upon my lips. Surely that could be done.
So ran my musings as I walked back to my lodgings, where presently I was joined by my solicitor, between whom and myself the final accounts were soon adjusted. Our business finished, he bade me good evening with a noticeable lack of cordiality.
What cared I for that, for him, for any one in the world but my dear Ellen and my boy? As I took up the thread of my musings my heart cried out for them. Why should I, guiltless in intent of crime, be condemned to lifelong misery and despair? It was intolerable—more than intolerable—more than man could bear. I would not bear it—I would not—would not——
Hush! What was that? The newsboys were calling out the special editions of the evening papers. "Horrible discovery in Liverpool! Horrible murder! Extra special! Horrible discovery—horrible murder!"
I flew into the street, all my nerves on fire, and purchasing a paper, was about to re-enter the house, when a hand was laid on my shoulder.
"My dear old John, how are you?"
I turned with a cry of terror, and saw Maxwell smiling in my face.
In sight of this new danger I was speechless. I had no power to define its nature or to examine it with a clear mind, but I could not resist the foreboding that a grievous burden was added to my pack of woe. There was an airy insolence, a light-hearted mockery in Maxwell's voice which betokened that he had reached a haven for which he had been searching; and I knew from old experience that this was a sign of evil.
"You don't appear to recognize me, dear John. Am I so changed, or is it that you have not recovered from the shock of the loss we have sustained? Our poor Barbara! Lost to us forever. She had her faults, but she has atoned for them, and is now in a better world. Let that be our consolation. Find your voice, old man, and bid me welcome."
"You are not welcome," I said, endeavoring to keep command of myself. "You have brought misery enough upon me. No living link gives you now a place in my life."
"True; but dead links are stronger and more binding. How they drop away, those who are dear to us! One burnt to death, another murdered in cold blood!"
Everything swam before me. The paper rustled in my trembling hand; the shouts of the newsboy: "Horrible discovery in Liverpool! Horrible murder!" fell upon my ears with a muffled sound, though he was but a few yards away, charged with dread import. I knew that Maxwell continued to speak, but I did not hear what he was saying till he shook me by the shoulder.
"You are inattentive, dear John. The latest murder the newsboy is calling out fascinates you. I see you have bought a newspaper off him; they are selling like wildfire. All over London they are screaming—'Murder, murder; horrible murder!' But you are shaking with cold. It will be better—and safer—to converse in your room, where we can read the news you have waited for so long. How true is the old adage, 'Murder will out!' After you, brother-in-law. The host takes the lead, you know. Tread softly, softly!"
He spoke with the air of one who holds the man he is addressing in the hollow of his hand, but he was always a braggart. In the midst of my terror and despair that thought came—this man Maxwell was always a braggart. I would hear what he had to say, and speak myself as little as possible till he was done. Thus much made itself intelligible to my dazed senses. So I led the way into the house, and up the stairs to my room, Maxwell following at my heels. Safe within, he turned the key gently in the lock.
"We can't be too careful, John, when life and liberty are at stake. And you would have sent me away—me, your only friend, the one man in the world who can save you from the gallows!"
"You speak in enigmas," I managed to say.
"Nonsense, brother-in-law—nonsense. Drop the mask; you are not in the criminal court; the police are not yet on your track. Your voice is husky. Are you still a teetotaller? Yes? Astonishing. Drink this glass of water—it will clear your throat. But, as my host, you will allow me something stronger. If I ring the bell the slavey will come, I suppose. I must trouble you for a few shillings, John. I am in my chronic state, dead broke, as usual. Bad luck sticks to me, but I would not change places with you for all that. My pockets are empty, but my neck is safe. What does the paper say about it?"
He took it from my hand, and took also the purse I had thrown on the table. The servant had answered the bell, and was waiting in the passage. He opened the door, and giving her money sent her for a bottle of brandy.
"Any other lodgers on this floor, John? No? That's fortunate. The less risk of our being overheard. What name do you go by here? Your own? No? What then? Tush! You can't conceal it from me; I have but to ask the slavey or the landlady. There is no need even for that, except by way of confirmation. Shall we say Fletcher—John Fletcher? A great mistake. Will tell fatally against you if they run you down, or if you make me your enemy. You should have kept to Fordham; it would have been a point in your favor. Poor Louis! He wasn't half a bad sort of fellow; but you never loved him. You almost killed him when you were boys together, and you only waited your opportunity to finish him. Well it's done, and badly done. I don't set myself up as a particularly moral or virtuous party, but my hands are free from blood. Ah, there's the slavey with the liquor, and I'm perishing for a drink."
I kept my eyes from him while he helped himself and drank; my fear was lest some look in my eyes should betray me; my cue was to ascertain from his own lips the extent of his knowledge, and how he came by it. His thirst assuaged he re-locked the door, and drew a chair close to that in which I was sitting at the table. Then he spread the newspaper upon the table, so that the revelation I dreaded could be read by both at the same time.
"Shall I read it aloud, John?"
"No."
"As you please."
We bent our heads over the paper, and this is what I read. I copy it from the cutting I have kept by me since that night:
"HORRIBLE DISCOVERY IN LIVERPOOL."
"A horrible discovery was made last night in an empty house in Rye Street, Liverpool. A couple of years ago the house was taken on lease by a corn merchant, who used the lower floors for storage, and let the upper floors for residence. Five or six months afterwards the tenants left, the reason being that they considered the building unsafe. Then the merchant furnished the first floor, and occasionally slept there. At the end of the year he had no further occasion for it, and he gave the keys to a house agent, with instructions to let the whole or part of the house to the best advantage, in order that he might be relieved of some portion of the rent, for which he was responsible. For eleven months it remained uninhabited, and then a gentleman giving the name of Mollison offered to take it for a month to see if it would suit him to become a permanent tenant. The agent closed with the offer; a month's rent was paid in advance, and the keys delivered over. It may be mentioned that Mr. Mollison was a stranger to the agent, who saw him only once, the arrangement being made at the first interview between them. A London reference was given, and the agent received a reply in due course which he considered satisfactory. Meanwhile, although the month's rent had been paid, the house seemed to remain uninhabited, no persons being seen to enter or issue from it, but there is some kind of circumstantial evidence that on one or more occasions the new tenant was there, either alone or with companions, there being a back entrance in a blind alley which after sunset was practically deserted. Candles and lamps have certainly been burnt in the room on the first floor facing the front entrance, but these were not seen from the street, for the reason that well-fitting shutters masked the windows, and that over the shutters hung heavy tapestry curtains.
"For some time past the Liverpool police have been seeking a clue towards the discovery of a gang of coiners who were supposed to be carrying on their unlawful occupation in that city, and two or three days ago their attention was directed to this house, which, from its situation and circumstances, offered facilities for these breakers of the law. A close watch was set upon the front and back entrances, but no one was observed to enter the premises. There being a likelihood that coiners' implements, if not the coiners themselves, might be found in the house, it was decided to break into it last night. This was done at midnight, but no implements of any kind were found. The efforts of the police, however, were not unrewarded, and a horrible discovery was made. In the passage from the street door to the first flight of stairs traces were seen of some frightful struggle having taken place there. Proceeding upstairs were further traces of the struggle, and upon the floor of the first floor front room—the shutters of which were closed and the curtains drawn across—was discovered the body of a man who had been ruthlessly murdered. It was not a quite recent murder; at least a fortnight must have passed between its perpetration and discovery. The room was in great disorder. The furniture was thrown in all directions, and proved the desperate nature of the struggle. Upon the face of the victim a heavy table had fallen or been dashed, with the evident intention of rendering the features unrecognizable.
"That this object was accomplished will not, perhaps, increase the mystery which surrounds the affair, for the clothes of the murdered man should provide means of identification. No cards or documents of any kind were found upon the body. In one of the pockets was an empty purse. A watch chain was found on the floor, but no watch. The chain appeared to have been torn away, and the absence of watch, money, and jewelry points to robbery. Death was caused by a stab in the heart, but a careful search through the house failed in the discovery of the weapon. The house agent states that the deceased is not the man to whom the place was let, of whom he has furnished a description to the police, but he seems not to be confident as to its correctness. From the stale remains of food and the lees of liquor at the bottom of glasses and bottles in the apartment it is presumed that the murder was committed thirteen or fourteen days ago, probably on the night of the snowstorm which did so much damage in the city. The police are busy investigating the horrible affair, which is at present enveloped in mystery. A subsequent additional statement has been made by the house agent, who says, though still speaking with uncertainty, that there are points of resemblance in the body to the man to whom the house was let."
Maxwell finished the reading of this, to me, fatal news, before I had, and when I looked up from the paper he was smoking one of my cigars, to which he had helped himself from my cigar case. What now remained was to hear from him how he had learned of my connection with the murder. He was sitting with folded arms, a glass of liquor before him, puffing at the cigar, and with his eyes fixed on my face.
"Rather startling, John," were his first words.
I returned his gaze without answering, and so we sat for several minutes, staring at each other. At length he spoke again.
"I am waiting, John."
"For what?" I asked.
My voice was strange to me; it was as if another man had spoken.
"Well, I thought you would like to make some comment on this newspaper report of the discovery of the crime. I do not wish you to incriminate yourself. No need for that. Any fool looking at you now, would jump at the right conclusion. We know who the murdered man is; the police don't, and may never discover. It depends upon me."
"Upon you?"
"Upon me. I hold the threads, and the evidence upon which you would be convicted. I make a shrewd guess that there is other evidence in your possession which would bring the guilt home to you." He rose and went into my bedroom; I followed his movements with my eyes, and made no effort to arrest them. Presently he returned. "I have taken the liberty to look over your clothing. There is no mistake about one article—Louis' ulster. Why do you keep it by you? Man alive, it is fatal—fatal!"
"How do you know it is his ulster?"
"Well, it may not be, but the last time I saw the poor fellow—let me see, it was about five weeks ago, here in London—he wore one suspiciously like it. Of course, it is easy of proof. Do you deny it was his?"
"I deny nothing; I admit nothing."
"Politic, but weak and useless. I will make another shrewd guess. The missing watch—Louis's watch. A search warrant would probably find it on your person or in these rooms. It may be difficult to identify unmarked clothing—I beg your pardon, you were about to speak."
I drank a second glass of water to clear my throat.
"It does not state here," I said, pointing to the newspaper, "that the clothing is unmarked."
"No, it does not, but I assume it, for if his handkerchief, or shirt, or any of his underclothing, bore his initials, the fact would be at once made public to expedite discovery. The reasonable conclusion, therefore, is that there are no initials on his clothing to assist the police. A fortunate thing for you. L. F. It would be all over the country. Some woman with whom he is connected—not his mother—would say to herself, 'L. F., Louis Fordham.' For the best of all reasons the man she is interested in does not make his appearance. Away she goes to the police, examines the clothes, examines the body, and declares the name of the murdered man."
"Why would not his mother do this?"
"Again, for the best of all reasons. She is dead."
"My stepmother dead!"
"As a doornail. You are in luck. Alive, and the body proved to be that of her son, she would argue it out. 'Who was my son's bitterest enemy—who has always been his bitterest enemy? Who but John Fordham?' She would swear to bring the murderer to justice; she would leave no stone unturned; she would hunt you down, John; she would tell the story of your life, with embellishments, in the public court, and make your very name infamous. Lucky for you, therefore, that she is dead. As I was saying, it may be difficult to identify unmarked clothing, but not so with a watch. It is almost a living witness, and found in your possession would send you to the gallows without a tittle of other evidence. What on earth made you run off with it, and what on earth made you leave your own behind? Your health, John. Talking is dry work. Wouldn't you like to ask me a few questions?"
"Tell me what you know, and how you know it. I cannot ask questions."
"Anything to oblige, and in any way you please. I will a round, unvarnished tale deliver. These are capital cigars of yours; you were always a good judge of tobacco. Well, then, to begin, with the prefatory remark that one part of it might be called a chapter of accidents. I won't dwell much on the past; it isn't by any means an agreeable subject, and I am quite aware that there was no love lost between us. But one thing I will say—I think we were all unjust to one another, all a little too hard on one another, making the worst of everything instead of endeavoring to smooth it over. You had provocation; Barbara had hers. She got the idea of another woman in her head, and it drove her to excesses. You can't deny that she was mistaken in her idea; another woman there was, another woman there is—and then, there's the child. That sort of thing is enough to drive a wife mad, so you can't call yourself blameless for poor Barbara's death, because you see, John, one thing leads to another. By a process of reasoning you might be proved to be the direct cause of your wife's death, and therefore her murderer. No doubt you can justify yourself to your own satisfaction, and I am not going to argue with you, but as Barbara's brother it is due to her memory that I should say a few words on her behalf. Of course you know, through your solicitor, that when you disappeared I tried to discover your whereabouts. You were too clever for me, and for some time I was at fault; at length I found out—never mind how—that you had gone to Australia. Then came the question, had you taken the other woman with you? I found an answer to it. You had not."