by Bram Stoker
However, he began to think, with the result that when he was brought before the magistrate he found himself prepared to make a clean breast of his ill-starred effort to achieve notoriety. A policeman who had been on duty on London Bridge had from a little distance seen him throw the boy into the water, and the man who had first laid hands on him, John Polter, testified to the same; the charge was therefore simple enough, and no time was lost.
When in the court the charge was entered upon, Peter Jimpson made his explanation, saying that all that had been done was with his son’s consent and connivance, simply in order to bring their names as swimmers before the public. To which the magistrate drily replied that such a course was apt to be attended with misapprehension, and was not devoid even of serious risk, as doubtless the grand jury would let him know later on.
Whilst the proceedings were at this stage a great cheering was heard outside, and very soon the rescued boy and his rescuer entered the court. Young Peter, with every appearance of regret, corroborated his father’s statement as to his having been a consenting party to his immersion; whereupon the rescuer indignantly said:
“And do you mean to say, you little wretch, that you tried to deceive the public by a base pretence of danger? Oh, boy! boy! I feel a certain love for you since your life is due to my own valour; but I trust that such an acted lie shall never again be due to you-even in part!”
The boy covered his eyes with his hands, and his voice was broken as he answered:
“Oh, your worship, I ain’t agoin’ on such a racket never no more. This brave, kind gentleman has taught me a lesson which I’ll never forget!” And he took the man’s big hand in his two small ones, and bent over it and kissed it, whilst there was scarcely a dry eye in the court, even the magistrate being visibly affected. Peter Jimpson was about to say something angrily, but the clerk of the court motioned him to be silent. Then the rescuer, who gave his name as Tom Bolter, spoke:
“May I ask your worship to dismiss the case. I wouldn’t go for to take the liberty of speaking only as how it was me what saved the boy at the risk of my life; and mayhap on that account you’ll let me say what I feels. These here two professionals has been trying to rig up a bit of biz, but the chance was against them, and they got queerer. No doubt but it’ll be a lesson to them not to play tricks again with the feelins of the public! It’s a harrowin’ up tenderness; that’s what it is, and I am sure that if your worship will let them off this time they will never go for to do it again. Isn’t that so, mateys?”
Both the Peters pronounced eager acquiescence; so after some deliberation the genial, bald-headed magistrate said:
“Peter Jimpson, and you, too, Peter Jimpson junior, I trust that the severe lesson which you have this day learnt may not be thrown away upon you. You must always remember that any form of fraud is obnoxious to the law; and this was distinctly a fraud on your part. Perhaps- indeed, I am satisfied, that you thought it an innocent proceeding enough; but let me tell you that there was manifest throughout the mens rea, which the law holds to be a necessary part of ill-doing-the intent to deceive. I am convinced that you, Peter Jimpson, fully intended to follow your son into the water, or otherwise I should have by this time committed you for trial on the serious charge of attempted murder, and for this reason I shall dismiss the charge; but I trust that as you lay your head on your pillow to-night you will breathe a warm and earnest prayer for that most gallant fellow, Thomas Bolter-that most excellent swimmer and master of the art of life-saving, to whom you owe so much!”
There was great applause in court, and a voice in the back of the crowd said, “Good old Bolter!” but the crier instantly called, “Silence in the court.”
Then Tom Bolter stood forward, and pulling his forelock respectfully, said:
“Your worship, what I done I done for the dear child’s good; but I thank your worship all the same for the kind and useful-and I hope I may say true-words which you have spoke of me. I’m only a unknown man in London as yet; but I am sure that before long you’ll hear of me in connection with saving life from drowning. When that time comes I ‘ope as you, your worship, and all these ‘ere ladies and gents as has done me so proud to-day concernin’ my gallant act’ll remember the name of Tom Bolter, and come and see me, even if you have to plank down your moneyfor it. My service to you, your worship, and you ladies and gents all!” and Tom Bolter retired from the court amid a murmur of applause, the court emptying after him in a stream.
Outside there was soon a buzz and hum of many persons speaking, for each of the chief actors in the river episode was surrounded by a group of sympathisers or admirers.
One little group of sporting-looking young men stood apart listening to a betting man, whose calling was writ large on every square inch of his face and clothing.
“Well, blow me tight!” they heard him say, “if that ain’t the very cheekiest thing I ever see done; and, mind you, I’ve seen a few.”
“How do you mean, Sam?” came the chorus of questions.
“ ‘Ow do I mean? Why, this, that the bally court and the ‘ole bloomin’ lot of yer is took in! They’ve been playin’ yer for suckers, the ‘ole bloomin’ lot of yer.”
“Who has, Sam?”
“Why, them two Northern chaps, Polter and Bolter, the champion swimmers of the Tyne. They’ve come to London to give an exhibition of life savin’ at the Hippodrome, an’ I’ve seen their printin’ lyin’ ready till their chance come. ‘Polter and Bolter, the ‘Eroes of the Thames,’ is wot they’re down as, and I’ve seen them the ‘ole of last week prowlin’ round the bridge lookin’ out for a chanst. My stars! but they done it fine; but the kiddy is the daisy of them all!”
In the meantime, in the group round the two Peters, the boy’s voice was heard above the babel:
“I tell you he’s the bravest chap and the finest swimmer in all the world! I ought to know since he took me out of the jaws of death! God bless him!”
Here Peter the elder whispered to him fiercely:
“Stow all that and keep yer ‘ead shut! Don’t crack him up; keep that for ourselves!” to which the dutiful boy answered aloud;
“No, father, I cannot hold my tongue! I must speak up for the brave and true!” Then he added in a whisper:
“Keep it up, dad! I’ve settled with them as we came up to the court. They’re goin’ to open in the Hippodrome and they’re to give you and me twenty quid a week to play up to them! You go on swimmin’, father, and be quicker in your jumps; but leave the business of the firm to me!”
LORD CASTLETON EXPLAINS
Taken From
THE FATE OF FENELLA
The serial novel The Fate of Fenella was published in 1892 in Cassell’s Magazine and featured a different author writing each of the twenty-four chapters. Stoker was commissioned to write the tenth chapter, which is available below.
CHAPTER 10
Lord Francis Onslow lifted his cap. The action was an instinctive one, for he was face to face with a lady; but he was half dazed with the unexpected meeting, and could not collect his thoughts. He only remembered that when he had last seen his wife she was opening the door of her chamber to De Murger. For weeks he had been schooling himself for such a meeting, for he knew that on his return such might at any time occur; but now, when the moment had come, and unexpectedly, the old pain of his shame overwhelmed him anew. His face grew white-white till it seemed to Fenella that it was of the pallor of death. She knew that she had been so far guilty of what had happened that the murder had been the outcome of her previous acts. She knew also that her husband was ignorant of his part in the deed-and her horror of the man, blood-guilty in such a way, was fined down by the sense of her own partial guilt. The trial, with all its consequent pain to a proud and sensitive woman, had softened her, and she grasped at any hope. The sight of Frank, his gaunt cheeks, which told their tale of suffering, and now the deadly pallor, awoke all the protective feeling which is a part of a woman’s love. It was with her whole soul in her voi
ce that she said again:
“Frank!” His voice was stern as well as sad as he answered her:
“What is it?” Her heart went cold, but she persevered.
“Frank, I must have a word with you-I must. For God’s sake, for Ronny’s sake, do not deny me.” She did not know that as yet Frank Onslow was in ignorance of De Murger’s death; and when his answer came it seemed more hard than even he intended:
“Do you wish to speak of that night?” In a faint voice she answered:
“I do.” Then looking in his eyes and seeing the hard look becoming harder still-for a man is seldom generous with a woman where his honour is concerned, she added:
“O Heaven! Frank! You do not think me guilty! No, no, not you! not you! That would be too cruel!”
Frank Onslow paused and said:
“Fenella, God help me! but I do,” and he turned away his head. His wife, of course, thought that he alluded to the murder, and not to her sin against him as he saw it, and with a low moan she turned away and hid her face in her hands. Then with an effort she drew herself up, and without a word or a single movement to show that she even recognised his presence, she passed on up the street.
Frank Onslow stood for a few moments watching her retreating figure, and then went across the street and turned the next corner on his way to the post-office, for which he had been inquiring when he met his wife. At the door he was stopped by a cheery voice and an outstretched hand:
“Onslow!”
“Castleton! The two men shook hands warmly.
“I see you did not get my telegram,” said Lord Castleton. “It is waiting for you at the post-office.”
“What telegram?”
“To tell you that I was on my way here from London. I went in your interest, old fellow. I thought you would like full particulars-the newspapers are so vague.”
“What papers? My interest? Tell me all. I am ignorant of all that has passed for the last six weeks.” A vague, shadowy fear began to creep over his spirits. Castleton’s voice was full of sympathy as he answered:
“Then you have not heard of-but stay. It is a long story. Come back to the yacht. I was just going to join you there. We shall be all alone, and I can tell you all. I have the newspapers here for you.” He motioned to a roll under his arm.
The two went down to the harbour, and finding the sailor waiting with the boat at the steps, were rowed to the yacht and got on board. Here the two men were all alone. Then, with a preliminary clearing of his voice, Castleton began his story:
“Frank Onslow-better get the worst over at once-just after you went away from Harrogate your wife was tried for murder and acquitted.”
“My God! Fenella tried for murder? Whose murder?”
“That scoundrel De Murger. It seems he went into her room in the night and attempted violence, so she stabbed him-”
Castleton stopped in amazement, for a look of radiance came over Frank Onslow’s face, as he murmured “Thank God!” Recalled to himself by Castleton’s silence, for he was too amazed to go on, Frank said. “I have a reason, old fellow; I shall tell it to you later, but go on. Tell me all the facts, or let me read the papers. Remember I am as yet quite ignorant of it all and I am full of anxiety!”
Without a word Castleton handed him the papers, and, lighting a fresh cigar, sat down with his back to him, and presently yielded to the sun and fresh air and fell into a doze.
Frank Onslow took the papers, and read carefully from end to end the account of the trial of his wife for the murder of De Murger. When he had finished he sat with the folded paper in his hand, and his eyes had the same far-away look in them which they had had on that fatal night. The hypnotic trance was on him again.
Presently he rose, and with stealthy steps approached his sleeping friend. Murmuring “Why did I not kill him?” he struck with the folded paper, as though with a dagger, the form before him. Castleton, who had sunk into a pleasant sleep and whose fat face was wreathed with a smile, was annoyed at the rude awakening. “What the devil!” he began angrily, and then stopped as his eyes met the face of his friend and he realised that he was in some sort of trance. He grew very pale as he saw Frank Onslow stab, and stab, and stab again. There was a certain grotesqueness in the affair-the man in such terrible earnest, in his mind committing murder, while his real weapon was but a folded paper. As he stabbed he hissed, “Why did I not kill him? Why did I not kill him?” Then he went through a series of movements as though he were softly pulling an imaginary door shut behind him, and so back to his own chair, where he sat down hiding his face in his hands.
Castleton sat looking at him in amazement, and then murmured to himself:
“They thought it was someone stronger than Fenella whose grasp made those marks on the dead man’s throat.” He suddenly looked round to see that no one but himself had observed what had happened, and then, being satisfied on this point, murmured again:
“A noble woman, by Jove! A noble woman!” He called out:
“Frank-Frank Onslow! Wake up, man.” Onslow raised his head as a man does when suddenly awakened, and smiled as he said:
“What is it, old man? Have I been asleep?” It was quite evident that he had no recollection of what had just passed. Castleton came and sat down beside him, and his kindly face was grave as he asked:
“You have read the papers?”
“I have.”
“Now tell me-you offered to do so-why you said ‘Thank God!’ when I told you that your wife had killed De Murger?”
Frank Onslow paused. Although the memory of what he had thought to be his shame had been with him daily and nightly until he had become familiarized with it, it was another thing to speak of it, even to such a friend as Castleton. Even now, when it was apparent from the issue of the trial that his wife had avenged so dreadfully the attempt upon her honour, he felt it hard to speak on the subject. Castleton saw the doubt and struggle in his mind which was reflected in his face, and said earnestly, as he laid his hand upon his shoulder:
“Do not hesitate to tell me, Frank. I do not ask out of mere curiosity. I am perhaps a better friend than you think in helping to clear up a certain doubt which I see before me. I think you know I am a friend.”
“One of the best a man ever had!” said Frank impulsively, as he took the other’s hand. Then turning away his head, he said slowly:
“You were surprised because I was glad Fenella killed that scoundrel. I can tell you, Castleton, but I would not tell anyone else. It was because I saw him enter her room, and, God forgive me! I thought at the time that it was by her wish. That is why I came away from Harrogate that night. That is what kept me away. How could I go back and face my friends with such a shame fresh upon me? It was your lending me your yacht, old man, that made life possible. When I was by myself through the wildness of the Bay of Biscay and among the great billows of the Atlantic I began to be able to bear. I had steeled myself, I thought, and when I heard that so far from my wife being guilty of such a shame, she actually killed the man that attempted her honour, is it any wonder that I felt joyful?”
After a pause Castleton asked:
“How did you come to see-to see it. Why did you take no step to prevent it? Forgive me, old fellow, but I want to understand.”
Frank Onslow went to the rail, and leaned over. When he came back Castleton saw that his eyes were wet. With what cheerfulness he could assume, he answered:
“On that very night I had made up my mind to try to win back my wife’s love. I wrote a letter to her, a letter in which I poured out my whole soul, and I left my room to put it under her door, so that she would get it in the morning. But”-here he paused, and then said, slowly, “but when in the corridor, I saw her door open, and at the same moment De Murger appeared.”
“Did she seem surprised?”
“Not at first. But a moment after a look of amazement crossed her face, and she stepped back into the room, he following her.” As he said this he put his head between his hands and groane
d.
“And then?” added his friend.
“And then I hardly know what happened. My mind seems full of a dim memory of a blank existence, and then a series of wild whirling thoughts, something like that last moment after death in Wiertz’s picture. I think I must have slept, for it was two o’clock when I saw Fenella, and the clock was striking five when I crossed the bridge after I had left the hotel.
“And the letter? What became of it?”
Frank started. “The letter? I never thought of it. Stay! I must have left it on the table in my room. I remember seeing it there a little while before I came away.”
“How was it addressed? Do not think me inquisitive, but I cannot help thinking that that letter may yet be of some great importance.”
Frank smiled, a sad smile enough, as he answered: “By the pet name I had for Fenella-Mrs Right. I used to chaff her because she always defended her position when we argued, and so, when I wanted to tease her, I called her Mrs Right.”
“Was it written on hotel paper?”
“No. I was going to write on some, but I thought it would be better to use the sort we had when-when we were first married. There were a few sheets in my writing case, so I took one.”
“That was headed somewhere in Surrey, was it not?”
“Yes; Chiddingford, near Haslemere. It was a pretty place, too, called The Grange. Fenella fell in love with it, and made me buy it right away.”
“Is anyone living there now?”
“It is let to someone. I don’t think that I heard the name. The agent knows. When the trouble came I told him to do what he could with it, and not to bother me with it any more. After a while he wrote and asked if I would mind it being let to a foreigner? I told him he might let it to a devil so long as he did not worry me.”