by Hugh Conway
Although she still shrank from me, by force I drew her to me, and laid that poor head on my shoulder. I stroked the smooth black silky hair, I kissed the white forehead, and used every endearing and soothing expression that love such as mine could suggest. In vain! The moment I loosened my hold my wife fled from my side.
‘Basil,’ she cried, ‘you knew it! You knew the blood of a man was on my hands! Again I say such love is not holy!’
‘Dearest, again I tell you that in my eyes—if the truth were known, in the eyes of all—you are innocent as a babe.’
She shook her head hopelessly. I saw that nothing at present could move her. Perhaps it was more than I had a right to expect. So for the time I gave up arguing. I begged her for my sake to retire to rest. I gave her a soothing draught. I sat by her for hours, and held her hand, until at last, her eyelids fell, and worn out by grief, she slept.
Oh, how right I had been in choosing flight! Although a cursed chance had revealed what I fondly hoped would be for ever buried in oblivion, how right I had been! Had the hands of Justice grasped my sweet wife, although she might no doubt have been found guiltless, the trial, the exposure, would have killed her. Thank heaven, she was safe, and amenable only to the tribunal of her own sensitive conscience!
When I heard her breathing grow regular, and knew that she was in a deep sleep, I pressed my lips gently to her fair cheek, and left her. I went in search of my mother, and made the best tale I could think of to account for Philippa’s indisposition. I forced myself to wear a smiling face, and to listen with a show of interest to the account my mother gave me of certain difficulties which had during my absence arisen with some of the native servants. But there was nothing which could really interest me when I thought of my poor love lying there sleeping, to awake, alas, to sorrow and remorse. No wonder that, as soon as I had spent with my mother the smallest portion of time which filial duty and gratitude exacted, I flew back to Philippa’s bedside.
I watched beside her until she awoke—until her splendid dark eyes unveiled themselves. I leant over and kissed her passionately. Between sleeping and waking, while consciousness was yet in abeyance, she returned my caresses. Then came back memory and its terrors.
‘Leave me,’ she said; ‘I am a murderess!’
Once more I denied it; once more I told her she was innocent. My only hope was, that by continued argument I might in time ease her mind. She listened almost apathetically. I grew eloquent and passionate. Was I not pleading for my own sake as well as hers? If I could but persuade her she was unaccountable for what she had done, some remnant of the happiness which a few days ago I had promised myself might even now be left.
‘Basil,’ she whispered, ‘I have been dreaming horrible things. Will they try me—and hang me?’
‘We are in Spain, dearest. Even if you were guilty, the English law would not reach you.’
She started. ‘And it was for this you hurried to Spain? To save me from a felon’s death?’
‘To save you from what, in your state at the time, you could not bear. I say again you are innocent, but I dare not risk the trial.’
She was silent for some minutes; then she spoke.
‘I am proud, passionate, wicked,’ she said; ‘but I could never have meant to do this. I was mad! I must have been mad! Basil, you could tell them I was mad. They would believe you, and forgive me.’
She looked at me imploringly.
‘I could stand up,’ I said, ‘and state on oath that you were at the time in a raging delirium. I could pledge my professional reputation that your actions were the result of madness. Fear nothing on that score, my wife.’
I spoke boldly; but as I spoke a thought shot through me—a thought which blanched my cheek and brought the beads of perspiration to my brow. I knew enough of law to be aware that a husband could not in a criminal case give evidence for or against his wife. My marriage with Philippa had deprived her of the benefit of my testimony as to her insanity. I trembled like a leaf as I pictured what might happen in the event of her being tried for the murder of Sir Mervyn Ferrand. The very nurses had but seen her sane. No one but myself and perhaps my servant had seen her in her madness.
My dismay was such that I was bound to leave the room, in order to recover my presence of mind. Again and again I thanked heaven that we were on foreign soil. The thought that my unreasoning love might have destroyed her I loved was almost more than I could bear.
I fancy I have lingered long enough over that terrible time, when my wife first learnt that the dream which had haunted her was reality—that her hand had unknowingly avenged her supposed and premeditated wrong. Let me but say that the mental anguish into which the knowledge plunged her was not unattended by physical evil. In fact, for many days my poor girl was ill, very ill. My mother and I nursed her with every care, and by-and-by youth and a splendid constitution reasserted themselves, and, a shadow of her former self, she was able to leave her bed. My mother was tenderness itself to her daughter. She knew nothing of the true cause of her illness; indeed, she blamed me roundly for not having taken proper care of my beautiful bride, and vowed laughingly that for the future nothing should induce her to trust Philippa out of her sight.
Now that Philippa knew all she had done, I thought it better to tell her that, although he had no intention of so doing, Sir Mervyn Ferrand, in causing a mock marriage to be celebrated, had by a strange chance really made her his wife. This gave her little comfort. ‘It makes my crime the greater,’ she said bitterly. ‘I have killed my husband instead of my seducer! I am not fit to live!’
Weeks went by. Philippa gradually grew stronger, and, what was even more a cause of joy to me, calmer and more reasonable on a certain subject. With all the power I could bring to bear, I had never ceased to impress upon her that morally she was innocent, and I believed my words were bearing fruit. Her fits of mental anguish and self-reproach grew of less frequent occurrence. She did not, whenever we were alone, continually harp upon her crime. Calm seemed to settle upon us once more, and I ventured to hope that the great physician, Time, would one day bring to my wife’s heart something that might be called sorrowful happiness; but I knew I must wait years and years for this.
She was changed, greatly changed. Her lips seldom smiled; her eyes never brightened, unless when she saw me drawing near. She seemed older and graver. But I knew, in spite of all, she loved me with a deathless love.
Although at last we had ceased to discuss the sorrow of our life, I suspected it was seldom absent from her mind. Sometimes as I lay beside her I heard her moaning and talking in her troubled dreams, and too well I knew the cause. As my arm stole round her, and assured her of the safety and certainty of my great love, in my heart I cursed the dead man whose evil deed had brought such lasting woe on the fair head pillowed on my bosom. Ah me! What life might have been for us two, now that love reigned between us!
Once—it was shortly after Philippa began to creep, a weak invalid, about the fragrant patio—she said to me, with evident meaning in her voice,
‘Basil, do you see the London papers?’
‘Sometimes—not always. I have almost forgotten England.’
‘Promise me you will see them every day.’
‘I will, if you wish; but why?’
Her voice sank. ‘Can you not guess? Basil, listen. I have consented to be guided by you. I am praying that the day may come when I shall think as you think. But what if an innocent person were accused of the crime I have committed? Then there is but one course; you could urge nothing against it. Promise me you will see the paper of every day as soon as it reaches here. I shall have no peace unless you do.’
I promised fearlessly. Justice does sometimes make mistakes, but not such a mistake as the one hinted at by Philippa. No; Sir Mervyn Ferrand’s death was a mystery never to be solved. So, to set my poor wife at ease on the matter, I wrote and ordered that the Times should be posted to me every day.
CHAPTER XII
TEMPTED TO DISH
ONOUR
I HATE looking back and re-reading words which I have written whilst the impulse was upon me; but I fancy I have somewhere called this tale a confession; if not, I should have done so. It claims no more to be ranked as a work of art than as a work of imagination. How could it? It holds only two characters—a man and a woman. It treats but of their love and of a few months of their lives. Nevertheless, in telling it I have endeavoured to conceal nothing. I have tried to describe my thoughts, my hopes, my fears, my sorrows and my joys, as they really were. I have, I believe, suppressed nothing which could lead anyone to condemn my actions more strongly than, it may be, they now condemn them. My wish has been to show myself as I was then—no doubt am now—a weak, selfish man; yet, for the love which he bore a woman, one willing to risk fortune, life, even honour. If I have failed in my attempt to represent myself as such a one, believe it is not from intention, but from sheer inability.
But whether I have so far succeeded or failed in my purpose I know not; but I know that in this chapter I must, perforce, fail. The language rich and powerful enough to serve my needs has yet to be invented. The writer who could in any fitting way reproduce my thoughts has yet to be born.
And yet the chapter will be a short one. It will be but the record of a few hours; but such hours! Hours during which I struggled against a temptation to commit, not only crime, but base cowardly crime; a temptation stronger, I dare to think, than poor human nature has as yet been subjected to. My words sound bold; but listen.
Oh, that one morning! How well I can remember it! Our breakfast was just over. The quaint-shaped little table, with its snowy cloth throwing into relief the deep colours of the luscious fruit upon it, still stood in the awning-roofed patio. I was alone, my mother and Philippa having retired indoors to see about some domestic economy. I lounged lazily and at my ease. I rolled and lighted a cigarette, blaming myself as I did so for my barbarity in profaning the blossom-scented air with tobacco smoke. Then I took from my pocket the London Times, which had arrived by the last post, and listlessly set to work to skim its lengthy columns.
I had no fear as to what the paper might contain. It was not from newspaper reports that I apprehended danger. I had, however, noticed that Philippa, when she saw me with a newspaper in my hand, eyed me anxiously and inquiringly; so that generally I contrived to glance through it when she was absent. I never permitted her to touch it until I had read it; but my only reason for this prohibition was that I feared lest some chance allusion to the mysterious and undiscovered crime might distress her. Her own far-fetched fancy that another might be accused of it gave me not a moment’s uneasiness.
So I turned and doubled back the broad sheets. I ran down the topics of the day. I skimmed the leading articles. I glanced at the foreign news; paid scant attention to law reports, and disregarded altogether the money-market intelligence. At last I turned my attention to the provincial news column. A name caught my eye; a cold shiver of dread ran through me. My cigarette fell on the marble pavement, and lay there unheeded, as, with agitation which no words can describe, I read a short paragraph placed under the heading of Tewnham, the principal town of the county in which Roding was situated. Read!
‘William Evans, the man accused of the murder of Sir Mervyn Ferrand, Bart., in January last, will be tried at these Assizes, which open on the twentieth. The case, which excites considerable interest, will be taken on the first day. It is reported that although fresh evidence against the prisoner will be forthcoming, it will be of a purely circumstantial nature.’
Every word of that accursed paragraph seemed like a blow falling upon my head. For some minutes I sat as one stunned. I felt my teeth chattering. I knew that my cheek was blanched. Philippa’s fanciful dread had come to pass! Another—an innocent man—was bearing the blame of her own mad act! Dazed, stupid, scarcely able to comprehend what must be the full effect of what I had just read, I sat motionless, with my eyes fixed upon that fatal sheet.
The sound of my mother’s pleasant voice calling to Philippa at last awoke me from my stupor. They were coming. I could not face them. I doubled up the newspaper, thrust it into my pocket, and rushed out into the street. As yet I had not dared to imagine what this intelligence might mean to us. I must have long hours of solitude, in order to decide what course should be adopted to face this, the last, the worst peril.
I passed swiftly through the iron gate. I went up the narrow street at a pace which must have made all who saw me think me mad. Whither did I go? I scarcely remember. I think it must have been to one of the public gardens; but in that hour all sense of locality left me. I went instinctively in search of solitude. I found, I know not how or where, some shady deserted spot. There, in the anguish of my heart, amid the wreck of my sand-founded happiness, I threw myself on the ground, and dug my finger-nails into the dry soil.
At first I thought I was going or had gone mad. The thoughts which rushed through my mind were disjointed, and wanted coherence. An innocent man accused of the crime! To be tried on the twentieth! The twentieth! And now it is the sixteenth! Fresh evidence forthcoming! The fools—the utter fools! This the boasted detective skill! To arrest on suspicion, to bring to trial a man who must be ignorant of everything connected with the murder! What is to be done? What can be done? Oh, my wife! My poor darling wife!
Then, I believe, I cried like a child. It seemed to me that all was lost. There was but one thing to be done—one course to be taken. My darling must give herself up to justice, and by her confession free this luckless wretch who now stands in peril of his life. She must bear the shame of the trial, and trust to human justice and the mercy which she had a right to expect. Oh, it was pitiful, pitiful! For a long while no alternative course suggested itself to me.
Human justice! What is justice? See how it can err! It can arrest, try, and—oh, horrible thought!—perhaps condemn to death an innocent man! How then would it fare with Philippa? Who, now that marriage has sealed my lips, was there to prove her madness when she slew that man? I raged at the thought. It seemed to me that we were hard and fast in the toils. I might, it is true, call William, my servant, to swear that her manner was strange and wild upon that night. I might call the nurses to prove that when first they saw her she was recovering from an attack of mania. But would they be credited? Would not a clever lawyer soon convince twelve ordinary men that it was not her madness which prompted the crime, but the crime which produced the madness? We were indeed meshed and bound; hemmed in on every side; helpless and, it seemed, hopeless!
And Philippa must be told this! I must tell her! How could I nerve myself to make the truth known to her—now, of all times, when her health was all but restored; when a kind of sad but placid acquiescence in what fate had wrought seemed to be gradually coming over her; now, when I was once more building up hopes of happiness for her as well as for me? For I knew—ah, think of this, and pity me!—that before another half-year should pass there might be given to my wife and me a gift which would go far towards sweeping away the memories of gloom and horror which had of late spread over our lives. I even dared to hope, to feel certain, that as she gazed into baby eyes, as she pressed a tiny head to her bosom, some, nay, much of the lost sweetness and glory of life might return to my love.
Think of this, and picture me lying on the ground that day, with the damning intelligence fresh on my mind! Think that in a few hours I must return to my home, and tell my wife that the bolt had fallen! There was no alternative!
No alternative? Stay, there is an alternative! The blood seemed to course wildly through my veins, my heart beat fiercely, my lips grew dry, and a choking sensation came over me, as for the first time the simple yet certain way of cutting the knot of my difficulties flashed across my mind. So simple, so easy it at first appeared, that I laughed at my stupidity in not having seen it at once.
Tear that accursed paper to pieces, Basil North! Scatter those pieces to the winds. Forget what you have read. Go back to your luxurious flower-bedecked home. Meet th
e one you love with a smile upon your face: you have forced smiles before now! Greet her as usual. Say nothing of this morning’s news. Keep your own counsel; bury all you have learnt in your secret heart. Do this, and be happy for evermore!
But the man—the man who in a few days’ time is to be tried for another’s act? Well, what of him? The fool will doubtless be acquitted. Fool! Yes, it is the right term for one who can bring himself under suspicion. But if Justice runs on the wrong track until the end—if that man dies?
What then? What is his miserable life, what are a hundred lives, when weighed against Philippa’s happiness? What is conscience? What is right and wrong? What is the phantom which men call honour? What, after all, is crime? Be silent, and forget. You are asked to do no more. You have riches, youth, health, and a strong will. The fairest woman on the earth adores you. Why hesitate? Why let one boor’s life weigh in the scale?
Argue the matter in another way. Are not thousands of men slain every year by the whim of a monarch or a statesman? The thought of their deaths troubles not those who send them forth to fight. Men kill each other for revenge, for money, for a point of honour, and the killer lives on like other men live! Trust this man to the vaunted array of Justice. He is innocent, and will come from the ordeal unscathed. If found guilty, let him die. He will not be the first innocent man who has died, nor will he be the last to die. It is but one life! He is nothing to you; think of him no more. Come what may, you will always have your sunny home and the woman you love. Her children will grow up around you. Why hesitate? A life’s happiness is to be won by simply sealing your lips. Its cost is but, supposing Justice blunders, to bear the burden of one man’s death. A paltry price!