by Hugh Conway
There! I cannot, will not describe the scene more fully. I will say no more, except this: when at last we grew calmer, Philippa turned to me, and once more I saw terror gathering in her eyes.
‘Basil,’ she said, ‘it is true—it must be true?’
‘True! Of course it is.’
‘That man, the prisoner, could not have pleaded guilty when he was innocent.’
‘Why should he? It meant death to him, poor wretch.’
‘But why did he confess?’
‘Who can tell? Remorse may have urged him to do so.’
Philippa rose, and her next words were spoken quickly and with excitement.
‘No, I did not do it. The thought, the dream haunted me, but I did not believe it until I heard those men talk of the way he died. Then it all came back to me. The mad storm, the dead man over whom I stood; even then I don’t think I actually believed it. It was when you told me how you found me, that I lost all hope.’
‘Dearest, forgive me. I should have believed in the impossibility of the act even in your delirium, even if I had seen it done. Philippa, say you forgive me.’
She threw her arms around me. ‘Basil, my husband,’ she whispered, ‘you have done much for me, do one thing more; find out the whole truth—find out why this man killed him, how he killed him; find out, satisfy me that his confession was a true one; then, Basil, such happiness as I have never even dreamed of will be mine!’
‘And mine,’ I echoed.
I promised to do as she wished. Indeed, the moment I had recovered my senses, I resolved to learn everything that could be learned. Once and for all I would clear away every cloud of doubt, although that cloud might be no bigger than a man’s hand.
But Philippa must not stop in Tewnham. Her strange conduct during the trial, her fainting-fit after it, were bound to have attracted the attention of those present. No doubt she was looked upon as a friend of the prisoner, who was overpowered by the sudden and awful ending to the case. Still, she must not stay at Tewnham.
We went to London by an afternoon train. The next morning I again ran down to the place at which the trial was held. I ascertained the name of the convict’s solicitor, and as soon as I found him at leisure requested the favour of an interview.
I found him apparently a worthy, respectable man, but of a nature inclined to be choleric. I told him I called on him because I was much interested in the case of the convict William Evans. Mr Crisp, that was his name, frowned and fidgeted about with some papers which were in front of him.
‘I would rather not talk about the case,’ he said sharply. ‘Nothing for many years has so much annoyed me.’
‘Why? Your client only met with his deserts.’
‘True—true. But I am a lawyer, sir. Our province is not to think so much of deserts as of what we can do for a client. It is hard to try and serve a fool.’
‘No doubt; but I scarcely understand your meaning.’
‘Meaning! I could have saved that man. There was no evidence to speak of against him. What did it amount to? A pistol of a peculiar make found in a field half a mile away from the scene of the murder; one man who could swear that the pistol was my client’s property—a pawnbroker, to whom he wanted to sell it. Positively, sir, that was the whole case for the Crown. Never so disgusted in my life—never!’
The excitable little man’s looks showed that his disgust was not assumed.
So the pistol which I had thoughtlessly hurled away had, after all, furnished the clue and brought the criminal to justice. Although I was now quite satisfied that the right person was to suffer for the dark crime, I resolved to get all the additional information I could.
‘But why did he plead guilty?’ I asked.
‘Because he was a fool,’ rapped out Mr Crisp. ‘It was like committing suicide. I don’t care a button for the man himself; but I confess I was annoyed at seeing my case all knocked to pieces by his obstinacy. I went to him; if you were in court, you no doubt saw me. I begged him to withdraw his plea. I told him I could save him. Yet the fool insisted.’
‘Did penitence or remorse urge him?’
‘I don’t know. He could have had more time for penitence and remorse if he had let me save him from the gallows. No; he says, “It’s no good—not a bit of good. You don’t know all I know. There’s someone in court who knows all about it—saw it all done. She’s come to hang me.” I have no idea what he meant.’
I started. I knew what the man meant. He, in common with everyone else in that court, had turned and looked at Philippa as she rose from her seat and addressed the judge. It was the sight of Philippa that had taken away the wretch’s last hope of escape.
‘I washed my hands of the fellow, of course,’ continued Mr Crisp; ‘but I did take the trouble to enquire if any witnesses for the prosecution had been allowed to enter the court. I am assured they were all kept in waiting outside.’
I sat for some moments in deep thought. The solicitor looked at me, as if he fancied I had already taken up as much of his valuable time as he could spare.
‘Is there any way of gaining access to the condemned man?’ I said. ‘Could you, for instance, get an order to see him?’
‘No doubt I could; but I have no object in seeing him.’
‘I will give you an object,’ I said. ‘I want you to see that man, and, if possible, get a written, or at least dictated, confession from him—not of the bald fact that he is guilty, but of all particulars connected with the murder.’
Mr Crisp looked surprised, and expressed his opinion that it was all but impossible to obtain what I wanted.
I had taken rather a fancy to the brisk-spoken, sharp little man. He seemed to me trustworthy; so that, after consideration, I determined to confide to him my reason for making this request. Under the assurance of professional secrecy, I told him briefly so much as I thought fit of Philippa’s and my own connection with the events of that night. He listened with an interest which augured well for the reception which awaits the sombre tale I now give to the world. His curiosity seemed excited, and he promised to see the convict, and, if possible, learn all I wanted to know. I left my address, and bade him good-day.
I did not care to linger at Tewnham; so I walked down to the railway-station, intending to return to town by the next train. As I waited on the platform a down-train came in. A sudden impulse seized me. The day was still young. I had time to spare. I crossed the bridge, entered the train, and in a quarter of an hour was at Roding. I went there because I was impelled by a desire to once more visit the actual scene of the beginning of all these troubles.
I walked that road which Sir Mervyn Ferrand had walked that dark night. But oh, how changed everything was! Yet not more changed than our own lives. It was a glorious afternoon in September. The rain of the preceding day had left the earth moist and fresh. The fields, on either side of the road, were gleaming with that bright, pure emerald which they wear after the ruthless scythe has swept away the ripe grass and the marguerites and other flowers which grow among it; or else they were filled from hedge to hedge with a golden sea of waving corn, or sheaves waiting to be garnered; for the harvest that year was not early. The wild roses were long over, but fragrant honeysuckle and other wild flowers still made gay the hedgerows and banks. The birds had awakened from their August silence, and were singing once more. The great sleepy cows lay under the shade of the trees. The large mows of new hay stood side by side with their dingy-looking, but more valuable, elder brothers. The whole land seemed wrapped in happy autumnal repose. The scene was calm, peaceful, and thoroughly typical of England. So beautiful it was, so full I now felt of love for my native land, that had these pages been then written, I should, upon my return home, have erased all my glowing description of Seville.
A breath of soft but fresh air came blowing from the far-away downs. I drew in a deep draught; I threw back my shoulders and stood erect. I laughed aloud in my great happiness as a comical picture, familiar to my childhood, of Christian losing h
is burden, rose before my mind, and seemed to be the exact thing wanted to illustrate my own case. Yes, the burden I had borne had fallen from my back for ever!
Ah! Here is the spot—the very spot where Sir Mervyn fell. It was here, just under that cluster of ragged-robins, I must have placed his corpse, little thinking that the kind white snow would hide it, and save my love and me. Oh, how I prayed in those days that the bitter weather might last; that its iron grip would hold the world fast until Philippa’s health and strength returned! It did so, and saved us!
‘Where are the snows that fell last year?’ Ah! Should I not rather sing ‘Where is the grief of yesterday?’ Gone like the snow. Other snow may fall, other grief may come, but last year’s snow and yesterday’s grief are gone for ever!
Nevertheless, that spot was too suggestive of horrible reminiscences for me to linger long over it. I turned away, and in my great happiness could whisper to myself that I forgave the dead man for the ill he had wrought. May his bones rest in peace! I walked along the road, right on until I came to the cottage in which, like a coward who could not face his troubles, I had spent those aimless, miserable months. It was untenanted. Half-defaced auction bills were in the windows and on the doorposts; for some months ago the furniture had been sold. I paused and looked at the window by which Philippa had entered, and felt that since that night I had passed through more grief, passion, fear, hope and joy than would fill an ordinary lifetime. Then I turned and shook the dust off my feet. Never again would I come within twenty miles of this place.
On the road back, to my annoyance, I encountered Mrs Wilson. I tried to pass without sign of recognition, but she was too quick for me. She stood in front of me, and I was bound to stop.
She was more haggard, more drawn, more aquiline-looking than ever. Her eyes alone looked young. They at least had spirit and vitality in them. They positively blazed upon me.
‘She did not do it, after all!’ she said fiercely.
At first I thought of affecting surprise, and asking her what she meant; but I felt that any attempt at equivoque would be but vain.
‘She did not,’ I answered shortly.
‘Fool that I was!’ she cried. ‘Fool, to be led away by an impulse! Why did I tell her? I swear to you, Dr North, that had I not felt sure it was her act, she should never have known. She should have gone to her grave a shamed woman, as I shall go!’
Her look was venom itself.
‘Remember,’ I said sternly, ‘Lady Ferrand is now my wife. I will not hear her name coupled with yours.’
She laughed scornfully. ‘Your wife! She soon forgot her first love. Why did I speak? I wish my hand had withered before I wrote that letter. Do you know why I wrote it?’
‘No; nor do I care.’
‘I wrote it for vengeance. She had, I thought, served that man as I ought to have served him; but I hated her for it, for I loved him still. So I thought it would be so sweet for her to know that she had killed her husband, and for you, her lover—I knew you were her lover—to know that I could at any moment give her up to justice! I was a fool. Why did that man plead guilty? When I saw your wife rise in court I laughed. I knew what was coming. Now, instead of harming her, I have done her good.’
‘You have,’ I said curtly, and turning upon my heel. The malignity of this woman was so intense that I felt thankful she could in no way work Philippa harm.
A quarter of a mile up the road I turned. Mrs Wilson, a black spot on a fair scene, was standing gazing after me. I hurried on until a bend in the path hid her from sight. I hurried on back to Philippa and happiness!
CHAPTER XVII
CLEAR SKIES
ALTHOUGH England was now to me and to my wife a land very different from the one we quitted some eight months ago, we were anxious to get back to Seville, if only to set at rest my mother’s fears. She, poor woman, as a letter showed, was much exercised as to what manner of business could have made us leave her in so unceremonious a way. The moment the glad truth had become known to me, I had telegraphed, saying that all was well with us, and that we should soon join her. Two things only detained us.
The first was that we wanted the convict’s confession. Although Philippa said little on the subject, I knew that until it arrived she would not be quite happy. There was with her a haunting dread that the man, in the hopes of mitigating his sentence, had pleaded guilty to a crime of which he was innocent. Even the accurate account which I gave her of my interview with the solicitor did not quite satisfy her. So we waited impatiently for the full explanation, which might or might not come.
The second thing which kept us in London was this. I determined that before I left I would have the fact that when I married Philippa I married Lady Ferrand fully acknowledged. I found my way to the gentlemen who were winding up the dead man’s affairs, and stated my case to their incredulous ears. At first they treated me as an impostor.
But not for long. Indeed, my task was half done. They had already, without any assistance from Mrs Wilson, ferreted out the date and particulars of the death of the first Lady Ferrand. They had but to assure themselves that the marriage-certificate which I laid before them was no forgery, and surrender at discretion.
It was a poor estate, the administrators told me. Sir Mervyn had died intestate. He had during his lifetime made away with nearly all he could alienate. Still, there was some personal property, of which my wife could claim a share, and a certain amount of real property, on which she was entitled to dower. But it was a very poor estate.
I cut them very short. I told them that, let the deceased’s wealth be great or little, not one penny-piece of it should soil my wife’s fingers. If Sir Mervyn Ferrand’s heir was in want of the money, it should, provided he was a different stamp of man from his immediate predecessor, be given to him a free gift. If not, some hospital should be benefited by it. All I wanted was that it should be clearly understood that Sir Mervyn Ferrand left a widow.
The administrators, one of whom was, by-the-by, the heir, evidently looked upon me as a most eccentric personage. Perhaps it was for this reason, or—as I do not wish to cast unmerited blame—perhaps it was because the estate wound up to nothing—well, anyway, even to this day we have received no communication, much less remittance, from the administrators; nor, to tell the truth, have I troubled them again. Philippa’s marriage admitted, I washed my hands of all the Ferrand brood.
The confession did not arrive; but I persuaded Philippa to leave England. Mr Crisp could send whatever he had to send to Seville just as well as to London. So once more, and this time in all but perfect happiness, we took that long journey which was by now quite familiar to us.
The joy, the wild joy, with which Philippa threw herself into my mother’s arms checked all the upbraidings and reproach which we apparently merited. Our return was like the return of a prodigal son and daughter. Laughter, tears, and happiness!
Although I told my mother nothing as to the object of our mysterious journey; although she asked me nothing; although no word evidencing her knowledge of what had passed has ever crossed her lips, I know that all has been revealed to her; that Philippa has sobbed out the whole strange tale on her breast. I know it by this, that since the day of our return my mother’s deep love for my wife has shown itself even tenderer, sweeter, and deeper. Yes, I was spared the telling of the tale. My mother’s eyes the next day showed me that Philippa had given her the history, as I have given it here, from beginning to end.
No, not quite the end. Sit by me once more, as I asked you at the beginning of my story to sit by me; but this time, not by the side of a smouldering fire, but out in the fair, gay patio of our Andalusian home. Philippa and I are side by side. The post has just come in, and brought me a bulky packet, on which, in a clerkly hand, is written my name and address. I tear the wrapper open with eagerness. I know what it contains; Philippa knows. I wish to read it first alone, but the appealing look in her eyes turns me from my purpose. After all, there is nothing to fear, there can be n
othing which she should not know. So, with our cheeks all but touching, we read together. Sit by us, lean over my shoulder, and read with us.
‘THE CONFESSION OF WILLIAM EVANS, NOW LYING IN TEWNHAM GAOL UNDER SENTENCE OF DEATH:
‘On the fifth of January, this year, I returned from New Zealand. I worked my passage home. When I reached London I had but a few shillings in my pocket. I had no articles of value which I could sell. All I owned, except my clothes and the little bit of money, was a pistol which a man on board the ship had given me. It was a pistol of his own invention. He had several with him, and said he wanted to get the sort known. Why he gave it to me God knows; but he did, and a couple of cartridges.
‘I spent my money—all but a shilling or two. I tried to get work, but none was to be had. Then I remembered that I once had a friend who lived near Roding. I went there by train. I had just enough money to pay my fare. I found that the man I knew had left the place two years ago. I walked back to the town penniless and desperate.
‘The first thing I did was to go the pawnbroker’s, and try and sell the pistol. The man wouldn’t buy it at any price. He said his shop was full of pistols. I went away, and walked to the railway-station to try and earn a few pence somehow. I was in despair—all but starving.
‘About seven o’clock the train from London came in. A tall gentleman came out of the door of the station. I asked him if he had any luggage I could carry for him. He told me to be off. Then I asked him, for pity’s sake, to give me a shilling to buy some food. He cursed me, and I began to hate him.
‘He stood under the gas-lamp, and drew out a great gold watch and looked at the time. Then he asked a man near which road he must take to get to a village named Cherwell. The man told him. I saw him walk away, and I knew where he was going.
‘I shall be hanged next week; there is no hope for me. But I tell the truth when I say that, bad fellow as I have been, I had never committed such a crime as the one which at that moment entered my head. That tall man had money, jewellery and good clothing; I had nothing. I was starving. So I ran on, got before him, went miles up the road, and sat down in the bitter cold on a heap of stones, waiting for him to come, and making up my mind to kill and rob him. I knew I must kill him, because he was so much stronger and bigger than I was. My pistol was loaded.