by Unknown
About half an hour afterward Mrs. Pettigrew sent one of the children to the study on a trifling errand. As he did not return she followed him. She found him sitting on his father’s knee, where she did not remember ever having seen him before. Mr. Pettigrew was holding his watch to the boy’s ears. The study table was littered with several hundreds of Jubilee odes. Other odes had slipped to the floor. Mrs. Pettigrew asked how he was getting on, and her unhappy husband replied that he was just going to begin. His hands were trembling, and he had given up trying to smoke. He sought to detain her by talking about the boy’s curls; but she went away, taking the child with her. As she closed the door he groaned heavily, and she reopened it to ask if he felt unwell. He answered in the negative, and she left him. The last person to see Mr. Pettigrew alive was Eliza Day, the housemaid. She took a letter to him between twelve and one o’clock. Usually he disliked being disturbed at his writing; but this time, in answer to her knock, he cried eagerly, “Come in!” When she entered he insisted on her taking a chair, and asked her how all her people were, and if there was anything he could do for them. Several times she rose to leave, but he would not allow her to do so. Eliza mentioned this in the kitchen when she returned to it. Her master was naturally a reserved man who seldom spoke to his servants, which rendered his behavior on this occasion the more remarkable.
As announced in the evening papers yesterday, the servant sent to the study at half-past one to see why Mr. Pettigrew was not coming to lunch, found him lifeless on the floor. The knife clutched in his hand showed that he had done the fatal deed himself; and Dr. Southwick, of Hyde Park, who was on the spot within ten minutes of the painful discovery, is of opinion that life had been extinct for about half an hour. The body was lying among Jubilee odes. On the table were a dozen or more sheets of “copy,” which, though only spoiled pages, showed that the deceased had not succumbed without a struggle. On one he had begun, “Fifty years have come and gone since a fair English maiden ascended the throne of England.” Another stopped short at, “To every loyal Englishman the Jubil — —” A third sheet commenced with, “Though there have been a number of royal Jubilees in the history of the world, probably none has awakened the same interest as — —” and a fourth began, “1887 will be known to all future ages as the year of Jub — —” One sheet bore the sentence, “Heaven help me!” and it is believed that these were the last words the deceased ever penned.
Mr. Pettigrew was a most estimable man in private life, and will be greatly missed in the circles to which he had endeared himself. He leaves a widow and a small family. It may be worth adding that when discovered dead, there was a smile upon his face, as if he had at last found peace. He must have suffered great agony that forenoon, and his death is best looked upon as a happy release.
Marriot, Scrymgeour and I awarded the tin of Arcadia to Pettigrew, because he alone of the competitors seemed to believe that his dream might be realized.
CHAPTER XXX.
THE MURDER IN THE INN.
Sometimes I think it is all a dream, and that I did not really murder the waits. Perhaps they are living still. Yet the scene is very vivid before me, though the affair took place — if it ever did take place — so long ago that I cannot be expected to remember the details. The time when I must give up smoking was drawing near, so that I may have been unusually irritable, and determined, whatever the cost, to smoke my last pound-tin of the Arcadia in peace. I think my brier was in my mouth when I did it, but after the lapse of months I cannot say whether there were three of them or only two. So far as I can remember, I took the man with the beard first.
The incident would have made more impression on me had there been any talk about it. So far as I could discover, it never got into the papers. The porters did not seem to think it any affair of theirs, though one of them must have guessed why I invited the waits upstairs. He saw me open the door to them; he was aware that this was their third visit in a week; and only the night before he had heard me shout a warning to them from my inn window. But of course the porters must allow themselves a certain discretion in the performance of their duties. Then there was the pleasant gentleman of the next door but two, who ran against me just as I was toppling the second body over the railing. We were not acquainted, but I knew him as the man who had flung a water-jug at the waits the night before. He stopped short when he saw the body (it had rolled out of the sofa-rug), and looked at me suspiciously. “He is one of the waits,” I said. “I beg your pardon,” he replied, “I did not understand.” When he had passed a few yards he turned round. “Better cover him up,” he said; “our people will talk.” Then he strolled away, an air from “The Grand Duchess” lightly trolling from his lips. We still meet occasionally, and nod if no one is looking.
I am going too fast, however. What I meant to say was that the murder was premeditated. In the case of a reprehensible murder I know this would be considered an aggravation of the offence. Of course, it is an open question whether all the murders are not reprehensible; but let that pass. To my own mind I should have been indeed deserving of punishment had I rushed out and slain the waits in a moment of fury. If one were to give way to his passion every time he is interrupted in his work or his sleep by bawlers our thoroughfares would soon be choked with the dead. No one values human life or understands its sacredness more than I do. I merely say that there may be times when a man, having stood a great deal and thought it over calmly, is justified in taking the law into his own hands — always supposing he can do it decently, quietly, and without scandal. The epidemic of waits broke out early in December, and every other night or so these torments came in the still hours and burst into song beneath my windows. They made me nervous. I was more wretched on the nights they did not come than on the nights they came; for I had begun to listen for them, and was never sure they had gone into another locality before four o’clock in the morning. As for their songs, they were more like music-hall ditties than Christmas carols. So one morning — it was, I think, the 23d of December — I warned them fairly, fully, and with particulars, of what would happen if they disturbed me again. Having given them this warning, can it be said that I was to blame — at least, to any considerable extent?
Christmas eve had worn into Christmas morning before the waits arrived on that fateful occasion. I opened the window — if my memory does not deceive me — at once, and looked down at them. I could not swear to their being the persons whom I had warned the night before. Perhaps I should have made sure of this. But in any case these were practised waits. Their whine rushed in at my open window with a vigor that proved them no tyros. Besides, the night was a cold one, and I could not linger at an open casement. I nodded pleasantly to the waits and pointed to my door. Then I ran downstairs and let them in. They came up to my chambers with me. As I have said, the lapse of time prevents my remembering how many of them there were; three, I fancy. At all events, I took them into my bedroom and strangled them one by one. They went off quite peaceably; the only difficulty was in the disposal of the bodies. I thought of laying them on the curbstone in different passages; but I was afraid the police might not see that they were waits, in which case I might be put to inconvenience. So I took a spade and dug two (or three) large holes in the quadrangle of the inn. Then I carried the bodies to the place in my rug, one at a time, shoved them in, and covered them up. A close observer might have noticed in that part of the quadrangle, for some time after, a small mound, such as might be made by an elbow under the bedclothes. Nobody, however, seems to have descried it, and yet I see it often even now in my dreams.
CHAPTER XXXI.
THE PERILS OF NOT SMOKING.
When the Arcadians heard that I had signed an agreement to give up smoking they were first incredulous, then sarcastic, then angry. Instead of coming, as usual, to my room, they went one night in a body to Pettigrew’s, and there, as I afterward discovered, a scheme for “saving me” was drawn up. So little did they understand the firmness of my character, that they thought I
had weakly yielded to the threats of the lady referred to in my first chapter, when, of course, I had only yielded to her arguments, and they agreed to make an appeal on my behalf to her. Pettigrew, as a married man himself, was appointed intercessor, and I understand that the others not only accompanied him to her door, but waited in an alley until he came out. I never knew whether the reasoning brought to bear on the lady was of Pettigrew’s devising, or suggested by Jimmy and the others, but it was certainly unselfish of Pettigrew to lie so freely on my account. At the time, however, the plot enraged me, for the lady conceived the absurd idea that I had sent Pettigrew to her. Undoubtedly it was a bold stroke. Pettigrew’s scheme was to play upon his hostess’s attachment for me by hinting to her that if I gave up smoking I would probably die. Finding her attentive rather than talkative, he soon dared to assure her that he himself loathed tobacco and only took it for his health.
“By the doctor’s orders, mark you,” he said, impressively; “Dr. Southwick, of Hyde Park.”
She expressed polite surprise at this, and then Pettigrew, believing he had made an impression, told his story as concocted.
“My own case,” he said, “is one much in point. I suffered lately from sore throat, accompanied by depression of spirits and loss of appetite. The ailment was so unusual with me that I thought it prudent to put myself in Dr. Southwick’s hands. As far as possible I shall give you his exact words:
“‘When did you give up smoking?’ he asked, abruptly, after examining my throat.
“‘Three months ago,’ I replied, taken by surprise; ‘but how did you know I had given it up?’
“‘Never mind how I know,’ he said, severely; ‘I told you that, however much you might desire to do so, you were not to take to not smoking. This is how you carry out my directions.’
“‘Well,’ I answered sulkily, ‘I have been feeling so healthy for the last two years that I thought I could indulge myself a little. You are aware how I abominate tobacco.’
“‘Quite so,’ he said, ‘and now you see the result of this miserable self-indulgence. Two years ago I prescribed tobacco for you, to be taken three times a day, and you yourself admit that it made a new man of you. Instead of feeling thankful you complain of the brief unpleasantness that accompanies its consumption, and now, in the teeth of my instructions, you give it up. I must say the ways of patients are a constant marvel to me.’
“‘But how,’ I asked, ‘do you know that my reverting to the pleasant habit of not smoking is the cause of my present ailment?’
“‘Oh!’ he said, ‘you are not sure of that yourself, are you?’
“‘I thought,’ I replied, ‘there might be a doubt about it; though of course I have forgotten what you told me two years ago.’
“‘It matters very little,’ he said, ‘whether you remember what I tell you if you do not follow my orders. But as for knowing that indulgence in not smoking is what has brought you to this state, how long is it since you noticed these symptoms?’
“‘I can hardly say,’ I answered. ‘Still, I should be able to think back. I had my first sore throat this year the night I saw Mr. Irving at the Lyceum, and that was on my wife’s birthday, the 3d of October. How long ago is that?’
“‘Why, that is more than three months ago. Are you sure of the date?’”
“‘Quite certain,’ I told him; ‘so, you see, I had my first sore throat before I risked not smoking again.’”
“‘I don’t understand this,’ he said. ‘Do you mean to say that in the beginning of May you were taking my prescription daily? You were not missing a day now and then — forgetting to order a new stock of cigars when the others were done, or flinging them away before they were half smoked? Patients do such things.’
“‘No, I assure you I compelled myself to smoke. At least — —’
“‘At least what? Come, now, if I am to be of any service to you, there must be no reserve.’
“‘Well, now that I think of it, I was only smoking one cigar a day at that time.’
“‘Ah! we have it now,’ he cried. ‘One cigar a day, when I ordered you three? I might have guessed as much. When I tell non-smokers that they must smoke or I will not be answerable for the consequences, they entreat me to let them break themselves of the habit of not smoking gradually. One cigarette a day to begin with, they beg of me, promising to increase the dose by degrees. Why, man, one cigarette a day is poison; it is worse than not smoking.’
“‘But that is not what I did.’
“‘The idea is the same,’ he said. ‘Like the others, you make all this moan about giving up completely a habit you should never have acquired. For my own part, I cannot even understand where the subtle delights of not smoking come in. Compared with health, they are surely immaterial.’
“‘Of course, I admit that.’
“‘Then, if you admit it, why pamper yourself?’
“‘I suppose because one is weak in matters of habit. You have many cases like mine?’
“‘I have such cases every week,’ he told me; ‘indeed, it was having so many cases of the kind that made me a specialist in the subject. When I began practice I had not the least notion how common the non-tobacco throat, as I call it, is.’
“‘But the disease has been known, has it not, for a long time?’
“‘Yes,’ he said;’ but the cause has only been discovered recently. I could explain the malady to you scientifically, as many medical men would prefer to do, but you are better to have it in plain English.’
“‘Certainly; but I should like to know whether the symptoms in other cases have been in every way similar to mine.’
“‘They have doubtless differed in degree, but not otherwise,’ he answered. ‘For instance, you say your sore throat is accompanied by depression of spirits.’
“‘Yes; indeed, the depression sometimes precedes the sore throat.’
“‘Exactly. I presume, too, that you feel most depressed in the evening — say, immediately after dinner?’
“‘That is certainly the time I experience the depression most.’
“‘The result,’ he said, ‘if I may venture on somewhat delicate matters, is that your depression of spirits infects your wife and family, even your servants?’
“‘That is quite true,’ I answered. ‘Our home has by no means been so happy as formerly. When a man is out of spirits, I suppose, he tends to be brusque and undemonstrative to his wife, and to be easily irritated by his children. Certainly that has been the case with me of late.’
“‘Yes,’ he exclaimed, ‘and all because you have not carried out my directions. Men ought to see that they have no right to indulge in not smoking, if only for the sake of their wives and families. A bachelor has more excuse, perhaps; but think of the example you set your children in not making an effort to shake this self-indulgence off. In short, smoke for the sake of your wife and family, if you won’t smoke for the sake of your health.’”
I think this is pretty nearly the whole of Pettigrew’s story, but I may add that he left the house in depression of spirits, and then infected Jimmy and the others with the same ailment, so that they should all have hurried in a cab to the house of Dr. Southwick.
“Honestly,” Pettigrew said, “I don’t think she believed a word I told her.”
“If she had only been a man,” Marriot sighed, “we could have got round her.”
“How?” asked Pettigrew.
“Why, of course,” said Marriot, “we could have sent her a tin of the Arcadia.”
CHAPTER XXXII.
MY LAST PIPE.
The night of my last smoke drew near without any demonstration on my part or on that of my friends. I noticed that none of them was now comfortable if left alone with me, and I knew, I cannot tell how, that though they had too much delicacy to refer in my presence to my coming happiness, they often talked of it among themselves. They smoked hard and looked covertly at me, and had an idea that they were helping me. They also addressed me in a low v
oice, and took their seats noiselessly, as if some one were ill in the next room.
“We have a notion,” Scrymgeour said, with an effort, on my second night, “that you would rather we did not feast you tomorrow evening?”
“Oh, I want nothing of that kind,” I said.
“So I fancied,” Jimmy broke in. “Those things are rather a mockery, but of course if you thought it would help you in any way — —”
“Or if there is anything else we could do for you,” interposed Gilray, “you have only to mention it.”
Though they irritated rather than soothed me, I was touched by their kindly intentions, for at one time I feared my friends would be sarcastic. The next night was my last, and I found that they had been looking forward to it with genuine pain. As will have been seen, their custom was to wander into my room one by one, but this time they came together. They had met in the boudoir, and came up the stair so quietly that I did not hear them. They all looked very subdued, and Marriot took the cane chair so softly that it did not creak. I noticed that after a furtive glance at me each of them looked at the centre-table, on which lay my brier, Romulus and Remus, three other pipes that all had their merits, though they never touched my heart until now, my clay tobacco-jar, and my old pouch. I had said good-by to these before my friends came in, and I could now speak with a comparatively firm voice. Marriot and Gilray and Scrymgeour signed to Jimmy, as if some plan of action had been arranged, and Jimmy said huskily, sitting upon the hearthrug: