by Louis Tracy
CHAPTER XX.
_Nemesis._
Philip was thrown into the sea on a Tuesday. Jocky Mason reached Londonon Wednesday, and kept his appointment with Inspector Bradley onThursday evening.
The inspector received him graciously, thus chasing from theex-convict's mind a lurking suspicion that matters were awry. There is acurious sympathy between the police and well-known criminals. They meetwith friendliness and exchange pleasantries, as a watchdog mightfraternize with a wolf in off hours.
But Mason had no responsive smile or ready quip.
"What's up?" he demanded, morosely. "You sent for me. Here I am. I wouldhave brought my ticket sooner if you hadn't written."
"All right, Mason. Keep your wool on. Do you remember SuperintendentRobinson?"
"Him that was inspector in Whitechapel when I was put away? Rather."
"Well, some friends of yours have been inquiring from him as to yourwhereabouts. He sent a message round, and I promised that you shouldmeet them if you showed up. I was half afraid you had bolted to theStates."
"Friends! I have no friends."
"Oh, yes, you have--very dear friends, indeed."
"Then where are they?"
He glared around the roomy police office, but it was only tenanted bypolicemen attending to various books or chatting quietly across a hugecounter.
His surly attitude did not diminish the inspector's kindliness.
"Don't be so doubtful on that point, Mason. Have you no children?"
Something in the police officer's eyes gave the man a clew. His swarthyface flushed and his hands clinched.
"Yes," he said, huskily. "I left two boys. Their mother died. They werelost. I have looked for them everywhere."
Inspector Bradley pointed to a door.
"Go into that room," he said, quietly, "and you will find them. They arewaiting there for you."
Mason crossed the sanded floor like one walking in his sleep. Heexperienced no emotion. He was a man stunned for the nonce.
He opened the door of the waiting room, and entered cautiously. He mighthave expected a hoax, a jest, from his attitude.
Two stalwart young men were standing there talking. Their chat ceased ashe appeared. For an appreciable time father and sons looked at eachother with the curiosity of strangers.
He knew them first. He saw himself, no less than their unfortunate andsuffering mother, in their erect figures, the contour of their pleasantfaces.
To them he was unknown. The eldest boy was ten years old, the youngereight, when they last met. But they read a message in the man'shungering eyes, and they were the first to break the suspense.
"Father!" cried John.
The other boy sprang to him without a word.
He took them in his arms. He was choked. From some buried font camelong-forgotten tears. He murmured their names, but not a coherentsentence could he utter.
They were splendid fellows, he thought, so tall and well knit, sonice-mannered, so thoroughly overjoyed to meet him.
That was the best of it. They had sought him voluntarily. They knew hisrecord, and were not ashamed to own him. During the long days and nightsof ceaseless inquiry he was ever tormented by the dread lest hischildren, if living, should look on him as accursed, a blot on theirexistence.
He half hoped that he might discover them in some vile slum, where crimewas hallowed, and convicts were heroes. He never pictured them ashonest, well-meaning youths, sons of whom any father might be proud, forin that possibility lurked the gnawing terror of shame and repudiation.
Mason's heart was full. He could not thank God for His mercy--thatresource of poor humanity was denied him, and, to his credit be it said,he was no hypocrite.
His seared soul awoke to softer feelings, as his eyes, his ears, hisvery heart, drank in fuller knowledge of them. But he was tormented inhis joy by an agonized pang of remorse. Oh, that he could have met themwith hands free from further crime!
In some vague way he felt that his punishment for Philip Anson's deathwould be meted out by a sterner justice than the law of the land. He wastoo hard a man to yield instantly. He crushed back the rising flood ofhorror that threatened to overwhelm him in this moment of happiness. Heforced himself again to answer their anxious inquiries, to note theirlittle airs of manliness and self-reliance, to see with growing wonderthat they were well dressed and wore spotless linen.
A police station was no place for confidences. Indeed, both boys wereawed by their surroundings.
They passed into the outer office, and Mason went to thank InspectorBradley.
"Don't forget your ticket," whispered the pleased officer.
The reminder jarred, but it was unavoidable. Mason got his ticketindorsed, the lads looking on shyly the while, and the three regainedthe freedom of the street.
"Let us find some place to sit down and have a drink," suggested Mason.
"No, father," said John, with a frank smile. "Neither of us takes drink.Come home with us. We have a room ready for you."
"I have lodgings----"
"You can go there to-morrow, and get your belongings."
"Yes. Jump into this cab," urged Willie. "We live in Westminster. It isnot very far."
Mason was fascinated by the boys' pleasant assumption of authority. Theyspoke like young gentlemen, with the accent that betokens a goodeducation. He yielded without a protest.
They sat three abreast in a hansom, and the vehicle scurried off towardthe Westminster Bridge Road.
Mason was in the center. His giant form leaned over the closed doors ofthe cab, but he turned his head with interested eagerness as one orother of his sons addressed him.
"I suppose, father, you are wondering how we came to meet in such aplace," said John.
"It might puzzle me if I found time to think."
"Well, the superintendent arranged everything. Unfortunately, he wasaway on his holidays when--when you were released--or we would have metyou then, and his deputy was not aware of the circumstances. As soon asthe superintendent returned he wrote to the governor, and was very muchannoyed to find that you had slipped away in the meantime."
"He wouldn't be so annoyed if he was there himself," growled Mason,good-humoredly.
"Oh, John didn't mean that, father," broke in Willie. "The annoyance washis, and ours. You see, we had not known very long where you were. Wedidn't even know you were alive."
"Of course, of course. Somebody has been looking after you well. That'sclear enough. They wouldn't be always telling a pair of boys that theirfather was in Portland."
"It gave us such a shock when we heard the truth," said downright John.
"But we were so glad to hear that our father was living, and that weshould soon see him," explained the younger.
"When did you hear first?"
"About four months ago. Just before we took our present situations. Weare saddlers and ornamental leather workers. Between us we earn quite adecent living. Don't we, John?"
"In fifteen weeks we have saved enough to pay for half our furniture,besides keeping ourselves well. There's plenty to eat, dad. You won'tstarve, big as you are."
They all laughed. The cab was passing St. Thomas' Hospital. Across thebridge a noble prospect met their eyes. London had a glamour for Masonthat night it never held before.
"So Robinson wrote to Bradley, knowing that I would report myselfto-day, and Bradley arranged----"
"Who is Robinson, father?" interrupted John.
"The superintendent, to be sure. He used to be inspector atWhitechapel."
"He is not the man we mean. We are talking of Mr. Giles, superintendentof the Mary Anson Home."
The two boys felt their father's start of dismay, of positive affright.They wondered what had happened to give him such a shock. Peering at himsideways from the corners of the hansom, they could see the quick pallorof his swarthy face.
"You forget, John," put in the adroit William, "that father knows aslittle about our lives as we knew about his until very recently.
When wereach our flat we must begin at the beginning and tell him everything."
"There isn't much to tell," cried John. "When poor mother died, we weretaken care of by a gentleman whom Mr. Philip asked to look after us.When the Mary Anson Home was built we were among the first batch ofinmates. If ever a young man has done good in this world, it is Mr.Philip Anson. See what he did for us. Mother was nursed and tended withthe utmost kindness, but her life could not be saved. We were rescuedfrom the workhouse, taught well and fed well, and given such instructionin a first-class trade that even at our age we can earn five pounds aweek between us. And what he has done for us he does for hundreds ofothers. God bless Philip Anson, I say!"
"Amen!" said his brother.
The voices of his sons reached Mason's tortured brain like sounds heard,remote but distinct, through a long tunnel. His great frame seemed tocollapse. In an instant he became an old man. He set his teeth andjammed his elbows against the woodwork of the cab, but, strive as hewould, with his immense physical strength and his dogged will, he shookwith a palsy.
"Father!" cried John, anxiously, little dreaming how his enthusiasticspeech had pierced to the very marrow of his hearer, "are you ill? Shallwe stop?"
"Perhaps, John, a little brandy would do him good," murmured Willie.
"Father, do tell me what is the matter. Willie, reach up and tell theman to stop."
Then Mason forced himself to speak.
"No, no," he gasped. "Go on. It is--only--a passing spasm."
He must have time, even a few minutes, in which to drive off the awfulspecter that hugged him in the embrace of death. He dared not look athis sons. If he were compelled to face them on the pavement in theflaring gaslight, he would run away.
His anguish was pitiable. Great drops of sweat stood clammy on hisforehead. He passed a trembling hand across his face, and groaned aloudunconsciously:
"Oh, God forgive me!"
It was the first prayer that had voluntarily left his lips for many aday.
The boys heard. They interpreted it as an expression of sorrow that hisown career should have been so cut off from their childhood and joyousyouth.
"Well, cheer up, dad, anyhow," cried the elder, much relieved by thisconclusion. "We are all together again, and you can face the world oncemore with us at your side."
No dagger of steel could have hurt so dreadfully as this well-meantconsolation. But for the sake of his sons the man wrestled with hisagony, and conquered it to some outward seeming.
When the cab stopped outside a big building he was steady on his feetwhen he alighted, and he managed to summon a ghastly smile to his aid ashe said to John:
"I am sorry to set you a bad example. But that is nothing new, is it? Imust have some spirit, strong spirit, or I can't keep up."
"Certainly, father. Why not? It is all right as medicine. Willie, you goand get some brandy while I take father upstairs."
Their flat was on the second floor. It was neatly furnished, fitted withelectric light, and contained five rooms.
John talked freely, explaining housekeeping arrangements, the puzzle asto their father's size, for the first bed they bought was a short one,their hours of work, the variety of their employment, any and everycheering topic, indeed, until Willie came with a bottle.
Both of them glanced askance at the quantity Mason consumed, but theypassed no comment. He tried to smoke, and sat so that the light shouldnot fall on his face. And then he said to them:
"Tell me all you know about Philip Anson. It interests me."
Snap! The hard composition of his pipe was broken in two.
"What a pity!" cried Willie. "Shall I run and buy you a new one?"
"No, my boy, no. I can manage. Don't mind me. I can't talk, but I willlisten. May the Lord have mercy on me, I will listen!"
He suffered that night as few men have suffered. Many a murderer has hadto endure the torments of a haunted conscience, but few can have beenharrowed by hearing their own sons lauding to the sky the victim'sbenefactions to themselves and to their dead mother.
He was master of his emotions sufficiently to control his voice. Hepunctuated their recital by occasional comments that showed heappreciated every point. He examined with interest specimens of theirwork, for they understood both the stitching and the stamping ofleather, and once he found himself dully speculating as to what careerhe would have carved out for himself were he given in boyhood theopportunities they rejoiced in.
But throughout there was in his surcharged brain a current of cunningpurpose. First, there was Grenier, away in the North, robbing a dead manand plotting desolation to some girl. He must be dealt with.
Then he, the slayer, must be slain, and by his own hand. He would sparehis sons as much pain as might be within his power.
He would not merely disappear, leaving them dubious and distressed. No.They must know he was dead, not by suicide, but by accident. They wouldmourn his wretched memory. Better that than live with the abiding griefof the knowledge that he was Philip Anson's murderer.
He was quite sure now that the dead would arise and call for vengeanceif he dared to continue to exist. Yes, that was it--a life for a life--aprayer that his deeds might not bear fruit in his children--and thendeath, speedy, certain death.
Some reference to the future made by Willie, the younger, who favoredhis mother more than the outspoken John, gave Mason an opportunity topave the way for the coming separation.
"I don't want you two lads to make any great changes on my account," hesaid, slowly. "It is far from my intention to settle down here, and letall your friends become aware that you are supporting a ticket-of-leavefather. Yes, I know. You are good boys, and it won't be any morepleasant for me to--to live away from you, than it would be foryou--under--other conditions--to be separated from me. But--I am inearnest in this matter. I will stop here to-night just to feel that I amunder the same roof as you. It is your roof, not mine. Long ago I lostthe right to provide you with a shelter. To-morrow I go away. I havesome work to do--a lot of work. It must be attended to at once. Ofcourse, you will see me, often. We can meet in the evening--go outtogether--but live here--with you--I can't."
His sons never knew the effort that this speech cost him. He spoke withsuch manifest hesitation that Willie, who quickly interpreted theless-pronounced signs of a man's thoughts, winked a warning at hisbrother.
He said, with an optic signal:
"Not a word now, John. Just leave things as they are."
Under any ordinary conditions he would be right. He could never guessthe nature of the chains that encircled his father, delivering himfettered to the torture, bound hand and foot, body and soul.
At last they all retired to their rooms, the boys to whisper kindlyplans for keeping their father a prisoner again in their hands; Mason tolie, open-eyed, dry-eyed, through the night, mourning for that whichmight not be.
The rising sun dispelled the dark phantoms that flitted before hisvision.
He fell into a fitful slumber, disturbed by vivid dreams. Once he was ona storm-swept sea at night, on a sinking ship, a ship with a crew ofdead men, and a dead captain at the helm.
Driving onward through the raging waves, he could feel the vesselsettling more surely, as she rushed into each yawning caldron. Suddenly,through the wreck of flying spindrift, he saw a smooth harbor, asheltered basin, in which vessels rode in safety. There were housesbeyond, with cheerful lights, and men and women were watching the doomedcraft from the firm security of the land.
But, strain his eyes as he would, he could see no entrance to thatharbor; naught save furious seas breaking over relentless walls ofgranite.
Even in his dream he was not afraid.
He asked the captain, with an oath:
"Is there no way in?"
And the captain turned corpselike eyes toward him. It was Philip Anson.The dreamer uttered a wild beast's howl, and shrank away.
Then he awoke to find Willie standing by his bedside with soothingwords.
"It
is all right, father. You were disturbed in your sleep. Don't get upyet. It is only five o'clock."
* * * * *
At that hour a policeman left his cottage in a village on the Yorkshirecoast, and walked leisurely toward the Grange House.
He traversed four miles of rough country, and the sun was hot, so he didnot hurry. About half-past six he reached the farm. There were no signsof activity such as may be expected in the country at that hour.
He examined three sides of the building carefully--the sea front wasinaccessible--and waited many minutes before he knocked at the door.There was no answer. He knocked again more loudly. The third time hissummons would have aroused the Seven Sleepers, but none came.
He tried the door, and rattled it; peered in at the windows; stood backin the garden, and looked up at the bedrooms.
"A queer business," he muttered, as he turned unwillingly to leave theplace.
"Ay, a very queer business," he said, again. "I must go on to Scarsdale,an' mak' inquiries aboot this Dr. Williams afore I report to t' super."