CHAPTER XIV
ALFRED PAULTON'S WALK
It was now pitch dark. The rain rushed downward through the still air in overwhelming sheets. Through the leafless trees it fell with a shrill, constant hiss. On the open road it beat with a loud dull rolling sound, sometimes like the dull murmur of distant traffic, sometimes like, the distant roar of a mighty concourse of people.
Out beyond the lamps of the town there was not a glimmer of light to be seen anywhere. If one turned one's face upwards, the source of the rain seemed not to be more than a few feet overhead. If one turned one's face to the ground, a thick heavy vapour, born of the shattered drops, rose warm against one's mouth and eyes. There was no noise abroad but that of the incessant deluge. If it had abated or increased, one would have thought it was the result of a thunder-storm. But it did not alter in character or decree. It was a constant torrent, not a fitful flood.
It was between six and seven o'clock when Alfred Paulton found himself walking on a lonely road under this fierce downpour. How he got there he did not know. He had a confused memory of what had taken place within the past few hours. He had no clue whatever to where he now was. He had no more than a blurred image of the scene in that low, dingy, ill-lighted room at the "Wolfdog Inn." Even when Mrs. Davenport was giving evidence his attention had been but feebly aroused. He had felt drowsy, jaded. He then told himself that it would be much better for him to go home and have some rest and sleep. He had been without proper sleep for three nights. He had been too much excited to get to sleep soundly, and when for a time he fell into an uneasy doze, he had awakened with a shudder and a start from some dire form of nightmare, in which familiar forms and faces had been cruelly jumbled in hideous events.
But on this unknown road, and now, after wandering he knew not how long, all at once he was smitten with a sharp impression of his present situation. He moved his eyes this way and that in quick anxiety. It is not possible to say he looked in the sense that looking takes in objects by means of sight. He could hear and feel the rain, and smell the heavy damp vapour rising from the ground, from the flooded road at his feet. But if sight had been painlessly taken from him at that moment, he would have been unconscious of loss.
A feeling of desolation and infrangible solitude came upon him.
He paused in his walk and listened. His ears caught nothing but the muffled hiss of the rain through the air, the angry-beat of it among the leafless trees, and the slashing singing of it on the flooded ground. The effect of it was an awful combination of the darkness of the grave, an inviolate solitude, and a deluge lacking merciful power to overwhelm.
He would have greeted any companion with joy. The society of the humblest beast, the most abject man, would have cheered him almost beyond the bounds of reason.
The completeness of his isolation was not due merely to external forces combined with physical and mental exhaustion. The hollow spaces of his imagination were filled with ghostly hints of an unendurable crime. In the caverns of his thought was no pageant of people or of things. No words or echoes of words sounded through the dim, unexplorable vaults. Everywhere within there was the look of sacrilege by bloodshed, the faint unendurable replication of dying groans. The marks of a red hand were on all the walls, the last moans of a murdered man filled the concave gloom.
He had heard that man Blake give his evidence freely, almost jauntily. He had seen that other man lying dead in the disordered room. As he had listened to the evidence of Blake, he had felt the air about his head grow cold with awe, while his whole frame froze with terror. All the people in the room where that accursed tale was told believed instinctively that this man, talking with such odious glibness, was a perjurer and an assassin.
Ugh! It was horrible-too horrible for a sane human being to dwell upon! He would give all he had in the world to be able to banish the memory of the past few days from his mind. But a curse had fallen upon him, and now no other event of all his life would stay with him for one brief minute to keep him away from this awful scene.
When in that room where the inquest was held he had felt very cold. Now he was hot, uncomfortably hot. This was strange; for there he had been under cover, and there had been a fire in the room. Here not only was he in the open air, but under a fierce downpour of rain. Indeed it was one of the greatest storms of rain he had ever been out in. The rain was useful in one way-it would cool him.
Ah, that was much better! To take off his hat and let the cool rain beat on his bare head was a luxury-a delicious luxury. It was indeed a luxury such as he had wished for in vain a little while ago; for it not only took away the great, unaccountable heat from which he would otherwise have suffered most severely, but, better a thousandfold, it kept his mind from running on the events of a few days back, and this day in particular. The effect of rain falling on his bare head was to banish thought from the brain, and give the brain rest.
What an extraordinary thing the brain was! Awhile ago he had been able to recall hardly any of the circumstances of the inquest; then they all rushed into his mind, causing him great disquietude; and now the mere falling of rain on his uncovered head had put him into a wholesome and almost pleasant state of mind!
The heat was gradually getting less. Yes, there could be no mistake about that. A few minutes since it seemed as though it would take hours to reduce the temperature to the degree it had already reached. Keeping the hat off was no longer necessary. In fact, it was no longer comfortable to go uncovered. He would put on his hat.
He was wet through now-thoroughly wet. He must have been soaked before that great heat came upon him. It was very extraordinary that he should feel so hot while the water was absolutely running down under his clothes.
Ah, a chill now! Unmistakably a chill, and he could see no sign of human habitation anywhere-no place which could afford him shelter. In fact, he could make nothing whatever out except the rain, and that was revealed to him by the sense of touch, not by the sense of sight. How cold the rain was, too! He had never felt rain so cold. The air must then be twenty degrees colder than it had been a few minutes ago. He had never until now experienced so sudden a fall of temperature.
He was shivering, too. His teeth were chattering. How delighted he would be to find any kind of shelter, and a good fire to warm himself at! This was very lonely and wretched. He was hardly able to walk now, and yet with his present chill anything was better than to stand. The thought of sitting down was out of the question. No one but a madman would sit down in such rain, and with clothes soaked through. He had been miserably wrong to uncover his head for so long a time. To that foolish act must be attributed this chill. Ugh! he was barely able to stagger along. This was the most dismal night he had ever passed in all his life.
But uncovering his head to the rain was not the only foolish thing he had done this night. Had he not wandered sillily along some roads-he knew not where-until he had lost his way? Now he was far from lamplight-where he knew not; whither to turn he could not decide if he had a choice. At present he every now and then ran up against the hedge, and this was the only thing which told him he was walking on a road.
He wondered what o'clock it was. When did he leave that dreadful room where the inquest had been held? He could not tell, but it was the moment Blake's evidence was over. The moment Blake moved from the table at which the coroner sat, he had stolen away, and, he thought, run a good while, until he was out of breath. How long that was since he could not tell-could not guess.
Merciful Heavens! Suppose the night was yet young-suppose it was now no more than midnight, or eleven, or ten o'clock-what was to become of him? There would be no daylight until close to seven. Could it be that he would have to wander on thus for eight or ten hours more? The thought was absurd. He should drop down of exhaustion, of cold, long before that time.
Cold! Why, what could be the meaning of this? Already the feeling of cold was passing away, and he felt quite warm-very hot. This was an improvement on the sensation a little while ago.
No matter whether he felt hot or cold now, this day had done him one invaluable service. It had cured him of any romantic feeling he had had for that strangely beautiful woman. Now all that had happened in that room where the inquest had been held came back vividly to him. Murder had been done, and there could be no doubt in the mind of any reasonable man that Blake had done the awful deed, and that she- No, no; he mustn't think that even now. It was plain, at all events, that Blake had once been loved by her, and there was nothing to show that she was now indifferent to Blake. Had she not supported his absurd theory respecting the death of the man who had been murdered?
The heat was becoming bad again-worse than ever. His head was burning. It felt as though a cap of tight-fitting metal pressed upon it. The cold of a little time back was hard to endure, but it seemed a positive pleasure compared with this awful sensation of bursting at the temples. He must have relief some way, any way, no matter at what cost in the future.
Off with the hat again. The rain did not cool so quickly or so effectually, but it afforded great alleviation. There was no positive sense of pleasure from it now-only a dulling, deadening of a feeling which was not exactly pain, but gave rise to a helpless, lethargic state of brain.
His limbs were heavier than they had yet seemed, and he had great difficulty in persuading himself that the water which rose no higher than an inch on the road was not tenacious mud half a foot deep.
Keep on thus for several hours! Impossible! One might as well expect to walk for the same time on red-hot ploughshares.
Oh, he felt sick and weary beyond endurance! No light to be seen-nothing whatever visible. And along this road no succour was likely to come, while the rain poured down as though a second destruction of earth by water was at hand.
What! – cold again so soon! Distracting! Maddening!
Ah, this was fever-fever of some awful kind-and no help at hand. He could not keep on another hour. Bah! – not half-an-hour.
Merciful heavens, what was this? Lights and the sounds of horses and the shouts of men!
He felt himself knocked down. With a prodigious effort he staggered to his feet and cried out:
"Help! – for heavens sake, help!"
Succour had arrived at the last moment.
CHAPTER XV
"I SHALL BE READY FOR MY DEATH WHEN THEY ARE READY FOR IT!"
That evening, when Richard Pringle ascertained Alfred Paulton had left the "Wolfdog Inn," he came to the conclusion that he had hastened home with an account of the day's proceedings. He resolved to go and seek Mrs. Davenport at once.
He had ordered a carriage to be in readiness to take her and him back to London. Since she had finished giving her evidence, she had remained in the private room upstairs. The rain was now falling heavily.
As the solicitor stood on the doorstep under the portico bidding Jerry O'Brien good-evening, he saw the two men, who looked like stable-helpers, go up to Tom Blake and speak to him. He had noticed these men during the day, and when he saw them speak to Blake, he knew what their business with him was.
On a motion from one of the two, a cab drew up a little way from the door of the inn. Tom Blake and the two men got into it, and the cab drove off. Then Pringle went back into the inn, spoke a few words to the police inspector, and sent up word to Mrs. Davenport that he and the carriage were ready.
In a few minutes she came down, looking as calm and impassible as ever. With some commonplace remarks about the rain, he handed her in, and then took his seat beside her.
For a while they drove in perfect silence. She broke it by asking what had occurred since she left the room downstairs.
He briefly told her the substance of Blake's evidence, softening down the sentimental portions as far as they had relation to herself, but setting forth fully and fairly the salient points of his history.
She listened without a word. She had heard the coroner say the inquiry would not close that day. She therefore knew nothing final was to be decided immediately. But although Pringle knew she was aware of this, he was surprised that upon his ending she said nothing, made no comment, seemed but sparingly interested, although she listened with attention. At last he thought best to volunteer something.
"I am afraid," he said, "that although we may be able to corroborate every word of Mr. Blake's, as far as facts are concerned, his hypothesis will not have much influence with the jury."
"Why?"
"Did you know Mr. Blake got money from Mr. Davenport on the very night of the 17th?"
In the darkness of the carriage here, he was free from the spell of her beauty, and spoke in a purely professional tone.
"I did," she answered. "Mr. Blake told me."
"That admission took me by surprise. It would greatly facilitate the discharge of my duty towards you if you would even now take me a little more fully into your confidence."
"There is nothing farther to tell-nothing further to conceal," she said, in a slow, emotionless voice.
He threw himself back, and did not speak at once. At length he moved uneasily in his place, and said, after deliberation:
"I appealed to you once, and cautioned you several times. I may now tell you, as a matter of certainty, not as a matter of my own personal opinion, but of ascertained fact, that the theory of what I must now call the defence will not stand a trial, and that a trial there will be."
"I have nothing to add," she said, in an unmoved tone.
"Up to this I have not told you the most unpleasant, the most significant and alarming fact of all."
"What is that?" – in the same voice.
"I hope you will try and face the horrible position with fortitude. I spoke of a trial as now inevitable."
"You mean something more than this inquest?" – in the same tone, but a little more deliberately.
"Yes. This is only an inquiry into the place, time, and cause of death. No one is on trial for a crime as yet."
"You mean" – without any variation in accent-"that some one will be tried for the murder of my late husband?"
He was silent.
She put her next question in a perfectly cold and steady manner:
"You mean that I will be tried for the murder of my late husband?"
"Great heavens-no!" he cried, throwing himself forward with a violent start. "Who put such a monstrous thought into your head?"
Although the thought had frequently occurred to him, from her lips, and now, it came to him with a powerful shock.
"You."
"I-I put such a thought into your head! Mrs. Davenport, you cannot mean what you say? It is too dreadful!"
"I will not say you ever put the thought in as precise words as I have used; but at our first meeting it was in your mind, and at our first meeting it entered my mind that you considered it at all events possible that I might be tried for the murder of my husband. You need not be afraid of shocking me. Nothing can shock me now. What is the important fact you are keeping back? I wish to know it at once."
"Mr. Blake has been arrested this evening. He was arrested as he left the 'Wolfdog Inn.'"
"Is that all?"
"All! Why, it is a matter of life and death with him, as things now look. He must have been mad to give the evidence he did to-day."
"And when am I to be arrested? Or perhaps I am already arrested, and the driver is a policeman?"
"No, no. Nor is there, as far as I can see, a likelihood of anything so horrible taking place."
"Neither the trial nor the scaffold would have the least horror for me now, I shall be ready for my death when they are ready for it. This is my place-for the present, at all events."
They had arrived in Jermyn Street, and she alighted.
CHAPTER XVI
THE VERDICT
It was a strange room, large and bright and fresh. The air of it was cool without being cold. After all, was it a strange room? Had he not seen it, or something like it, before! But perhaps it was in a dream he had seen that other room. A dream? Much of what had been resembled a dream. Did not all the past look like a dream? How was one to know whether the past had been dream or reality? He could not say. At all events, he was too tired to decide any difficult question. He would go to sleep now-at least he would shut his eyes. That bright, cold glitter of winter sunlight pained his eyes.
If before falling asleep, and while his eyes were thus closed and his body at rest, he could get a drink of cool, sweet water, how deliciously refreshing it would be!
How hot he was! It wasn't an agreeable kind of heat, but a dull, dead, smouldering heat that parched his skin, his tongue, his bones, his marrow.
Why, it was hotter than it had been last night on the road!
On the road! Last night! What did all that mean? Oh, he was too tired to think any more. Let him try to rest-to sleep.
Dusk. Yes, there could be no doubt the daylight was fading. At this time of the year the days were short. He had been asleep some time, for the last thing he remembered was that it was full daylight. He was then in some difficulty as to this room. He was under the impression it was a strange room. Could a more absurd idea enter the mind of man? Is it possible he could not identify his own bed-room? What would come next? What should he forget next? His own name, no doubt.
The thirst continued. It was even greater than it had been. He could get water if he went to the dressing-table. But, strange as it might seem, he had the greatest desire to go to the table and drink the water, but not the will. How was that? Why did he not spring out of bed and quench his thirst?
It was easy to think of springing out of bed, but quite impossible to do anything of the kind. Why, he could not move his feet or hands with ease. Ah, yes, it was quite plain! He had been ill-very ill. That would account for all-for the confusion in awaking, the thirst, the weakness. How long had he been ill, and what had ailed him?
This thirst was no longer tolerable. He must drink.
"Water!"
How thin and weak his voice sounded! It was almost ridiculous. If anything could ever again be ridiculous, his voice was. But nothing could ever again be ridiculous. Everything was serious and dull, and would so continue from that time forward. It was strange no one came. If he had been ill they would hardly leave him alone. He must try again.
"Water!"
Instantly a figure stood between his eyes and the fading light in the window.
"You are better, Alfred?"
"Yes, Madge. Water."
His sister poured out some, and handed him the glass. He drank with avidity, and felt refreshed.
"I have been very ill, Madge?"
"Yes, Alfred; but you will be all right in a short time, now that you have begun to mend. So Dr. Santley says."
Dr. Santley! Ah, that name set memory afoot. He lay pondering, still unable to see distinctly the matters he wished.
"How long have I been ill, Madge?"
"Several days."
"I have been unconscious?"
"Yes. But you are sure to be quite well in a little time."
"I am not anxious about the future. I am trying to recall the past."
"You are not to speak much, and you are on no account to excite yourself."
"I must be in possession of the facts of the past before I can rest. Tell me what has happened-what happened just before I fell ill? I have had fever, and been delirious."
"You have; but you must keep quiet, or I shall go away."
"I must know what took place before my illness, if I am to be at ease. There was some trouble about the law-some inquiry. What was it?"
"Dr. Santley has forbidden me to speak of that matter. You have been very ill, and your recovery depends on your keeping from excitement."
"I must know. I shall become delirious again if you do not tell me."
"My dear, dear Alfred, I cannot-I must not. You don't fancy for a moment I am going to help you back into illness! You shall know all in a little time; and now I must run away and tell father and mother and Edith of the good change in you."
"Send Edith to me, or mother. Either will tell me."
"You are not to see any one but me to-day until Dr. Santley comes. There's a dear fellow-rest content until I come back to you. Already you have talked too much."
She left the room in spite of his cry of protest and entreaty.
In a slow, hopeless, helpless way his mind began working again. Little by little some figures of the past reappeared, but not the central one, the main incident. He knew an event of eminent unpleasantness had occurred, and he knew it did not concern any member of his own family. He knew it did not concern himself closely, and yet that he had a profound interest in it. Santley was mixed up with it in one way or another, but how he could not tell. The law had been invoked; but in what manner or in whose regard was concealed from him. He had a faint memory of a crowded room. Only one figure stood out boldly, and that Tom Blake's. He knew his name, and could describe him with minute accuracy; but why this man and his name were so clearly defined in his recollection he could not tell. Around Blake shone a fierce light; but whence it came or why it was there he could not say. He felt Blake had to do with the legal matter; but in what relation or capacity he could not determine.
At length he resolved to give up trying to solve the riddle, and to go to sleep again. It seemed better to go asleep and forget everything than to lie awake remembering imperfectly.
A shaded lamp was burning in the room when he again awoke. His mind was now more vigorous and clear. Still there was great confusion and uncertainty. He called, and his sister Madge got up and came to him with a basin of arrowroot. She told him that Dr. Santley had called and seen him while he slept, and that he was going on very well indeed, but that there was no use in his asking questions; and, in fact, that he was not to talk at all, but rest perfectly quiet, take his food and go to sleep again-sleep and food being his chief needs now.
Young Paulton protested and expostulated, but in vain; so he was left in the same state of vague uncertainty which he was in when he awoke.
Next morning, as soon as he opened his eyes, all that had been lost came back to him in a flash. Nothing was wanting. The repose of the night and the food had invigorated his brain, and allowed it to fill in the gaps which existed the night before.
Madge was not in the room when he awoke. The moment she came back he said:
"My memory was quite cloudy yesterday; it is as clear as ever it was to-day. I now remember everything. I can recall my walk in the rain. How long have I been ill?"
"This is the sixth day."
"The sixth day! Good heavens! Six days! Then the inquest is over?"
"Yes. You must not talk much or excite yourself at all. You may, however, talk a little more than yesterday, for you are getting on famously."
"For goodness' sake, tell me about the inquest, and don't talk of me and my health. No, I won't taste breakfast until you tell me. What was the verdict?"
"Dr. Santley said you might be answered questions to-day if you promised not to excite yourself. Do you promise to keep calm, Alfred?"
"Oh, yes. Go on."
"The verdict was that he committed suicide while of unsound mind."
"Suicide while of unsound mind! Are you sure?"
"Oh, perfectly."
"Does Santley know the verdict?"
"Of course."
"And what does he say?"
"That it is the most extraordinary case he ever read or heard of."
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