Kitobni o'qish: «Tempest-Driven: A Romance (Vol. 1 of 3)», sahifa 8
CHAPTER XVII
JERRY O'BRIEN'S PROPHECY
When Dr. Santley called that day, he found his patient in a state of agitation. Madge Paulton had given her brother an outline of the proceedings at the second sitting of the inquest; but she could not tell him all, and she considered it would be injudicious, to say the least of it, to read a report of the trial aloud to him until she got permission from the doctor. Besides, the report was gruesome and full of technicalities.
No sooner had Dr. Santley entered the sick room than Alfred began a string of impatient and somewhat incoherent questions; so Santley thought it better to allay the excitement at the expense of a little fatigue to his patient, still he absolutely forbade the long report to be read to him.
"But," said the doctor, "there is a leading article in the paper, and the middle paragraph of that gives briefly an account of the case from the point at which the enthralling interest begins. You may read that aloud to your brother, Miss Paulton, and then I insist upon his remaining almost silent for the remainder of the day."
When Santley was gone, Madge fetched the newspaper, and read aloud:
"We now reach the most extraordinary point in this extraordinary case. The evidence here is sufficient to convince the most incredulous. Beyond all doubt, when Mr. Blake left the house there was nothing unusual the matter with the deceased unfortunate gentleman. After that it would seem that he must have had an attack of the old mania respecting which Mr. Blake gave evidence. While under this morbid influence he must have conceived the idea of committing suicide, for he wrote on one leaf of his pocket-book these words:
"' I will not endure this any longer. They have conspired to rob and murder me. But I will evade them for good. In ten seconds more I shall empty the chloroform on my beard. In twenty minutes I shall be dead. – Louis Davenport.'
"This is unmistakably in the handwriting of the deceased. The piece of paper on which it is written corresponds with a blank in Mr. Davenport's pocket-book. The writing was done with a metal pencil, and the paper is remarkably tough. When he had finished the writing, he carried out his threat of spilling the chloroform over his beard and waistcoat. Between this and the time during which the drug began to exercise its fatal influence he must have changed his mind, not, indeed, as regards suicide, but as regards his confession; for he swallowed the piece of paper on which the confession was written, and wrote on another leaf in the same book these words:
"' Pretended death. Blake gone. He emptied chloroform on me. Can't stir. Dying.'
"At the post-mortem examination the former paper was produced. It had been masticated and swallowed. The other leaf of the pocket-book had been found in the waistcoat-pocket of deceased. The certainty of the former leaf having been written first rests on the fact that the latter leaf has on it a faint but sufficient trace of the writing on the former, the degree of force used in writing the longer communication being sufficient to mark the leaf following. The post-mortem clearly proved that chloroform was the cause of death."
This was astonishing news. By it not only was all shadow of suspicion removed from Mrs. Davenport, but Blake was vindicated. The stories told by Mrs. Davenport and Blake had been confirmed in the most amazing and unexpected manner. It seemed little short, if at all short, of a miracle. This strange account of deceased's mental illness in Florence was true. Who placed any value whatever on it when it was given by Blake on oath? It then seemed nothing better than an audacious and unnecessary lie. It had turned Alfred sick while he listened to it. As he heard that self-possessed, aggressive man give evidence, he felt the toils closing round the unhappy woman. Now, in all likelihood, these toils had for ever vanished into air, and Mrs. Davenport was as free from suspicion of complicity in her husband's murder as though the two had never in all their lives met.
He asked his sister if she knew anything about Mrs. Davenport. Madge had an idea that Mrs. Davenport was still staying at Jermyn Street. Young Paulton asked nothing about Blake. He was not concerned about him.
It was very hard to be obliged to lie inactive here while- He paused to think. While what? That question staggered him. The interest in the inquest was all over, and no other trial was likely to arise out of the matter. Accident had for a while connected him with some affairs of Mrs. Davenport, and now that accident was at an end. There was no longer any chance of his being of use to her. Nothing could be more natural than that she had forgotten him by this time. In the excitement and heat of that ordeal there was nothing more likely than that she should forget him absolutely.
But the case was different with him. He could not forget her. He could never forget her-no, not if he lived a hundred years. Were they destined to meet never again? That was a dreary question to ask and have to leave unanswered, while he lay weak and powerless here.
He should get well no doubt in time, but this in time was such a weary, dead, tedious thing. It would be infinitely depressing and irksome to have to live here day after day pulling up strength. How was it possible for him to recover if his mind were haunted by doubts and anxieties?
Doubts about what? Anxieties about whom? He was not in love with this woman. The notion of being in love with her was absurd. He had seen her but on three occasions, and then the meetings had been brief and full of anything but tenderness. He had heard and thought much of her in the few days since their first meeting. He should never forget their first meeting. Could he ever blot out from his memory the regal beauty and pose of her as she stood in that dreary hall and pointed out the room in which her husband lay dead? Ah, well, nothing could come of such thinking now!
He wondered where was Blake at this moment, while he lay there on his back looking at the thin light of the February day. However, there was nothing for it but to submit. He was too weak to stand. He must try and rest contented for a while. But Dr. Santley did not think he would be able to move about for a month, and even then not much, as the weather would be greatly against him.
He was this day allowed to see his family for a little while. Before his father left the room he had got his promise to call at Jermyn Street and make inquiries. Next evening his father came up to his room. He had called at Jermyn Street, and seen Mrs. Davenport. She was quite well: was sorry to hear Alfred had been ill. Mr. Pringle had told her. Her plans were not quite settled, but she thought she should leave London for the Continent in a few days. She did not say what part of the Continent she purposed going to. That was all.
The person outside the family whom Alfred wished to see first was Jerry O'Brien; and, for reasons of friendliness towards Alfred, and of something a good deal more than friendliness towards Madge Paulton, Jerry was not slow to come.
The younger Paultons were not remarkable for beauty. The father was much better-looking than the son-the mother than either of the daughters. Father and mother were both decidedly good-looking. Alfred was of the average size of man, upright, well-made, healthy-looking when in health, fresh-coloured, with light hair and beard touched here and there with red, full blue eyes, long nose, white, broad forehead, and useful, large, well-formed hands. He was good-tempered, easygoing, affectionate; but when once roused or awakened, he was impetuous, headlong, and anything but clear-headed.
Edith, the elder sister, was short, plump, saucy, often pert, blue-eyed, brown-haired, resolute, aggressive at times, sprightly, short-nosed, with small feet and hands, and no mean opinion of herself, inclined to be discontented, and to under-estimate others.
Madge was tall, thin, dull-complexioned, quiet, unselfish, undemonstrative, good-natured, brown-eyed, and not good-looking by any means. Her amiability was extraordinary, her sympathy vast. Jerry O'Brien was not a lady's man. He held that sort of person in contempt. But of one thing he was quite sure-that he was disposed, anxious, to be one lady's man, and that lady was Madge Paulton.
As soon as Alfred and Jerry were alone, the former began making inquiries about Mrs. Davenport.
"She's in Jermyn Street yet," said Jerry. "I saw her this morning as I came along. I don't think they have let Blake out of gaol yet. It's a pity they ever should do so. I don't think there could be any act of Christian charity more acceptable to heaven than to hang him. I'd do it myself with pleasure if I could manage it without touching the blackguard's neck. The gallows never lost such a chance as this was. Why, during the first day of the inquest I could hear them knocking the nails into a gibbet, and now, or in a day or two, he will be a free man. It's a horrible shame!"
"I don t care about him. I want to hear something of her."
"Oh, you do-do you? Not quite cured yet. Well, I'll tell you my opinion. She has announced her intention of going to the Continent. She will wait until he is discharged, and then be off with him- Alfred, what's the matter? He has fainted!"
