BOOK THIRD.
WHAT BECAME OF M. FELIX, AS RELATED IN THE FIRST PERSON BY ROBERT AGNOLD, ON THE REPORTING STAFF OF THE "EVENING MOON."
CHAPTER XLIII.
ROBERT AGNOLD TAKES UP THE THREADS OF THE STORY
In setting forth the incidents narrated in Book Second of this story, under its heading "A Life Drama-Links in the Mystery," I have had no occasion to speak of myself, my acquaintance with Emilia beginning after the 16th of January, on which night the Book fitly ends. In what has now to be told, however, I played a not unimportant part, and it is proper, and will be more convenient, that I should narrate what followed in the first person. I think my name, Robert Agnold, has been mentioned only once or twice in these pages, and it is not for the purpose of making myself better known to the public, but simply for the sake of clearness, that I depart from the journalistic method (with which in other circumstances I am very well contented) in what I am about to write. I do so with the full approval of the conductors of the newspaper with which I have the honor to be connected. It is perhaps unnecessary for me to state that in the preparation of Book Second I have been guided both by what I have heard from the lips of its heroine, Emilia herself, and by what subsequently came to my knowledge; but it is as well to state this, in order to prove that I have not drawn upon my imagination.
I now take up the threads of the story.
When Emilia made her escape from M. Felix's house on the night of the 16th of January, she was, as may be supposed, in a state of extreme agitation. Her errand had failed, and she had nothing to hope for at the hands of Gerald's brother, whom I shall continue to speak of as M. Felix. She hardly dared to think of the future, and indeed the pain of her wound and the personal danger in which she stood were sufficient occupation for her mind at that juncture. As quickly as she could she made her way to the one room she had taken unknown to her daughter, and there she bathed and dressed the wound-throwing the stained water out of the window, so that it might not betray her-and effected the necessary change in her attire. In woman's clothes she left the house, and proceeded to her lodgings in Forston Street, Kentish Town. She was thankful that her daughter was asleep when she reached home; it saved her the necessity of an immediate explanation, and gave her time to make more plausible the story she had thought of to account for the injury to her arm. Creeping into bed without disturbing Constance she lay awake for hours, and sank into slumber only when daylight was beginning to dawn. She slept till past noon; fortunately for her, Nature's claims were not to be resisted, and she arose strengthened if not refreshed, and with still a faint hope that she might yet succeed. She would make one more appeal to M. Felix, this time in daylight. She would go to him this very afternoon, and endeavor to soften his heart by offering to bind herself to any terms he might dictate, if he would but furnish her with the name of the place in which the marriage ceremony had been performed. The echo of the statement he had made in Switzerland that she and Gerald were never married, although it struck a chill to her heart, found no lodgement therein. Most firmly did she believe that she had been honestly and honorably married, and until she was convinced to the contrary by absolute evidence she would continue to believe it. If M. Felix failed her she would set a watch upon Dr. Peterssen's movements, and endeavor by some means to gain her end through him. She had not the remotest idea how she should proceed with this man, but she trusted in God to guide her.
Constance, as was natural, was in great distress at the wound her mother had received, but Emilia made light of it, although it caused her exquisite pain. It was an accident, Emilia said; she had slipped, and fell upon some broken glass; and Constance did not dream that the story was untrue. The young girl was very anxious on this morning; she expected a letter from her lover, Julian Bordier, and she told her mother that in her last letter to Julian she had given him the address of their lodgings in Forston Street. Emilia could not chide her for doing so, but she was inwardly distressed by the idea that the Bordiers might present themselves at any unexpected moment. M. Bordier would almost certainly make some inquiries as to the nature of the business that brought her to England. How should she reply? He was a penetrating man, and she could foresee nothing but calamity from a renewal at present of close relations with him. She could do nothing, however, to avert the dangers by which she was threatened. All she could do was to wait and hope.
She went to the post office for letters, and received one for Constance and one for herself. She rode back immediately to Forston Street to give Constance her lover's letter, and in the cab she read her own. It was short but most affectionate and tender, and it confirmed her fears. There was every likelihood that the Bordiers would be in London within the next few weeks.
Delivering Julian's missive to the eager girl, Emilia left her once more with the intention of proceeding to Gerard Street. She rode only part of the way, getting out of the cab at Regent's Circus. It was bitterly cold, but in this city of startling contrasts there are wheels that never stop. Though darkness enveloped the streets for weeks together the newspaper boys would still perambulate the thoroughfares with the last editions of the newspapers; would still bawl out at the top of their voices the tempting news they had to dispose of. Emilia had scarcely alighted from the cab when her ears were assailed by cries from these venders of the afternoon journals: "Murder! murder! Sudden Death in Gerard Street, Soho! Mr. Felix Murdered! Escape of the Murderer!" The shock which these startling announcements caused her was so great that she stumbled and would have fallen had not a policeman caught her by the arm.
"Be careful how you walk," said the officer. "The streets are awful slippy."
She murmured a frightened inarticulate expression of thanks and staggered on, the iteration of the news-venders' dreadful cries sounding in her ears like the clanging of a thousand bells proclaiming her doom. Her terror was so great that she would have succumbed under it if there had not risen in the white space before her the vision of a young girl at home reading her lover's letter. She saw the lovely lips form the words, "Mamma, listen to what Julian says." This fancy was her salvation. Her daughter was in this terrible city, dependent upon her, with no supporter, with no friend but the mother whose heart was charged with woe and despair. She must be strong for her child's sake. Her strength came back to her; the policeman who had saved her from falling was still looking at her, and now, seeing that she had recovered, passed on. Controlling her agitation, she bought a copy of the Evening Moon, and walked mechanically toward Gerard Street. When she was within a short distance of it she wavered in another direction. Dared she go there? Dared she be seen there? Why not? It was hardly likely that she would be noticed; it would depend upon herself whether she attracted attention. She turned her face toward Gerard Street. A magnetic current drew her on, and she could no more have effectually resisted it than she could have changed day into night by closing her eyes. She must go and see for herself.
The street was busy with people, drawn there as she was drawn, but, as she shudderingly confessed to herself, with a different knowledge of the truth. Outside the house in which M. Felix had lived there was a throng of people gazing up at the windows.
"That's the window of his sitting-room. Is he there now? Yes, stretched out, dead and done for. He was a gentleman, wasn't he? Yes, with heaps of money. He always kept a pile of gold and bank notes in his room. What's become of it? Ah, what? When was it done? About midnight, when there was no one but the murderer and the murdered gentleman in the house. The housekeeper had gone out for her supper beer. They forced the door open, and there he was, murdered. Who did it? A man, of course? Maybe-maybe not. Just as likely it was a woman. It doesn't matter to him now. He's dead, and won't come back to tell. Have they caught the murderer? Not yet, but they've got a clew, they say. Ah, they always say that. But it's true this time. They'll catch him, never fear, and when he's caught, the Lord have mercy on him!"
Thus the chatter ran, and for a time Emilia, glued to the spot, stood and listened. Then a spiritual whisper fell on her senses and set her in motion again. "The suit of clothes you dressed in last night. Get rid of it. Destroy it." She walked swiftly from the street and proceeded in the direction of her room. She did not waver now; suggestions of a frightful nature came to her, but she walked on, as if impelled by a hidden force. She reached the street in which the room was situated. It was quiet and deserted. There was comfort in that. Then the police had not been there. If they had there would have been as many people there as in Gerard Street. With desperate courage she opened the street door with her latch-key, and went up the stairs unobserved. She turned the key in the lock and entered the room. The clothes she had worn were in a corner, where she had left them the previous night. She breathed more freely. All this time she had kept in her hand the copy of the Evening Moon she had purchased, and now, in the solitude of her chamber, she nerved herself to read the particulars of the tragedy in which she was involved. Gerald's brother was dead; that was the end; all hope was gone. She no longer thought of appealing to Dr. Peterssen; she felt instinctively that by so doing she would be digging a pit for herself. She could throw herself on the mercy of M. Bordier-that course was open to her. She could tell him her story, strengthening her statements by most solemn assurances of their truth, and leave it to him to decide. She had but little hope in the result. She knew it was exactly the kind of tale which a guilty woman would relate, and that, without a shadow of proof, few men would accept it. There was no time, however, to determine upon any definite course at present. The suit of clothes she had worn when she visited M. Felix must be destroyed; until that was done her position was one of extreme danger. She folded them carefully, and inclosed them in the copy of the Evening Moon, and with the bundle under her arm proceeded to Forston Street. She went at once to her bedroom, and locked the clothes in her box. Already the plan had suggested itself of throwing the clothes into the river in the dead of night, when she could make sure that she was not being watched. After that she would come to some decision as to her future movements. What transpired on the night she made the attempt is known to the reader, and I now take up the sequence of events of which I may claim to be the originator.
CHAPTER XLIV.
EMILIA RETRACES THE OLD ROADS
After I had learned all that Emilia had to tell me, I informed her that I would take a day or two to decide upon my plan of action. In the meantime she was to make no movement whatever, but to keep herself and daughter in absolute privacy. She placed herself entirely in my hands, and promised not to deviate by a hair's-breadth from the instructions I gave her.
"Be sure of that," I said, "and I feel that I shall be able to further your heart's wishes."
On the third day certain ideas had taken some kind of practicable shape, and I determined to set to work. I must mention that I visited Mrs. Middlemore regularly during my deliberations, and had taken the rooms which had been inhabited by M. Felix. She had no news of the slightest importance to communicate to me although she was in the mood to make mountains out of molehills. Nothing further had transpired in the Gerard Street house; no person had called to make inquiries, and she had not been upset by any more false messages. I saw my little friend Sophy also. She was as cheery and sharp as ever, and she informed me that "Aunty was ever so much nicer than she used to be," and I expressed my delight at the good report.
"But I say," remarked Sophy, "ain't yer got nothink to give me to do for yer?"
"Not just yet, Sophy," I replied. "Presently, perhaps."
"The sooner the better," said Sophy. "I likes to be busy."
"You will not go away, Sophy? I may want you at any moment."
"I shall be ready for yer. I'll do anythink for yer, never mind what it is."
I explained to her on my last visit that I should not see her for a week or so, as I was going out of London upon particular business, and that while I was away she was to keep her eyes open. If she happened to see the man who had sent her aunt on a false errand to the Bow Street Police Court she was to follow him secretly and find out where he lived, and upon my return to London she was to tell me everything that had happened. Satisfied with her assurances of obedience I left the grateful little creature, and an hour later was closeted with Emilia. I had not yet informed her of the trick which had been played upon Mrs. Middlemore, and of the disappearance of the revolver; I did so now, and asked if she had any suspicion who the man was.
"No," she replied, "I cannot imagine."
"Describe Dr. Peterssen's appearance to me," I said, "as you last saw him." She did so, and I continued, "It is as I supposed. He is the man who gave Mrs. Middlemore the false message, and got her out of the house to afford him the opportunity of obtaining what he wanted. Money, of course, if he could lay his hand on any, but chiefly papers and documents which might be valuable to him in the future-documents probably connected with your story."
"Why should he wish to obtain possession of such things?" asked Emilia. "They can be of no use to him he dare not appear."
"Publicly he dare not; privately he may. You know of his visit to M. Felix; he does not know of yours. Say that he succeeded in obtaining possession of something which would establish your marriage." Emilia clasped her hands. "He would surely conceive the plan of discovering where you were, and coming to you privately for the purpose of making a bargain for these proofs."
"I would give him anything-everything," exclaimed Emilia.
"That is certain," I said, "and it might be worth while to come to terms with him; but I should not allow him to rob you. M. Felix, so far as we know, did not make a will. Doubtless he has left property of some kind, and should your marriage be proved the property would be yours. Indeed, in that case it would be yours if M. Felix were living and in this room at the present moment."
Emilia shuddered, and looked around timorously.
"Have you any idea what can have become of his body?" she asked in a whisper.
"No; I can form no theory upon that mystery. I would give a great deal to unravel it."
"Is it possible that Dr. Peterssen can have taken it away?"
"It is more than possible, it is probable; but his motive for doing so is as great a mystery as the disappearance of the body without his intervention. A deliberate act of that kind is done with a deliberate motive, and I can think of none which would prompt him to carry into execution a scheme so full of risk. And now listen attentively to what I say. Setting aside the danger attendant upon your nocturnal visit to M. Felix-a danger which I trust will in time entirely disappear-it is of the highest importance to you that you should obtain proof of your marriage with Gerald Paget."
"It is all I desire," said Emilia. "That obtained, I should be content to die."
"It will be better to live, to draw happiness from the union of your daughter and Julian Bordier. My plan is this: That you and I go to your native town, and starting from the house of the maiden ladies who were so good to you on the night of the fire, endeavor to trace the road you took when you flew from the shelter they gave you. You remember the river-"
"I can never, never forget it," said Emilia, "nor the fearful thoughts which seemed to force me toward it."
"There will be little difficulty in ascertaining your route thus far on your journey. From that point we will make inquiries, and it may be that we shall succeed in discovering the road the kind old wagoner took toward his home. That done, all the rest is easy."
"Dear friend," she said, pressing my hand, "how can I thank you?"
"Thank me when success crowns our efforts. Are you ready to take the journey? We will start to-morrow morning."
"But Constance!" she exclaimed. "She cannot go with us. She is ignorant of my sad story."
"Let her remain so. I have provided for her comfort while we are away. I have spoken to my mother-a lady in whom you can place implicit confidence-and she will be glad if your daughter will accept her hospitality during our absence. You may trust her; your daughter will be well cared for."
"I know that, I know that," said Emilia, her tears overflowing. "But what have I done to merit such goodness? What claim have I upon you?"
"The claim of a helpless, persecuted lady," I replied, gently. "What I do is willingly, cheerfully done. Accept my offer, and you will make me your debtor. It will be ample reward if I succeed."
"God is very good to me," she murmured. "Thankfully, gratefully do I accept it."
"That is well. You had better arrange to retain these rooms, and we will leave my mother's address with the landlady, in case the Bordiers should come and make inquiries."
"You think it right that they should see us?" inquired Emilia.
"You will be acting injuriously to yourself if you affect any secrecy. Certainly they must see you and your daughter; their first inquiries will be for you and you will lay yourself open to the worst construction if you keep out of their way. Be advised by me."
"I will, in all things."
"My sister will accompany us on our journey. It will be pleasant for you to have a lady companion, and it will leave me free to make any inquiries that may suggest themselves."
She appreciated the delicacy of the act and it was arranged that I should call for her and Constance in the evening to conduct them to my mother's house. This was done, and in the morning Emilia, my sister, and I started on our journey.
I will waste no words in a description of our proceedings. There was no difficulty in finding the house in which the kind maiden sisters had resided, and from the street in which it was situated there was but one outlet to the open country. From the time occupied by Emilia in her flight on that never-to-be-forgotten night I judge that she must have walked some eleven or twelve miles, and at about that distance from the town lay the river Arbor. There we halted on the second day of our journey, and from that spot our real difficulties began. There was the hill Emilia had mounted, on the crown of which she had fallen in a state of exhaustion, with the river stretching to the left of her. It was inevitable that my sister should be taken into our confidence, and in the distressing reminiscences which the scene recalled to Emilia she was a true solace to the poor lady. I gently wooed her to describe the impressions of that terrible night's wanderings, and had any doubts been in my mind as to the truth of her story the pathos of that recital would have effectually dispelled them. But I entertained no doubts, and more strongly than ever did I resolve to champion her cause and not to relinquish it till success rewarded me, or absolute failure stared me in the face. As Emilia's suffering tones fell upon my ears I could almost hear the tinkling bells of the horses in the wagon and the driver's kindly exhortations to his cattle. He came in view, in my fancy, and spoke to Emilia, and receiving no encouraging answer, passed down the hill with his team. He returned and addressed her again, and she implored him to save her from the river. Supported by him, she descended the hill, and was lifted into the wagon, where she lay in a blind stupor of forgetfulness and insensibility. I declare that I saw the pictures of this human agony as if they were actually presented to my sight. As for my good sister, she was continually wiping the tears from her eyes, and when we reached the bottom of the hill, and Emilia said, "It was here the wagon stood, I think," she pressed the unfortunate lady in her arms, and they mingled their tears together.
It was at this spot, I repeat, that our real difficulties began, for at about a couple of hundred yards along the road the wagon must have taken (there being no other) it branched out in three directions, north, south, and east. Now, which road led to the wagoner's home?
Emilia could not inform us. We took one, the broadest-though why he should have selected the broadest instead of the narrowest I cannot explain, all three roads being equally available for horse traffic-and pursued it for a mile or so, and were confronted by four cross roads, which multiplied our difficulty. I will not enlarge upon the labor of this perplexing enterprise. It is sufficient to say that at the end of the twelfth day I was compelled to confess that we were as far from success as on the first day of our journey. Of course I made innumerable inquiries, but I was speaking of eighteen years ago, and I could not elicit the slightest information of a reliable nature to guide me in the search we were prosecuting. I spared no labor, and although I was greatly discouraged I did not allow my companions to observe my despondency. At length I came to the conclusion that it would be useless to employ further time in the quest, and I told Emilia and my sister that we should return to London on the morrow. Emilia looked at me mournfully.
"Don't feel down-hearted," I said, with a cheerful smile. "This is the smallest arrow in my quiver. I have a surer one to adjust when we reach town."
It was touching when we arrived at my mother's house, to see the meeting between Emilia and her daughter. We left them to themselves awhile, and when they joined us I conveyed to Emilia a pressing request from my mother that they would stop with her as long as they remained in London. It needed persuasion to induce Emilia to comply, but she saw that Constance wished her to accept, and she did so with much grace, but with a humbleness of manner which powerfully affected me. Constance had some news to communicate. The Bordiers had arrived in London, and had visited her. I was impressed by a certain tremulousness in her voice as she spoke of them, but I made no comment upon it, not feeling myself warranted to intrude upon her confidence.
"My mother's house is open to your friends," I said. "They will be always welcome here."
She thanked me, and shortly afterward I was hurrying to the W. C. district, first to present myself at the office of the Evening Moon, and afterward to go to my chambers, where, in response to a telegram I had forwarded from the country, I expected a visitor.