II

"_And the wild regrets, and the bloody sweats,

None knew so well as I:

For he who lives more lives than one

More deaths than one must die._"

And then the days dragged on, a week of days, each containing full

measure of bitter humiliation; full measure also of feverish suspense

and anxiety, for Theodore Carden did not find it quite so easy as he

had thought it would be to clear himself of this serious and yet

preposterous accusation of complicity in the murder. But Major Lane

was surprised at the courage and composure with which the young man

faced the ordeal of confrontation with the various men, any one of

whom, through a simple mistake or nervous lapse of memory, might

compel his presence, if not in the dock, then as a witness at the

coming murder trial.

But at last that ordeal was over, for, as a matter of fact, none of

those brought face to face with him in the sordid promiscuity of such

scenes singled out Theodore Carden as resembling the mysterious

individual who had almost certainly provided Mrs. Garvice with the

means wherewith to poison her husband. So it was that suspicion became

gradually directed to quite another quarter; that is, towards an

accountant in Garvice's employment, who had been socially welcomed at

his house. But of this man no trace had as yet been found.

It was after the need for active defence had passed away that the

hours began to drag heavily with Theodore Carden; and yet, at the end

of each long day, the unhappy man would have given much in order to

recall the daylight hours.... The moment twilight fell Carden was

haunted, physically and mentally possessed, by the presence of the

woman he had known at once so little and so well, that is, of her he

now knew to be Pansy Garvice.

Especially terrible were the solitary evenings of those days when his

father had been away, performing the task of breaking so much of the

truth as could be told to the girl to whom his son had been engaged.

As each afternoon drew in, Carden found himself compelled to remain

more or less concealed in the rooms which overlooked the garden of

Watermead. For, with the approach of night, the suburban road in front

of the fine old house was filled by an ever coming and going crowd of

bat-like men and women, eager to gaze with morbid curiosity at the

dwelling of the man who had undoubtedly been, if not Mrs. Garvice's

accomplice--that, to the annoyance of the sensation-mongers, seemed

decidedly open to question--then, her favoured lover.

But to these shameful and grotesque happenings Theodore Carden gave

scarce a thought, for it was when he found himself alone in the

drawing-room or library that his solitude would become stealthily

invaded by an invisible and impalpable wraith. So disorganised had

become his nerves, so pitiable the state of his body and mind, that

constantly he seemed conscious of a faint, sweet odour, that of wood

violets, a scent closely associated in his thoughts with Pansy

Garvice, with the woman whom he now knew to be a murderess. He came at

last to long for a tangible delusion, for the sight of a bodily shape

which he could tell himself was certainly not there. But no such

relief was vouchsafed him; and yet once, when sitting in the

drawing-room, trying to read a book, he had felt a rounded cheek laid

suddenly to his; a curl of silken, scented hair had touched his

neck....

Terrifying as was the peopled solitude of his evenings, Carden dreaded

their close, for at night, during the whole of each long night, the

woman from whom he now felt so awful a repulsion held him prisoner.

From the fleeting doze of utter exhaustion he would be awakened by

feeling the pressure of Pansy's soft, slender arms about his neck;

they would wind themselves round his shuddering body, enclosing him

slowly, inexorably, till he felt as if he must surely die under their

gyves-like pressure. Again--and this, perhaps, was what he learned to

dread in an especial degree--he would be suddenly roused by Pansy's

liquid, laughing voice, whispering things of horror in his ear; it was

then, and then only, that he found courage to speak, courage to assure

her, and to assure himself, that he was in no sense her accomplice,

that he had had naught to do with old Garvice's death; but then there

would come answer, in the eager tones he remembered so well, and the

awful words found unwilling echo in his heart: "Yes, yes, indeed you

helped!"

* * * * *

And now the last day, or rather the last night, had come, for the next

morning Theodore Carden was to leave Birmingham, he hoped for ever,

for New Zealand.

The few people he had been compelled to see had been strangely kind;

quiet and gentle, as folk, no doubt, feel bound to be when in the

presence of one condemned. As for Major Lane, he was stretching--no

one knew it better than Carden himself--a great point in allowing the

young man to leave England before the Garvice trial.

During those last days, even during those last hours, Theodore

deliberately prevented himself from allowing his mind to dwell on his

father. He did not know how much the latter had been told, and he had

no wish to know. A wall of silence had arisen between the two who had

always been so much, nay, in a sense, everything, to one another. Each

feared to give way to any emotion, and yet the son knew only too well,

and was ashamed of the knowledge, with what relief he would part from

his father. There had been a moment when Major Lane had intimated his

belief that the two would go away and make a new life together, but

Theodore Carden had put aside the idea with rough decision. Perhaps

when he was far away, on the other side of the world, the former

relations of close love and sympathy, if not of confidence, might be

reestablished between his father and himself, but this, he felt sure,

would never be while they remained face to face.

And now he was lying wide awake in the darkness, in the pretty,

peaceful room which had once been his nursery, and where he had spent

his happy holidays as a schoolboy. His brain remained abnormally

active, but physically he was oppressed by a great weariness;

to-night, for the first time, Carden felt the loathsome wraith which

haunted him, if not less near, then less malicious, less watchful than

usual, above all, less eager to assert her power.... Yet, even so, he

lay very still, fearing to move lest he should once more feel about

his body the clinging, enveloping touch he dreaded with so great a

dread.

* * * * *

And then, quite suddenly, there came a strange lightening of his

heart. A space of time seemed to have sped by, and Carden, by some

mysterious mental process, knew that he was still near home, and not,

as would have been natural, in New Zealand. Nay, more, he realised

that the unfamiliar place in which he now found himself was Winson

Green Gaol, a place which, as a child, he had been taught to think of

with fear, fear mingled with a certain sense of mystery and

excitement.

Theodore had not thought of the old local prison for years, but now he

knew that he and his father were together there, in a small cell

lighted by one candle. The wall of silence, raised on both sides by

shame and pain, had broken down, but, alas! too late; for, again in

some curious inexplicable way, the young man was aware that he lay

under sentence of death, and that he was to be hanged early in the

morning of which the dawn was even now breaking.

Now, strange to say, this knowledge caused him, personally, but little

uneasiness, but on his father's account he felt infinitely distressed,

and he found himself bending his whole mind to comfort and sustain the

old man. Thus, he heard a voice, which he knew to be his own, saying

in an argumentative tone, "I assure you, father, that an extraordinary

amount of nonsense is talked nowadays concerning--well, the death

penalty. Is it possible that you do not realise that I am escaping a

much worse fate--that of having to live on? I wish, dear dad, that I

could persuade you of the truth of this."

"If only," muttered the old man in response, "if only, my boy, I could

bear it for you"; and Carden saw that his father's face was scared

with an awful look of terror and agony.

"But, indeed, father, you do not understand. Believe me, I am not

afraid--it will not be so bad, after all. So do not--pray, pray,

father, do not be so distressed."

* * * * *

And then with a great start Theodore Carden awoke--awoke to see the

small, spare figure of that same dear father, clothed in the long,

old-fashioned linen night-shirt of another day, standing by his

bed-side.

The old man held a candle in his hand, and was gazing down at his only

child with an expression of unutterable woe and grief. "I will try--I

am trying, my boy, not to be unreasonably distressed," he said.

Theodore Carden sat up in bed. Since this awful thing had come on him

he had never, even for an instant, forgotten self, but now he saw that

his sufferings were small compared with those he had brought on the

man into whose face he was gazing with red-rimmed, sunken eyes. For a

moment the wild thought came to him that he might try to explain, to

justify himself, to prove to his father that in this matter he had but

done as others do, and that the punishment was intolerably heavier

than the crime; but then, looking up and meeting Thomas Carden's

perplexed, questioning eyes, he felt a great rush of shame and horror,

not only of himself, but of all those who look at life as he himself

had always looked at it; for the first time, he understood the

mysterious necessity, as well as the beauty, of abnegation, of

renunciation.

"Father," he said, "listen. I will not go away alone; I was mad to

think of such a thing. We will go together, you and I,--Lane has told

me that such has been your wish,--and then perhaps some day we will

come back together."

After this, for the first time for many nights, Theodore Carden fell

into a dreamless sleep.