There were other men besides Mr Tippet who could be true to their
promises when it suited them.
D. Gorman was true to his, in so far as they concerned David Boone. He
visited that unfortunate invalid so frequently, and brought him so many
little "nice things" for the alleviation of his sufferings, and
exhibited altogether such nervous anxiety about his recovery, that
worthy Mrs Craw was quite overwhelmed, and said, in the fulness of her
heart, that she never did see a kinder friend, or one who more flatly
gave the lie-direct to his looks, which, she was bound to admit, were
not prepossessing.
But, despite his friend's solicitude, and his doctor's prescriptions,
and his nurse's kindness, David Boone continued steadily to sink, until
at last the doctor gave it as his opinion that he would not recover.
One afternoon, soon after the expression of this opinion, Gorman called
on his friend, and was shown as usual into his chamber. It was a wet,
cold, stormy afternoon, and the window rattled violently in its frame.
Boone was much better that afternoon. It seemed as if he had just
waited for the doctor to pronounce his unfavourable opinion in order to
have the satisfaction of contradicting it.
"He's better to-day, sir," said Mrs Craw, in a whisper.
"Better!" exclaimed Gorman with a look of surprise, "I'm glad to hear
that--very glad."
He looked as if he were very sorry, but then, as Mrs Craw said, his
looks belied him.
"He's asleep now, sir; the doctor said if he slept he was on no account
to be waked up, so I'll leave you to sit by him, sir, till he wakes,
and, please, be as quiet as you can."
Mrs Craw left the room on tip-toe, and Gorman went to the bedside and
looked on the sick man's wasted features with a frown.
"Ha! you're asleep, are you, and not to be waked up--eh? Come, I'll
rouse you."
He shook him violently by the shoulder, and Boone awoke with a start and
a groan.
"Hope I didn't disturb you, Boone," said his friend in a quiet voice.
"I came to inquire for you."
Boone started up in his bed and stared wildly at some object which
appeared to be at the foot of the bed. Gorman started too, and turned
pale as his eyes followed those of the invalid.
"What is it you see, Boone?"
"There, there!" he whispered hoarsely, clutching Gorman's arm as if for
protection, "look, I heard his voice just now; oh! save me from that
man; he--he--wants to kill me!"
"Come, David," said Gorman soothingly, "it's only a fancy--there's
nobody there--nobody in the room but me."
"And who are you?" inquired the sick man, falling back exhausted, while
he gazed vacantly at his friend.
"Don't you know me, David?"
"Never mind, shut your eyes now and try to sleep. It'll be time to take
your physic soon."
"Physic!" cried Boone, starting up in alarm, and again clutching
Gorman's arm. "You won't let _him_ give it me, will you? Oh! say you
won't--promise to give it me yourself!"
Gorman promised, and a very slight but peculiar smile turned up the
corners of his mouth as he did so.
Boone again sank back on his pillow, and Gorman sat down on a chair
beside him. His villainous features worked convulsively, for in his
heart he was meditating a terrible deed. That morning he had been
visited by Ned Hooper, who in the most drunken of voices told him, "that
it wash 'mposh'ble to git a body f'r love or munny, so if 'e wanted one
he'd better cut's own throat."
His plans having miscarried in this matter, Gorman now meditated taking
another and more decided step. He looked at the sick man, and, seeing
how feeble he was, his fingers twitched as if with a desire to strangle
him. So strong was the feeling upon him that he passed his fingers
nervously about his own throat, as if to ascertain the formation of it
and the precise locality of the windpipe. Then his hand dropped to his
side, and he sat still again, while Boone rolled his poor head from side
to side and moaned softly.
Evening drew on apace, and the shadows in the sick-room gradually became
deeper and deeper until nothing could be seen distinctly. Still Gorman
sat there, with his features pale as death, and his fingers moving
nervously; and still the sick man lay and rolled his head from side to
side on the pillow. Once or twice Gorman rose abruptly, but he as often
sat down again without doing anything.
Suddenly a ray of bright light shot through the window. Gorman started
and drew back in alarm. It was only a lamp-lighter who had lighted one
of the street-lamps, and the ray which he had thus sent into the
sick-chamber passed over the bed. It did not disturb Boone, for the
curtains were between him and it, but it disturbed Gorman, for it fell
on the chimney-piece and illuminated a group of phials, one of which,
half full of a black liquid, was labelled "_Poison_!"
Gorman started up, and this time did not sit down, but with a trembling
step moved to the fireplace. He stretched out his hand to grasp the
bottle, and almost overturned it, for just at the moment his own figure
intercepted the ray of light, and threw the spot where it stood into
deep shadow.
"What's that?" asked Boone.
"It's only me," said Gorman, "getting you your physic. I almost upset
it in the dark. Here now, drink it off. I can't find the cup, but you
can take it out of the bottle."
"You won't let _him_ come near when you give it, will you?" asked Boone
anxiously.
"No, no; come, open your mouth."
Boone hesitated to do so, but Gorman used a little force. His hands
were steady now! His heart was steeled to the deed, and the cry which
Boone was about to utter was choked by the liquid flowing down his
throat.
Gorman had flung him back with such violence that he lay stunned, while
the murderer replaced the bottle on the chimney-piece and hurried to the
door. A gentle knock at it arrested him, but his indecision was
momentary. He opened the door softly, and going out, said to Mrs Craw
in a whisper--
"He's sleeping now. I found it hard to get him to give up talking, for
he waked up soon after I went in; but he's all right now. I suppose the
medicine is beginning to operate; he told me he took it himself just
before I came in."
"Took it himself!" exclaimed Mrs Craw. "Impossible."
"Well, I don't know, but he's better now. I would let him rest a while
if I were you."
"Stay, sir! I'll go fetch a light," said Mrs Craw.
"Never mind; I know the stair well," said Gorman hurriedly; "don't mind
a light; I shan't want it."
He was right. If any man ever wanted darkness rather than light--thick,
heavy, impenetrable darkness--it was D. Gorman at that time.
"Took it himself!" repeated Mrs Craw in unabated surprise as she closed
the street door. "It's impossible. He's got no more strength than an
unborn hinfant. I must go an' see to this."
Lighting a candle, she went softly into the sick chamber and looked at
the invalid, who was apparently asleep, but breathing heavily. She then
went to the chimney-piece and began to examine the phials there.
"My!" she exclaimed suddenly, with a look of alarm, "if he han't bin an'
drunk up all the tinctur' o' rhubarb! An' the laudanum-bottle standin'
close beside it too! _What_ a mercy he didn't drink that! Well, lucky
for him there wasn't much in it, for an overdose of anything in his
state would be serious."
Full of her discovery, Mrs Craw set the candle on the table, and sat
down on the chair by the bedside to think about it; but the more she
thought about it the more puzzled she was.
"Took it himself," she said, reverting to Gorman's words. "Impossible!"
She continued to shake her head and mutter "Impossible" for some time,
while she stared at the candle as if she expected that _it_ would solve
the mystery. Then she got up and examined the bedclothes, and found
that a good deal of the rhubarb had been spilt on the sheets, and that a
good deal more of it had been spilt on Boone's chin and chest; after
which her aspect changed considerably, as, setting down the candle, she
resumed her seat and said--
"Took it himself! Impossible!"
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Darkness! If ever a man sought darkness in vain, and found light,
bright blazing light, everywhere, it was Gorman. At first, in a burst
of frenzy, he rushed away at full speed. It was well for him that the
wind had increased to a hurricane and the rain was blinding, else had he
been stopped on suspicion, so fierce was his mien, so haggard his look,
so wild his race. Gradually his pace slackened, and gradually as well
as naturally he gravitated to his old familiar haunts; but go where he
would, there was light everywhere except within his own breast. It was
all darkness there.
It is true the sky was dark enough, for the war of elements was so great
that it seemed to have been blotted out with ink, but the shops appeared
to have been lit up more brilliantly than usual. Every lamp poured a
flood of light around it. The lanterns of the cabs and omnibuses sent
rich beams of light through the air, and the air itself, laden as it was
with moisture, absorbed a portion of light, and invested everything with
a halo. Light, light! all round, and the light of conscience within
rendering the darkness there visible, and shining on the letters of a
word written in dark red--"Murderer!"
Gorman tried to extinguish the light, but it was a fire that would not
be put out. He cursed the shop-windows and the lamps for shining so
brightly on him; he cursed the few people whose curiosity induced them
to pause and look back at him, and he cursed himself for being such a
fool.
On reaching Cheapside he began to recover his self-possession, and to
walk in the storm as other men did. But in proportion as his composure
returned the enormity of his crime became more apparent to him, and the
word written in red letters became so bright that he felt as if every
passer-by must read it, unless he dropt his eyes to prevent their seeing
through them into his soul.
At London Bridge he became nervously apprehensive. Each unusually quick
footstep startled him. Every policeman was carefully avoided, and
anything approaching to a shout behind caused him to start into an
involuntary run. Despite his utmost efforts to control himself, the
strong man was unmanned; a child could have made him fly.
He was about to cross London Bridge, when he observed a policeman taking
shelter under the parapet, and apparently watching those who passed him.
Gorman could not make up his mind to go on, so he turned aside and
descended the nearest stairs.
The policeman had doubtless been watching for someone, or suspected
Gorman because of his undecided movements, for he followed him. The
latter observed this and quickened his pace. The instant he was hidden
from his pursuer, he darted away at full speed, and did not halt until
he stood at the foot of one of the stairs where wherries are usually to
be found. The sight that met his gaze there might have overawed the
most reckless of men.
A hurricane was raging such as is not often experienced in our favoured
island. The wind blew, not in gusts and squalls, but in one continuous
roar, lashing the Thames into crested waves, tearing ships from their
moorings, and dashing them against other ships, which were likewise
carried away, and swept downward with the tide. Dozens of barges were
sunk, and the shrieks of their crews were heard sometimes rising above
the storm.
The gale was at its height when Gorman came into full view of the
Thames. A waterman, who was crouching for shelter in the angle of a
warehouse, observed him, and came forward.
"An awful night, sir," he said.
"Yes," answered Gorman curtly. He started as he spoke, for he heard, or
he fancied he heard, a shout behind him.
"Is that your boat?" said he.
"It is," replied the waterman in surprise, "you don't want to go on the
water on such a night, do you?"
"Yes, I do," said Gorman, trembling in every limb; "come, jump in, and
shove off."
At that moment a policeman came running down towards them.
"Are you mad?" exclaimed the man, grasping Gorman by the arm as he
sprang toward the boat.
In a moment, Gorman struck him to the ground, and leaping into the boat
pushed off, just as the policeman came up. He was whirled away
instantly.
Grasping one of the oars, he was just in time to prevent the boat being
dashed against one of the wooden piers of a wharf. He was desperate
now. Shipping both oars he pulled madly out into the stream, but in a
few moments he was swept against the port-bow of a large vessel, against
the stem of which the water was curling as if the ship had been
breasting the Atlantic waves before a stiff breeze. One effort Gorman
made to avoid the collision, then he leaped up, and just as the boat
struck, sprang at the fore-chains. He caught them and held on, but his
hold was not firm; the next moment he was rolling along the vessel's
side, tearing it with his nails in the vain attempt to grasp the smooth
hull. He struck against the bow of the vessel immediately behind and
was swept under it.
Rising to the surface, he uttered a wild shriek, and attempted to stem
the current. He was a powerful swimmer, and despair lent him energy to
buffet the waves for a short time; but he was again swept away by the
irresistible tide, and had almost given up hope of being saved, when his
forehead was grazed by a rope which hung from a vessel's side. Seizing
this, he held on, and with much difficulty succeeded in gaining the
vessel's deck.
With his safety Gorman's fear of being captured returned. He hid
himself behind some lumber, and while in this position wrung some of the
water out of his clothes. In a few minutes he summoned courage to look
about him, and discovered that the vessel was connected with the one
that lay next to it by a plank. No one appeared to be moving, and it
was so dark that he could not see more than four or five yards before
him. To pass from one vessel to the other was the work of a few
seconds. Finding that the second vessel lay moored to the quay, he
sprang from it with all his might and alighted safely on the shore.
From the position of the shipping he knew that he stood on the south
bank of the river, having been swept right across the Thames, so he had
now no further difficulty in hiding his guilty head in his own home.