SHE WAS A TRUE WOMAN.
Melbourne society was greatly agitated over the hansom cab murder.
Before the assassin had been discovered it had been looked upon merely
as a common murder, and one of which society need take no cognisance
beyond the bare fact of its committal. But now that one of the most
fashionable young men in Melbourne had been arrested as the assassin,
it bade fair to assume gigantic proportions. Mrs. Grundy was shocked,
and openly talked about having nourished in her bosom a viper which had
unexpectedly turned and stung her.
Morn, noon, and night, in Toorak drawing-rooms and Melbourne Clubs, the
case formed the principal subject of conversation. And Mrs. Grundy was
horrified. Here was a young man, well born--"the Fitzgeralds, my dear,
an Irish family, with royal blood in their veins"--well-bred--"most
charming manners, I assure you, and so very good-looking" and engaged
to one of the richest girls in Melbourne--"pretty enough, madam, no
doubt, but he wanted her money, sly dog;" and this young man, who had
been petted by the ladies, voted a good fellow by the men, and was
universally popular, both in drawing-room and club, had committed a
vulgar murder--it was truly shocking. What was the world coming to, and
what were gaols and lunatic asylums built for if men of young
Fitzgerald's calibre were not put in them, and kept from killing
people? And then, of course, everybody asked everybody else who Whyte
was, and why he had never been heard of before. All people who had met
Mr. Whyte were worried to death with questions about him, and underwent
a species of social martyrdom as to who he was, what he was like, why
he was killed, and all the rest of the insane questions which some
people will ask. It was talked about everywhere--in fashionable
drawing-rooms at five o'clock tea, over thin bread and butter and
souchong; at clubs, over brandies and sodas and cigarettes; by working
men over their mid-day pint, and by their wives in the congenial
atmosphere of the back yard over the wash-tub. The papers were full of
paragraphs about the famous murder, and the society papers gave an
interview with the prisoner by their special reporters, which had been
composed by those gentlemen out of the floating rumours which they
heard around, and their own fertile imaginations.
As to the prisoner's guilt, everyone was certain of it. The cabman
Royston had sworn that Fitzgerald had got into the cab with Whyte, and
when he got out Whyte was dead. There could be no stronger proof than
that, and the general opinion was that the prisoner would put in no
defence, but would throw himself on the mercy of the court. Even the
church caught the contagion, and ministers--Anglican, Roman Catholic,
and Presbyterian, together with the lesser lights of minor
denominations--took the hansom cab murder as a text whereon to preach
sermons on the profligacy of the age, and to point out that the only
ark which could save men from the rising flood of infidelity and
immorality was their own particular church. "Gad," as Calton remarked,
after hearing five or six ministers each claim their own church as the
one special vessel of safety, "there seems to be a whole fleet of arks!"
For Mr. Felix Rolleston, acquainted as he was with all concerned, the
time was one of great and exceeding joy. He was ever to the fore in
retailing to his friends, plus certain garnishments of his own, any
fresh evidence that chanced to come to light. His endeavour was to
render it the more piquant, if not dramatic. If you asked him for his
definite opinion as to the innocence or guilt of the accused, Mr. Felix
shook his head sagaciously, and gave you to understand that neither he,
nor his dear friend Calton--he knew Calton to nod to--had yet been able
to make up their minds about the matter.
"Fact is, don't you know," observed Mr. Rolleston, wisely, "there's
more in this than meets the eye, and all that sort of thing--think
'tective fellers wrong myself--don't think Fitz killed Whyte; jolly
well sure he didn't."
This would be followed invariably by a query in chorus of "who killed
him then?"
"Aha," Felix would retort, putting his head on one side, like a
meditative sparrow; "'tective fellers can't find out; that's the
difficulty. Good mind to go on the prowl myself, by Jove."
"But do you know anything of the detective business?" some one would
ask.
"Oh, dear yes," with an airy wave of his hand; "I've read Gaboreau, you
know; awfully jolly life, 'tectives."
Despite this evasion, Rolleston, in his heart of hearts, believed
Fitzgerald guilty. But he was one of those persons, who having either
tender hearts or obstinate natures--the latter is perhaps the more
general--deem it incumbent upon them to come forward in championship of
those in trouble. There are, doubtless, those who think that Nero was a
pleasant young man, whose cruelties were but the resultant of an
overflow of high spirits; and who regard Henry VIII. in the light of a
henpecked husband unfortunate in the possession of six wives. These
people delight in expressing their sympathy with great scoundrels of
the Ned Kelly order. They view them as the embodiment of heroism,
unsympathetically and disgracefully treated by the narrow understanding
of the law. If one half the world does kick a man when he is down, the
other half invariably consoles the prostrate individual with halfpence.
And therefore, even while the weight of public opinion was dead against
Fitzgerald he had his share of avowed sympathy. There was a comfort in
this for Madge. Not that if the whole countryside had unanimously
condemned her lover she would have believed him guilty. The element of
logic does not enter into the championship of woman. Her love for a man
is sufficient to exalt him to the rank of a demi-god. She absolutely
refuses to see the clay feet of her idol. When all others forsake she
clings to him, when all others frown she smiles on him, and when he
dies she reveres his memory as that of a saint and a martyr. Young men
of the present day are prone to disparage their womenkind; but a poor
thing is the man, who in time of trouble has no woman to stand by him
with cheering words and loving comfort. And so Madge Frettlby, true
woman that she was, had nailed her colours to the mast. She refused
surrender to anyone, or before any argument. He was innocent, and his
innocence would be proved, for she had an intuitive feeling that he
would be saved at the eleventh hour. How, she knew not; but she was
certain that it would be so. She would have gone to see Brian in
prison, but that her father absolutely forbade her doing so. Therefore
she was dependent upon Calton for all the news respecting him, and any
message which she wished conveyed.
Brian's persistent refusal to set up the defence of an ALIBI, annoyed
Calton, the more so as he could conceive no reason sufficiently worthy
of the risk to which it subjected his client.
"If it's for the sake of a woman," he said to Brian, "I don't care who
she is, it's absurdly Quixotic. Self-preservation is the first law of
nature, and if my neck was in danger I'd spare neither man, woman, nor
child to save it."
"I dare say," answered Brian; "but if you had my reasons you might
think differently."
Yet in his own mind the lawyer had a suspicion which he thought might
perhaps account for Brian's obstinate concealment of his movements on
the fatal night. He had admitted an appointment with a woman. He was a
handsome young fellow, and probably his morals were no better than
those of his fellows. There was perhaps some intrigue with a married
woman. He had perchance been with her on that night, and it was to
shield her that he refused to speak.
"Even so," argued Calton, "let him lose his character rather than his
life; indeed the woman herself should speak. It would be hard upon her
I admit; yet when a man's life is in danger, surely nothing should stop
her."
Full of these perplexing thoughts, Calton went down to St. Kilda to
have a talk with Madge. He intended to ask her to assist him towards
obtaining the information he needed. He had a great respect for Madge,
and thought her a really clever woman. It was just possible, he argued,
that Brian's great love might cause him to confess everything to her,
at her urgent request. He found Madge awaiting his arrival with anxiety.
"Where have you been all this time?" she said as they sat down; "I have
been counting every moment since I saw you last. How is he?"
"Just the same," answered Calton, taking off his gloves, "still
obstinately refusing to save his own life. Where's your father?" he
asked, suddenly.
"Out of town," she answered, impatiently. "He will not be back for a
week--but what do you mean that he won't save his own life?"
Calton leaned forward, and took her hand.
"Do you want to save his life?" he asked.
"Save his life," she reiterated, starting up out of her chair with a
cry. "God knows, I would die to save him."
"Pish," murmured Calton to himself, as he looked at her glowing face
and outstretched hands, "these women are always in extremes. The fact
is," he said aloud, "Fitzgerald is able to prove an ALIBI, and he
refuses to do so."
"But why?"
Calton shrugged his shoulders.
"That is best known to himself--some Quixotic idea of honour, I fancy.
Now, he refuses to tell me where he was on that night; perhaps he won't
refuse to tell you--so you must come up and see him with me, and
perhaps he will recover his senses, and confess."
"But my father," she faltered.
"Did you not say he was out of town?" asked Calton.
"Yes," hesitated Madge. "But he told me not to go."
"In that case," said Calton, rising and taking up his hat and gloves,
"I won't ask you."
She laid her hand on his arm.
"Stop! will it do any good?"
Calton hesitated a moment, for he thought that if the reason of Brian's
silence was, as he surmised, an intrigue with a married woman, he might
not tell the girl he was engaged to about it--but, on the other hand,
there might be some other reason, and Calton trusted to Madge to find
it out. With these thoughts in his mind he turned round.
"Yes," he answered, boldly, "it may save his life."
"Then I shall go," she answered, recklessly. "He is more to me than my
father, and if I can save him, I will. Wait," and she ran out of the
room.
"An uncommonly plucky girl," murmured the lawyer, as he looked out of
the window. "If Fitzgerald is not a fool he will certainly tell her
all--that is, of course, if he is able to--queer things these women
are--I quite agree with Balzac's saying that no wonder man couldn't
understand woman, seeing that God who created her failed to do so."
Madge came back dressed to go out, with a heavy veil over her face.
"Shall I order the carriage?" she asked, pulling on her gloves with
trembling fingers.
"Hardly," answered Calton, dryly, "unless you want to see a paragraph
in the society papers to the effect that Miss Madge Frettlby visited
Mr. Fitzgerald in gaol--no--no--we'll get a cab. Come, my dear," and
taking her arm he led her away.
They reached the station, and caught a train just as it started, yet
notwithstanding this Madge was in a fever of impatience.
"How slowly it goes," she said, fretfully.
"Hush, my dear," said Calton, laying his hand on her arm. "You will
betray yourself--we'll arrive soon--and save him."
"Oh, God grant we may," she said with a low cry, clasping her hands
tightly together, while Calton could see the tears falling from under
her thick veil.
"This is not the way to do so," he said, almost roughly, "you'll be in
hysterics soon--control yourself for his sake."
"For his sake," she muttered, and with a powerful effort of will,
calmed herself. They soon arrived in Melbourne, and, getting a hansom,
drove up quickly to the gaol. After going through the usual formula,
they entered the cell where Brian was, and, when the warder who
accompanied them opened the door, they found the young man seated on
his bed. He looked up, and, on seeing Madge, rose and held out his
hands with a cry of delight. She ran forward, and threw herself on his
breast with a stifled sob. For a short time no one spoke--Calton being
at the other end of the cell, busy with some notes which he had taken
from his pocket, and the warder having retired.
"My poor darling," said Madge, stroking back the soft, fair hair from
his flushed forehead, "how ill you look."
"Yes!" answered Fitzgerald, with a hard laugh. "Prison does not improve
a man--does it?"
"Don't speak in that tone, Brian," she said; "it is not like you--let
us sit down and talk calmly over the matter."
"I don't see what good that will do," he answered, wearily, as they sat
down hand-in-hand. "I have talked about it to Calton till my head
aches, and it is no good."
"Of course not," retorted the lawyer, sharply, as he also sat down.
"Nor will it be any good until you come to your senses, and tell us
where you were on that night."
"I tell you I cannot."
"Brian, dear," said Madge, softly, taking his hand, "you must tell
all--for my sake."
Fitzgerald sighed--this was the hardest temptation he had yet been
subjected to. He felt half inclined to yield, and chance the result--but
one look at Madge's pure face steeled him against doing so. What could
his confession bring but sorrow and regret to one whom he loved better
than his life.
"Madge!" he answered, gravely, taking her hand again, "you do not know
what you ask."
"Yes, I do!" she replied, quickly. "I ask you to save yourself--to
prove that you are not guilty of this terrible crime, and not to
sacrifice your life for the sake of--of--"
Here she stopped, and looked helplessly at Calton, for she had no idea
of the reason of Fitzgerald's refusal to speak.
"For the sake of a woman," finished Calton, bluntly.
"A woman!" she faltered, still holding her lover's hand.
"Is--is--is that the reason?"
Brian averted his face.
"Yes!" he said, in a low, rough voice.
A sharp expression of anguish crossed her pale face, and, sinking her
head on her hands, she wept bitterly. Brian looked at her in a dogged
kind of way, and Calton stared grimly at them both.
"Look here," he said, at length, to Brian, in an angry voice; "if you
want my opinion of your conduct I think it's infamous--begging your
pardon, Miss Frettlby, for the expression. Here is this noble girl, who
loves you with her whole heart, and is ready to sacrifice everything
for your sake, comes to implore you to save your life, and you coolly
turn round and acknowledge another woman."
Brian lifted his head haughtily, and his face flushed.
"You are wrong," he said, turning round sharply; "there is the woman
for whose sake I keep silence;" and, rising up from the bed, he pointed
to Madge, as she sobbed bitterly on it. She lifted up her haggard face
with an air of surprise.
"For my sake!" she cried in a startled voice.
"Oh, he's mad," said Calton, shrugging his shoulders; "I shall put in a
defence of insanity."
"No, I am not mad," cried Fitzgerald, wildly, as he caught Madge in his
arms. "My darling! My darling! It is for your sake that I keep silence,
and I shall do so though my life pays the penalty. I could tell you
where I was on that night and save myself: but if I did, you would
learn a secret which would curse your life, and I dare not speak--I
dare not."
Madge looked up into his face with a pitiful smile as her--tears fell
fast.
"Dearest!" she said, softly. "Do not think of me, but only of yourself;
better that I should endure misery than that you should die. I do not
know what the secret can be, but if the telling of it will save your
life, do not hesitate. See," she cried, falling on her knees, "I am at
your feet--I implore you by all the love you ever had for me, to save
yourself, whatever the consequences may be to me."
"Madge," said Fitzgerald, as he raised her in his arms, "at one time I
might have done so, but now it is too late. There is another and
stronger reason for my silence, which I have only found out since my
arrest. I know that I am closing up the one way of escape from this
charge of murder, of which I am innocent; but as there is a God in
heaven, I swear that I will not speak."
There was a silence in the cell, broken only by Madge's convulsive
sobs, and even Calton, cynical man of the world as he was, felt his
eyes grow wet. Brian led Madge over to him, and placed her in his arms.
"Take her away," he said, in a broken voice, "or I shall forget that I
am a man;" and turning away he threw himself on his bed, and covered
his face with his hands. Calton did not answer him, but summoned the
warder, and tried to lead Madge away. But just as they reached the door
she broke away from him, and, running back, flung herself on her
lover's breast.
"My darling! My darling!" she sobbed, kissing him, "you shall not die.
I shall save you in spite of yourself;" and, as if afraid to trust
herself longer, she ran out of the cell, followed by the barrister.