It is at this point of my story that I cannot entirely trust my
memory. I am, however, sufficiently clear-minded as to the course of
events up to the moment when, in a street, the name of which is
unknown to me, an attack was made upon my life. That a watch had been
kept upon my movements, and that the attack was premeditated, I have
no reason to doubt; but it is almost incredible that hatred could be
so far-seeing and vindictive.
As I have said, the snow was falling heavily. It was the first time I
had been in Liverpool, and I was therefore not familiar with its
thoroughfares. So inclement was the weather, and so thickly did the
snow lay upon the ground, that I could not obtain a vehicle to take me
to the railway station, the two or three cabs which were available
being snapped up before I could reach them. I had no alternative but
to walk to Lime Street. There was ample time to get to the station,
and I was proof against much more serious obstacles than a snowstorm
and a gale of wind.
I was in joyous spirits at the prospect of soon embracing Ellen and my
boy, and I walked along (after inquiring my way at the docks) with
buoyant steps and a song on my lips. It may have been that this
preoccupation of mind made me absent-minded, or that I had been
misdirected, for in the midst of my pleasant musings a doubt arose as
to whether I was on the right road. I remember stopping by a lamp-post
to look at my watch, which I had purchased before I left Melbourne; I
remember the time, five minutes to eleven, and my feeling of
satisfaction that I had nearly an hour to get to the station. But
which was the right way? There was not a person in sight of whom I
could make inquiries, and at hap-hazard I turned down the street to
which I have referred. It was a narrow, ill-lighted street, and I did
not notice whether the houses in it were places of business or private
residences.
Suddenly, either from one of the houses or from some dark courtway, a
man rushed out and attacked me with such violence that had I been less
powerful than I am his first onslaught would have accomplished his
purpose. As it was, I grappled with him at the moment of his attack,
and a furious struggle began--a struggle for life. Maddened by the
attempt to dash the cup of happiness from my lips I put forth all my
strength.
And here it is that memory fails me. The recollection of the salient
features of this desperate encounter may doubtless be depended upon as
correct, but I can go no further in my recountal of the issue of it.
One maddening thought, I know, was dominant throughout--the thought
that I was fighting for Ellen and love.
The struggle must have lasted a considerable time.
I could not see the face of my assailant, and it is my impression that
he strove to avoid recognition; nor did he speak. We struck at each
other savagely and in silence. From first to last, so far as I am
aware, not a word passed between us. We swayed this way and that, each
man's hand at the other's throat; then I felt myself lifted from my
feet--a wrestling trick--and flung into the air. But I was up like
lightning, and as I seized him again I was dimly conscious of the
sight of blood dropping on the snow--whether his blood or mine I
cannot say. It seemed to be his purpose to drag me into a house, the
door of which was open, and in this he succeeded.
Grappling and raining blows upon each other in the dark passage, we
fell upon the stairs, and struggling to our feet without losing our
hold, continued the contest. The only weapon I had about me was a
fossicking knife in its sheath, and this I must have drawn, as was
proved by the result, though I am unable to say whether I drew it in
the street or in the house. I cannot account for the fatal use I made
of this weapon except upon the supposition that a weapon of some kind
was being used against me, and that I was prompted by a savage
instinct of self-preservation. In such an emergency a man has no time
to reflect upon the consequences of his acts; reason is lost, instinct
rules. My aim was to escape into the street, his to drag me from
it--and he prevailed. At what period of the brutal conflict we gained
the landing of the first floor, at what period we stumbled into a
room, and when I dealt the fatal stroke which gave me a frightful
victory--all this is hidden from me.
Scores of times since that night have I said to myself, "Let me think,
let me think!" and vainly endeavored to follow the progress of the
awful struggle. In the moment of victory I must have received a blow
which might have proved deadly, for darkness fell upon me, and I sank
to the ground in a state of unconsciousness.
When I came to my senses I found myself in an apartment lighted up by
two lamps and half-a-dozen candles. The oil in the lamps was almost
exhausted. The candles were guttering down. The scattered furniture
denoted the savage nature of the struggle in which I had been engaged.
Chairs had been flung here and there, a large table was upset; had the
candles or lamps been upon it the house would have been set on fire.
Against the wall, in front of me, was a sideboard garnished with
bottles and glasses, among them a syphon of mineral water.
This was all I discerned in the first few moments of returning
consciousness.
I put my hand to my face, and drawing it away found blood upon it; my
other hand and my clothes were also stained with blood.
This caused me to think of my assailant, whose condition could have
been scarcely worse than my own. What had become of him? Why had he
left me here without finishing his work? Was he so badly wounded that
he had no strength to kill me?
All was silent in the house. Not a sound of its being inhabited
reached my ears. I must fly from it directly my own strength returned,
thankful that I had come with life out of the desperate encounter.
Gradually my sight grew clearer, and I rose to my feet. My throat was
parched. I went to the sideboard, and pouring out a glass of mineral
water, raised it to my lips. In the act of doing this, I turned
mechanically, and brought into view that part of the room which I had
not yet seen. The glass dropped from my trembling hand, the water
untasted.
On the floor, close to the opposite wall, lay the motionless form of a
man. This was he, then, who had sought my life, this still form,
struck down by my own hand. What I could distinguish of his clothing
proclaimed him to belong to the well-to-do classes; a silk hat and
gloves, which I had not previously observed, were on a small side
table. A nameless horror stole upon me. With slow, stealthy steps I
approached and knelt by his side, unconscious at the moment that I was
kneeling in a pool of blood. There, gazing with terrified eyes upon
him, I waited for a sign which did not come. Not a breath, not the
vibration of a pulse. His arm lay across his face. Tremblingly I
lifted it aside, and let it fall with a cry of terror on my lips. The
face I had uncovered was that of my half-brother Louis! He was dead,
and I had killed him! The scar on his forehead was blood-red, and
though I was guiltless of causing it, seemed to accuse me; blood was
on his face and clothes, there was a wound in his breast--his
death-blow--delivered by me whom he hated, by me, who had hated him in
life. Oh, cruel fate that made me his murderer!
The shock of the discovery overwhelmed me. I knew what his death meant
for me. It did not dawn upon my mind; it came in one sudden, blasting
flash. All that had gone before was light in comparison with this
mortal blow, which dealt by my own hand, destroyed beyond redemption
the newly-born hopes which had filled my heart with gladness. My dream
was over. Ellen and I were forever parted.
Oh, God!
I can hear again the echo of the cry of anguish to which I gave in
voluntary utterance.
Oh, God! Oh, God!
But of what use appeal to Him? Rather appeal to man, by whom I should
be judged; relate my story to the earthly judge before whom I should
be arraigned; hide nothing from first to last; expose the remorseless
persecution, the vile cunning, the unspeakable degradation which had
made my home a hell upon earth; state how I had only landed this
night; how, passing through the street I was suddenly attacked and had
simply defended myself, as any man would have done under similar
circumstances----
Pshaw! Who would believe such a tale? It would be scouted with
derision.
If an angel were to come down to testify to the truth of my story he
would not be believed. How, then, could I expect to be believed when
human witnesses would testify to the hate I bore the man whose spirit
was now before God's Judgment Seat? To hope that I could break the
chain of evidence that would be brought against me was the hope of a
madman.
One by one the candles had gone out; the room was now in
semi-darkness. I stood in thought.
Whoso sheddeth his brother's blood--yes, but I was innocent of
murderous design. Why, then, should I declare myself a murderer and
bring despair upon Ellen, bring ignominy and shame upon her and our
child? Life-long despair, life-long ignominy. Every man's finger would
be pointed at her. In my child's ears would ring the words, "Your
father is a murderer!" Better for him never to have been born.
I had not myself alone to think of, to act for, Ellen could never now
be my wife, the delights of home would never be mine. But for her, a
lesser evil, though she would never realize it, was to be found in my
concealment of my crime. It would be necessary for me to keep apart
from her, for in her presence I should be continually confronted by
the temptation to betray myself, to make confession, and to do this
would be to inflict upon her frightful suffering. Sweet and patient as
she was, and implicit as was her faith in me, the duplicities I should
be compelled to practice in order to prevent any meeting between us,
could not but injure me in her eyes. Setting love aside--an
inconceivable hypothesis, for I never loved her as I did in this
despairing hour--honor and honest dealings called upon me to give her
the name of wife. She would grieve that I did not make amends to her
for the sacrifices she had made for me; but far better that I should
sink in her esteem than inflict upon her the crushing horror of seeing
me condemned for murder. For her sake, then, silence and secrecy, if
they could be compassed.
There had been no witnesses of the tragic incidents of the night. I
was alone with the dead. The silence that reigned in the house favored
my design of secret flight. If any persons resided there they must
have heard the sounds of the struggle, the stumbling on the stairs,
the dashing into the room, the upsetting of the furniture. I would
make sure, however, that the house was uninhabited.
The oil in the lamps was nearly exhausted; but I had matches in a box
which Ellen had given me before my departure for Australia. I crept
into the passage and listened above, below. No sound. Striking matches
as I proceeded I went all over the house from basement to attic, and
saw no signs of habitation. The rooms on the ground floor had been
partially dismantled, and presented the appearance of having been used
for offices, while those on the upper floors had served for private
residence, the most completely furnished apartment being that in
which Louis lay dead. I made my investigations cautiously and quietly,
and kept myself prepared for a possible attack. Once, when I was
taking a match out of the box it slipped from my hand, and though I
groped for it in all directions I could not find it. There was no time
to waste; every moment that I remained in the house was charged with
danger, and I was so beset by terrors springing from the perturbed
state of my mind that the flapping of a door, the wind tearing through
the street, even the slightest sound which fell unexpectedly on my
ears, set all my nerves quivering.
The storm had increased in violence. Through an uncurtained window on
the top floor I saw the snow descending thick and fast, the wind
whirling it furiously onward and upward. A wild night, but I had
reason to be thankful for it. The conflict of the elements lessened my
chances of being caught red-handed.
Standing by the uncurtained window I felt for my watch; it had not
occurred to me before to ascertain the time. The watch was gone, the
chain hung loose; but the pocket-book in which I kept my money was
safe. The loss of my watch did not induce the suspicion that robbery
was the motive for the attack; it must have been jerked out of my
pocket in the course of the struggle. It was dangerous to leave it in
the house; it was more dangerous to remain. I consoled myself with the
thought that I might have lost it in the street, and that it would be
found by some person who would be satisfied to retain it without
making inquiries. In any circumstances there was no name engraved on
it to prove that I was the owner.
A faint scratching on the wainscot at this point of my reflections
drove my heart into my mouth. So harmless a creature as a mouse was
sufficient to inspire terror. I felt my way down to the fatal room,
having no means of obtaining a light. It was quite dark now, and my
footsteps were dogged by phantoms created by the fever of my blood. I
saw the forms of struggling men, watched by glaring eyes and haunted
by formless shadows; incidents of the struggle which remained in my
memory repeated themselves with monstrous exaggeration; my brain
teemed with startling images. I must get from this house of terror
quickly; in the white snow the phantoms would fade away.
These imaginings did not cause me to lose sight of my purpose to avoid
the consequences of my unpremeditated crime. A dual process of thought
was going on within me, one belonging to the real, the other to the
unreal world. Reason cautioned me to arm myself against the chances of
detection. Such as lay in the stains of blood on my hands and face.
The snow would serve me here. From my blood-bespattered clothes the
stains could not be removed so easily. I should not have returned to
the death-room had I not noticed an ulster coat thrown across a chair
which, in the open air, would render me reasonably safe from
observation. I groped for the chair, found it, thrust my arms into the
ulster, and buttoned it up.
All was still as death--and death itself, a muffled figure, my
father's son, lay outlined near the opposite wall. The deep darkness
did not shut it from my sight.
As I made my way to the street door my foot touched an object on the
stairs. I stooped and picked up a watch, which I put into my pocket
with a feeling of relief at a danger averted. I had a little
difficulty in opening the door, and when this was accomplished and I
closed it behind me, I did not linger a moment. Every step I took from
it added to my chance of safety. Turning into another street I bathed
my hands and face in snow, and removed all traces of the bloody
conflict. The storm was now a gale; the wind tore and shrieked through
the streets, the snow, whirling furiously into my face, almost blinded
me. Not a soul was about, and I walked on unobserved, with no idea in
which direction I was proceeding. Chance favored me, for my hap-hazard
wanderings led me to the Lime Street station. I looked up at the
clock--two minutes past four. I took a first-class single to Euston,
it being safer, I thought, to travel first-class than third. My
fingers were numbed, and I was rather slow in picking up my change.
"You had better hurry, sir," said the clerk, "if you want to catch the
4:5."
I hurried off, followed by a porter.
"Any luggage, sir?"
"No."
"What class, sir?"
"First."
"Not that way, sir," said the porter; "the train goes from this
platform."
He showed me to the carriage and thanked me for the tip. I had barely
time to take my seat before the train started.
Being the only passenger in the carriage I could, without fear of
interruption, deliver myself up wholly to my reflections. Needless to
say, they were of the most melancholy nature. The incidents in my life
which were in some way connected with my present position, rose to my
memory with fatal clearness, and formed a chain of events which might
have been forged by a spiritual agency bent upon my destruction. An
inexorable fatality had attended all my actions, and used them as
weapons against myself. In every instance the circumstantial evidence
was overwhelming; my own bare, valueless word was the only testimony
of my innocence. Additional support of this fatalistic theory was
supplied in the course of my reflections. Taking out the watch I
picked up on the stairs, I discovered that it was not my own. There
was an inscription on the case: "To Louis from his Loving Mother." In
the struggle Louis' watch had been torn from his pocket as well as my
own, and it was now in my possession.
I argued out my position to a possible and logical point. As thus: The
body of a murdered man having been found in the house an hour or so
after my departure, the attention of the police was immediately
directed to the early morning trains for London. At four o'clock, a
gentleman, looking flurried and anxious, had presented himself at the
ticket-office and paid a first-class fare to Euston. He was so
agitated that it was with difficulty he gathered his change. He wore a
long gray ulster coat and had no luggage--not even a bag, a most
unusual circumstance. He betrayed his ignorance of the platform from
which the London train started by proceeding in a wrong direction, and
was set right by the porter; presumably, therefore, he was a stranger
in Liverpool. Telegrams were at once dispatched to the stations en
route, and to Euston, to detain the passenger unless he could give a
satisfactory account of himself. His explanation affording grounds for
suspicion, he was searched, and there was found upon him a watch with
the inscription: "To Louis, from his Loving Mother." By his own
previous admission, his name was not Louis. Questioned as to how he
came into possession of the watch, he gave no answer. There was also
found upon his person a leather sheath, into which a gold-digger's
knife with which the fatal wound had been inflicted exactly fitted.
When this damning piece of evidence presented itself to my mind,' I
felt for the knife. I had left it behind me. The sheath was empty.
What now was left to me to do? Leave matters to chance, and in the
event of the worst not happening, protect myself by every possible
means, or give myself up to the authorities? The deed I had done was
beyond recall, and would ever stand as a black mark against me. If I
could have harbored a hope of proving that it was done in self-defense
I should not have hesitated, but this was impossible. For Ellen's sake
I would adhere, as far and as long as lay in my power, to my plan of
silence and secrecy.
Tortured as I was, I felt relieved when I came to this final decision,
and I began to consider how to provide for my safety. To attempt to
get rid of the watch and the ulster coat would be attended with
danger, inasmuch as there were at present no other means of ridding
myself of them than by flinging them out of the window or leaving them
in the carriage, and thus courting the attention I desired to avoid.
Until a safer course presented itself I must therefore retain them.
But brain and body were exhausted, and I could not continue my
deliberations. Lifting the dividing arms between the seats I sank upon
the cushions, and closed my eyes in sleep.