"He threw
His wrathful hand aloft, and cried 'Away!
Earth could not hold us both, nor can one heaven
Contain my deadliest enemy and me.'"
We were sitting in Livingstone's chambers one night in the following
March, and dinner was just over, when the detective was announced who
for months had been in Guy's pay and on Bruce's track.
He was a stout, hale man, rather past middle age, with a rosy face, a
cheerful, moist eye, and full, sensual lips--just the proper person to
return thanks for "The Successful Candidates" at an agricultural
meeting. Originally of a kindly convivial nature, he had grown familiar
with crime till he despised it. The reward set upon the criminal's
capture was his only standard of guilt. He took a real pleasure in the
chase, I imagine, but had no preference for any game in particular, and
was quite indifferent whether the cover he had to draw was a saloon or a
cellar. He would hunt a fraudulent bankrupt or a parricide with equal
zeal, and, when he had caught him, be just as jocularly affable with the
one as with the other. In a drama of life and death, the fierce passions
of the actors were only so many gleams of light showing him where the
right path lay, for which assistance he thanked them heartily. The
foulest mysteries of the sinful human heart touched and shocked him no
more than the evidences of disease do the dissecting surgeon: with both
it was a simple question of defective organization. The possession of
secrets, far less weighty than some that he never told, have made men
look worn, and miserable, and gray; but he would pat his corpulent
leather pocket-book with a self-sufficient satisfaction, scarcely
hinting that the publication of its contents would have caused more
devastation in some well-regulated families than the bursting of a
ten-inch shell in their front drawing-room.
His lips and eyes wore a smile pleasantly significant as he entered,
and, before he could speak, Guy leaped up, waving his hand high in
irrepressible triumph. "I told you so, Frank. I knew we should find him.
Come--come quickly." He was more excited than I had seen him in the last
dozen years.
I exulted too, but I confess a certain repugnance and nervousness
mingled with that feeling: it was a new thing to me to stand face to
face with a murderer.
Neither of us gave as much attention as it deserved to the narrative
with which the officer favored us _en route_, of how he had been
gradually getting the clew to the fugitive's many doublings and
disguises till he came upon his retreat at last. "They mostly make for
home when they're dead beat," he remarked, alluding to Bruce's having
selected London as his final hiding-place.
We soon reached the spot--one of those dreary by-ways that trend
westward out of the Waterloo Road. As we drew up, the outline of a
figure revealed itself out of the darkest nook of the dim street, and a
man came forward and opened the door of the cab, interchanging a word
or two with our companion.
As we got out, the detective laid his hand on Guy's arm. "Gently, sir,"
he said. "You must be careful. We've not quite so much proof as I could
wish. It would be straining a point to arrest him as it stands. I'd do
it though--_for you_. Get him to talk, and don't hurry him; he's safe to
commit himself; and we'll nail him at the first word. My comrade says he
has not left his bed since yesterday. Perhaps he's ill. All the better.
We can frighten him if we get his man out of the way."
Guy's hand was on the bell before the last words were said, and he rang
it sharply. The two officers drew back into the shadow.
In a few moments an old man opened the door, whom we guessed to be
Bruce's attendant. He had one of those stubborn, rough-hewn faces that
even white hair can not soften any more than hoar-frost can the outline
of a granite crag.
"What's ye're wull?" he drawled out, in the rugged Aberdeen Doric.
"I wish to see Mr. Bruce."
"No sic a pairson here," was the reply, accompanied by a vigorous effort
to close the door.
A heavy groan, proceeding from a room on the ground floor, gave him the
lie as he spoke. Guy threw up his head like a hound breaking from scent
to view, and thrust Macbane back violently. The old man staggered and
fell; but he clung round Livingstone's knees, as he groveled, till he
was actually trampled down. There was a difficulty in the lock
somewhere; but bolt and staple were torn away in an instant by the
furious hand that grasped the handle, and so at last we stood in the
presence of the man we had sought so long.
Do you remember that hideous picture in Hogarth's "Two Apprentices,"
where the sleeping robber is alarmed by the crash in the chimney? That
was exactly Bruce's attitude. He had started into a sitting posture, and
was braced up on his hands, his face thrust forward, half covered by the
straight unkempt hair. What a face it was! White and flecked with
sweat-drops, marbled here and there with livid stains, the lips
quivering and working till they twisted themselves sometimes into a
ghastly mockery of a smile, the long teeth gleaming more wolfish than
ever. The iris of the prominent eyes had grown yellowish, and the whites
were bloodshot, so that the light seemed to flash from them _tawnily_.
Bruce had always been very much afraid of Livingstone. His terror had
gone on increasing during months of relentless pursuit; it had reached
its climax now. Guy stood at the foot of the bed, contemplating the
unhappy wretch with a cruel calmness that seemed to drive him wild. He
writhed and cowered under the fixed gaze, as if it gave him physical
pain.
"What are you here for?" he screamed out at last.
In strong contrast to the shrill, strained voice, the answer came slow
and stern. "To arrest Charles Forrester's murderer."
Then Bruce seemed to lose his head all at once, and began to rave. It is
impossible to transcribe the string of protestations, prayers for mercy,
and horrible blasphemies; but there was enough of self-betrayal to
complete the proof we wanted ten times told. The detective chuckled
more complacently than ever as he insinuated the handcuffs round
Macbane's wrists. Over all Bruce's cries, I remember, the old man's
harsh voice made itself heard, "Whisht, whisht, I tell ye, and keep a
quiet tongue; they canna harm ye." The other did not seem to hear him,
or to notice his removal by the officers, muttering, as he went, that
"we had driven his master mad, and were killing him."
Livingstone waited patiently till the outbreak had spent itself; then he
said, "Get up, and come with us instantly. You shall finish your night
in Newgate."
Tho sick man lay back for some moments with his eyes closed, panting and
evidently quite exhausted. When he opened his eyes there was a
steadiness in them which surprised us. He spoke, too, quite calmly. "I
do not mean to deny any thing, nor to resist, even if I could. I am
tired of running away; it is as well over; but I was taken by surprise
at first. Guy Livingstone, do you choose to listen to me for five
minutes? My head is clear now. I do not know how long it will last; but
I do know that, after to-night, I will never speak about Forrester's
death one word."
"Will you tell me how you killed him?" Livingstone asked, controlling
his voice wonderfully.
"That is what I wish to do," Bruce said. I believe he was glad of the
opportunity of showing us how much we had misjudged him in thinking him
harmless, for a curious sort of grin was hovering about his mouth. Guy,
whose eyes were bent down at the moment, did not see it, or the tale
would never have been told.
"You know how you were all against me at Kerton," he began. "She did
not care for me then, perhaps; but I would have been so patient and
persevering that she must have loved me at last--only you never gave me
fair play. Ah! do you think, because I was ugly and awkward, I had no
chance?"
"No; but because she knew you were a coward," Guy said.
There was something grand in the utter indifference with which Bruce met
the insult.
"You are wrong," he replied, coolly; "she did not know it. You all did,
and reckoned on my being long-suffering and inoffensive. I saw, at last,
what Forrester had done; yet I never guessed but that she would marry
me. I trusted to her father and her own fears for keeping her straight.
After marriage I would have tried still what great love and tenderness
could do. I meant--never mind what I meant--it's all over now. I was
nearly mad for a week after their flight. Then I became quite cool, and
I said, 'I will kill him myself.' And so I did. Mind, I swear, Allan
knew nothing of it till all was done. I thought I should be brave enough
for that. Fifty times during the months that I tracked them, always
changing my disguise, I nearly caught him alone; but each time I was
balked. Wherever they went, I watched under their windows for the chance
of his coming out; but I only saw--"
He gnashed his teeth, and rolled over and over in a paroxysm of jealous
recollection. We guessed what he meant. Then he went on: "That night he
sauntered backward and forward for some time. I thought he would not go
far enough away, and I called to the devil to help me. He did; for, very
soon, Forrester walked straight down the path. I crept after him till
he had gone some hundred yards--my heart was beating so quickly that I
could hardly breathe--then I ran forward and stood before him. I had
taken off the black wig and beard that I always wore, and he knew me
directly.
"'Mr. Bruce, I believe?' he said, raising his hat, just as if he had met
me by appointment.
"'Yes,' I said. 'I have got you at last, as I wished.' I tried to speak
as steadily as he had done; but, as the moment for action came near, my
d----d cowardice made me stammer.
"'I am not invisible, as a rule,' he replied. 'You, or any friend of
yours, might have found me long ago. You have been some time making up
your mind. It's that unfortunate constitutional--caution, I suppose.
Well, I'll meet you in Rome: it's more than you deserve.'
"'You'll fight me here--now,' I said.
"'I shall do nothing half so melodramatic,' he answered. 'I'll give you
a fair chance on the ground; but, if you do not move out of my path now,
I'll shoot you as I would any other disagreeable ruffian,' and he put
his hand into his breast, where, I knew, he carried a pistol.
"I _was_ brave then. I sprang in upon him all at once. 'You may shoot
now, if you like,' I said. 'I swear I am quite unarmed. But show _that_
to your wife when you go back,' and I struck him with my open hand."
(I remembered the mark on the corpse's cheek, and looked at Guy eagerly.
I could not see his face, which was hidden by the curtain, but all his
lower limbs were shaking and quivering.)
"I thought how it would be," Bruce went on; "he drew his hand out with
the pistol in it, but he only flung it over the bank--one barrel went
off in the fall--then we grappled. After wrestling for a minute or two
on the narrow path, we lost our footing and rolled down the rocks;
neither quitted his hold, but I fell uppermost and kept him down. He
struggled desperately at first; but when he found that I was much the
stronger, he lay quite still, looking up into my face. I said, 'It's my
turn at last. Do you think I'll let you off?'
"He did not answer at first. I believe he would not till he had quite
recovered his breath; then he said, coolly, 'No, I don't. Finish it
quickly, if you can, that's all.' I would have delayed a little, to
enjoy my triumph, but I thought the pistol-shot might bring some one; so
I tightened my gripe on his throat, and looked round for a weapon. I
found none at first, and my purpose actually began to soften when I saw
him so helpless; but, as I relaxed my fingers, I heard him whisper to
himself, 'Poor Bella! we have been very happy: I wish we had more
time--' I got mad again directly. 'D--n you!' I cried out, 'I'll kill
you now, and marry her some day.' His old insolent smile came on his
lip. 'No you won't,' he said; 'you don't know how she hates you, and how
we have laughed--' He had no time to say more, for I found my weapon
then--a stone triangular and sharp-pointed like a dagger--and I struck
him over the temple with all my force. He gave one convulsive spring
that threw me clear of him, and never stirred again.
"I did not repent when it was done; I have never repented since; I do
not now. I only thought how best to escape the consequences. I took his
watch and purse, that brigands might be suspected, and threw them into
the river a mile off. I robbed him of one thing more--this!" All his
haggard face was transfigured with a ghastly triumph as he opened a
small leathern case that hung round his neck, and held up before us two
locks of hair.
There they were--the love-gift and the death-spoil--the memorials of
defeat and of victory, of foiled affection and of gratified hate--the
one, beguiled from Isabel by Bruce himself, with many earnest pleadings,
in the early days of their engagement; the other, torn from her
husband's temples before they were cold. The long light brown tress was
scarcely more soft and satin-smooth than the chestnut curl; but one end
of the last was matted, and discolored by a dark rusty stain--the stain
that, the Greek poet said, all the rivers of earth flowing in one
channel could never wash away--the testimony, to our ears mute enough
now, but which, perhaps, will make itself heard above the Babel of all
other cries at the Day of Judgment.
The two tokens were twined together lovingly, as if they were sensitive
and conscious still. Bruce plucked them asunder: "I never can keep them
apart," he said, querulously. Then he put them back into the case
separately, and began to mutter to himself many words that I could not
distinguish.
"Have you any thing more to say?" Livingstone asked. His lips were rigid
and compressed like a steel-trap, opening and closing mechanically. As
he spoke, he snatched the leathern bag from Bruce's hand and threw it
into the blazing fire.
A sharp howl, like a flogged hound's, broke from the sick man as he saw
his treasure shrivel up in the flame. Then he began to whimper out all
sorts of incoherent supplications, crying "that we did not know how much
he had suffered before he killed Forrester, and since too; that he had
been cruelly used from the beginning; that he was very, very ill now;
would not we let him die in peace?" The tears were streaming down his
face. It was a sight of abasement that sent a shiver through one's
veins.
Guy laid his hand on the miserable creature's shoulder. Though he
scarcely touched it, I saw the great muscles starting out on his arm
like ropes from the intensity of his suppressed emotion; his lower lip
trembled, but his tones did not in the least. I can give no idea of
their pitiless, deliberate ferocity.
"Listen!" he said. "I told you before to get up and come with us--that
is my answer now. If you have life enough left to be carried to the
gallows-foot, you shall never cheat the hangman."
Bruce looked up into the speaker's face for some moments. Gradually the
agonized appeal in his wild eyes died away into vacancy; an expression,
half cunning, half amused, stole over his face; and, leaning gently
back, he began pulling threads out of the coverlet, laughing low.
The blood gushed from Guy's clenched hand as he struck it furiously
against the stone mantel.
"By ----," he said, with a fearful oath, "he has escaped me, after all."
It was so. The mind, worn and strained by the terrors of the long
pursuit, perhaps by remorse not acknowledged even to himself; and by the
last great effort at self-control, had given way at last--forever. God
had recorded his verdict, and no earthly court could try the criminal
again. Bruce is living now (and I dare say will outlive most of us, for
his bodily health is perfect), vicious sometimes, but never conscious;
hard to please, but easy to manage, so long as his attendant is a man,
and a strong one; accessible only to the one emotion which drove him
mad--physical fear.
Livingstone called the officers; they came in with Macbane. The old man
pretended to be very wroth when he saw his master's state, but I believe
he rejoiced secretly. The credit of the family, with him, outweighed all
considerations of personal attachment, and he would think public
disgrace cheaply averted at any price.
On our poor detective, perhaps, the blow fell heaviest; for, after some
time, Guy did come round to my idea, that no punishment we could have
brought about would have been so ample and terrible; but Mr. Fitchett
could not see it in that light at all. Not only was the termination of
the affair dreadfully unprofessional, but the little triumph he had
anticipated at the trial was spoiled. If human weakness ever could touch
this great man, it was when he heard the judge pay a compliment to "the
sagacity and zeal of that most efficient officer." On such occasions,
his bow of conscious merit abnegating praise was, I am told, wonderful
to see. After a few words of explanation, he glanced wistfully at Bruce,
and shook his head, like a broken-hearted Lord Burleigh. Then he
unloosed the handcuffs from Macbane's wrists, whistling all the while
softly a popular air, lively in itself, with a cadence so plaintive that
it might have been a penitential psalm. No romantic school-girl opening
the cage to her pet starling ever displayed more hesitation and
reluctance than Mr. Fitchett setting that grim old bird free.
In truth, there was no evidence to attach to the servant, so we left him
and his master together. I could not have stood that room much longer.
The ceaseless complacent chuckle of the idiot, and his fearful grimaces
when he could not make the threads match, had the effect on my chest of
a nightmare. Very slowly and silently we walked home through the
darkness.