A MEMORY OF THE PAST.
"De Mortuis"--you know the phrase, I think;
A kindly saying, such as poor humanity
Mutters at times when talking of the dead;
Therefore, I pray you, speak not any ill
Of this poor soul who suffered, sinned, and died,
Seeing her sinning brought her but to this;
Yourself when gone may need a pitying word,
When all your virtues with you are entombed,
And naught remains but sins to curse your name.
So it was Dombrain, after all, who had committed this crime, and, by
accusing Mrs. Belswin of the murder, placed her life in jeopardy, in
order both to revenge and save himself. Had it not been for the
unexpected evidence of Samson Belk, without doubt the unhappy woman
would have been found guilty, and suffered in the place of the astute
Mr. Dombrain. When this ex-lawyer, ex-convict, and constant blackguard
heard himself accused of the crime, he slipped out of the court and
vanished before he could be arrested, knowing that he could make no
defence.
Part of his evidence was true, for he had been in the drawing-room, he
had seen Mrs. Belswin enter the study, but here his truth ceased and
his lies began. Fearing lest his name should be mentioned by the
infuriated woman during the interview, which would be sure to end in
the discomfiture of Mrs. Belswin the lawyer, trembling for his
respectable position, went to his bedroom and took his air-pistol, so
as to be prepared for emergencies. It is but fair to Mr. Dombrain to
say that he had no intention of using the weapon unless everything was
lost; so, creeping out of the house, he placed himself beside the open
window of the study, in order to hear what Mrs. Belswin would say.
In accordance with his expectations, she did tell Sir Rupert all about
him, and when Dombrain heard the declaration of the baronet that he
would denounce him, he knew that all was lost, and that the sin of his
early youth was going to cost him the respectable position of his
middle age. When Mrs. Belswin, thrust forth by her unforgiving
husband, fled out into the night, Dombrain, trembling, sick at heart
at seeing all that made his life worth living vanish, crouched still
beside the window, and here Sir Rupert, who had come out to make sure
that his divorced wife had taken herself off, found him.
Then an interview between the lawyer and the baronet took place, in
which the latter swore to reveal all the infamy of Dombrain, and have
him struck off the rolls. In vain the wretched man pleaded for mercy.
Coldly and inflexibly the baronet thrust him out of doors, the same
way he had done his wife; and then mad with anger at the terrible
future before him, Dombrain shot Sir Rupert, in the manner described
by Belk in the witness-box. After committing the crime and assuring
himself that his victim was dead, he coolly stepped across the body,
and took refuge in his own room, from whence he did not emerge for the
rest of the night. It was true, as he said, that his room was near the
head of the staircase, for he saw Mrs. Belswin leave the study as he
described, so it was then that the idea came into his head to secure
himself by sacrificing her, and thus both save and revenge himself at
one time.
On leaving the court after having been denounced by Belk, his rage
against all the world for his thwarted revenge and his perilous
position knew no bounds. He had no idea of escaping justice, but
determined before he was seized to punish the woman who had--as he
believed--dragged him down even lower than his former position. Then
he had simply embezzled money, but now he had committed a crime for
which he would lose his life; and thus, seeing that his doom was
fixed, he determined that Mrs. Belswin should suffer for placing him
in such a perilous position.
With this idea in his head, he took the air-pistol with which he had
killed Sir Rupert, and went to the lodgings of the dead man's daughter
and Mrs. Belswin. Skilfully managing to evade the notice of the
servant, he ensconced himself behind the curtains in the drawing-room,
and shot the unhappy woman as described. At first, knowing how bitter
it would be to Mrs. Belswin, he had intended to kill Kaituna, but the
unexpected action of the mother had saved the daughter from a terrible
death. Satisfied with his work, Dombrain threw down the pistol and
disappeared--disappeared into the depths of London, from whence he
never emerged. What became of him nobody ever knew. Whether he took
another name, and resumed his profession in provincial England;
whether he left the country; whether he died in the gutter, no one
ever discovered. Falling into the immense ocean of London like a drop
of rain, he became obliterated, lost, unknown, but no doubt in due
time he met his reward for his evil doings.
And his victim? Alas, poor soul, her troubles, her trials, her
follies, were all at an end, and a simple cross marked the place where
she was buried. To that humble grave, a year after the events
described, came Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell, in reverence for the memory of
the woman--the mother who had given her life for that of her child.
Maxwell had married Kaituna in due course after a decent time had
elapsed from the death of Mrs. Belswin, and later on he had gone to
South America, on business connected with his profession; for, in
spite of Kaituna's wealth, Archie could not bring himself to live upon
her income. He had gone away for a few months to Buenos Ayres, and had
now returned to the side of Kaituna for ever. After much difficulty
she had persuaded him to accept her view of the question, and share
the proceeds of the Pole Star Mine. To this, after much hesitation,
Maxwell consented, and now the husband and wife had arranged to make a
tour of the world together. Before leaving England, however, they came
to Kensal Green cemetery to pay a last visit to the grave of the woman
who had sinned, but who also had suffered.
"Poor mother!" said Kaituna, as she leaned on the strong arm of her
husband. "What a terribly bitter life she had, and her death was
hardly less sad."
"She saved you, my darling," replied Maxwell, with a fond smile; "and
that, in her eyes, was recompense enough for the sudden ending of her
life."
"If that wretch who killed her had only been punished?"
"I've no doubt he is punished. It is true he escaped the hands of men,
but I am certain he will not escape the punishment of God. But come,
my dear Kaituna, these thoughts make you sad. Let us leave this dreary
place."
"Yes; but see, Archie, that withered wreath of roses! It has been
placed there by Ferrari, I am sure."
"But I thought he had gone to Italy."
"Only three weeks ago! He came to me and talked a great deal about our
poor mother, whom he loved very dearly in his own impulsive way. But
now he is back in his own country, he no doubt will forget about her.
Men have such short memories."
"Don't say that. Remember Belk."
"Oh, he will go the same way," said Kaituna, a little bitterly.
"Certainly he behaved very well, for he used to bring flowers here
every week, along with Ferrari. How these two men must have loved my
mother!"
"She deserved their love," replied Maxwell, after a pause. "She had
sinned, it is true, but she was bitterly punished for her sin. Well,
she lies here, and the two men who loved her have gone far away--one
to Italy, the other to America."
"Ah, all our friends go thus!"
"Not all, my dear. Remember Toby Clendon and his wife, who are living
so happily at Deswarth. We must go down and see them before we leave
England."
"No, no!" said Kaituna, with a sudden shudder. "I cannot bear to go
near Thornstream after those terrible events which cost the lives of
both my parents."
"Come, dear one," urged Maxwell, seeing how overcome she was with
emotion, "let us go away."
"One moment," replied Kaituna, kneeling beside the grave. "I must say
farewell to my poor mother."
And kneeling there in the long green grass, she breathed a prayer for
the soul of her unhappy mother, whose natural love had cost her so
dear.
Maxwell, who had removed his hat when he heard this prayer mount like
incense to the throne of God, quoted a text from the Scriptures in a
low voice--
"She suffered much, so much shall be forgiven of her!"
THE END.