IN DEFENSE OF CRIME.
“He will never forget her,” said Lady Hermione, slowly, as the door
closed after the unhappy man. “Oh, Ronald, if there be such a thing as
haunting, do you think she haunts him?”
But Sir Ronald was not so quick as usual with an answer to his wife’s
question; he held little Clare in his arms so that the pallor of his
face was hidden.
“I think,” he replied, slowly, “that the discovery has become a mania
with him: he will know no rest nor peace until he has found out
something that troubles him.”
“And do you think, really,” she continued, “that he will find any clue
to it ever so small?”
“My darling, I cannot say. Do not talk of it, Hermione; my soul seems
to shiver at the bare recollection of the horror of the time.”
“It was a cruel deed,” she said, thoughtfully, “a cruel, merciless
deed. Clarice never hurt any one in her life. I cannot understand it.
Do you know what I have often thought, Ronald?”
“No,” he said, reluctantly, as though unwilling to pursue the subject.
“I do not.”
“My idea is, and always has been, that the crime was committed by
some madman. I read something in the papers years ago about a strong
and most violent lunatic, who had escaped from custody and could not
be found. After that I remember reading of what seemed to me very
purposeless crimes--a woman cruelly slaughtered, a boy slain without
reason, an old man barbarously murdered for murder’s sake--and I could
not help, in my own mind, wondering if the wretched lunatic had been
guilty of all.”
“It may have been so,” replied Sir Ronald.
“I ought not to pursue the subject,” said his wife; “but, Ronald, there
are times when it has a fascination for me. Why, my darling, does it
hurt you so?”
He turned his face to her, haggard with the old lines of pain.
“I suffered so much, Hermione, when it happened that, rather than
endure any more, I would die; I could not endure it.”
She bent over him and kissed him. “I wish,” she said, thoughtfully,
“that we could persuade Kenelm to give up his mania. I cannot bear to
think of his blighted life--so useless, so utterly without purpose.
Suppose that, after the lapse of long years, he did succeed in bringing
the criminal to light, what good would he do?”
“Secure justice,” he replied. “My belief is, Hermione, that if Kenelm
Eyrle found the criminal to be his own mother he would not rest until
he had brought her to the scaffold.”
“Oh, Ronald, that is a terrible thing to say; yet I believe it, love.
As you say, with him the idea has long been a mania. On every other
point, Kenelm Eyrle is a sane man, a loyal, honorable gentleman; on
this subject he is mad, and I have always thought mischief would come
of it.”
He would have changed the subject then, but it seemed to have a morbid
fascination for him. Something had crept into the sunshine and stolen
its beauty away; the sweetest fragrance had left the flowers, a sudden
chill and blight had come over the lovely, glowing morning. It was with
something like a shudder that Lady Hermione drew nearer to her husband
and laid her beautiful head on his breast.
“Ronald,” she said, “I want to ask you something; do you believe that
murder should be punished by death?”
“I do not know. Yes, I think I do. The Bible says so. A life for a life
seems but just and fair.”
“Yet what good can it do?” she continued. “If anger, or madness, or
vengeance leads one man to slay another, why hurry him from the world
also? It seems to me two souls are imperiled then, instead of one; why
not give him time to repent--a lifetime if need be, in which to repent
and seek God’s pardon?”
“He might not repent,” said Sir Ronald; “there are some such cases;
some crimes of which, instead of repenting, men simply grow proud. Do
you think Charlotte Corday ever repented the murder of Marat? Tell me,
do you think she did?”
Lady Hermione looked half puzzled for a few minutes.
“I can hardly tell; I should say she repented what she thought the need
for killing him. Oh, Ronald, you are making me defend murder.”
“No, I am not; I simply say there are some murders of which I am sure
men never repent. Therefore the life you give them would be mistaken
clemency. If a life must be paid for a life, let the forfeit be laid
down at once.”
She was looking at him with wondering eyes.
“Why, Ronald, how much you have thought of these things; you have
studied them.”
“Yes,” he replied, quietly, “for many months after Clarice died I
thought of nothing else. Men cannot judge as God can; we only see
one-half, not always that, even that half not always clearly. Men know
a crime has been committed; they do not know what has led up to it; the
hidden motives, the great provocations, who knows anything of those
save God himself?”
“But, Ronald,” she said, “surely you are defending crime! Darling, you
are speaking without weighing your words. You do not believe that any
amount of provocation can excuse murder?”
As she asked the question a dead silence fell on them. The whisper of
the winds, the music of the birds, the ripple of the fountains, seemed
to grow strangely hushed, as though every sweet impulse of nature
waited to hear what he would say.
“You do not answer me,” she said, “yet, Ronald, my question is so
plain. Do you think anything, any provocation, can excuse murder?”
Again the strange silence--in after years it returned to her--and she
knew it had been more eloquent than any words.
“I cannot answer you,” he replied, after a time. “I have thought of it,
but my mind has never been quite clear. Yes, I think some provocation,
some treachery so great as to excuse murder.”
“Oh, Ronald, that is a dangerous doctrine.”
“Suppose,” he said, “I had lived in India at the time of the mutiny,
and I had found some black fiend with his hand on your throat, or with
my baby’s golden head just cloven in twain, I would have slain him with
less remorse than I crush this leaf between my fingers.”
“But that,” she argued, “would be self-defence, not murder. Murder
seems to me to be the cowardly death that creeps in silence, in
treachery, and darkness--that sends the victim’s soul, with one
horrible pang, straight into the presence of its Maker! Oh, Ronald, why
are we speaking of such things? Poor Clarice! it seems to me I have
never realized her terrible fate until now.”
Sir Ronald rose from his seat.
“Look how we have saddened the children, Hermione. Here is Harry, grave
as a judge, and little Clare getting ready to cry. My darling, let the
dead past be. Let us live in the sunny present.”
“It was Kenelm’s fault,” she said, half apologetically, “not mine.
How strangely we have been talking! Every morning and night, when the
little ones say their prayers, I shall make them add: ‘Please, God,
teach those who suffer to forget.’”
“Papa,” cried a childish voice, “you said I should ride to-day.”
“So I did, Harry. Now, Hermione, come out on the lawn, and see your son
take his first lesson in horsemanship.”
The bell was rung, a few words said to the servant, and then a
beautiful little pony was led on to the lawn. The children clapped
their hands in glee. Sir Ronald bent down and kissed his wife.
“My good angel,” he whispered, “my bright, winsome wife, I have
saddened you with my queer ideas; forget everything except that you are
the sunshine of my home. Come out, love, among the flowers and see the
children at play.”
So she shook off, so far as she could, all memory of that conversation,
and she stood in the sunshine on the emerald lawn, little Clare
clinging to her dress, watching the princely boy taking his first
lesson in riding and wondering to herself why it was God’s will she
should be there, blessed and loving, while the murdered wife slept in
her quiet grave. Then, with grave rebuke to herself, she raised her
face to the smiling heavens, and remembered that He who reigned there
knew best.