ROBERT AGNOLD TAKES UP THE THREADS OF THE STORY.
In setting forth the incidents narrated in Book Second of this story,
under its heading "A Life Drama--Links in the Mystery," I have had no
occasion to speak of myself, my acquaintance with Emilia beginning
after the 16th of January, on which night the Book fitly ends. In what
has now to be told, however, I played a not unimportant part, and it
is proper, and will be more convenient, that I should narrate what
followed in the first person. I think my name, Robert Agnold, has been
mentioned only once or twice in these pages, and it is not for the
purpose of making myself better known to the public, but simply for
the sake of clearness, that I depart from the journalistic method
(with which in other circumstances I am very well contented) in what I
am about to write. I do so with the full approval of the conductors of
the newspaper with which I have the honor to be connected. It is
perhaps unnecessary for me to state that in the preparation of Book
Second I have been guided both by what I have heard from the lips of
its heroine, Emilia herself, and by what subsequently came to my
knowledge; but it is as well to state this, in order to prove that I
have not drawn upon my imagination.
I now take up the threads of the story.
When Emilia made her escape from M. Felix's house on the night of the
16th of January, she was, as may be supposed, in a state of extreme
agitation. Her errand had failed, and she had nothing to hope for at
the hands of Gerald's brother, whom I shall continue to speak of as M.
Felix. She hardly dared to think of the future, and indeed the pain of
her wound and the personal danger in which she stood were sufficient
occupation for her mind at that juncture. As quickly as she could she
made her way to the one room she had taken unknown to her daughter,
and there she bathed and dressed the wound--throwing the stained water
out of the window, so that it might not betray her--and effected the
necessary change in her attire. In woman's clothes she left the house,
and proceeded to her lodgings in Forston Street, Kentish Town. She was
thankful that her daughter was asleep when she reached home; it saved
her the necessity of an immediate explanation, and gave her time to
make more plausible the story she had thought of to account for the
injury to her arm. Creeping into bed without disturbing Constance she
lay awake for hours, and sank into slumber only when daylight was
beginning to dawn. She slept till past noon; fortunately for her,
Nature's claims were not to be resisted, and she arose strengthened if
not refreshed, and with still a faint hope that she might yet succeed.
She would make one more appeal to M. Felix, this time in daylight. She
would go to him this very afternoon, and endeavor to soften his heart
by offering to bind herself to any terms he might dictate, if he would
but furnish her with the name of the place in which the marriage
ceremony had been performed. The echo of the statement he had made in
Switzerland that she and Gerald were never married, although it struck
a chill to her heart, found no lodgement therein. Most firmly did she
believe that she had been honestly and honorably married, and until
she was convinced to the contrary by absolute evidence she would
continue to believe it. If M. Felix failed her she would set a watch
upon Dr. Peterssen's movements, and endeavor by some means to gain her
end through him. She had not the remotest idea how she should proceed
with this man, but she trusted in God to guide her.
Constance, as was natural, was in great distress at the wound her
mother had received, but Emilia made light of it, although it caused
her exquisite pain. It was an accident, Emilia said; she had slipped,
and fell upon some broken glass; and Constance did not dream that the
story was untrue. The young girl was very anxious on this morning;
she expected a letter from her lover, Julian Bordier, and she told her
mother that in her last letter to Julian she had given him the address
of their lodgings in Forston Street. Emilia could not chide her for
doing so, but she was inwardly distressed by the idea that the
Bordiers might present themselves at any unexpected moment. M. Bordier
would almost certainly make some inquiries as to the nature of the
business that brought her to England. How should she reply? He was a
penetrating man, and she could foresee nothing but calamity from a
renewal at present of close relations with him. She could do nothing,
however, to avert the dangers by which she was threatened. All she
could do was to wait and hope.
She went to the post office for letters, and received one for
Constance and one for herself. She rode back immediately to Forston
Street to give Constance her lover's letter, and in the cab she read
her own. It was short but most affectionate and tender, and it
confirmed her fears. There was every likelihood that the Bordiers
would be in London within the next few weeks.
Delivering Julian's missive to the eager girl, Emilia left her once
more with the intention of proceeding to Gerard Street. She rode only
part of the way, getting out of the cab at Regent's Circus. It was
bitterly cold, but in this city of startling contrasts there are
wheels that never stop. Though darkness enveloped the streets for
weeks together the newspaper boys would still perambulate the
thoroughfares with the last editions of the newspapers; would still
bawl out at the top of their voices the tempting news they had to
dispose of. Emilia had scarcely alighted from the cab when her ears
were assailed by cries from these venders of the afternoon journals:
"Murder! murder! Sudden Death in Gerard Street, Soho! Mr. Felix
Murdered! Escape of the Murderer!" The shock which these startling
announcements caused her was so great that she stumbled and would have
fallen had not a policeman caught her by the arm.
"Be careful how you walk," said the officer. "The streets are awful
slippy."
She murmured a frightened inarticulate expression of thanks and
staggered on, the iteration of the news-venders' dreadful cries
sounding in her ears like the clanging of a thousand bells proclaiming
her doom. Her terror was so great that she would have succumbed under
it if there had not risen in the white space before her the vision of
a young girl at home reading her lover's letter. She saw the lovely
lips form the words, "Mamma, listen to what Julian says." This fancy
was her salvation. Her daughter was in this terrible city, dependent
upon her, with no supporter, with no friend but the mother whose heart
was charged with woe and despair. She must be strong for her child's
sake. Her strength came back to her; the policeman who had saved her
from falling was still looking at her, and now, seeing that she had
recovered, passed on. Controlling her agitation, she bought a copy of
the _Evening Moon_, and walked mechanically toward Gerard Street. When
she was within a short distance of it she wavered in another
direction. Dared she go there? Dared she be seen there? Why not? It
was hardly likely that she would be noticed; it would depend upon
herself whether she attracted attention. She turned her face toward
Gerard Street. A magnetic current drew her on, and she could no more
have effectually resisted it than she could have changed day into
night by closing her eyes. She _must_ go and see for herself.
The street was busy with people, drawn there as she was drawn, but, as
she shudderingly confessed to herself, with a different knowledge of
the truth. Outside the house in which M. Felix had lived there was a
throng of people gazing up at the windows.
"That's the window of his sitting-room. Is he there now? Yes,
stretched out, dead and done for. He was a gentleman, wasn't he? Yes,
with heaps of money. He always kept a pile of gold and bank notes in
his room. What's become of it? Ah, what? When was it done? About
midnight, when there was no one but the murderer and the murdered
gentleman in the house. The housekeeper had gone out for her supper
beer. They forced the door open, and there he was, murdered. Who did
it? A man, of course? Maybe--maybe not. Just as likely it was a woman.
It doesn't matter to him now. He's dead, and won't come back to tell.
Have they caught the murderer? Not yet, but they've got a clew, they
say. Ah, they always say that. But it's true this time. They'll catch
him, never fear, and when he's caught, the Lord have mercy on him!"
Thus the chatter ran, and for a time Emilia, glued to the spot, stood
and listened. Then a spiritual whisper fell on her senses and set her
in motion again. "The suit of clothes you dressed in last night. Get
rid of it. Destroy it." She walked swiftly from the street and
proceeded in the direction of her room. She did not waver now;
suggestions of a frightful nature came to her, but she walked on, as
if impelled by a hidden force. She reached the street in which the
room was situated. It was quiet and deserted. There was comfort in
that. Then the police had not been there. If they had there would have
been as many people there as in Gerard Street. With desperate courage
she opened the street door with her latch-key, and went up the stairs
unobserved. She turned the key in the lock and entered the room. The
clothes she had worn were in a corner, where she had left them the
previous night. She breathed more freely. All this time she had kept
in her hand the copy of the _Evening Moon_ she had purchased, and now,
in the solitude of her chamber, she nerved herself to read the
particulars of the tragedy in which she was involved. Gerald's brother
was dead; that was the end; all hope was gone. She no longer thought
of appealing to Dr. Peterssen; she felt instinctively that by so doing
she would be digging a pit for herself. She could throw herself on the
mercy of M. Bordier--that course was open to her. She could tell him
her story, strengthening her statements by most solemn assurances of
their truth, and leave it to him to decide. She had but little hope in
the result. She knew it was exactly the kind of tale which a guilty
woman would relate, and that, without a shadow of proof, few men would
accept it. There was no time, however, to determine upon any definite
course at present. The suit of clothes she had worn when she visited
M. Felix must be destroyed; until that was done her position was one
of extreme danger. She folded them carefully, and inclosed them in the
copy of the Evening Moon, and with the bundle under her arm proceeded
to Forston Street. She went at once to her bedroom, and locked the
clothes in her box. Already the plan had suggested itself of throwing
the clothes into the river in the dead of night, when she could make
sure that she was not being watched. After that she would come to some
decision as to her future movements. What transpired on the night she
made the attempt is known to the reader, and I now take up the
sequence of events of which I may claim to be the originator.