HE WAS going to visit a patient in a suburb one dark October night. But
it could scarcely be called dark. There was a pallid moon somewhere
among the clouds whitening the heavy mist that lay over the half-built
environs of the town--dismal blank spaces--fields which were no longer
fields, streets which were not yet streets. The atmosphere was charged
with vapour, which in its turn was made into a dim, confusing whiteness
by the hidden moon. Everybody knows how dismal are these outskirts of
a great city. A house built here and there stood out with a sinister
solidity against the blank around. New roads and streets laid out with
indications of pavement, cut across the ravaged fields. Here and there
was a mass of bricks, and there a pool of water. A piece of ragged
hedgerow, a remnant of its earlier state, still bordered the highway
here and there; a forlorn tree shedding its leaves at every breath of
air stood at the corner where two ways met. Dr. Barrère was no ways
timid, but he felt a chill of isolation and something like danger as he
pushed his way towards one of the furthest points of the uncompleted
road, where one house stood shivering in the vague damp and whiteness.
He had to cross the other branching road, at the corner of which stood
the shivering poplar, which shed its leaves as if with a perpetual
shrinking of fear. There he was vaguely aware of something standing in
the shade of the ragged hedgerow--a figure which moved as he passed,
and seemed to make a step forward as if awaiting some one. To say that
it was a figure he saw would be too distinct--he saw a movement, a
something more solid than the mist, which detached itself as if with a
suggestion of watchfulness, and immediately subsided again back into
the shadows. Dr. Barrère, though he was not timid, felt the thrill as
of a possible danger, the suggestion having something in it more moving
than a distincter peril. But if there was a man lurking there waiting
for some passer-by, it was not at least for him, and he walked quickly
on, and presently in the interest of his patient, and in the many
thoughts that hurry through every active brain, forgot the curious hint
of mystery and danger which had for a moment excited his imagination.
When he approached the spot again on his return, even the suggestion
had died out of his mind. His eyesight and all his faculties were keen,
as befits his profession, and he saw, without being aware that he was
seeing, everything that came within his range of vision. Accordingly
he perceived without paying any attention, the vague figure of a
man crossing the opening of the road where the poplar marked the
corner, coming towards him. He saw the solid speck in the white mist
approaching--then in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, this vague
silhouette in the night became a sudden swift scene of pantomimic
tragedy, all done and over in a moment. A sudden movement took place
in the scene; another something, almost less than a shadow, suddenly
came into it from behind the poplar. No, these words are too strong.
What came into the night was the sound of a crashing blow and a fall,
and another figure, in a different position, standing over something
prostrate, raining down, as in a fit of frantic passion, blow on blow.
Passion, murder, horror, came in a second into the still confusion of
the misty air. Then, swift as the sudden commotion, came a pause--a
wild cry of consternation, as if for the first time the actor in this
terrible momentary tragedy had become aware of what he was doing.
The spectator’s senses were so absorbed in the suddenness of the
catastrophe that there was time enough for the whole drama to enact
itself before he found voice. He had broken mechanically into a run,
and thought that he called out. But it was not (it seemed to him in
the hurried progression of ideas) his cry or the sound of his approach,
but a sudden horror which had seized the man (was he a murderer?), who
had in a moment come to himself. When the doctor at full speed, and
calling out mechanically, automatically, for Help! help! reached the
spot where the prostrate figure was lying, the other had taken flight
down the cross road and was already invisible in the distance. The
doctor’s first care was for the victim. He was not an avenger of blood,
but a healer of men.
Presently there appeared around him two or three startled people--one
from the nearest house carrying a small lamp, which made the strangest,
weird appearance in the misty night; a passer-by on his way home; a
vagrant from the deserted fields. They helped the doctor to turn over
the murdered man, who was still living, but no more, and who, it was
evident to Dr. Barrère’s experienced eyes, was on the point of death
and beyond all human help. The lamp had been placed on the ground
close by, and sent up an odour of paraffin along with the yellow rays
that proceeded from its globe of light, and the figures kneeling and
bending over the inanimate thing in the midst looked more like a group
of murderers than people bringing help and succour. Some time had
elapsed before the means of transporting him even to the nearest house
had been procured, and by that time there was no longer any question
of what could be done on his behalf, and all that was possible was to
carry away the body. Dr. Barrère walked beside the melancholy convoy
to the nearest police station, where he made his deposition; and then
he went home in all the tremor of excitement and mental commotion. He
had fortunately no visits to pay that evening of any importance; but
he was too much stirred and troubled to remain quietly at home, and
after a while hurried out to Agnes, his natural confidant, to tell her
all about the shock he had received. It struck him with surprise to
see, when he entered the little drawing-room, that Jim was with his
mother and sister. It was a thing that had very seldom happened before.
He sat apart from them at the writing-table, where he was writing, or
making believe to write, letters. The sight of him struck Dr. Barrère
with a certain surprise, but he could not have told why. There was no
reason why he should not be found in his mother’s drawing-room. It was
true that he was rarely to be seen there, but yet sometimes he would
make his appearance. This evening he had dressed for dinner, which
was still more unusual: perhaps he was going out to some late evening
party; perhaps some one had been expected to dinner. These thoughts
flew vaguely through Dr. Barrère’s mind, he could not have told why.
There was no particular reason why he should thus desire to penetrate
the motives of Jim Surtees’ behaviour, or to explain to himself why the
young man was there. The speculation passed through his head without
thought, if such an expression may be used, without any volition of
his, as half our thoughts do, like the chance flight of birds or
butterflies across the air. They did not detain him a moment as he
came forward with his greetings, and met the pleased surprise of the
reception which the ladies gave him, “I thought it was too late to look
for you,” his Agnes said, with a brightening of all the soft lines of
her face, as if the sun had risen upon a landscape. And then, as it was
cold, a chair was drawn for him near the fire. “You have been kept late
on your round to-night,” said Mrs. Surtees. “Have you any very anxious
case?”
“It is no case that has kept me,” said the doctor. “I have had a
dreadful encounter in the road. You know that district up beyond St.
George’s-in-the-fields--those half-built, desolate villas and cottages.
The roads are as lonely as if they were in the middle of a wood. A new
quarter by night is as bad as a bare moor.”
Agnes stood listening with her hand on the back of his chair, but
still a smile upon her face--the smile of pleasure at his coming. Mrs.
Surtees had let her knitting fall upon her lap, and was looking at him,
listening with pleased interest. They had not perceived the agitation
which, indeed, until he began to speak, he had managed to suppress.
“And what happened?” Mrs. Surtees said.
“I have been,” he answered, his voice breaking in spite of himself,
“the witness of a murder.”
“Good heavens!” The ladies were too much startled to put another
question except with their eager eyes. They drew closer to him; the
hand of Agnes glided to his shoulder from the back of his chair. What
she thought first was that his emotion did honour to him.
Then he described to them briefly what he had seen--the lurking figure
in the shadow which had alarmed himself as he passed first, but which
he soon perceived had no hostile intentions towards him; the appearance
of the man approaching from the opposite direction as he returned;
the sudden assault; the rapid, breathless, horrible suddenness of the
tragedy. The ladies hung upon his lips, making exclamations of horror.
It was not till afterwards that Dr. Barrère became aware that the young
man at the table behind made no sign, said not a word. He had told
everything, and answered half a dozen hurried, faltering questions
before Jim made any remark. Then he suddenly stirred behind backs (the
group at the fireside having forgotten his presence) and asked, “What
are you talking about? What’s happened?” in a deep, half growling
voice, as of a man disturbed in his occupation by some fuss of which he
did not grasp the meaning.
“Oh,” said Mrs. Surtees wiping her moist eyes, “did you not hear, Jim?
The doctor has seen a murder committed. God preserve us! I feel as if I
had seen it myself. A dreadful thing like that coming so near us! It is
as if we were mixed up in it,” she said.
“A murder? Are you sure it was a murder? It might be nothing more than
a quarrel--how could you tell in the dark?” said Jim, always in the
same gruff, almost indignant voice.
“If you had seen it as I did you would have been in no doubt,” said
Dr. Barrère, turning half round, and catching a side view of the tall
figure slouching with hands in his pockets, his face clouded with a
scowl of displeasure, his shoulders up to his ears. This silhouette
against the light gave him a thrill, he scarcely knew why. He paused
for a moment, and then added, “After all you may be right; it was
murder to all intents and purpose--but whether it was intended to be so
there may be a doubt.”
“You are always so ready to come to tragical conclusions,” said Jim in
easier tones. “I dare say it will turn out to have been a quarrel, and
no more.”
“A quarrel in which one is killed is apt to look like murder.”
These words gave them all a shivering sensation. Even Jim’s shoulders
went up to his ears as if he shared the involuntary shudder--and Mrs.
Surtees said again, drying her eyes, “It is as if we were mixed up in
it. Poor man, poor man, cut off in a moment, without a thought!”
“It appears that he is a well known and very bad character,” said Dr.
Barrère. “I feel almost more sorry for the poor wretch that did it. The
cry he gave when he saw what he had done still rings in my ears.”
“Then you think he did not mean it, Arnold?”
“God knows! You would have said he meant everything that passion and
rage could mean to see the blows; but that cry--”
“He repented, perhaps--when it was too late.”
“It was horror--it was consternation. It was the cry of a man who
suddenly saw what he had done.”
There was a pause of sympathetic horror and pity. Then Jim Surtees went
back to the writing-table, and Dr. Barrère continued his conversation
with the ladies, which, however they tried to break into other and
happier subjects, returned again and again to the terrible scene from
which he had just come. They spoke in low tones together over the
fire--the doctor recounting over and over again the feelings with which
he had contemplated the extraordinary, sudden tragedy, the rapidity
with which all its incidents followed each other, leaving him scarcely
time to cry out before all was over. He was naturally full of it, and
could speak of nothing else, and his betrothed and her mother, always
sympathetic, threw themselves entirely into the excitement which still
possessed him. It was late when he rose to go away, soothed and calmed,
and with a sense of having at last exhausted the incident. It startled
him as he turned round, after taking leave of Mrs. Surtees, to see that
Jim was still there. And the aspect of the young man was sufficiently
remarkable. The candles on the writing-table behind which he sat had
burned low. They had escaped from the little red shades which had
been placed over them, and were flaring low, like a level sun in the
evening, upon the figure behind, which, with his head bowed in his
hands and shoulders up to his ears, seemed unconscious of all that was
passing. Jim neither saw nor heard the doctor move. He was absorbed in
some all-important matter of his own.
Next day Dr. Barrère was still deeply occupied by the scene he had
seen. He was summoned for the coroner’s inquest, and he was, as was
natural, questioned by everybody he met upon a subject which was in
all men’s mouths. It was equally natural that he should return next
evening to bring the account of all the encounters he had gone through
and all that was news on the subject to Agnes and her mother. Once more
he noted with surprise that Jim was in the drawing-room. Was he turning
over a new leaf? Had he seen the folly of his ways at last?
They were sitting as before over the fire, Dr. Barrère telling his
story, the ladies listening with absorbed attention. The interest of
this terrible tragedy which had taken place almost within their kin,
which they were seeing through his eyes, was absorbing to them. They
wanted to know everything, the most minute details, what questions had
been asked him, and what he had replied. Jim was still behind backs
at the writing-table with the two candles in their red shades, which
did not betray his face, but threw a strange light upon his hands and
the occupation in which he seemed to be absorbed. He was playing an
old-fashioned game with small colored glass balls on a round board,
called solitaire in the days when it was in fashion. The little tinkle
of the balls as he placed them in the necessary order came in during
the pauses in the talk like a faint accompaniment. But no one looked at
him: they were too much absorbed in Dr. Barrère’s report.
“And are you the only witness, Arnold?” Agnes asked.
“The only one who saw the deed done,” he said. “It is very rarely that
there is even one witness to the actual fact of a murder. But there
is other evidence than mine; the man is supposed to have been seen by
various people, and there is a dumb witness of the first importance,
the stick which he must have thrown away, or which dropped from his
hand in the horror, as I shall always believe of his discovery of what
he had done.”
At this point there was a ring as of the glass balls all tinkling
together on the board. The doctor turned round, slightly startled
in the high tension of his nerves, and saw that Jim had upset his
plaything, and that the balls were rolling about the table. But this
was far from being an unusual accident in the game, and neither Mrs.
Surtees nor Agnes took any notice, their nerves were not strained as
Dr. Barrère’s had been. The mother spoke low with a natural thrill of
horror and pity. “And is it known,” she said, “is it known to whom the
stick belongs?”
Before Dr. Barrère could reply there came a knock to the door--a knock
not at the door of the room in which they sat, but below at the street
door, a thing unusual indeed at that hour, but not so startling in
general as to excite or alarm them.
But perhaps all their nerves were affected more or less. It was very
sudden and sharp, and came into the calm domestic atmosphere with a
scarcely comprehensible shock. They all turned round, and Jim, the
doctor saw, had suddenly risen up, and stood with his face turned
towards the door. The summons rang through the silence with an effect
altogether out of keeping with its simplicity.
“Who can that be so late,” said Mrs. Surtees. “Jim, will you go and
see?”
“It must be some one for me,” the doctor said.
“Poor Arnold! I hope it is someone near,” said Agnes faltering--for
neither of them believed what they said. It was something terrible,
something novel, some startling new event whatever it was. Jim,
instead of doing as his mother wished, sat down again behind the
writing-table, within the shelter of the red shades on the candles, and
they all waited, scarcely venturing to draw breath. Presently the neat
parlor-maid, pale, too, and with a visible tremor, opened the door. She
said, with a troubled look at her mistress, that, “Please, there was
some one down stairs who wanted to speak to Mr. Jim.” Mrs. Surtees was
the last to be moved by the general agitation. She said, “For Mr. Jim?
But let him come up, Ellen. Jim, you had better ask your friend to come
upstairs.”
Once more there was a terrible, incomprehensible pause. Jim, who had
fallen rather than re-seated himself on the sofa which stood behind the
writing-table, said not a word; his face was not visible behind the
shaded lights. Mrs. Surtees threw a glance round her--a troubled appeal
for she knew not what enlightenment. Then she said breathlessly, “What
has happened? What is the matter? Who is it? Ellen, you will show the
gentleman up stairs.”
Heavens! How they stood listening, panic stricken, not knowing what
they were afraid of, nor what there was to fear. Mrs. Surtees still
kept her seat tremulously, and Jim, lost in the corner of the sofa,
suddenly extinguished the candles--an act which they all seemed to
approve and understand without knowing why. And then there came a
heavy foot ascending the stairs. Mrs. Surtees did not know the man who
came in--a tall soldierly man with a clear and healthful countenance.
It even gave her a momentary sensation of comfort to see that Jim’s
“friend” was no blear-eyed young rake, but a person so respectable.
She rose to meet him with her old-fashioned courtesy. “Though I have
not the pleasure of knowing you,” she said with a smile, which was
tremulous by reason of that causeless agitation, “my son’s friends are
always welcome.” Oh heaven above! her son’s friend! Dr. Barrère was
the only one among them who knew the man. The sight of him cleared the
whole matter in a moment, and shed a horrible light over everything
to the doctor’s eyes. He made a sudden sign to the newcomer imploring
silence.
“I know this gentleman, too, Mrs. Surtees,” he said, “he is one of
my--friends, also. Would it be taking a great liberty if I were to ask
you to leave us for a few minutes the use of this room? Agnes, it is
a great intrusion--but--for God’s sake take her away!” he said in his
betrothed’s ear.
Mrs. Surtees looked at him with some surprise and an air of gentle
dignity not entirely without offence. “My dear,” she said to Agnes,
“Dr. Barrère would not ask such a thing without good reasons for it,
so let us go.” She was not a woman who had been accustomed to take the
lead even in her own family, and she was glad, glad beyond description,
to believe that the business, whatever it was, was Dr. Barrère’s
business, and not--anything else. She accepted it with a trembling
sense of relief, yet a feeling that the doctor was perhaps taking a
little too much upon him, turning her out of her own room.
The two men stood looking at each other as the ladies went away, with
Jim still huddled in the corner of the sofa, in the shade, making
no sign. Dr. Barrère saw, however, that the stranger, with a glance
round of keen, much-practised eyes, had at once seen him, and placed
himself between Jim and the door. When the ladies had disappeared the
doctor spoke quickly. “Well,” he said, “what is it, Morton? Some new
information?”
“Something I regret as much as any one can, Dr. Barrère. I have to ask
Mr. Surtees to come with me. There need be no exposure for the moment:
but I must take him without delay.”
“Take him!” The doctor made a last effort to appear not to perceive. He
said, “Have you too seen something, then? Have you further evidence to
give, Jim?”
There was no reply. Neither did the superintendent say a word. They
stood all three silent. Jim had risen up; his limbs seemed unable to
support him. He stood leaning on the table, looking out blankly over
the two extinguished candles and their red shades. The officer went up
and laid his hand lightly upon the young man’s shoulder. “Come,” he
said, “you know what I’m here for: and I’m sorry, very sorry for you,
Mr. Jim: but no doubt you’ll be able to make it all clear.”
“Barrère,” said Jim, struggling against the dryness in his throat, “you
can prove that I have not been out of the house--that I was at home all
last night. I couldn’t--I couldn’t, you know, be in two places at one
time--could I, Barrère?”
“Mr. Jim, you must remember that whatever you say now will tell against
you at the trial. I take you to witness, doctor, that I haven’t even
told him what it was for.”
Jim ground out an oath from between his clenched teeth. “Do I need to
ask?” he said. “Doesn’t everybody know I hated him--and good reason
too--hated him and threatened him--but, God help me, not to kill him!”
cried the young man with a voice of despair.