The moment before these last words escaped from Brettison's lips
Stratton had been sitting there with his elbows on the table, his face
worn, haggard, and full of horror and disgust; but now the interest in
his old friend's statement returned, and he watched him eagerly. The
explanation was coming at last. The half-cynical, indifferent manner,
too, had passed away, as he continued:
"I came back to this very chair, Stratton, trembling and agitated as I
had never been before, to stoop down at once, and then go upon one knee
there--there on the rug. His head was just there, boy, and his face a
little on one side, so that the profile of the vile scoundrel stood out,
clearly cut, against the background of dark chocolate wood."
Brettison's manner was now excited, his words low and hoarse, and his
manner had proved contagious; for Stratton's lips parted, and he leaned
over toward the speaker.
"For a few minutes I could do no more," continued Brettison. "A
horrible dread assailed me--that I had been deceived--that the door I
had, in imagination, seen open before me had closed again, and that I
was once more shut in with the terrible difficulty. But, nerving myself
again, I passed one arm beneath the shoulders as before, raised him a
little, and once more there was a low moan."
"What?" cried Stratton wildly, as he started from his seat.
"Wait patiently, and you shall hear," said Brettison; then, drawing a
panting breath, as if the effort of recalling the terrible scene, with
its excitement, was almost more than he could bear, he went on:
"I lowered him again, not daring to think that he was alive, knowing
that the sound might have been caused by the escape of a little air from
the cavity of the chest. For a few minutes I was sure that this was so,
and my hopes were all dashed again. People have called me a learned
man, Malcolm; but, before a difficulty like that, I was a poor,
helpless, ignorant child.
"Mastering myself, though, at last, I thrust my hand into his breast;
but I could feel nothing. I fancied there was a pulsation, but could
not tell but that it might be caused by my own throbbing arteries. I
tried the wrists, and then, tearing open the collar of his shirt, thrust
my hand in there, and the pulsation was plain now. More, I distinctly
felt a throb, as a low moan once more escaped from the man's lips."
"Not dead?" gasped Stratton. "Her husband! Living? Great Heavens!"
He sank back into his chair, staring wildly; and then, in a hoarse
whisper:
"Go on!" he panted, "go on!"
"The way of escape was open widely now," cried Brettison, reaching over
to clutch his companion's wrist, "and I could see my way clearly. It
was madness to attempt to move the body of a dead man through the
streets, boy--detection was certain; but to take a sick or injured man
from one place to another was simplicity itself, and I breathed freely.
I could act."
"Not dead--not dead!" muttered Stratton, who looked as if he had
received some terrible mental blow, which had confused his faculties and
made the effort of following his old friend's narrative almost beyond
his powers.
"I closed that door at once, in dread now lest the moans should have
been heard; and, able to grasp the position, I could work coolly enough.
Going down on my knees with sponge and basin, I soon found that there
was a small orifice behind the right ear. This had bled freely, but it
had ceased; and, grasping at once that the bullet had gone upward, I
examined next to find its place of exit.
"There was none. The bullet was, in all probability, still in the head.
"He moaned a little as I bathed away all traces of the injury; and when
I had done, save that tiny orifice just behind the ear, there was
nothing to show that he was not sleeping, for the face was quite
composed.
"What to do next? Not a moment, I felt, must be lost, if I wished to
save his life; and, with a feeling of grim cynicism, I asked myself
whether I did. For I was in a dilemma. On the one hand, if I saved
him, it cleared you from what might devolve into a charge of murder; on
the other hand, if I let him die, Myra would be free, and some day--"
"No, no, impossible!" groaned Stratton. "Go on."
"I could not decide what I ought to do at first, for--I confess it--I
was dragged both ways; but I took the right road, Stratton.
"It was late, but it was a case of emergency, and the man's face helped
me to the tale I meant to tell. There was the swollen nose and there
were the pimply blotches of the man who drank. That was sufficient for
me; and with a strength of which I did not believe myself capable, I
dragged him by the shoulders into my bedroom and locked him in. Then,
taking my hat, I made my way out unseen, took a cab, and had myself
driven to the house of an old servant, who was a pensioner of mine in
South London. She was just about to retire for the night, but readily
made preparations for the reception of an unfortunate friend of mine who
had met with an accident, while I hurried back, discharged my cab, took
a fresh one--the man, for ample pay, being willing enough to undertake
my task, and soon found for me a strong helper.
"The rest was easy. I lied to them, and, on taking the man up with me,
left him in my room, while I went into the chamber, trembling lest I
should find our enemy was dead.
"But he was lying back as I had left him, on a lounge, and I returned to
the fellow I had brought up. I gave the man brandy, took a glass
myself, and, before utilising the help I had brought, purposely
sprinkled the wounded man with spirit--a hint being sufficient to direct
the helper's thoughts into the channel that this person he was to help
to the cab was a victim to _delirium tremens_, for the face was evidence
enough.
"My new companion was to have a sovereign for his pains, so he found no
cause to object; and when I offered to help laughingly put me aside.
"`Oh, I can carry him,' he said, `like a baby.'
"A bold, indifferent manner was all, I felt, that was necessary; and
fortune favoured me, for we did not pass a soul, and the placing of an
apparently tipsy man in a four-wheel cab was not novelty enough to
excite the interest of passers-by. I was quite right, I tell you; a
bold, careless front carried all before it, and in a very few minutes I
had left my chambers locked up, the helper was on the box seat, and we
were rolled over Blackfriars Bridge to my old servant's house.
"Here he was carried in, and old Mary shook her head at the scent of the
spirits, but assisted willingly till my charge was laid upon the bed,
the cabman and his companion dismissed, and then the doctor was
fetched."
"Hah!" ejaculated Stratton, as he wiped the great drops of sweat from
his brow.
"You are faint," said Brettison anxiously.
"Sick almost unto death," said Stratton hoarsely.
The old man rose and crossed to an old brass-bound cellarette, which he
opened.
"No, no," cried Stratton excitedly; "go on, man, go on. You are
torturing me. Let me know the worst--or the best," he cried with a
bitter laugh. "Ought I to wish his life to be saved, and, know that I
am not a murderer?"
"A man is no murderer who slays another in defence of his own life,"
said Brettison calmly, getting out an old spirit decanter and glasses.
"Leave that," cried Stratton, pushing away the glass his friend placed
before him. "Go on--go on!"
"No," said Brettison sternly; "you need the stimulus now."
"Man, have you no feeling for me at such an anguish point as this?"
"Man, have you no feeling for one who is old and infirm, and who has
shortened his poor share of life in his efforts to save you from the
misery of your lot?"
"Forgive me," groaned Stratton. "I am not what I was, Brettison."
"No man could go through such a crucial passage in his life and come out
the same," was the quiet reply. "There, drink that. I do not indulge
in these things, as you know; but I am faint, and it is hard work to
collect one's thoughts."
He poured out two little glasses of the contents of the old decanter,
and drank one--Stratton, whose temples were throbbing, and whose hand
trembled in a palsied way, following his example.
"Now," he said, "go on. I am in misery."
"You must know all. I must tell it in my own way, for my mind is
confused all through with doubts as to whether I was right in keeping
you in ignorance of all this. I did not see it before; I do see it
now."
He looked upon Stratton's worn and aged face with a look full of pity
and compunction.
"I acted for the best, my boy," he said--"I acted for the best; but I
feel that I have been, in my zeal, half-mad. Still at such a time a man
cannot be cool-blooded, and act as he would after longer thought."
Then, as he saw Stratton's hands raised:
"The doctor came, saw the patient, and made his examination carefully,
ending by applying proper bandages to the wound, while Barron lay
perfectly insensible, only uttering a low moan now and then, as if he
felt pain when touched; otherwise he lay quite calmly, as if asleep.
"And as the doctor busied himself he asked no questions; but, as if he
were influenced by my thoughts as I stood by him, watching him and
waiting to give him a garbled--there, a lying--version of the incident,
he at last took the very view as I wished to convey it to him by words.
"`A bad case, sir,' he said at last. `I can do no more now. The bullet
is evidently deeply imbedded. I will not take the risk of probing for
it. Shall I get one of our eminent specialists in consultation?'
"I shook my head.
"`Fatal?' I said at last.
"He shrugged his shoulders.
"`Must speak plainly, sir,' he said. `It is of no use to talk of hope
to a man when one feels that there can be none. Poor fellow, his face
tells the tale plainly enough. Drink. Stimulus after stimulus till the
brandy, or whatever it is, ceases to have its effect. I knew one poor
fellow who used to heat brandy over a spirit lamp to make its effect
more rapid. Yes, ceases to have its effect, and more is used. Then the
digestive powers break down, the over-goaded brain leaps from its
bounds, and we have the delirium that ends in men feeling that life is
not worth living, and makes them suicidal like this.'"
"You remember the very words?" said Stratton, looking at his friend
wonderingly.
"Word for word," said Brettison slowly, "and always shall. I remember,
too, the thrill of horror that ran through my nerves as he stood for a
few moments with his back to me, between me and the bed, bending first
over his patient, and then straightening himself up and raising one
arm--his right--with the fist clenched, all but the index finger, which
he passed over his shoulder to touch, with the point of the finger, the
spot behind his own ear where the bullet had entered.
"For a few moments I did not understand his gesture; then I grasped the
fact, and followed his thoughts. He was, in imagination, holding a
pistol to his head as he thought his patient must have held it when the
trigger was drawn. He had completely taken my view that I wished to
impart, and he was thinking of the inquest and the evidence he would
have to give."
Stratton looked at him for a few moments with dilated eyes.
At last he spoke, for Brettison had become wrapped in thought, and sat
gazing before him, as if seeing the whole horror once again.
"And did he," said Stratton, in broken words, "attend him--to the end;
did he say--at the inquest--that it was suicide?"
"No," said Brettison, looking up with a start from his musings, and
watching the effect of his words on his companion; "he tended him, but
James Dale, or Barron, did not die. He is living now."