A BROKEN LIFE.
Gerald Warburton did not leave London for Pembridge next day, nor for
several days afterwards.
When Ambrose Murray learned that Gerald was the nephew of Jacob Lloyd,
the man who had so befriended his daughter, and that Gerald's mother
was the Minna Lloyd whom he remembered, and who had been one of his
wife's dearest friends, he clung to him as a man who is being carried
away by the tide will cling to the life-buoy which his hands have
unexpectedly grasped. And, indeed, this man, who, after having been
closely shut up from the world for twenty years, found himself thrown
again on the great stream of life, seemed as helpless and bewildered
as some weak swimmer who contends in vain against the resistless tide
that is fast carrying him away. He was more than bewildered--he was
frightened by the vast whirlpool of London life in which he found
himself such an infinitesimal atom. There had always been an element
of weakness, of vacillation, in his character. He had always been one
of those men who are inevitably crushed into the background in the
great rush and struggle for life with which they are mixed up--men not
lacking talent, but simply from want of energy and physique, and power
of elbowing their way to the front, drifting year after year
helplessly into the rear, seeing themselves distanced by younger and
fleeter feet, and seeing the prizes that in the flush of youth seemed
so close at hand and easy of attainment, receding hopelessly into the
distance. Sometimes disappointment and bitterness of heart sour such
men for ever; sometimes they sink into mere dreamers and idealists,
who console themselves for the buffets of the real world by living as
much as possible an inner life of their own, in which destiny is
carved out by them in accordance with their varying fancies, and in
which they grasp--in imagination--whatever prizes please them best.
If at twenty-five years of age Ambrose. Murray had been ill-fitted to
withstand the rubs of fortune, it was hardly to be expected that his
armour should be stronger or his sword brighter after his twenty years
of incarceration from the world. It was, indeed, evident from the
first, both to Miss Bellamy and to Gerald, that he would have to
be treated in many ways as if he were neither more nor less than a
grown-up child. He had forgotten so much, and he had so much to learn!
The march of events had left him so terribly in the rear, that it
seemed doubtful whether he would ever be able to reach the world's
full stride again.
Then, again, as time went on and they grew to know him better, a doubt
would sometimes make itself felt, both with Miss Bellamy and Gerald,
as to whether some shadow of the terrible affliction which had
overclouded his mind for years did not linger there still. On
ninety-nine topics out of a hundred he would talk as sanely and
sensibly as anyone; but the introduction of the hundredth would elicit
from him some observation so bizarre, so outrageous, or, on the other
hand, so childishly simple, that his hearers could only look at each
other in dismay, and change the conversation as quickly as possible.
Ambrose Murray's chief employment in prison since the recovery of his
reason would seem to have been the cleaning and repairing of all the
clocks and watches in the establishment. When a boy of twelve at home
he had been able to take his father's watch to pieces, clean it, and
put it together again. The delicacy of the workmanship, and the
exquisite adjustment of each part with reference to the whole, had for
him, even at that age, a fascination, a charm, that might have led
him, step by step, into the highest walks of mechanics, had not a
stern parental will decided for him that he was born to be a doctor.
As a result of his labours on the prison clocks and watches, Mr.
Murray had contrived, little by little, to save up the sum of twelve
pounds. Ten pounds of this amount he placed in the hands of Miss
Bellamy the morning after his arrival in London, with a request that
she would act as cashier for him in every way as far as the money
would go, and that when it was exhausted she would not fail to let
him know--although what he would have done in such a case to replenish
his purse it would have puzzled him to say. Just then, however, no
such consideration troubled his mind. In his best days he had not
understood or troubled himself much about money matters, and
nowadays ten pounds seemed amply sufficient to last him for an
indefinite length of time. And it did last him a very long time,
thanks to Miss Bellamy's remarkable management; for when, at the end
of two months, he said to her, "I think the ten pounds must be getting
rather low, Maria"--he had always been in the habit of calling Miss
Bellamy by her Christian name--she only answered with a smile: "That
shows how little you know about money matters. There's more than half
of it left yet." Ambrose Murray was quite content to think that it was
so, and troubled himself no further about the matter.
That first night Gerald took him to his own rooms; but the question
that had to be settled next morning was, where he should live for the
future. In London he would undoubtedly be safer from pursuit and
detection than in the country; besides which, he wanted to be near
Miss Bellamy. She was the one link that connected him with the past:
away from her he would have felt as helpless as a being who had
wandered by mistake on to a wrong planet. As it happened, there were
two furnished rooms to be let in the next house to that in which Miss
Bellamy lodged, and it was decided that there, for awhile at least,
the fugitive should pitch his tent. It was highly necessary that he
should both change his name and disguise himself to a certain
extent--not that Murray himself would ever have thought of adopting
any such precautions, but would have gone about as openly and
unsuspiciously as the freest man in England. That some pursuit would
be attempted, that some effort would be made to recapture him, there
could be no manner of doubt; and both to Miss Bellamy and Gerald it
seemed quite evident that unless some few obvious precautions should
be adopted, his whereabouts could not long remain unknown to the
police. It was accordingly agreed that for the time being he should
change his name from Murray to Greaves--that having been his wife's
maiden name; and that he should pass as a cousin of Miss Bellamy, who
had come to London to look after some property that was in Chancery.
The next thing to do was to reduce the length of his flowing white
beard and of his long white hair. What was left was then died
black--its normal colour--and this simple change was enough to
disguise him beyond the chance of recognition by any one who had only
seen him as he was when he first took off his hat and plaid in Miss
Bellamy's room.
As he was still barely fifty years old, there was nothing incongruous
about his black hair and beard; and when his sartorial needs had been
duly attended to, the world saw him as a rather tall, frail-looking
man, with a thin, scholar-like face, who stooped a little as he
walked, and who seemed ever more intent on his own secret thoughts
than concerned with anything that was passing around him. Not that the
world, as exemplified by Ormond Square and its neighbourhood, ever saw
much of him. He rarely stirred out of the house till dusk, and more
frequently than mot it was ten or eleven at night before he crossed
the threshold, except when he went to see Miss Bellamy--which he did
every day; but as he had only to step from one house into the next in
order to do that, it could hardly be considered as going out. The
noise and bustle of the streets distracted him--even daylight
itself, except when it came winnowed through the interstices of the
venetian blinds, seemed distasteful to him. The friendly silence of
the long, dark suburban streets, where were no gaudy shops or glaring
gin-palaces, suited him best. There he could think his inmost thoughts
and commune with his strange fancies in silence and peace. There he
could feel sure that no keen eyes were prying into his, and trying to
find therein some gleam, some lurking trace, of that terrible demon
whose fingers had scorched his brain once already, and who still, at
times, seemed terribly near at hand, waiting--as in his childish days
he believed robbers used to wait for him--round some dark corner no
great distance away, with his black cloak in his hands, ready to throw
it over his victim's head the moment he passed that way.
After awhile both Gerald and Miss Bellamy were able to tell when this
demon was haunting Murray's steps more closely than common. At such
times, when not conversing with others, he would talk inaudibly to
himself for hours together, unless interrupted, his lips moving as
though in earnest assertion, but no sound coming therefrom. At such
times, when walking out, he would turn his head slowly from side to
side, but without raising his eyes from the ground, as though in
search of something.
On the first occasion that Gerald noticed this peculiarity, they were
walking together, and he said to him, "Have you lost something, Mr.
Murray?"
Murray started, looked up, smiled, and pressed his companion's arm
more closely.
"Yes, I have lost something," he said, with a little sigh. "I don't
exactly know what it is--but it's something. I shall find it again one
of these days, I do not doubt."
His voice was full of pathos as he spoke. Gerald never mentioned the
subject again.
"Now that you are settled for some time to come, I presume that you
will not be long before you break the news to Eleanor? You must
remember that as yet she knows absolutely nothing."
So spoke Miss Bellamy to Ambrose Murray one evening across the
tea-table. Gerald was also there. This was the first time that
Eleanor's name had been mentioned since Murray's arrival, and Miss
Bellamy could bear the father's strange silence no longer.
"It is not my intention to tell my daughter anything at present. Why
should I?" said Murray.
Miss Bellamy looked at him as though she could scarcely believe her
ears.
"Why should you not?" she said. "It seems to me that one of the very
first things you ought to do is to tell everything to your only
child."
Murray stirred his tea slowly for a few moments before answering.
"Eleanor is well and comfortable, I hope," he said at last.
"Quite well and quite comfortable."
"She is still living among her friends at Pembridge?"
"She is."
"And wants for nothing?"
"And wants for nothing, so far as I know."
"That is well. And she still believes that Jacob Lloyd was her
father?"
"I am not aware that anyone has undeceived her on that point."
"Why should I be the first to undeceive her?"
"Jacob Lloyd is dead. You are her father, and you are now a free man."
"Precisely so. I am a free man because I have broken my prison bonds.
I am a free man who is liable to recapture at any moment. I am a free
man to whose name the stain of murder still clings."
"But Eleanor would never believe you to be guilty, as I have never
believed you, to be guilty."
"Possibly not. But why distress her by making her the recipient of so
painful a revelation?"
"She is your daughter, and she has a right to be told the truth."
"As you say, she is my daughter, and perhaps she has a right to be
told. But seeing that her ignorance has lasted for twenty years, it
cannot matter greatly if she be kept in the same ignorance for a few
weeks or a few months longer. That ultimately everything will be told
her, I do not doubt; but not now--not till--till----" Overcome by some
hidden emotion, he faltered, and was dumb.
"Not till what, Ambrose?" said Miss Bellamy very gently.
"Not till I have proved my innocence to the world."
Miss Bellamy sighed, but said nothing. If Eleanor was not to be told
her father's story till his innocence should be proved, then would it
remain untold for ever.
"Do not think," resumed Ambrose Murray, "that I have not thought over,
times without number, all that can be urged either for or against the
telling of my story to Eleanor, but I have come to the conclusion that
for a little while to come it had better remain untold."
"And do you think, Ambrose, that after such a length of time there is
any chance, however remote, of your being able to prove your
innocence?"
"I don't know: I cannot tell. I can simply hope. The world is full of
apparent wonders, and Providence works out its ends in a way that we
cannot fathom. I know how vain and futile must seem to you the
prospect of my ever being able to prove my innocence; but it is for
that purpose, and that alone, that I am now here. Had I not been
sustained by such a hope, I believe that I should not have cared to
seek my freedom. Years since, the desire for freedom, for freedom's
own sake, burnt itself to a cinder in my heart by its very intensity.
I came at last to cling to the narrow walls that had been my home for
so long a time, as a limpet clings to its boulder on the beach,
neither knowing nor caring for any horizon beyond its own few inches
of rock and sand. How is it possible for me to make you comprehend
what simple things may become dear to a man who has been cut off from
the world as I have been? The pair of robins that I used to feed, the
candy-tuft that grew outside my bedroom window, the head-warder's
motherless child, the laurel-walk in the garden, my box of tools--the
source of so many happy hours: it was not without a pang of bitter
anguish that I cast these behind me for ever, even though freedom
itself was beckoning to me from the hill-tops!
"But an inner voice seemed to urge me forward, a will superior to my
own seemed to guide my footsteps. In saying this I may be merely the
victim of self-delusion. My hopes and wishes in this matter may have
no better foundation than a few incoherent dreams. Once already my
mind has been like an empty room that is open to every wind that
blows; and sometimes even now--Heaven help me!--I seem as if I had
hardly strength enough to hold the door against the troop of demons
that press and hustle to get in, and complain that I have dispossessed
them of their home. But be this as it may, I am held and sustained by
the hope of which I have spoken. It may prove to be nothing better
than a broken reed, but till it is so proved, I will in no wise let it
go: and till that time shall come, my daughter and I must remain to
each other the strangers we have hitherto been."
"Have you no desire to see Eleanor--to kiss her--to clasp her to your
heart?"
"Do not ask me!" he said, with a sudden shrillness in his voice. Then,
in a moment, he broke down utterly, and began to cry in a helpless,
broken-hearted way that was painful to see.
Miss Bellamy went round to him and laid her hand gently on his
shoulder.
"Oh, Ambrose, forgive me!" she said, with tears in her eyes. "I did
not think to hurt your feelings. I cannot tell you how sorry I am."
"It is I who am so foolishly weak," he said; "but I shall be better in
a minute or two." He held out one of his hands. Miss Bellamy pressed
it affectionately between both hers, and then went softly back to her
seat. For a little while no one spoke.
Ambrose Murray was the first to break the silence. "Upwards of twenty
years have gone by," he said, "since Paul Stilling was murdered one
night at the Pelican Hotel, Tewkesbury, and the prospect of my being
able to prove my innocence after such a lapse of time would to most
people appear an utterly hopeless one; and even to me, in my most
sanguine moments, the chances of success seem very faint and far away
indeed. Still, it is for this hope alone that I now live."
"Has any fresh evidence been discovered since the trial?" asked Miss
Bellamy; "anything tending to exculpate you and fix the crime on the
real murderer?"
"So far as I know, nothing has been discovered. The case virtually
came to an end with my condemnation. The world believed me to be
guilty--no one cared to sift further into the matter, and I was left
to my fate."
"We none of us believed you to be guilty," said Miss Bellamy, with
much earnestness. "But the evidence was so terribly against you, and
events followed each other so quickly, and we poor women were all so
bewildered and heart-broken, that--that we felt as if we could do
nothing."
"As you say, Maria--you could do nothing; and I have never wronged any
of those who were my friends at that sad time by thinking that more
could have been done for me than was done. What was wanted was time,
and that the law would not grant: time, and a man of strong will and
clear brain, and then, perhaps, the mystery might have been fathomed."
"Then what it is now requisite to do," said Gerald, joining in the
conversation for the first time, "is to reopen the case; to set to
work on it, in fact, as if the murder had been committed only last
week, instead of twenty years ago."
"That is precisely what I propose to do," said Murray.
"And the first step is----?"
"To find out whether Max Jacoby is living or dead."
"Max Jacoby?" said Miss Bellamy. "I have not heard that name for
years; but what a flood of painful reminiscences the mention of it
recalls!"
"Who was the man you speak of?" asked Gerald.
"He was the man who murdered Paul Stilling!"
"You stare at me as if you believed me to be still mad," he added,
after a pause, addressing himself to Miss Bellamy: "and you ask me in
your thoughts, if you do not with your lips, what evidence I can bring
to prove the truth of what I have just stated. My answer is, that I
cannot adduce one tittle of evidence that would be considered worth a
moment's notice in a court of law: but not the less sure am I that he
was the man."
Neither Gerald nor Miss Bellamy could help being impressed by his
earnestness, however disposed they might be to think that nothing but
disappointment could ever issue from it.
"Have you any clue by means of which it may be possible to trace the
present whereabouts of this man, Max Jacoby?" asked Gerald presently.
"I have no clue of any kind." He said this, not despondently, but as
cheerfully as though the point involved were of no consequence
whatever.
"As you said just now, Gerald, we must go into the case _ab initio_,"
he resumed. "I say we, because it may chance that now and then I shall
claim your assistance in the matter; and should I have to do so, I
know that I shall not claim it in vain."
"That you will not," said Gerald warmly. "You may count on my poor
services in any and every way."
"You must bear in mind," said Miss Bellamy to Murray, "that Gerald has
not such an intimate knowledge of the case as either you or I have. He
has heard a bare outline of the facts from me; but would it not be as
well if you were to tell him the story in detail from your own point
of view, and so enable him to judge for himself as to the mode in
which he might be best able to assist you?"
"You are right, Maria, as you always are," said Murray. "Gerald shall
have the story. It will not take long to tell. As a narrative of
events, nothing could appear more clear, simple, and straightforward;
and yet, underneath it, there still lurks the foul mystery that
poisoned my life--that condemned me to a horrible death--that broke my
wife's heart--and that made of me the wretched creature I am now!"
He rested his head in his hands, and was silent for a little while,
calling up the memories of a bitter past.
"As you are no doubt already aware," he began, "I was brought up, at
my father's request, to be a surgeon. I was in practice for myself,
and had been married about two years, when my health, which had always
been delicate, broke down. I was ordered to Malvern to try the
hydropathic system, and there I stayed for four months, gathering
strength daily. At length I found myself well enough to start for
home. I had always been fond of walking, and on the present occasion I
determined to shun the railways and do the entire distance on foot,
going by easy stages so as not to over-fatigue myself. In pursuance of
this plan I got as far as Tewkesbury, where I had made up my mind to
stay all night. But already I found I was doing myself more harm than
good by walking, and it was evident that I should have to finish my
journey by rail. I sought and found shelter for the night at the
Pelican Hotel. My purse was not very heavy, and I joined the company
in the coffee-room. The company in question consisted but of two
individuals,--Paul Stilling, a young Englishman, and Max Jacoby, a
Dutch or German Jew of about the same age as myself. Stilling was a
tall, slim, handsome young-fellow, with closely cropped black hair and
a thin silky moustache. He was junior partner in a firm of Birmingham
jewellers, and it transpired that he was then on his way, with a
parcel of valuable jewellery, to the house of a well-known nobleman,
resident no great distance from Tewkesbury. There was about to be a
wedding in the family, and he was taking a selection of goods from
which sundry bridal presents were to be chosen. He had engaged a bed
at the Pelican for that night, and had ordered a fly to be ready at
ten next morning to take him forward to his destination. Jacoby was a
broad-built, resolute-looking man, with a thick sandy beard and
ear-rings. He was travelling for a firm of Sheffield cutlers.
"The two men had been dining together, and the meal was just over when
I entered the room. Stilling at once entered into conversation with
me, but the German only sat and looked at us. After I had finished my
steak I joined them over cigars and a bottle of port. The evening was
chilly, and we all drew up close to the fire. Stilling had evidently
been drinking earlier in the day, and his voluble tongue had been made
more voluble still by his potations. He did not fail to tell us who
and what he was, and the object of his visit to Tewkesbury; in fact,
he had the conversation pretty much to himself. I joined in
occasionally, but Jacoby did little except smoke and turn his keen
eyes from one to the other of us, interjecting now and then a gruff
Nein or Ja when a point-blank question was put to him by the jeweller.
"At length nothing would satisfy Stilling but showing us the wedding
jewellery, on the beauty of which he descanted in glowing terms. So he
ran upstairs as nimbly as a lamplighter, and presently came back,
carrying a small, square leather case under his arm. This case, when
unlocked, was found to contain a small box, made of polished oak,
clamped with silver, and having the initials P. S. outlined on the lid
with silver nails. The box was duly opened, and was found to be lined
with purple velvet, and divided into compartments which were filled
with jewels of various kinds. One after another Stilling lifted them
tenderly out of their soft resting-place, in order that we might
examine them. They flashed and scintillated in the gaslight, and threw
out a thousand brilliant rays. Happening to turn my head, I could not
help being struck with the change in Jacoby. He had put down his cigar
in order that he might examine the jewels more closely, and was at
that moment holding in his hairy, muscular hands a necklace of
magnificent brilliants. But his hands were trembling as he held it,
and his face had taken a yellow tinge, and his forehead had become
clammy, and he was biting his under lip; and while I was looking, he
flashed across at Stilling a look which said plainly enough: 'To make
these mine I would kill you and a thousand like you!' That was how I
read his look then; that is how I read it now. If ever there was
murder in a man's eyes, there was in Jacoby's at that moment.
"When the jewels had been sufficiently admired, they were put back
into their resting-place and locked up. A little later we bade each
other goodnight, and went off to our several rooms. I had ordered an
early breakfast, and I left Tewkesbury by the seven a.m. train, having
taken a ticket through to Bristol. By the time I reached Gloucester,
however, I had changed my mind. The weather was brilliant, and I
should not be looked for at home for several days. Why not go down
Hereford way, and explore the scenery of the Wye, and by so doing
gratify a wish that dated back for several years? I accordingly
quitted the Bristol train at Gloucester, and booked myself through by
another line to Hereford, which place I reached late in the afternoon.
I was sitting next morning in the coffee-room of the hotel, plodding
through my breakfast, when the door was opened, and a heavy hand was
laid on my shoulder, and next moment I found myself arrested on a
double charge of robbery and murder. Stilling had been found dead in
his bed at the Pelican Hotel: the silver-clamped box could not be
found, and I was charged with the double crime.
"But I must not weary you. At the very bottom of my travelling bag was
found a bracelet set with turquoises and diamonds, that had been the
property of Stilling. In the murdered man's room was found a
handkerchief marked with my initials. I had taken a railway ticket to
Bristol, but had left the train at Gloucester, and had gone forward by
another line in order to baffle pursuit--so they said. Taken in
conjunction, these facts were enough to condemn any man, and they
condemned me. Twelve men unanimously found me guilty, and the judge
told me that he quite concurred in their verdict. And then I saw the
black cap put on, and heard my own death-sentence pronounced, and
heard my wife's wild shriek for mercy, where no mercy could be shown.
Can you wonder that my brain gave way?"
He paused. In the silence they heard the clocks strike twelve.
"The same hand that put the bracelet into my bag put my handkerchief
into the murdered man's room. It was the hand of Jacoby! How I know
that--how I feel so sure of it--I cannot explain to either of you, and
if I could you would only smile at me. In this world much of our
highest knowledge comes to us intuitively, and by intuition only
do I know that it was Max Jacoby who compassed the death of Paul
Stilling--but that suffices for me."
"Then your idea," said Gerald, "is to find out whether this Max Jacoby
is still alive?"
"It is. And I want you, out of your knowledge of the world, to advise
me as to the best mode of setting about this business."
"I am going out of town to-morrow for a couple of days. I will think
over very carefully all that you have said, and will make a point of
seeing you immediately upon my return."
With this agreement they separated for the night, and early next
morning Gerald set out for Pembridge.
Miss Bellamy had not deemed it necessary to say anything to Ambrose
Murray as to the fact of Eleanor still passing as Jacob Lloyd's
daughter, and still believing herself to be the heiress to his
property. To have told him would only have unsettled his mind still
further, and would have served no useful purpose. Besides which,
Gerald's visit to Pembridge was for the express purpose of seeing Mr.
Kelvin, and of ascertaining from him why he had omitted to carry out
the instructions conveyed to him in the sealed packet. In a few days
more at the most, Eleanor would learn that she was not the daughter of
Jacob Lloyd, and not the heiress she believed herself to be.
Meanwhile, it was better, as far as Ambrose Murray was concerned, that
these matters should remain untold.