BY JOSEPH HATTON.
Out, out, damned spot!--_Shakspere._
It was during these hours that had “dropped one by one into the gulf of
time” that the miserable count had been done to death by as fierce a
murderer as had ever mutilated Nature’s handiwork, albeit unconscious
of his sanguinary deed. While mind and body had, so far as Lord Francis
knew, been absorbed in sleep, both had been cruelly awake under a
strange mesmeric or electro-biologic influence.
The wrong by which his soul was vexed had carried him out of himself,
and brought him under the control of what unsophisticated people call
sleep-walking, with suicidal or murderous impulse. Scientists have
found in this hypnological condition new examples of unconscious
evolution of the mind; but it is not our business to describe or
investigate the various discoveries which, in the direction of hypnotic
trance or mesmeric constraint, have of late occupied public attention;
we have merely to record the facts that in this present history are
stranger than fiction.
Illustrations of the possibilities of a dual existence have been given
to the world in the case of _Hyde_ and _Jekyll_, but sleep-walking is
as old as the hills, and give the hypnological subject the original
impulse of a bitter wrong sufficient to excite a vengeful desire, then
such a deed as that which was proclaimed by the newsboys, as Lord
Francis left his chambers to take the tidal train to Paris, is quite
conceivable.
The victim of the dream in action, the sleepwalker--the subject of
the mesmerizer--comes out of his trance oblivious of his hypnotic
adventures.
And thus it was with Lord Francis. But what a crime he had
unconsciously committed! And with what heroic self-denial the wife had
taken upon herself all the responsibility of the criminal’s vengeful
act!
The male figure which Lord Francis had seen stealing toward his wife’s
room was the Count de Mürger. In this Lord Francis was not mistaken,
but Fenella was. We know how at the moment her heart was yearning for
its rightful lord, but De Mürger little thought that Lady Francis had
taken him for Frank. Her feelings had been so wrought up to the pitch
of hope, that leaving her room to find her husband and throw herself
at his feet, she fancied him in a similar frame of mind--as indeed he
was--and love interpreted the approach of the count into that of her
husband.
Alas! if she had only resented the presence of the count in the hearing
of Lord Francis; if he could have heard the overwhelming rebuke of the
true wife as the truculent lover flung himself upon his knees before
her, what a world of misery had been spared him and her!
Not that the death of the count was any loss to society or the world;
it was not. There was no redeeming feature in his character. He had
worked his way into Fenella’s confidence by subtle lies; he had won
his position in society, such as it was, by the meanest arts; not to
mention the replenishing of his purse on more than one occasion by
doubtful play at cards, even when invited to the best houses. In short,
the count was an unscrupulous man, but he was fascinating to women, and
could boast, and did, of his many conquests.
Such perfidy as this may be successful for a time, but it not
unfrequently has a violent ending.
In the case of Count de Mürger his career was cut short at the
moment when he was, as he thought, on the eve of his most daring and
villainous success. If his death cast a shadow upon the reputation of
Fenella, since it occurred in her chamber, it threw around her the halo
of a wifely devotion not unworthy of the classic days of classic virtue.
It is only the reader, however, of the present history who can
understand all that is meant by this revelation of wifely atonement
and love. Fenella, like many another wife, had sought to amuse herself
with a would-be lover; she had also played him off against the supposed
indifference of her husband in a careless rivalry of his harmless
flirtations.
When the police entered the chamber of Lady Francis Onslow, they found
the count lying dead on the floor. Looking to her for some explanation,
she drew herself to her full height, and, flinging upon the body the
silver-hilted dagger she had worn in her hair, she said, “This man
attempted my life, and I killed him.”
It is curious how situations of a kindred character often inspire
similar explanation. It will be remembered by many that when the deputy
in “The Dead Heart” drew the attention of the guard to the dead Abbé,
he did so in words quite similar to those used by Lady Onslow.
It was a most pathetic figure--the slim, pale woman, as she drew her
brocaded gown about her and fixed her expressive eyes on the police.
Lord Francis Onslow little dreamed of what had occurred as he fled from
the hotel. And yet it was he whom his wife was shielding in her strange
confession. It was Lord Francis himself who had slain the count, and in
her presence.
It is known that great discoveries have been made during so-called
sleep. Men have made long journeys in their dreams, and awakened
unconscious of their travels. Others have arisen refreshed with a new
sense of knowledge and power. Louis Stevenson has confessed that he
dreams his stories, and then writes them out. There was in a recent
Academy the picture of a young girl walking with closed eyes amid
poppies and hemlocks. The present writer has experienced, in his own
career, an incident of hypnotic sleep or mesmeric trance, during which
he went forth in very truth with knife and pistol to commit, as it
seemed, some great crime, and was only prevented by the kindly guidance
of a loving arm, that held his own and led him back to the couch from
which he had risen.
And thus it was when Lord Francis exclaimed, “Too late! O Heaven!
to think my own eyes should be witness of my own eternal shame,
and--hers,” the hand of Fate was stretched out against the intriguing
and vicious Count de Mürger. For as Lord Francis staggered back to
his room, dazed, stunned, the cold tears welling up into his eyes,
his head on his arms, his whole form limp with shattered nerves, a
new and terrible power was created within him. He fell into a chair,
entirely overcome, and for a little while appeared to sleep. But it was
the sleep that awakens, the mesmeric sleep that walks and acts, the
dream-sleep that takes possession of body and mind; such sleep as that
which afflicted _Lady Macbeth_ after the murder of _Duncan_.
Hardly had De Mürger surprised the startled Fenella than Lord Francis
arose from the chair and retraced his steps toward his wife’s room.
While all that he knew of himself was asleep, Nature, in one of its
strangest freaks, propelled him forth.
“Back, sir! How dare you come here?” Lady Francis was exclaiming as he
entered the room.
De Mürger had just risen from his knees, and in Fenella’s hand, raised
above her head, was a gleaming dagger.
“But, my dear Fenella, listen,” said the count.
“Back, I say! Touch me, and I will kill you!”
“Oh, this is foolish bravado,” the Frenchman answered.
“Another word, and I will alarm the house.”
“That would only be to ruin your reputation,” said the daring lover.
“God knows I have not much reputation to lose in the eyes of the world,
since it seems I have given you sufficient encouragement to bring you
here.”
“Well, then, why be cruel now? You know I love you dearly!” As he made
this last appeal, Fenella stood transfixed, her eyes no longer upon
his, but gazing, as it seemed, on vacancy.
“Hush,” she whispered, her eyes fixed, her figure rigid with fear.
She saw her husband steal ghostlike into the room; noted his blanched
face, his lips blue, his eyes piercing bright. He seemed to glide
toward her like an animal creeping upon its prey.
“Ah, you relent,” said the count, approaching her with loving action,
at which the apparition of the avenging husband paused. For a moment
Lady Francis thought it was an apparition, the unreal creation of her
fears; but as it came crouching on again as if ready to spring, she
realized the dreadful situation, and in response to the count in his
fool’s paradise, she whispered, “Hush! your hour has come, and mine.
And, O Heaven, he will never know I am innocent!”
The next moment the stealthy figure rose up and seemed to smite the
count as an anaconda might. There was no noise, no thudding blow; but
a great iron grip held him by the throat, and in a moment later the
dagger was taken from the hand of Lady Francis and was thrust into the
heart of the already dying man.
Presently the deed was done, and the murderer stood face to face with
his wife. He looked at her as if he saw her not. She spoke; he did not
seem to hear her.
“I am innocent, Frank,” she said, “but oh, kill me, too; for you can
never believe me. I was seeking you when he came to me; I had upbraided
myself, and determined to ask your forgiveness for my neglect of you.
But oh! for nothing more, as Heaven is my judge! But kill me; you can
never again think me a true and honest wife.”
For a moment the somnambulist stood and gazed at her, but surely saw
her not.
“He is mad!” she said, “mad! Or have I lost my senses? Frank, Frank, I
will save you! Begone! I am to blame! I will accept the responsibility!
Begone!”
She did not move as she spoke, nor did he. They both looked steadily at
each other. She thought he was about to answer her, when he moved away,
retracing his steps from the room as stealthily as he had entered it.
She watched him with a strange fascination, and without the power to
move until he disappeared; and then, with a moaning cry, she sank upon
her knees and put out her hand toward the ghastly heap upon the floor,
in the hope that she was only dreaming, and that all she had seen was
mere fantasy; but the carpet was wet, and there was blood upon her hand.
“Why did I not kill him!” he had exclaimed, as we know, when he had
returned to his own room and passed out of his sleep to life and
consciousness.
He knew nothing of the murderous scene in which he had played so
terrible a part--knew nothing of the crumpled, bleeding body lying in
a hideous heap, with its pale companion looking down upon it, and the
light piercing in through the curtained window with ghostlike fingers.
Fenella watched the first sentinels of the morning, pointing airy
fingers here and there; one trembling sun-glance falling upon the
silver hilt of the red dagger; another seeking, as it were, to find out
the hideous face of the dead man. But she uttered no word, only stood
there still and quiet, like some strangely sculptured statue waiting
to be called to life--as she was presently called by an inspector of
police and the manager of the hotel after she had given the alarm.
Aroused to action, she took upon herself all the odium of her husband’s
deed--took it upon herself with the queen-like dignity of an avenging
angel.
“This man attempted my life, and I killed him!”
And they knew, those common men, that when she said her life she meant
her honor. To her that was her life, and they were conscious of her
great beauty, even as she stood before them, pale as a ghost, and with
hot, burning eyes.
The officer noticed that there was no evidence of a struggle; not
a curtain was awry, no chair was out of its place, the carpet was
unruffled, the room was neat and trim as if nothing unusual had taken
place. Before touching the body, he wrote these facts down in his book.
Then, laying his hand upon the bundle of clothes, he exposed the dead
face of the count, and requested the hotel manager to admit his two
attendant constables. One he dispatched for a doctor; to the other he
confided the custody of Lady Francis Onslow.
“I charge you formally, madam, with the murder of this man on your own
confession, which I have written down, and I warn you that anything
else you may say will be given in evidence against you.”
“Yes,” said Fenella, “he attempted my life, and I killed him.”
“You are my prisoner, my lady,” said the inspector; “but you may call
in any friend you wish to see. At the same time, I again warn you that
anything you may say will be taken down and may be given in evidence
against you. I will do my duty as considerately as possible, but I have
a duty to perform, and that of course you will understand.”
The first editions of the newspapers gave conflicting reports of the
count’s death.
For a time the public did not understand whether the count had
been murdered in his bed by burglars, whether he was the victim of
Nihilistic vengeance, or whether he had committed suicide; but on the
morning following the tragedy they were regaled with all the strange
story and much more besides.
The confession of Lady Francis Onslow was a text upon which everybody
had a sermon to preach. But it was speedily a point of comment that
the marks upon the throat of the dead man suggested a more powerful
grip than that of Fenella. There was something in the condition of the
body which puzzled the experts. This was no ordinary murder, everybody
agreed; nor indeed was it, as we know.
At the inquest the medical testimony showed that death might have
been caused either by strangulation or by the various stabbings that
disfigured the body.
It seemed to the experts that the man had been done to death by some
person far more powerful than the prisoner. The marks on the throat
were almost as strong, and the bruises and depression of the windpipe
as great, as would be caused by hanging. The man had been gripped by
a powerful hand, while the stabs had been given with a force that had
left the impression of the handle upon the flesh. The witnesses were
few, but they were sufficient to show that a murder had been committed,
though the jury and the public had evidently grave doubts about the
criminality of the prisoner, Lady Francis Onslow.
One of the jurors had asked a pointed question as to the possibility of
the deceased having committed suicide. This was, however, only a kindly
suggestion in the direction of Lady Francis Onslow’s innocence. The
count had been killed by other hands than his own. There was no doubt
about that.
What irritated the public in regard to the first day’s inquiry was
that, while there were hints at scandal, nothing came out that might be
called piquant.
Of course, there was the fact that the count was in Lady Onslow’s
bedroom at midnight; but none of the details that led up to this piece
of audacity--if it were audacity--were disclosed.
The coroner, in a mild rebuke administered to the foreman of the jury,
said the court was assembled to inquire into the death of Count de
Mürger, but it was not a court of social investigation; it was not an
inquisition charged with a mission to unravel scandal or to exploit
the life and manners of a section of Her Majesty’s subjects. While he
would take any evidence that bore upon the case, however painful that
evidence might be to the private feelings or public reputation of even
the highest in the land, he would not allow that court to be unduly
inquisitorial in matters that could only satisfy the prurient and
licentious taste of that wretched section of the public which found its
chief amusement in French novels and the scandals of Vanity Fair.
Poor coroner! he lived to regret those words. Even some of the very
best newspapers condemned them; and the worst called for the coroner’s
instant dismissal, as a panderer to the aristocracy and unfit to
preside over a court of any kind.
On the first day of the inquest the coroner asked why Lord Francis
Onslow was not present. The question created an expectant hush, which
was maintained while Mr. Jarrow Cook, of the firm of Cook, Son &
Lovett, the family lawyers of the Onslows, explained that Lord Francis
was somewhere abroad--where, they did not know.
“When did Lord Francis quit the hotel where the count was killed?”
asked the foreman of the jury.
“I do not know,” was the lawyer’s reply.
“I believe he left very early and suddenly for London, and then went on
to Paris. Is that so?”
“I really cannot say,” was the lawyer’s answer.
“I do not know that these questions are in order, Mr. Foreman,” said
the coroner.
“May be not, Mr. Coroner,” replied the foreman, “but there is a good
deal, it strikes me, in the conduct of Lord Francis Onslow in this
matter that requires explanation.”
“Mr. Coroner,” said the lawyer, “if you will permit me to say so, Lord
Francis will, I am quite sure, be quite ready to answer any questions
that this honorable court may desire to ask him; but I think in his
absence that----”
“Certainly,” said the coroner, interrupting Mr. Jarrow Cook, of the
firm of Cook, Son & Lovett. “I am sure the foreman will feel that it is
not within our province at the moment to refer to the conduct of Lord
Francis Onslow. His lordship will, no doubt, present himself before us
in due course, if wanted. If necessary, I will order his attendance.”
At this there was some applause in court, and Mr. Jarrow Cook rose to
remark with all deference that he thought the coroner’s observation
uncalled for, whereupon the coroner reminded Mr. Jarrow Cook that he
was only there by courtesy, and that he must request him not to offer
any further criticism of a personal nature in regard to the conduct of
the court.
Mr. Jarrow Cook bowed, and the proceedings went on without any further
interruption.
The prisoner, who was dressed in a quiet gown of gray cashmere, sat
placidly in an armchair near Mr. Jarrow Cook. She was pale, but quite
self-possessed. The evidence of the police inspector seemed to interest
her very much, as he related with careful regard to detail how he was
sent for, and what he saw and heard in the prisoner’s room; how he
cautioned her, and what he said when he took her into custody.
An observant reporter thought he detected a peculiar smile pass over
the mobile features of Lady Francis Onslow, when the first medical
witness suggested the impossibility of a woman having made the marks
on the throat of the dead man; but no doubt, when the case comes to be
sifted to its very dregs, and the prosecuting counsel has to reply to
this medical criticism, he will be able to adduce instances of the
enormous strength that comes with passion, or is the outcome of some
great act of revenge, and so on.
That is, if Lady Francis Onslow should have to take her trial
for willful murder, though the coroner’s inquest ended with her
condemnation, the case has still to go before the police magistrate,
and already public opinion has decided that if Lady Francis Onslow did
kill the would-be Tarquin she is only guilty of manslaughter. By her
own confession, upon which she was originally charged, the man sought
her life, and she killed him. It was remarked by many that in America
she would have easily found bail if she had been arrested, and that if
she had ever come before a court for trial she would have been promptly
acquitted. “Justifiable homicide” is a verdict not unknown to the
English law, many wise persons also remarked.
Meanwhile Lady Francis Onslow was on her way in a police van, to be
charged in the police court, and a detective had been told off at
Scotland Yard to keep his eye upon Lord Francis Onslow.