THE MELTING OF THE SNOW.
The first stage of our flight toward safety accomplished, I sat down
to once more review the situation, and to take such counsel as I
could give myself. I endeavored to foreshadow the consequences of the
inevitable discovery of Sir Mervyn Ferrand’s death. I tried calmly to
ascertain in what quarter the danger of discovery was situated, and how
best to guard against or turn aside the peril.
Undoubtedly the chief person to fear was Mrs. Wilson. She alone knew
that the man intended to reach Roding that night. She alone knew in
what relation, or supposed relation, he stood to Philippa. The very
night of his death would be fixed by the snow-storm; and I felt sure
that as soon as the dead man was identified Mrs. Wilson could not fail
to associate her guest’s sudden departure and subsequent illness with
the terrible event. The moment she revealed what she knew or suspected,
suspicion must point to the right person, and pursuit must at once
follow. My heart grew sick, as, think how I would, I could see no
loop-hole by which to escape from this danger.
About secondary things I troubled but little. Upon calm
reconsideration, I did not believe that my stolid William would for a
moment jump at the right conclusion. If he were led to suspect either
of us, it would be me, not Philippa; and I well knew that he was so
much attached to me that, although he felt certain I had done the deed,
he would feel equally certain that I had good and proper reasons for
doing it, and no word to my detriment would pass his reticent lips. No,
there was little to fear from William.
I had blamed myself deeply for the impulse which had urged me to hurl
the fatal weapon away. Why did I not keep it and bury it fathoms deep?
If that pistol were found, it would possibly furnish a clew which might
be followed up, and undo everything. My only hope was that I had thrown
it to some spot where it might lie for years undiscovered, until all
association between it and the murder had disappeared.
To sum up briefly, I was bound to decide that the damning
circumstantial evidence which could be furnished by Mrs. Wilson drove
me back to my original idea. There was no chance of my poor Philippa’s
remaining unaccused or unsuspected of the deed she had unwittingly
done; so her only hope of safety--indeed, considering all, I may also
say my only hope of safety--was rapid flight. We must gain some land
in which we could dwell without fear of being arrested. What land was
there?
Many a one. The date of my story is before 1873, when nearly all the
extradition treaties were made. At that time such treaties existed with
only two foreign countries, France and the United States; so that our
choice of a resting-place was not so limited as those who are flying
from the clutches of the law find it to-day. However, in order to make
certain, I paid a visit to a legal friend of mine, and, by quoting a
supposititious case, managed to acquire a good deal of information
respecting the dealings of one nation with another, so far as fugitives
were concerned.
I found that although, with the two exceptions above named, there
was no settled international law on the subject, there was a kind of
unwritten substitute, which was known by the name of the Comity of
Nations. Under this code of courtesy, a notorious criminal, who had
sought refuge in the arms of another country, was not uncommonly,
although there was no law under which he could be arrested, given up
to his pursuers, by being simply driven across the frontier of the
country in which he had hoped to find security. However, I gathered
that this so-called comity was scarcely expected to be exercised by the
most friendly state, unless the fugitive had fled almost red-handed,
and so placed his guilt beyond doubt. No one exactly knew how far this
obliging expulsion might be counted upon. It was generally supposed
to be decided by the amount of influence or persuasion which one
government exercised on the other.
This information rather upset my preconceived ideas as to the ease with
which safety might be obtained; but reflection told me I had little
to fear. The case against Philippa could be nothing more than one of
suspicion. No one, not even I myself, had seen the deed done. A warrant
would, no doubt, be issued for her arrest; but if our flight precluded
its execution, I did not believe that any government would put itself
out of the way to aid the English law. There was no one, save myself,
who could positively swear that Sir Mervyn Ferrand had been killed by
Philippa.
I learned that Spain was then, even as it is now, the land safest
against English law. Perhaps the reason is that the grave, yet at
times hot-blooded, Spaniard reckons human life at a lower value than
more northerly nations. Anyway, it was to Spain that I turned my eyes;
Spain that I resolved to reach without an hour’s unenforced delay.
The very next day I broached the subject of foreign travel to my
mother. Although so short a time had passed since they first met, I
was overjoyed to see the terms upon which she and Philippa stood. The
girl seemed to cling to her as to a natural protector--seemed ready to
install her in the place of the mother she had lost. After all, the
love of her own sex is indispensable to a woman’s happiness. It did my
heart good to see the two together. Philippa talked to my mother as
she had never yet talked to me; and I knew that when the day came upon
which I should ask for the only reward I wanted, my mother’s kindness
to the forsaken and shame-stricken girl would be an advocate that
pleaded strongly in favor of my suit.
But could it ever be? Could we know happiness in the face of that dark
night’s work? Ah me! my heart sank as I thought that any day might
bring the crushing blow. Let there be no delay. Let me not blame myself
hereafter for any negligence or false security. Let us away from the
peril.
“Mother,” I said, “will you come abroad with Philippa and me?”
“Abroad, Basil! I have only just come home.”
“No matter; come with us at once. Let us go to some place where there
is warmth and bright sunshine. Let us go to Spain.”
“Spain! why Spain? Besides, surely Philippa is not fit for a long
journey!”
“It will do her good. Her recollections of this country are but sad
ones.”
“Well, in a week or two I will see about it.”
“No, at once. Let us start to-morrow or the next day. Mother, I ask it
as a favor.”
“Give me some good reason, Basil, and I will do as you wish.”
“Look at me, and you will see the reason. Cannot you see that I am ill,
worn out, nervous? I must have a change, and at once.”
She gazed at me with solicitude. “Yes, I know you are not well; but why
Spain?”
“A whim--a sick man’s fancy. Perhaps because it is Philippa’s father’s
country put it into my head. Mother, tell me, how do you like her?”
“She is the woman you love; she is very beautiful; she has been cruelly
treated; she is blameless; to say more after so short an acquaintance
would be exaggeration.”
“You will come to Spain with me--with her?”
She kissed me and gave in to my whim. Then I sought Philippa.
“My mother is going to take us abroad,” I said with a smile, which was
forced, as all my smiles now were. “She will see to everything for you.”
“She is kind--she is sweet,” said Philippa, clasping her hands. “Basil,
I am beginning to worship your mother. But why are we going abroad?”
“To get away from sad thoughts, for one thing; for another, because I
feel ill.”
She gave me a quick look of apprehension which brought the flush to my
cheek. “Oh, let us go at once!” she cried. “Let us leave this land of
ice and I will nurse you and make you well. Where are we going? When
are we going?”
“To Spain--to-morrow or the next day.”
She looked at me with the troubled gaze which I had so often noticed.
“Basil,” she said, “you are doing this for my sake.”
“And my own, I fear.”
“I threw away your love--I spoiled your life. I came to you a shamed
woman. You saved me! You did not scorn me. You brought me to your
mother’s arms. Basil, may God requite you: I never can.”
She burst into tears, and left the room hastily.
It was well I settled the matter of the foreign journey then. That
afternoon the wind changed and a thaw set in--a thaw that slowly but
surely drew away the thick white veil which covered the whole of
England.
That night I had little sleep. I could do nothing but lie awake and
picture that white tomb slowly melting away, until the white face
beneath peered out of it and made the dread secret known to all. Who
would be the first to discover it? Doubtless some country man or
woman passing that way in the gray of the morning. I drew pictures of
the discoverer’s horror--the shriek of terror he or she would give.
I scarcely dared to close my eyes; for I knew that if I dreamed, my
dreams would take me to stand over the snowdrift, and force me to watch
it melting away! It seemed to me that until Philippa was out of the
range of pursuit I should not sleep again.
Faster and faster, now it had once begun, the thaw went on. Warm wind,
heavy rain the next day, helped it. That tremendous fall of snow had,
indeed, been the last effort of the winter. I dreaded what I might see
in the morning’s papers.
For it was the third day from that on which I spoke about going abroad;
yet we were still in London. When it really came to making preparations
for the projected trip, there were a thousand and one things to be
done. There was the needful passport to be obtained; my mother had many
purchases to make for both Philippa and herself. She was now fully
contented with the prospect of a long sojourn on the continent; but she
liked travelling in comfort, and objected very much to being hurried.
So it was that, in spite of the pressing need for immediate flight, we
were still in London.
The dangerous delay made me nervous, excitable, and ill-tempered. This
state of mind was not without benefit to our cause, as my manner as
well as my looks fully convinced my mother that my own health was the
sole object of the journey. So, like a good creature, she set to work
in thorough earnest to get everything ready for our departure.
To-morrow morning we were to start. I prayed Heaven that it might not
be too late; that the next twenty-four hours might pass without what I
dreaded taking place. For I knew that by now that ghastly object on the
roadside must be lying with the light of day on its pale face!
With an effort I opened the morning’s paper, and ran hastily up
and down the columns. What cared I for politics, foreign news, or
money-market intelligence? Here was the one paragraph which riveted all
my attention. The white tomb had given up its secret! Read! To me those
words were written in letters of fire!
“HORRIBLE DISCOVERY NEAR RODING.--The melting of the snow has brought
to light what to all appearances is a fearful crime. Yesterday
afternoon a laborer walking on the highway discovered the body of
a gentleman lying by the roadside. His death had been caused by a
pistol-shot. It is supposed that it must have occurred on the night of
the great snow-storm, and that the body has lain ever since under the
snow, which had drifted to the depth of some feet. The facts that death
must have been instantaneous, and that no weapon can be found near the
spot, do away with the theory of suicide. Letters and papers found upon
the corpse tend to show it to be that of Sir Mervyn Ferrand, Bart. The
unfortunate gentleman’s friends have been communicated with, and the
inquest will be opened to-morrow.”
For some minutes I sat like one stunned. Inevitable as it was that the
discovery should be made, the shock seemed scarcely lightened by the
foreknowledge; the danger seemed no less terrible. Oh, that we had
started yesterday--were even to start to-day! What might not happen
before to-morrow morning! My first impulse was to go to my mother and
beg her to hasten our departure; but reflection showed me how unwise
this course would be. I should alarm her--alarm Philippa! I could give
no reason. My one longing was to keep the news from my poor love. Let
her read that paragraph, and who could answer for the consequences?
Looking as a medical man at her case, I knew that there was something
about that night which troubled her; some dream, or semblance of dream,
to which, fortunately, she could as yet give no coherence. Let her
learn that Sir Mervyn Ferrand had ever since that night been lying
dead where she met him, the fearful truth must come to her. No! not
a word to excite her suspicion. My task was a two-fold one. I had to
save her not only from what I suppose I must call justice, but also
from herself. It seemed to me that the latter was the hardest part of
my work; but I would do it--I swore I would do it. I would keep watch
and ward, to see that nothing reached her--that she heard nothing which
could awaken memories of those mercifully absent hours.
I tore the paper to pieces and burned it. I think of all my dark
days that one was the one I would be least willing to pass again. I
trembled at every footstep on the stairs. Any man who paused for a
moment outside our windows sent a cold chill over me. And in the midst
of my misery I had to wear a cheerful face, and talk to Philippa and
my mother about the pleasures of our projected journey! Ah! if we only
reached the end of it in safety, the pleasure would not be altogether
imaginary.
Once again I say, if you cannot feel with me, throw my tale aside.
Heaven knows it is a sombre one! I was breaking the law; concealing
what the law calls a crime; doing all I could to save the criminal. But
the criminal was Philippa, and I loved her! I myself would have stood
face to face with Sir Mervyn Ferrand, and have freely given my own life
if I could have assured his dying like the dog he was. Why then should
I blame Philippa, who had done in her temporary madness what I would
have done in cold blood? Yet why trouble to extenuate? I loved her!
Those words sum up everything.
The morning dawned. No fatal messenger had arrived. I glanced hastily
at the papers, which, however, contained no more information about
the tragedy. Shortly after ten o’clock we started to drive to Charing
Cross. The rattle of wheels over the stones seemed to send fresh life
through my veins. We were off on the road to safety.
We started in plenty of time, as I wished to call at my bankers’ on the
way. It was my intention to take with me a large sum in gold. Notes
of any kind could be traced, but the bright sovereigns would tell no
tale. I changed my check, and while doing so asked if there were any
letters for me. Several persons addressed letters to me at my bankers’.
The spruce cashier sent to inquire, and, with my bag of gold, passed
under the brass-wire railing a letter with a woman’s handwriting on the
envelope. I thrust it into my pocket, to read at my leisure.
We travelled by the tidal train for Paris, _via_ Folkestone and
Boulogne. It was not the pleasantest weather in the world for a
journey; but I wrapped my charges up warmly, and did all I could
to mitigate the hardships of the voyage, undertaken ostensibly for
the sake of my health. My mother, who was by now an experienced and
seasoned traveller, settled herself down to the journey, although she
little guessed how short the rest I meant to give her until we reached
our destination. She laughingly protested against the cruelty of
dragging an old woman like herself away from England just as she had
returned to it; but there was that in her voice and manner which told
me she would for my sake make a far greater sacrifice of comfort than
this.
I thought that Philippa’s spirits, like mine, rose as we left London
behind us. She smiled at my sallies and feeble attempts at making
merry, which, now that we were fairly on our road to safety, were not
quite so forced as they had been during the last few days. She listened
with interest to the pictures I drew--imaginary ones, of course--of
the beauties of the south; and I was glad to believe that the thought
of visiting what might almost be called her native land was beginning
to awaken her interest. Only let me be able to show her that life could
still promise a pleasant future, and the moody memories of the past
months might be banished forever.
I am sure that no one who could have seen us that morning would have
dreamed that out of that party of three, consisting of a comfortable,
pleasant-looking English matron, a strangely beautiful girl, and
myself, two were flying from the hands of justice. Our appearance was
certainly such as to disarm all suspicion.
“But where are we going?” asked my mother. “I object to go wandering
about without knowing where our pilgrimage is to end.”
“We are going to Paris first, then to Spain--to wherever we can find
the warmth and sunshine which is necessary to my existence. If we can’t
find them in Spain, we will cross over to Africa, and, if needful, go
down to the Equator.”
“Then you young people will have to go alone. I draw the line of my
good-nature at Europe.”
I glanced at Philippa. Her long curved lashes hid her eyes; but a
tell-tale blush was on her cheek. I knew that the day was not so very
distant when she would answer my appeal as I wished. I knew that, could
I but sweep away the record of that one night, all might yet be well
with her. Oh, that she may never recall what I alone know!
As we were nearing Folkestone I remembered the letter which had been
given me at the bank. I drew it from my breast, intending to read it;
but the sight of the Roding post-mark on the outside made me change
my intention. I remembered Mrs. Wilson’s half promise to send me some
communication. I longed and yet I dreaded to break the seal. I felt it
would be better for me to read that letter alone. Whatever might be the
tenor of its contents, I was sure it had some bearing on Philippa’s
relations with Sir Mervyn Ferrand.
We were soon on board the steamer and under weigh. Although the Arctic
rigors of the last three weeks had departed, the air on the sea was
too keen to make the channel passage an enjoyable one. I persuaded my
mother and Philippa to take refuge in the saloon; and then I found
a quiet spot where I was able to read my letter without fear of
interruption, or of betraying myself by the emotion its contents might
cause. It was well I did so, for the first words blanched my cheek. The
letter began abruptly, so:
“I know or guess all. I know why Sir Mervyn Ferrand did not reach my
house that night. I know the reason for her strange excited state. I
know why she left my home before you came to seek her. I know how he
met with the death he deserved.
“Ah! she is braver than I am. She has done what years ago I swore I
would do; and yet I had not the courage. I was base enough to forego
revenge for the sake of the beggarly maintenance he offered me--for the
sake, perhaps, of my children. I sank low enough to become his tool--to
do as he bade me, even to taking under my roof the woman who thought
herself his wife. Yes, she has been braver than I. But her wrongs were
greater than mine; for I had but myself to blame for being in such a
degraded position that he could throw me aside like an old glove. He
never married me.
“Fear nothing for your sister, if she be your sister. Tell her my lips
are sealed to the death; and for the sake of her brave act tell her
this:
“Sir Mervyn Ferrand’s first wife _died on the 18th of June_, 186--,
three months before the day on which he married your sister. She died
at Liverpool, at No. 5 Silver Street. She was buried in the cemetery,
under the name of Lucy Ferrand. She has friends alive; it will be
easy to prove that she was the woman whom he married. Her maiden name
was King. He hated her. They parted. He gave her a sum of money on
condition that she never called herself his wife. He lost sight of her.
I never did. For years I hoped she would die, and that he would marry
me. She died too late for the hope to be realized. I told him of her
death; but I changed the date. I would not tell him where she died.
Part of his object in coming to Roding that night was, to endeavor to
wring the information from me. He would never have had it. No other
woman should have been his wife so long as I could stop it.
“Now that he is dead, you can tell your brave sister that she may, if
she likes, take the name, title, and what wealth she can claim. Fear
nothing from me; I will be silent as death.”