TEMPTED TO DISHONOR.
I hate looking back and re-reading words which I have written while
the impulse was upon me; but I fancy I have somewhere called this tale
a confession; if not, I should have done so. It claims no more to be
ranked as a work of art than as a work of imagination. How could it? It
holds only two characters--a man and a woman. It treats but of their
love and of a few months of their lives. Nevertheless, in telling it
I have endeavored to conceal nothing. I have tried to describe my
thoughts, my hopes, my fears, my sorrows, and my joys, as they really
were. I have, I believe, suppressed nothing which could lead any one
to condemn my actions more strongly than, it may be, they now condemn
them. My wish has been to show myself as I was then--no doubt am now--a
weak, selfish man; yet, for the love which he bore a woman, one willing
to risk fortune, life, even honor. If I have failed in my attempt to
represent myself as such a one, believe it is not from intention, but
from sheer inability.
But whether I have so far succeeded or failed in my purpose I know not;
but I know that in this chapter I must, perforce, fail. The language
rich and powerful enough to serve my needs has yet to be invented. The
writer who could in any fitting way reproduce my thoughts has yet to be
born.
And yet the chapter will be a short one. It will be but the record of
a few hours; but such hours! Hours during which I struggled against
a temptation to commit, not only crime, but base, cowardly crime; a
temptation stronger, I dare to think, than poor human nature has as yet
been subjected to. My words sound bold; but listen.
Oh, that one morning! How well I can remember it! Our breakfast was
just over. The quaint-shaped little table, with its snowy cloth
throwing into relief the deep colors of the luscious fruit upon it,
still stood in the awning-roofed _patio_. I was alone, my mother
and Philippa having retired in-doors to see about some domestic
economy. I lounged lazily and at my ease. I rolled and lighted a
cigarette, blaming myself as I did so for my barbarity in profaning the
blossom-scented air with tobacco-smoke. Then I took from my pocket the
London _Times_, which had arrived by the last post, and listlessly set
to work to skim its lengthy columns.
I had no fear as to what the paper might contain. It was not from
newspaper reports that I apprehended danger. I had, however, noticed
that Philippa, when she saw me with a newspaper in my hand, eyed me
anxiously and inquiringly; so that generally I contrived to glance
through it when she was absent. I never permitted her to touch it until
I had read it; but my only reason for this prohibition was, that I
feared lest some chance allusion to the mysterious and undiscovered
crime might distress her. Her own far-fetched fancy that another might
be accused of it gave me not a moment’s uneasiness.
So I turned and doubled back the broad sheets. I ran down the topics
of the day. I skimmed the leading articles. I glanced at the foreign
news; paid scant attention to law reports, and disregarded altogether
the money-market intelligence. At last I turned my attention to the
provincial news column. A name caught my eye; a cold shiver of dread
ran through me. My cigarette fell on the marble pavement, and lay there
unheeded, as, with agitation which no words can describe, I read a
short paragraph placed under the heading of the principal town of the
county in which Roding was situated. Read!
“William Evans, the man accused of the murder of Sir Mervyn Ferrand,
Bart., in January last, will be tried at these Assizes, which open on
the twentieth. The case, which excites considerable interest, will be
taken on the first day. It is reported that although fresh evidence
against the prisoner will be forthcoming, it will be of a purely
circumstantial nature.”
Every word of that accursed paragraph seemed like a blow falling
upon my head. For some minutes I sat as one stunned. I felt my teeth
chattering. I knew that my cheek was blanched. Philippa’s fanciful
dread had come to pass! Another--an innocent man--was bearing the blame
of her own mad act! Dazed, stupid, scarcely able to comprehend what
must be the full effect of what I had just read, I sat motionless, with
my eyes fixed upon that fatal sheet.
The sound of my mother’s pleasant voice calling to Philippa at last
awoke me from my stupor. They were coming. I could not face them. I
doubled up the newspaper, thrust it into my pocket, and rushed out into
the street. As yet I had not dared to imagine what this intelligence
might mean to us. I must have long hours of solitude, in order to
decide what course should be adopted to face this, the last, the worst
peril.
I passed swiftly through the iron gate. I went up the narrow street
at a pace which must have made all who saw me think me mad. Whither
did I go? I scarcely remember. I think it must have been to one of the
public gardens; but in that hour all sense of locality left me. I went
instinctively in search of solitude. I found, I know not how or where,
some shady deserted spot. There, in the anguish of my heart, amid the
wreck of my sand-founded happiness, I threw myself on the ground, and
dug my finger-nails into the dry soil.
At first I thought I was going or had gone mad. The thoughts which
rushed through my mind were disjointed, and wanted coherence. An
innocent man accused of the crime! To be tried on the twentieth! The
twentieth! and now it is the sixteenth! Fresh evidence forthcoming! The
fools--the utter fools! This the boasted detective skill! To arrest on
suspicion, to bring to trial a man who must be ignorant of everything
connected with the murder! What is to be done? What can be done? Oh, my
wife! my poor darling wife!
Then, I believe, I cried like a child. It seemed to me that all was
lost. There was but one thing to be done--one course to be taken. My
darling must give herself up to justice, and by her confession free
this luckless wretch who now stands in peril of his life. She must bear
the shame of the trial, and trust to human justice and the mercy which
she had a right to expect. Oh, it was pitiful, pitiful! For a long
while no alternative course suggested itself to me.
Human justice! What is justice? See how it can err! It can arrest, try,
and--oh, horrible thought!--perhaps condemn to death an innocent man!
How then would it fare with Philippa? Who, now that marriage has sealed
my lips, was there to prove her madness when she slew that man? I raged
at the thought. It seemed to me that we were hard and fast in the
toils. I might, it is true, call William, my servant, to swear that her
manner was strange and wild upon that night. I might call the nurses to
prove that when first they saw her she was recovering from an attack
of mania. But would they be credited? Would not a clever lawyer soon
convince twelve ordinary men that it was not her madness which prompted
the crime, but the crime which produced the madness? We were indeed
meshed and bound; hemmed in on every side; helpless and, it seemed,
hopeless!
And Philippa must be told this! I must tell her! How could I nerve
myself to make the truth known to her--now, of all times, when her
health was all but restored; when a kind of sad but placid acquiescence
in what fate had wrought seemed to be gradually coming over her; now,
when I was once more building up hopes of happiness for her as well
as for me! For I knew--ah! think of this, and pity me--that before
another half year should pass there might be given to my wife and me a
gift which would go far toward sweeping away the memories of gloom and
horror which had of late spread over our lives. I even dared to hope,
to feel certain, that as she gazed into baby eyes, as she pressed a
tiny head to her bosom, some, nay, much of the lost sweetness and glory
of life might return to my love.
Think of this, and picture me lying on the ground that day, with the
damning intelligence fresh on my mind! Think that in a few hours I must
return to my home, and tell my wife that the bolt had fallen! There
was no alternative!
No alternative? Stay, there is an alternative! The blood seemed to
course wildly through my veins, my heart beat fiercely, my lips grew
dry, and a choking sensation came over me, as for the first time the
simple yet certain way of cutting the knot of my difficulties flashed
across my mind. So simple, so easy it at first appeared, that I laughed
at my stupidity in not having seen it at once.
Tear that accursed paper to pieces, Basil North! Scatter those pieces
to the winds. Forget what you have read. Go back to your luxurious,
flower-bedecked home. Meet the one you love with a smile upon your
face: you have forced smiles before now! Greet her as usual. Say
nothing of this morning’s news. Keep your own counsel; bury all you
have learned in your secret heart. Do this, and be happy forever more!
But the man--the man who in a few days’ time is to be tried for
another’s act? Well, what of him? The fool will doubtless be acquitted.
Fool! Yes, it is the right term for one who can bring himself under
suspicion. But if Justice runs on the wrong track until the end--if
that man dies?
What then? What is this miserable life, what are a hundred lives when
weighed against Philippa’s happiness? What is conscience? What is right
and wrong? What is the phantom which men call honor? What, after all,
is crime? Be silent, and forget. You are asked to do no more. You have
riches, youth, health, and strong will. The fairest woman on the earth
adores you. Why hesitate? Why let one boor’s life weigh in the scale?
Argue the matter in another way. Are not thousands of men slain every
year by the whim of a monarch or a statesman? The thought of their
death troubles not those who send them forth to fight. Men kill each
other for revenge, for money, for a point of honor, and the killer
lives on like other men live! Trust this man to the vaunted array of
Justice. He is innocent, and will come from the ordeal unscathed. If
found guilty, let him die. He will not be the first innocent man who
has died, nor will he be the last to die. It is but one life! He is
nothing to you; think of him no more. Come what may, you will always
have your sunny home and the woman you love. Her children will grow up
around you. Why hesitate? A life’s happiness is to be won by simply
sealing your lips. Its cost is but, supposing Justice blunders, to bear
the burden of one man’s death. A paltry price!
This was the temptation with which I wrestled during those long hours.
Again and again I was on the point of yielding. Once or twice I rose
to my feet with the fixed determination of destroying that paper, and
letting things take their own course. Once or twice I even forced my
steps some distance in the direction of home, but each time I turned,
went back to the sheltered spot, threw myself again on the ground, and
fought the battle anew.
No, I could not do this thing. I was a gentleman and a man of honor.
Paltry as the price was when compared with what it might buy, I could
not pay it. Although my whole soul was merged in Philippa’s welfare,
I could not, even for her sake, suffer an innocent man to be done
unjustly to death. The crime was too black, too base, too contemptible!
I felt sure that, with the man’s blood morally on my head, the
supremest joys which life could give would not lull my conscience to
rest. I knew it would not be long before remorse and shame drove me to
commit suicide.
Let the preachers say that sin is easy; that wrong is more alluring
than right. There may be some sins which are easily committed, but
I dare to say that there are others which the average man, educated
by the code of honor, and dreading shame and cowardice, finds it far
easier to avoid than to bring himself to commit. No, every sin is not
easy!
But all the same my struggle was a mortal one. At times I fancy--it
may be but fancy--that even now my mind bears some traces of that
conflict; a conflict in which my victory meant ruin to my nearest and
dearest. Was I not right when I said that my temptation was an all but
unparalleled one? Yet in reasserting this let me humbly disclaim all
credit for not having yielded. I strove to yield, but could not.
It was only when I had conquered, and put the temptation from me,
that I was able to see how utterly useless such a crime as that urged
upon me would have been. Doubtless Philippa, sooner or later, would
have learned that Sir Mervyn Ferrand’s supposed murderer had paid the
penalty of the crime. How would it have fared with us then--then, when
reparation was placed out of the question? Knowing as I did every
thought of my wife’s, every turn of her impulsive, sensitive nature, I
was fain to tell myself that such news would be simply her death-blow.
But what was to be done? Finding that I could not compass the treachery
which I dared to meditate, I cast about for another loophole of escape.
What if I were to return to England, and accuse myself of the crime?
To insure Philippa’s safety I would right willingly give away my own
life. It showed the state to which my mind was reduced when I say that
I considered this scheme in all its bearings, and for a while thought
it furnished a solution to my difficulties! I wonder if my brain was
wandering?
I laughed in bitter merriment as the absurdity of my new plan forced
itself upon me. I had forgotten Philippa, and what the effect of such
a sacrifice would be upon her. I had forgotten that she loved me, even
as I loved her; that my dying for her sake--for the sake of saving her
from the consequences of that gruesome night--would make an expiation,
if any were due from her, the most fearful which human or diabolical
ingenuity could devise.
No! Neither by sinning against my fellow-man nor by a voluntary
sacrifice of my own life could I save her. After all my protracted
mental struggles, all my lonely hours of anguish and wild scheming, I
was forced to return to the point from which I started. Philippa must
surrender herself, and free this innocent man. There was, indeed, no
alternative!
And a day gone, or all but gone! The trial on the twentieth! To reach
England--to reach Tewnham in time to stop that trial, we must travel
day and night. Day and night, across sunny or starlit Spain--across
pleasant France--we must speed on, until we reached our own native
land, now lying in all the rich calm of the early autumn. I must lead
my wife, my love, to her doom!
I rose from the ground. I felt weary, and as if I had been cudgelled in
every limb. I dragged myself slowly back to my home. “She must be told;
she must be told. But how to tell her?” I muttered as I went along. My
appearance must have been wretched; for I received the impression that
several grave-looking Sevillaños turned and looked after me as I passed
by. Even as a cowardly felon who drags himself slowly to the scaffold,
I dragged myself to the gate of our pleasant home, and on tottering
feet passed into that fragrant space in which the happiest hours of my
life had been spent.
As I entered, the remembrance of some tale which once I had read
flashed through my mind--a tale of the ferocity of a by-gone age. It
was of a prisoner who was forced by his captors to strike a dagger into
the heart of the woman he loved. I know not where the tale is to be
found or when I read it.
But it seemed to me that mine was a parallel case.
Pity me!