“WHERE ARE THE SNOWS THAT FELL LAST YEAR?”
Although, while engaged in the labor of writing this story, I have many
times regretted that I am nothing more than a plain narrator of facts
and incidents, not a master of fiction, I think I have not yet felt
the regret so strongly as at the moment when I begin this chapter. The
sombre acts of the life-drama in which Philippa and I played parts so
painful, so full of grief, and even if brightened by a ray of joy, of
joy fallacious and of uncertain tenure--these acts I have found little
difficulty in describing; I had simply to throw my mind back to the
pictures of the past and reproduce them in words. The task, whether
well or ill done, was not a hard one.
But now, when in one moment and as if by magic every thing changed;
when sorrow seemed to be simply swept out of our lives; when that poor
abject wretch’s confession of guilt, forced from him in some mysterious
way, not only left our whole future bright and cloudless, but consigned
to rest all the ghosts of the past, whose shadowy forms had hitherto
dogged our steps and denied us the happiness rightly due to those who
love as we loved; now it is that I feel my shortcomings acutely, and
wish my pen was more powerful than it is.
And yet a word will describe the state of my own mind as, when the last
solemn words were spoken by the judge--spoken in a voice which showed
emotion and distress at being compelled to condemn a fellow-creature
to death--I carried my fainting wife from the crowded, reeking court.
The momentary sense of rapture passed away; bewilderment, sheer
bewilderment, is the word for what was left. I could not think. All my
reasoning faculties had left me. In fact, I believe that had Philippa
not swooned, and so needed my mechanically given care, I myself should
have fallen senseless on that threshold which an hour before we
crossed, thinking we were going to endless misery.
I remember this much. As I laid Philippa on one of the hard wooden
benches in the stone corridor I kept repeating to myself, “Innocent,
my love is innocent; that man is guilty.” I suppose this continual
reiteration was an endeavor to impress the tremendous fact upon my
brain, which for a time was incredulous and refused to entertain it.
I threw up my wife’s veil and bathed her face with water, which was
brought me by a kindly policeman. Presently her eyes opened, and
consciousness returned; she strove to speak.
My presence of mind was fast returning. “Dearest,” I whispered, “as you
love me, not a word in this place. In a minute we will leave it.”
She was obedient; but I knew from the wild look of joy in her eyes that
obedience tasked her to the utmost. She was soon able to rise, and then
we walked from the court, pushed our way through the crowd who waited
in the street, busily discussing the sudden termination to the trial,
threw ourselves into a cab, and in another moment were alternately
weeping and laughing in each other’s arms.
It was, however, but for a moment. The inn to which we drove was close
at hand. There we were shown into a room, and were at last free to give
the fullest vent to our pent-up feelings.
It would be absurd for me to attempt to reproduce our words, our
disjointed exclamations. It would be sacrilege for me to describe the
tears we shed, the embraces, the loving caresses we lavished on each
other. Think of us an hour, one short hour ago! Think of us now! The
curse laid upon us by that awful night removed forever! Our secret
kept, or secrecy, if still advisable, no longer absolutely needful.
Philippa, in spite of all I had seen, in spite of all she had told me
on that night when I found her, a wild, distracted woman, in a storm
the wildest that years have known, guiltless of her husband’s death!
Innocent not only as she had in my eyes always been, but also, what was
far more, innocent in her own eyes!
Small wonder that for nearly an hour we sat with our arms twined
around each other, and used few words which were more than rapturous
exclamations of love and joy.
There! I cannot, will not describe the scene more fully. I will say no
more, except this: when at last we grew calmer, Philippa turned to me,
and once more I saw terror gathering in her eyes.
“Basil,” she said, “it is true--it must be true?”
“True! of course it is.”
“That man, the prisoner, could not have pleaded guilty when he was
innocent.”
“Why should he? It meant death to him, poor wretch.”
“But why did he confess?”
“Who can tell? Remorse may have urged him to do so.”
Philippa rose, and her next words were spoken quickly and with
excitement.
“No, I did not do it. The thought, the dream haunted me, but I did not
believe it until I heard those men talk of the way he died. Then it all
came back to me. The mad storm, the dead man over whom I stood; even
then I don’t think I actually believed it. It was when you told me how
you found me, that I lost all hope.”
“Dearest, forgive me. I should have believed in the impossibility of
the act even in your delirium, even if I had seen it done. Philippa,
say you forgive me.”
She threw her arms around me. “Basil, my husband,” she whispered,
“you have done much for me, do one thing more; find out the whole
truth--find out why this man killed him, how he killed him; find out,
satisfy me that his confession was a true one; then, Basil, such
happiness as I have never even dreamed of will be mine!”
“And mine!” I echoed.
I promised to do as she wished. Indeed, the moment I had recovered my
senses, I resolved to learn everything that could be learned. Once and
for all I would clear away every cloud of doubt, although that cloud
might be no bigger than a man’s hand.
But Philippa must not stop in Tewnham. Her strange conduct during the
trial, her fainting-fit after it, were bound to have attracted the
attention of those present. No doubt she was looked upon as a friend of
the prisoner, who was overpowered by the sudden and awful ending to the
case. Still, she must not stay at Tewnham.
We went to London by an afternoon train. The next morning I again ran
down to the place at which the trial was held. I ascertained the name
of the convict’s solicitor, and as soon as I found him at leisure
requested the favor of an interview.
I found him apparently a worthy, respectable man, but of a nature
inclined to be choleric. I told him I called on him because I was much
interested in the case of the convict William Evans. Mr. Crisp, that
was his name, frowned and fidgeted about with some papers which were in
front of him.
“I would rather not talk about the case,” he said sharply. “Nothing for
many years has so much annoyed me.”
“Why? Your client only met with his deserts.”
“True--true. But I am a lawyer, sir. Our province is not to think so
much of deserts as of what we can do for a client. It is hard to try
and serve a fool.”
“No doubt; but I scarcely understand your meaning.”
“Meaning! I could have saved that man. There was no evidence to speak
of against him. What did it amount to? A pistol of a peculiar make
found in a field half a mile away from the scene of the murder; one man
who could swear that the pistol was my client’s property--a pawnbroker,
to whom he wanted to sell it. Positively, sir, that was the whole case
for the Crown. Never so disgusted in my life--never!”
The excitable little man’s looks showed that his disgust was not
assumed.
So the pistol which I had thoughtlessly hurled away had, after all,
furnished the clew and brought the criminal to justice. Although I was
not quite satisfied that the right person was to suffer for the dark
crime, I resolved to get all the additional information I could.
“But why did he plead guilty?” I asked.
“Because he was a fool,” rapped out Mr. Crisp. “It was like committing
suicide. I don’t care a button for the man himself; but I confess I was
annoyed at seeing my case all knocked to pieces by his obstinacy. I
went to him; if you were in court, you no doubt saw me. I begged him to
withdraw his plea. I told him I could save him. Yet the fool insisted.”
“Did penitence or remorse urge him?”
“I don’t know. He could have had more time for penitence and remorse
if he had let me save him from the gallows. No; he says, ‘It’s no
good--not a bit of good. You don’t know all I know. There’s some one in
court who knows all about it--saw it all done. She’s come to hang me.’
I have no idea what he meant.”
I started. I knew what the man meant. He, in common with every one else
in that court, had turned and looked at Philippa as she rose from her
seat and addressed the judge. It was the sight of Philippa that had
taken away the wretch’s last hope of escape.
“I wash my hands of the fellow, of course,” continued Mr. Crisp; “but
I did take the trouble to inquire if any witnesses for the prosecution
had been allowed to enter the court. I am assured they were all kept in
waiting outside.”
I sat for some moments in deep thought. The solicitor looked at me, as
if he fancied I had already taken up as much of his valuable time as he
could spare.
“Is there any way of gaining access to the condemned man?” I said.
“Could you, for instance, get an order to see him?”
“No doubt I could; but I have no object in seeing him.”
“I will give you an object,” I said. “I want you to see that man, and,
if possible, get a written, or at least dictated, confession from
him--not of the bald fact that he is guilty, but of all particulars
connected with the murder.”
Mr. Crisp looked surprised, and expressed his opinion that it was all
but impossible to obtain what I wanted.
I had taken rather a fancy to the brisk-spoken, sharp little man. He
seemed to me trustworthy; so that, after consideration, I determined to
confide to him my reason for making this request. Under the assurance
of professional secrecy, I told him briefly so much as I thought fit
of Philippa’s and my own connection with the events of that night. He
listened with an interest which augured well for the reception which
awaits the sombre tale I now give to the world. His curiosity seemed
excited, and he promised to see the convict, and, if possible, learn
all I wanted to know. I left my address, and bade him good-day.
I did not care to linger at Tewnham; so I walked down to the
railway-station, intending to return to town by the next train. As I
waited on the platform a down-train came in. A sudden impulse seized
me. The day was still young. I had time to spare. I crossed the bridge,
entered the train, and in a quarter of an hour was at Roding. I went
there because I was impelled by a desire to once more visit the actual
scene of the beginning of all these troubles.
I walked that road which Sir Mervyn Ferrand had walked that dark
night. But oh, how changed everything was! Yet not more changed than
our own lives. It was a glorious afternoon in September. The rain of
the preceding day had left the earth moist and fresh. The fields, on
either side of the road, were gleaming with that bright pure emerald
which they wear after the ruthless scythe has swept away the ripe
grass and the marguerites and other flowers which grow among it; or
else they were filled from hedge to hedge with a golden sea of waving
corn, or sheaves waiting to be garnered; for the harvest that year was
not early. The wild roses were long over, but fragrant honeysuckle and
other wild flowers still made gay the hedgerows and banks. The birds
had awakened from their August silence, and were singing once more. The
great sleepy cows lay under the shade of the trees. The large mows of
new hay stood side by side with their dingy-looking, but more valuable,
elder brothers. The whole land seemed wrapped in happy autumnal repose.
The scene was calm, peaceful, and thoroughly typical of England. So
beautiful it was, so full I now felt of love for my native land, that
had these pages been then written, I should upon my return home have
erased all my glowing description of Seville.
A breath of soft but fresh air came blowing from the far-away downs. I
drew in a deep draught; I threw back my shoulders and stood erect. I
laughed aloud in my great happiness as a comical picture, familiar to
my childhood, of Christian losing his burden, rose before my mind, and
seemed to be the exact thing wanted to illustrate my own case. Yes, the
burden I had borne had fallen from my back forever!
Ah! here is the spot--the very spot where Sir Mervyn fell. It was
here, just under that cluster of ragged-robins, I must have placed his
corpse, little thinking that the kind white snow would hide it, and
save my love and me. Oh, how I prayed in those days that the bitter
weather might last; that its iron grip would hold the world fast until
Philippa’s health and strength returned! It did so, and saved us!
“Where are the snows that fell last year?” Ah! should I not rather
sing, “Where is the grief of yesterday?” Gone like the snow. Other snow
may fall, other grief may come, but last year’s snow and yesterday’s
grief are gone forever!
Nevertheless, that spot was too suggestive of horrible reminiscences
for me to linger long over it. I turned away, and in my great happiness
could whisper to myself that I forgave the dead man for the ill he had
wrought. May his bones rest in peace! I walked along the road, right
on until I came to the cottage in which, like a coward who could not
face his troubles, I had spent those aimless, miserable months. It was
untenanted. Half defaced auction bills were in the windows and on the
doorposts; for some months ago the furniture had been sold. I paused
and looked at the window by which Philippa had entered, and felt that
since that night I had passed through more grief, passion, fear, hope,
and joy than would fill an ordinary lifetime. Then I turned and shook
the dust off my feet. Never again would I come within twenty miles of
this place.
On the road back, to my annoyance, I encountered Mrs. Wilson. I tried
to pass without sign of recognition, but she was too quick for me. She
stood in front of me, and I was bound to stop.
She was more haggard, more drawn, more aquiline-looking than ever. Her
eyes alone looked young. They at least had spirit and vitality in them.
They positively blazed upon me.
“She did not do it, after all!” she said fiercely.
At first I thought of affecting surprise, and asking her what she
meant; but I felt that any attempt at equivoque would be but vain.
“She did not,” I answered shortly.
“Fool that I was!” she cried. “Fool, to be led away by an impulse! Why
did I tell her? I swear to you Dr. North, that had I not felt sure it
was her act, she should never have known. She should have gone to her
grave a shamed woman, as I shall go!”
Her look was venom itself.
“Remember,” I said sternly, “Lady Ferrand is now my wife. I will not
hear her name coupled with yours.”
She laughed scornfully. “Your wife! She soon forgot her first love. Why
did I speak? I wish my hand had withered before I wrote that letter. Do
you know why I wrote it?”
“No; nor do I care.”
“I wrote it for vengeance. She had, I thought, served that man as I
ought to have served him; but I hated her for it, for I loved him
still. So I thought it would be so sweet for her to know that she
had killed her husband, and for you, her lover--I knew you were her
lover--to know that I could at any moment give her up to justice! I was
a fool. Why did that man plead guilty? When I saw your wife rise in
court I laughed. I knew what was coming. Now, instead of harming her, I
have done her good.”
“You have,” I said curtly, and turned upon my heel. The malignity of
this woman was so intense that I felt thankful she could in no way work
Philippa harm.
A quarter of a mile up the road I turned. Mrs. Wilson, a black spot
on a fair scene, was standing gazing after me. I hurried on until a
bend in the path hid her from sight. I hurried on back to Philippa and
happiness!