BY THE ASHES OF A GUILTY HOUSE.
The voiceless ashes speak no word,
From the ruined walls no sound is heard,
But a cry of terror is in his ears,
And, lo, the ghost of his sin appears.
Restless and ill at ease, Maurice proved but a poor companion for those
fun loving tourists. They had invited him, a chance acquaintance, on the
strength of his gentlemanly exterior and genial bearing, but the change
in his manner after they were fairly off, not only disappointed them,
but in great measure dampened the ardor of what would otherwise have
been a joyfully, hilarious party.
Therefore, it was with a feeling of positive relief that the
unsuspecting youths saw him embark a little later, via Halifax, for his
native shore.
They had visited the quaint little ports of Carbonear and Harbor Grace;
crossed the turbulent waters of the Gulf, and after a brief stop at
Prince Edward's Island continued their quest for pleasure through that
most picturesque of all sections, the Brasd'or Lakes and Historic
Arcadia, where the original home of Evangeline was pointed out to them
by the ever patriotic natives.
Yet the oppression of an opposing influence was upon them and although
Maurice's was but the sin of taciturnity and indifference, still it
clouded their perfect enjoyment and threw a feeling of restraint over
all their merriment.
For how can one be gay and joyful when one's companions are seemingly
prostrate beneath the weight of unspoken anxieties?
It was a risky thing to do, to walk almost into the trap as Maurice was
doing, but his was a nature that courted dangers and risks, a brief
season of caution was always followed by some deed of extraordinary
daring. Still, in this instance, Maurice had laid his plans with more
than ordinary precaution.
It was now nearly eight months since the abduction, and Maurice knew
well that even crime received but a brief share of attention in so vice
laden a city as London. Nevertheless, he landed at Queenstown, and spent
some time wandering about Ireland before he dared to brave the scrutiny
of the lynx-eyed Scotland Yard detectives.
His first step on leaving Queenstown, was to secure a suitable disguise,
and as his skin was tanned by exposure, and he now wore a heavy beard in
place of the well shaven chin, he felt that he had little to fear. He
reached London early in the evening, and proceeded at once to secure
modest quarters in a quiet street.
From thence he sauntered out and was soon rattling over the stones in a
hired hansom on his way to the well remembered house in Surrey. Whether
he expected to find Stella and Julia still there, would be hard to
guess, for his was a nature uninfluenced by surprises, but when he
found, instead of the dark, unassuming house, nothing but a hideous pile
of burnt and blackened timbers, a look of consternation _did_ show
itself upon his usually unruffled features.
What had been the fate of the beautiful girl whom he had left in perfect
health and strength within these walls? Had she escaped, or were her
ashes now mingling with the gruesome mass upon which the moon was
casting such a melancholy light? He hardly knew what had prompted him to
take this dismal drive, for he had not even dreamed of again entering
Julia Webber's door. He knew, too well, that crimes committed beneath
her roof were never allowed further circulation, and within Julia
Webber's veins ran the blood of that hot-headed nation, where the
Vendetta is perpetuated with true, religious zeal.
No, he had not dreamed of entering those forbidden precincts, and now,
contempt for his own morbid curiosity filled his mind, and with a hasty
order to the driver, he sank back once more upon the cushions of the
comfortable conveyance.
Back to London he drove, looking out idly over the water as he crossed
the bridge, but little dreaming that but for accidental aid, a human
being would now be sleeping in the cold embrace of the sluggish river,
and _that_ crime, like many others, would be charged to his account in
the day of divine reckoning. It is probable that if he had known and
fully realized that fact, its realization would have made his
expression none the less confident, or his indifference to his ultimate
fate no whit less thorough.
Men like Maurice Sinclair, who chance the gravest issues of life, are
more than glad to "trust to luck" their final venture into the great
unknown, and the "fear and trembling" with which we are told "each to
work out his own salvation," are conditions totally unknown to natures
like theirs.
If he argued the matter at all, it was merely to say that the power that
created the "inclinations of a man's heart evil from his youth" was also
the power upon which all responsibility consequent upon those evil
inclinations, should rest. Probably, he added, moreover, that a power
capable of implanting evil in the heart of man could as readily have
sown the seeds of good, and if evil was the seed, evil must have been
the harvest sought. Thus, leaving out the human labor decreed for the
gaining of salvations, he, like many others, shifted all responsibility
and the possibilities of a mistaken theory never occurred to him.
He had not seen Elizabeth since the night when she and her child--her
child and his--had fallen so unceremoniously into his arms on a windy
street corner.
He remembered, without a blush, how he had cursed her when she begged
for shelter, but finally, fearing she would follow and annoy him, he had
taken her away down into Whitechapel, with whose vilest passages he was
marvelously well acquainted, and there secured for her a miserable room,
which she, being weary and sick at heart and having no alternative, was
only too thankful to accept.
Another reason for this choice of location for Elizabeth's future home
was due to the fact that a certain Mongolian, whose friendship he
valued, was living in that particular vicinity.
This person he had known during his stay in China, but whether it was
love or fear that bound them in such close alliance, would have been
hard to determine from their conversation. At any rate the doings of
each seemed well known to the other and each was equally pleased that it
should so continue.
The mention of Whitechapel brought no terror to Elizabeth's heart, for,
in the bitterness of her misery, uncongenial surroundings were of
little consequence.
Strangely enough, the erring woman fears friends rather than strangers
in the hour of her degradation. Whether it is that friendship rarely
stands the test of sorrow and shame or any blow to its so-called pride,
or whether the desperate courage which self abasement wakens in a
woman's heart is a better safeguard for her broken spirit than the pity
of her associates, I know not, but in nearly every instance an
unfortunate woman will choose poverty and complete estrangement from the
friends of her happier days rather than bear the scorn or their self
righteous censure.
To the man who had so irretrievably wronged her, she clung with the
pitiful persistency so frequently seen in those of her sex and now, as a
passing thought of her fate entered Maurice's wandering mind, he
suddenly became desirous of seeing her again.
Just then the hansom, which had been rolling along briskly over the
smoother streets, came to a stop and "Cabby" leaning over, said briefly,
"'Ere's the 'ouse you was haskin' for, Sir."
Maurice bent forward and once more found himself gazing upon Mrs.
Sinclair's home in Portland Place. The windows were dark and not a sign
of life was visible. "Strange," he muttered; "She would certainly have
returned here if she had escaped." But during the full ten minutes that
he remained before the house no sound within reached his ears, or no ray
of light from its many windows told him of a living presence.
Convinced now that Stella's body rested beneath that hideous mass of
blackened timbers and voiceless ashes, he sank back nervelessly upon the
cushions and in a trembling, husky whisper, ordered the thoroughly
puzzled driver to hurry on.
His last determination was to visit Elizabeth and to Whitechapel he was
carried, with all the speed the overworked horses were capable of
affording.