_Nemesis._
Philip was thrown into the sea on a Tuesday. Jocky Mason reached London
on Wednesday, and kept his appointment with Inspector Bradley on
Thursday evening.
The inspector received him graciously, thus chasing from the
ex-convict's mind a lurking suspicion that matters were awry. There is a
curious sympathy between the police and well-known criminals. They meet
with friendliness and exchange pleasantries, as a watchdog might
fraternize with a wolf in off hours.
But Mason had no responsive smile or ready quip.
"What's up?" he demanded, morosely. "You sent for me. Here I am. I would
have brought my ticket sooner if you hadn't written."
"All right, Mason. Keep your wool on. Do you remember Superintendent
Robinson?"
"Him that was inspector in Whitechapel when I was put away? Rather."
"Well, some friends of yours have been inquiring from him as to your
whereabouts. He sent a message round, and I promised that you should
meet them if you showed up. I was half afraid you had bolted to the
States."
"Friends! I have no friends."
"Oh, yes, you have--very dear friends, indeed."
"Then where are they?"
He glared around the roomy police office, but it was only tenanted by
policemen attending to various books or chatting quietly across a huge
counter.
His surly attitude did not diminish the inspector's kindliness.
"Don't be so doubtful on that point, Mason. Have you no children?"
Something in the police officer's eyes gave the man a clew. His swarthy
face flushed and his hands clinched.
"Yes," he said, huskily. "I left two boys. Their mother died. They were
lost. I have looked for them everywhere."
Inspector Bradley pointed to a door.
"Go into that room," he said, quietly, "and you will find them. They are
waiting there for you."
Mason crossed the sanded floor like one walking in his sleep. He
experienced no emotion. He was a man stunned for the nonce.
He opened the door of the waiting room, and entered cautiously. He might
have expected a hoax, a jest, from his attitude.
Two stalwart young men were standing there talking. Their chat ceased as
he appeared. For an appreciable time father and sons looked at each
other with the curiosity of strangers.
He knew them first. He saw himself, no less than their unfortunate and
suffering mother, in their erect figures, the contour of their pleasant
faces.
To them he was unknown. The eldest boy was ten years old, the younger
eight, when they last met. But they read a message in the man's
hungering eyes, and they were the first to break the suspense.
"Father!" cried John.
The other boy sprang to him without a word.
He took them in his arms. He was choked. From some buried font came
long-forgotten tears. He murmured their names, but not a coherent
sentence could he utter.
They were splendid fellows, he thought, so tall and well knit, so
nice-mannered, so thoroughly overjoyed to meet him.
That was the best of it. They had sought him voluntarily. They knew his
record, and were not ashamed to own him. During the long days and nights
of ceaseless inquiry he was ever tormented by the dread lest his
children, if living, should look on him as accursed, a blot on their
existence.
He half hoped that he might discover them in some vile slum, where crime
was hallowed, and convicts were heroes. He never pictured them as
honest, well-meaning youths, sons of whom any father might be proud, for
in that possibility lurked the gnawing terror of shame and repudiation.
Mason's heart was full. He could not thank God for His mercy--that
resource of poor humanity was denied him, and, to his credit be it said,
he was no hypocrite.
His seared soul awoke to softer feelings, as his eyes, his ears, his
very heart, drank in fuller knowledge of them. But he was tormented in
his joy by an agonized pang of remorse. Oh, that he could have met them
with hands free from further crime!
In some vague way he felt that his punishment for Philip Anson's death
would be meted out by a sterner justice than the law of the land. He was
too hard a man to yield instantly. He crushed back the rising flood of
horror that threatened to overwhelm him in this moment of happiness. He
forced himself again to answer their anxious inquiries, to note their
little airs of manliness and self-reliance, to see with growing wonder
that they were well dressed and wore spotless linen.
A police station was no place for confidences. Indeed, both boys were
awed by their surroundings.
They passed into the outer office, and Mason went to thank Inspector
Bradley.
"Don't forget your ticket," whispered the pleased officer.
The reminder jarred, but it was unavoidable. Mason got his ticket
indorsed, the lads looking on shyly the while, and the three regained
the freedom of the street.
"Let us find some place to sit down and have a drink," suggested Mason.
"No, father," said John, with a frank smile. "Neither of us takes drink.
Come home with us. We have a room ready for you."
"I have lodgings----"
"You can go there to-morrow, and get your belongings."
"Yes. Jump into this cab," urged Willie. "We live in Westminster. It is
not very far."
Mason was fascinated by the boys' pleasant assumption of authority. They
spoke like young gentlemen, with the accent that betokens a good
education. He yielded without a protest.
They sat three abreast in a hansom, and the vehicle scurried off toward
the Westminster Bridge Road.
Mason was in the center. His giant form leaned over the closed doors of
the cab, but he turned his head with interested eagerness as one or
other of his sons addressed him.
"I suppose, father, you are wondering how we came to meet in such a
place," said John.
"It might puzzle me if I found time to think."
"Well, the superintendent arranged everything. Unfortunately, he was
away on his holidays when--when you were released--or we would have met
you then, and his deputy was not aware of the circumstances. As soon as
the superintendent returned he wrote to the governor, and was very much
annoyed to find that you had slipped away in the meantime."
"He wouldn't be so annoyed if he was there himself," growled Mason,
good-humoredly.
"Oh, John didn't mean that, father," broke in Willie. "The annoyance was
his, and ours. You see, we had not known very long where you were. We
didn't even know you were alive."
"Of course, of course. Somebody has been looking after you well. That's
clear enough. They wouldn't be always telling a pair of boys that their
father was in Portland."
"It gave us such a shock when we heard the truth," said downright John.
"But we were so glad to hear that our father was living, and that we
should soon see him," explained the younger.
"When did you hear first?"
"About four months ago. Just before we took our present situations. We
are saddlers and ornamental leather workers. Between us we earn quite a
decent living. Don't we, John?"
"In fifteen weeks we have saved enough to pay for half our furniture,
besides keeping ourselves well. There's plenty to eat, dad. You won't
starve, big as you are."
They all laughed. The cab was passing St. Thomas' Hospital. Across the
bridge a noble prospect met their eyes. London had a glamour for Mason
that night it never held before.
"So Robinson wrote to Bradley, knowing that I would report myself
to-day, and Bradley arranged----"
"Who is Robinson, father?" interrupted John.
"The superintendent, to be sure. He used to be inspector at
Whitechapel."
"He is not the man we mean. We are talking of Mr. Giles, superintendent
of the Mary Anson Home."
The two boys felt their father's start of dismay, of positive affright.
They wondered what had happened to give him such a shock. Peering at him
sideways from the corners of the hansom, they could see the quick pallor
of his swarthy face.
"You forget, John," put in the adroit William, "that father knows as
little about our lives as we knew about his until very recently. When we
reach our flat we must begin at the beginning and tell him everything."
"There isn't much to tell," cried John. "When poor mother died, we were
taken care of by a gentleman whom Mr. Philip asked to look after us.
When the Mary Anson Home was built we were among the first batch of
inmates. If ever a young man has done good in this world, it is Mr.
Philip Anson. See what he did for us. Mother was nursed and tended with
the utmost kindness, but her life could not be saved. We were rescued
from the workhouse, taught well and fed well, and given such instruction
in a first-class trade that even at our age we can earn five pounds a
week between us. And what he has done for us he does for hundreds of
others. God bless Philip Anson, I say!"
"Amen!" said his brother.
The voices of his sons reached Mason's tortured brain like sounds heard,
remote but distinct, through a long tunnel. His great frame seemed to
collapse. In an instant he became an old man. He set his teeth and
jammed his elbows against the woodwork of the cab, but, strive as he
would, with his immense physical strength and his dogged will, he shook
with a palsy.
"Father!" cried John, anxiously, little dreaming how his enthusiastic
speech had pierced to the very marrow of his hearer, "are you ill? Shall
we stop?"
"Perhaps, John, a little brandy would do him good," murmured Willie.
"Father, do tell me what is the matter. Willie, reach up and tell the
man to stop."
Then Mason forced himself to speak.
"No, no," he gasped. "Go on. It is--only--a passing spasm."
He must have time, even a few minutes, in which to drive off the awful
specter that hugged him in the embrace of death. He dared not look at
his sons. If he were compelled to face them on the pavement in the
flaring gaslight, he would run away.
His anguish was pitiable. Great drops of sweat stood clammy on his
forehead. He passed a trembling hand across his face, and groaned aloud
unconsciously:
"Oh, God forgive me!"
It was the first prayer that had voluntarily left his lips for many a
day.
The boys heard. They interpreted it as an expression of sorrow that his
own career should have been so cut off from their childhood and joyous
youth.
"Well, cheer up, dad, anyhow," cried the elder, much relieved by this
conclusion. "We are all together again, and you can face the world once
more with us at your side."
No dagger of steel could have hurt so dreadfully as this well-meant
consolation. But for the sake of his sons the man wrestled with his
agony, and conquered it to some outward seeming.
When the cab stopped outside a big building he was steady on his feet
when he alighted, and he managed to summon a ghastly smile to his aid as
he said to John:
"I am sorry to set you a bad example. But that is nothing new, is it? I
must have some spirit, strong spirit, or I can't keep up."
"Certainly, father. Why not? It is all right as medicine. Willie, you go
and get some brandy while I take father upstairs."
Their flat was on the second floor. It was neatly furnished, fitted with
electric light, and contained five rooms.
John talked freely, explaining housekeeping arrangements, the puzzle as
to their father's size, for the first bed they bought was a short one,
their hours of work, the variety of their employment, any and every
cheering topic, indeed, until Willie came with a bottle.
Both of them glanced askance at the quantity Mason consumed, but they
passed no comment. He tried to smoke, and sat so that the light should
not fall on his face. And then he said to them:
"Tell me all you know about Philip Anson. It interests me."
Snap! The hard composition of his pipe was broken in two.
"What a pity!" cried Willie. "Shall I run and buy you a new one?"
"No, my boy, no. I can manage. Don't mind me. I can't talk, but I will
listen. May the Lord have mercy on me, I will listen!"
He suffered that night as few men have suffered. Many a murderer has had
to endure the torments of a haunted conscience, but few can have been
harrowed by hearing their own sons lauding to the sky the victim's
benefactions to themselves and to their dead mother.
He was master of his emotions sufficiently to control his voice. He
punctuated their recital by occasional comments that showed he
appreciated every point. He examined with interest specimens of their
work, for they understood both the stitching and the stamping of
leather, and once he found himself dully speculating as to what career
he would have carved out for himself were he given in boyhood the
opportunities they rejoiced in.
But throughout there was in his surcharged brain a current of cunning
purpose. First, there was Grenier, away in the North, robbing a dead man
and plotting desolation to some girl. He must be dealt with.
Then he, the slayer, must be slain, and by his own hand. He would spare
his sons as much pain as might be within his power.
He would not merely disappear, leaving them dubious and distressed. No.
They must know he was dead, not by suicide, but by accident. They would
mourn his wretched memory. Better that than live with the abiding grief
of the knowledge that he was Philip Anson's murderer.
He was quite sure now that the dead would arise and call for vengeance
if he dared to continue to exist. Yes, that was it--a life for a life--a
prayer that his deeds might not bear fruit in his children--and then
death, speedy, certain death.
Some reference to the future made by Willie, the younger, who favored
his mother more than the outspoken John, gave Mason an opportunity to
pave the way for the coming separation.
"I don't want you two lads to make any great changes on my account," he
said, slowly. "It is far from my intention to settle down here, and let
all your friends become aware that you are supporting a ticket-of-leave
father. Yes, I know. You are good boys, and it won't be any more
pleasant for me to--to live away from you, than it would be for
you--under--other conditions--to be separated from me. But--I am in
earnest in this matter. I will stop here to-night just to feel that I am
under the same roof as you. It is your roof, not mine. Long ago I lost
the right to provide you with a shelter. To-morrow I go away. I have
some work to do--a lot of work. It must be attended to at once. Of
course, you will see me, often. We can meet in the evening--go out
together--but live here--with you--I can't."
His sons never knew the effort that this speech cost him. He spoke with
such manifest hesitation that Willie, who quickly interpreted the
less-pronounced signs of a man's thoughts, winked a warning at his
brother.
He said, with an optic signal:
"Not a word now, John. Just leave things as they are."
Under any ordinary conditions he would be right. He could never guess
the nature of the chains that encircled his father, delivering him
fettered to the torture, bound hand and foot, body and soul.
At last they all retired to their rooms, the boys to whisper kindly
plans for keeping their father a prisoner again in their hands; Mason to
lie, open-eyed, dry-eyed, through the night, mourning for that which
might not be.
The rising sun dispelled the dark phantoms that flitted before his
vision.
He fell into a fitful slumber, disturbed by vivid dreams. Once he was on
a storm-swept sea at night, on a sinking ship, a ship with a crew of
dead men, and a dead captain at the helm.
Driving onward through the raging waves, he could feel the vessel
settling more surely, as she rushed into each yawning caldron. Suddenly,
through the wreck of flying spindrift, he saw a smooth harbor, a
sheltered basin, in which vessels rode in safety. There were houses
beyond, with cheerful lights, and men and women were watching the doomed
craft from the firm security of the land.
But, strain his eyes as he would, he could see no entrance to that
harbor; naught save furious seas breaking over relentless walls of
granite.
Even in his dream he was not afraid.
He asked the captain, with an oath:
"Is there no way in?"
And the captain turned corpselike eyes toward him. It was Philip Anson.
The dreamer uttered a wild beast's howl, and shrank away.
Then he awoke to find Willie standing by his bedside with soothing
words.
"It is all right, father. You were disturbed in your sleep. Don't get up
yet. It is only five o'clock."
* * * * *
At that hour a policeman left his cottage in a village on the Yorkshire
coast, and walked leisurely toward the Grange House.
He traversed four miles of rough country, and the sun was hot, so he did
not hurry. About half-past six he reached the farm. There were no signs
of activity such as may be expected in the country at that hour.
He examined three sides of the building carefully--the sea front was
inaccessible--and waited many minutes before he knocked at the door.
There was no answer. He knocked again more loudly. The third time his
summons would have aroused the Seven Sleepers, but none came.
He tried the door, and rattled it; peered in at the windows; stood back
in the garden, and looked up at the bedrooms.
"A queer business," he muttered, as he turned unwillingly to leave the
place.
"Ay, a very queer business," he said, again. "I must go on to Scarsdale,
an' mak' inquiries aboot this Dr. Williams afore I report to t' super."