LEMON'S VISION IN THE TWISTED COW.
"I fetched the Bible, sir, and he took it in his hand, and swore a
most solemn oath, and kissed the book on it, that he didn't know the
man, that he didn't know the girl, and that he had no more to do with
the murder than a babe unborn. Never in my life did I see a man in
sech a state as he was.
"'But, Lemon,' I said, 'how could you come to speak sech words? How
could you come to know all about the murder hours and hours before it
was done?'
"'I'll tell you, Fanny,' he said, 'as fur as I know; and if you was to
cut me in a thousand pieces I couldn't tell you more.'
"'It ain't to be egspected,' I said.
"'If there's men in the world,' Lemon went on, 'as can look into the
future, Devlin's one of 'em. If there's men in the world as can tell
you what's going to happen--without having anything to do with it
theirselves, mind--Devlin's one of 'em. The things he's told me of
people is unbelievable, but as true as true can be. "Did you take
particular notice of the gentleman whose hair I've been jest cutting?"
he said to me. "No," says I; "why should I?" "He's the great Mr.
Danebury that all the world's talking of," says he. "Is he?" says I.
"I wonder what brings him to our shop? What a charitable man he is!
"What a good, good man he is!" "Good ain't the word for him," says
Devlin. "He comes to our shop because it's out of the way. All the
while I was operating on him he was thinking of a little milliner's
girl as he's got an appointment with to-night. 'Pritty little
Ph[oe]be!' he was saying to hisself as I was cutting his hair. 'What
eyes she's got! Bloo and swimming! What a skin's she's got! like
satting, it is so white and smooth! What lips she's got! She's a bit
of spring, jest budding. Pritty little Ph[oe]be--pretty little
Ph[oe]be!'" "But what was he saying that for?" I asks. "He can't be in
love with her. He's a family man, ain't he?" "I should think he was a
family man," says Devlin. "He's got the most beautiful wife a man
could wish for, and as good as she's beautiful; and he's got
half-a-dozen blooming children. But that don't prevent his being in
love with pritty little Ph[oe]be, and he's got an appointment with her
to-night; and, what's more, he's going to keep it." I'm putting a true
case to you, Fanny,' says Lemon, 'one of many sech. I fires up at what
Devlin says about such a good man--that is, I used to fire up when
things first commenced. I don't dispute with him now; I know it's no
use, and that he's always right, and me always wrong. But then I did,
and I asks him how dare he talk like that of sech a man as Mr.
Danebury, as gives money to charities, and talks about being
everybody's friend. "O, you don't believe me!" Devlin says. "Well,
come with me to-night, and we'll jest see for ourselves." And I go
with him, and I see a pritty little girl walking up and down the dark
turning at the bottom of the Langham Hotel. Up and down she walks, up
and down, up and down. "That must be her," says Devlin. We keep
watching a little way off on the other side of the way, where it's
darker still than where she's walking and waiting, and presently who
should come up to her but the great Mr. Danebury; and he takes her
hand and holds it long, and they stand talking, and he says something
to make her laugh, and then he tucks her arm in his, and walks off
with her. "What do you think of that?" Devlin asks. "He's going to
take her to a meeting of the missionary society." What I think of it
makes me melancholy, and makes me ask myself, "Can sech things be?" At
another time Devlin says, "I shouldn't wonder if you heard of a big
fire to-morrer." "Why do you say that?" I asks. "The man who's jest
gone out," Devlin answers, "was thinking of one while I was shampooing
him--that's all." And that _was_ all; but sure enough I do read of a
big fire to-morrer in a great place of business that's heavily
insured, and there's lives lost and dreadful scenes. And then
sometimes when Devlin and me is setting together, he gits up all of a
sudden and stands over me, and what he does to me I couldn't tell you
if you was to burn me alive; but my senses seems to go, and I either
gits fancies, or Devlin puts 'em in my head; but when I come to
there's Devlin setting before me, and he says, "I'll wager," says he,
"that I'll tell you what you've been dreaming of." "Have I been
asleep?" I asks. "Sound," he answers, "and talking in your sleep." And
he tells me something dreadful that I've said about something that's
going to happen; and before the week's out it does happen, and I read
of it in the papers. For a long time this has been going on till I've
got in that state that I'd as soon die as live. If you don't
understand what I'm trying to egsplain, Fanny,' said my poor Lemon,
'it ain't my fault; it's as dark to me as it is to you. Sometimes I
says to Devlin, "I'll go and warn the police." "Do," says Devlin, "and
be took up as a accomplice, and be follered about all your life like a
thief or a murderer. Go and tell, and git yourself hanged or clapped
in a madhouse." Of course, I see the sense of that, and I keep my
mouth shut, but I get miserabler and miserabler. So the day before
yesterday--that's Friday, Fanny--Devlin and me is sitting in the
private room of the Twisted Cow, when he asks me whether I've ever
been to Victoria Park, and I answers "Lots of times." Now Fanny,' said
Lemon, breaking off in his awful confession, 'if you ain't prepared to
believe what's coming, I'll say no more. It'll sound unbelievable, but
I can't help that. Things has happened without me having anything to
do with 'em, and I'd need to be a sperrit instead of a man to account
for 'em.'
"'Lemon,' I said, 'I'm prepared to believe everything, only don't keep
nothing from me.'
"'I won't,' said Lemon; 'I'll tell you as near and as straight as I
can what happened after Devlin asked me whether I'd ever been to
Victoria Park. His eyes was fixed upon me that strange that I felt my
senses slipping away from me; it wasn't that things went round so much
as they seemed to fade away and become nothing at all. Was I setting
in the private room of the Twisted Cow? I don't know. Was it day or
night? I don't know. I wouldn't swear to it, though the moon _was_
shining through the trees. The trees where? Why, in Victoria Park, and
no place else. And there was a man and a woman--a young beautiful
woman, with golden hair, and a bunch of white daisies in her
belt--talking together. How do I know that she's young and beautiful
when I didn't see her face? That's one of the things I'm unable to
answer. And I don't see the man's face, either. Whether a minute
passed or a hour, before I heard a shriek, I can't say, and perhaps it
ain't material. And upon the shriek, there, near the water, laid the
young girl, dead, with the bunch of white daisies in her belt, stained
with blood. Then, everything disappeared, and, trembling and shaking
to that degree that I felt as if I must fall to pieces, I looked up
and round, and found myself in the private room of the Twisted Cow,
with Devlin setting opposite me. "Dreaming agin, Lemon?" he says, with
a grin. But I don't answer him; my tongue sticks to the roof of my
mouth. That's all I know, Fanny. Whether I saw what I've told you, or
was told it, or only fancied it, is beyond me. What I've said is the
truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God!'
"That's what I heard from Lemon's own lips this morning, sir,
up-stairs, abed, where he is laying now, with the door locked on him.
"I took off my hat and cloak, and Lemon burst out crying.
"'You believe me, Fanny!' he cried.
"'I believe every word you said,' I answered. 'It's no use going to
the police-station this morning. A good friend of our'n is coming to
see me to-day, and we'll wait and do what he advises us. Only you must
promise to see him.' And I told him who you was, and why I wrote to
you on Friday before poor Lizzie Melladew met her death.
"'I promise,' said Lemon, 'and you've done right, Fanny.'
"And now, sir, I've told you everything as I said I would, and you
know as much as I do about this dreadful business."