Complete Works of Bram Stoker (471 page)

“You were surprised because I was glad Fenella killed that scoundrel. I can tell you, Castleton, but I would not tell anyone else. It was because I saw him enter her room, and, God forgive me! I thought at the time that it was by her wish. That is why I came away from Harrogate that night. That is what kept me away. How could I go back and face my friends with such a shame fresh upon me? It was your lending me your yacht, old man, that made life possible. When I was by myself through the wildness of the Bay of Biscay and among the great billows of the Atlantic I began to be able to bear. I had steeled myself, I thought, and when I heard that so far from my wife being guilty of such a shame, she actually killed the man that attempted her honour, is it any wonder that I felt joyful?”

After a pause Castleton asked:

“How did you come to see-to see it. Why did you take no step to prevent it? Forgive me, old fellow, but I want to understand.”

Frank Onslow went to the rail, and leaned over. When he came back Castleton saw that his eyes were wet. With what cheerfulness he could assume, he answered:

“On that very night I had made up my mind to try to win back my wife’s love. I wrote a letter to her, a letter in which I poured out my whole soul, and I left my room to put it under her door, so that she would get it in the morning. But”-here he paused, and then said, slowly, “but when in the corridor, I saw her door open, and at the same moment De Murger appeared.”

“Did she seem surprised?”

“Not at first. But a moment after a look of amazement crossed her face, and she stepped back into the room, he following her.” As he said this he put his head between his hands and groaned.

“And then?” added his friend.

“And then I hardly know what happened. My mind seems full of a dim memory of a blank existence, and then a series of wild whirling thoughts, something like that last moment after death in Wiertz’s picture. I think I must have slept, for it was two o’clock when I saw Fenella, and the clock was striking five when I crossed the bridge after I had left the hotel.

“And the letter? What became of it?”

Frank started. “The letter? I never thought of it. Stay! I must have left it on the table in my room. I remember seeing it there a little while before I came away.”

“How was it addressed? Do not think me inquisitive, but I cannot help thinking that that letter may yet be of some great importance.”

Frank smiled, a sad smile enough, as he answered: “By the pet name I had for Fenella-Mrs Right. I used to chaff her because she always defended her position when we argued, and so, when I wanted to tease her, I called her Mrs Right.”

“Was it written on hotel paper?”

“No. I was going to write on some, but I thought it would be better to use the sort we had when-when we were first married. There were a few sheets in my writing case, so I took one.”

“That was headed somewhere in Surrey, was it not?”

“Yes; Chiddingford, near Haslemere. It was a pretty place, too, called The Grange. Fenella fell in love with it, and made me buy it right away.”

“Is anyone living there now?”

“It is let to someone. I don’t think that I heard the name. The agent knows. When the trouble came I told him to do what he could with it, and not to bother me with it any more. After a while he wrote and asked if I would mind it being let to a foreigner? I told him he might let it to a devil so long as he did not worry me.”

Lord Castleton paused awhile, and asked the next question in a hesitating way. He felt embarrassed, and showed it:

“Tell me one thing more, old fellow-if-if you don’t mind.”

“My dear Castleton, I’ll tell you anything you like.”

“How did you sign the letter?” Onslow’s face looked sad as he answered:

“I signed it by another old pet name we both understood. We had pet names-people always have when they are first married,” he added with embarrassment.

“Of course,” murmured the sympathetic Castleton.

“One such name lasted a long time. An old friend of my father’s came to see us, and in a playful moment he said I was a ‘sad dog’. Fenella took it up and used to call me ‘Doggie,’ and I often signed myself ‘Frank Doggie’-as men usually do.”

“Of course,” again murmured Castleton, as if such a signature was a customary thing. Then he added, “And on this occasion?”

“On this occasion I used the name that seemed full of happiest memories. ‘Frank Doggie’ may seem idiotic to an outsider, but to Fenella and myself it might mean much.”

The two men sat silent awhile, and then Castleton asked softly:

“I suppose it may be taken for granted that Lady Francis never got the letter?”

“I take it, it is so; but it is no matter now, I refused to speak with her just before I met you. I did not know then what I know now-and she will never speak to me again.” He sighed as he spoke, and turned away. Then he went to the rail of the yacht and leaned over with his head down, looking into the still blue water beneath him.

“Poor old Frank!” said Castleton to himself. “I can’t but think that this matter may come right yet. I must find out what became of that letter, in case Lady Francis never got it. It would prove to her that Frank-”

His train of thought suddenly stopped. A new idea seemed to strike him so forcibly that it quite upset him. Onslow, who had come over from the rail, noticed it. “I say, Castleton, what is wrong with you? You have got quite white about the gills.”

“Nothing-nothing,” he answered hastily, “I am subject to it. They call it heart. Pardon me for a bit, I’ll go to my bunk and lie down,” and he went below.

In truth, he was overwhelmed by the thought which had just struck him. If his surmise were true, that Onslow, in a hypnotic trance, as he had almost proved by its recurrence, had killed De Murger, where, then, was Fenella’s heroism after all? True that she had taken the blame on herself; but might it not have been that she was morally guilty all the same? Why, then, had she taken the blame? Was it not because she feared that her husband might have refused to screen her shame; or because she feared that if any less heroic aspect of the tragedy was presented to the public, her own fair fame might suffer in greater degree? Could it indeed be that Fenella Onslow was not a heroine, but only a calculating woman of exceeding smartness? Then, again, if Frank Onslow believed that his wife had avenged her honour, was it wise to disturb such belief? He might think, if once the suggestion were made to him, that his honour was preserved only by his own unconscious act.

Was it then wise to disturb existing relations between the husband and wife, sad though they were? Did they come together again, they might in mutual confidence arrive at a real knowledge of the facts, and then-and then, what would be the result? And besides, might there not be some danger in any suggestion made as to his suspicion of who struck the blow? It was true that Lady Francis had been acquitted of the crime, although she confessed to the killing; but her husband might still be tried-and if tried? What then would be the result of the discovery of the missing letter on which he had been building such hopes?

The problem was too much for Lord Castleton. His life had been too sunny and easy-going to allow of familiarity with great emotions, and such a problem as this was to him overwhelming. The issue was too big for him; and revolving in his own mind all that belonged to it, he glided into sleep.

THE GOMBEEN MAN

“God save all here,” said the man as he entered.

Room was made for him at the fire. He no sooner came near it and tasted the heat than a cloud of steam arose from him.

“Man! but ye’re wet,” said Mrs. Kelligan. “One’d think ye’d been in the lake beyant!”

“So I have,” he answered, “worse luck! I rid all the way from Galway this blessed day to be here in time, but the mare slipped coming down Curragh Hill and threw me over the bank into the lake. I wor in the wather nigh three hours before I could get out, for I was foreninst the Curragh Rock an’ only got a foothold in a chink, an’ had to hold on wid me one arm for I fear the other is broke.”

“Dear! dear! dear!” interrupted the woman. “Sthrip yer coat off, acushla, an’ let us see if we can do anythin’.”

He shook his head, as he answered:-

“Not now, there’s not a minute to spare. I must get up the Hill at once. I should have been there be six o’clock. But I mayn’t be too late yit. The mare has broke down entirely. Can any one here lend me a horse?”

There was no answer till Andy spoke:-

“Me mare is in the shtable, but this gintleman has me an’ her for the day, an’ I have to lave him at Carnaclif to-night.”

Here I struck in:-

“Never mind me, Andy! If you can help this gentleman, do so: I’m better off here than driving through the storm. He wouldn’t want to go on, with a broken arm, if he hadn’t good reason!”

The man looked at me with grateful eagerness:-

“Thank yer honour, kindly. It’s a rale gintleman ye are! An’ I hope ye’ll never be sorry for helpin’ a poor fellow in sore throuble.”

“What’s wrong, Phelim?” asked the priest. “Is there anything troubling you that any one here can get rid of?”

“Nothin’, Father Pether, thank ye kindly. The throuble is me own intirely, an’ no wan here could help me. But I must see Murdock to-night.”

There was a general sigh of commiseration; all understood the situation.

“Musha!” said old Dan Moriarty, sotto voce. “An’ is that the way of it! An’ is he too in the clutches iv that wolf? Him that we all thought was so warrum. Glory be to God! but it’s a quare wurrld it is; an’ it’s few there is in it that is what they seems. Me poor frind! is there any way I can help ye? I have a bit iv money by me that yer welkim to the lend iv av ye want it.”

The other shook his head gratefully:-

“Thank ye kindly, Dan, but I have the money all right; it’s only the time I’m in trouble about!”

“Only the time! me poor chap! It’s be time that the divil helps Black Murdock an’ the likes iv him, the most iv all! God be good to ye if he has got his clutch on yer back, an’ has time on his side, for ye’ll want it!”

“Well! anyhow, I must be goin’ now. Thank ye kindly, neighbours all. When a man’s in throuble, sure the goodwill of his frinds is the greatest comfort he can have.”

“All but one, remember that! all but one!” said the priest.

“Thank ye kindly, Father, I shan’t forget. Thank ye Andy: an’ you, too, young sir, I’m much beholden to ye. I hope, some day, I may have it to do a good turn for ye in return. Thank ye kindly again, and good night.” He shook my hand warmly, and was going to the door, when old Dan said:-

“An’ as for that black-jawed ruffian, Murdock - “ He paused, for the door suddenly opened, and a harsh voice said:-

“Murtagh Murdock is here to answer for himself!” - It was my man at the window.

There was a, sort of paralyzed silence in the room, through which came the whisper of one of the old women:-

“Musha! talk iv the divil!”

Joyce’s face grew very white; one hand instinctively grasped his riding switch, the other hung uselessly by his side. Murdock spoke:-

“I kem here expectin’ to meet Phelim Joyce. I thought I’d save him the throuble of comin’ wid the money.” Joyce said in a husky voice:-

“What do ye mane? I have the money right enough here. I’m sorry I’m a bit late, but I had a bad accident - bruk me arrum, an’ was nigh dhrownded in the Curragh Lake. But I was goin’ up to ye at once, bad as I am, to pay ye yer money, Murdock.” The Gombeen Man interrupted him:-

“But it isn’t to me ye’d have to come, me good man. Sure, it’s the sheriff, himself, that was waitin’ for ye’, an’ whin ye didn’t come” - here Joyce winced; the speaker smiled - “he done his work.”

“What wurrk, acushla?” asked one of the women. Murdock answered slowly:-

He sould the lease iv the farrum known as the Shleenanaher in open sale, in accordance wid the terrums of his notice, duly posted, and wid warnin’ given to the houldher iv the lease.”

There was a long pause. Joyce was the first to speak:-

“Ye’re jokin’, Murdock. For God’s sake say ye’re jokin’! Ye tould me yerself that I might have time to git the money. An’ ye tould me that the puttin’ me farrum up for sale was only a matther iv forrum to let me pay ye back in me own way. Nay! more, ye asked me not to te tell any iv the neighbours, for fear some iv them might want to buy some iv me land. An’ it’s niver so, that whin ye got me aff to Galway to rise the money, ye went on wid the sale, behind me back - wid not a soul by to spake for me or mine - an’ sould up all I have! No! Murtagh Murdock, ye’re a hard man I know, but ye wouldn’t do that! Ye wouldn’t do that!”

Murdock made no direct reply to him, but said seemingly to the company generally:-

“I ixpected to see Phelim Joyce at the sale to-day, but as I had some business in which he was consarned, I kem here where I knew there’d be neighbours - an’ sure so there is.”

He took out his pocket-book and wrote names, “Father Pether Ryan, Daniel Moriarty, Bartholomew Moynahan, Andhrew McGlown, Mrs. Katty Kelligan - that’s enough! I want ye all to see what I done. There’s nothin’ undherhand about me! Phelim Joyce, I give ye formial notice that yer land was sould an’ bought be me, for ye broke yer word to repay me the money lint ye before the time fixed. Here’s the Sheriff’s assignmint, an’ I tell ye before all these witnesses that I’ll proceed with ejectment on title at wanst.”

All in the room were as still as statues. Joyce was fearfully still and pale, but when Murdock spoke the word “ejectment” he seemed to wake in a moment to frenzied life. The blood flushed up in his face and he seemed about to do something rash; but with a great effort he controlled himself and said:-

“Mr. Murdock, ye won’t be too hard. I got the money to-day - it’s here - but I had an accident that delayed me. I was thrown into the Curragh Lake and nigh drownded an’ me arrum is bruk. Don’t be so close as an hour or two - ye’ll never be sorry for it. I’ll pay ye all, and more, and thank ye into the bargain all me life; ye’ll take back the paper, won’t ye, for me childhren’s sake - for Norah’s sake?

“He faltered; the other answered with an evil smile:-