XVIII. MURDER.
"But in his pulse there was no throb, Nor on his lips one dying sob; Sigh, nor word, nor struggling breath Heralded his way to death." --"SIEGE OF CORINTH."
"My brain runs this way and that way; 't will not fix On aught but vengeance." --"DUKE OF GUISE."
I must now go back to an hour or two before Mary and her friendsparted for the night. It might be about eight o'clock that evening,and the three Miss Carsons were sitting in their father'sdrawing-room. He was asleep in the dining-room, in his owncomfortable chair. Mrs. Carson was (as was usual with her, when noparticular excitement was going on) very poorly, and sittingupstairs in her dressing-room, indulging in the luxury of aheadache. She was not well, certainly. "Wind in the head," theservants called it. But it was but the natural consequence of thestate of mental and bodily idleness in which she was placed.Without education enough to value the resources of wealth andleisure, she was so circumstanced as to command both. It would havedone her more good than all the ether and sal-volatile she was dailyin the habit of swallowing, if she might have taken the work of oneof her own housemaids for a week; made beds, rubbed tables, shakencarpets, and gone out into the fresh morning air, without all theparaphernalia of shawl, cloak, boa, fur boots, bonnet, and veil, inwhich she was equipped before setting out for an "airing," in theclosely shut-up carriage.
So the three girls were by themselves in the comfortable, elegant,well-lighted drawing-room; and, like many similarly situated youngladies, they did not exactly know what to do to while away the timeuntil the tea-hour. The elder two had been at a dancing-party thenight before, and were listless and sleepy in consequence. Onetried to read "Emerson's Essays," and fell asleep in the attempt;the other was turning over a parcel of new songs, in order to selectwhat she liked. Amy, the youngest, was copying some manuscriptmusic. The air was heavy with the fragrance of strongly-scentedflowers, which sent out their night odours from an adjoiningconservatory.
The clock on the chimney-piece chimed eight. Sophy (the sleepingsister) started up at the sound.
"What o'clock is that?" she asked.
"Eight," said Amy.
"O dear! how tired I am! Is Harry come in? Tea will rouse one up alittle. Are you not worn out, Helen?"
"Yes; I am tired enough. One is good for nothing the day after adance. Yet I don't feel weary at the time; I suppose it is thelateness of the hours."
"And yet, how could it be managed otherwise? So many don't dinetill five or six, that one cannot begin before eight or nine; andthen it takes a long time to get into the spirit of the evening. Itis always more pleasant after supper than before."
"Well, I'm too tired to-night to reform the world in the matter ofdances or balls. What are you copying, Amy?"
"Only that little Spanish air you sing, 'Quien quiera.'"
"What are you copying it for?" asked Helen.
"Harry asked me to do it for him this morning at breakfast-time--forMiss Richardson, he said."
"For Jane Richardson!" said Sophy, as if a new idea were receivingstrength in her mind.
"Do you think Harry means anything by his attention to her?" askedHelen.
"Nay, I do not know anything more than you do; I can only observeand conjecture. What do you think, Helen?"
"Harry always likes to be of consequence to the belle of the room.If one girl is more admired than another, he likes to flutter abouther, and seem to be on intimate terms with her. That is his way,and I have not noticed anything beyond that in his manner to JaneRichardson."
"But I don't think she knows it's only his way. Just watch her thenext time we meet her when Harry is there, and see how she crimsons,and looks another way when she feels he is coming up to her. Ithink he sees it, too, and I think he is pleased with it."
"I dare say Harry would like well enough to turn the head of such alovely girl as Jane Richardson. But I'm not convinced that he's inlove, whatever she may be."
"Well, then!" said Sophy indignantly, "though it is our own brother,I do not think he is behaving very wrongly. The more I think of it,the more sure I am that she thinks he means something, and that heintends her to think so. And then, when he leaves off paying herattention"--
"Which will be as soon as a prettier girl makes her appearance,"interrupted Helen.
"As soon as he leaves off paying her attention," resumed Sophy, "shewill have many and many a heartache, and then she will hardenherself into being a flirt, a feminine flirt, as he is a masculineflirt. Poor girl!"
"I don't like to hear you speak so of Harry," said Amy, looking upat Sophy.
"And I don't like to have to speak so, Amy, for I love him dearly.He is a good, kind brother, but I do think him vain, and I think hehardly knows the misery, the crime, to which indulged vanity maylead him."
Helen yawned.
"Oh! do you think we may ring for tea? Sleeping after dinner makesme so feverish."
"Yes, surely. Why should not we?" said the more energetic Sophy,pulling the bell with some determination.
"Tea, directly, Parker," said she authoritatively, as the manentered the room.
She was too little in the habit of reading expressions on the facesof others to notice Parker's countenance,
Yet it was striking. It was blanched to a dead whiteness; the lipscompressed as if to keep within some tale of horror; the eyesdistended and unnatural. It was a terror-stricken face.
The girls began to put away their music and books, in preparationfor tea. The door slowly opened again, and this time it was thenurse who entered. I call her nurse, for such had been her officein bygone days, though now she held rather an anomalous situation inthe family. Seamstress, attendant on the young ladies, keeper ofthe stores; only "Nurse" was still her name. She had lived longerwith them than any other servant, and to her their manner was farless haughty than to the other domestics. She occasionally cameinto the drawing-room to look for things belonging to their fatheror mother, so it did not excite any surprise when she advanced intothe room. They went on arranging their various articles ofemployment.
She wanted them to look up. She wanted them to read something inher face--her face so full of woe, of horror. But they went onwithout taking any notice. She coughed; not a natural cough; butone of those coughs which asks so plainly for remark.
"Dear nurse, what is the matter?" asked Amy. "Are not you well?"
"Is mamma ill?" asked Sophy quickly.
"Speak, speak, nurse!" said they all, as they saw her efforts toarticulate choked by the convulsive rising in her throat. Theyclustered round her with eager faces, catching a glimpse of someterrible truth to be revealed.
"My dear young ladies! my dear girls!" she gasped out at length, andthen she burst into tears.
"Oh! do tell us what it is, nurse!" said one. "Anything is betterthan this. Speak!"
"My children! I don't know how to break it to you. My dears, poorMr. Harry is brought home"--
"Brought home--BROUGHT home--how?" Instinctively they sank theirvoices to a whisper; but a fearful whisper it was. In the same lowtone, as if afraid lest the walls, the furniture, the inanimatethings which told of preparation for life and comfort, should hear,she answered--
"Dead!"
Amy clutched her nurse's arm, and fixed her eyes on her as if toknow if such a tale could be true; and when she read itsconfirmation in those sad, mournful, unflinching eyes, she sank,without word or sound, down in a faint upon the floor. One sistersat down on an ottoman, and covered her face, to try and realise it.That was Sophy. Helen threw herself on the sofa, and burying herhead in the pillows, tried to stifle the screams and moans whichshook her frame.
The nurse stood silent. She had not told ALL.
"Tell me," said Sophy, looking up, and speaking in a hoarse voice,which told of the inward pain, "tell me, nurse! Is he DEAD, did yousay? Have you sent for a doctor? Oh! send for one, send for one,"continued
she, her voice rising to shrillness, and starting to herfeet. Helen lifted herself up, and looked, with breathless waiting,towards nurse.
"My dears, he is dead! But I have sent for a doctor. I have doneall I could."
"When did he--when did they bring him home?" asked Sophy.
"Perhaps ten minutes ago. Before you rang for Parker."
"How did he die? Where did they find him? He looked so well. Healways seemed so strong. Oh! are you sure he is dead?"
She went towards the door. Nurse laid her hand on her arm.
"Miss Sophy, I have not told you all. Can you bear to hear it?Remember, master is in the next room, and he knows nothing yet.Come, you must help me to tell him. Now, be quiet, dear! It was nocommon death he died!" She looked in her face as if trying toconvey her meaning by her eyes.
Sophy's lips moved, but nurse could hear no sound.
"He has been shot as he was coming home along Turner Street,to-night."
Sophy went on with the motion of her lips, twitching them almostconvulsively.
"My dear, you must rouse yourself, and remember your father andmother have yet to be told. Speak! Miss Sophy!"
But she could not; her whole face worked involuntarily. The nurseleft the room, and almost immediately brought back some sal-volatileand water. Sophy drank it eagerly, and gave one or two deep gasps.Then she spoke in a calm, unnatural voice.
"What do you want me to do, nurse? Go to Helen and poor Amy. See,they want help."
"Poor creatures! we must let them alone for a bit. You must go tomaster; that's what I want you to do, Miss Sophy. You must break itto him, poor old gentleman! Come, he's asleep in the dining-room,and the men are waiting to speak to him."
Sophy went mechanically to the dining-room door.
"Oh! I cannot go in. I cannot tell him. What must I say?"
"I'll come with you, Miss Sophy. Break it to him by degrees."
"I can't, nurse. My head throbs so, I shall be sure to say thewrong thing."
However, she opened the door. There sat her father, the shadedlight of the candle-lamp falling upon, and softening his markedfeatures, while his snowy hair contrasted well with the deep crimsonmorocco of the chair. The newspaper he had been reading had droppedon the carpet by his side. He breathed regularly and deeply.
At that instant the words of Mrs. Hemans's song came full in Sophy'smind--
"Ye know not what ye do, That call the slumberer back From the realms unseen by you, To life's dim weary track."
But this life's track would be to the bereaved father something morethan dim and weary, hereafter.
"Papa," said she softly. He did not stir.
"Papa!" she exclaimed, somewhat louder.
He started up, half awake.
"Tea is ready, is it?" and he yawned.
"No! papa, but something very dreadful--very sad, has happened!"
He was gaping so loud that he did not catch the words she uttered,and did not see the expression of her face.
"Master Henry has not come back," said nurse. Her voice, heard inunusual speech to him, arrested his attention, and rubbing his eyes,he looked at the servant.
"Harry! oh, no! he had to attend a meeting of the masters aboutthese cursed turn-outs. I don't expect him yet. What are youlooking at me so strangely for, Sophy?"
"O papa, Harry is come back," said she, bursting into tears.
"What do you mean?" said he, startled into an impatientconsciousness that something was wrong. "One of you says he is notcome home, and the other says he is. Now, that's nonsense! Tell meat once what's the matter. Did he go on horseback to town? Is hethrown? Speak, child, can't you?"
"No! he's not been thrown, papa," said Sophy sadly.
"But he's badly hurt," put in the nurse, desirous to be drawing hisanxiety to a point.
"Hurt? Where? How? Have you sent for a doctor?" said he, hastilyrising, as if to leave the room.
"Yes, papa, we've sent for a doctor--but I'm afraid---I believe it'sof no use."
He looked at her for a moment, and in her face he read the truth.His son, his only son, was dead.
He sank back in his chair, and hid his face in his hands, and bowedhis head upon the table. The strong mahogany dining-table shook andrattled under his agony.
Sophy went and put her arms round his bowed neck.
"Go! you are not Harry," said he; but the action roused him.
"Where is he? where is the"--said he, with his strong face set intothe lines of anguish, by two minutes of such intense woe.
"In the servants' hall," said nurse. "Two policemen and another manbrought him home. They would be glad to speak to you when you areable, sir."
"I am now able," replied he. At first when he stood up he tottered.But steadying himself, he walked, as firmly as a soldier on drill,to the door. Then he turned back and poured out a glass of winefrom the decanter which yet remained on the table. His eye caughtthe wine-glass which Harry had used but two or three hours before.He sighed a long quivering sigh, and then mastering himself again,he left the room.
"You had better go back to your sisters, Miss Sophy," said nurse.
Miss Carson went. She could not face death yet.
The nurse followed Mr. Carson to the servants' hall. There on theirdinner-table lay the poor dead body. The men who had brought itwere sitting near the fire, while several of the servants stoodround the table, gazing at the remains.
THE REMAINS!
One or two were crying; one or two were whispering; awed into astrange stillness of voice and action by the presence of the dead.When Mr. Carson came in they all drew back and looked at him withthe reverence due to sorrow.
He went forward and gazed long and fondly on the calm, dead face;then he bent down and kissed the lips yet crimson with life. Thepolicemen had advanced, and stood ready to be questioned. But atfirst the old man's mind could only take in the idea of death;slowly, slowly came the conception of violence, of murder. "How didhe die?" he groaned forth.
The policemen looked at each other. Then one began, and stated thathaving heard the report of a gun in Turner Street, he had turneddown that way (a lonely, unfrequented way Mr. Carson knew, but ashort cut to his garden door, of which Harry had a key); that as he(the policeman) came nearer, he had heard footsteps as of a manrunning away; but the evening was so dark (the moon not having yetrisen) that he could see no one twenty yards off. That he had evenbeen startled when close to the body by seeing it lying across thepath at his feet. That he had sprung his rattle; and when anotherpoliceman came up, by the light of the lantern they had discoveredwho it was that had been killed. That they believed him to be deadwhen they first took him up, as he had never moved, spoken, orbreathed. That intelligence of the murder had been sent to thesuperintendent, who would probably soon be here. That two or threepolicemen were still about the place where the murder was committed,seeking out for some trace of the murderer. Having said this, theystopped speaking.
Mr. Carson had listened attentively, never taking his eyes off thedead body. When they had ended, he said--
"Where was he shot?"
They lifted up some of the thick chestnut curls, and showed a bluespot (you could hardly call it a hole, the flesh had closed so muchover it) in the left temple. A deadly aim! And yet it was so dark anight!
"He must have been close upon him," said one policeman.
"And have had him between him and the sky," added the other.
There was a little commotion at the door of the room, and therestood poor Mrs. Carson, the mother.
She had heard unusual noises in the house, and had sent down hermaid (much more a companion to her than her highly-educateddaughters) to discover what was going on. But the maid eitherforgot, or dreaded, to return; and with nervous impatience Mrs.Carson came down herself, and had traced the hum and buzz of voicesto the servants' hall.
Mr. Carson turned round. But he could not leave the dead for anyone living
.
"Take her away, nurse. It is no sight for her. Tell Miss Sophy togo to her mother." His eyes were again fixed on the dead face ofhis son.
Presently Mrs. Carson's hysterical cries were heard all over thehouse. Her husband shuddered at the outward expression of the agonywhich was rending his heart.
Then the police superintendent came, and after him the doctor. Thelatter went through all the forms of ascertaining death, withoututtering a word, and when at the conclusion of the operation ofopening a vein, from which no blood flowed, he shook his head, allpresent understood the confirmation of their previous belief. Thesuperintendent asked to speak to Mr. Carson in private.
"It was just what I was going to request of you," answered he; so heled the way into the dining-room, with the wine-glass still on thetable.
The door was carefully shut, and both sat down, each apparentlywaiting for the other to begin.
At last Mr. Carson spoke.
"You probably have heard that I am a rich man."
The superintendent bowed in assent.
"Well, sir, half--nay, if necessary, the whole of my fortune I willgive to have the murderer brought to the gallows."
"Every exertion, you may be sure, sir, shall be used on our part;but probably offering a handsome reward might accelerate thediscovery of the murderer. But what I wanted particularly to tellyou, sir, is that one of my men has already got some clue, and thatanother (who accompanied me here) has within this quarter of an hourfound a gun in the field which the murderer crossed, and which heprobably threw away when pursued, as encumbering his flight. I havenot the smallest doubt of discovering the murderer."
"What do you call a handsome reward?" said Mr. Carson.
"Well, sir, three, or five hundred pounds is a munificent reward:more than will probably be required as a temptation to anyaccomplice."
"Make it a thousand," said Mr. Carson decisively. "It's the doingof those damned turn-outs."
"I imagine not," said the superintendent. "Some days ago the man Iwas naming to you before, reported to the inspector when he came onhis beat, that he had to separate your son from a young man, who byhis dress he believed to be employed in a foundry; that the man hadthrown Mr. Carson down, and seemed inclined to proceed to moreviolence, when the policeman came up and interfered. Indeed, my manwished to give him in charge for an assault, but Mr. Carson wouldnot allow that to be done."
"Just like him!--noble fellow!" murmured the father.
"But after your son had left, the man made use of some pretty strongthreats. And it's rather a curious coincidence that this scuffletook place in the very same spot where the murder was committed; inTurner Street."
There was some one knocking at the door of the room. It was Sophy,who beckoned her father out, and then asked him, in an awestruckwhisper, to come upstairs and speak to her mother.
"She will not leave Harry, and talks so strangely. Indeed--indeed--papa, I think she has lost her senses."
And the poor girl sobbed bitterly.
"Where is she?" asked Mr. Carson.
"In his room."
They went upstairs rapidly and silently. It was a large comfortablebedroom; too large to be well lighted by the flaring, flickeringkitchen-candle which had been hastily snatched up, and now stood onthe dressing-table.
On the bed, surrounded by its heavy, pall-like green curtains, laythe dead son. They had carried him up, and laid him down, astenderly as though they feared to waken him; and, indeed, it lookedmore like sleep than death, so very calm and full of repose was theface. You saw, too, the chiselled beauty of the features much moreperfectly than when the brilliant colouring of life had distractedyour attention. There was a peace about him which told that deathhad come too instantaneously to give any previous pain.
In a chair, at the head of the bed, sat the mother--smiling. Sheheld one of the hands (rapidly stiffening, even in her warm grasp),and gently stroked the back of it, with the endearing caress she hadused to all her children when young.
"I am glad you are come," said she, looking up at her husband, andstill smiling. "Harry is so full of fun, he always has somethingnew to amuse us with; and now he pretends he is asleep, and that wecan't waken him. Look! he is smiling now; he hears I have found himout. Look!"
And, in truth, the lips, in the rest of death, did look as thoughthey wore a smile, and the waving light of the unsnuffed candlealmost made them seem to move.
"Look, Amy," said she to her youngest child, who knelt at her feet,trying to soothe her, by kissing her garments.
"Oh, he was always a rogue! You remember, don't you, love? how fullof play he was as a baby; hiding his face under my arm, when youwanted to play with him. Always a rogue, Harry!"
"We must get her away, sir," said nurse; "you know there is much tobe done before"--
"I understand, nurse." said the father, hastily interrupting her indread of the distinct words which would tell of the changes ofmortality.
"Come, love," said he to his wife. "I want you to come with me. Iwant to speak to you downstairs."
"I'm coming," said she, rising; "perhaps, after all, nurse, he'sreally tired, and would be glad to sleep. Don't let him get cold,though,--he feels rather chilly," continued she, after she had bentdown, and kissed the pale lips.
Her husband put his arm around her waist, and they left the room.Then the three sisters burst into unrestrained wailings. They werestartled into the reality of life and death. And yet in the midstof shrieks and moans, of shivering and chattering of teeth, Sophy'seye caught the calm beauty of the dead; so calm amidst suchviolence, and she hushed her emotion.
"Come," said she to her sisters, "nurse wants us to go; and besides,we ought to be with mamma. Papa told the man he was talking to,when I went for him, to wait, and she must not be left."
Meanwhile, the superintendent had taken a candle, and was examiningthe engravings that hung round the dining-room. It was so common tohim to be acquainted with crime, that he was far from feeling allhis interest absorbed in the present case of violence, although hecould not help having much anxiety to detect the murderer. He wasbusy looking at the only oil-painting in the room (a youth ofeighteen or so, in a fancy dress), and conjecturing its identitywith the young man so mysteriously dead, when the door opened, andMr. Carson returned. Stern as he had looked before leaving theroom, he looked far sterner now. His face was hardened intodeep-purposed wrath.
"I beg your pardon, sir, for leaving you." The superintendentbowed. They sat down, and spoke long together. One by one thepolicemen were called in, and questioned.
All through the night there was bustle and commotion in the house.Nobody thought of going to bed. It seemed strange to Sophy to hearnurse summoned from her mother's side to supper, in the middle ofthe night, and still stranger that she could go. The necessity ofeating and drinking seemed out of place in the house of death.
When night was passing into morning, the dining-room door opened, andtwo persons' steps were heard along the hall. The superintendentwas leaving at last. Mr. Carson stood on the front-door step,feeling the refreshment of the caller morning air, and seeing thestarlight fade away into dawn.
"You will not forget," said he. "I trust to you." The policemanbowed.
"Spare no money. The only purpose for which I now value wealth isto have the murderer arrested, and brought to justice. My hope inlife now is to see him sentenced to death. Offer any rewards. Namea thousand pounds in the placards. Come to me at any hour, night orday, if that be required. All I ask of you is, to get the murdererhanged. Next week, if possible--to-day is Friday. Surely with theclues you already possess, you can muster up evidence sufficient tohave him tried next week."
"He may easily request an adjournment of his trial, on the ground ofthe shortness of the notice," said the superintendent.
"Oppose it, if possible. I will see that the first lawyers areemployed. I shall know no rest while he lives."
"Everything shall be done, sir."
"You will arrange with the coroner. Ten o'clock if convenient."
The superintendent took leave.
Mr. Carson stood on the step, dreading to shut out the light andair, and return into the haunted, gloomy house.
"My son! my son!" he said at last. "But you shall be avenged, mypoor murdered boy."
Ay! to avenge his wrongs the murderer had singled out his victim,and with one fell action had taken away the life that God had given.To avenge his child's death, the old man lived on with the singlepurpose in his heart of vengeance on the murderer. True, hisvengeance was sanctioned by law, but was it the less revenge?
Are ye worshippers of Christ? or of Alecto?
Oh! Orestes, you would have made a very tolerable Christian of thenineteenth century!
Mary Barton Page 19
