_Cheating the Gallows._
CHAPTER I.
A CURIOUS COUPLE.
They say that a union of opposites makes the happiest marriage, andperhaps it is on the same principle that men who chum together arealways so oddly assorted. You shall find a man of letters sharingdiggings with an auctioneer, and a medical student pigging with astockbroker's clerk. Perhaps each thus escapes the temptation to talk"shop" in his hours of leisure, while he supplements his ownexperiences of life by his companion's.
There could not be an odder couple than Tom Peters and Everard G.Roxdal--the contrast began with their names, and ran through theentire chapter. They had a bedroom and a sitting-room in common, butit would not be easy to find what else. To his landlady, worthy Mrs.Seacon, Tom Peters's profession was a little vague, but everybody knewthat Roxdal was the manager of the City and Suburban Bank, and itpuzzled her to think why a bank manager should live with sucha seedy-looking person, who smoked clay pipes and sippedwhisky-and-water all the evening when he was at home. For Roxdal wasas spruce and erect as his fellow-lodger was round-shouldered andshabby; he never smoked, and he confined himself to a small glass ofclaret at dinner.
TOM PETERS.]
EVERARD G. ROXDAL.]
It is possible to live with a man and see very little of him. Whereeach of the partners lives his own life in his own way, with his owncircle of friends and external amusements, days may go by without themen having five minutes together. Perhaps this explains why thesepartnerships jog along so much more peaceably than marriages, wherethe chain is drawn so much tighter, and galls the partners rather thanlinks them. Diverse, however, as were the hours and habits of thechums, they often breakfasted together, and they agreed in onething--they never stayed out at night. For the rest Peters sought hisdiversions in the company of journalists, and frequented debatingrooms, where he propounded the most iconoclastic views; while Roxdalhad highly respectable houses open to him in the suburbs, and was, infact, engaged to be married to Clara Newell, the charming daughter ofa retired corn factor, a widower with no other child.
ASKED TWENTY-FIVE PER CENT MORE.]
Clara naturally took up a good deal of Roxdal's time, and he oftendressed to go to the play with her, while Peters stayed at home in afaded dressing-gown and loose slippers. Mrs. Seacon liked to seegentlemen about the house in evening dress, and made comparisons notfavourable to Peters. And this in spite of the fact that he gave herinfinitely less trouble than the younger man. It was Peters who firsttook the apartments, and it was characteristic of his easy-goingtemperament that he was so openly and naively delighted with the viewof the Thames obtainable from the bedroom window, that Mrs. Seacon wasemboldened to ask twenty-five per cent more than she had intended. Shesoon returned to her normal terms, however, when his friend Roxdalcalled the next day to inspect the rooms, and overwhelmed her with ademonstration of their numerous shortcomings. He pointed out thattheir being on the ground floor was not an advantage, but adisadvantage, since they were nearer the noises of the street--infact, the house being a corner one, the noises of two streets. Roxdalcontinued to exhibit the same finicking temperament in the pettydetails of the _menage_. His shirt fronts were never sufficientlystarched, nor his boots sufficiently polished. Tom Peters, having noregard for rigid linen, was always good-tempered and satisfied, andnever acquired the respect of his landlady. He wore blue check shirtsand loose ties even on Sundays. It is true he did not go to church,but slept on till Roxdal returned from morning service, and even thenit was difficult to get him out of bed, or to make him hurry up histoilette operations. Often the mid-day meal would be smoking on thetable while Peters would be still reading in bed, and Roxdal, with hishead thrust through the folding-doors that separated the bedroom fromthe sitting-room, would be adjuring the sluggard to arise and shakeoff his slumbers, and threatening to sit down without him, lest thedinner be spoilt. In revenge, Tom was usually up first on week-days,sometimes at such unearthly hours that Polly had not yet removed theboots from outside the bedroom door, and would bawl down to thekitchen for his shaving-water. For Tom, lazy and indolent as he was,shaved with the unfailing regularity of a man to whom shaving hasbecome an instinct. If he had not kept fairly regular hours, Mrs.Seacon would have set him down as an actor, so clean shaven was he.Roxdal did not shave. He wore a full beard, and, being a fine figureof a man to boot, no uneasy investor could look upon him without beingreassured as to the stability of the bank he managed so successfully.And thus the two men lived in an economical comradeship, all thefirmer, perhaps, for their mutual incongruities.
"FOR HIS SHAVING-WATER."]
CHAPTER II.
A WOMAN'S INSTINCT.
It was on a Sunday afternoon in the middle of October, ten days afterRoxdal had settled in his new rooms, that Clara Newell paid her firstvisit to him there. She enjoyed a good deal of liberty, and did notmind accepting his invitation to tea. The corn factor, himselfindifferently educated, had an exaggerated sense of the value ofculture, and so Clara, who had artistic tastes without much actualtalent, had gone in for painting, and might be seen, in prettytoilettes, copying pictures in the Museum. At one time it looked as ifshe might be reduced to working seriously at her art, for Satan, whofinds mischief still for idle hands to do, had persuaded her father toembark the fruits of years of toil in bubble companies. However,things turned out not so bad as they might have been, a little wassaved from the wreck, and the appearance of a suitor, in the person ofEverard G. Roxdal, ensured her a future of competence, if not of theluxury she had been entitled to expect. She had a good deal ofaffection for Everard, who was unmistakably a clever man, as well as agood-looking one. The prospect seemed fair and cloudless. Nothingpresaged the terrible storm that was about to break over these twolives. Nothing had ever for a moment come to vex their mutualcontentment, till this Sunday afternoon. The October sky, blue andsunny, with an Indian summer sultriness, seemed an exact image of herlife, with its aftermath of a happiness that had once seemed blighted.
Everard had always been so attentive, so solicitous, that she was asmuch surprised as chagrined to find that he had apparently forgottenthe appointment. Hearing her astonished interrogation of Polly in thepassage, Tom shambled from the sitting-room in his loose slippers andhis blue check shirt, with his eternal clay pipe in his mouth, andinformed her that Roxdal had gone out suddenly earlier in theafternoon.
"TOM SHAMBLED FROM THE SITTING-ROOM."]
"G-g-one out?" stammered poor Clara, all confused. "But he asked me tocome to tea."
"Oh, you're Miss Newell, I suppose," said Tom.
"Yes, I am Miss Newell."
"He has told me a great deal about you, but I wasn't able honestly tocongratulate him on his choice till now."
Clara blushed uneasily under the compliment, and under the ardour ofhis admiring gaze. Instinctively she distrusted the man. The veryfirst tones of his deep bass voice gave her a peculiar shudder. Andthen his impoliteness in smoking that vile clay was so gratuitous.
"Oh, then you must be Mr. Peters," she said in return. "He has oftenspoken to me of you."
"Ah!" said Tom laughingly, "I suppose he's told you all my vices. Thataccounts for your not being surprised at my Sunday attire."
She smiled a little, showing a row of pearly teeth. "Everard ascribesto you all the virtues," she said.
"Now that's what I call a friend!" he cried ecstatically. "But won'tyou come in? He must be back in a moment. He surely would not break anappointment with _you_." The admiration latent in the accentuation ofthe last pronoun was almost offensive.
She shook her head. She had a just grievance against Everard, andwould punish him by going away indignantly.
"Do let _me_ give you a cup of tea," Tom pleaded. "You must beawfully thirsty this sultry weather. There! I will make a bargain withyou! If you will come in now, I promise to clear out the momentEverard returns, and not spoil your _tete-a-tete_." But Clara wasobstinate; she did not at all relish this man's society, and besides,she was not going to t
hrow away her grievance against Everard. "I knowEverard will slang me dreadfully when he comes in if I let you go,"Tom urged. "Tell me at least where he can find you."
"I am going to take the 'bus at Charing Cross, and I'm going straighthome," Clara announced determinedly. She put up her parasol in a pet,and went up the street into the Strand. A cold shadow seemed to havefallen over all things. But just as she was getting into the 'bus, ahansom dashed down Trafalgar Square, and a well-known voice hailedher. The hansom stopped, and Everard got out and held out his hand.
"I'm so glad you're a bit late," he said. "I was called outunexpectedly, and have been trying to rush back in time. You wouldn'thave found me if you had been punctual. But I thought," he added,laughing, "I could rely on you as a woman."
"I _was_ punctual," Clara said angrily. "I was not getting out of this'bus, as you seem to imagine, but into it, and was going home."
"My darling!" he cried remorsefully. "A thousand apologies." Theregret on his handsome face soothed her. He took the rose he waswearing in the buttonhole of his fashionably cut coat and gave it toher.
"Why were you so cruel?" he murmured, as she nestled against him inthe hansom. "Think of my despair if I had come home to hear you hadcome and gone. Why didn't you wait a moment?"
"SHE NESTLED AGAINST HIM."]
A shudder traversed her frame. "Not with that man, Peters!" shemurmured.
"Not with that man, Peters!" he echoed sharply. "What is the matterwith Peters?"
"I don't know," she said. "I don't like him."
"Clara," he said, half sternly, half cajolingly, "I thought you wereabove these feminine weaknesses; you are punctual, strive also to bereasonable. Tom is my best friend. From boyhood we have been alwaystogether. There is nothing Tom would not do for me, or I for Tom. Youmust like him, Clara; you must, if only for my sake."
"I'll try," Clara promised, and then he kissed her in gratitude andbroad daylight.
"You'll be very nice to him at tea, won't you?" he said anxiously. "Ishouldn't like you two to be bad friends."
"I don't want to be bad friends," Clara protested; "only the moment Isaw him a strange repulsion and mistrust came over me."
"You are quite wrong about him--quite wrong," he assured herearnestly. "When you know him better, you'll find him the best offellows. Oh, I know," he said suddenly, "I suppose he was very untidy,and you women go so much by appearances!"
"Not at all," Clara retorted. "'Tis you men who go by appearances."
"Yes, you do. That's why you care for me," he said, smiling.
She assured him it wasn't, and she didn't care for him so much as heplumed himself, but he smiled on. His smile died away, however, whenhe entered his rooms and found Tom nowhere.
"I daresay you've made him run about hunting for me," he grumbled.
"Perhaps he knew I'd come back, and went away to leave us together,"she answered. "He said he would when you came."
"And yet you say you don't like him!"
She smiled reassuringly. Inwardly, however, she felt pleased at theman's absence.
CHAPTER III.
POLLY RECEIVES A PROPOSAL.
If Clara Newell could have seen Tom Peters carrying on with Polly inthe passage, she might have felt justified in her prejudice againsthim. It must be confessed, though, that Everard also carried on withPolly. Alas! it is to be feared that men are much of a muchness wherewomen are concerned; shabby men and smart men, bank managers andjournalists, bachelors and semi-detached bachelors. Perhaps it was amistake after all to say the chums had nothing patently in common.Everard, I am afraid, kissed Polly rather more often than Clara, andalthough it was because he respected her less, the reason wouldperhaps not have been sufficiently consoling to his affianced wife.For Polly was pretty, especially on alternate Sunday afternoons, andshe liked to receive the homage of real gentlemen, setting her whitecap at all indifferently. Thus, just before Clara knocked on thatmemorable Sunday afternoon, Polly, being confined to the house by theunwritten code regulating the lives of servants, was amusing herselfby flirting with Peters.
"CARRYING ON WITH POLLY."]
"You _are_ fond of me a little bit," the graceless Tom whispered,"aren't you?"
"You know I am, sir," Polly replied.
"You don't care for anyone else in the house?"
"Oh no, sir. I wonder how it is, sir?" Polly replied ingenuously.
And that very evening, when Clara was gone and Tom still out, Pollyturned without the faintest atom of scrupulosity, or even jealousy, tothe more fascinating Roxdal. If it would seem at first sight thatEverard had less excuse for such frivolity than his friend, perhapsthe seriousness he showed in this interview may throw a differentlight upon the complex character of the man.
"You're quite sure you don't care for anyone but me?" he askedearnestly.
"Of course not, sir!" Polly replied indignantly. "How could I?"
"But you care for that soldier I saw you out with last Sunday?"
"Oh no, sir, he's only my young man," she said apologetically.
"Would you give him up?" he hissed suddenly.
Polly's pretty face took a look of terror. "I couldn't, sir! He'd killme! He's such a jealous brute, you've no idea."
"Yes, but suppose I took you away from here?" he whispered eagerly."Somewhere where he couldn't find you--South America, Africa,somewhere thousands of miles across the seas."
"Oh, sir, you frighten me!" whispered Polly, cowering before hisardent eyes, which shone in the dimly lit passage.
"Would you come with me?" he hissed. She did not answer; she shookherself free and ran into the kitchen, trembling with a vague fear.
CHAPTER IV.
THE CRASH.
One morning, earlier than his earliest hour of demanding hisshaving-water, Tom rang the bell violently and asked the alarmed Pollywhat had become of Mr. Roxdal.
"How should I know, sir?" she gasped. "Ain't he been in, sir?"
"Apparently not," Tom answered anxiously. "He never remains out. Wehave been here three weeks now, and I can't recall a single night hehasn't been home before twelve. I can't make it out." All enquiriesproved futile. Mrs. Seacon reminded him of the thick fog that had comeon suddenly the night before.
"What fog?" asked Tom.
"Lord! didn't you notice it, sir?"
"No, I came in early, smoked, read, and went to bed about eleven. Inever thought of looking out of the window."
"It began about ten," said Mrs. Seacon, "and got thicker and thicker.I couldn't see the lights of the river from my bedroom. The poorgentleman has been and gone and walked into the water." She began towhimper.
"Nonsense, nonsense," said Tom, though his expression belied hiswords. "At the worst I should think he couldn't find his way home, andcouldn't get a cab, so put up for the night at some hotel. I daresayit will be all right." He began to whistle as if in restoredcheerfulness. At eight o'clock there came a letter for Roxdal, marked"immediate," but as he did not turn up for breakfast, Tom went roundpersonally to the City and Suburban Bank. He waited half-an-hourthere, but the manager did not make his appearance. Then he left theletter with the cashier and went away with anxious countenance.
That afternoon it was all over London that the manager of the City andSuburban had disappeared, and that many thousand pounds of gold andnotes had disappeared with him.
Scotland Yard opened the letter marked "immediate," and noted thatthere had been a delay in its delivery, for the address had beenobscure, and an official alteration had been made. It was written in afeminine hand and said: "On second thoughts I cannot accompany you. Donot try to see me again. Forget me. I shall never forget you."
"SCOTLAND YARD OPENED THE LETTER."]
There was no signature.
Clara Newell, distracted, disclaimed all knowledge of this letter.Polly deposed that the fugitive had proposed flight to her, and theroutes to Africa and South America were especially watched. Somemonths passed without result. Tom Peters went about overwhelmed withgrief and as
tonishment. The police took possession of all the missingman's effects. Gradually the hue and cry dwindled, died.
CHAPTER V.
FAITH AND UNFAITH.
"At last we meet!" cried Tom Peters, while his face lit up in joy."How _are_ you, dear Miss Newell?" Clara greeted him coldly. Her facehad an abiding pallor now. Her lover's flight and shame had prostratedher for weeks. Her soul was the arena of contending instincts. Aloneof all the world she still believed in Everard's innocence, felt thatthere was something more than met the eye, divined some devilishmystery behind it all. And yet that damning letter from the anonymouslady shook her sadly. Then, too, there was the deposition of Polly.When she heard Peters's voice accosting her all her old repugnanceresurged. It flashed upon her that this man--Roxdal's booncompanion--must know far more than he had told to the police. Sheremembered how Everard had spoken of him, with what affection andconfidence! Was it likely he was utterly ignorant of Everard'smovements? Mastering her repugnance, she held out her hand. It mightbe well to keep in touch with him; he was possibly the clue to themystery. She noticed he was dressed a shade more trimly, and wassmoking a meerschaum. He walked along at her side, making no offer toput his pipe out.
"You have not heard from Everard?" he asked. She flushed. "Do youthink I'm an accessory after the fact?" she cried.
"No, no," he said soothingly. "Pardon me, I was thinking he might havewritten--giving no exact address, of course. Men do sometimes dare towrite thus to women. But, of course, he knows you too well--you wouldhave put the police on his track."
"Certainly," she exclaimed indignantly. "Even if he is innocent hemust face the charge."
"Do you still entertain the possibility of his innocence?"
"I do," she said boldly, and looked him full in the face. His eyelidsdrooped with a quiver. "Don't you?"
"I have hoped against hope," he replied, in a voice faltering withemotion. "Poor old Everard! But I am afraid there is no room fordoubt. Oh, this wicked curse of money--tempting the noblest and thebest of us."
The weeks rolled on. Gradually she found herself seeing more and moreof Tom Peters, and gradually, strange to say, he grew less repulsive.From the talks they had together, she began to see that there wasreally no reason to put faith in Everard; his criminality, hisfaithlessness, were too flagrant. Gradually she grew ashamed of herearly mistrust of Peters; remorse bred esteem, and esteem ultimatelyripened into feelings so warm, that when Tom gave freer vent to thelove that had been visible to Clara from the first, she did notrepulse him.
"SHE DID NOT REPULSE HIM."]
It is only in books that love lives for ever. Clara, so her fatherthought, showed herself a sensible girl in plucking out an unworthyaffection and casting it from her heart. He invited the new lover tohis house, and took to him at once. Roxdal's somewhat superciliousmanner had always jarred upon the unsophisticated corn factor. WithTom the old man got on much better. While evidently quite as wellinformed and cultured as his whilom friend, Tom knew how to impart hissuperior knowledge with the accent on the knowledge rather than on thesuperiority, while he had the air of gaining much information inreturn. Those who are most conscious of defects of early education aremost resentful of other people sharing their consciousness. Moreover,Tom's _bonhomie_ was far more to the old fellow's liking than thestudied politeness of his predecessor, so that on the whole Tom mademore of a conquest of the father than of the daughter. Nevertheless,Clara was by no means unresponsive to Tom's affection, and when,after one of his visits to the house, the old man kissed her fondlyand spoke of the happy turn things had taken, and how, for the secondtime in their lives, things had mended when they seemed at theirblackest, her heart swelled with a gush of gratitude and joy andtenderness, and she fell sobbing into her father's arms.
"WITH TOM THE OLD MAN GOT ON MUCH BETTER."]
Tom calculated that he made a clear five hundred a year by occasionaljournalism, besides possessing some profitable investments which hehad inherited from his mother, so that there was no reason fordelaying the marriage. It was fixed for May-day, and the honeymoon wasto be spent in Italy.
CHAPTER VI.
THE DREAM AND THE AWAKENING.
But Clara was not destined to happiness. From the moment she hadpromised herself to her first love's friend, old memories began torise up and reproach her. Strange thoughts stirred in the depths ofher soul, and in the silent watches of the night she seemed to hearEverard's accents, charged with grief and upbraiding. Her uneasinessincreased as her wedding-day drew near. One night, after a pleasantafternoon spent in being rowed by Tom among the upper reaches of theThames, she retired to rest full of vague forebodings. And she dreamta terrible dream. The dripping form of Everard stood by her bedside,staring at her with ghastly eyes. Had he been drowned on the passageto his land of exile? Frozen with horror, she put the question.
"I have never left England!" the vision answered.
Her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth.
"Never left England?" she repeated, in tones which did not seem to behers.
The wraith's stony eyes stared on, but there was silence.
"Where have you been then?" she asked in her dream.
"Very near you," came the answer.
"There has been foul play then!" she shrieked.
The phantom shook its head in doleful assent.
"I knew it!" she shrieked. "Tom Peters--Tom Peters has done away withyou. Is it not he? Speak!"
"Yes, it is he--Tom Peters--whom I loved more than all the world."
Even in the terrible oppression of the dream she could not resistsaying, woman-like:
"Did I not warn you against him?"
The phantom stared on silently and made no reply.
"But what was his motive?" she asked at length.
"Love of gold--and you. And you are giving yourself to him," it saidsternly.
"No, no, Everard! I will not! I will not! I swear it! Forgive me!"
The spirit shook its head sceptically.
"You love him. Women are false--as false as men."
She strove to protest again, but her tongue refused its office.
"If you marry him, I shall always be with you! Beware!"
"IDENTIFIED THE BODY."]
The dripping figure vanished as suddenly as it came, and Clara awokein a cold perspiration. Oh, it was horrible! The man she had learnt tolove, the murderer of the man she had learnt to forget! How heroriginal prejudice had been justified! Distracted, shaken to herdepths, she would not take counsel even of her father, but informedthe police of her suspicions. A raid was made on Tom's rooms, and lo!the stolen notes were discovered in a huge bundle. It was found thathe had several banking accounts, with a large, recently depositedamount in each bank. Tom was arrested. Attention was now concentratedon the corpses washed up by the river. It was not long before the bodyof Roxdal came to shore, the face distorted almost beyond recognitionby long immersion, but the clothes patently his, and a pocket-book inthe breast-pocket removing the last doubt. Mrs. Seacon and Polly andClara Newell all identified the body. Both juries returned a verdictof murder against Tom Peters, the recital of Clara's dream producing aunique impression in the court and throughout the country, especiallyin theological and theosophical circles. The theory of the prosecutionwas that Roxdal had brought home the money, whether to fly alone orto divide it, or whether, even for some innocent purpose, as Clarabelieved, was immaterial; that Peters determined to have it all, thathe had gone out for a walk with the deceased, and, taking advantage ofthe fog, had pushed him into the river, and that he was furtherimpelled to the crime by love for Clara Newell, as was evident fromhis subsequent relations with her. The judge put on the black cap. TomPeters was duly hung by the neck till he was dead.
THE CORPSE WASHED UP BY THE RIVER.]
CHAPTER VII.
BRIEF RESUME OF THE CULPRIT'S CONFESSION.
When you all read this I shall be dead and laughing at you. I havebeen hung for my own murder. I am Everard G. Roxdal. I am also
TomPeters. We two were one. When I was a young man my moustache and beardwouldn't come. I bought false ones to improve my appearance. One day,after I had become manager of the City and Suburban Bank, I took offmy beard and moustache at home, and then the thought crossed my mindthat nobody would know me without them. I was another man. Instantlyit flashed upon me that if I ran away from the Bank, that other mancould be left in London, while the police were scouring the world fora non-existent fugitive. But this was only the crude germ of the idea.Slowly I matured my plan. The man who was going to be left in Londonmust be known to a circle of acquaintance beforehand. It would be easyenough to masquerade in the evenings in my beardless condition, withother disguises of dress and voice. But this was not brilliant enough.I conceived the idea of living with him. It was Box and Cox reversed.We shared rooms at Mrs. Seacon's. It was a great strain, but it wasonly for a few weeks. I had trick clothes in my bedroom like those ofquick-change artistes; in a moment I could pass from Roxdal to Petersand from Peters to Roxdal. Polly had to clean two pairs of boots amorning, cook two dinners, &c., &c. She and Mrs. Seacon saw one or theother of us every moment; it never dawned upon them they never saw us_both together_. At meals I would not be interrupted, ate off twoplates, and conversed with my friend in loud tones. A slightventriloquial gift enabled me to hold audible conversations with himwhen he was supposed to be in the bedroom. At other times we dined atdifferent hours. On Sundays he was supposed to be asleep when I was inchurch. There is no landlady in the world to whom the idea would haveoccurred that one man was troubling himself to be two (and to pay fortwo, including washing). I worked up the idea of Roxdal's flight,asked Polly to go with me, manufactured that feminine letter thatarrived on the morning of my disappearance. As Tom Peters I mixed witha journalistic set. I had another room where I kept the gold and notestill I mistakenly thought the thing had blown over. Unfortunately,returning from here on the night of my disappearance, with Roxdal'sclothes in a bundle I intended to drop into the river, it was stolenfrom me in the fog, and the man into whose possession it ultimatelycame appears to have committed suicide, so that his body dressed in myclothes was taken for mine. What, perhaps, ruined me was my desire tokeep Clara's love, and to transfer it to the survivor. Everard toldher I was the best of fellows. Once married to her, I would not havehad much fear. Even if she had discovered the trick, a wife cannotgive evidence against her husband, and often does not want to. I madenone of the usual slips, but no man can guard against a girl'snightmare after a day up the river and a supper at the Star andGarter. I might have told the judge he was an ass, but then I shouldhave had penal servitude for bank robbery, and that is worse thandeath. The only thing that puzzles me, though, is whether the law hascommitted murder or I suicide. What is certain is that I have cheatedthe gallows.
The King of Schnorrers: Grotesques and Fantasies Page 9
