by Grant Allen
‘What is it, Vernon?’ I inquired, not being given to promise anything in the dark in that way.
‘Well, it’s this, sir,’ he answered, hesitating a little. ‘I want to go and see poor Norcott in Dorchester jail before he’s turned off, if I may venture to call it so; and I don’t exactly like to go near him by myself — it’s a delicate business: so I thought, as you were a clergyman, and a proper person (as I may say) to accompany me, perhaps you wouldn’t mind just running across with me.’
I had an errand or two in Dorchester, as it happened, that day; and I felt besides a certain natural curiosity to see how the fellow took the prospect of hanging, now the bravado of the trial had cooled off him a little; so I said, ‘It’s not exactly convenient for me to go to-day, Vernon’ (not to make myself too cheap); ‘but still, if you think it would be a comfort to you to have a clergyman by your side, why, to oblige a parishioner, and as a matter of duty, I don’t mind accompanying you.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ he replied, looking at me rather curiously; ‘I’m sure I’m very much obliged indeed to you.’ He said it, as he always said everything, respectfully and deferentially; yet I thought I somehow noticed a queer undercurrent of contempt in the tone of his voice which I had never before observed in it. And I certainly detected a strange gleam of devilry in the corner of his eye as he bowed and withdrew, which reminded me at once of his brother the murderer.
However, I thought no more about it at the time, and we went across to Dorchester next day very amicably, Vernon thanking me profusely more than once on the way for my goodness in accompanying him. We had a pass from the authorities to see the prisoner; and the moment we entered the fellow’s cell I could perceive at a glance he was as unrepentant as ever. His eyes were sullen. In fact, though of course he couldn’t possibly have had access to brandy in prison, he wore the exact air of a man who has been drinking heavily. I suppose he had acquired by dint of long practice a permanently drunken aspect and habit, which followed him even into the enforced teetotalism of the condemned cell. His manner was offensive, and extremely hectoring. As soon as his brother spoke to him, he burst out at once into a long, loud peal of discordant laughter. His hilarity shocked me. ‘Hullo, Ted,’ he cried, seizing his brother’s hand. ‘So you’ve come to preach to me! And you’ve brought along a parson! Well, well, that’s characteristic! You couldn’t drop in without a devil-dodger, couldn’t you? I know why you’ve done that. It’s half of it hypocrisy; but it’s more than half that you didn’t dare to face me — here, alone, in my cell — without a parson by your side to keep you in countenance!’
I felt grieved to see a man so near his last end in such an unbecoming frame of mind for one in his position; so I ventured to encroach so far upon the province of the prison chaplain as to offer him a little spiritual advice and exhortation. His brother, too, spoke to him most nicely and well, reminding him of their innocent childhood together, and of the many opportunities of leading a better life which had often been afforded him by the kindness of relations. But the condemned man seemed to wallow in a condition of hopeless rebellion; he had been delivered over, I judged, to a reprobate mind, which rendered him unwilling to listen to advice or consolation of any kind. His manner remained insolent and defiant to the very end; nothing that my companion could say to encourage him would bring him to a proper sense of his awful position.
At last, towards the close of our interview, when Vernon was endeavouring to utter a few appropriate words of affectionate farewell, the prisoner burst forth of a sudden with a fierce outbreak of language, the very words of which are engraved to this day on my memory. ‘Why, Ted, you shallow sneak,’ he cried, with every outer appearance of profound indignation, ‘what humbug this all is — your pretending to preach to me! You know from your childhood up you’ve always been a sight a worse fellow than I have! You know it, and I know it! Bone of my bone, and blood of my blood, I know every thought, every feeling, every fibre of you. I know the false bent of you. Why, you and I are the selfsame man — except only that I was never a sneak and a hypocrite as you are. When we were boys at school, we got into the same scrapes; but you sneaked out, and I got flogged for them. When we stole apples together, it was I who climbed the hedge, and you who kept the biggest half of the apples for yourself, and ate them secretly. Every instinct and impulse that has led me into this scrape, you have it as well as I have. Only, you have in addition that confounded self-restraint of yours, which I call covetousness and worldly wisdom.’
Edward Vernon seemed to wince as the criminal went on; but he bowed his head low and answered nothing. His brother still continued in a more excited voice: ‘Oh yes, I know you; every trick and every trait of you. You mean-spirited hypocrite! The family vices, you’ve got them as bad as I have, and one of them worse than me. There never was a Vernon yet, I know, but loved the drink and loved the money. I love them myself; you love them as well or better than I do. But I loved drink best; and you loved money. That was meaner and worse than me. I married for love a woman I doted on; and then, I led her a wretched life with the drink, and repented time and again, as we Vernons will repent — you know the way of us — and after that, fell back again. You married for money a woman you despised, and lived your wretched life at loggerheads with her for ever, being only at one for a time in your miserable money-grubbing. I loved the money, too; but I had grace enough left to hate myself for loving it; and it drove me into drink, worse, worse than ever; for whenever I tried to lead what you would call “a decent life,” I found in a week or two I was saving and scraping and carneying like you, and degenerating into a confounded respectable hypocrite. I despised and disliked myself so much for that — never being able to sink quite as low as you do — that I turned back to my drink, and respected myself the more for it. Then poor Lucy died — I hurried her to her grave, I know; no fear of that with you; your Martha won’t be hurried to the grave by any one; she’ll stroll down in her own good time, fat and sleek and respectable. I repented for that again — and drank worse than ever over it. You drink too, but late at night, in your own house — quietly, decently, soberly — like a respectable tradesman and a solvent churchwarden. You keep a parson in the house with you to prevent your breaking out some evening unawares into a Vernon fandango. Oh yes; I understand you! Then I picked up with poor Moll. I’m built like that. I must have a woman about, to care for and sympathise with — and to bully when I’m not sober. But I wasn’t going to inflict my poor drunken self upon a pure, good woman, whom I’d have driven to her grave the same as I did Lucy; so I picked up with poor Moll there. She could drink with me herself; and in her way I loved her. Don’t pull a shocked mug: you know how that was just as well as I do; for you’re the same build as me, and, you see, you’re a drunkard. I’ve always that consolation in talking to you, Ted, that at least I feel sure you can quite understand me. Two of a mind don’t need an interpreter. Well, we quarrelled one night, Moll and I, both as drunk as owls — quarrelled about another man; and in my heat, I struck her. She up and had at me. It was knives after that; her first, me after; and — here I am now, awaiting execution. But, Ted, you know it’s only because you’re a meaner sneak than I am that I’m sitting here, a condemned murderer to-day, while you’re a respectable and respected tradesman.’
To my great surprise, Edward Vernon seemed immensely impressed by this unseemly harangue, and, covering his face with his hands, cowered visibly before the man. For my own dignity’s sake, I felt it was high time this unfortunate interview should come to a conclusion. ‘Vernon,’ I said, touching the grocer’s arm, ‘let’s go now, I beg of you. Our presence is superfluous. It’s clear we can do your unhappy brother no good. He’s not in a fitting frame of mind just now to receive with advantage our advice or condolence. Suppose we leave him to the kindly ministrations of the prison chaplain?’
‘You’re right, sir,’ the grocer answered, taking his handkerchief from his face (and, contrary to all belief, I saw he had been crying). ‘I’m afrai
d my presence rather aggravates than consoles him.’
The murderer rose from his seat. His face was hateful. ‘Ted, Ted,’ he cried out, ‘you infernal hypocrite; will you keep up your hypocrisy even at a moment like this before your condemned brother? Oh, Ted, I’m ashamed of you. Go home, sir, go home; take your bottle from your box, and repent a good honest Vernon repentance! Get decently drunk before the eyes of the world, and confess your sneakishness. It’s money-grubbing, not virtue, that’s kept you straight so long. If you’ve any conscience left, boy, go home and repent of it. Go home and get drunk; and let all the world know which man of us two was really the worst devil!’
I seized the grocer’s arm and hurried him by main force out of the condemned cell. I felt this scene was growing unseemly. But all the way back to Redleigh he sat and crouched in the train, looking as if he had been whipped, and white as a ghost with terror.
Three days after, Norcott Vernon was to be executed at Dorchester. In the morning his brother Edward disappeared from Redleigh, and didn’t turn up again till late in the evening. About eleven o’clock, I was sitting in my own rooms, in my long lounge chair, engaged in reading the excellent literary supplement to the Guardian; and, having mislaid my paper-knife, no doubt through the culpable negligence of Mrs. Vernon’s housemaid, I had just taken from its sheath the little Norwegian dirk or dagger which I brought back the year before from my trip to the Hardanger Fiord. I had cut the pages open with it, and laid the knife down carelessly on the table by my side (which ought to be a lesson to one in habits of tidiness), when a loud and disgraceful noise upon the stairs aroused my attention — a noise as of quarrel and drunken scuffling. Next instant, with a rude burst, my door was pushed open, and my landlord entered, all red and blustering, without even so much as a knock to announce his arrival.
He had been drinking, that was evident; for his face was flushed: and I noticed, almost without consciously recognising the fact, that his features and expression now resembled more closely than ever the condemned man whom I had seen a few days before in his cell at Dorchester. He advanced towards me with an insolent hectoring air which exactly recalled his unfortunate brother’s. ‘Hullo, parson,’ he cried, laughing loud: ‘so there you are at your studies — looking over the list of next presentations! Ha, ha, ha! that’s a good joke! You’re counting the loaves and fishes. How much the advowson? Present incumbent, I suppose, over eighty, and failing!’
I had never before seen the man in such a state as this; so I rose severely and fronted him. ‘Vernon,’ I observed in my most chilling voice, ‘you’ve been drinking, sir, drinking!’
He drew back a pace, and throwing his head on one side, looked long at me and sniggered. ‘Yes, I have, you image,’ he answered. ‘You fool, I’ve been drinking. Honestly, openly, manfully drinking. And I’ve got it on me now — the Vernon repentance. I’ve been over to Dorchester — oh yes, I’ve been over: to see the black flag hoisted over the jail when my brother Norcott was turned off — for the murder I myself as good as committed.’
‘What do you mean, man?’ I cried, taken aback. ‘You’re drunk, sir: dead drunk! Go at once from my presence!’
‘Drunk?’ he answered. ‘Yes, drunk! But precious sober for all that. I’ve come to myself at last. I won’t endure it any longer.... Why, do you think, you great goggle-eyed owl, I like all this flummery? Do you think I like your parsonical cant? I’m a Vernon, and I hate it; though for the money’s sake, the vile money, the hateful money that was always our stumbling-block, I’ve endured it and put up with it. But I’m done with it now; I’ve slaved and saved enough: I’ve come to myself, as Norcott advised, and I tell you, I’m done with it. You thought I had no conscience, you blue-faced baboon; but I had, and I’ve awaked it. Good gin’s awaked it. It’s wide awake now, and it’s driving me to this, for poor Norcott’s murder. I did it as well as he; I did it, and I’ll pay for it. I could have done the same thing any day if I’d only had the courage, and if it hadn’t been for this cursed respectability’s sake that I endured for the money. I just kept it down, because I wasn’t half the man my brother Norcott was. They’ve hanged him for being more of a man than I was. He loved his wife, and I hate mine. But I’m a man too; and I can murder with the best of them.’
I began to be alarmed. ‘Go to bed, you wretched sot!’ I exclaimed severely.
But he burst into a loud laugh. ‘No, no; I won’t go to bed,’ he answered, ‘ — till I’ve had your blood. I’ll have your blood, or some one’s. Then I’ll go up sober for once, and sleep the sleep of a baby.’
As he spoke, his eye chanced to fall upon the Norwegian dagger which I had incautiously laid down beside the Guardian upon the table. He snatched it up and brandished it. I turned pale, I suppose; at any rate, I’m sure I retired with some haste to the far side of the sitting-room. He followed me like a demon. ‘Why, you white-livered cur,’ he cried, in a voice like a madman’s, ‘you’re afraid of dying! Ha, ha, ha! that’s good! A parson, and afraid! Afraid of going home! Where’s the point of your religion?’
I dodged him about the table; but he flew after me, round and round. He brandished the knife as he did so.
‘I’ve got a conscience,’ he shrieked aloud, ‘and it’s wide awake now. I’m done with hypocrisy. No more money-grubbing for me. I shall have somebody’s blood. It ain’t fair poor Norcott should be hanged by the neck till dead, and worse men than he alive and respected! I shall come out just for once in my life to-night. I shall show my real character. Let’s be honest and straightforward. — I’ll drive it up to the haft in you.’
He poked the knife out. Then he flung back his head and roared with laughter. ‘How the devil-dodger runs!’ he cried, lunging at me. ‘It does one good to see him. But I’ll have his blood, all the same. I shall swing for it, like Norcott.’
With a desperate effort, I rushed forward and seized the deadly weapon from the fellow’s hands. In doing so, I cut myself with the blade rather seriously. But I wrenched it away, all the same. He let me wrench it. But he stood there and laughed at me. Then he retreated towards the door, and pulled out — a new pistol. ‘I bought this at Dorchester,’ he said calmly, cocking it. ‘I bought it this morning, for conscience’ sake, to do a murder with.’
I faced him in silence. He pointed it at me and laughed again. ‘What a precious funk they’re in!’ he cried, seeming to burst with amusement. ‘What a lot they all think of their tuppeny-ha’penny lives! It’s enough to make one laugh. But I don’t think I’ll shoot him. He ain’t worth a good cartridge. He’s such a contemptible jackass!’
The words were rude; but I confess, at the moment, I heard them with pleasure.
Then, to my immense surprise, he opened the door once more, with a cunning look on his face, and walked quietly upstairs. I fell, unmanned, into my easy-chair, quivering all over with nervous agitation. There was a minute’s pause. At the end of that time, a loud report shook the room I sat in. It was followed at ten seconds’ interval by another. Next instant, the housemaid rushed down with a face of terror. ‘Oh, come up, sir,’ she cried. ‘There’s terrible things happening! Mr. Vernon’s shot himself, and he’s killed the missus!’
I went up to the bedroom. The wife was on the hearth-rug, shot lightly through the body. The wretched man himself lay moaning on the bed, blood streaming from his breast, and his eyes half open. As he saw me, he smiled through his pain and flung up one hand. ‘Norcott was right,’ he said slowly. ‘I was always a deal a worse fellow than he was. But I’ve come to myself now, and I hope I’ve killed her.’
He was wrong in that hope. His wife recovered. The jury very rightly returned it as temporary insanity. Indeed, Vernon’s strange and unbecoming language to myself just before his death clearly showed the fact that reason had been deposed from her seat for the time being. I have always felt that his brother’s terrible end must have preyed upon a once estimable parishioner’s mind so much that he was scarcely responsible at the time for his dreadful actions, which providen
tially had no such evil results for my own life and limbs as I feared at the moment of his worst delirium. His estate was proved at seventy odd thousand pounds, and his widow has since married a most respectable solicitor.
TAILPIECE. A MATTER OF STANDPOINT
‘Anything going to-day, comrade?’ hungry-looking Jules asked of hungry-looking Hector, just outside the grounds of the Hotel Beau-Rivage.
‘Pas de chance,’ hungry-looking Hector responded, with a shake of his shaggy head. ‘No work since a fortnight. It is, look you, these bourgeois!’
But the word bourgeois did not mean to those unkempt and starveling Provençaux at all the same thing that the English journalist has made it mean to the English reader. To you, dear gentlemen, it implies practically an underbred person, whose tastes are less noble and exalted than your own; to Jules and Hector, it connoted rather a man in a black coat — good, bad, or indifferent: a person not a workman, a riche, an eat-all, a member of the capitalist or idle classes. Sons of the southern proletariat themselves, born to a slender and precarious diet of garlic and olives, with a substratum of sour bread, and an occasional rinsing of petit vin bleu, they made no petty discrimination of trade or profession, no invidious distinction of banker or brewer, merchant or manufacturer, doctor or advocate, poet or painter. If you wore a blue blouse or a coarse grey shirt with a crimson sash, you were an ouvrier and a brother; if you wore a black coat and a starched white collar, you were a sacré bourgeois, and an enemy of humanity. ’Tis a simple creed, with much to recommend it. It may occasionally go wrong — all creeds are fallible — but in the main it answers to a genuine distinction of life and function — from the point of view of starveling Jules and starveling Hector, bien entendu!
‘What hast thou eaten to-day?’ hungry Jules inquired, with a keen glance from under his black penthouse eyebrows. His sharp beady eyes were naturally deep-set, but a long course of starvation had made them still further recede into dim recesses of darkling shadow.
