Chapter XIV

DEVLIN APPEARS SUDDENLY, AND HOLDS A CONVERSATION WITH FANNY ABOUT THE MURDER.

"Now, sir, while I was looking in a state of daze at the paper, and trying to pluck up courage to read it, I felt a chill down the small of my back, and I knew that our lodger Devlin had crep into the room unbeknown, without me hearing of him.

"'What is this I've been told as I come along?' he said. 'My friend Lemon, your worthy husband, taken ill? It is sad news. Is he very ill? Let me see him.'

"What did I do, sir, but run out of the room, and up-stairs where Lemon was sleeping, and whip out the key from the inside of the door and put it in the outside, and turn the lock. Then I felt I could breathe, and I went down-stairs to Devlin.

"'Why do you lock the poor man in?' he asked.

"'How do you know?' I said, 'that I have locked him in, unless you've been spying me?'

"'How do I know what I know?' he said, laughing. 'Ah, if I egsplained you might not understand. Perhaps there's little I don't know. I've travelled the world over, Mrs. Lemon, and there's no saying what I've learnt. As for spying, fye, fye, my dear landlady! But you must be satisfied, I suppose, being a woman. Have you ever heard of second sight? It's a wonderful gift. Perhaps I've got it; perhaps I can see with my eyes shut. Sech things are. But this is trifling. Poor Lemon! I am really concerned for him. You musn't keep me away from him. I'm a doctor, and can do him a power of good.'

"'Not,' I said, and where I got the courage from in the state I was in, goodness only knows, 'while there's breath in my body shall you doctor my husband. Mischief enough you've done; you don't do no more.'

"'Mischief, you foolish woman!' he said. 'What mischief? Have you took leave of your senses?' But I didn't answer him. 'Ah, well,' he said, shrugging his shoulders, 'let it be as you wish with my poor friend Lemon. I yield always to a lady. What is this?' And he took up the newspaper. 'You've been reading, I see, the particulars of this sad case. It is more than sad; it is frightful.'

"'I haven't read it,' I said.

"'But you was going to?'

"'I won't bemean myself by denying it,' I said. 'Yes, I was going to, when you come into the room unbeknown and unbeware.'

"I had it in my mind to say that it was a liberty to come into a room as didn't belong to him without first knocking at the door, but his black eyes was fixed on me and his moustache was curling up to his nose, and I didn't dare to.

"'When I come into the room,' he said, 'unbeknown and unbeware, as you egspress it, you had no ears for anything. You was staring at the paper, and your eyes was wild. What for? Is it a murder that frightens you? Foolish, stupid, because murders are so common. How many people go to bed at night and never rise from it agin, because of what happens while they sleep! This murder is strange in a sort of way, but not clever--no, not clever. A young girl, eighteen years of age, beautiful, very beautiful, with hair of gold and eyes of blue, receives a letter. From her lover? Who shall say? That is yet to be discovered in the future. "Meet me," the letter says, "in Victoria Park, at the old spot"--which proves, my dear landlady, that they have met before in the same place--"at eleven o'clock to-night." An imprudent hour for a girl so young; but, then, what will not love dare? When you and Lemon was a-courting didn't you meet him whenever he asked you at all sorts of out-of-the-way places? It is what lovers do, without asking why. "And wear," the letter goes on, "in your belt a bunch of white daisies, so that I may know it is you." Now, why that? It is the request of a bungler. If the letter was wrote by her lover--and there is at present no reason to suppose otherwise--he would recognise his sweetheart without a bunch of white daisies in her belt. What, then, is the egsplanation? That, also, is in the future to be discovered. Let us imagine something. Say that between the young girl with the hair of gold and the eyes of blue and the man that writes the letter there is a secret, the discovery of which will be bad for him. Pardon, you wish to ask something?'

"'Yes,' I said, 'about the letter. How do you know it was wrote?'

"'Did I say I know?' he answered, with his slyest, wickedest look. 'Ain't we imagining, simply imagining? Being in the dark, we must find some point to commence at, and nothing can be more natural than a letter.'

"'Was it found in the young lady's pocket?' I asked.

"'Nothing was found,' he answered, 'in the young lady's pocket.'

"'Then it ain't possible,' I said, 'that the letter could have been wrote.'

"'Sweet innocence!' said Devlin, and with all these dreadful goings on, sir, that was making me tremble in my shoes, he had the impidence to chuck me under the chin--and Lemon up-stairs in the state he was! 'What could be easier than to empty a young lady's pockets when she's laying dead before you. A job any fool could do. But the letter may be found.'

"'And the murderer, too,' I said, with a shudder, 'and hanged, I hope!'

"'I share your hope,' he said, with one of his strange laughs,' by the neck till he is dead. The more the merrier. To continue our imaginings. Between the young lady and her lover, as I said, there's a secret as would be bad for him if it was made public--as might, indeed, be the ruin of him. This secret may be revealed in the correspondence as passed between them. The chances are that those letters are not destroyed. Men are so indiscreet! Why, they often forgit there's a to-morrer. The young lady is described as being beautiful. More's the pity. Beauty's a snare. If ever I marry--which ain't likely, Mrs. Lemon--I'll marry a fright. Beautiful as the young lady is, her lover wishes to git rid of her. Perhaps he's tired of her; perhaps he's got another fancy; perhaps he's seen her twin sister, and is smit with her. There's any number of perhapses to fit the case. But the poor girl, having been brought to shame----'

"'Is that in the paper?' I asked, interrupting him.

"'No,' he answered, 'but it may be. It is always so with those girls; there's hardly a pin to choose between 'em. Naturally, she won't consent to let him get rid of her--won't consent to release him--won't consent to let him go free. They quarrel, and make it up. They quarrel agin, and make it up agin. Days, weeks go by, till yesterday comes, and she is to meet him at night. She's got a mother, she's got a father; they set together, and she goes to bed early. She's got a headache, she says, and so, "Good-night, mother; good-night, father;" a kiss for each of 'em; and there's a end of kisses and good-nights. The last page of her little book of life is reached. There's a lot in that scene to make a body think--it's full of pictures of the past. Think of all the days of childhood wasted; think of all the love, laughter, hopes, joys--wasted; flowers, ribbons, fancies, dreams--wasted; all that good men say is sweetest in life, and that's played its part for so many, many years--all wasted. Better to have been wicked at once, better to have been sinful and deceitful all through--think you not so? "Good-night, mother; good-night, father," and so--to bed? No. To go up to her little room and lock the door, to dress herself in her best clothes, to make herself still more beautiful--for that, you see, may melt her lover's heart--to put the bunch of white daisies in her belt, to wait till the house is quiet--so quiet, so quiet!--and then to steal out softly, softly! She stops at mother's door and listens. Not a sound. Mother and father sleep in peace. Remembrances of the past come to her in the dark, and she cries a little, very quietly. Then she departs. It is done. From that home she is gone for ever, and she is walking to her grave! The park is still and quiet at that hour of the night; excep for a few hungry wretches who prowl or sleep, the girl and the man have it all to themselves. First--love passages. Twelve o'clock. They stop and listen to the tolling of the bell--they all do that. Some smile and sing at the chimes, some shiver and groan. Next--arguments, entreaties to be released. He will be so good to her, O, so good, if she will only release him! One o'clock. Next--more love-making and coaxing, then threats, passionate reproaches, defiance. Ah, it has come to that--the end is near! Two o'clock. He stabs her, quick and sudden, to the heart? Hark! do you hear the wild scream? Her body is dead, and her soul--? But that and other mysteries remain to be unravelled--which may be--Never!'"