The Outlaw (Marriott Watson)/Chapter 3

UTCASTS see strange things, stranger even than the officers of the law whose task it is to mark, trace, and control those departures from the normal course of society which characterise our great cities. The eyes of the dark are bright eyes; and the records of the night are as innumerable as those of the day, and far more wonderful. I have been the witness of many curious episodes, in that part of my life from which I am picking a few of the more striking incidents; and some have been pitiful, and many have been tragic, and most have been sordid. Several, indeed, would tax the faith of those who have no personal knowledge of the sights and scenes of nocturnal London. And perhaps this story of the woman, Chatterton, and the oaken chest comes into the category. If I am believed, well; but if not, no matter.

It will take a waif floating upon London town some three or four months, or even longer, to become habituated to the fears and the alarms to which he is necessarily subject; but he is fortunate if in twice that time he has learned the limits and the possibilities of his prison. To come down to the life of a vagabond and to fit into it is not achieved so easily. A barrister is content to spend many years in acquiring a knowledge of his profession; a soldier, as I know, would think himself lucky, if after twenty years he were sure of his calling. And, in the same way, a vagrant, a beggar, a fugitive from justice, must practise a long apprenticeship on the streets. It was six months ere I began to find my way about, and even then I was constantly meeting with surprises which no old hand would have experienced. Long since had I pawned all my changes of dress, and my tweed garments were grievously worn and soiled. I had grown to take on the air of the homeless. I moved with a slouch, with a roving inquisitive eye, divided between the pavement and the traffic in the roads. There was always something practicable from the streets—a cab to be followed, a horse to be held, a carriage door to be opened—and sometimes even, by the grace of fortune, a piece of silver to be picked up, amid the press of vehicles. I had grown callous now to the police. A beard had sprung on my chin, and I was in no fear of recognition. It was with quite another anxiety that I kept an eye open for the constable, but I knew pretty well how best he might be evaded, and to what point of toleration and indifference he would go. I was cunning in judging him, and I took a hint—like the most expert “sharp”—at the right moment, and not foolishly too soon.

At times, however, my ingenuity and my patience failed me, and I starved: I have gone without food for two whole days, but never longer. Something would invariably turn up and change my fortunes. I could rely upon it implicitly, and (had it not been for the pangs of hunger) comfortably. I suppose that the doctrine of averages applies even to the miserable chances of the streets. Yet it so happened that I had eaten nothing all day on that evening when I met the woman Chatterton. It was somewhere about twelve o'clock of a dark but soft June night, and I was making my way towards Battersea across the river, feeling thoroughly tired and hungry. I had the thought of sleeping in a yard I had discovered close by the Park, so as to turn into that fresh green paradise in the earliest morning hours. The parks take rank variously with outcasts like us; and in general it is Hyde Park or Regent's Park that is most favoured. But I had my fancy for Battersea—perhaps owing to some secret fear that I should be recognised by an acquaintance in the more frequented gardens, and my shame and my crime published to the world. I crossed the bridge and crept down by the river, among a disorder of tiles and brickwork. Presently after I stood out upon the shelving bank that leads down to the water, and before turning off to my surreptitious lair cast one glance toward the dull lights of Chelsea. Against the low fires of the Embankment a figure was sharply delineated, and it was a woman. I asked myself with no particular curiosity what she did there upon the brink of the river so late; but the next second I started, ran forward, and leaping across the obstacles between us, suddenly and unexpectedly caught her by the shoulder.

She had not heard my advance, and she turned swiftly, with a great gasp and a wild ejaculation of terror. She struggled and almost fell out of my clutch into the water; and in the act of struggling her cloak was torn open, and disclosed her bare arms and bosom, gleaming even in the dim light. I had acted merely upon impulse, and with no reason. What was it to me if one poor creature more had wearied, and desired peace? I would not in my reasoning moments have put out the hand to arrest the suicide from death. Yet I had stepped involuntarily between this woman and what she asked for; and now, as, under the starlight and with the glimmer from the silent water below, I pieced together some picture of her face, and found she was young and handsome to the eyes, and of a class with which that desperate end is not wont to be associated, the impulse to preserve her grew still stronger.

“What are you doing?” she asked, in a voice that was low and tremulous, yet rang with music.

“It is I who should ask you that,” I replied gravely.

She made no answer, but I observed her to shudder deeply, and she withdrew herself from my touch.

“You need fear nothing now,” she said presently: “the impulse has gone.”

“You will go home?” I asked.

“I will go home,” she said dully.

There was an interval of silence. I scarcely knew what next to do. I did not believe her; there was no hope in her voice. Yet I felt again a strong desire to save her. Hers was no common case, such as we, wanderers of the night, grow to observe with indifferent eyes.

“I will see you leave the river,” I said at last.

“Good heaven, man!” she cried, suddenly breaking into anger, “who gave you liberty to keep a poor soul from rest? What claim have you to the keys of life or death? Your voice rings like a gentleman's,” said she, and now she approached and set a trembling hand upon my arm: “for the love of God leave me to what I will. If you are a man of education, if you know anything, you will know this, that there are times when we must walk by and avert our eyes. I beg you, leave me.”

I hesitated; the pitiful prayer shook me. I had no right to stay her. And yet the nameless attraction of her voice and manner made me even the less disposed to abandon her to her terrible intention. I had the thought that I might help her, that her case could not be so bad as to exact this ultimate and gloomy penalty.

“I am no enemy to suicide,” I said at length; “but I am sure of this, that he who cuts the knot without due consideration, and upon a blind instinct, is more foolish than he who refuses to cut it at all.”

“I have considered...” she burst forth, and then, subduing her voice, “I have decided,” she added.

“You are young,” I said; “I judge that you are not poor. You appear to be beautiful. I should say, also, that you are extravagantly impulsive. It is that that has rushed you into this. Wait another day, and, before Heaven, I say that if you then should decide for death, I would not only not take a step to hinder you, but I would approve and wish you well.”

“You cannot understand,” she said sullenly; “these things matter nothing to me. I cannot wait.”

“You shall wait,” I declared, “until you have duly reflected. See here,”—for I could perceive that to argue with her there was all to no purpose, so set was this woman on death,—“you shall choose between two alternatives. Either you shall go home and reconsider your decision until to-morrow, or I will hand you over to the policeman on the bridge near by.”

Instantly a change came over her. She dropped to the ground. “For the love of God,” she pleaded, “do not do that. You must not—you shall not. Don't say that. If you have ever been yourself in trouble, you will pity me and not do that.”

The terror into which those few words had cast her seemed to me to be incommensurate with their importance. I stood there by her, and had nothing to reply. It was she who resumed, stifling her sobs and rising to her feet.

“Very well,” she said more quietly, “I accept your alternative. I will go home.”

“I will help you home,” I said, somewhat timorously. “You are in no condition to be left.”

“As you will,” she answered in her dull voice; and we began to walk upwards to the road. I think nothing further passed between us until we had crossed the bridge and come into Chelsea. I remember that once, as we passed under a lamp, the light struck yellow upon her face, and I was startled simultaneously by her beauty and the set grim look she wore. At a house in Damon Gardens she came to a pause, inserted a key and pushed open the door.

“Come,” she said briefly,—“enter.”

I entered with reluctance. The house itself had the appearance of superiority, and the room, into which I came at once, bore the impress of wealth and taste. It was a drawing-room, the boudoir of a lady, as I guessed; and no sign of masculine habits could I perceive upon the walls nor in any article within the chamber. The woman herself stood with her back to the door, her bosom heaving above the black evening dress, her long arms reaching to the armchair behind which she had taken her place. She had not looked at me until now, and as her gaze for the first time met mine I could not but be struck by her fine air.

“You wear the clothes of the destitute,” she began, in a voice which was quiet but low; “yet I seem to see in you a gentleman.”

“I am that,” I said simply.

“That you have wished me well, however cruel your conduct may have been, I do not doubt,” she pursued, without any acknowledgment of my admission. “It is because of this, and also because I see no other way out of my dilemma, that I trust you to-night. You interrupted me inopportunely on the point of a deliverance. I have yielded to the force which you threatened, and have brought you here. Look about you! This is my house, these are my ornaments, every piece and article in this place is mine. My name is Chatterton. I am twenty-five. I was married three years ago to—to the man whose name I own. A year ago we separated. Was it for my beauty he desired me, or for my money? I cannot say. It matters very little. I hated him—he was a devil. He has pestered me ever since we parted—for money, for affection—for wantonness. To-night he came here. I received him quietly. I found him here when I returned from a theatre. He had let himself in through the window, as the servants were in bed. My supper was laid for me. I entered with no other thought than of kindliness to all men. I found that devil grinning at the table. He gibed at me, as always.”

She paused, and moistened her lips. I said no word. Then she lifted her arms from the chair and turned the handle of the door mechanically. “I will show you the rest,” she said quietly.

In a maze of pity and astonishment I too rose and followed her. Across the hall she opened another door, and stood aside for me to enter. Before me lay a table, shining under the gaslight with white linen and sparkling with glasses, and at the foot a man sat, hunched in his chair, his head and face resting peacefully in his hands upon the table.

“Is he drunk?” I asked gently.

“He is dead,” said the woman slowly. “I killed him.”

There was a terrible silence in the room, and then in a moment a warm gush of emotion filled my heart.

“It was unintentional,” she went on, with her eyes on the figure. “He used horrible words to me. I struck him. He is dead, and he was my husband. You see now that I have no course open to me but one.”

“Madam,” I broke forth, “I have lived much among horrible sights and sounds, and you must not wonder if this scene does not affect me. Nay, I have myself known the very feelings which animate you now, and here I stand, an outlaw, to convict myself of folly. You have accidentally killed a man. Why, so did I. But I fled, and added to that still another folly. So must not you do, even by the final cowardice of death. Nothing is irretrievable.”

“There is but one course,” she repeated.

“Come,” I said quickly: “no one has seen him enter. This man, I doubt not, deserved his death, but you must not be concerned in it.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, looking at me for the second time only.

“You are young,” I said; “I am older, and a man. I have sacrificed my career. Your life may still be happy. Let me take this thing away.”

“What would you do?” she asked impassively.

“Placed in a box,” I said in a lower voice, “it can be carried away, and dropped into the friendly bosom of the Thames, which receives all secrets and discloses none.”

Her wide eyes considered me, and somewhere in the liquid depths I seemed to myself to perceive a great current rise and surge upwards charged with light. Her breath came a little.

“You are kind,” she said, as quietly as before: “perhaps—perhaps what you say can be—be done.”

“It shall be done,” I declared.

She stood with her hand upon the door, her features lighted up with a new excitement. “You give me hope,” said she, and glanced back upon the body with what seemed like triumph. Her eyes blazed still with satisfaction as they swept round to me, and she examined me again. sf

“You think you can do this?” she asked gently.

“Let me try,” I answered.

“You too have suffered,” she said; “I could not hurt you further.”

“I cannot be hurt any more,” I replied simply, “and I am willing.”

“You are a good man,” she remarked softly, and passed out into the hall. In the pretty drawing-room she stopped and looked at me. “I will accept your offer,” she said. “You shall take it away. Have you any money? Stay, here is a sovereign, which will suffice perhaps.” She pressed a piece of gold into my hands, and feverishly turned away. At the door she paused, and took a step again towards me. “There is a chest that stands in the hall,” she whispered, her eyes straining eagerly into mine, her pallid face bent close to me. “I will have it ready in five minutes. I will see to that part. You shall take that and drop it, as you say, into the river. I like that idea. It is the best solution, and then I shall never be troubled more with it. You promise that?”

I consented. “And you will go to bed?” I asked.

“Yes, I will go to bed,” she answered; and, nodding slowly, she left the room noiselessly upon her terrible mission.

I must have waited some ten minutes in that quiet boudoir. The little marble clock, striking one o'clock, roused me from my strange reflections. In that space of time I had almost repented of my impulsive offer. I had time to cool and harden, and I saw myself rashly committed to a perilous expedition for the sake of two fine eyes and a weeping woman. But I was now bound by my promise; I could not withdraw; and with some impatience I got up and crossed to the door of the drawing-room. As I did so I thought I heard a soft voice calling, calling ever so gently from without. I opened the door and peered out into the twilight, and the first thing that met my eyes was the oaken chest standing against the wall. I went to the hall door and pushed back the lock, and the strong air blew out of the summer night upon me. If I were going to fulfil my promise to Mrs. Chatterton I must be stirring. A cab was coming swiftly down the road, and across the way a policeman, heavily marching, was slowly passing. I shrank back into the doorway. I turned; a certain dread of the position dropped upon me. The gas, turned low in the hall, shed a faint radiance upon the still chest, and streamed up the stairway towards the upper storeys. I fancied that I could make out in that gloaming light, far up, motionless against the balustrade, the shining of two long still arms and a white bosom glowing faintly. The cab-bells jingled near me. The policeman turned the corner; I walked down into the pathway, and put up my hand to the cabman.

And now began the second part of that remarkable and horrible adventure. The chest stood before me with its awful burden, and I was driving—I hardly knew whither. The man had directions to go east, and we wandered through the desolate wilderness of Belgravia, and by Victoria Street towards Charing Cross. I had not yet determined upon my destination. The river it must be in the end, but I could not tell the cabman to drive on to the riverside, and yet I must be set down at some point from which the chest might be conveyed to the Thames. Presently I hit upon a design which, though hazardous, was quite practicable. I dared not drop the chest from the Embankment, the risk was so great; while upon the Surrey side the ebbing of the tide would sooner or later expose the terrible secret. But I remembered a spot among the wharves where I could get access to the river, and boats of the barges. I could put out thence into the middle of the water, and in that solitude discharge my abominable burden into the depths. I put my hand through the peep-hole to give the driver his instructions, and at the same moment the horse slipped, plunged, reeled, skated along the shining pavement, and went down.

I was flung across the splash-board, and the driver was hurled with force to the ground. We rose, bewildered from the shock; but the horse did not rise—he had injured a leg.

Immediately flowed in upon me with a sensation of horror the consequences of this hapless accident. The box had slipped from the cab, and lay upon the roadway. We had passed Piccadilly Circus, and were in the region of Leicester Square, far from the Thames, and still farther from the point at which I was aiming. I cast a helpless look about me. Already the fall of the horse had brought two or three night-wanderers to the spot, and a man in evening dress stopped and stood smoking a cigar as he watched the scene. But what struck fear into my heart was the sight of a policeman, who approached, observed the struggling animal carefully, and entered into conversation with the driver. Ere I could recover my wits he came up to me.

“You have a heavy box there,” he said.

I could detect some suspicion in his voice, and his eyes were scrutinising my shabby clothes. I returned him an answer with what nonchalance I could muster, and addressed the cabman. At all hazards I must get away—get away with my chest. The cabman declared that he could take me no farther, and there was no other hansom in sight.

“Where were you going?” inquired the constable, and his curt tones sent me into a new terror.

I stammered. “An hotel,” I said.

“What hotel?” he asked, after a pause.

It was on my tongue to name one of the chief hotels at Charing Cross, but I was conscious of my frayed and dirty garments. I made an indefinite reply, pointing towards Soho; and at this juncture a hoarse voice broke on my agitation.

“We'll carry it for you, guv'nor.”

One of the loafers was speaking; and, accepting the solution as a deliverance, I assented hurriedly, and paid the cabman. Two men shouldered the chest, and moved slowly up a bye-street. I followed, and the policeman stood watching us.

At the first corner I breathed more freely, and began to consider where I was. A low, dingy lamp hung in the doorway of a dirty-looking house near by, upon which I made out the name of “Private Hotel.” It was a disreputable place to to look on, but I stopped the men at the door. They put down their burden, and I met the eyes of the foremost. He regarded me with an evil grin, and to my horror I recognised him as a “scriever” in whose company I had slept out of doors some two nights back.

“This is better than the Park,” he said hoarsely.

There was no chance of mistaking his meaning, and, to emphasise it, he patted his chest. “Rum luggage,” said he, with a leer: “you managed the copper well.”

To say the truth, I was quite frightened now, but I knew that to show my alarm would be foolish.

“You must carry the box to my room,” I said sharply; and entering, I made the arrangements for my night's lodging.

Under the weight of their burden the two men staggered up the stairs to the very last floor, and then I pulled out a piece of silver and paid them.

The scriever held the shilling in his palm. “I think I know better than that; I can do better than that,” he repeated meaningly.

“That's all you're going to get,” I said peremptorily, “so clear out.”

His companion left the room, and I heard him clattering down the stairs; but the scriever remained.

“You think I don't know what you got in that there box,” he snarled: “well, I reckon it's worth more'n a bob to me.”

“If you don't get out,” I cried angrily, 'I will throw you out.”

“Very well, mister,” he said, retreating; “I keep my eye on you, Mister Toff.”

I made a step towards him, and he disappeared. I looked at the door and sat down on the bed, feeling mighty bad, as you may suppose. Of course the man could know nothing, but he might easily raise an alarm, and I was the mark for suspicion. If I was seized, and the chest was found!—the fear of it crept chilly through me.

I cannot say what pangs of foreboding I endured through the rest of the night. I got no sleep; indeed, I made no attempt to sleep. The candle slowly guttered down until the summer dawn appeared through the wretched blinds of that garret, and still I lay with my eyes upon that formidable chest. I was up early, took some breakfast, for I was ravenous with hunger, and considered the position. I dared not make another movement until after dark; and here, therefore, in this sordid attic I was condemned to lie. I feigned to sleep most of the day, and so the dreadful hours wore on. It was ten o'clock before I ventured out, and, ere doing so, I called for the bill. It was heavier than I had expected, but that was not what brought me up with a fresh alarm. It was this: I put my hand in my pocket, and found most of my money was gone. There was barely enough to pay the bill, and I was left with sixpence to get the chest across the river. I had no doubt that I owed this to my friend the scriever. The dilemma was worse than ever: I could not move without money, and there was but one course to pursue, on which I determined forthwith. I must go back to the house in Damon Gardens, and get a few more shillings.

Leaving word that I would return shortly, I went out, with the intention of making my way to Chelsea; but the first thing that met my eyes as I turned into the street was the figure of the scriever under the lamplight. I withdrew quickly, for I dared not leave the chest unguarded to that scoundrel. I was desperate, and ere I had re-entered the hotel I had resolved to take it with me.

It was half-past ten before I set off upon my second cab-journey, with the chest in front of me. The scriever was not visible when I started, but at the Marble Arch I saw him running upon the farther pavement. He kept a long, swift stride, his long, lean figure sidling, as it were, along. The sight whipped up my blood; I shouted to the driver to “push on.” The horse was tired and weak-kneed, and I fretted at the pace we went; yet, when we came into Damon Gardens the scriever was not in sight. We had evidently outrun if we had not outworn him. In a better state of confidence I stopped the cab before Mrs. Chatterton's house, and springing up the steps, rang at the bell. I had given myself no time to reconsider, for if I reflected upon the real facts of my position and my errand, I felt I should lose my courage. There was also the dread of facing the woman, and of the confession I must make of failure. If the affair had been less urgent I should have been ashamed to come a-begging there. And out of the mouth of the hansom protruded the horrible box. I began to waver even as the door opened, and a man-servant asked my business. My visible pause and my general appearance, no doubt, raised doubts in the fellow. He took me for what I was—a person come to beg.

“Mrs. Chatterton is not in,” he declared, and waited for me to go.

But by this time I was aware that I could not turn back. The cab stood behind me. I was in bond to it, for I had no money; and the oaken chest hung about my neck in chains. I urged the necessity of seeing Mrs. Chatterton, but he still more curtly refused me.

“I must see her,” I exclaimed vehemently.

He grew angry, and his voice also was raised upon the street. In the midst of the noisy argument a harsh voice croaked in my ear: “Shall I carry that there box for you, guv'nor?”

I started about, and there was my lean and half-starved scriever grinning from the lowermost step. “Let me 'elp you with it, same's last night,” he persisted.

The interposition shook me, and the servant stared at us from one to the other. I saw no escape from my plight. I was doomed to drive about London in a cab for which I could not pay, and from which I could not escape, in the company of that Thing. The scriever and the cabman stood between me and flight.

I took a decision. It was a last move, and I could make no other. “Yes,” said I to the grinning scriever, “fetch it in”; and to the servant, “I have something for your mistress, which I must leave if I can't see her.”

Both appeared to be astonished, but I had a last hope that I should by this desperate act at once throw off the scriever and conquer the opposition of the servant. The scriever toiled up the steps with the chest, and tottered into the hall. He wore the look of one who has been grievously deceived. But it was the servant that drew my attention. He flung up his hands.

“Why, that's missus's chest!” he exclaimed: “what are you doing with it, I should like to know?”

“That I will explain to your mistress,” I said.

The noise brought the door of the dining-room open, and a man in evening dress came into the hall.

“What's all this about?” he asked with authority.

“Missus's chest, sir,” said the servant, with excitement. “This man_here's brought it home. Where'd he get it, I'd like to know?”

“Was it stolen?” asked the stranger.

“Lost this very morning, sir,” said the servant.

The man in evening dress looked at me. He was squarely built, with a heavy jowl, and wore short, thick black hair, streaked with grey. “What have you got to say?” he asked.

“What I have to say must be said to Mrs. Chatterton,” I returned in despair.

He was silent; then, “Come in here,” he said quietly, “and bring that chest,” he added to the servant.

When we were alone he scrutinised me carefully, coldly, and with an air of command. He was a formidable person, and I seemed to recall him from somewhere.

“What is it all about?” he asked shortly.

“Excuse me,” I stammered, “I am at liberty to speak to Mrs. Chatterton only.”

“I am authorised to act for Mrs. Chatterton,” he said sharply. “What's in that chest?”

He jerked his head towards it, where it lay under the gaslight, and my frightened eye dwelt upon it with fascination. I said nothing. He made a step towards it and pulled at the lid, ineffectually.

“Ah, I forgot: it's a spring lock,” he said, and took a poker from the fire-place. I sprang forward.

“You shall not touch it,” I said. “It is Mrs. Chatterton's secret. She gave it to me, and I will return it to her only.”

He swept me aside with his arm, and ere I could reason had inserted a portion of the poker and thrown his weight upon it. His eyes were burning with a strong feeling. There was the sound of smashing wood. I leaped forward again with a cry of alarm; but suddenly I paused, and fell back against the table. I paused because the sense of who this man was came swiftly, unexpectedly to me. I knew now those thick, black locks, even without that ugly bandage on the back of the head. He was the dead man.

As this dawned upon me in terror and bewilderment, there was the noise of the lid opening, and the man gave utterance to a cry. He fell upon his knees, and over the top of his head I peered into the open chest.

Perhaps I should have guessed it had I been capable of thinking clearly after that sudden recognition. From the time when it was certain that the man, Chatterton, was still alive, it could be only one body that lay sleeping within the chest that was a coffin. She rested very still and quiet, her features perturbed no more than if she slumbered, and the eyes closed as is not always general with the dead; and in her fingers she still held the bottle she had emptied.

The man, Chatterton, who had been her husband, leaned motionless by the chest, staring fixedly on the beautiful and inanimate clay. I could not guess his feelings, nor do I know if he had been at all prepared for this catastrophe. But he seemed like a man who has been stunned under a blow, for he said nothing but continued to gaze. Maybe he had used her very ill, as she said; and here, by this strange coffin, he was repenting, and was recalling a forgotten and not wholly selfish love. But his abstraction did not escape me. I was still a fugitive and an outlaw, and my brain began to work cunningly. I regained my wits sharply. Stealing noiselessly from the room, I left him there, crouching over his dead wife, and passed out into the street silently. The darkness befriended me; I slipped by the cab, where the driver was idly dozing, and turning the corner, unseen, made off for Bermondsey.