CHAPTER XII.

THE BEGINNING OF THE END.

The tidings that Old Thorneley's missing will was found fell like a thunderbolt upon Wilmot and his lawyers, Smith and Walker; and their genuine astonishment was a matter of equal surprise to me. In my own mind I had felt convinced that Lister Wilmot had had a hand in the suppression of that will; and if I hardly dared in my heart to believe him guilty of, although suspecting him at least of complicity in, the death of his uncle, I never doubted but that he knew of the existence of this last testament, and knowing it, had destroyed it. In my own mind I had, during many hours of solitary reflection, of the most scrutinizing study of every fact and circumstance connected with all these past events, arrived at a conclusion that some unknown link united Maria Haag and Lister Wilmot together, and that the double mystery of the murder and the lost will lay buried secret in their hearts. But there was no mistaking the undisguised and overwhelming amazement with which he received the communication of Merrivale and myself. We made it in person to him before Smith and Walker; and I can only say that his manner of receiving it exonerated him at once in my eyes from suspicion of his having had anything to do with the theft or concealment of that will.

Of course on either side legal proceedings were commenced: Merrivale on the part of Hugh Atherton undertaking to prove the genuineness of the recovered document; Smith and Walker for Lister Wilmot endeavoring to repudiate it. In less than a week they were all "hard at it." Meanwhile, the will, as stolen property found by the police, was lodged with them; meanwhile, Inspector Keene had once more disappeared, and this time we all knew that the purport of his absence was the apprehension of Mrs. Haag; meanwhile, the heir to all this mine of disputed wealth played with his childish toys, laughed his crazy laugh, and jabbered his idiot nonsense, without the ray of intelligence crossing his for witless brain; meanwhile, Hugh Atherton roamed far over the broad treacherous ocean--an exile and a wanderer, the victim of a cruel and shameless plot--ignorant of the brave loving heart that was following him so near, all of the tender eyes, the faithful hand, that would bid him welcome on that foreign shore.

Unwilling as I was to leave London just then, where my presence was at any moment necessary, the affairs of one of my best and oldest clients summoned me to Liverpool for a couple of days, and I took a return-ticket thither from the Saturday to the Monday after that last memorable visit from Inspector Keene. Who shall ever dare to doubt the special Providence ordering and overruling every event, every circumstance of our lives, however trivial and unimportant they may seen at the moment of their occurrence? That journey of mine, which outwardly had not the smallest bearing or reference to the story I am telling, was in reality the beginning of the end.

Travelling by an early training, I arrived in Liverpool about three o'clock. After engaging a bed at a hotel near the station, and refreshing my inner man, I set off immediately on the business {229} which had brought me thither. This lay asked some of the great shipping offices in Tower Buildings, close to the docks. Coming out of one, I noticed a man following me. Suddenly my arm was touched, and looking round I saw Inspector Keene.

"God bless me! Who'd have thought of seeing you here?"

"And who'd have thought of seeing you, sir? I don't suppose you ever expected it would be so, Mr. Kavanagh, but you and I have hunted the fox together, and now you and I will be in at the death."

"You mean to say you have traced the housekeeper?"

"That's just precisely what I do mean, sir."

"Where is she?"

"Not a stone's throw from here."

"And you have her in charge?"

"Not yet, sir, not yet. I have but just obtained a warrant for her apprehension from the sitting magistrate, and I am on my way now to announce the agreeable tidings to her."

"Had you trouble in tracking her?"

"An awful deal, sir. She was all but gone; her passage taken to America, and the vessel is to sail to-night. The news of my finding the will must have reached led her in Lincolnshire, for I've followed her across the country here; and then I lost sight of her, and only found her trail this morning. But she's safe now; the house is watched on all sides. Strange enough, sir," said the inspector, lowering his voice, "there's been another after her too."

"Another man?"

"Yes, sir. I've caught sight of him from time to time, dodging and watching and following her as cute and as silently as any of _us_; and if his name isn't Bradley, well, mine isn't Keene, and I'm not one of her majesty's detective officers."

"Shall I go with you, Keene?"

"Do, sir; it may be like a satisfaction to you to see the end of it."

We turned into a by-street, narrow, ill-paved, and dark, where the houses were high and overhanging, and fashioned like those in little obscure foreign towns, that nearly meet overhead. Before the door of one a policeman stood, apparently engaged only in his ordinary duty of looking up and down the street; but from a glance of intelligence that passed between them I knew he was on special service--the special service being to watch that identical house. The door opened by a simple latch, and the inspector's hand was on it, when the policeman stepped back, and whispered to him. Keene paused for a moment, and then turned to me. "_He_ is in there;" and I knew he meant the man who was likewise following Mrs. Haag--the man Bradley.

"Follow us," said the detective to the officer on duty; and opening the door, we passed down a narrow dark passage and proceeded up the stairs, quietly, stealthily. We had gained the first landing, and Inspector Keene's foot was on the stair to ascend the second flight, when a loud, piercing cry broke upon the stillness--the cry of agony. In a moment we had cleared the stairs and stood before a door on the left. Keene turned the handle. _It was fastened from inside_.

He shook it with a strength I had not thought he possessed, and demanded admission. There was no answer. Again it rattled on its hinges, and I thought it would be too weak to resist my strength. "Give way, Keene!" I cried; "I can break it in;" and retreating to the further end of the landing, I ran and brought my whole weight to bear against it. Useless! _Another weight_ was strengthening it on the inside. And then a shriek yet more piercing, more agonized than before rang through the house, and footsteps were heard from below and above of people hurrying to the spot. We once more strained at the door. O God! would it never give way? I turned to the policeman. "You ought to be powerful; let us both run together." I felt a giant's strength within me; and as our feet crashed against the wood it bunt open, {230} and we were precipitated into the room, almost falling over the body of Mrs. Haag, prostrate on the ground, weltering in a great pool of blood. A large clasp-knife lay beside her, red up to the very hilt; and by the window, with his arms folded, stood a man of large, heavy build, with dark gipsy features and lowering brow--a man who in the prime of youth might have been of comely form and handsome countenance, but who now, with the wear of more than fifty years' familiarity with crime and evil, bore more indelibly printed in his face the felon and the convict than ever the mark branded, but hidden, upon his shoulder could betray. With one glance at the miserable woman lying on the floor, the inspector sprang toward the man, who stood motionless, and staring at the body of his victim, and laying his hand on his arm he said, "Robert Bradley, I arrest you for this attempt to murder your wife, and for unlawful escape from penal servitude." No expression crossed the man's face--only the same dull, stony gaze.

"Do you hear?" said Keene, giving him a little shake; "and say nothing to criminate yourself now." There was no answer. "Policemen, do your duty:" and two advanced from the crowd now gathered in the room and on the stairs. They slipped the handcuffs on his unresisting hands, and then proceeded to lead him away. Meanwhile I had knelt down beside the unfortunate woman, and was feeling her heart and pulse. She still lived. "Send for a surgeon instantly," I cried; and a dozen of the lookers-on instantly scampered off to do my bidding. Then, with one cry of anguish, the prisoner burst from his captors and flung himself down beside the woman he had murdered. He raised his manacled hands, and tried to draw her head toward him and pillow it on his breast.

"O Molly, Molly, I've killed thee; I've killed thee!" There was a faint moan. "She's my wife, gentlemen; before God, she's my wife. I wanted her to come away with me and let us hide together, for we've both done bad enough; but she wouldn't--she bade me begone: she spoke so harshly, she looked so cruelly with her cold eyes--and I was mad, mad--and I struck her. Molly, Molly!"

With difficulty he was torn away, dragged out of the room and borne off by the police; then we lifted the almost lifeless body of his wife and laid her on the bed. How far she had been injured I knew not as yet; but something within seemed to tell me she had received her death-wound. I said as much to Inspector Keene when the room was cleared a little from the crowd, and he, I, and one or to women, who said they lived in the house, only remained. In less then a quarter of an hour two surgeons were on the spot, and we left them with the woman to make the necessary examination.

"This is indeed being 'in at the death,'" I said to the inspector as we stood outside.

"Yes, sir; yes. And I have been a consummate fool not to have foreseen what would happen." I saw he was looking unusually pale and agitated.

"How could you help it?" I asked.

"I ought to have given orders not to have allowed _him_ to go into the house. I made over-sure of all being right."

"Depend upon it, Keene," I replied, "neither you nor any one else could have warded off what was _to be_. Another and a mightier hand than any human one has been in this. We may not question God's providence."

The inspector was silent. He could not get over it.

"If the worst comes to the worst," I said, "we must be ready to have her confession taken down. Surely she will speak at the last."

"Not if I judge her rightly, sir; she will make no sign now."

"Nay, I trust she will. If what we guess at is true, it is too terrible to think she will die with that upon her soul."

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"She is a Catholic, sir, I believe; she'll tell her priest, but what use is that to us?"

"If she does _that_, there will be no fear."

Keene shook his head despairingly. "I never made such a mull in my life before."

Just then one of the surgeons came out. We both eagerly turned to him with the same question: "Will she die?"

"Who can tell? While there is life there is hope. The wounds are very dangerous ones. There is little chance for her; still there _is_ a chance. I am going now for instruments and dressings to my house close by. She ought to be in the hospital, but we dare not remove her. The sole hope is in staunching the bleeding; it has stopped for the moment, but the least motion will cause it to break out afresh. Who knows anything of her? who is responsible in the matter? We have heard no particulars as yet."

Keene explained in a few words all that was necessary.

"Can you tell me where to find the nearest Catholic priest?" I asked him as he went away.

"In the next street to this there is a small chapel. I know the priest attached, and excellent man, though he is a papist. Pardon me; perhaps you are the Catholic?"

For the hot blood had rushed to my brow involuntarily, not for the man's words, but at the grave thoughts which passed through my mind--the hope, the fear of what those ministrations I was going to seek would do for the wretched woman lying in that room.

"I am a Catholic," I said briefly; "but say anything you like, I don't mind. I'll come out with you, and you'll show me the way to find this priest."

I found and brought him--Father Maurice. He was a man who had grown old and grey in the care of souls, who had stood by many a death-bed, had been called to witness the penitence of many a dying sinner; never had his services been more needed than now. On our road I briefly related to him the circumstances, and all I knew of the poor creature to whose side he was hastening.

When we arrived, they told us she had been conscious for a few moments, but was now again insensible; that during that lucid interval she had murmured a name which sounded like Wilmot. "Send for Mr. Wilmot," the doctor had understood her to say. Keene and I looked at each other.

"Telegraph for him," I said.

"Would he come, sir, do you think?"

"Telegraph in Mrs. Haag's name. Simply say, 'Danger; come immediately.' That may bring him. He will get it in time to catch the night-mail."

Keene departed.

The room opposite the one where the injured woman lay was vacant, and I took possession of it, knowing that the inspector would station himself on the spot. Presently the two surgeons came in, and conferred together for some minutes in low tones. Then they turned to me and to the priest, who waited there likewise.

"We have probed and dressed the wounds, but she lies perfectly unconscious at present; two nursing sisters from the hospital have been sent for to take charge of her, and it will be necessary for one of us to remain here during the night. There is just a hope and no more. What we have most to fear is internal haemorrhage. She may probably linger out the night, or even a day or two, in the event of no favorable change taking place. But her state is most critical."

"I shall go home and make arrangements for remaining here during the evening and night, if it is necessary," said Father Maurice in his quiet, determined way.

I expressed my thanks.

"There is no need," he said; "if all is well in the end, I shall have my reward."

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When Inspector Keene returned he told me he had dated the telegram from my hotel, and that it would be best for me to return there by and by, and await the arrival of the night train. It was then between six and seven o'clock.

How that long evening passed I know not. There we sat, we three men--Inspector Keene, Father Maurice, and I--saying very little to one another, and the prevailing silence only broken by the low whispering sounds of the priest as he said his office, and the hushed footsteps of the surgeon, who remained coming in and out from time to time.

Oh! would she ever wake from that terrible unconsciousness? would no power of mind, no strength of body, no grace of soul ever be given her to unlock all the dark secrets of her heart, to clear the innocent and proclaim the guilty? Must she go down to her grave without one act of sorrow, unshrived, uncleansed, without a moment in which to make reparation for the terrible past, for all that world of shame and suffering that had fallen so crushingly upon guiltless heads?

It was just upon ten o'clock, and I was preparing to leave for my hotel, when Mr. Lovell, the surgeon, came in and beckoned to Father Maurice. They left the room together, and soon the surgeon and the two nurses came in. The former stooped down and whispered to me, "She asked to have a priest sent for, and I told her one was here. It seemed a relief to her. She has not been conscious more than five minutes."

The inspector looked across at me with an inquiring glance. I think he had grown suspicious of me, and feared I was conniving at some concealment about her confession.

"As soon as my _prisoner_" (laying a stress on the word ) "comes to her senses, sir, I ought to be told. There's something to be got out of her before she gives us the slip, and I'll have no interference in the matter." The inspector spoke roughly. I took him aside.

"Keene, if you ever want to get at the bottom of what lies on that wretched woman's soul, believe me we have taken the best means to attain that object in allowing her to see Father Maurice."

"But _he_ won't tell what she's said, bless you; I've seen them imprisoned for it. Not a word, Mr. Kavanagh, not a syllable, sir, shall _we_ here?"

"Very likely not from him. But _he_ will make _her_ tell."

The inspector stared at me with a cynical smile on his lips.

I continued: "Do you think _I_ have no interest in wishing to probe that woman's soul, in longing--ay, with a longing you cannot understand--to know who committed that black crime which has robbed me of my dearest friend? Man, what is there at stake with you in comparison with _him_ who has been driven from his fatherland and his home? What is _your_ little professional vanity to compare with what _he_ has lost--name, fame, position--everything most dear to him save one?"

"God bless you, sir, and you're right!" said the little man, wringing my hand; "and you'll please to excuse me. For hang me but I think I'm jealous of those priests. They seem to ferret out in one talk what it costs us detectives days and nights to hunt for, and puts us on our wits' ends. And one ain't a bit the wiser for it after all; they _do_ keep it snug, to be sure. I'd give much to know their dodge."

"Ah, inspector, it's a 'dodge' neither you nor I possess. But leave this in God's hands. If there is anything that ought to be made known publicly, it _will_ be known."

In a quarter of an hour Mr. Lovell went into the sick-room, and soon after Father Maurice came back to us. It was curious to see the suspicious glance which Keene cast upon him.

"I have warned her of her state," said the priest. "She seems to wish to make a statement to some proper person; Mr. Lovell advises that she should be allowed some rest now. Of course you will judge of what is best to be done, having the poor woman under your charge;" and he looked across at the inspector.

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Keene colored up and shuffled his feet. "Of course it's as you and the other gentlemen think proper, sir," he said; then plucking up his courage, "There's a deal she's got to tell which _ought_ to be known in _proper_ quarters, though I know that gents in your profession ain't fond of letting on what they hear. But I'm responsible in this instance to government, sir; and I hope you'll remember it."

"Just so," said the priest coolly, but with an amused smile; "and it is in the presence of lawful authority, or proper witnesses, that she must make her statement, or, as you would call it, confession."

Inspector Keene was shut up. "Never heard tell of such a thing in all my life," I heard him mutter to himself; "this one can't be a Roman."

I waited for another report from the surgeon before leaving; and when he came in he said she had rallied a good deal, and that he thought no further change for worse would take place during the night; so I left, desiring that I should be sent for if anything did occur. The mail was due at half-past three in the morning, and there was all the probability of Wilmot travelling by it if the telegram had reached him in time. I determined to sit up and meet the train at the station.

At a little after three I was on the platform, pacing up and down in the chilly air of the early morning; the stars shone through the glazed roofing, and the moonlight mingled cold and pale with the flaring gas. Save a drowsy official here and there, I was alone--alone waiting for mine enemy. And yet but little of enmity stirred my heart in that still hour--only pity, deep unutterable pity. I had never liked Lister Wilmot much, even in old times; and of late--well, what need to think of it, though his sins had been great? But somehow the remembrance of past days stole over me--days when he and Hugh and I had been young; of pleasant hours passed together in social intercourse, of merry-meetings, and all the joyousness of young men's lives. Yes, even with the thought of Hugh Atherton before me, I felt softened toward the wretched man for whom I waited then. Shame, disgrace, and ignominy were awaiting him, and I was to lead him to it. After all he was a fellow-man, though he had disgraced his manhood. At last, with a whistle and a shriek, the train rushed into the station. I ran my eye along the line of first-class carriages, and presently saw a slight figure with fair hair alight on the platform. In a moment I stood before Lister Wilmot, and I never can forget the unearthly color which overspread his face as his eye fell on me. Had he been armed, my life had not been worth much in that moment.

"_You_ here!" he hissed between his teeth.

"Yes, Mr. Wilmot; I am here to meet you."

"Then you sent that telegram, curse you!"

"No, not I, but Inspector Keene. Some one is dying, and has need of you." Perhaps my solemn face revealed something to him of the truth, for a change passed over his countenance.

"Who is it?" he asked with white, quivering lips.

"Mrs. Haag."

He threw up his arms wildly above his head. "Dying! O my God!" Then, turning to me, "How was it?" he asked.

I hesitated for a moment in pity. "She met with an accident," I said at last, not daring to tell him more at once.

"Where is she?"

It never seemed to occur to him that it was strange I should be there; the one piece of news I had imparted had stunned him with its shock.

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"I will take you to her," I answered, and putting my arm in his, led him off to a cab in waiting. He never spoke all the while we drove to the house in Cross street, where the housekeeper lay, and when we got down suffered me to lead him up-stairs like a child. Inspector Keene met us at the door.

"I'm thankful you've come, sir; Mr. Lovell sent off a message to the hotel half an hour ago. The priest is with her."

"How is she?" uttered Wilmot in hollow tones.

Keene answered: "There's been a change; I don't know more. She has asked again for you," turning to Wilmot.

Mr. Lovell came in.

"Is this the gentleman, Mr. Wilmot?" he asked.

"Yes," I replied.

"Then whatever she wants to say had better be said now."

Inspector Keene touched me on the arm.

"You must take it down in writing, sir; here's pen, ink, and paper. You, Mr. Lovell, and I must sign it."

"Yes, yes. I will"

And we entered the room.

The housekeeper's face was turned from us when we came in. One hand lay outside on the coverlet--that white, well-formed hand, that looked more like a lady's than a servant's.

At the foot of the bed stood Father Maurice, and a nurse was bending over the prostrate form and wiping the moisture from the brow. She must have heard us enter, for she looked round, pale, ghastly, in the wretched light of the fire and candles. The surgeon went first, then Inspector Keene, then I and Wilmot. She marked each one as we approached the bed, eagerly, wistfully. At first Wilmot shrank behind me, and my tall frame hid him from view. Her lips moved.

"Where is he?" I heard her murmur. "Where is Lister Wilmot?"

The surgeon approached her with a glass.

"You must drink this; it will give you strength to speak."

He lifted her head, and she swallowed it; then turned her face once more toward us.

"Lister, are you there?"

He stood forward, but did not go near her.

"I am here."

She gave a low moaning cry.

Father Maurice went to her.

"Say what you have to say now, my poor sister, and make your peace with God."

"Raise me up a little," she said to the surgeon; and they lifted her a little on the pillow. Then in low broken tones, with many a pause for strength and breath, with the dews of death standing upon her pallid brow, with the vision of life and judgment to come nearing her moment by moment in the presence of us all, Maria Haag made the confession of her life.