CHAPTER V.
The blinds are drawn down in the single window of a small bedroom that overlooks a narrow, dull, and dingy street, not far removed from Trafalgar Square. The room, though clean, bears a poverty-stricken look, for in it, in addition to the bed, there are only two chairs, an old table, and a dilapidated sofa with a thin rug covering it. There is a small washhand-stand in this room besides the other articles named, but this is all.
Lying on the bed is a large-eyed, pale, emaciated young man, upon whose face is unmistakably written the sign of death. His thin hands, in which the blue veins show prominently clear, lie listlessly on the coverlet, though now and again the feeble fingers twitch nervously thereat, and a hectic flush covers his pale cheeks. His large hollow eyes have a brilliant, shining look in them, and they appear to be fixed on the door of the room which stands slightly ajar.
There is a sound of the street door downstairs opening, and the movement of several feet. The young man raises himself up and listens eagerly, but the exertion is too much for him, and he sinks back with a heavy sigh. The footsteps he has heard are ascending the staircase, however, and his eyes devour the door more eagerly than before. It opens and admits a young girl, a girl who would decidedly be called pretty were it not for the pinched, careworn look that rules in her regular and well-cut features. She bears a great resemblance to the invalid whom we have been describing. This is not to be wondered at, seeing she is his twin-sister.
“Maggie,” he exclaims in a low voice as she enters, “have you brought him?”
“Yes, Eric,” she answers at once, as she comes to his bedside, and puts the old faded coverlet at which his fingers have been twitching smooth and tidy.
“Where is he?” again asks the brother in the same low voice.
“Downstairs, Eric. I’ll fetch him up. He’s brought another gentleman with him. He calls him a magistrate, I think. He said this gentleman must take your deposition, because he couldn’t,” says Maggie, as she opens the door. The next minute she is running down the somewhat rickety staircase. Two gentlemen are standing in the passage below.
“This way, please, sirs,” she says politely, and they follow up behind her to Eric Fortescue’s room. The two gentlemen are Colonel Francis Barrett, divisional magistrate, and Evie, Duke of Ravensdale.
Eric Fortescue fixes his eyes on the latter, whom he knows well by sight. He has seen him often before with Hector D’Estrange.
“You wish to see me, my lad?” inquires the duke in a kind, but sad voice. “Your sister tells me you have something particular to say to me?”
“Yes,” answers the sick youth, in his low, feeble voice; “and I want you, sir, to take down what I say, and hear me swear it’s all true. I want to tell you quick, sir, because I’m dying; I can’t last long.”
There is a sob over by the window. Maggie is looking out into the miserable street with her forehead pressed against one of its cracked panes.
“Say all you have to say very slowly to this gentleman then, my lad,” answers Evie Ravensdale. “He is a magistrate, and will take your deposition, and hear you swear to it.”
“I want to tell you, sir, how wicked I have been. But God has forgiven me, for Father Vaughan has heard my confession, and given me absolution. I’m a Catholic, sir, you know. But Father Vaughan told me I ought to tell you what I’m going to, because of the great wrong which other people have suffered by what I’ve helped to do. So, sir, this is it.
“I’m twenty-three years of age, sir, and I have earned my living since a boy, and since poor mother died, in the service of Mr. Trackem. He’s a private detective agent, sir, and something else besides. He always said I was a sharp lad, and that I did things quick for him, so that when I was eighteen he made me his head clerk, and used to tell me all about his affairs and jobs. It was he and I who arranged that attack on Mrs. de Lara, and several days before it I had watched her every night when she came out for her evening stroll, and the night before the attack I got into her sitting-room while she was out, and stole a lot of her note-paper and some of her writing. I was at Mr. D’Estrange’s trial, sir, and all what Mrs. de Lara and Miss Vernon and you swore to was quite true, and nearly all what Mr. Trackem said was a lie. Well, sir, after Mr. D’Estrange and you and Miss Vernon rescued Mrs. de Lara, Mr. Trackem and I and Lord Westray held a consultation. His lordship was very much put about, and swore he would be revenged. He offered me and Mr. Trackem a deal of money to help him, and then Mr. Trackem hatched the plan, sir. I can imitate handwriting well, and he made me write two letters copying Mrs. de Lara’s handwriting. One was to her maid, saying she was going up to London, and the other to Mr. Trackem, telling him to keep the house in Verdegrease Crescent for her and Lord Westray. And then Lord Westray himself wrote several letters in the vein described by Mr. Trackem at the trial. And then, sir, Mr. Trackem arranged with his lordship all about buying a poor man’s body, as soon as one could be found suitable for the purpose. You look startled, sir, but it’s not difficult to do a job of that sort in some parts of London, and, in fact, one was soon got. We put Lord Westray’s gold ring on one of its little fingers, and hung the chain and locket about its neck, and it was me, sir, that took it down by night and buried it in Mrs. de Lara’s grounds where it was found, and close to it I buried the clothes which Lord Westray was wearing the night that Mr. D’Estrange fired at him. By this time Lord Westray had gone abroad, but it was all arranged that in two years’ time or so Mr. D’Estrange was to be accused of the murder. When that time had elapsed, anonymous letters were sent to the present Lord Westray, telling him all about the murder, and then Mr. Trackem went and told his lordship what he knew. Everything happened as we wanted it to. The matter was placed in Mr. Trackem’s hands; he communicated with the police, and he employed me and a dog of his called Nero, a half-bred bloodhound, to hunt the grounds of Mrs. de Lara’s place at night in search of the body and clothes. I had previously given Nero a lesson or two as to their whereabouts, so he soon traced them in the presence of the police. This is all I know, sir. On my dying oath I swear that Mr. D’Estrange did not murder Lord Westray. The wound received was slight, and soon healed up. This is my confession, sir. I know I did wrong, but I was a poor boy, and I was sorely tempted by the money offered me. I loved a girl, sir. She was called Léonie, and she was in Mr. Trackem’s service. I wanted to marry her, and I didn’t dare ask her till I got money. But God has punished me. I shall never see Léonie again; she’s gone away, I don’t know where, and now I’m dying. If it had not been for dear sister Maggie I should have been dead by now, for Lord Westray never paid me the money he promised to; least if he gave it to Mr. Trackem I never got it. Not that I want it now. I would not touch it for all the world, indeed I would not. And now, sir, I want to ask you to forgive me as I know God has, and I want you to ask Mrs. de Lara and Mr. D’Estrange to forgive me too. I think if they saw me as you do now, sir, they would pity and forgive me.”
The young man pauses, and listens eagerly for a reply. The hectic flush has deepened in his cheeks, and his eyes gleam with the fire that heralds death more brilliantly than ever.
“My poor lad, I do forgive you, as I hope to be forgiven myself,” says Evie Ravensdale softly. Terrible and horrible as is the plot which this dying youth has disclosed to him, yet in the presence of that death which he can see approaching fast, he feels that he must forgive.
“And Mrs. de Lara, Mr. D’Estrange?” persists Eric Fortescue anxiously.
“Mr. D’Estrange is dead,” is all that Evie Ravensdale can trust himself to reply.
Eric Fortescue starts up in his bed, and stares wildly at the duke.
“Not hanged, sir? Oh God! not hanged, sir? I thought he escaped, sir?”
A hollow racking cough seizes him. The blood dyes his lips as he falls back helplessly as before. In a moment Maggie is by his side with her left arm tenderly round him, and supporting him in a sitting position, as she wipes the blood from his lips with an old handkerchief.
“Have you anything, my girl, to moisten his lips with?” inquires the duke, horrified at the sight before him.
“No, sir,” she answers in a low, hopeless voice. “He had his last orange yesterday, and I have not a penny left except enough for the rent. I daren’t use that. They would turn us out if that was not paid punctual.”
Evie Ravensdale shudders; words would not paint his feelings.
“Here, Maggie,” he says, “here is some money. Run, my girl, and buy what you think he will fancy, and we will stay with him until you return. At least, colonel, I won’t ask you to. I know your time is precious. Will you swear this lad, and let him sign that deposition, and then I won’t keep you? But I want to stay myself and see him comfortable before I leave.”
With a happy smile lighting up her face Maggie Fortescue hurries from the room, and then Eric swears to and signs the deposition. The signature is tremblingly and weakly penned, still there it is, a living witness to the truth of Speranza and Gloria de Lara’s innocence.
These formalities completed, Colonel Barrett takes his departure with the precious document in his safe keeping. Its contents will ring through the world before another sun is down. No sooner has he gone, than Eric Fortescue turns his eyes once more on the duke.
“I’m glad he’s gone, sir,” he says slowly, and speaking with difficulty, “because I want to tell you one more thing very particular, sir. It will be my last words, I think, for I feel I’m sinking. It’s about Léonie, sir. I want to tell you who she is, sir. Mr. Trackem told me, sir, long ago. Her mother was Nell Stanley. Of course you know who I mean, sir—the big beauty whom your father, sir, took away from Lord Beauladown. It was she they fought that duel over. Well, Léonie is Nell Stanley’s child, and her father was the late Duke of Ravensdale. He treated her mother very bad, poor thing, and forsook her altogether after she got disfigured with the small-pox. She came to live in Verdegrease Crescent, and earned her living on the streets. But she did not live long, and died at Mr. Trackem’s house when Léonie was three years old. Mr. Trackem was beginning detective business then. Léonie was so pretty and so smart, that he kept her and trained her to the work, and that’s how I came to know her, sir. And I did love her, and it was my love which tempted me to do all the wicked things I did. But God has punished me, sir. I am dying. I shall never see Léonie any more. Still I should be happy if I knew you would care for her, sir.”
He says the last words in a whisper. He has used all the strength that he possesses to make this last statement. Poor Eric Fortescue! It is his last.
Maggie’s footstep is on the stairs; she is coming up so quickly. She has bought some grapes amongst other things with the duke’s gift.
“Look, Eric dear!” she exclaims, as she hurries in, and holds up a big bunch of fine black grapes for him to view. “Look what I’ve got you!”
But Eric’s eyes are closed, and the hectic flush has given way to a deathly pallor. He has made his last effort on this earth.
She sets the things down on the rickety table with a low cry, and comes over to the bedside.
“Eric,” she pleads, “look at Maggie, Eric, poor Maggie; she’s brought you such nice things.”
He opens his big eyes, the brilliant gleam in them has died out; there is a dead, heavy, vacant look in them.
“I’m going, Maggie,” she hears him mutter; “tell Father Vaughan I did tell all. There’s mother, Maggie; how pretty she looks. She’s in a garden full of flowers and fruits and pretty things. The sun is so bright and the air so pure. And there’s Léonie—dear, pretty little Léonie. Don’t hold me, Maggie; I must go to her, I must——”
And Maggie, bending over her twin brother, hears his voice grow still, feels on her cheek the last breath of life that goes forth with these words, for Eric Fortescue is dead.
Poor Maggie! She is weak, and ill, and suffering. For weeks she has worked hard to support her brother, and watched by his bedside in her spare hours. She has stinted herself of food to buy him little delicacies. But of late, work has been hard to get, and during the last week she has obtained but scant employment, barely sufficient to buy bread with. At this moment food has not passed her lips for thirty-six hours, and the last bite she had, was a few crusts soaked in water, the remnants of some bread from the crumb of which she had made her brother a little bread and milk. Poor Maggie! It is as well. He wants no bread and milk now.
But she does not cry or sob when she knows it is all over. She merely closes the dull, staring, lustreless eyes, smooths the worn coverlet once more, joins his hands as if in prayer, and drawing a small crucifix from her chest, kisses it, and places it between his thin white fingers. Then she turns to Evie Ravensdale.
“He is dead, your Grace,” she says meekly; “it is God’s will. I will never forget your kindness in forgiving him. Poor Eric! he was a good lad if he had not been led astray. Can I fetch you a cab, your Grace?”
Her voice is quiet, almost matter-of-fact, and yet Maggie Fortescue is alone in the world, hungry, tired, weary, and penniless.
“No, Maggie,” he says gently, “certainly not. I am going away now, but I will send some one to help you. And when you have buried your poor brother, you must come to this address and let me know. I have several things to ask you, and you must let me help you to earn a comfortable living.”
“God bless your Grace!” she answers in a low voice. Then, as Evie Ravensdale turns to go, she holds out some silver to him, saying as she does so:
“It’s the change, your Grace, out of what you gave me to get those things for Eric.”
“Keep it, keep it, Maggie,” he says huskily; and then he turns and leaves the poor scantily furnished room in which he has learned so much, and in which he has established, absolutely and completely, the innocence of the woman whose lost image is ever before his eyes.
