The Betrayal of John Fordham

by B. L. Farjeon

And here it is that memory fails me. The recollection of the salient features of this desperate encounter may doubtless be depended upon as correct, but I can go no further in my recountal of the issue of it. One maddening thought, I know, was dominant throughout—the thought that I was fighting for Ellen and love.

The struggle must have lasted a considerable time.

I could not see the face of my assailant, and it is my impression that he strove to avoid recognition; nor did he speak. We struck at each other savagely and in silence. From first to last, so far as I am aware, not a word passed between us. We swayed this way and that, each man's hand at the other's throat; then I felt myself lifted from my feet—a wrestling trick—and flung into the air. But I was up like lightning, and as I seized him again I was dimly conscious of the sight of blood dropping on the snow—whether his blood or mine I cannot say. It seemed to be his purpose to drag me into a house, the door of which was open, and in this he succeeded.

Grappling and raining blows upon each other in the dark passage, we fell upon the stairs, and struggling to our feet without losing our hold, continued the contest. The only weapon I had about me was a fossicking knife in its sheath, and this I must have drawn, as was proved by the result, though I am unable to say whether I drew it in the street or in the house. I cannot account for the fatal use I made of this weapon except upon the supposition that a weapon of some kind was being used against me, and that I was prompted by a savage instinct of self-preservation. In such an emergency a man has no time to reflect upon the consequences of his acts; reason is lost, instinct rules. My aim was to escape into the street, his to drag me from it—and he prevailed. At what period of the brutal conflict we gained the landing of the first floor, at what period we stumbled into a room, and when I dealt the fatal stroke which gave me a frightful victory—all this is hidden from me.

Scores of times since that night have I said to myself, "Let me think, let me think!" and vainly endeavored to follow the progress of the awful struggle. In the moment of victory I must have received a blow which might have proved deadly, for darkness fell upon me, and I sank to the ground in a state of unconsciousness.

When I came to my senses I found myself in an apartment lighted up by two lamps and half-a-dozen candles. The oil in the lamps was almost exhausted. The candles were guttering down. The scattered furniture denoted the savage nature of the struggle in which I had been engaged. Chairs had been flung here and there, a large table was upset; had the candles or lamps been upon it the house would have been set on fire. Against the wall, in front of me, was a sideboard garnished with bottles and glasses, among them a syphon of mineral water.

This was all I discerned in the first few moments of returning consciousness.

I put my hand to my face, and drawing it away found blood upon it; my other hand and my clothes were also stained with blood.

This caused me to think of my assailant, whose condition could have been scarcely worse than my own. What had become of him? Why had he left me here without finishing his work? Was he so badly wounded that he had no strength to kill me?

All was silent in the house. Not a sound of its being inhabited reached my ears. I must fly from it directly my own strength returned, thankful that I had come with life out of the desperate encounter.