Whoso sheddeth his brother's blood—yes, but I was innocent of murderous design. Why, then, should I declare myself a murderer and bring despair upon Ellen, bring ignominy and shame upon her and our child? Life-long despair, life-long ignominy. Every man's finger would be pointed at her. In my child's ears would ring the words, "Your father is a murderer!" Better for him never to have been born.
I had not myself alone to think of, to act for, Ellen could never now be my wife, the delights of home would never be mine. But for her, a lesser evil, though she would never realize it, was to be found in my concealment of my crime. It would be necessary for me to keep apart from her, for in her presence I should be continually confronted by the temptation to betray myself, to make confession, and to do this would be to inflict upon her frightful suffering. Sweet and patient as she was, and implicit as was her faith in me, the duplicities I should be compelled to practice in order to prevent any meeting between us, could not but injure me in her eyes. Setting love aside—an inconceivable hypothesis, for I never loved her as I did in this despairing hour—honor and honest dealings called upon me to give her the name of wife. She would grieve that I did not make amends to her for the sacrifices she had made for me; but far better that I should sink in her esteem than inflict upon her the crushing horror of seeing me condemned for murder. For her sake, then, silence and secrecy, if they could be compassed.
There had been no witnesses of the tragic incidents of the night. I was alone with the dead. The silence that reigned in the house favored my design of secret flight. If any persons resided there they must have heard the sounds of the struggle, the stumbling on the stairs, the dashing into the room, the upsetting of the furniture. I would make sure, however, that the house was uninhabited.
The oil in the lamps was nearly exhausted; but I had matches in a box which Ellen had given me before my departure for Australia. I crept into the passage and listened above, below. No sound. Striking matches as I proceeded I went all over the house from basement to attic, and saw no signs of habitation. The rooms on the ground floor had been partially dismantled, and presented the appearance of having been used for offices, while those on the upper floors had served for private residence, the most completely furnished apartment being that in which Louis lay dead. I made my investigations cautiously and quietly, and kept myself prepared for a possible attack. Once, when I was taking a match out of the box it slipped from my hand, and though I groped for it in all directions I could not find it. There was no time to waste; every moment that I remained in the house was charged with danger, and I was so beset by terrors springing from the perturbed state of my mind that the flapping of a door, the wind tearing through the street, even the slightest sound which fell unexpectedly on my ears, set all my nerves quivering.
The storm had increased in violence. Through an uncurtained window on the top floor I saw the snow descending thick and fast, the wind whirling it furiously onward and upward. A wild night, but I had reason to be thankful for it. The conflict of the elements lessened my chances of being caught red-handed.
Standing by the uncurtained window I felt for my watch; it had not occurred to me before to ascertain the time. The watch was gone, the chain hung loose; but the pocket-book in which I kept my money was safe. The loss of my watch did not induce the suspicion that robbery was the motive for the attack; it must have been jerked out of my pocket in the course of the struggle. It was dangerous to leave it in the house; it was more dangerous to remain. I consoled myself with the thought that I might have lost it in the street, and that it would be found by some person who would be satisfied to retain it without making inquiries. In any circumstances there was no name engraved on it to prove that I was the owner.
A faint scratching on the wainscot at this point of my reflections drove my heart into my mouth. So harmless a creature as a mouse was sufficient to inspire terror. I felt my way down to the fatal room, having no means of obtaining a light. It was quite dark now, and my footsteps were dogged by phantoms created by the fever of my blood. I saw the forms of struggling men, watched by glaring eyes and haunted by formless shadows; incidents of the struggle which remained in my memory repeated themselves with monstrous exaggeration; my brain teemed with startling images. I must get from this house of terror quickly; in the white snow the phantoms would fade away.
These imaginings did not cause me to lose sight of my purpose to avoid the consequences of my unpremeditated crime. A dual process of thought was going on within me, one belonging to the real, the other to the unreal world. Reason cautioned me to arm myself against the chances of detection. Such as lay in the stains of blood on my hands and face. The snow would serve me here. From my blood-bespattered clothes the stains could not be removed so easily. I should not have returned to the death-room had I not noticed an ulster coat thrown across a chair which, in the open air, would render me reasonably safe from observation. I groped for the chair, found it, thrust my arms into the ulster, and buttoned it up.
All was still as death—and death itself, a muffled figure, my father's son, lay outlined near the opposite wall. The deep darkness did not shut it from my sight.
As I made my way to the street door my foot touched an object on the stairs. I stooped and picked up a watch, which I put into my pocket with a feeling of relief at a danger averted. I had a little difficulty in opening the door, and when this was accomplished and I closed it behind me, I did not linger a moment. Every step I took from it added to my chance of safety. Turning into another street I bathed my hands and face in snow, and removed all traces of the bloody conflict. The storm was now a gale; the wind tore and shrieked through the streets, the snow, whirling furiously into my face, almost blinded me. Not a soul was about, and I walked on unobserved, with no idea in which direction I was proceeding. Chance favored me, for my hap-hazard wanderings led me to the Lime Street station. I looked up at the clock—two minutes past four. I took a first-class single to Euston, it being safer, I thought, to travel first-class than third. My fingers were numbed, and I was rather slow in picking up my change.