The Mystery of a Hansom Cab/Chapter 12
CHAPTER XII.
SHE WAS A TRUE WOMAN.
Melbourne society was greatly agitated over the hansom cab murder. Before the assassin had been discovered it had been merely looked upon as a common murder, and one that society need take no cognizance of beyond the fact that it was something new to talk about. But now the affair was assuming gigantic proportions, since the assassin had been discovered to be one of the most fashionable young men in Melbourne. Mrs. Grundy was shocked, and openly talked about having nourished a viper in her bosom, which had turned unexpectedly and stung her. In Toorak drawing rooms and Melbourne clubs the matter was talked about morn, noon, and night, and Mrs. Grundy declared positively that she never heard of such a thing. Here was a young man, well born—"the Fitzgerald, my dear, an Irish family, with royal blood in their veins"—well-bred—"most charming manners, I assure you, and so very good-looking" and engaged to one of the richest girls in Melbourne—"pretty enough, madam, no doubt, but he wanted her money, sly dog." And this young man who had been petted by the ladies, voted a good fellow by the men, and was universally popular, both in drawing-room and club, had committed a vulgar murder; it was truly shocking. What was the world coming to, and what were gaols and lunatic asylums built for, if men of Fitzgerald's calibre were not put in them, and kept from killing people? And then, of course, everybody kept asking everybody else who Whyte was, and why he had never been heard of before. All people who had met Mr. Whyte were worried to death with questions about him, and underwent a species of social martyrdom as to who he was, what he was like, why he was killed, and all the rest of the insane questions which some people will ask. It was talked about everywhere—in fashionable drawing-rooms, at five o'clock tea, over thin bread and butter and souchong; at clubs, over brandies and sodas and cigarettes; by workingmen over their midday pint, and by their wives in the congenial atmosphere of the back yard over the wash-tub. The papers were full of paragraphs about the famous murder, and the society papers gave an interview with the prisoner by their special reporters, which had been composed by those gentlemen out of the floating rumors which they heard around, and their own fertile imagination. In fact, one young man of literary tendencies had been so struck by the dramatic capabilities of the affair that he thought of writing a five-act drama on it—with a sensation scene of the hanging of Fitzgerald—and had an idea of offering it to Williamson for production at the Theatre Royal. But that astute manager refused to entertain the idea, with the dry remark that as the fifth act had not been played out in real life, he did not see how the dramatist could end it satisfactorily. As to the prisoner's guilt, every one was certain of that. The cabman Royston had sworn that Fitzgerald had got into the cab with Whyte, and when he got out Whyte was dead. There could be no stronger proof than that, and the general opinion was that the prisoner would put in no defence, but would throw himself on the mercy of the court. Even the church caught the contagion, and ministers—Anglican, Roman Catholic and Presbyterian, together with the lesser lights of minor denominations—took the hansom cab murder as a text whereon to preach sermons on the profligacy of the age, and to point out that the only ark which could save men from the rising flood of infidelity and immorality was their own particular church. "Gad," as Calton remarked after hearing five or six ministers each claim their own church as the one special vessel of safety, "there seems to be a whole fleet of arks!"
As to Mr. Felix Rolleston, it was a time of great joy to him, knowing as he did all the circumstances of the case, and the dramatis personæ. When any new evidence came to light, Rolleston was the first to know all about it, and would go round to his friends and relate it, with certain additions of his own, which rendered it more piquant and dramatic. But when asked his opinion as to the guilt of the accused, he would shake his head sagaciously, and hint that both he and his dear friend Calton—he knew Calton to nod to—could not make up their minds upon the matter.
"Fact is, don't you know," observed Mr. Rolleston, wisely, "there is more in this than meets the eye, and all that sort of thing—think 'tective fellers wrong myself—don't think Fitz killed Whyte; jolly well sure he didn't."
Then, of course, after such an observation, a chorus chiefly feminine would arise: "Then who killed him?"
"Aha," Felix would retort, putting his head on one side, like a meditative sparrow; "'tective fellers can't find out; that's the difficulty. Good mind to go on the prowl myself, by Jove."
"But do you know anything of the detective business?" some one would ask.
"Oh, dear, yes," with an airy wave of his hand; "I've read Gaboreau, you know; awfully jolly life, 'tectives."
Mr. Rolleston, however, in spite of his asseverations, had no grounds for his belief that Fitzgerald was innocent, and in his heart of hearts thought him guilty. But then he was one of those people who, having either tender hearts or obstinate natures—more particularly the latter—always make a point of coming forward as champions of those in trouble with the world at large. There are, no doubt, many people who think that Nero was a pleasant young man, whose cruelties were merely an overflow of high spirits; and who regard Henry VIII. as a henpecked husband, who was unfortunate in having six wives. It is these kind of people who delight in sympathizing with great criminals of the Ned Kelly sort, and look upon them as embodiments of heroism, badly treated by the narrow understanding of the law. There is a proverb to the effect that the world kicks a man when he is down; but if one-half of the world does act in such a brutal manner, the other consoles the prostrate individual with half-pence. So, taking things as a whole, though the weight of public opinion was dead against the innocence of Fitzgerald, still he had his friends and sympathizers, who stood up for him and declared that he had been wrongly accused.
The opinions of these kindly individuals were told to Madge, and she was much comforted thereby. Other people thought him innocent, and she was firmly convinced that they were right. If the whole of Melbourne had unanimously condemned Brian she would have still believed in his innocence. But then women are so singularly illogical—the world may be against a man, but the woman who loves him will stand boldly forth as his champion. No matter how low, how vile a man may be, if a woman loves him she exalts him to the rank of a demi-god, and refuses to see the clay feet of her idol. When all others forsake she clings to him, when all others frown she smiles on him, and when he dies she reverences his memory as that of a saint and a martyr. Young men of the present day are very fond of running down women, and think it a manly thing to sneer at them for their failings; but God help the man who, in time of trouble, has not a woman to stand by his side with cheering words and loving smiles to help him in the battle of life. And so Madge Frettlby, true woman as she was, had nailed her colors to the mast, and refused to surrender to any one, whatever arguments they brought against her. He was innocent, and his innocence would be proved, for she had an intuitive feeling that he would be saved at the eleventh hour. How, she knew not; but she was certain that it would be so. She would have gone and seen Brian in prison, but that her father absolutely forbade her doing so, and she was dependent upon Calton for all the news respecting him, and any message which she wished conveyed.
Calton was very much annoyed at Brian's persistent refusal to set up the defense of an alibi, and, as he felt sure that the young man could do so, he was anxious to find out the reason why he would not do so.
"If it's for the sake of a woman," he said to Brian, "I don't care who she is, it's absurdly Quixotic. Self-preservation is the first law of nature, and if my neck was in danger I'd spare neither man, woman nor child to save it."
"I dare say," answered Brian; "but if you had my reasons you might think differently."
In his own mind the lawyer had a theory which sufficiently accounted for Brian's refusal to answer for his doings on that night. Fitzgerald had admitted that he had an appointment on that night, and that it was with a woman. He was a handsome fellow, and probably his morals were no better than those of other young men, so Calton thought that Brian had some intrigue with a married woman, and had been with her on the night in question; hence his refusal to speak. If he did so her name would be brought into the matter; the outraged husband, whosoever he might be, would interpose, and the whole affair would probably end in the Divorce Court.
"It's better for him to lose his character than his life," argued Calton, "and that woman ought to speak—it would be hard on her, I admit, but when a man's neck is in danger she ought to risk anything rather than see him hanged."
Full of these perplexing thoughts, Calton went down to St. Kilda to have a talk with Madge over the matter, and also to see if she would help him to obtain the information he wanted. He had a great respect for Madge, knowing what a clever woman she was, and thought that, seeing Brian was so deeply in love with her, if she saw him about the matter he might be induced to confess everything.
The lawyer found Madge waiting anxiously to see him, and when he entered she sprang forward with a cry of delight.
"Oh, where have you been all this time?" she said, anxiously, as they sat down. "I have been counting every moment since I saw you last. How is he—my poor darling?"
"Just the same," answered Calton, taking off his gloves, "still obstinately refusing to save his own life. Where's your father?" he asked, suddenly.
"Out of town," she answered, impatiently. "He will not be back for a week—but what do you mean that he won't save his own life?"
Calton leaned forward, and took her hand.
"Do you want to save his life?" he asked.
"Save his life?" she reiterated, starting up out of her chair with a cry; "God knows, I would die to save him."
"Pish," murmured Calton to himself, as he looked at her glowing face and outstretched hands, "these women are always in extremes. The fact is," he said aloud, "Fitzgerald is able to prove an alibi, but he refuses.
"But why?"
Calton shrugged his shoulders.
"That is best known to himself—some Quixotic idea of honor, I fancy. Now, he refuses to tell me where he was on that night; perhaps he won't refuse to tell you—so you must come up and see him with me, and perhaps he will recover his senses, and confess."
"But my father," she faltered.
"Did you not say he was out of town?" asked Calton.
"Yes," hesitated Madge. "But he told me not to go."
"In that case," said Calton, rising and taking up his hat and gloves, "I won't ask you."
She laid her hand on his arm.
"Stop! will it do any good?"
Calton hesitated a moment, for he thought that if the reason of Brian's silence was, as he surmised, an intrigue with a married woman, he would certainly not tell the girl he was engaged to about it—but, on the other hand, there might be some other reason, and Calton trusted to Madge to find it out. With these thoughts in his mind he turned round.
"Yes," he answered, boldly, "it may save his life."
"Then I will go," she answered, recklessly. "He is more to me than my father, and if I can save him, I will. Wait," and she ran out of the room.
"An uncommonly plucky girl," murmured the lawyer, as he looked out of the window. "If Fitzgerald is not a fool he will certainly tell her all—that is, of course, if he is able to—queer things these women are—I quite agree with Balzac's saying that no wonder man couldn't understand woman, seeing that God who created her failed to do so."
Madge came back dressed to go out, with a heavy veil over her face.
"Shall I order the carriage?" she asked, pulling on her gloves with trembling fingers.
"Hardly," answered Calton dryly, "unless you want to see a paragraph in the society papers to the effect that Miss Madge Frettlby visited Mr. Fitzgerald in gaol. No—no—no—we'll get a cab. Come, my dear," and taking her arm he led her away.
They reached the station, and caught a train just as it started, yet notwithstanding this, Madge was in a fever of impatience.
"How slow it goes," she said, fretfully.
"Hush, my dear," said Calton, laying his hand on her arm. "You'll betray yourself—we'll arrive soon—and save him."
"Oh, God grant we may," she said, with a low cry, clasping her hands tightly together, while Calton could see the tears falling from under her thick veil.
"This is not the way to do," he said, almost roughly, "you'll go into hysterics soon—control yourself for his sake."
"For his sake," she muttered, and with a powerful effort of will, calmed herself. They soon arrived in Melbourne, and, getting a hansom, drove up quickly to the gaol. After going through the usual formula they entered the cell where Brian was, and, when the warder who accompanied them opened the door, found the young man seated on his bed, with his face buried in his hands. He looked up, and, on seeing Madge, rose and held out his hands with a cry of delight. She ran forward, and threw herself on his breast with a stifled sob. For a short time no one spoke—Calton being at the other end of the cell, busy with some notes which he had taken from his pocket, and the warder having retired.
"My poor darling," said Madge, stroking back the soft fair hair from his flushed forehead, "how ill you look."
"Yes!" answered Fitzgerald, with a hard laugh. "Prison does not improve a man—does it?"
"Don't speak in that tone, Brian," she said; "it is not like you—let us sit down and talk calmly over the matter."
"I don't see what good that will do," he answered, wearily, as they sat down hand-in-hand. "I have talked about it to Calton till my head aches, and it is no good."
"Of course not," retorted the lawyer, sharply, as he also sat down. "Nor will it be any good until you come to your senses, and tell us where you were on that night."
"I tell you I cannot."
"Brian, dear," said Madge, softly, taking his hand, "you must tell all—for my sake."
Fitzgerald sighed—this was the hardest temptation he had yet been subjected to— he felt half inclined to yield, and chance the result—but one look at Madge's pure face steeled him against doing so. What could his confession bring but sorrow and regret to one whom he loved better than his life.
"Madge!" he answered, gravely, taking her hand again, "you do not know what you ask."
"Yes, I do!" she replied, quickly. "I ask you to save yourself—to prove that you are not guilty of this terrible crime, and not to sacrifice your life for the sake of——"
Here she stopped, and looked helplessly at Calton, for she had no idea of the reason of Fitzgerald's refusal to speak.
"For the sake of a woman," finished Calton, bluntly.
"A woman!" she faltered, still holding her lover's hand. "Is—is—is that the reason?"
Brian averted his face.
"Yes!" he said, in a low, rough voice.
A sharp expression of anguish crossed her pale face, and sinking her head on her hands, she wept bitterly. Brian looked at her in a dogged kind of way, and Calton stared grimly at them both.
"Look here," he said, at length, to Brian, in an angry voice; "if you want my opinion of your conduct, I think you're an infernal scoundrel—begging your pardon, my dear, for the expression. Here is this noble girl, who loves you with her whole heart, and is ready to sacrifice everything for your sake, come to implore you to save your life, and you coolly turn round, and acknowledge that you love another woman."
Brian lifted his head haughtily, and his face flushed.
"You are wrong," he said, turning round sharply; "there is the woman for whose sake I keep silence;" and, rising up from the bed, he pointed to Madge, as she sobbed bitterly on it.
She lifted up her haggard face with an air of surprise.
"For my sake!" she cried, in a startled voice.
"Oh, he's mad," said Calton, shrugging his shoulders; "I will put in a defence of insanity."
"No, I'm not mad," cried Fitzgerald, wildly, as he caught Madge in his arms. "My darling! My darling! It is for your sake that I keep silence, and will do so though my life pays the penalty. I could tell you where I was on that night and save myself; but if I did, you would learn a secret which would curse your life, and I dare not speak,—I dare not."
Madge looked up into his face with a pitiful smile as her tears fell fast.
"Dearest!" she said, softly. "Do not think of me, but only of yourself; better that I should endure misery than that you should die. I do not know what the secret can be, but if the telling of it will save your life, do not hesitate. See," she cried, falling on her knees, "I am at your feet—I implore you by all the love you ever had for me, save yourself, whatever the consequences may be to me."
"Madge," said Fitzgerald as he raised her in his arms, "at one time I might have done so, but now it is too late. There is another and stronger reason for my silence, which I have only found out since my arrest. I know that I am closing up the one way of escape from this charge of murder, of which I am innocent; but as there is a God in heaven, I swear that I will not speak."
There was a silence in the cell, only broken by Madge's convulsive sobs, and even Calton, cynical man of the world though he was, felt his eyes growing wet. Brian led Madge over to him, and placed her in his arms.
"Take her away," he said, in a broken voice, "or I shall forget I am a man;" and turning away he threw himself on his bed, and covered his face with his hands. Calton did not answer him, but summoned the warder, and tried to lead Madge away. But just as they reached the door she broke away from him, and, running back, flung herself on her lover's breast.
"My darling! My darling!" she sobbed, kissing him, "you shall not die. I will save you in spite of yourself;" and, as if afraid to trust herself any longer, she ran out of the cell, followed by the barrister.