The Penalty of a Crime.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume IX, Issue 8, 20 February 1892, Page 170

The Penalty of a Crime.

BY

WILLIAM BELWORTHY,

, WELLINGTON-

(ALL lIIGHIS RESERVED.)

CHAPTER XIX. A LATE CONFESSION.

Y name is John Alfred Fenton. I was born of respectable parents, my father being head gamekeeper to Squire Oakfield, of Oakfield Grange, near Finchley, in the county of Devonshire, England, and my mother was the second youngest daughter of a tolerably well-to-do farmer in the same neighbourhood. When a lad of fifteen years of age I was sent to London to my mother’s eldest

brother, who kept a large ironmonger’s establishment not very far from the Tottenham Court Road. I was placed in my uncle's counting-house, and he was at some pains to instruct me in the details of office work, and the various intricacies of his somewhat extensive business. According to agreement I was to reside with my uncle and aunt at their private residence until my term of apprenticeship should have expired, and then if we were mutually satisfied I was to receive promotion, and, as was hinted, if I still continued deserving, 1 might one day hope to till my uncle’s position as head of the establishment. This was not at all an improbable event, as the old couple were childless, and I was a great favourite with them both. For a few years I made steady, but sure progress, until by the time I had arrived at my twenty-fifth year I had become so thoroughly conversant with the requirements of the establishment that my uncle appointed me to the position of manager, with a generous salary. Up to this period nothing had occurred to interrupt or disturb the harmonious relationship which existed between us, when an event occurred whose after effect was to dissipate all my dreams of future prosperity, and eventually ended by my being compelled to sever my connection with the firm. There was some important business to transact in connection with the windingup of an estate in the country, the property of a client of my uncle’s, and as it was absolutely necessary that someone should lie sent down to represent the firm’s interest, my uncle suggested that 1 should take a • run down,’ and after settling the business, should stay for a week, and enjoy a well-earned holiday. I had been married at this time about a year, but my wife had gone to stay with some of her town friends for a short time, so I started on the journey alone. Having transacted the business upon which I was sent, I thought I might as well look up an acquaintance of mine who was living in the Royal Borough of Windsor, about twentythree miles from London. It happened to be the commencement of the Ascot race-meeting when I arrived, and the Royal town was all excitement and bustle. My previous acquaintance with the turf had been on a very limited scale ; in fact, beyond an annual small wager on the probable winner of the Derby stakes, I was practically a novice in the arts and mysteries of the national pastime. When I met my friend, however, and he introduced me to one or two of his acquaintances, my scruples were over ruled, and I accompanied them to the races. We had a drive of about seven miles through the Queen’s Park before we arrived on the course, and the day being gloriously fine, hundreds of vehicles, from the London ’bus, which had been driven from the city for the special occasion, down to the humble coster’s cart drawn by his much be rated donkey, streamed along the road, being passed by their more aristocratic rival, the four-in-hand. I had made up my mind not to bet to any considerable extent, but my first venture, unfortunately, was on a winning horse. I say unfortunately, because, Hushed with the success of my first effort, the demon of speculation was roused within me, and I was tempted to risk a still larger amount on the next race. Again 1 was a winner, ami when the races were over and 1 returned to my hotel at Windsor, I found myself richer by half a year’s salary than when 1 started out. From this time forth I was a changed man. Instead of contenting myself with the regular and munificent salary which I had been accustomed to draw quarterly from my uncle, and which, at one time, I had thought sufficient for a prince of the realm to live on, I was now dissatisfied, ami evinced a feveiish longing to add to my income by gambling. I was accompanied on my journey back to London by a gentleman to whom I had been introduced at Ascot, a certain Mr Francis Dixon, whose father was reputed to be fabulously wealthy, being the owner of a rich silver mine in Mexico, the value of which was hardly calculable. Before we parted at Paddington Station this gentleman handed me a card containing his name, and the address of the club which he frequented when in town, and requested that 1 would favour him with a call on the first opportunity. The opportunity occurred sooner than I bad expected, for 1 met him in the street a few evenings after the invitation, and returned with him to the club to spend the remainder of the evening. He suggested a friendly game of cards for a small stake, and I, fool that I was, consented. He allowed me to win, and then led me on till I had lost several pounds. He promised me my revenge the following evening, and the passion for gambling having by this tune taken such a firm hold upon me, I gladly availed myself of his offer. Step by step I slowly, but surely, tiod die downwaid path to ruin. I had been accustomed to plume myself on my shrewdness, and my insight into the motives actuating human action, but 1 learned to my bitter cost that in the hands of this experienced man of the world I was a veritable child. I made several attempts to break myself free from the evil habits which were binding me like fetters, and with this end in view would absent myself from the club, and for a time devote myself zealously to the interests of my uncle’s business.

spending my evenings at home, or accompanying my wife to the theatre ; yet no sooner did I meet this Francis Dixon than the sarcastic sneer and taunting remarks with which he twitted me on my attempts at reformation, would act like tire on my impetuous nature, and away to the winds went all my good resolutions, and the following night would find me at the card-table or in the billiard-room, until the last state was worse than the first. Up to this time I had contented myself with risking my own money, but one day I saw what I thought was a golden opportunity for retrieving my past losses if 1 could only get a large enough sum to‘stake.’ It was my acquaintance, Mr Dixon, who offered me the opportunity, and to enable me to close with his offer I was tempted to appropriate money belonging to my uncle, fully intending to restore the same in the course of a few days, when I should, as I fondly, but delusively hoped, be in a position to do so with ease. ’Twas a repetition of the old story. Luck, chance, fatecall it what you will—was against me, and my bubble collapsed, leaving me debtor to my uncle’s cash account by a goodly number of pounds. Not only so, but I knew if my uncle discovered how I had wronged him he would never forgive me, and I should be disgraced and ruined. I was already in Dixon’s debt for a considerable sum, the amount being made up of bets which I bad made and lost with him, and one evening when we were together in the club he suddenly demanded payment of the amount, intimating that if he did not get it before the end of the week he should be under the painful necessity of writing to my uncle, requesting a cheque for the same. We were both heated with wine, and his words and manner were calculated to rouse a less impetuous nature than was mine ; and when I remembered that it was owing largely to his persuasion that I had been led to place myself in the false position I then occupied, I felt some resentment at his threat, and retaliated by taunting him with the despicable part he had played, first of ail getting me into his power by the traps which he had laid for me, and then, when he saw I was helpless to escape, to threaten me with disgrace and ruin. My remarks exasperated him to such an extent that, seizing a wineglass which was standing half-filled on a sideboard, he dashed the contents in my face, exclaiming as he did so : ‘ Take that for your insolence, you cad 1’ The next moment we were struggling on the floor of the club. I will draw a veil over that scene, discreditable alike to both. On my arrival at the office a few mornings after the scene above described, I found among the usual business letters one addressed to myself in my uncle’s handwriting. This did not surprise me, as my uncle’s health having failed him very much of late, he rarely called at the establishment till the afternoon ; but any instructions he wished to have carried out before his arrival were usually intimated to me by letter, which was brought from my uncle’s house in the morning, before the establishment opened. The contents of this letter, however, have never been erased from my memory. In it my uncle stated that, owing to the many rumours which had reached him relative to the manner in which I had, for some time past, been spending my evenings, and some report having reached his ears of the scene which had taken place between myself and some other gentleman (?) whose name he had no desire to know, he (my uncle) had felt impelled to take a rough audit of the books belonging to the firm, and he had discovered, to his mortification and sorrow, that the books had been tampered with, and on further investigation ascertained that several sums of money which had passed through my hands were not accounted, or not properly accounted for in the books. He concluded his letter by requesting me to call on him at once, and promised that even should his surmises unfortunately be correct, yet for the sake of the family honour he would not proceed to extremes in the matter. 1 felt my humiliation keenly, and called on my generous-hearted relation to beg his forgiveness for my base ingratitude for so cruelly wronging him. The interview was a painful one, and I left my uncle’s presence with a consciousness of my utter unworthiness, and tilled with a deep regret for the criminal folly of which I had been guilty. I never saw him again, but when I returned home at night 1 found a letter awaiting me, containing a cheque for wages due to the end of the quarter, and a few lines from my uncle advising me to emigrate to Australia, and informing me that he would send a cheque to my wife by the following mail for fifty-pounds, which would enable us to pay our passage to the colony and leave a few pounds over. He also added that if I would forward him a list of my honourable debts, if they proved not too unreasonable, he would take upon himself to discharge them, and he concluded by hoping that in our new home I would endeavour to retrieve the shortcomings of the past. It was a letter which I believe few other men in the same circumstances could or would have written, and I realised more than ever the price I must pay for my indulgence in the vice to which I had fallen such an easy victim. By some means or other the news leaked out that I had been obliged to quit my uncle’s establishment for embezzlement, and my father sent me a stern letter—for he was infallibly honest himself, and could scarce forgive the want of that virtue in others, even in his own son—so he wrote me a letter in which he forbade me ever to • darken his doors again.’ This made my punishment harder still to bear, for he had beenagood father to me, and I knew that I had inflicted on him a blow which time would never wholly heal. My dear old mother wrote me along, prayerful letter, full of excuses for my fall, and trusting me, as only a mother does trust, believing that I should still prove myself true to my early teachings, and praying me to grant her one more interview before I sailed for the New World that she might give me her parting blessing.

When I went home on the day of the disclosure and told my wife all that bad happened, and what my uncle bad suggested, holding back from her nothing of the degradation which I had brought upon us both, instead of upbraiding me for my folly and sin, and grieving over our altered circumstances, she tried to make light of the pain, I knew she must feel at the thought of breaking up our home, and going away to start life again in a strange land. * Never mind, John !’ she said, when in my bitterness I was blaming myself for my abominable conduct. • Thank God it is not yet too late to redeem the past. We are both of us comparatively young, and once away from your old companions and associations all may yet be well, and I trust we may spend many happy years together. Regret for the past is only useful now as a guide for the future, and although the lesson you have learned has been a bitter one, do not let it have the effect of disheartening you, or lead you to take a too despondent view of the future.’ So it was decided we should sell up our furniture and other goods and emigrate to Australia, and we made all necessary arrangements to leave in a vessel which was timed to sail in a few weeks from the date on which I left my uncle’s service. I had an intense longing to see my good old mother before we sailed, and even felt I should be grateful to see my father and learn that he believed, at least, that I intended • turning over a new leaf,’ as it is termed, and was not likely to forget the discipline through which I had passed, or was passing. So a few days before the advertised time for sailing I went to the London terminus and took a ticket for Wickingham, a small roadside station, about twelve miles from Finchley, on the London side. I arrived at my destination just as it was growing dusk, and as the train stopped I jumped out, and proceeded in the direction of the little village from which the station derived its name. I engaged a bed at the only inn in the place, kept by an old dame, who in answer to my inquiry if she could let me have a bed for that night, replied, ‘ Ees zur, oi can let ’e have’t bed which Squoire bisself once slept in, to be zure.’ I saw the old lady did not recognise me, and as she was rather slow of understanding I did not enlighten her, although I had tasted many a draught of her ‘ home-brewed ’ in my younger days when I had been sent there with messages from Squire Oaktieldorhis guests. I informed the old lady that Imightnot be home till late.aslhad some friends to visit,so she gavemethe key of the back entrance, and having previously shown me the • Squire’s room.’ in which I was to sleep, I left the house. To prevent any chance of meeting any of the Finchley folk—a meeting which was undesirable for several reasons—l purposely avoided the main road, and took instead a well-known path through the woods, which led to within a few hundred yards of the Lodge leading to Oakfield Grange. My father and mother, as I knew, still occupied the Lodge, but as I knew that the former usually went on night duty at about 11 p.m., I selected a convenient spot in the fir plantation where I could get a view of the front gate of the Lodge, without the necessity of exposing myself to view at the same time. Here I waited, with feelings better imagined than described, till I saw the door of the Lodge open, and by the light from the lamp inside I saw the figure of my father with gun on shoulder, come down the garden path, and turn in the direction of some disused stone quarries. A short time after my father’s departure I approached the back entrance to the Lodge, but when I came near the room in which my father kept his guns, I hesitated for a time in order to collect my thoughts and devise how I could best approach my mother. As I was leaning against the door it opened with the pressure, and I started back alarmed lest there should be any of the under-keepers in the room. I remembered, however, that my father was very particular about giving up this key to anyone, and concluded that he must have pulled the door to when going on duty, and hearing the lock snap back, had taken it for granted that the door had locked properly. The lock must have partly caught, but the weight of my body had been sufficient to cause the catch to spring back. Fearful of alarming my mother should I close the door properly, I went into the gun-room, and by the light of the full moon I could see the array of guns, ammunition, etc., as plainly as if it had been broad daylight. On a shelf near the door was a sixchambered revolver, and a packet of cartridges, evidently belonging to it, were lying alongside. I had always been a lover of firearms, and the peculiar workmanship of the revolver arrested my attention and claimed my admiration. I took out some cartridges from the packet, fitted one into each chamber, and from admiring was seized with an inclination to appropriate. My impulsesand inclinations had for a long period been my masters rather than duty, so that it was little wonder that I obeyed them now. Slipping the revolver, which was not a very large one, into my coat pocket, I left the room and went round to the kitchen door. Knocking at the door, my mother inquired, ‘ Who’s there !’ ‘ It’s only John,’ I replied, and the next instant she was sobbing on my shoulder. The time ran on while my mother and I sat talking together, until I heard the rattle of carriage wheels coming from the direction of ttie Grange, and my mother informed me that the Squire had been giving a ball, and that most of the guests had already taken their departure from the Grange. I am naturally I think of a nervous, excitable temperament, and the farewell interview with my mother affected me very much, so that when at last I tore myself away and got out again on the Finchley Road, my nervous system seemed almost completely unstrung. I had proceeded down the road for some distance when, through a sudden rift in the clouds, the moon shone out, revealing to my gaze the figure of a man, a few yards distant from me, and approaching in my direction. Something in the gait of the man seemed familiar to me, and as we approached closer to each other I saw that the figure w as none other than that of my late acquaintance, Francis Dixon, the man whose temptations and plottings had helped to bring upon me the disgrace, the consequences of which were compelling me to leave my native land, perhaps for ever. I judged from his manner that he had been drinking heavily, and had it been possible I would have avoided him, but he recognized me at once, and with a hoarse laugh he exclaimed, ‘ By G—d ! who’d have thought of meeting you here, my young forger ! Taken to poaching for a livelihood, eh ? More respectable for a gentleman certainly than forging, but must warn the Squire to morrow to keep a sharp eye on his hares and pheasants,’ and again he laughed a mocking, irritating laugh. I felt my fingers clutch together with a desire to chastise him, and his insulting words almost maddened me ; but controlling myself as well as I was able, I replied, * Let me pass, Francis Dixon, or you will have reason to regret our meeting.’ By way of answer he raised the stick which he was carrying,

and before I was aware of bis intention, struck me smartly on the right cheek. Would to God I could blot out from the record of my life and memory the scene which followed ! The blow- from the stick caused a stinging pain in my cheek, and left a mark which I shall carry to my grave, and the blow roused all my worst passions. In a moment I had drawn the revolver from my pocket—although up to this time I bad almost forgotten it was there—and presented it at Francis Dixon’s head. I solemnly swear now, as I hope for forgiveness, that I had no intention in that instant of using the weapon otherwise than to intimidate him, but in my state of nervous excitement my finger pressed involuntarily on the trigger. I heard the report of the pistol, and saw Mr Dixon fall, as I imagined, dead at my feet. Horrified at what I had done, I rushed like a madman from the spot, throwing the pistol from me as I ran, and heard it fall with a splash in the lake near by. For miles and miles I seemed to have run that night, but as daylight dawned I found that, instead of being thirty or forty rtiiles from Finchley, I had in my excitement only been describing circles in my wanderings, and was within about twelve miles of the fatal spot where I had taken a fellow-creature’s life. I called at a small roadside inn, and asked the landlady to give me a drink of something warm, and then I hurried on again with redoubled speed. I wanted to get back to London, but was afraid to take the train. However, after getting a. good many miles on the road, I found myself at last in the vicinity of a railway station, and in answer to an inquiry of mine, the porter civilly informed me that a train would leave in a few minutes for London. I took the train, and in due course arrived safe at home. My wife, who had just returned from a visit to her friends, started with amazement when she saw how ill I was looking, but wrongly attributed my altered appearance to the fact that I was leaving my country with disgrace hanging over my head, consequent on my dismissal from my nncle’s establishment. When the daily papers came out that morning I procured a copy and eagerly scanned its columns, dreading to see an account of the discovery of Mr Dixon’s body. I failed to find any notice in the morning’s paper, but in the first edition of an evening paper my eyes encountered the dread words ‘ Suspected murder at Finchley. Gentleman found shot through the temple, etc., etc. £IOO reward offered for the apprehension and conviction of the murderer. ’ On reading it carefully through I could gather no information as to whether the police had any clue or otherwise. My great fear was that, should the pistol be missed or found, suspicion would rest upon my father, then fear for personal safety overpowered every other sensation, and I began to wonder whether, when my father should miss the revolver from his room, my mother would tell him of my visit. If she should do so suspicion might point to me, and I knew only too well what the result of that suspicion would mean, and if anyone at Finchley should know that the dead man and I had been acquainted with each other, and should also know of the quarrel which had taken place, my chances of escape would be very limited. Two days after this terrible event my wife and I sailed for Australia, and nearly five months elapsed before I had an opportunity of seeing a home paper, and there read that Mr Gerald Olphert, a barrister residing at Finchley, had been arrested on suspicion, charged with the murder of Mr Dixon, and had been tried and acquitted. I knew the gentleman mentioned, having met him on several occasions in the grounds of Oakfield Grange when I had been visiting my parents, and was surprised to learn that by one of those singular coincidences—which so often lead to a miscarriage of justice—the circumstantial evidence brought forward at the trial actually pointed, almost conclusively, to him as the real criminal. After we had been in the colony a few months my wife and I proceeded to Sydney, where I managed to secure profitable employment ; but the unhappy secret which I carried was’ preying upon my mind and undermining my health, so that I could not rest long in one place, but was continually changing our quarters. We eventually came to Melbourne, and when I was out walking one day I saw a gentleman whom I at once recognised as Mr Gerald Olphert. My first impulse was to escape from the place, believing that he must have come to Melbourne with the intention of tracking me down. Instead of running from him, however, I stepped into a shop to make a purchase of some article, and when he passed by I came out and followed him to a certain hotel, where, as I afterwards learned, he was in the habit of staying. I also ascertained that he had entered into partnership with another gentleman, and that they were engaged in the legal profession in Melbourne. The next day I wrote out this confession, and decided to forward it to Mr Olphert, in the meantime removing ray wife to some other part of the colony. Having enclosed the manuscript in an envelope, I sealed it, and placed it carefully away in the box where you found it. On the following day I was unable to rise from my bed, and for weeks after I lay there tossing and moaning, a victim to typhoid fever. When at length I managed to crawl about again I was but a shadow of my former self, and the fever had so undermined my nervous system that it was many a long weary week before I was fit to resume my usual avocations, and by this time my place was filled by another, and I was compelled to look for employment elsewhere. Never can I forget the utter wretchedness, the grinding poverty, the bitter, blank despair of that time. From eight o’clock in the morning till five o’clock at night did I tramp the streets of Melbourne in search of work, only to return to our humble abodeeach night utterly worn out in body, and feeling as if my brain wa- on fire. Numberless were the advertisements 1 answered, rarely receiving any response. I was willing enough to work, and necessity would have made me glad to welcome any kind of employment, but in the fierce, maddeningstruggle for existence which was incessantly going on, I found the problem of living becoming more and more difficult to solve, and as our funds lessened it soon became obviously necessary to part with some of our furniture in order that we might be enabled to keep body and soul together. Bit by bit our little home was broken up, until at last my wife and I were compelled to remove to a cheaper locality, and when at length a neighbouring tailor—almost as poor and wretched as ourselves—suggested that my wife should apply to his employer for work to do at home, my wife caught at the suggestion with an eagerness which nothing but extreme poverty conld have ever generated ; and I myself had become so prostrated by frequent attacks of illness and insufficient food that I was not in a position to offer any objection to the scheme. What we suffered during that period none can understand but those who have passed through the fiery ordeal themselves.

To eke out a bare existence my wife has been obliged to toil from daylight to midnight, and her life during that time has been a living martyrdom ; but enough of our own troubles. I have written this confession with the hope that by its aid Mr Gerald Olphert may, on his return to his native land, clear his name from all suspicion. I have never told my wife the secret, nor from anything which she has said could I gather that I had unwittingly parted with it in the deliriums of fever, and as we sank lower and lower in the social scale I hadn’t the heart to add to her burdens by disclosing my secret. My last request —the request of a dying man—is that Mr Olphert will, as he hopes for forgiveness himself, try and forgive me for the great wrong which I hare inflicted upon him. God knows I too have suffered, and I pray that I may soon be at rest. My life has been a long series of mistakes and follies, and if I could only know that my wife was piaced in a position to return to her friends in the old country, I should be content to lay the burden down. I do herebycertify that the within written confession is the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, as God is my witness. (Signed) John Alfred Fenton. CHAPTER NX. CONCLUSION. As the lawyer laid down the manuscript an ominous gurgling sound issuing from the lips of the invalid on the bed caused both himself and the other inmates of the room to rush towards the unhappy man. and as Mrs Fenton with a sobbing cry threw herself on her knees by the bedside, a spasm of pain passed over her husband’s features, and in another moment John Fenton had passed to the shadow-land ‘ where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.’ ***♦♦♦* It was with very mingled feelings that Gerald Olphert had listened to the confession of the gamekeeper’s son, but the tragic conclusion drove from his breast every other feeling but that of intense pity for the misguided man and his unfortunate wife. After defraying all expenses in connection with the funeral, Gerald’s next step was to book a passage for Mrs Fenton in one of the homeward-bound vessels, and not many weeks afterwards he himself bade farewell to Australian shores, and before the year had closed there was a quiet wedding at Finchley, at which Gerald Olphert and Constance Oakfield figured as the principal performers. Needless to add that the Squire, when he learned the truth about Gerald, was only too pleased to give his consent to his daughter’s marriage, and amongst other guests who witnessed the ceremony, were Gerald’s old friends Stanley Grahame, Major Stuart, and the celebrated London physician, Dr. Wm. Oakfield, ajid his charming wife. Poor Mis Fenton, the mother of John Fenton, never lived to hear the full particulars of her son’s confession, as she died a few days prior to Gerald’s arrival from Australia. As for her husband, when he learned the extent of his son’s guilt he requested Squire Oakfield to allow him to resign his position at Finchley, as he intended to leave the neighbourhood. The Squire granted his request, conditionally that he would accept a position on an estate belonging to him (the Squire) which was situated in another county. Constance Oakfield had felt keenly the separation from her lover, and the experience through which she had been called to pass during those two years had imparted to her character a strength which could have eome only through personal suffering. During that time of ordeal Constance had devoted a considerable portion of her leisure to the study of that strata of humanity to be found in and around Finchley, and recognized under the general heading of the ‘ working class,' and the exercise had made a deep impression on her character. Educated to believe in the divine right of wealth and rank to the worship and service of its less favoured brethren, Constance noted, with ever-increas-ing wonderment, the domestic tragedies, the heroic acts of self-sacrifice, the daily and hourly renouncement of personal gratification for the sake of a loved child, or for an impecunious neighbour, and the thousand and one acts of charity which occurred amongst her father’s tenants, and in the homes of the factory folk at Finchley ; and the more she pondered over these things the greater seemed her own sense of responsibility, and Gerald declares that he will be forced to take his wife to Australia or New Zealand, where her democratic notions will be more appreciated than amongst the elite of fashionable Finchley. (THE END.)