Tragedies of the Night

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXX, Issue XIX, 9 May 1903, Page 1275

Tragedies of the Night

I By

Edgar Pickering.

VI. REVENGED BY DEATH. A wild, black night and through it ploughed the mail steamer on her way to Dover, whence three miles oil' the lights came fitfully out from the darkness as the labouring vessel reared on the heaving seas. She carried only a few passengers, and apart from their fellow voyagers, two men sat in a corner of the saloon, talking confidentially together.

One of these was Ronald Gower, an Australian born and bred, who, by the death of a relative had become the inheritor of a fortune and estate in England. The other was a tall, well-built, handsome fellow with whom he had become acquainted during a week's stay in Paris. It had been Gower’s proposal that they should journey to London in company, for his new acquaintance was a pleasant, well-informed man, who had been useful in many ways to the untravelled colonial. “And you say that you don’t know a soul in England, nor are known by anyone?” remarked his eompaion. “I am only known to my lawyers by name,” replied Gower. “This is the first time I have ever been out of New South Wales.”

The other looked at him curiously. “I’m thinking what it must be like to know one has an income of five thousand a year, as you have, Gower,” he said, and his companion gave a little shrug.

The conversation continued for some moments longer and then, at his friend’s suggestion, Gower followed him on deck where the two men, sheltered from the keen blast, stood watching the twinkling lights of Dover towards which the steamer was driving amid the bluster of sea and wind. Save for the watch forward and the officers on the bridge, Ronald Gower and his companion were alone, and the darkness surrounding them was profound. The rush of the angry sea dulled the sound of their voices, and with his gaze fixed on the faintly discerned shore, whereon he would step presently for the first time, Gower peered through the blackness.

“We shall be alongside the pier in half an hour,” said his companion. “Move a little, Gower. You’re none too safe leaning over the side,” and the two men shifted their position, Gower relinquishing his hold of the rope by which he had been steadying himself for an instant. The howling wind tore at the straining vessel, mingling its strident note to the roar of the leaping waves — the steamer rose and fell, coming nearer at every heave to her destination, and amid the darkness the two men stood watching the twinkling lights. Then, suddenly, Ronald Gower became conscious of two hands pinioning his arms, of struggling to retain his footing; of a face glaring down into his, and that he was being forced backward. “Let go!” he cried, his voice stifled by the fierce wind. “Are you mad?” and he made a desperate effort to free himself. He had become conscious of his deadly peril. “You villain!” he shrieked. “You mean to murder me!”

There was no reply. The swaying head light on the foremast cast a momentary gleam on the ashen face of the doomed

man, then the black night enveloped the two figures once more, and the wild, tumult of sea and foam swept past them. There was a swift plunge, for the murderer had released his hold on his victim at last, and all was silent again, save for the scream of the blast and the hoarse roar of many waters, as he bent over the side, whence Ronald Gower had disappeared, looking down into the horrible depths—alone. His hands had been scratched in the struggle, and he uttered an angry oath. Then he descended to the saloon.

He had no fear that the murder might have been observed, and a smile as of satisfaction rested on his handsome face. No one would ever know that it had been he who had forced Ronald Gower overboard that stormy night, nor that the man who had disappeared was other than Richard Morland, his own name, which from that moment would be changed for that of his victim. Half an hour later and he was standing on the pier watching the disembarking of the passengers’ luggage. There were three or four trunks labelled Ronald Gower, and having claimed them he entered the railway carriage, to be borne swiftlv Londonwards.

It was a year since he last walked the streets of the great city, and a pleasurable feeling as of home coming filled his breast as he strolled away from Bedford Row next day. Tire papers found in the murdered man’s desk had given Richard Morland all the information necessary to satisfy the lawyers: the affair had been very successfully managed—the interview with them had completed it, and he walked away from the office with the family solicitor’s obsequious smile and deferential bow lingering pleasantly in his mind, the owner of ten thousand broad acres and five thousand pounds a year income. Coming to a stationer’s shop, he went in to order some visiting cards, as Ronald Gower, Esq., of Merridale Hall, Salop. “I played for big stakes and won,” he told himself as he quitted the shop. “No one would recognise me in this beard I’ve grown,” and he smiled as he eaught sight of his face in the mirror of a shop window.

He was so engrossed with thought that the passers-by were unheeded. One of them, however, a black-robed woman, had paused for a moment as he strode past, and her veil was raised- From out those clear grey eyes had come a glance of recognition, and the slightly parted lips uttered an exclamation as she turned, following him. A woman whose beauty seemed to have been dimmed by some great sorrow.

With a quick step Morland continued his way, unconscious of the blaek-robed figure dogging him. Ha was thinking of a dozen different things; how he had so successfully personated the murdered man, and how well the world would go with the formerly impecunious Richard Morland. He had planned the crime one evening as he and Ronald Gower had sat chatting in a Paris Cafe, only a week since—he had rehearsed in his mind a dozen times the murder which had been so successfully carried out, and now he was reaping the reward of it. The affair had been absurdly easy to perform; the result was even more satisfactory than he had anticipated, for the

papers had a brief paragraph describing the disappearance of a channel passenger, who was presumed to have committed suicide on the voyage, his own name, Richard Morland, being given. Suddenly he turned, for a hand had been laid on his arm. “Richard!” and the name came with a quick, eager delight from the woman who faced him, “if you could only guess how I’ve prayed that you and 1 might meet again, you’d ” The angry scowl which confronted her seemed to stay the woman's impassioned words abruptly. “You!” he hissed, and then recovered his accustomed composure. “Yes—it's Madge Forrest without doubt, but you’ve altered. You’ve lost your good looks, Madge,” and he gave a sneering little laugh. “I’m pleased to see you, of course. It’s a year or more since we saw each other,” and he took out his purse.

“It isn’t money I want,” she replied, pointing to the purse scornfully. “It is that you’ll keep the promise you swore to me. You remember it 7” There were a thousand wild thoughts in his mind, but he kept his calmness well. A word from Madge Forrest and all his plans would be destroyed; her very presence was a danger to him. , “Yes, I remember,” he answered, “and I’ll keep my word. I’ve been abroad and have only just returned—that is the reason why we haven’t seen each other lately.”

He was considering how best this unexpected peril could be overcome, and the woman waited for him to speak again. “I am going to a place in Shropshire, to-night,” he told her. “I have urgent business calling me. I will see you there, Madge. You must come when you hear from me, which shall be in three days. You quite understand?”

“Yes, I understand.” “Take this money for your travelling expenses,” he continued, handing her a bank note, “and here is the place you must come to. I will meet you.” He scrawled the name hastily, putting the paper in her hand.

“And you will fulfil your promise, Richard?” she answered, pleadingly. “For the love you vowed—for the sake of the love I have for you.” “I swear to you that I’ll carry out my purpose.” he replied. “What more can I say? But I cannot stay with you any’ longer. We shall meet again in three days,” and he held out his hand.

He turned, striding away, trying vainly to divest himself of the haunting dread of some unknown danger threatening him. He would not wait another hour in London, where others than the woman to whom the solemn vow of marriage had been plighted a year ago, might recognise him. But he would be safe in his own house in Shropshire, and there would be time to think out his plans.

It was late when he arrived at Newport. and in the solitary coffee room of the hotel where he put up for the night, Morland sat deep in thought. He was safe now: a perfect stranger to everyone in the quiet little town. The district was strange to him. too, for he had never been in Shropshire before, and after breakfast next morning he strolled out into the country, walking deep in thought; so engrossed, indeed, that all except the meeting with the woman who loved him was forgotten. Presently his footsteps led him through the broad silent street of a little village; beyond stretched gaunt, bare fields, across which wound a canal, and beside it rose a tall chimney shaft from some indistinct buildings. Approaching these, the dull thud of a steam engine came amid the silence.

He was standing beside the engineroom. looking around curiously, for it was his first sight of a coal pit. Then a man had joined him, and Morland was speaking. “Three hundred yards deep, you say?” “More, perhaps,” replied the man.

“There’s plenty deeper over yon,” and he pointed with a black hand- “Slay be you'd like to look down t’ shaft, mister?”

They went to the yawning mouth, fiom which came the rumble of a descending cage. “Not much chance for anyone who might fall down there,” remarked Morland.

“ ’Tis three hundred yard. I tell ‘ee, ’ retorted the nian. “They’d talk no more, that went headlong down t’ shaft, I reckon.”

Morland put a shilling in the man's grimy palm, and moved away.

“It is fairly lonely here nt night. I suppose?” he asked. “There’s naught but me about t’ place, come dark,” replied the man. T night shift has been done away with o’ late. It’s lonely enough, as you say, Mister. Not a living soul nearer than a mile, except me in t’ engine house, and I never stir out of it, then.”

“They’d talk no more, who fell down there.”

The words were repeating themselves over and over again in Morland’s mind, as he walked away from the pit. Madge Forrest’s voice would be stilled for ever if

His thoughts refused to complete the sentence, but he knew what his purpose was now, and began hungering for the tardy time to pass before the woman who loved and trusted him should come.

A still, dark night, and standing on the platform Morland waited for his visitor. There was a glad smile in her eyes, as Madge Forrest walked away from the station beside him, and his manner encouraged her.

“We’ve a three miles walk, Madge.” he said. “You don't mind? I couldn't get a conveyance.”

Talking quietly, they came at last to where the canal was crossed by a narrow bridge, and on the right of this lay the dark mass of the colliery buildings towards which Morland led her. “Come this way,” he whispered, tightening his hold on tire slim hand which had been resting on his arm. “It’s a strange sight for a Londoner, this coal pit.”

The desolate scene lay still as death as they went together across the even ground. Then they were standing at the mouth, and Madge drew back, shud-

dering. “Come away, Dick,” she said, trying to release her hand. “Come away, I’m frightened — Dick — Dick — for God's sake let me go.” His arms had been flung round her, and his breath came hot on her face as she struggled with him. And as nearer and nearer to the yawning abyss they came, a horrible fear gave her such strength that, powerful man as he was, he could not overmaster her —yet. Closer and closer, and her cry for help sang out through the stillness. “Help! help!” went the wailing shriek, as he dragged her to her death. He had lifted his clenched hand, striking her, and she dropped under the cruel blow, but her grasp on him had not loosened. They were within a foot of the shaft now, and, lifting her from her feet, Morland flung the half insensible woman from him. And in the act his foot struck against some woodwork, sending him forward. There was a wild outstretching of his hands, as if to grasp the phantom-like beams that flashed by him, and then Richard Morland had gone to join h’s victim, three hundred yards below, and the night breeze passed over the pit, leaving the stillness of death again.