'I will Repay.'

Front matter

BT THE SAME AVTHOE. Notes of a Touk in Spain. {Edition 1,000). T. Vickers Wood. 1885. BY FREDK W ROSE Author of " Notes of a Tour in Spain" etc London : EDEN, REMINGTON & CO PUBLISHERS 15 KING STREET, COVENT GARDEN 1892 [All rights reserved^ TO COUNT LTOF TOLSTOI I INSCRIBE THIS LITTLE STUDY AS A TRIBUTE OF ADMIRATION POR HIS GENIUS. F. W. ROSE. PKEFACE. When, a short time ago, the world was horrified by the commission of a series of murders of unwonted and apparently pur poseless atrocity, the public mind revolted against the idea that such terrible deeds could be perpetrated without some adequate motive. Hence every man sought to frame, or accept, some theory which might explain the crimes and the criminal. Among the many possible solutions of the mystery which passed through my brain, was the one which I have elaborated in the following pages. In studying the psychology of epileptic mania, I find there are such wide differences in individual cases, that I fully expect profes- B

Preface

. ■2 sional critics to say they never came in contact with a patient who would have behaved quite as Wargrave Leinster did. The mention of criticism reminds me that the preface to a book is one of the only opportunities of which an author can avail himself to say a word or two in reply to what has been objected against his previous work, and I trust this may be my excuse for alluding to my recent novel, written under a pseudonym. When that book was published, it met with harsh treatment at the hands of many reviewers, and I hope that where adverse criticism was honestly bestowed, it was frankly and humbly accepted; but I own that I was surprised to find that I was upbraided because (in a story which was written with the avowed purpose of showing that even those who have no religious faith, or moral principle, are likely to suffer if they disregard the marriage vow) I did not take the opportunity of expressing more emphati cally my own personal disapproval of breaches of the seventh commandment.

That the moral purpose of my last work escaped several writers who gave it that cursory perusal which is sufficient for the purpose of penning a critique, warns

PREFACE.

. 3 me that it is wiser to write so that those who run may read, and I trust no one will construe this study into a commendation of murder. Having said so much of the hostile criti cisms which I received, I should be ungrate ful did I omit to thank those numerous reviewers, whether favourable or adverse, who recognized my intention in writing the book and who gave me credit for honesty of purpose.

Chapter I. In The Library

Florence Barnett was not happy. She sat in the library, eating an ice, and carried on a conversation with her partner, but though she wore a smiling face and though she man aged to keep up the appearance at least of being interested in Colonel Webster's jungle stories, yet her heart was heavy and her thoughts were far away. And yet she had been very anxious to go to this ball. Why then was she dissatisfied ? Because an un pleasant discovery had begun to dawn upon her. She was realizing that she was no longer quite as young as she used to be. Nay, worse than this, she was aware that others realized it also. Yes, she owned to her intimate friends that she was thirty-five, and the pitiless Registrar-General of births, / WILL REPAY. 6 deaths, and marriages would probably have denied her even that moderate degree of youth, pointing with that prosaic indifference, which characterizes some Government officials, to an entry in a register about four years older.

It could not be denied that, for some few years back, she had received fewer invitations to dance than she used to in the old days, when her entry into a ball-room immediately caused a crowd of black coats to collect round the doorway, and when some of her many admirers had to be satisfied with half a dance apiece. But then she attributed this falling off to the fact that she cared less for dancing than she used to, aud to make up for any reduction in the number of her partners, she found more men than enough to beg for tbe pleasure of sitting out with her in some dark corner ; and she had never before been to a ball without finding at least two or three anxious to be introduced to her. But to-night all her partners bad been old friends, and one conceited young fop who had been brought up to her only spoke a few words and went away without asking for a valse.

Poor Mrs. Barnett was terribly hurt, and she inwardly resolved to give up dancing for ever. At first she had imagined that some thing must be wrong with her dress, but as she passed before one of the large mirrors she saw that there was nothing to find fault with on that score, for her frock was certainly one of the freshest and daintiest in the room. Her figure, too, left nothing to be desired, but she could see — oh, how plainly — the tiny wrinkles round her eyes, and the thickening of the flesh from the chin to the ears. And then she could not help looking cross and dull. Her husband had even taken the trouble to hobble round the room, supported upon his stick, to ask her if anything had gone amiss. And now that Colonel Webster had taken her down to supper and asked her to sit with him afterwards in the library, she welcomed his companionship (though she knew the stories of his wonderful escape from the tiger and his terrible fight with a cobra by heart), for she felt less alone beside him, and at the same time she was able to let her thoughts run back over her past life.

What a wasted life it was for a woman to have led, pleasure, respectable dissipation, incense and flattery, small triumphs innumerable, but never an atom of love. How tame an existence to / WILL REPAY. 8 have found slaves everywhere, but never a master. Her husband, had she never loved him ? Perhaps for a moment, but she soon found it impossible. She was nineteen when he married her, full of life and spirits, hungry for admiration, sympathy, amusement, while he was twenty-five years her senior, grave, self-possessed, cold in manner, finding no pleasure in society, and preferring the camp to the court, the club smoking-room to the most delicate of boudoirs. He took her to dances and dinners since she enjoyed it, but once in the drawing-room he took no further notice of her, and often retired to his club, only returning to fetch her when the guests were beginning to depart.

At first she had been delighted with her married life, and the constant round of gaiety in which she was enabled to indulge, aud she used to come home full of the pleasant things which her partners had said to her. But one night as she was telling some compliment which she thought particularly neat and appropriate, Colonel Barnett had stopped her in the middle of her story with the remark — "Why do you tell me all these details? Don't you know that they cannot have any interest for me ? " " No interest to you to hear me praised ? " she asked in amazement. " No," he answered, coldly. " I know you are a handsome woman, that you do not dis like admiration, and that you are married to a man who might easily be your father ; surely I can imagine the rest, and you need not weary me with the vapid speeches with which men try to make a favourable impres sion on any woman who cares to listen to them."

Florence made no answer, but the speech had shown how useless it was for her to ex pect sympathy from her husband. She did not require a second hint; from that day she never attempted to make him enter into her joys or sorrows, and she soon found that there were a dozen people in whom she would more readily confide than in her husband. He denied her nothing, showed no signs of jealousy, and treated her with great kind ness. She learnt to respect him as a most honourable and upright man, learned to rely upon her own resources without consulting or confiding in him, but what little love she fancied she had felt for him, when he married her, soon faded completely away. There / WILL REPAY. 10 were no children of the marriage, and Mrs. Barnett now found most of her interests away from home. She was frivolous, light hearted, liking admiration, never thinking of the morrow ; but she had a way of her own of stopping any attentions which became too pressing, and she neither forgot, nor was tempted to forget, her duty to her husband.

For years these trivial pleasures and mean ingless gaieties had filled her life, but now that she began to understand that there must be an end of them some day, she looked back with an aching heart to the wear}7, loveless desert of her life. How she used to con gratulate herself that she had no children, and now she felt with regret that she had no object upon which to centre that wealth of affection of which she felt herself capable. Then she thought over the men who had loved her. She remembered bow careless she had been of their feelings, how she had led them on so long as they ministered to her amusement, and how pitilessly she had sent them away, as soon as they attempted to ask of her some requital of their affection. " Worship me if you like," she would say, " but don't forget that my love belongs to my husband, and I should no more think of giving it to another than I should of pre senting your watch to anyone who might ask alms of me."

Her relentless virtue had long been a source of pride and self-congratulation to her. She could no more understand a woman making a fool of herself on account of a man than a temperate man who leads a well-regulated life can understand the alcoholic craving of the drunkard. But this night, as she sat lonely in Lord Walterham's library, she felt some strange misgivings. Was virtue really so lovely after all? Would she not have been a happier woman if, when she found that she could not love her husband, she had left him and tried a new life — a life in which her whole being should be centred in another, where self might be forgotten and the happi ness of the man she loved might be her only ambition ? As these thoughts passed through her mind a blush rose to her cheek, and she thought with horror of the picture which she had conjured up.

Was it possible that she, the pure-minded woman who had passed scathless through temptations which would have been fatal to so many weaker women, / WILL REPAY. 12 could actually find it in her heart to think such thoughts as these ? Through the open door she could see into the ball-room. The music had stopped, and she saw her husband leaning on his stick, for his old enemy, the gout, obliged him to rely upon this support even when he accom panied his wife to dances. She looked at him with a certain feeling of pride as he stood so straight and stately in spite of his sixty-five years, his white hair cut short, but still so thick that it stood up about bis forehead like a crown, and his clear grey eyes looking forth from beneath the thick white brows, their lustre quite undimmed by age or infirmity.

Theu she thought how she had always been able to meet that cold, clear gaze without faltering, and how she must quail before it if he could but read the terrible thoughts which had just passed through her brain. Then a still deeper blush rose to her cheek, and any passer-by might have thought that Colonel Webster was making a declaration instead of telling how his shikari had seized his rifle and shot the tiger through the heart, while he lay with its claws fixed in his boot, and felt himself dragged inch by inch towards the terrible jaws. Suddenly he ceased talking. " It is too terrible," she said. " I can't think how you can bear to recall the scene ; I am sure if such a thing had happened to me I should never have recovered from the shock, and as it is I am afraid your stories will give me bad dreams for a week."

She rose to her feet, and they walked back into the ball-room. There she found her husband talking to a stranger. Colonel Webster led her to a seat beside General Barnett, and the man to whom the latter was talking stepped aside to make room for her to sit down. As he did so his eyes met hers, and a strange thrill, half plea surable, half fearsome, passed through her. She had noticed him before duringthe evening. There was something so quiet in his manner, something undefined, which gave the idea of great repose, and yet, as he walked across the room, there was an impression of lithe ness and strength about him. She could not be sure whether she thought him hand some or not. He was of medium height, perhaps a little too thin, but his figure was very well proportioned. His dark hair was plentifully streaked with grey, yet in spite / WILL REPAY. 14 of this, and of two deep furrows between the eyes, his small moustache, and the clearness of his pale complexion gave him a youthful appearance.

He held out his hand to General Barnett, saying — " Good-night ; I am so pleased to have met you again." But the General retained the hand in his, and answered — " No, you must not go till you have made friends with my wife ; " and, turning to her, he said : " This is a very old friend, whom I have not seen since he was a small boy, but his father, Dr. Leinster, was one of my greatest cronies in the days when I was a bachelor. He heard my name, and very kindly came forward and introduced him self." Mr. Leinster bowed. " If you still dance, may I have the pleasure ? " he asked, in a low tone. Mrs. Barnett flushed with indignation at the terms in which the invitation was pre ferred. " No, I don't dance, thank you," and she thought, " How terribly old I must be looking when strangers thrust my age down my throat in this way.

Oh, I wish I had never come to this horrid ball." But though her displeasure was evident in the tone of her voice, and in the expression of her brow and lips, Mr. Leinster was in no wise abashed. He looked her full in the face. There was a certain dreaminess about his eyes, but as he spoke it seemed to her as though a veil was lifted from them. " I am glad of that," he answered, "for I dislike dancing, but come and sit out a dance with me." She tried to say "No," but her voice remained inaudible, and though she shook her head in refusal she took his proffered arm and walked out with him. He led her into the library, and with a gesture of his hand pointed out two chairs in the embrasure of a window. They sat down. Dancing had begun again, and the library was almost empty. At the further end of the room a table had been set out with tea, coffee, and light refresh ments.

Some steps upon wheels for reach ing the higher book-shelves stood between them and the servants at the table, and formed a sort of screen, shutting them off from the only other couple remaining in the room. For a few seconds they sat silent. She was too indignant at his awkward speech to say anything, and she felt hot and thirsty. He seemed in no hurry to speak, but let his eyes wander over the lofty bookcases stand ing against the carved oak wainscotting of the walls. Her angry feelings were not soothed by this behaviour. " If you wanted to study Lord Walter ham's collection of quartos I think you need hardly have troubled me to accompany you," she said. " You are thirsty," he answered, and with out asking her if she would take anything, he walked to the table, and brought back two glasses of champagne aud seltzer water.

Impatiently she motioned him away, and said " No, thank you," but he handed her a glass, and she took it from him and drank a long draught. He put the glasses down. " I have been wishing for an introduction to you all the evening, and at first I could not learn who you were, but when I heard your name, and your husband was pointed out to me, I recognized him, although I was a boy when I last saw him." " Why did you wish for an introduction to me?" " I can't tell, unless it is that I have watched you, and felt you had something sympathetic about you ; that you were not quite one of the idle crowd who come together at such entertainments as this, but a woman with some object in view, something that you will work for and eventually win." " You are thoroughly mistaken in every particular. To begin with, I am not aware of that sympathy you think you have discovered in me, and I am not an ambitious woman ; indeed, I am compelled to own that I am more frivolous than most of the idle crowd, as you call them."

" Have you then really no ambition ? I don't mean of that vulgar sort " (and he looked at her exquisite gown) " which makes a woman anxious to arouse envy in the breasts of her female friends, for that, after all, is as much, or more, due to the taste of her dressmaker as to her own ; nor yet that petty feeling which finds delight in hanging on to the skirts of those who are of higher rank. These are ambitions I don't under stand." " And yet," she answered, somewhat sharply, for his self-possessed manner and his c tactless conversation were alike distasteful to her, " and yet perhaps those ambitions are quite as noble as that which leads a man to try, by literary work, or by flattery of men's foibles on the platform, to lift himself an inch or two above his fellows, and to keep his name before a public which he looks upon, when reduced to its component individuals, with more or less contempt."

She looked at him and wondered whether literature or politics was the particular lever by which he hoped to raise himself sufficiently high to attract the public gaze, and she hoped she had said something rather dis agreeable. He only answered quietly — " I agree with you, such ambitions are all equally despicable," and then, suddenly turning his eyes full upon hers, he asked, " Do you ever think of your lost oppor tunities of doing evil ? " This unexpected question recalled the thoughts which had passed through her mind so recently, and the blood rushed back to her temples. She could not answer. " What an extraordinary question ! " she murmured, and hastened to turn the conver sation. " What is then your ambition, and how do you hope to come before the public — that is if you have not already done so much?"

" My ambition," he answered, " is not a personal or selfish one, and yet," he added, after a short pause, " perhaps I am speaking incorrectly and partially deceiving myself. What I mean is that I have no wish to bring my name before the world ; my idea is to be like one of those secret councillors who obtain an ascendency over the great and the powerful, who see their ideas take shape and become living influences to mould the govern ment of the time, who have the consciousness of a great power in ordering the events of their country, while, perhaps, the people who are most affected by them are ignorant of their very names." " Then you would like to have been one of the Vehmgericht ? " His eyes sparkled and his face became illuminated with a strange light. " Yes," he answered, " to hold the power of life and death over my fellow creatures, to know that with a nod I could order the punishment of the guilty."

" But would you not fear such responsi bility ? Would you have no misgiving that / WILL REPAY. you might look upon those who personally offended you, those who thwarted your wishes as the guilty ? " " Never ; I have no personal enemies, and hate no man for his own sake. All my power, if it existed in this direction, should be used for the raising of humanity to a higher level ; to lift men from gross materialism and force them to a knowledge of the spiritual." " What ! Would you interfere with con science, and become, in fact, a grand in quisitor?" " Yes, if need were, and if men could not be raised otherwise. In these days there are good and eminently spiritual people, but the majority is sunk in mere brutish desire to gratify every low passion. Against animals in human form I would never cease to strive, for they kill not the body only, but the soul also.

Of what consequence is bodily death so that the soul be saved alive ? " " You speak very bravely, but I fancy you are contemplating the deaths of others, and it is possible that if your own came in question you might think differently." " You do not know me, and consequently I pardon your evil thoughts of me ; but I can tell you that if it were shown to me that my life was in any way an offence — nay, more, if I knew that I should never do anything to benefit mankind — " Here he shrugged his shoulders, and a quiet smile passed over his face. " Well," asked Mrs. Barnett, " what then?" " I should at once be judge and execu tioner," he answered, simply. Florence rested her head on her hand, and for a few moments was wrapped in thought. She did not like this conversation, and yet she felt a certain interest in it, and although she could not check a sort of involuntary fear of her companion, she felt drawn towards him.

His forehead was low and broad ; his eyes singularly large and bright, and there was a suggestion of great power about the square-cut jaw-bone; a slight indication of sensuousness about the lower lip in some measure redeemed the severity of his general appearance. " Have you no wish to attain to eminence in literature ? " she asked. " I read much and eagerly," he answered ; " but I am not tempted to write, although I envy the feelings of some writers ; Junius, / WILL REPAY. 22 for instance. Think how he must have heard his letters discussed; how he must have marked the great effect of his writings; how delightful must have been the knowledge when people disputed hotly as to who wrote the letters, that he had but to speak a word in order that all eyes should be turned on him, and his name placed for ever on the roll of fame, and yet he had the strength of will to keep his own counsel, and to die without having spoken that word."

" Then if you wrote you would write anonymously ?" " Yes, certainly. People talk of the satis faction of seeing their names in print, but how can it be compared to the pleasure of sitting comfortably ensconced behind the friendly shelter of a nom de plume, receiving the praise, and weighing well the blame which must be impartially bestowed, since tbe reviewers know nothing of the author whom they are criticizing." " I have heard a theory that Bacon wrote Shakespeare's plays. That idea has always been repugnant to me, because I did not think it in human nature for a man to produce such magnificent works and not, in some way, to claim the credit due to him." " Everyone will admit that the man who wrote those plays is far above the general run of men, and I can quite fancy that he might be capable of reserving to himself the intense joy of alone possessing the secret of the authorship."

" Your ideas are very strange to me. Surely, if you ever attain your objects, you will wish for one friend or one heart to share your triumph ? " " I have no friend, and wish for none," he answered, with a peculiarly hard intonation of voice. " And, as for a woman — where could the woman be found in whom I could confide ? a woman who would not try to turn me from every design which in any way clashed with her prejudices; a woman who could rise to those high regions far above the commonplace ideas of the world as we know it. No, there is much that is beautiful in woman, much that is noble, but, alas ! sooner or later they find themselves unable to break away from that banality which is one of the curses of civilized life.1" " I see you have never loved," said Florence. A sadness seemed to have fallen upon both of them. / WILL REPAY. 24 " Perhaps not," he answered.

"And you ? " She looked round to make sure that no one was listening, and said " Never." Then observing that the guests were becoming each moment less numerous, she rose from her seat. As he led her back to her husband, she said — " Our talk has been rather unsuitable for a ball-room." " Yes. I fear I have a selfish habit of choosing subjects which interest me rather than those which are suitable to my sur roundings. However, the evening is over, and if I have wearied you you can console yourself with the thought that we are not likely to meet again, for I seldom go to parties." " On the contrary," she said, as she held out her hand to wish him good-night, " I shall be disappointed if I do not see you again." "Is that a 'society' speech?" he asked, somewhat eagerly. She felt ashamed of having spoken so strongly, and with a nervous little laugh, she said — " Perhaps only a banality." But the pressure of her hand as they parted reassured him as to her real meaning.

Chapter II

"ACCEPT THIS SACRIFICE." When Wargrave Leinster left Lord Walter ham's house, he jumped into a hansom and told the cabman to drive along the Bucking ham Palace Road, past Victoria Station. A little later he directed the man to turn to the left into one of the side streets, and stopping him at the corner, he got out and dismissed the cab. He then lighted a cigar, and, walking a little way down the street, he stopped at a door and let himself in with a latch-key. The whole house was perfectly dark. He groped his way noiselessly up the staircase, and having seen that the curtains were closely drawn, he lighted a lamp, and sat down. It was a neatly furnished room on the first / WILL REPAY. floor. The furniture consisted of a round table with a Turkish cloth upon it, a com fortable sofa with pretty Indian draperies along the back.

A single luxurious armchair occupied the space by the fireplace on that side further from the windows. The room also contained a handsome Louis XIV. sideboard, and a few chairs to match, and two or three etageres of the two succeeding reigns. The ornamentation of the room con sisted chiefly of water-colour sketches by modern French and Russian artists, and a few black and white drawings by some of the great Italian masters. The polished floor was covered with rugs and skins. The walls were papered in blue-grey with an in volved pattern of a slightly darker tone, and a ledge ran round the top of the room sup porting several fine specimens of Persian, Hispano-Moresque and Italian ceramic art. For some moments Leinster sat smoking silently in deep meditation. " 1 am an idiot," he thought. " Why did I not drive up to the door ?

I came from a good address, and if I had nothing to fear I should have driven straight here, for such a proceeding would be too natural to awaken suspicion. And now the mere fact of my getting down from the cab without going at once into the house may have directed the cabman's attention to me. Bad, very bad. And yet what have I to fear? My con science is clear. I suppose it is the know ledge that my work is only just begun, and that what I have done can bear no fruits unless I can go on. Thou knowest, oh God, that I have no fear other than that of failure, and that I will willingly give my life to Thee so soon as the work allotted to me is accom plished. Poor and miserable is the weakness of 'my faith, as if I could not trust Thee to protect me when Thou knowest that I work only for Thy service."