The Bond of Black

I was a trifle annoyed that, at the club earlier in the day, I had made the appointment with Bryant, but the sum I had lent was sixty pounds, and, knowing what a careless fellow he was, I felt that it was best to obtain repayment now, when he offered it; hence I was prevented from accompanying Muriel. But as it could not be avoided, and as she had expressed herself perfectly content to return alone, I cast myself again in my chair, mixed a whiskey and soda, lit a cigarette, and gave myself up to reflection.

Muriel loved me. I cared for nought else in all the world. She would be my wife, and after travelling on the Continent for a while we would live somewhere in the country quietly, where we could enjoy ourselves amid that rural peace which to the London-worn is so restful, so refreshing, and so soothing.

After perhaps a quarter of an hour I heard Simes go to the door, and Bryant’s voice exclaim hurriedly – “Is your master in?”

“Come in, my dear fellow! Come in!” I shouted, without rising from my chair.

Next instant he dashed into the room, his face white and scared, exclaiming —

“There’s something wrong down at the bottom of your stairs! Come with me and see, old chap. There’s a girl lying there – a pretty girl dressed in grey – and I believe she’s dead.”

“Dead!” I gasped, petrified, for the description he had given was that of Muriel.

“Yes,” he cried, excitedly. “I believe she’s been murdered!”

Chapter Twenty One

Silence

“Murdered!” I gasped, springing to my feet. “Impossible!”

“I’ve just discovered her lying on the stairs, and rushed up to you. I didn’t stop to make an examination.”

Without further word we dashed down the three flights of stone steps which led to the great entrance-hall of the mansions, but I noticed to my dismay that although the electric lamps on all the landings were alight those on the ground floor had been extinguished, and there, in the semi-darkness lay Muriel, huddled up in a heap on a small landing approached from the entrance-hall by half a dozen steps. The hall of Charing Cross Mansions is a kind of long arcade, having an entrance at one end in Charing Cross Road, and at the other in St. Martin’s Lane; while to it descend the flights of steps leading to the various wings of the colossal building. At the further end from the stairs by which my chambers could be reached was the porter’s box, but placed in such a position that it was impossible for him to see any person upon the stairs.

I sprang down to the side of my helpless love, and tried to lift her, but her weight was so great that I failed. Next instant, however, a cry of horror escaped me, for on my hand I felt something warm and sticky. It was blood. We shouted for the hall-porter, but he was not in his box, and there was no response. He was, as was his habit each evening, across the way gossiping with the fireman who lounged outside the stage-door of the Alhambra.

“Blood!” I cried, when the terrible truth became plain, and I saw that it had issued from a wound beneath her arm, and that her injury had not been caused by a fall.

“Yes,” exclaimed Bryant, “she’s evidently been stabbed. Do you know her?”

“Know her!” I cried. “She’s my intended wife!”

“Your betrothed!” he gasped. “My dear fellow, this is terrible. What a frightful shock for you!” And he dropped upon his knees, and tenderly raised her head. Both of us felt her heart, but could discern no movement. In the mean time, however, Simes, more practical than either of us, had sped away to call a doctor who had a dispensary for the poor at the top of St. Martin’s Lane.

Both of us agreed that her heart had ceased its beating, yet, a moment later, we rejoiced to see, as she lay with her head resting upon Bryant’s arm, a slight rising and falling of the breast.

Respiration had returned.

I bent, fondly kissing her chilly lips, and striving vainly to staunch the ugly wound, until suddenly it struck me that the best course to pursue would be to at once remove her to my room; therefore we carefully raised her, and with difficulty succeeded in carrying her upstairs, and laying her upon my bed.

My feeling in these moments I cannot analyse. For months, weary months, during which all desire for life had passed from me, I had sought her to gain her love, and now, just as I had done so, she was to be snatched from me by the foul, dastardly deed of some unknown assassin. The fact that while the electric lights were shedding their glow in every part of the building they were extinguished upon that small landing was in itself suspicious. Bryant referred to it, and I expressed a belief that the glass of the two little Swan lamps had been purposely broken by the assassin.

At last after a long time the doctor came, a grey-haired old gentleman who bent across the bed, first looking into her face and then pushing back her hair, placed his hand upon her brow, and then upon her breast.

Without replying to our eager questions, he calmly took out his pocket knife, and turning her upon her side, cut the cord of her corsets, and slit her bodice so that the tightness at the throat was relieved.

Then, calling for a lamp and some water, he made a long and very careful examination of the wound.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, apparently satisfied at last. “The attempt was a desperate one. The knife was aimed for her heart.”

“But will she die, doctor?” I cried. “Is the wound likely to be fatal?”

“I really can’t tell,” he answered gravely. “It is a very serious injury – very. No ordinary knife could inflict such a wound. From the appearance of it I should be inclined to think that a long surgeon’s knife was used.”

“But is there no hope?” I demanded. “Tell me the truth.”

“It is impossible at present to tell what complications may ensue,” he responded. “The best course is to inform the police of the affair, and let them make inquiries. No doubt there has been a most deliberate attempt at murder. Your servant tells me,” he added, “that the lady is a friend of yours.”

“Yes,” I said; “I intend making her my wife; therefore you may imagine my intense anxiety in these terrible circumstances.”

“Of course,” he replied, sympathetically. “But have you any suspicion of who perpetrated this villainous crime?”

I thought of that thin, crafty, bony-faced scoundrel Hibbert, and then responded in the affirmative.

“Well, you’d better inform the police of your suspicions, and let them act as they think proper. I’ve seen the spot where your friend discovered her, and certainly it is just the spot where an assassin might lie in wait, commit a crime, and then escape into the street unseen. My advice is that you should inform the police, and let them make inquiries. I only make one stipulation, and that is that no question must be asked of her at present – either by you, or by any one else. If you’ll allow me I’ll send down a qualified nurse, whom I can trust to carry out my instructions – for I presume you intend that she should remain here in your chambers until she is fit to be removed?”

“Certainly,” I answered eagerly. “I leave all to you, doctor; only bring her back to me.”

“I will do my utmost,” he assured me. “It is a grave case, a very grave one indeed,” he added, with his eyes fixed upon the inanimate form; “but I have every hope that we shall save her by care and attention. I’ll go back to the surgery, get some dressing for the wound, and send at once for the nurse. No time must be lost.”

“And you think I ought to inform the police?” I asked.

“As you think fit,” the doctor responded. “You say you have a suspicion of the identity of the would-be assassin. Surely you will not let him go unpunished?”

“No!” I cried in fierce resolution. “He shall not go unpunished.” But on reflection an instant later it occurred to me that Muriel herself could tell us who had attacked her, therefore it would be best to await in patience her return to health.

The doctor left to obtain his instruments and bandages, while Bryant, Simes, and myself watched almost in silence at her bedside. The kind-hearted old doctor before he went, however, asked us to leave the room for a few minutes, and when we returned we found he had taken off her outer clothing, improvised a temporary bandage, and placed her comfortably in bed, where she now lay quite still, and to all appearances asleep. From time to time in my anxiety I bent with my hand glass placed close to her mouth to reassure myself that she was still breathing. It became slightly clouded each time, and that gave me the utmost satisfaction and confidence.

After a quarter of an hour the old man returned, while a little later the nurse, in her neat grey uniform, was in the room, attending to her patient, quickly and silently, and assisting the doctor to cleanse and bandage the wound with a dexterity which had been acquired by long acquaintance with surgical cases.

With Bryant I retired into the sitting-room while these operations were in progress, and when I again entered my bedroom I found the lights lowered and the nurse calmly sitting by Muriel’s side. Then the doctor assured me that she would be quite right for three hours, and that during the night he would look in again; and with this parting re-assurance he left, accompanied out by Bryant.

Through that night I had but little repose, as may be imagined. The long hours I spent in trying to read or otherwise occupy myself, but such was the intensity of my anxiety that times without number I went and peeped in at the half-open door of my bedroom, wherein lay my beloved, motionless, still as one dead.

A whole week went by. Two or three times daily the doctor called, but by his orders I was not allowed in the room, and it was not until nearly a fortnight had gone by that I entered and stood by her bedside. Even then I was forbidden to mention the circumstances of that night when such a desperate attempt had been made upon her life. Therefore I stood by her with words of love only upon my lips.

Ours was a joyful meeting. For days my love had hovered between life and death. The doctor had gone into that room and come out again grave and silent several times each day, until at last he had told me that she had taken a turn for the better, and would recover. The delirium had left her, and she had recovered consciousness. Then there came to me a boundless joy when at last I was told that I might again see her.

Not until ten more long and anxious days had passed was I allowed to speak to her regarding the mystery which was driving me to desperation, and then one afternoon, as the sunset, yellow as it always is in London, struggled into the room, I found myself alone with her. She was sitting up in my armchair, enveloped in a pretty blue dressing-gown which the nurse had bought for her, and her hair tied coquettishly with a blue ribbon.

She could not rise, but as I entered her bright eyes sparkled with sudden unbounded delight, and speechless in emotion she beckoned me forward to a seat beside her.

“And you are much better, dearest?” I asked, when we had exchanged kisses full of a profound and passionate love.

“Yes,” she answered, in a voice which showed how weak she still was. “The doctor says I shall get on quite well now. In a week or so I hope to be about again. Do they know of my illness at the shop?”

“Don’t trouble about the shop, darling,” I answered. “You will never go back there again, to slave and wear out your life. Remain here content, and when you are well enough you can go down to Stamford and stay there in the country air until we can marry.”