"Took it himself," she said, reverting to Gorman's words. "Impossible!"

She continued to shake her head and mutter "Impossible" for some time, while she stared at the candle as if she expected that _it_ would solve the mystery. Then she got up and examined the bedclothes, and found that a good deal of the rhubarb had been spilt on the sheets, and that a good deal more of it had been spilt on Boone's chin and chest; after which her aspect changed considerably, as, setting down the candle, she resumed her seat and said--

"Took it himself! Impossible!"

Darkness! If ever a man sought darkness in vain, and found light, bright blazing light, everywhere, it was Gorman. At first, in a burst of frenzy, he rushed away at full speed. It was well for him that the wind had increased to a hurricane and the rain was blinding, else had he been stopped on suspicion, so fierce was his mien, so haggard his look, so wild his race. Gradually his pace slackened, and gradually as well as naturally he gravitated to his old familiar haunts; but go where he would, there was light everywhere except within his own breast. It was all darkness there.

It is true the sky was dark enough, for the war of elements was so great that it seemed to have been blotted out with ink, but the shops appeared to have been lit up more brilliantly than usual. Every lamp poured a flood of light around it. The lanterns of the cabs and omnibuses sent rich beams of light through the air, and the air itself, laden as it was with moisture, absorbed a portion of light, and invested everything with a halo. Light, light! all round, and the light of conscience within rendering the darkness there visible, and shining on the letters of a word written in dark red--"Murderer!"

Gorman tried to extinguish the light, but it was a fire that would not be put out. He cursed the shop-windows and the lamps for shining so brightly on him; he cursed the few people whose curiosity induced them to pause and look back at him, and he cursed himself for being such a fool.

On reaching Cheapside he began to recover his self-possession, and to walk in the storm as other men did. But in proportion as his composure returned the enormity of his crime became more apparent to him, and the word written in red letters became so bright that he felt as if every pa.s.ser-by must read it, unless he dropt his eyes to prevent their seeing through them into his soul.

At London Bridge he became nervously apprehensive. Each unusually quick footstep startled him. Every policeman was carefully avoided, and anything approaching to a shout behind caused him to start into an involuntary run. Despite his utmost efforts to control himself, the strong man was unmanned; a child could have made him fly.

He was about to cross London Bridge, when he observed a policeman taking shelter under the parapet, and apparently watching those who pa.s.sed him.

Gorman could not make up his mind to go on, so he turned aside and descended the nearest stairs.

The policeman had doubtless been watching for someone, or suspected Gorman because of his undecided movements, for he followed him. The latter observed this and quickened his pace. The instant he was hidden from his pursuer, he darted away at full speed, and did not halt until he stood at the foot of one of the stairs where wherries are usually to be found. The sight that met his gaze there might have overawed the most reckless of men.

A hurricane was raging such as is not often experienced in our favoured island. The wind blew, not in gusts and squalls, but in one continuous roar, lashing the Thames into crested waves, tearing ships from their moorings, and dashing them against other ships, which were likewise carried away, and swept downward with the tide. Dozens of barges were sunk, and the shrieks of their crews were heard sometimes rising above the storm.

The gale was at its height when Gorman came into full view of the Thames. A waterman, who was crouching for shelter in the angle of a warehouse, observed him, and came forward.

"An awful night, sir," he said.

"Yes," answered Gorman curtly. He started as he spoke, for he heard, or he fancied he heard, a shout behind him.

"Is that your boat?" said he.

"It is," replied the waterman in surprise, "you don't want to go on the water on such a night, do you?"

"Yes, I do," said Gorman, trembling in every limb; "come, jump in, and shove off."

At that moment a policeman came running down towards them.

"Are you mad?" exclaimed the man, grasping Gorman by the arm as he sprang toward the boat.

In a moment, Gorman struck him to the ground, and leaping into the boat pushed off, just as the policeman came up. He was whirled away instantly.

Grasping one of the oars, he was just in time to prevent the boat being dashed against one of the wooden piers of a wharf. He was desperate now. Shipping both oars he pulled madly out into the stream, but in a few moments he was swept against the port-bow of a large vessel, against the stem of which the water was curling as if the ship had been breasting the Atlantic waves before a stiff breeze. One effort Gorman made to avoid the collision, then he leaped up, and just as the boat struck, sprang at the fore-chains. He caught them and held on, but his hold was not firm; the next moment he was rolling along the vessel's side, tearing it with his nails in the vain attempt to grasp the smooth hull. He struck against the bow of the vessel immediately behind and was swept under it.

Rising to the surface, he uttered a wild shriek, and attempted to stem the current. He was a powerful swimmer, and despair lent him energy to buffet the waves for a short time; but he was again swept away by the irresistible tide, and had almost given up hope of being saved, when his forehead was grazed by a rope which hung from a vessel's side. Seizing this, he held on, and with much difficulty succeeded in gaining the vessel's deck.

With his safety Gorman's fear of being captured returned. He hid himself behind some lumber, and while in this position wrung some of the water out of his clothes. In a few minutes he summoned courage to look about him, and discovered that the vessel was connected with the one that lay next to it by a plank. No one appeared to be moving, and it was so dark that he could not see more than four or five yards before him. To pa.s.s from one vessel to the other was the work of a few seconds. Finding that the second vessel lay moored to the quay, he sprang from it with all his might and alighted safely on the sh.o.r.e.

From the position of the shipping he knew that he stood on the south bank of the river, having been swept right across the Thames, so he had now no further difficulty in hiding his guilty head in his own home.

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.

NEW LIGHTS OF VARIOUS KINDS.

Time sped on apace, and in its train came many changes.

To the confusion of the doctor and despite the would-be murderer, David Boone recovered. But that brought no relief to Gorman, whose remorse increased daily, insomuch that he became, if not quite, very nearly, insane, and his fear of being caught was so great that he never ventured near the quarter of London in which Boone dwelt. He therefore remained in ignorance of the failure of his murderous attempt. What would he not have given to have known the truth! to have had the dreadful _word_ removed from the light which shone upon it brighter and brighter every day until it was made red-hot, as it were, and became within him as a consuming fire! Preferring darkness to light more than ever, Gorman kept in secret places during the day, and only ventured out, with other human vultures, at night. The wretched man feared the darkness, too, although he sought it, and what between the darkness that he feared yet courted, and the light that he feared and fled from, and the light within that he feared but could not fly from, he became one of the most miserable of all the outcasts in London.

As for his deep-laid plans they were all scattered to the winds. In the presumption of ignorance he had fancied that he knew his own power, and so in one sense he did, but he was not aware of his own want of power.

He knew, indeed, that he had the brute courage to dare and do anything desperate or dastardly, but he did not know that he lacked the moral courage to bear the consequences of his deeds. The insurance policies, therefore, lay unclaimed--even uncared for!

Another change for the worse effected by time was the death of Loo Auberly. Gradually and gently her end approached. Death was so slow in coming that it was long expected, yet it was so _very_ slow that when it came at last it took her friends by surprise. James Auberly continued stiff and stately to the last. He refused to believe that his child was dying, and spared no expense to provide everything that money could procure to restore her health. He also refused to be reconciled to his son Fred, who had succeeded in his loved profession beyond his expectations, and who had sought, again and again, to propitiate his father. At last Fred resolved to go abroad and study the works of the ancient masters. He corresponded regularly with Loo for some time, but his letters suddenly ceased to make their appearance, and nothing was heard of him for many months.

During the long and weary illness Loo had three friends whose visits were to her soul like gleams of sunshine on a cloudy day--Miss Tippet, Emma Ward, and a poor artificial-flower maker named Ziza Cattley.

Those three, so different yet so like, were almost equally agreeable to the poor invalid. Miss Tippet was "_so_ funny but so good," and Emma's sprightly nature seemed to charm away her pain for a time; while grave, gentle, earnest Ziza made her happy during her visits, and left a sensation of happiness after she went away. All three were equally untiring in talking with her about the "old, old story"--the Love of Jesus Christ.

Yes, it comes to this at last, if not at first, with all of us. Even the professed infidel, laugh as he may in the spring-tide of life, usually listens to that "old, old story" when life's tide is very low, if not with faith at least with seriousness, and with a hope that it may be true. _May_ be true! Why, if the infidel would only give one t.i.the of the time and trouble and serious inquiry to the investigation of that same old story and its credentials that he gives so freely to the study of the subtleties of his art or profession, he would find that there is no historical fact whatever within his ken which can boast of anything like the amount or strength of evidence in favour of its truth, that exists in favour of the truth of the story of the Life, Death, and Resurrection of Jesus Christ our Lord.

When Loo died the stateliness and stiffness of James Auberly gave way, and the stern man, leaning his head upon the coffin, as he sat alone in the darkened room, wept as if he had been a little child.

There was yet another change brought about by that great overturner Time. But as the change to which we refer affects those who have yet to take a prominent part in our tale, we will suffer them to speak for themselves.

One afternoon, long after the occurrence of those changes to which reference has just been made, Mrs Willders, while seated quietly at her own fireside (although there was no fire there, the month being June), was interrupted in her not unusual, though innocent, occupation of darning socks by the abrupt entrance of her son Frank, who flung his cap on the table, kissed his mother on the forehead, and then flung himself on the sofa, which piece of furniture, being old and decrepit, groaned under his weight.

"Mother," he exclaimed with animation, "I've got strange news to tell you. Is Willie at home?"

"No, but I expect him every minute. He promised to come home earlier to-day, and won't be long, for he is a boy of his word."

Mrs Willders persisted in calling her strapping sons "boys," despite the evidence to the contrary on their cheeks and chins.

"Here he comes!" cried Frank, as a rapid step was heard.

Next moment the door burst open and Willie, performing much the same ceremony that Frank had done, and in a wonderfully similar way, said he had come home with something strange to tell, though not altogether strange either, as his mother, he said, knew something about it already.

Mrs Willders smiled and glanced at Frank.

"Which is to begin first?" she asked.

"What! do you know about it, too?" cried Willie, turning to his brother.

"_Know_ about what?" said Frank. "You have not told me what it is; how can I answer you?"

"About Mr Auberly," said Willie.

Frank said that he knew nothing new or peculiar about _him_, except that he was--no, he wouldn't say anything bad of him, for he must be a miserable man at that time.

"But out with your news, Willie," he added, "mine will keep; and as yours is, according to yourself, partly known already to my mother, it's as well to finish off one subject before we begin to another."