what became of m. felix, as related in the first person by robert agnold, on the reporting staff of the "evening moon."

chapter xliii.

robert agnold takes up the threads of the story.

in setting forth the incidents narrated in book second of this story, under its heading "a life drama--links in the mystery," i have had no occasion to speak of myself, my acquaintance with emilia beginning after the 16th of january, on which night the book fitly ends. in what has now to be told, however, i played a not unimportant part, and it is proper, and will be more convenient, that i should narrate what followed in the first person. i think my name, robert agnold, has been mentioned only once or twice in these pages, and it is not for the purpose of making myself better known to the public, but simply for the sake of clearness, that i depart from the journalistic method (with which in other circumstances i am very well contented) in what i am about to write. i do so with the full approval of the conductors of the newspaper with which i have the honor to be connected. it is perhaps unnecessary for me to state that in the preparation of book second i have been guided both by what i have heard from the lips of its heroine, emilia herself, and by what subsequently came to my knowledge; but it is as well to state this, in order to prove that i have not drawn upon my imagination.

i now take up the threads of the story.

when emilia made her escape from m. felix's house on the night of the 16th of january, she was, as may be supposed, in a state of extreme agitation. her errand had failed, and she had nothing to hope for at the hands of gerald's brother, whom i shall continue to speak of as m. felix. she hardly dared to think of the future, and indeed the pain of her wound and the personal danger in which she stood were sufficient occupation for her mind at that juncture. as quickly as she could she made her way to the one room she had taken unknown to her daughter, and there she bathed and dressed the wound--throwing the stained water out of the window, so that it might not betray her--and effected the necessary change in her attire. in woman's clothes she left the house, and proceeded to her lodgings in forston street, kentish town. she was thankful that her daughter was asleep when she reached home; it saved her the necessity of an immediate explanation, and gave her time to make more plausible the story she had thought of to account for the injury to her arm. creeping into bed without disturbing constance she lay awake for hours, and sank into slumber only when daylight was beginning to dawn. she slept till past noon; fortunately for her, nature's claims were not to be resisted, and she arose strengthened if not refreshed, and with still a faint hope that she might yet succeed. she would make one more appeal to m. felix, this time in daylight. she would go to him this very afternoon, and endeavor to soften his heart by offering to bind herself to any terms he might dictate, if he would but furnish her with the name of the place in which the marriage ceremony had been performed. the echo of the statement he had made in switzerland that she and gerald were never married, although it struck a chill to her heart, found no lodgement therein. most firmly did she believe that she had been honestly and honorably married, and until she was convinced to the contrary by absolute evidence she would continue to believe it. if m. felix failed her she would set a watch upon dr. peterssen's movements, and endeavor by some means to gain her end through him. she had not the remotest idea how she should proceed with this man, but she trusted in god to guide her.

constance, as was natural, was in great distress at the wound her mother had received, but emilia made light of it, although it caused her exquisite pain. it was an accident, emilia said; she had slipped, and fell upon some broken glass; and constance did not dream that the story was untrue. the young girl was very anxious on this morning; she expected a letter from her lover, julian bordier, and she told her mother that in her last letter to julian she had given him the address of their lodgings in forston street. emilia could not chide her for doing so, but she was inwardly distressed by the idea that the bordiers might present themselves at any unexpected moment. m. bordier would almost certainly make some inquiries as to the nature of the business that brought her to england. how should she reply? he was a penetrating man, and she could foresee nothing but calamity from a renewal at present of close relations with him. she could do nothing, however, to avert the dangers by which she was threatened. all she could do was to wait and hope.

she went to the post office for letters, and received one for constance and one for herself. she rode back immediately to forston street to give constance her lover's letter, and in the cab she read her own. it was short but most affectionate and tender, and it confirmed her fears. there was every likelihood that the bordiers would be in london within the next few weeks.

delivering julian's missive to the eager girl, emilia left her once more with the intention of proceeding to gerard street. she rode only part of the way, getting out of the cab at regent's circus. it was bitterly cold, but in this city of startling contrasts there are wheels that never stop. though darkness enveloped the streets for weeks together the newspaper boys would still perambulate the thoroughfares with the last editions of the newspapers; would still bawl out at the top of their voices the tempting news they had to dispose of. emilia had scarcely alighted from the cab when her ears were assailed by cries from these venders of the afternoon journals: "murder! murder! sudden death in gerard street, soho! mr. felix murdered! escape of the murderer!" the shock which these startling announcements caused her was so great that she stumbled and would have fallen had not a policeman caught her by the arm.

"be careful how you walk," said the officer. "the streets are awful slippy."

she murmured a frightened inarticulate expression of thanks and staggered on, the iteration of the news-venders' dreadful cries sounding in her ears like the clanging of a thousand bells proclaiming her doom. her terror was so great that she would have succumbed under it if there had not risen in the white space before her the vision of a young girl at home reading her lover's letter. she saw the lovely lips form the words, "mamma, listen to what julian says." this fancy was her salvation. her daughter was in this terrible city, dependent upon her, with no supporter, with no friend but the mother whose heart was charged with woe and despair. she must be strong for her child's sake. her strength came back to her; the policeman who had saved her from falling was still looking at her, and now, seeing that she had recovered, passed on. controlling her agitation, she bought a copy of the evening moon, and walked mechanically toward gerard street. when she was within a short distance of it she wavered in another direction. dared she go there? dared she be seen there? why not? it was hardly likely that she would be noticed; it would depend upon herself whether she attracted attention. she turned her face toward gerard street. a magnetic current drew her on, and she could no more have effectually resisted it than she could have changed day into night by closing her eyes. she must go and see for herself.

the street was busy with people, drawn there as she was drawn, but, as she shudderingly confessed to herself, with a different knowledge of the truth. outside the house in which m. felix had lived there was a throng of people gazing up at the windows.

"that's the window of his sitting-room. is he there now? yes, stretched out, dead and done for. he was a gentleman, wasn't he? yes, with heaps of money. he always kept a pile of gold and bank notes in his room. what's become of it? ah, what? when was it done? about midnight, when there was no one but the murderer and the murdered gentleman in the house. the housekeeper had gone out for her supper beer. they forced the door open, and there he was, murdered. who did it? a man, of course? maybe--maybe not. just as likely it was a woman. it doesn't matter to him now. he's dead, and won't come back to tell. have they caught the murderer? not yet, but they've got a clew, they say. ah, they always say that. but it's true this time. they'll catch him, never fear, and when he's caught, the lord have mercy on him!"

thus the chatter ran, and for a time emilia, glued to the spot, stood and listened. then a spiritual whisper fell on her senses and set her in motion again. "the suit of clothes you dressed in last night. get rid of it. destroy it." she walked swiftly from the street and proceeded in the direction of her room. she did not waver now; suggestions of a frightful nature came to her, but she walked on, as if impelled by a hidden force. she reached the street in which the room was situated. it was quiet and deserted. there was comfort in that. then the police had not been there. if they had there would have been as many people there as in gerard street. with desperate courage she opened the street door with her latch-key, and went up the stairs unobserved. she turned the key in the lock and entered the room. the clothes she had worn were in a corner, where she had left them the previous night. she breathed more freely. all this time she had kept in her hand the copy of the evening moon she had purchased, and now, in the solitude of her chamber, she nerved herself to read the particulars of the tragedy in which she was involved. gerald's brother was dead; that was the end; all hope was gone. she no longer thought of appealing to dr. peterssen; she felt instinctively that by so doing she would be digging a pit for herself. she could throw herself on the mercy of m. bordier--that course was open to her. she could tell him her story, strengthening her statements by most solemn assurances of their truth, and leave it to him to decide. she had but little hope in the result. she knew it was exactly the kind of tale which a guilty woman would relate, and that, without a shadow of proof, few men would accept it. there was no time, however, to determine upon any definite course at present. the suit of clothes she had worn when she visited m. felix must be destroyed; until that was done her position was one of extreme danger. she folded them carefully, and inclosed them in the copy of the evening moon, and with the bundle under her arm proceeded to forston street. she went at once to her bedroom, and locked the clothes in her box. already the plan had suggested itself of throwing the clothes into the river in the dead of night, when she could make sure that she was not being watched. after that she would come to some decision as to her future movements. what transpired on the night she made the attempt is known to the reader, and i now take up the sequence of events of which i may claim to be the originator.