The Black Swan

Murder in the Street

We were at breakfast-my stepmother and I-when the letter came, Briggs, the butler, brought it in with the usual ceremony. It lay on the shining silver tray in which Belinda and I used to watch our grotesquely distorted faces leering back at us, while we grew hysterical with laughter.

My stepmother looked at the letter nervously. She was a very nervous woman. It was due I always thought to living with my father who was rather a terrifying man to some people. I could understand her feelings, although his relationship with me was quite different from that which he had with anyone else.

For a few seconds the letter lay on the table unopened while I waited expectantly.

Celeste, my stepmother, looked at me fearfully. She said, “It’s from Australia.”

I had realized that.

“It looks like Leah’s writing.”

I could see that, too.

“I wonder what ...”

I was very fond of Celeste. She had been a good, kind stepmother to me, but she did exasperate me sometimes.

“Why don’t you open it and see?” I suggested.

She picked it up gingerly. Celeste was one of those people who spend their lives in fear that something awful is going to happen. It had on occasions, but that was no reason for living in perpetual fear. She started to read, and as she did so, her face grew pink, “Tom Marner is dead,” she said. Tom Marner! The big hearty Australian who years ago had taken over the gold mine from my father, who had come to this very house and carried off Leah, our nurse, and Belinda with her, making it necessary to uncover long-buried secrets which could have remained hidden forever, and so changed the entire course of our lives. And now Tom Marner was dead.

“What else?” I asked.

“Leah herself is ailing. She is clearly worried about Belinda. If anything should happen to her ...”

“You mean if she died. Is she going to die, too?”

“She hints that it’s possible. There’s clearly something wrong with her health. The gold mine has been failing for some years. Tom lost a lot of money bolstering it up. I can see what she wants. She reminds me that I am Belinda’s aunt.”

“She wants Belinda to come back here then?”

“I shall have to speak to your father. Tom Marner had an attack. It was sudden.

She is a widow now. She thinks the attack was brought on by anxiety.”

“How sad! She was so happy when she married him. I had never seen Leah happy before. And at the same time she was very worried about Belinda... and all that. But once it was settled, she was quite different, wasn’t she? And now he’s dead. Poor Leah!”

“And she is ill.”

Celeste picked up the letter and read it out to me:

“ ‘What will happen to Belinda? If I could get her back to England, I’d be so relieved.

You see, here... there are no relations. You, Mrs. Lansdon, are her nearest, I suppose. There is her father, of course... but I don’t know about him. But you... you were always so kind to her ... to both of the children... even before you knew the truth. Belinda is impulsive.... ‘“

Celeste stopped reading and looked at me helplessly.

“She will have to come back,” I said.

I felt excited, but I was not sure whether I was pleased or dismayed. Belinda had been so much a part of my childhood and she had had a great influence on my life. She had tormented me persistently, but when she had gone I had missed her very much.

But that was more than six years ago... nearer seven, I supposed.

“I will speak to your father when he comes home,” said Celeste.

“It was a late sitting last night,” I said. “He would have stayed at the Greenhams.”

She nodded. “Perhaps you could mention it,” she said.

“I will.”

She passed the letter to me and I read it.

What memories it brought back! I could clearly recall dear patient Leah, our good nurse, who had been kind and gentle to me, the outsider, as everyone-except Leah-had thought then, though it had always been obvious that I came second to Belinda with Leah. She could not help her feelings for her own child; and when the truth was revealed, that all became clear.

And now there was a possibility that Belinda would return. What was she like now, I wondered? I knew exactly how old she would be because we had been born on the same day. We were now nearly seventeen years old. I had changed a lot since our last meeting. What of Belinda after those years in an Australian mining township? Something told me that, whatever way of life had been hers, nothing would change the old Belinda. During the morning I kept thinking of all that had happened. Ours was a strange story and difficult to believe unless one knew all the people concerned in it.

Right at the center of it was the scheming Cornish midwife, who had brought both Belinda and me into the world. Mrs. Polhenny, self-righteous and fanatically religious, had had a daughter Leah, and Leah, while working for the family of French émigrés to which Celeste and her brother Jean Pascal belonged, had become pregnant ... as it turned out later by Jean Pascal. Mrs. Polhenny was understandably horrified that, after all her preaching in the neighborhood, this should happen to her own daughter. So she made a devious plan. There was in the neighborhood a crazy woman named Jenny Stubbs who had once had a child who had died, and ever after Jenny suffered from the delusion of thinking she was about to have another. Mrs. Polhenny planned to take Jenny into her home at the time of Leah’s confinement and, when Leah’s child was born, pretend that it was Jenny’s. She was greatly aided in this by circumstances. Indeed she would not have been able to carry it out, nor would it have occurred to her to do so, if the scene had not been set for her.

Meanwhile my mother was about to give birth to me at Cador, the big house of the neighborhood, and Mrs. Polhenny was to act as midwife. My mother died and, as I was not expected to live, it then occurred to Mrs. Polhenny that it would be sensible to put me with Jenny and have Leah’s child take my place at Cador, thus giving Leah’s daughter opportunities which she would not otherwise have.

This she managed successfully to achieve; and Leah, wanting to be with her child, became nurse to Belinda, while I spent my first years in Jenny Stubbs’s cottage. My sister Rebecca came into the story here. Rebecca always had a strong feeling for me. She used to say that it was our dead mother guiding her. I do not know about that but I was aware that, from the beginning, there was a strong bond of affection between us, and it was almost as though some strange influence was watching over me, for when Jenny died, Rebecca insisted on bringing me into the Cador nurseries to be brought up there. The circumstances of Jenny’s death and the insistence of Rebecca, and the indulgence of her family, made this possible. Rebecca keeps a diary as the women of our family often do. It is a tradition. Rebecca says when I am older she will let me read it and I shall understand more fully how this all came about.

What I already knew was that Tom Marner wanted to marry Leah and take her to Australia and, as she could not be parted from her daughter, Belinda, she confessed to what had happened.

What a turmoil that made! Especially to my father and to me. From that time the relationship between us had changed. I had a feeling that he wanted to make up for all the years that he had been unaware that he was my father.

We seemed to have become indispensable to each other. Celeste never showed any resentment toward me and, with a rather sad resignation, she accepted his devotion to me which far exceeded his feelings for her. He had loved my mother single-mindedly and obsessively even though she was long since dead for she had died giving birth to me-and he had never recovered from the loss. No one could replace her. Over the years I had come closer than anyone to doing that. I suppose because I was part of her-her daughter and his.

His feelings toward my half sister Rebecca had mellowed in time, but I was sure that he always remembered that, though she was my mother’s daughter, she was not his; and he could not bear the thought of my mother’s first marriage. So I was the one he turned to.

He was a forceful man, distinguished in appearance; his entire being emanated power. Ambition had been the driving force of his life. There was a ruthless streak in his nature and a recklessness which at times had led him into dangerous situations. Such men rarely pass through life untouched by scandal. I sometimes wondered whether my mother, if she had lived, would have managed to subdue that side of his nature. She had been his second wife and he her second husband. Although they had known each other from childhood, circumstances had separated them and then brought them together, idyllically but briefly. He was always deeply regretful for the years they had wasted and that when they found each other there should have been so little time together. He had married his first wife for a gold mine; he had married my mother for love; and Celeste? I think he had been vainly trying to find consolation, someone to care for him and soothe that aching longing for my mother. Poor Celeste! She had failed to do this. I supposed it would have been small consolation to her to know that nobody could. But because he had found a daughter, because he had always felt drawn toward her-as he told me afterward-even when she had appeared to be a waif brought into the house by an eccentric whim of Rebecca’s, he had decided that I could become a substitute for my mother; and because I was attracted and fascinated by this powerful man with the unhappy eyes, and because the fact he was my father never ceased to fill me with wonder, I was only too ready to play my part; and so the strong bond between us was forged.

Once my father said to me, “I am glad it was you. I could never accept Belinda as mine... I told myself that it was because in the beginning I had believed her coming had been responsible for her mother’s death, but it was not that, for I feel very differently toward you. It seems to me that your mother has given you to me ... to comfort me.”

I missed Belinda very much after she had gone. She had been part of my life, and although she had not always been easy to get along with, I felt a craving for her presence. There was, of course, my dear Rebecca; but soon after those startling revelations, she went off to live in Cornwall as Mrs. Pedrek Cartwright. I visited her often and it was always wonderful to be with her. She was only eleven years older than I, but she had been as a mother to me ever since she had brought me into the house. I was not sent away to school. My father did not wish me to go. I had a governess and when I needed higher education, Miss Jarrett came. She was a middle-aged, very erudite woman, a little stern, but we worked well together, and I do believe that she gave me as good an education as I could have received in any school. I spent a good deal of time with my father in the London house and in Manorleigh where he had his constituency. Celeste always accompanied us wherever we went, as did Miss Jarrett.

Rebecca was delighted with the way everything had worked out, and but for this feeling between my father and me, she would have taken me to Cornwall to be with her. She often told me how she had promised my mother before I was born that she would always look after me.

“It was almost as though she had a foreknowledge of what was to come,” she said. “I feel sure she did. Strange things can happen. I told her I would look after you, and I did... even when we did not know who you really were. At any time you want me, you must come to Cornwall. Just arrive ... at any moment. But I think your father needs you. I am glad of this love between you two. He is a very sad man at times.” It was comforting to think that Rebecca would always be there if I needed her. I had built up new interests. As the daughter of the house I had found greater confidence, something until that time I had lacked. It was probably because of Belinda, who had reminded me so often of my status in the house. No one else ever did but Belinda had been a force in my life. I often thought nostalgically of her disturbing presence. Perhaps it was because we had grown up together, because we had been bound together by the dark secret of our births, and we had become a part of each other before we had had any say in the matter.

But I had quickly become absorbed in the new relationship with my father. Before, he had been a godlike presence in the house. I had thought he was scarcely aware of us children, although it was true that at times I had caught his eyes on me, and I fancied that if he ever spoke to me-which he did not very often do at that time-his voice was gentle and kind.

Belinda used to say she hated him. “It is because he hates me,” she explained. “I killed my mother by getting born. He thinks it’s my fault. I don’t remember anything about it.”

Right from the beginning of our new relationship my father used to talk to me about politics. I found it hard to understand at first but gradually I began to get an inkling. I became familiar with names like William Ewart Gladstone, Lord Salisbury, Joseph Chamberlain. Because I wanted to please him, I used to ask Miss Jarrett questions and I learned a good deal from her; and she, being in a political household, as she said, found her interest aroused by what was happening in parliamentary circles.

As I grew older my father used to discuss his work with me; he even read his speeches to me and watched their effect on me. Sometimes I would applaud them, and I even dared to make suggestions. He encouraged this and always listened. As I emerged into my teens I was able to talk with a certain knowledge and his pleasure in my company was intensified. He would open his heart to me. The man he most looked up to was William Ewart Gladstone, who, according to my father, should have been in power.

The Liberal Party had not been the government since 1886 which at that time was some four years previously-and then only for a brief spell.

My father had explained this to me then. He said, “It is the Old Man’s obsession with Home Rule for Ireland which is the greatest obstacle. It is not popular in the country. It’s splitting the party right down the middle. Joseph Chamberlain and Lord Hartingdon are breaking away. So is John Bright. It is the worst thing for a party when prominent men decide to break away.”

I listened avidly. I had a glimmer of understanding and I remember that night some years ago when he came home dispirited.

“The voting went against the Bill,” he said. “Three hundred and thirteen for and three hundred and forty-three against; and ninety-three Liberals went into the lobby against the Bill.”

“What does it mean?” I asked him.

“Resignation! Parliament will be dissolved. This will be a defeat for the party.” And it was, of course; and Mr. Gladstone was no longer Prime Minister. Lord Salisbury had taken his place. That had happened in 1886 when I was beginning to know something of the ways of politicians.

I realize how disappointed my father was because he had never achieved Cabinet rank.

There were whispers about him, concerning past scandals, but I could not get anyone to tell me what they were about. Rebecca would tell me one day, I was sure, with more details of my mysterious childhood.

My father was not a man to give up easily. He was no longer young, but in politics shrewdness and experience were greater assets than youth. Mrs. Emery, the housekeeper at Manorleigh, once said: “You’re the apple of his eye, Miss Lucie, that’s what you are, and what a good thing it is that he is so pleased with you. I feel sorry for Madam though.”

Poor Celeste! I am afraid I did not think very much about her in those days, and it did not occur to me that I might be usurping the place which she should occupy. She should have been the one he liked to return to, the one he talked to. Now I knew that she was aware that he would not be pleased at the prospect of Belinda’s return and she wanted me to broach the matter to him.

It was the least I could do.

On those evenings when he was late home from the House, I made a habit of waiting up for him and, with the connivance of the cook, had had a little supper waiting for him in his study. There might be some soup which I would heat up on a little stove, and a leg of chicken or something like that. I had heard that Benjamin Disraeli’s wife used to do this for her husband, and I had always thought what a loving gesture it was.

It amused my father very much. He had scolded me at first and said I should not be allowed to stay up so late, but I could see how pleased he was; and I knew how much he looked forward to talking to me about the events of the evening, and we would chat together while he ate.

There was an understanding between us that if he did not arrive by eleven thirty it meant he would be staying the night at the house of a colleague, Sir John Greenham, who lived in Westminster, not far from the Houses of Parliament. On the evening of the day when the letter arrived, he was late, so I made the usual arrangements to wait in his study for him. He came home about ten o’clock to find me there with his supper.

“I know these are busy days,” I said, “but I guessed you’d be here sometime.”

“There’s a lot going on just now.”

“Working up to the next election. Do you think you’ll get back?”

“We’ve a good chance, I think. But it will be some little time before we go to the country.”

“What a pity! But Lord Salisbury does seem to be quite popular.”

“He’s a good man. The people don’t forget the Jubilee. They seem to give him credit for that. Bread and circuses, you know.”

“I thought it was the Queen they were all admiring. Fifty years on the throne and all that.”

“Yes, the Queen and her Prime Minister with her. Oh, he’s quite good... Salisbury. Bringing in free education is a mark in his favor. The Queen likes him, too. He doesn’t toady to her as Disraeli did, and she is clever enough to respect him for that, although she loved the flattery Dizzy laid on ... with a trowel, as he himself admitted.”

“The Queen doesn’t have the same admiration for Mr. Gladstone.”

“Good Heavens, no ... she really has taken against him. Very wilful of Her Majesty.

But there it is.”

“But you have high hopes... when the election comes...”

“Oh yes. People always want change. Never mind if it is for the better. Though we should be that, of course. But change... change... they all cry for change.” He was in a mellow mood and I thought it would be an appropriate moment to introduce the subject of Belinda.

I said, “By the way, there was a letter from Australia. Tom Marner is dead.”

“Dead!”

“Yes. It was a heart attack. Apparently the mine was not doing so well ...”

“It has run out, I daresay. It has to be expected. Poor fellow! Who would have thought it?”

“Apparently it was a great shock, and Leah herself is not in the best of health.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

“She didn’t say. She has hinted at something... rather bad. And she has written to Celeste because she is worried about Belinda.”

“I see.” He was staring down at the chicken bones on his plate.

“So... she wrote to Celeste.”

“Well, Celeste is Belinda’s aunt. The letter came this morning.”

“What does she want?”

“She wants Belinda to come back here.”

He did not speak for some time.

I went on, “I think Celeste feels some responsibility.”

“That girl made trouble,” he replied.

“She was only young.”

“She might have ruined Rebecca’s life.”

I was silent.

“I have to admit I was relieved when she went,” he said.

“I know ... but ...”

Silence again.

I went on, “What will become of her? She will be out there... and if there isn’t any money and Tom is dead... and Leah is so ill ...”

“I suppose you think we should invite her to come back here?”

“A lot of what happened was not her fault.”

“Ask Rebecca if she feels that. That wicked story of hers... pretending that Pedrek had assaulted her... trying to break up everything between them just because she did not want them to marry ...”

“She thought it was best for Rebecca.”

“She thought it was best for Belinda.”

“Well,” I insisted, “she was only young then... only a child. She’s older now.”

And capable of greater mischief.”

“Oh, I daresay she has settled down. From the letters we’ve had they all seem to be happy out there.”

“Do you want her back?”

“Well, if she did come back we would not have any nonsense.”

“You mean she may come?”

“I expect Celeste feels she must have her, and you want it.” He shrugged his shoulders.

“Oh, I’m glad. I’ll tell Celeste. I think she was afraid you might say no.”

“Good Heavens! This is her home.”

“She wouldn’t dream of asking anyone you didn’t want!”

“No, I suppose she wouldn’t. Well, you have decided, have you, you and Celeste between you? So Belinda and Leah had better come here.”

I felt excited. Belinda was coming home!

He looked at me quizzically and said, “I believe she was not exactly charming toward you.”

“Oh... she was Belinda.”

“That is just it-Belinda!” he retorted. “Well, we shall see. But we shall have no nonsense. If she does not behave well here, she will go.”

“She will be different. She’s grown up. She is my age.”

“Ah. The age of great wisdom! By the way, I’ve asked the Greenhams for tomorrow night... dinner. That will please you, won’t it?”

“Of course. I suppose there will be lots of speculation about the next election.”

“That,” he replied, “is something you can be sure of.”

Then he went on to talk of the recent debate, but I fancied he was still thinking about Belinda.

I was always pleased when the Greenhams visited us or when we went to them-and the main reason was Joel Greenham. Joel and I were very great friends and always had been. He was about twenty-five, and although I was catching up on him now, I must have seemed like a child to him for some time, but he had always been attentive to me even before I entered my teens.

He had all the qualities I admired most in a man. He was not exactly good-looking; his features were too irregular for that, but he had a most charming smile; he had a musical voice to which I loved to listen; he was tall and looked even taller because he was rather slender. He was a Member of Parliament-one of the youngest, I believe-and I heard that in the House he spoke forcibly, with an air of strength; yet there was a certain gentleness about him which was rare in a man and which I found particularly endearing. He had never treated me as anything but an intelligent person. My father was interested in him and often said he had the making of a good politician. He was popular with his constituents, who had elected him with a very good majority. In his turn he had a great admiration for my father. Perhaps that was why my father liked him. One has to be very self-critical not to like people who admire one-and my father was certainly not that. Joel had always been interested in me, and he was pleased when I contributed to the conversation and would take up the points I made as though they were well worth considering.

I would sit listening to them as they talked over dinner-my father, Sir John and Joel. Lady Greenham would try to engage me and Celeste in conversation, and I would make a great effort not to be drawn in, so that I could hear the men talk. My father was always fiercely authoritative, Sir John amused and a little half hearted. Joel would take up the points made by my father and when he did not agree with them he would put forth his views in what I considered to be a concise and clever way. I could see that my father thought so, too. I enjoyed listening to them; and I loved them both dearly.

It had been a century-old tradition with the Greenhams that there must be one politician in the family. Sir John had held the seat at Marchlands for many years and gave it up when Joel was ready to step into his shoes. Since taking it Joel had increased the already sizeable majority.

There was an ancestral home at Marchlands in Essex, close to Epping Forest, so not very far from London, which was convenient, but they had the house in Westminster. Although Sir John was no longer an active member of the House, his life had been politics and he spent a great deal of time in London. He said he liked to be under the shadow of Big Ben. There was another son-Gerald-who was in the army. I saw him from time to time; he was amusing and charming, but it was Joel whom I loved. Lady Greenham was one of those women who manage their families with skill and are inclined to hold anything outside family affairs as of no real importance. I fancied she thought that masculine pursuits which aroused such fierce interest in her men folk were some game, such as they had played in their childhoods, and she would watch them with pursed lips and a mildly contemptuous indulgence that implied she was perfectly agreeable that they should play their little games, as long as they remembered that she was the custodian of the family laws laid down for them. I looked forward to a little conversation with Joel. Celeste always put me beside him at table and my father clearly thought that was a good idea. In fact, I think there was between him and Celeste-and perhaps Sir John and Lady Greenham shared in this-a belief that it might be a good idea, if in due course Joel and I married and united the two families.

As the daughter of Benedict Lansdon I would be acceptable to the Greenhams and Joel would be so to my family. It was a cozy implication, and in the meantime I continued to enjoy my friendship with Joel.

I think the two families looked forward to being together. Celeste was happy in the company of Lady Greenham. They would talk of matters of which Celeste was very knowledgeable; and she seemed to find confidence in Lady Greenham’s approval. Joel was talking of the possibilities of our spending a week or so at Marchlands when Parliament was in recess. I looked forward to that. The Greenhams sometimes stayed with us at Manorleigh so we saw a good deal of each other both in London and in the country.

My father was saying something about an African project and even Lady Greenham paused in her conversation with Celeste to listen.

“It’s coming up for discussion,” my father said. “It seems a good idea to send out a few members. They’ll be chosen with care from both parties. The government will want an unbiased view. Well, it is not really a matter of party politics.”

“What part of Africa is this?” asked Sir John.

“Buganda. There has been some trouble since Mwanga took over. When Mtesa was kabaka things ran more smoothly. With Mwanga it’s quite a different case. There were the martyrs, you remember. And now, of course, we are extending our sphere of influence.”

“Were the Germans in on this?” asked Sir John.

“There was the Anglo-German agreement, of course, but this was revoked recently, and that area embracing Buganda is to be under our influence. Hence the interest.”

“Are they going to send some Members of Parliament out there then?” I asked.

“It’s the usual procedure. To spy out the land and see how they are received ... what impression they get. It’s a rich country. We want to make sure that the best is made of it.”

“Who are the martyrs of Buganda?” I wanted to know.

“They were African Roman Catholics,” Joel explained. “There were twenty-three of them. It happened a few years back... round about ‘87 ... and a little before that, too. The first mission was accepted by Mtesa. It was when Mwanga came to power that the trouble started. He organized a massacre of missionaries. An English bishop, James Hannington, with his band of missionaries was murdered. So you see, we have to step in because it looks as though before long Buganda will become a British Protectorate.”

“And when is the jaunt going to take place?” Sir John asked my father. “Fairly soon, I should think,” he replied. “It is very important that the right people should go. The situation will require a certain tact.” He was looking at Joel. “I think it would be very good for one’s reputation to be a member of the party.”

“Are you going?” I asked.

He shook his head. “No, most definitely not. It’s a job for younger men. I’ve got too many irons in the fire here. So have others. It’s for a strong and healthy young man. The climate needs a bit of withstanding. It needs a man with a little prestige... he’ll have something to show his party and the people that he is capable of action.”

“You are looking at me,” said Joel.

“Well ... it might be an idea.”

“It sounds exciting,” I said.

“Yes,” replied Joel slowly.

“Well, who knows?” went on my father. “No one has been chosen yet, but I should say you have a very good chance, Joel... with a nod in the right direction.”

“It would be a great experience.”

“As long as you don’t get eaten by the cannibals,” put in Lady Greenham. “I believe they have them in those outlandish places. And there are fevers and all sorts of unpleasant animals.”

Everyone laughed.

“It’s true,” added Lady Greenham. “And I think it’s about time to let these natives get on with their killing. Let them kill each other and that will be an end of them.”

“It was an English bishop whom they killed, Lady Greenham,” I said.

“Well, he should have stayed at home in England.”

“My dear,” said Sir John mildly, “where should we be today if everyone had followed your advice?”

“We should be sitting at this table!” she retorted. “And those who went would be massacred or eaten or die of fever.”

It was always Lady Greenham who had the last word. But I could see that Joel was rather excited by the prospect of going with the mission to Africa. Then the talk turned to the burning question of the next election and speculation as to when it could be expected to take place. There seemed to be no doubt that Gladstone would be returned to power. The important point was with how big a majority.

Joel and I walked along by the Serpentine. We sometimes rode in Rotten Row while we were in London, but not very often. It was when we were at Marchlands or Manorleigh that we indulged our passion for horses. But we did enjoy walking in the parks-Green Park, St. James’s, Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens. One could walk through one to the other and almost feel that one was in the country, only occasionally coming out into the traffic which was considerably muted when one was under the trees or strolling along the sylvan paths.

We sat by the Serpentine and watched the ducks.

I said to him, “Do you really think that you will go to Africa?”

“I don’t know,” he replied. “If I were chosen I suppose I would.”

“My father thinks it would be good for your career.”

“He’s right. He always is.”

“I imagine he is putting your name forward.”

“His influence could count considerably.”

“Oh, Joel, how exciting it would be for you!”

“H’m. Your father has talked to me about it ... and other things. He is very anxious that I should make a name in the House. It’s absurd that he himself has never had Cabinet rank.”

“There is so much chance in politics. Everything has to be right at a certain moment. Time and place... they matter tremendously. Opportunity comes and if a man can’t take it he probably won’t get another chance... and a politician has to wait for his party to be in power.”

“How right you are!”

“I don’t know the whole story but I do know he came near to having a high post in the Cabinet. There was even some talk of his following Mr. Gladstone as Prime Minister.”

“He might do that yet.”

“Who can say? Life is full of surprises.”

“He’s been good to me.”

“I’m glad of that, Joel. I know he’s fond of you.”

“And my family are fond of him and Celeste... and you.”

“It’s a wonderful friendship between the two families.”

“Lucie, you are very young yet.”

“You’re not exactly old.”

“I’m twenty-five. It’s quite a bit older than you.”

“It seems so at this stage, but when we get older it will seem less so.”

“That’s just it. I ... I think they have plans in mind for us.”

“The families, you mean?”

He nodded. “They think it would be a good idea if you and I ... one day... when you’re older... well, if we married.”

“Do you think it would be a good idea?”

“I can’t think of anything better. What of you?”

“It seems a good idea to me, too. I’m not seventeen yet, you know.”

“I thought... when you were eighteen ...”

“Is this a sort of proposal? I never thought a proposal would be quite like this.”

“It doesn’t matter how it is ... as long as it is acceptable to both parties.”

“There’s one thing, Joel. I haven’t lived yet.” That sounded so trite that I began to laugh. But I went on, “It’s true. Have you lived, Joel?” He did not speak, so I went on, “I don’t know much about people... about men, I mean. It’s as though we have been chosen for each other by our families. Is that the best way to choose a wife or a husband?”

“We have known each other for such a long time. There wouldn’t be any unpleasant surprises such as come to some people.”

“There wouldn’t be any surprises, pleasant or unpleasant.”

“Well, I think it’s a good idea.”

“So do I,” I said.

He turned to me suddenly and kissed me on the cheek.

“Shall we say we’re engaged?”

“Unofficially... tentatively. And, Joel, if you fall in love with someone else, you mustn’t hesitate to say so.”

“As if I would!”

“You never know. Passion strikes like lightning, so I’ve heard it said. You never know what direction it’s coming from.”

“I know I shall never love anyone as I do you.”

“How can you know yet? You haven’t been struck so far. Some exciting female may come along... someone you meet for the first time in your life... someone mysterious... irresistible.”

“You’re talking nonsense, Lucie.”

“Do you know, I rather hope I am.”

He took my arm and we snuggled close together.

Then he said, “We’re engaged.”

“Secretly,” I reminded him. “We don’t want the families to start planning yet. I have to grow up a little more and you’ve got to go to Buganda or whatever it is.”

“If I go ... when I come back ...”

“That would be a dramatic moment to announce it. You... the hero covered in glory.”

“Oh, Lucie! It’s only a little mission... half a dozen members going out on a fact-finding expedition. There’s nothing glorious about it.”

“You’ll come back on the way to becoming Prime Minister in the next twenty or thirty years. Prime Ministers are usually rather ancient, aren’t they? We’ll announce it then. That will be great fun. I know my father will be enormously pleased.”

“I hope he will.”

“You know he will. You’re his protégé. He likes to watch your progress. I believe he thinks that if he can’t be Prime Minister he’ll make you one in his place. He’ll surely do it for his daughter’s husband, so you had better make sure that you marry me.”

“I’m always hoping that I come up to his expectations.”

“In future there will be only one person whose expectations have to concern you ... and I am to be that one. All the same, I know how you feel about my father. He is a wonderful man and although he and I are the greatest friends, I often feel I don’t fully understand him. That makes him exciting.”

“I think he is a wonderful man too,” said Joel.

We walked home rather soberly.

We were engaged. Our marriage was predestined. It would undoubtedly have the approval of the families. Events were moving along in a very comfortable manner. There was news from Australia. Leah wrote to Celeste and Belinda to me. The letters arrived at breakfast as usual and Celeste showed me what Leah had written. It was a very sad letter. She believed she was dying. There was nothing that could be done for her. She was very frail and weak now, too much so to be able to undertake a long voyage.

Celeste’s letter had given her great comfort and she had made all the arrangements. She was greatly relieved to know that when she had gone there would be a home for Belinda in England, and she was glad that God had given her a little time to arrange this and had not struck her down too suddenly.

The last years of her life had been the happiest she had ever known. Tom had been good to her and to Belinda, and they had had a wonderful life together. Although he had lost the bulk of his fortune he had been able to leave them a little money. That would go to Belinda, so she would not be penniless. “It is just that I want her to have a home,” she wrote. “And I am happy now that I know she can come back to that of her childhood. Life has been strange for me. I suppose it is, when one does unconventional things. But now that I know she can come I feel at peace.”

There were tears in Celeste’s eyes when she read this letter. “I am so pleased that Benedict agreed to her coming,” she said. “Poor Leah. She was always such a good soul. What a pity she could not have gone on being happy for longer.” Belinda’s letter brought memories of her back to me.

“Dear Lucie,” she wrote,

I know my mother has written to you and that she is very ill. In time I am to come to England. I remember so much of my life there... and particularly you. Do you remember me?

Oh yes, Belinda, I thought, I shall never forget you.

The terrible things I used to do! I wonder you didn’t hate me. I believe you did sometimes... but not really, Lucie. We were like sisters in a way, weren’t we? I remember so much. The time I dressed up in your mother’s clothes and pretended I’d come back from the grave. I really frightened you as well as Celeste. But don’t hold it against me. I may be not entirely a reformed character now, but at least I am now old enough not to do such senseless things.

I’m very sad about my mother. It was awful when Tom died. It was so sudden. He was well and then he had this stroke. It was hard to believe... and then he wasn’t there anymore.

That was when everything changed here and my mother became ill. She is really very ill. I feel a little scared. I’m here in this country and somehow I feel I don’t belong here... not without Tom and my mother. I really feel I belong at Manorleigh and in London... with you, Lucie. I wonder if I shall see you soon. I know it is what I want more than anything... if I lose my mother.

With my love and memories,

Belinda

Memories indeed. I could see her in my mother’s clothes which she had taken from the locked room, sitting on the haunted seat in the garden where ghosts had been said to gather long ago. I saw her, too, swearing that Pedrek Cartwright had attempted to molest her when she did not want him to marry Rebecca. I could see her when we were very young, dancing round me with a lighted candle in her hand, which suddenly sent the flames running up my dress. I could see Jenny Stubbs, who had loved me better than her own life, dashing to me, smothering the flames with her own body... giving her life that mine might be preserved.

Yes, Belinda, I thought, you have brought back memories to me.

I talked of Belinda to Celeste and to my father.

“Poor, poor Leah,” said Celeste. “I wonder if there is any hope of her recovering.

She does not say what is wrong.”

“No. But she is too ill to travel. I am sure that if she were well enough she would bring Belinda to us.”

“All we can do,” said my father, “is to wait and see what happens. In any case we have offered her a home here. It is all we can do.”

So it was left at that.

Soon after that, there was talk of an election and that, as usual, dominated everything else.

The mission to Buganda would naturally have to be postponed until after we knew what government would be in power.

“I have to make sure that I hold my seat before it is decided whether I shall be a member of the mission,” said Joel.

“Of course you’ll hold your seat,” I replied. “It’s a tradition that a Greenham shall represent Marchlands.”

“One can never be entirely sure.”

The excitement was growing. It was nearly six years since the last election. I was an adult now with a keen interest and some understanding of what was going on. We studied the papers every day. Gladstone’s age was often referred to. The man was undoubtedly grand but was he too old? He seemed vigorous enough in mind if he was rather bent and walked with a stick.

“And it’s the mind that counts,” said my father.

The Queen’s comment to her secretary was reported. “The idea of a deluded, excited man of eighty-two trying to govern England and my vast Empire, with miserable democrats under him, is quite ridiculous. It is like a bad joke.”

“Unfortunate,” said my father. “First that she said it, and secondly that it was allowed to leak out.”

“But it is the people who choose the government... not the Queen,” I added.

“For which we have to be thankful,” he added wryly.

Soon the action started. The Greenhams went down to Marchlands and we to Manorleigh.

The campaign had begun in earnest.

Celeste and I sat on platforms with my father. It created a pleasant family atmosphere which the people liked their member to have. We played our small parts, riding round the country in our dogcart-for Manorleigh was a straggling constituency and contained many outlying villages-and telling people why they should vote for Benedict Lansdon.

My father was a dynamic speaker. He could hold an audience, in vast assembly rooms or village halls, absolutely spellbound. Listening to him one realized the power of words and the gift of using them which was surely essential to a man who wanted to rise in politics. My father had many assets, but with them went that rashness which had tripped him up once or twice and which was the reason why people were not looking to him to follow Gladstone.

He did spare time from his busy campaign to go down to Marchlands to speak for Joel. I was surprised really, because although he was certain that he would retain his own seat, he had always said that no prospective candidate should relax even for a short time.

But he had a special feeling for Joel; and I believed I knew why. It was because of me. He had made up his mind that I was going to marry Joel and I had a fancy that he wanted to mold Joel into his alter ego. Joel was going to catch all the plums which had failed to fall into his own hands, and he was going to enjoy the act of putting them there. He wanted to see Joel as his creation. It was a passing thought but men such as my father must have power. Perhaps he saw that certain events in his life had prevented him from snatching the top prize and that irked him. I was nearer to him than any living person and I believed he was planning to marry me to a man made in his image. I had heard stories of his grandfather-Uncle Peter, as everyone in the family called him. He had made his daughter’s husband into a politician because he himself had failed to achieve his ambition-through scandal again. I had heard it said that Benedict was very like his grandfather. When I heard my father speaking and holding an audience, I felt contented and happy.

He would always be there to look after us-Joel and me. Joel already admired him almost to idolatry, and he was my beloved father.

So we went to Marchlands and stayed one night only before we went back to Manorleigh. I always enjoyed being at Marchlands, and since my conversation with Joel it had become even more exciting to me, for when I married Joel this would be my home. It was a wonderful old house with a battlemented tower which gave it the appearance of a castle. Its gray stone and the fact that it was built on a slight incline gave it a proud and dominating look. The countryside around it was beautiful-wooded hills and meadows and a delightful little village close by with a Norman church and a pond on a green.

It had been the Greenham home for centuries.

We sat in the village hall and listened to my father using all his persuasive and dynamic powers. They seemed overwhelming in such a setting and the applause was vociferous. Joel spoke well-less flamboyantly than my father but he had a quiet confidence which was convincing.

It was a successful evening and walking back to the house I thought how romantic it looked by starlight.

I felt very happy and contented.

When the election was over it was almost certain that Joel would go to Buganda ... perhaps for a few months; and when he came back we should announce our engagement. Afterward I often remembered that night and I never ceased to marvel how speedily-in the space of a few seconds-change could come.

I remember sitting in the cozy little room which led off from the great hall and how delicious the hot soup and sandwiches, which had been prepared for us, tasted. “This reminds me of Lucie’s little suppers,” said my father. “Do you know, this daughter of mine waits up for me with a delicious supper when I’m late at the House.”

“Shades of that excellent lady, Mrs. Disraeli,” said Sir John. “You’re a lucky fellow, Benedict.”

“I know.” He was smiling at Joel. “Lucie knows how to treat a jaded politician. One never wants to go straight to bed after an exciting debate.

One wants to talk. So ... I talk to Lucie.”

“Lucie is wonderful,” said Joel.

Our elders exchanged conspiratorial smiles which betrayed the fact that they were making plans together for us.

“Buganda is almost certain,” said Sir John.

“If I get in,” added Joel.

“My dear boy,” said my father, “you don’t think you are going to break the tradition, do you? There’s been a Greenham in Parliament for the last hundred years.”

“Well, it doesn’t do to count one’s chickens before they’re hatched.”

“No need to worry about those chickens, son,” said Sir John. “I think we’re safe enough,” put in my father. “Of course, there’s a feeling for change in the air. A lot of foolish people talk of change. They like it for its own sake... never mind if that change is for the better. It’s just a matter of change for the sake of change.”

“Well, we shall have to wait and see,” said Lady Greenham. “Some people might want a change but I cannot believe our tenants and the people here would be so foolish.” Nor could any of us visualize Joel’s not holding his seat. There came the thrill of Election Day. We were all gathered in the town hall at Manorleigh to hear the result. It was as we had expected-a decisive victory for my father. That night a messenger came over from Manorleigh with the news that Joel had sailed safely through, his majority intact.

Alas, the party did not fare so well. Gladstone had his majority but it was a small one and that meant that the future did not look so promising.

He went down to Osborne in the Isle of Wight to kiss the Queen’s hand, at which she showed no great pleasure. So there was the Grand Old Man ready to take office once more, and if his health was feeble, his convictions were as strong as ever. So the Liberals were in power in spite of an election victory with such a slender majority which meant that the reforms they wanted to get through would stand a good chance of being thrown out by the Opposition. It boded ill for the length of the Parliament. It was a Pyrrhic victory.

The government staggered along and, perhaps because of its difficulties, almost a year elapsed before the question of the mission to Buganda was raised. It was late August which was a year since Mr. Gladstone had gone to Osborne to kiss the Queen’s hand when the mission was ready to depart, and Joel was one of the chosen six.

Two days before his departure, my father gave a dinner party so that all friends and well-wishers could say good-bye to Joel.

It was a wonderful evening, although there was some depression among members of the government, for they were wondering how long they could totter on; but it was a triumph for Joel, as one of the younger members of the House, to have been selected for this important mission.

After the men had left their port and joined the ladies in the drawing room, Joel and I sat together.

“Everything is going well,” he said. “I don’t know how long I shall be away. Not more than two months, I imagine, and then ...”

“I don’t think they will be very surprised,” I said.

“Isn’t it comforting that we shall be doing what they all want?”

“Oh yes. It is nice to please people.”

“Though,” added Joel, “I want you to know, Lucie, that if we had had to face opposition... even from your father ... it would have made no difference.”

“I’m glad of that,” I replied. “Yes ... I am so glad.”

My father came over to us.

“You sound very vehement,” he said. “May I ask what you are so glad about?”

I hesitated.

“Secrets?” he asked.

I looked at Joel and I knew he understood what I was asking. Tacit agreement passed between us.

I said, “When Joel comes back from Buganda we ... we thought about becoming engaged.”

My father’s pleasure was apparent.

“That,” he said, “seems to me an excellent idea.”

“We had already fixed it and were saying how pleased we were because we knew it was what you all wanted.”

“So that is what you were so firmly glad about. How right you are. It was what we have always had in mind for you both.”

“It’s a secret at the moment,” I said. “Among just the three of us. We want to wait until Joel comes back from Buganda.”

“Wonderful timing!” He was beaming at us. I had rarely seen him so pleased.

I was glad afterward that we had told him that night.

My father, Celeste and I went to Southampton to see Joel off on the P & O liner. There was quite a celebration. The press was present to report the departure of the Members of Parliament and to give their views on the Buganda project with some enthusiasm. My father said a few words to them and we went on board and drank champagne before the vessel sailed.

“This will be the making of Joel,” he said as we traveled back to London. “He is very young and to be chosen for such a mission is an honor. I do wish our hold on the government was a bit more firm. Salisbury is determined to get us out and with our tiny majority how can we stop him? We’re powerless to do so.” It was very shortly afterward when Mr. Gladstone introduced his Home Rule Bill for Ireland. My father was very preoccupied. He told me during one of our sessions that he was convinced the Irish question would destroy Gladstone and put the party out of office.

He was becoming increasingly aware that he was in something of a dilemma, which was unusual for him. Generally he was so certain that he was right. He at length admitted to me that he was not at all sure that Gladstone’s solution was the right one. He was torn with doubts. He felt the government was going in the wrong direction and could not last much longer. His own hopes of Cabinet rank were slipping farther and farther away from him. He was a man who, once he had determined to achieve something, could not lightly give up.

I began to realize that during that time he was trying to come to a decision. He admitted to me on one occasion that he shared the view of the Opposition on the Bill. What if he went against his leader? What would his hopes for further advancement in the party be then? Did he owe his loyalty to his leader or to his conscience? Could he give his support to something he did not believe in? On the other hand, could he be disloyal to the party?

We talked about it endlessly. His opinion swayed. He was, after all, a very ambitious man; and he was no longer young. He could not change sides now. There was something suspect about a man who changed sides. People usually said it was done to gain advantages. But he did feel strongly about the Irish question.

“You see,” he said to me, “the PM is growing old ... many say too old. He had great flair in his heyday. I’d say he was one of the greatest politicians this country has ever known; but he gets obsessions. After all, there were those years when he embarked on his crusade to save the women of the streets.” I knew of this. I had heard it discussed how Mr. Gladstone would go out late at night and stroll about round Piccadilly and Soho, those areas which were the stamping grounds of the prostitute population. When he was accosted-as any man who showed an inclination to loiter would be-he would question the young woman, making sure not to adopt a moral tone, offer sympathy and invite her to his house. The women who went with him must have been amazed to find a genteel Mrs. Gladstone waiting to offer supper and good advice, joining with her husband in the attempt to set them on the road to a more virtuous way of life.

This he had done over forty years-whenever possible dedicating one night a week to his self-appointed task.

“Of course, he has always been different from other men,” said my father. “He is way above most. He has an idea and he clings to it. It never occurs to him that he may be doing harm to himself. He must follow what he believes to be right. And just as he had his crusade to rescue women of the streets, now he is determined to give Ireland Home Rule. Trafficking with fallen women might easily have ruined his career. In fact certain rumors regarding his intentions were inevitable, but he shrugged all that aside. He had a mission and he was determined to carry it out. You see, in some ways, he is far from being a normal man.”

“He believes firmly in Home Rule for Ireland,” I said, “just as you are beginning to feel it is not the answer. His obsession with it could bring him down. Yet he will not hesitate.”

“I fear there may be civil war. He forgets that there are many in Northern Ireland particularly who did not want Home Rule. He will destroy himself if he continues.” I said, “He is something of a saint. He must do what he feels right, whatever the consequences to himself.”

My father was increasingly becoming aware that he could not go along with Gladstone this time; at length he came to his decision-and it was to prove fatal to him. His conscience won.

His first step was to speak at a meeting declaring his opposition to the Bill. It was reported in all the papers, as his speeches usually were. He had always been a powerful and witty speaker; he had great charisma; he was the kind of man who drew attention to himself. There was his somewhat shady past and the fact that he had missed a brilliant opportunity because of it that made him a focus of attention; and, moreover, he was always eminently quotable.

The morning after he had made his speech, his name was well to the fore.

LANSDON OPPOSES BILL. GLADSTONE’S HENCHMAN MAKES A RIGHT TURN. CONSERVATIVES JUBILANT.

I went to his study where he was reading the papers.

“So, you have done it,” I said.

“I believe it was right to do it,” he said. He seemed relieved.

It was a tense and exciting time. We followed the progress of the Bill through the House. It passed in all its stages-though, my father pointed out to me, with minute majorities.

Then ... it was rejected by the Lords.

The thick black headlines stared at us from all the papers. They were all about the Bill and Gladstone’s defeat. In several columns the view was stressed that it was my father’s outspoken opposition to it which had done a great deal to bring it to defeat.

The tension increased. My father admitted to me that he had lost all chances of Cabinet rank.

Gladstone was bitter. He wanted to call an election and go to the polls on a slogan:

THE COUNTRY VERSUS THE LORDS.

“The Old Man doesn’t realize that the country is heartily tired of the subject. He thinks everyone is as engrossed in the Irish question as he is.”

“And how is he feeling about you?” I asked.

“Oh ...he’s bitterly disappointed in me. Hurt, too. I wish I could make him understand.

He really is looking very old and tired these days.”

“What are you going to do”

He looked at me and shrugged his shoulders. It was one of the few times I had seen him uncertain.

Then he said, “For now... carry on. Disagreeing with the PM doesn’t mean I’m not still member for Manorleigh.”

“Shall you give up politics in time?”

“Indeed not! Accept defeat? Certainly not, and I shall not hesitate to voice my opinions.”

“Well, isn’t that what all members should do?”

“They should, but sometimes one’s views do not always coincide with those of the party. Then one has to make a choice.”

“As you have done.”

I felt I wanted to be with him at this time... always ready if he wanted to talk to me; and he did talk to me, more freely than ever at this time. It was not only politics that we were discussing.

So we came to that particular evening when I was waiting for him to return from the House.

As usual I had prepared the supper in his study. I had the soup waiting to be heated up on the little stove, some cold chicken and homemade crusty bread. The time was getting on. It was almost ten o’clock. I wondered what was happening in the House. I fancied some of his fellow members were not very pleased with him. But he had done right, I assured myself. People must act according to what they believed even if by doing so they go against the policy of the party. Parliament was the place for discussion. That must be understood.

I tried to settle down to read. I started to think about Joel and wondered what he would be doing at this moment. How long would the mission take? At least six weeks after he arrived. It would be some time before he came home. The time passed slowly. It was nearly eleven o’clock. Sometimes the House would go on sitting into the early hours of the morning. If he did not come by eleven thirty I would go to bed. It was the rule. If he were as late as that he would stay at the Greenhams, according to the custom. But there was still a little time to go. I went to the window and looked out. There was a high wind which had taken most of the leaves off the trees; some lay on the pavement on the opposite side of the road. They came from the trees in the garden which was for the use of residents in the square.

I noticed a man standing by the railings of the gardens. He was dressed in a cape and an opera hat. He took a few paces to the right, then he turned and walked a few more in the opposite direction. Afterward he stopped and stood still, looking along the road.

I could see him quite clearly for there was a street lamp close by. And as I stood there I heard a cab coming along the road.

This must be my father, I thought. I looked down, expecting it to slow down and my father alight; but it went straight past the house.

Disappointed, I stood there; then I noticed that the man had come to the edge of the pavement, his hand in his pocket; he was staring after the cab, and oddly enough I seemed to sense an exasperated frustration-which suggested that he, too, might have been disappointed that the cab had gone by. While I was thinking how strange it was and wondering what he could be waiting for, there was a gust of wind which lifted his hat and sent it rolling along the pavement under the street lamp.

For a few seconds I looked straight into his face. I noticed at once that his dark hair grew rather low on his forehead into what I had heard called a widow’s peak; and there was a white mark on his left cheek which looked like a scar. Then he was running along the pavement to retrieve his hat. This he did and slammed it back on his head.

I had become quite interested in him by this time and was wondering whether he intended to wait there the whole night. He must be waiting for someone. I wondered who. I went back to my book and attempted to read for just a little longer. I was soon yawning. My father would not come now. Obviously he had gone to the Greenhams. It must have been a very late sitting.

I went back to my bedroom, but before retiring for the night I went to the window to look out on the square.

The man had gone.

At about eleven o’clock the next morning my father came home. “It was a very late night sitting,” I said. “Yes, it went on until one.”

“How are the Greenhams?”

“Delighted about Joel. They can’t talk of anything else.”

“Can you guess how long it will be before he comes home?”

“I imagine it will be quite six weeks out there and then of course there is the journey to and from. I must say it is very convenient to have their hospitality. Their place is only a five-minute walk from the House, and there’s always someone to let me in and the room is kept ready. I think Sir John likes to hear all that went on the previous night. He’s always wanting a good chat in the morning.”

“I suppose Bates could bring you home.”

Bates was the coachman who drove him to the House but he always came home by cab because of the uncertainty of the time.

“It would be impossible,” he said now. “He might be there all night. No. This is an excellent arrangement. I’m lucky to have friends so near. It’s become a custom. I think they’d be hurt if I didn’t make use of it.”

“Will you be going to the House this afternoon?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Another late sitting?”

“Who knows? But I expect everyone will be a little weary after last night. There’s a great deal going on, though. I don’t think the government can last. Salisbury is eagerly waiting in the wings, and this defeat from the Lords over the Bill...” I said nothing. I did not want to stress his part in the defeat.

He was ready to leave in mid-afternoon.

“I can’t believe it will be another late night,” he said, “but have my supper waiting just in case.”

“I will,” I promised.

In the hall I helped him into his coat and put the white silk scarf about his neck.

“You need that,” I said. “This horrible wind cuts right through you.” He smiled indulgently at me, pretending to laugh at my coddling; but I knew he liked it.

Bates, the coachman, had brought the carriage round from the mews and was waiting for him; the horse was pawing the ground impatiently.

I went down the four steps with him to the carriage door; he turned to me to smile as he prepared to get in. Then it happened. I heard the loud explosion. I saw the look of surprise on my father’s face. The blood was spurting over his coat, staining the white silk scarf which I had just a few moments before put round his neck. Then I saw the man standing there... the gun in his hand.

My father swayed toward me. I put out my hands and held him as slowly he slipped to the ground.

I knelt beside him and looked about me helplessly. I was stunned. Briefly I saw the man, then I knew that although he was dressed differently, he was the one I had seen last night waiting on the other side of the road. He had changed his opera cloak and hat for a cloth cap which was pulled down over his eyes. For a second we looked fully at each other. I could not see the widow’s peak, but I did recognize the scar on his left cheek; and instinctively I knew that he was the man who had stood on the other side of the road, and that last night he had been waiting for my father so that he might do then what he had done today. He had turned away and made off.

People were shouting. They were all round us. Bates was kneeling by my father, and servants were dashing out of the house.

It was like a nightmare... fearfully real. A terrible fear had come over me. I might never wait for him to come home to a late supper... never again talk to him of his ambitions.

I had never known such desolation.

My memories of that time come back to me like a series of bad dreams-overshadowed by a terrible sense of loss. I found myself trying to cling to the past, telling myself that it had not really happened... but it had.

Celeste was beside me. She clung to me. She was as dazed as I was. They had taken him to the hospital. Celeste and I went with him. We sat side by side, holding hands, waiting.

I think I knew from the start that there was no hope. He had been shot through the heart and was on the point of death by the time they got him to the hospital. Celeste, I am sure, found a grain of comfort in looking after me. I had been there at the vital moment, I had seen it happen. Small wonder that I was in a state of shock.

I was taken back to the house. There was a hushed atmosphere there. It did not seem like the same house. The servants were silent. There was tension everywhere. I was given something to drink and made to lie on my bed; and after a while I slipped into blessed oblivion.

But soon I was awake again. My respite was brief; and the nightmare continued. I soon realized that I was to play an important part in the drama, for I was the one who had been with my father when it happened. I was the one the police wanted to talk to.

I soon found myself in their company. They asked questions which I tried to answer.

The conversation kept going round and round in my head.

“Did you see the man with the gun?”

“Yes. I saw him.”

“Would you recognize him again?”

“Yes.”

“You seem certain.”

“I saw him the night before.”

They were alert. I had said something of the utmost importance and I had to explain. “I was waiting for my father’s return from the House of Commons. When he was late home I kept a little supper for him in his study. It was a custom between us. While I was waiting for him I looked out of the window and saw a man. He was waiting on the other side of the road by the railings of the garden. He looked as if he were waiting for someone.”

“What was he like? Was he tall?”

“Of medium height. His hat blew off. There was a strong wind. I saw him clearly under the lamplight. He had dark hair which grew to a peak in the middle of his forehead. And there was a white scar on his left cheek.”

They were very excited now. They looked at me in wonder and then exchanged glances.

One of them, the Inspector, I think, nodded his head slowly.

“This is excellent,” he said. “And you saw the same man when the shooting took place?”

“Yes, but he was wearing a cloth cap pulled down over his face. I did not see his hair, but I saw the scar. And I knew he was the one who had waited last night.”

“Very good. Thank you, Miss Lansdon.”

There were headlines in the papers.

BENEDICT LANSDON ASSASSINATED.

BENEDICT LANSDON WAS SHOT DEAD OUTSIDE HIS HOME TODAY.

HIS DAUGHTER, MISS LUCIE LANSDON, WAS AT HIS SIDE. The newsboys were shouting in the streets. All London was talking of the death of Benedict Lansdon who had so recently been making the headlines with his opposition to Gladstone’s Home Rule Bill.

Late in the afternoon of the second day, my half sister, Rebecca, arrived from Cornwall. The very sight of her lifted my spirits a little, and I remembered how in my childhood I had always gone to her for comfort.

She came to my room and we clung together.

“My poor, poor Lucie,” she said. “This is terrible. And you were with him at the time. What does it mean? Who could have done this?”

I shook my head. “The police have been here. There have been a lot of questions.

Celeste didn’t want me to see them but they insisted.”

“They are hinting that this is something to do with his opposition to the Irish Bill.” I nodded. “They are saying that the Bill failed to get through the Lords because of my father’s speaking out against it. And, of course, he was one of those who voted against it.”

“Surely that could not be a reason for ... murder!”

“I don’t know. It’s probably some wild conjecture. The press has brought it up to make it more sensational. There is a mention of the Phoenix Park murders.”

“That was years ago.”

“About ten. And then Lord Frederick Cavendish and his Under Secretary were shot ... just as my father was.”

She nodded.

“So it seems possible,” I said. “Who else would do it?”

“Perhaps someone he knew long ago. Perhaps it was some personal feud. Did you know of anything? I suppose a man such as he was might have enemies.”

“I don’t know, but I expect the police will find out.”

“Lucie, you must come back with me to Cornwall.”

“I couldn’t go yet, Rebecca. I have to wait here for a while. The fact that I was with him when it happened... you see, they come here and ask me questions. There will be an inquest and after that... what do you think will happen? Will they catch this man?”

She lifted her shoulders.

“I saw him, you see,” I went on. “I saw him clearly.”

I told her about the man who had waited by the railings the night before the shooting, and how I had seen him next day kill my father.

She was astonished. “He would obviously have done it the night before, if your father had come home. Can you be sure it was the same man?”

“Absolutely. He had such distinguishing features. Moreover there was something about him... something I can’t describe... something purposeful.”

“You have told the police this?”

“Yes, and they are very excited about it.”

“Do you think it could be that this man is known to them?”

“I hadn’t thought of that. But I see that it could be. Oh, Rebecca, it was so good of you to come. I feel better now that you are here.”

“I know,” she said gently.

“Will you stay?”

“I shall until after the funeral. Then I shall take you back with me.”

“I suppose there has to be an inquest.”

“Certainly there will be. I’ll stay till it’s all over and then you can come back with me to Cornwall.”

“What of Celeste? I feel I should be with her.”

“She could come, too. You will both want to get away from this house for a while.”

“There will be changes everywhere,” I said. “I suppose we shall have to think of what we are going to do. At the moment I can think of nothing but his standing there. He looked surprised. I suppose it was less than a second but it seemed longer and there was my father... staggering, covered in blood. Oh, Rebecca, it was terrible.”

She put her arms about me and held me tightly.

“You must try to put that out of your mind. It’s over and there is nothing we can do about it. We’ve got to think of the future.”

“Yes. But later ...”

“The children would love to have you with us,” said Rebecca. “And so would Pedrek.” I nodded. I always enjoyed my visits to Rebecca. They were such a happy family. She had two lovely children, Alvina who was about six and Jake aged four. I found them interesting and amusing; I loved the sea and the moors and the air of remoteness; but all the time I was there I used to think of my father who, I knew, would be growing more and more restive, as he always was when I was away. So I had not been with Rebecca as much as I should have liked to be because of my father’s reluctance to let me go.

I could hear his voice coming to me now. “Going to Cornwall?”

“It’s some time since I’ve been.”

“Well, how long will you be away?”

“At least a month. It wouldn’t be worthwhile going for less.”

“A whole month!”

I knew that all my life I would be remembering such conversations and with them would come the heartbreak, the reminder that he had gone forever... killed by a man who did not even know him.

Rebecca knew well the state of affairs and she had never persuaded me to stay on, though she always hinted that she would be delighted if I did. There had always been something motherly about Rebecca as far as I was concerned. I had even seen it in her attitude toward my father. She had understood him as few people did, and that understanding had made her tender toward him.

London was obsessed by the news of my father’s assassination. It was not only the papers which were full of it. People strolled past the house, looking up at it and whispering. We could not help seeing them from the windows. I often found myself looking out at the pavement where my father had lain covered in blood, and across the road by the railings where that man had waited for him. If only I had known and been able to warn him.

There was the inquest-a painful ordeal which I had to attend. All interest was focused on me for it was my evidence which was of the greatest importance. I had been there. I had had a good view of the assassin whom I recognized as the man who had waited for my father on the previous night.

The verdict of the inquest was “murder against some person or persons unknown.”

My name was blazoned across the papers.

MISS LUCIE LANSDON, EIGHTEEN-YEAR-OLD DAUGHTER OF BENEDICT LANSDON.

It came out about the little suppers I had waiting for him.

“He doted on her,” said Emily Sorrel, parlor maid.

“She was the apple of his eye,” said the housekeeper. “I never knew a father more devoted to his daughter,” the butler told our reporter. “Miss Lucie Lansdon was with her father in his dying moments.”

Celeste said the papers should be kept from me, but I wanted to know. The day after the inquest Inspector Gregory came to see me. He was a big man with piercing blue eyes, a stern profile but a kindly manner; and he was very gentle toward me.

He said, “I shall be frank with you, Miss Lansdon. Your evidence has been of the greatest help to us. You gave us an accurate description of a man we want to interview and we believe we know who he is. He is Irish, a fanatical campaigner for Home Rule who has been under suspicion more than once. There seems an indication that your father’s death might have been brought about because of his opposition to the Home Rule Bill. The man we suspect has been involved in other outrages of this nature. We have wanted to interview him for some time. This has given us the chance to get him. We would have something concrete to bring against him. As a matter of fact we are detaining a man at the moment. I want you to come along and identify him. He will be with others. I want you to pick him out and if he is the man who shot your father we shall then have our man.”

“So ... you have caught him then?”

“We are not sure. Of course, we are hoping he is our man. What we need is an assurance that he is. You were a witness of the murder and you saw this man quite clearly the night before the murder. So we want you to tell us if the man we show you is the same one you saw with the gun in his hand and the night before from your window. You will just have to pick him out of a group. It is very simple. I know it will be something of an ordeal for you, but it will be quickly over. I can tell you it will be a great relief to us and all law-abiding people if we can have this man in custody. We want to prevent him from committing more crimes like this one.”

“When do you wish me to come?”

“Tomorrow morning. We will send a carriage for you at ten thirty.”

“I will be ready.”

He touched my hand lightly. “Thank you, Miss Lansdon,” he said. When he had gone, I kept thinking about the man and I wondered how he could have shot cold-bloodedly a fellow human being whom he did not know. He could not have paused to think of the misery he might be causing to a number of people. The opinion seemed to be that he did it to serve a cause. What causes were worth human lives and all the misery such crimes like this one could bring about? I slept little that night. Once I got out of bed and went to the window. I looked out on the deserted street where the light from the lamp shone on the damp pavement. I was shivering, half-expecting to see that man there.

The next morning the carriage arrived.

I was taken into a room where Inspector Gregory was waiting for me.

“Thank you for coming, Miss Lansdon,” he said. “It’s just along here.”

He took me into a room where eight men were standing in a line.

“Just walk along and see if our man is among the others,” murmured the Inspector. I approached the line. Some were tall, some short, some of medium height, dark and fair. I walked slowly along.

He was there-the fifth. I knew him at once. He had attempted to disguise the peak of hair by shaving it but by looking intently I could see its outline; and there was a faint white scar on his left cheek, which I could see he had attempted to conceal by some coloring matter. There was not a doubt in my mind as I went back to the Inspector. “He is there,” I said. “The fifth in the line. I could see the outline of the peak of hair and he has tried to conceal the scar. The second time I did not see his hair but yet I knew he was the same man. And I know it now.”

“That is good. You have been of the greatest help to us, Miss Lansdon. We are extremely grateful to you.”

They took me back. I was exhausted. I kept thinking of that moment when his eyes had looked into mine. I could not explain the expression I saw there. He knew that I was aware of who he was. He must have seen me at the window that night; we had looked full at each other when he held the gun in his hand. His eyes were defiant, mocking, faintly contemptuous. Oh, yes, he knew that I had recognized him. I went to my room when I arrived home. Celeste came in with a glass of hot milk on a tray.

“Was it such an ordeal?” she asked.

“It was just walking along a line of men and picking him out. He knew that I recognized him. Oh, Celeste, it was frightening, it was the way he looked at me... defying me, mocking me.”

“I expect he was very frightened.”

“I am not sure. Perhaps people like that who take life lightly don’t overvalue their own. What do you think will happen to him?”

“He’ll be hanged if he’s proved guilty.”

“He is guilty. It’s rather a sobering thought. But for me, it might not have been proved against him.”

“He would probably have betrayed himself in some way. He must have been caught up in that sort of thing before. The police are very clever. After all, they suspected him and got their hands on him very quickly. They must have known what he was and probably had been watching him, for it seems he was not unknown to them. The fact that you recognized him has made it easier for them to bring this charge against him.”

“But if they do hang him ... it will be because of me.”

“No. It will be because he is a murderer who must die so that he cannot murder others as he did Benedict. You’ve got to see it that way. If he were allowed to escape there could shortly be another death, and other bereaved relations suffering because of his wanton act.”

“That,” I said firmly, “is how I must see it.”

Celeste said, “When it is all over you will go to Rebecca’s, I suppose.”

“Perhaps for a short stay.”

“We shall have to decide what we are going to do. I hope you won’t go away altogether.”

“You should come to Cornwall with me, Celeste ... for a while at least. Rebecca suggested it.”

“I don’t know. I feel lost... unable to make decisions. I am so lonely... without Benedict... although I know he never really cared for me. But he was always so much a part of my life.”

“He did care for you, Celeste. It was just that he did not show it.”

“He could not show it because it was not there. He showered his affection on you... and your mother.”

“But, Celeste, he did love you. He was grateful to you, I know.”

“Well,” she said ruefully, “that is all over now.”

“And there are the two of us left. Let us stay together.”

She put her arms about me.

I said, “You are a great comfort to me, Celeste.”

“And you to me,” she replied.

My father was buried with a certain amount of ceremony. We should have liked it to have been done quietly, but in view of the circumstances we had realized that that would be impossible.

His coffin was hidden by flowers and there had to be an extra carriage to accommodate them all. Many, I thought ironically, had been sent by those who had been his enemies in life; but those who had been envious need be so no longer. Who could be envious of a dead man? He could now be remembered for his brilliance, his wit, his shrewdness, his hopes of a high post in government now cut short. They were talking about the certainty of his becoming Prime Minister one day ... if he had lived. It was a great career cut short by a senseless murder, they said. My father, by dying, had become a hero.

The eulogies in the press were almost embarrassing. There was no mention of that early scandal which had blighted his hopes, the resurrection of which he had always lived in fear. It would appear now that he had been loved and admired by all. Such is the glory attained through death; and the more sudden and violent the death, the greater the glory.

I read these accounts. Celeste and Rebecca read them. We knew them for the clichés they were, but did we allow ourselves to be swept along on the tide of insincerity? I suppose we did a little. But there was no comfort for me. I had lost him forever and there was a terrible emptiness left.

When the will was read we realized how very rich he had been. He had rewarded all his faithful servants with substantial legacies. Celeste was well provided for; Rebecca was left a considerable sum. As for the rest of his fortune, there was to be some sort of trust. It was for me during my lifetime, and after me it would go to my children; and if I failed to have any it was to be for Rebecca or her children. The house in London was left to Celeste; the one at Manorleigh to me. I had never thought a great deal about money and at such a time, with so much else to occupy my thoughts, I did not fully realize what this would mean. The solicitors said that when I had recovered a little they would talk with me and explain what had to be explained. There was really no hurry. I could hardly give my attention to such matters now.

Rebecca said, “When this is all over, you will have to start thinking what you want to do. There will be changes, no doubt. The best thing for you to do ... and Celeste, too ... is to come back to Cornwall with me... away from all this. Then you will be able to see everything more clearly.”

I had no doubt that she was right, yet I hesitated. Joel would be coming home soon.

I clung to the thought that I should be able to talk with him. I had been so stunned by my father’s death that I had been unable to think of anything else. Now memories of Joel were coming back. I would not be alone. Joel would return and when he did he would help me to recover from this terrible shock. In a way I longed to leave London. I should feel better in Cornwall. I loved Cador, the old family home, ‘and I was always happy to be with Rebecca. But I must be in London for the trial, and until that was over there could be no peace for me. I was sure my presence would be required; I was a key witness. There would be no point in going to Cornwall with this ordeal hanging over me.

I am sure, for the rest of my life, I shall never be able to escape from the memories of that courtroom. I would never forget the sight of the man in the dock. I tried hard not to look at him, but I could not help myself; and every time it seemed that his eyes were on me, half-hating, half-amused, half-mocking.

His name was Fergus O’Neill. He had been involved in similar trouble before. It was, no doubt, how he had received the scar on his face. He had served a term in an Irish jail where he had been involved in a riot; he was a member of an organization which took the law into its own hands. He was a killer who served a cause; and he had no compunction in taking life to do so. The police had had him under surveillance; it was the reason why through my description they had been able to arrest him so quickly. Mr. Thomas Carstairs, QC, Counsel for the Crown, opened for the Prosecution. He spoke for what seemed like a long time setting out what had happened. Benedict Lansdon, a well-known member of the Liberal Party, highly respected in the political world-and indeed destined for Cabinet rank-had been wantonly done to death outside his own house in the presence of his daughter.

He went on talking about my father’s openly stated opposition to Mr. Gladstone’s Home Rule Bill, and how Fergus O’Neill, already known to the police as an agitator, had waited on the night previous to the murder, with intent to kill. He had been foiled by the late sitting of the House of Commons on that night, for on these occasions, Mr. Lansdon stayed at the house of friends in Westminster and did not come home. He referred to the fact that I had seen Fergus O’Neill loitering outside the house. It had been a windy night. O’Neill’s opera hat had blown off, and, as there was a street lamp nearby, I had had a clear view of his face. The next time I had seen him was at the time of the murder and with a gun in his hand. And so on.

Then began the evidence for the Prosecution. Several people were called. There was the landlady in the house where Fergus O’Neill was lodging. He had come over from Ireland a week before the murder and had apparently spent the intervening time preparing for it.

There were two people who had rented rooms in the house; there were the pathologists and the doctor who had attended to my father; and a few others. I was to be the most important witness because I had actually been present at the time of the murder and had seen and identified the assassin. It was clear, even to myself-and I knew little of court procedure-that it was my evidence which would prove the case against Fergus O’Neill.

After the first day I arrived home exhausted. Rebecca and Celeste sat by my bedside and talked to me until I fell asleep.

But even in sleep I was haunted by that man. I knew that I had had to do what I did. I could not have withheld anything. I was as certain as I could be of anything that the man was my father’s murderer; but I kept imagining the rope about his neck, and I could not stop telling myself that I was the one who would put it there. When I told Rebecca this, she said, “That’s nonsense. He has put it there himself. The man’s a murderer and if he is guilty he must be punished. You cannot allow people to go free so that they can go round killing people just because they disagree with them.”

She was right, I knew, but how could one drive morbid fancies out of one’s mind? “As soon as this is all over,” announced Rebecca, “I am definitely going to take you to Cornwall. And you are coming with us, Celeste. You need a break. You need to get away from all this. And it is no use saying you cannot come, because I am going to insist.”

“I think I should be here,” said Celeste.

“And I think you should not,” replied Rebecca firmly. “You need not stay long, but it is necessary for both of you to get away from here for a while. It has been a great shock to you both. You need a break... right away.” We both knew that she was right and I must say that, for me, the prospect of getting away was enticing.

But the trial was not yet over. I should have to return to the courtroom. Mr. Thomas Carstairs thought that the Defense might want to put me in the witness box and endeavor to discredit my evidence.

And so it had to be. The solemn atmosphere of the courtroom was awe-inspiring with the judge sternly presiding over the barristers and the jury; but the one I was constantly aware of was Fergus O’Neill, the memory of whose face would, I began to fear, haunt me for the rest of my life.

The Defense, after all, did not call me. I suppose they thought that anything I could say would only be damning against the prisoner.

The Prosecution, however, put me briefly in the box. I was asked to look at the prisoner and tell the court whether I had seen him before.

I answered that I had seen him the night before my father died and at the time of the shooting. I told how I recognized him.

It was over very quickly, but it was the deciding factor.

The judge gave his summing up. The verdict was inevitable, he said. The case had been proved (not only, I kept telling myself, by me). The man was a fanatical terrorist and anarchist. He had very likely killed before. He was a man already wanted by the police.

I wished I was anywhere but in the courtroom when the jury came back and gave the verdict of guilty and the judge put on the black cap.

I shall never forget his voice. “Prisoner at the bar, you have been convicted by a jury, and the law leaves me no discretion and I must pass onto you the sentence of the law and this sentence of the law is: This Court doth ordain you to be taken from hence to the place of execution; and that your body there be hanged by the neck until you are dead; and that your body be afterward buried within the precincts of the prison in which you have been confined after your conviction and may the Lord have mercy on your soul.”

I took one last fearful look at him. His eyes were fixed on me-venomous, revengeful and mocking.

Rebecca wanted us to leave at once, but I could not go. I had to stay.

“Sometimes there is a reprieve,” I said. “I want to be here ... so that I know.”

“There would not be a reprieve in a case like this,” said Rebecca. “For Heaven’s sake, Lucie, the man deserves to die. He murdered your father.”

“It was for a cause. It wasn’t for personal gain. It’s different somehow.”

“Murder is murder,” said Rebecca firmly. “And the punishment for murder is death.

Let’s leave soon. The children and Pedrek think I have been away too long.”

“You go back, Rebecca. Celeste and I will come when this is all over.”

Rebecca shook her head. “I have to stay with you, Lucie. Pedrek understands.” Three weeks had passed since the judge uttered that sentence and the day for the execution came. There had, of course, been no reprieve; in my heart I had known there could not be.

I sat in my room. Rebecca and Celeste wanted to be with me. But they understood my feelings. I wanted to be alone, and they respected that.

So I sat there while it was happening. This man... this Fergus O’Neill, a man to whom I had never spoken, was dying and I was the one who, figuratively, had put the rope round his neck.

Rebecca was right. I was being foolish to think that. Her calm common sense should be like a douche of cold water to my fevered fantasies. And so it was ... at times. Yet at others these thoughts would come back to me.

Who would have believed this time last year that I, a simple girl, happy in the life she shared with her brilliant father, had lost him and gained a terrible burden of guilt?

How could it be possible for life to change so drastically in such a short time!

“There is nothing to detain us,” said Rebecca. “What we must do now is plan for the future. And you will do this better away from here. You will be able to think more clearly in Cornwall.”

I knew that she was right.

“So pack what you need,” she went on. “We’ll catch tomorrow morning’s train.”

“There is something I have to tell you, Rebecca,” I said. “It’s about Joel Greenham.”

She smiled and I saw the understanding in her eyes.

“Before he went away,” I added, “we became engaged... secretly.”

She turned to me, smiling. I had not seen her look so happy since the tragedy. “Oh, Lucie,” she said, “I am so pleased. This is wonderful. Of course, I knew there was something between you and Joel. He will take care of you. When is he coming home?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t heard anything yet.”

“These missions don’t usually last very long and he has been away some time. I wonder whether he will have heard ... he can’t have done so. If he had I am sure he would have come home right away.”

“It seems so long since he went away,” I said.

“As soon as he comes home you can go back to London ... or he could come down to us. Oh, Lucie, I can’t tell you how happy this has made me.”

“I should have told you before only we didn’t intend to announce it until he came back.”

“It will help so much. You’ll be able to start afresh. I can see that you don’t want to make too many plans until he is with you.”

Her mood had changed. She was clearly thinking what a help Joel would be to me.

She was right, of course.

“So,” she went on, “we’ll leave tomorrow morning.”

Celeste was coming with us. We had insisted that she did; and I think she was relieved to do so, although she was a little diffident, as was her way; she confided in me that she was not sure whether Rebecca really wanted her, but was asking her out of kindness.

Poor Celeste! Her life with Benedict had nurtured this feeling of being unwanted; although in the last years he had tried hard to make things different between them. So we prepared to leave. I was telling myself that, in the peace of Cornwall, I should see everything more clearly. I would be able to convince myself that I was foolish to harbor these uneasy feelings about a man who had deliberately set out to kill my father, shattering his life in a matter of seconds and bringing misery to his family.

I had packed and we were ready to leave.

“We should get a good night’s sleep,” advised Rebecca.

She herself brought a glass of milk to my bedroom. She stayed by my bed and talked to me.

“Everything will be different in Cornwall,” she said soothingly. “The children will love to see you. They are rather adorable. And the grandparents... ours and Pedrek’s. You know how they love it when you come. Ours will be trying to snatch you away from us and get you to Cador. But I shan’t allow it.”

“It all sounds so cozy.”

“It will be best, Lucie. And soon we shall be hearing from Joel. I am sure he will come straight to Cornwall when he knows you are there.”

“I’m getting rather worried about him. It seems so long since he went.”

“Well, it is a long way off, and I don’t suppose getting letters through is very easy. Soon he’ll be home. Oh, I am so glad you and Celeste are such friends. Poor Celeste!”

“I always feel that I want to look after her,” I said.

Rebecca nodded. “Now drink that milk and get off to sleep. We’ll have a long day tomorrow.”

She took the glass, set it down and tucked me in as she used to do when I was a child.

I put my arms round her neck.

“I am so glad to have you, Rebecca,” I told her.

“And I to have you, little sister,” she replied.

Then she kissed me and went out.

I think I dozed a little. Then... something wakened me. It sounded like a scratching on the window. I lay staring into the darkness. The light from the street lamp showed me the outline of familiar furniture. It was something I had found comforting when I was very young. I was thankful for that street lamp. It had played a part in my life. And then it had shown me clearly the face of my father’s murderer. I could not have been so sure of him if I had not seen him standing hatless under it on that fateful night.

Again that scratching on the window. I looked and was in time to see that it was a handful of small pebbles which had been thrown at it.

I got out of bed and went to the window. My heart seemed to stop for a second as I caught my breath, for standing there, under the street lamp, was a figure in an opera cloak and hat. It was a man. He looked straight up at me as I stood at the window. For a few seconds we remained motionless, then suddenly he took off his hat and bowed. As he was standing under the street lamp I could see him clearly. I saw the widow’s peak, even the faint outline of the scar.

He was smiling up at me, mockingly.

I could not move. I just stood there, limp with horror.

The man put his hat on his head and slowly sauntered out of sight. I was shivering; my limbs were shaking. What had I seen? Was it a ghost? That was my first thought. He had come back to haunt me.

For a few moments, I stood there staring down at the deserted street. Then I went back to bed.

I was still trembling. Then another and more terrible thought occurred to me. Was the man I had condemned not my father’s murderer? That man was still here. I had seen him this night, after the other had been hanged.

Oh, God help me, I thought. I have condemned an innocent man. But the man I had seen in court was the man I had seen in the street on those two occasions. But if that were so, how could he have been down there on this night? He had meant me to see him. He had thrown pebbles at my window.

Had he been real or was he a phantom come back to haunt me?