THE NARRATIVE OF JOHN WARD GIBSON.

CHAPTER VI.

Concluded from page 366.

To some natures human, perhaps I should say physical considerations are the first that, in cases of emergency, present themselves. My nature was of this kind. What had I done? I had killed a man in self-defence-one who would have plundered, and who had attempted to murder me. It was justifiable homicide. Who, under the circumstances, could have acted otherwise? Besides, the spectacle before me could not now unnerve me. The excitement of the recent struggle between us had not altogether subsided, and I had suffered so much for years past from another event, which Steiner himself had forced upon me, that I would not permit myself to be overwhelmed by this accident. I felt also that my hatred of Steiner had only lain dormant thus long; that his murderous assault upon me on the previous night had quickened, had revived, and if possible, had strengthened it; and I felt, ay, even as I gazed upon the lifeless body, that no time, no years passed in this world could obliterate or destroy it. I now bethought me what course was to lie pursued. I must rescue myself from the imputation that might be against me of having murdered Steiner; I must do more-I must establish the charge against the deceased, and hold up his name and his memory to execration and ignominy. No thought of Mrs. Steiner or of the boy obtruded itself upon me at the moment, or if it did, I rejected it. Justice must be done; I had always loved justice--I had practised it hitherto, and they had felt it.

Thus resolved, I sat myself down in a chair, and awaited, not calmly but callously, the arrival of the old woman who attended upon me, and who came regularly at seven o'clock. The pain in my arm was great, but that I heeded not; on the contrary, it supplied me with a motive for suppressing any regret I might be weak enough to feel, but there was little danger of that, in consequence of what had

occurred.

A sudden thought flashed through my brain. Why was I seated inactive, when prudence pointed out the expediency of alarming the neighbourhood? As it was, I had tarried too long. Every moment of farther delay would materially alter the complexion of the case, as it would present itself to indifferent witnesses. Would they indeed be. lieve the story I had to relate? I turned faint and sick when that doubt proposed itself to me. The seclusion in which I had lived was calculated to increase suspicion against me, which doubtless had been long engendered, and Steiner's vengeance would at length be ful

filled.

Were these fears reasonable? I think not; and yet having once, and in an evil moment, entertained them, they grew upon me, and altogether paralysed my faculties. I felt intensely the necessity of imme. diate action, but was utterly deprived of the power to act.

Hardly conscious of the motive that prompted me, I drew the body of Steiner into the back-room, and covering it with a cloak, thrust it under a sofa, before which I placed some chairs, and returning to the parlour, I set the furniture hastily in its accustomed

order, and retired to my chamber, where I dressed the wound in my arm, washed myself, and endeavoured to counterfeit a calmness which, at any rate, might impose upon my servant.

It was now too late to recede. To decide upon any course of action in trying circumstances is a relief; and the weakness of yielding to ima. ginary fears, and the difficulty and danger of concealing from the world all knowledge of this unfortunate occurrence, were for a time forgotten. They were too soon impressed upon me, and in a manner I had not foreseen, and could not now avert.

A knock at the door summoned me down stairs. As I proceeded along the passage, I thought I could distinguish the tones of two voices in conversation. I listened, transfixed to the spot with the hideous conviction that they-who, I knew not--were come to search the house in quest of the body which I had concealed, and which, therefore for that inference must be invincible-I had murdered. It was a moment of agonizing suspense; but the voices had ceased, the knock was renewed, and I knew it to be that of my attendant.

My agitation must have been but too visible when, on opening the door, I beheld Mrs. Steiner.

"The lady wishes to speak to you, sir," said the old woman, entering.

I motioned her to retire to the kitchen, and turned in silent perplexity towards Mrs. Steiner.

"Good heavens! Mr. Gibson," she exclaimed, "how dreadfully pale you look! What is the matter?"

I might have remarked the same of her also; but I had no power to speak.

"You do not answer," she resumed. as I suspected!"

"Oh God! it is-it must be

"What-what do you suspect?" I dare not look upon her, but retired in confusion to the parlour. She followed me, and sunk upon a

chair.

There was a vagueness, almost a wildness in her eye, as she glanced hurriedly around the room, which disconcerted me not not a little. She looked as though she had expected to see some person whom she fear. ed to meet.

"You have nobody in the house, Mr. Gibson?" she inquired in a half whisper, pointing to the door of the back-room.

"Nobody but my servant, who entered with you," I replied, the blood rushing violently to my face. "You have brought the letter, ma dam, I suppose, for Frederick?"

"Frederick!"-she gazed upon me listlessly-" Oh yes, I have. My God! what weakness is this!" and she pressed her hand upon her forehead. "Here it is-I hardly know what I have written." She drew it from her reticule and handed it to me.

"Oh, Mr. Gibson," she resumed, as I sat, my eyes bent vacantly on the superscription, "I have been so alarmed."

"Indeed! What has alarmed you, Mrs. Steiner ?" The letter dropt from my hand.

"He has been here-your looks tell me so!" she exclaimed. "My husband-Steiner has been here!"

I arose suddenly-" No-no-he has not been here; I have not seen him, as Heaven is my witness. Why should you think so?" This assurance appeared to relieve her.

"He called yesterday at my former lodging," she continued; "the woman saw him, and would not tell him where I resided."

"Compose yourself," I said; "he will not be able to discover your lodging-I am sure he will not, What motive," I added, " can induce

him to seek me."

"Oh, sir!" she replied, "he inquired your address of the woman, and she told him."

"He will not venture to see me, depend upon it," I said hastily. "Be calm, I beseech you, and go home now: you have nothing to fear from him."

Mrs. Steiner, while I was speakng, sat with her hands clasped, and her eyes raised to mine. She burst into tears when I had concluded,

Mr. Gibson," she exclaimed, "you will think me a foolish, weak woman, but I hardly dare go home. I know I shall hear something -I am certain of it-it is horrible to think of! I had such a dream last night ?"

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ness.

My dear madam," said I, interrupting her, "this is indeed weakAre you the slave of empty and unmeaning dreams?"

"Ha!" she cried, starting from the chair, "somebody is coming to the door!-I hear his step outside !" and she listened with an appear. ance of intense anxiety that almost equalled my own.

It was a double knock at the door.

terval of fearful suspense succeeded.

Who could it be? A short in.

"A Mr. Hartwell wishes to see you, sir," said the servant, entering

the room.

An examination of terror was about to burst from the lips of Mrs. Steiner, but she checked it. She flew towards me, and held me by the

arm.

"Who is this man, Hartwell?" I said. "I do not know him. Tell me, do you know him?"

She motioned me to close the door." He was the friend-no, no, -the companion of Mr. Steiner, and brought us to misery. It was he who led Frederick into vices that-oh, sir! I must not see him for the world! Where shall I conceal myself? Oh, yes? in here."

"Not there!—not there!" I exclaimed, seizing her hand as she was about to open the door of the back-room. "Tell the gentleman,” I turned to the servant, "That I will see him directly."

"I would not he should see me here for the world," she cried. "Oh! Mr. Gibson, you must permit me--

I had no strength to struggle with her. The door was opened. "Sit there," I whispered, pointing to a chair. "Do not stir-prom. ise me, swear you will not stir."

"My God! how strange!-my dream last night!--so like this-it was this !"

I fled into the parlour at these words, and threw myself into a chair. In a moment more a tall man of genteel appearance walked into the

room.

"I beg pardon for the liberty I have taken, sir," said he; "my name is Hartwell. I fear I find you extremely unwell."

"I am so," I answered faintly, as I motioned him to take a seat. "What may be your business with me, Mr. Hartwell ?”

"Why, sir,?" said he, "my friend, Steiner, called upon you last night.

"No, no he did not," I exclaimed hastily.

Hartwell smiled, and shook his head. "Pardon me my dear sir,” he returned blandly, "I am certain that he did, because I accompanied him to the door."

"Hush! hush! do not speak so loud," and I arose from my seat; "I have an invalid in the next room. I thought," I added hesitating-I wonder even now at the presence of mind which enabled me to hit upon that "I thought perhaps for all Mr. Steiner's acquaintance are not friends-that he might not wish you to know he had been here."

"Oh, Lord bless you, no," said Hartwell; "we are very good friends, I assure you. He promised to call upon me after he had seen you, and I am surprised he should not have kept his word with me. Pray, Mr. Gibson, when did he leave you?"

"Leave me!"-I started-"oh, about two hours ago."

"Very strange !" cried Hartwell; "he was to sail for Hamburgh this morning."

"He is gone, then, no doubt." This propitious intimation, unexpected as it was, eased me beyond expression. Hartwell, however, seemed

greatly perplexed.

" Will

"I cannot think he would deceive me," he said at length. you allow me to inquire, sir, whether Mr. Steiner had reason to be satisfied with the result of his visit to you?"

"I do not understand-"

"He came to borrow money, I think," he continued; "did he succeed, Mr. Gibson?”

"He did."

"D—the fellow! it's so like him. And yet," he mused,—“ I cannot but believe I shall see him yet. Good morning, Mr. Gibson; I am sorry to have troubled you."

I know not how I bore my part in the foregoing conversation; not with much address or self-possession, I suspect; for I detected Hartwell gazing at me with seeming surprise upon one or two occasions. I thanked God when he was well gone. It was not likely I should see him again. Steiner had sailed for Hamburgh; be would conclude so, and I should hear no more of him.

Nothing now remained but to dismiss Mrs. Steiner as speedily as possible, and afterwards to dispose of the body so secretly that it should never see the light. It would be well to treat Mrs. Steiner's vague apprehensions with levity, lest at some future time, hearing no tidings of her husband, she might be led to couple, and perhaps to connect, my extreme confusion of manner with the date of Steiner's expected appearance in London, and to infer thence, and speedily to conclude, that I was in some measure the cause of his absence. She never would have suspected me of having murdered him, I felt assured of that; and this conviction sufficed to fortify me against the short scene that was, as I believed, about to ensue between

us.

I had opened the door softly. tered me when I was about to the chairs from before the sofa, rather crouching, on the ground. one hand, every limb of her body phetic fear, her other hand was

Oh God! what a spectacle encounenter the room. She had removed and was at that moment kneeling, or Leaning forward, and supported on quivering with the agony of prostretched forward, and was about to

grasp the cloak that concealed the remains of her husband. Ha! she had already laid hold upon it ere I could rush forward to prevent

her.

I grasped her shoulder with the fury, with the strength of a wild beast. She flung herself backward, drawing the cloak with her, towards her. The body-the face had been seen!

It was not a scream—a shriek—I shall never hear its like again in this world. The echo of it-the imitation, if such could be of that dreadful appeal, or imprecation, would make a madman of me now. Its remembrance shuts out hope from me forever.

And yet the instinct of self-preservation was then present to me. I threw the cloak once more over the body, replaced the chairs, and raising the senseless form from the floor, carried it into the parlour before the servant, who had been alarmed by the outcry, could make her appearance. The old woman speedily busied herself in applying those common remedies which are always at hand, but which are not always efficacious; nor were they in this instance.

"I will carry her to my own room," said I; "she will sently, I dare say."

get better

"What is the matter with the lady?" inquired the woman. often so ?"

pre

"Is she

"She is mad," said I impressively, "Mrs. Watkins, mark me, she is mad. You must not heed what she says. She will perhaps rave, and utter strange things: you must pay no attention to them."

So saying, I took Mrs. Steiner in my arms, and followed by the woman, conveyed her to my chamber.

"Had not a doctor better be sent for?" suggested the woman; still remains insensible."

"she

"No; no occasion for one at present," I replied; "she is thus sometimes for hours. Do not leave her side, and when she comes to herself call me."

I retreated down stairs. What I suffered on that day it is past imagination to conceive: a second endurance of it no human being could withstand. I took no sustenance, but remained closed in, in frightful companionship with the body. To wring the hands, to tear the hair, to beat the bosom, were no employments of mine. I felt no remorse; I was not even sorry for what I had done, or for what it had led to; it was sheer, absolute, simple fear. The dread of detection-of conviction-of an ignominious death-it was this, and this alone.

In the afternoon Mrs. Watkins suddenly came up to ine, and beckoned me to follow her. I did so. She led the way to the chamber. Mrs. Steiner lay on the bed; her eyes were open now, but motionless; and her hands at intervals were convulsively clenched. I obser. ved her in awe-stricken silence for some time.

"Has she spoken yet?" I inquired.

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"It

"No: she will never speak again," replied the woman. doesn't signify, Mr. Gibson; a doctor must be sent for; I will not permit the poor lady to die without assistance."

I knew not what I said. "To die without assistance! ha ha! Doctors are good assistants to death. No-no doctors."

"Shameful!" cried the woman; "you don't know what you're talk. ing about. For heaven's sake, sir, call in Mr. Greaves! Go for him, dear Mr. Gibson, instantly."