The Unknown Assassin
We stood together, my brother and I, one summer evening, on the grassy, undulating slope that led from the house to Fairy Glen; a narrow, tortuous, bush-fringed ravine, running parallel with, and not more than one hundred yards from, the house. Through the glen meandered a stony stream, which we called Elfin Brook, and it surely merited the name. Entering the glen with a plunge over a miniature precipice, some three or four feet in height, it rose from its fall, bubbling and laughing, and pursued its winding, gleeful course, laving the tangled roots of the fragrant mints and spicy cresses which transgressed on its pebbly domain, burrowing under the larger stones, whirling in circles and diminutive eddies around the obstructions, and reflecting in fantastic and ever-varying shapes the branches overhanging it.
I was nineteen, and well developed for my age, and my brother Charlie was scarcely fourteen. He was a noble little fellow, and loved me with an affection that partook somewhat of reverence. Our parents had long been invalids, and we had, therefore, been deprived much of their society. Our acquaintances were few, and we were thus thrown almost exclusively in each other’s company.
I had been pursuing my studies at home under the eye of a tutor, but the following week I was to leave home, and was spending my last days under the parental roof in surveying the scenes which were endeared to me by long familiarity.
The day was nearly spent. The slanting sunbeams bathed the landscape in a flood of amber-colored light, and we saw the gorgeous picture through a medium of burnished haze. Although accustomed to views fully as magnificent from childhood, I was that evening strangely impressed by it—impressed by a something that had no connection with the fact of my leaving home; not that I did not feel that, for I did, and painfully. It was something of an entirely different character: not a foreboding or presentiment, but a feeling of unquiet, a wish for power to unfold the vail of the future, and connect something to be revealed with the picture spread out before us.
We stood some time, neither speaking. At length Charlie broke the silence:
“Let us go down to the brook and pile up the stones for the dam.”
We had made a water-wheel, which we were to put in operation the following morning.
“Very well,” said I; “you go down and throw some stones in the brook, and I’ll go up to the house and get the wheel.”
I went to the house, got the wheel, occupying probably ten minutes, and was returning, when from out the glen rang a terrible, agonizing scream, so horrible and blood-chilling in its prolonged intensity that, for a moment, my blood actually ceased to flow. That scream rang in my ears for long years afterward, and well it might. Even in the unearthly tone I recognized Charlie’s voice, and the conviction at once fastened itself upon me that something terrible had befallen him.
I dropped the wheel and sped down the slight descent to the glen, fear for Charlie adding strength and speed to my limbs. I dashed through the bushes on the side of the glen, straining my eyes to catch a glimpse of Charlie, but could not see him. Arriving at the edge at the stream, I glanced involuntarily at the water, and saw, to my horror, a thin thread of carmine fluid floating down the brook, gradually mingling with the water and tinging it with a sanguine hue. I regarded it for a few moments in a state of stupefaction or rather paralysis, for I was unable to make the least exertion. With a powerful effort of the will, however, I recalled my wandering faculties and tottered up the brook-side. A few steps brought me to a sharp curve, and rounding that, I beheld a scene which I can never forget, nor ever hope to banish, even for an hour, from painful reviving memory.
There, before me, partly in the ensanguined stream, was all that remained of the sunny-faced, laughing, bright-eyed boy of an hour before. He lay upon his side, one arm bent under his head, in which a great broad gash was letting out his life-blood into the insatiate stream, which bubbled and gurgled along, caring not for the woe and suffering on the brink. His face was pale, and bore an expression of poignant anguish. His crisp brown curls, which had been my pride, were now soaked with fast congealing blood. I took all this in at a glance and knew no more.
When recollection partially returned I was lying on a bed in the house, with a kindly, benevolent face bending over me, which I recognized as belonging to Doctor P— , our family physician.
“Poor boy!” I heard him say, “his lot is a hard one—father, mother, brother, all gone!” and a tear rolled down under his silver-framed spectacles, moistened his rugged cheek, and fell on my face.
I was restored to consciousness instantly, and started up in the bed, struggling vainly to recollect the past, oppressed by a sense of something fearful.
By degrees, and as gently as possible, the information was given me that Charlie was found dead by a servant, who heard his last heart-rending scream, and who discovered me also, lying a few feet from him; that our parents, borne down by the dreadful shock, sank soon into their graves; and that I had been three weeks unconsciously struggling under a brain fever, which, for a long time, was supposed to be fatal.
Only nineteen; these, whose love I had daily, hourly experienced, gone, never to return; my life embittered by that one fell blow, which crushed out three lives. Well did the old physician say, “Poor boy.” “Oh! why did I not die with them?” was the sobbing response wrung from my aching heart. I had money, more than I needed; but can money atone for a wrecked heart? No! the dissevered strings will pulsate with the same rasping agony under the ermined cloak of wealth as under the wind-tossed rags of squalid poverty.
What had I to live for? Alas, nothing! Nothing? Was there not something to compensate me for the fearful loss? Yes, there was something: it was revenge. I called it “justice’’; and during the long, wearisome days that intervened between my present state and recovery, I brooded over means by which it was to be obtained. The only clue to the perpetrator of the horrible deed, was a greasy, ragged note, found on my poor brother’s body, bearing the words: “Thus I balance the account. H. D.”
This, it was apparent, was meant to be seen by our parents, and was the crowning stroke of some villain who had premeditated the crime, waiting only a favorable moment for its consummation. Such meaning I attached to it. And now to unearth this accursed “H.D.” As my health returned I questioned the servants as to anything my parents might have said in regard to it, but they knew nothing—had heard nothing; and the doctor also was ignorant of information on the subject. He had attended my father and mother in their last hours, but had heard absolutely nothing that would lead to the identification of the murderer.
My first step in the prosecution of my determination was to sell the property and invest the proceeds in such a manner that I would have no difficulty in obtaining funds as I needed them. I then proceeded to the city of P—, and took up my residence in one of the leading hotels, secured the exclusive services of two expert detectives, offering them, besides the one already proclaimed by the authorities, a renumerative reward. Then, having, as I thought, taken the initiatory steps to certain success, my attention was turned to a careful scrutiny of the blood-stained note.
I examined the writing again and again, noted every angle and turn of the letters, closely observed the peculiar shape of the initials, and tried vainly to determine from their form the character, habits, and appearance of my enemy. Who was “H. D.”? It was not probable that I had ever seen him; for one who could carry out to the horrible end such a fiendish plot, could not have been a visitor at our home. Day after day, and night after night, I brooded over this only clue to the murderer; racking my brain with all kinds of conjectures, now thinking I was about to unravel the complicated mystery, something tangible seeming to be on the point of being developed, and when I attempted to concentrate my whole power of thought upon the coming revelation, the as yet faint admonition vanished completely, leaving me more in the dark and more despondent than before. Every morning and night I made the round of the hotels and boarding-houses, even penetrating into the dark and sickening dens of infamy, but ascertained nothing to aid me or put me on the trail of blood. I saw and heard of many persons bearing the hated initials, but never suspected any of them. It seemed to me that I was an instrument in the hands of Providence to ferret out the guilty, and that when I encountered him, the brand of Cain would be my guide.
In this frame of mind I continued a long time, never relaxing my efforts, though hope was gradually dying, and my faith in supernatural aid was almost extinct. I had retired one night, some three months after the calamity, and while vainly courting slumber as a relief from torturing retrospection, there occurred to me the beautiful theory that each human being, in the life of the earthy body, is attended by a guardian angel, whose duty it is to watch and prevent footsteps wandering from the path of right, to smile when happiness crowns the efforts of its charge, or drop the sympathizing tear when error leads astray the willing feet of poor humanity. Although I had never believed that disembodied spirits could hold communication with mortals, yet there was something deliciously gratifying in the phantasm that the spirit of my little brother was near me, and I gave myself fully to its influence. Believing him near me, I fell asleep, and dreamed, as was my custom.
The following morning I was raised up unaccountably from the abyss of grief and bitter thought into which I had before been plunged. I felt that something had occurred, which, though not unmixed with pain, was the cause of the more cheerful feeling I experienced; and this cause seemed to come to me as we hear the tinkle of a far-off bell; just perceptible; barely within, but not quite out of the range of hearing; we know it is sounding, but seemingly, in the imagination only. I had a confused remembrance of what might be called a tangible intangibility having presented itself during my sleep, and which might have been responsible for my altered state of mind. But I was certain of noting. Chaotic images floated hither and thither through my mind; uncontrollable, unshapable, but painfully pleasing.
When I retired the next night, I sank at once into a profound and refreshing sleep, from which I did not awake until late in the morning, and I was affected as I had been the previous day—that same feeling of something revealed affording me relief, and of something accomplished in my work.
During the day faint glimpses of my past life appeared in response to my mental efforts, seeming to foreshadow a greater light. I seated myself at the dinner-table, absorbed in thought, when suddenly, like lightning breaking through midnight clouds of inky darkness, the vail was rent and I beheld, to even the most minute particular, the dreams of the two preceding evenings.
The events of the day on which my poor, innocent brother was slain, were reproduced with fearful distinctness, and most fearful and distinct, the minutiae of the missing links in the history of that awful day. The scene embracing the particulars of the atrocious crime was so vividly portrayed, that I wondered how recollection could have failed.
I spoke again the last words of kindness he had heard on earth; saw him going down to his doom with the innocent prattle of childhood on his lips; could almost hear the crackling of the furzy bushes brushing his garments as he passed along the narrow path down the glen-side; saw him heaping up the smooth, round pebbles in the limpid water, and the sparkling drops rising and falling in a continual shower.
The sun sank lower and still lower; the shadows grew longer and more clearly defined; the waters gurgled along their rocky bed, now swiftly and now slowly, as obstructions, dammed up or giving way, released the crystal current.
A human face appeared in the edge of the thicket bordering the stream; then a body, with two brawny arms attached, which moved from side to side, as, cautiously and snake-like, he pressed through the pliant bushes, now pausing an instant as a dry stick cracked under his feet, and now taking another step as he was convinced that the rushing water drowned all other sounds.
Exposed to my view, his aspect was not calculated to inspire a belief that he possessed the common attributes of humanity. On the contrary, his coarse, bloated, crime-stamped features embodied those repulsive traits of villainy which proclaim the possessor a hardened ruffian.
Having attained a position outside the thicket, but screened from view from the point where my brother pursued his task, unconscious of danger, the ruffian raised his hand and beckoned to someone within the thicket. In response another face appeared—such a face as might have belonged to Lucifer—finely-cut features, but, oh! so cold, crafty, demoniac in expression that my heart sickened.
The villain, whom I now knew to be only an agent, slowly advanced, keeping up a serpentine motion of the hands, directed toward the pale Satanic face peering out from behind a small tree. Inch by inch, step by step, pausing a moment and then again gliding forward a foot, the murderer approached his innocent victim.
Now he is within reach, and a great rough hand glides out, and Charlie is in his clutches! My brain reeled, but I still saw the horrid scene. Then came that ear-piercing scream of terror which thrilled through my ears, down until it vibrated among my heart-strings; but it was hushed as the crime-steeped villain dealt him a blow with a hatchet which he produced from his girdle, thus balancing the account.
I started up with an exclamation of horror which caused all present to regard me with amazement; but I heeded them not. I went directly to my room, and, throwing myself upon my bed, gave way to my overstrung feelings. It was poignant anguish for me to rehearse and re-rehearse the harrowing details, and each succeeding representation only made it the more appalling and atrocious.
I saw them, after the villain had dealt the horrid blow, gloating over the consummation of their hellish work, and witnessed the spasm of diabolical delight that swept across the pale features of the principal as he pinned on the breast of the victim the note bearing the hateful words: “Thus I balance the account. H. D.” Then they retreated, and the mangled corpse was alone, crimsoning the playful tide with the life-blood that but a few moments before coursed so lightly in the living, breathing child I called my Charlie.
I was now certain that I had discovered a clue, and I recalled each feature and particular with satisfaction akin to that of the devotee who inflicts upon himself prolonged tortures for the purpose of securing the meed of his desires. The name was treasured in my memory and noted in my diary; the appearance of each, their actions, the tones of their voices—everything pertaining to them, was ineffaceably impressed upon my mind.
I immediately sought the detectives, and without informing them of the means by which I had obtained the name, gave it to them. They asked me many questions, but I withheld from them the source of information, rightly supposing that it would only expose me to their ridicule, assuring them, however, and as I implicitly believed, that this “H. D.” was the criminal.
I did not consider the apprehension of the murderer-in-fact as a prime object; the person of the instigator was to me the goal. I made unremitting efforts to unearth him, but all to no purpose. At first I sought him in the circles of fashion, in every city in the Union, and on a slight, supposed clue, hunted him in the cities of the European continent—at the watering-places, at the fashionable country and city resorts of the devotees of wealth and dress; on the boats, in the cars; I peered into cabs and omnibuses, scrutinized the occupants of private carriages, often imagining a resemblance in persons who, I have no doubt, regarded me as a madman. I examined and re-examined the hotel registers, carefully scanned the steamer arrivals, and, in fact, pursued every course which I thought would put me on the trail of blood. Still unsuccessful, I descended to the filthy sinks of vice and misery, but with the same result.
At length the impressions began to lose their power, and I doubted the correctness of what I had hitherto regarded as a revelation. Although I had allowed nothing to divert me from the search, yet I came to think it fruitless, and as my mind began to be restored to a normal condition, I saw the wickedness of taking the punishment of crime into my own hands, for I had sworn a solemn oath that when the miscreant was discovered my own hand should be the instrument of justice.
I had been living in a state, too, greatly elevated above my natural condition of body and mind, and I am convinced that had it continued any considerable length of time the result would have been madness or death—probably both. I think, now, that I must have been somewhat disturbed in my mind during those lingering months of diligent search, but it did not seem so at the time.
What a blessed gift is that which the Almighty has implanted in the human mind! The effect of time in weakening and obliterating a self-created, morbid excitement which is inordinate in the consumption of vitality, and which in many instances would turn life from a blessing into a curse.
As time passed on I realized that my ardor had abated, and I was happy to think that I did not meet with the success for which I had hoped and prayed during a long lapse of time subsequent to awful calamity.
I engaged in business that required the application of all my energies in its development, and in this manner obliterated much that had rendered retrospection so painful.
I was united to an estimable lady, and the home circle, consisting of my devoted wife and one child which blessed our union, had a great influence in dissipating the painful reproductions of memory.
My business flourished, and life assumed an aspect of cheerfulness. Years elapsed, and at intervals only the heartrending scene presented itself to my mental vision, and at each recurrence with less distinct impressions. I had confided my history to none but my wife, and even she found it difficult to believe in the accuracy of my dreams, though by my manner she was impressed with the truth of my assertion that this phenomenon had actually occurred, but ascribed it to my complete absorption of all else into that, and the consequent disordered state of my mental faculties.
In the course of time I became intimately acquainted with a physician, and often accompanied him on his professional visits. One beautiful evening, which forcibly reminded me of that fatal one engraved upon my memory, we sat conversing upon general topics, when a lad rode up to the veranda and inquired for Doctor N—, stating that his presence was required immediately in a neighboring street. He was about turning away when the doctor said:
“Mr. L—, would you like to take a walk this evening?”
I was on the point of refusing, for old recollections were returning, and I wished to be alone, when the lad turned to me and remarked:
“Mr. L—! why, I have a note for you from the same man.”
He handed me a soiled envelope, which I opened, and unfolding the small scrap of paper which it contained, I read: “If Mr. L— will call on the writer he will be informed as to certain mysteries which he has endeavored to solve.” No signature.
I at once intimated to the doctor that I would accompany him. Traversing three or four squares, the lad ushered us into a squalid hut, situated in a filthy alley, and left us. There were only two rooms, one of which was occupied by a German family, the head of which opened the door leading to the remaining apartment, and we entered.
Extended upon a miserable bed in one corner, the scanty clothing scarcely covering his emaciated form, lay a man tossing and muttering. The light of day, almost gone from the outside world, gave so little light in this pent-house that I could not distinguish his features; but at the sound of that voice a nervous thrill ran through me, and I felt a relation, repulsive though it was, to this piece of expiring mortality.
“Get a light,” said the doctor.
A piece of sputtering tallow candle was procured, and we approached the bed.
The invalid turned slowly toward us, raising one attenuated hand to shade his eyes. He saw the doctor first, and then his eyes wandered with a feverish look to mine. “My God!” burst in thrilling tones from his bloodless lips, and starting up to a sitting posture, he stretched out his wasted arms with an imploring gesture, his fingers slowly clasping and unclasping, leaving the imprint of the long, talon-like nails in the white palms. His eyes started almost from their sockets, and his countenance assumed a fearful aspect.
I staggered, and would have fallen but for the doctor, who caught and seated me on the only chair in the room. In a few moments I recovered, and instinctively turned my eyes to the bed. He had fallen back exhausted, and my friend was administering a stimulant. A perceptible tremor agitated his whole frame, increasing as I drew near to the bed.
There were the same features, but oh! how conscious guilt had distorted them! and how sunken they were from disease and want! There was a strange fascination for me in his eyes. I felt no anger toward him, and he must have seen it in my pitying look. He beckoned to me to sit down on the bed, and I complied, requesting the doctor to withdraw, which he did with a look of bewilderment plainly expressed on his face.
When the doctor had closed the door my enemy raised himself by a great exertion, and placing a cold, clammy hand upon mine, proceeded to tell me how, years before I was born, my father and he were schoolmates; how they had been bound together by the ties of consanguinity; how both paid their addresses to the same young lady, and how my father won her, which made a devil of the unsuccessful one; how an originally bad heart was fired to revenge by his failure; how he waited through years of crime for a favorable opportunity, and how that revenge was attained. The initials “H. D.” were feigned, but were known to my parents, to whom he had at different times sent threatening epistles.
When he had concluded he looked in my eyes with a piteous gaze, and said:
“I am at your mercy, but I have only a few more hours to live. Take my life if you will, but forgive me if you can. I feel that I have been an atrocious sinner, unworthy the forgiveness of God or man, but if I can hear you say ‘I forgive you,’ I can die calmly, without this gnawing pain at my heart.”
To outward appearance I was stern and calm, but the abject woe and pleading look and tone of the dying man before me were strong pleaders for mercy. I did not think of the claims of the law, and if I had I don’t know that, considering the punishment he had already undergone from the lashing of relentless remorse, I would have handed him over to the authorities to die in prison.
He waited breathlessly until I spoke, and as I took his thin hand and said “I forgive you,” a solitary tear started from his eye and rolled down his pale check, leaving behind a crystal track, which to me was significant of a better life.
Two hours afterward I sat by that miserable bed, holding in mine the cold, dead hand that had bereft me of my all; and not for the loftiest position on earth would I have foregone the pleasure of forgiving a fellow-creature, though he was stained with the blood of the nearest and dearest to me on earth.