The herald., 1895-02-10

are those lilacs in the bosom of the dead
woman's dress? And the future-how
bright it looked, and how swiftly it came
to the fiower-decked portals of their pres
ent, and what miserable, crime-stained
future it was, corroding the honor of the
husband, corrupting the virtue of the wife.
And so they parted and went their ways,
never dreaming even then that it would
come to this.
For a time Darcal could not bring him
self to a close contemplation of the Incl
dents Immediately environing the slayino
of this woman. They were too sordid, tog
insignificant in comparison with the
enormity of the event. AT first he tried to
justify himself by accusing the woman;
but, strangely enough that did not satisfy
hint lacked the strength of an honest
judgment. There was a time, perhaps,
when such an accusation would have ac-
quilted him before all the world and in the
tribunal of his own conscience-but not
now. The statute of limitations had
interviewed to mitigate even the heinous-
ness of her crime.
Perhaps if he went away and mingled
with the living instead of standing here
communing with the dead, the solution of
this question between himself and his con-
science would be easier. There was no
valid reason why he should settle the mat
ter and arrive at satisfactory. conclusion
so soon after the-no, he would not call it
in the sense that unjustifiable homicide
is murder. The laws of man hold some
murders justifable, and surely the con-
science Of the murderer may acquiesce in
such Judgment. He would go out into the
haunts OF men and reflect on this matter
he would not decide hastily nor in the
presence of the woman he had killed.
The bells of a distant steeple struck seven
as Darcal softly closed the door behind him
and walked down the stairs to the street.
In the hurrying crowd he knew he was
safe from that human justice so frequently
at variance with individual estimates of
right and wrong. The hounds of the law
could not track him now, and only his own
soul could sit in judgment over him. How
solitary he felt in that throng; alone with
himself in the throbbing heart of the great
city, unknown, unheeded by the selfish,
tramping multitude. Once or twice he
was startled out of his introspection by the
feeling that some one or something was
following close at his side, some one offer
ing menace, something unpleasant. He
turned abruptly and was angry with him
self for yielding to his morbid fancy.
Presently he stopped. There were not
many people in the street, at this hour.
Later, when the roaring thoroughfares out
under the yellow mist were silent, men
came skulking here and were admitted to
these houses in silence, unquestioned.
Darcal looked at the house. No lights
famed in the windows; no voices, or
music, or revelry gave evidence of habita-
ton; darkness silence, and .glowering,
ominous, evil-looking house, in the i'm
agination of Darcal, even before he recog-
nized it as the home of one dead by the
hand of a murderer not vet satisfied of
his justificaton-the abiding-place of a
woman throttled to death for some good
reason not clear to the mind and con-
science of her slayer. Darcal could not
for ft,ic Gle ha
shrank away in terror of the thought that
he might not find his justification here
He even feared the possibility of an out
cry-the cutlery that murder provokes.
And again, he was borne away on the rest
less human tide that GIBBS and flows
through the great city-alone with his con
science, alone with his crime, alone with
the phantom of a hope that he had begun
to nurse and fondle even when his clutch
was on the womans throat.
Why had he killed her? The question
kept beating through his brain like ham,
mer on the anvil. The monotonous itera-
ton became momentarily more painful,
manifesting itself in physical depressioes
as if extraneous forces were exerting their
powers to Cypress. Why had he killed her?
Why had he killed her?
True, he had asked her for money, and
she had refused him, with the sneer of her
class on her lips and the scorn of bitter
u
ened by reckless disregard of every wo-
manly virtue. He had asked her for
money-not as ordinary blackmailers,
trafficking in the victims fear, but as
supplant, pleading at the feet of one who
might once have given life itself for the
comfort and qualification of the pleader-
She had refused him; but that refusa'
could not be construed as a sufficient MOI
tive for what he had done. Murder may
be done for mercenary purpose, and is
frequently so accomplished but Darcal
could not convince himself that he had
strangled this woman because she had re-
fused to give him money. His better ma
ture revolted at the suggestion. No; he
had not killed her in anger induced by her
contemptuous refusal to give him money.
The perfume of lilacs and roses, gushing
warm from the open door of florists, re-
called to Darcal's memory the scene in the
little gray chapel. the priest blessing their
windows, through which the sunlight
streamed; and, like ghostly melody, he
seemed again to hear the music of birds,
singing in the magnolias-the twitter and
carol OF merry songsters distinct and clear
through the turmoil of the town. Surely
that shadow. just beyond the side-glance
of his half-closed eye, had substance; else
why did it SO persistently make its pres
ence felt? That absurd fancy again-ab
surd, but terrifying as an illusion that one
fears may become a delusion firmly fixed
in mind capable of understanding that
such tixity means insanity. An absurd
fancy-and Darcal laughed. The beggar
on the crossing shuddcred to hear the
laugh of this man hurrying by, instinct
lively recognizing the horror of the
thoughts that provoked it-knowing, as
some natures know, that the man who
laughed thus alone in the crowd, was one
not at peace with himself or his Coda
creature to be dreaded stunned, abhorred.
Once more Darcal stopped, and again
his eyes stared into the awful gloom of
this house, intently listening to hear Il
moan, a shrek, any sound, human or in
human, that might break the silence that
brooded where the dead woman lay, with
her ashen face upturned in the darkness.
Why had he returned? His intention had
on reflection that he had set no destina-
ton for that flight, guided only by the
instinct of self-preservation. Why had
he come back to this scowling abode of
sin and death? And as the murderer
gazed at the silent house and remembered
what lay within, a terror came upon him
that only the cutlery he dreaded would
have lifted.
Again, Darcal went away, this time, de-
termined never to come back, reasoning
with himself that it was not safe for Il
murderer to haunt the scene of his crime.
He would cross the city to his lodging,
where the hangman could not find him
and where the vengeance of offended
Justice would never seek him.
Still his thoughts ran upon his motive
for this murder. Still he debated with
himself his reasons. Why had he killed