Speaker 1: Cheating the gallows. They say that a union of opposites
make the happiest marriage. And perhaps it is on the
same principle that men who jump together are always so
oddly assorted. You shall find a man of letters sharing
diggings with an auctioneer, and a medical student pigging a
stockbroker's clerk. Perhaps each thus escapes the temptation to talk
shop in his hours of leisure, while he supplements his
own experiences of life by his companions. There could not
be an odd order couple than Tom Peters and Everett G. Rockstill.
The contrast began with their names and ran through the
entire chapter. They had a bedroom and a sitting room
in common, but it would not be easy to find
what else to his landlady worthy missus seekin. Tom Peters's
profession was little wig, But everybody knew that Rockstille was
the manager of the City and Suburban bank, and it
puzzled her to think why a bank manager should live
with such a seedy looking person who smoked clay pipes
and sipped whisky and water all evening when he was
at home. For Rockstill was as spruce and erect as
his fellow Lodger was round shouldered and shabby. He never smoked,
and he confined himself to a small class of claret
at dinner. It is possible to live with a man
and see very little of him. Where each of the
partners lives his own life in his own way, with
his own circle of friends and external amusements, days may
go by without the men having five minutes together. Perhaps
this explains why these partnerships jog along so much more
peacefully than marriages, where the chain is drawn so much
tighter and galls the partners rather than links them diverse. However,
as were the hours and habits of the chums, they
often breakfasted together, and they agreed in one thing. They
never stayed out at night for the rest. Peters sought
his diversions in the company of journalists and frequented debating rooms,
where he propounded the more iconoclastic views, while rockstill had
highly respectable houses open to him in the suburbs, and
was in fact engaged to be married to Clara Nowell,
the charming daughter of a retired corn merchant. A widower
with no other child, Clara naturally took up a good
deal of Roxtelle's time, and he often dressed to go
to the play with her, while Peters stayed at home
in a faded dressing gown and loose slippers. Missus Seekin
liked to see gentlemen about the house and evening dress,
and made comparisons not favorable to Peters, and this in
spite of the fact that he gave her infinitely less
trouble than the younger man. It was Peters who first
took the apartments, and it was characteristic of his easy
going temperament that he was so openly and naively delighted
with a view of the Thames obtainable from the bedroom
window that Missus Seekin was emboldened to ask twenty five
cent more than she had intended. She soon returned to
her normal terms. However, when his friend Rockstoe called the
next day to inspect the rooms and overwhelmed her with
a demonstration of their numerous shortcomings. He pointed out that
their being on the ground floor was not an advantage
but a disadvantage, since they were nearer to the noises
of the street. In fact, the house being a corner
one the noises of two streets. Rockstal continued to exhibit
the same finicking temperament in the petty details of the
minaj His shirt fronts was never sufficiently starched, nor his
boots sufficiently polished. Tom Peters, having no regard for rigid linen,
was always good tempered and satisfied, and never acquired the
respect of his landlady. He wore blue check shirts and
loose ties. Even on Sundays. It is true he did
not go to church, but slept on till Rockstal returning
from the morning service, and even then it was difficult
to get him out of bed or to make him
hurry up his toilet operations. Often the midday meal would
be smoking on the table while Peters would smoke in
the bed, and rockstill with his head thrust through the
fold doors that separated the bedroom from the sitting room,
would be adjuring the sluggard to our eyes and shake
off his slumbers, and threatening to sit down without him
lest the dinner be spoilt. In revenge, Tom was usually
up first on week days, sometimes at such unearthly hours
that Polly had not yet removed the boots from the
outside the bedroom door, and would bawl down to the
kitchen for a shaving water for Tom. Lazy and indolent,
as he was shaved with an unfailing regularity of a
man to whom shaving had become an instinct. If he
had not kept fairly regular hours, Missus Seekin would have
set him down as an actor. So clean shaven was he,
Rockstill did not shave. He wore a full beard, and,
being a fine figure of a man to boot, no
uneasy investor could look upon him without being reassured as
to the stability of the bank he managed so successfully,
and thus the two men lived in an economical comradeship,
all the firmer, perhaps for their mutual incongruities. It was
on a Sunday afternoon in the middle of October, ten
days after Rockstill had settled in his new rooms, that
Clara Nowell paid her first visit to him. There, she
enjoyed a good deal of liberty and did not mind
accepting his invitation to tea. The corn merchant, himself indifferently educated,
had an exaggerated sense of the value of culture, and
so Clara, who had artistic tastes, thought much actual talent
had gone in for painting and might be seen in
pretty toilettes copying pictures in the museum. At one time
it looked as if she might be reduced to working
seriously at her art. For Satan, who finds mischief still
for idle hands to do, had persuaded her father to
embark the fruits of years of toil in bubble companies. However,
things turned out not so bad as they might have been.
A little was saved from the wreck, and the appearance
of a suitor in the person of Everett J. Rockstall,
ensured her a future of competence, if not of the
luxury she had been entitled to expect. She had a
good deal of affection for Everett, who was unmistakably a
clever man as well as a good looking one. The
prospect seemed fair and cloudless. Nothing presaged the terrible storm
that was about to break over these two lives. Nothing
had ever, for a moment come to vex their mutual
contentment till this Sunday afternoon. The October sky, blue and
sunny with an Indian summer sultriness, seemed an exact image
of a life with its aftermath, of a happiness that
had once seemed blighted. Everard had always been so attentive,
so solicious that she was much surprised as chagrined to
find that he had apparently forgotten the appointment. Hearing her
astonished interrogation of Pollyine the passage, Tom shambled from the
sitting room in his loose slippers and his blue check shirt,
with his eternal clay pipe in his mouth, and informed
her that Rockstall had gone out suddenly earlier in the afternoon.
Gone out, stammered poor Clara, all confused. But he asked
me to come to tea. Oh you, miss Noel, I suppose,
said Tom. Yes, I am Miss Noell. He has told
me a great deal about you. But I wasn't able
honestly to congratulate him on his choice till now. Clara
blushed uneasily under the compliment and under the ardor of
his admiring gaze. Instinctively she distrusted the man. The very
first tone of his deep bass voice gave her a
peculiar shudder, and then his impoliteness in smoking that wild
clay was so gratuous. Oh then you must be mister Peters,
she said. In return. He has often spoken to me
of you, ah, said Tom, laughingly. I suppose he told
you all my wisest her had accounts for. You are
not being surprised at my Sunday attire. She smiled a little,
showing a row of pearly teeth. Everett ascribes to you
all the virtues, she said. Now that's what I call
a friend. He cried ecstatically. But won't you come He
must be back in a moment. He surely would not
break an appointment with you. The admiration latent in the
accentuation of the last pronoun was almost offensive. She shook
her head. She had a just grievance against Everard and
would punish him by going away indignantly. Do let me
give you a cup of tea, Tom pleaded. You must
be awfully thirsty this sultry weather. There. I'll make a
bargain with you if you will come in now. I
promise to clear out the moment Everard returns, and not
spoil your tete a tete. But Clara was obstinate. She
did not at all relish this man's society, and besides,
she was not going to throw away her grievance against Everard.
I know Everard will slang me dreadfully when he comes in.
If I let you go, Tom urged, tell me at
least where he can find you. I'm going to take
the bus at Charing Cross and I'm going straight home,
Clara announced determinedly. She put up a parasol in a
pet and went up the street into the strand. A
cold shadow seemed to have fallen over all things. But
just as she was getting into the bus, a handsome
dashed down Trafalgar Square, and a well known voice hailed her.
The hansom stopped, and Everett got out and held out
his hand. I'm so glad you're a bit late, he said,
I was called out unexpectedly, and having been trying to
rush back in time. You wouldn't have found me if
you had been punctual. But I thought, he added, laughingly,
now I could rely on you as a woman. I
was punctual, Clara said angrily. I was not getting out
of this puss, as you seemed to imagine, but into it,
and was going home, my darling, He cried remorsefully a
thousand apologies. The regret on his handsome face soothed her.
He took the rose he was wearing in the buttonhole
of his fashionably cut coat and gave it to her.
Why were you so cruel? He murmured, as she nestled
against him in the hansom, Think of my despair. If
I had come home to hear you had come and gone,
Why didn't you wait? A moment a shudder traversed her fame.
Not with that man Peters, she murmured, Not with that
man Peters, he echoed, sharply, What is the matter with Peters?
I don't know, she said. I don't like him, Clara,
he said, half sternly, half cajolingly. I thought you were
above these feminine weaknesses. You are punctual, strive also to
be reasonable. Tom is my best friend from boyhood. We
have been always together. There is nothing Tom would not
do for me or I for Tom. You must like him, Clara,
You must, if only for my sake, I'll try, Clara promised,
and then he kissed her in gratitude and broad daylight.
You'll be very nice to him at tea, won't you?
He said, anxiously. I shouldn't like you two to be
bad friends. I don't want to be bad friends, Clara protested.
Only the moment I saw him, a strange repulsion and
mistrust came over me. You're quite wrong about him, quite wrong,
he shut her. When you know him better, you'll find
him the best of fellows. Oh I know, he said suddenly,
I suppose he was very untidy A you women goes
so much by appearances, not at all, Clara retorted, it's
you men who go by appearances. Yes, you do. That's
why you care for me, he said, smiling. She assured
him it wasn't, and she didn't care for him so
much as he plumed himself. But he smiled on his
smile died away. However, when he entered his rooms and
found Tom nowhere, I dare say you've made him run
about hunting for me, he grumbled. Perhaps he knew I'd
come back and went away to leave us together, she answered,
He said he would when you came. And yet you
say you don't like him, She smiled reassuringly. Inwardly, however,
she felt pleased at the men's man's absence. If Clara
Novell could have seen Tom Peters carrying on with Polly
in the passage, she might have felt justified in her
prejudice against him. It must be confessed, though, that Everard
also carried on with Polly. Alas it is to be
feared that men are much of a muchness where women
are concerned shabby men and smart men, bank managers and journalists,
bachelors and semi detached to bachelors. Perhaps it was a mistake,
after all to say that the chums had nothing patently
in common. Everard, I'm afraid, kissed Polly rather more often
than Clara, and although it was because he respected her less,
the reason would perhaps not have been sufficiently consoling to
his affianced wife. For Polly was pretty, especially on alternate
Sunday afternoons, and when at ten pm she returned from
her routings, she was generally met in the passage by
one or other of the men. Polly liked to receive
homage of real gentlemen, and said a white cap at
all indifferently. Thus, just before Clara knocked on the memorable
Sunday afternoon, Polly, was being confined to the house by
unwritten code regulating the lives of servants, was amusing herself
by flirting with Peters. You are fond of me a
little bit, the graceless Tom whispered, aren't you you know
I am? Sir? Polly replied, you don't care for anyone
else in the house, Oh no, sir, and never let
anyone kiss me but you. I wonder how it is, sir,
Polly replied, ingenuously, Give me another. Tom answered, She gave
him another, and tripped to the door to answer Clara's knock,
And that very evening, when Clara was gone and Tom
still out, Polly turned, without the faintest atom of scrupulosity
or even jealousy, to the more fascinating rock star and
accepted his amorous advances. If it would seem at first
sight that Everett had less excuse for such frivility than
his friend, perhaps the seriousness he showed in this interview
may throw a different light upon the complex character of
the man. You're quite sure you don't care for anyone
but me, he asked, earnestly. Of course not, sir, Polly replied, indignantly.
How could I but you care for that soldier I
saw you out with last Sunday. Oh no, sir, he's
only my young man, she said, apologetically. Would you give
him up? He hearsed. Suddenly, Polly's pretty face took a
look of terror. I couldn't, sir, He'll kill me. He's
such a jealous brute, you've no idea. Yes, but suppose
I took you away from here, he whispered, eagerly, somewhere
he couldn't find you. South America, Africa, somewhere thousands of
miles across the sea. Oh, sir, you've frightened me, whispered Polly,
cowering before his ardent eyes, which shone in the dimly
lit passage. Would you come with me, he hissed. She
did not answer. She shook herself free and ran into
the kitchen, trembling with a vague fear. One morning earlier
than his earliest hour of demanding a shaving water, Tom
rang the bell violently and asked the alarmed Polly what
had become of mister Rockstill, how should I know, sir?
She gasped. Ain't he been in? Sir? Apparently not? Tom
answered anxiously, He never remains out. We have been here
for three weeks now, and I can't recall a single night.
He hadn't been home before twelve. I can't make it out.
All inquiries proved futile. Missus Seekin reminded him of the
thick fog that had come on suddenly the night before.
What fog asked Tom, lord, didn't you notice it, sir? No.
I came in early, smout read and went to bed
about eleven. I never thought of looking out the window.
It began about ten, said missus, seekin and got thicker
and thicker. I couldn't see the lights of the river
from my bedroom. The poor gentleman has been and gone
and walked into the water. She began to whimper. Nonsense, nonsense,
said Tom, though his expression bellied his words. At the worst,
I should think he couldn't find his way home and
couldn't get a cab, so put up for the night
at some hotel. I dare say it'll be all right.
He began to whistle, as if in restored cheerfulness. At
eight o'clock there came a letter from rockstill marked immediate,
But as he did not turn up for breakfast, Tom
went round personally to the City in Suburban Bank. He
waited half an hour there, but the manager did not
make his appearance. Then he left the letter with the
cashier and went away with anxious countenance. That afternoon it
was all over London that the manager of the City
in Suburban had disappeared, and that many thousands pounds of
gold and notes had disappeared with him. Scotland. Gayard opened
the letter marked immediate, and noted that there had been
a delay in its delivery, for the address had been
obscure and an official alteration had been made. It was
written in feminine hand and said, on second thoughts, I
cannot accompany you. Do not try to see me again,
forget me. I shall never forget you. There was no signature.
Clara Novelle distracted, disclaimed all knowledge of this letter. Polly deposed,
and the fugitive had proposed a flight to her, and
the routes to Africa and South America were especially watched.
Some months passed without result. Tom Peters went about, overwhelmed
with grief and astonishment. The police took possession of all
the missing man's effects. Gradually the hue and cry dwindled, died.
At last, we meet, cried Tom Peters, with his face
lit up in joy. How are you, dear Miss novel
Clara greeted him coldly. Her face had an abiding pallor.
Now her lover's flight and the shame had prostrated her
for weeks. Her soul was the arena of contending instincts,
alone of all the world. She still believed in Everett's innocence,
felt that there was something more than met the eye divined,
some devilish mystery behind it all. And yet that damning
letter from the anonymous lady shook her sadly. Then, too,
there was the deposition of Polly. When she heard Peter's
voice accosting her, all her old repugnance researched. It flashed
upon her that this man Roxstall's boon companion must know
far more than he had told to the police. She remembered, however,
it had spoken of him with what affection and confidence?
Was it likely he was utterly ignorant of Everett's movements.
Mastering her repugnance, she held out her hand. It might
be well to keep in touch with him. He was
possibly the clue to the mystery. She noticed that he
was dressed a shade more trimly and was smoking a meercham.
He walked alongside her and made no offer to put
his pipe out. Have you not heard from Everard, he asked?
She flushed. Do you think I am an accessory? After
the fact, she cried no, No, he said, soothingly, pardon me.
I was thinking he might have written, giving no exact address.
Of course men do sometimes dare to write to touch
to woman. But of course he knows you too well.
You would have put the police on his tracks, certainly,
she exclaimed indignantly. Even if he is innocent, he must
face the charge. Do you still entertain the possibility of
his innocence? I do, she said boldly, and looked him
full in the face. His eyelids drooped with a quiver.
Don't you I have hoped against hope, he replied, in
a voice faltering with emotion, poor old Everard. But I'm
afraid there is no room for doubt. Oh, this wicked
curse of money tempting the noblest and the best of us.
The weeks rolled on, Gradually she found herself seeing more
and more of Tom Peter's and gradually, strange to say,
he grew less repulsive from the talks they had together.
She began to see there was really no reason to
put faith in Everard. His criminality, his faithlessness were too flagrant.
Gradually she grew ashamed of her early mistrust of Peter's
remorse bred esteem, and esteem ultimately ripened into feelings so
warm that Tom gave Frere went to the love that
had been visible to Clara from the first, she did
not repulse him. It is only in books that love
lives for ever. Clara, so her father thought, showed herself
a sensible girl in plucking out an unworthy affection and
casting it from her heart. He invited the new lover
to his house and took to him at once. Rockstill's
somewhat supercilous manner had always charged jarred upon the unsophisticated
corn merchant. With Tom, the old man got on much better.
While evidently quite as well informed and cultured as his
Wilhelm friend, Tom knew how to impart his superior knowledge,
with the accent on the knowledge rather than on the superiority,
while he had the air of gaining much information in return,
those who were most conscious of defects of earn early
education are most resentful of other people sharing their consciousness. Moreover,
Tom's bonhamy was far more to the old fellow's liking
than the studied politeness of his predecessor, so that on
the whole Tom met more of a conquest of the
father than of the daughter. Nevertheless, Clara was by no
means unresponsive to Tom's affection and when after one of
his visits to the house, the old man kissed her
fondly and spoke of the happy turn of things had taken,
and how for the second time in their lives things
had mended when they seemed at their blackest. Her heart
swelled with a gush of gratitude and joy and tenderness,
and she felt sobbing into her father's arms. Tom calculated
that he had made a clear five hundred a year
by occasional journalism, besides possessing some profitable investments which he
had inherited from his mother, so that there was no
reason for delaying the marriage. It was fixed for May day,
and the honeymoon was to be spent in Italy. But
Clara was not destined to happiness. For the moment she
had promised herself, her first love's old memories began to
rise up and reproach her. Strange thoughts stirred in the
depths of her soul, and in the silent watches of
the night she seemed to hear Evrett's accents, charred with
grief and upbraiding. Her uneasiness increased as her wedding day
drew nearer. One night, after a pleasant afternoon spent in
being rowed by Tom among the upper reaches of the Thames.
She retired to rest, full of vague forebodings, and she
dreamt a terrible drain. The dripping form of Everard stood
by her bedside, staring at her with ghastly eyes. Had
he been drowned on the passage to his land of exile?
Frozen with horror, she put the question, I have never
left England. The vision answered her, tongue clove to the
roof of her mouth. Never left England, she repeated, in
tones which did not seem to be hers. The great,
stony eyes stared on her, but there was silence. Where
have you been? Then, she asked in her dream? Very
near you came the answer, there has been foul play.
Then she shrieked. The phantom shook its head in doleful ascent.
I knew it, she shrieked, Tom Peters, Tom Peters had
done away with you? Is it not he speak? Yes,
it is he Tom Peters, whom I loved more than
all the world. Even in the terrible oppression of the dream,
she could not resist saying, woman like, did I not
warn you against him? The phantom stared on silently and
made no reply. But what was his motive? She asked
at length, love of gold and you and you are
giving yourself to him? It said sternly, No, no, Everett,
I will not, I will not. I swear it, forgive me.
The spirit shook its head skeptically. You love him? Women
are false as false as men. She trove, strove to
protest again, but her tongue refused its office. If you
marry him, I shall always be with you. Where the
dripping figure vanished as suddenly as it came, and Clara
awoke in cold perspiration. Oh, it was horrible. The man
she had learnt to do love, the murderer of the
man she had learned to forget. How her original prejudice
had been justified. Distracted shaken to her debts, she would
not take counsel, even of her father, but informed the
police of her suspicion. A raid was made on Tom's
rooms and lo the stolen notes were discovered in a
huge bundle. It was found that he had several banking accounts,
with a large recently paid amount in each bank. Tom
was arrested. Attention was now concentrated on the corpses washed
up by the river. It was not long before the
body of Rockstill came to shore, the face distorted almost
beyond recognition by long immersion by the clothes patently his
and a pocket book in the breast pocket, removing the
last doubt. Missus Seekin and Polly and Clara Novell all
identified the body. Both juries returned a verdict of murder
against Tom Peters, the recital of Clara's dream producing a
unique impression in the court and throughout the country. The
theory of the prosecution was that Rockstall had brought home money,
whether to fly alone or to divide it, or whether
even for some innocent purpose, as Clara believed was immaterial,
that Peters determined to have it all, and that he
had gone out for a walk with the deceased, and,
taking advantage of the fog, had pushed him into the river,
and that he was further impelled to the crime by
love for Clara Novelle, as was evident from his subsequent
relations with her. The judge put on the black cap.
Tom Peters was duly hung by the neck till he
was dead. Brief resume of the culprit's confession. When you
all read this, I shall be dead and laughing at you.
I have been hung for my own murder. I am
evere G Rockstill I am also Tom Peters. We two
were one. When I was a young man. My mustache
and beard wouldn't come. I bought false ones to improve
my appearance. One day, after I had become manager of
the city in the suburban Bank, I took off my
beard in mustache at home, and then the thought crossed
my mind that nobody would know me without them, I
was another man. Instantly it flashed upon me that if
I ran away from the bank, that the other man
could be left in London while the police were scoring
the world for a non existent fugitive. But this was
only the crude germ of the idea. Slowly I matured
my plan. The man who was going to be left
in London must be known to a circle of acquaintance beforehand.
It would be easy enough to masquerade in the evenings
in my beardless condition, with the other disguise of dress
and voice. But this was not brilliant enough. I conceived
the idea of living with him. It was box and
Cox reversed. We shared the rooms at missus Seekin's. It
was a great strain, but it was only for a
few weeks. I had trick clothes in my bedroom, like
those of quick change artists. In a moment, I could
pass from Rockstill to Peters, and from Peter's to Rockstill.
Polly had to clean two pairs of boots a morning,
cook two dinners, et cetera, et cetera. She and missus
Seekin saw one or other of us every moment. It
never dawned upon them. They never saw us both together.
At meals, I would not be interrupted, ate off two
plates and conversed with my friends in loud tones. At
other times we dined at different hours. On Sundays, he
was supposed to be asleep when I was in church.
There is no landlady in the world to whom the
idea would have occurred that one man was troubling himself
to be two and to pay for two, including washing.
I worked up the idea of Rockstall's flight, asked Polly
to go with me, manufactured that feminine letter that arrived
in the morning of my disappearance. As Tom Peters, I
mixed with the journalistic set. I had another room where
I kept the golden notes till I mistakenly thought the
thing had blown over. Unfortunately, returning from here on the
night of my disappearance with Rockstill's clothes in a bundle,
I intended to drop into the river. It was stolen
from me in the fog, and the man into whose
possession it ultimately came appears to have committed suicide. What
perhaps ruined me was my desire to keep Clara's love
and to transfer it to the survivor. Everett told her
I was the best of fellows. Once married to her,
I would not have had much fear even if she
had discovered the trick. Our wife cannot give evidence against
her husband, and often does not want to. I made
none of the usual slips, but no man can guard
against a girl's nightmare. After a day up the river
and a supper at the Star and Garter, I might
have told the judge he was an ass but then
I should have had penal servitude for bank robbery, and
that is worse than death. The only thing that puzzles me, though,
is whether the law has committed murder or I suicide.
The end of cheating the gallows