An Old Reckoning
The St. Paul Globe (4 August, 1901 - p.14)

An Old Reckoning
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BY ROBERT BUCHANAN.

I.

     The bright light of morning was streaming through the blind of a large bedroom in the Hoy hotel, overlooking the green waters of Plymouth sound, when a loud knocking was heard outside the bedroom door, and a voice exclaimed—
     “Dick, Dick! Why the devil don’t you open the door? Hurry up or you’ll be late!”
     Neither voice nor knocking elicited any response for some time from the solitary tenant of the chamber, who lay on his back, breathing heavily, his two arms outstretched on the bed-clothes, and his pale face turned towards the sunshine, which crept nearer and nearer to the bedside. Not until the clamour had been continued for some minutes, and the whole house resounded with the echoes of the vigorous blows dealt on the door, did the sleeper begin to stir, yawn, open his heavy eyes, and listen drowsily.
     “Dick, me dear boy! Is it dead ye are or sleeping? Sure, its past 10 o’clock and a sunny morning! Up with ye and answer, or, by the soul of St. Patrick, I’ll break down the door!”
     Thus invoked, Dick muttered stupidly to himself, rubbed his eyes, and, rolling rather than jumping out of bed, unlocked the door; then, before it was half open, plunged back among the blankets, rolled himself up like a hound, closed his eyes, and tumbled off again into a heavy sleep or doze.
     A little, red-faced man in a high hat and tight military coat entered quickly, and, approaching the bedside, poked at the sleeper impatiently with a Malacca cane.
     “Dick, ye devil!” he cried, in a strong Irish brogue. “Bedad, he’s snoring again already! Wake up now, will ye, or shall I strip the bed clothes off ye and lave ye mother naked? It’s a shame and a sin to be sleeping here like a pig, on the very morning when the boys are waiting to dance at Letitia’s wedding!”
     “Go to blazes!” muttered Dick, turning over and groaning heavily.
     “Is it the liquor that’s still in ye, Dick? For shame, man! Leap out of bed like a lark, and put on your wedding clothes, or, as sure as my name’s Milligan, I’ll go right away to the church and give away the bride myself!”
     At last, by dint of infinite objurgations, Dick was persuaded to sit upright in bed, while his Milesian friend drew up the blinds and let in the full light of the golden day, which, streaming broadly into the room, made the occupant of the bed blink like an owl. As he sat there, rubbing his eyes and muttering, he looked sufficiently disreputable; but his face was young and handsome, his complexion excellent, despite the inroads of dissipation, and the eyes a dull but ethereal blue. His age might have been anything under thirty, for his face, being clean-shaven, with the exception of a silken mustache, gave him the look of youth. He had an elegant though faded air, even in his deshabille, and his hands were white and beautifully formed.
     “I was dreaming I was being hung,” he murmured at last, “and, now I am awake, I find it’s much the same thing. Confound the light—how it blinds me! And confound your punch, Milligan—my brain’s reeling with it still!”
     Milligan laughed loudly.
     “Up with ye, and douse your head in the basin—that’ll sober ye!” he added, looking round the room, which was strewn widely with articles of male apparel. “Sure, the room’s like the field of Salamanca after the carrion crows had eaten the bodies and left only the clothes, bad luck to them!”
     A few minutes later Dick was standing in trousers and shirt before the looking-glass. A chambermaid had brought a tray laden with brandy and soda water, and Dick, after refreshing himself with a copious draught, was trying to shave. But the razor trembled in his hand and he shook all over like a leaf. In this emergency Milligan volunteered his services, and, placing his friend in a chair, deftly completed the dangerous operation.
     “There, now,” he said, putting down the razor, “ye look more like yourself, Dick.”
      “I look more like an imp of darkness,” returned Dick, rising and peering into the glass. “A pretty picture, by Jove! There, get out and let me finish dressing! Wait for me in the coffee room.”
     Milligan obeyed the mandate and went away.
     In a quarter of an hour Dick was in full wedding costume, clean-washed, clean-shaven, scented and perfumed. In his elegant frock-coat, white waistcoat, buff trousers, and faultless boots and gloves, he looked quite a modern Adonis. He was certainly very handsome, but there was something cold-blooded and sinister in his beauty and his fine blue eyes had a cold, steel-like sparkle not altogether pleasant to behold. A gorgeous diamond, real or paste, glittered in his neck-cloth, showy rings sparkled on his white fingers, and his watch-chain was resplendent.
     Captain, the Hon. Richard Saville (to give this young man the benefit of his full title) was as good-looking a fellow and as thorough a rogue as ever fluttered the feminine dove-cots in a garrison-town, but he was just then unattached and had by no means an enviable reputation. His friend and best man, Maj. Septimus Milligan, belonged to the the —th regiment of Fusiliers, then quartered in Plymouth. Both gentlemen were well acquainted with games of chance and the bottle, but the captain was solitary in his supremacy as a lady-killer. The younger son of an impecunious and not too reputable peer, he had drained life to the dregs at six-and-twenty, and, had petty roguery and larceny been capital offenses, might have been hung at any time during the past six or seven years as a person dangerous to the public order and the morals of society.
     Descending to the coffee-room, he found the major waiting impatiently.
     “The carriage is at the door, Dick! It’s past eleven, and Letitia will be getting impatient!”
     “All right!” answered the captain. Then, taking Milligan by the elbow and looking into his face with an evil smile, he said, with a wink, “After today’s business, I shall make tracks for the continent. I don’t want to interfere with the happiness of the bridegroom, poor devil!”
     Milllgan grinned wickedly.
     “Sure, I envy him! Letitia’s a match for a prince, let alone a beggarly strolling player.”     
     “Humph!” muttered Saville, while his face darkened. “I don’t half trust Letitia, though. She’s bothered with a delicate conscience, and is certain to let the cat out of the bag sooner or later.”
     “Not trust your own charming sister?” cried the other, with another malicious grin.
     “No, confound her! Well, never mind; the sooner it’s over, the better. Come along!”
     The two men left the hotel, and entered a carriage which stood at the door, with two fine grays in front of it, and a coachman, with a white satin rosette on his coat, seated on the box. They drove rapidly away into the town, and alighted presently at a dingy house in a side street, in the lower window of which was a scroll with the words “Furnished Apartments.”
     A stout, elderly woman opened the door.
     “Is my sister ready?” asked Saville, entering with his companion.
     “Quite ready, captain,” answered the woman; “and, oh don’t she look lovely in her wedding dress!”
     Hastening up a flight of narrow stairs, Saville entered a faded little drawing room on the first floor. Seated near the window was a lady in bridal white, who sprang up on his entrance with an impatient cry.
     She was tall and dark, with bold black eyes, dark eyebrows, and a brilliant complexion. Her eyes were swollen as if with weeping. A very handsome woman, with a mature figure splendidly rounded and formed, but an expression on her face not quite like the modest expression of a vestal virgin.
     “You are here at last!” she cried. “I was going to send to you to tell you that there should be no marriage, after all. I can’t do it! Dick, he'll kill me when he knows the truth!”
     “He’ll never know, it!” replied Saville sharply. “Don’t make a fool of yourself, Letitia! I tell you, it’s all for the best!”
     “It is infamous!” cried the lady; with a great sob. “Dick, for God’s sake, break it off!”
     “Too late for that! Here, Milligan, speak to my sister, and tell her there’s no time to lose.”
     While Letitia threw herself into a chair and began to cry violently, the major advanced and talked to her eagerly in a whisper. The further conversation of the three people does not concern the reader. It is enough to state here that, after a few minutes, Letitia rose with the air of a person resigned to her fate.
     “Well, I’ll do as you please,” she murmured bitterly; “but, mark my words, evil will come of it. Poor Tom!”
     “Happy Tom, you mean,” said the major gallantly. “Sure, he’s a lucky man! If I hadn’t a brace of wives of me own, one in County Limerick and the other in Philadelphi, wouldn’t I jump out of me jacket to take his place!”
     Out from the dingy lodging into the sunshine went the two men and the bride, accompanied now by a slatternly young lady in pink, the daughter of the landlady of the house, pressed into the service at short notice to act as bridesmaid. The church was close at hand. On driving up to the porch, they heard the bells ringing and saw a small crowd collected, and they were greeted with a feeble cheer.
     Inside the church the bridegroom was waiting. He was a tall, thoughtful-looking young man of three-or-four-and-twenty, with a clear-cut, handsome face, gentle and ingenuous, but not without traces of latent determination. This was Tom Cardonald, of the Plymouth theater, an actor by profession, but a gentleman by nature and education. At sight of the bride, his face lighted up to a smile of singular beauty, and it was clear that where his hand was about to be given his heart had been given freely and fondly already.
     A little, clean-shaven gentleman, with a melancholy expression of countenance, was the best man. He was well known on the Plymouth circuit as the funniest of low comedians. The bridegroom’s party was completed by several dingy ladies and gentlemen of the theatrical profession—the gentlemen not too distingue, and the ladies very good-humored and exceedingly shabby-genteel.
     The service proceeded. The organ played, and the bride and bridegroom, advancing up the aisle, knelt together before the white-robed clergyman at the altar.
     “If any man can show any just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, etc.” No one made a sign.
     “Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife?” “Wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband?”
     “I will!” answered Thomas Cardonald, the bridegroom.
     “I will!” answered Letitia Saville, the bride, in tones that were scarcely audible and choked with tears.
     “Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?”
     “I,” said Richard Saville; “I give this woman, my sister.”
     Then, after the joining and the loosing of hands, the bridegroom placed the ring on the bride’s finger, saying—
     “With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow, etc. Amen.”

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II.

     Out from the dark church again into the open sunshine went the wedding party, driving merrily down to the Hoy hotel, where a capital wedding breakfast was laid out at the expense of the brother of the bride. All save the bride herself, who had passed from a state of hysterical weeping into a curious gloom and sullenness of demeanor, were full of mirth and jollity. But surely it was only natural for the lady to feel, as brides must and will, the sadness of the situation! The bridegroom, however, was radiant, full of youth and happiness.
     The health of the bride and bridegroom was given by Maj. Milligan, in a speech full of Irish humor and tenderness. Another officer, one of several who had joined the company, drank to the bride’s loving brother and last legal protector, Capt. Richard Saville. The best man, a droll dog on the stage, but a poor extempore speaker, returned thanks dismally and briefly after a tipsy young sub-lieutenant had proposed the ladies.
     Presently the bride, accompanied by her brother, went back to her lodgings to prepare for her wedding journey and to await the coming of her husband. While the champagne was flowing and tongues were chattering gaily in the room where the wedding breakfast was spread, this was what took place in the dingy lodging house drawing room:
     Letitia, with the assistance of the landlady, had changed her white dress for a showy traveling costume, her trunks and personal luggage had been carried away to the railway station, and the brother and sister were at last left together to say a final farewell before the bridegroom came.
     The woman looked at the man, who stood pale as death and nervously twirling his mustache; then, with a wild cry, she threw her arms about his neck.
     “Dick, for God’s sake, don’t carry this thing through! It will break my heart!”
     “Nonsense!” answered Saville, with an oath; “women’s hearts are not so easily broken. You know well enough the fellow takes your fancy. Yes, by thunder! you were fond enough of spooning on him and making eyes at him; so I thought I’d kill two birds with one stone—indulge your whim and save myself from ruin.”
     “I’ll kill myself! Yes, I will!”
     “Oh, no, you won’t!” said the other, quietly pushing her off and lighting a cigar. “You’ll be happy enough. I know. Then, if you like, you can carry out your old whim and go upon the stage. He’ll coach you!”
     Her tears ceased, and, with set teeth and heaving bosom, she gazed into the cruel, handsome face before her. Despite the loathing, admiration and love were also blent in her regard.
     “Dick, you’re a devil! Yes, a cold-blooded, heartless devil! And after all I’ve been to you!”
     “It’s for our mutual convenience!” he cried. “What a fool you must be not to see it! I promised to settle you in life, and, by Jove, I’ve done it!”
     “And you? What will you do?”
     “Lord knows! I’m about as clean-broke as a man can be. I mean to try the Cape, and I don’t much care if I drown on the passage over!”
     “You never loved me—never!”
     “Oh yes, I did, and I like you still, awfully, only this little arrangement is what the parsons call inevitable. You’ll forget all about me soon enough! Come, shake hands and say good-bye!”
     A double-knock at the street door announced the bridegroom’s arrival. Rushing eagerly up stairs, Tom Cardonald found the brother and sister standing side-by-side, both comparatively calm. He ran up to Letitia, caught her in his arms, and kissed her passionately. She tried to shrink away from his embrace, but it was impossible.
     “My darling! My wife!”
     “Don’t mind me!” said Saville drily, with a curious smile.
     “Of course we don’t!” cried Tom cheerily. “Letty, my darling, are you ready?”
     With her face set like that of one being led to the scaffold, Letitia suffered herself to be led to the carriage which stood at the door. She stepped in, and her husband seated himself by her side. Dick, cigar in mouth, stood on the curbstone, cool enough, but still very pale.
     “Good-bye, old fellow!” cried Tom, shaking his hand. “We shall see you again soon. Good-bye, and God bless you!”
     “Good-bye, Tom! Goodbye, Letitia!”
     One last shake of the hand, one last reproachful look from the bride’s livid face, and the carriage drove away. Captain the Hon. Richard Saville turned on his heel and walked up the street. “No time to lose,” he muttered. “The little bill for the wedding breakfast can wait, and I must leave Plymouth tonight.”
     Meantime, the bridal couple, seated side-by-side alone, were approaching the railway station. Cardonald drew his wife fondly to him and kissed her face, which was white and cold as marble.
     “Oh, Tom!” she sighed faintly, “do you love me very much?”
     “Much? More than my life! But why are you so sad? See how bright all is, and you, my darling, should be bright too. Letty, what ails you?”
     “I don’t know! Don’t ask me! Only—”
     “Only what, my love?”
     “Only this: May God forgive me for marrying you! I am not worthy to be your wife!”
     He laughed, not understanding, and kissed her again and again. The train was just about to start when they reached the railway station. Entering a first-class compartment which had been reserved for them, they left Plymouth.

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III.

     Tom Cardonald was not a rich man, or one who could afford to eat the bread—or say, rather, in this connection, the wedding cake—of idleness for many days together; so it had been arranged that, after a brief honeymoon of six days he should go on with his bride to Bristol, where he had an important engagement. The honeymoon, thus limited or quartered, was to be spent at Torquay, at which pretty place the bridal pair found themselves late on the afternoon of their wedding day. They discovered quiet quarters in a cosy little hotel close to the sea, and, after having dined together, wandered out for a stroll upon the beach.
     The sun was setting beyond the dim and far headlands westward, and casting innumerable prismatic gleams on the crescent azure ring of the sea, which was just touched by a faint, warm shadow of wind, like the glimmer of breath on a bright sword blade. The heavens were darkly radiant—like, Tom thought, the glorious eyes of his bride as he had sometimes seen them in happy moments. But just then, alas! there was no radiance whatever in Letitia’s eyes. Still strange and agitated, almost sullen even, she preserved a demeanor of stolid pain.
     Tom knew little or nothing of the world. He had heard, however, that brides were sometimes very nervous or miserable—and very naturally, as they had just broken all the ties of kindred and formed other ties, as yet strange and new. His own spirits were so high, his own happiness was so great, that he took the lightest possible view of Letitia’s gloom and low-spiritedness. It depressed him a little, nevertheless. As they walked side by side on the beach and looked seaward, he turned his loving eyes to hers, and was more than ever surprised at the cold, set trouble of her expression. It was not like a bride’s; it was rather like that of a woman who had just seen the light of her whole life go out, leaving her in utter darkness.
     He spoke to her gaily and tried to cheer her. She forced a pale, vacant smile, and her eyes filled with tears.
     “Are you not happy now?” he said, fondly.
     “I don’t know, Tom,” was the reply; “I’m not quite well, I think. It all seems like a dream.”
     “A blissful dream to me, dear! Look how glorious the world is growing in the sunset. I seem to be drinking in new life out of the golden and celestial cup.”
     The woman shivered, with her dark eyes fixed on the kindling heavens.
     “How cold it is!” she murmured.
     “Cold, my darling?” he cried. “Ah, you are right; you are not well! Let us go back to the inn.”
     She put her hand upon his arm.
     “Tom!”
     “Yes, Letty?”
     “Try to bear with me. I know you are good and kind, and I mean with all my heart to try and make you a loving wife. Give me a little time. You see, it’s all so strange as yet.”
     “Of course it is!” he replied, fondly. “Don’t think I’m so blind with pride and happiness as not to understand that! It must be strange, and a little sad, leaving one’s home and all one loves for the last time. Your brother, too! Poor Dick! he seemed quite cut up at parting with you.”
     A bitter smile, so faint as to be scarcely perceptible, fluttered across the woman’s face.
     “I was not thinking of him,” she said. “Parting won’t break his heart, be sure of that!”
     “Why should it? He knows how much I love you, and he can trust my love.”
     It was growing dark when they re-entered the little hotel. They were shown up into their private sitting room, where tea was prepared. When Letitia took off her cloak and hat and sat down to officiate at the table Tom thought she had never looked so beautiful. The contagion of his happiness had spread to her at last, and she almost smiled. After all, she thought, why should she not try to be happy? Was she not fortunate in so bright and handsome a protector, and might she not, after all, forget all the load she had been carrying and begin a new life?
     The window was open, and the warm scent of roses and lilac was blown into the chamber, blent with the breath of the sea. Tom drank cup after cup of tea, stopping only to kiss the hands that poured it.
     “It reminds me of the first piece I ever played in,” he said, with his arm round her: “‘A Cup of Tea.’ Have you seen it, my darling? There are only two characters, a young husband and wife. There’s a little storm, you know, in the tea cup, but it all ends happily—like this!” And, drawing her blushing face to his, he kissed her again and again.
     Suddenly there came a knock at the door. As the bridal pair started asunder, the door opened and a stranger entered tall, somewhat portly, gentleman in black, dressed in the plain livery of the Catholic priest. A massive brow, a square, bulldog face, black, piercing eyes, and a voice like a trumpet, which said—
     “Mr. Cardonald, I believe?”
     “That’s my name,” said Tom, standing erect on the hearth rug.
     “Mine is Canon Williams,” returned the newcomer. “Half an hour ago I met my friend, Father Macmillan, of Plymouth, who told me that you were here.”
     What did it mean? Tom looked at his bride. She was shrinking in her chair, white as death, and panting like a hunted thing. Her beautiful face looked wild and haggard, her hands were clenched and her eyes were turned in fascination, almost in entreaty, on the canon’s face.
     “Sir,” said Tom, “I do not understand. I——”
     But the priest had approached Letitia. Standing over her, he said in a stern voice—
     “Then what I have heard is true? Even now I can scarcely believe it. Speak, woman!”
     “Sir!” interrupted Tom. “Whoever you are—”.
     “I’ll talk to you by-and-by, my poor lad. Meantime, I wish to hear from this woman’s own lips if she has entered into the sacrament of matrimony with you, and if, that being so, you know whom you have married.”
     “Take care!” cried Tom. “Your clerical dress shall not protect you if you presume upon it and forget that this lady is my wife!”
     “Your wife? God help you if this be so. Whoever she is this evening, she has been living for years with Richard Saville, a backlog and a swindler!”
     “Not his sister? Not his sister?” gasped Tom.
     Poor fellow, he had only to look at his bride now to be aware that his fate was sealed. Her face was distorted out of all likeness and she was shaking like a leaf.
     “Look at her and mark my words!” cried the priest. “She is a Catholic, though an evil one. Three weeks ago she came to me, asking me to bind you together according to the rites of our holy church. I refused until she had told you the truth. A few days later I left for Cornwall. A little while ago, Father Macmillan informed me that she had been married to you, at St. Judo's, Plymouth, by a Protestant clergyman. I ask you again, sir, has she told you whom you have married?”
     Livid with horror, Tom rushed over to Letitia and grasped her by the arm. “Speak! Is this true?”
     She did not speak, but, shrinking right down upon the ground, covered her face with her hands. Tom felt the room go round and staggered like a drunken man.
     “Not his sister—not his sister! My God!”
     And he would have fallen if the priest had not caught him in his arms. He recovered himself, however, in a moment, and stood erect, facing his misery like a man. Then, with a hoarse cry, he moved to the door.
     “Where are you going?” cried the canon blocking the way.
     “Going? Back to Plymouth, to find that man—and kill him!”
     The woman uttered a shriek, while the priest placed his hand gently on Tom’s shoulder.
     “My poor lad, be patient! The villain is not worth your anger.”
     “Be patient!” groaned Tom. “Not when my life is wasted and my heart broken! I loved that woman—I thought her innocent and pure—I—I—God help me! Let me pass!”
     He hurled the priest aside and rushed from the house. The woman rose, moaning, with the priest’s black eyes fixed upon her, and stretched out her arms in wild and passionate appeal.

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IV.

     Long before Cardonald had reached Plymouth, the man he sought had disappeared, and with him his chief accomplice in the dastardly trick that had been played.
     He searched high and low without avail. He soon learned enough, however, to convince himself that every word that he had heard was literally true. Mad with rage and shame, the unfortunate young man fell ill, and for many weeks tossed on a sick bed in a violent fever. A gentle sister of the church, sent by Canon Williams, nursed him back to convalescence, but when he recovered he was the mere specter of his former self.
     From a blow so terrible and so unexpected, only one of a far harder nature and coarser fiber could have recovered; on poor Cardonald it fell with a force which left him more or less broken and aged before his time. He made no attempt to rejoin his old companions of the theater; indeed, he dreaded their mockery and shrank from such comments as they might make on his folly and infatuation. Leaving Plymouth, he fled to London, and there for some time he led a solitary and wretched existence from hand to mouth.
     He told no one of his miserable secret—indeed, he had no friend whatever in whom he could or would confide. About a year later, he changed his name and went to the United States, where he succeeded in procuring an engagement with one of the numerous touring companies.
     In the meantime he had heard nothing of the woman who had been the chief agent in his humiliation. She, too, had disappeared, leaving no trace behind her. He made no attempt to trace her, and from that period forward he never saw her face again.
     Several years had passed since the time of that strange marriage in Plymouth, and an English theatrical company, exploited by an enterprising American, was touring in South Africa. In the course of their wanderings they came to Johannesburg, where they attracted large audiences. They played the usual repertoire of English dramas and comedies, and chief among the company, intrusted with the most varied roles, was an actor called Rolleston, whose performances, especially in parts demanding power and passion, awoke general admiration. He was known among his companions as a reserved and moody individual, who encouraged no intimacy and invited no confidences; he seemed, indeed, to be constantly under the shadow of a secret grief, which he forgot only temporarily when swept away by the excitement of portraying some imaginary character.
     Of his past career nothing was known except from hearsay, which reported that, although English by birth, he had gained most of his theatrical experience in America. It was asserted, unhappily with truth, that, although superior to some of the common follies of his profession, he had one secret vice—the habit of taking morphia, under the influence of which he frequently lost his self-control.
     One night, late in autumn, a large audience was assembled to witness the performance of an old-fashioned drama, “The Corsican Brothers.” The actor Rolleston played the dual role of Fabian and Louis de Franchi, a role for which his stern, clear-cut features, his powerful, yet elegant figure, and his power of suppressed passion admirably fitted him. He was enthusiastically applauded from act to act.
     The play was approaching its conclusion when a party of three persons, a man and two loudly dressed women, paid at the doors and entered the only empty stage box. The man, although obviously a gentleman, was somewhat roughly attired, in a style familiar in mining-camps up country. It was immediately evident that he had drunk more than was good for him, for he talked so noisily to his companions as to interrupt the scene then in progress and to awaken the angry murmurs of the audience. Presently he quieted down and watched the stage with heavy, sleepy eyes, until the great duel scene between Fabien de Franchi and Chateau Renard, which ends (the reader may remember) with the breaking of the duelists’ swords and the employment of the broken blades as daggers to conclude the duel.
     The swords were just broken, and the actors were about to use the broken blades in the attack upon each other, when the man in the private box uttered an exclammation and shrank back as if in terror. At that moment his eyes met those of Rolleston, who was seen to tremble and turn deadly pale; but this agitation was only momentary. The next instant the actor turned his eyes away and resumed his part as if nothing had occurred.
     A minute later the man in the box murmuring something to his companions, had risen, and was making his way tipsily towards the box door. Suddenly, however, before the audience could realize what was forthcoming, Rolleston had released his fellow-actor, over whom he was brandishing the naked sword blade, had sprung with lightning rapidity from the stage into the box, had seized the man and dragged him back, and finally, with a wild cry, had plunged the weapon into his heart. There was a shriek from the man, a horrified scream from the women, his companions, a murmur from the audience, which rose en masse, and then, with a groan, the man fell forward on his face dead. Then, almost before one soul present could realize what had occurred, Rolleston sprang back upon the stage, panting and deadly pale, and faced the audience.
     There was a horrified silence, for it was clear that he was about to speak. At last he did so, in a low, clear voice, as follows:
     “Ladies and gentlemen, you came here tonight to witness a drama of a villain’s treachery and an injured man’s revenge. Well, you have witnesses it to the bitter end. For years I have sought the man who lies there dead, and at last I have found him, as you see. He has paid the penalty of his guilt, and I—well, I am ready to answer for my act to God!”
     Arrested and thrown into prison, Rolleston made no effort to defend himself or to explain the motive of his ghastly deed. It was clear before long, however, that his mind was shaken, and when he was brought to trial in due course, his deportment was more that of a madman than of a sane man. The result was that he was acquitted of responsibility for willful murder, and committed to an asylum as being of unsound mind; and there, some months later, he died.
     Few mourned him—no one knew anything of his past life; he passed away unknown in that strange land; but the reader has already guessed that the actor Rolleston was really no other than Thomas Cardonald, whose life had been darkened and blighted for ever by the man on whom he at last took so terrible a revenge.

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