"So am I – now," I replied. "And you do believe, my dearest girl, that he has really tried on these three occasions to take your life?"
"I know it," she answered, with a little shiver. "But it is for the last time. See" – she placed her hands in mine, and looked fearlessly into my eyes – "for the future you shall look after me – you shall take care of me. Is that too bold a thing to say?"
I drew her close to me. "No, Debora mine," I whispered, "because I love you. I am what you called me – a thing without a name, but in my heart I am honest; in my heart I love the name that has been given me, because by that you first knew me."
I told her of my plans: that we should go away then and there, and that for that night I would give her the room I had taken at the inn, and would find a lodging in another place. Then, quite early, before anyone we need fear was awake, we would start off into the world, on some impossible mission of making a fortune, and living happily for ever afterwards.
"But you forget, John dear – I have a fortune already," she reminded me. "That belongs to me – that we must get."
I was troubled at the thought of that, troubled lest she might believe, even for one fleeting moment, that I set that fortune as of greater value than herself. I was about to speak of it when she suddenly turned to me, and began to speak with the deepest earnestness of quite another matter.
"There is something I must say to you – now, before we leave this place," she said. "I want first of all to tell you that I never loved Gregory Pennington; he was only my dear friend – my brother."
"I am glad," I answered simply.
"And I want to tell you now that I am absolutely certain in my own mind that the boy never killed himself."
I was so startled that for a moment I could not answer her. She glanced out of the door of the hut, as though fearing that even in that place she might be overheard, and then went on speaking at a great rate:
"It was the last thing he would have done; there was no reason for it at all. He was happy, because he had always the mistaken hope that he might persuade me to love him. On the very night of his death – the night when you came there – he, too, had tried to persuade me to leave the house, and go away with him; like yourself, he believed that I was not safe with Dr. Just. Do you believe for a moment that, having said that to me, he would walk into the house and put a rope about his neck? No, I won't believe it!"
"But, my darling, how else could he have died?" I asked.
She answered me quite solemnly, and with the same deep earnestness I had heard in her tones before. "He was killed – murdered – by Dr. Just!"
"But why?" I asked stupidly.
"For the same reason that would prompt the man to seek your death, if he could," she said. "Bardolph Just knew that Gregory Pennington wanted to get me to go away; Gregory probably told him so that night. If I went away and married anyone, my fortune went with me, and it is my horrible fortune that has come near to losing me my life. I know, as surely as if I had seen it done, that the doctor killed Gregory Pennington. That he hanged him afterwards, to give colour to the idea of suicide, I quite believe; that would account for his anxiety to let you change places with the dead man."
"Another thought occurs to me," I said, after a pause. "Poor Gregory Pennington's servant – the man Capper – must have seen what happened; the shock of it has left his mind a blank."
"I wonder," said Debora slowly, "I wonder if Capper will ever speak!"
That thought had been in my mind too, but I had been too startled at what I had heard to speak of it. We left the matter where it was, and as the twilight was now coming on, came out of the hut and took our way by a circuitous route back towards the village. I took the girl to the inn, and left her in charge of the kindly landlady, giving the woman instructions that under no circumstances was she to let anyone know that the girl was there. I think the landlady scented a runaway match, for she smiled and nodded, and put a finger on her lips in token of silence.
Nothing happened, however, during that night; and in the morning quite early Debora stepped out of the little inn into the village street, and we went off happily together to the railway station. There, by an early market train, we got to London, coming to it just as all the people were pouring into the busy city for the day. I took Debora to a little, old-fashioned hotel that I had heard of near the Charterhouse, and left her there while I set off on a mission of my own. I had determined that, before ever I saw my uncle, or availed myself of his promise to look after the girl, I would go again to that solitary house in which Gregory Pennington had died, and would find the man Capper. For now I had the threads of the thing strongly in my fingers; I knew from what point to start, and I could put certain questions to Capper that he might be able to answer.
I came to the house soon after mid-day, and opened the gate in the fence and went in. Lest I should be refused admission for any reason, I determined that I would, if possible, slip into the house by the back way; and I made my way cautiously round there. So it happened that I came in sight of that open window, on the window-seat of which I had left Mr. George Rabbit reclining while he kept guard over the little grey-headed man called Capper. And I was in time to see a curious scene enacted before my eyes at that very window, just as though it had been a scene in some play. I was hidden among the trees, so that no one saw me, but I could both see and hear distinctly.
Standing with his back to the window, and with his arms folded, was George Rabbit, and his attitude was evidently one of defiance. Leaning against the side of the window-frame, watching him, and glancing also at someone else within the room, stood Capper, with nervous fingers plucking at his lips, and with that vacant smile upon his face. The man Rabbit was speaking.
"I know too much to be turned aht, or to be told to do this or to do that. I'm much too fly for that, guv'nor, an' so I tell yer. Money's my game, 'an money I mean to 'ave."
The voice that replied, to my very great surprise, was the voice of Bardolph Just. "We'll see about that, you dog!" he shouted. And with that I ran round at once through the back door, into the house, and made for the room.
I darted in, in time to see the doctor with a heavy stick raised in his right hand; he was in the very act of bringing it down with all his force, in a very passion of rage, on the head of George Rabbit. The man put up his arm in time to save his head, and drew back with a cry of pain, and stopped dead on seeing me. The doctor swung round, too, and lowered the stick.
But the strangest thing of all was the sight of the man Capper. As that blow had fallen, his eyes had been fixed upon the doctor; and I had seen a great change come suddenly over his face. It was as if the man had been turned into another being, so strangely had the face lighted up. He gave what was nothing more nor less than a scream, and leapt straight for the doctor. As the doctor swung about at the sound, the man Capper caught him by the throat, and held on, and swayed about with him, and seemed to be striving to choke him.
"Murder!" he shrieked, and again yet louder, "Murder!"
CHAPTER XI.
UNCLE ZABDIEL IN PIOUS MOOD
Dr. Bardolph Just, big, powerful man though he was, seemed practically helpless in the grasp of William Capper, who hung on to him, and worried him as some small terrier might worry a dog of larger size. Moreover, the doctor was hampered with his broken wrist; while George Rabbit and myself, for the matter of that, were so thunderstruck by the sudden onslaught of that mild, quiet, little creature, who had hitherto seemed so harmless, that we stood staring and doing nothing. And the doctor battled with his one free arm, and shouted to us for help.
"Pull him off, can't you?" he shouted. "Devil take the man! what is he at? Let go, I say; do you want to kill me?"
By that time I had recovered my senses so far as to fling myself upon Capper, and to drag him off by main force. So soon as I had got hold of him, he seemed to collapse in the strangest way – dropped into my arms, and shuddered, and stared from one to the other of us, as though awakening from some terrible nightmare. His teeth were chattering, and he looked wildly round, as though wondering what had been happening.
The doctor was arranging his collar and tie, and looking amazedly at Capper. "What's the matter with the fellow?" he panted. "What set him off like that?" He stamped his foot, and looked at the trembling man. "Answer me – you! What roused you like that?"
Capper shook his head in a dull way; then pressed the palms of his hands to his forehead. "I – I don't know," he answered, in something of the same fashion in which I had always heard him answer questions; "I didn't mean – "
His voice trailed off, and he stood there, a drooping, pathetic figure, staring at the floor. For my part, I could not take my eyes from the man. I found myself wondering whether that outburst had been the mere frenzy of a moment, or whether behind it lay something I did not then understand. In the silence that had fallen upon us the doctor looked at the man in a queer, puzzled way; I thought he seemed to be asking himself the same questions that were in my own mind. After a moment or two he turned his glance resentfully on me, seeming to become aware, for the first time, of my presence.
"And what brings you here?" he demanded. I was at a loss how to answer him. I had had a vague hope that I might be able to see Capper alone, or, at all events, only in the company of George Rabbit; I could not now declare my intention of questioning the man. I resorted to subterfuge; I shrugged my shoulders and made what reply I could.
"What is a poor wretch to do who has no home, no money, and no prospects? You turn me out of one place, so I come to the other."
"Well, you can leave this one, too," he replied sourly. "How did you get back from Essex? Did you tramp?"
I saw at once that he must have left the place and come to London on the previous day; it was obvious that he knew nothing of Debora's disappearance. Nor had he yet discovered the theft of that old-fashioned watch. He could have no suspicion that I had money in my pockets. I answered as carelessly as I could.
"Yes," I said, "I tramped most of the way. I should not have come in now, but that I saw some trouble going on with Rabbit here, and thought I might be of use."
"I can look after meself, thank you for nothink," retorted Mr. Rabbit politely. "Seems to me that I'm given all the dirty work to do, an' I don't git nuffink but thumps for it. If it 'adn't bin fer that plucky little chap there, I shouldn't 'ave stood much charnce," he added, scowling at the doctor. "He went for you a fair treat, guv'nor."
"You must have made him precious fond of you, to take your part like that," said the doctor, with a glance at Capper. "Did he think I was going to kill you?"
I saw that Capper was standing in the old attitude, with his hands hanging beside him, and his eyes cast to the floor; then I had a curious feeling that he was listening. So still was he, and so meek and broken, that it seemed incredible that but a minute or two before he had been tearing like a demon at the throat of the doctor. Now, while he stood there, he suddenly began to speak, in a quiet, level voice, but little raised above a whisper.
"I hope, sir, that you won't send me away," he said. "I forgot myself; I wouldn't harm you for the world, sir. If you will let me stay – if you will let me keep near you – if I might even be your servant? I don't want to be sent away from you, sir."
All this without raising his head, and with the air of a shamed boy pleading for forgiveness. It was the more pitiful because of the meekness of the figure, and of the thin grey hair that covered the man's head. To do him justice, the doctor behaved magnanimously.
"Well, we'll say no more about it, Capper," he replied. "Perhaps you're not quite yourself. We'll overlook it. For the rest, you shall remain here, if you behave yourself. You seem a good, faithful sort of fellow, but you mustn't fly into passions because rogues like this get what they deserve." He pointed sternly to George Rabbit.
"Rogues!" Mr. Rabbit looked properly indignant, and lurched forward from the window towards the doctor. "I ain't so sure as you've put that boot on the right leg, guv'nor," he said. "I've 'ad enough of this 'ere – this keepin' me mouf shut, an' not gettin' anyfink for it. Wot's the good of five quid – you can on'y dream abaht it w'en it's gorn. I'm goin' to take wot I know w'ere I shall git summink for it – w'ere I shall be paid 'andsome, an' patted on the back, an' told I'm a good boy. I'm a honest man – that's wot I am; an' I've 'ad enough of seem' jail-birds walking about in good clobber, an' 'ighly respectable gents givin' 'em shelter, an' payin' me not 'alf enough not to blab. Yus, Mr. Norton 'Yde, it's you what I'm talkin' about – an' 'ere goes to make an endin' of it!"
Before anyone could stop him he had made a run for the window, and had vaulted over the sill, and was gone. I made a step to go after him, but the doctor detained me with a gesture.
"It's no use; if he has made up his mind to speak you can't stop him. Take my advice, and keep away from here, and away from Green Barn, too. There's a chance, of course, that the man will say nothing; he may come whining back here, to try and get money out of me. In any case, Mr. Norton Hyde, I've had enough of the business; you can shift for yourself. It may interest you to know that I am winding up my affairs, and I'm going abroad. And in this instance I shall not go alone."
I could afford not to notice that sneer, because I knew that I held the winning hand, and that Debora was mine. So I made no answer; I knew that there were cards I could play when the time came – cards of which he knew nothing. My only doubt was as to the man Capper; because, if Debora's suspicions were true, it was vitally necessary that we should get hold of the man, and should question him. More than that, I knew that Debora had in her the spirit to move heaven and earth over the matter of her dead friend, Gregory Pennington, to discover the manner of his death.
Yet here was William Capper, for some strange reason, swearing devotion to the doctor, and begging to be allowed to remain with him. Even if I could get hold of the man, I knew that in his present state of mind I could do no good with him; he might in all innocence go to the doctor, and tell him what my questions had been. There was nothing for it but to leave the matter alone, and to return to Debora. Accordingly I took my leave, if such a phrase can be used to describe my going.
"I shan't trouble you again," I said to Bardolph Just. "For your own sake, I think you will do your best to ensure that the secret of Gregory Pennington's death is kept." I glanced quickly at the man Capper as I spoke; but my words seemed to have no effect upon him, save that once again I thought he seemed to be listening, and that, too, with some intentness. But I felt, even in that, that I might be wrong.
"What do you mean by that?" snapped the doctor, turning upon me in answer to my remark.
"You told me once that you were anxious to keep the matter a secret, in order to avoid giving pain, and to prevent any scandal touching your house," I answered steadily. "What other meaning should I have?"
"None, of course," he answered, and looked at me broodingly for a moment, as though striving to see behind my words. "However, in that matter you are right; I don't want that business all raked over again. For both our sakes, you'd better keep out of the way of Mr. George Rabbit."
There was nothing else to be done, and without any formal words I turned and walked out of the house by the way I had come. I felt that I had finished with Dr. Bardolph Just; I could afford to laugh at him, and could leave him to settle matters with George Rabbit.
I went back to that hotel near the Charterhouse in which I had left Debora; there were many things about which I must talk to her. In the first place, we had to consider the great question of ways and means; above all, we had to remember – or perhaps I should say that I had to remember, for she was utterly trustful of me – that she was in my hands, and that I had to be careful of her until such time as I could make her my wife. I had a sort of feeling that I could not go on in this indefinite way, leaving her in hotels and such-like places. Besides, I felt absolutely certain that the one person to whom in my dilemma I must apply was my Uncle Zabdiel, for had I not already prepared him for her coming?
While I had no great faith in Uncle Zabdiel, I yet felt that, from sheer dread of me, he would hesitate before playing tricks. In his eyes I was a most abandoned villain, capable of anything; he had hanging over him that threat of mine to kill him – a threat which would remain a threat only, but a very powerful deterrent if he had any hopes of betraying me.
This scheme I now laid before Debora, telling her the pros and cons of it all, and trying to induce her to see it as I saw it. There was but one flaw in it, and that was that Martha Leach had been to my uncle, and would therefore know where he was to be found. Yet, on the other hand, I felt that that made for safety, because the very daring of the scheme gave it the greatest chance of success. No one would dream that I should go back to the house that had seen the beginning of all my misfortunes, still less would anyone dream of looking for Debora Matchwick there.
"You see, my dearest girl," I pointed out to Debora, "my money won't last for ever; already it is dwindling alarmingly. I see no prospect of getting any more at present, unless I hold horses, or sell matches in the street. More than that, I believe that I have my uncle so much under control, and so much in dread of me, that he will do nothing against me; and that great house of his is a very warren of old rooms, in which you can safely hide. More than that, I think there is a prospect that Uncle Zabdiel will help me; he seemed to regard me in quite another light when I saw him recently."
In all this it will be seen, I fear, that my original simplicity had not entirely been knocked out of me by rough contact with the world; it will also be seen that I had a colossal belief in my own powers of persuasion, moral and otherwise. Perhaps also it is scarcely necessary for me to say that Debora very willingly believed in me, and seemed to regard my uncle as a man who might be won round to a better belief in the goodness of human nature. I did not contradict that suggestion, but I had my doubts.
I thought it best, however, to let Uncle Zabdiel know of his intended visitor; it would never do to take him by surprise. With many promises of speedy return I set off then and there for that house near Barnet, wherein so many years of my own life had been passed. I was feeling more cheerful than I had done for many a long day; I began to realise that perhaps, after all, my troubles were coming to an end, and some small measure of happiness was to be mine. Moreover, despite all my difficulties, it has to be remembered that I was young and in love; and, I suppose, under those circumstances mere outside troubles sit lightly on one's shoulders.
I rang at the bell for a long time before anyone answered, and then it was the grim old woman who came in by the day to look after my uncle who answered it. I feared for a moment that she might recognise me, but she was evidently one of those people to whom the mere duties of the day are everything; it is probable that had I been the Archbishop of Canterbury in full rig she would have taken no notice of my appearance. I asked for Mr. Blowfield, and was left in the dark hall while she went in search of him. I gave my name as John New.
In a minute or two she came back, and beckoned to me in a spiritless way, and without speaking. I went at once by the way I knew so well into my uncle's room – that room that was half sitting-room and half office, and there discovered him standing before the empty fireplace waiting for me. He was not alone in the room; that unfortunate youth, Andrew Ferkoe, was seated in my old place, at my old desk, scribbling away as if for dear life. Even before my uncle spoke I intercepted a furtive look out of the tail of the youth's eye; I strove to give him a warning glance in response.
"Good morning, Mr. New," said my uncle, with a touch of sarcasm in his tone. "Glad to see you, I'm sure. Do you object to the presence of my clerk?"
"It is a matter of indifference to me, Mr. Blowfield," I replied. "Of course I should have preferred to have had a private interview with you, but if any words of mine on a previous occasion have made you cautious, by all means let him remain."
I saw that the old man was absolutely afraid of me; I guessed that he meant to keep Andrew Ferkoe there, to save even a threat of violence. At the same time I was relieved to see what I thought was a new and more kindly light in his eyes. I felt that he might, after all, prove to have a heart of flesh and blood, and that Debora might move it.
"Then you can go on with your work, Ferkoe," snapped my uncle; and the boy, whose pen had been straying, started violently, and went on writing again.
It was curious to note during our interview how frequently Andrew Ferkoe's pen stopped, and how his eyes slowly turned round to feast on me, and how, at a movement from his master, he brought the pen back to its proper place and started writing again. I became quite fascinated with watching him.
"Sit down, my dear New, sit down," said my uncle smoothly. "Tell me what I can do for you; I've been expecting to see you."
I sat down, and asked permission to smoke. My uncle grunted in response, and frowned; but I took the grunt for permission, and lighted a cigar. The old man gave a plaintive cough, as though suggesting that this was a martyrdom to which he must submit, and subsided into his own chair. I answered his question.
"I want you to do what you promised to do, Mr. Blowfield," I said.
"I promised under threats," he broke in grudgingly. "And a promise extorted under threats isn't binding."
"This one's got to be," I intimated sharply. "I want the young lady of whom I spoke to come here, and to find a refuge in this house; I want her to come to-day. I have not the means to keep her, and she is in danger of being traced by those who are her enemies. I have chosen you," I added, with a touch of sarcasm I could not avoid, "because I know your kindness of heart, and I know how eager you are to do me a service."
He grinned a little maliciously, then chuckled softly, and rubbed his bony hands together. "Very well, call it a bargain," he said. "After all, I'm quite pleased, my dear boy, to be able to help you; if I seem to have a gruff exterior, it's only because I find so many people trying to get the better of me."
I saw Andrew Ferkoe slowly raise his head, and stare at my uncle with a dropping jaw, as though he had suddenly discovered a ghost. My uncle, happening to catch him at it, brought his fist down with a bang upon the desk that caused the youth to spring an inch or two from his stool, and to resume his writing in such a scared fashion that I am convinced he must have written anything that first came into his mind.
"And what the devil is it to do with you?" roared my uncle, quite in his old fashion. "What do you think I pay you for, and feed you for, and give you comfortable lodging for? One of these days, Ferkoe, I'll turn you out into the world, and let you starve. Or I'll have you locked up, as I once had a graceless nephew of mine locked up," he added, with a contortion of his face in my direction that I imagine to have been intended for a wink.
The boy stole a look at me, and essayed a grin on his own account; evidently he congratulated himself on his secret knowledge of who I really was. Uncle Zabdiel, having relieved himself with his outburst, now turned to me again, still keeping up that pretty fiction of my being but a casual acquaintance, knowing nothing of any graceless nephew who had been very properly punished in the past.
"He's a thankless dog, this clerk of mine," he growled, with a vicious look at the boy. "He must have starved but for me, and see what thanks I get. Well, as I was saying, I shall be very pleased – delighted, in fact – to welcome the young lady here. I've got a soft corner in my heart for everybody, Mr. New, if I'm only treated fairly. I don't like girls as a rule; I've no place for 'em in my life; but I've made up my mind to make the best of it. You see, I haven't very long to live – not as long as I should like; and I understand you've got to be so very particular in doing the right sort of thing towards the end. Not that I've done anything particularly to be ashamed of," he added hastily, "but a great many people have made it their business to speak ill of me."
"It's a censorious world," I reminded him.
"It is, my dear boy, it is," he replied. "Besides," he went on, lowering his voice a little, "I've dreamt three nights running that I went up into my old room, and saw myself lying dead – not dead as you described – but all broken and bloody." He shuddered, and sucked in his breath hard for a moment, and glanced behind him.
I did not mind encouraging that thought, because it was all to my advantage; I knew that unless he remained properly frightened there would be small chance of his keeping faith with me in the matter of Debora. Therefore I said nothing now. But once again I saw the youth at the desk raise his head, and stare at the old man in that startled fashion, and then drop his eyes suddenly to his work.
"Not a pleasant dream – not a pleasant dream, by any means," muttered my uncle, getting up and striding about. "I lay on the floor, with the bed clothes pulled across me, as if to hide me. And I was all broken and bloody!"
"And you've dreamed that three times?" I asked mercilessly. "That's unlucky."
"Why, what do you mean?" he whispered in a panic, as he stopped and looked round at me.
"Oh! they say if you dream a thing three times, it's bound to come true," I said.
"Stuff and nonsense!" he ejaculated. "Dreams go always by contraries; everybody knows that. I shouldn't have mentioned the thing, only I can't somehow get it out of my head. It was just as though I were another person; I stood there looking down at myself. There, there, let's forget it. In all probability, if I do this thing for you, out of pure kindness of heart, I shall live quite a long time, and die naturally a good many years hence. Now, when is the young lady coming?"
He seemed so perturbed by the recollection of his dream that he listened only in a dazed fashion while I told him that I intended to bring her there that day; he might expect her some time that evening. Andrew Ferkoe seemed interested at the news that anyone was coming to that dreary house; he kept on glancing up at me while I spoke. And it was necessary, too, for me to say all over again, because my uncle had evidently not been listening.
"Yes, yes, yes, I understand!" he said, rousing himself at last. "Besides, it'll be better to have someone else in the house – safer for me, you understand. Nobody will dare come to the place if they know that I'm not a lonely old man, with only a fool of a boy in the house with him – a boy that you can't wake for love or money."
I suppressed a grin. My experience of Andrew Ferkoe had been that he woke rather too easily. I rose to take my leave, and Uncle Zabdiel, in his anxiety to please me, came out into the hall with me, and seemed inclined to detain me even longer.
"I'll be very good to her," he said; then, suddenly breaking off, he gripped my arm, and pointed up the dark, uncarpeted stairs behind us. "You remember my old room," he whispered. "Well, I saw the room, and everything in it, quite clearly, three separate times, and I lying there – "
"You're thinking too much about it," I broke in hastily. For his face was ghastly. "You be kind to Debora, and you'll find she'll soon laugh some of your fears out of you. Good-bye for the present; you'll see us both later in the day."
He shook my hand quite earnestly, and let me out of the house. I saw him, as I had seen him before, standing in the doorway, peering out at me; in that moment I felt a little sorry for him. So much he had missed – so much he had lost or never known; and now, towards the end of his days, he was racked by fears of that death that he knew must be approaching rapidly.
I started back for London, meaning to fetch Debora to my uncle's house that night. I was fortunate enough not to have to wait long at the station for a train, and I presently found myself in an empty compartment. I was tired out, and excited with the events of the day. I settled myself in a corner, and closed my eyes, as the train sped on its way. And presently, while I sat there, I became aware of a most extraordinary commotion going on in the compartment on the other side of the partition against which I leaned. There was a noise as of the stamping of feet, and shouts and cries – altogether a hideous uproar.
I thought at first that it must be some drunken men, uproarious after a debauch; but I presently came to the conclusion that some severe struggle was going on in the next compartment; I distinctly heard cries for help. I leaned out of the window, in the hope that I might be able to see into the next carriage; then, on an impulse, I opened the door, and got out on to the footboard. It was not a difficult matter, because the train was travelling comparatively slow. I closed the door of the compartment I had been in, and stepped along the footboard to the next. Clinging on there, I looked in, and beheld an extraordinary sight.