I found that to be true enough. So confident was the man of his power over her that he had given her a certain amount of liberty; so that, to my surprise and my delight, I suddenly came face to face with her within an hour of my reaching Green Barn – and that, too, near to the little hut at the edge of the abandoned chalk pit.
The meeting was so surprising to both of us that for a time we could only hold hands, and talk incoherently, each in a great relief at finding the other safe and well. But at last we came down to more prosaic things, and she told me something of what was happening.
Bardolph Just had sworn to carry his threat into execution if she saw me again, or had anything further to do with me; he had determined to risk everything, and to give me up to the authorities. I tried to show her that the man would never dare proceed to that extremity, because of the danger in which he would place himself by so doing. And then I told her about Capper, and about Capper's threat.
"Capper is here!" she exclaimed, startlingly enough.
"Have you seen him?" I demanded.
She nodded quickly. "I was walking in the grounds a little while ago, and I saw him. He came up to me, and said how glad he was to see me, and asked about the doctor – all quite innocently and simply, I thought."
"There is no innocence and no simplicity about him," I said. "He means murder. I don't think anything will turn him from it. That's why I want you to leave all this behind and to go away."
"With you?" she asked.
"No, not with me," I said, reluctantly enough. I could not tell her then all that was in my mind; I might have broken down in the telling. "I must remain here until I know what Capper means to do. I must, if possible, dissuade him from that, if only for his own sake. Tell me, my dear girl," I went on earnestly, "is there no one to whom you could go, and who would befriend you? Set the doctor out of your mind altogether; I have a presentiment that, whatever happens, he will not trouble you again. Is there no one to whom you could turn?"
"No one but you in all the world," she said, looking at me curiously.
"Your father must have had some lawyer – some friend," I suggested.
"The same lawyer that Dr. Just employs," she said. "He looks after my money, as well as that of the doctor."
"I want you to promise, Debora, that if anything happens to me you will go to that man, and will see to it that he makes proper provision for you out of your money, and provides you with a settled home. He will do that for his own sake."
"But what should happen to you?" she whispered, clinging to me. "And in any case how will anyone help me if the doctor is here to interfere?"
"I am only asking you to promise something, in case something else – something quite impossible, if you like – should happen," I assured her lightly.
"Very well then, I promise," she answered.
It was a more difficult matter to persuade her to run away, and especially to run away and leave me in that place. For I could not tell her my reasons, and I saw that she did not think it possible that that weak little creature Capper could carry out his threat against the stronger man Bardolph Just; the thing was a sheer impossibility. Nevertheless, I so worked upon her terrors of the house, and of the man who had her prisoner there, that at last she consented to go. I pressed what money I had upon her, and arranged that she should go back to London that night, and should make her way to the little quiet hotel near the Charterhouse where she was known; there she could await a letter from me. I was to keep out of the way until she was gone, that I might not seem to be connected with her flight. The rest was a matter on my part of vague promises as to the future.
And then it was that I held her in my arms as I had never held her before, and as though I could never let her go. For I had made up my mind that I would not see her again; it was my purpose to keep away from her, and to take myself out of her life from that hour. It seemed to me then as though all the strange business that had brought us together was closing, and I felt now, as I had not clearly felt before, that mine was no life to link with hers. She was rich, and she was young, and she was fair; any love she might have felt for me was more a matter of gratitude than anything else. I had been able to stand her friend when no other friend was near, but I was that creature without a name, who might some day by chance be sent back to his prison. I must not link my name with hers.
However, I would not let her suspect that this was the parting of the ways. I made her repeat her promise to me to go to this lawyer, an elderly man, as I understood, and one who had dealt honestly with her father; and with that we parted. I knew that she would slip out of the house, and would go off to London. From some other place I would write to her, and would tell her of my decision. I felt also that I might have news to tell of Dr. Bardolph Just.
And now I come to that strangest happening of all – the death of that celebrated physician and scientist, Dr. Bardolph Just. Of all that was written about it at the time, and the many eulogies that were printed concerning the man, you will doubtless have heard; but the true story of it is given here for the first time, and it is only given now because the man who killed him is dead also, and is beyond the reach of everyone.
The thing is presented to me in a series of scenes, so strange and weird in their character that it is almost as though I had dreamt them, when now, after years, I strive to recollect them. The gaunt old house, standing surrounded by its grounds; the solitary man shut up alone in it, not dreaming that Debora had gone, and that I was so near at hand; and above all and before all, that strange figure of William Capper. I find myself shuddering now when I remember all the elements of the story, and how that story ended.
I was a mere spectator of the business – something outside it – and I looked on helplessly through the amazing scenes, with always that feeling that I was in a dream. Long after Debora had stolen away from the house that night, I wandered restlessly about the place, wondering a little at the silence, and remembering always that somewhere among the shadows lurked Capper, watching this man he had come to kill. I remembered also that in the strangest fashion Bardolph Just had prepared the way for him by actually sending everyone who might have protected him out of the house.
Exactly how Capper got into the place I was never able to discover. Whether Bardolph Just had grown careless, and did not think it likely that the man would discover where he was, or whether Capper, with cunning, forced an entrance somewhere, I never knew. But it was after midnight when I heard a cry in the house, and knew that what I dreaded had begun to happen. A minute or two afterwards the door opened, and Bardolph Just came out, staggering down the steps, and looking back into the lighted house. He seemed frightened, and I guessed what had frightened him.
He stopped still at a little distance from the house, and then turned slowly, and retraced his steps. Capper stood framed in the lighted doorway, looking out at him, but I saw that he appeared to have no weapon. In the dead silence all about us I heard Bardolph Just's words clearly.
"Where the devil did you come from?" he asked in a shrill voice.
"From my dead master!" came Capper's answer, clear and strong.
"Get out of my house, you madman!" exclaimed the doctor, taking a step towards him; but the other did not move. "What do you want with me?"
"I want to remain near you; I never mean to leave you again on this side of the grave," said Capper.
"Are you going to kill me?" asked the other. "Do you mean murder?"
"I don't mean to kill you – yet," replied the other. In the strangest fashion he seated himself on the top step, and folded his arms and waited.
Bardolph Just walked away a little, and then came back. I could see that, apart from his dread of the other man, he did not know what to do, nor how to meet this amazing situation. He took out a cigar from his case and lighted it, and strolled up and down there, alternately watching the little man seated above him, and studying the ground as though seeking for a solution of the difficulty. At last he decided to drop threatening, and to try if he might not win the man over.
"Look here, my good Capper," he said, "I've no reason to love you, but I think you're merely a poor, half-witted creature, who should be more pitied than blamed. I don't want to have any trouble with you, but most decidedly I don't want to be subjected to your violence. I want to come into my house.'"
"Come in by all means," said the little man, getting to his feet; "and I will not use violence."
Seeing that the doctor still hesitated, I thought I might at least show myself. I was, above all things, anxious to see the end of the business. My concern was with Capper chiefly. I could not see for the life of me what he would do in trying conclusions with a man of the physique of Bardolph Just. Above all things, I did not want it to happen that the doctor should gain a victory.
"You're not afraid of the man?" was my somewhat contemptuous greeting of him.
"What are you doing here?" he demanded. "Are you in the plot?"
"I've done with plots," I said. "I am merely a spectator."
He said nothing about Debora, and I rightly guessed that he had not yet discovered her absence, but had merely concluded that she had retired for the night. After looking at me for a moment or two doubtfully, he took a step or two in my direction, and lowered his voice to a whisper.
"Look here," he said, with a nervous glance towards the man in the doorway, "I'm all alone in this house except for a weak girl, and I'm afraid of this fellow. What shall I do?"
"He's smaller than you are," I reminded him. "Turn him out!"
"I'm half afraid to go near him," he said. "You've seen him fly at me on two occasions; he can be like a wild beast when he likes."
"He has said that he will offer you no violence," I replied. "I don't know what he's got in his mind, but it seems to me, if you're afraid to turn him out, you've got to put up with him. He seems very fond of you," I added caustically.
He shot a glance at me, as though wondering what I meant; then turned and walked towards the house. I saw Capper retreat before him, so as to give him free entry to the place. On the door-step he turned, and called out into the darkness to me.
"You, at any rate, can stop outside; one madman is bad enough." Then the door was shut, and I was left to wonder what was going on inside.
I was not to be left long in doubt. In something less than half an hour, while I was hesitating whether to go, or whether to stay, the door was pulled open again, and a voice so querulous and nervous that I scarcely recognised it for that of the doctor called out into the darkness,
"John New! John New, are you there?"
I showed myself at once, and he ran down the steps to me. I saw that he was shaking from head to foot; the hand with which he gripped me, while he stared over his shoulder back into the house, was a hand of ice.
"For the love of God," he whispered, "come into the house with me! I shall go mad if this goes on. I can't shake him off."
"Lock yourself in your room, and go to bed," I said disdainfully.
"I can't; he's taken every key of every lock in the house and hidden them. I can't shut a door against him anywhere; upstairs and downstairs, wherever I go he is there, just behind me. Will you come in?"
I went in; the sheer fascination of the thing was growing on me. Capper took not the faintest notice of me; he was waiting just inside the door, and he followed us into a room. There he seated himself, with his hands on his knees, and waited. The doctor made a pretence of drinking, and even of lighting a cigar, but he set the glass down almost untasted, and allowed the cigar to go out. No words were exchanged between us, and still Capper kept up that relentless watch.
At last Bardolph Just sank down into a chair, and closed his eyes. "If he won't let me go to bed, I'll sleep here," he murmured.
But in a moment Capper had sprung up, and had gone to the man and shaken him roughly by the shoulder. "Wake up!" he ordered. "You'll sleep no more until you sleep at the last until the Judgment Day."
I saw then with horror what his purpose was. I knew not what the end was to be, but I saw that his immediate purpose was to wear the other man down until he could do what he liked with him. I thought he was a fool not to understand that in striving to break down the strength of the other he was breaking himself down too; but that never seemed to occur to him. For the whole of that night he kept Bardolph Just awake, followed him from room to room in that house where no door would lock, and where he gave his victim no time to barricade himself in; he never left him for a moment. More than once Bardolph Just turned on him, and then the eyes of Capper flashed, and he drew back as if about to spring; and the doctor waited. He threw himself on his bed once, in sheer exhaustion, and Capper made such a din in the room by overturning tables and smashing things that the wretched man got up and fled downstairs, and out into the grounds. But Capper fled with him.
For my part, I slept at intervals, dropping on to a couch, or into a deep chair, and closing my eyes from sheer weariness. I found myself murmuring in my sleep sometimes, incoherently begging Capper to give the game up, and to let the man alone; but he took no notice of me, and I might indeed have been a shadow in the house, so little did he seem to be aware of my presence. When I could, after waking from a fitful sleep, I would stumble about the house in a search for them, and even out into the grounds; and always there was the man striving for rest, and the other man keeping him awake.
Once Bardolph Just armed himself with a stick, and ran out of the house; Capper snatched up another, and ran after him. I thought that this was the end; I ran out too, crying to Capper to beware what he did. When I got to them – and this was the noon of the following day – Bardolph Just had flung aside his stick, and stood there in a dejected attitude, looking at his persecutor.
"It's no good," he said hoarsely, "I give in. Do what you will with me; ask what you will; this is the end."
"Not yet," said Capper, leaning upon the stick and watching him. "Not yet."
That strange hunt went on for the whole of that day, and during the next night. I only saw part of it all, because, of course, I fell asleep, and slept longer than I had done at first. But I saw once the wretched man fall upon his knees before Capper, and beg for mercy; saw him struggle with Capper with his uninjured arm, so that the two of them swayed about, dazed with want of sleep; saw him fall to the ground, and try to sleep, and the other kick him viciously into a wakeful state again. And at last came the end, when the doctor went swaying and stumbling up the stairs towards his bedroom, muttering that the other man could do his worst, but that he must sleep. So utterly worn out was he that he got no further than the landing; there he fell, and lay as one dead.
The sun was streaming in through a high window; it fell upon the exhausted man, and upon Capper standing beside him. Capper was swaying a little, but otherwise seemed alert enough.
"This will serve," he muttered as if to himself. "This is the end."
He went away, and after a little time came back with a rope and a hatchet. In my horror at what he might be going to do, I would have taken the hatchet from him; but now he threatened me with it, with a snarl like that of a wild beast; and I drew away from him, and watched. He proceeded to hack away the rails of the landing, leaving only the broad balustrade; he cut away six rails, and tossed them aside. Then he made a running noose in the rope, and fastened the other end of it securely to the balustrade. There was thus left a space under where the rope was fastened, and sheer down from that a drop into the hall below. He knelt down beside the unconscious man, and lifted his head, and put the noose about his neck. He tightened it viciously, but the sleeping man never even murmured.
Then I saw him begin to push the sleeping man slowly and with effort towards the gap he had made in the staircase rail.
When I could look (and it was a long time before I could make up my mind to do so), the body of Bardolph Just swung high above me, suspended by the neck. On the landing, prone upon the floor, lay William Capper, sleeping soundly.
CHAPTER XVI.
THE BOY WITH THE LONG CURLS
The suicide of that brilliant and cultured man, Dr. Bardolph Just, caused, as you will remember, a very great sensation at the time, and there was much wonder expressed as to why the man had hanged himself at all. But there was no doubt about the question of suicide, because the whole thing had been so deliberately and carefully planned.
He had taken care to send everyone away from him – even an old and trusted friend like Mr. Harvey Scoffold – and had left himself absolutely alone in that great house. Various theories were put forward as to how he had managed to tie the knot so successfully, in making that running noose for his neck; but it was universally agreed that that had been a matter of teeth and his one uninjured hand. Shuddering accounts, wholly imaginary, were given of what the man's last hours must have been, and in what determined fashion he must have hacked away the rails, in order to make a space through which he could push his way. Everyone seemed to be perfectly agreed on that matter, and there it ended.
For the rest, let me say that I waited in that house until, in due course, William Capper woke up. He went about what he had to do after that in the most methodical way, restoring all the keys to the doors, and putting in order such things as had been disturbed during those long, weary hours when he had followed the other man round the house. He said but little to me, and at last we came out of the place, and stood together, with the doors of the house closed upon us. Only when we had gone through the grounds, and had come out upon the high road did he speak again, and then without looking at me.
"This is where we part, sir," he said quietly. "You will be making for London, and I – "
"Where will you go?" I asked him as he hesitated.
"I don't know, and it doesn't matter," he replied, looking out over the landscape that stretched before him. "I'm an old man, and there may not be many years for me. It does not matter much where or how I spend them. If," he added whimsically, "I could be sure that they would send me to that prison from which you came" – for I had told him that part of the story – "I would do something that would cause me to be sent there; but it might be another prison, and that wouldn't do. I should like to be near him."
I stretched out my hand to him, on an impulse, in farewell, but he shook his head. "You might not like to think afterwards that you took my hand, after what I have done," he said quietly. Then, with a quick nod, this singular creature turned away and walked off down the road. I lost him at a turn of it, and I saw him no more.
I went back to London that night, and at my old lodging found Andrew Ferkoe awaiting me. I had the task before me of writing to Debora, and that task, as you may suppose, was not an easy one. Nevertheless I contrived to put my case before her clearly and without brutality.
I told her that I should love her all my life; I blessed her for all she had unconsciously done for me; I told her I was grateful for the sweet memory of herself that she had left with me. But I reminded her that I had no name, and no position, and no hopes, and if by any unfortunate chance my real name was thrust upon me in the future, it would only be to bring shame and degradation upon me and upon any one with whom I was associated. And I added that she would have news very soon concerning the doctor, and I thought it improbable that he would ever trouble her again.
I sealed the letter and directed it, and gave it to Andrew Ferkoe. "Run out and post that," I said. "And never speak to me about the matter again. You and I are alone together in the world, Andrew, and we shall have to be sufficient for each other."
The lad weighed the letter in his hand, studying the address, and looking from it to me and back again. "I know what you've done," he said; "you've had a row with the young lady – that's what you've done."
"You simpleton!" I laughed; "what do you know about such matters? I've had no row with the young lady, as you express it. I'm only trying to do the right thing."
"Isn't she fond of you?" he asked wistfully.
"I believe she's very fond of me," I replied. "Only there are such things in this world as honour, and justice, and truth, and it is written among the laws that men should obey, but do not, that you mustn't take advantage of a woman's fondness for you. In other words, Andrew, you must play the game. So that it happens that, as I'm a rank outsider and a bad lot, and as I have the stain of the prison on me, I've got to steer clear of a young girl who is as high above me as the stars. In a little time she will come to think of me with friendly feelings, but no more than that. So off with you, my boy, and post that important letter."
Andrew hesitated a moment or two longer, and shook his head, but at last he sallied forth on his errand. I had lighted a cigar, and was on the point of sitting down to enjoy it, and to ruminate luxuriously over my miseries, when there came a knock at the door, and my landlady put her head in to announce that a gentleman had come to see me. I was rapidly running over the names of the extremely few people who even knew of my whereabouts as the man entered, and disclosed himself as an utter stranger. He was a little man, dressed in black, and of a precise manner of speech and action. The landlady withdrew, and the visitor stood looking at me, as though taking stock of me generally, while he removed his gloves.
"Haven't you made a mistake, sir?" I asked.
"I think not," he replied. "You are Mr. John New, are you not?"
I told him that I was, and I began to have an unpleasant sensation that he must be connected with the police in some way. However, he smiled with satisfaction at this proof that he was right, and took from his breast pocket a little bundle of papers.
"You were, I believe, a friend of the late Mr. Zabdiel Blowfield, who was brutally murdered a short time ago?" he asked, looking up at me.
"Yes," I said, in some amazement. "I knew him slightly."
"As you are doubtless aware, Mr. New, the old gentleman was very eccentric, and took very sudden likes and dislikes. He had no one in the world belonging to him, his one nephew, after a somewhat disgraceful career, having died shamefully. It seems, however, that, slight as your acquaintance with him was, he took a decided liking for you."
"He never displayed it in life," I said grimly.
"Then he has made up for any lack in that respect now," said the man. "Perhaps I should introduce myself, Mr. New. My name is Tipping – James Tipping – and I was Mr. Blowfield's solicitor for many years. I should like, Mr. New, to congratulate you; your poor old friend has left you everything he possessed in the world."
For a moment or two I gaped at him, not understanding. I tried to frame words in which to answer, tried to get some grasp of his meaning. While I stood there, staring stupidly, he smiled indulgently, and went on speaking.
"The will in which he left everything to you, and which was duly witnessed at my office, was prepared only a few days – a few hours almost – before his death. It was prepared under curious circumstances. He seemed to have an idea that he had not treated his dead nephew very well, and he wanted to make amends in some way. He told me that was the reason that he wanted to leave the money to you, a young man, with his way to make in the world."
I own I felt bitterly ashamed. I seemed to see this strange old man doing what he thought was some tardy act of justice at the very end, and doing it in such a fashion that my identity should not be revealed. True, I remembered that in sheer panic he had tried to destroy me afterwards, but he had not revoked the will.
"How much is it?" I contrived to ask.
"Considerably over eighty thousand pounds," said Mr. Tipping unctuously. "Mr. Blowfield lived very simply, as you are aware, and was extremely successful in his investments generally. I congratulate you, Mr. New, with all my heart; I regret if I have been somewhat abrupt, and so have startled you."
"It is a little staggering, certainly," I said weakly.
The man made an appointment for me to see him at his office on the following day, but meanwhile left a substantial sum in my hands. When Andrew Ferkoe came back, as he did presently, I told him the great news.
"Now, look here, Andrew," I said solemnly, "I regard this money as belonging almost as much to you as it does to me. There's not the slightest doubt that my Uncle Zabdiel made your father poor, and you know well enough that he ground you pretty hard afterwards. You toiled, just as I toiled before you; and now we've got our great reward. You shall join forces with me; we'll start life together, in a better fashion than any we have yet enjoyed. Come down with me to see the lawyer to-morrow, and I'll settle a certain amount on you, and tie it up tight, so that you can get at it only in instalments; because money's a dreadful temptation. After that we'll decide what we shall do with our lives."
"I wish my poor father had been alive to know you," said the boy tearfully.
I slept but little that night; my brain was awhirl with many thoughts. Now, more than ever, there entered into me the temptation to remember only that I was a rich man, and by that right, at least, I might approach Debora. I weighed that aspect of the case carefully through the long hours of the night – almost making up my mind at times that I would throw everything else to the winds, and would go to the girl and beg her now to start life with me in a newer and a better fashion than any she or I had known. But with the cold light of the dawn hard facts asserted themselves; and I knew that the brand of my prison was on me, and could not well be washed out. I rose from my bed, determined that for the future love or thoughts of love was not for me.
In due course we called upon Mr. James Tipping, and I listened with what patience I might to a lecture from that gentleman on the sin of mistaken generosity. In the end, of course, I had my way, and Andrew Ferkoe found himself with an income, and with Mr. James Tipping as his legal guardian. I will not tell you the amount, lest you should regard me either as too generous or not generous enough; suffice it that Andrew could look forward to the prospect of passing his days in comfort, no matter what might happen to me.
A few days of splendid idleness supervened on that, and I saw London under a new aspect, and with a heart almost at peace – almost, because it was utterly impossible for me to shut out of my mind what might have been and what never could be. So difficult was it, indeed, that at last my resolution broke down; and one evening I drove straight to the little hotel near the Charterhouse where I had left Debora. I rehearsed speeches as I went along, telling myself that she should understand clearly what the position was, and what she risked, and all the rest of it; I was very full of the matter by the time the cab stopped outside the hotel.
But she was gone. So little had I expected that, that I stared in blank amazement at the porter, and asked him if he was quite sure. Yes, he was quite sure; the lady had left two days before, and had not stated where she was going.
That was a knock-down blow, and one from which I found it difficult to recover. My pride was hurt, inconsistently enough; I had never expected that she would take the matter like that, and so readily adopt the very forcible arguments I had brought to bear upon the situation in my letter to her. I had pictured her as resenting the idea fiercely; I had pictured her broken down, and longing to see me, and to put her own very different view of the matter before me. This calm acceptance of my ideas was not what in my heart I had really anticipated.
Foolishly enough, I went back again and again to the hotel; but there was no news of her. I did not even know the name of the lawyer to whom I had recommended her to go, in the event of anything happening to me or to the doctor. I began to see with bitterness that this young lady regarded me merely as an episode – merely as a highly undesirable escaped convict, who had forced his way into her life, and who was now done with.
For my part, I had done with London, and I had done with England. I made up my mind that I would go abroad, and would start again in a new country, and would endeavour to make something of my miserable existence. So set was I upon the idea that in a matter of days I had decided everything, and was buying my outfit. I put the matter before Andrew Ferkoe; I expected that he would raise objections to our parting.
He seemed a little upset, but said nothing that bore greatly on the question. He had great hopes, he told me, of being a doctor, and was already making arrangements to enter himself at a hospital, with a view to training. I applauded the idea, for I had not liked to think that the lad might settle down to doing nothing save the spending of his income.
Judge of my surprise, therefore, when on the very next day he walked into my sitting-room in the comfortable hotel in which we had taken up our quarters, and announced quite another decision. He announced it firmly, too, and with more daring than I should have given him credit for.