CHAPTER VIII.
MISERY'S BEDFELLOW
For what seemed a long time, but was after all but a matter of moments, we stood in that room, facing each other; and perhaps the bitterest thing to me then, with the knowledge in my mind of what I had to say, was that when at last she broke silence she should speak to me with tenderness.
"John, dear," she said softly, "there is some mystery here that I don't understand; I want to know all about it – all about you. I trust you as I trust no other man on earth; there can be nothing you are afraid to tell me."
Having struck me that unconscious blow, she sat down calmly, and smiled at me, and waited; I thought that never had poor prisoner trembled before his judge as I trembled then.
"I want you to throw your mind back," I began at last, seeing that I must get the business over, "to the night when last you saw Gregory Pennington."
She started, and looked at me more keenly; leaned forward over the table beside her, and kept her eyes fixed on my face.
"I remember the evening well," she said. "We stood together in the grounds of the house; he left me to go into that house to see my guardian. And I have never seen him since."
"When you met Gregory Pennington that night," I went on, "I lay in the darkness quite near to you, a forlorn and hunted wretch, clad in a dress such as you have never seen – the dress of a convict."
She got up quickly from her chair, and retreated from me; yet still she kept her eyes fixed on my face. And now I began to see that my cause was hopeless.
"I had broken out of my prison that day, a prison far away in the country. I was hunted, and hopeless, and wretched; the hand of every man was against me. I had taken money that did not belong to me, and I had received a savage sentence of ten years' imprisonment. I had served but one, when the life and the manhood in me cried aloud for liberty; and on that night when you met Pennington in the garden I was free."
"Why were you in that place at all?" she whispered.
"That place was as good as any other, if it could provide me with that I wanted, food and clothing," I answered her. "I saw young Pennington go into the house; a little later I followed him. Only, as you will understand, I could not enter by the door; I broke into the place like the thief I was."
"I understand that that was necessary," she said, nodding slowly. "I do not judge you for that."
"When I got into the house," I went on hurriedly, "I found that a tragedy had taken place. I implore you to believe that I am telling the truth and nothing but the truth; I could not lie to you. Your friend Gregory Pennington had met with an accident."
She read what was in my face; she drew a deep breath, and caught at the back of the chair by which she stood. "You mean that he was dead?" she whispered.
I nodded. "For what reason I know not, although I can guess; but Gregory Pennington had hanged himself."
She closed her eyes for a moment, and I thought as she swayed a little that she was going to faint. I had taken a step towards her when she opened her eyes suddenly, and I saw a great anger and indignation blazing in them. "It's a lie!" she exclaimed, "he was the last person to do such a thing. He was the brightest, and best, and sweetest lad that ever loved a girl, and loved her hopelessly."
"There you have it," I suggested. "Had you not told him that night that you could not love him?"
"Yes, but that would not have sent him to his death," she retorted. "But go on; I want to know what was done, and why I never heard about this until now."
"I want you to understand, if you can, two things," I went on steadily. "First, there was a dead man and a living one; and the living one was a hunted fugitive. Second, there was, in a slight degree, a faint resemblance between the dead man and the living, in colouring, and height, and general appearance."
She looked at me for a moment or two in silence; then she nodded her head. "Yes, I see that now," she answered, "although I never noticed it before."
"While I was in the room with the dead man, Dr. Just put in an appearance. To be brief, he wanted to keep the matter from you, because he knew the boy had been your friend; he took pity on me, and wanted to save me. He knew that they were hunting for a convict, who might perhaps be thought to be something like the dead man; at his suggestion I changed clothes with Gregory Pennington, and started under another name."
I turned away from her then; I dared not look at her. For a time there was a dead silence in the room, broken only by the curious slow ticking of an old eight-day clock in the corner. I remember that I found myself mechanically counting the strokes while I waited for her to speak.
When at last I could bear the tension no longer I looked round at her. She stood there, frozen, as it were, in the attitude in which I had seen her, looking at me with a face of horror. Then at last, in a sort of broken whisper, she got out a sentence or two.
"You – you changed clothes? Then he – he became the convict – dead? What – what became of him?"
"He lies buried – in my name – within the walls of Penthouse Prison."
She stared at me for a moment as though not understanding; seemed to murmur the words under her breath. Then she clapped her hands suddenly over her face.
"Oh – dear God!" she cried out.
I began to murmur excuses and pleadings. "The fault was not mine, the boy was dead, and no further harm could come to him. I wanted to live – I was so young myself, and I wanted to begin life again. I never thought – "
She dropped her hands, and faced me boldly; I saw the tears swimming in her eyes. "You never thought!" she cried. "You never thought of what it meant for him, with no sin upon him, to lie in a felon's grave! You never thought that there was anyone on earth might miss him, and sorrow for him, and long for him! You wanted to live – you, that had broken prison – you, a common thief! You coward!"
I said no more; it seemed almost as if the solid earth was slipping away from under my feet. I cared nothing for what might happen to me; I knew that I had lost her, and that I should never touch her hand again in friendship. I stood there, waiting, as though for the sentence she must pronounce.
"I never want to see your face again," she said at last, in a low voice. "I do not know yet what I shall do; I have not had time to think. But I want you to go away, to leave me; I have done with you."
"I will not leave you," I said doggedly. "You are in danger!"
She laughed contemptuously. "Then I won't be saved by you!" she exclaimed. "There are honest men in the world; I would not trust you, nor appeal to you, if I had no other friend on earth."
"I know the danger better than you do," I answered, "and I will not leave you."
"That man who burst into the house just now, he seemed to know you," she said, after a moment's pause. "Who is he?"
"A fellow jail-bird of mine," I answered bitterly.
"Then go to him," she said. "Are you so dense that you don't understand what I think of you, you thing without a name! Will nothing move you?"
"Nothing, until I know that you are safe," I answered.
There was a light cane lying on the table with Harvey Scoffold's hat and gloves. In a very fury of passion she suddenly dropped her hand upon it, and caught it up. I know that my face turned darkly red as I saw what her intention was; but I did not flinch. She struck me full across the face with it, crying as she did so, "Now go!" dropped the cane, and burst into tears at the same moment. I could bear no more; I turned about, and walked out of the room, and out of the house. I did not seem to remember anything until I found myself walking at a great rate under the stars, down towards London.
My feelings then I will not attempt to describe. I seemed to be more utterly lost than ever; the sorry comedy was played out, and I walked utterly friendless and alone, caring nothing what became of me. If I remembered that Debora stood in peril of her life, and had but small chance of escape from some horrible death, I tried to thrust that thought away from me; for the blow she had struck me seemed to have cut deep into my soul. Of all the homeless wretches under the stars that night, surely I was the one most to be pitied!
I found myself after a time on Hampstead Heath, and lay down there in a quiet spot under the trees, and stared up at the stars, wondering a little, perhaps, why Fate had dealt so hardly with me, and had never given me a real chance. I remembered my unhappy boyhood, and my long years of drudgery in my uncle's house; I remembered with bitterness that now to-night I was a creature with no name and no place in the world, with no hopes and no ambitions. Tears of self-pity sprung to my eyes as I lay there in the darkness, wondering what the day was to bring me.
I had a few shillings in my pocket, and when I knew the dawn was coming I started off down into London, in the hope to lose myself and my miseries in the crowded streets. But there I found that apparently everyone had some business to be engaged upon; everyone was hurrying hither and thither, far too busy to take note of me or of my downcast face. The mere instinct to live kept me clear of the traffic, or I must have been run over a hundred times in the day, so little did I trouble where I walked, or what became of me. When my body craved for food I went into an eating-house, and sat shoulder to shoulder with other men, who little suspected who I was, or what was my strange story. But then everyone against whom one rubs shoulders in a great city must have some strange story of their own to tell, if they cared to say what it was.
I spent the long day in the streets; but at night a curious fascination drew me across Hampstead Heath, and so in the direction of the cottage in which Harvey Scoffold lived. I had no hope of seeing the girl; I only felt it would be some poor satisfaction to me to see the house in which she was; perhaps my very presence there might serve in some vague way to shield her from harm; for by this time I had come to the conclusion that Scoffold was as much her enemy and mine as anyone else by whom she was surrounded.
I wandered about unhappily there for more than an hour; I was just turning away, when the old woman I had seen on the previous night came out of the door of the cottage, and advanced down the garden to the little gate in the fence. I think a cat must have got astray; for she called to some animal fretfully more than once. She was just turning away again, when I ventured to step up to the gate.
"I hope the young lady is quite well?" I said, in a low tone.
She looked at me curiously; looked especially, I thought, at the long livid weal across my face. "Ah! I remember you now, sir," she said; "I didn't recognise you for a moment. But, bless you, sir, they've all gone away."
"Gone away?" I echoed.
"Yes, sir. Mr. Scoffold and the young lady went off early this morning, sir; Mr. Scoffold said that letters were to be addressed to him at the house of Dr. Bardolph Just. I've got the address inside, sir, if you should want it."
I told her I did not want it, and I turned away abruptly. I could not understand the position at all; I wondered how Harvey Scoffold had persuaded her to go back to that house, and to the man she so much dreaded. I saw how badly I had blundered in the matter, and how I had done the very thing I had striven not to do. She would trust Harvey Scoffold; she would believe in his honesty, as I had believed in it; and I was convinced now that he was working hand in glove with Bardolph Just. I stood out there in the darkness, cursing myself, and the world, and everyone, with the solitary exception of Debora Matchwick.
On one point I was resolute; I would go on to the house of the doctor, and would be near at hand in case the girl wanted me. It was a mad idea, and I now recognise it as such; but at the time it seemed that I might be able to do some good. I set off at once, tired out as I was, for Bardolph Just's house.
It was not yet late, and the house was still lighted up when at last I came to it. I opened the gate in the wall noiselessly, and went in; crept forward among the trees, until I was quite near to the house. I think I had a sort of vague idea that I would get in somehow, and confront the doctor; for, after all, nothing much worse could happen to me than had already befallen me. While I waited irresolutely in the grounds, a door opened at one side of the house, letting out a little flood of light for a moment; then the door was closed again, and I saw a figure coming swiftly towards me through the trees. I drew back behind one of the trees, and watched; presently the figure passed so close to me, going steadily in the direction of the gate, that I could see the face clearly. It was Martha Leach, habited for a journey.
There was such a grim, set purpose in the face that, after she had gone a yard or two, I turned on an instinct and followed her. I heard the latch of the gate click, as she went out, closing the gate after her; unfortunately it clicked again a moment or two later, when I in turn passed out in her wake. I flattened myself against the wall, because Martha Leach had stopped in the road, and had looked back. Fortunately for me she did not return; after a momentary pause she went on again rapidly, taking a northern direction.
Now, by all the laws of the game I ought to have returned to the house to keep my vigil there; for what earthly purpose could I hope to serve in chasing this woman about the northern suburbs of London, at something near to nine o'clock on a summer's evening? But I felt impelled to go on after her; and my heart sank a little when presently I saw her hail a four-wheeled cab, and range herself up beside the front wheel, to drive a bargain with the cabman. Without her knowledge I had come to the back of the cab, and could hear distinctly what she said.
I felt at first that I was dreaming when I heard her asking the man if he could drive her to an address near Barnet; and that address was the house of my Uncle Zabdiel! After some demur the man agreed; and the woman got inside, and the cab started. And now I was determined that I would follow this thing out to the bitter end; for I began to understand vaguely what her mission was to my uncle.
As I ran behind the cab, now and then resting myself by perching perilously on the springs, I had time to think of the events that had followed the coming of George Rabbit to the doctor's house, and his discovery of me. I remembered that light I had seen in the loft; I remembered how Martha Leach had come from that loft, carrying a lantern; I remembered how she had threatened to find out who I was, and from whence I came. And I knew now with certainty that she was on her way to my uncle, with the purpose of letting him know the exact state of affairs.
I own that I was puzzled to know why she should be concerning herself in the matter at all. That she hated Debora I knew, and I could only judge that she felt I might be dangerous, and had best be got rid of in some fashion or other. The newspaper reports of my trial and sentence had made my life, of necessity, common property; she would be able easily to discover the address of Uncle Zabdiel. That she was working, as she believed, in the interests of the doctor I could well understand; but whether by his inspiration or not it was impossible for me to know.
The cab stopped at last outside that grim old house I remembered so well, that house from which I had been taken on my uncle's accusation. By that time, of course, I was some yards away from it, watching from the shelter of a doorway; but I heard the bell peal in the great, hollow old place, and presently saw the gate open, and Martha Leach, after some parley, pass in. Then the gate was closed again, and I was left outside, to conjecture for myself what was happening within.
I determined at last that I would get into the place myself; it might be possible for me to forestall Martha Leach, and take some of the wind out of her sails. Moreover, the prospect of appearing before my uncle in a ghostly character rather appealed to me than not; he had given me one or two bad shocks in my life, and I might return the compliment. For, of course, I was well aware that he must long since have believed that I was dead and buried, as had been reported. I went near to the house, and tried the gate; found, somewhat to my relief, that it was not fastened. I slipped in, and closed the gate after me, and found myself standing in the narrow garden that surrounded the house.
Strange memories came flocking back to me as I stood there looking up at the dark house. How much had I not suffered in this place, in what terror of the darkness I had lain, night after night, as a boy, dreading to hear the footsteps of Uncle Zabdiel, and yet feeling some relief at hearing them in that grim and silent place! I thought then, as I stood there, how absolutely alone I was in the great world – how shut out from everything my strength and manhood seemed to have a right to demand. And with that thought came a recklessness upon me, greater even than I had felt before, almost, indeed, a feeling of devilry.
I had been questioning myself as to my motive in coming there at all; now I seemed to see it clearly. The woman now in the house was doubtless giving my uncle chapter and verse concerning my strange coming to life; left in her hands, I was as good as done for already. I felt sure that the first thought in Uncle Zabdiel's mind, if he realised the truth of what she said, would be one of deadly fear for his own safety; for he believed me reckless and steeped in wickedness, and he knew that I had no reason to love him. He would seek protection; and in seeking it would give me up to those who had the right to hold me.
Nor was this all. In giving me up he must perforce open a certain grave wherein lay poor Gregory Pennington, and show what that grave contained. He must drag that miserable story into the light, and must drag Debora into the light with it. I could see Uncle Zabdiel, in imagination, rubbing his hands, and telling the whole thing glibly, and making much of it; and I determined that Uncle Zabdiel's mouth must be closed.
If in no other fashion, then I felt that I must silence him by threats. I was an outlaw, fighting a lone hand in a losing cause; he would know at least that I was scarcely likely to be over-scrupulous in my dealing with him or anyone else. But the first thing to do was to get into the house.
Now, I knew the place well, of course, and, moreover, it will be remembered that in those night excursions of mine which had led to so much disaster I had been in the habit of coming and going without his knowledge. It seems to me that I was born to make use more of windows than of doors; but then, as you will have gathered by this time, I was never one for ceremony. On this occasion I recalled old times, and made my way to a certain window, out of which and into which I had crept many a night and many a morning. It was a window at the end of a passage which led to my own old room, in which for so many years I had slept. I got in in safety, and crept along the passage; and then, out of sheer curiosity, opened the door of that old room, and went in.
And then, in a moment, I was grappling in the semi-darkness with what seemed to be a tall man, who was buffeting me in the wildest fashion with his fists, and shrieking the very house down with a high, raucous voice. Indeed, he let off a succession of yells, in which the only words I could discover were, "Murder!" "Fire!" "Thieves!" and other like things. And all the while I fought for his mouth with my hands in the darkness, and threatened all manner of horrible things if he would not be silent.
At last I overmastered him, and got him on his back on the floor, and knelt upon him there, and glared down into his eyes, which I could see dimly by the light which came through the uncurtained window.
"Now, then," I panted, "if you want to live, be quiet. I can hear someone coming. If you say a word about me, I'll blow your brains out. I'm armed, and I'm desperate."
He assured me earnestly, as well as he could by reason of my weight upon him, that he would say not a word about me; and as I heard the steps coming nearer, I made a dart for the head of the old-fashioned bedstead, and slipped behind the curtains there. The next moment the room was filled with light, and I heard Uncle Zabdiel's voice.
"What's the matter? What's the matter? What the devil are you making all that bother about? I thought someone was murdering you."
Peering through a rent in the curtain, I could see that the man I had grappled with, and who now faced my uncle tremblingly, was a tall, ungainly youth, so thin and weedy-looking that I wondered he had resisted me so long. He was clad only in a long white night-shirt, which hung upon him as though he had been mere skin and bone; he had a weak, foolish face, and rather long, fair hair. He stood trembling, and saying nothing, and he was shaking from head to foot.
"Can't you speak?" snapped Uncle Zabdiel (and how well I remembered those tones!).
"I had – had the nightmare," stammered the youth. "Woke myself up with it, sir."
"I never knew you have that before," was my uncle's comment. "Get to bed, and let's hear no more of you. What did you have for supper?"
"Didn't have any supper," replied the youth. "You know I never do."
"Then it couldn't have been that," retorted Uncle Zabdiel. "Come, let's see you get into bed."
Now, the unfortunate fellow knew that a desperate ruffian was concealed behind the curtains of the bedstead; yet his dread of that ruffian was so great that he dared not cry out the truth. More than that, I saw that he dared not disobey my uncle; and between the two of us he was in a nice quandary. At last, however, with a sort of groan he made a leap at the bed, and dived in under the bedclothes and pulled them over his head. Without a word, Uncle Zabdiel walked out of the room, and closed the door, leaving us both in the dark. And for quite a long minute there was no sound in the room.
I began to feel sorry for the youth in the bed, because I knew what he must be suffering. I moved to come out into the room, and he gave a sort of muffled shriek and dived deeper under the clothes. I stood beside him, and I began to talk to him as gently as I could.
"Now, look here," I whispered. "I'm not going to hurt you if you keep quiet. Come out from under those clothes, and let me have a look at you, and tell me who you are."
Very slowly he came out from his refuge, and sat up in bed, and looked at me fearfully; and very ghostly he looked, with his fair hair, and his white face, and his white garment, against the dark hangings of the bed.
"I'm old Zabdiel Blowfield's clerk," he said slowly.
"Well, you're not a very respectful clerk, at all events," I retorted with a laugh, as I seated myself on the side of the bed. "And you don't look a very happy one."
"This ain't exactly a house to be happy in," he said. "It's grind – grind – grind – from morning till night, and nothing much to eat – and that not very good. And I'm growing so fast that I seem to need a lot more than what he does."
"I know," I responded solemnly. "I've been through it all myself. I was once old Zabdiel Blowfield's clerk, and I also had the misfortune to be his nephew."
"Oh, Lord!" The boy stared at me as though his eyes would drop out of his head. "Are you the chap that stole the money, and got chokey for it?"
I nodded. "I'm that desperate villain," I said, "and I've broken out of 'chokey,' as you call it, and have come back to revisit the glimpses of the moon. Therefore you see how necessary it was that Uncle Zabdiel should not see me. Do you tumble to that?"
He looked me up and down wonderingly, much as though I had been about eight feet high. "Old Blowfield told me about you when I first came," he said. "He said it would be a warning to me not to do likewise. But he put in a bit too much; he said that you were dead."
"He wanted to make the warning more awful," I suggested, for I did not feel called upon to give him an explanation concerning that most mysterious matter. "And don't think," I added, "that I am in any sense of the word a hero, or that I am anything wonderful. At the present time I've scarcely a coin in my pocket, and I don't know where I'm to sleep to-night. It's no fun doing deeds of darkness, and breaking prison, and all that sort of thing, I can assure you."
The youth shook his head dismally. "I ain't so sure of that," he said. "At any rate, I should think it would be better than the sort of life I lead. There's something dashing about you – but look at me!"
He spread out his thin arms as he spoke, and looked at me with his pathetic head on one side. I began to hate my uncle with fresh vigour, and to wonder when some long-sleeping justice would overtake him. For I saw that this boy was not made of the stuff that I had been made of; this was a mere drudge, who would go on being a drudge to the end of his days.
"What's your name?" I asked abruptly.
"Andrew Ferkoe," he replied.
"Well, Mr. Andrew Ferkoe, and how did you come to drop into this place?" I asked.
"My father owed old Blowfield a lot of money; and my father died," he said slowly.
"And you were taken in exchange for the debt," I said. "I think I understand. Well, don't be downhearted about it. By the way, are you hungry?"
"I'm never anything else," he replied, with a grin.
"Then we'll have a feast, for I'm hungry, too."
I started for the door, with the full determination to raid the larder; but he called after me in a frightened voice —
"Come back, come back!" I turned about, and looked at him. "He'll kill me if I take anything that doesn't belong to me, or have me locked up."
"Oh, he'll put it down to me," I assured the boy. "I'm going to interview him in the morning, and I'll see that you don't get into trouble."
I left him sitting up in bed, and I went out into the house, knowing my way perfectly, in search of food. I knew that in that meagre household I might find nothing at all, or at all events nothing worth having; but still, I meant to get something, if possible. I got down into the basement, and found the larder, and, to my surprise, found it better stocked than I could have hoped. I loaded my arms with good things, and started to make my way back to my old room.
And then it was that I saw Martha Leach and my uncle. The door of the room in which my uncle used always to work was opened, and the woman came out first. I was below, in an angle of the stairs leading to the basement, and I wondered what would have happened if they had known that I was there. Uncle Zabdiel, looking not a day older than when he had spoken to me in the court after my sentence, followed the woman out, bearing a candle in his hand. He had on an ancient dressing-gown, and the black skull cap in which I think he must always have slept – certainly I never saw him without it.
"I'm much obliged to you, my good woman," he said in a low voice – "much obliged to you, indeed, for your warning. It's upset me, I can assure you, to hear that the fellow's alive; but he shall be hunted down, and given back to the law."
I set my teeth as I listened, and I felt that I might be able to persuade Uncle Zabdiel to a different purpose.
"The difficulty will be to get hold of him," said Martha Leach. "I only heard the real story, as I have told you, from the lips of his fellow-prisoner – the man they call George Rabbit."
"Then the best thing you can do," said Uncle Zabdiel, touching her for a moment on the arm, "the wisest thing you can do, is to get hold of George Rabbit and send him to me. Tell him I'll pay him well; it'll be a question of 'set a thief to catch a thief.' He'll track the dog down. Tell him I'll pay him liberally – I'm known as a liberal man in my dealings."
While he went to the door to show the woman out, I crept round the corner of the stairs, and up to the room where I had left the boy. I found him awaiting me eagerly; it was pleasant to see the fashion in which his gaunt face lighted up when I set out the food upon the bed. He was so greedy with famine that he began to cram the food into his mouth – almost whimpering over the good things – before I had had time to begin.
We feasted well, sitting there in the dark; we were very still as we heard Zabdiel Blowfield pause at the door on his way upstairs, and listen to be sure that all was silent. Fortunately for us, he did not come in; we heard his shuffling feet take their way towards his own room.
"Safe for the night!" I whispered. "And now I suppose you feel better – eh?"
He nodded gratefully. "I wish I'd got your courage," he answered wistfully. "But when he looks at me I begin to tremble, and when he speaks I shake all over."
"Go to sleep now," I commanded him, "and comfort yourself with the reflection that in the morning he is going to do the shaking and the trembling for once. Bless your heart!" I added, "I was once like you, and dared not call my soul my own. I'll have no mercy on him, I promise you."
He smiled and lay down, and was asleep in no time at all. I had removed the dishes from the bed, meaning to take them downstairs so soon as I could be sure that Uncle Zabdiel was asleep. I sat down on a chair by the open window, and looked out into the night, striving perhaps to see some way for myself – some future in which I might live in some new and wholly impossible world.
Most bitterly then did I think of the girl who was lost to me for ever. My situation had not seemed to be so desperate while I carried the knowledge in my heart that she believed in me and trusted me; but now all that was past and done with. In the morning I must begin that fight with my ancient enemy as to whether I should live, or whether I should be condemned to that living death from which I had escaped; and I knew enough now, in this calmer moment, to recognise the cunning of the man with whom I must fight, and that the power he held was greater than mine.