Dead Man's Love

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.

Sitting there, I must at last have fallen asleep, with my head upon the window sill; it was hours later when I awoke. The dawn was growing in the sky, and the boy still slept heavily. I gathered up the dishes silently, and crept out of the room, and put them back in some disorder into the larder; for to the consumption of that meal I meant to confess solely on my own account. Then I began to mount the stairs again, to get back to the room I had left.

I heard a noise above me in the house, and I knew instinctively that my uncle had been roused, and was coming down. There was no chance for me to hide, and above all things I knew that he would search the place from top to bottom until he found the intruder. More than that, the inevitable meeting must take place at some time, and this time was as good as, if not better than, any other. So I mounted the stairs, until at last I saw him on a landing above me, standing in the grey light of the morning, with a heavy stick poised in his hands, ready to strike.

"It's all right, uncle," I said cheerfully, "I was coming to meet you."

He lowered the stick slowly, and looked at me for a moment or two in silence; then I heard him chuckle ironically.

"Good-morning, nephew," he said; "welcome home again!"

CHAPTER IX.

A SHOOTING PARTY

Now, my Uncle Zabdiel had known me always as something subservient to his will, and apparently anxious to please him; he was to meet me now in a different mood. As we stood facing each other, in the grey light of the morning which filtered through a high window on to the staircase where we had met, I was able to realise that he would once more play the bully with me, if he felt it possible to do so, and that it behoved me to get the upper hand at once if I would bring myself with any credit out of the tangle. So I spoke sharply after that first ironical greeting of his; I wanted the man to understand that he had not to deal with the milk-and-water boy he had known something over a year before.

"I want a word with you," I said, "and I'll say it where it suits you best to hear it."

"By all means, my dear nephew," he said suavely. "If you will allow me to pass you, I will show you where we can talk in comfort."

I did not like his tone in the least; I began to understand that he had had the night in which to think over matters, and had doubtless made good use of the time. However, I followed him into that room from which not so long before I had seen Martha Leach emerge; and there I faced him, with the door shut behind me.

"You're only partly surprised to see me," I began at once. "You heard last night that I was alive, and almost in your neighbourhood. A woman told you."

That seemed to stagger him a little; he looked at me keenly and with a new interest. "How do you know that?" he demanded.

I laughed. "I know the woman who told you; she is no friend of mine, as you may imagine," I answered him. "It must have been rather a shock to you to know that the nephew of whom you had got rid so easily, and who had even apparently had the good sense to put an end to his miserable existence, was very much alive, and likely to trouble you again. Therefore I thought I'd follow up the tale by putting in an appearance at once, the better to relieve your pardonable anxiety."

He grinned at me in a fashion that would have been disconcerting to anyone else; but I was no longer afraid of him. "And what are your demands now?" he asked.

"I'm glad you use the right word," I retorted. "I do demand one or two things, and I'm sure that you'll see that it is best to comply with them. In the first place, I demand your silence as to myself."

"And if I refuse?" He had seated himself by this time in his usual chair, and he sat looking at me, with the heavy stick he carried laid across his knees. "What then?"

I had made up my mind what to say, and I said it at once, though with no real intention of ever putting my threat into execution; I merely wanted to frighten him.

"Then I shall kill you," I said quietly. "That is no idle threat, as you may perhaps understand. You're a cleverer man than I am, because I was never blessed with much brains; and you will see for yourself that, hunted wretch as I am, it does not matter very much what becomes of me. Nevertheless, I have the natural desire to live, and I only ask to be let alone. The Norton Hyde you knew is buried in the prison to which you sent him; let him rest there. A certain other man, who bears a resemblance to him, finds it necessary to pay you a visit – "

"To break into my house, you mean!" he exclaimed violently. "Your own action is the best answer that can be given to any such suggestion as you make in regard to secrecy. What safety is there for me while you are at large in the world? I'm an old and feeble man; you come here with threats on your lips to begin with."

"I threaten you only because I know what you intend to do," I replied. "I overheard you last night, promising the woman that I should be hunted down; even making arrangements with her as to how best to set about that hunting down. Consequently I have to protect myself."

He looked at me sourly for a moment or two, as though making up his mind how best to work round me. "So you've been in the house all night, have you?" he said. "I shouldn't have slept quite so soundly if I'd known that, I can assure you. My duty is clear; respectable citizens must be protected against escaped jail-birds and vagrants of your order."

He sprang from his chair, and made a movement towards a great bell rope that hung at the side of the fireplace. But I was too quick for him; I caught him by the arm, and swung him away from it, so that he lurched and staggered towards the other side of the room. There, panting, and with his stick half raised as though to strike me down, he stood watching me.

"Now, I don't want to hurt you," I said; "but in this matter I am desperate. There is more hangs to it than you can understand. You've done evil enough; the money I stole from you has been paid for in one long year of bitter bondage – paid for doubly, by reason of the fact that I have no name, and no place in the world, and no hope, and no future. You've taken your toll out of me; all I ask now is to be let alone."

"I won't do it!" he almost shrieked at me. "You shall go back to your prison; you shall rot there for just so many years as they will add to your original sentence. You shan't live among honest men; you shall go back to your prison."

I think no shame even now of what I did. My rage against the vindictive old man was so great that I wonder I did not strike the feeble life out of him where he stood mouthing at me. I strode up to him and wrenched the stick out of his hands, took him by the collar of his dressing-gown and shook him backwards and forwards, until at last, half in terror and half in weakness, he dropped upon his knees before me.

"Don't – don't kill me, Norton," he whimpered.

"Then you must swear to me to let me alone," I said. "Promise that, and I'll never come near you again, and you shall never hear of me again. It's an easy thing to do; surely you must see for yourself that I can't rush into the light of day; I should never have come near you to-night, but that by the merest chance I found out that the woman Martha Leach was coming to you, and so guessed what her errand was. Come – swear to leave me alone!"

"I swear – I do truly swear!" he said; and I took my hands from him and let him stagger to his feet.

He got back to his chair again, and sat there, breathing hard, with his lips opening and shutting; I saw that he had had a bad fright. I do not think, after all, that even in my rage I could have killed him, badly as he had served me; but I was relieved now to see that I had effected my purpose. I did not think he would be likely to trouble me again with any threats of exposure; for the first time in his life he appeared to have a very wholesome dread of me. Indeed, now he began, as soon as he had got his breath, to seek in some measure to propitiate me.