Dead Man's Love

The evening was very still and very fine; I could see a long way. Presently, in the distance, I made out a figure walking backwards and forwards on the edge of the wood; after quite a long time I made it out to be the doctor. I knew in a moment that the man stood as a barrier between the girl in the house and me in the hut, and that while he kept unconscious guard there it was impossible for us to meet. Yet I was as helpless as she must be, and I could only wait until it pleased the man to go back to the house.

He must have walked there backwards and forwards for more than half an hour before I suddenly saw him in the clear light stop, and snap the fingers of his uninjured hand together, with the action of a man coming to a sudden quick resolution; then he turned, and went off with long strides in the direction of the house. I wondered what he was going to do.

I endured another period of waiting that seemed interminable; and then I saw her coming quickly through the wood and down towards the chalk-pit. She skirted the edge of it, and came on quickly towards where I stood in the doorway of the hut waiting for her. After her declaration in the house, in the presence of the two men, I could not know in what mood she came, and I was puzzled how I should greet her. About that, however, I need not have thought at all, for the miracle of it was that she came straight towards me, with her eyes shining, and her hands stretched out towards me, so that in the most wonderful way, and yet in a way most natural, I took her suddenly in my arms. And she broke at once into a torrent of prayers and excuses.

"Oh, my dear! my dear! I was so afraid you would not meet me. I have not deserved that you should; it might have happened that you would not understand, and would believe that all the hateful things I said were meant by me. You didn't believe that, did you?"

"Well – yes, I did," I stammered. "What else could I believe?"

"Don't you understand that I should have had no chance at all with those men, unless I had thrown them off their guard? I hated myself afterwards, when they laughed and joked about you; I could have killed them. Then I made up my mind that I must send and find you."

"It was wonderful that the boy should know me so easily," I answered. "How did you describe me?"

She hung her head, and I saw the colour mount from neck to brow. "I told the boy to look for a man with the mark of a blow across his face," she whispered; and then, before I could prevent her, even had I wished, she had put her arms about my neck and had drawn my head down, and was kissing me passionately on the mark itself. "That's to heal it – and that – and that – and that!" she whispered.

We were both more composed presently, and were seated side by side on the old bench inside the hut. We had no fear of being surprised by anyone; the side of the chalk-pit went up sheer behind the hut, and from the edge of it all was open country. Before us, as I have said, stretched the chalk-pit itself, and the wood, and beyond that the grounds of the house. So we sat contentedly, and looked into each other's eyes, and said what we wanted to say.

"It came upon me suddenly," began Debora, "this morning when I turned and saw Dr. Just on his knees, holding his wrist. I seemed to know instinctively that you had shot him. I knew, dear, that you would not run away, and I had time before they sent for me to make up my mind what to do. I had not quite realised what he had meant to do. I did not think he would be daring enough to shoot me in that fashion. But I am glad, for your sake, that you did not kill him."

"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."