Dead Man's Love

I saw that the old man was absolutely afraid of me; I guessed that he meant to keep Andrew Ferkoe there, to save even a threat of violence. At the same time I was relieved to see what I thought was a new and more kindly light in his eyes. I felt that he might, after all, prove to have a heart of flesh and blood, and that Debora might move it.

"Then you can go on with your work, Ferkoe," snapped my uncle; and the boy, whose pen had been straying, started violently, and went on writing again.

It was curious to note during our interview how frequently Andrew Ferkoe's pen stopped, and how his eyes slowly turned round to feast on me, and how, at a movement from his master, he brought the pen back to its proper place and started writing again. I became quite fascinated with watching him.

"Sit down, my dear New, sit down," said my uncle smoothly. "Tell me what I can do for you; I've been expecting to see you."

I sat down, and asked permission to smoke. My uncle grunted in response, and frowned; but I took the grunt for permission, and lighted a cigar. The old man gave a plaintive cough, as though suggesting that this was a martyrdom to which he must submit, and subsided into his own chair. I answered his question.

"I want you to do what you promised to do, Mr. Blowfield," I said.

"I promised under threats," he broke in grudgingly. "And a promise extorted under threats isn't binding."

"This one's got to be," I intimated sharply. "I want the young lady of whom I spoke to come here, and to find a refuge in this house; I want her to come to-day. I have not the means to keep her, and she is in danger of being traced by those who are her enemies. I have chosen you," I added, with a touch of sarcasm I could not avoid, "because I know your kindness of heart, and I know how eager you are to do me a service."

He grinned a little maliciously, then chuckled softly, and rubbed his bony hands together. "Very well, call it a bargain," he said. "After all, I'm quite pleased, my dear boy, to be able to help you; if I seem to have a gruff exterior, it's only because I find so many people trying to get the better of me."

I saw Andrew Ferkoe slowly raise his head, and stare at my uncle with a dropping jaw, as though he had suddenly discovered a ghost. My uncle, happening to catch him at it, brought his fist down with a bang upon the desk that caused the youth to spring an inch or two from his stool, and to resume his writing in such a scared fashion that I am convinced he must have written anything that first came into his mind.

"And what the devil is it to do with you?" roared my uncle, quite in his old fashion. "What do you think I pay you for, and feed you for, and give you comfortable lodging for? One of these days, Ferkoe, I'll turn you out into the world, and let you starve. Or I'll have you locked up, as I once had a graceless nephew of mine locked up," he added, with a contortion of his face in my direction that I imagine to have been intended for a wink.

The boy stole a look at me, and essayed a grin on his own account; evidently he congratulated himself on his secret knowledge of who I really was. Uncle Zabdiel, having relieved himself with his outburst, now turned to me again, still keeping up that pretty fiction of my being but a casual acquaintance, knowing nothing of any graceless nephew who had been very properly punished in the past.

"He's a thankless dog, this clerk of mine," he growled, with a vicious look at the boy. "He must have starved but for me, and see what thanks I get. Well, as I was saying, I shall be very pleased – delighted, in fact – to welcome the young lady here. I've got a soft corner in my heart for everybody, Mr. New, if I'm only treated fairly. I don't like girls as a rule; I've no place for 'em in my life; but I've made up my mind to make the best of it. You see, I haven't very long to live – not as long as I should like; and I understand you've got to be so very particular in doing the right sort of thing towards the end. Not that I've done anything particularly to be ashamed of," he added hastily, "but a great many people have made it their business to speak ill of me."

"It's a censorious world," I reminded him.

"It is, my dear boy, it is," he replied. "Besides," he went on, lowering his voice a little, "I've dreamt three nights running that I went up into my old room, and saw myself lying dead – not dead as you described – but all broken and bloody." He shuddered, and sucked in his breath hard for a moment, and glanced behind him.

I did not mind encouraging that thought, because it was all to my advantage; I knew that unless he remained properly frightened there would be small chance of his keeping faith with me in the matter of Debora. Therefore I said nothing now. But once again I saw the youth at the desk raise his head, and stare at the old man in that startled fashion, and then drop his eyes suddenly to his work.

"Not a pleasant dream – not a pleasant dream, by any means," muttered my uncle, getting up and striding about. "I lay on the floor, with the bed clothes pulled across me, as if to hide me. And I was all broken and bloody!"

"And you've dreamed that three times?" I asked mercilessly. "That's unlucky."

"Why, what do you mean?" he whispered in a panic, as he stopped and looked round at me.

"Oh! they say if you dream a thing three times, it's bound to come true," I said.

"Stuff and nonsense!" he ejaculated. "Dreams go always by contraries; everybody knows that. I shouldn't have mentioned the thing, only I can't somehow get it out of my head. It was just as though I were another person; I stood there looking down at myself. There, there, let's forget it. In all probability, if I do this thing for you, out of pure kindness of heart, I shall live quite a long time, and die naturally a good many years hence. Now, when is the young lady coming?"

He seemed so perturbed by the recollection of his dream that he listened only in a dazed fashion while I told him that I intended to bring her there that day; he might expect her some time that evening. Andrew Ferkoe seemed interested at the news that anyone was coming to that dreary house; he kept on glancing up at me while I spoke. And it was necessary, too, for me to say all over again, because my uncle had evidently not been listening.

"Yes, yes, yes, I understand!" he said, rousing himself at last. "Besides, it'll be better to have someone else in the house – safer for me, you understand. Nobody will dare come to the place if they know that I'm not a lonely old man, with only a fool of a boy in the house with him – a boy that you can't wake for love or money."

I suppressed a grin. My experience of Andrew Ferkoe had been that he woke rather too easily. I rose to take my leave, and Uncle Zabdiel, in his anxiety to please me, came out into the hall with me, and seemed inclined to detain me even longer.

"I'll be very good to her," he said; then, suddenly breaking off, he gripped my arm, and pointed up the dark, uncarpeted stairs behind us. "You remember my old room," he whispered. "Well, I saw the room, and everything in it, quite clearly, three separate times, and I lying there – "

"You're thinking too much about it," I broke in hastily. For his face was ghastly. "You be kind to Debora, and you'll find she'll soon laugh some of your fears out of you. Good-bye for the present; you'll see us both later in the day."

He shook my hand quite earnestly, and let me out of the house. I saw him, as I had seen him before, standing in the doorway, peering out at me; in that moment I felt a little sorry for him. So much he had missed – so much he had lost or never known; and now, towards the end of his days, he was racked by fears of that death that he knew must be approaching rapidly.

I started back for London, meaning to fetch Debora to my uncle's house that night. I was fortunate enough not to have to wait long at the station for a train, and I presently found myself in an empty compartment. I was tired out, and excited with the events of the day. I settled myself in a corner, and closed my eyes, as the train sped on its way. And presently, while I sat there, I became aware of a most extraordinary commotion going on in the compartment on the other side of the partition against which I leaned. There was a noise as of the stamping of feet, and shouts and cries – altogether a hideous uproar.

I thought at first that it must be some drunken men, uproarious after a debauch; but I presently came to the conclusion that some severe struggle was going on in the next compartment; I distinctly heard cries for help. I leaned out of the window, in the hope that I might be able to see into the next carriage; then, on an impulse, I opened the door, and got out on to the footboard. It was not a difficult matter, because the train was travelling comparatively slow. I closed the door of the compartment I had been in, and stepped along the footboard to the next. Clinging on there, I looked in, and beheld an extraordinary sight.

Two men were battling fiercely in the carriage; and I saw that the further door of the carriage was open. As the men wrenched and tugged at each other, I could not for a moment or two see their faces; but I could make out clearly that the smaller man of the two was working strenuously to force the other man out on to the line through the open door. I saw, too, that the bigger man appeared to be using only one arm to defend himself; and it was suddenly borne in upon me that I knew with certainty who the two men were. I tore open the door on my side, and slipped into the carriage, and shut the door again. Then I flung myself upon the smaller man, who was no other than William Capper.

As it happened, I was only just in time. The other man had been driven to the open door, until he was absolutely half in and half out; he had dug his nails into the cushions on one side, in a desperate effort to save himself from falling. And as I pulled Capper off, and flung him to the other end of the carriage, I naturally pulled his intended victim with him – and that intended victim was Dr. Bardolph Just!

How narrow his escape had been was brought home to me the next moment, when, as I leaned out to close the door, another train tore past on the next track, going in the opposite direction. I banged the door, and stood against it, and looked at the two men.

The doctor had sunk down into a corner, and was nursing his wounded arm, and staring in a frightened way at Capper. Capper, I noticed, had suddenly lost all his frenzy, precisely in the same fashion as he had lost it on that other occasion when he had attacked the same man. He now sat in the corner into which I had flung him, with his head bowed, and his hands plucking at his lips, exactly in the attitude of a naughty boy who had been caught in some wickedness and stopped. He glanced at me furtively, but said nothing.

"He – he tried – tried to kill me!" panted the doctor. "He tried – tried to throw me out of the train! You saw for yourself!"

"But why?" I asked. "What had you done?"

"Nothing – absolutely nothing!" he stammered, striving to rearrange his dress and to smooth his hair. "He suddenly said something – and then opened the door – and sprang at me."

"But what did he say?" I insisted. And it was curious that we both spoke of the man at the other end of the carriage as someone not responsible for what he had done.

"Never mind what he said!" exclaimed the doctor pettishly. "You just came in time. He'd have had me out in another moment."

In the surprise of his escape, the doctor did not seem astonished at finding me there so opportunely he merely looked at the dejected Capper in that frightened way, and kept the greatest possible distance from him.

"Why do you take the man about with you, if he's liable to these fits?" I asked.

"I don't take him about!" he exclaimed. "He follows me. I can't get rid of him. He sticks to my heels like a dog. I don't like it; one of these days it may happen that there's no one there in time – and that'll be the end of the matter." All this in a whisper, as he leaned forward towards where I sat.

"Give him the slip," I suggested; and now I watched the doctor's face intently.

"Don't I tell you I can't," he snapped at me. "Besides, I don't want to lose sight of him; I'm sorry for the poor old fellow. He'd only drift into some madhouse or workhouse infirmary. I don't know what to do."

The doctor was dabbling nervously at his forehead with a handkerchief; he was in a very sweat of terror. And at the further end of the carriage – huddled up there, listening – sat the little grey-haired man, like some grim Fate that must dog the steps of the other man to an end which no one could see. A sudden ghastly theory had entered into my mind; I determined to probe the matter a little further.

"You suggest," I said in a whisper, "that he has twice tried to kill you; surely it is an easy matter to give him into the hands of the police? If he's insane, he'll be properly looked after; if he is not, he will be properly punished. And you will be safe."

Bardolph Just looked out of the window, and slowly shook his head. "You don't understand; I can't do that," he replied. "I can't explain; there's a reason."

We left the matter at that, and presently, when the train drew into the London station, we all got out. The doctor and I walked away side by side, and I knew that Capper was following. I knew something else, too – that I must get away as quickly as possible, back to Debora. For I realised that as yet the doctor had not been informed that Debora was missing from Green Barn.

"Well, you don't want me any more," I said to him, stopping and turning about. "I'll take my leave."

"Look here!" he exclaimed, suddenly seizing me with his uninjured hand, and giving a sideways glance at Capper, "I'll forget everything and forgive everything if you'll only stick to me. I don't want to be left alone with this man."

"I have work of my own to do," I answered him, "and my way is not your way. Pull yourself together, man; you're in London, among crowds. What harm can a feeble old creature like that do to you?"

"You've seen for yourself – twice," he whispered. "I'll do anything you like – pay you anything you like!"

I shook myself free. "It's impossible," I said; and a moment later I was walking rapidly away; I had no desire that the doctor should follow me.

Looking back, I saw the man with his arm in a sling going at a great rate across the station, and as he went he glanced back over his shoulder. And always behind him, going at a little trot to keep up with him, went William Capper, not to be shaken off.

I found Debora awaiting me, but I said nothing to her of my startling encounter in the train. I only told her that all was ready for her reception at the house of Uncle Zabdiel, and we set off at once, after settling the score at the hotel. Our journey was without incident, and in due course I rang the bell at my uncle's gate, and saw the door open presently to receive the girl. I went in with her for the necessary introductions.

To my delight I found Uncle Zabdiel rubbing his hands, and evidently pleased to have her there. He went so far as to imprint a cold salute on her cheek, and even to touch her under her soft rounded chin with his bony finger.

"It's a pretty bird you've captured," he said, grimacing at me. "I'll take care of her, never fear."

I thanked him, and then told him of my intention to seek a lodging elsewhere. He seemed surprised, as did Debora. I merely told him that I had business to attend to, and that I could not very well be so far from London for the next few days at least. My real reason was, however, a very different one.

I had made up my mind to pursue this matter of Capper to the very end; the thing fascinated me, and I could not let it alone. So that, after I had seen the dark house swallow up my darling, I went off, designing to find a lodging for myself between that house and the one in which Bardolph Just lived. It was very late, but I was not over particular as to where I slept, and I knew that I could easily find a room.

But I was restless, and had many things to think about; so that it ended finally in my walking that long distance back to the doctor's house, and finding myself, something to my surprise, outside its gates at a little after two o'clock in the morning. All the house was silent, and the windows darkened. I was turning away, when I almost stumbled over someone sitting on the high bank at the side of the road opposite the gate. As I drew back with a muttered apology the man looked up, and I knew him.

It was William Capper. In the very instant of his raising his head I had seen a quick bright look of intelligence come over his face, but now the mask he habitually wore seemed to be drawn down over his features, and he smiled in that vacuous way I had before noted.

"What are you doing here?" I asked.

"He's turned me out," he said, in the old feeble voice. "I don't know why." I saw his plucking fingers go up to his lips again, as he feebly shook his head.

"Yes, you do," I said sternly. "Come, Capper, you've nothing to fear from me; why don't you speak the truth? You've twice tried to kill the man. What is your reason?"

He shook his head, and smiled at me in the same vacant fashion. "I don't know – I don't understand," he said. "So much that I've forgotten – so much that I can't remember, and never shall remember. Something snapped – here."

He touched his forehead, and shook his head in that forlorn way; and presently sank down on the bank again, and put his head in his hands, and seemed to go to sleep.

When I came away at last, in despair of finding out anything from him, he was sitting in the same attitude, and might have appeared, to any casual observer, as a poor, feeble old creature with a clouded mind. Yet I knew with certainty that something had happened to the man, and that he was alive and alert; I knew, too, that grimly enough, and for some reason unknown to me, he had set out to kill Dr. Bardolph Just. And I knew that he would succeed.

CHAPTER XII.

AN APPOINTMENT WITH DEATH

It will readily be understood that, by the movements of the various players in the game in which, in a sense, I was merely a pawn, I had been placed in such a position that I was to an extent no longer master of my own actions. I had been compelled, by the turn of events, to place Debora in the hands of my uncle, and I knew that at any moment now news might come from Green Barn that the girl was gone. I marvelled that that news had not arrived ere this.

Upon that latter point the only conjecture I could arrive at was that the woman Martha Leach had not yet dared to send her news to Bardolph Just, and in that act of cowardice she would probably be supported by Harvey Scoffold. Moreover, I knew that the doctor was too fully occupied with his own fears concerning the man Capper to give much attention to anything else.

Nor, on the other hand, did I feel that I had advanced matters as rapidly as I could have wished. True, I had got Debora out of the hands of the doctor and Harvey Scoffold; true again, I had hidden her in the house of Uncle Zabdiel. But there the matter stood, and I was relying, in a sense, solely on the help of one whom every instinct taught me to distrust: I mean, of course, Zabdiel Blowfield. Moreover, I was no further advanced in regard to any future status on my own account. I had no prospect of making my way in the world, or of doing anything to help the girl I loved. It seemed as though I stood in the midst of a great tangle, twisting this way and that in my efforts to free myself, and getting more hopelessly involved with each movement.

In my doubts and perplexities I turned naturally to Debora; I may be said to have haunted that house wherein she lived. Uncle Zabdiel appeared to be very friendly, and for two days I came and went as I liked, seeing Debora often. And even in that short time I came to see that the deadly old house was having its effect upon the girl, just as it had upon every one that came within its walls; she began to droop, and to wear a frightened look, and not all my reassurances would bring any brightness into her eyes.

"I'm afraid of the place," she whispered the second day, clinging to me. "That tall boy creeps about like a ghost – "

"And looks like one," I broke in with a laugh. "He's the best fellow in the world, is Andrew Ferkoe; you've nothing to fear from him."

"And Mr. Blowfield: he looks at me so strangely, and is altogether so queer," went on Debora. "Last night he begged me to sit up with him in his study until quite late – kept on asking me if I didn't hear this noise and that, and was I sure that nothing stirred in the shadows in the corner? I felt at last as if I should go mad if I wasn't allowed to scream."

"My darling girl, it won't be very long now before I'm able to take you away," I said, more hopefully than I felt. "My uncle's a good fellow, in his way, but he has lived a lonely life so long that he's not like other men. Have a little more patience, Debora dear; the sun will shine upon us both before long, and we shall come out of the shadows."

"But there is something else," she said. "I was in my room last night, at the top of the house here, sitting in the dark, thinking. Everything was very silent; it was as if all the world lay asleep. And then I saw a curious thing – something that frightened me."

"What was it?" I asked quickly.

"On the other side of the road facing the house is a long wall," she began in a whisper, "and just outside the gate, as you know, is a lamp-post. From where I sat in my window I could see that the wall was lit up, and across it again and again, while I watched for more than an hour, went two shadows."

"What sort of shadows?" I asked, as lightly as I could; yet I'll own I was startled.

"Shadows of men," she replied. "It was evident that they were walking up and down in the road, watching the house. The shadows were curious, because one was a very big one, walking stiffly, while the other was small, and seemed to creep along behind the first. And I know whose the shadows were – at least, I know one of them."

"How do you know?" I asked.

"I know the one man was Dr. Just," she answered me confidently, with a little quick nod.

"My dearest girl, how could you possibly know that?" I asked.

"Because the man walked with an easy stride, and yet his shadow showed only one arm swinging," she said. "Don't you see what I mean? The other arm was fastened to him in some way, held close against him."

I whistled softly, and looked into her eyes. "I see," I said; "that would be the sling. Now, what in the world has brought him here?"

"He's come to find you," said Debora quickly. "He will have heard from Green Barn that I am gone, and that you are gone; he will guess that if he finds you he may find me. The reason for his waiting outside would be that he might intercept you going in or coming out."

"There's something in that," I admitted. "However, of one thing I am certain in my own mind. Uncle Zabdiel won't give you up, nor will he admit the man into the house if he can avoid it. I'm not taking any stand by Uncle Zabdiel's integrity," I added. "I am only certain that he has a wholesome dread of me, and will not offend me. Rest easy; nothing will happen to you, my darling."

Just before my departure I was met by my uncle at the door of his study. He mysteriously beckoned me in, and closed the door. Then, something to my surprise, he buttonholed me, and pulled me further into the room, and stared up into my face with a pathetic expression of entreaty in his eyes.

"What's the matter?" I asked.

"My dear boy – my only nephew – I want you to believe that I'm being honest with you as far as I can; I don't want you to judge me hastily," he began. "People get such wrong notions in their heads, and you might hear something that would bring you rushing back here, and would leave me no time for explanation. Will you believe what I'm going to tell you?"

He was fumbling me all over. I saw that he had been troubled by something, and that his dread of me had been strongly revived. I was playing for too great a stake then to make the blunder of being smooth with him. I frowned and folded my arms, and looked down at him sternly.

"Come, out with it!" I said.

"There, now you're beginning to lose your temper before ever I've begun to say a word," he said, backing away from me. "Do be reasonable!"