I did my best to calm the man Capper. I feared that in his excitement he might betray his purpose to someone else, and someone not so well disposed towards him. I soothed him as well as I could, and presently got him by the arm and walked him away. For a long way we went in silence, until at last, having climbed to Hampstead Heath, I led him into a by-path there, and presently sat beside him on a seat, prepared to listen to his story. He was calmer by this time; the only evidence of the passions, so long suppressed and now working in him, was shown when, every now and then, he ground his right fist into the palm of his other hand, as though in that action he ground the face of his enemy.
"I want you to tell me, if you will, sir," he said at last, "where the man has gone. I was a fool when I lost him; I have not done my work well."
"I will tell you presently, when I have heard your story," I said. "You have made a threat of murder. I don't think it would be quite wise on my part to let you loose on anyone in your present frame of mind."
"Then hear me, and judge for yourself, sir," he answered solemnly.
"What I know is this," I said. "I know that Mr. Gregory Pennington went to the doctor's house on one particular night, and that he hanged himself in a room there. I, who found him hanging, found you in the room, apparently dazed."
"I have to think back a long way," said Capper, leaning forward on the seat, and resting his elbows on his knees, and his head in his hands. "It's all so much like a dream, and yet all so clear. Let me try to tell you, sir, what happened that night."
He sat for a long time in that attitude, as though striving to piece together all his recollections of that time; as though even yet he feared that his memory might play him false.
"I don't need to say anything about myself, sir, except just this: that Mr. Pennington picked me out of the gutter, and made a man of me. If ever one man worshipped another on this earth, I worshipped him; I would have died for him. He made me his servant, and yet his friend. He knew that I had been something better in the days before he found me; he made me something better again. He was quite alone in the world, and his income was administered by a trustee, a lawyer. That's all you need know about it. We wandered about all over the world. He thought nothing of starting off for the other side of the world, taking me with him always, at a moment's notice—which, perhaps, accounts for the fact that no one has made any enquiries about him.'"
I did not answer that; perhaps the time was coming when I should have to tell him the sequel to what he was now telling me.
"Then he met the young lady—Miss Debora Matchwick—and he used often to go and see her. One night he came home raging, and told me that Dr. Just had turned him out of the house, and had told him he was not to go there again. He was very much in love with the young lady, and the affair upset him a lot. But he told me that he had made up his mind to go there as often as he thought fit; he meant to defy the doctor."
He paused so long again that I was almost minded to speak to him; he seemed to be brooding. All at once he sat upright, and folded his arms, and went on again. His voice had taken on a new sternness.
"I took to going with him—or rather following him without his knowledge," he said slowly. "I didn't like the look of the doctor; I knew that he meant mischief. Night after night, when Mr. Pennington went to the house, I hid myself in the grounds, and waited and watched; then I followed him home again. You see, sir, he was everything to me, all I had in the world; it drove me mad almost to think that anything might happen to him. So the time went on, until at last that night arrived when, as it seemed, I fell asleep and forgot everything. But I remember that night now perfectly."
In his rising excitement he got up, and began to pace about, stopping every now and then to clap his hands together softly, and to nod his head as some point in the story recurred to his memory. At last he came back to me, and sat down, and faced me.
"He had told me before he went out that he intended to see the doctor that night. 'I'll have a turn-up with him,' he said to me, and laughed. I dreaded that; I made up my mind that I would be very near to him, indeed, that night. It was difficult, because if once he had discovered that I was following him, and watching him like that, he might have been angry, and might have ordered me to remain at home. So, you see, I had to be discreet. I went ahead of him on that occasion, and I concealed myself in the grounds quite near to the house. There I waited, and waited so long that I came almost to think that he had changed his mind, and would not come at all."
"Did you see no one else in the grounds?" I asked, thinking of my own unceremonious coming on that wonderful night.
He stared at me, and shook his head. "No one," he said. "Presently Mr. Pennington arrived, and the young lady crept out of the house to meet him; I saw them talking together for a long time. Then I saw Mr. Pennington go towards the house, and enter it."
I remembered how I had lain in the grass that night, and had seen the same scene he now described, although from a different point of view. I knew that Capper must have been between them and the house, whilst I, for my part, had been on the other side of them, so that they were between me and this man.
"Now, I will tell you, as well as I can recollect, exactly what happened," he said, speaking slowly, and ticking off his points one by one on his fingers. "I was so nervous that night—nervous for him, I mean—that I thought, sir, I would go into the house, so as to see that all was well with him. Everything was very silent, except that I could hear the murmur of voices—of men talking. You will understand, sir, that I did not know what the house was like, nor my way about it; but I found a door unfastened at the back, and I went in. I went towards where the voices were sounding, and I recognised Mr. Pennington's voice, and then the doctor's. Both the voices were loud and angry; I guessed that they were quarrelling."
"And what did you do then?" I asked him quickly.
"God help me!" he cried, wringing his hands. "I could not find the room. The place was in darkness, and I was afraid to make a noise, lest I should disturb some of the servants, and perhaps be turned out. I groped my way about among the passages, opening first one door and then another, and hearing the voices now near to me, and now further away; it was as though I had been in a maze. And then the voices ceased suddenly, and I heard the sound of a blow."
"What sort of blow?" I asked him breathlessly.
"It was like the sound of a weapon striking a man's head. It was followed by a sort of quick cry; and then there was silence. In my agitation I must have turned away from the spot; and I had now nothing to guide me, as the voices had guided me before. I could only stand there, waiting, and hoping to hear something. It was all so horrible, and I so helpless, that I wonder I did not go mad then. I was near to it when presently I heard a sound as though someone were dragging a heavy body across a room. I began again to move in the direction of that sound, and presently came to a door, and after listening to another sound I did not understand, opened it, and went in. I must be quick now to tell you what I saw, for it is at this point that the darkness falls upon me, and I seem to sink down and down into the depths that swallowed me up for so long a time."
I was really afraid that he might, indeed, forget before he could tell me; I watched him eagerly. After but a little pause he went on again, and now the horror was growing in his face, and stamping it, so that I could not take my eyes from him.
"As I opened the door of the room the doctor had his back to me, and he was hauling on something. I did not understand at first, until I saw that he was pulling on a rope that ran over a hook in the ceiling. That which he pulled was hidden from me by himself; I could not see what it was. It all happened in a second, because as I opened the door he swung away from me, still clinging to the rope—and then, dear God!—I saw what it was. Only for a flash did I see up there before me the dead face of my master—the master I loved, and for whom I would have given my life; then, as I put up my hand to hide the sight, everything went from me; and I seemed to fall, as I have said, into some great blackness, with all my life blotted out! That," he said, with a little, quick, helpless gesture of the hands—"that is all."
I felt my blood run cold at the horror of his tale; the whole scene seemed to be enacted before me, as though I had myself been present. "And did you really forget everything until a little time ago?" I asked.
"Everything, sir," he assured me solemnly. "I was like one groping in the dark. People I had known I knew again—as with Miss Debora; but I could not remember anything else. I had a vague idea that I had lost my master somewhere about that house; that made me cling to it. The rest was a blank. And then one day, when I saw the doctor raise his stick to strike a man down, it was as though something had been passed across my brain, and I remembered. If I can make myself clear, sir," went on Capper eagerly, "it was as though I had gone back to that night; that was why I sprang at the doctor, and wanted to kill him."
"And you tried again in the train," I reminded him. "But why on each occasion did you sham madness?—why did you pretend you were still the simple creature everyone supposed you to be?"
"Because I knew that if once Dr. Just guessed that I remembered the events of that night, he would take means to have me shut up; I might have been taken for a lunatic, and disposed of for the rest of my life. I knew that if I could once deceive him into believing that my mind was gone, he would not be suspicious of me. Unfortunately for my plan, I gave the game away when I tried to throw him out of that train."
"How was that?" I asked.
"I had managed things very well up to that point," he said. "I knew pretty well how the trains ran, and I knew that if I could throw him out on the line at a certain spot between the stations it would look like an accident, and the train on the other line would cut him to pieces. I was so sure of success that I threw off that disguise I had worn so long, and I cried out to him that I remembered he had killed my master, and that I meant to kill him. I dare say you remember, sir, that you asked him what I had said, and he would not tell you."
I remembered it distinctly, and I remembered how the doctor had watched that little drooping figure in the corner of the railway carriage, and how he had refused to tell me what the man had said before attacking him.
"After that, you see, there was no more chance of doing the thing secretly," went on Capper, speaking of the appalling business in the most easy and natural fashion. "He shut me out of the house; he would not let me come near him. Twice I followed him, and the second time I lost him. Now, sir,"—he clasped his hands, and looked at me with an agony of entreaty in his eyes—"now, sir, will you let me know where I can find him?"
"Answer me one question first," I said, looking into his eager eyes. "If you kill this man, what will become of you?"
He spread out his hands, and smiled the strangest smile I have ever seen. "What does that matter?" he asked simply. "If I am found out they may say that I am a madman; they may shut me away for life. They may even hang me. It will not matter—my life finished when the man who saved me from myself died."
I did not hesitate any further; I told Capper that Dr. Bardolph Just was living down at a place called Green Barn, near Comerford, in Essex. He thanked me in the strangest fashion, with the tears in his eyes; he asked if he might shake hands with me. I had a weird feeling that he felt he might be going to his own death as I gripped his hand and let him go. I watched him for a long time while he went across the heath; he walked quickly, and without once looking to right or left, or even looking back at me. And I wondered what manner of death was preparing for Dr. Just.
Let it be understood clearly that I was so amazed by the whole business that for some time I could not decide what to do. There was no thought in my mind of saving Bardolph Just, or of warning him; I felt that in this grim business I had no right to interfere. The man who had meted out death to another man, and had striven so hard to kill an innocent girl, was no subject for pity. If I had desired to do anything to stop the business, it would have been on account of the man Capper; and so far as he was concerned, I knew that I might as well try to turn some strong river from its course as hold him back.
But I thought now of Debora. Strange as it may appear, in my own mind I regarded the death of Dr. Just as something inevitable—something arranged and settled. Capper had given away his secret to me; I knew that in some fashion Dr. Just would meet his death at Green Barn, unless by a miracle it happened that he had already gone away. And even then Capper was capable of following him, in that deadly hunt, to the other side of the world. I determined that I must go to Green Barn—not with any intention of standing between Capper and his intended victim, but in the hope to be of service to Debora. Debora would be alone with Bardolph Just, and Bardolph Just was marked for death!
I hurried back to my lodging, in the hope to find Andrew Ferkoe, and to let him know what I was doing; but I found that he had not yet returned to the house, and the landlady had no knowledge of his movements. There was nothing for it but for me to leave a message, saying that I was called away into the country, and hoped to be back within a day or so. I said nothing more definite than that.
I got out at Comerford Station in a heavy fall of summer rain. I had no knowledge of whether Capper was in front of me, or behind me in London; whether he had yet come face to face with the doctor, or whether that was still to happen. I was passing rapidly through the little booking-hall when I saw a big man lounging on a seat there, with his arms folded and his legs stretched out before him. It was Harvey Scoffold, and half involuntarily I stopped.
He looked up at me with a scowl, which changed the next moment to a grin. "Hullo!" he said, with an attempt at joviality, "what brings you down here?"
"You should be able to guess," I reminded him.
"There's no welcome for you—nor for anyone else," he said sourly. "Look at me, my boy; I'm turned out. Simply given my marching orders, if you please, and sent packing."
"Have you been to Green Barn?" I asked him.
He nodded. "Went down in the friendliest fashion, to see a man I've been devilish useful to—and what do I get? A meal, of course; then I'm calmly told that the doctor is in retirement, and is not receiving guests. More than that, I'll tell you something else that may not be to your liking."
He leaned forward, thrusting his heavy face towards me, and dropping a hand on each knee. I had always disliked the man; I could have struck him full in his smiling face now for the look it wore.
"I don't suppose it'll be a bit to your liking, Mr. John New, or whatever your confounded name is," he said. "But the doctor has sent everyone away—servants and all—sent 'em packing to-day. He's a bit mad, I think, over that girl—or else he really means to kill her. But there they are—just the pair of 'em—alone together in that house. If you ask me," he added with a leer, "I wouldn't mind changing places with him, and I should say——"
I waited for no more; I left the man, and almost ran out of the station in my excitement. I heard him call after me, but could not know what the words were; nor did I greatly care. One picture, and one only, possessed my mind, to the exclusion of everything else. The figure of Capper was blotted out by that more tragic figure of Debora, at the mercy of Bardolph Just, in that lonely Essex house. More than all else, I realised that my hands would be in a sense tied by Debora, because she would believe that my liberty would be endangered if she left the doctor.
I found that to be true enough. So confident was the man of his power over her that he had given her a certain amount of liberty; so that, to my surprise and my delight, I suddenly came face to face with her within an hour of my reaching Green Barn—and that, too, near to the little hut at the edge of the abandoned chalk pit.
The meeting was so surprising to both of us that for a time we could only hold hands, and talk incoherently, each in a great relief at finding the other safe and well. But at last we came down to more prosaic things, and she told me something of what was happening.
Bardolph Just had sworn to carry his threat into execution if she saw me again, or had anything further to do with me; he had determined to risk everything, and to give me up to the authorities. I tried to show her that the man would never dare proceed to that extremity, because of the danger in which he would place himself by so doing. And then I told her about Capper, and about Capper's threat.
"Capper is here!" she exclaimed, startlingly enough.
"Have you seen him?" I demanded.
She nodded quickly. "I was walking in the grounds a little while ago, and I saw him. He came up to me, and said how glad he was to see me, and asked about the doctor—all quite innocently and simply, I thought."
"There is no innocence and no simplicity about him," I said. "He means murder. I don't think anything will turn him from it. That's why I want you to leave all this behind and to go away."
"With you?" she asked.
"No, not with me," I said, reluctantly enough. I could not tell her then all that was in my mind; I might have broken down in the telling. "I must remain here until I know what Capper means to do. I must, if possible, dissuade him from that, if only for his own sake. Tell me, my dear girl," I went on earnestly, "is there no one to whom you could go, and who would befriend you? Set the doctor out of your mind altogether; I have a presentiment that, whatever happens, he will not trouble you again. Is there no one to whom you could turn?"
"No one but you in all the world," she said, looking at me curiously.
"Your father must have had some lawyer—some friend," I suggested.
"The same lawyer that Dr. Just employs," she said. "He looks after my money, as well as that of the doctor."
"I want you to promise, Debora, that if anything happens to me you will go to that man, and will see to it that he makes proper provision for you out of your money, and provides you with a settled home. He will do that for his own sake."
"But what should happen to you?" she whispered, clinging to me. "And in any case how will anyone help me if the doctor is here to interfere?"
"I am only asking you to promise something, in case something else—something quite impossible, if you like—should happen," I assured her lightly.
"Very well then, I promise," she answered.
It was a more difficult matter to persuade her to run away, and especially to run away and leave me in that place. For I could not tell her my reasons, and I saw that she did not think it possible that that weak little creature Capper could carry out his threat against the stronger man Bardolph Just; the thing was a sheer impossibility. Nevertheless, I so worked upon her terrors of the house, and of the man who had her prisoner there, that at last she consented to go. I pressed what money I had upon her, and arranged that she should go back to London that night, and should make her way to the little quiet hotel near the Charterhouse where she was known; there she could await a letter from me. I was to keep out of the way until she was gone, that I might not seem to be connected with her flight. The rest was a matter on my part of vague promises as to the future.
And then it was that I held her in my arms as I had never held her before, and as though I could never let her go. For I had made up my mind that I would not see her again; it was my purpose to keep away from her, and to take myself out of her life from that hour. It seemed to me then as though all the strange business that had brought us together was closing, and I felt now, as I had not clearly felt before, that mine was no life to link with hers. She was rich, and she was young, and she was fair; any love she might have felt for me was more a matter of gratitude than anything else. I had been able to stand her friend when no other friend was near, but I was that creature without a name, who might some day by chance be sent back to his prison. I must not link my name with hers.
However, I would not let her suspect that this was the parting of the ways. I made her repeat her promise to me to go to this lawyer, an elderly man, as I understood, and one who had dealt honestly with her father; and with that we parted. I knew that she would slip out of the house, and would go off to London. From some other place I would write to her, and would tell her of my decision. I felt also that I might have news to tell of Dr. Bardolph Just.
And now I come to that strangest happening of all—the death of that celebrated physician and scientist, Dr. Bardolph Just. Of all that was written about it at the time, and the many eulogies that were printed concerning the man, you will doubtless have heard; but the true story of it is given here for the first time, and it is only given now because the man who killed him is dead also, and is beyond the reach of everyone.
The thing is presented to me in a series of scenes, so strange and weird in their character that it is almost as though I had dreamt them, when now, after years, I strive to recollect them. The gaunt old house, standing surrounded by its grounds; the solitary man shut up alone in it, not dreaming that Debora had gone, and that I was so near at hand; and above all and before all, that strange figure of William Capper. I find myself shuddering now when I remember all the elements of the story, and how that story ended.
I was a mere spectator of the business—something outside it—and I looked on helplessly through the amazing scenes, with always that feeling that I was in a dream. Long after Debora had stolen away from the house that night, I wandered restlessly about the place, wondering a little at the silence, and remembering always that somewhere among the shadows lurked Capper, watching this man he had come to kill. I remembered also that in the strangest fashion Bardolph Just had prepared the way for him by actually sending everyone who might have protected him out of the house.
Exactly how Capper got into the place I was never able to discover. Whether Bardolph Just had grown careless, and did not think it likely that the man would discover where he was, or whether Capper, with cunning, forced an entrance somewhere, I never knew. But it was after midnight when I heard a cry in the house, and knew that what I dreaded had begun to happen. A minute or two afterwards the door opened, and Bardolph Just came out, staggering down the steps, and looking back into the lighted house. He seemed frightened, and I guessed what had frightened him.
He stopped still at a little distance from the house, and then turned slowly, and retraced his steps. Capper stood framed in the lighted doorway, looking out at him, but I saw that he appeared to have no weapon. In the dead silence all about us I heard Bardolph Just's words clearly.
"Where the devil did you come from?" he asked in a shrill voice.
"From my dead master!" came Capper's answer, clear and strong.
"Get out of my house, you madman!" exclaimed the doctor, taking a step towards him; but the other did not move. "What do you want with me?"
"I want to remain near you; I never mean to leave you again on this side of the grave," said Capper.
"Are you going to kill me?" asked the other. "Do you mean murder?"
"I don't mean to kill you—yet," replied the other. In the strangest fashion he seated himself on the top step, and folded his arms and waited.
Bardolph Just walked away a little, and then came back. I could see that, apart from his dread of the other man, he did not know what to do, nor how to meet this amazing situation. He took out a cigar from his case and lighted it, and strolled up and down there, alternately watching the little man seated above him, and studying the ground as though seeking for a solution of the difficulty. At last he decided to drop threatening, and to try if he might not win the man over.
"Look here, my good Capper," he said, "I've no reason to love you, but I think you're merely a poor, half-witted creature, who should be more pitied than blamed. I don't want to have any trouble with you, but most decidedly I don't want to be subjected to your violence. I want to come into my house.'"
"Come in by all means," said the little man, getting to his feet; "and I will not use violence."
Seeing that the doctor still hesitated, I thought I might at least show myself. I was, above all things, anxious to see the end of the business. My concern was with Capper chiefly. I could not see for the life of me what he would do in trying conclusions with a man of the physique of Bardolph Just. Above all things, I did not want it to happen that the doctor should gain a victory.
"You're not afraid of the man?" was my somewhat contemptuous greeting of him.
"What areyoudoing here?" he demanded. "Are you in the plot?"
"I've done with plots," I said. "I am merely a spectator."
He said nothing about Debora, and I rightly guessed that he had not yet discovered her absence, but had merely concluded that she had retired for the night. After looking at me for a moment or two doubtfully, he took a step or two in my direction, and lowered his voice to a whisper.
"Look here," he said, with a nervous glance towards the man in the doorway, "I'm all alone in this house except for a weak girl, and I'm afraid of this fellow. What shall I do?"
"He's smaller than you are," I reminded him. "Turn him out!"
"I'm half afraid to go near him," he said. "You've seen him fly at me on two occasions; he can be like a wild beast when he likes."
"He has said that he will offer you no violence," I replied. "I don't know what he's got in his mind, but it seems to me, if you're afraid to turn him out, you've got to put up with him. He seems very fond of you," I added caustically.
He shot a glance at me, as though wondering what I meant; then turned and walked towards the house. I saw Capper retreat before him, so as to give him free entry to the place. On the door-step he turned, and called out into the darkness to me.
"You, at any rate, can stop outside; one madman is bad enough." Then the door was shut, and I was left to wonder what was going on inside.
I was not to be left long in doubt. In something less than half an hour, while I was hesitating whether to go, or whether to stay, the door was pulled open again, and a voice so querulous and nervous that I scarcely recognised it for that of the doctor called out into the darkness,
"John New! John New, are you there?"
I showed myself at once, and he ran down the steps to me. I saw that he was shaking from head to foot; the hand with which he gripped me, while he stared over his shoulder back into the house, was a hand of ice.
"For the love of God," he whispered, "come into the house with me! I shall go mad if this goes on. I can't shake him off."
"Lock yourself in your room, and go to bed," I said disdainfully.
"I can't; he's taken every key of every lock in the house and hidden them. I can't shut a door against him anywhere; upstairs and downstairs, wherever I go he is there, just behind me. Will you come in?"
I went in; the sheer fascination of the thing was growing on me. Capper took not the faintest notice of me; he was waiting just inside the door, and he followed us into a room. There he seated himself, with his hands on his knees, and waited. The doctor made a pretence of drinking, and even of lighting a cigar, but he set the glass down almost untasted, and allowed the cigar to go out. No words were exchanged between us, and still Capper kept up that relentless watch.
At last Bardolph Just sank down into a chair, and closed his eyes. "If he won't let me go to bed, I'll sleep here," he murmured.
But in a moment Capper had sprung up, and had gone to the man and shaken him roughly by the shoulder. "Wake up!" he ordered. "You'll sleep no more until you sleep at the last until the Judgment Day."
I saw then with horror what his purpose was. I knew not what the end was to be, but I saw that his immediate purpose was to wear the other man down until he could do what he liked with him. I thought he was a fool not to understand that in striving to break down the strength of the other he was breaking himself down too; but that never seemed to occur to him. For the whole of that night he kept Bardolph Just awake, followed him from room to room in that house where no door would lock, and where he gave his victim no time to barricade himself in; he never left him for a moment. More than once Bardolph Just turned on him, and then the eyes of Capper flashed, and he drew back as if about to spring; and the doctor waited. He threw himself on his bed once, in sheer exhaustion, and Capper made such a din in the room by overturning tables and smashing things that the wretched man got up and fled downstairs, and out into the grounds. But Capper fled with him.
For my part, I slept at intervals, dropping on to a couch, or into a deep chair, and closing my eyes from sheer weariness. I found myself murmuring in my sleep sometimes, incoherently begging Capper to give the game up, and to let the man alone; but he took no notice of me, and I might indeed have been a shadow in the house, so little did he seem to be aware of my presence. When I could, after waking from a fitful sleep, I would stumble about the house in a search for them, and even out into the grounds; and always there was the man striving for rest, and the other man keeping him awake.
Once Bardolph Just armed himself with a stick, and ran out of the house; Capper snatched up another, and ran after him. I thought that this was the end; I ran out too, crying to Capper to beware what he did. When I got to them—and this was the noon of the following day—Bardolph Just had flung aside his stick, and stood there in a dejected attitude, looking at his persecutor.
"It's no good," he said hoarsely, "I give in. Do what you will with me; ask what you will; this is the end."
"Not yet," said Capper, leaning upon the stick and watching him. "Not yet."
That strange hunt went on for the whole of that day, and during the next night. I only saw part of it all, because, of course, I fell asleep, and slept longer than I had done at first. But I saw once the wretched man fall upon his knees before Capper, and beg for mercy; saw him struggle with Capper with his uninjured arm, so that the two of them swayed about, dazed with want of sleep; saw him fall to the ground, and try to sleep, and the other kick him viciously into a wakeful state again. And at last came the end, when the doctor went swaying and stumbling up the stairs towards his bedroom, muttering that the other man could do his worst, but that he must sleep. So utterly worn out was he that he got no further than the landing; there he fell, and lay as one dead.
The sun was streaming in through a high window; it fell upon the exhausted man, and upon Capper standing beside him. Capper was swaying a little, but otherwise seemed alert enough.
"This will serve," he muttered as if to himself. "This is the end."
He went away, and after a little time came back with a rope and a hatchet. In my horror at what he might be going to do, I would have taken the hatchet from him; but now he threatened me with it, with a snarl like that of a wild beast; and I drew away from him, and watched. He proceeded to hack away the rails of the landing, leaving only the broad balustrade; he cut away six rails, and tossed them aside. Then he made a running noose in the rope, and fastened the other end of it securely to the balustrade. There was thus left a space under where the rope was fastened, and sheer down from that a drop into the hall below. He knelt down beside the unconscious man, and lifted his head, and put the noose about his neck. He tightened it viciously, but the sleeping man never even murmured.
Then I saw him begin to push the sleeping man slowly and with effort towards the gap he had made in the staircase rail.
When I could look (and it was a long time before I could make up my mind to do so), the body of Bardolph Just swung high above me, suspended by the neck. On the landing, prone upon the floor, lay William Capper, sleeping soundly.
The suicide of that brilliant and cultured man, Dr. Bardolph Just, caused, as you will remember, a very great sensation at the time, and there was much wonder expressed as to why the man had hanged himself at all. But there was no doubt about the question of suicide, because the whole thing had been so deliberately and carefully planned.
He had taken care to send everyone away from him—even an old and trusted friend like Mr. Harvey Scoffold—and had left himself absolutely alone in that great house. Various theories were put forward as to how he had managed to tie the knot so successfully, in making that running noose for his neck; but it was universally agreed that that had been a matter of teeth and his one uninjured hand. Shuddering accounts, wholly imaginary, were given of what the man's last hours must have been, and in what determined fashion he must have hacked away the rails, in order to make a space through which he could push his way. Everyone seemed to be perfectly agreed on that matter, and there it ended.
For the rest, let me say that I waited in that house until, in due course, William Capper woke up. He went about what he had to do after that in the most methodical way, restoring all the keys to the doors, and putting in order such things as had been disturbed during those long, weary hours when he had followed the other man round the house. He said but little to me, and at last we came out of the place, and stood together, with the doors of the house closed upon us. Only when we had gone through the grounds, and had come out upon the high road did he speak again, and then without looking at me.
"This is where we part, sir," he said quietly. "You will be making for London, and I——"
"Where will you go?" I asked him as he hesitated.
"I don't know, and it doesn't matter," he replied, looking out over the landscape that stretched before him. "I'm an old man, and there may not be many years for me. It does not matter much where or how I spend them. If," he added whimsically, "I could be sure that they would send me to that prison from which you came"—for I had told him that part of the story—"I would do something that would cause me to be sent there; but it might be another prison, and that wouldn't do. I should like to be near him."
I stretched out my hand to him, on an impulse, in farewell, but he shook his head. "You might not like to think afterwards that you took my hand, after what I have done," he said quietly. Then, with a quick nod, this singular creature turned away and walked off down the road. I lost him at a turn of it, and I saw him no more.
I went back to London that night, and at my old lodging found Andrew Ferkoe awaiting me. I had the task before me of writing to Debora, and that task, as you may suppose, was not an easy one. Nevertheless I contrived to put my case before her clearly and without brutality.
I told her that I should love her all my life; I blessed her for all she had unconsciously done for me; I told her I was grateful for the sweet memory of herself that she had left with me. But I reminded her that I had no name, and no position, and no hopes, and if by any unfortunate chance my real name was thrust upon me in the future, it would only be to bring shame and degradation upon me and upon any one with whom I was associated. And I added that she would have news very soon concerning the doctor, and I thought it improbable that he would ever trouble her again.
I sealed the letter and directed it, and gave it to Andrew Ferkoe. "Run out and post that," I said. "And never speak to me about the matter again. You and I are alone together in the world, Andrew, and we shall have to be sufficient for each other."
The lad weighed the letter in his hand, studying the address, and looking from it to me and back again. "I know what you've done," he said; "you've had a row with the young lady—that's what you've done."
"You simpleton!" I laughed; "what do you know about such matters? I've had no row with the young lady, as you express it. I'm only trying to do the right thing."
"Isn't she fond of you?" he asked wistfully.
"I believe she's very fond of me," I replied. "Only there are such things in this world as honour, and justice, and truth, and it is written among the laws that men should obey, but do not, that you mustn't take advantage of a woman's fondness for you. In other words, Andrew, you must play the game. So that it happens that, as I'm a rank outsider and a bad lot, and as I have the stain of the prison on me, I've got to steer clear of a young girl who is as high above me as the stars. In a little time she will come to think of me with friendly feelings, but no more than that. So off with you, my boy, and post that important letter."
Andrew hesitated a moment or two longer, and shook his head, but at last he sallied forth on his errand. I had lighted a cigar, and was on the point of sitting down to enjoy it, and to ruminate luxuriously over my miseries, when there came a knock at the door, and my landlady put her head in to announce that a gentleman had come to see me. I was rapidly running over the names of the extremely few people who even knew of my whereabouts as the man entered, and disclosed himself as an utter stranger. He was a little man, dressed in black, and of a precise manner of speech and action. The landlady withdrew, and the visitor stood looking at me, as though taking stock of me generally, while he removed his gloves.
"Haven't you made a mistake, sir?" I asked.
"I think not," he replied. "You are Mr. John New, are you not?"
I told him that I was, and I began to have an unpleasant sensation that he must be connected with the police in some way. However, he smiled with satisfaction at this proof that he was right, and took from his breast pocket a little bundle of papers.
"You were, I believe, a friend of the late Mr. Zabdiel Blowfield, who was brutally murdered a short time ago?" he asked, looking up at me.
"Yes," I said, in some amazement. "I knew him slightly."
"As you are doubtless aware, Mr. New, the old gentleman was very eccentric, and took very sudden likes and dislikes. He had no one in the world belonging to him, his one nephew, after a somewhat disgraceful career, having died shamefully. It seems, however, that, slight as your acquaintance with him was, he took a decided liking for you."
"He never displayed it in life," I said grimly.
"Then he has made up for any lack in that respect now," said the man. "Perhaps I should introduce myself, Mr. New. My name is Tipping—James Tipping—and I was Mr. Blowfield's solicitor for many years. I should like, Mr. New, to congratulate you; your poor old friend has left you everything he possessed in the world."
For a moment or two I gaped at him, not understanding. I tried to frame words in which to answer, tried to get some grasp of his meaning. While I stood there, staring stupidly, he smiled indulgently, and went on speaking.
"The will in which he left everything to you, and which was duly witnessed at my office, was prepared only a few days—a few hours almost—before his death. It was prepared under curious circumstances. He seemed to have an idea that he had not treated his dead nephew very well, and he wanted to make amends in some way. He told me that was the reason that he wanted to leave the money to you, a young man, with his way to make in the world."
I own I felt bitterly ashamed. I seemed to see this strange old man doing what he thought was some tardy act of justice at the very end, and doing it in such a fashion that my identity should not be revealed. True, I remembered that in sheer panic he had tried to destroy me afterwards, but he had not revoked the will.
"How much is it?" I contrived to ask.
"Considerably over eighty thousand pounds," said Mr. Tipping unctuously. "Mr. Blowfield lived very simply, as you are aware, and was extremely successful in his investments generally. I congratulate you, Mr. New, with all my heart; I regret if I have been somewhat abrupt, and so have startled you."
"It is a little staggering, certainly," I said weakly.
The man made an appointment for me to see him at his office on the following day, but meanwhile left a substantial sum in my hands. When Andrew Ferkoe came back, as he did presently, I told him the great news.
"Now, look here, Andrew," I said solemnly, "I regard this money as belonging almost as much to you as it does to me. There's not the slightest doubt that my Uncle Zabdiel made your father poor, and you know well enough that he ground you pretty hard afterwards. You toiled, just as I toiled before you; and now we've got our great reward. You shall join forces with me; we'll start life together, in a better fashion than any we have yet enjoyed. Come down with me to see the lawyer to-morrow, and I'll settle a certain amount on you, and tie it up tight, so that you can get at it only in instalments; because money's a dreadful temptation. After that we'll decide what we shall do with our lives."
"I wish my poor father had been alive to know you," said the boy tearfully.
I slept but little that night; my brain was awhirl with many thoughts. Now, more than ever, there entered into me the temptation to remember only that I was a rich man, and by that right, at least, I might approach Debora. I weighed that aspect of the case carefully through the long hours of the night—almost making up my mind at times that I would throw everything else to the winds, and would go to the girl and beg her now to start life with me in a newer and a better fashion than any she or I had known. But with the cold light of the dawn hard facts asserted themselves; and I knew that the brand of my prison was on me, and could not well be washed out. I rose from my bed, determined that for the future love or thoughts of love was not for me.
In due course we called upon Mr. James Tipping, and I listened with what patience I might to a lecture from that gentleman on the sin of mistaken generosity. In the end, of course, I had my way, and Andrew Ferkoe found himself with an income, and with Mr. James Tipping as his legal guardian. I will not tell you the amount, lest you should regard me either as too generous or not generous enough; suffice it that Andrew could look forward to the prospect of passing his days in comfort, no matter what might happen to me.
A few days of splendid idleness supervened on that, and I saw London under a new aspect, and with a heart almost at peace—almost, because it was utterly impossible for me to shut out of my mind what might have been and what never could be. So difficult was it, indeed, that at last my resolution broke down; and one evening I drove straight to the little hotel near the Charterhouse where I had left Debora. I rehearsed speeches as I went along, telling myself that she should understand clearly what the position was, and what she risked, and all the rest of it; I was very full of the matter by the time the cab stopped outside the hotel.
But she was gone. So little had I expected that, that I stared in blank amazement at the porter, and asked him if he was quite sure. Yes, he was quite sure; the lady had left two days before, and had not stated where she was going.
That was a knock-down blow, and one from which I found it difficult to recover. My pride was hurt, inconsistently enough; I had never expected that she would take the matter like that, and so readily adopt the very forcible arguments I had brought to bear upon the situation in my letter to her. I had pictured her as resenting the idea fiercely; I had pictured her broken down, and longing to see me, and to put her own very different view of the matter before me. This calm acceptance of my ideas was not what in my heart I had really anticipated.
Foolishly enough, I went back again and again to the hotel; but there was no news of her. I did not even know the name of the lawyer to whom I had recommended her to go, in the event of anything happening to me or to the doctor. I began to see with bitterness that this young lady regarded me merely as an episode—merely as a highly undesirable escaped convict, who had forced his way into her life, and who was now done with.
For my part, I had done with London, and I had done with England. I made up my mind that I would go abroad, and would start again in a new country, and would endeavour to make something of my miserable existence. So set was I upon the idea that in a matter of days I had decided everything, and was buying my outfit. I put the matter before Andrew Ferkoe; I expected that he would raise objections to our parting.
He seemed a little upset, but said nothing that bore greatly on the question. He had great hopes, he told me, of being a doctor, and was already making arrangements to enter himself at a hospital, with a view to training. I applauded the idea, for I had not liked to think that the lad might settle down to doing nothing save the spending of his income.
Judge of my surprise, therefore, when on the very next day he walked into my sitting-room in the comfortable hotel in which we had taken up our quarters, and announced quite another decision. He announced it firmly, too, and with more daring than I should have given him credit for.
"I'm coming with you," he said.
"You're making a great mistake if you think of doing that," I assured him. "Here in London you can settle down, and become a great and clever man; with me you'll probably lead a useless, wandering sort of existence, and accomplish nothing. Be wise, and stay where you are."
"I'm coming with you," said Andrew obstinately. "You've been awfully good to me, and I should be a beast to let you go on alone, to knock about the world. I've been selfish even to think of it."
Nor could I shake his determination. I had booked my passage, and I now had to take another for him. He was nervous of going, he told me, and would greatly prefer to have a cabin to himself, if that could be secured. As there were not many passengers by that particular boat, I was able to arrange that he should be alone in a small cabin. I settled the matter then and there, and paid his passage money. And so we came to the last night we were to spend in England.
"I want to have a run round to-morrow," he said, as we were about to retire to our rooms. "It'll be the last time I shall see London, I expect, and I want to make the most of every hour. The vessel doesn't sail until quite late, and I shall go on board and turn in at once. I'm dreadfully afraid I shall be ill, and I don't want to wake up until I'm miles away from the shore; then perhaps I can face it better."
Having settled that point, the boy prepared to go to bed. When he got to the door of the room, however, he turned back, and slowly retraced his steps to where I stood. He seemed bashful and nervous; he did not look into my eyes.
"There's never been anyone in the world that's behaved as well to me as you have," he said. "I shall never be able to thank you enough."
"Shut up, Andrew, and go to bed!" I broke in.
"I don't intend to speak about it again, but I must, just this last time. God bless you, Jack"—I had taught him to call me that—"and may you be the happiest man in the world, wherever you are."
Before I could prevent him he had caught my hand in both of his, and had kissed it passionately; then, with a sound suspiciously like a sob, he turned and bolted from the room. I had known him always for an odd, strange creature, but I confess I was moved more strongly then than perhaps I had ever been moved before.
Evidently he had made up his mind to make the most of the day; he was gone from the hotel when I came down in the morning. I took my last look at London on my own account, feeling not too cheerful at the prospect of going so far away. Then, towards the hour for sailing, I started for the ship. My luggage had gone on, and I had nothing to do but to put myself on board.
"The young gentleman came on board, and turned in about half an hour ago, sir," the steward told me. "Dreadful afraid of being seasick, sir; said he wasn't to be disturbed on any account."
"Let him alone by all means," I said laughing. I felt relieved to know that Andrew had got safely out of his adventures of the day. I turned in, and slept until the morning, by which time we were well out to sea.
Andrew did not put in an appearance all that day. He sent messages to me by the steward, to say that he was very ill, and did not want to see anyone; a little later, that he was getting better. It was quite late in the evening when I put the steward aside and insisted on seeing the boy. I was anxious about him.
The cabin was not particularly well lighted as I stumbled into it. I saw the boy sitting on the side of his bunk, with his face partly turned from me. Curiously enough, he was wearing his hat, a soft felt I had noticed him with the day before we left London.
"Well, Andrew," I said cheerily, "I'm sorry to see you like this. Much better for you to put a good face on it, and come on deck."
"Won't this face do?"
I started, and stared at the figure of the boy.
In a moment the boy rose to his feet and tossed aside the felt hat; a great mass of curls came tumbling down on to his shoulders. I uttered a cry of amazement.
It was Debora!
"Andrew knew all about it all the time," she whispered to me, when presently we were coherent, and when she had blushingly apologised for her boy's dress. "He came to me after he had posted the letter you sent me; then, when I knew that you were going to sail, I made up my mind to come with you. You foolish fellow! you would only have run away from me again if I had tried to meet you in any other way; and I wanted to follow you all over the world."
"All my world is here!" I whispered, as I kissed her.
Ward, Lock & Co., Limited, London.