Dead Man's Love Part 26

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 fas.h.i.+on 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 Ess.e.x? 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-fas.h.i.+oned 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 att.i.tude, 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 pa.s.sions 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 s.h.i.+ft 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 pa.s.sed. 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 circ.u.mstances 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."

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."