Dead Man's Love Part 18

It was his voice, sure enough; he wanted to speak to "the gent 'oo'd jist gorn in." I gave a glance at Harvey Scoffold, and went out into the pa.s.sage to speak to the man; for I felt that I was in a tight place.

"Nah then," said George Rabbit loudly--"you an' me 'as got to come to some sort of unnerstandin'. I'm a honest man, I am, wot's worked out 'is time, and done 'is little bit right an' proper; I ain't no blooming jail-bird, wot's cut 'is lucky afore 'is time."

I clapped a hand over his mouth; but it was too late. Even as I struggled with him, I saw the door of the room in which Harvey Scoffold and the girl were slowly opening, and the face of Harvey Scoffold looked out. George Rabbit slipped out of my grasp like an eel, and rushed to the door of the room, and forced his way in. He was absolutely mad with rage, and not responsible for anything he said.

"What's to do here--what's to do?" asked Scoffold mildly; yet I thought he watched Debora as he asked the question.

"Ask that man 'is name!" cried Rabbit, pointing fiercely to me. "Ask 'im 'is name--an' w'ere 'e come from--an' wot jail 'e broke out of!"

I stood still, watching Debora; my fate lay in her hands. Very slowly she came across to me, and looked into my face, and asked me a question.

"What does the man mean, John?" she asked. "You must please tell me."

I glanced appealingly at Harvey Scoffold; and in a moment I read in his grimly set lips that he meant that the exposure should be carried through. I knew that if I did not tell the tale he would, in some more garbled fashion. Therefore when I spoke it was to him.

"If you'll take this man away," I said slowly--"I'll tell her the truth."

"The truth is always best, dear boy," he said, with a grin.

So I waited in a horrible silence, while the two men went out of the room. Then when the door was closed I turned to the girl, who was more to me than life itself; and my heart sank at the thought of what I had to say to her.

CHAPTER VIII.

MISERY'S BEDFELLOW.

For what seemed a long time, but was after all but a matter of moments, we stood in that room, facing each other; and perhaps the bitterest thing to me then, with the knowledge in my mind of what I had to say, was that when at last she broke silence she should speak to me with tenderness.

"John, dear," she said softly, "there is some mystery here that I don't understand; I want to know all about it--all about you. I trust you as I trust no other man on earth; there can be nothing you are afraid to tell me."

Having struck me that unconscious blow, she sat down calmly, and smiled at me, and waited; I thought that never had poor prisoner trembled before his judge as I trembled then.

"I want you to throw your mind back," I began at last, seeing that I must get the business over, "to the night when last you saw Gregory Pennington."

She started, and looked at me more keenly; leaned forward over the table beside her, and kept her eyes fixed on my face.

"I remember the evening well," she said. "We stood together in the grounds of the house; he left me to go into that house to see my guardian. And I have never seen him since."

"When you met Gregory Pennington that night," I went on, "I lay in the darkness quite near to you, a forlorn and hunted wretch, clad in a dress such as you have never seen--the dress of a convict."

She got up quickly from her chair, and retreated from me; yet still she kept her eyes fixed on my face. And now I began to see that my cause was hopeless.

"I had broken out of my prison that day, a prison far away in the country. I was hunted, and hopeless, and wretched; the hand of every man was against me. I had taken money that did not belong to me, and I had received a savage sentence of ten years' imprisonment. I had served but one, when the life and the manhood in me cried aloud for liberty; and on that night when you met Pennington in the garden I was free."

"Why were you in that place at all?" she whispered.

"That place was as good as any other, if it could provide me with that I wanted, food and clothing," I answered her. "I saw young Pennington go into the house; a little later I followed him. Only, as you will understand, I could not enter by the door; I broke into the place like the thief I was."

"I understand that that was necessary," she said, nodding slowly. "I do not judge you for that."

"When I got into the house," I went on hurriedly, "I found that a tragedy had taken place. I implore you to believe that I am telling the truth and nothing but the truth; I could not lie to you. Your friend Gregory Pennington had met with an accident."

She read what was in my face; she drew a deep breath, and caught at the back of the chair by which she stood. "You mean that he was dead?" she whispered.

I nodded. "For what reason I know not, although I can guess; but Gregory Pennington had hanged himself."

She closed her eyes for a moment, and I thought as she swayed a little that she was going to faint. I had taken a step towards her when she opened her eyes suddenly, and I saw a great anger and indignation blazing in them. "It's a lie!" she exclaimed, "he was the last person to do such a thing. He was the brightest, and best, and sweetest lad that ever loved a girl, and loved her hopelessly."

"There you have it," I suggested. "Had you not told him that night that you could not love him?"

"Yes, but that would not have sent him to his death," she retorted. "But go on; I want to know what was done, and why I never heard about this until now."

"I want you to understand, if you can, two things," I went on steadily.

"First, there was a dead man and a living one; and the living one was a hunted fugitive. Second, there was, in a slight degree, a faint resemblance between the dead man and the living, in colouring, and height, and general appearance."

She looked at me for a moment or two in silence; then she nodded her head. "Yes, I see that now," she answered, "although I never noticed it before."

"While I was in the room with the dead man, Dr. Just put in an appearance. To be brief, he wanted to keep the matter from you, because he knew the boy had been your friend; he took pity on me, and wanted to save me. He knew that they were hunting for a convict, who might perhaps be thought to be something like the dead man; at his suggestion I changed clothes with Gregory Pennington, and started under another name."

I turned away from her then; I dared not look at her. For a time there was a dead silence in the room, broken only by the curious slow ticking of an old eight-day clock in the corner. I remember that I found myself mechanically counting the strokes while I waited for her to speak.

When at last I could bear the tension no longer I looked round at her.

She stood there, frozen, as it were, in the att.i.tude in which I had seen her, looking at me with a face of horror. Then at last, in a sort of broken whisper, she got out a sentence or two.

"You--you changed clothes? Then he--he became the convict--dead?

What--what became of him?"

"He lies buried--in my name--within the walls of Penthouse Prison."

She stared at me for a moment as though not understanding; seemed to murmur the words under her breath. Then she clapped her hands suddenly over her face.

"Oh--dear G.o.d!" she cried out.

I began to murmur excuses and pleadings. "The fault was not mine, the boy was dead, and no further harm could come to him. I wanted to live--I was so young myself, and I wanted to begin life again. I never thought----"

She dropped her hands, and faced me boldly; I saw the tears swimming in her eyes. "You never thought!" she cried. "You never thought of what it meant for him, with no sin upon him, to lie in a felon's grave! You never thought that there was anyone on earth might miss him, and sorrow for him, and long for him! You wanted to live--you, that had broken prison--you, a common thief! You coward!"

I said no more; it seemed almost as if the solid earth was slipping away from under my feet. I cared nothing for what might happen to me; I knew that I had lost her, and that I should never touch her hand again in friendship. I stood there, waiting, as though for the sentence she must p.r.o.nounce.

"I never want to see your face again," she said at last, in a low voice.

"I do not know yet what I shall do; I have not had time to think. But I want you to go away, to leave me; I have done with you."

"I will not leave you," I said doggedly. "You are in danger!"

She laughed contemptuously. "Then I won't be saved by you!" she exclaimed. "There are honest men in the world; I would not trust you, nor appeal to you, if I had no other friend on earth."