Dead Man's Love Part 27

"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 b.l.o.o.d.y." 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 b.l.o.o.d.y!"

"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 e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed. "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. n.o.body 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 part.i.tion 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 att.i.tude 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.