STEPHEN WALKER DOES HIS WORST.
ON the return journey from Gravesend, the Policeman could not but
remark that a great change had taken place in his companion. It
was not that he spoke more than he had done before, for he did not
exchange a single word with him; but the whole expression of his
face, and even of his figure, had changed. On his way down he had
cowered in a corner, his face generally buried in his hands; when
he had looked up it was with an expression of utter hopelessness,
mingled with a certain anxious dread; his fingers had twitched
nervously, he clasped and unclasped his hands, and rocked his body
to and fro. Now, all this was changed. He was another man. He sat
upright, almost stiffly so. There was a patch of colour in each
cheek, his face was set and hard, his lips pressed closely together,
he seemed unconscious of where he was, but looked straight in the
distance. His hands no longer lay nerveless, but were tightly
compressed in a fierce clench. Sometimes his lips moved, but his
companion could not hear that he spoke. People got in and out at the
various stations, but Stephen Walker never noticed them, and was
unconscious of their presence, much less of the curiosity and comment
of which he was the subject. His appearance was far too wild and
strange, not to be instantly remarked, and this, coupled with the
fact of the Policeman being seated opposite to him, awakened great
suspicion, not to say alarm. One or two people whispered to A 56,
to inquire if it was a case of murder; and one old lady expressed
her opinion audibly, that “it was shameful taking such a character
as that in a railway-carriage without so much as a handcuff on.”
The Policeman, not being able to enter into explanations, answered
only by a general nod, as much as to show he knew what he was about,
and then tapped his forehead mysteriously. This had the effect he
desired of inducing a belief that Stephen Walker was an escaped
lunatic, and of clearing the carriage of its occupants at the next
station. Complaints were evidently made to the guard of the train on
the subject, for just before it moved on, he came to the window, and
exchanged a few words with the Policeman. Being informed of the real
state of the case, he said, “poor old gentleman!” in a tone of great
sympathy, and locked the carriage-door, so that no other passenger
got in until the end of the journey.
A 56's own impression for a while was that Stephen Walker's brain had
given way under the crushing blow he had suffered. This demeanour
was so utterly unlike the ordinary nervousness of the man that the
Policeman watched with some anxiety to see that his companion made no
sudden movement to open the door and leap out when the train was in
full motion. After a time he abandoned this idea. There was none of
the changing light of insanity in Stephen Walker's eye. There was an
air of stern determination about him, which the Policeman felt boded
ill for some one.
The return journey passed without a word being exchanged; and not,
indeed, until they got out of the cab at New Street, was the silence
broken. Then Stephen Walker turned to the Policeman—
“Thank you very much for what you have done for me. To-morrow I shall
go down to the funeral of my child, for although as you advised, I
declined to identify her, I have no doubt it is her. To-night I have
other things to do.”
The Policeman did not turn off at the door, as Stephen Walker
evidently expected and wished him to do, but followed him into the
house.
“Excuse me, Mr. Walker, excuse what I am going to say, but from what
I have seen of you on the way up, I am afraid you are going to do
something rash. Now, don't you go to do it, sir. I ain't talking as
a policeman now, I am talking as a man. Don't make matters worse
by doing anything rash. I know what you are thinking of—you are
thinking of him. He's a bad un, whoever he is; and hanging would be
too good for him; but don't you touch him, sir. Think it over—don't
do anything rash.”
“You think I am going to kill him?” Stephen Walker asked.
“I don't think, and I don't want to know,” the Policeman said. “I am
your friend now, and am off duty; I may have my own opinion as to
what would serve him right, but don't tell me. They know I've been
down with you, and I don't want to have to answer awkward questions.
I only say to you, as a friend now, think it over,—don't do anything
rash. It can't set things right and it will only cause trouble. Don't
you think of it, Mr. Walker.”
“I am not thinking of it,” Stephen Walker said. “If I were younger
I should. I am an old man now, and a feeble one, although I don't
feel feeble at present. No, I do not think of killing him. If I knew
I could I would; ay, as truly as I stand here; but I am nervous and
feeble, and I might fail, and then he would escape to enjoy the
triumph of another victim. No, I will strike him with a surer hand
than that. Thank God, I know who he is, and I think and hope I can
ruin him, upset all his hopes and plans, and embitter his life; and
I will do it. You look surprised, Policeman, and well you may. He
thought Carry had no friends—no protector; and well he might. I was
a feeble, nervous old man. I could not save her, but I am not nervous
now; I am a desperate old man, and I will avenge her. Good evening.”
The Policeman shook Stephen Walker's hand, and went away. Even had he
wished it, he could have urged nothing which would have availed with
the old man; and, indeed, relieved from his fears of bloodshed, he
was glad to hear that justice of some kind was to be done.
That evening, after dinner, Captain Bradshaw was still sitting in the
dining-room with Alice, when he heard a ring at the bell. After a
short conversation in the hall, the servant entered the room.
“If you please, sir, there is a man in the hall wants to speak to you
particular.”
“What sort of man, James?”
“Well, sir, a decent-looking man—an old man, sir—not a
gentleman—but he looks strange; rather, I should say, as if he had
been drinking. Wild about the eyes, you know, sir.”
“And he won't say what he wants, James?”
“No, sir; all he will say is that his name is Stephen Walker.”
“Stephen Walker?” Captain Bradshaw repeated to himself once or twice.
“Stephen Walker? I seem to know the name; yes, I remember, now.
Stephen Walker, tobacconist. The man Frank picked up—the broken-down
gentleman with the pretty daughter. What the deuce can he want?” Then
aloud, for this had been muttered to himself, “Show him into the
library, James. You may as well wait here till I come back, Alice; I
don't suppose I shall be a minute.”
“If the man is drunk, Uncle, had you not better tell James to wait at
the door?”
“Pooh! my dear,” the old officer laughed. “I fancy he's nearly as old
as I am. If I want James, I can ring the bell.”
Then he rose and went into the library, into which the visitor had
already been ushered.
Stephen Walker was standing by the table. He was silent for a minute
after the door was shut, looking steadily at Captain Bradshaw, as if
to read his character. Captain Bradshaw, in return, looked at him. He
saw at once that the footman's surmise was unfounded, but he saw too
by the compressed lips and flashing eye that the man was from some
cause in a state of extreme agitation and fury; indeed for a moment
the thought occurred to him that his visitor was mad. This idea was
at once dismissed when Stephen Walker began to speak.
“Captain Bradshaw, I have come to tell you a story. It is a sad one,
sir, but not an uncommon one—not an uncommon one. I, such as you
see me, was once a gentleman. My circumstances changed, and I took
a very small shop in New Street, where I sold tobacco. I was not,
as you see me now, a determined man—perhaps even a dangerous one.
I was a broken-down, nervous old man, with only one stay, one hope,
one pleasure in the world. I had a daughter, sir; a bright, happy,
innocent girl. A man came to us, over and over again, and he won
her heart. The old story, Captain Bradshaw, of love and trust. He
promised her marriage—over and over again he promised it. But he
had an uncle”—Captain Bradshaw started violently; he saw what was
coming now. He remembered the conversation he had had with Frank upon
this very subject of the tobacconist's daughter. He remembered the
warning he had given, and Frank's promise not to go there again, and
he grew very pale and faint as his visitor went on—“he had an uncle,
sir—an uncle from whom he expected to inherit great wealth—and he
dared not risk his anger by an open marriage with my child. He told
her that the uncle could not live long, that at his death he would
marry her openly, but that if he lived he would at any hazard marry
her privately in a short time. Accidentally I gained her secret,
and to test the truth of the story I watched for days outside that
uncle's door, until I saw the man enter there; then, seeing that the
story was true so far, I hoped for the best. You see what a poor,
nervous, simple man I was. Even then he had ruined her. I never
dreamt of it, or I, old and feeble as I am, would have killed him. A
fortnight since, my child saw in the paper the marriage of this man
with another. To-day, Captain Bradshaw, I have been down to Gravesend
to identify the body of what was once my child. Were I a young man,
I would take vengeance with my own hands; but I am old and helpless,
and I call on you to give me justice. That man is your nephew, and he
is a damned scoundrel!”
Captain Bradshaw sat for a minute or two as if stunned. The old
soldier, though passionate and hot tempered, was a man with a great
heart, and this sin was one he held in extreme horror. The story of
the man who stood before him would, under any circumstances, have
greatly moved him—would have filled him with burning indignation.
As it was, the blow fell upon him almost as heavily as upon Stephen
Walker. He had lost a son as entirely and finally as the other had
lost a daughter. For he loved Frank Maynard as a father might do.
True, he had for a few months past treated him with some coolness,
but his affection had been unshaken, and he had fully resolved that
upon his return from his wedding tour he would take him thoroughly
into favour again. To hear now that he was a cruel and cold-blooded
seducer, to know that he was utterly worthless, this was to lose him
for ever. He hid his face in his hands and groaned. Then with a quick
movement, as one determined to throw aside all regrets, he rose to
his feet and took Stephen Walker's hand.
“Mr. Walker,” he said, “may God help us both! for we suffer nearly
equally. I loved that boy as you loved your daughter. He was my heir
and the hope of my old age. But what you have told me separates him
from me as completely as if he were dead. You ask me for justice,”
and here the old man's voice grew sharp and clear, “and justice you
shall have. From this hour he is dead to me. Not one farthing of my
money shall he ever have. Never again will I speak to him. There,
sir, you have my word for it.”
“I thank you, sir. As you said, God help us both!” And without
another word Stephen Walker turned and left the room.
Alice Heathcote had been rather alarmed by what the servant had said,
and had listened with some anxiety for the departure of the strange
visitor. Presently she heard his step come along the passage from
the study, and then the closing of the front door as he let himself
out. She waited two or three minutes, but heard no sound of her
uncle coming from his study. Becoming alarmed she went to the door,
knocked, and opened it. The old man was still sitting in the chair
into which he had sunk while Stephen Walker was telling his story.
His hands lay listless beside him, but there was a quick, nervous
movement of the fingers. His face was sad and very pale, a grief
all the more painful to see that it was tearless. Alice saw at once
that something very serious had happened, the nature of which she
could not even guess. Her uncle did not look up at her entrance, and
alarmed at this terrible depression, this silence so different from
the fits of impatient anger to which Captain Bradshaw was given when
put out, she went up to him, took one of his hands in hers, and laid
her other upon his shoulder.
“My dear uncle, what is the matter?”
It was only upon the question being repeated, that he looked up.
“Poor Alice!” he said, “you will feel it as much as I do.”
More and more alarmed, Alice knelt down by the old man's side.
“What is it, uncle? Please tell me.”
“I would keep it from you if I could, Alice; but you must know it. I
am grieving, Alice, because I have lost a son. Yes, Alice, it is so,”
he went on, sadly, in answer to Alice's look of surprise. “I loved
him as a son. I looked upon him as my heir, and now he is lost to me
for ever.”
“Frank!” Alice gasped, with a feeling of sickening dread.
“Yes, my dear,—Frank. He is alive, Alice; alive and well, as far as
I know,” he said, quickly, for by the ashen pallor of her face he saw
that she imagined that he had heard of Frank's death; “but I would
far rather have heard of his death. From this moment he is dead to
me,—worse than dead. Had he been really dead, I could have mourned
him, as a father might mourn the dear child of his old age; better,
far better that, than to know that he is a base, dishonourable
scoundrel.”
As Captain Bradshaw finished, Alice Heathcote leapt to her feet with
a start, as rapid as if she had been struck. Her blood rushed to her
cheeks, her eyes flashed, and she exclaimed, vehemently,—
“It is false, uncle!—it is false! I would stake my life on Frank's
honour! Who dares to say that of him? Frank a base, dishonourable
scoundrel! And you believe it? Oh, uncle! uncle! after all these
years, to doubt Frank!”
“I would have spoken as confidently and as warmly as you do, Alice,
ten minutes ago; but I can do so no longer. There is no doubt now in
my mind, none at all. I must tell you the story, Alice,—you have a
right to know it. Sit down, dear, by me, and listen quietly.”
Alice, secure as she felt in Frank's honour and faith, yet felt a
cold chill creep over her, at this tone of quiet conviction upon
the part of her uncle. Had he been in a passion she would not have
believed what he said, but the tone of deep, quiet sorrow frightened
her. She put a stool by his chair, and sat down on it, looking up
into his face as he spoke, every vestige of colour fading out of her
own as he went on with his story.
“You may remember, Alice, last winter Frank and Mr. Prescott coming
in here, and our hearing that Frank had picked a man up from almost
underneath the wheels of an omnibus, at the risk of his own life. The
man gave Frank one of his cards, which he showed to us. His name was
Stephen Walker, tobacconist.”
Alice made a slight sign of assent. She remembered the circumstance
well.
“A fortnight or so afterwards, my dear, Frank came in here and
told me, laughing, that he had been to see this man; that he had
apparently been once a gentleman; and that he had a very pretty
daughter, who was, of course, very grateful to Frank for having saved
her father's life.”
Alice felt what was coming now, and a feeling of almost terror crept
over her.
“As a man of the world, my dear, I spoke to Frank about it. I warned
him that he had better not go there again. The girl was very pretty,
he said, and very grateful. If he went again, mischief might come
of it. My words to him were, if I remember rightly,—‘In these
cases, nothing but harm can come: a man either makes a fool of
himself and marries the girl, or he makes a rascal of himself and
does worse.’ Frank did not like what I said, at first, but finally
agreed in its justice, and promised to go no more. So you see, Alice,
he was warned; after that there could be no accident—it was done
deliberately. I never heard or thought any more of it until I came
into this room this evening. Then when I saw the state of terrible
agitation he was in I guessed the truth. He came to call for justice.
Frank had won her under promise of marriage. He had said that I was
very old, and that he could not marry her openly until my death; but
he promised a secret marriage.”
“No, no, uncle,” Alice said, vehemently, “I will not believe that;
I will not believe it. It is not true. Frank might, though I do not
think it, have done what the man accuses him of, but I feel sure he
did not. But, uncle, Frank is not mercenary. He never built on your
death. No, no, uncle; nothing in the world will make me believe it of
him. I am as certain as I am of my own life that he did not.”
“My dear Alice,” the old man said, sadly, “do you think I should be
apt to believe anything against Frank rashly? But there can be no
question here. Do you think a man would come from the side of his
dead daughter to tell me lies?”
“Oh, uncle! uncle!” Alice cried, pitifully.
“Yes, Alice, it is too true. I must tell you, Alice—you must know it
all now, that you may agree with me that we must never speak of him
again. So it went on, Alice, until the poor girl read in the papers
the announcement of his marriage. Then she left her home suddenly,
and her father came to-night to tell me that he had been to see her
body to-day, at Gravesend.”
Alice gave a little sob of horror, and hid her face on her uncle's
knees.
“Oh, uncle, it is too dreadful—it cannot be true!” she cried at last.
“There can be no doubt, no hope, Alice. The man's story is too
clear, and he was too terribly in earnest to doubt him for a moment.
It seems that he found out something of it, and watched to see if
Frank came here in order to test the truth of that part of the
story, and he saw him come in. My dear, there is no doubt. Frank is
guilty—guilty of a deliberate act of baseness, done under the worst
possible circumstances. From this moment he must be to us as if he
were dead. We have been utterly deceived in him. Now we really know
him, there is an end of all communication between us.”
“But how is it possible, uncle,” Alice pleaded, “that Frank, who has
always been so true, and straightforward, and honourable, could have
done it? It does not seem possible, uncle.”
“My dear, all things are possible,” the old man said, sadly. “You
were reading to me last week a book where a man, seemingly as open
and popular and straightforward as Frank, did the same thing, and you
did not see any impossibility in it then. Steerforth was just such
another as Frank—he treated little Emily just as Frank has treated
this poor girl.”
“Oh, uncle, I can't believe it—I can't believe it!” Alice wailed.
Captain Bradshaw was silent. Presently he said,—
“Although there can be no doubt as to the circumstances, Alice, still
of course we have only heard one side. Frank may have something to
urge in his defence—something which may mitigate, although nothing
could possibly excuse, the terrible fault he has committed. I shall
write to him to-morrow. If he has anything to urge in his defence, he
will do so. I trust that he will. I can never know him again; never.
But I should be glad, if possible, to think that he has not been such
a cold-blooded rascal as he appears to have been. There, Alice, don't
cry any more, dear. Think that it is worse for me than it is for you.
You are young, and will make fresh loves, fresh friends. I am old.
For me there is no future hope. I have lost my son. I find that my
confidence and love have been misplaced. I cannot begin again. You
are all I have in the world now, Alice; for although I like him, I
can never love the man who must now be my heir.”