THE MISSING MAN.
I find it difficult to write, in my halting fashion, of what my
sensations were at that time. God knows what good was in me, and only
God and time could bring that good out of me; for I had had no
childhood, and my manhood had been a thing thwarted and blighted.
You have to understand that in a matter of a few days I had lived years
of an ordinary life; had been in prison, and had escaped; had come near
to death; had found myself buried and done with, and yet enlisted on
life under a new name; and, to crown it all, now come face to face with
someone who believed in me and trusted me--broken reed though I was to
lean upon.
I stood in the dark grounds, holding the girl's hands and looking into
her eyes: and that was a new experience for me. I remembered how someone
else--dead, and shamefully buried in the precincts of a prison--had held
her hands but a little time before, and had begged that he might help
her. Well, he was past all that now; and I, with my poor record behind
me, stood, miraculously enough, in his place. Yet there were things I
must understand, if I would help her at all: I wanted to know why she
had fled from her guardian, and why, in his turn, he had chased her
through the grounds.
"What were you afraid of?" I asked her gently; and it was pleasant to me
that she should forget to take her hands out of mine.
"Of him," she said, with a glance towards the house; and I thought she
shivered. "I wonder if you can understand what I feel, and of what I am
afraid?" she went on, looking at me curiously. "I do not even know your
name."
I laughed a little bitterly. "You must indeed be in need of friends if
you come to me," I answered.
"But my name is John New, and I am a--a friend of Dr. Just."
"Oh!" She shrank away from me with a startled look. "I did not
understand that."
"I am a friend of Dr. Just," I repeated, "because it happens that I am
very much in his power, and I must be his friend if I would live at all.
If that is your case, too, surely we might form some small conspiracy
together against him. You're not fond of the man?" I hazarded.
She shook her head. "I hate him--and I'm afraid of him," she said
vehemently. "And yet I have to look to him for everything in the world."
"Sit down, and tell me about it," I said; and I drew her into the
summer-house, and sat by her side while she talked to me. She was like a
child in the ease with which she gave me her confidence; and as I
listened to her, years seemed to separate me from my prison and from the
life I had led. For this was the first gentle soul with whom I had yet
come in contact.
"You must first tell me," she urged, "why you are in the doctor's power.
Who are you? and what have you done, that he should be able to hold you
in his hands? You are a man; you're not a weak girl."
It was difficult to answer her. "Well," I began, after a pause, "I did
something, a long time ago, of which the doctor knows; and he holds that
knowledge over me. That's all I can tell you."
She looked straight into my eyes, and I found, to my relief, that I was
able to look at her with some frankness in return. "I don't believe it
was anything very wrong," she said at last.
"Thank you," I answered, and I prayed that she might never know what my
sin had been.
"You see," she went on confidentially, while the shadows grew about us;
"I am really all alone in the world, except for Dr. Just, who is my
guardian. He was made my guardian by my poor, dear father, who died some
two years ago; my father believed in the doctor very much. They had
written a scientific treatise together--because the doctor is very
clever, and father quite looked up to him. So when he died he left
directions that I was to be taken care of by the doctor. That was two
years ago, and I have lived in this house ever since, with one short
interval."
"And the interval?" I asked.
"We went down to a country house belonging to the doctor--a place in
Essex, called Green Barn. It's a gloomy old house--worse than this one;
the doctor goes there to shoot."
"But you haven't told me yet why you were running away from him," I
reminded her.
She bent her head, so that I could not see her face. "Lately," she said
in a low voice, "his manner to me has changed. At first he was courteous
and kind--he treated me as though I had been his daughter. But now it's
all different; he looks at me in a fashion I understand--and yet don't
understand. To-day he tried to put his arm round me, and to kiss me;
then when I ran away he ran after me."
I felt that I hated the doctor very cordially; I had an insane desire to
be present if by any chance he should repeat his conduct. I felt my
muscles stiffen as I looked at the girl; in my thoughts I was like some
knight of old, ready to do doughty deeds for this fair, pretty girl, who
was so ready to confide in me. I forgot all about who I was, or what had
happened to me; I had only strangely come out into the world again--into
a world of love.
But the fact that it was a world of love reminded me that I had had a
rival--another man who had held her hands and looked into her eyes, and
pleaded that he might help her. I could not, of course, ask about him,
because I held the key to his fate, and that fate intimately concerned
my own safety; but I was consumed with curiosity, nevertheless.
Strangely enough, she voiced my thoughts by beginning to speak of him.
"There is something else that troubles me," she said earnestly. "I have
one friend--a dear, good, loyal fellow; but he has unaccountably gone
away, and I can hear nothing of him."
I felt myself turning hot and cold; I blessed the darkness of the
summer-house. "What was his name?" I asked.
"Gregory Pennington," she answered softly.
"He was my friend before my father died; he followed me here when the
doctor took charge of me. He was afraid of the doctor--not for himself,
but on my account; he had a strange idea, and one that I have tried to
laugh at, that the doctor wanted to kill me."
She looked at me with smiling eyes, laughing at such a suggestion; but
I, remembering the earnestness of Gregory Pennington's words to the girl
on that first occasion of my coming to the house, seemed now to hear
that warning as though it came indeed from the dead. And I could not
answer her.
"That was foolish, wasn't it?" she said, with a little laugh. "But then,
I think poor Gregory loves me, and that made him afraid for me. You have
been in the house here for some days; have you seen nothing of him?"
I was obliged to lie; there was nothing else for it. I shook my head,
and lied stoutly. "No," I replied, "I have never seen him."
"It's all so strange," she said, as she got to her feet. "The doctor did
not like him, and had forbidden him the house, in spite of my
remonstrances. As he was my friend, Gregory and I used to meet secretly
in these grounds in the evening."
I remembered how I had seen them together; I remembered, with a shudder,
all that had happened afterwards. But still I said nothing; for what
could I say?
"It was all so strange," she went on; and her voice sounded ghostly in
the darkness. I had risen, and was standing opposite to her; I seemed to
feel that the air had grown suddenly very chill. "The last time I saw
him he told me that he would go to the house, and would see my guardian.
I did all I could," she proceeded helplessly, "to dissuade him, but he
would not listen. He said he must have an understanding with Dr. Just,
and must take me away; although I think I should never have consented to
that, in any case--because, you see, I did not really love him. He had
always been like a good, kind brother to me, but nothing more."
"And did he go to the house?" I asked, for the want of something better
to say.
She nodded. "I would not go in with him," she replied, "but I saw him go
towards the doctor's study. I went off to my own room."
"And you heard nothing, and saw nothing after that?" I asked
breathlessly.
"Nothing at all," she whispered. "Early the next morning the doctor
sent me off to Green Barn, with a woman who is his housekeeper; I only
came back to-day. I expected a letter from Gregory--even expected to see
him. It's all so funny; it is just as though he had walked into that
study--and had disappeared from that time."
"You mustn't think such things as that," I exclaimed hurriedly. "A dozen
things may have happened; he may have been repulsed by the doctor, and
so have decided to go away. If he knew you did not love him, he would
feel pretty hopeless about the matter."
"That is possible, perhaps," she said. Then, suddenly, she held out her
hand to me. "I have one friend at least," she said, "and his name is Mr.
John New. It's a curious name, and I shan't forget it. You tell me that
you are in trouble, too: so that is a bond between us. Good-night!"
I watched her as she flitted away through the garden. Even in my relief
at the thought that she did not love Gregory Pennington, there was the
dismal feeling that some day she must learn the truth--the ghastly
thought that I stood there, actually in the clothes of the dead man. The
whole business was a nightmare from beginning to end, in which alone she
stood out as something bright, and fair, and unsullied.
We were a curious household. There were one or two rather scared-looking
servants, presided over by a woman to whom the doctor referred always as
"Leach"; in fact, he called her by that name when speaking to her. As
she was destined to play rather an important part in that strange
business upon which we were all entering, she deserves a word or two of
description.
She must have been about forty years of age, and had once been, and
still was, in a way, astonishingly handsome. She was tall and very dark;
she had hair of that blue-black quality that is so rarely seen. Her
eyes were as brilliant as those of Dr. Bardolph Just himself, save that
there was in hers a curious slumbrous quality, quite unlike the sparkle
in the man's. I may best describe her by saying that she suggested to me
that in the very soul of her was something lurking and waiting for
expression--some smouldering fire that a touch or a word might start
into flame.
So far as I could gather, Dr. Just was exceedingly contemptible of her,
and treated her with a sort of bitter playfulness. He seemed to take a
delight in making her perform the most menial offices; and to me it was
rather pitiful to see the eagerness with which she anticipated his every
wish or command. I did not know at that time what bond there was between
them; only, whenever I think of them in this later time one scene always
rises before my memory.
It was on a morning soon after I had arrived at the house, and the
doctor was in a ferocious mood. Everything had gone wrong, and I had
seen the woman Leach, who ordinarily waited behind his chair, and by
quick signs directed the servants what to do, cower under the lash of
his words more than once. It happened to be at the breakfast table, and
I was seated at one end, facing the doctor. It was the morning after
that memorable night when I had talked with the girl Debora in the
grounds; and now she sat on my right hand, at one side of the table,
between the doctor and myself.
Absurd as the suggestion is, it almost seemed to me that the doctor was
striking a balance between the two women for the mortification of them
both. He pressed dishes upon the girl, with suave compliments at one
moment, and in the next turned to Leach behind him with what was almost
a coarse threat.
"Why the devil don't you wait on your young mistress?" he snapped. "What
do you think I keep you here for? What do I pay you for?"
He turned to the table again, and, looking down the length of it, I saw
the woman swiftly clench and unclench her hands behind him, as though
she would have struck him. And if ever I saw murder in a face I saw it
then; yet she looked not at the doctor, but at the bowed head of the
girl beside me.
"Come--move--stir yourself!" cried the man, bringing down his fist with
a bang on the table beside him. "Don't wait for the servants to carry
things; carry them yourself. Take this dish to your mistress--Miss
Debora Matchwick."
It was the first time I had heard the girl's name in full; but I took
but little notice of it then, so interested was I in watching the little
scene that was going forward. While the doctor sat looking at the girl,
I saw the woman behind him draw herself up, and I saw her nostrils
dilate; then she seemed to swoop to the table, and to catch up the dish
he had indicated. She moved round slowly to where the girl sat, and
purposely handed the dish from the wrong side. And down came Bardolph
Just's fist again on the table.
"The other side, you jade!" he roared; and with a glance at him she
moved round, and presented it to the girl in the proper fashion. And the
face that bent above the fair hair of the girl was the face of a
devil--of a soul in torment.
"I want nothing, thank you," said Debora in a low voice.
"Come, my dear child, we shall have you pining away to a shadow if you
don't eat," broke in the doctor, with a mocking smile. "Is it possible
that you are fretting over something--hungering for someone? We must
have a private talk about this after breakfast; you must confide your
troubles to me. And may I ask," he went on, with bitter politeness, as
he turned to the other woman, "may I ask why you are standing in that
absurd attitude, when your mistress tells you she wants nothing?"
The woman Leach turned away abruptly, and set down the dish. Debora had
risen from the table, as if to make her escape, and the other woman,
after a quick glance at her, was preparing to go from the room also. But
her humiliation was not yet completed; the doctor called her back.
"Wait, Leach," he said, and she stopped on the instant. "You are in a
tempestuous humour this morning, and that sort of humour must be
quelled. Ring the bell."
She gave a quick, nervous glance at him, and then walked across the room
and rang the bell. She waited, with her eyes cast on the ground, until a
servant came in, carrying in his hand a pair of shoes. The doctor turned
round in his chair, and the man carrying the shoes dropped on one knee,
as if to put them on. But Bardolph Just waved him aside.
"You needn't trouble; get up," he said; and the man rose from his knees,
looking a little bewildered. "Leach, come here!"
The woman stood still for a moment, and then walked slowly across the
floor, till she stood in front of him. He pointed to the shoes at his
feet, and smiled; and I, who had risen in my place, stood helplessly,
waiting to see what would happen.
It took her quite a long time to get to her knees, but she did it at
last, and began to put on the shoes. All this time the man-servant stood
gaping, not knowing whether to go or stay. Debora, too, had paused at
the door, in amazement at the scene. And in that oppressive silence the
woman Leach fastened the shoes with fingers that seemed clumsy enough
for that work. Nor were the doctor's words likely to mend her confusion.
"You're precious slow, I must say! What's the matter with you? are you
getting past your work? You know what happens to people who are no
longer fit to work, don't you? We have to cast them out into the street,
to make a living as best they can--or to die. There--that'll do; you've
been long enough to fasten a dozen pairs of shoes."
I think he struck her with his foot as she was rising from her knees,
but of that I cannot be sure. I know that she turned away abruptly, but
not before I had had time to see that those great eyes of hers were
blinded with tears. Yet her gait, as she went from the room, was as
stately as ever.
But perhaps the strangest being in that strange house at that time was
William Capper. He wandered like a lost spirit, and one never knew quite
where he would appear. Knowing what I did as to what had become of the
dead man, this man who looked for him and waited for him was as a ghost
that would not be laid. More than that, he was a ghost who might
suddenly spring into live flesh and blood, and tell what he knew.
The doctor seemed as disconcerted by his presence as I was, and yet he
made no effort to get rid of the man. Capper wandered about the house
and about the grounds just as he pleased, while those peering eyes of
his seemed always to be searching for his master. But it happened that,
as Debora had been sent away on the very morning following the death of
poor Gregory Pennington, and had only returned now, she had not yet come
in contact with the man Capper. I found myself wondering what would
happen when she did.
She was destined to meet him under curious circumstances. On that
morning which had seen the degradation of the woman Leach before us
all, Dr. Bardolph Just called me into that room that was half study and
half surgery, and told me quite abruptly that he wanted me to go down
into London for him. I suppose my startled face told its own tale, for
he laughed a little contemptuously.
"Do you imagine anyone will be seeking you, or even expecting to find
you above ground?" he asked. "Can't you get into your mind the idea that
Norton Hyde is dead and buried in his own prison, and that another
man--John New--has come alive in his place? People only look for what
they expect to find, my dear John New; you are as safe as though by a
miracle you had changed your features. I merely want you to go down into
Holborn, to inquire about a certain scientific book which was promised
to be sent to me and has not arrived. If it has not already been sent,
you can bring it back with you."
He gave me the address, and money wherewith to travel; and I felt my
heart sink at the prospect of going down, in this bare-faced fashion,
into the great world. In my heart of hearts I determined that I would
not go; the book might arrive in my absence, and the doctor might forget
that he had sent me at all. So I made a feint of going, but in reality
did not pass beyond the grounds.
It was a slumbrous day in early summer, and the grounds being very wide
and extensive, I had rather an enjoyable forenoon of it. I determined
that I would calculate to a nicety how long it should have taken me to
get down to Holborn and back again, allowing a margin for accidental
delays. Then I would put in an appearance at the house, and tell the
doctor that I had reached the shop, only to find that the book had been
sent off.
It may have been some sentimental feeling that carried my feet in the
direction of that dark and half-ruined summer-house; or, as I think
now, some direct Providence guiding me. Believing that it would be
deserted, and that I might kill time there with some comfort, I was
making straight for it among the tangled grasses and dead leaves of the
garden, when I stopped, and drew away from it. For I had heard voices.
I make no attempt to excuse my conduct; I only urge that at that time I
was surrounded by mysteries, and by trickery of every sort, and that I
was, moreover, in hiding, in peril of my liberty. All the world might be
conspiring against me--above all, those in this house, with one
exception, might be only too glad to give me up to justice. I was
fighting for myself; I make no excuse that I crept near to the
summer-house, and listened. More than that, I looked in, for through a
chink of the ruined boarding at the back of it I could see clearly all
that happened.
Debora Matchwick was seated in a corner, drawn up tense and still, with
her hands gripping the seat on either side of her; and in the doorway,
with his arms folded, completely blocking her way of escape, stood the
doctor.
It would seem that I had arrived at the very moment the man had
discovered her, for his first words referred to the previous day.
Whatever other words I had heard had been but a mere skirmishing before
the actual battle began.
"I lost you in this direction yesterday, Debora," said the man; "you
managed to elude me rather cleverly. What makes you afraid of me?"
"I--I'm not afraid of you," she said, with more bravery than she seemed
to feel.
He laughed at her, showing his white teeth. "You're very much afraid of
me," he corrected her. "And yet you have no reason to be; we should
never be afraid of those who love us."
"You are my guardian, and you were my father's friend," she said
quietly. "Beyond that guardianship you have nothing to do with me, and I
will not----"
"You talk like a child, and you have a child's knowledge of the world,"
he broke in roughly. "I that am a man can teach you, as only a man can
teach a woman, what life and the world hold for her. Prudishly you step
aside; with false modesty you refuse to look at facts as they are. You
are a child no longer, in the ordinary sense of things; and I am a man
that loves you. Your father liked me----"
"To my everlasting sorrow, he did!" she exclaimed passionately.
"And he would have approved of the arrangement. Above all things, the
management of your extremely troublesome affairs are in my hands, and if
you belonged to me the whole thing would be solidified. I have great
power in regard to your fortune now; I should have greater powers then."
"It's the fortune that tempts you!" she exclaimed, starting to her feet.
"God forgive me for saying it, but my father must have been mad when he
made up his mind to place me in your care. I hate you--but I'm not
afraid of you. I hate you!"
Bardolph Just stepped forward quickly, and took her prisoner in his
arms. I had made a sudden movement, recklessly enough, to run round the
summer-house and spring upon the man, as I heard her give a little
gasping cry, when there came a strange interruption; and it came from
outside and from inside the summer-house almost at the same moment.
I had heard the doctor say, over and over again, with a sort of savage
triumph, as he held her, "You shall love me! You shall love me! You
shall love me!" and I had made that movement of which I speak, when
there broke in the sound of someone singing, in a high querulous voice,
and that someone was moving towards the summer-house. The girl heard
the sound, and she broke away from the man who held her; she seemed
literally to shriek out a name--
"Capper!"
All the rest happened in a flash. Scarcely knowing what I did, I ran
round and confronted them all--and that, too, at the moment that the
girl, breaking from the summer-house, ran swiftly to where the little
grey-headed old man was emerging from the trees. In her agitation she
flung herself at his feet, and caught at his hands, and cried out her
question:
"Capper, dear, good Capper!--where's your master?"
We stood there in silence, waiting to see what would happen. For both
Bardolph Just and myself could have answered the question, but what was
the man Capper about to say? This was just such a crisis as I had been
expecting and fearing; it seemed hours before the little grey-haired
man, who had been looking down at her in a bewildered fashion, made any
reply.
"I don't--don't know," he said, and he smiled round upon us rather
foolishly, I thought.
"But, Capper--you remember me, Capper; I was your master's friend," went
on the girl despairingly. "You remember that Mr. Pennington came to this
house--oh!--oh, a week ago!"
She had risen to her feet, and was staring into his eyes. He put a hand
over those eyes for a moment, and seemed to ponder something; then he
looked up, and slowly shook his head. "I can't--I can't remember," he
said. "Something has gone from me--here"--he laid the hand upon his
forehead--"and I can't remember."
The doctor drew a deep breath, and took a step towards the girl; of me
he seemed to take but little notice. "Don't worry the man, Debora," he
said in a gentle tone; "I can't make him out myself, sometimes. Why he
should remain here, where his master is not, I cannot understand."
Both Just and the girl spoke of the old man in hushed tones, as they
might have spoken of someone who was ill. But Capper himself stood
looking smilingly from one face to the other, as if his eyes would
question them concerning this mystery in which he was involved.
"Has he been here ever since--since Mr. Pennington disappeared?" asked
the girl.
"I don't know what you're talking about," retorted the doctor, with a
perplexed frown. "Disappeared? How could Gregory Pennington disappear? I
refused to allow him to come here; I have seen nothing of him for some
time."
I knew, of course, that the doctor was keeping from her the knowledge of
the unfortunate young man's suicide--I realised that that knowledge must
be kept from her, for my sake as well, unless disaster was to fall upon
me. But the girl was looking at Bardolph Just keenly, and I wondered how
he could meet her eyes as calmly as he did.
"The night before I went to Green Barn with Leach," she said slowly, "I
was in these grounds with Gregory. And that night he went into the house
to see you."
"To see me?" The doctor twisted about from one to the other of us in
apparent perplexity. "To see me? I haven't seen the young man for
months."
"Then what, in the name of all that's wonderful, is Capper doing here?"
demanded Debora, pointing to that strange, smiling creature, who seemed
the least interested of any of us.
For a moment even the doctor was nonplussed, for that was a question to
which there seemed to be no possible answer--or, at least, no answer
that should prove satisfactory. It was, indeed, the strangest scene, to
us, at least, who understood the true inwardness of it: that little
grey-haired man, who might carry locked up in his numbed brain something
that presently should leak out; the girl demanding to know the reason of
his presence there; and the doctor and myself with the full knowledge of
what had really happened, and of where Gregory Pennington lay hidden.
Bardolph Just, however, was the last man to be placed at a disadvantage
for any length of time. In a moment or two he laughed easily, and
shrugged his shoulders. "'Pon my word, I don't know!" he replied, in
reference to the girl's question. "I can make neither head nor tail of
him; but as his master is not here, I scarcely care to turn him out into
the world in his present condition."
"What's the matter with him?" asked Debora. "I never saw him like this
before."
"Can't say," retorted the doctor quickly. "But I should judge him to
have had a stroke of some kind. At all events, Debora, I don't want you
to think that I'm a brute; and as Gregory Pennington was a friend of
yours--I should say, is a friend of yours--the old man shall stay here
until--until his master returns."
I noticed that Capper kept close beside the girl as she moved away
towards the house; he looked up at her trustingly, as a child might have
done who wanted a guide. As they walked away together, Bardolph Just
stepped forward and laid a hand on the girl's arm. I heard what he said
distinctly.
"I have not said my last word, by any means," he said in his smooth
voice; "nor is this the end."
"It is the end so far as I am concerned," she retorted, without
slackening her pace. "You shall be my guardian no longer; I'll arrange
something, so that I can get out into the world and live for myself and
in my own fashion."
"We'll see about that," he retorted, between his teeth. "Go to your
room, and remain there."
She gave him a glance of contempt, that had yet in it some spice of
fear, as she turned away and made for the house, with old Capper
trotting dog-like beside her. Then the doctor turned to me, and although
I saw that there were certain white spots coming and going at the edges
of his nostrils and on his cheek bones, he yet spoke calmly
enough--indeed, a little amusedly.
"What do you think of that for pretty defiance?" he asked; then, sinking
his voice to a lower tone, and taking a step nearer to me, he went
on--"She's getting suspicious about that boy; and the madman who's gone
off with her now is likely to cause trouble. I don't know what to do
with him, but I shall have to devise something. Don't forget, my friend,
that if the worst comes to the worst you're in the same boat with me--or
in a worse boat. I've only cheated the authorities for your sake; I can
plead human sympathy and kindliness, and all sorts of things--which you
can't."
"Is that a threat?" I demanded, for now my gratitude was being fast
swallowed up in a growing dislike of the man.
"Yes, and no," he replied, with a faint smile. "I'm only suggesting that
you will find it wise, whatever happens, to fight on my side, and on
mine only. I think you understand?"
I answered nothing; I followed him, sullenly enough, to the house. By
that time I had quite forgotten the errand on which I had been sent, and
which I had made no effort to accomplish; only when we were near to the
house he turned quickly, and startled me by referring to it.
"By the way, you had your journey for nothing," he said. "The book
arrived while you were gone. Did you meet with any adventures?"
"None at all," I answered curtly.
I was destined for another adventure, and a more alarming one, that
night. There was no ceremony used in the doctor's house, and he made no
attempt to dress for dinner. For that matter, I had not as yet seen any
guests, and the doctor, on one or two occasions at least, had had his
meals carried up to his study. So far as dinner was concerned, it
usually happened that in the recesses of the house someone clanged a
dismal bell at the time the food was actually put upon the table, and I
would go down, either to sit alone, or to find the doctor awaiting me.
You will remember that the girl Debora had been away for the whole of
that eventful week.
The dining-room was dimly lighted by a big, shaded lamp, standing on the
centre of the table; so that when I went in on this night, and looked
about me, I could see figures seated, but could not clearly distinguish
faces. The doctor I saw in his usual place, stooping forward into the
light of the lamp to sup at his soup; I saw the bent head of the girl at
one side of the table. I moved round the table to reach my place, and as
I did so saw that another man was seated opposite the girl, so making a
fourth. I could not see his face, as it was in shadow. I wondered who he
might be.
The doctor bent forward, so as to look round the lamp at me, called me
(God be praised for it!) by that new name he had given me--
"John New, let me introduce you to my friend, Mr. Harvey Scoffold."
I sat frozen in my chair, keeping my face in shadow, and wondering what
I should do. For I knew the man--had known him intimately on those
occasions when I had broken out of my uncle's house at night, and had
gone on wild excursions. I saw him glance towards me; I knew that he
knew my history, and what had become of me; and I wondered how soon he
was to start up in his place, and cry out who I was, and demand to know
who lay buried in my place. I left my soup untasted, and sat upright,
keeping my face above the light cast by the lamp.
"Mr. Harvey Scoffold is an old friend of mine," said Bardolph Just,
"although we have not met for some time. A worthy fellow--though he does
not take quite so deep an interest in the serious things of life as I
do."
"Not I," exclaimed the other man, squaring his shoulders, and giving
vent to a hearty laugh that rang through the room. "I'm a very
butterfly, if a large one; and life's the biggest joke that ever I
tasted. I hope our new friend is of the same order?"
I mumbled something unintelligible, and, after looking at me intently
for a moment, he turned and began to speak to his host. I think I had
just decided that I had better feign illness, and get up and make a run
for dear life, when he staggered us all by a question, put in his
hearty, careless fashion.
"By the way," he said, looking from the doctor to the girl, and back
again, "what's become of that youngster I used to see here--Gregory
Pennington? I took quite a fancy to the boy. Does anyone know where he
is?"