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 attitude 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 God!" 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
pronounce.
"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."
"I know the danger better than you do," I answered, "and I will not
leave you."
"That man who burst into the house just now, he seemed to know you," she
said, after a moment's pause. "Who is he?"
"A fellow jail-bird of mine," I answered bitterly.
"Then go to him," she said. "Are you so dense that you don't understand
what I think of you, you thing without a name! Will nothing move you?"
"Nothing, until I know that you are safe," I answered.
There was a light cane lying on the table with Harvey Scoffold's hat and
gloves. In a very fury of passion she suddenly dropped her hand upon it,
and caught it up. I know that my face turned darkly red as I saw what
her intention was; but I did not flinch. She struck me full across the
face with it, crying as she did so, "Now go!" dropped the cane, and
burst into tears at the same moment. I could bear no more; I turned
about, and walked out of the room, and out of the house. I did not seem
to remember anything until I found myself walking at a great rate under
the stars, down towards London.
My feelings then I will not attempt to describe. I seemed to be more
utterly lost than ever; the sorry comedy was played out, and I walked
utterly friendless and alone, caring nothing what became of me. If I
remembered that Debora stood in peril of her life, and had but small
chance of escape from some horrible death, I tried to thrust that
thought away from me; for the blow she had struck me seemed to have cut
deep into my soul. Of all the homeless wretches under the stars that
night, surely I was the one most to be pitied!
I found myself after a time on Hampstead Heath, and lay down there in a
quiet spot under the trees, and stared up at the stars, wondering a
little, perhaps, why Fate had dealt so hardly with me, and had never
given me a real chance. I remembered my unhappy boyhood, and my long
years of drudgery in my uncle's house; I remembered with bitterness that
now to-night I was a creature with no name and no place in the world,
with no hopes and no ambitions. Tears of self-pity sprung to my eyes as
I lay there in the darkness, wondering what the day was to bring me.
I had a few shillings in my pocket, and when I knew the dawn was coming
I started off down into London, in the hope to lose myself and my
miseries in the crowded streets. But there I found that apparently
everyone had some business to be engaged upon; everyone was hurrying
hither and thither, far too busy to take note of me or of my downcast
face. The mere instinct to live kept me clear of the traffic, or I must
have been run over a hundred times in the day, so little did I trouble
where I walked, or what became of me. When my body craved for food I
went into an eating-house, and sat shoulder to shoulder with other men,
who little suspected who I was, or what was my strange story. But then
everyone against whom one rubs shoulders in a great city must have some
strange story of their own to tell, if they cared to say what it was.
I spent the long day in the streets; but at night a curious fascination
drew me across Hampstead Heath, and so in the direction of the cottage
in which Harvey Scoffold lived. I had no hope of seeing the girl; I only
felt it would be some poor satisfaction to me to see the house in which
she was; perhaps my very presence there might serve in some vague way to
shield her from harm; for by this time I had come to the conclusion that
Scoffold was as much her enemy and mine as anyone else by whom she was
surrounded.
I wandered about unhappily there for more than an hour; I was just
turning away, when the old woman I had seen on the previous night came
out of the door of the cottage, and advanced down the garden to the
little gate in the fence. I think a cat must have got astray; for she
called to some animal fretfully more than once. She was just turning
away again, when I ventured to step up to the gate.
"I hope the young lady is quite well?" I said, in a low tone.
She looked at me curiously; looked especially, I thought, at the long
livid weal across my face. "Ah! I remember you now, sir," she said; "I
didn't recognise you for a moment. But, bless you, sir, they've all gone
away."
"Gone away?" I echoed.
"Yes, sir. Mr. Scoffold and the young lady went off early this morning,
sir; Mr. Scoffold said that letters were to be addressed to him at the
house of Dr. Bardolph Just. I've got the address inside, sir, if you
should want it."
I told her I did not want it, and I turned away abruptly. I could not
understand the position at all; I wondered how Harvey Scoffold had
persuaded her to go back to that house, and to the man she so much
dreaded. I saw how badly I had blundered in the matter, and how I had
done the very thing I had striven not to do. She would trust Harvey
Scoffold; she would believe in his honesty, as I had believed in it; and
I was convinced now that he was working hand in glove with Bardolph
Just. I stood out there in the darkness, cursing myself, and the world,
and everyone, with the solitary exception of Debora Matchwick.
On one point I was resolute; I would go on to the house of the doctor,
and would be near at hand in case the girl wanted me. It was a mad idea,
and I now recognise it as such; but at the time it seemed that I might
be able to do some good. I set off at once, tired out as I was, for
Bardolph Just's house.
It was not yet late, and the house was still lighted up when at last I
came to it. I opened the gate in the wall noiselessly, and went in;
crept forward among the trees, until I was quite near to the house. I
think I had a sort of vague idea that I would get in somehow, and
confront the doctor; for, after all, nothing much worse could happen to
me than had already befallen me. While I waited irresolutely in the
grounds, a door opened at one side of the house, letting out a little
flood of light for a moment; then the door was closed again, and I saw a
figure coming swiftly towards me through the trees. I drew back behind
one of the trees, and watched; presently the figure passed so close to
me, going steadily in the direction of the gate, that I could see the
face clearly. It was Martha Leach, habited for a journey.
There was such a grim, set purpose in the face that, after she had gone
a yard or two, I turned on an instinct and followed her. I heard the
latch of the gate click, as she went out, closing the gate after her;
unfortunately it clicked again a moment or two later, when I in turn
passed out in her wake. I flattened myself against the wall, because
Martha Leach had stopped in the road, and had looked back. Fortunately
for me she did not return; after a momentary pause she went on again
rapidly, taking a northern direction.
Now, by all the laws of the game I ought to have returned to the house
to keep my vigil there; for what earthly purpose could I hope to serve
in chasing this woman about the northern suburbs of London, at something
near to nine o'clock on a summer's evening? But I felt impelled to go on
after her; and my heart sank a little when presently I saw her hail a
four-wheeled cab, and range herself up beside the front wheel, to drive
a bargain with the cabman. Without her knowledge I had come to the back
of the cab, and could hear distinctly what she said.
I felt at first that I was dreaming when I heard her asking the man if
he could drive her to an address near Barnet; and that address was the
house of my Uncle Zabdiel! After some demur the man agreed; and the
woman got inside, and the cab started. And now I was determined that I
would follow this thing out to the bitter end; for I began to understand
vaguely what her mission was to my uncle.
As I ran behind the cab, now and then resting myself by perching
perilously on the springs, I had time to think of the events that had
followed the coming of George Rabbit to the doctor's house, and his
discovery of me. I remembered that light I had seen in the loft; I
remembered how Martha Leach had come from that loft, carrying a lantern;
I remembered how she had threatened to find out who I was, and from
whence I came. And I knew now with certainty that she was on her way to
my uncle, with the purpose of letting him know the exact state of
affairs.
I own that I was puzzled to know why she should be concerning herself in
the matter at all. That she hated Debora I knew, and I could only judge
that she felt I might be dangerous, and had best be got rid of in some
fashion or other. The newspaper reports of my trial and sentence had
made my life, of necessity, common property; she would be able easily to
discover the address of Uncle Zabdiel. That she was working, as she
believed, in the interests of the doctor I could well understand; but
whether by his inspiration or not it was impossible for me to know.
The cab stopped at last outside that grim old house I remembered so
well, that house from which I had been taken on my uncle's accusation.
By that time, of course, I was some yards away from it, watching from
the shelter of a doorway; but I heard the bell peal in the great, hollow
old place, and presently saw the gate open, and Martha Leach, after some
parley, pass in. Then the gate was closed again, and I was left outside,
to conjecture for myself what was happening within.
I determined at last that I would get into the place myself; it might be
possible for me to forestall Martha Leach, and take some of the wind out
of her sails. Moreover, the prospect of appearing before my uncle in a
ghostly character rather appealed to me than not; he had given me one or
two bad shocks in my life, and I might return the compliment. For, of
course, I was well aware that he must long since have believed that I
was dead and buried, as had been reported. I went near to the house, and
tried the gate; found, somewhat to my relief, that it was not fastened.
I slipped in, and closed the gate after me, and found myself standing in
the narrow garden that surrounded the house.
Strange memories came flocking back to me as I stood there looking up at
the dark house. How much had I not suffered in this place, in what
terror of the darkness I had lain, night after night, as a boy, dreading
to hear the footsteps of Uncle Zabdiel, and yet feeling some relief at
hearing them in that grim and silent place! I thought then, as I stood
there, how absolutely alone I was in the great world--how shut out from
everything my strength and manhood seemed to have a right to demand. And
with that thought came a recklessness upon me, greater even than I had
felt before, almost, indeed, a feeling of devilry.
I had been questioning myself as to my motive in coming there at all;
now I seemed to see it clearly. The woman now in the house was doubtless
giving my uncle chapter and verse concerning my strange coming to life;
left in her hands, I was as good as done for already. I felt sure that
the first thought in Uncle Zabdiel's mind, if he realised the truth of
what she said, would be one of deadly fear for his own safety; for he
believed me reckless and steeped in wickedness, and he knew that I had
no reason to love him. He would seek protection; and in seeking it would
give me up to those who had the right to hold me.
Nor was this all. In giving me up he must perforce open a certain grave
wherein lay poor Gregory Pennington, and show what that grave contained.
He must drag that miserable story into the light, and must drag Debora
into the light with it. I could see Uncle Zabdiel, in imagination,
rubbing his hands, and telling the whole thing glibly, and making much
of it; and I determined that Uncle Zabdiel's mouth must be closed.
If in no other fashion, then I felt that I must silence him by threats.
I was an outlaw, fighting a lone hand in a losing cause; he would know
at least that I was scarcely likely to be over-scrupulous in my dealing
with him or anyone else. But the first thing to do was to get into the
house.
Now, I knew the place well, of course, and, moreover, it will be
remembered that in those night excursions of mine which had led to so
much disaster I had been in the habit of coming and going without his
knowledge. It seems to me that I was born to make use more of windows
than of doors; but then, as you will have gathered by this time, I was
never one for ceremony. On this occasion I recalled old times, and made
my way to a certain window, out of which and into which I had crept many
a night and many a morning. It was a window at the end of a passage
which led to my own old room, in which for so many years I had slept. I
got in in safety, and crept along the passage; and then, out of sheer
curiosity, opened the door of that old room, and went in.
And then, in a moment, I was grappling in the semi-darkness with what
seemed to be a tall man, who was buffeting me in the wildest fashion
with his fists, and shrieking the very house down with a high, raucous
voice. Indeed, he let off a succession of yells, in which the only words
I could discover were, "Murder!" "Fire!" "Thieves!" and other like
things. And all the while I fought for his mouth with my hands in the
darkness, and threatened all manner of horrible things if he would not
be silent.
At last I overmastered him, and got him on his back on the floor, and
knelt upon him there, and glared down into his eyes, which I could see
dimly by the light which came through the uncurtained window.
"Now, then," I panted, "if you want to live, be quiet. I can hear
someone coming. If you say a word about me, I'll blow your brains out.
I'm armed, and I'm desperate."
He assured me earnestly, as well as he could by reason of my weight upon
him, that he would say not a word about me; and as I heard the steps
coming nearer, I made a dart for the head of the old-fashioned bedstead,
and slipped behind the curtains there. The next moment the room was
filled with light, and I heard Uncle Zabdiel's voice.
"What's the matter? What's the matter? What the devil are you making all
that bother about? I thought someone was murdering you."
Peering through a rent in the curtain, I could see that the man I had
grappled with, and who now faced my uncle tremblingly, was a tall,
ungainly youth, so thin and weedy-looking that I wondered he had
resisted me so long. He was clad only in a long white night-shirt, which
hung upon him as though he had been mere skin and bone; he had a weak,
foolish face, and rather long, fair hair. He stood trembling, and saying
nothing, and he was shaking from head to foot.
"Can't you speak?" snapped Uncle Zabdiel (and how well I remembered
those tones!).
"I had--had the nightmare," stammered the youth. "Woke myself up with
it, sir."
"I never knew you have that before," was my uncle's comment. "Get to
bed, and let's hear no more of you. What did you have for supper?"
"Didn't have any supper," replied the youth. "You know I never do."
"Then it couldn't have been that," retorted Uncle Zabdiel. "Come, let's
see you get into bed."
Now, the unfortunate fellow knew that a desperate ruffian was concealed
behind the curtains of the bedstead; yet his dread of that ruffian was
so great that he dared not cry out the truth. More than that, I saw that
he dared not disobey my uncle; and between the two of us he was in a
nice quandary. At last, however, with a sort of groan he made a leap at
the bed, and dived in under the bedclothes and pulled them over his
head. Without a word, Uncle Zabdiel walked out of the room, and closed
the door, leaving us both in the dark. And for quite a long minute there
was no sound in the room.
I began to feel sorry for the youth in the bed, because I knew what he
must be suffering. I moved to come out into the room, and he gave a sort
of muffled shriek and dived deeper under the clothes. I stood beside
him, and I began to talk to him as gently as I could.
"Now, look here," I whispered. "I'm not going to hurt you if you keep
quiet. Come out from under those clothes, and let me have a look at you,
and tell me who you are."
Very slowly he came out from his refuge, and sat up in bed, and looked
at me fearfully; and very ghostly he looked, with his fair hair, and his
white face, and his white garment, against the dark hangings of the bed.
"I'm old Zabdiel Blowfield's clerk," he said slowly.
"Well, you're not a very respectful clerk, at all events," I retorted
with a laugh, as I seated myself on the side of the bed. "And you don't
look a very happy one."
"This ain't exactly a house to be happy in," he said. "It's
grind--grind--grind--from morning till night, and nothing much to
eat--and that not very good. And I'm growing so fast that I seem to need
a lot more than what he does."
"I know," I responded solemnly. "I've been through it all myself. I was
once old Zabdiel Blowfield's clerk, and I also had the misfortune to be
his nephew."
"Oh, Lord!" The boy stared at me as though his eyes would drop out of
his head. "Are you the chap that stole the money, and got chokey for
it?"
I nodded. "I'm that desperate villain," I said, "and I've broken out of
'chokey,' as you call it, and have come back to revisit the glimpses of
the moon. Therefore you see how necessary it was that Uncle Zabdiel
should not see me. Do you tumble to that?"
He looked me up and down wonderingly, much as though I had been about
eight feet high. "Old Blowfield told me about you when I first came," he
said. "He said it would be a warning to me not to do likewise. But he
put in a bit too much; he said that you were dead."
"He wanted to make the warning more awful," I suggested, for I did not
feel called upon to give him an explanation concerning that most
mysterious matter. "And don't think," I added, "that I am in any sense
of the word a hero, or that I am anything wonderful. At the present time
I've scarcely a coin in my pocket, and I don't know where I'm to sleep
to-night. It's no fun doing deeds of darkness, and breaking prison, and
all that sort of thing, I can assure you."
The youth shook his head dismally. "I ain't so sure of that," he said.
"At any rate, I should think it would be better than the sort of life I
lead. There's something dashing about you--but look at me!"
He spread out his thin arms as he spoke, and looked at me with his
pathetic head on one side. I began to hate my uncle with fresh vigour,
and to wonder when some long-sleeping justice would overtake him. For I
saw that this boy was not made of the stuff that I had been made of;
this was a mere drudge, who would go on being a drudge to the end of his
days.
"What's your name?" I asked abruptly.
"Andrew Ferkoe," he replied.
"Well, Mr. Andrew Ferkoe, and how did you come to drop into this place?"
I asked.
"My father owed old Blowfield a lot of money; and my father died," he
said slowly.
"And you were taken in exchange for the debt," I said. "I think I
understand. Well, don't be downhearted about it. By the way, are you
hungry?"
"I'm never anything else," he replied, with a grin.
"Then we'll have a feast, for I'm hungry, too."
I started for the door, with the full determination to raid the larder;
but he called after me in a frightened voice--
"Come back, come back!" I turned about, and looked at him. "He'll kill
me if I take anything that doesn't belong to me, or have me locked up."
"Oh, he'll put it down to me," I assured the boy. "I'm going to
interview him in the morning, and I'll see that you don't get into
trouble."
I left him sitting up in bed, and I went out into the house, knowing my
way perfectly, in search of food. I knew that in that meagre household I
might find nothing at all, or at all events nothing worth having; but
still, I meant to get something, if possible. I got down into the
basement, and found the larder, and, to my surprise, found it better
stocked than I could have hoped. I loaded my arms with good things, and
started to make my way back to my old room.
And then it was that I saw Martha Leach and my uncle. The door of the
room in which my uncle used always to work was opened, and the woman
came out first. I was below, in an angle of the stairs leading to the
basement, and I wondered what would have happened if they had known that
I was there. Uncle Zabdiel, looking not a day older than when he had
spoken to me in the court after my sentence, followed the woman out,
bearing a candle in his hand. He had on an ancient dressing-gown, and
the black skull cap in which I think he must always have
slept--certainly I never saw him without it.
"I'm much obliged to you, my good woman," he said in a low voice--"much
obliged to you, indeed, for your warning. It's upset me, I can assure
you, to hear that the fellow's alive; but he shall be hunted down, and
given back to the law."
I set my teeth as I listened, and I felt that I might be able to
persuade Uncle Zabdiel to a different purpose.
"The difficulty will be to get hold of him," said Martha Leach. "I only
heard the real story, as I have told you, from the lips of his
fellow-prisoner--the man they call George Rabbit."
"Then the best thing you can do," said Uncle Zabdiel, touching her for a
moment on the arm, "the wisest thing you can do, is to get hold of
George Rabbit and send him to me. Tell him I'll pay him well; it'll be a
question of 'set a thief to catch a thief.' He'll track the dog down.
Tell him I'll pay him liberally--I'm known as a liberal man in my
dealings."
While he went to the door to show the woman out, I crept round the
corner of the stairs, and up to the room where I had left the boy. I
found him awaiting me eagerly; it was pleasant to see the fashion in
which his gaunt face lighted up when I set out the food upon the bed. He
was so greedy with famine that he began to cram the food into his
mouth--almost whimpering over the good things--before I had had time to
begin.
We feasted well, sitting there in the dark; we were very still as we
heard Zabdiel Blowfield pause at the door on his way upstairs, and
listen to be sure that all was silent. Fortunately for us, he did not
come in; we heard his shuffling feet take their way towards his own
room.
"Safe for the night!" I whispered. "And now I suppose you feel
better--eh?"
He nodded gratefully. "I wish I'd got your courage," he answered
wistfully. "But when he looks at me I begin to tremble, and when he
speaks I shake all over."
"Go to sleep now," I commanded him, "and comfort yourself with the
reflection that in the morning he is going to do the shaking and the
trembling for once. Bless your heart!" I added, "I was once like you,
and dared not call my soul my own. I'll have no mercy on him, I promise
you."
He smiled and lay down, and was asleep in no time at all. I had removed
the dishes from the bed, meaning to take them downstairs so soon as I
could be sure that Uncle Zabdiel was asleep. I sat down on a chair by
the open window, and looked out into the night, striving perhaps to see
some way for myself--some future in which I might live in some new and
wholly impossible world.
Most bitterly then did I think of the girl who was lost to me for ever.
My situation had not seemed to be so desperate while I carried the
knowledge in my heart that she believed in me and trusted me; but now
all that was past and done with. In the morning I must begin that fight
with my ancient enemy as to whether I should live, or whether I should
be condemned to that living death from which I had escaped; and I knew
enough now, in this calmer moment, to recognise the cunning of the man
with whom I must fight, and that the power he held was greater than
mine.
Sitting there, I must at last have fallen asleep, with my head upon the
window sill; it was hours later when I awoke. The dawn was growing in
the sky, and the boy still slept heavily. I gathered up the dishes
silently, and crept out of the room, and put them back in some disorder
into the larder; for to the consumption of that meal I meant to confess
solely on my own account. Then I began to mount the stairs again, to
get back to the room I had left.
I heard a noise above me in the house, and I knew instinctively that my
uncle had been roused, and was coming down. There was no chance for me
to hide, and above all things I knew that he would search the place from
top to bottom until he found the intruder. More than that, the
inevitable meeting must take place at some time, and this time was as
good as, if not better than, any other. So I mounted the stairs, until
at last I saw him on a landing above me, standing in the grey light of
the morning, with a heavy stick poised in his hands, ready to strike.
"It's all right, uncle," I said cheerfully, "I was coming to meet you."
He lowered the stick slowly, and looked at me for a moment or two in
silence; then I heard him chuckle ironically.
"Good-morning, nephew," he said; "welcome home again!"