THE BOY WITH THE LONG CURLS.
The suicide of that brilliant and cultured man, Dr. Bardolph Just,
caused, as you will remember, a very great sensation at the time, and
there was much wonder expressed as to why the man had hanged himself at
all. But there was no doubt about the question of suicide, because the
whole thing had been so deliberately and carefully planned.
He had taken care to send everyone away from him--even an old and
trusted friend like Mr. Harvey Scoffold--and had left himself absolutely
alone in that great house. Various theories were put forward as to how
he had managed to tie the knot so successfully, in making that running
noose for his neck; but it was universally agreed that that had been a
matter of teeth and his one uninjured hand. Shuddering accounts, wholly
imaginary, were given of what the man's last hours must have been, and
in what determined fashion he must have hacked away the rails, in order
to make a space through which he could push his way. Everyone seemed to
be perfectly agreed on that matter, and there it ended.
For the rest, let me say that I waited in that house until, in due
course, William Capper woke up. He went about what he had to do after
that in the most methodical way, restoring all the keys to the doors,
and putting in order such things as had been disturbed during those
long, weary hours when he had followed the other man round the house. He
said but little to me, and at last we came out of the place, and stood
together, with the doors of the house closed upon us. Only when we had
gone through the grounds, and had come out upon the high road did he
speak again, and then without looking at me.
"This is where we part, sir," he said quietly. "You will be making for
London, and I----"
"Where will you go?" I asked him as he hesitated.
"I don't know, and it doesn't matter," he replied, looking out over the
landscape that stretched before him. "I'm an old man, and there may not
be many years for me. It does not matter much where or how I spend them.
If," he added whimsically, "I could be sure that they would send me to
that prison from which you came"--for I had told him that part of the
story--"I would do something that would cause me to be sent there; but
it might be another prison, and that wouldn't do. I should like to be
near him."
I stretched out my hand to him, on an impulse, in farewell, but he shook
his head. "You might not like to think afterwards that you took my hand,
after what I have done," he said quietly. Then, with a quick nod, this
singular creature turned away and walked off down the road. I lost him
at a turn of it, and I saw him no more.
I went back to London that night, and at my old lodging found Andrew
Ferkoe awaiting me. I had the task before me of writing to Debora, and
that task, as you may suppose, was not an easy one. Nevertheless I
contrived to put my case before her clearly and without brutality.
I told her that I should love her all my life; I blessed her for all she
had unconsciously done for me; I told her I was grateful for the sweet
memory of herself that she had left with me. But I reminded her that I
had no name, and no position, and no hopes, and if by any unfortunate
chance my real name was thrust upon me in the future, it would only be
to bring shame and degradation upon me and upon any one with whom I was
associated. And I added that she would have news very soon concerning
the doctor, and I thought it improbable that he would ever trouble her
again.
I sealed the letter and directed it, and gave it to Andrew Ferkoe. "Run
out and post that," I said. "And never speak to me about the matter
again. You and I are alone together in the world, Andrew, and we shall
have to be sufficient for each other."
The lad weighed the letter in his hand, studying the address, and
looking from it to me and back again. "I know what you've done," he
said; "you've had a row with the young lady--that's what you've done."
"You simpleton!" I laughed; "what do you know about such matters? I've
had no row with the young lady, as you express it. I'm only trying to do
the right thing."
"Isn't she fond of you?" he asked wistfully.
"I believe she's very fond of me," I replied. "Only there are such
things in this world as honour, and justice, and truth, and it is
written among the laws that men should obey, but do not, that you
mustn't take advantage of a woman's fondness for you. In other words,
Andrew, you must play the game. So that it happens that, as I'm a rank
outsider and a bad lot, and as I have the stain of the prison on me,
I've got to steer clear of a young girl who is as high above me as the
stars. In a little time she will come to think of me with friendly
feelings, but no more than that. So off with you, my boy, and post that
important letter."
Andrew hesitated a moment or two longer, and shook his head, but at last
he sallied forth on his errand. I had lighted a cigar, and was on the
point of sitting down to enjoy it, and to ruminate luxuriously over my
miseries, when there came a knock at the door, and my landlady put her
head in to announce that a gentleman had come to see me. I was rapidly
running over the names of the extremely few people who even knew of my
whereabouts as the man entered, and disclosed himself as an utter
stranger. He was a little man, dressed in black, and of a precise manner
of speech and action. The landlady withdrew, and the visitor stood
looking at me, as though taking stock of me generally, while he removed
his gloves.
"Haven't you made a mistake, sir?" I asked.
"I think not," he replied. "You are Mr. John New, are you not?"
I told him that I was, and I began to have an unpleasant sensation that
he must be connected with the police in some way. However, he smiled
with satisfaction at this proof that he was right, and took from his
breast pocket a little bundle of papers.
"You were, I believe, a friend of the late Mr. Zabdiel Blowfield, who
was brutally murdered a short time ago?" he asked, looking up at me.
"Yes," I said, in some amazement. "I knew him slightly."
"As you are doubtless aware, Mr. New, the old gentleman was very
eccentric, and took very sudden likes and dislikes. He had no one in the
world belonging to him, his one nephew, after a somewhat disgraceful
career, having died shamefully. It seems, however, that, slight as your
acquaintance with him was, he took a decided liking for you."
"He never displayed it in life," I said grimly.
"Then he has made up for any lack in that respect now," said the man.
"Perhaps I should introduce myself, Mr. New. My name is Tipping--James
Tipping--and I was Mr. Blowfield's solicitor for many years. I should
like, Mr. New, to congratulate you; your poor old friend has left you
everything he possessed in the world."
For a moment or two I gaped at him, not understanding. I tried to frame
words in which to answer, tried to get some grasp of his meaning. While
I stood there, staring stupidly, he smiled indulgently, and went on
speaking.
"The will in which he left everything to you, and which was duly
witnessed at my office, was prepared only a few days--a few hours
almost--before his death. It was prepared under curious circumstances.
He seemed to have an idea that he had not treated his dead nephew very
well, and he wanted to make amends in some way. He told me that was the
reason that he wanted to leave the money to you, a young man, with his
way to make in the world."
I own I felt bitterly ashamed. I seemed to see this strange old man
doing what he thought was some tardy act of justice at the very end, and
doing it in such a fashion that my identity should not be revealed.
True, I remembered that in sheer panic he had tried to destroy me
afterwards, but he had not revoked the will.
"How much is it?" I contrived to ask.
"Considerably over eighty thousand pounds," said Mr. Tipping unctuously.
"Mr. Blowfield lived very simply, as you are aware, and was extremely
successful in his investments generally. I congratulate you, Mr. New,
with all my heart; I regret if I have been somewhat abrupt, and so have
startled you."
"It is a little staggering, certainly," I said weakly.
The man made an appointment for me to see him at his office on the
following day, but meanwhile left a substantial sum in my hands. When
Andrew Ferkoe came back, as he did presently, I told him the great news.
"Now, look here, Andrew," I said solemnly, "I regard this money as
belonging almost as much to you as it does to me. There's not the
slightest doubt that my Uncle Zabdiel made your father poor, and you
know well enough that he ground you pretty hard afterwards. You toiled,
just as I toiled before you; and now we've got our great reward. You
shall join forces with me; we'll start life together, in a better
fashion than any we have yet enjoyed. Come down with me to see the
lawyer to-morrow, and I'll settle a certain amount on you, and tie it up
tight, so that you can get at it only in instalments; because money's a
dreadful temptation. After that we'll decide what we shall do with our
lives."
"I wish my poor father had been alive to know you," said the boy
tearfully.
I slept but little that night; my brain was awhirl with many thoughts.
Now, more than ever, there entered into me the temptation to remember
only that I was a rich man, and by that right, at least, I might
approach Debora. I weighed that aspect of the case carefully through the
long hours of the night--almost making up my mind at times that I would
throw everything else to the winds, and would go to the girl and beg her
now to start life with me in a newer and a better fashion than any she
or I had known. But with the cold light of the dawn hard facts asserted
themselves; and I knew that the brand of my prison was on me, and could
not well be washed out. I rose from my bed, determined that for the
future love or thoughts of love was not for me.
In due course we called upon Mr. James Tipping, and I listened with
what patience I might to a lecture from that gentleman on the sin of
mistaken generosity. In the end, of course, I had my way, and Andrew
Ferkoe found himself with an income, and with Mr. James Tipping as his
legal guardian. I will not tell you the amount, lest you should regard
me either as too generous or not generous enough; suffice it that Andrew
could look forward to the prospect of passing his days in comfort, no
matter what might happen to me.
A few days of splendid idleness supervened on that, and I saw London
under a new aspect, and with a heart almost at peace--almost, because it
was utterly impossible for me to shut out of my mind what might have
been and what never could be. So difficult was it, indeed, that at last
my resolution broke down; and one evening I drove straight to the little
hotel near the Charterhouse where I had left Debora. I rehearsed
speeches as I went along, telling myself that she should understand
clearly what the position was, and what she risked, and all the rest of
it; I was very full of the matter by the time the cab stopped outside
the hotel.
But she was gone. So little had I expected that, that I stared in blank
amazement at the porter, and asked him if he was quite sure. Yes, he was
quite sure; the lady had left two days before, and had not stated where
she was going.
That was a knock-down blow, and one from which I found it difficult to
recover. My pride was hurt, inconsistently enough; I had never expected
that she would take the matter like that, and so readily adopt the very
forcible arguments I had brought to bear upon the situation in my letter
to her. I had pictured her as resenting the idea fiercely; I had
pictured her broken down, and longing to see me, and to put her own very
different view of the matter before me. This calm acceptance of my
ideas was not what in my heart I had really anticipated.
Foolishly enough, I went back again and again to the hotel; but there
was no news of her. I did not even know the name of the lawyer to whom I
had recommended her to go, in the event of anything happening to me or
to the doctor. I began to see with bitterness that this young lady
regarded me merely as an episode--merely as a highly undesirable escaped
convict, who had forced his way into her life, and who was now done
with.
For my part, I had done with London, and I had done with England. I made
up my mind that I would go abroad, and would start again in a new
country, and would endeavour to make something of my miserable
existence. So set was I upon the idea that in a matter of days I had
decided everything, and was buying my outfit. I put the matter before
Andrew Ferkoe; I expected that he would raise objections to our parting.
He seemed a little upset, but said nothing that bore greatly on the
question. He had great hopes, he told me, of being a doctor, and was
already making arrangements to enter himself at a hospital, with a view
to training. I applauded the idea, for I had not liked to think that the
lad might settle down to doing nothing save the spending of his income.
Judge of my surprise, therefore, when on the very next day he walked
into my sitting-room in the comfortable hotel in which we had taken up
our quarters, and announced quite another decision. He announced it
firmly, too, and with more daring than I should have given him credit
for.
"I'm coming with you," he said.
"You're making a great mistake if you think of doing that," I assured
him. "Here in London you can settle down, and become a great and clever
man; with me you'll probably lead a useless, wandering sort of
existence, and accomplish nothing. Be wise, and stay where you are."
"I'm coming with you," said Andrew obstinately. "You've been awfully
good to me, and I should be a beast to let you go on alone, to knock
about the world. I've been selfish even to think of it."
Nor could I shake his determination. I had booked my passage, and I now
had to take another for him. He was nervous of going, he told me, and
would greatly prefer to have a cabin to himself, if that could be
secured. As there were not many passengers by that particular boat, I
was able to arrange that he should be alone in a small cabin. I settled
the matter then and there, and paid his passage money. And so we came to
the last night we were to spend in England.
"I want to have a run round to-morrow," he said, as we were about to
retire to our rooms. "It'll be the last time I shall see London, I
expect, and I want to make the most of every hour. The vessel doesn't
sail until quite late, and I shall go on board and turn in at once. I'm
dreadfully afraid I shall be ill, and I don't want to wake up until I'm
miles away from the shore; then perhaps I can face it better."
Having settled that point, the boy prepared to go to bed. When he got to
the door of the room, however, he turned back, and slowly retraced his
steps to where I stood. He seemed bashful and nervous; he did not look
into my eyes.
"There's never been anyone in the world that's behaved as well to me as
you have," he said. "I shall never be able to thank you enough."
"Shut up, Andrew, and go to bed!" I broke in.
"I don't intend to speak about it again, but I must, just this last
time. God bless you, Jack"--I had taught him to call me that--"and may
you be the happiest man in the world, wherever you are."
Before I could prevent him he had caught my hand in both of his, and had
kissed it passionately; then, with a sound suspiciously like a sob, he
turned and bolted from the room. I had known him always for an odd,
strange creature, but I confess I was moved more strongly then than
perhaps I had ever been moved before.
Evidently he had made up his mind to make the most of the day; he was
gone from the hotel when I came down in the morning. I took my last look
at London on my own account, feeling not too cheerful at the prospect of
going so far away. Then, towards the hour for sailing, I started for the
ship. My luggage had gone on, and I had nothing to do but to put myself
on board.
"The young gentleman came on board, and turned in about half an hour
ago, sir," the steward told me. "Dreadful afraid of being seasick, sir;
said he wasn't to be disturbed on any account."
"Let him alone by all means," I said laughing. I felt relieved to know
that Andrew had got safely out of his adventures of the day. I turned
in, and slept until the morning, by which time we were well out to sea.
Andrew did not put in an appearance all that day. He sent messages to me
by the steward, to say that he was very ill, and did not want to see
anyone; a little later, that he was getting better. It was quite late in
the evening when I put the steward aside and insisted on seeing the boy.
I was anxious about him.
The cabin was not particularly well lighted as I stumbled into it. I saw
the boy sitting on the side of his bunk, with his face partly turned
from me. Curiously enough, he was wearing his hat, a soft felt I had
noticed him with the day before we left London.
"Well, Andrew," I said cheerily, "I'm sorry to see you like this. Much
better for you to put a good face on it, and come on deck."
"Won't this face do?"
I started, and stared at the figure of the boy.
In a moment the boy rose to his feet and tossed aside the felt hat; a
great mass of curls came tumbling down on to his shoulders. I uttered a
cry of amazement.
It was Debora!
"Andrew knew all about it all the time," she whispered to me, when
presently we were coherent, and when she had blushingly apologised for
her boy's dress. "He came to me after he had posted the letter you sent
me; then, when I knew that you were going to sail, I made up my mind to
come with you. You foolish fellow! you would only have run away from me
again if I had tried to meet you in any other way; and I wanted to
follow you all over the world."
"All my world is here!" I whispered, as I kissed her.
THE END.
WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED, LONDON.