THE PACKET ON THE UPPER SHELF.
As Nancy seated herself on the edge of the bed, her face grew startlingly
livid.
“You cannot surely mean what you are saying, father,” she replied.
“I mean,” said Dr. Follett in a steady and strong voice, “exactly what
I say. I have failed to avenge your brother’s death; you must finish my
work.”
“I am sorry,” said Nancy. “I am sorry at an hour like this to have to
refuse you anything, but I cannot do what you ask.”
“I will not die until you promise,” replied the doctor. “For six years I
have done all that man could do. I have not left a single stone unturned,
I have not neglected the slightest clue, yet I have failed. The man who
murdered Anthony has still to be found. If he walks this earth he shall
be found. I die, but you must find him.”
“You forget that I am a girl,” said Nancy; “no girl could undertake work
of this kind.”
“Pooh! what does sex matter?” replied the doctor. “Does the fact of your
being a girl alter love? Did not you love the dead boy? I die. It is the
will of the Almighty to take me away before my work is accomplished; but
I leave behind me a child, my lineal descendant, the loving playmate
of the murdered boy, the girl into whose ears he whispered his young
secrets, the girl who kissed his young lips. This girl is no weakling,
she can take up my work; she shall. I insist, I command, I will listen to
no silly cowardly entreaties. Do you hear me, Nancy? I die before another
sun rises, but my unfinished work drops on to your shoulders; you dare
not refuse me—do you hear what I am saying? You dare not.”
“The task you set me will kill me, father. I am dreadfully tired already.
I am utterly weary of the misery of my life.”
“Kneel down, child,” said the doctor. His voice changed from its hard and
ringing note; it grew all of a sudden soft, beseeching, tender.
“You have a woman’s heart and a woman’s spirit,” he said, touching one of
the slim young hands and stroking it as he spoke; “but you have more than
that, you have a man’s courage. I have seen that courage shine in your
eyes in more than one sudden emergency; the day the blow fell I saw it. I
have seen it since, when you have denied yourself and turned your back on
the good things of youth, and followed me, step by step, uncomplainingly,
up the narrow path of self-sacrifice and self-denial. You can do it—you
shall. Think of Anthony, think for a moment of the old times.”
“Yes, I remember the old times,” replied Nancy. She began to sob as she
spoke.
“That is right, child, cry away. I have touched your heart. When I
touch a heart like yours courage soon re-animates it; you will not be a
coward, you will not allow your brother’s blood to cry from the ground
for vengeance; think of the old times, think of your mother, think of the
old, gay, happy life.”
“Yes, yes, I remember it,” said the girl; “but it is all past and over.”
She wept silently, bowing her head until it almost touched the bedclothes.
“I see the old times as I lie here,” said Dr. Follett. A meditative,
gentle look stole the anxiety and some of the age out of his face. “Yes,”
he continued, speaking in a dreamy tone, “the past rises before me. I
see a picture. There are three people in the picture, Anthony, your
mother, you. Our house is full of sunshine. Your mother is proud of her
children, and I am proud of your mother and of the children. The picture
is very vivid, it is almost like a vision, it fills the whole of my gaze.
I see the room where we sit in the evening. I see people flitting about.
I see our morning-room with the sunshine on it; there is your mother’s
gentle face, there is Anthony like a young eagle, all romance, chivalry—a
daring boy, a splendid lad. I see you full of courage, but pretty, soft,
with hair like the sun. Yes, it is a lovely picture; it rests me, it
supports me. Ah, but it is changing—your mother’s place is empty, she
no longer sits by the fire, or takes the head of the table. She has
gone. I am in one sense alone, but still I live, for Anthony lives, and
you live, and I work for you, and my profession abounds with interest
and it absorbs me. Here is another picture coming on fast. I see my
consulting-room; here come the patients; I give them five minutes each,
and I drop the golden sovereigns into my drawer, fast, faster and faster.
I am a very successful doctor. You remember all about my success, don’t
you?”
“Yes, yes, you were grand, magnificent in those days,” said Nancy. She
had raised her head now; her tears had dried on her cheeks.
“Yes, as you say, I was magnificent,” repeated the old man, “but don’t
interrupt me; I still see the picture. Patients think a lot of me—I am
spoken well of by my colleagues, I am consulted by local practitioners.
People come from distant lands to see me and to get my opinion. My
opinion is golden. I feel myself something like a god; I can dispense
life, I can issue the dread fiat of death. Here is a patient who comes
from China. All the long way from the flowery land the wretched man has
come to consult me. I seem to see the long voyage and the despair at
the man’s heart, and now I behold the hope which animates him. He has a
tumour, horrible, unsightly, a ghastly thing, a protuberance from the
very home of Satan himself, but I remove it by my knife and by my skill,
and the man recovers. Look at him! He is blessing me, and he is offering
me the half of all his worldly possessions. Oh! how he has suffered, but
I have relieved him. I have lifted him from hell to paradise. Yes, I am a
great doctor. How beautiful, how absorbingly interesting is this picture
of the golden past!”
Dr. Follett’s voice dropped—the animation went out of it.
“There, child, all the pictures have faded,” he said. “The curtain has
dropped—the old life is shut away by a door which can never be opened,
for Anthony is dead. Let me weep for him, Nancy—I will; I must. Tears
come slowly to the dying, but they rise in my eyes now when I remember
Anthony. He is dead—he was murdered—he lies in his grave, but his
murderer still sees the sunshine and feels the sweet breath of life—his
murderer lives.”
“But you are not to blame for that,” said Nancy; “no man could do more
than you have done. When you see Anthony again in the strange world to
which you are hurrying you will tell him all, and——”
“I shall see him again,” said Dr. Follett, “and when I see him I will
tell him that I have dropped my mantle on to you; you are to continue my
work.”
Nancy’s face grew so white that it looked almost like the face of one who
had died; her lips slightly parted, her eyes, terror growing in them,
became fixed on her father’s face.
“I see another picture,” he said again suddenly. “I see the morning when
Anthony went to Paris—to gay Paris, where he lost his life. He enters
the room. How light is his laugh and how his eyes sparkle! He has said
‘farewell,’ he has gone. Wait a while—another picture is rising in that
dark part of the room. Hold me, Nancy, my child, or I shall fall. I must
look at it, but it horrifies me, it chills my blood. Do you see the man
who has come into the room? His name is Eustace Moore.”
“Oh! don’t let us recall that dreadful scene, father,” interrupted Nancy.
“I must, child. Don’t interrupt me, let me go on describing the picture.
Eustace Moore has come into the room. He is Anthony’s friend. He tells
his awful tale. Cannot you hear what he says?”
“No, dear father, I hear nothing. You are torturing yourself with all
these dreadful memories; they are exciting you too much; it is dreadfully
bad for you to talk as you do.”
“Nothing is bad for me now. I am past the good or the bad of life. I
stand on its threshold. Let me describe the picture. I hear Eustace Moore
speaking. These are his words:
“‘I have brought you terrible news, doctor. I cannot mince matters, nor
break the blow in any way. Your son is dead!’
“‘Go on,’ I answer. I stagger, but I don’t fall; ‘go on, hurry, tell me
everything.’
“‘Your son was murdered at a café in Paris,’ continues Moore. ‘The cause
of the murder is an absolute mystery. A stranger had a quarrel with him;
there were hurried words, followed by blows and pistol shots—the boy was
shot clean through the heart. My address was found in his pocket; someone
rushed to my flat, not far away, and I was on the scene in less than half
an hour. Anthony was lying dead on a table in an inner room of the café.
The man who had quarrelled with him and who had murdered him was known
by the name of Hubert Lefroy. As I was entering the café, I saw a tall
man rushing by in considerable agitation; he wore no hat, and he flew
quickly past me. I observed his strange face, and a mark—the mark of a
death’s head and cross-bones tattooed on the upper lip. Knowing nothing
definitely at the moment, I did not stop to arrest his flight. My firm
belief is that he is the murderer. Every possible search has been made
since, but not a trace of him has been heard of. The man was tall, dark
and strong. By the mark on his lip we ought to know him again—I should
recognise his face were I to see him.’
“Those were the exact words spoken by Eustace Moore, Nancy. I know them,
as you perceive, by heart—they are, indeed, graven on my heart. The
picture fades. Moore’s voice is silent. He has died since then. We do not
know a single living person who has seen that assassin, who sent my only
son to an early grave. For six long years we have searched for him—you,
my child, know how well.”
“Yes, father,” answered Nancy, “I do know.”
“We have spent all our money,” continued the doctor, “we have employed
the very best detectives—we have done all that human beings could do. I
have lived on the hope that the day would come when I should see that
wretch arrested, tried, hanged by the neck until he died. My hope is
fading into the night. I have not found the murderer. You will find him,
Nancy—you will carry on my work.”
“I hate the man,” said Nancy slowly and speaking with intense fervour.
“When you recall that dreadful picture, I hate the man who murdered my
brother as much as you do. I dream of him also night after night, and
my hate is so deep that nothing in all the world can extinguish it; but
how am I to carry on this awful search? Where you failed, how am I to
succeed?”
“You must go on employing Crossley, the detective; you must use your
woman’s wit—you must never slacken your zeal.”
“Oh! father, the thought is too horrible; let me drop it.”
“Never, child; I feel that I could haunt you if you did not do it. Find
the man who killed Anthony; promise to carry on my work, or I curse you
before I die. It will be an awful thing for you to live under your dying
father’s curse.”
“I am superstitious—you have made me superstitious,” answered Nancy; “my
nerves are not as strong as the nerves of girls who have lived happier
lives; I do not believe I could live under your curse.”
“You could not, it would wither you up, so awful would be its quality;
you would die or go mad.”
“I could not bear it,” said Nancy, again shuddering as she spoke.
“Then take my blessing instead, do my work, take up the burden bravely.”
“But is there any chance of my succeeding?” she answered, a note of
wavering coming into her voice. “If you have failed to find Anthony’s
murderer, how is it possible for me to succeed? All your savings have
gone to detectives. All the money you earned when you were rich and
famous has vanished. We have stinted ourselves and starved ourselves,
and brooded over this awful thing until we have scarcely been like human
beings. Can you not leave revenge to Heaven? Why should you ruin my young
life?”
“Because I will have revenge,” said the dying man, “because I lived for
it and will die for it. Swear, child—your idle words are only like pin
pricks to me. Swear to carry on my life’s purpose or I curse you.”
Nancy groaned and covered her white face.
“I won’t be denied,” said Dr. Follett, catching hold of her arm and
trying to pull one of her hands away.
“What have I done to be punished in this awful way?” said the girl.
“Swear,” repeated the doctor.
“I won’t swear,” she said suddenly. She flung down her hands; her face
looked calm and resolved. “There, have your way,” she said; “I yield, I
submit. I will do what you wish.”
“Swear it, swear by the heaven above and the hell beneath.”
“I won’t do that, father. I give you my word. I can do no more. I will
devote my life to this accursed search. I have never broken my word. Are
you satisfied?”
“Yes, I am satisfied; you never told me a lie yet.”
He lay back panting against his pillows. He spoke huskily and weakly now
that he had won his point.
“I am quite satisfied,” he said again. “You are young and you will have
time to do the work. Remember that Detective Crossley has got what few
clues we were able to collect. It will be necessary for you to go on
employing him. There is still a thousand pounds to my credit in the
London City Bank. A thousand pounds will go a long way, and you must
give Crossley what money he requires. As to your own expenses, you
will of course leave the Grange, but you can live very cheaply in some
inexpensive country place. I have trained you to want scarcely anything.
You must keep Crossley up to the mark. Crossley must search and keep on
searching; he must follow up the faintest clue; the money is there, and a
thousand pounds with your aid ought to do the work. Don’t forget that the
man is an Englishman and that there is an ugly scar on his lip. I feel
convinced that you will carry my work to a successful issue, and that
your brother’s blood will be avenged. Don’t turn your young attention
to the lighter things of existence; don’t marry until you have fulfilled
your sacred mission.”
“But if I find the murderer, father,” interrupted Nancy, “if I am
successful, what am I to do?”
The old doctor gave a grim smile.
“There is the justice of the law,” he answered; “the man would be tried
and hanged; I have thought of all that. I have pictured the dying scene,
and had I lived such pleasure would that trial have given me, such
exquisite bliss would I have felt in the moment that the murderer was
breathing out his dying breath, that I could have wished for no greater
gratification on earth; but you, child, are made of different metal, and
I have thought of a way by which revenge will come, swift, sure, and
terrible. None know better than I that a woman’s strength has its limits.
I myself will direct the bolt which severs that wretch’s life from this
fair earth. Now take my keys, go to the cupboard in the wall and open it.”
Nancy walked across the room, fitted a key into the cupboard and turned
the lock.
“There is a packet on the upper shelf—bring it to me,” called the doctor
to her.
She raised her arms and lifted down a square box. It was neatly folded in
brown paper, corded with strong cords and firmly sealed.
“Bring it here,” said her father.
She did so.
“Lay it on the bed.”
“Yes, father,” she replied; “what does it contain?”
“Nancy, you are never to open the box.”
“What am I to do with it?”
“When you find the man who killed your brother, you are to give this
unopened box to him. Give it to him, and when you do so, say, ‘Dr.
Follett, the father of Anthony Follett, asked me to give you this.’ You
need not add a word more. Keep the box until that supreme moment comes.
Whatever else you part from, never let this box out of your keeping.
Where you go take it, for any day or any night the need for it may arise.
When you give it to the murderer and when he opens it, your brother’s
blood will be avenged.”