by Tom Gallon
CHAPTER VIII.
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 bitterestthing 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 withtenderness.
"John, dear," she said softly, "there is some mystery here that I don'tunderstand; I want to know all about it--all about you. I trust you as Itrust no other man on earth; there can be nothing you are afraid to tellme."
Having struck me that unconscious blow, she sat down calmly, and smiledat me, and waited; I thought that never had poor prisoner trembledbefore his judge as I trembled then.
"I want you to throw your mind back," I began at last, seeing that Imust get the business over, "to the night when last you saw GregoryPennington."
She started, and looked at me more keenly; leaned forward over the tablebeside her, and kept her eyes fixed on my face.
"I remember the evening well," she said. "We stood together in thegrounds of the house; he left me to go into that house to see myguardian. And I have never seen him since."
"When you met Gregory Pennington that night," I went on, "I lay in thedarkness quite near to you, a forlorn and hunted wretch, clad in a dresssuch as you have never seen--the dress of a convict."
She got up quickly from her chair, and retreated from me; yet still shekept her eyes fixed on my face. And now I began to see that my cause washopeless.
"I had broken out of my prison that day, a prison far away in thecountry. I was hunted, and hopeless, and wretched; the hand of every manwas against me. I had taken money that did not belong to me, and I hadreceived a savage sentence of ten years' imprisonment. I had served butone, when the life and the manhood in me cried aloud for liberty; and onthat 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 Iwanted, food and clothing," I answered her. "I saw young Pennington gointo the house; a little later I followed him. Only, as you willunderstand, I could not enter by the door; I broke into the place likethe thief I was."
"I understand that that was necessary," she said, nodding slowly. "I donot judge you for that."
"When I got into the house," I went on hurriedly, "I found that atragedy had taken place. I implore you to believe that I am telling thetruth and nothing but the truth; I could not lie to you. Your friendGregory Pennington had met with an accident."
She read what was in my face; she drew a deep breath, and caught at theback of the chair by which she stood. "You mean that he was dead?" shewhispered.
I nodded. "For what reason I know not, although I can guess; butGregory Pennington had hanged himself."
She closed her eyes for a moment, and I thought as she swayed a littlethat she was going to faint. I had taken a step towards her when sheopened her eyes suddenly, and I saw a great anger and indignationblazing in them. "It's a lie!" she exclaimed, "he was the last person todo such a thing. He was the brightest, and best, and sweetest lad thatever loved a girl, and loved her hopelessly."
"There you have it," I suggested. "Had you not told him that night thatyou could not love him?"
"Yes, but that would not have sent him to his death," she retorted. "Butgo on; I want to know what was done, and why I never heard about thisuntil 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 ahunted fugitive. Second, there was, in a slight degree, a faintresemblance between the dead man and the living, in colouring, andheight, and general appearance."
She looked at me for a moment or two in silence; then she nodded herhead. "Yes, I see that now," she answered, "although I never noticed itbefore."
"While I was in the room with the dead man, Dr. Just put in anappearance. To be brief, he wanted to keep the matter from you, becausehe knew the boy had been your friend; he took pity on me, and wanted tosave me. He knew that they were hunting for a convict, who might perhapsbe thought to be something like the dead man; at his suggestion Ichanged clothes with Gregory Pennington, and started under anothername."
I turned away from her then; I dared not look at her. For a time therewas a dead silence in the room, broken only by the curious slow tickingof an old eight-day clock in the corner. I remember that I found myselfmechanically 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 seenher, looking at me with a face of horror. Then at last, in a sort ofbroken 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 tomurmur the words under her breath. Then she clapped her hands suddenlyover her face.
"Oh--dear God!" she cried out.
I began to murmur excuses and pleadings. "The fault was not mine, theboy was dead, and no further harm could come to him. I wanted to live--Iwas so young myself, and I wanted to begin life again. I neverthought----"
She dropped her hands, and faced me boldly; I saw the tears swimming inher eyes. "You never thought!" she cried. "You never thought of what itmeant for him, with no sin upon him, to lie in a felon's grave! Younever thought that there was anyone on earth might miss him, and sorrowfor him, and long for him! You wanted to live--you, that had brokenprison--you, a common thief! You coward!"
I said no more; it seemed almost as if the solid earth was slipping awayfrom under my feet. I cared nothing for what might happen to me; I knewthat I had lost her, and that I should never touch her hand again infriendship. I stood there, waiting, as though for the sentence she mustpronounce.
"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 Iwant 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!" sheexclaimed. "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 notleave you."
"That man who burst into the house just now, he seemed to know you," shesaid, 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 understandwhat 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 andgloves. 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 whather intention was; but I did not flinch. She struck me full across theface with it, crying as she did so, "Now go!" dropped the cane, andburst into tears at the same moment. I could bear no more; I turnedabout, and walked out of the room, and out of the house. I did not seemto remember anything until I found myself walking at a great rate underthe stars, down towards London.
My feelings then I will not attempt to describe. I seemed to be moreutterly lost than ever; the sorry comedy was played out, and I walkedutterly friendless and alone, caring nothing what became of me. If Iremembered that Debora stood in peril of her life, and had but smallchance of escape from some horrible death, I tried to thrust thatthought away from me; for the blow she had struck me seemed to have cutdeep into my soul. Of all the homeless wretches under the stars thatnight, surely I was the one most to be pitied!
I found myself after a time
on Hampstead Heath, and lay down there in aquiet spot under the trees, and stared up at the stars, wondering alittle, perhaps, why Fate had dealt so hardly with me, and had nevergiven me a real chance. I remembered my unhappy boyhood, and my longyears of drudgery in my uncle's house; I remembered with bitterness thatnow 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 asI 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 comingI started off down into London, in the hope to lose myself and mymiseries in the crowded streets. But there I found that apparentlyeveryone had some business to be engaged upon; everyone was hurryinghither and thither, far too busy to take note of me or of my downcastface. The mere instinct to live kept me clear of the traffic, or I musthave been run over a hundred times in the day, so little did I troublewhere I walked, or what became of me. When my body craved for food Iwent 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 theneveryone against whom one rubs shoulders in a great city must have somestrange 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 fascinationdrew me across Hampstead Heath, and so in the direction of the cottagein which Harvey Scoffold lived. I had no hope of seeing the girl; I onlyfelt it would be some poor satisfaction to me to see the house in whichshe was; perhaps my very presence there might serve in some vague way toshield her from harm; for by this time I had come to the conclusion thatScoffold was as much her enemy and mine as anyone else by whom she wassurrounded.
I wandered about unhappily there for more than an hour; I was justturning away, when the old woman I had seen on the previous night cameout of the door of the cottage, and advanced down the garden to thelittle gate in the fence. I think a cat must have got astray; for shecalled to some animal fretfully more than once. She was just turningaway 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 longlivid weal across my face. "Ah! I remember you now, sir," she said; "Ididn't recognise you for a moment. But, bless you, sir, they've all goneaway."
"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 thehouse of Dr. Bardolph Just. I've got the address inside, sir, if youshould want it."
I told her I did not want it, and I turned away abruptly. I could notunderstand the position at all; I wondered how Harvey Scoffold hadpersuaded her to go back to that house, and to the man she so muchdreaded. I saw how badly I had blundered in the matter, and how I haddone the very thing I had striven not to do. She would trust HarveyScoffold; she would believe in his honesty, as I had believed in it; andI was convinced now that he was working hand in glove with BardolphJust. 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 mightbe able to do some good. I set off at once, tired out as I was, forBardolph Just's house.
It was not yet late, and the house was still lighted up when at last Icame 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. Ithink I had a sort of vague idea that I would get in somehow, andconfront the doctor; for, after all, nothing much worse could happen tome than had already befallen me. While I waited irresolutely in thegrounds, a door opened at one side of the house, letting out a littleflood of light for a moment; then the door was closed again, and I saw afigure coming swiftly towards me through the trees. I drew back behindone of the trees, and watched; presently the figure passed so close tome, going steadily in the direction of the gate, that I could see theface clearly. It was Martha Leach, habited for a journey.
There was such a grim, set purpose in the face that, after she had gonea yard or two, I turned on an instinct and followed her. I heard thelatch 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 turnpassed out in her wake. I flattened myself against the wall, becauseMartha Leach had stopped in the road, and had looked back. Fortunatelyfor me she did not return; after a momentary pause she went on againrapidly, taking a northern direction.
Now, by all the laws of the game I ought to have returned to the houseto keep my vigil there; for what earthly purpose could I hope to servein chasing this woman about the northern suburbs of London, at somethingnear to nine o'clock on a summer's evening? But I felt impelled to go onafter her; and my heart sank a little when presently I saw her hail afour-wheeled cab, and range herself up beside the front wheel, to drivea bargain with the cabman. Without her knowledge I had come to the backof the cab, and could hear distinctly what she said.
I felt at first that I was dreaming when I heard her asking the man ifhe could drive her to an address near Barnet; and that address was thehouse of my Uncle Zabdiel! After some demur the man agreed; and thewoman got inside, and the cab started. And now I was determined that Iwould follow this thing out to the bitter end; for I began to understandvaguely what her mission was to my uncle.
As I ran behind the cab, now and then resting myself by perchingperilously on the springs, I had time to think of the events that hadfollowed the coming of George Rabbit to the doctor's house, and hisdiscovery of me. I remembered that light I had seen in the loft; Iremembered how Martha Leach had come from that loft, carrying a lantern;I remembered how she had threatened to find out who I was, and fromwhence I came. And I knew now with certainty that she was on her way tomy uncle, with the purpose of letting him know the exact state ofaffairs.
I own that I was puzzled to know why she should be concerning herself inthe matter at all. That she hated Debora I knew, and I could only judgethat she felt I might be dangerous, and had best be got rid of in somefashion or other. The newspaper reports of my trial and sentence hadmade my life, of necessity, common property; she would be able easily todiscover the address of Uncle Zabdiel. That she was working, as shebelieved, in the interests of the doctor I could well understand; butwhether by his inspiration or not it was impossible for me to know.
The cab stopped at last outside that grim old house I remembered sowell, 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 fromthe shelter of a doorway; but I heard the bell peal in the great, hollowold place, and presently saw the gate open, and Martha Leach, after someparley, 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 bepossible for me to forestall Martha Leach, and take some of the wind outof her sails. Moreover, the prospect of appearing before my uncle in aghostly character rather appealed to me than not; he had given me one ortwo bad shocks in my life, and I might return the compliment. For, ofcourse, I was well aware that he must long since have believed that Iwas dead and buried, as had been reported. I went near to the house, andtried 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 inthe narrow garden that surrounded the house.
Strange memories came flocking back to me as I stood there looking up atthe dark house. How much had I not suffered in this place, in whatterror of the darkness I had lain, night after night, as a boy, dreadingto hear the footsteps of Uncle Zabdiel, and yet feeling some relief athearing them in that grim and silent place! I thought then, as I stoodthere, how absolutely alone I was in the great world--how shut out
fromeverything my strength and manhood seemed to have a right to demand. Andwith that thought came a recklessness upon me, greater even than I hadfelt 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 doubtlessgiving 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 thatthe first thought in Uncle Zabdiel's mind, if he realised the truth ofwhat she said, would be one of deadly fear for his own safety; for hebelieved me reckless and steeped in wickedness, and he knew that I hadno reason to love him. He would seek protection; and in seeking it wouldgive 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 gravewherein lay poor Gregory Pennington, and show what that grave contained.He must drag that miserable story into the light, and must drag Deborainto the light with it. I could see Uncle Zabdiel, in imagination,rubbing his hands, and telling the whole thing glibly, and making muchof 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 knowat least that I was scarcely likely to be over-scrupulous in my dealingwith him or anyone else. But the first thing to do was to get into thehouse.
Now, I knew the place well, of course, and, moreover, it will beremembered that in those night excursions of mine which had led to somuch disaster I had been in the habit of coming and going without hisknowledge. It seems to me that I was born to make use more of windowsthan of doors; but then, as you will have gathered by this time, I wasnever one for ceremony. On this occasion I recalled old times, and mademy way to a certain window, out of which and into which I had crept manya night and many a morning. It was a window at the end of a passagewhich led to my own old room, in which for so many years I had slept. Igot in in safety, and crept along the passage; and then, out of sheercuriosity, opened the door of that old room, and went in.
And then, in a moment, I was grappling in the semi-darkness with whatseemed to be a tall man, who was buffeting me in the wildest fashionwith his fists, and shrieking the very house down with a high, raucousvoice. Indeed, he let off a succession of yells, in which the only wordsI could discover were, "Murder!" "Fire!" "Thieves!" and other likethings. And all the while I fought for his mouth with my hands in thedarkness, and threatened all manner of horrible things if he would notbe silent.
At last I overmastered him, and got him on his back on the floor, andknelt upon him there, and glared down into his eyes, which I could seedimly by the light which came through the uncurtained window.
"Now, then," I panted, "if you want to live, be quiet. I can hearsomeone 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 uponhim, that he would say not a word about me; and as I heard the stepscoming nearer, I made a dart for the head of the old-fashioned bedstead,and slipped behind the curtains there. The next moment the room wasfilled with light, and I heard Uncle Zabdiel's voice.
"What's the matter? What's the matter? What the devil are you making allthat bother about? I thought someone was murdering you."
Peering through a rent in the curtain, I could see that the man I hadgrappled with, and who now faced my uncle tremblingly, was a tall,ungainly youth, so thin and weedy-looking that I wondered he hadresisted me so long. He was clad only in a long white night-shirt, whichhung 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 sayingnothing, and he was shaking from head to foot.
"Can't you speak?" snapped Uncle Zabdiel (and how well I rememberedthose tones!).
"I had--had the nightmare," stammered the youth. "Woke myself up withit, sir."
"I never knew you have that before," was my uncle's comment. "Get tobed, 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'ssee you get into bed."
Now, the unfortunate fellow knew that a desperate ruffian was concealedbehind the curtains of the bedstead; yet his dread of that ruffian wasso great that he dared not cry out the truth. More than that, I saw thathe dared not disobey my uncle; and between the two of us he was in anice quandary. At last, however, with a sort of groan he made a leap atthe bed, and dived in under the bedclothes and pulled them over hishead. Without a word, Uncle Zabdiel walked out of the room, and closedthe door, leaving us both in the dark. And for quite a long minute therewas no sound in the room.
I began to feel sorry for the youth in the bed, because I knew what hemust be suffering. I moved to come out into the room, and he gave a sortof muffled shriek and dived deeper under the clothes. I stood besidehim, 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 keepquiet. 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 lookedat me fearfully; and very ghostly he looked, with his fair hair, and hiswhite 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 retortedwith a laugh, as I seated myself on the side of the bed. "And you don'tlook a very happy one."
"This ain't exactly a house to be happy in," he said. "It'sgrind--grind--grind--from morning till night, and nothing much toeat--and that not very good. And I'm growing so fast that I seem to needa lot more than what he does."
"I know," I responded solemnly. "I've been through it all myself. I wasonce old Zabdiel Blowfield's clerk, and I also had the misfortune to behis nephew."
"Oh, Lord!" The boy stared at me as though his eyes would drop out ofhis head. "Are you the chap that stole the money, and got chokey forit?"
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 ofthe moon. Therefore you see how necessary it was that Uncle Zabdielshould not see me. Do you tumble to that?"
He looked me up and down wonderingly, much as though I had been abouteight feet high. "Old Blowfield told me about you when I first came," hesaid. "He said it would be a warning to me not to do likewise. But heput in a bit too much; he said that you were dead."
"He wanted to make the warning more awful," I suggested, for I did notfeel called upon to give him an explanation concerning that mostmysterious matter. "And don't think," I added, "that I am in any senseof the word a hero, or that I am anything wonderful. At the present timeI've scarcely a coin in my pocket, and I don't know where I'm to sleepto-night. It's no fun doing deeds of darkness, and breaking prison, andall 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 Ilead. There's something dashing about you--but look at me!"
He spread out his thin arms as he spoke, and looked at me with hispathetic 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 Isaw 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 hisdays.
"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," hesaid slowly.
"And you were taken in exchange for the debt," I said. "I think Iunderstand. Well, don't be downhearted about it. By
the way, are youhungry?"
"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 killme 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 tointerview him in the morning, and I'll see that you don't get intotrouble."
I left him sitting up in bed, and I went out into the house, knowing myway perfectly, in search of food. I knew that in that meagre household Imight find nothing at all, or at all events nothing worth having; butstill, I meant to get something, if possible. I got down into thebasement, and found the larder, and, to my surprise, found it betterstocked than I could have hoped. I loaded my arms with good things, andstarted to make my way back to my old room.
And then it was that I saw Martha Leach and my uncle. The door of theroom in which my uncle used always to work was opened, and the womancame out first. I was below, in an angle of the stairs leading to thebasement, and I wondered what would have happened if they had known thatI was there. Uncle Zabdiel, looking not a day older than when he hadspoken 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, andthe black skull cap in which I think he must always haveslept--certainly I never saw him without it.
"I'm much obliged to you, my good woman," he said in a low voice--"muchobliged to you, indeed, for your warning. It's upset me, I can assureyou, to hear that the fellow's alive; but he shall be hunted down, andgiven back to the law."
I set my teeth as I listened, and I felt that I might be able topersuade Uncle Zabdiel to a different purpose.
"The difficulty will be to get hold of him," said Martha Leach. "I onlyheard the real story, as I have told you, from the lips of hisfellow-prisoner--the man they call George Rabbit."
"Then the best thing you can do," said Uncle Zabdiel, touching her for amoment on the arm, "the wisest thing you can do, is to get hold ofGeorge Rabbit and send him to me. Tell him I'll pay him well; it'll be aquestion 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 mydealings."
While he went to the door to show the woman out, I crept round thecorner of the stairs, and up to the room where I had left the boy. Ifound him awaiting me eagerly; it was pleasant to see the fashion inwhich his gaunt face lighted up when I set out the food upon the bed. Hewas so greedy with famine that he began to cram the food into hismouth--almost whimpering over the good things--before I had had time tobegin.
We feasted well, sitting there in the dark; we were very still as weheard Zabdiel Blowfield pause at the door on his way upstairs, andlisten to be sure that all was silent. Fortunately for us, he did notcome in; we heard his shuffling feet take their way towards his ownroom.
"Safe for the night!" I whispered. "And now I suppose you feelbetter--eh?"
He nodded gratefully. "I wish I'd got your courage," he answeredwistfully. "But when he looks at me I begin to tremble, and when hespeaks I shake all over."
"Go to sleep now," I commanded him, "and comfort yourself with thereflection that in the morning he is going to do the shaking and thetrembling 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 promiseyou."
He smiled and lay down, and was asleep in no time at all. I had removedthe dishes from the bed, meaning to take them downstairs so soon as Icould be sure that Uncle Zabdiel was asleep. I sat down on a chair bythe open window, and looked out into the night, striving perhaps to seesome way for myself--some future in which I might live in some new andwholly 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 theknowledge in my heart that she believed in me and trusted me; but nowall that was past and done with. In the morning I must begin that fightwith my ancient enemy as to whether I should live, or whether I shouldbe condemned to that living death from which I had escaped; and I knewenough now, in this calmer moment, to recognise the cunning of the manwith whom I must fight, and that the power he held was greater thanmine.
Sitting there, I must at last have fallen asleep, with my head upon thewindow sill; it was hours later when I awoke. The dawn was growing inthe sky, and the boy still slept heavily. I gathered up the dishessilently, and crept out of the room, and put them back in some disorderinto the larder; for to the consumption of that meal I meant to confesssolely on my own account. Then I began to mount the stairs again, toget back to the room I had left.
I heard a noise above me in the house, and I knew instinctively that myuncle had been roused, and was coming down. There was no chance for meto hide, and above all things I knew that he would search the place fromtop to bottom until he found the intruder. More than that, theinevitable meeting must take place at some time, and this time was asgood as, if not better than, any other. So I mounted the stairs, untilat last I saw him on a landing above me, standing in the grey light ofthe 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 insilence; then I heard him chuckle ironically.
"Good-morning, nephew," he said; "welcome home again!"