On the return journey from Gravesend, the Policeman could not but remark that a great change had taken place in his companion. It was not that he spoke more than he had done before, for he did not exchange a single word with him; but the whole expression of his face, and even of his figure, had changed. On his way down he had cowered in a corner, his face generally buried in his hands; when he had looked up it was with an expression of utter hopelessness, mingled with a certain anxious dread; his fingers had twitched nervously, he clasped and unclasped his hands, and rocked his body to and fro. Now, all this was changed. He was another man. He sat upright, almost stiffly so. There was a patch of colour in each cheek, his face was set and hard, his lips pressed closely together, he seemed [158] unconscious of where he was, but looked straight in the distance. His hands no longer lay nerveless, but were tightly compressed in a fierce clench. Sometimes his lips moved, but his companion could not hear that he spoke. People got in and out at the various stations, but Stephen Walker never noticed them, and was unconscious of their presence, much less of the curiosity and comment of which he was the subject. His appearance was far too wild and strange, not to be instantly remarked, and this, coupled with the fact of the Policeman being seated opposite to him, awakened great suspicion, not to say alarm. One or two people whispered to A 56, to inquire if it was a case of murder; and one old lady expressed her opinion audibly, that “it was shameful taking such a character as that in a railway-carriage without so much as a handcuff on.” The Policeman, not being able to enter into explanations, answered only by a general nod, as much as to show he knew what he was about, and then tapped his forehead mysteriously. This had the effect he desired of inducing a belief that Stephen Walker was an escaped lunatic, and of clearing the carriage of its occupants at the next [159] station. Complaints were evidently made to the guard of the train on the subject, for just before it moved on, he came to the window, and exchanged a few words with the Policeman. Being informed of the real state of the case, he said, “poor old gentleman!” in a tone of great sympathy, and locked the carriage-door, so that no other passenger got in until the end of the journey. A 56's own impression for a while was that Stephen Walker's brain had given way under the crushing blow he had suffered. This demeanour was so utterly unlike the ordinary nervousness of the man that the Policeman watched with some anxiety to see that his companion made no sudden movement to open the door and leap out when the train was in full motion. After a time he abandoned this idea. There was none of the changing light of insanity in Stephen Walker's eye. There was an air of stern determination about him, which the Policeman felt boded ill for some one.
The return journey passed without a word being exchanged; and not, indeed, until they got out of the cab at New Street, was the silence [160] broken. Then Stephen Walker turned to the Policeman—
“Thank you very much for what you have done for me. To-morrow I shall go down to the funeral of my child, for although as you advised, I declined to identify her, I have no doubt it is her. To-night I have other things to do.”
The Policeman did not turn off at the door, as Stephen Walker evidently expected and wished him to do, but followed him into the house.
“Excuse me, Mr. Walker, excuse what I am going to say, but from what I have seen of you on the way up, I am afraid you are going to do something rash. Now, don't you go to do it, sir. I ain't talking as a policeman now, I am talking as a man. Don't make matters worse by doing anything rash. I know what you are thinking of—you are thinking of him. He's a bad un, whoever he is; and hanging would be too good for him; but don't you touch him, sir. Think it over—don't do anything rash.”
“You think I am going to kill him?” Stephen Walker asked.
“I don't think, and I don't want to know,” the [161] Policeman said. “I am your friend now, and am off duty; I may have my own opinion as to what would serve him right, but don't tell me. They know I've been down with you, and I don't want to have to answer awkward questions. I only say to you, as a friend now, think it over,—don't do anything rash. It can't set things right and it will only cause trouble. Don't you think of it, Mr. Walker.”
“I am not thinking of it,” Stephen Walker said. “If I were younger I should. I am an old man now, and a feeble one, although I don't feel feeble at present. No, I do not think of killing him. If I knew I could I would; ay, as truly as I stand here; but I am nervous and feeble, and I might fail, and then he would escape to enjoy the triumph of another victim. No, I will strike him with a surer hand than that. Thank God, I know who he is, and I think and hope I can ruin him, upset all his hopes and plans, and embitter his life; and I will do it. You look surprised, Policeman, and well you may. He thought Carry had no friends—no protector; and well he might. I was a feeble, nervous old man. I could not save her, but I am not nervous [162] now; I am a desperate old man, and I will avenge her. Good evening.”
The Policeman shook Stephen Walker's hand, and went away. Even had he wished it, he could have urged nothing which would have availed with the old man; and, indeed, relieved from his fears of bloodshed, he was glad to hear that justice of some kind was to be done.
That evening, after dinner, Captain Bradshaw was still sitting in the dining-room with Alice, when he heard a ring at the bell. After a short conversation in the hall, the servant entered the room.
“If you please, sir, there is a man in the hall wants to speak to you particular.”
“What sort of man, James?”
“Well, sir, a decent-looking man—an old man, sir—not a gentleman—but he looks strange; rather, I should say, as if he had been drinking. Wild about the eyes, you know, sir.”
“And he won't say what he wants, James?”
“No, sir; all he will say is that his name is Stephen Walker.”
“Stephen Walker?” Captain Bradshaw repeated to himself once or twice. “Stephen [163] Walker? I seem to know the name; yes, I remember, now. Stephen Walker, tobacconist. The man Frank picked up—the broken-down gentleman with the pretty daughter. What the deuce can he want?” Then aloud, for this had been muttered to himself, “Show him into the library, James. You may as well wait here till I come back, Alice; I don't suppose I shall be a minute.”
“If the man is drunk, Uncle, had you not better tell James to wait at the door?”
“Pooh! my dear,” the old officer laughed. “I fancy he's nearly as old as I am. If I want James, I can ring the bell.”
Then he rose and went into the library, into which the visitor had already been ushered.
Stephen Walker was standing by the table. He was silent for a minute after the door was shut, looking steadily at Captain Bradshaw, as if to read his character. Captain Bradshaw, in return, looked at him. He saw at once that the footman's surmise was unfounded, but he saw too by the compressed lips and flashing eye that the man was from some cause in a state of extreme agitation and fury; indeed for a moment the thought occurred to him that his [164] visitor was mad. This idea was at once dismissed when Stephen Walker began to speak.
“Captain Bradshaw, I have come to tell you a story. It is a sad one, sir, but not an uncommon one—not an uncommon one. I, such as you see me, was once a gentleman. My circumstances changed, and I took a very small shop in New Street, where I sold tobacco. I was not, as you see me now, a determined man—perhaps even a dangerous one. I was a broken-down, nervous old man, with only one stay, one hope, one pleasure in the world. I had a daughter, sir; a bright, happy, innocent girl. A man came to us, over and over again, and he won her heart. The old story, Captain Bradshaw, of love and trust. He promised her marriage—over and over again he promised it. But he had an uncle”—Captain Bradshaw started violently; he saw what was coming now. He remembered the conversation he had had with Frank upon this very subject of the tobacconist's daughter. He remembered the warning he had given, and Frank's promise not to go there again, and he grew very pale and faint as his visitor went on—“he had an uncle, sir—an uncle [165] from whom he expected to inherit great wealth—and he dared not risk his anger by an open marriage with my child. He told her that the uncle could not live long, that at his death he would marry her openly, but that if he lived he would at any hazard marry her privately in a short time. Accidentally I gained her secret, and to test the truth of the story I watched for days outside that uncle's door, until I saw the man enter there; then, seeing that the story was true so far, I hoped for the best. You see what a poor, nervous, simple man I was. Even then he had ruined her. I never dreamt of it, or I, old and feeble as I am, would have killed him. A fortnight since, my child saw in the paper the marriage of this man with another. To-day, Captain Bradshaw, I have been down to Gravesend to identify the body of what was once my child. Were I a young man, I would take vengeance with my own hands; but I am old and helpless, and I call on you to give me justice. That man is your nephew, and he is a damned scoundrel!”
Captain Bradshaw sat for a minute or two as if stunned. The old soldier, though passionate and hot tempered, was a man with a great heart, and this sin was one he held in extreme horror. The [166] story of the man who stood before him would, under any circumstances, have greatly moved him—would have filled him with burning indignation. As it was, the blow fell upon him almost as heavily as upon Stephen Walker.............