Читать книгу The Yellow Hunchback - Fergus Hume - Страница 5

Table of Contents

Low as the words were spoken the visitor caught their purport, and stepped into the hall, with a sudden movement of surprise, and perhaps anger.

“The yellow hunchback!” he repeated, in a soft, musical voice, and stared in his turn.

“I beg your pardon,” remarked Treffry, ceremoniously. “You will excuse my involuntary remark, I trust.”

“But its meaning, Mr. Treffry?”

Rupert replied to one question by asking another. “How do you know my name, Mr. Berrow?”

“You know mine, it seems,” flashed the other, swiftly.

“I recognised you, and—”

“By my stature.” The dwarf’s small frame shook with rage. “Oh, how you well-made brutes look down upon the unfortunate.”

“Evan! Evan!” remonstrated Alice, and laid her hand on the little man’s sleeve to draw him away. Treffry saw that Berrow was a bundle of nerves, and had small control over his feelings. Unwilling, for Alice’s sake, to risk a scene, and, moreover, feeling that his adversary’s strength lay in his manifest weakness, Rupert bowed, and stepped into the snow.

“Good-night, Mr. Berrow,” he said, stiffly. “Alice, I shall see you in the morning”—and with a glance at the squat figure and the tall gracious lady beside it, he disappeared behind the curtain of the ever-falling snow. Alice, with a shiver, shut the door, and turned to her new visitor, who stood with clenched hands, looking sullenly at the ground.

“Evan!” she said, you are cold. “Come into the sitting-room.”

Berrow did not immediately reply, but lifted his bloodless face and looked at her steadily with his mournful eyes. He was short, but, as Alice had said, perfectly made, and his hands and feet were irreproachable. Slender and tiny, exquisitely dressed in evening costume (which could be seen when he removed his gable-lined coat), he had the look of a doll unexpectedly endowed with life. There was something uncanny and freakish in his looks.

“So that is your lover,” he said, with a choking sigh.

“That is Rupert,” replied Alice, pausing at the sitting-room door.

“A fine, tall bully.”

“Evan, how dare you?”

Berrow dragged off his overcoat and walked like an automaton into the room, where he flung himself into an armchair, and was swallowed up in its large embrace. “How dare I?” said he, looking defiantly at Alice’s flushed face; “because I love you.”

The girl frowned. “Why will you talk of that?”

“I am a man,” cried the dwarf, passionately. “Yes, I am a man, although I have not the stature of one.”

“Nonsense. You are small, but not deformed.”

“Yet he called me a hunchback—a yellow hunchback.”

“Oh!” Alice coloured again. “Rupert did not mean you to hear him say that. He was thinking of some crossing-sweeper he saw in Chadston High Street.”

“He saw a crossing-sweeper,” echoed Berrow, his pale face looking angry, and—strangely enough—apprehensive. “Like—me.”

“Of your height and looks, Rupert said.”

“Impossible,” Berrow brought out the word with an effort. “There can be no other person in the world so small and miserable as I—unless in a caravan,” he scoffed. “And such a one certainly would not be wasted as a sweeper while humanity loves to gaze on the abnormal, as I know to my cost it does.”

“Evan,” she reproved him gently, “why will you torment yourself?”

The little man sprang to his feet. “Because I am a freak, a dwarf, an abortion. Heaven help me!” he cried, in the musical voice which seemed to be habitual to him. “Oh, to feel like a man, and yet know one is not a man. Could any affliction be worse? And I dare to love you, who are made in beauty and stature for that handsome coward who went out just now.”

“Rupert is not a coward,” said Alice, sharply. “I won’t have you talk in this way. You know that I like you.”

“Liking is not love.”

“And never will be between you and me, Mr. Berrow. I met Rupert in London a year ago, when I was studying singing at the Academy, and we loved one another at first sight. Since then he had to go to Jamaica to see after some business connected with his uncle’s money, to which he is heir. We were engaged before he left, and now we have come together again. As soon as Rupert gets his inheritance we shall marry.”

“And I shall be left to die.”

“Nonsense,” said the girl, impatiently; “you will not die.”

“Yes. I am marked for the slaughter. Mrs. Berrow would gladly see me dead, in order to get my money.”

“You exaggerate, Evan. I confess that I do not like Mrs. Berrow, but she would not go so far as to suggest murder.”

Evan paced the room. “I can see murder in her eyes every time they rest upon me,” he declared, vehemently. “She would poison me, stab me, strangle me—anything to get my ten thousand a year to herself.”

“Still, the money is yours,” said Alice, quickly.

Berrow resumed his seat languidly. “It is certainly left to me unconditionally,” said he, “but my step-mother, at the time my father died, was trying to induce him to make a new will. The will leaving all to her was drawn up, but father died before he could sign it. Yet with his last breath he instructed me to keep the money for my life, and leave it to Mrs. Berrow when I died. You see, Alice, he did not think a miserable little creature like myself would live long. Mrs. Berrow was in the room when father died, and heard this speech. She worried me shortly after the death, three years ago, to make such a will in her favour. In accordance with the express wish of my father, I made it.”

“Leaving all the money to her?”

“Yes. When I die she takes everything. The will is in her possession, and she is simply waiting for me to die to get it.”

“If you mistrust her you should not have placed such a temptation before her, Evan.”

“I trusted her at the time. Only lately have I learnt how she wishes me to die.”

Alice considered a moment. “I should do this,” she said, after a thoughtful pause: “Make a new will, leaving the money to a charity, and tell Mrs. Berrow. Then she will not have cause to plot your death. More, she will try and keep you alive, since your death would mean her leaving the Manor House to live on the small income left to her by your father.”

“I have made such a will,” said Berrow, unexpectedly. “Only my step-mother does not know of its existence.”

“You have made a new will?”

“Yes. The same idea, which you have put into words, crossed my mind, and I made a new will, witnessed by your father. It leaves my money to you, Alice.”

The girl started to her feet with a cry. “To me! Impossible.”

“Why? You are the only being I have ever loved, and I have no relative to leave the money to.”

“Cannot this yellow hunchback mentioned by Rupert be a relative?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Rupert said that the sweeper resembled you, and—”

“And I am of such an odd make that the resemblance hints at relationship? No, Alice; I know nothing of this yellow hunchback, and I don’t suppose he is any relation. I am alone in the world, and when I die you will get the money.”

“I won’t take it.”

“You must,” insisted the dwarf. “I got your father and another person, who is now dead, to witness the will.”

“Who holds it, Evan?”

“I shan’t tell you that,” said Berrow, cunningly. “It is put away, to be produced when necessary. Mrs. Berrow might find it, unless it was well concealed.”

“If she did find it it would be just as well, Evan. She would then wish you to live. Not that I think she desires your death. That is exaggeration on your part.”

“No! It is the truth,” he replied, gloomily. “But you are right. To-morrow I’ll tell her about the new will, and give it to Mason Clyde, who is my lawyer. At least my life will be safe then; otherwise, do not be surprised if you find me dead.”

Alice shuddered. “Don’t talk like that,” she said, irritably. “And I wish you’d leave your money to someone else.”

“To Captain Tait, the present head of the impoverished family, who sold Chadston to my father?” asked Evan, with a sneer.

“It would be just,” said Alice, promptly, “for they say, Evan—”

“I know what they say—that my father cheated Tait over the property five-and-twenty years ago. That may be, and I know how Tait hates me, even though I pay his daughter Polly a good wage to act as a secretary I do not require. No, Alice, I would never leave the money to Tait, who is a drunkard and a bad lot. He would squander the fortune. Better, if you will not take it, to let Polly Tait and her lover, Teddy Smith, have the money.”

“You might do worse,” Alice told him.

Evan Berrow rose impatiently. “This is ridiculous,” he cried, in a pettish rage. “Do you hate me so much that you can’t take money from me?”

“I have no right to—”

“I know you have not,” he interrupted; “but you can gain the right by marrying me. I promise to make you my widow very soon.”

“Don’t talk like that,” cried Alice, sharply.

“I shall—I must. Oh, you cruel girl, can you not see how I suffer from your coldness? Marry me, Alice. Oh! my dear, marry me.”

She put him aside, as one would sweep away a fly. “I am engaged to Rupert,” she said, decisively. “Evan, unless you behave yourself you must go.”

Berrow rushed from the room, and she followed to see him struggling into his fur-lined coat.

“I shall go away,” he cried, in a strangled voice; “I shall go away to die.”

“Go home, and ask the doctor to give you a sedative,” said Alice, angered at his want of self-control.

“Or poison,” he added, with a wild look, and tugging with his puny strength at the door. “Mrs. Berrow would thank you for that.”

“I have already told you how you can counterplot Mrs. Berrow, if, indeed, she is plotting at all, which I doubt.”

“Alice! Alice!” The little man’s voice boomed like a gong. “Is there no hope? Can you not love me? Oh, my dear—my darling, marry me, and we will go away to some South Sea island, where I shall no longer be insulted by my fellow-creatures. I’ll pension your father. I’ll make over all the money to you. I’ll be your slave, your plaything; only have pity—have pity on me. I have suffered so much.”

“Evan”—she was moved by his appeal, yet saw the egotism of it—“I cannot marry you—I cannot love you.”

“Love may come—oh, darling heart, love may come.”

Alice was tender and delicate in her feelings. She would not have wounded the poor little man for the world, and yet, when he spoke as he did, and as a tall, stalwart man would have spoken, her eyes involuntarily wandered over his puny frame, and rested on his pinched, wizen, fairy face. That part of the feminine which loves the genuine, brutal man, which desires to be mastered, came to the surface, and her eyes became almost contemptuous for the moment, as she thought of Rupert’s inches and surveyed those of the dwarf. Berrow was swift to see her flitting contempt, for he had in his nature a strong feminine vein which made him as quick as she to read half-concealed thoughts. With the cry of a wounded animal he shrank away, and stumbled blindly down the steps into the wild storm. “Oh, Heaven, why have you so made me?” came the sorrowful cry, and he was gone before she could make a remark, and explain her regret for the momentary cruelty. She ran out into the night, but could not see the tiny figure amidst the fast-falling snow.

“Oh, cruel! cruel!” she murmured to herself, and returned to the house—to the warm, ugly sitting-room, there to take down a roll of manuscript music. Placing it on the table, she glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was a quarter past nine, and at ten, or a trifle later, she would have to seek her father.

With an effort she began to copy the music, but after a time her thoughts interfered with her work, and she flung down the pen to think over those two interviews with two lovers. What a difference between them—Rupert, so tall and handsome, with the frame of an athlete and the face of a sunny Greek god; and the poor dwarf, so puny and pinched, and wrinkled and miserable.

“I would rather starve with Rupert than be rich with Evan,” thought Alice, her chin in the cup of her hand and her elbow on her knee. “But I wish I had not let Evan see that. Poor little creature; how he winced and shrank away. When next I see him I must explain that my look meant nothing. But I don’t expect that he’ll believe me; he is as sensitive and clear-sighted as one of ourselves. But Rupert—oh, my darling Rupert.”

And then her thoughts ceased to busy themselves with the dwarf, and strayed towards her handsome lover. He was poor, but there was a chance that when a lawsuit ended, he might inherit a fine estate in Jamaica. But, even if he did not, she would marry him; better a hut with Rupert than a palace with another man. Yet Alice was fond of pleasant, surroundings and fine clothes, and refined society. She might have to give up on these, unless she chose to stifle her feelings and marry Evan Berrow. And here her thoughts came back to the little man, and she winced, as he had winced lately.

“Impossible! Impossible!” she said, aloud. “I could never marry him.”

With an effort she dismissed the image of the rich dwarf from her mind, and sat building castles in the air; castles which were inhabited by herself and her artist. So rapidly passed the time that the clock struck ten before she was aware that the hour was so late. With an exclamation she rose, and put away the unfinished music. Then she assumed a warm cloak, and tied on her hat with a veil, since the wind was high. Turning out the lamp, and with a glance at the fire to see that it was safe, she went out of the villa; locking the door behind her. A few steps took her down the road and into the storm.

It was a wild night, thick with snow. Overhead lowered a leaden-hued sky, with occasional gleams of moonlight. The clouds were flying before the high wind, and sometimes the face of the moon, pallid and tormented, looked down on the white earth. Everywhere was a winding-sheet of snow, and the flakes, with occasional lulls, fell thickly from the sky. Chadston was almost blotted out by the white fleece, or drifting feathers, which sank continuously to the ground. The gods were certainly shearing celestial sheep or plucking celestial geese, and Alice smiled at the childish fancy as she ploughed her way through the drifts.

Guided by glimmering street lamps, the girl struggled from the outskirts of the suburb towards the more populous part, where the shops usually glittered. But, as it was now ten fifteen, these were closed, and no radiant gaslights gleamed across the snowy, narrow streets. And here they were narrow, as she was now on the outskirts of Chadston village, and near the crooked High Street, of which she had spoken to Rupert. The Builders’ Hall, erected by the late Mr. Berrow for entertainments, stood near here, and she passed many people well wrapped up, who were coming from the evening’s amusement. Apparently it was over, and Alice, fearful lest she should miss her father, and more fearful, poor girl, lest he should go into one of the still-open public houses, hurried quickly along. At the hall she asked the old doorkeeper, with whom she was acquainted, if Mr. Marvel was within, and learnt that he had not been there for long that evening. The regular pianist of the entertainment had recovered to permit of his returning to his duty, and on hearing this Mr. Marvel had departed. Wondering where her father had gone, and dreading lest he should appear drunk at the villa, Alice turned disconsolately away, and thought that she would seek the lawyer’s office. Rupert had told her that Mr. Clyde would be working late, and it was just possible that Marvel had gone there. Then fortune favoured her, for at the entrance to the crooked High Street she met a tall, thin man, with a white face, looking woefully worn and haggard in the moonlight. “Father,” cried Alice, and caught him by the arm.

The man started with a terrified exclamation, and swayed so much that she feared he would fall. At first she fancied he had been drinking, as usual, but this especial fear proved to be groundless, for Marvel straightened himself into a perfectly erect and steady position, and explained that he had gone to the office, as she surmised. “I could not get the engagement at the Animated Pictures,” he explained, with laboured breath, “as the pianist recovered. Not wishing to disturb you and Treffry, I went to the office, and did some work with Mr. Clyde.”

“Is he still there?” asked Alice.

“Yes. By the way,” Marvel drew her down the street, which was in the opposite direction to their homeward way, “I have forgotten my spectacles, and must go back for them.”

“To-morrow will do,” said Alice, shivering, and wishing to get home.

“To-night! To-night!” said Marvel, vehemently. By this time they were midway down the quaint street, and the moon peered out from flying clouds at the tumble-down houses to gleam along the pearly pathway. Unexpectedly Marvel shied like a frightened horse. “Oh! What is that?” he gasped, pointing a shaking finger at a dark mass.

“Some poor woman has fainted, probably,” suggested his daughter, and hurried towards the prostrate figure.

“Don’t go—don’t go,” shivered Marvel, catching her arm. “There may be—danger.”

“Danger!” echoed Alice, surprised. “What do you mean, father? We can’t leave the poor creature to freeze to death.”

She gently extricated her arm from his grasp, and walked lightly towards the dark figure. It lay half on the pavement and half in the frozen gutter, and at the entrance to a dark, narrow lane which wound deviously through the ancient cottages of old Chadston village. The moon was obscured for one moment by a hurrying cloud, but sufficient light remained to reveal that the figure was that of a boy, lying face downward in the snow, and wrapped in a long coat. The girl stooped, and suddenly drew away her hand with a cry.

“What is it?” asked her father, in a grating voice.

“Blood,” cried Alice. Bending again, she felt the heart, and with an effort turned over the body.

“Stone dead,” she breathed; then, putting two and two together, her lips formed the ominous word “Murder.”

“Hush! Hush!” whispered her father; “that is dangerous talk.”

“Murder! Murder!” Alice’s voice pealed down the quiet street and echoed through the stormy air. “Police! Murder!”

The moon shone out brilliantly, and she stooped with a beating heart and white face to look at the countenance of the dead. “Evan Berrow,” she wailed, staggering back. “Evan Berrow, and murdered!”