Indeed, after all, though solemn benchers laughed at him, and rising barristers shrugged their shoulders under rustling silk gowns when people spoke of Robert Audley, I doubt if, had he ever taken the trouble to get a brief, he might not have rather surprised the magnates who underrated his abilities.
CHAPTER XII
STILL MISSING
THE September sunlight sparkled upon the fountain in the Temple Gardens, when Robert Audley returned to Fig-tree Court early the following morning.
He found the canaries singing in the pretty little room in which George had slept, but the apartment was in the same prim order in which the laundress had arranged it after the departure of the two young men—not a chair displaced, or so much as the lid of a cigar-box lifted, to bespeak the presence of George Talboys. With a last lingering hope he searched upon the mantel-pieces and tables of his rooms, on the chance of finding some letter left by George.
‘He may have slept here last night, and started for Southampton early this morning,’ he thought. ‘Mrs Maloney has been there very likely, to make everything tidy after him.’
But as he sat looking lazily round the room, now and then whistling to his delighted canaries, a slipshod foot upon the staircase without bespoke the advent of that very Mrs Maloney who waited upon the two young men.
No, Mr Talboys had not come home; she had looked in as early as six o’clock that morning, and found the chambers empty.
Had anything happened to the poor dear gentleman? she asked, seeing Robert Audley’s pale face.
He turned round upon her quite savagely at this question.
Happened to him! What should happen to him? They had only parted at two o’clock the day before.
Mrs Maloney would have related to him the history of a poor dear young engine-driver, who had once lodged with her, and who went out, after eating a hearty dinner, in the best of spirits, to meet with his death from the concussion of an express and a luggage train; but Robert put on his hat again, and walked straight out of the house, before the honest Irishwoman could begin her pitiful story.
It was growing dusk when he reached Southampton. He knew his way to the poor little terrace of houses, in a dull street leading down to the water, where George’s father-in-law lived. Little Georgey was playing at the open parlour window as the young man walked down the street.
Perhaps it was this fact, and the dull and silent aspect of the house, which filled Robert Audley’s mind with a vague conviction that the man he came to look for was not there. The old man himself opened the door, and the child peeped out of the parlour to look at the strange gentleman.
He was a handsome boy, with his father’s brown eyes and dark waving hair, and yet with some latent expression which was not his father’s, and which pervaded his whole face, so that although each feature of the child resembled the same feature in George Talboys, the boy was not actually like him.
The old man was delighted to see Robert Audley; he remembered having had the pleasure of meeting him at Ventnor, on the melancholy occasion of——He wiped his watery old eyes by way of conclusion to the sentence. Would Mr Audley walk in? Robert strode into the little parlour. The furniture was shabby and dingy, and the place reeked with the smell of stale tobacco and brandy-and-water. The boy’s broken playthings and the old man’s broken clay-pipes, and torn, brandy-and-water stained newspapers, were scattered upon the dirty carpet. Little Georgey crept towards the visitor, watching him furtively out of his big brown eyes. Robert took the boy on his knee, and gave him his watch-chain to play with while he talked to the old man.
‘I need scarcely ask the question that I came to ask,’ he said. ‘I was in hopes I should have found your son-in-law here.’
‘What! you knew that he was coming to Southampton?’
‘Knew that he was coming!’ cried Robert, brightening up. ‘He is here, then?’
‘No, he is not here now, but he has been here.’
‘When?’
‘Late last night; he came by the mail.’
‘And left again immediately?’
‘He stayed little better than an hour.’
‘Good heavens!’ said Robert, ‘what useless anxiety that man has given me! What can be the meaning of all this?’
‘You knew nothing of his intention, then?’
‘Of what intention?’
‘I mean of his determination to go to Australia.’
‘I knew that it was always in his mind more or less, but not more just now than usual.’
‘He sails to-night from Liverpool. He came here at one o’clock this morning to have a look at the boy, he said, before he left England, perhaps never to return. He told me he was sick of the world, and that the rough life out there was the only thing to suit him. He stayed an hour, kissed the boy, without awaking him, and left Southampton by the mail that starts at a quarter past two.’
‘What can be the meaning of all this?’ said Robert. ‘What could be his motive for leaving England in this manner, without a word to me, his most intimate friend—without even a change of clothes; for he has left everything at my chambers? It is the most extraordinary proceeding!’
The old man looked very grave. ‘Do you know, Mr Audley,’ he said, tapping his forehead significantly, ‘I sometimes fancy that Helen’s death had a strange effect upon poor George.’
‘Pshaw!’ cried Robert contemptuously; ‘he felt the blow most cruelly, but his brain was as sound as yours or mine.’
‘Perhaps he will write to you from Liverpool,’ said George’s father-in-law. He seemed anxious to smooth over any indignation that Robert might feel at his friend’s conduct.
‘He ought,’ said Robert gravely, ‘for we’ve been good friends from the days when we were together at Eton. It isn’t kind of George Talboys to treat me like this.’
But even at the moment that he uttered the reproach a strange thrill of remorse shot through his heart.
‘It isn’t like him,’ he said, ‘it isn’t like George Talboys.’
Little Georgey caught at the sound. ‘That’s my name,’ he said, ‘and my papa’s name—the big gentleman’s name.’
‘Yes, little Georgey, and your papa came last night and kissed you in your sleep. Do you remember?’
‘No,’ said the boy, shaking his curly little head.
‘You must have been very fast asleep, little Georgey, not to see poor papa.’
The child did not answer, but presently, fixing his eyes upon Robert’s face, he said abruptly,—
‘Where’s the pretty lady?’
‘What pretty lady?’
‘The pretty lady that used to come a long while ago.’
‘He means his poor mamma,’ said the old man.
‘No,’ cried the boy resolutely, ‘not mamma. Mamma was always crying. I didn’t like mamma——’
‘Hush, little Georgey!’
‘But I didn’t, and she didn’t like me. She was always crying. I mean the pretty lady; the lady that was dressed so fine, and that gave me my gold watch.’
‘He means the wife of my old captain—an excellent creature, who took a great fancy to Georgey, and gave him some handsome presents.’
‘Where’s my gold watch? Let me show the gentleman my gold watch,’ cried Georgey.
‘It’s gone to be cleaned, Georgey,’ answered his grandfather.
‘It’s always going to be cleaned,’ said the boy.
‘The watch is perfectly safe, I assure you, Mr Audley,’ murmured the old man, apologetically; and taking out a pawnbroker’s duplicate, he handed it to Robert.
It was made out in the name of Captain Mortimer: ‘Watch, set with diamonds, £11.’
‘I’m often hard pressed for a few shillings, Mr Audley,’ said the old man. ‘My son-in-law has been very liberal to me; but there are others, there are others, Mr Audley—and—and—I’ve not been treated well.’ He wiped away some genuine tears as he said this in a pitiful, crying voice, ‘Come, Georgey, it’s time the brave little man was
in bed. Come along with grandpapa. Excuse me for a quarter of an hour, Mr Audley.’
The boy went very willingly. At the door of the room the old man looked back at his visitor, and said, in the same peevish voice, ‘This is a poor place for me to pass my declining years in, Mr Audley. I’ve made many sacrifices, and I make them still, but I’ve not been treated well.’
Left alone in the dusky little sitting-room, Robert Audley folded his arms, and sat absently staring at the floor.
George was gone, then; he might receive some letter of explanation, perhaps, when he returned to London; but the chances were that he would never see his old friend again.
‘And to think that I should care so much for the fellow!’ he said, lifting his eyebrows to the centre of his forehead.
‘The place smells of stale tobacco like a tap-room,’ he muttered presently; ‘there can be no harm in my smoking a cigar here.’
He took one from the case in his pocket; there was a spark of fire in the little grate, and he looked about for something to light his cigar with.
A twisted piece of paper lay half burned upon the hearthrug; he picked it up, and unfolded it, in order to get a better pipe-light by folding it the other way of the paper. As he did so, absently glancing at the pencilled writing upon the fragment of thin paper, a portion of a name caught his eye—a portion of the name that was most in his thoughts. He took the scrap of paper to the window, and examined it by the declining light.
It was part of a telegraphic despatch. The upper portion had been burnt away, but the more important part, the greater part of the message itself, remained.
‘ alboys came to last night, and left by the mail for London, on his way for Liverpool, whence he was to sail for Sydney.’
The date and the name and address of the sender of the message had been burnt with the heading. Robert Audley’s face blanched to a deathly whiteness. He carefully folded the scrap of paper, and placed it between the leaves of his pocket-book.
‘My God!’ he said, ‘what is the meaning of this? I shall go to Liverpool to-night, and make inquiries there.’
CHAPTER XIII
TROUBLED DREAMS
ROBERT AUDLEY left Southampton by the mail, and let himself into his chambers just as the dawn was creeping cold and grey into the solitary rooms, and the canaries were beginning to rustle their feathers feebly in the early morning.
There were several letters in the box behind the door, but there was none from George Talboys.
The young barrister was worn out by a long day spent in hurrying from place to place. The usual lazy monotony of his life had been broken as it had never been broken before in eight-and-twenty tranquil, easy-going years. His mind was beginning to grow confused upon the point of time. It seemed to him months since he had lost sight of George Talboys. It was so difficult to believe that it was less than forty-eight hours ago that the young man had left him asleep under the willows by the trout-stream.
His eyes were painfully weary for want of sleep. He searched about the rooms for some time, looking in all sorts of impossible places for a letter from George Talboys, and then threw himself dressed upon his friend’s bed, in the room with the canaries and geraniums.
‘I shall wait for to-morrow morning’s post,’ he said, ‘and if that brings no letter from George I shall start for Liverpool without a moment’s delay.’
He was thoroughly exhausted, and fell into a heavy sleep—a sleep which was profound without being altogether refreshing, for he was tormented all the time by disagreeable dreams—dreams which were painful, not from any horror in themselves, but from a vague and wearying sense of their confusion and absurdity.
At one time he was pursuing strange people and entering strange houses in the endeavour to unravel the mystery of the telegraphic despatch; at another time he was in the churchyard at Ventnor, gazing at the headstone George had ordered for the grave of his dead wife. Once in the long rambling mystery of these dreams he went to the grave, and found this headstone gone, and on remonstrating with the stonemason, was told that the man had a reason for removing the inscription, a reason that Robert would some day learn.
He started from his dreams to find there was some one knocking at the outer door of his chambers.
It was a dreary wet morning, the rain beating against the windows, and the canaries twittering dismally to each other—complaining, perhaps, of the bad weather. Robert could not tell how long the person had been knocking. He had heard the sound with his dreams, and when he woke he was only half conscious of outer things.
‘It is that stupid Mrs Maloney, I dare say,’ he muttered. ‘She may knock again for all I care. Why can’t she use her duplicate key, instead of dragging a man out of bed when he’s half dead with fatigue?’
The person, whoever it was, did knock again, and then desisted, apparently tired out; but about a minute afterwards a key turned in the door.
‘She had her key with her all the time, then,’ said Robert. ‘I’m very glad I didn’t get up.’
The door between the sitting-room and bed-room was half open, and he could see the laundress bustling about, dusting the furniture, and re-arranging things that had never been disarranged.
‘Is that you, Mrs Maloney?’ he asked.
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Then why, in goodness’ name, did you make that row at the door, when you had a key with you all the time?’
‘A row at the door, Sir!’
‘Yes; that infernal knocking.’
‘Sure I never knocked, Misther Audley, but walked straight in with the key——’
‘Then who did knock? There’s been some one kicking up a row at that door for a quarter of an hour I should think; you must have met him going down-stairs.’
‘But I’m rather late this morning, Sir, for I’ve been in Mr Martin’s rooms first, and I’ve come straight from the floor above.’
‘Then you didn’t see any one at the door, or on the stairs?’
‘Not a mortal soul, Sir.’
‘Was ever anything so provoking?’ said Robert. ‘To think that I should have let this person go away without ascertaining who he was, or what he wanted! How do I know that it was not some one with a message or a letter from George Talboys?’
‘Sure, if it was, Sir, he’ll come again,’ said Mrs Maloney, soothingly.
‘Yes, of course, if it was anything of consequence, he’ll come again,’ muttered Robert. The fact was, that from the moment of finding the telegraphic message at Southampton all hope of hearing of George had faded out of his mind. He felt that there was some mystery involved in the disappearance of his friend—some treachery towards himself, or towards George. What if the young man’s greedy old father-in-law had tried to separate them on account of the monetary trust lodged in Robert Audley’s hands? Or what if, since even in these civilised days all kinds of unsuspected horrors are constantly committed—what if the old man had decoyed George down to Southampton, and made away with him in order to get possession of that £20,000 left in Robert’s custody for little Georgey’s use?
But neither of these suppositions explained the telegraphic message, and it was the telegraphic message which had filled Robert’s mind with a vague sense of alarm. The postman brought no letter from George Talboys, and the person who had knocked at the door of the chambers did not return between seven and nine o’clock, so Robert Audley left Fig-tree Court once more in search of his friend. This time he told the cabman to drive to the Euston Station, and in twenty minutes he was on the platform, making inquiries about the trains.
The Liverpool express had started half an hour before he reached the station, and he had to wait an hour and a quarter for a slow train to take him to his destination.
Robert Audley chafed cruelly at this delay. Half a dozen vessels might sail for Australia while he roamed up and down the long platform, tumbling over trucks and porters, and swearing at his ill-luck.
He bought the Times newspaper, and looked instinctively at the second
column, with a morbid interest in the advertisements of people missing—sons, brothers, and husbands who had left their homes, never to return or to be heard of more.
There was one advertisement of a young man who was found drowned somewhere on the Lambeth shore.
What if that should have been George’s fate? No; the telegraphic message involved his father-in-law in the fact of his disappearance, and every speculation about him must start from that one point.
It was eight o’clock in the evening when Robert got into Liverpool, too late for anything except to make inquiries as to what vessels had sailed within the last two days for the antipodes.
An emigrant ship had sailed at four o’clock that afternoon—the Victoria Regia, bound for Melbourne.
The result of his inquiries amounted to this—if he wanted to find out who had sailed in the Victoria Regia, he must wait till the next morning, and apply for information of that vessel.
Robert Audley was at the office at nine o’clock the next morning, and was the first person after the clerks who entered it.
He met with every civility from the clerk to whom he applied. The young man referred to his books, and running his pen down the list of passengers who had sailed in the Victoria Regia, told Robert that there was no one amongst them of the name of Talboys. He pushed his inquiries further. Had any of the passengers entered their names within a short time of the vessel’s sailing?
One of the other clerks looked up from his desk as Robert asked this question. Yes, he said, he remembered a young man’s coming into the office at half-past three o’clock in the afternoon, and paying his passage-money. His name was the last on the list—Thomas Brown.
Robert Audley shrugged his shoulders. There could have been no possible reason for George’s taking a feigned name.
He asked the clerk who had last spoken if he could remember the appearance of this Mr Thomas Brown.
No, the office was crowded at the time; people were running in and out, and he had not taken any particular notice of this last passenger.
Robert thanked them for their civility, and wished them good morning. As he was leaving the office one of the young men called after him.
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