He reached the platform a few minutes after the train had arrived. That entire incapability of devising administrative measures for the management of large crowds, which is one of the national characteristics of Englishmen in authority, is nowhere more strikingly exemplified than at York. Three different lines of railway assemble three passenger mobs, from morning to night, under one roof; and leave them to raise a travellers’ riot, with all the assistance which the bewildered servants of the company can render to increase the confusion. The customary disturbance was rising to its climax as Captain Wragge approached the platform. Dozens of different people were trying to attain dozens of different objects, in dozens of different directions, all starting from the same common point, and all equally deprived of the means of information. A sudden parting of the crowd, near the second-class carriages, attracted the captain’s curiosity. He pushed his way in; and found a decently-dressed man – assisted by a porter and a policeman – attempting to pick up some printed bills scattered from a paper parcel, which his frenzied fellow-passengers had knocked out of his hand.
Offering his assistance in this emergency, with the polite alacrity which marked his character, Captain Wragge observed the three startling words, ‘Fifty Pounds Reward’, printed in capital letters on the bills which he assisted in recovering; and instantly secreted one of them, to be more closely examined at the first convenient opportunity. As he crumpled up the bill in the palm of his hand, his parti-coloured eyes fixed with hungry interest on the proprietor of the unlucky parcel. When a man happens not to be possessed of fifty pence in his own pocket, if his heart is in the right place, it bounds, if his mouth is properly constituted, it waters, at the sight of another man who carries about with him a printed offer of fifty pounds sterling, addressed to his fellow-creatures.
The unfortunate traveller wrapped up his parcel as he best might, and made his way off the platform; after addressing an inquiry to the first official victim of the day’s passenger-traffic, who was sufficiently in possession of his senses to listen to it. Leaving the station for the riverside, which was close at hand, the stranger entered the ferry-boat at the North Street Postern. The captain, who had carefully dogged his steps thus far, entered the boat also; and employed the short interval of transit to the opposite bank, in a perusal of the handbill which he had kept for his own private enlightenment. With his back carefully turned on the traveller, Captain Wragge now possessed his mind of the following lines:
‘FIFTY POUNDS REWARD
‘Left her home, in London, early on the morning of September 23rd, 1846, A Young Lady. Age – eighteen. Dress – deep mourning. Personal appearance – hair of a very light brown; eyebrows and eyelashes darker; eyes light grey; complexion strikingly pale; lower part of her face large and full; tall upright figure; walks with remarkable grace and ease; speaks with openness and resolution; has the manners and habits of a refined, cultivated lady. Personal marks – two little moles, close together, on the left side of the neck. Mark on the under clothing – “Magdalen Vanstone”. Is supposed to have joined, or attempted to join, under an assumed name, a theatrical company now performing at York. Had, when she left London, one black box, and no other luggage. Whoever will give such information as will restore her to her friends, shall receive the above Reward. Apply at the office of Mr Harkness, solicitor, Coney Street, York. Or to Messrs Wyatt, Pendril and Gwilt, Serle Street, Lincoln’s Inn, London.’
Accustomed as Captain Wragge was to keep the completest possession of himself, in all human emergencies, his own profound astonishment, when the course of his reading brought him to the mark on the linen of the missing young lady, betrayed him into an exclamation of surprise which even startled the ferryman. The traveller was less observant; his whole attention was fixed on the opposite bank of the river, and he left the boat hastily, the moment it touched the landing-place. Captain Wragge recovered himself, pocketed the handbill, and followed his leader for the second time.
The stranger directed his steps to the nearest street which ran down to the river; compared a note in his pocket-book with the numbers of the houses on the left-hand side, stopped at one of them, and rang the bell. The captain went on the next house; affected to ring the bell, in his turn; and stood with his back to the traveller – in appearance, waiting to be let in; in reality, listening with all his might for any scraps of dialogue which might reach his ears on the opening of the door behind him.
The door was answered with all due alacrity, and a sufficiently instructive interchange of question and answer on the threshold, rewarded the dexterity of Captain Wragge.
‘Does Mr Huxtable live here?’ asked the traveller.
‘Yes, sir,’ was the answer, in a woman’s voice.
‘Is he at home?’
‘Not at home, now, sir; but he will be in again at eight to-night.’
‘I think a young lady called here early in the day, did she not?’
‘Yes; a young lady came this afternoon.’
‘Exactly; I come on the same business. Did she see Mr Huxtable?’
‘No, sir; he has been away all day. The young lady told me she would come back at eight o’clock.’
‘Just so. I will call and see Mr Huxtable at the same time.’
‘Any name, sir?’
‘No; say a gentleman called on theatrical business – that will be enough. Wait one minute, if you please. I am a stranger in York; will you kindly tell me which is the way to Coney Street?’
The woman gave the required information; the door closed, and the stranger hastened away in the direction of Coney Street.
On this occasion, Captain Wragge made no attempt to follow him. The handbill revealed plainly enough that the man’s next object was to complete the necessary arrangements with the local solicitor, on the subject of the promised reward.
Having seen and heard enough for his immediate purpose, the captain retraced his steps down the street, turned to the right, and entered on the Esplanade, which, in that quarter of the city, borders the river-side between the swimming-baths and Lendal Tower. ‘This is a family matter,’ said Captain Wragge to himself, persisting, from sheer force of habit, in the old assertion of his relationship to Magdalen’s mother; ‘I must consider it in all its bearings.’ He tucked the umbrella under his arm, crossed his hands behind him, and lowered himself gently into the abyss of his own reflections. The order and propriety observable in the captain’s shabby garments, accurately typified the order and propriety which distinguished the operations of the captain’s mind. It was his habit always to see his way before him through a neat succession of alternatives – and so he saw it now.
Three courses were open to him in connection with the remarkable discovery which he had just made. The first course was to do nothing in the matter at all. Inadmissible, on family grounds: equally inadmissible on pecuniary grounds: rejected accordingly. The second course was to deserve the gratitude of the young lady’s friends, rated at fifty pounds. The third course was by a timely warning, to deserve the gratitude of the young lady herself, rated – at an unknown figure. Between these two last alternatives, the wary Wragge hesitated; not from doubt of Magdalen’s pecuniary resources, for he was totally ignorant of the circumstances which had deprived the sisters of their inheritance – but from doubt whether an obstacle, in the shape of an undiscovered gentleman, might not be privately connected with her disappearance from home. After mature reflection, he determined to pause, and be guided by circumstances. In the mean time, the first consideration was to be beforehand with the messenger from London, and to lay hands securely on the young lady herself.
‘I feel for this misguided girl,’ mused the captain, solemnly strutting backwards and forwards by the lonely river-side. ‘I always have looked upon her – I always shall look upon her – in the light of a niece.’
Where was the adopted relative at that moment? In other words, how was a young lady, in Magdalen’s critical position, likely to while away the hours until Mr Huxtable’s retur
n? If there was an obstructive gentleman in the background, it would be mere waste of time to pursue the question. But if the inference which the handbill suggested was correct – if she was really alone, at that moment, in the city of York -where was she likely to be?
Not in the crowded thoroughfares, to begin with. Not viewing the objects of interest in the Minster, for it was now past the hour at which the cathedral could be seen. Was she in the waiting-room at the railway? She would hardly run that risk. Was she in one of the hotels? Doubtful, considering that she was entirely by herself. In a pastrycook’s shop? Far more likely. Driving about in a cab? Possible, certainly; but no more. Loitering away the time in some quiet locality, out of doors? Likely enough, again, on that fine autumn evening. The captain paused, weighed the relative claims on his attention of the quiet locality and the pastrycook’s shop; and decided for the first of the two. There was time enough to find her at the pastrycook’s, to inquire after her at the principal hotels, or, finally, to intercept her in Mr Huxtable’s immediate neighbourhood, from seven to eight. While the light lasted, the wise course was to use it in looking for her out of doors. Where? The Esplanade was a quiet locality; but she was not there – not on the lonely road beyond, which ran back by the Abbey Wall. Where, next? The captain stopped, looked across the river, brightened under the influence of a new idea, and suddenly hastened back to the ferry.
‘The Walk on the Walls,’ thought this judicious man, with a twinkle of his parti-coloured eyes. ‘The quietest place in York: and the place that every stranger goes to see.’
In ten minutes more, Captain Wragge was exploring the new field of search. He mounted to the walls (which enclose the whole western portion of the city) by the North Street Postern, from which the walk winds round, until it ends again at its southernly extremity, in the narrow passage of Rosemary Lane. It was then twenty minutes to seven. The sun had set more than half an hour since; the red light lay broad and low in the cloudless western heaven; all visible objects were softening in the tender twilight, but were not darkening yet. The first few lamps lit in the street below, looked like faint little specks of yellow light, as the captain started on his walk through one of the most striking scenes which England can show.
On his right hand, as he set forth, stretched the open country beyond the walls – the rich green meadows, the boundary trees dividing them, the broad windings of the river in the distance, the scattered buildings nearer to view; all wrapped in the evening stillness, all made beautiful by the evening peace. On his left hand, the majestic west front of York Minster soared over the city, and caught the last brightest light of heaven on the summits of its lofty towers. Had this noble prospect tempted the lost girl to linger and look at it? No; thus far, not a sign of her. The captain looked round him attentively, and walked on.
He reached the spot where the iron course of the railroad strikes its way through arches in the old wall. He paused at this place – where the central activity of a great railway enterprise beats with all the pulses of its loud-clanging life, side by side with the dead majesty of the past, deep under the old historic stones which tell of fortified York and the sieges of two centuries since — he stood on this spot, and searched for her again, and searched in vain. Others were looking idly down at the desolate activity on the wilderness of the iron rails; but she was not among them. The captain glanced doubtfully at the darkening sky, and walked on.
He stopped again, where the postern of Micklegate still stands, and still strengthens the city wall as of old. Here, the paved walk descends a few steps, passes through the dark stone guard-room of the ancient gate, ascends again, and continues its course southward until the walls reach the river once more. He paused, and peered anxiously into the dim inner corners of the old guard-room. Was she waiting there for the darkness to come, and hide her from prying eyes? No: a solitary workman loitered through the stone chamber; but no other living creature stirred in the place. The captain mounted the steps which led out from the postern, and walked on.
He advanced some fifty or sixty yards along the paved footway; the outlying suburbs of York on one side of him, a rope-walk2 and some patches of kitchen garden occupying a vacant strip of ground, on the other. He advanced with eager eyes and quickened step – for he saw before him the lonely figure of a woman, standing by the parapet of the wall, with her face set towards the westward view. He approached cautiously, to make sure of her before she turned and observed him. There was no mistaking that tall dark figure, as it rested against the parapet with a listless grace. There she stood, in her long black cloak and gown, the last dim light of evening falling tenderly on her-pale resolute young face. There she stood – not three months since the spoilt darling of her parents; the priceless treasure of the household, never left unprotected, never trusted alone – there she stood in the lovely dawn of her womanhood, a castaway in a strange city, wrecked on the world!
Vagabond as he was, the first sight of her staggered even the dauntless assurance of Captain Wragge. As she slowly turned her face and looked at him, he raised his hat, with the nearest approach to respect which a long life of unblushing audacity had left him capable of making.
‘I think I have the honour of addressing the younger Miss Vanstone?’ he began. ‘Deeply gratified, I am sure – for more reasons than one.’
She looked at him with a cold surprise. No recollection of the day when he had followed her sister and herself on their way home with Miss Garth, rose in her memory, while he now confronted her, with his altered manner and his altered dress.
‘You are mistaken,’ she said, quietly. ‘You are a perfect stranger to me.’
‘Pardon me,’ replied the captain; ‘I am a species of relation. I had the pleasure of seeing you in the spring of the present year. I presented myself on that memorable occasion to an honoured preceptress in your late father’s family. Permit me, under equally agreeable circumstances to present myself to you. My name is Wragge.’
By this time he had recovered complete possession of his own impudence; his parti-coloured eyes twinkled cheerfully, and he accompanied his modest announcement of himself with a dancing-master’s bow.
Magdalen frowned, and drew back a step. The captain was not a man to be daunted by a cold reception. He tucked his umbrella under his arm, and jocosely spelt his name for her further enlightenment, ‘w, R, A,double G, E – Wragge,’ said the captain, ticking off the letters persuasively on his fingers.
‘I remember your name,’ said Magdalen. ‘Excuse me for leaving you abruptly. I have an engagement.’
She tried to pass him, and walk on northwards towards the railway. He instantly met the attempt by raising both hands, and displaying a pair of darned black gloves outspread in polite protest.
‘Not that way,’ he said; ‘not that way, Miss Vanstone, I beg and entreat!’
‘Why not?’ she asked haughtily.
‘Because,’ answered the captain, ‘that is the way which leads to Mr Hux table’s.’
In the ungovernable astonishment of hearing his reply, she suddenly bent forward, and, for the first time, looked him close in the face. He sustained her suspicious scrutiny, with every appearance of feeling highly gratified by it. ’H, U,x – Hux,’ said the captain, playfully turning to the old joke; ’T, A – ta, Huxta; B, L, E – ble; Huxtable.’
‘What do you know about Mr Huxtable?’ she asked. ‘What do you mean by mentioning him to me?’
The captain’s curly lip took a new twist upwards. He immediately replied, to the best practical purpose, by producing the handbill from his pocket.
‘There is just light enough left,’ he said, ‘for young (and lovely) eyes to read by. Before I enter upon the personal statement which your flattering inquiry claims from me, pray bestow a moment’s attention on this Document.’
She took the handbill from him. By the last gleam of twilight, she read the lines which set a price on her recovery – which published the description of her in pitiless print, like the description of a str
ayed dog. No tender consideration had prepared her for the shock, no kind word softened it to her when it came. The vagabond whose cunning eyes watched her eagerly while she read, knew no more that the handbill which he had stolen, had only been prepared in anticipation of the worst, and was only to be publicly used in the event of all more considerate means of tracing her being tried in vain – than she knew it. The bill dropped from her hand; her face flushed deeply. She turned away from Captain Wragge, as if all idea of his existence had passed out of her mind.
‘Oh, Norah, Norah!’ she said to herself, sorrowfully. ‘After the letter I wrote you – after the hard struggle I had to go away! Oh, Norah, Norah!’
‘How is Norah?’ inquired the captain, with the utmost politeness.
She turned upon him with an angry brightness in her large grey eyes. ‘Is this thing shown publicly?’ she asked, stamping her foot on it. ‘Is the mark on my neck described all over York?’
’Pray compose yourself,’ pleaded the persuasive Wragge. ‘At present I have every reason to believe that you have just perused the only copy in circulation. Allow me to pick it up.’
Before he could touch the bill, she snatched it from the pavement, tore it into fragments, and threw them over the wall.
‘Bravo!’ cried the captain. ‘You remind me of your poor dear mother. The family spirit, Miss Vanstone. We all inherit our hot blood from my maternal grandfather.’
‘How did you come by it?’ she asked suddenly.
‘My dear creature, I have just told you,’ remonstrated the captain. ‘We all come by it from my maternal grandfather.’
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