by Ellen Wood
We consulted a little as to the best means of making the truth known to Lady Clavering — an unthankful office that would fall to me — and Sir Edmund rose to leave.
“Keep the letters safely,” he said; almost in the very words Sir Ralph had written. “Do not bring them within a mile of her hands: copies, if she pleases, as many as she likes. And when things are upon a safe footing, as my uncle says, and there’s no longer anything to fear from her, then they can be destroyed.”
“Yes. Of course, Sir Edmund,” I continued, in some hesitation, “she must be spared to the world. This discovery must be held sacred between us — —”
“Do you mean that as a caution?” he interrupted in surprise. “Why, Strange, what do you take me for?”
He clasped my hand with a half-laugh, and went out. Yes, Lady Clavering had contrived to damage herself, but it would never transpire to her friends or her enemies.
Leah had noticed the name of the street containing the book-stall, and when night came I put on a discarded old great-coat and slouching hat, and set out for it. It was soon found: a narrow, well-frequented street, leading out of the main thoroughfare, full of poor shops, patronized by still poorer customers.
The book-stall was on the right, about half-way down the street. Numbers of old books lay upon a board outside, lighted by a flaring, smoking tin lamp. Inside the shop they seemed chiefly to deal in tobacco and snuff. Every now and then the master of the shop — whose name, according to the announcement above the shop, must be Caleb Lee — came to the door to look about him, or to answer the questions of some outside customer touching the books. But as yet I saw no sign of Tom Heriot.
Opposite the shop, on the other side the way, was a dark entry; into that entry I ensconced myself to watch.
Tired of this at last, I marched to the end of the street, crossed over, strolled back on the other side the way, and halted at the book-stall. There I began to turn the books about: anything to while away the time.
“Looking for any book in particular, sir?”
I turned sharply at the question, which came from the man Lee. The voice sounded familiar to my ear. Where had I heard it?
“You have not an old copy of the ‘Vicar of Wakefield,’ I suppose?” — the work flashing into my mind by chance.
“No, sir. I had one, but it was bought last week. There’s ‘Fatherless Fanny,’ sir; that’s a very nice book; it was thought a deal of some years ago. And there’s the ‘Water Witch,’ by Cooper. That’s good, too.”
I remembered the voice now. It was that of Leah’s mysterious visitor of the night before, who had been curiously inquisitive about me. Recognition came upon me with a shock, and opened up a new fear.
Taking the “Water Witch” — for which I paid fourpence — I walked on again. Could it be possible that Tom Heriot was passing himself off for me? Why, this would be the veriest folly of all. But no; that was altogether impossible.
Anxious and uneasy, I turned about again and again. The matter ought to be set at rest, yet I knew not how to do it.
I entered the shop, which contained two small counters: the one covered with papers, the other with smoking gear. Lee stood behind the former, serving a customer, who was inquiring for last week’s number of the Fireside Friend. Behind the other counter sat a young girl, pretty and modest. I turned to her.
“Will you give me a packet of bird’s-eye?”
“Yes, sir,” she answered in pleasant tones; and, opening a drawer, handed me the tobacco, ready wrapped up. It would do for Watts. Bird’s-eye, I knew, was his favourite mixture.
“Thank you, sir,” she said, returning me the change out of a florin. “Anything else, sir?”
“Yes; a box of wax matches.”
But the matches were not to be found, and the girl appealed to her father.
“Wax matches,” returned the man from across the shop. “Why, they are on the shelf behind you, Betsy.”
The matches were found, the girl took the money for them, and thanked me again. All very properly and modestly. The girl was evidently as modest and well-behaved as a girl could be.
So that was Betsy! But who was it that was courting her in my name? One of my office clerks — or Captain Thomas Heriot?
Captain Thomas Heriot did not make his appearance, and I began to hope that Leah had been mistaken. It grew late. I was heartily tired, and turned to make my way home.
Why I should have looked round I cannot tell, but I did look round just as I reached the end of the street. Looming slowly up in the distance was a sailor, with a sailor’s swaying walk, and he turned into the shop.
I turned back also, all my pulses quickened. I did not follow him in, for we might have betrayed ourselves. I stood outside, occupied with the old books again, and pulled the collar of my coat well up, and my hat well down. Not here must there be any mutual recognition.
How long did he mean to stay there? For ever? He and Lee seemed to be at the back of the shop, talking together. I could not hear the voices sufficiently to judge whether one of them was that of Tom Heriot.
He was coming now! Out he came, puffing at a fresh-lighted pipe, his glazed hat at the back of his head, his face lifted to the world.
“Tell you we shall, master. Fine to-morrow? not a bit of it. Rain as sure as a gun. This dampness in the air is a safe sign on’t. Let a sailor alone for knowing the weather.”
“At sea, maybe,” retorted Caleb Lee. “But I never yet knew a sailor who wasn’t wrong about the weather on shore. Good-night, sir.”
“Good-night to you, master,” responded the sailor.
He lounged slowly away. It was not Tom Heriot. About his build and his fair complexion, but shorter than Tom. A real, genuine Jack-tar, this, unmistakably. Was he the man Leah had seen? This one wore no beard, but bushy, drooping whiskers.
“Looking for another book, sir?”
In momentary confusion, I caught up the book nearest to hand. It proved to be “Fatherless Fanny,” and I said I’d take it. While searching for the money, I remarked that the sailor, just gone away, had said we should have rain to-morrow.
“I don’t see that he is obliged to be right, though he was so positive over it,” returned the man. “I hate a rainy day: spoils our custom. Thankye, sir. Sixpence this time. That’s right.”
“Do many sailors frequent this neighbourhood?”
“Not many; we’ve a sprinkling of ’em sometimes. They come over here from the Kent Road way.”
Well, and what else could I ask? Nothing. And just then a voice came from the shop.
“Father,” called out Miss Betsy, “is it not time to shut up?”
“What do you ask? Getting a little deaf, sir, in my old age. Coming, Betsy.”
He turned into the shop, and I walked away for the night: hoping, ah! how earnestly, that Leah had been mistaken.
* * * * *
“Mr. Strange, my lord.”
It was the following evening. Restlessly anxious about Tom Heriot, I betook myself to Gloucester Place as soon as dinner was over, to ask Major Carlen whether he had learnt anything further. The disreputable old man was in some way intimate with one or two members of the Government. To my surprise, Sanders, Lord Level’s servant, opened the door to me, and showed me to the dining-room. Lord Level sat there alone over his after-dinner claret.
“You look as if you hardly believed your eyes, Charles,” he laughed as he shook hands. “Sit down. Glasses, Sanders.”
“And surprised I may well look to see you here, when I thought you were in Paris,” was my answer.
“We came over to-day; got here an hour ago. Blanche was very ill in crossing and has gone to bed.”
“Where is Major Carlen?”
“Oh, he is off to Jersey to see his sister, Mrs. Guy. At least, that is what he said; but he is not famous for veracity, you know, and it is just as likely that he may be catching the mail train at London Bridge en route for Homburg, as the Southampton train from Waterloo. Had you been half a
n hour earlier, you might have had the pleasure of assisting at his departure. I have taken this house for a month, and paid him in advance,” added Lord Level, as much as to say that the Major was not altogether out of funds.
A short silence ensued. The thoughts of both of us were no doubt busy. Level, his head bent, was slowly turning his wine-glass round by its stem.
“Charles,” he suddenly said, in a half-whisper, “what of Tom Heriot?”
I hardly knew how to take the question.
“I know nothing more of him,” was my answer.
“Is he in London, think you? Have you heard news of him, in any way?”
Now I could not say that I had heard news: for Leah’s information was not news, if (as I hoped) she was mistaken. And I judged it better not to speak of it to Lord Level until the question was set at rest. Why torment him needlessly?
“I wrote you word what Major Carlen said: that Tom was one of those who escaped. The ship was wrecked upon an uninhabited island, believed to be that of Tristan d’Acunha. After a few days some of the convicts contrived to steal a boat and make good their escape. Of course they were in hope of being picked up by some homeward-bound ship, and may already have reached England.”
“Look here,” said Lord Level, after a pause: “that island lies, no doubt, in the track of ships bound to the colonies, but not in the track of those homeward-bound. So the probability is, that if the convicts were sighted and picked up, they would be carried further from England, not brought back to it.”
I confess that this view had not occurred to me; in fact, I knew very little about navigation, or the courses taken by ships. It served to strengthen my impression that Leah had been in error.
“Are you sure of that?” I asked him.
“Sure of what?” returned Lord Level.
“That the island would be out of the track of homeward-bound vessels.”
“Quite sure. Homeward-bound vessels come round Cape Horn. Those bound for the colonies go by way of the Cape of Good Hope.”
“My visit here to-night was to ask Major Carlen whether he had heard any further particulars.”
“I think he heard a few more to-day,” said Lord Level. “The Vengeance was wrecked, it seems, on this island. It is often sighted by ships going to the colonies, and the captain was in hope that his signals from the island would be seen, and some ship would bear down to them. In vain. After the convicts — five of them, I believe — had made their escape, he determined to send off the long-boat, in charge of the chief officer, to the nearest Australian coast, for assistance. On the 10th of December the boat set sail, and on Christmas Day was picked up by the Vernon, which reached Melbourne the last day of the year.”
“But how do you know all these details?” I interrupted in surprise.
“They have been furnished to the Government, and Carlen was informed of them this morning,” replied Lord Level. “On the following day, the 1st of January, the ship Lightning sailed from Melbourne for England; she was furnished with a full account of the wreck of the Vengeance and what succeeded to it. The Lightning made a good passage home, and on her arrival laid her reports before the Government. That’s how it is.”
“And what of the escaped convicts?”
“Nothing is known of them. The probability is that they were picked up by an outward-bound ship and landed in one of the colonies. If not, they must have perished at sea.”
“And if they were so picked up and landed, I suppose they would have reached England by this time?”
“Certainly — seeing that the Lightning has arrived. And the convicts had some days’ start of the long-boat. I hope Tom Heriot will not make his way here!” fervently spoke Lord Level. “The consequences would three-parts kill my wife. No chance of keeping it from her in such a hullabaloo as would attend his recapture.”
“I cannot think how you have managed to keep it from her as it is.”
“Well, I have been watchful and cautious — and we have not mixed much with the gossiping English. What! are you going, Charles?”
“Yes, I have an engagement,” I answered, as we both rose. “Good-night. Give my love to Blanche. Tell her that Charley will see her to-morrow if he can squeeze out a minute’s leisure for it.”
Taking up the old coat I had left in the passage, I went out with it on my arm, hailed a cab that was crossing Portman Square and was driven to Lambeth. There I recommenced my watch upon the book-stall and the street containing it, not, however, disclosing myself to Lee that night. But nothing was to be seen of Tom Heriot.
CHAPTER XI.
MRS. BRIGHTMAN.
“Sur this coms hoppin youle excuse blundurs bein no skollerd sur missis is worse and if youle com ive got som things to tell you I darnt keep um any longer your unbil servint emma hatch but doant say to peri as i sent.”
This remarkable missive was delivered to me by the late afternoon post. The schoolmaster must have been abroad when Hatch received her education.
I had intended to spend the evening with Blanche. It was the day subsequent to her arrival from France with Lord Level, and I had not yet seen her. But this appeared to be something like an imperative summons, and I resolved to attend to it.
“The more haste, the less speed.” The proverb exemplifies itself very frequently in real life. Ordering my dinner to be served half an hour earlier than usual, I had no sooner eaten it than a gentleman called and detained me. It was close upon eight o’clock when I reached Clapham.
Perry, the butler, received me as usual. “Oh, sir, such a house of sickness as it is!” he exclaimed, leading the way to the drawing-room. “My mistress is in bed with brain-fever. They were afraid of it yesterday, but it has quite shown itself to-day. And Miss Annabel is still at Hastings. I say she ought to be sent for; Hatch says not, and tells me to mind my own business: but — —”
Hatch herself interrupted the sentence. She came into the room and ordered Perry out of it. The servants, even Perry, had grown into the habit of obeying her. Closing the door, she advanced to me as I stood warming my hands at the fire, for it was a sharp night.
“Mr. Strange, sir,” she began in a low tone, “did you get that epistle from me?”
I nodded.
“You’ve not been down here much lately, sir. Last night I thought you might come, the night afore I thought it. The last time you did come you never stepped inside the door.”
“Where is the use of coming, Hatch, when I am always told that Mrs. Brightman cannot see me — and that Miss Annabel remains at Hastings?”
“And a good thing that she do remain there,” returned Hatch. “Perry, the gaby, says, ‘Send for Miss Annabel: why don’t you write for Miss Annabel?’ But that his brains is no bigger than one o’ them she-gooses’ on Newland Common, he’d have found out why afore now. Sir,” continued Hatch, changing her tone, “I want to know what I be to do. I’m not a person of edication or book-learning, but my wits is alive, and they serves me instead. For this two or three days past, sir, I’ve been thinking that I ought to tell out to somebody responsible what it is that’s the matter with my missis, and I know of nobody nearer the family than you, sir. There’s her brother, in course, at the Hall, Captain Chantrey, but my missis has held herself aloof from him and Lady Grace, and I know she’d be in a fine way if I spoke to him. Three or four days ago I said to myself, ‘The first time I see Mr. Strange, I’ll tell him the truth.’ Last night she was worse than she has been at all, quite raving. I got frightened, which is a complaint I’m not given to, and resolved not to let another day pass, and then, whether she lived or died, the responsibility would not lie upon my back.”
Straightening myself, I stood gazing at Hatch. She had spoken rapidly. If I had caught all the words, I did not catch their meaning.
“Yes?” I said mechanically.
“And so, with morning light, sir, I wrote you that epistle.”
“Yes, yes; never mind all that. What about Mrs. Brightman?”
Hatch dropped her
voice to a lower and more mysterious whisper. “Sir, my missis gives way, she do.”
“Gives way,” I repeated, gazing at Hatch, and still unable to see any meaning in the words. “What do you say she does?”
Hatch took a step forward, which brought her on the hearthrug, close to me. “Yes, sir; missis gives way.”
“Gives way to what?” I reiterated. “To her superstitious fancies?”
“No, sir, to stimilinks.”
“To — —” The meaning, in spite of Hatch’s obscure English, dawned upon me now. A cold shiver ran through me. Annabel’s mother! and honoured Henry Brightman’s wife!
“She takes stimulants!” I gasped.
“Yes, sir; stimilinks,” proceeded Hatch. “A’most any sort that comes anigh her. She likes wine and brandy best; but failing them, she’ll drink others.”
Question upon question rose to my mind. Had it been known to Mr. Brightman? Had it been a prolonged habit? Was it deeply indulged in? But Annabel was her child, and my lips refused to utter them.
“It has been the very plague of my life and my master’s to keep it private these many months past,” continued Hatch. “‘Hatch does this in the house, and Hatch does the other,’ the servants cry. Yes; but my master knew why I set up my authority; and missis knew it too. It was to screen her.”
“How could she have fallen into the habit?”
“It has grown upon her by degrees, sir. A little at first, and a little, and then a little more. As long as master was here, she was kept tolerably in check, but since his death there has been nobody to restrain her, except me. Whole days she has been in her room, shutting out Miss Annabel, under the excuse of headaches or lowness, drinking all the time; and me there to keep the door. I’m sure the black stories I have gone and invented, to pacify Miss Annabel and put her off the right scent, would drive a parson to his prayers.”
“Then Miss Annabel does not know it?”
“She do now,” returned Hatch. “The first night there was that disturbance in the house about missis seeing the ghost, her room was thrown open in the fright, and all the house got in. I turned the servants out: I dared not turn out Miss Annabel, and she couldn’t fail to see that her mother was the worse for drink. So then I told her some, and Mr. Close told her more next morning.”