by Ellen Wood
“What vessel had picked you up?”
“It was the Discovery, a whaler belonging to Whitby, and homeward bound. The captain, Van Hoppe, was Dutch by birth, but had been reared in England and had always sailed in English ships. A good and kind fellow, if ever there was one. Of course, I had to make my tale good and suppress the truth. The passenger-ship in which I was sailing to Australia to seek my fortune had foundered in mid-ocean, and those who escaped with me had died of their sufferings. That was true so far. Captain Van Hoppe took up my misfortunes warmly. Had he been my own brother — had he been you, Charley — he could not have treated me better or cared for me more. The vessel had a prosperous run home. She was bound for the port of London; and when I put my hand into Van Hoppe’s at parting, and tried to thank him for his goodness, he left a twenty-pound note in it. ‘You’ll need it, Mr. Strange,’ he said; ‘you can repay me when your fortune’s made and you are rich.’”
“Strange!” I cried.
Tom laughed.
“I called myself ‘Strange’ on the whaler. Don’t know that it was wise of me. One day when I was getting better and lay deep in thought — which just then chanced to be of you, Charley — the mate suddenly asked me what my name was. ‘Strange,’ I answered, on the spur of the moment. That’s how it was. And that’s the brief history of my escape.”
“You have had money, then, for your wants since you landed,” I remarked.
“I have had the twenty pounds. It’s coming to an end now.”
“You ought not to have come to London. You should have got the captain to put you ashore somewhere, and then made your escape from England.”
“All very fine to talk, Charley! I had not a sixpence in my pocket, or any idea that he was going to help me. I could only come on as far as the vessel would bring me.”
“And suppose he had not given you money — what then?”
“Then I must have contrived to let you know that I was home again, and borrowed from you,” he lightly replied.
“Well, your being here is frightfully dangerous.”
“Not a bit of it. As long as the police don’t suspect I am in England, they won’t look after me. It’s true that a few of them might know me, but I do not think they would in this guise and with my altered face.”
“You were afraid of one to-night.”
“Well, he is especially one who might know me; and he stood there so long that I began to think he might be watching me. Anyway, I’ve been on shore these three weeks, and nothing has come of it yet.”
“What about that young lady named Betsy? Miss Betsy Lee.”
Tom threw himself back in a fit of laughter.
“I hear the old fellow went down to Essex Street one night to ascertain whether I lived there! The girl asked me one day where I lived, and I rapped out Essex Street.”
“But, Tom, what have you to do with the girl?”
“Nothing; nothing. On my honour. I have often been in the shop, sometimes of an evening. The father has invited me to some grog in the parlour behind it, and I have sat there for an hour chatting with him and the girl. That’s all. She is a well-behaved, modest little girl; none better.”
“Well, Tom, with one imprudence and another, you stand a fair chance — —”
“There, there! Don’t preach, Charley. What you call imprudence, I call fun.”
“What do you think of doing? To remain on here for ever in this disguise?”
“Couldn’t, I expect, if I wanted to. I must soon see about getting away.”
“You must get away at once.”
“I am not going yet, Charley; take my word for that; and I am as safe in London, I reckon, as I should be elsewhere. Don’t say but I may have to clear out of this particular locality. If that burly policeman is going to make a permanent beat of it about here, he might drop upon me some fine evening.”
“And you must exchange your sailor’s disguise, as you call it, for a better one.”
“Perhaps so. That rough old coat you have on, Charley, might not come amiss to me.”
“You can have it. Why do you fear that policeman should know you, more than any other?”
“He was present at the trial last August. Was staring me in the face most of the day. His name’s Wren.”
I sighed.
“Well, Tom, it is getting late; we have sat here as long as is consistent with safety,” I said, rising.
He made me sit down again.
“The later the safer, perhaps, Charley. When shall we meet again?”
“Ay; when, and where?”
“Come to-morrow evening, to this same spot. It is as good a one as any I know of. I shall remain indoors all day tomorrow. Of course one does not care to run needlessly into danger. Shall you find your way to it?”
“Yes, and will be here; but I shall go now. Do be cautious, Tom. Do you want any money? I have brought some with me.”
“Many thanks, old fellow; I’ve enough to go on with for a day or two. How is Blanche? Did she nearly die of the disgrace?”
“She did not know of it. Does not know it yet.”
“No!” he exclaimed in astonishment. “Why, how can it have been kept from her? She does not live in a wood.”
“Level has managed it, somehow. She was abroad during the trial, you know. They have chiefly lived there since, Blanche seeing no English newspapers; and, of course, her acquaintances do not gratuitously speak to her about it. But I don’t think it can be kept from her much longer.”
“But where does she think I am — all this time?”
“She thinks you are in India with the regiment.”
“I suppose he was in a fine way about it!”
“Level? Yes — naturally; and is still. He would have saved you, Tom, at any cost.”
“As you would, and one or two more good friends; but, you see, I did not know what was coming upon me in time to ask them. It fell upon my head like a thunderbolt. Level is not a bad fellow at bottom.”
“He is a downright good one — at least, that’s my opinion of him.”
We stood hand locked in hand at parting. “Where are you staying?” I whispered.
“Not far off. I’ve a lodging in the neighbourhood — one room.”
“Fare you well, then, until to-morrow evening.”
“Au revoir, Charley.”
CHAPTER II.
TOM HERIOT.
I found my way straight enough the next night to the little green with its trees and shrubs. Tom was there, and was humming one of our boyhood’s songs taught us by Leah:
“Young Henry was as brave a youth
As ever graced a martial story;
And Jane was fair as lovely truth:
She sighed for love, and he for glory.
“To her his faith he meant to plight,
And told her many a gallant story:
But war, their honest joys to blight,
Called him away from love to glory.
“Young Henry met the foe with pride;
Jane followed — fought — ah! hapless story!
In man’s attire, by Henry’s side,
She died for love, and he for glory.”
He was still dressed as a sailor, but the pilot-coat was buttoned up high and tight about his throat, and the round glazed hat was worn upon the front of his head instead of the back of it.
“I thought you meant to change these things, Tom,” I said as we sat down.
“All in good time,” he answered; “don’t quite know yet what costume to adopt. Could one become a negro-melody man, think you, Charley — or a Red Indian juggler with balls and sword-swallowing?”
How light he seemed! how supremely indifferent! Was it real or only assumed? Then he turned suddenly upon me:
“I say, what are you in black for, Charley? For my sins?”
“For Mr. Brightman.”
“Mr. Brightman!” he repeated, his tone changing to one of concern. “Is he dead?”
“He died the last
week in February. Some weeks ago now. Died quite suddenly.”
“Well, well, well!” softly breathed Tom Heriot. “I am very sorry. I did not know it. But how am I likely to know anything of what the past months have brought forth?”
It would serve no purpose to relate the interview of that night in detail. We spent it partly in quarrelling. That is, in differences of opinion. It was impossible to convince Tom of his danger. I told him about the Sunday incident, when Detective Arkwright passed the door of Serjeant Stillingfar, and my momentary fear that he might be looking after Tom. He only laughed. “Good old Uncle Stillingfar!” cried he; “give my love to him.” And all his conversation was carried on in the same light strain.
“But you must leave Lambeth,” I urged. “You said you would do so.”
“I said I might. I will, if I see just cause for doing so. Plenty of time yet. I am not sure, you know, Charles, that Wren would know me.”
“The very fact of your having called yourself ‘Strange’ ought to take you away from here.”
“Well, I suppose that was a bit of a mistake,” he acknowledged. “But look here, brother mine, your own fears mislead you. Until it is known that I have made my way home no one will be likely to look after me. Believing me to be at the antipodes, they won’t search London for me.”
“They may suspect that you are in London, if they don’t actually know it.”
“Not they. To begin with, it must be a matter of absolute uncertainty whether we got picked up at all, after escaping from the island; but the natural conclusion will be that, if we were, it was by a vessel bound for the colonies: homeward-bound ships do not take that course. Everyone at all acquainted with navigation knows that. I assure you, our being found by the whaler was the merest chance in the world. Be at ease, Charley. I can take care of myself, and I will leave Lambeth if necessary. One of these fine mornings you may get a note from me, telling you I have emigrated to the Isle of Dogs, or some such enticing quarter, and have become ‘Mr. Smith.’ Meanwhile, we can meet here occasionally.”
“I don’t like this place, Tom. It must inevitably be attended with more or less danger. Had I not better come to your lodgings?”
“No,” he replied, after a moment’s consideration. “I am quite sure that we are safe here, and there it’s hot and stifling — a dozen families living in the same house. And I shall not tell you where the lodgings are, Charles: you might be swooping down upon me to carry me away as Mephistopheles carried away Dr. Faustus.”
After supplying him with money, with a last handshake, whispering a last injunction to be cautious, I left the triangle, and left him within it. The next moment found me face to face with the burly frame and wary glance of Mr. Policemen Wren. He was standing still in the starlight. I walked past him with as much unconcern as I could muster. He turned to look after me for a time, and then continued his beat.
It gave me a scare. What would be the result if Tom met him unexpectedly as I had done? I would have given half I was worth to hover about and ascertain. But I had to go on my way.
* * * * *
“Can you see Lord Level, sir?”
It was the following Saturday afternoon, and I was just starting for Hastings. The week had passed in anxious labour. Business cares for me, more work than I knew how to get through, for Lennard was away ill, and constant mental torment about Tom. I took out my watch before answering Watts.
“Yes, I have five minutes to spare. If that will be enough for his lordship,” I added, laughing, as we shook hands: for he had followed Watts into the room.
“You are off somewhere, Charles?”
“Yes, to Hastings. I shall be back again to-morrow night. Can I do anything for you?”
“Nothing,” replied Lord Level. “I came up from Marshdale this morning, and thought I would come round this afternoon to ask whether you have any news.”
When Lord Level went to Marshdale on the visit that bore so suspicious an aspect to his wife, he had remained there only one night, returning to London the following day. This week he had been down again, and stayed rather longer — two days, in fact. Blanche, as I chanced to know, was rebelling over it. Secretly rebelling, for she had not brought herself to accuse him openly.
“News?” I repeated.
“Of Tom Heriot.”
Should I tell Lord Level? Perhaps there was no help for it. When he had asked me before I had known nothing positively; now I knew only too much.
“Why I should have it, I know not; but a conviction lies upon me that he has found his way back to London,” he continued. “Charles, you look conscious. Do you know anything?”
“You are right. He is here, and I have seen him.”
“Good heavens!” exclaimed Lord Level, throwing himself back in his chair. “Has he really been mad enough to come back to London?”
Drawing my own chair nearer to him, I bent forward, and in low tones gave him briefly the history. I had seen Tom on the Monday and Tuesday nights, as already related to the reader. On the Thursday night I was again at the trysting-place, but Tom did not meet me. The previous night, Friday, I had gone again, and again Tom did not appear.
“Is he taken, think you?” cried Lord Level.
“I don’t know: and you see I dare not make any inquiries. But I think not. Had he been captured, it would be in the papers.”
“I am not so sure of that. What an awful thing! What suspense for us all! Can nothing be done?”
“Nothing,” I answered, rising, for my time was up. “We can only wait, and watch, and be silent.”
“If it were not for the disgrace reflected upon us, and raking it up again to people’s minds, I would say let him be re-taken! It would serve him right for his foolhardiness.”
“How is Blanche?”
“Cross and snappish; unaccountably so: and showing her temper to me rather unbearably.”
I laughed — willing to treat the matter lightly. “She does not care that you should go travelling without her, I take it.”
Lord Level, who was passing out before me, turned and gazed into my face.
“Yes,” said he emphatically. “But a man may have matters to take up his attention, and his movements also, that he may deem it inexpedient to talk of to his wife.”
He spoke with a touch of haughtiness. “Very true,” I murmured, as we shook hands and went out together, he walking away towards Gloucester Place, I jumping into the cab waiting to take me to the station.
Mrs. Brightman was better; I knew that; and showing herself more self-controlled. But there was no certainty that the improvement would be lasting. In truth, the certainty lay rather the other way. Her mother’s home was no home for Annabel; and I had formed the resolution to ask her to come to mine.
The sun had set when I reached Hastings, and Miss Brightman’s house. Miss Brightman, who seemed to grow less strong day by day, which I was grieved to hear, was in her room lying down. Annabel sat at the front drawing-room window in the twilight. She started up at my entrance, full of surprise and apprehension.
“Oh, Charles! Has anything happened? Is mamma worse?”
“No, indeed; your mamma is very much better,” said I cheerfully. “I have taken a run down for the pleasure of seeing you, Annabel.”
She still looked uneasy. I remembered the dreadful tidings I had brought the last time I came to Hastings. No doubt she was thinking of it, too, poor girl.
“Take a seat, Charles,” she said. “Aunt Lucy will soon be down.”
I drew a chair opposite to her, and talked for a little time on indifferent topics. The twilight shades grew deeper, passers-by more indistinct, the sea less bright and shimmering. Silence stole over us — a sweet silence all too conscious, all too fleeting. Annabel suddenly rose, stood at the window, and made some slight remark about a little boat that was nearing the pier.
“Annabel,” I whispered, as I rose and stood by her, “you do not know what I have really come down for.”
“No,” she answere
d, with hesitation.
“When I last saw you at your own home, you may remember that you were in very great trouble. I asked you to share it with me, but you would not do so.”
She began to tremble, and became agitated, and I passed my arm round her waist.
“My darling, I now know all.”
Her heart beat violently as I held her. Her hand shook nervously in mine.
“You cannot know all!” she cried piteously.
“I know all; more than you do. Mrs. Brightman was worse after you left, and Hatch sent for me. She and Mr. Close have told me the whole truth.”
Annabel would have shrunk away, in the full tide of shame that swept over her, and a low moan broke from her lips.
“Nay, my dear, instead of shrinking from me, you must come nearer to me — for ever. My home must be yours now.”
She did not break away from me, and stood pale and trembling, her hands clasped, her emotion strong.
“It cannot, must not be, Charles.”
“Hush, my love. It can be — and shall be.”
“Charles,” she said, her very lips trembling, “weigh well what you are saying. Do not suffer the — affection — I must speak fully — the implied engagement that was between us, ere this unhappiness came to my knowledge and yours — do not suffer it to bind you now. It is a fearful disgrace to attach to my poor mother, and it is reflected upon me.”