Henry Wood

The Story of Charles Strange. Vol. 3 (of 3)


Скачать книгу

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!