"`I cannot forgive myself,'" wrote Tom to Richard Shingle--and the
latter read the note aloud--"`I feel, uncle, that I have wronged her
twice in thought most cruelly, and that I dare not hope for her
forgiveness till time has enabled me to prove myself more worthy of
her--'"
"Read more loudly, and don't mumble," said Hopper, who was present.
"`Tell her, uncle, that I love her dearly--more dearly than ever; and
some day, if she has not made another choice, I may come and ask you
all, humbly, if you can forget the past, ignore the misfortunes of my
family, and give me room to hope that there is a happy future where at
present all looks black.'"
"I've read that ten times over," said Dick, "and hang me if I know what
it means. It's too fine and sentimental for me. Why, if he was half
the man I took him for, he'd come down here and say, `Uncle, blood's
thicker than water: shall we cry "wiped out" to all that's gone by?--
because, if so, 'ere's my 'art and 'ere's my 'and.'"
"Hey?"
"'Ere's my 'art and 'ere's my 'and," roared Dick.
"And what should you say to that?" chuckled Hopper.
"I should say, `Tom, my lad, I don't want your 'art, and I don't want
your 'and, for I've got a 'art as is, I hope, a warm one, and I've got a
'and to offer to the man I can believe in and trust. Take yours
somewheres else, and offer 'em where they may be taken.'"
Dick winked at his friend, and jerked his thumb over his shoulder,
where, seen dimly in the farther room, were Jessie and Mrs Shingle--
Dick having taken a house at Hastings, and gone down for change, he
said, but really on account of the weak state of Jessie's health; and
now he and his friend were having a pipe together in the inner room.
"He's too cocky," said Hopper: "he's as proud as Lucifer. He won't come
and ask till he's made money, and can be independent."
"That's where he's such a fool," said Dick. "Of course I'm not going to
say `Come down and marry my gal,' who's dying to have him; but he can
have her when he likes; and as to money, why, there's enough for all."
"Tom won't want for money," said Hopper, blowing out a great cloud.
"Oh, won't he?" said Dick. "Well, a good job too. What's become of
Fred?"
"Married that violent girl, who was dead on him, and went and joined him
as soon as she knew he was in trouble."
"Did she, though?" said Dick. "Well, 'ang me if I ever liked her, with
her twissened eyes, till now; but that was a good one. Hopper, Max
spent all that poor gal's money, which was hard on her. Could you get
to let her have a hundred pounds if I give you a cheque? You can come
those dodges of sending money on the sly most artfully."
Hopper chuckled as Dick poked him in the side with his pipe-stem. "No,
no, no, Dick, they are in America by now; and Fred will be better
without money. Make him work."
He began to refill his pipe as he spoke.
"I never could make out how it was he got off so easily to America. The
police wasn't half sharp; but it was a good job. How about the extra
tradition, as they called it?"
"Hey? Extradition?" said Hopper. "Ha! there was a reason for that."
He opened his pocket-book, took out a slip of blue paper, folded it,
and, striking a match, lit the paper and held it to his pipe.
"I say," said Dick, "what's that you're burning?"
"An old bill," was the reply--"I'm using 'em up by degrees."
"An old bill?" said Dick; for Hopper looked at him curiously.
"Yes," said Hopper, "I've done a deal in bills. This is one of ten--of
Fred's: I bought 'em--for his grandmother's sake," he added softly.
Dick stretched out his hand, grasped the other's, and then turned his
chair to have a look at a ship in the offing, which seemed quite
blurred.
"Pick! Dick!" screamed Mrs Shingle.
"Yes, yes--what?" he cried, starting up and running in, to find Jessie
lying white as ashes in her mother's arms.
"Quick!" cried Mrs Shingle; "tell--tell the doctor--this is the second
time to-day! Dick--Dick!" she cried passionately, "she's dying!"
Old Hopper was the most active of the party; and long before the doctor
could be brought Jessie had revived, but only to lie back listlessly,
gazing out to sea; while, when the medical man left, it was with a
solemn shake of the head, which sent a chill to the hearts of Dick and
his spouse.
They had been sitting by their child for about an hour, when old Hopper
came in, and stood looking down at her in a quiet, unsympathising way.
"I've come to say good-bye," he said roughly.
"Good-bye?" said Dick. "Why, you only came yesterday!"
"I know, but I'm no good here. Good-bye, my girl. I wish you better."
She half raised her head to kiss him, and the old man bent down and
pressed his lips to hers very tenderly, before leaving the room, closely
followed by Dick.
"I know it's a dreary place to come to, Hopper," he said; "and we've
only had one tune-up together; but when she's--better--Hopper, old man,
if I wrote and asked Tom to come, would it be wrong?"
"Hey? Wrong? Yes. Don't do anything of the sort. Hey? What's that?"
"Only a letter for Max. I hear he's laid up. Don't let him know who
sent it--that's all."
The old man nodded, and held out his hand.
"Do you know why I'm going in such a hurry?" he whispered.
"No," was the reply.
"I'll tell you," said Hopper. "If your girl's left like that, she'll
die. I'm going to send her the best doctor in town." Ten minutes after
Hopper was at the station, where he telegraphed one short message,
climbed slowly into his seat, reached the terminus in due time, and on
being driven to his chambers found some one waiting for him.
"How is she?" cried Tom eagerly, as the cats crowded round their master.
"Dying!" said Hopper briefly.
"Dying?"
"Yes. I've come for the best doctor in London."
"And you sit still there!" cried Tom. "Have you sent him?"
"No," said Hopper coolly. "Wait a minute. Tom, my lad, do you think
you can throw away your pride to save her?"
"I'd throw away my life," he cried passionately.
"That wouldn't save hers. Here, take this. Quick--there's a hundred
pounds. Take it, you young fool! Go down at once to her, and throw
away all nonsense. Tell her you love her; ask her to forgive you;
and--"
"Yes--yes," cried Tom. "Go on."
"And marry her, you young idiot!"
"But a train?" cried Tom despairingly. "It will be too late to-night."
"You have the money: if necessary, take a special," said the old man.
"What's fifty or a hundred pounds to happiness, or life?"
Tom caught the old fellow's hand in his, and it was retained.
"Stop one moment, my lad," he said. "You feel some shrinking about your
brother's disgrace. I was burning these by degrees. See--the last of
the forged bills."
He took six from his pocket-book, and burned them.
"There," he said, "that business is dead, and you can go with a lighter
heart. Perhaps I shall come down next week. Be off."
Tom bounded down the stairs, leaped into the first cab, and bade the man
gallop to London Bridge station.
"All right, sir."
The little door in the roof was slammed down, there was a flick of the
long whip, and for about half a minute the horse broke into a short
canter, one which subsided into a trot a few minutes later.
A loud rattling at the top of the cab spurred the driver to fresh
exertions, and once more the wretched horse cantered, but dropped again
into a trot, and there was an end of it. Tom had to sit and fume, as at
every turn he seemed to be hemmed in by other vehicles; and, no matter
how the driver tried, there was always a huge, heavily-laden van in
front, blocking up the way.
"I think I'll take a short cut round, sir," said the cabman. "The
streets is werry full to-night."
"Anything to get there quickly." So the driver turned out of the main
thoroughfare, and began to dodge in and out of wretched streets, all of
which seemed ill lighted, and so strongly resembled the one the other,
that Tom soon grew bewildered, and sat back thinking, and trying to
arrange his thoughts.
His brain was in such a tumult that he could do nothing, however--
nothing but upbraid himself for his folly and madness, "What have I
done?--what have I done?" he moaned, as he thought of the anguish that
he must have inflicted upon the poor girl, who had slowly pined away,
and was now dying--dying through his wretched blindness and want of
faith.
He tried to excuse himself--pleaded his term of bitter suffering, but
could get no absolution from his own stern judgment. He had doubted one
who was all that was purity and truth, and here was his punishment--a
bitter one indeed!
He prayed mentally that she might be spared, that he might ask her
forgiveness--forgiveness that he knew he should receive--and then
covered his face with his hands, as a feeling of hope came upon him that
he might still be able to save her. He might, he thought, bring joy to
her heart even yet.
A sudden stoppage nearly threw him out of the cab; and, looking up
hastily, it was to find that a barrier was across the street, from which
hung a red lantern.
The street was narrow, and he could see beyond, while the driver was
sulkily backing and turning his horse, that the paving-stones were all
up, and the inevitable long fosse and hill of earth lay by the side.
He sank back shuddering, for it looked as if a grave were yawning in the
path; and, with a low moan of despair, he covered his face once more,
and tried to reason with himself that this was merely a superstitious
fancy.
But all in vain. There was the long, dark cutting fixed upon the retina
of his eye; and he could see nothing else as the cab slowly went back
over much of the ground already traversed. What was more, his
distempered fancy magnified and added to it, so that he could see trains
of mourners, the clergyman, hear the solemn words of the burial service;
and these the revolving wheels and the rattling cab kept repeating, till
at last it settled itself down into a constant reiteration of the words,
"In the midst of life we are in death,"--"In the midst of life we are in
death," till he grew almost frantic, and stopped his ears in vain
against the weird, funereal sound.
At last, after wearying himself by trying to bring reason to bear, the
cab reached the comparative freedom of London Bridge; and then he began
to think of the hour, and wondered whether there would be a train.
"Perhaps I shall be in time," he thought, as he sprang out of the cab,
and, paying the fare, ran up to the doors, where a porter was standing.
"You should have gone to the other gate, sir," said the man sharply.
"No, no," he replied hastily. "Main line. I want Hastings."
"Last train for there was at 8:45, sir."
"What time is it now?" he gasped.
"Ten fifty-five, sir."
"But--but is there nothing more to-night--say, to take me part of the
way?" he exclaimed, for he was mad with the desire to be moving.
"No main line train to-night, sir. Nothing till six in the morning."
"How long would it take to get a special ready?"
"Oh, not very long, sir. I dessay they'd get you off in half an hour.
Costs a deal, sir--'bout a pound a mile."
"Where is the superintendent?"
"This way, sir," said the man; and, following him, he was taken to the
official's house, just in time to catch him before he retired for the
night.
"I want a special train--engine and carriage--down to Hastings
immediately," said Tom, hardly able to speak for agitation.
The superintendent looked at him curiously, as if he doubted his sanity.
"It's only excitement--trouble. It is a case of life and death. A dear
young friend."
"All right, sir," the superintendent said quickly. "I see," and there
was a look of sympathy in his eyes. "But I am only a servant of the
company. The charge for a special train is high."
"If it is a thousand pounds, man," cried Tom, "I must have it."
"It won't be that, sir," was the reply; "nor yet a hundred." Then
naming a sum, it was hastily placed in his hand, and the superintendent
left.
He was back directly, and Tom accompanied him then to the telegraph
office, where he gave certain instructions, and the clerk began clicking
the instruments in his cabinet very forcibly.
"Sending word on for a clear line," said the superintendent. "Warning
for the special."
"How long will they be?" asked Tom.
"What, with the special? Oh, not long. There was an engine with steam
nearly up. But you had better take some refreshment before you go. The
place is closed, but come to my room."
"I could not touch anything."
"But you have no wrapper or rug," said the superintendent.
"No, I came in a great hurry."
"You must let me lend them to you," continued the superintendent; "and,
excuse me, you have given me all your money. You had better keep the
gold; you are sure to want some change."
He handed him back the cash, and Tom took it mechanically.
"I cannot thank you now," he said, in a choking voice. "Some day I
may."
"I hope so, sir," said the superintendent cheerily; "and that the young
lady will come and thank me too."
"Heaven grant she may!" Tom said, with quivering lip; and he turned
away to hide his emotion, while the superintendent turned back to his
office, leaving Tom walking up and down the platform, where the lamps
quivered in the night breeze, and the whole place looked ghostly, dim,
and cold.
Away to the side the station was bright and busy, for from there started
the local traffic; and trains, with people from the theatres and places
of amusement, left from time to time for the various suburban villages
of the south-east of London; but where he stood all was shadowy, and in
keeping with his terrible journey.
"There, sir--slip that on," said the superintendent. "Here's a rug,
too, and my flask, with some brandy and biscuits in one of the pockets
of the ulster. You'll find it cold, and you'll turn faint when you get
on your journey. Here she comes."
There was a sharp whistle, and Tom could see the lights of an engine
passing out of a shed, to run a little distance down the line, then back
on to another, and come smoothly along to where they stood--hissing,
glowing, and bright.
Tom saw at a glance that there was only an engine, tender, one carriage,
and the guard's break; and, turning to the superintendent, "Can I ride
on the engine with the driver?" he asked.
"No. In with you."
The superintendent opened the door of the saloon carriage, and shut him
in. Then Tom heard him give a few quick, decisive orders to the guard,
there was another sharp whistle, he waved his hand from the window, and
the superintendent leaped on to the step:
"Tell them to go as fast as possible," shouted Tom, as the train was
gliding past the platform.
"I have," the superintendent said quickly. "Hope she'll be better.
Good night."
As he spoke he leaped off at the end of the platform, and, shrieking and
snorting, the little special went rather slowly along, past hissing
goods engines and long black-looking trains, such as might be the
funeral processions of an army. Lights flashed here and there, and far
to right and left shone the glow of great London; while the big
illuminated clock of the Parliament Houses loomed out of the darkness
like a dull, fog-dimmed moon.
"They are crawling!" Tom exclaimed, as he started up to look out from
the window. But, as he did so, the wind was already beginning to
whistle more quickly by his ears: they were clear of obstructions, and
speed was getting up rapidly. There was the quick, throbbing beat, a
crash as they passed under bridge after bridge, and soon after, as the
engine gave a weird scream, they seemed to skim through a long station,
whose row of pendant lights ran together like closely strung golden
beads; and then, as Tom sank back in his seat, he felt the carriage
begin to vibrate from side to side, and he knew that the telegraph had
flashed its message, that the line was clear, and that, ever increasing
in speed, they were off and away through the black darkness of the
night--the best doctor in London speeding to the patient dying to hear
his words.