At the Charing-Cross Hotel.
On All Saints' Day, the first of November--and it was as bright a day
for the festival as the saints, whether in that world or this, could
wish--Captain Andinnian took leave of his mother, and went to London.
His chief business there was to transact some business with the family
lawyers, Plunkett and Plunkett. Their chambers were within the
precincts of the Temple, and for convenience' sake he took up his
quarters at the Charing Cross Hotel.
In the course of the afternoon, as he was turning out of Essex Street,
having come through the little court from Plunkett and Plunkett's, he
ran against a gentleman passing down the Strand. "I beg your pardon,"
Karl was beginning, and then became suddenly silent. It was Colonel
Cleeve.
But, instead of passing on, as Karl might have expected him to do, the
Colonel stopped and shook him cordially by the hand. To pass him would
have jarred on every kindly instinct of Colonel Cleeve's nature. As to
the affair with his daughter, he attached no importance to it now,
believing it had made no permanent impression on Lucy, and had himself
three-parts forgotten it.
"You have sold out, Captain Andinnian. I--I have been so very sorry
for the sad causes that induced the step. Believe me, you have had all
along my very best sympathy."
Karl hardly knew what he answered. A few words of murmured thanks;
nothing more.
"You are not well," returned the Colonel, regarding the slender form
that looked thinner than of yore, very thin in its black attire. "This
has told upon you."
"It has; very much. There are some trials that can never be made light
in this life," Karl continued, speaking the thoughts that were ever
uppermost in his mind. "This is one of them. I thank you for your
sympathy, Colonel Cleeve."
"And that's true, unfortunately," cried the Colonel, warmly, in
answer. "You don't know how you are regretted at Winchester by your
brother officers."
With another warm handshake, the Colonel passed on. Karl walked back
to his hotel. In traversing one of its upper passages, a young lady
came out of a sitting-room to cross to an opposite chamber. Captain
Andinnian took a step back to let her pass in front of him; she turned
her head, and they met face to face.
"Lucy!"
"Karl!"
The salutation broke from each before they well knew where they were
or what had happened, amidst a rush of bewildering excitement, of wild
joy. They had, no doubt, as in duty bound, been trying to forget each
other; this moment of unexpected meeting proved to each how foolish
was the fallacy. A dim idea made itself heard within either breast
that they ought, in that duty alluded to, to pass on and linger not:
but we all know how vain and weak is the human heart. It was not
possible: and they stood, hand locked within hand.
Only for an instant. Lucy, looking very weak and ill, withdrew her
hand, and leaned back against the doorpost for support. Karl stood
before her.
"I have just met Colonel Cleeve," he said: "but I had no idea that
_you_ were in London. Are you staying here?"
"Until to-morrow," she answered, her breath seeming to be a little
short. "We came up yesterday. Papa chose this hotel, as it is
convenient for the Folkestone trains. Mamma is here."
"Lucy, how very ill you look!"
"Yes. I had fever and ague in the summer, and do not get strong again.
We are going to Paris for change. You do not look well either," added
Lucy.
"I have not had fever: but I have had other things to try me," was his
reply.
"Oh, Karl! I have been so grieved!" she earnestly said. "I did not
know your brother, but I--I seemed to feel all the dreadful trouble as
much as you must have felt it. When we are not strong, I think we do
feel things."
"You call it by its right name, Lucy--a _dreadful_ trouble. No one but
myself can know what it has been to me."
They were gazing at each other yearningly: Lucy with her sweet brown
eyes so full of tender compassion; Karl's grey-blue ones had a world
of sorrowful regret in their depths. As she had done in their
interview when they were parting, so she now did again--put out her
hand to him, with a whisper meant to soothe.
"You will live it down, Karl."
He slightly shook his head: and took her hand to hold it between his.
"It is only since this happened that I have become at all reconciled
to--to what had to be done at Winchester, Lucy. It would have been so
greatly worse, had you been tied to me by--by any engagement."
"Not worse for you, Karl, but better. I should have helped you so much
to bear it."
"My darling!"
The moment the words had crossed his lips, he remembered what honour
and his long-ago-passed word to Colonel Cleeve demanded of him--that
he should absolutely abstain from showing any tokens of affection for
Lucy. Nay, to observe it strictly, he ought not to have stayed to talk
with her.
"I beg your pardon, Lucy," he said, dropping her hand.
She understood quite well: a faint colour mantled in her pale face.
She had been as forgetful as he.
"God bless you, Lucy," he whispered. "Farewell."
"O Karl--a moment," she implored with agitation, hardly knowing, in
the pain of parting, what she said. "Just to tell you that I have not
forgotten. I never shall forget. My regret, for what had to be, lies
on me still."
"God bless you," he repeated, in deep emotion. "God bless and restore
you, Lucy!"
Once more their fingers met in a brief handshake. And then they
parted; he going one way, she the other; and the world had grown dim
again.
Later in the day Karl heard it incidentally mentioned by some people
in the coffee-room, that Colonel and Mrs. Cleeve with their daughter
and two servants were going to make a prolonged stay on the Continent
for the benefit of the young lady's health, who had been suffering
from fever. Little did they think that the quiet, distinguished
looking man in mourning, who had but come in to ask for some
information, and was waiting while the waiter brought it, had more to
do with the young lady's failing health than any fever.
Captain Andinnian took his breakfast next morning in private: as he
sat down to it, the waiter brought him a newspaper. While listlessly
unfolding it, he took the opportunity to ask a question.
"Have Colonel Cleeve and his family left the hotel?"
"Yes, sir. Just gone off for Folkestone. Broiled ham, sir; eggs; steak
with mushrooms," continued the man, removing sundry covers.
"Thank you. You need not wait."
But--ere the man had well closed the door, a startled sound like a
groan of agony burst from Karl's lips. He sprung from his seat at a
bound, his eyes riveted on the newspaper in one stare of disbelieving
horror. The paragraph had a heading in the largest letters--
"ATTEMPTED ESCAPE FROM PORTLAND ISLAND. DEATH OF THE PRISONER, SIR
ADAM ANDINNIAN."
Karl let the newspaper fall, and buried his face on the table-cloth to
shut out the light. He had not courage to read more at once. He lay
there praying that it might not be true.
Alas! it was too true. Two prisoners had attempted to escape in
concert; Sir Adam Andinnian and a man named Cole. They succeeded in
reaching the water, and got off in a small boat lying ready in wait.
Some warders pursued them in another boat; and, after an exciting
chase in the dark night, came up with them as they reached the
Weymouth side. Sir Adam was shot dead by a pistol; the small boat was
upset, and one of the warders drowned. Cole was supposed to have made
his escape.
Such was the statement given in the newspapers. And, however uncertain
the minor details might be at this early stage, one part appeared to
admit of no doubt--Adam Andinnian was dead.
"I seemed to foresee it," moaned Karl. "From the very first, the
persuasion has lain upon me that this would be the ending."
Ere many minutes elapsed, ere he had attempted to touch a morsel of
breakfast, a gentleman was shown in. It was Mr. Plunkett: a stout man
in spectacles, with a large red nose. He had the _Times_ in his hand.
Captain Andinnian's paper lay open on the breakfast table; Captain
Andinnian's face, as he rose to receive his visitor, betrayed its own
story.
"I see; you have read the tidings," began Mr. Plunkett, sitting down.
"It is a dreadful thing."
"Do--do you think there's any chance that it may not be true?" he
rejoined in an imploring tone.
"There's not the slightest as to the main fact--that Sir Adam is
dead," replied the lawyer decisively. "What _could_ he have been
thinking of, to hazard it?"
Karl sat shading his face.
"I'll tell you what it is, sir--there was a spice of madness in your
brother's composition, I said so when he shot Scott. There must have
been. And who, but a madman, would try to get away from Portland
Island?"
"Nay. A rash act, Mr. Plunkett; but not one that implies madness."
There ensued a silence. These interviews are usually attended by
embarrassment.
"I have intruded on you this morning to express my best sympathy, and
to ask whether I can be of any service to you, Captain Andinnian,"
resumed the lawyer. "I beg your pardon: Sir Karl, I ought to say."
Karl had raised his head in resentment--in defiance. It caused the
lawyer's break.
"Nay, but you are Sir Karl, sir. You succeed to your brother."
"The reminder grated on me, Mr. Plunkett."
"The title's yours and the estates are yours. Every earthly thing is
yours."
"Yes, yes; I suppose so."
"Well, if we can do anything for you, Sir Karl, down
there"--indicating with a nod of his head the direction in which
Portland Island might be supposed to lie--"or at Foxwood, you have
only to send to us. I hope you understand that I am not speaking now
with a view to business, but as a friend," concluded Mr. Plunkett.
"I'll say no more now, for I see you are not yourself."
"Indeed I am not," replied Karl. "I thank you all the same. As soon as
I can I must get down to my mother."
The lawyer said good morning, and left him to his breakfast. But Karl
had no appetite: then, or for many a day to come. Calling for his
bill, he took his departure.
Never had Karl imagined distress and anguish so great as that which he
witnessed on his arrival at Weymouth. For once all his mother's pride
of power had deserted her. She flung herself at the feet of Karl,
demanding _why_ he did not persist in his objection to the
contemplated attempt, and interfere openly, even by declaring all to
the governor of Portland prison, and so save his brother. It was
altogether too distressing for Karl to bear.
The first account was in the main correct. Adam Andinnian and the
warder were both dead: the one shot, the other drowned.
It was understood that the body might be given up to them for burial.
Though whether this was a special favour, accorded to the entreaties
of Mrs. Andinnian, or a not-unusual one, Karl knew not. He was glad of
this, so far: but he would have thought it better that the place of
interment should be Weymouth, and the ceremony made one of the utmost
privacy. Mrs. Andinnian, however, ruled otherwise. She would have her
unfortunate son taken to Foxwood, and she at once despatched Karl
thither to make arrangements.
On the day but one after Karl reached Foxwood, all that remained of
poor Sir Adam arrived. Mrs. Andinnian came in company. She could not
bear to part even with the dead.
"I wish I could have been him," remarked Karl sadly, as he stood with
his hand on the coffin.
"I have seen him, Karl," she answered amid her blinding tears. "They
suffered me to look at him. His face was peaceful."
They, and they only, saving Hewitt, attended the funeral. He was
buried in the family vault, in Foxwood churchyard, side by side with
Sir Joseph and Lady Andinnian.
What an ending, for a young man who, but a few short months before,
had been full of health and hope and life!
But the world, in its cold charity; said it was better so.