distance of time; but God alone knows how many hearts were broken by it.
One of the worst cases was poor Jacob Palmerby's. He had saved money
that brought him in about a hundred a year in his old age. Clement-Pell
got hold of the money, doubled the interest, and Palmerby thought that a
golden era had set in. For several years now he had enjoyed it. His wife
was dead; his only son, who had been a sizar at Cambridge, was a curate
in London. With the bursting up of Clement-Pell, Jacob Palmerby's means
failed: he had literally not a sixpence left in the world. The blow
seemed to have struck him stupid. He mostly sat in silence, his head
down; his clothes neglected.
"Come, Palmerby, you must cheer up, you know," said the Squire to him
one evening that we looked in at Rock Cottage, and found Mr. Brandon
there.
"Me cheer up," he returned, lifting his face for a moment--and in the
last fortnight it had grown ten years older. "What am I to cheer up for?
There's nothing left. _I_ can go into the workhouse--but there's poor
Michael."
"Michael?"
"My son, the parson. The capital that ought to have been his after me,
and brought him in his hundred a year, as it did me before I drew it
from the funds, is gone. Gone. It is of him I think. He has been a good
son always. I hope he won't take to cursing me."
"Parsons don't curse, you know, and Michael will be a good son still,"
said Mr. Brandon, shrilly. "Don't you fret, Palmerby. Fretting does no
good."
"It 'ud wear out a donkey--as I tell him," put in the old woman-servant,
Nanny, who had brought in his supper of bread-and-milk.
He did not lift his head; just swayed it once from side to side by way
of general response.
"It's the way he goes on all day, masters," whispered Nanny when we went
out. "His heart's a-breaking--and I wish it was that knave of a Pell's
instead. All these purty flowers to be left," pointing to the clusters
of roses and geraniums and honeysuckles within the gate, "and the
chairs and tables to be sold, and the very beds to be took from under
us!"
"Nay, nay, Nanny, it may turn out better than that," spoke the Squire.
"Why, how can it turn out better, sirs?" she asked. "Pell didn't pay the
dividends this two times past: and the master, believing as all his
excuses was gospel, never thought of pressing for it. If we be in debt
to the landlord and others, is it our fault? But the sticks and stones
must be sold to pay, and the place be given up. There be the work'us for
me; I know that, and it don't much matter; but it'll be a crying shame
if the poor master have to move into it."
So it would be. And there were others in a similar plight to his;
nothing else but the workhouse before them.
"He won't never live to go--that's one consolation," was Nanny's last
comment as she held the gate open. "Good evening to ye, sirs; good
evening, Master Johnny."
What with talking to Dobbs the blacksmith, and staying with Duffham to
drink what he called a dish of tea, it was almost dark when I set out
home; the Squire and Mr. Brandon having gone off without me. I was
vaulting over the stile the near way across the fields, expecting to
catch it for staying, when a man shot into my path from behind the
hedge.
"Johnny Ludlow."
Well, I did feel surprised. It was Gusty Pell!
"Halloa!" said I. "I thought you were in Scotland."
"I was there," he answered. And then, while we looked at one another, he
began to tell me the reason of his coming away. Why it is that all kinds
of people seem to put confidence in me and trust me with matters they'd
never speak of to others, I have never found out. Had it been Tod, for
instance, Gusty Pell would never have shown himself out of the hedge to
talk to him.
Gusty, shooting the grouse on the moors, had found his purse emptied of
its last coin. He wrote to his father for more money: wrote and wrote;
but none arrived: neither money nor letter. Being particularly in want
of supplies, he borrowed a sovereign or two from his friends, and came
off direct to see the reason why. Arrived within a few miles of home he
heard very ugly rumours; stories that startled him. So he waited and
came on by night, thinking it more prudent not to show himself.
"Tell me all about it, Johnny Ludlow, for the love of goodness!"
he cried, his voice a little hoarse with agitation, his hand
grasping my arm like a vice. "I have been taking a look at the place
outside"--pointing up the road towards Parrifer Hall--"but it seems to
be empty."
It was empty, except for a man who had charge of the things until the
sale could take place. Softening the narrative a little, and not calling
everything by the name the public called it, I gave the facts to Gusty.
He drew a deep breath at the end, like a hundred sighs in one. Then I
asked him how it was he had not heard these things--had not been written
to.
"I don't know," he said. "I have been moving about Scotland: perhaps a
letter of theirs may have miscarried; and I suppose my later letters did
not reach them. The last letter I had was from Constance, giving me an
account of some grand fête here that had taken place the previous day."
"Yes. I was at it with Todhetley and the Whitneys. The--the crisis came
three or four days after that."
"Johnny, where's my father?" he asked, after a pause, his voice sunk to
a whisper.
"It is not known where he is."
"Is it true that he is being--looked for?"
"I am afraid it is."
"And, if they find him--what then? Why don't you speak?" he added
impatiently.
"I don't know what. Some people say it will only be a bad case of
bankruptcy."
"Any way, it is a complete smash."
"Yes, it's that."
"Will it, do you think, be ruin, Johnny? Ruin utter and unmitigated?"
"It is that already--to many persons round about."
"But I mean to my own people," said he, impatiently.
"Well, I should fear it would be."
Gusty took off his hat to wipe his brow. He looked white in the
starlight.
"What will become of me? I must fly too," he muttered, as if to the
stars. "And what of Fabian?--he cannot remain in his regiment. Johnny
Ludlow, this blow is like death to me."
And it struck me that of the two calamities, Gusty Pell, non-religious
though he was, would rather have met death. I felt dreadfully sorry for
him.
"Where's James?" he suddenly asked. "Is he gone too?"
"James disappeared on the Sunday, it is said. It would hardly have been
safe for him to remain: the popular feeling is very bitter."
"Well, I must make myself scarce again also," he said, after a pause.
"Could you lend me a pound or so, Johnny, if you've got it about you?"
I told him I wished I had; he should have been heartily welcome to it.
Pulling out my pockets, I counted it all up--two shillings and
fivepence. Gusty turned from it with disdain.
"Well, good evening, Johnny. Thank you for your good wishes--and for
telling me what you have. I don't know to whom else I could have
applied: and I am glad to have chanced to meet you."
He gave another deep sigh, shook my hand, got over the stile, and crept
away, keeping close to the hedge, as if he intended to make for
Alcester, I stood and watched him until he was lost in the shadows.
And so the Pells, one and all, went into exile in some unknown region,
and the poor duped people stayed to face their ruin at home. It was an
awful time, and that's the truth.
XXV.
OVER THE WATER.
We had what they called the "dead-lights" put in the ladies' cabin at
Gravesend: that will show what the weather was expected to be in the
open sea. In the saloon, things were pitching about before we reached
Margate. Rounding the point off Broadstairs, the steamer caught it
strong and sharp.
"Never heed a bit of pitching: we've the wind all for us, and shall
make a short passage," said the captain in hearty tones, by way of
consolation to the passengers generally. "A bit o' breeze at sea is
rather pleasant."
Pleasant it might be to him, Captain Tune, taking in a good dinner, as
much at ease as if he had been sitting in his dining-room ashore. Not
so pleasant, though, for some of us, his passengers.
Ramsgate and other landmarks passed, and away in the open sea it was
just a gale. That, and nothing less. Some one said so to the man at the
wheel: a tall, middle-aged, bronzed-faced fellow in shirt sleeves and
open blue waistcoat.
"Bless y're ignorance! This a gale! Why, 'taint half a one. It'll be a
downright fair passage, this 'un will, shorter nor ord'nary."
"What do you call a gale--if this is not one?"
"I ain't allowed to talk: you may see it writ up."
"Writ up," it was. "Passengers are requested not to talk to the man at
the wheel." But if he had been allowed to talk, and talked till now, he
would never have convinced some of the unhappy creatures around, that
the state of wind then blowing was not a gale.
It whistled in the sails, it roared over the paddle-wheels, it seemed to
play at pitch-and-toss with the sea. The waves rose with mountain force,
and then broke like mad: the steamer rolled and lurched, and righted
herself; and then lurched and rolled again. Captain Tune stood on the
bridge, apparently enjoying it, the gold band on his cap glistening in
the sun. We got his name from the boat bills; and a jolly, courteous,
attentive captain he seemed to be. But for the pitching and tossing and
general discomfort, it would have been called beautiful weather. The
air was bright; the sun as hot as it is in July, although September was
all but out.
"Johnny. Johnny Ludlow."
The voice--Mr. Brandon's--was too faint to be squeaky. He sat amidships
on a camp stool, his back against the cabin wall--or whatever the
boarding was--wrapped in a plaid. A yellow handkerchief was tied over
his head, partly to keep his cap on, partly to protect his ears. The
handkerchief hid most of his face, except his little nose; which looked
pinched and about as yellow as the silk.
"Did you call me, sir?"
"I wish you'd see if you can get to my tail pocket, Johnny. I've been
trying this ten minutes, and do nothing but find my hands hopelessly
entangled in the plaid. There's a tin box of lozenges there."
"Do you feel ill, sir?" I asked, as I found the box, and gave it to him.
"Never was ill at sea in my life, Johnny, in the way you mean. But the
motion always gives me the most frightful headache imaginable. How are
you?"
The less said about how I was, the better. All I hoped was he wouldn't
keep me talking.
"Where's the Squire?" he asked.
I pointed to a distant heap on the deck, from which groans came forth
occasionally: and just managed to speak in answer.
"He seems uncommonly ill, sir."
"Well, he _would_ come, you know, Johnny. Tell him he ought to take----"
What he ought to take was lost in the rush of a wave which came dashing
over us.
After all, I suppose it was a quick and good, though rough passage, for
Boulogne-sur-Mer was sighted before we thought for. As the stiller I
kept the better I was, there was nothing to do but to sit motionless and
stare at it.
You'll never guess what was taking us across the Channel. Old Brandon
called it from the first a wild-goose chase; but, go, the Squire would.
He was after that gentleman who had played havoc with many people's
hearts and money, who had, so to say, scattered ruin wholesale--Mr.
Clement-Pell.
Not a trace had the public been able to obtain as to the direction of
the Pells' flight; not a clue to the spot in which they might be hiding
themselves. The weeks had gone on since their departure: August passed
into September, September was passing: and for all that could be
discovered of them, they might as well never have existed. The committee
for winding up the miserable affairs raged and fumed and pitied, and
wished they could just put their hands on the man who had wrought the
evil; Squire Todhetley raged and fumed also on his own score; but none
of them were any the nearer finding Pell. In my whole life I had never
seen the Squire so much put out. It was not altogether the loss of the
two hundred pounds he had been (as he persisted in calling it) swindled
out of; it was the distress he had to witness daily around him. I do
think nothing would have given him more satisfaction than to join a mob
in administering lynch law to Clement-Pell, and to tar and feather him
first. Before this happened, the Squire had talked of going to the
seaside: but he would not listen to a word on the subject now: only
to speak of it put him out of temper. Tod was away. He received an
invitation to stay with some people in Gloucestershire, who had good
game preserves; and was off the next day. And things were in this lively
state at home: the Squire grumbling, Mrs. Todhetley driving about with
one or other of the children in the mild donkey-cart, and I fit to eat
my head off with having nothing to do: when some news arrived of the
probable sojourning place of the Clement-Pells.
The news was not much. And perhaps hardly to be relied on. Mr. and Mrs.
Sterling at the Court had been over to Paris for a fortnight: taking
the baby with them. I must say that Mrs. Sterling was always having
babies--if any one cares for the information. Before one could walk
another was sure to arrive. And not only the baby had been to Paris, but
the baby's nursemaid, Charlotte. Old Brandon, remarking upon it, said
he'd rather travel with half a score of mischievous growing boys than
one baby: and _they_ were about the greatest calamity he could think of.
Well, in coming home, the Sterling party had, to make the short
crossing, put themselves on board the Folkestone boat at Boulogne, and
the nursemaid was sitting on deck with the baby on her lap, when, just
as the steamer was moving away, she saw, or thought she saw, Constance
Pell, standing on the shore a little apart from the people gathered
there to watch the boat off. Mrs. Sterling told the nurse she must be
mistaken: but Charlotte held to it that she was not. As chance had it,
Squire Todhetley was at the Court with old Sterling when they got home;
and he heard this. It put him into a commotion. He questioned Charlotte
closely, but she never wavered in her statement.
"I am positive it was Miss Constance Pell, sir," she repeated. "She had
on a thick blue veil, and one of them new-fashioned large round capes.
Just as I happened to be looking at her--not thinking it was anybody I
knew--a gust of wind took the veil right up above her bonnet, and I saw
it was Miss Constance Pell. She pulled at the veil with both her hands,
in a scuffle like, to get it down again."
"Then I'll go off to Boulogne," said the Squire, with stern resolution.
And back he came to Dyke Manor full of it.
"It will be a wild-goose chase," observed Mr. Brandon, who had called
in. "If Pell has taken himself no further away than Boulogne--that is,
allowing he has got out of England at all--he is a greater fool than I
took him for."
"Wild-goose chase or not, I shall go," said the Pater, hotly. "And I
shall take Johnny; he'll be useful as an interpreter."
"I will go with you," came the unexpected rejoinder of Mr. Brandon. "I
want a bit of a change."
And so we went up to London to take the steamer there. And here we were,
all three of us, ploughing the waves _en route_ for Boulogne, on the
wild-goose chase after Clement-Pell.
Just as the passengers had come to the conclusion that they must die of
it, the steamer shot into Boulogne harbour. She was tolerably long
swinging round; then was made fast, and we began to land. Mr. Brandon
took off his yellow turban and shook his cap out.
"Johnny, I'd never have come if I had known it was going to be like
this," moaned the poor Squire--and every trace of red had gone out of
his face. "No, not even to catch Clement-Pell. What on earth is that
crowd for?"
It looked about five hundred people; they were pushing and crushing
each other, fighting for places to see us land and go through the
custom-house. No need to tell of this: not a reader of you, but you must
know it well.
The first thing, patent to my senses amidst the general confusion, was
hearing my name shouted out by the Squire in the custom-house.
"Johnny Ludlow!"
He was standing before two Frenchmen in queer hats, who sat behind a
table or counter, asking him questions and preparing to write down the
answers: what his name was, and what his age, and where he was born,
just as though he were a footman in want of a place. Not a word could he
understand, and looked round for me helplessly. As to my French--well, I
knew it pretty well, and talked often with our French master at Dr.
Frost's: but you must not think I was as fluent in it as though I'd been
a born Frenchman. It was rather the other way.
We put up at the Hôtel des Bains. A good hotel--as is well known--but
nothing to look at from the street. Mr. Brandon had been in Boulogne
before, and always used it. The _table d'hôte_ restored the Squire's
colour and spirits together: and by the time dinner was over, he felt
ready to encounter the sea again. As to Mr. Brandon, he made his meal of
some watery broth, two slices of melon, and a bowlful of pounded sugar.
The great question was--to discover whether the Clement-Pells were in
the town; and, if so, to find them out. Mr. Brandon's opinion never
varied--that Charlotte had been mistaken and they were not in the place
at all. Allowing, for argument's sake, that they were there, he said,
they would no doubt be living partly in concealment; and it might not
answer for us to go inquiring about them openly, lest they got to hear
of it, and took measures to secure themselves. There was sense in that.
The next day we went strolling up to the post-office in the Rue des
Vieillards, the wind blowing us round the corners sharply; and there
inquired for the address of the Clement-Pells. The people were not very
civil; stared as if they'd never been asked for an address before; and
shortly affirmed that no such name was known _there_.
"Why, of course not," said old Brandon quietly, as we strolled down
again. "They wouldn't be in the town under their own name--if they are
here at all."
And there would lie the difficulty.
That wind, that the man at the wheel had scoffed at when called a gale,
had been at any rate the beginning of one. It grew higher and higher,
chopping round to the south-west, and for three days we had it kindly.
On the second day not a boat could get out or in; and there were no
bathing-machines to be had. The sea was surging, full of tumult--but it
was a grand sight to see. The waves dashed over the pier, ducking the
three or four venturesome spirits who went there. I was one of them--and
received a good blowing up from Mr. Brandon for my pains.
The gale passed. The weather set in again calm and lovely; but we seemed
to be no nearer hearing anything of the Clement-Pells. So far as that
went, the time was being wasted: but I don't think any of us cared much
about that. We kept our eyes open, looking out for them, and asked
questions in a quiet way: at the _établissement_, where the dancing went
on; at the libraries; and of the pew women at the churches. No; no
success: and time went on to the second week in October. On account of
the remarkably fine weather, the season and amusements were protracted.
One Friday morning I was sitting on the pier in the sunshine, listening
to a couple of musicians, who appeared there every day. He had a violin;
she played a guitar, and sang "Figaro." An old gentleman by me said he
had heard her sing the same song for nearly a score of years past. The
town kept very full, for the weather was more like summer than autumn.
There were moments, and this was one of them, that I wished more than
ever Tod was over.
Strolling back off the pier and along the port, picking my way amidst
the ropes of the fishing-boats, stretched across my path, I met face
to face--Constance Pell. The thick blue veil, just as Charlotte had
described it, was drawn over her bonnet: but something in her form
struck me, and I saw her features through the veil. She saw me too, and
turned her head sharply towards the harbour.
I went on without notice, making believe not to have seen her. Glancing
round presently, I saw her cross the road and begin to come back on the
other side by the houses. Knowing that the only chance was to trace her
home, and not to let her see I was doing it, I stopped before one of the
boats, and began talking to a fisherman, never turning my head towards
her at all. She passed quickly, on to the long street, once glancing
back at me. When she was fairly on her way, I went at the top of my
speed to the port entrance of the hotel; ran straight through the yard
and up to my room, which faced the street. There she was, walking
onwards, and very quickly. Close by the chemist's shop at the opposite
corner, she turned to look back; no doubt looking after me, and no doubt
gratified that I was nowhere to be seen. Then she went on again.
Neither the Squire nor Mr. Brandon was in the hotel, that I could find;
so I had to take the matter in hand myself, and do the best I could.
Letting her get well ahead, I followed cautiously. She turned up the
Grande Rue, and I turned also, keeping her in view. The streets were
tolerably full, and though she looked back several times, I am sure she
did not see me.
Up the hill of the Grande Rue, past the Vice-Consulate, under the
gateway of the Upper Town, through the Upper Town itself, and out by
another gateway. I thought she was never going to stop. Away further
yet, to the neighbourhood of a little place called Mâquétra--but I am
not sure that I spell the word properly. There she turned into a small
house that had a garden before it.
They call me a muff at home, as you have heard often: and there's no
doubt I have shown myself a muff more than once in my life. I was one
then. What I ought to have done was, to have gone back the instant I had
seen her enter; what I really did was, to linger about behind the hedge,
and try to get a glimpse through it. It skirted the garden: a long,
narrow garden, running down from the side of the house.
It was only a minute or two in all. And I was really turning back when
a maid-servant in a kind of short brown bedgown (so Hannah called the
things at home), black petticoat, grey stockings and wooden sabots, came
out at the gate, carrying a flat basket made of black and white straw.
"Does Monsieur Pell live there?" I asked, waiting until she had come up.
"Monsieur _Qui_?" said the girl.
"Pell. Or Clement-Pell."
"There is no gentlemans at all lives there," returned she, changing
her language to very decent English. "Only one Madame and her young
meesses."
I seemed to take in the truth in a minute: they were there, but he
was not. "I think they must be the friends I am in search of," was my
remark. "What is the name?"
"Brune."
"Brune?--Oh, Brown. A lady and four young ladies?"
"Yes, that's it. Bon jour, monsieur."
She hurried onwards, the sabots clattering. I turned leisurely to take
another look at the hedge and the little gate in it, and saw a blue veil
fluttering inwards. Constance Pell, deeper than I, had been gazing after
me.
Where had the Squire and old Brandon got to? Getting back to the hotel,
I could not find either of them. Mr. Brandon might be taking a warm
sea-bath, the waiters thought, and the Squire a cold one. I went about
to every likely place, and went in vain. The dinner-bell was ringing
when they got in--tired to death; having been for some prolonged ramble
over beyond Capécure. I told them in their rooms while they were washing
their hands--but as to stirring in it before dinner, both were too
exhausted for it.
"I said I thought they must be here, Brandon," cried the Squire, in
triumph.
"He is not here now, according to Johnny," squeaked old Brandon.
After dinner more time was lost. First of all, in discussing what they
should do; next, in whether it should be done that night. You see, it
was not Mrs. Pell they wanted, but her husband. As it was then dark, it
was thought best to leave it until morning.
We went up in state about half-past ten; taking a coach, and passing
_en route_ the busy market scene. The coach seemed to have no springs:
Mr. Brandon complained that it shook him to pieces. This was Saturday,
you know. The Squire meant to be distantly polite to Mrs. and the Miss
Pells, but to insist upon having the address given him of Mr. Pell.
"We'll not take the coach quite up to the door," said he, "or we may
not get in." Indeed, the getting in seemed to be a matter of doubt:
old Brandon's opinion was that they'd keep every window and door
barred, rather than admit us.