AT THE TIDAL TRAIN.
"There's a job for you to-day, Jim," said the irreproachable Harris to
Mr. James Swain, when he presented himself at half-past eight at
Routh's house, according to his frequent custom.
"I didn't come after no jobs this mornin'," said Jim; "I come to see
the missis."
"Ah, but you can't see her, she ain't up, and the job is particular
wanted to be done."
Jim looked moody and discontent, but cheered up when Harris
represented that he might see Mrs. Routh on his return. The "job" was
the delivery of Routh's clothes and letters, as directed, at his
chambers in Tokenhouse-yard. The boy was troubled in his mind,
irresolute. George Dallas's sudden illness, the photograph he had
seen, these things added to the perplexity he was in already. Perhaps
he had better speak to Mrs. Routh first; he did not know; at all
events, he might tell her what had occurred yesterday, without
mentioning the portrait, and see what effect it had upon her. He had
thought about it all, until, between his imperfect knowledge of facts,
his untaught intelligence, and his genuine but puzzled good-will, he
was quite bewildered. He had brought with him that morning, with a
vague notion that it might perhaps be advisable to show it to Mrs.
Routh, but a settled resolution to show it to Mr. Dallas, the object
which he kept carefully secreted in the hole in the wall at home, and
as he trudged away Citywards, carrying a small leather bag containing
the required clothes and letters, he turned it over and over in his
grimy pocket and grew more and more thoughtful and depressed.
Arrived at Tokenhouse-yard, the clerk took the bag from him, and
suggested that he had better wait, in case Mr. Routh should require
his further services. So Jim waited, and presently Routh came out into
the passage. Jim's private opinion of Stewart Routh's character and
disposition has been already stated; of his personal appearance he
entertained an equally low one, and much opposed to the general
sentiment. "An ill-looking, down-looking dog I call him," Jim had said
to himself more than once; "more like the Pirate of the Persian Gulf,
or the Bandit of Bokarer, I think, than anybody as I knows out of the
pictures."
More ill-looking, more down-looking than ever Jim Swain thought
Stewart Routh when he spoke to him that morning. His face was
colourless, his eyes bloodshot, the glance troubled and wandering, his
voice harsh and uneven. He gave Jim a brief order to meet him at the
London-bridge railway-station the same evening at a quarter to six. "I
shall have a message for you," said Routh. "Be punctual, remember."
And then he turned away abruptly and went into his room, shutting the
door roughly.
"He ain't in the best of humours, even of his own, and they're none on
'em good," thought Jim, as he turned out of Tokenhouse-yard and took
his way westward again, keeping his hand permanently in his pocket
this time. A fresh disappointment awaited him at Routh's house. Mrs.
Routh had gone out immediately after she had breakfasted. Did she know
he wanted to see her? Jim asked. Harris was rather tickled by the
question.
"I say," he remarked, "you're getting on, Jim; you'll be as impident
as a cock sparrow presently. I didn't happen to tell her; but if I
'ad, do you think she'd a stayed in to give you the chance?"
"Yes, I do; wot's more, I'm sure she would," said Jim, and walked
moodily away, leaving Mr. Harris in a fine attitude of surprise upon
the threshold. When that functionary finally left off looking after
the boy, and shut the door, he did so to the accompaniment of a
prolonged whistle.
It was only ten o'clock, and Jim had been told to go to Mr. Dallas's
at eleven. The interval troubled him; he could not settle his mind to
the pursuit of odd jobs. He did not mind "hanging about;" he would
hang about Piccadilly till the time came. But when Jim reached the
house in which Mr. Felton and Mr. Dallas lodged, he was surprised to
find it an object of lively curiosity to a number of persons who were
crowding the pavement, notwithstanding the active interference of a
policeman, endeavouring to clear a passage for two ladies whose
carriage was before the door, and one of whom was evidently in the
deepest distress. Jim plunged at once into the heart of the concourse,
and asked a number of eager questions, to which he received
simultaneous but contradictory replies.
"He's dead!" "No, he isn't." "He's his brother, I tell you; I heard
the cook a-tellin' the milk-boy." "He ain't his brother; the old 'un's
his uncle; and he's been and murdered his cousin." Such were a few of
the sentences Jim caught as his curiosity and anxiety rose to frenzy.
"_Wot_ is it? wot is it? Do tell me. Is anything wrong with Mr.
Dallas?" he asked imploringly of the servant who had opened the door
to the two ladies (who had at last succeeded in entering the house),
and was just about to shut it in the faces of a few scores of anxious
inquirers endeavouring to pierce the depths of the hall, and to see
through the dining-room doors. "Don't you know me? I was here
yesterday. I have been here before. I was to see Mr. Dallas at eleven.
Can't I see him? Is he worse?"
The woman did know the boy, and she at once admitted him.
"Come in," she said; "I'll tell you inside. It's a deal worse than his
death that's the matter." So Jim vanished into the house, a
distinction which, being unattainable by themselves, was regarded with
much indignation by the crowd. Temporarily dispersed by the active
policeman, they gathered again, hoping the boy would come out, when
they might pounce upon and extract information from him. But they
waited in vain; the boy did not come out. The carriage still remained
at the door, and in about an hour a gentleman of grave and busy aspect
issued from the maddeningly mysterious mansion, stepped into the
vehicle, and was driven rapidly away. The crowd was not in luck; no
one heard the order given to the coachman. Then such silence and
desolation as can ever fall on Piccadilly fell upon the scene, and the
gay-looking, brightly-decorated house obstinately hid its secret.
The woman who recognized Jim told him the story of the events which
had occurred in the hall, speaking in a hurried whisper and with much
genuine womanly compassion. Jim heard her with a beating heart and
shaking limbs. As the boy leaned against the wall, regardless of the
damaging properties of his tousled head resting on the spotless paint,
he wondered if this was like fainting, and whether he should be able
to keep from "going off" like Mr. Dallas.
"We're strangers to Mr. Felton, of course," said the woman; "and it's
natural everybody as can should like to keep their troubles to
themselves, for it don't do no good tellin' of 'em, and people don't
think no more of you; but there's things as can and things as can't be
hid, and them as can't has been a takin' place here."
"Yes," said Jim, faintly; for the words he had heard in the crowd were
ringing in his ears; "yes, yes; but tell me--"
"I'll tell you, as plain as I can make it out. Mr. Felton had some
letters yesterday--letters as come from America--and there were a
carte of his son in 'em; he hasn't seen nor yet heard of him for ever
so long; and when Mr. Dallas see the carte he knew as the man was the
same as was murdered, and never found out, in the spring."
"Well?" said Jim. "Yes? Go on." The faint feeling was subsiding; he
was beginning to understand.
"It were an awful shock for Mr. Dallas to find out as his cousin had
been murdered, and to have to break it to the father; and no wonder he
fainted over it. Nobody knows how he did it, but there must have been
a dreadful scene; for I shouldn't ha' known Mr. Felton from the dead
when I went to ask, through their not answering James's knock, whether
they was a goin' to have any dinner. He was sittin' in his chair,
white and quiet; and Mr. Dallas--he as had been took so bad himself in
the beginnin'--he was kneeling on the ground beside him, and I think
his arm was round his neck; but I couldn't see his face, for he only
put out his hand, and says he, 'No, thank you, Mary; go away for a
little, please.' I waited in the passage, but I never heard a word
pass between them; and we didn't know whatever could be the matter,
for we only knew about the letters after Mr. Dallas had been took up."
"Mr. Dallas took up? They said that outside, but I thought it must be
their larks. Wotever do you mean? Go on--go on; tell me, quick!"
"It's quite true; no larks at all. It might be about eight or nine,
and we was all sittin' downstairs, a talkin' about the parlours, and a
very quick ring comes to the 'all-door. James opens it, and in comes
two men, very short and business-like, which they must see Mr. Dallas,
and can't take no denial. So James goes to the door to ask if Mr.
Dallas will see them, but they're too quick for James, and walk in;
and in two minutes there's a great to do and explanation, and Mr.
Dallas is took up."
"But wot for?--what had he done?" asked Jim.
"Murdered his cousin, don't I tell you!" said the woman a little
snappishly. "Ain't I a-tellin' of you as plain as I can speak. He'd
been and murdered this other gentleman wot nobody knew, in the spring,
and then he sets the police a lookin' after his cousin, and just tells
them enough to make them know as the other gentleman was him, which
they'd never had a notion of before, so they come and took him on
suspicion of the murder, and Mr. Felton went away with him. We was all
there, when they put the handcuffs on him, and his uncle he stopped
him in the 'all, as they was goin' to the cab, and says he, 'George,
my boy, I do this, that no one may think I'm deceived;' and he put his
hands on his shoulders and kisses him, as if he was a woman, before us
all."
Jim listened, pale and breathless, but quite silent.
"Mr. Felton were out pretty near all night; and when he come 'ome, the
gentleman as is here now were with him. He hasn't been to bed at all,
and I haven't seen him, but just when I let the lady in, which she's a
sweet-lookin' creature, and has been cryin' dreadful."
"Let me see Mr. Felton," said Jim, catching the woman by her dress,
and speaking with the utmost eagerness and passion, "let me see him. I
came to see Mr. Dallas about this business, let me see Mr. Felton."
"_You_ came! why what have you got to do with it?" said the woman; her
curiosity vehemently aroused.
"I will tell you all about it," said Jim, adroitly; "you shall hear it
all afterwards--a cur'ous story as any one ever had to tell. Mr.
Dallas never did it--not he, _I_ know better than that. I can tell Mr.
Felton a great deal."
"I must ask if he will see you," said the woman; "if he won't, perhaps
the lawyer--"
"No, no, it must be Mr. Felton himself. Let me into the room."
She offered no resistance, and in another minute Jim was in the
presence of a group composed of Mr. Felton, a grave gentleman, who
looked like a lawyer, a beautiful girl, who was Clare Carruthers, and
a plain, clever-looking young woman, who was Clare's cousin, Mrs.
Stanhope. The lawyer and Mrs. Stanhope were seated by a table in close
conversation, which they carried on in lower tones. Clare Carruthers
and Mr. Felton stood upon the hearth-rug, the girl's golden head was
resting on her companion's shoulder, and she was crying silently but
unrestrained.
"Is he very, very ill?" she had said, a little before Jim entered the
room.
"Not seriously so, my dear, and indeed nothing could be more fortunate
than that his strength failed him so completely. It gives us time, and
I need it, I am so bewildered even yet."
"Did Mr. Lowther say--say that he was not--not brought before the
magistrates, not brought into that dreadful place, to-day?" said
Clare, her voice hardly audible for her sobs.
"Yes, my dear. Think a little, I could not be here if he had not so
much respite. Clare, I am a chief witness; I must be there, you know,
to tell them about--about my son--" He paused, and closed his eyes for
a few minutes.
"The case was called _pro formâ_ this morning, but Mr. Lowther's
partner, his brother, easily procured a delay. George was too ill to
appear, but he sent me word that there was nothing seriously wrong."
"Can no one see him?" asked Clare imploringly. "Oh, Mr. Felton, can no
one go to him? Can no one give him any comfort--help him to bear it?
Are they so cruel as that, are they so cruel?"
"Hush, dear, it is not cruel; it is right. No one can see him for the
present but Mr. Lowther--Mr. James Lowther, who is with him now, I
dare say, who will be here this afternoon."
"How can you bear it? how are you ever to bear it?" she said.
"My dear, I must bear it; and I have time before me in which to
suffer: this is the time for action. You must help me, Clare, my dear,
brave girl. I sent for you for this; I sent for you, at his desire, my
child. His last words were, 'My mother, my mother, she is coming home
to-morrow.' I told him to be satisfied she should be kept from the
knowledge of all this." He shuddered from head to foot. "Clare, are
you strong enough to redeem my promise? Can you hide all that has
happened from her? Can you be with her, watching her, keeping a calm
face before her? My dear, have you strength for this?"
She lifted her golden head, and looked at him with her innocent
fearless eyes.
"I have strength to do anything that he--that George desires, and you
think is right."
"Then that is your share of our dreadful task, my dear. God knows it
is no light or easy share."
Clare's tears streamed forth again. She nestled closer to him, and
whispered:
"Is there no--no hope?"
"None," he replied. "If it had been possible for George to be
mistaken, I have had the sight of my own eyes. Clare, they brought me
my son's coat! Ay, like Jacob, they brought my son's coat. My own last
gift to him, Clare." His eyes were dry and bright, but their sockets
had deepened since the day before, and his voice had the febrile
accent of intense grief and passion restrained by a powerful will.
"What George must have suffered!" she said, still in a broken whisper,
her tear-stained face upon his breast.
"Ah, yes, it is all dim to me still. Mr. Lowther and I have been
searching out the truth all night, but we are still in confusion.
Tatlow is coming presently, and you must go away, my dear, you must go
home. You have your share to do, and need strength to do it. You shall
know all I learn from hour to hour. Mrs. Stanhope, will you--who is
this? What brings you here, boy?"
"Sir," stammered Jim, who, though he had the wizened mannish
look peculiar to his tribe, was only a boy, and was desperately
frightened--"sir, I came to tell you that I know the man as didn't do
it, and I know the man as did."
Mr. Felton loosed his hold of Clare and came forward. Mr. Lowther rose
hurriedly from his seat; he did not share the blank, incredulous
surprise of Mr. Felton. The two ladies drew near each other.
"Who are you?" asked Mr. Lowther.
Jim told him.
"What are you come for? What--" began Mr. Felton; but Mr. Lowther made
a sign to him to be silent, and addressing Jim in a quiet, friendly
voice, took him by the arm and led him to a chair.
"Sit down there, my boy," he said, "and don't be afraid. You must have
come here of your own free will, and we do not doubt you have come for
a good purpose. You have something important to tell Mr. Felton. You
know Mr. Dallas, I think, and I gather from what you said just now
that you know what he is accused of." Jim assented by a downcast nod.
"There, tell us all about it. Take your time, and don't get
frightened." So saying, and giving the boy a reassuring pat upon the
shoulder, the lawyer sat down upon a chair opposite to Jim, and spread
his hands upon his knees in an attitude of serious, but not stern,
attention. The two women looked on in silent suspense, and Mr. Felton,
guided by a glance from Mr. Lowther, moved a little to the back of the
chair on which Jim was seated.
"Come," said Mr. Lowther, giving him another pat, "we are all anxious
to hear what you have got to say. Speak up, my boy."
"Sir," began Jim, "I should like to ask you something first. Is it
true, as the gentleman 'at was murdered was Mr. Dallas's own cousin?"
"Only too true. He was Mr. Felton's son," and the lawyer eyed the
unhappy father, as if measuring the strength he could command to bear
this new trial. Mr. Felton came to Jim's side, and touched him kindly
on the arm.
"Don't be afraid to speak before me," he said. "You may; and don't
keep us waiting any longer, my good boy."
Then Jim made a desperate effort, and told his story; told it in his
ignorant blundering fashion; told it with circumlocution and
hesitation, but never interrupted. Mr. Lowther heard him without a
word, and held Mr. Felton and the two women silent by the unspoken
counsel of his glance.
"I had done many an odd job at the house in South Molton-street," said
the boy, when he had told them a good deal about himself, in a
rambling way, "and I knowed Mr. Routh well, but I don't suppose he
knowed me; and when I saw him a-lingerin' about the tavern, and
a-lookin' in at the winder, he wosn't no stranger to me. Well, he giv'
me the letter, and I giv' it to the gentleman. He had a beard as came
down in a point, and was sharp with me, but not so sharp as the
waiter, as I giv' _him_ his own sauce, and the gentleman laughed, and
seemed as if he didn't object to me holdin' of my own; but Mr. Dallas,
which I didn't know his name then, he didn't laugh, and he asks the
gentleman if there weren't no answer, and the gentleman says no, there
weren't none, and somehow I seemed to know as he wanted to spite Mr.
Routh. So I felt cur'ous about it, partickler when I see as Mr. Routh
looked savage when I came out of the coffee-room and told him there
weren't no answer. You must understand," said Jim, who had regained
his composure now, and was in the full tide of his discourse, which he
addressed exclusively to Mr. Lowther, with the instinctive delicacy
which Harriet Routh had once observed in the neglected boy, "as I was
not to say he was there, I were merely to give the note. He giv' me
sixpence, and he went away down the Strand. I got a horse-holdin' job
just then, and it were a long 'un; and there I was when the two gents
came to the door, a-smokin' their cigars, and then the gent as I held
his horse took him from me, and I hadn't nothing better to do than
follow them, which I did; for who should I see but Mr. Routh
a-skulkin' along the other side of the Strand, as if he wanted to keep
'em in sight without their seein' of him. I follered them, sir, and
follered them feelin' as if I was one of them 'ere wild Ingins in the
_'Alfpenny_ _'Alf-hours_ on a trail, until I follered them to Boyle's
billiard-rooms, as I knows it well, and had swep' it often on a Sunday
mornin'. They went in, and I was tired of hanging about, and was goin'
away, when I see Mr. Routh again; there weren't nobody in the street
but him and me. I skulked into a lane, and watched him. I don't know
why I watched him, and I don't know how long we was there--I a little
way down the lane, and he a-saunterin' up and down, and lookin' at the
doors and the windows, but never goin' nigh the house. It must ha'
been very late when the two gents came out, and I was very tired; but
the old woman--that's my aunt, sir--and me had had a row in the
mornin', and I thought I'd like to giv' her a fright, and stay out all
night, which I haven't often slep' in the streets, considerin'."
Jim had ceased to wriggle about on his chair, to twist his cap between
his hands, and to shuffle his feet upon the floor. He was nearly as
motionless as the listeners, who heard him in breathless silence. By
degrees Clare had drawn nearer to Mr. Felton, and she was now
standing, her hand in his, her head in its former place upon his
shoulder, behind Jim's chair. But the character of the group formed by
the two was no longer what it had been; the girl was supporting the
man now; the girl was silently nerving him to courage and resolution.
"They came out, sir," the boy continued, "very friendly-like and
good-humoured, and Mr. Dallas he were a-laughin', and he shook hands
with the other gent, which he called hisself Mr. Deane--it were on the
note; and he went away whistlin' down the very lane as I was in,
passed me close, and never saw me. I saw him, though, quite plain, and
I thought, 'You've been winnin', and you likes it;' but still I had my
eye on Mr. Routh, and presently I sees him speakin' to the other gent,
as was puttin' on his big fur coat, which it had a 'ood to it as I
never see one like it afore. I thought they wouldn't be pleasant
together, and they wasn't, not to judge by their voices, and I heerd
the other gent give a sneerin' kind of a laugh, which were
aggravatin'; and soon they walked away together, through the Bar and
up Fleet-street, and I follered 'em, for I thought I'd sleep under the
dry arch of the bridge, and get a chance of odd jobs at the early
trains in the mornin', which they're profitable if you ain't too
tired. They was talkin' and talkin', and the oddest thing was that I
knew they was quarrellin', though I couldn't hear a word they said,
and I knew the other gent was a-sneerin' and a-aggeravatin' of Mr.
Routh, and yet they was arm-in-arm all the time like brothers. They
went on, and there wasn't a livin' bein' in the street but them and me
and an odd p'liceman or so, wot took no notice, only beat their 'ands
together and passed by. All on a sudden, when they was near the
bridge, and close to all the little narrow streets down there, I gets
tired, and don't seem to care about follerin' of 'em; and then, while
I'm thinkin' of makin' for the dry arch, I misses of 'em, and they're
gone."
The boy stood up now, and his cap fell unheeded on the floor. The
embarrassment, the confusion, the vulgarity of his manner were gone;
he met the lawyer's piercing gaze unabashed; he lifted his hand and
moved it with an expressive gesture.
"It was gettin' light overhead, and I was tired, and my head begin to
turn. I sat down in a doorway; there wasn't no one to move me on, and
I must ha' fell asleep, for I don't remember any more until I heard
something pass by me very quick,--quite near me, as near as Mr. Dallas
passed me in the lane. I looked up pretty smart, and, sir, it were a
man."
"Mr. Routh?" asked the lawyer.
"Yes, sir, it were Mr. Routh. His head were down, and he was goin' as
quick as any man could walk, short of running, but he did not run. I
roused up, and wondered where the other gent was, and then I see a
narrow passage a little way off the doorway where I was a settin',
leadin' straight to the river. I thought they must ha' turned down
there to have their talk out, when I missed them so sudden. I went
down the passage, and at the end of it was stones and mud and the
river; and there was no one there. But O, sir,"--and here Jim began to
tremble and to look nervously round towards Mr. Felton,--"there were
blood on the edge of the stones, and footsteps in the mud where the
water was a-creepin' up, and there was no one there."
A convulsive sob burst from Clare's lips; but Mr. "Felton clasped her
closer to him, and kept her quiet.
"A dreadful sight--a dreadful discovery," said Mr. Lowther; "but, my
boy," and again he touched Jim gently on the arm, "why did you conceal
it? Did you not understand the crime that had been committed? Did you
not know all that happened afterwards?"
"Sir," said Jim, boldly, but not without an effort, "I was not sure; I
thought it might have been a fight, and that ain't murder anyways. I
didn't know as how it had been stabbin' until I see it in _Lloyd's
Weekly_, for I kep' away on purpose."
Here Jim put his hand into his pocket, and drew it out again closed
round some object which he had still a lingering reluctance to show.
"I'll tell you all the truth, sir, though I daresay I must get into
trouble. If it hadn't been as I was afraid of getting into it, I
should ha' spoke before when I see Mrs. Routh, as is a good lady,
a-frettin' herself to death, and him a-deceivin' of her. When I was
a-looking close at the stones and the mud, and the blood upon 'em,
which the tide was very nigh upon it afore I came away, I see
something nearly stamped into the mud as looked like gold, and I
fished it out, and I knew it were something as I had seen hangin' on
the other gent's chain, which he was a-twiddlin' on it with his
fingers when I giv' him the note in the coffee-room. I fished it out,
sir, and I kep' it, and I was afraid to take it to the pawnshop when I
heerd as the body was found; and as it were a murder, I was afraid to
sell it neither, and I hid it in the wall, and--and," said Jim,
speaking with great rapidity and earnestness, "I am glad I've told the
truth, for Mr. Dallas's sake, and I'm ready to suffer for it, if I
must. Here it is, sir." Then the boy unclosed his hand, and placed in
that of Mr. Lowther a locket in the form of a golden egg.
"It opens in the middle," said Jim, "and there's pictures in it: one
is Mr. Deane's, and the other is a lady's. I know where she lives, and
I saw Mr. Routh with her on Monday night. Mr. Routh has another, just
the same as this,--on the outside anyways."
"Do you recognize this trinket?" asked Mr. Lowther of Mr. Felton, who
replied:
"I do. It was my son's."
A few minutes of close and anxious consultation between the gentlemen
followed, and then Mr. Lowther, telling Jim that he must remain with
Mr. Felton until his return, went out, and was driven away in Mrs.
Stanhope's carriage. Mr. Felton and the two women treated the boy with
kind consideration. In the frightful position in which they were all
placed, there was now a prospect of relief, not, indeed, from the
tremendous calamity, but from the dreadful danger, and Jim, as the
medium through which the hope shone, was very valuable to them. Food
was given him, of a quality rare to the street-boy, and he ate it with
sufficient appetite. Thus the time passed, until Mr. Lowther returned,
accompanied by a small smart man in a gray suit, who was no other than
Mr. Tatlow, and whose first words to Mr. Felton were:
"It's all right, sir. We've got the other warrant."
Then Mr. Felton sent Clare and her cousin away, and Jim, having been
cheered and consoled by many a reassuring word and promise from Mr.
Felton, whose strength and self-control proved themselves to the
utmost on this occasion, underwent a long and searching examination
from Mr. Lowther and the self-congratulatory Tatlow.
The afternoon was already advanced, and Mr. Tatlow had gone away and
returned again, when the boy's explanation was concluded, and the
plans formed upon it were finally arranged. Then the lawyer's
quick eye noticed symptoms of giving way in Mr. Felton. There were
many hours of excitement and strain upon the nerves still to be
endured, and not yet might he be free to face the grief which was
his---pre-eminently his; not yet must he seek solitude, to mourn for
his only son. Anguish, fear, and fatigue were setting their mark upon
him, but he must not yet have even bodily rest.
"You will not come with us?" said Mr. Lowther.
"No," replied Mr. Felton, with an irrepressible shudder. "I could not
see that mail before _I must_."
"You will lie down and rest?"
"Not yet. I will rest to-night. I must see my brother-in-law, who will
reach London this evening, and tell him all that has happened."
"Your brother-in-law?"
"Mr. Carruthers, my sister's husband. Much depends on George's mother
being kept in ignorance, and Mr. Carruthers must be prepared."
During this short dialogue, Jim had been speaking eagerly to Mr.
Tatlow, apparently urging very strongly an earnest appeal. On its
cessation, Mr. Tatlow addressed Mr. Lowther.
"He agrees to everything, if one of you gentlemen will write to Mrs.
Routh for him. That's it, ain't it?" said he, turning again to Jim.
"Yes, sir," said the boy, with an earnestness of entreaty in his voice
and his look which touched the listeners. "If one of you will write to
_her_. I don't mean a letter of your own--grand like--for then she
mightn't believe it, and she might think as I was paid. I did it for
Mr. Dallas; but I don't think as I should have done it if he hadn't
been bad to her, and if I hadn't seen her a-dyin' day after day, as
courageous as can be, but still a-dyin', and he a-neglectin' of her
first and deceivin' of her after."
"She is this man's accomplice," said Mr. Lowther, moodily.
"Perhaps so, to a certain extent," said Mr. Felton; "but she is to be
pitied, too. I saw that. I saw a little way into her life at Homburg,
and, from all George has told me, I would be as little hard with her
as possible. He cannot escape us, she cannot shield him; let us hear
what the boy wishes to say to her, and then decide. Tell me," he said,
kindly, to Jim, "what do you wish to say to this lady?"
"You must understand," said Mr. Tatlow, "that you can't send your
letter till we've got him."
"I don't want to, sir," said Jim. "I think as he's runnin' away from
her to-night, partik'lar as the lady is gone."
(Mr. Tatlow had ascertained the fact of Mrs. Ireton P. Bembridge's
departure during his brief absence.)
"He didn't go home last night, and I think as he's afraid to face her,
and is runnin' away to-night."
"Very well, then," said Mr. Lowther, "I will write the letter. You
shall tell me what to say, and it shall be sent to her this evening."
So Jim dictated, with infinite difficulty and astonishing slowness,
and Mr. Lowther wrote:
"_Dear Ma'am,--This comes from Jim Swain, as wouldn't like to hurt
you, but has to tell at last, because of Mr. Dallas being took for
what he didn't do. I wanted to see you to-day, but you was out, and I
couldn't, and I come down here and heard of Mr. Dallas being took.
You, weren't in it, dear ma'am, I'm sure, and so I have told the
gentlemen and Mr. Tatlow, which has me in charge at present; but you
know it, and that Mr. Dallas did not do it, and Mr. Routh did. I
followed them all the night it was done, and I saw Mr. Dean and Mr.
Routh going down to the river, and I went down to the river, when one
was gone away alive and the other couldn't be found, only his blood on
the stones, and I found the gold thing he had on his chain, which the
gentleman has it now, and Mr. Routh have the same in a little drawer
in the big desk in the parlour. I haven't hid anything, dear ma'am,
and Mr. Routh will be took, at six o'clock, at the railway, where he
told me to meet him, which so I am to do. I know about a lady, too,
which her picture is in the gold thing, and I would have told you
about her if I could have seen you to-day. I hope you won't be hurt. I
didn't mean to do it to hurt you. I wish I hadn't been so secret so
long_."
When Jim had formally made his mark, the letter was sealed and
directed, and Mr. Lowther took charge of it.
Considerably before the platform of the London-bridge railway-station,
from which the tidal train for Folkstone was about to start, had
received the usual crowd of passengers and their friends, a lady,
plainly dressed and closely veiled, made her unobtrusive appearance
upon it. "I am waiting to see a friend off," she had said, as the
official at the barrier questioned her, and she attracted no further
notice. Slowly and with downcast eyes, and hands which clasped each
other closely under her shawl, she walked up and down, keeping close
to the wall, and allowing the groups, as they began to form, to form
between her and the edge of the platform. Once or twice she unclasped
her hands, and lifted her veil, and breathed deeply, then after one
piercing glance, which comprehended every face under the roof within
its vision, dropped it again. Once, as she did this, a nursemaid with
a child in her arms at the back of the platform noticed her, and said
to a fellow-servant:
"That woman's face is enough to frighten one; she looks like death!"
But life was strong in Harriet Routh, and hope was strong in her also,
a terrible hope, indeed, which to any suffering less than hers would
have worn the semblance of despair. A little while now and he would be
safe, safe for the present, for the next few hours which were so
all-important. The letter she had written, telling him all she had
done, and why, would await him at Amiens, and show him that all his
plans were vain, would convince him at last. The arrangement of his
money matters, which he must have made for the flight he contemplated,
would avail in the case of this flight which she had imposed upon him.
A little more torture, a little more suspense, and something like rest
would come. Perhaps she should be able to sleep a little to-night,
while he would be speeding through the darkness to safety. Something
like a forlorn sense of peace came to her with the anticipation. So
she walked up and down, thinking these thoughts, and sometimes lapsing
into a mental blank, out of which condition she would come with a
start, to go into a kind of vision of the last two days--of the woman
she had so completely mastered--of the last time she had seen her
husband's face--of the blow he had struck her; but she felt no anger
in the remembrance; what did it matter now, in the face of this great
crisis? It was strange that she had heard nothing of George, and the
fact rendered her only the more eager and apprehensive. He was busy
with the investigation, which must end in--what? In that which she had
now effectually prevented. So she walked up and down, thinking, and
the platform became peopled, and all the fuss and hurry of the
departure of the tidal train was around her. Presently, as she reached
the end of the platform, and turned, to resume her walk, she saw her
husband, coming quickly towards the line of carriages, carrying the
small bag which had been sent to him at Tokenhouse-yard in the
morning, and which she had packed with reference to this occasion.
Routh, indeed, had been not a little surprised by its contents. He
came along the platform, the bag in one hand, a letter in the other,
looking frowningly round, as though in search of somebody. She shrank
back, as much out of sight as possible. Presently, just as he was
stepping into a carriage, Jim Swain appeared, and went up to him. A
few words passed between them, and then Harriet saw two persons, one
of whom was a smart, slightly built man in a gray suit, address him.
Straining her eyes with a fixed intensity of gaze which made her brain
ache, she looked. He tore the letter in his hand to pieces, with
inconceivable quickness, the fragments fluttering to the ground,
turned, and with one of his unknown interlocutors on either side, and
Jim following--how strange the boy looked, Harriet thought--walked
along the platform, passed through the barrier, and was lost to her
gaze at the distant entrance.
Harriet stood rooted to the spot. It was not until all the passengers
had taken their places, and the train had gone off with a shriek and a
pant, that she had the power to move. Then a moan of utter despair
burst from her white lips, and a cold thrill shook her limbs, as she
murmured:
"He has been called back on business, and he is lost, utterly lost."