MR. PIKE ON THE WING.
The time went on. It may have been some twelve or thirteen months later
that Mr. Carr, sitting alone in his chambers, one evening, was surprised
by the entrance of his clerk--who possessed a latch-key as well as
himself.
"Why, Taylor! what brings you here?"
"I thought you would most likely be in, sir," replied the clerk. "Do
you remember some few years ago making inquiries about a man named
Gorton--and you could not find him?"
"And never have found him," was Mr. Carr's comment. "Well?"
"I have seen him this evening. He is back in London."
Thomas Carr was not a man to be startlingly affected by any
communication; nevertheless he felt the importance of this, for Lord
Hartledon's sake.
"I met him by chance, in a place where I sometimes go of an evening to
smoke a cigar, and learned his name by accident," continued Mr. Taylor.
"It's the same man that was at Kedge and Reck's, George Gorton; he
acknowledged it at once, quite readily."
"And where has he been hiding himself?"
"He has been in Australia for several years, he says; went there directly
after he left Kedge and Reck's that autumn."
"Could you get him here, Taylor? I must see him. Tell me: what coloured
hair has he?"
"Red, sir; and plenty of it. He says he's doing very well over there,
and has only come home for a short change. He does not seem to be in
concealment, and gave me his address when I asked him for it."
According to Mr. Carr's wish, the man Gorton was brought to his chambers
the following morning by Taylor. To the barrister's surprise, a
well-dressed and really rather gentlemanly man entered. He had been
accustomed to picturing this Gorton as an Arab of London life. Casting
a keen glance at the red hair, he saw it was indisputably his own.
A few rapid questions, which Gorton answered without the slightest demur,
and Mr. Carr leaned back in his chair, knowing that all the trouble he
had been at to find this man might have been spared: for he was not the
George Gordon they had suspected. But Mr. Carr was cautious, and betrayed
nothing.
"I am sorry to have troubled you," he said. "When I inquired for you of
Kedge and Reck some years ago, it was under the impression that you were
some one else. You had left; and they did not know where to find you."
"Yes, I had displeased them through arresting a wrong man, and other
things. I was down in the world then, and glad to do anything for a
living, even to serving writs."
"You arrested the late Lord Hartledon for his brother," observed Mr.
Carr, with a careless smile. "I heard of it. I suppose you did not know
them apart."
"I had never set eyes on either of them before," returned Gorton;
unconsciously confirming a point in the barrister's mind; which, however,
was already sufficiently obvious.
"The man I wanted to find was named Gordon. I thought it just possible
that you might have changed your name temporarily: some of us finding it
convenient to do so on occasion."
"I never changed mine in my life."
"And if you had, I don't suppose you'd have changed it to one so
notorious as George Gordon."
"Notorious?"
"It was a George Gordon who was the hero of that piratical affair; that
mutiny on board the _Morning Star_."
"Ah, to be sure. And an awful villain too! A man I met in Australia knew
Gordon well. But he tells a curious tale, though. He was a doctor, that
Gordon; had come last from somewhere in Kirkcudbrightshire."
"He did," said Thomas Carr, quietly. "What curious tale does your friend
tell?"
"Well, sir, he says--or rather said, for I've not seen him since my first
visit there--that George Gordon did not sail in the _Morning Star_. He
was killed in a drunken brawl the night before he ought to have sailed:
this man was present and saw him buried."
"But there's pretty good proof that Gordon did sail. He was the
ringleader of the mutiny."
"Well, yes. I don't know how it could have been. The man was positive.
I never knew Gordon; so that the affair did not interest me much."
"You are doing well over there?"
"Very well. I might retire now, if I chose to live in a small way, but I
mean to take a few more years of it, and go on to riches. Ah! and it was
just the turn of a pin whether I went over there that second time, or
whether I stopped in London to serve writs and starve."
"Val was right," thought the barrister.
On the following Saturday Mr. Carr took a return-ticket, and went down
to Hartledon: as he had done once or twice before in the old days. The
Hartledons had not come to town this season; did not intend to come: Anne
was too happy in the birth of her baby-boy to care for London; and Val
liked Hartledon better than any other place now.
In one single respect the past year had failed to bring Anne
happiness--there was not entire confidence between herself and her
husband. He had something on his mind, and she could not fail to see that
he had. It was not that awful dread that seemed to possess him in his
first wife's time; nevertheless it was a weight which told more or less
on his spirits at all times. To Anne it appeared like remorse; yet she
might never have thought this, but for a word or two he let slip
occasionally. Was it connected with his children? She could almost have
fancied so: and yet in what manner could it be? His behaviour was
peculiar. He rather avoided them than not; but when with them was almost
passionately demonstrative, exactingly jealous that due attention should
be paid to them: and he seemed half afraid of caressing Anne's baby, lest
it should be thought he cared for it more than for the others. Altogether
Lady Hartledon puzzled her brains in vain: she could not make him out.
When she questioned him he would deny that there was anything the matter,
and said it was her fancy.
They were at Hartledon alone: that is, without the countess-dowager.
That respected lady, though not actually domiciled with them during the
past twelve-month, had paid them three long visits. She was determined
to retain her right in the household--if right it could be called. The
dowager was by far too wary to do otherwise; and her behaviour to Anne
was exceedingly mild. But somehow she contrived to retain, or continually
renew, her evil influence over the children; though so insidiously, that
Lady Hartledon could never detect how or when it was done, or openly meet
it. Neither could she effectually counteract it. So surely as the dowager
came, so surely did the young boy and his sister become unruly with their
step-mother; ill-natured and rude. Lady Hartledon was kind, judicious,
and good; and things would so far be remedied during the crafty dowager's
absences, as to promise a complete cure; but whenever she returned the
evil broke out again. Anne was sorely perplexed. She did not like to deny
the children to their grandmother, who was more nearly related to them
than she herself; and she could only pray that time would bring about
some remedy. The dowager passed her time pretty equally between their
house and her son's. Lord Kirton had not married again, owing, perhaps,
to the watch and ward kept over him. But as soon as he started off to the
Continent, or elsewhere, where she could not follow him, then off she
came, without notice, to England and Lord Hartledon's. And Val, in his
good-nature, bore the infliction passively so long as she kept civil and
peaceable.
In this also her husband's behaviour puzzled Anne. Disliking the dowager
beyond every other created being, he yet suffered her to indulge his
children; and if any little passage-at-arms supervened, took her part
rather than his wife's.
"I cannot understand you, Val," Anne said to him one day, in tones of
pain. "You are not as you used to be." And his only answer was to strain
his wife to his bosom with an impassioned gesture of love.
But these were only episodes in their generally happy life. Never more
happy, more free from any external influence, than when Thomas Carr
arrived there on this identical Saturday. He went in unexpectedly: and
Val's violet eyes, beautiful as ever, shone out their welcome; and Anne,
who happened to have her baby on her lap, blushed and smiled, as she held
it out for the barrister's inspection.
"I dare not take it," said he. "You would be up in arms if it were
dropped. What is its name?"
"Reginald."
A little while, and she carried the child away, leaving them alone. Mr.
Carr declined refreshment for the present; and he and Val strolled out
arm-in-arm.
"I have brought you an item of news, Hartledon. Gorton has turned up."
"Not Gordon?"
"No. And what's more, Gorton never was Gordon. You were right, and
I was wrong. I would have bet a ten-pound note--a great venture for a
barrister--that the men were the same; never, in point of fact, had a
doubt of it."
"You would not listen to me," said Val. "I told you I was sure I could
not have failed to recognize Gordon, had he been the one who was down at
Calne with the writ."
"But you acknowledged that it might have been he, nevertheless; that his
red hair might have been false; that you never had a distinct view of the
man's face; and that the only time you spoke to him was in the gloaming,"
reiterated Thomas Carr. "Well, as it turns out, we might have spared half
our pains and anxiety, for Gorton was never any one but himself: an
innocent sheriff's officer, as far as you are concerned, who had never,
in his life set eyes on Val Elster until he went after him to Calne."
"Didn't I say so?" reiterated Val. "Gordon would have known me too well
to arrest Edward for me."
"But you admitted the general likeness between you and your brother; and
Gordon had not seen you for three years or more."
"Yes; I admitted all you say, and perhaps was a little doubtful myself.
But I soon shook off the doubt, and of late years have been sure that
Gordon was really dead. It has been more than a conviction. I always said
there were no grounds for connecting the two together."
"I had my grounds for doing it," remarked the barrister. "Gorton, it
seems, has been in Australia ever since. No wonder Green could not
unearth him in London. He's back again on a visit, looking like a
gentleman; and really I can't discover that there was ever anything
against him, except that he was down in the world. Taylor met him the
other day, and I had him brought to my chambers; and have told you the
result."
"You do not now feel any doubt that Gordon's dead?"
"None at all. Your friend, Gordon of Kircudbright, was the one who
embarked, or ought to have embarked, on the _Morning Star_, homeward
bound," said Mr. Carr. And he forthwith told Lord Hartledon what the man
had said.
A silence ensued. Lord Hartledon was in deep and evidently not pleasant
thought; and the barrister stole a glance at him.
"Hartledon, take comfort. I am as cautious by nature as I believe it is
possible for any one to be; and I am sure the man is dead, and can never
rise up to trouble you."
"I have been sure of that for years," replied Hartledon quietly. "I have
just said so."
"Then what is disturbing you?"
"Oh, Carr, how can you ask it?" came the rejoinder. "What is it lies on
my mind day and night; is wearing me out before my time? Discovery may be
avoided; but when I look at the children--at the boy especially--it would
have turned some men mad," he more quietly added, passing his hand across
his brow. "As long as he lives, I cannot have rest from pain. The sins of
the fathers--"
"Yes, yes," interposed Mr. Carr, hastily. "Still the case is light,
compared with what we once dreaded."
"Light for me, heavy for him."
Mr. Carr remained with them until the Monday: he then went back to London
and work; and time glided on again. An event occurred the following
winter which shall be related at once; more especially as nothing of
moment took place in those intervening months needing special record.
The man Pike, who still occupied his shed undisturbed, had been ailing
for some time. An attack of rheumatic fever in the summer had left him
little better than a cripple. He crawled abroad still when he was able,
and _would_ do so, in spite of what Mr. Hillary said; would lie about the
damp ground in a lawless, gipsying sort of manner; but by the time winter
came all that was over, and Mr. Pike's career, as foretold by the
surgeon, was drawing rapidly to a close. Mrs. Gum was his good Samaritan,
as she had been in the fever some years before, going in and out and
attending to him; and in a reasonable way Pike wanted for nothing.
"How long can I last?" he abruptly asked the doctor one morning. "Needn't
fear to say. _She_'s the only one that will take on; I shan't."
He alluded to Mrs. Gum, who had just gone out. The surgeon considered.
"Two or three days."
"As much as that?"
"I think so."
"Oh!" said Pike. "When it comes to the last day I should like to see Lord
Hartledon."
"Why the last day?"
The man's pinched features broke into a smile; pleasant and fair features
once, with a gentle look upon them. The black wig and whiskers lay near
him; but the real hair, light and scanty, was pushed back from the damp
brow.
"No use, then, to think of giving me up: no time left for it."
"I question if Lord Hartledon would give you up were you in rude health.
I'm sure he would not," added Mr. Hillary, endorsing his opinion rather
emphatically. "If ever there was a kindly nature in the world, it's his.
What do you want with him?"
"I should like to say a word to him in private," responded Pike.
"Then you'd better not wait to say it. I'll tell him of your wish. It's
all safe. Why, Pike, if the police themselves came they wouldn't trouble
to touch you now."
"I shouldn't much care if they did," said the man. "_I_ haven't cared for
a long while; but there were the others, you know."
"Yes," said Mr. Hillary.
"Look here," said Pike; "no need to tell him particulars; leave them
till I'm gone. I don't know that I'd like _him_ to look me in the face,
knowing them."
"As you will," said Mr. Hillary, falling in with the wish more readily
than he might have done for anyone but a dying man.
He had patients out of Calne, beyond Hartledon, and called in returning.
It was a snowy day; and as the surgeon was winding towards the house,
past the lodge, with a quick step, he saw a white figure marching across
the park. It was Lord Hartledon. He had been caught in the storm, and
came up laughing.
"Umbrellas are at a premium," observed Mr. Hillary, with the freedom long
intimacy had sanctioned.
"It didn't snow when I came out," said Hartledon, shaking himself, and
making light of the matter. "Were you coming to honour me with a morning
call?"
"I was and I wasn't," returned the surgeon. "I've no time for morning
calls, unless they are professional ones; but I wanted to say a word to
you. Have you a mind for a further walk in the snow?"
"As far as you like."
"There's a patient of mine drawing very near the time when doctors can do
no more for him. He has expressed a wish to see you, and I undertook to
convey the request."
"I'll go, of course," said Val, all his kindliness on the alert. "Who is
it?"
"A black sheep," answered the surgeon. "I don't know whether that will
make any difference?"
"It ought not," said Val rather warmly. "Black sheep have more need of
help than white ones, when it comes to the last. I suppose it's a poacher
wanting to clear his conscience."
"It's Pike," said Hillary.
"Pike! What can he want with me? Is he no better?"
"He'll never be better in this world; and to speak the truth, I think
it's time he left it. He'll be happier, poor fellow, let's hope, in
another than he has been in this. Has it ever struck you, Lord Hartledon,
that there was something strange about Pike, and his manner of coming
here?"
"Very strange indeed."
"Well, Pike is not Pike, but another man--which I suppose you will say is
Irish. But that he is so ill, and it would not be worth while for the law
to take him, he might be in mortal fear of your seeing him, lest you
betrayed him. He wanted you not to be informed until the last hour. I
told him there was no fear."
"I would not betray any living man, whatever his crime, for the whole
world," returned Lord Hartledon; his voice so earnest as to amount to
pain. And the surgeon looked at him; but there rose up in his remembrance
how _he_ had been avoiding betrayal for years. "Who is he?"
"Willy Gum."
Lord Hartledon turned his head sharply under cover of the surgeon's
umbrella, for they were walking along together. A thought crossed him
that the words might be a jest.
"Yes, Pike is Willy Gum," continued Mr. Hillary. "And there you have the
explanation of the poor mother's nervous terrors. I do pity her. The
clerk has taken it more philosophically, and seemed only to care lest the
fact should become known. Ah, poor thing! what a life hers has been! Her
fears of the wild neighbour, her basins for cats, are all explained now.
She dreaded lest Calne should suspect that she occasionally stole into
the shed under cover of the night with the basins containing food for its
inmate. There the man has lived--if you can call such an existence
living; Willy Gum, concealed by his borrowed black hair and whiskers. But
that he was only a boy when he went away, Calne would have recognized him
in spite of them."
"And he is not a poacher and a snarer, and I don't know what all, leading
a lawless life, and thieving for his living?" exclaimed Lord Hartledon,
the first question that rose to the surface, amidst the many that were
struggling in his mind.
"I don't believe the man has touched the worth of a pin belonging to
any one since he came here, even on your preserves. People took up the
notion from his wild appearance, and because he had no ostensible means
of living. It would not have done to let them know that he had his
supplies--sometimes money, sometimes food--from respectable clerk Gum's."
"But why should he be in concealment at all? That bank affair was made
all right at the time."
"There are other things he feared, it seems. I've not time to enter into
details now; you'll know them later. There he is--Pike: and there he'll
die--Pike always."
"How long have you known it?"
"Since that fever he caught from the Rectory some years ago. I recollect
your telling me not to let him want for anything;" and Lord Hartledon
winced at the remembrance brought before him, as he always did wince at
the unhappy past. "I never shall forget it. I went in, thinking Pike was
ill, and that he, wild and disreputable though he had the character of
being, might want physic as well as his neighbours. Instead of the
black-haired bear I expected to see, there lay a young, light, delicate
fellow, with a white brow, and cheeks pink with fever. The features
seemed familiar to me; little by little recognition came to me, and I
saw it was Willy Gum, whom every one had been mourning as dead. He said
a pleading word or two, that I would keep his secret, and not give him up
to justice. I did not understand what there was to give him up for then.
However, I promised. He was too ill to say much; and I went to the next
door, and put it to Gum's wife that she should go and nurse Pike for
humanity's sake. Of course it was what she wanted to do. Poor thing! she
fell on her knees later, beseeching me not to betray him."
"And you have kept counsel all this time?"
"Yes," said the surgeon, laconically. "Would your lordship have done
otherwise, even though it had been a question of hanging?"
"_I!_ I wouldn't give a man a month at the treadmill if I could help it.
One gets into offences so easily," he dreamily added.
They crossed over the waste land, and Mr. Hillary opened the door of
the shed with a pass-key. A lock had been put on when Pike was lying in
rheumatic fever, lest intruders might enter unawares, and see him without
his disguise.
"Pike, I have brought you my lord. He won't betray you."