"Poor old Wilters," said Tom, as he heard the door close. "I didn't
think he was such a thorough gentleman. But this won't do."
He was so wound up by the excitement, and the feeling that everything
now depended upon him that he seemed to forget that there was such a
thing as fatigue.
"Now, gov'nor," he said, hurrying into the library, where the old man
had finished his port and cigar, and then laid his head upon his hand to
sit and think of the little fair-haired girl who had played about his
knees, and who had, as it were, been driven from him, to go--whither?
who could tell?
"Eh? yes, Tom," said the old man.
"Quick as lightning, father. Clean linen and socks, brush and shaving
tackle in a small bag, and we're off--pursuit."
"Pursuit, Tom, eh? Do you mean me?"
"Yes, you, of course," said Tom.
"Hadn't--hadn't her ladyship better go, Tom?" said his lordship, feebly.
"Hang it, no, father. You and I go together."
"But--but--but, Tom," faltered the old man; and there was a lingering
look of hope in his pathetic face; "it isn't so bad as I thought, is
it?"
"I don't know, father, 'pon my soul, I can't say, really. We'll see.
Poor Maude has been driven to this mad step by her ladyship, and it is
possible--mind, I only say possible--that she may have preferred to
accompany--no, damn it all, I'm as mad as she is, even Wilters don't
believe it. Father, no! no!! no!!! Wilters is right--my sister would
not stoop to take such a step. She is a true lady."
"Yes, Tom, God bless her, she is," faltered the old man, "and I shall--
shall about break my heart if I'm to lose my darling."
"Come, father, come, father," cried the young man huskily. "This is no
time for tears, you must act. Yes, and in future too. You see what
giving way to her ladyship has done."
"Yes, yes, my son," said the old man. "I'll rebel--I'll strike for
freedom."
Tom smiled sadly as he gazed at his father; and then he rang the bell,
which was responded to promptly by Robbins.
"Send up and ask her ladyship if she can see us. Then put a change of
linen in one valise for his lordship and myself."
The butler bowed, and returned at the end of five minutes to say that
her ladyship was sitting up in her dressing-room if they would come.
Her ladyship looked really ill as she sat there, tended by Tryphie and
Justine, and the latter moved towards the door.
"You need not go, Justine," said Tom, quietly, and the Frenchwoman's
eyes sparkled at this token of confidence as she resumed her seat at her
ladyship's side.
Tom marked the change in his mother, and he was ready to condole with
her, but she swept his kind intentions to the winds by exclaiming--
"Oh, Tom, I can never show my face in society again. Such a brilliant
match too. My heart is broken."
"Poor old lady!" said Tom, bursting into a sarcastic fit in his rage at
her selfishness and utter disregard of the fate of her child. "But we
want some money to go in search."
"Money?" cried her ladyship. "Search? Not a penny. The wicked
creature. And to-morrow. Such a brilliant match. Oh, that wicked
girl!"
"No, no," said Tom, "it was to be to-day. But don't fret, _mia cara
madre_, as we say in Italian. It is only a change. A fine handsome
son-in-law, Italian too. You ought to be proud of him."
"Tom!" cried her ladyship.
"Oh, milord Thomas, it is not so," cried Justine, shaking her head.
"Oh yes," cried Tom, sarcastically. "Such a nice change. You adore
music, mamma, and the signor can attend your reunions with his
instrument."
"Tom, you are killing me. Oh, that I was ever a mother."
"It will be grand," cried Tom, rubbing his hands. "Maude can sing too,
and take a turn at the handle when the signor gets tired."
"Take what money you want, Tom," sobbed her ladyship, and she handed her
keys.
Tom smiled grimly, took the keys, and did take what money he wanted--all
there was--from a small cabinet on a side table.
"Where--where are you going?" sighed her ladyship.
"Where!" said Tom, "everywhere. To bring poor Maude home."
"No, no, Tom, impossible--impossible," cried her ladyship.
"We'll see about that," said Tom. "Now, father, come along;" and the
couple descended to the dining-room.
"Here, Robbins," cried the young man, as the butler came to answer the
bell, "what time is it?"
"Harpus four, my lord," said the butler, who looked haggard and in want
of a shave.
"Humph! Well, look here, we've gone on to Scotland Yard if that
policeman returns."
"Yes, my lord."
"And then--well, never mind about then. Here, go up and ask Miss Wilder
to come and speak to me, and send Joseph for a cab. Not gone to bed,
has he?"
"No, sir; they're all having a cup o' coffee in the kitchen, sir."
"Trust 'em, just the time when they'd like a feed," growled Tom.
"There: Miss Wilder. Look sharp."
Five minutes after Tom stood at the door holding Tryphie's hand, while
his father went slowly down to the cab.
"Good-bye, little one," he said.
"But, Tom, what are you going to do?"
"I'm going to bring my sister back, and then--"
"And then, Tom dear," whispered Tryphie, throwing her arms about his
neck--"There, do you believe I care for you now?"
"My little pet," he whispered hoarsely, and rushed away just as Mr
Hurkle came up undulating, and looking more like a pulled out concertina
than ever.
"Sorry I've been so long, sir," he panted; "but I understand I am
required to--"
"Go to the devil," cried Tom, brushing past him; and as the daylight was
growing broader the cab drove into Great Scotland Yard, where there was
a certain conversation, and wires were set to work, after which there
was an adjournment for breakfast to an hotel at Charing Cross.
"Are--are we going in pursuit, my dear boy?" said his lordship, feebly.
"Yes, certainly, and in earnest."
"When, my dear Tom?"
"Now directly, father," said the young man sternly. "The poor girl has
been driven mad by her mother's cruelty; and in a wild fit of
infatuation she has preferred to share the fortunes of this handsome
foreign vagabond to marrying a worn-out _roue_."
"But, my dear Tom, it is impossible."
"Look here, father," said the young man, "the poor girl's future is at
stake. She has been cruelly treated. Our behaviour to Charley Melton
was simply disgusting--one day he was worshipped, supposed to have
money; the next he was forbidden the house, because he was poor. As for
Maude's feelings--of course, poor girl, as a young lady of fashion, she
ought to have had none. I hope mamma is satisfied with her new
son-in-law."
"But--but where are we going?"
"Don't know yet," said the young man, harshly. "To Paris certain--
probably to Italy. Maybe, though," he said, with a bitter laugh, "only
as far as the padrone's at Saffron Hill."
By the time father and son had made a very poor breakfast, a sergeant
was ushered in by the waiter.
"We've got the cabman, sir."
"Well, where did he take them?"
"Charing Cross station, sir."
"Of course," said Tom--"they would just catch the night train for the
tidal boat. Come along, father."
"Too soon for the train yet, sir," said the sergeant; "but I dare say
they'll have been stopped at Folkestone or Dover, unless it was a dodge,
and they haven't left town."
"You see to that," said Tom; "I'll go on to Folkestone."
"Right, sir," and in due time the pair--father and son--were in pursuit,
with the wheels of the fast train seeming always to grind out a tune
such as is played by an organ whose handle is turned by a dark-eyed,
olive-skinned Italian; while when the engine stopped, instead of calling
out the name of the station, the men seemed to whine--"Ah, signora--ah,
bella signora," and in his irritation Tom lit a cigar, and yelled forth
the word condemnation in its most abbreviated form.