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THE STORY OF CHARLES STRANGE
A Novel
BY
MRS. HENRY WOOD
AUTHOR OF "EAST LYNNE," ETC.
IN THREE VOLUMES
VOL. III.
LONDON:
RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON
Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty the Queen
1888
[_All Rights Reserved_]
CONTENTS OF VOL. III.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. ON THE WATCH 1
II. TOM HERIOT 29
III. AN EVENING VISITOR 46
IV. RESTITUTION 64
V. CONFESSION 92
VI. DANGER 117
VII. WITH MR. JONES 136
VIII. AN ACCIDENT 165
IX. LAST DAYS 185
X. LAST WORDS 203
XI. DOWN AT MARSHDALE 226
XII. IN THE EAST WING 249
XIII. CONCLUSION 260
THE STORY OF CHARLES STRANGE.
CHAPTER I.
ON THE WATCH.
Mr. Serjeant Stillingfar sat at dinner in his house in Russell Square
one Sunday afternoon. A great cause, in which he was to lead, had
brought him up from circuit, to which he would return when the Nisi
Prius trial was over. The cloth was being removed when I entered. He
received me with his usual kindly welcome.
"Why not have come to dinner, Charles? Just had it, you say? All the
more reason why we might have had it together. Sit down, and help
yourself to wine."
Declining the wine, I drew my chair near to his, and told him what I
had come about.
A few days had gone on since the last chapter. With the trouble
connected with Mrs. Brightman, and the trouble connected with Tom
Heriot, I had enough on my mind at that time, if not upon my
shoulders. As regarded Mrs. Brightman, no one could help me; but
regarding the other----
Was Tom in London, or was he not? How was I to find out? I had again
gone prowling about the book-stall and its environs, and had seen no
trace of him. Had Leah really seen him, or only some other man who
resembled him?
Again I questioned Leah. Her opinion was not to be shaken. She held
emphatically to her assertion. It was Tom that she had seen, and none
other.
"You may have seen some other sailor, sir; I don't say to the
contrary; but the sailor I saw was Captain Heriot," she reiterated.
"Suppose I go again to-night, sir? I may, perhaps, have the good luck
to see him."
"Should you call it good luck, Leah?"
"Ah well, sir, you know what I mean," she answered. "Shall I go
to-night?"
"No, Leah; I am going myself. I cannot rest in this uncertainty."
Rest! I felt more like a troubled spirit or a wandering ghost. Arthur
Lake asked what had gone wrong with me, and where I disappeared to of
an evening.
Once more I turned out in discarded clothes to saunter about Lambeth.
It was Saturday night and the thoroughfares were crowded; but amidst
all who came and went I saw no trace of Tom.
Worried, disheartened, I determined to carry the perplexity to my
Uncle Stillingfar. That he was true as steel, full of loving-kindness
to all the world, no matter what their errors, and that he would aid
me with his counsel--if any counsel could avail--I well knew. And thus
I found myself at his house on that Sunday afternoon. Of course he had
heard about the escape of the convicts; had seen Tom's name in the
list; but he did not know that he was suspected of having reached
London. I told him of what Leah had seen, and added the little episode
about "Miss Betsy."
"And now, what can be done, Uncle Stillingfar? I have come to ask
you."
His kindly blue eyes became thoughtful whilst he pondered the
question. "Indeed, Charles, I know not," he answered. "Either you must
wait in patience until he turns up some fine day--as he is sure to do
if he is in London--or you must quietly pursue your search for him,
and smuggle him away when you have found him."
"But if I don't find him? Do you think it could be Tom that Leah saw?
Is it possible that he can be in London?"
"Quite possible. If a homeward vessel, bound, it may be, for the port
of London, picked them up, what more likely than that he is here?
Again, who else would call himself Charles Strange, and pass himself
off for you? Though I cannot see his motive for doing it."
"Did you ever know any man so recklessly imprudent, uncle?"
"I have never known any man so reckless as Tom Heriot. You must do
your best to find him, Charles."
"I don't know how. I thought you might possibly have suggested some
plan. Every day increases his danger."
"It does: and the chances of his being recognised."
"It seems useless to search further in Lambeth: he must have changed
his quarters. And to look about London for him will be like looking
for a needle in a bottle of hay. I suppose," I slowly added, "it would
not do to employ a detective?"
"Not unless you wish to put him into the lion's mouth," said the
Serjeant. "Why, Charles, it would be his business to retake him. Rely
upon it, the police are now looking for him if they have the slightest
suspicion that he is here."
At that time one or two private detectives had started in business on
their own account, having nothing to do with the police: now they have
sprung up in numbers. It was to these I alluded.
Serjeant Stillingfar shook his head. "I would not trust one of them,
Charles: it would be too dangerous an experiment. No; what you do, you
must do yourself. Once let Government get scent that he is here, and
we shall probably find the walls placarded with a reward for his
apprehension."
"One thing I am surprised at," I said as I rose to leave: "that if he
is here, he should not have let me know it. What can he be doing for
money? An escaped convict is not likely to have much of that about
him."
Serjeant Stillingfar shook his head. "There are points about the
affair that I cannot fathom, Charles. Talking of money--you are
well-off now, but if more than you can spare should be needed to get
Tom Heriot away, apply to me."
"Thank you, uncle; but I don't think it will be needed. Where would
you recommend him to escape to?"
"Find him first," was the Serjeant's answer.
He accompanied me himself to the front door. As we stood, speaking a
last word, a middle-aged man, with keen eyes and spare frame, dressed
as a workman, came up with a brisk step. Mr. Serjeant Stillingfar met
the smile on the man's face as he glanced up in passing.
"Arkwright!" he exclaimed. "I hardly knew you. Some sharp case in
hand, I conclude?"
"Just so, Serjeant; but I hope to bring it to earth before the day's
over. You know----"
Then the man glanced at me and came to a pause.
"However, I mustn't talk about it now, so good-afternoon, Serjeant."
And thus speaking, he walked briskly onwards.
"I wonder what he has in hand? I think he would have told me, Charles,
but for your being present," cried my uncle, looking after him. "A
keen man is Arkwright."
"_Arkwright!_" I echoed, the name now impressing itself upon me.
"Surely not Arkwright the famous detective!"
"Yes, it is. And he has evidently got himself up as a workman to
further some case that he has in hand. He knew you, Charles; depend
upon that; though you did not know him."
A fear, perhaps a foolish one, fell upon me. "Uncle Stillingfar," I
breathed, "can his case be _Tom's_? Think you it is he who is being
run to earth?"
"No, no. That is not likely," he answered, after a moment's
consideration. "Anyway, you must use every exertion to find him, for
his stay in London is full of danger."
It will readily be believed that this incident had not added to my
peace of mind. One more visit I decided to pay to the old ground in
Lambeth, and after that--why, in truth, whether to turn east, west,
north or south, I knew no more than the dead.
Monday was bright and frosty; Monday evening clear, cold and
starlight. The gaslights flared away in the streets and shops; the
roads were lined with wayfarers.
Sauntering down the narrow pavement on the opposite side of the way,
in the purposeless manner that a hopeless man favours, I approached
the book-stall. A sailor was standing before it, his head bent over
the volumes. Every pulse within me went up to fever heat: for there
was that in him that reminded me of Tom Heriot.
I crossed quietly to the stall, stood side by side with him, and took
up a handful of penny dreadfuls. Yes, it was he--Tom Heriot.
"Tom," I cried softly. "Tom!"
I felt the start he gave. But he did not move hand or foot; only his
eyes turned to scan me.
"Tom," I whispered again, apparently intent upon a grand picture of a
castle in flames, and a gentleman miraculously escaping with a lady
from an attic window. "Tom, don't you know me?"
"For goodness' sake don't speak to me, Charley!" he breathed in
answer, the words barely audible. "Go away, for the love of heaven!
I've been a prisoner here for the last three minutes. That policeman
yonder would know me, and I dare not turn. His name's Wren."
Three doors off, a policeman was standing at the edge of the pavement,
facing the shops, as if waiting to pounce upon someone he was
expecting to pass. Even as Tom spoke, he wheeled round to the right,
and marched up the street. Tom as quickly disappeared to the left,
leaving a few words in my ear.
"I'll wait for you at the other end, Charley; it is darker there than
here. Don't follow me immediately."
So I remained where I was, still bending an enraptured gaze upon the
burning castle and the gallant knight and damsel escaping from it at
their peril.
"Betsy says the account comes to seven shillings, Mr. Strange."
The address gave me almost as great a thrill as the sight of Tom had
done. It came from the man Lee, now emerging from his shop.
Involuntarily I pulled my hat lower upon my brow. He looked up and
down the street.
"Oh, I beg pardon--thought Mr. Strange was standing here," he said.
And then I saw my error. He had not spoken to me, but to Tom Heriot.
My gaze was still fascinated by the flaming picture.
"Anything you'd like this evening, sir?"
"I'll take this sheet--half a dozen of them," I said, putting down
sixpence.
"Thank you, sir. A fine night."
"Yes, very. Were you speaking to the sailor who stood here?" I added
carelessly "He went off in that direction, I think," pointing to the
one opposite to that Tom had taken.
"Yes," answered the man; "'twas Mr. Strange. He had asked me to look
how much his score was for tobacco. I dare say he'll be back
presently. Captain Strange, by rights," added Lee chattily.
"Oh! Captain of a vessel?"
"Of his own vessel--a yacht. Not but what he has been about the world
in vessels of all sorts, he tells us; one voyage before the mast, the
next right up next to the skipper. But for them ups and downs where,
as he says, would sailors find their experience?"
"Very true. Well, this is all I want just now. Good-evening."
"Good-evening, sir," replied Caleb Lee.
The end of the street to which Tom had pointed was destitute of shops;
the houses were small and poor; consequently, it was tolerably dark.
Tom was sauntering along, smoking a short pipe.
"Is there any place at hand where we can have a few words together in
tolerable security?" I asked.
"Come along," briefly responded Tom. "You walk on the other side of
the street, old fellow; keep me in view."
It was good advice, and I took it. He increased his pace to a brisk
walk, and presently turned down a narrow passage, which brought him to
a sort of small, triangular green, planted with shrubs and trees. I
followed, and we sat down on one of the benches.
"Are you quite mad, Tom?"
"Not mad a bit," laughed Tom. "I say, Charley, did you come to that
book-stall to look after me?"
"Ay. And it's about the tenth time I have been there."
"How the dickens did you find me out?"
"Chance one evening took Leah into the neighbourhood, and she happened
to see you. I had feared you might be in England."
"You had heard of the wreck of the _Vengeance_, I suppose; and that a
few of us had escaped. Good old Leah! Did I give her a fright?"
We were sitting side by side. Tom had put his pipe out, lest the light
should catch the sight of any passing stragglers. We spoke in
whispers. It was, perhaps, as safe a place as could be found;
nevertheless, I sat upon thorns.
Not so Tom. By the few signs that might be gathered--his light voice,
his gay laugh, his careless manner--Tom felt as happy and secure as if
he had been attending one of her Majesty's levees, in the full glory
of scarlet coat and flashing sword-blade.
"Do you know, Tom, you have half killed me with terror and
apprehension? How could you be so reckless as to come back to London?"
"Because the old ship brought me," lightly returned Tom.
"I suppose a vessel picked you up--and the comrades who escaped with
you?"
"It picked two of us up. The other three died."
"What, in the boat?"
He nodded. "In the open boat at sea."
"How did you manage to escape? I thought convicts were too well looked
after."
"So they are, under ordinary circumstances. Shipwrecks form the
exception. I'll give you the history, Charley."
"Make it brief, then. I am upon thorns."
Tom laughed, and began:
"We were started on that blessed voyage, a cargo of men in irons, and
for some time made a fair passage, and thought we must be nearing the
other side. Such a crew, that cargo, Charles! Such an awful lot!
Villainous wretches, who wore their guilt on their faces, and suffered
their deserts; half demons, most of them. A few amongst them were no
doubt like me, innocent enough; wrongfully accused and condemned----"
"But go on with the narrative, Tom."
"I swear I was innocent," he cried, with emotion, heedless of my
interruption. "I was wickedly careless, I admit that, but the guilt
was another's, not mine. When I put those bills into circulation,
Charles, I knew no more they were forged than you did. Don't you
believe me?"
"I do believe you. I have believed you throughout."
"And if the trial had not been hurried on I think it could have been
proved. It was hurried on, Charles, and when it was on it was hurried
over. I am suffering unjustly."
"Yes, Tom. But won't you go on with your story?"
"Where was I? Oh, about the voyage and the shipwreck. After getting
out of the south-east trades, we had a fortnight's light winds and
calms, and then got into a steady westerly wind, before which we ran
quietly for some days. One dark night, it was the fifteenth of
November, and thick, drizzling weather, the wind about north-west, we
had turned in and were in our first sleep, when a tremendous uproar
arose on deck; the watch shouting and tramping, the officers' orders
and the boatswain's mate's shrill piping rising above the din. One
might have thought Old Nick had leaped on board and was giving chase.
Next came distinctly that fearful cry, 'All hands save ship!' Sails
were being clewed up, yards were being swung round. Before we could
realize what it all meant, the ship had run ashore; and there she
stuck, bumping as if she would knock her bottom out."
"Get on, Tom," I whispered, for he had paused, and seemed to be
spinning a long yarn instead of a short one.
"Fortunately, the ship soon made a sort of cradle for herself in the
sand, and lay on her starboard bilge. To attempt to get her off was
hopeless. So they got us all out of the ship and on shore, and put us
under tents made of the sails. The skipper made out, or thought he
made out, the island to be that of Tristan d'Acunha: whether it was or
not I can't say positively. At first we thought it was uninhabited,
but it turned out to have a few natives on it, sixty or eighty in
all. In the course of a few days every movable thing had been landed.
All the boats were intact, and were moored in a sort of creek, or
small natural harbour, their gear, sails and oars in them."
"Hush!" I breathed, "or you are lost!"
A policeman's bull's-eye was suddenly turned upon the grass. By the
man's size, I knew him for Tom's friend, Wren. We sat motionless. The
light just escaped us, and the man passed on. But we had been in
danger.
"If you would only be quicker, Tom. I don't want to know about boats
and their gear."
He laughed. "How impatient you are, Charles! Well, to get on ahead. A
cargo of convicts cannot be kept as securely under such circumstances
as had befallen us as they could be in a ship's hold, and the
surveillance exercised was surprisingly lax. Two or three of the
prisoners were meditating an escape, and thought they saw their way to
effecting it by means of one of the boats. I found this out, and
joined the party. But there were almost insurmountable difficulties in
the way. It was absolutely necessary that we should put on ordinary
clothes--for what vessel, picking us up, but would have delivered us
up at the first port it touched at, had we been in convict dress? We
marked the purser's slop-chest, which was under a tent, and well
filled, and----"
"Do get on, Tom!"
"Here goes, then! One calm, but dark night, when other people were
sleeping, we stole down to the creek, five of us, rigged ourselves out
in the purser's toggery, leaving the Government uniforms in exchange,
unmoored one of the cutters, and got quietly away. We had secreted
some bread and salt meat; water there had been already on board. The
wind was off the land, and we let the boat drift before it a bit
before attempting to make sail. By daylight we were far enough from
the island; no chance of their seeing us--a speck on the waters. The
wind, hitherto south, had backed to the westward. We shaped a course
by the sun to the eastward, and sailed along at the rate of five or
six knots. My comrades were not as rough as they might have been;
rather decent fellows for convicts. Two of them were from Essex; had
been sentenced for poaching only. Now began our lookout: constantly
straining our eyes along the horizon for a sail, but especially astern
for an outward-bounder, but only saw one or two in the distance that
did not see us. What I underwent in that boat as day after day passed,
and no sail appeared, I won't enter upon now, old fellow. The
provisions were exhausted, and so was the water. One by one three of
my companions went crazy and died. The survivor and I had consigned
the last of them to the deep on the twelfth day, and then I thought my
turn had come; but Markham was worse than I was. How many hours went
on, I knew not. I lay at the bottom of the boat, exhausted and half
unconscious, when suddenly I heard voices. I imagined it to be a
dream. But in a few minutes a boat was alongside the cutter, and two
of its crew had stepped over and were raising me up. They spoke to me,
but I was too weak to understand or answer; in fact, I was delirious.
I and Markham were taken on board and put to bed. After some days,
passed in a sort of dreamy, happy delirium, well cared for and
attended to, I woke up to the realities of life. Markham was dead: he
had never revived, and died of exposure and weakness some hours after
the rescue."
"What vessel had picked you up?"
"It was the _Discovery_, a whaler belonging to Whitby, and homeward
bound. The captain, Van Hoppe, was Dutch by birth, but had been reared
in England and had always sailed in English ships. A good and kind
fellow, if ever there was one. Of course, I had to make my tale good
and suppress the truth. The passenger-ship in which I was sailing to
Australia to seek my fortune had foundered in mid-ocean, and those
who escaped with me had died of their sufferings. That was true so
far. Captain Van Hoppe took up my misfortunes warmly. Had he been my
own brother--had he been _you_, Charley--he could not have treated me
better or cared for me more. The vessel had a prosperous run home. She
was bound for the port of London; and when I put my hand into Van
Hoppe's at parting, and tried to thank him for his goodness, he left a
twenty-pound note in it. 'You'll need it, Mr. Strange,' he said; 'you
can repay me when your fortune's made and you are rich.'"
"_Strange!_" I cried.
Tom laughed.
"I called myself 'Strange' on the whaler. Don't know that it was wise
of me. One day when I was getting better and lay deep in
thought--which just then chanced to be of you, Charley--the mate
suddenly asked me what my name was. 'Strange,' I answered, on the spur
of the moment. That's how it was. And that's the brief history of my
escape."
"You have had money, then, for your wants since you landed," I
remarked.
"I have had the twenty pounds. It's coming to an end now."
"You ought not to have come to London. You should have got the captain
to put you ashore somewhere, and then made your escape from England."
"All very fine to talk, Charley! I had not a sixpence in my pocket, or
any idea that he was going to help me. I could only come on as far as
the vessel would bring me."
"And suppose he had not given you money--what then?"
"Then I must have contrived to let you know that I was home again, and
borrowed from you," he lightly replied.
"Well, your being here is frightfully dangerous."
"Not a bit of it. As long as the police don't suspect I am in England,
they won't look after me. It's true that a few of them might know me,
but I do not think they would in this guise and with my altered
face."
"You were afraid of one to-night."
"Well, _he_ is especially one who might know me; and he stood there so
long that I began to think he might be watching me. Anyway, I've been
on shore these three weeks, and nothing has come of it yet."
"What about that young lady named Betsy? Miss Betsy Lee."
Tom threw himself back in a fit of laughter.
"I hear the old fellow went down to Essex Street one night to
ascertain whether I lived there! The girl asked me one day where I
lived, and I rapped out Essex Street."
"But, Tom, what have you to do with the girl?"
"Nothing; nothing. On my honour. I have often been in the shop,
sometimes of an evening. The father has invited me to some grog in the
parlour behind it, and I have sat there for an hour chatting with him
and the girl. That's all. She is a well-behaved, modest little girl;
none better."
"Well, Tom, with one imprudence and another, you stand a fair
chance----"
"There, there! Don't preach, Charley. What you call imprudence, I call
fun."
"What do you think of doing? To remain on here for ever in this
disguise?"
"Couldn't, I expect, if I wanted to. I must soon see about getting
away."
"You must get away at once."
"I am not going yet, Charley; take my word for that; and I am as safe
in London, I reckon, as I should be elsewhere. Don't say but I may
have to clear out of this particular locality. If that burly policeman
is going to make a permanent beat of it about here, he might drop upon
me some fine evening."
"And you must exchange your sailor's disguise, as you call it, for a
better one."
"Perhaps so. That rough old coat you have on, Charley, might not come
amiss to me."
"You can have it. Why do you fear that policeman should know you,
more than any other?"
"He was present at the trial last August. Was staring me in the face
most of the day. His name's Wren."
I sighed.
"Well, Tom, it is getting late; we have sat here as long as is
consistent with safety," I said, rising.
He made me sit down again.
"The later the safer, perhaps, Charley. When shall we meet again?"
"Ay; when, and where?"
"Come to-morrow evening, to this same spot. It is as good a one as any
I know of. I shall remain indoors all day tomorrow. Of course one does
not care to run needlessly into danger. Shall you find your way to
it?"
"Yes, and will be here; but I shall go now. Do be cautious, Tom. Do
you want any money? I have brought some with me."
"Many thanks, old fellow; I've enough to go on with for a day or two.
How is Blanche? Did she nearly die of the disgrace?"
"She did not know of it. Does not know it yet."
"No!" he exclaimed in astonishment. "Why, how can it have been kept
from her? She does not live in a wood."
"Level has managed it, somehow. She was abroad during the trial, you
know. They have chiefly lived there since, Blanche seeing no English
newspapers; and, of course, her acquaintances do not gratuitously
speak to her about it. But I don't think it can be kept from her much
longer."
"But where does she think I am--all this time?"
"She thinks you are in India with the regiment."
"I suppose _he_ was in a fine way about it!"
"Level? Yes--naturally; and is still. He would have saved you, Tom, at
any cost."
"As you would, and one or two more good friends; but, you see, I did
not know what was coming upon me in time to ask them. It fell upon my
head like a thunderbolt. Level is not a bad fellow at bottom."
"He is a downright good one--at least, that's my opinion of him."
We stood hand locked in hand at parting. "Where are you staying?" I
whispered.
"Not far off. I've a lodging in the neighbourhood--one room."
"Fare you well, then, until to-morrow evening."
"Au revoir, Charley."