TOM HERIOT.
I found my way straight enough the next night to the little green with
its trees and shrubs. Tom was there, and was humming one of our
boyhood's songs taught us by Leah:
"Young Henry was as brave a youth
As ever graced a martial story;
And Jane was fair as lovely truth:
She sighed for love, and he for glory.
"To her his faith he meant to plight,
And told her many a gallant story:
But war, their honest joys to blight,
Called him away from love to glory.
"Young Henry met the foe with pride;
Jane followed--fought--ah! hapless story!
In man's attire, by Henry's side,
She died for love, and he for glory."
He was still dressed as a sailor, but the pilot-coat was buttoned up
high and tight about his throat, and the round glazed hat was worn
upon the front of his head instead of the back of it.
"I thought you meant to change these things, Tom," I said as we sat
down.
"All in good time," he answered; "don't quite know yet what costume to
adopt. Could one become a negro-melody man, think you, Charley--or a
Red Indian juggler with balls and sword-swallowing?"
How light he seemed! how supremely indifferent! Was it real or only
assumed? Then he turned suddenly upon me:
"I say, what are you in black for, Charley? For my sins?"
"For Mr. Brightman."
"Mr. Brightman!" he repeated, his tone changing to one of concern. "Is
he dead?"
"He died the last week in February. Some weeks ago now. Died quite
suddenly."
"Well, well, well!" softly breathed Tom Heriot. "I am very sorry. I
did not know it. But how am I likely to know anything of what the past
months have brought forth?"
It would serve no purpose to relate the interview of that night in
detail. We spent it partly in quarrelling. That is, in differences of
opinion. It was impossible to convince Tom of his danger. I told him
about the Sunday incident, when Detective Arkwright passed the door of
Serjeant Stillingfar, and my momentary fear that he might be looking
after Tom. He only laughed. "Good old Uncle Stillingfar!" cried he;
"give my love to him." And all his conversation was carried on in the
same light strain.
"But you must leave Lambeth," I urged. "You said you would do so."
"I said I might. I will, if I see just cause for doing so. Plenty of
time yet. I am not _sure_, you know, Charles, that Wren would know
me."
"The very fact of your having called yourself 'Strange' ought to take
you away from here."
"Well, I suppose that was a bit of a mistake," he acknowledged. "But
look here, brother mine, your own fears mislead you. Until it is known
that I have made my way home no one will be likely to look after me.
Believing me to be at the antipodes, they won't search London for me."
"They may suspect that you are in London, if they don't actually know
it."
"Not they. To begin with, it must be a matter of absolute uncertainty
whether we got picked up at all, after escaping from the island; but
the natural conclusion will be that, if we were, it was by a vessel
bound for the colonies: homeward-bound ships do not take that course.
Everyone at all acquainted with navigation knows that. I assure you,
our being found by the whaler was the merest chance in the world. Be
at ease, Charley. I can take care of myself, and I will leave Lambeth
if necessary. One of these fine mornings you may get a note from me,
telling you I have emigrated to the Isle of Dogs, or some such
enticing quarter, and have become 'Mr. Smith.' Meanwhile, we can meet
here occasionally."
"I don't like this place, Tom. It must inevitably be attended with
more or less danger. Had I not better come to your lodgings?"
"No," he replied, after a moment's consideration. "I am quite sure
that we are safe here, and there it's hot and stifling--a dozen
families living in the same house. And I shall not tell you where the
lodgings are, Charles: you might be swooping down upon me to carry me
away as Mephistopheles carried away Dr. Faustus."
After supplying him with money, with a last handshake, whispering a
last injunction to be cautious, I left the triangle, and left him
within it. The next moment found me face to face with the burly frame
and wary glance of Mr. Policemen Wren. He was standing still in the
starlight. I walked past him with as much unconcern as I could
muster. He turned to look after me for a time, and then continued his
beat.
It gave me a scare. What would be the result if Tom met him
unexpectedly as I had done? I would have given half I was worth to
hover about and ascertain. But I had to go on my way.
* * * * *
"Can you see Lord Level, sir?"
It was the following Saturday afternoon, and I was just starting for
Hastings. The week had passed in anxious labour. Business cares for
me, more work than I knew how to get through, for Lennard was away
ill, and constant mental torment about Tom. I took out my watch before
answering Watts.
"Yes, I have five minutes to spare. If that will be enough for his
lordship," I added, laughing, as we shook hands: for he had followed
Watts into the room.
"You are off somewhere, Charles?"
"Yes, to Hastings. I shall be back again to-morrow night. Can I do
anything for you?"
"Nothing," replied Lord Level. "I came up from Marshdale this morning,
and thought I would come round this afternoon to ask whether you have
any news."
When Lord Level went to Marshdale on the visit that bore so suspicious
an aspect to his wife, he had remained there only one night, returning
to London the following day. This week he had been down again, and
stayed rather longer--two days, in fact. Blanche, as I chanced to
know, was rebelling over it. Secretly rebelling, for she had not
brought herself to accuse him openly.
"News?" I repeated.
"Of Tom Heriot."
Should I tell Lord Level? Perhaps there was no help for it. When he
had asked me before I had known nothing positively; now I knew only
too much.
"Why I should have it, I know not; but a conviction lies upon me that
he has found his way back to London," he continued. "Charles, you look
conscious. Do you know anything?"
"You are right. He is here, and I have seen him."
"Good heavens!" exclaimed Lord Level, throwing himself back in his
chair. "Has he really been mad enough to come back to London?"
Drawing my own chair nearer to him, I bent forward, and in low tones
gave him briefly the history. I had seen Tom on the Monday and Tuesday
nights, as already related to the reader. On the Thursday night I was
again at the trysting-place, but Tom did not meet me. The previous
night, Friday, I had gone again, and again Tom did not appear.
"Is he taken, think you?" cried Lord Level.
"I don't know: and you see I dare not make any inquiries. But I think
not. Had he been captured, it would be in the papers."
"I am not so sure of that. What an awful thing! What suspense for us
all! Can _nothing_ be done?"
"Nothing," I answered, rising, for my time was up. "We can only wait,
and watch, and be silent."
"If it were not for the disgrace reflected upon us, and raking it up
again to people's minds, I would say let him be re-taken! It would
serve him right for his foolhardiness."
"How is Blanche?"
"Cross and snappish; unaccountably so: and showing her temper to me
rather unbearably."
I laughed--willing to treat the matter lightly. "She does not care
that you should go travelling without her, I take it."
Lord Level, who was passing out before me, turned and gazed into my
face.
"Yes," said he emphatically. "But a man may have matters to take up
his attention, and his movements also, that he may deem it inexpedient
to talk of to his wife."
He spoke with a touch of haughtiness. "Very true," I murmured, as we
shook hands and went out together, he walking away towards Gloucester
Place, I jumping into the cab waiting to take me to the station.
Mrs. Brightman was better; I knew that; and showing herself more
self-controlled. But there was no certainty that the improvement would
be lasting. In truth, the certainty lay rather the other way. Her
mother's home was no home for Annabel; and I had formed the resolution
to ask her to come to mine.
The sun had set when I reached Hastings, and Miss Brightman's house.
Miss Brightman, who seemed to grow less strong day by day, which I was
grieved to hear, was in her room lying down. Annabel sat at the front
drawing-room window in the twilight. She started up at my entrance,
full of surprise and apprehension.
"Oh, Charles! Has anything happened? Is mamma worse?"
"No, indeed; your mamma is very much better," said I cheerfully. "I
have taken a run down for the pleasure of seeing you, Annabel."
She still looked uneasy. I remembered the dreadful tidings I had
brought the last time I came to Hastings. No doubt she was thinking
of it, too, poor girl.
"Take a seat, Charles," she said. "Aunt Lucy will soon be down."
I drew a chair opposite to her, and talked for a little time on
indifferent topics. The twilight shades grew deeper, passers-by more
indistinct, the sea less bright and shimmering. Silence stole over
us--a sweet silence all too conscious, all too fleeting. Annabel
suddenly rose, stood at the window, and made some slight remark about
a little boat that was nearing the pier.
"Annabel," I whispered, as I rose and stood by her, "you do not know
what I have really come down for."
"No," she answered, with hesitation.
"When I last saw you at your own home, you may remember that you were
in very great trouble. I asked you to share it with me, but you would
not do so."
She began to tremble, and became agitated, and I passed my arm round
her waist.
"My darling, I now know all."
Her heart beat violently as I held her. Her hand shook nervously in
mine.
"You cannot know all!" she cried piteously.
"I know all; more than you do. Mrs. Brightman was worse after you
left, and Hatch sent for me. She and Mr. Close have told me the whole
truth."
Annabel would have shrunk away, in the full tide of shame that swept
over her, and a low moan broke from her lips.
"Nay, my dear, instead of shrinking from me, you must come nearer to
me--for ever. My home must be yours now."
She did not break away from me, and stood pale and trembling, her
hands clasped, her emotion strong.
"It cannot, must not be, Charles."
"Hush, my love. It _can_ be--and shall be."
"Charles," she said, her very lips trembling, "weigh well what you are
saying. Do not suffer the--affection--I must speak fully--the implied
engagement that was between us, ere this unhappiness came to my
knowledge and yours--do not suffer it to bind you now. It is a fearful
disgrace to attach to my poor mother, and it is reflected upon me."
"Were your father living, Annabel, should you say the disgrace was
also reflected upon _him_?"
"Oh no, no. I could not do so. My good father! honourable and
honoured. Never upon him."
I laughed a little at her want of logic.
"Annabel, my dear, you have yourself answered the question. As I hold
you to my heart now, so will I, in as short a time as may be, hold you
in my home and at my hearth. Let what will betide, you shall have one
true friend to shelter and protect you with his care and love for ever
and for ever."
Her tears were falling.
"Oh please, please, Charles! I am sure it ought not to be. Aunt Lucy
would tell you so."
Aunt Lucy came in at that moment, and proved to be on my side. She
would be going to Madeira at the close of the summer, and the
difficulty as to what was to be done then with Annabel had begun to
trouble her greatly.
"I cannot take her with me, you see, Charles," she said. "In her
mother's precarious state, the child must not absent herself from
England. Still less can I leave her to her mother's care. Therefore I
think your proposal exactly meets the dilemma. I suppose matters have
been virtually settled between you for some little time now."
"Oh, Aunt Lucy!" remonstrated Annabel, blushing furiously.
"Well, my dear, and I say it is all for the best. If you can suggest a
better plan I am willing to hear it."
Annabel sat silent, her head drooping.
"I may tell you this much, child: your father looked forward to it and
approved it. Not that he would have allowed the marriage to take place
just yet had he lived; I am sure of that; but he is not living, and
circumstances alter cases."
"I am sure he liked me, Miss Brightman," I ventured to put in, as
modestly as I could; "and I believe he would have consented to our
marriage."
"Yes, he liked you very much; and so do I," she added, laughing. "I
wish I could say as much for Mrs. Brightman. The opposition, I fancy,
will come from her."
"You think she will oppose it?" I said--and, indeed, the doubt had
lain in my own mind.
"I am afraid so. Of course there will be nothing for it but patience.
Annabel cannot marry without her consent."
How a word will turn the scales of our hopes and fears! That Mrs.
Brightman would oppose and wither our bright prospects came to me in
that moment with the certainty of conviction.
"Come what come may, we will be true to each other," I whispered to
Annabel the next afternoon. We were standing at the end of the pier,
looking out upon the calm sea, flashing in the sunshine, and I
imprisoned her hand momentarily in mine. "If we have to exercise all
the patience your Aunt Lucy spoke of, we will still hope on, and put
our trust in Heaven."
"Even so, Charles." The evening was yet early when I reached London,
and I walked home from the station. St. Mary's was striking half-past
seven as I passed it. At the self-same moment, an arm was inserted
into mine. I turned quickly, wondering if anyone had designs upon my
small hand-bag.
"All right, Charley! I'm not a burglar."
It was only Lake. "Why, Arthur! I thought you had gone to Oxford until
Monday!"
"Got news last night that the fellow could not have me: had to go down
somewhere or other," he answered, as we walked along arm-in-arm. "I
say, I had a bit of a scare just now."
"In what way?"
"I thought I saw Tom pass. Tom Heriot," he added in a whisper.
"Oh, but that's impossible, you know, Lake," I said, though I felt my
pulses quicken. "All your fancy."
"It was just under that gas-lamp at the corner of Wellington Street,"
Lake went on. "He was sauntering along as if he had nothing to do,
muffled in a coat that looked a mile too big for him, and a red
comforter. He lifted his face in passing, and stopped suddenly, as if
he had recognised me, and were going to speak; then seemed to think
better of it, turned on his heel and walked back the way he had been
coming. Charley, if it was not Tom Heriot, I never saw such a likeness
as that man bore to him."
My lips felt glued. "It could not have been Tom Heriot, Lake. You know
Tom is at the antipodes. We will not talk of him, please. Are you
coming home with me?"
"Yes. I was going on to Barlow's Chambers, but I'll come with you
instead."