OLD SETH GOES HOME
Old Seth had a heart-breaking time of it.
To all intents and purposes he found himself in a foreign country. He
wandered bewilderedly here and there, thinking that where the crowds
were thickest there would be most chance of finding her he sought.
But, to his amazement, the crowds seemed equally thick wherever he
went, and every single person seemed to him to be hurrying for his or
her life on business that did not admit of a moment's delay.
He lost himself regularly every day. From the moment he loosed from
his quiet little harbour of refuge in the morning, till, by means of
the address on his card, he found himself eventually and miraculously
piloted back there by a 'series of top-hatted policemen, he was simply
tossing to and fro on the swirling waves of the mighty whirlpool,
without the slightest knowledge of where he was, except that he was in
London, and Kattie was somewhere in London too.
He tried to talk to people, policemen and cabmen on the stands, who
were the only ones who seemed not to be spending themselves in aimless
rushings to and fro. But his uncouth speech was Hebrew to them. At
first they grinned and shook their heads. Then, catching what sounded
like a rough attempt at English, they tried to understand, but soon
gave it up in spite of his woeful face and evident distress, and it
was only when at last he wanted to get home, and produced his card,
that they were able to assist him.
Fortunately the weather was cold and damp--conditions to which he was
accustomed. Hot summer days and the airless, evil-smelling streets
would have knocked him over in a week.
It seemed to Jim that the sad old face grew grayer and gaunter each
day when he came in to give his monotonous report, which was
comprehended in a dismal shake of the head and the simple word,
"Nowt!"
And Jim, hopeless himself of anything coming of the disheartening
quest, still did his best each day to cheer him. And Seth was glad of
the chance of speaking a word or two with some one who understood his
talk and sympathised with his woes.
"A most 'mazing place," he said, one time, "an' thicker wi' folk than
ah could ha' believed. An' ah connot understand them an' they connot
understand me. Ah wish----"
But the poor old fellow's wishes were never to be realised--not the
obvious ones at all events. He was neither to find Kattie, nor to find
himself safe home again in the spoiled cottage by the Mere.
Perhaps it was best so.
The inevitable happened--that which Jim had feared for him from the
time he saw him drift helplessly away into the crowd that first day.
He had written all about the matter to Jack, and Jack's reply, while
it lacked nothing in sympathy for old Seth in his bereavement; yet
expressed in unmistakable language the writer's astonishment and
indignation that he could for one moment have thought any of them
guilty of such a deed.
Jim had also waited hopefully on Lord Deseret, to see if his efforts
had met with any success. But, so far, they had not.
"I confess I had certain ideas on the subject," said his lordship,
"and I have had them followed up, but quite without result. My people
are entirely at fault. Is it possible we are all on a false scent and
she is nearer home all the time? The indications pointing to her
having come to London are, after all, exceedingly slight and vague."
"I've no idea," said Jim despondently. "I wish the old chap would go
home. He can do no good here and he's on my mind day and night. I'm
certain he'll get run over one of these days."
And, sure enough, there came a day when no Seth put in an appearance,
and Jim's fears felt themselves justified.
He sent Joyce round to his lodgings. The old man had never turned up
the night before.
It came at a bad time too, for they were working might and main at
their preparations for the coming campaign. The Guards had left for
Southampton the day before. They themselves were down for service and
the call might come any day. War, indeed, had not yet been formally
declared, but that was a minor matter. There was no doubt about what
was going to happen.
So Jim packed off Joyce in a hansom, with orders to make the round of
the hospitals and report at once if he got any news.
He was back at midday. The old man was lying at Guy's, broken to
pieces and not expected to last the day out.
Jim jumped into the cab with a very heavy heart. It was just what he
had feared, and it was terribly sad. And yet, as his cab wormed its
slow course through the traffic about London Bridge, there came to him
a dim apprehension that what seemed to them so sorrowful a happening
might, after all, in some inscrutable way, be the better way for old
Seth. For his life, if he had lived, must have been a sad and broken
affair, and now----
He found the old man lying quietly in his bed, with the screens
already drawn round it. He was only just in time.
The gaunt gray face brightened at sight of him, as Jim took his hand
gently and sat down beside him.
"Ah'm fain to see yo'," he said, with difficulty. "'Twur a
waggin . . . aw my fault. . . . Tell her. . . . Tell her . . ."--the
crushed chest laboured in agony,--"tell her to come whoam. . . ."
And presently, without having spoken again, the dim light failed
suddenly in the weather-worn gray eyes, and the life faded out of the
gnarled brown hand, and Jim, boy still, put down his head and sobbed
at the grim sadness of it all.
A nurse peeped round the screen and was surprised at the sight, for
the eagerness of the splendid young officer to get to the uncouth old
wreck, of whom, beyond his mortal injuries, they had been able to make
so little, had impressed them all.
It was not till Jim had mopped himself up at last, and stood taking a
last sad look at the tired old face, that she came in again.
"You knew the old man, sir?" she said sympathetically, behind which
lay considerable curiosity.
"I've known him all my life. He's one of our people from Carne. It's
terribly sad, you know. His daughter left home, and he came up to look
for her. Think of it--to look for her in London! And I was afraid, all
the time, how it would end. And it has. Poor old Seth!"
He told them all they wanted to know, and arranged with them to have
the old man decently buried, and gave them money for the purpose and
something for the hospital, and his own name and address.
"Then you're going to the war," said the nurse, with an animated face.
"Oh yes; we may go any day now."
"You ought to take some of us with you. You'll need us, you'll see."
He had promised to call on Mme Beteta that afternoon, and would have
put off the visit but that he knew she would be disappointed, and she
had shown herself so very kindly disposed towards him.
So he went, but madame's shrewd eyes fathomed his state of mind at
once.
"Now you have some trouble, and perhaps it is my chance to be of use,"
she said, and bit by bit drew from him all the story of Kattie's
disappearance and old Seth's death.
"If any one can find her, Lord Deseret will. He is a very, very clever
old man, and in some things very young. She is pretty, you say?"
"We always thought her very pretty, even as a wild girl about the
sands, and she has grown prettier still."
"London is a bad place for a pretty girl such as she. Even if you find
her----" And she broke off and looked at him musingly. "What could you
do if you did find her?"
"Get her to go home."
"And if she would not?"
"Then--I don't know. It is horrible to think of Kattie running loose
in London."
"When Lord Deseret finds her, bring her to me and I will see what I
can do," said madame thoughtfully; and there the matter rested.