Arthur Allen, barrister-at-law, was of about the same age as his friend
Carew; a man possessed of private means sufficient for his needs, into
whose chambers so few briefs found their way that he had for some years
dispensed with the services of a clerk. But, as one would have surmised
after glancing at the strong, intelligent face, he was a man by no means
lacking in energy, and not of idle disposition: as a matter of fact, a
scholar, and one who had taken high honours at his university, he still
maintained his studious habits, and, having practically abandoned a
profession that was uncongenial to him, he devoted himself to literary
pursuits; and his thoughtful articles in the reviews and in the
newspaper to which he was attached brought him in no insignificant
addition to his income.
No mere bookworm, he had been an athlete in his youth; but now his one
outdoor form of amusement was the sailing of his little yacht, on which,
always acting as his own skipper, he had taken many a delightful cruise
in home and distant waters. He was an enthusiastic lover of the sea.
This was the one taste he had in common with Carew. It was at some yacht
club, of which they were both members, that they had become acquainted.
It was a lovely August evening. The windows of Allen's bachelor chambers
in the Temple were open, and through them could be seen that fair oasis
of London's desert of bricks and mortar, Fountain Court, with its
stately buildings, ancient trees, and quiet garden with splashing
fountains in its midst. Nor was the view confined; for, beyond the
chapel and the green, could be perceived the broad, gleaming Thames, and
the distant Surrey shore, glorified by a faint mist; a peaceful,
old-world spot, with a contemplative air about it, for it is haunted by
the memories of much departed greatness. Allen was reclining in a
comfortable arm-chair, drawn up to the open window, in whose recesses
geraniums bloomed, their vivid blossoms occasionally shaking beneath the
breath of the soft south wind that had come directly from the cool
river.
He smoked his pipe as he looked out upon the sweet sunset scene, his
mind happily occupied in planning his coming cruise, when his
meditations were interrupted by a knock at the outer door. He rose to
admit his visitor, opened the door, and there stood before him Henry
Carew in serge suit and yachting cap, a small Gladstone bag in his hand.
"Hallo, Carew, old man! you have not been long replying to my letter. I
was afraid you would have left the office before it reached you. Come
in."
"Are you alone?" inquired Carew, in a low voice.
"Yes, quite alone. I am smoking a pipe of peace by myself. You have just
come at the right time."
They entered the room, and then, as the light of the sunset fell upon
the solicitor's face, Allen perceived its haggard expression.
"How queer you look, Carew!" he exclaimed. "Are you ill?"
"Ill--no, not at all; but worried--worried almost out of my life,"
replied Carew wildly, throwing himself into a chair, and putting his
face between his hands.
Allen sat in a chair opposite to him, refilled and lit his pipe, and, as
he smoked, gazed at his friend with feelings of perplexed compassion.
"Have a pipe, old fellow; there is nothing like a pipe for worry."
"A pipe?" cried Carew, with contemptuous bitterness. "No; but have you
some brandy? Give me some brandy."
"Certainly, Carew," and the barrister produced a spirit-case, some
glasses, and water.
Carew poured a quantity of spirit into a glass and drank it neat. He
was usually a temperate man.
"That is not the way to clear one's brain for confronting one's
troubles," remarked Allen.
"No, you are right. It is foolish of me. Allen, I have come to say that
I shall be very glad to accompany you on your cruise."
"I am delighted to hear that. A good blow in the North Sea will do you
good, if your mind is so upset."
"Allen," said Carew, pulling himself together and speaking with more
self-possession, "I wish I could speak to you of the business that is
troubling me, but I am not at liberty to do so. It concerns others."
"I don't want to know anything about it, old man; but I am sure you will
soon get out of your trouble, whatever it is. With an easy conscience no
man is miserable for long. And now that I have secured you as a hand, I
have a sufficient crew. So we will start to-morrow morning. Will you be
ready by then?"
"I am ready now. You see I have brought my baggage with me."
"Then, as we have to catch an early train to-morrow, you had better
sleep to-night in my chambers; I can put you up. Our destination is the
Dutch coast, old man, and we should have a jolly time of it. You have
not yet seen my new boat, the _Petrel_--a yawl of twenty-eight tons,
yacht measurement; a splendid sea-boat. I would go anywhere in her. She
is now lying off Erith."
Carew had been listening attentively. "What crew do you carry?" he
asked.
"Ah, let me tell you that you will have lots of work to do. We shall be
but three all told. I have shipped one hand only--Jim, the fisherman,
who was with me last year. Another friend was coming with me, but he has
disappointed me."
"For how long will you be away?"
"About a fortnight. I have been a bit fagged of late, and want a
holiday. I only made up my mind to take this cruise this afternoon. Not
a soul but yourself knows we are going."
On hearing this a sigh of relief escaped Carew. Yes, if he were once on
board the yacht all trace of him would be lost. He felt almost jubilant
as he thought of it; the recent acute tension of his mind had left a
sort of hysterical weakness behind, and he alternated easily between
exultant hope and profoundest despair.
He reflected that if he could but contrive to reach Erith without being
observed by any who knew him, he was safe, at anyrate for some time. But
how to do so? It was possible that even already detectives had been set
to watch his movements. He must take his chance of that, use all his
wits, and incur no risk that could be avoided. Fearing to show himself
in the streets, more especially in the Strand or Fleet Street, where so
many would know him by sight at least, he suggested to Allen that they
should send to a neighbouring chop-house for their dinners, and remain
quietly in the chambers, instead of dining, as was their wont, at a
club. The barrister agreed to this, and therefore had no opportunity
that night of meeting any of his friends, and he communicated to no one
his intention of sailing on the morrow. He merely left a note for his
housekeeper on his table, informing her that he would be out of town for
a fortnight, and that his letters were not to be forwarded.
* * * * *
At an early hour on the following morning a cab was brought round to the
door of the barrister's chambers, and the two friends drove off to
Charing Cross Station, arriving there but a few minutes before their
train started. The chances of anyone who knew him recognising Carew on
the way were thus reduced to a minimum. At Erith Allen's man, Jim, was
awaiting them with the dinghy. He was a very broad-shouldered,
florid-faced man of forty, with a protuberance in one cheek indicating
the presence of a quid. He looked exactly what he was--a hardy,
North-Sea smackman.
Jim pulled them off to the yacht, and when the solicitor, who was
thoroughly at home on a boat, a keen lover of the sea, with yachting as
his one innocent pleasure, stood on the white deck, and, looking around,
saw how glorious was that summer's day, beheld the river sparkling in
the sunshine, thronged with stately ships and picturesque barges tacking
up with the flood against the soft south-west wind, a delightful sense
of freedom rushed upon him.
Oh, what a thing it was to have left behind him that accursed city, with
its weariness, its anxieties, the endless jangles of the law, the
feverish play, the guilt, the terrible dread of detection--to have left
it for ever!
"Now, Jim, off we go!" cried the skipper. The dinghy was lifted on
board, the mainsail was hoisted, then the jib; the moorings were slipt,
up went the foresail, and the yacht shot out into the stream; then,
obedient to her rudder, bore away, and tore down the river before the
freshening breeze on the top of the strong ebb tide. Needless it is to
describe that pleasant summer day's sail. Allen was in the highest
spirits, and for him the happy hours flew rapidly by. Even Carew,
intoxicated with the pure air and sunshine, and the delightful sight of
dancing waters, forgot his sin and misery, and felt almost light-hearted
for the first time for months; and at last, when the yacht reached the
broader water, thinking over his position, he gave a sigh of infinite
relief. Now, indeed, he was safe. No fugitive had ever left so little
trace behind him.
They were well outside the Thames, in the East Swin Channel, before
dark. The sun set in a golden haze, ominous of storm on the morrow, and
then the wind dropped. The yacht sailed very slowly down the English
coast during the night, the three men taking it in turn to steer and
sleep. At sunrise they were off the Naze, and the sky looked so stormy
and the glass fell so rapidly that there was some discussion as to
whether it would not be well to put in to Harwich. But Carew was so
earnestly opposed to this that the owner decided to push on, and the
vessel's head was turned seaward towards the mouth of the Maas. The
English coast loomed less and less distinct; but so light was the wind
that it was not till midday that they lost all sight of the land. Then
the wind began to pipe up suddenly, and seeing nothing but stormy clouds
and heaving water around him, Carew's spirits rose wonderfully; a
reaction of wild gaiety succeeded his anxiety.
At four it was blowing so hard that they took two reefs in the mainsail
and shifted jibs. Shortly before sunset, Carew was taking his turn at
the tiller; the others were below. After a while the motion of the yacht
became so violent that the owner came on deck to have a look round.
"The wind has freshened a lot this last half-hour, and there's a nasty
sea getting up," he said. "It will be blowing a gale of wind before the
morning. Well, we have a good craft under our feet."
"She steers wonderfully easily," replied the solicitor. "She's a
beautiful boat. I would not mind crossing the Atlantic in her."
"I should think not," said the proud owner. "But look at that vessel
across your lee-bow, Carew. What the dickens are they up to on board of
her? She's yawing all over the place. First I thought she was on the
port-tack; then she seemed as if she was in stays; and now--ah, I see
it--she is hove-to."
"She is a small brig," said Carew. "Get the glasses up and see what you
can make of her."
Allen dived below, brought up the binoculars, and scanned the vessel.
"By Jove!" he cried, "she's in a nice mess. Her bowsprit is carried
away, her foretopmast too, and her jib's streaming away like a flag.
Hallo! and part of her stem and bulwarks have gone."
"Collision." It was Jim's voice. He had just come on deck, and his quick
eye at once realised the brig's mishap. Then he looked at her intently
for some moments, and spoke again, in eager tones for him--
"Derelict."
"So she is," cried Allen. "We'll get out the boat and board her. Do you
think the sea is too high, Jim?"
Jim said nothing. He was quite ready to risk his life in a cockle-shell
in a heavy sea, as all fishermen of the Doggerbank must be. He was not
the man to refuse to do what his employer wished, unless the danger were
very great indeed. He looked round at the sea, then nodded his head
affirmatively.
"I don't think it's safe," said Carew. "In the first place, see how low
that brig is in the water; she may go down at any moment, and the sea is
very tricky to-day. I grant you it does not seem so very rough just now,
but every half-hour or so there have been some rather dangerous rollers.
One passed by us just before you came on deck."
But Allen's spirit of adventure was up. "Oh, nonsense!" he cried; "I'm
going to see what she is. She may be worth standing by for salvage. Run
down a bit nearer to her--that's it. Now let's heave-to--so. Now
overboard with the dinghy, Jim. You stay behind and mind the yacht,
Carew."
Jim and Allen waited for a "smooth," seized the dinghy, dexterously
launched her, and leaping in nimbly, pulled away from the yacht--a feat
that looks easy on paper, but requires nerve and skill to perform in a
heavy sea.
"If you drift away too far, let draw your jib and sail up to us,"
shouted Allen, as he went away.
Carew stood on the deck of the yacht, which now rose and fell on the
seas with the easy motion of a vessel that is hove-to, and watched the
tiny boat, so frail and yet so buoyant, so far safer than she seemed, as
she leapt from wave to wave.
The dinghy was close to the brig. In another moment the men would have
boarded her, when Carew perceived, to his horror, a huge roller coming
up--a steep mass of water, with overhanging, breaking crest, such as are
met with on the edge of shallows. It reached the yacht and hurled her
high up; then dropped her again into the trough of the sea with a shock
almost as violent as if she had struck a rock. The giant wave thundered
by the sturdy little vessel without injuring her. But the dinghy--where
was she?
Carew strained his eyes in her direction. First the boat was hidden from
him by the intervening wave; then he saw her for a moment floating on
the top of a sea, some forty yards away, bottom up. He thought, too, he
could distinguish a man's head in the water near her. The derelict had
disappeared. Waterlogged as she was, it had only needed that last great
sea to send her down bodily.
But all this while his two companions were drowning. Why did Carew stand
there idle? He was sailor enough to know his duty. He could have sailed
the yacht close to the men, thrown a life-buoy to them, and have
possibly succeeded in dragging them on board. He stood on the deck, as
if dazed. Had he lost his head for a time? He only hesitated for two or
three seconds, but they were invaluable--then it was too late!
A sudden squall of wind and rain swept down upon the sea, and all was
obscured in a whirling smoke of spray and vapour. It was impossible to
see even a few yards through it; and when the squall had passed, there
were no men and no dinghy to be seen.
The dark and stormy night settled down upon the waters, and Henry Carew
was left alone in the middle of the North Sea!