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(the University of Wisconsin-Madison)
Bell's Indian and Colonial Library
JONAH'S LUCK
JONAH'S LUCK
BY
FERGUS HUME
AUTHOR OF
"_The Mystery of a Hansom Cab_," "_The Guilty House_,"
"_The White Room_," "_The Wooden Hand_,"
"_The Fatal Song_," "_The Scarlet Bat_,"
_etc., etc_.
LONDON
GEORGE BELL AND SONS
1906
_This Edition is issued for circulation in India and the Colonies
only_.
CONTENTS
CHAP.
I. THE ADVENTURE OF THE INN
II. A RECOGNITION
III. CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE
IV. WHAT HAPPENED NEXT
V. HUE AND CRY
VI. THE CARAVAN
VII. KIND'S OPINIONS
VIII. MISS MAUD TEDDER
IX. THE SOLICITOR
X. THE INQUEST
XI. LOVERS
XII. THE STRANGE WORD
XIII. A MEXICAN BEAUTY
XIV. AN UNEXPECTED ARRIVAL
XV. A FRIEND IN NEED
XVI. M. GOWRIE'S PLOTTING
XVII. MAUD'S INHERITANCE
XVIII. A SURPRISING DEFENCE
XIX. MRS. MOUNTFORD'S ACCUSATION
XX. AT THE "MARSH INN"
XXI. ON BOARD THE YACHT
XXII. ANOTHER MYSTERY
XXIII. AN EXPLANATION
XXIV. STARTLING NEWS
XXV. THE CAPTAIN'S STORY
XXVI. THE BEGINNING OF THE END
XXVII. THE END
JONAH'S LUCK
CHAPTER I
THE ADVENTURE OF THE INN
It was the close of a chilly autumn day; and under a lowering grey sky
the landscape of river and marsh and low-lying hills looked
forbiddingly forlorn. White mists veiled the wet earth; the road,
running between withered hedgerows, was ankle-deep in mud, and the
stubbled fields held streaks of water between their ploughed ridges.
Occasionally the pale beams of a weakened sun would break through the
foggy air: but the fitful light, without warmth or power, only served
to accentuate the depression of the scene. The most cheerful of men
would have succumbed to the pessimism of the moment.
As it was, the solitary creature who trudged along the miry highway
accepted his misery with sulky resignation. At intervals he lifted a
hopeless face to the darkening clouds: sometimes he peered idly to
right and left, and twice he halted, breathing heavily, a monument of
wretchedness. But usually, with his hands in the pockets of a thin
jacket, and with a bent head, he plodded doggedly onward, bearing
submissively a situation which he could not mend. In his gait there
was the hint of the pedestrian who aims at no goal. Without eagerness,
without resolution, with slack muscles and a blank expression, he
toiled like a hag-ridden dreamer through those dreary, weary, eerie,
Essex marshes, a derelict of civilisation.
Yet his face, when revealed by the wan sunshine, appeared young and
handsome and refined, though sadly worn and lean. The skin, bronzed to
a clear brown by wind and rain and sunshine, was marred by unexpected
wrinkles, less the work of time than of care. His closely-clipped hair
and small moustache exhibited the hue of ripe corn; his eyes possessed
the fathomless blue of Italian skies; his thin nose, slightly curved,
his firm chin and set lips revealed character and determination. Also,
he had the frame of a wiry athlete, the spring-gait of a long-distance
walker, and the expansive forehead of a student. Such a man should not
have been ploughing through the mud of a lonely country road, with but
a threadbare suit of blue serge to protect him from the inclement
weather. Something was wrong: and none knew that better than the tramp
himself. But whatever might be the cause of his misery, he kept it in
his heart, being by nature reticent, and by experience, suspicious.
At sunset the air became darker, the mists thicker, the scene even
more dreary. Still he laboured onward, but now, for the first time,
with a hint of resolution in his movements, bracing himself, as it
were, for a final spurt, to attain a newly-guessed-at end. On the
right he could hear the lapping of the Thames against its weedy banks,
on the left a dull dripping of water from leafless boughs, saluted his
ears. Sometimes there sounded the cry of a belated bird; again would
come the shrill whistling of trains, and not infrequently the hooting
of a siren, as steamers passed each other on the blind river. And,
between pauses, he could hear his own weary breathing, and the
squelching of the water in his well-worn shoes. None of these sounds
tended to raise his spirits, which were, at the moment, as low as the
tide of the unseen stream.
Only when a dim light glimmered through the mists did he show any
signs of interest in the physical, and then he heaved a sigh of
relief. A jingle of money came from his right-hand pocket as he moved
his fingers, and a gleam of satisfaction flitted across his sullen
face. The light, as he surmised, must come from some cottage, or
farm-house, or inn, and there he would be able to obtain bed and board
for the night. It had been his intention to push on to Tarhaven, in
search of a friend, but the rapid closing in of the night and the
increasing gloom of the fogs, forced him to spend his last few pence
in rest and food. The evil of to-day he could no longer endure: the
morrow would, and must, look after itself--a true beggar's philosophy,
and what was he but one of the unemployed.
The light became stronger as he drew near, and he found himself
unexpectedly on the outskirts of what he presumed was a small village,
and within a yard or so of the inn. The hostel was pretentious, seeing
that it consisted of two storeys, and yet it was mean in appearance,
as the walls were merely of whitewashed mud, and the roof of sodden
grey thatch. Over the low, broad door, flanked by dripping benches,
appeared a sign advertising, in rude black letters, that the house was
"The Marsh Inn." Through the windows on either side of the closed
door, gleamed a ruddy light telling of comfort and warmth within,
obtainable, doubtless, at a small charge. With his hand on the latch,
since the entry was free to all comers, stood the tramp, while a
shrill voice objurated within, without pause or grammar.
"Jus' slip out t' git water, y' bloomin' silly. Pope wants 'is tea,
bein' took with poetry. I don' keep y' fur show nohow. But thet's fine
lydies all over: ho yuss. I want y' fur a glarse cupboard, in corse,
y' lazy Jezebel, 'Eaven forgive me fur bringin' y' int' 'Oly Writ, es
the parsin torks of."
Before the end of this pleasant admonition the door flew open so
suddenly that the stranger started back. Past him, shot a girl of
small stature, with a white, haggard face, firmly closed lips and
defiant eyes. She was scarcely a woman, and weak in her appearance, so
the zinc bucket she swung at her side was undeniably too heavy for her
frail strength. The tramp heard her gasp as she sprang into the mist,
and with the unconsidered haste of a kindly heart, he followed
impulsively. Her laboured breathing guided him to a well, encircled
with rough stone-work and surmounted by an iron wheel. Down dropped
the jangling bucket, and the girl, breathing with exhaustion, strove
to bring it to the surface again, weighty with water. The effort
extorted a low, heart-breaking sob.
"This is too much for you," said the tramp in a refined and pleasant
voice. "Allow me!" and he fell to work.
The girl started when he spoke, but she did not cry out. Evidently she
was accustomed to command her feelings. In the mist she could scarcely
see the face of her assistant, but his voice sounded like that of a
gentleman, and there lurked a quality in its tones which gave her
confidence. In a moment or so he had the filled bucket in his grip,
and was walking towards the inn. At the door the girl silently took
his burden from him with a nod of thanks, and entered with a word of
gratitude. And her voice was also refined, by no means the voice of a
servant. Howsoever this girl came to occupy so menial a position, the
tramp guessed that she was a gentlewoman. However, he was too weary to
weave romances about beggarmaids, and was no King Cophetua to do so.
He sighed and walked in.
The room was small and ancient, with a low ceiling and a gigantic
fire-place, in which glowed a noble driftwood fire. On either side of
this stood settles, and in the centre of the room, was an oblong deal
table, upon which appeared pewter tankards, and clumsy china mugs. The
floor was sanded, the smoke-panelled walls were decorated with cheap
hunting pictures, vilely coloured, and with illustrations cut from
_The Graphic_. Also there was an old horse-hair sofa, of the ugly
Albert period, a cumbersome chair or two, and spittoons. A dingy
paraffin lamp dangled from the grimy, whitewashed ceiling, blackening
it with smoke, and diffusing a dull yellow glare. In fact this
especial tap-room was of the kind usually to be found by the dozen in
agricultural districts, unlovely, dirty, cheap, and vulgar, yet
comfortable enough in an animal way.
On one settle, sat a lean, loosely-knit youth of of twenty, with a
slack, foolish face, and a drooping underlip, revealing small serrated
teeth. His hair was long and unbrushed, his clothes were of well-worn
tweed, extremely untidy, and badly fitting. Book in hand he stared at
the ceiling, with lack-lustre eyes, oblivious to his surroundings.
Opposite to him, and watching sneeringly, sat an elderly man, with a
strong square face, much inflamed with drink. His apparel was
disreputable, his head bald, and his beard untrimmed. Yet he had the
thoughtful eyes of a scholar, and his hands, though dirty, were white
and slender, and eloquently emphasised the fact to the observant, that
he worked less with them than with his brain. Undoubtedly he had been
gently reared, and the cause of his falling into this mire, could be
discerned only too plainly in his red nose and shiny skin, and in the
affectionate way in which he grasped a glass of what looked like
water, and which was really gin.
Lastly, the new-comer's eyes wandered to the landlady, and in her he
beheld the representative Whitechapel virago, so well-known in the
police-courts of that district. She was tall and lean, fierce in
looks, vehement of tongue, prodigal of gestures: a slattern in dress
and a tyrant in manner. Having chased the girl with the bucket into
the back parts of the house, she strode forward with the swing of a
grenadier, and the insolence of a bully, to face the new guest.
"An' wot may y' want?" she demanded, harshly scornful.
"Bed and board for the night," replied the tramp, curtly.
"Ho! An' the money? Eh? D'y think I'm a-goin' t'waste five bob."
The man produced two half-crowns.
"A meal now, a bed later, and breakfast at nine in the morning."
"Five, an' praps bad money," muttered the woman, biting one of the
coins, "sevening y' mean."
"Five shillings is all I mean to give. If you don't," he made a motion
to take back the money.
The woman, who was really overpaid, closed her broad red hand sharply,
and nodded contemptuously.
"But y' don't git th' bes' bedroom, thet bein' taiken by a gent, es is
a gent, an' not a broken down toff. 'Ow do I know es y're
respectable?"
"I certify," said a grand mellow voice from one settle, "that Mr.
Angus Herries is well-born and honest!" Then with a sudden plunge into
the Scottish dialect. "Dinna ding the laddie wi' sic blatter, ye fule
wumon."
Herries wheeled round at the sound of those trumpet tones, and stared
at the stout old rascal, who sipped his gin with a knowing leer.
"Gowrie," he gasped, quite taken aback. "Mr. Gowrie."
"Ye've a quick eye, my laddie. Michael Gowrie it is, though ye micht
ca' me the Reverend Michael Gowrie, an' nae burn the tongue o' ye. Sit
ye doon, my mon, an' we'll hae a dram togither for the sake o' auld
lang syne." He hummed the last seven words.
Herries sat on the opposite settle, next to the untidy youth, who cast
sidelong, disdainful looks on him, but took no further notice.
"I want food rather than drink," said the young man wearily.
"Aye! but drink is the ain an' the tither ye ken."
"Mister," cried the landlady, who had been bottling up her wrath, "I'd
hev y' know, es m' naime es 'Liza Narby, an' I comes of genteel folk
in Rotherhithe. Don't y' call me a bloomin' fool. D'ye see?"
"Pardon me," said the Reverend Michael in excellent English. "I did
not misuse the word 'blooming,' which applies only to young and lovely
beings of your sex."
"Such es Elspeth," sneered Mrs. Narby, with the venom of an ugly
woman.
"Haud your tongue, ye limmer," thundered Gowrie, evidently irritated,
and cast a look at the door, through which the girl had vanished, "or,
nae mair custom do ye get frae me."
"Ho!" shouted Mrs. Narby, with her arms akimbo, and going at once on
the warpath, "'spose I kin do without thet any'ow, an'----"
She was about to launch out in true Whitechapel style, when the untidy
youth intervened listlessly.
"Milton talks of a blooming archangel," said he, addressing the Rev.
Michael Gowrie.
"Nae in your mither's sense," chuckled the scholar.
But that a bell tinkled somewhere in the back premises, Mrs. Narby
would have returned to the attack.
"There's thet gent, es come this night," she said, looking at her
son,--for the untidy youth, held such a relationship towards this
Amazon. "Go an' see wot he wants, Pope. Whoy, he might take a fancy t'
y', an' elp publish yer poetry."
"I want no patrons," said Pope rising haughtily. "Genius stands quite
alone."
All the same, he stalked out of the tap-room quickly, to see why the
bell had sounded, and was followed by his mother, who was heard
scolding her servant again. Herries took no notice of these Cockney
vulgarities, being too weary to enjoy their humour. He stared into the
glowing fire, while Gowrie chuckled, and finished his gin and water
with great relish.
"Aye!" he drawled, wiping his coarse red lips with the sleeve of his
dilapidated coat, "yon's wha ye ca a gowk, or maybe a stirk. Poetry
quotha; the lad hes nae mair poetry nor ma fut. An' tis a queer thing,
Herries, that you randy quean deems him a genius, nae less. There's a
vein o' verse in yon limmer, else she wuldnae hae ca'd her bairn
Pope."
"After the poet?"
"Tush, laddie. Pope, the wee crooked thing, wes nae a poet. Gi' me
glorious Robby Bur-rns. Aye, aye, the besom o' a landleddy hes a
glimmerin' o' the divine. 'Tis queer where the speeritual spark, as ye
micht say, taks up its abode. I hae a wee bit glimmer maesel, an' I
thocht ye hed it also, Herries. But ye've come doon, sadly, puir
saul,--eh,--the looks of ye."
"Drink has nothing to do with them at least," retorted Herries nettled,
"while to look at you,----"
"Eh, an' what ails me, laddie?"
"Drink! Gin, whisky and suchlike. Ten years ago, you had me as a
pupil in Edinburgh, and although a minister without a church, you were
at least respectable. Now----"
"Ye may weel say't, laddie. Drink's the curse o' a' sons o' Adaam. I
wes a stickit meenister, foreby, and didnae wag ma pow in a pu-pit,
mair's the peety. Aye, aye," he sighed, "whusky's the deil's broth,
I'm theenking."
"How did you fall so low?" Angus asked his old preceptor.
"Whusky! Whusky!" said the old reprobate, "tho' I've tacken to gin as
cheaper. But 'tis weary wark at times, for gin's nae sa quick as it
micht be, in bringing oot the glorious points o' a mon."
"It doesn't make you drunk enough, I suppose you mean?"
"Joost sae. Ye micht pit it yon way."
"What a mercy you never married, Gowrie."
"Ca' me Meester Gowrie, be decent to your elders, laddie. Marrit, is
it?" He chuckled again, and cast a strange glance at Herries from out
his inflamed eyes. "Ou aye, marrit. Weel,--weel,--we're a' son's o
Adaam, ye ken."
"Then are you----?"
"Hold your tongue, sir," interrupted Gowrie, in fierce English,
"respect the secret of a gentleman. You an' me's met in a queer gait,"
he pursued in the homely Scotch, "maister an' pupil, an' baith doon on
oor hunkers, as ye may say. It's a waefu' warld, I'm theenking."
Herries made no direct reply, being occupied with his thoughts. Ten
years before he had been a pupil of the Rev. Michael Gowrie in
Edinburgh, and even then the wreck before him now, had not been noted
for sobriety. When Herries went to the University, he had lost sight
of his old preceptor, and was therefore much surprised to meet him in
these out-of-the-way parts, and in such straits.
"How do you live?" he asked abruptly.
"Well!" said the other in his odd mixture of Scotch and English, "I
write for the daily press. Nature studies ye ken, laddie. I present
the warks o' God in decent language tae an ignorant public, as ye
micht say. It keeps me in drams, though the emoluments are nae what
they micht be tae a scholar, an' a gentlemon foreby. An' yer ain
history, laddie? a sad ain I doot not."
"The history of Jonah," said Herries, gloomily.
It was at this moment that the girl returned to spread a half cloth on
the table. Herries would rather have eaten in a less smoky atmosphere,
but the girl informed him that the gentleman,--it seemed that his name
was unknown,--had the best parlour, and one of the bedrooms, so that
there was but little accommodation.
"Aye, aye," said Gowrie meditatively, "Elspeth is richt. It's here
I'll sleep maesel. An' what's yon gentlemon daeing here, lassie?"
"I don't know," said Elspeth shortly, and with an averted face.
"He'll hae been benighted, maybe?"
She shook her head.
"He came only an hour ago, well wrapped up in a fur coat, from
Tarhaven."
"Ye'll ken his name?"
"No. He refused to give his name, but said that he expected to see a
gentleman here about eight o'clock. Then he has arranged to go before
breakfast in the morning, and has paid Mrs. Narby beforehand for his
rooms."
"It's queer," said Gowrie, handling his pipe meditatively, while
Elspeth left the room to bring in the food for Herries. "Ye see mony
queer things in sic hooses as these, my mon. Aye, aye, poverty maks us
acquaint wi' strange bedfellows, as Wully Shakespeare pit it varra
weel."
Herries did not reply, but sat down to an ill-cooked mutton chop and a
tankard of very flat ale. Gowrie treated himself to another steaming
glass of gin and water, talking while his ex-pupil devoured his
welcome meal. Elspeth wandered in and out of the room on various
errands. Mrs. Narby, busy in the kitchen, presumably, did not present
her lovely self, and the poet was also absent, probably being engaged
in fascinating the unknown gentleman, in the hope of obtaining the
patronage he seemed to contemn.
"And why are ye here, laddie?" demanded Gowrie, inquisitively.
"I come from Pierside," explained Herries, carelessly, "there I left a
tramp schooner, on which I had shipped as doctor."
"Aye, aye, that's it. I mind ye studied medicine."
"I have studied everything," said Herries shrugging. "As you know, Mr.
Gowrie, my parents left me just sufficient to provide me with an
education, and a few pounds over to start me in life. I got my degree,
and then began to practice in a London suburb. I failed there, and
tried another, failed again and tried a third. Then I went on the
stage, that refuge of the destitute, and could not make that pay.
Finally I joined a gipsy ship as doctor, and have been frizzling and
shivering in several parts of the world for years. Since then I have
fared no better, and my last adventure was in an Arctic sealer. I left
her, as I said, at Pierside, being unable to stomach the brutality of
her captain any longer. Now I am on my way to Tarhaven to see an old
medical friend, who may help me. That is my history, as sad as your
own, Mr. Gowrie; but," this with a glance at the dissipated face,
"perhaps more respectable."
"How do you make that out?" asked the other in his best English.
"I have never been a drunkard," said Angus significantly.
"It's no decent tae speak to me yon way," fumed the elder man, wincing.
"Isn't it the truth?
"Weel, ye dinna look varra drunk, I'll say that. Aye, I'll say that."
"I am not talking of myself, Mr. Gowrie, but of you. Any one can see
how you come to be here."
"Weel, weel," cried the ex-minister testily, "there's nae mair to be
said. Ma sin's nae yer sin, but I doot ye've a glass hoose of your
ain. What will ye do now?"
"Go to bed," snapped Herries, rising.
"Wull ye nae stap, and hae a crack?"
"No! I'll see you in the morning."
"Man, I'll be gone early. It's London I'm bound for. Joost sae, tae
see an eeditor aboot an article on the modest daisy."
The young man shrugged his shoulders again. On another occasion he
would have been amused at Gowrie's impudence, with his odd changes
from Scotch to English. But the heart was out of him, and meeting with
an old friend, even so fallen a one as Mr. Gowrie, he could not help
breaking out with his troubles. An overcharged heart will speak,
however reticent may be the nature of its possessor, and after
fiddling with the door-handle for a few moments, Herries burst out----
"I'm a Jonah, Mr. Gowrie," he cried, almost savagely. "I swear that I
have done all that a man could do, to earn an honest living, but
everything has gone wrong with me. I am sober, honest, industrious
and,--as you said,--clever----"
"Aye," said the sage, "I'll bear testimony to that. Nae mair capable
laddie ever passed through my varra capable hands."
"Then why am I so unfortunate?" demanded the miserable young man,
looking up to the ceiling. "I am cursed in some way. Whatever I take
up, fails. I try and try and try again. I foresee all chances, and
work desperately. Yet again and again, I fail."
Facing Gowrie, with clenched hands and desperate eyes, Herries neither
saw nor heard the door into the back parts of the house, open and shut
suddenly. It was just as though someone, hearing the raised voice, had
peered out, and then, after a glance, had retired hastily. Gowrie
looked out of the tail of his eye, but saw nothing, and shook his head
at his unfortunate pupil.
"It's a weary world," he said with drunken seriousness.
"The world is all right," cried Herries, "it is the infernal folk who
live in it that make me hate life. Oh," he dashed his hands across
his eyes. "I could shame my manhood and weep, when I think of my
sorrow"--here he became aware that Elspeth was in the room gazing at
him with pitying eyes. A feeling of pride made him close his mouth,
and with an abrupt gesture of despair, he left the room at a run. The
girl followed to show him his sleeping-apartment. Old Gowrie remained,
and cried to Mrs. Narby for a third glass of gin.
"Aye, aye," muttered the old reprobate, "breeth we are an' dust we
mau' be. Puir laddie, an' sae clever. Aye a lad of pairts. I doot 'tis
the drink," he wagged his head sadly. "Weel, and why should nae the
puir wean droon his sorrows in the flowing bowl, the which term Thomas
Moore applies tae whusky. He's got nae siller an' varra little o' that
is in ma purse. But maybe he has enow tae help the guid friend whae
guided his young footsteps. Hech," he rose, and pondered, "maybe if I
flatter the lad, he may spare a bittock. Drink! aye drink, which
maketh glad the hairt o' mon. He'll be guid for a shulling at
daybreak."
In pursuance of this plan, the Rev. Michael Gowrie was shortly on his
legs, staggering to the bedroom with a stiff jorum of gin and water.
Mrs. Narby led the way, and pointed out the apartment occupied by
Herries, with the unnecessary information that the unknown gentleman,
now in the parlour, would sleep in the next room.
"An' me sleeping in the tap-room," mourned Gowrie. "Is yon gentleman
in bed, wumon?"
"No. He's still in the parlour," snapped Mrs. Narby, bristling at
being called a woman. "He's waiting fur 'is friend, as comes at
eight."
"It'll be haulf an hoor tae eight," said Gowrie consulting a
yellow-faced watch, not worthy of a pawnbroker's ticket.
"Ow shud I know? Give yer shady toff 'is drink, an' cut."
Gowrie had little difficulty in inducing Herries to swallow the hot
liquor. The young man was worn out, and when the drink was finished
his head fell on the pillow like a lump of lead. His kind preceptor
tucked him in, and cast a longing glance at his pupil's garments,
lying disorderly on a chair near the bed.
But Mrs. Narby glared grimly at the door, and Gowrie had no chance of
examining the pockets, as he wished to do. It was with great
reluctance that he departed with the ogress, while Herries, blind to
the world, slept heavily, but, alas, not dreamlessly.
His dreams indeed were terrible. For hours and hours he seemed to be
flying from some dreadful danger. Along a lonely road he sped
breathless and anguished. After him raced a shadow, which once caught
up with him, and enveloped him in cold gloom. But out of that Egyptian
darkness, he was drawn by a firm warm hand, and found himself under a
glimmering moon, looking into the face of Elspeth. She pointed towards
the East, and there broke swiftly the cool fresh dawn, at the sight of
which his terrors vanished. It seemed to the dreamer that he kissed
the girl, but of this he could not be sure; for the vision dispersed
into fragments, and he finally fell into the deep slumber of the
worn-out.
When he awoke it was daylight, and from the position of a faint gleam
of sunshine, breaking through the still clinging mists, he guessed
that it was nine o'clock. But Herries cast no second look through the
window, when he saw what lay on the patchwork quilt. Thereon appeared
a white bone-handled razor crimson with blood, and he found that one
sleeve of his woollen shirt was likewise stained red.