Striding along through South Crabb, and so on down by old Massock's
brick-fields, went Sir Dace Fontaine, dark and gloomy. His heavy stick
and his heavy tread kept pace together; both might have been the better
for a little lightness.
Matters were not going on too smoothly at Maythorn Bank. Seemingly
obedient to her father, Verena Fontaine contrived to meet her lover, and
did not take extraordinary pains to keep it secret. Sir Dace, watching
stealthily, found it out, and felt just about at his wits' end.
He had no power to banish Edward Pym from the place: he had none, one
must conclude, to exact submission from Verena. She had observed to me,
the first night we met, that American girls grow up to be independent
of control in many ways. That is true: and, as it seems to me, they
think great guns of themselves for being so.
Sir Dace was beginning to turn his anger on Colonel Letsom. As chance
had it, while he strode along this morning, full of wrath, the colonel
came in view, turning the corner of the strongest and most savoury
brick-yard.
"Why do you harbour that fellow?" broke out Sir Dace, fiercely, without
circumlocution of greeting.
"What, young Pym?" cried the little colonel in his mild way, jumping to
the other's meaning. "I don't suppose he will stay with us long. He is
expecting a summons to join his ship."
"But why do you have him at your house at all?" reiterated Sir Dace,
with a thump of his stick. "Why did you take him in?"
"Well, you see, he came down, a stranger, and presented himself to us,
calling my wife aunt, though she is not really so, and said he would
like to stay a few days with us. We could not turn him away, Sir Dace.
In fact we had no objection to his staying; he behaves himself very
well. He'll not be here long."
"He has been here a great deal too long," growled Sir Dace; and went on
his way muttering.
Nothing came of this complaint of Sir Dace Fontaine's. Edward Pym
continued to stay at Crabb, Colonel Letsom not seeing his way clear to
send him adrift; perhaps not wanting to. The love-making went on. In the
green meadows, where the grass and the sweet wild flowers were springing
up, in the Ravine, between its sheltering banks, redolent of romance; or
in the triangle, treading underfoot the late primroses and violets--in
one or other of these retreats might Mr. Pym and his ladye-love be seen
together, listening to the tender vows whispered between them, and to
the birds' songs.
Sir Dace, conscious of all this, grew furious, and matters came to a
climax. Verena was bold enough to steal out one night to meet Pym for a
promenade with him in the moonlight, and Sir Dace came upon them sitting
on the stile at the end of the cross lane. He gave it to Pym hot and
strong, marched Verena home, and the next day carried both his daughters
away from Crabb.
But I ought to mention that I had gone away from Crabb myself before
this, and was in London in with Miss Deveen. So that what had been
happening lately I only knew by hearsay.
To what part of the world Sir Dace went, was not known. Naturally Crabb
was curious upon the point. Just as naturally it was supposed that Pym,
having nothing to stay for, would now take his departure. Pym, however,
stayed on.
One morning Mr. Pym called at Maythorn Bank. An elderly woman, one Betty
Huntsman, who had been employed by the Fontaines as cook, opened the
door to him. The coloured man, Ozias, and a maid, Esther, had gone away
with the family. It was the second time Mr. Pym had presented himself
upon the same errand: to get the address of Sir Dace Fontaine. Betty,
obeying her master's orders, had refused it; this time he had come to
bribe her. Old Betty, however, an honest, kindly old woman, refused to
be bribed.
"I can't do it, sir," she said to Pym. "When the master wrote to give me
the address, on account of sending him his foreign letters, he forbade
me to disclose it to anybody down here. It is only myself that knows it,
sir."
"It is in London; I know that much," affirmed Pym, making a shot at the
place, and so far taking in old Betty.
"That much may possibly be known, sir. I cannot tell more."
Back went Pym to Colonel Letsom's. He sat down and wrote a letter in
a young lady's hand--for he had all kinds of writing at his fingers'
ends--and addressed it to Mrs. Betty Huntsman at Maythorn Bank,
Worcestershire. This he enclosed in a bigger envelope, with a few lines
from himself, and posted it to London, to one Alfred Saxby, a sailor
friend of his. He next, in a careless, off-hand manner, asked Colonel
Letsom if he'd mind calling at Maythorn Bank, and asking the old cook
there if she could give him her master's address. Oh, Pym was as cunning
as a fox, and could lay out his plans artfully. And Colonel Letsom,
unsuspicious as the day, and willing to oblige everybody, did call that
afternoon to put the question to Betty; but she told him she was not at
liberty to give the address.
The following morning, Pym got the summons he had been expecting, to
join his ship. The _Rose of Delhi_ was now ready to take in cargo. After
swearing a little, down sat Mr. Pym to his desk, and in a shaky hand, to
imitate a sick man's, wrote back word that he was ill in bed, but would
endeavour to be up in London on the morrow.
And, the morning following this, Mrs. Betty Huntsman got a letter from
London.
"_London, Thursday._
"DEAR OLD BETTY,
"I am writing to you for papa, who is very poorly indeed. Should
Colonel Letsom apply to you for our address here, you are to give
it him: papa wishes him to have it. We hope your wrist is better.
"CORALIE FONTAINE."
Betty Huntsman, honest herself, never supposed but the letter was
written by Miss Fontaine. By-and-by, there came a ring at the bell.
"My uncle, Colonel Letsom, requested me to call here this morning, as I
was passing on my way to Timberdale Rectory," began Mr. Pym; for it was
he who rang, and by his authoritative voice and lordly manner, one might
have thought he was on board a royal frigate, commanding a cargo of
refractory soldiers.
"Yes, sir!" answered Betty, dropping a curtsy.
"Colonel Letsom wants your master's address in London--if you can give
it him. He has to write to Sir Dace to-day."
Betty produced a card from her innermost pocket, and showed it to Mr.
Pym: who carefully copied down the address.
That he was on his way to Timberdale Rectory, was _not_ a ruse. He went
on there through the Ravine at the top of his speed, and asked for
Captain Tanerton.
"Have got orders to join ship, sir, and am going up this morning. Any
commands?"
"To join what ship?" questioned Jack.
"The _Rose of Delhi_. She is beginning to load."
Jack paused. "Of course you must go up, as you are sent for. But I don't
think you will go out in the _Rose of Delhi_, Mr. Pym. I should
recommend you to look out for another ship."
"Time enough for that, Captain Tanerton, when I get my discharge from
the _Rose of Delhi_: I have not got it yet," returned Pym, who seemed to
take a private delight in thwarting his captain.
"Well, I shall be in London myself shortly, and will see about things,"
spoke Jack.
"Any commands, sir?"
"Not at present."
Taking his leave of Colonel and Mrs. Letsom, and thanking them for their
hospitality, Edward Pym departed for London by an afternoon train. He
left his promises and vows to the young Letsoms, boys and girls, to
come down again at the close of the next voyage, little dreaming, poor
ill-fated young man, that he would never go upon another. Captain
Tanerton wrote at once to head-quarters in Liverpool, saying he did
not wish to retain Pym as chief mate, and would like another one to be
appointed. Strolling back to Timberdale Rectory from posting the letter
at Salmon's, John Tanerton fell into a brown study.
A curious feeling, against taking Pym out again, lay within him; like an
instinct, it seemed; a prevision of warning. Jack was fully conscious
of it, though he knew not why it should be there. It was a great deal
stronger than could have been prompted by his disapprobation of the
man's carelessness in his duties on board.
"I'll go up to London to-morrow," he decided. "Best to do so. Pym means
to sail in the _Rose of Delhi_ if he can; just, I expect, because he
sees I don't wish him to: the man's nature is as contrary as two sticks.
I'll not have him again at any price. Yes, I must go up to-morrow."
"L'homme propose"--we know the proverb. Very much to Jack's surprise,
his wife arrived that evening at the Rectory from Liverpool, with her
eldest child, Polly. Therefore, Jack did not start for London on the
morrow; it would not have been at all polite.
He went up the following week. His first visit was to Eastcheap, in
which bustling quarter stood the office of Mr. James Freeman, the ship's
broker. After talking a bit about the ship and her cargo, Jack spoke of
Pym.
"Has a first officer been appointed in Pym's place?"
"No," said Mr. Freeman. "Pym goes out with you again."
"I told you I did not wish to take Pym again," cried Jack.
"You said something about it, I know, and we thought of putting in the
mate from the _Star of Lahore_; but he wants to keep to his own vessel."
"I won't take Pym."
"But why, Captain Tanerton?"
"We don't get on together. I never had an officer who gave me so much
provocation--the Americans would say, who _riled_ me so. I believe the
man dislikes me, and for that reason was insubordinate. He may do better
in another ship. I am a strict disciplinarian on board."
"Well," carelessly observed the broker, "you will have to make the best
of him this voyage, Captain Tanerton. It is decided that he sails with
you again."
"Then, don't be surprised if there's murder committed," was Jack's
impetuous answer.
And Mr. Freeman stared: and noted the words.
* * * * *
The mid-day sun was shining hotly upon the London pavement, and
especially upon the glittering gold band adorning the cap of a lithe,
handsome young sailor, who had just got out of a cab, and was striding
along as though he wanted to run a race with the clocks. It was Edward
Pym: and the reader will please take notice that we have gone back a few
days, for this was the day following Pym's arrival in London.
"Halt a step," cried he to himself, his eye catching the name written up
at a street corner. "I must be out of my bearings."
Taking from his pocket a piece of paper, he read some words written
there. It was no other than the address he had got from Bessy Huntsman
the previous day.
"Woburn Place, Russell Square," repeated he. "This is not it. I'll be
shot if I know where I am! Can you tell me my way to Woburn Place?"
asked he, of a gentleman who was passing.
"Turn to the left; you will soon come to it."
"Thank you," said Pym.
The right house sighted at last, Mr. Pym took his standing in a friendly
door-way on the other side of the road, and put himself on the watch.
Very much after the fashion of a bailiff's man, who wants to serve a
writ.
He glanced up at the windows; he looked down at the doors; he listened
to the sound of a church clock striking; he scraped his feet in
impatience, now one foot, now the other. Nothing came of it. The rooms
behind the curtained windows might be untenanted for all the sign given
out to the eager eyes of Mr. Pym.
"Hang it all!" he cried, in an explosion of impatience: and he could
have sent the silent dwelling to Jericho.
No man of business likes his time to be wasted: and Mr. Pym could very
especially not afford to waste his to-day. For he was supposed to be at
St. Katherine's Docks, checking cargo on board the _Rose of Delhi_. When
twelve o'clock struck, the dinner hour, he had made a rush from the
ship, telling the foreman of the shed not to ship any more cargo till he
came back in half-an-hour, and had come dashing up here in a fleet cab.
The half-hour had expired, and another half-hour to it, and it was a
great deal more than time to dash back again. If anybody from the office
chanced to go down to the ship, what a row there'd be!--and he would
probably get his discharge.
He had not been lucky in his journey from Worcestershire the previous
day. The train was detained so on the line, through some heavy waggons
having come to grief, that he did not reach London till late at night;
too late to go down to his lodgings near the docks; so he slept at an
hotel. This morning he had reported himself at the broker's office; and
Mr. Freeman, after blowing him up for his delay, ordered him on board
at once: since they began to load, two days ago now, a clerk from the
office had been down on the ship, making up the cargo-books in Pym's
place.
"I'll be hanged if I don't believe they must all be dead!" cried Pym,
gazing at the house. "Why does not somebody show himself? I can't post
the letter--for I know my letters to her are being suppressed. And I
dare not leave it at the door myself, lest that cantankerous Ozias
should answer me, and hand it to old Dace, instead of to Vera."
Luck at last! The door opened, and a maid-servant came out with a jug,
her bonnet thrown on perpendicularly. Mr. Pym kept her in view, and
caught her up as she was nearing a public-house.
"You come from Mrs. Ball's, Woburn Place?" said he.
"Yes, sir," answered the girl, doubtfully, rather taken aback at the
summary address, but capitulating to the gold-lace band.
"I want you to give this letter privately to Miss Verena Fontaine. When
she is quite alone, you understand. And here's half-a-crown, my pretty
lass, for your trouble."
The girl touched neither letter nor money. She surreptitiously put her
bonnet straight, in her gratified vanity.
"But I can't give it, sir," she said. "Though I'm sure I'd be happy to
oblige you if I could. The Miss Fontaines and their papa is not with us
now; they've gone away."
"What?" cried Pym, setting his teeth angrily, an expression crossing his
face that marred all its good looks. "When did they leave? Where are
they gone to?"
"They left yesterday, sir, and they didn't say where. That black servant
of theirs and our cook couldn't agree; there was squabbles perpetual.
None of us liked him; it don't seem Christian-like to have a black man
sitting down to table with you. Mrs. Ball, our missis, she took our
part; and the young ladies and their papa they naturally took _his_
part: and so, they left."
"Can I see Mrs. Ball?" asked Pym, after mentally anathematizing servants
in general, black and white. "Is she at home?"
"Yes, sir, and she'll see you, I'm sure. She is vexed at their having
left."
He dropped the half-crown into the girl's hand, returned the note to his
pocket, and went to the house. Mrs. Ball, a talkative, good-humoured
woman in a rusty black silk gown, with red cheeks and quick brown eyes,
opened the door to him herself.
She invited him in. She would have given him Sir Dace Fontaine's address
with all the pleasure in life, if she had it, she said. Sir Dace did not
leave it with her. He simply bade her take in any letters that might
come, and he would send for them.
"Have you not any notion where they went?--to what part of the town?"
asked the discomfited Pym. That little trick he had played Betty
Huntsman was of no use to him now.
"Not any. Truth to say, I was too vexed to ask," confessed Mrs. Ball. "I
knew nothing about their intention to leave until they were packing up.
Sir Dace paid me a week's rent in lieu of warning, and away they went in
two cabs. You are related to them, sir? There's a look in your face that
Sir Dace has got."
Mr. Pym knitted his brow; he did not take it as a compliment. Many
people had seen the same likeness; though he was a handsome young man
and Sir Dace an ugly old one.
"If you can get their address, I shall be much obliged to you to keep it
for me; I will call again to-morrow evening," were his parting words to
the landlady. And he went rattling back to the docks as fast as wheels
could take him.
Mr. Pym went up to Woburn Place the following evening accordingly, but
the landlady had no news to give him. He went the next evening after,
and the next, and the next. All the same. He went so long and to so
little purpose that he at last concluded the Fontaines were not in
London. Sir Dace neither sent a messenger nor wrote for any letters
there might be. Two were waiting for him; no more. Edward Pym and Mrs.
Ball became, so to say, quite intimate. She had much sympathy with the
poor young man, who wanted to find his relatives before he sailed--and
could not.
It may as well be told, not to make an unnecessary mystery of it, that
the Fontaines had gone straight to Brighton. At length, however, Mrs.
Ball was one day surprised by a visit from Ozias. She never bore malice
long, and received him civilly. Her rooms were let again, so she had got
over the smart.
"At Brighton!" she exclaimed, when she heard where they had been--for
the man had no orders to conceal it. "I thought it strange that your
master did not send for his letters. And how are the young ladies? And
where are you staying now?"
"The young ladies, they well," answered Ozias. "We stay now at one big
house in Marylebone Road. We come up yesterday to this London town: Sir
Dace, he find the sea no longer do for him; make him have much bile."
Edward Pym had been in a rage at not finding Verena. Verena, on her
part, though rather wondering that she did not hear from him, looked
upon his silence as only a matter of precaution. When they were settled
at Woburn Place, after leaving Crabb, she had written to Pym, enjoining
him not to reply. It might not be safe, she said, for Coralie had gone
over to "the enemy," meaning Sir Dace: Edward must contrive to see her
when he came to London to join his ship. And when the days went on, and
Verena saw nothing of her lover, she supposed he was not yet in London.
She went to Brighton supposing the same. But, now that they were back
from Brighton, and still neither saw Pym nor heard from him, Verena grew
uneasy, fearing that the _Rose of Delhi_ had sailed.
"What a strange thing it is about Edward!" she exclaimed one evening to
her sister. "I think he must have sailed. He would be sure to come to us
if he were in London."
"How should he know where we are?" dissented Coralie. "For all he can
tell, Vera, we may be in the moon."
A look of triumph crossed Vera's face. "He knows the address in Woburn
Place, Coral, for I wrote and gave it him: and Mrs. Ball would direct
him here. Papa sent Ozias there to-day for his letters; and I know
Edward would never cease going there, day by day, to ask for news, until
he heard of me."
Coralie laughed softly. Unlocking her writing-case, she displayed a
letter that lay snugly between its leaves. It was the one that Vera had
written at Woburn Place. Verena turned very angry, but Coralie made
light of it.
"As I dare say he has already sailed, I confess my treachery, Vera. It
was all done for your good. Better think no more of Edward Pym."
"You wicked thing! You are more cruel than Bluebeard. I shall take means
to ascertain whether the _Rose of Delhi_ is gone. Captain Tanerton made
a boast that he'd not take Edward out again, but he may not have been
able to help himself," pursued Vera, her tone significant. "Edward
_intended to go in her_, and he has a friend at court."
"A friend at court!" repeated Coralie. "What do you mean? Who is it?"
"It is the Freemans out-door manager at Liverpool, and the ship's
husband--a Mr. Gould. He came up here when the ship got in, and he and
Edward made friends together. The more readily because Gould and Captain
Tanerton are not friends. The captain complained to the owners last time
of something or other connected with the ship--some bad provisions, I
think, that had been put on board, and insisted on its being rectified.
As Mr. Gould was responsible, he naturally resented this, and ever since
he has been fit to hang Captain Tanerton."
"How do you know all this, Verena?"
"From Edward. He told me at Crabb. Mr. Gould has a great deal more to do
with choosing the officers than the Freemans themselves have, and he
promised Edward he should remain in the _Rose of Delhi_."
"It is strange Edward should care to remain in the ship when her
commander does not like him," remarked Coralie.
"He stays in because of that--to thwart Tanerton," laughed Verena
lightly. "Partly, at least. But he thinks, you see, and I think, that
his remaining for two voyages in a ship that has so good a name may tell
well for him with papa. Now you know, Coral."
* * * * *
The lovers met. Pym found her out through Mrs. Ball. And Verena,
thoroughly independent in her notions, put on her bonnet, and walked
with him up and down the Marylebone Road.
"We sail this day week, Vera," he said. "My life has been a torment to
me, fearing I should not see you before the ship went out of dock. And,
in that case, I don't think I should have gone in her."
"Is it the _Rose of Delhi_?" asked Vera.
"Of course. I told you Gould would manage it. She is first-rate in every
way, and the most comfortable ship I ever was in--barring the skipper."
"You don't like him, I know. And he does not like you."
"I hate and detest him," said Pym warmly--therefore, as the reader must
perceive, no love was lost between him and Jack. "He is an awful screw
for keeping one to one's duty, and I expect we shall have no end of
squalls. Ah, Verena," continued the young man, in a changed tone, "had
you only listened to my prayers at Crabb, I need not have sailed again
at all."
Mr. Edward Pym was a bold wooer. He had urged Verena to cut the matter
short by marrying him at once. She stopped his words.
"I will marry you in twelve months from this, if all goes well, but not
before. It is waste of time to speak of it, Edward--as I have told you.
Were I to marry without papa's consent--and you know he will not give
it--he can take most of the money that came to me from mamma. Only a
small income would remain to me. I shall not risk _that_."
"As if Sir Dace would exact it! He might go into one of his passions at
first, but he'd soon come round; he'd not touch your money, Vera." And
Edward Pym, in saying this, fully believed it.
"You don't know papa. I have been used to luxuries, Edward, and I
could not do without them. What would two hundred pounds a-year be for
me--living as I have lived? And for you, also, for you would be my
husband? Next May I shall be of age, and my fortune will be safe--all
my own."
"A thousand things may happen in a year," grumbled Pym, who was wild to
lead an idle life, and hated the discipline on board ship. "The _Rose
of Delhi_ may go down, and I with it."
"She has not gone down yet. Why should she go down now?"
"What right had Coralie to intercept your letter?" asked Pym, passing to
another phase of his grievances.
"She had no right; but she did it. I asked Esther, our own maid, to run
and put it in the post for me. Coralie, coming in from walking, met
Esther at the door, saw the letter in her hand, and took it from her,
saying she would go back and post it herself. Perhaps Esther suspected
something: she did not tell me this. Coralie had the face to tell it me
herself yesterday."
"Well, Vera, you should have managed better," returned Pym, feeling
frightfully cross.
"Oh, Edward, don't you see how it is?" wailed the girl, in a piteous
tone of appeal--"that they are all against me. Or, rather, against you.
Papa, Coralie, and Ozias: and I fancy now that Coralie has spoken to
Esther. Papa makes them think as he thinks."
"It is a fearful shame. Is this to be our only interview?"
"No," said Vera. "I will see you every day until you sail."
"You may not be able to. We shall be watched, now Coralie has turned
against us."
"I will see you every day until you sail," repeated the girl, with
impassioned fervour. "Come what may, I will contrive to see you."
In making this promise, Miss Verena Fontaine probably did not understand
the demands on a chief mate's time when a ship is getting ready for sea.
To rush up from the docks at the mid-day hour, and rush back again in
time for work, was not practicable. Pym had done it once; he could not
do it twice. Therefore, the only time to be seized upon was after six
o'clock, when the _Rose of Delhi_ was left to herself and her watchman
for the night, and the dock-gates were shut. This brought it, you see,
to about seven o'clock, before Pym could be hovering, like a wandering
ghost, up and down the Marylebone Road; for he had to go to his lodgings
in Ship Street first and put himself to rights after his day's work,
to say nothing of drinking his tea. And seven o'clock was Miss Verena
Fontaine's dinner hour. Sir Dace Fontaine's mode of dining was
elaborate; and, what with the side-dishes, the puddings and the dessert,
it was never over much before nine o'clock.
For two days Verena made her dinner at luncheon. Late dining did not
agree with her, she told Coralie, and she should prefer some tea in her
room. Coralie watched, and saw her come stealing in each night soon
after nine. Until that hour, she had promenaded with Edward Pym in the
bustling lighted streets, or in the quieter walks of the Regent's Park.
On the third day, Sir Dace told her that she must be in her place at
the dinner-table. Verena wondered whether the order emanated from his
arbitrary temper, or whether he had any suspicion. So, that evening she
dined as usual; and when she and Coralie went into the drawing-room at
eight o'clock, she said her head ached, and she should go to bed.
That night there was an explosion. Docked of an hour at the beginning of
their interview, the two lovers made up for it by lingering together an
hour longer at the end of it. It was striking ten when Verena came in,
and found herself confronted by her father. Verena gave Coralie the
credit of betraying her, but in that she was wrong. Sir Dace--he might
have had his suspicions--suddenly called for a particular duet that was
a favourite with his daughters, bade Coralie look it out, and sent up
for Verena to come down and sing it. Miss Verena was not to be found, so
could not obey.
Sir Dace, I say, met her on the stairs as she came in. He put his hand
on her shoulder to turn her footsteps to the drawing-room, and shut the
door. Then came the explosion. Verena did not deny that she had been out
with Pym. And Sir Dace, in very undrawing-room-like language, swore that
she should see Pym no more.
"We have done no harm, papa. We have been to Madame Tussaud's."
"Listen to me, Verena. Attempt to go outside this house again while that
villain is in London, and I will carry you off, as I carried you from
Crabb. You cannot beard _me_."
It was not pleasant to look at the face of Sir Dace as he said it. At
these moments of excitement, it would take a dark tinge underneath the
skin, as if the man, to use Jack Tanerton's expression, had a touch of
the tar-brush; and the dark sullen eyes would gleam with a peculiar
light, that did not remind one of an angel.
"We saw Henry the Eighth and his six wives," went on Vera. "Jane Seymour
looked the nicest."
"How _dare_ you talk gibberish, at a moment like this?" raved Sir Dace.
"As to that man, I have cursed him. And you will learn to thank me for
it."
Verena turned whiter than a sheet. Her answering words seemed brave
enough, but her voice shook as she spoke them.
"Papa, you have no right to interfere with my destiny in life; no,
though you are the author of my being. I have promised to be the wife
of my cousin Edward, and no earthly authority shall stay me. You may be
able to control my movements now by dint of force, for you are stronger
than I am; but my turn will come."
"Edward Pym--hang him!--is bad to the backbone."
"I will have him whether he is bad or good," was Verena's mental answer:
but she did not say it aloud.
"And I will lock you in your room from this hour, if you dare defy me,"
hissed Sir Dace.
"I do not defy you, papa. It is your turn, I say; and you have strength
and power on your side."
"Take care you do not. It would be the worse for you."
"Very well, papa," sighed Verena. "I cannot help myself now; but in a
twelvemonth's time I shall be my own mistress. We shall see then."
Sir Dace looked upon the words as a sort of present concession. He
concluded Miss Verena had capitulated and would not again go a-roving.
So he did not go the length of locking her in her room.
Verena was mild as milk the next day, and good as gold. She
never stirred from the side of Coralie, but sat practising a new
netting-stitch, her temper sweet, her face placid. The thought of
stealing out again to meet Mr. Pym was apparently further off than Asia.
I have said that I was in London at this time, staying with Miss Deveen.
It was curious that I should be so during those dreadful events that
were so soon to follow. Connected with the business that kept me and Mr.
Brandon in town, was a short visit made us by the Squire. Not that the
Squire need have come; writing would have done; but he was nothing loth
to do so: and it was lovely weather. He stayed with Mr. Brandon at his
hotel in Covent Garden; and we thought he meant to make a week of it.
The Squire was as fond of the sights and the shops as any child.
I went down one morning to breakfast with them at the Tavistock, and
there met Jack Tanerton. Later, we started to take a look at a famous
cricket-match that was being played at Lord's. In crossing the
Marylebone Road, we met Sir Dace Fontaine.
His lodgings were close by, he said, and he would have us go in. It was
the day I have just told you of; when Verena sat, good as gold, by her
sister's side, trying the new netting-stitch.
The girls were in a sort of boudoir, half-way up the stairs. The French
would, I suppose, call it the entresol: a warm-looking room, with
stained glass in the windows, and a rich coloured carpet. Coralie
and Vera were, as usual, dressed alike, in delicate summer-muslins.
Vera--how pretty she looked!--had blue ribbon in her hair: her blue
eyes laughed at seeing us, a pink flush set off her dimples.
"When do you sail, Captain Tanerton?" abruptly asked Sir Dace, suddenly
interrupting the conversation.
"On Thursday, all being well," answered Jack.
"Do you take out the same mate?--that Pym?"
"I believe so; yes, Sir Dace."
We had to go away, or should not find standing-room on the
cricket-ground. Sir Dace said he would accompany us, and called out to
Ozias to bring his hat. Before the hat came, he thought better of it,
and said he would not go; those sights fatigued him. I did not know what
had taken place until later, or I might have thought he stayed at home
to guard Verena. He gave us a cordial invitation to dinner in the
evening, we must all go, he said; and Mr. Brandon was the only one of
us who declined.
"I am very busy," said Jack, "but I will contrive to get free by seven
this evening."
"Very busy indeed, when you can spend the day at Lord's!" laughed
Verena.
"I am not going to Lord's," said Jack. Which was true. "I have come up
this way to see an invalid passenger who is going out in my ship."
"Oh," quoth Vera, "I thought what a nice idle time you were having of
it. Mind, Johnny Ludlow, that you take me in to dinner to-night. I have
something to tell you."
Close upon the dinner-hour named, seven, the Squire and I were again at
Sir Dace Fontaine's. Tanerton's cab came dashing up at the same moment.
Coralie was in the drawing-room alone, her white dress and herself
resplendent in coral ornaments. Sir Dace came in, and the Squire began
telling him about the cricket-match, saying he ought to have been there.
Presently Sir Dace rang the bell.
"How is it that dinner's late?" he asked sternly of Ozias--for Sir Dace
liked to be served to the moment.
"The dinner only wait for Miss Verena, sir," returned Ozias, "She no
down yet."
Sir Dace turned round sharply to look at the sofa behind him, where
I sat with Coralie, talking in an undertone. He had not noticed, I
suppose, but that both sisters were there.
"Let Miss Verena be told that we wait for her," he said, waving his hand
to Ozias.
Back came Ozias in a minute or two. "Miss Verena, she no upstairs, sir.
She no anywhere."
Of all the frowns that ever made a face ugly, the worst sat on Sir Dace
Fontaine's, as he turned to Coralie.
"Have you let her go out?" he asked.
"Why of course she is not out, papa," answered Coralie, calm and smiling
as usual.
"Let Esther go into Miss Verena's room, Ozias, and ask her to come down
at once."
"Esther go this last time, Miss Coralie. She come down and say, Ozias,
Miss Verena no upstairs at all; she go out."
"How dare----" began Sir Dace; but Coralie interrupted him.
"Papa, I will go and see. I am sure Verena cannot be out; I am sure she
is _not_. She went into her room to dress when I went into mine. She
came to me while she was dressing asking me to lend her my pearl comb;
she had just broken one of the teeth of her own. She meant to come down
to dinner then and was dressing for it: she had no thought of going
out."
Coralie halted at the door to say all this, and then ran up the stairs.
She came down crest-fallen. Verena had stolen a march on them. In Sir
Dace Fontaine's passionate anger, he explained the whole to us, taking
but a few short sentences to do it. Verena had been beguiled into a
marriage engagement with Edward Pym: he, Sir Dace, had forbidden her to
go out of the house to meet him; and, as it appeared, she had set his
authority at defiance. They were no doubt tramping off now to some place
of amusement; a theatre, perhaps: the past evening they had gone to
Madame Tussaud's. "Will you take in Miss Fontaine, Squire?" concluded
Sir Dace, with never a break between that and the explanation.
How dark and sullen he looked, I can recall even now. Deprived of my
promised partner, Verena, I went down alone. Sir Dace following with
Jack, into whose arm he put his own.
"I wish you joy of your chief officer, Captain Tanerton!" cried he, a
sardonic smile on his lips.
It must have been, I suppose, about nine o'clock. We were all back in
the drawing-room, and Coralie had been singing. But somehow the song
fell flat; the contretemps about Verena, or perhaps the sullenness it
had left on Sir Dace, produced a sense of general discomfort; and nobody
asked for another. Coralie took her dainty work-box off a side-table,
and sat down by me on the sofa.
"I may as well take up my netting, as not," she said to me in an
undertone. "Verena began a new collar to-day--which she will be six
months finishing, if she ever finishes it at all. She dislikes the work;
I love it." Netting was the work most in vogue at that time. Mrs.
Todhetley had just netted herself a cap.
"Do you think we shall see your sister to-night?" I asked of Coralie in
a whisper.
"Of course you will, if you don't run away too soon. She'll not come in
later than ten o'clock."
"Don't you fancy that it has put out Sir Dace very much?"
Coralie nodded. "It is something new for papa to attempt to control us;
and he does not like to find he _can't_. In this affair I take his part;
not Verena's. Edward Pym is not a suitable match for her in any way. For
myself, I dislike him."
"I don't much like him, either; and I am sure Captain Tanerton does not.
Your sister is in love with him, and can see no fault. Cupid's eyes are
blind, you know."
"I don't know it at all," she laughed. "My turn with Cupid has not yet
come, Johnny Ludlow. I do not much think Cupid could blind me, though he
may be blind himself. If--why, what's this?"
Slowly lifting the lid of the box, which had been resting on her lap
unopened, she saw a sealed note there, lying uppermost, above the
netting paraphernalia. It was addressed to herself, in Verena's
handwriting. Coralie opened it with her usual deliberation.
"DEAR CORALIE,
"As I find you and papa intend to keep me a prisoner, and as I do
not choose to be kept a prisoner, and do not think you have any
right to exercise this harsh control over me, I am leaving home for
a few days. Tell papa that I shall be perfectly safe and well taken
care of, even if I could not take care of myself--which I _can_, as
you must know.
"Ever yours,
"VERA."
Coralie laughed just a little. It seemed as if nothing ever put her out:
she did know that Verena could, as the note phrased it, take care of
herself. She went up to her father, who was standing by the fire talking
with the Squire and Tanerton. Sir Dace, fresh from a hot country, was
always chilly, as I have said before, and kept up a big fire whether it
was warm or cold.
"Papa, here is a note from Verena. I have just found it in my work-box.
Would you like to see what she says?"
Sir Dace put his coffee-cup on the mantelpiece, and took the note from
Coralie. I never saw any expression like that of his face as he read. I
never saw any face go so _darkly_ white. Evidently he did not take the
news in the same light way that Coralie did.
A cry broke from him. Staggering back against the shelf, he upset a vase
that stood at the corner. A beautiful vase of Worcester china, with a
ground of delicate gilt tracery, and a deliciously-painted landscape
standing out from it. It was not at the vase, lying in pieces on the
fender, we looked, but at Sir Dace. His face was contorted; his eyes
were rolling. Tanerton, ever ready, caught his arm.
"Help me to find her, my friends!" he gasped, when the threatened fit
had passed. "Help me this night to find my daughter! As sure as we are
living, that base man will marry her to-morrow, if we do not, and then
it will be too late."
"Goodness bless me, yes!" cried the Squire, brushing his hair the wrong
way, his good old red face all excitement, "Let us start at once!
Johnny, you come with me. Where can we go first?"
That was the question for them all--where to go? London was a large
place; and to set out to look for a young lady in it, not knowing where
to look, was as bad as looking for the needle in the bottle of hay.
"She may be at that villain's place," panted Sir Dace, whose breath
seemed to be all wrong. "Where does he live? You know, I suppose,"
appealing to Jack.
"No, I don't," said Jack. "But I can find out. I dare say it is in Ship
Street. Most of----"
"Where is Ship Street?" interrupted the Squire, looking more helpless
than a lunatic.
"Ship Street, Tower Hill," explained Jack; and I dare say the Squire was
as wise as before. "Quite a colony of officers live there, while their
vessels are lying in St. Katherine's Docks. Ship Street lies handy, you
see; they have to be on board by six in the morning."
"I knew a young fellow who lodged all the way down at Poplar, because it
was near to his ship," contended the Squire.
"No doubt. His ship must have been berthed in the East India Docks; they
are much further off. I will go away at once, then. But," added Jack,
arresting his steps, and turning to Sir Dace, "don't you think it may
be as well to question the household? Your daughter may have left some
indication of her movements."
Jack's thought was not a bad one. Coralie rang the bell for their own
maid, Esther, a dull, silent kind of young woman. But Esther knew
nothing. She had not helped Miss Verena to dress that evening, only Miss
Coralie. Miss Verena said she did not want her. She believed Maria saw
her go out.
Maria, the housemaid, was called: a smart young woman, with curled hair
and a pink bow in her cap. Her tale was this. While the young ladies
were dressing for dinner, she entered the drawing-room to attend to the
fire, and found it very low. She went on her knees to coax it up, when
Miss Verena came in in her white petticoat, a little shawl on her neck.
She walked straight up to Miss Fontaine's work-box, opened it and shut
it, and then went out of the room again.
"Did she speak to you?" asked John Tanerton.
"Yes, sir. Leastways she made just a remark--'What, that fire out
again?' she said. That was all, sir."
"Go on," sharply cried Sir Dace.
"About ten minutes later, I was at the front-door, letting out the
water-rate--who is sure to call, as my missis told him, at the most
ill-convenient time--when Miss Verena came softly down the stairs with
her bonnet and mantle on. I felt surprised. 'Don't shut me in, Maria,
when I want to go out,' she said to me in a laughing sort of way, and I
pulled the door back and begged her pardon. That was all, sir."
"How was she dressed?" asked Coralie.
"I couldn't say," answered the girl; "except that her clothes were dark.
Her black veil was down over her face; I noticed that; and she had a
little carpet-bag in her hand."
So there we were, no wiser than before. Verena had taken flight, and it
was impossible to say whither.
They were for running all over the world. The Squire would have started
forthwith, and taken the top of the Monument to begin with. John
Tanerton, departing on his search to find Pym's lodgings, found we all
meant to attend him, including Ozias.
"Better let me go alone," said Jack. "I am Pym's master at sea, and can
perhaps exercise some little authority on shore. Johnny Ludlow can go
with me."
"And you, papa, and Mr. Todhetley might pay a visit to Madame
Tussaud's," put in Coralie, who had not lost her equanimity the least
in the world, seeming to look upon the escapade as more of a joke than
otherwise. "They will very probably be found at Madame Tussaud's: it is
a safe place of resort when people want to talk secrets and be under
shelter."
There might be reason in what Coralie said. Certainly there was no need
for a procession of live people and two cabs to invade the regions of
Tower Hill. So Jack, buttoning his light over-coat over his dinner
toggery, got into a hansom with me, and the two old gentlemen went off
to see the kings and queens.
"Drive like the wind," said Jack to the cabman. "No. 23, Ship Street,
Tower Hill."
"I thought you did not know his number," I said, as we went skimming
over the stones.
"I do not know Pym's: am not sure that he puts up in Ship Street. My
second mate, Mark Ferrar, lives at No. 23, and I dare say he can direct
me to Pym's."
Mark Ferrar! The name struck on my memory. "Does Ferrar come from
Worcester, do you know, Jack? Is he related to the Battleys of Crabb?"
"It is the same," said Jack. "I have heard his history. One of his
especial favourites is Mr. Johnny Ludlow."
"How strange!--strange that he should be in your ship! Does he do well?
Is he a good sailor?"
"First-rate. Ferrar is really a superior young man, steady and
painstaking, and has got on wonderfully. As soon as he qualifies for
master, which will be in another year or two, he will be placed in
command, unless I am mistaken. Our owners see what he is, and push him
forward. They drafted him into my ship two years ago."
How curious it was! Mark Ferrar, the humble charity-boy, the _frog_, who
had won the heart of poor King Sanker, rising thus quickly towards the
top of the tree! I had always liked Mark; had seen how trustworthy he
was.
Our cab might fly like the wind; but Tower Hill seemed a long way off in
spite of it. Dashing into Ship Street at last, I looked about me, and
saw a narrow street with narrow houses on either side, narrow doors that
somehow did not look upright, and shutters closed before the downstairs
windows.
No. 23. Jack got out, and knocked at the door. A young boy opened it,
saying he believed Mr. Ferrar was in his parlour.
You had to dive down a step to get into the passage. I followed Jack in.
The parlour-door was on the right, and the boy pushed it open. A smart,
well-dressed sailor sat at the table, his head bent over books and
papers, apparently doing exercises by candle-light.
It was Mark Ferrar. His honest, homely face, with the wide mouth and
plain features, looked much the same; but the face was softened into--I
had almost said--that of a gentleman. Mark finished the sentence he was
writing, looked up, and saw his captain.
"Oh, sir, is it you?" he said, rising. "I beg your pardon."
"Busy at your books, I see, Mr. Ferrar?"
Mark smiled--the great, broad, genuine smile I so well remembered. "I
had to put them by for other books, while I was studying to pass for
chief, sir. That done, I can get to them again with an easy conscience."
"To be sure. Can you tell me where Mr. Pym lodges?"
"Close by: a few doors lower down. But I can show you the house, sir."
"Have you forgotten me, Mark?" I asked, as he took up his cap to come
with us.
An instant's uncertain gaze; the candle was behind him, and my face in
the shade. His own face lighted up with a glad light.
"No, sir, that indeed I have not, I can never forget Mr. Johnny Ludlow.
But you are about the last person, sir, I should have expected to see
here."
In the moment's impulse, he had put out his hand to me; then,
remembering, I suppose, what his position was in the old days, drew it
back quickly. "I beg your pardon, sir," he said, with the same honest
flush that used to be for ever making a scarlet poppy of his face. But
I was glad to shake hands with Mark Ferrar.
"How are all your people at Worcester, Mark?" I asked, as we went down
the street.
"Quite well, thank you, sir. My old father is hearty yet, and my brother
and sister are both married. I went down to see them last week, and
stayed a day or two."
The greatest change in Ferrar lay in his diction. He spoke as we spoke.
Associating now with men of education, he had taken care to catch up
their tone and accent; and he was ever, afloat or ashore, striving to
improve himself.
Ferrar opened Pym's door without knocking, dived down the step, for
the houses were precisely similar, and entered the parlour. He and Pym
occupied the same apartments in each house: the parlour and the little
bed-room behind it.
The parlour was in darkness, save for what light came into it from the
street gas-lamp, for these shutters were not closed. Ferrar went into
the passage and shouted out for the landlady, Mrs. Richenough. I thought
it an odd name.
She came in from the kitchen at the end of the passage, carrying a
candle. A neat little woman with grey hair and a puckered face; the
sleeves of her brown gown were rolled up to the elbows, and she wore a
check apron.
"Mr. Pym, sir?" she said, in answer to Ferrar. "He dressed hisself and
went out when he'd swallowed down his tea. He always do go out, sir, the
minute he's swallowed it."
"Do you expect him back to-night?" questioned Jack.
"Why yes, sir, I suppose so," she answered, "he mostly comes in about
eleven."
"Has any young lady been here this evening, ma'am?" blandly continued
Jack. "With Mr. Pym?--or to inquire for him?"
Mrs. Richenough resented the question. "A young lady!" she repeated,
raising her voice. "Well, I'm sure! what next?"
"Take care: it is our captain who speaks to you," whispered Ferrar
in her ear; and the old woman dropped a curtsy to Jack. Captains are
captains with the old landladies in Ship Street.
"Mr. Pym's sister--or cousin," amended Jack.
"And it's humbly asking pardon of you, sir. I'm sure I took it to mean
one of them fly-away girls that would like to be running after our young
officers continual. No, sir; no young lady has been here for Mr. Pym, or
with him."
"We can wait a little while to see whether he comes in, I presume,
ma'am," said Jack.
Intimating that Mr. Pym's captain was welcome to wait the whole night if
he pleased, Mrs. Richenough lighted the lamp that stood on the table,
shut the shutters, and made Jack another curtsy as she withdrew.
"Do you wish me to remain, sir?" asked Mark.
"Not at all," was the captain's answer. "There will be a good deal to do
to-morrow, Mr. Ferrar: mind you are not late in getting on board."
"No fear, sir," replied Ferrar.
And he left us waiting.