George Manville Fenn (continued 9)

The last remark was made so seriously, and in such perfect good faith, that the surgeon and Harry Clayton exchanged glances, smiling the while.

“I hope,” said the latter, “that he will soon be fit to be removed.”

“Well, before long,” said the surgeon. “Ten days or so. Not sooner—bad case rather. It was only this morning that he became sensible; and I don’t think that even now he fairly realises the length of time that he has been lying there.”

“But this must be a most unusual case,” said Clayton. “Surely you never had a suspension of the faculties for so long?”

“Oh yes!” said the surgeon. “Such things do happen. Concussion of, or pressure upon the brain from a fracture, gives us at times some exceedingly interesting studies. In this case, the horse must have struck your friend full on the temple, and I wonder that he was not killed.”

Then, according to the custom of his confrères, the surgeon proceeded to dilate upon the number of eighths of an inch higher or lower which would have been sufficient for the blow to have caused death. But he was interrupted in his discourse by the approach of Sir Francis, who now came up, watch in hand.

“The ten minutes are at an end, and I thank you, sir,” he said. “I am indeed most grateful for your skilful treatment of my son. How can I ever disburden myself of the obligation?”

“Oh! if you come to that, easily enough,” laughed the surgeon, who fully believed, and held unflinchingly to the faith, that his hospital was the best in London, sparing no pains to let every one know that it was also one of the poorest. “We don’t want such patients as your son here, Sir Francis Redgrave; and you may depend in future upon receiving our yearly report, with, I hope, your name down as one of our donors.”

Sir Francis shook hands warmly, saying nothing, but thinking the more deeply; and then, bidding farewell to the sergeant at the door, he was accompanied by Clayton back to their temporary home.

They had not been back long though, before there was a step on the stair, and Mr Stiff, the landlord, came up to announce a visitor.

“Who?” said Sir Francis.

“That there little jigging man, sir, as Mr Lionel used to buy his dogs of in—”

“Tell him that I am unwell—that I cannot see him,” exclaimed Sir Francis; and Mr Stiff took his departure, but only to return at the end of five minutes.

“Well, Mr Stiff?”

“I can’t get rid of him, please, Sir Francis. He says he should be so glad if you’d see him only for a minute. He won’t detain you more, and he’s in a terrible way about your saying you can’t.”

“Well, show him up,” said Sir Francis, who was not in the humour to refuse anything in the gladness and thankfulness which now filled his heart.

“Shall I see him?” said Clayton, offering to relieve Sir Francis of the task.

“No; perhaps it is something about poor Lionel. I will see him.”

The next minute there was the peculiar thumping noise of D. Wragg’s feet in the passage, but Sir Francis found time to say a few words before the dealer readied the room.

“Is not this the curious-looking man at the house we searched?”

“The same,” said Harry.

“Ah, yes!—I forgot,” said Sir Francis; “these troubles have tried me. But here he is.”

Sir Francis was right, for the noise increased, the door was thrown open, and the next moment, in a tremendous state of excitement, D. Wragg stood confessed.

Volume Three—Chapter Eighteen.

D. Wragg on Principle.

“Sarvant, sir—sarvant, sir!” exclaimed D. Wragg, flourishing his hat first at Sir Francis, and then at Harry Clayton, while he worked and jerked himself about in a way that was perfectly frightful to contemplate. “Just give me a minute. I won’t keep you both more than that, only I couldn’t rest without coming in to tell you as it does us at home so much good ’cos that young gent’s found, as you can’t tell.”

Sir Francis knit his brow as he listened, for he could not help associating the man before him with the cause of Lionel’s disappearance; but he did not speak.

“Ah! I see you’re cross about it,” said D. Wragg, who caught the frown; “but never mind if you are; we’re glad all the same. You thought we had to do with it?”

“My good fellow, yes!” exclaimed Sir Francis, hastily; for this touched him upon a tender point—he had been unjust. “Yes; we did think so, and I beg your pardon for it most heartily. It was a gross piece of injustice, and I beg that you will forgive it. If—”

“You’re a reg’lar, thorough-bred, game gentleman! that’s what you are,” said D. Wragg; “and I respect you, sir, that I do. And if you’re sorry for having my place searched, why, there’s an end of it; and as to forgiving you, why, we won’t say any more about that.”

“But if money—” continued Sir Francis.

“No; money ain’t got nothing to do with it,” said D. Wragg, gruffly; “and yet it has too, something. You see, sir, I got hold of Sergeant Falkner, and he’s put me up to it all—how you found the young gent in the orspital and all; and so I wanted to come on about it. But what did I say to you when you came to me to search my place? Why, don’t you make no mistake, I says, and now I says it again. Don’t you make no mistake; I ain’t come after money; but just to say as I’m sorry as the young gent should have got into such trouble through coming to my place; and as to his getting better, all I’ve got to say now is, as he shan’t never come inside the shop again. I did have some of his money for different things; but there, lor’ bless you, I put it to you, Mr Clayton, sir, if I hadn’t had it to do me good, wouldn’t he have spent it in organ-grinders, or brass bands, or something? ’Pon my soul, sir, I never see a young gent as knowed so little of what money was worth.”

“And do you mean,” said Sir Francis, “that if my son gets well, and comes to your place again, you will not admit him?”

“Course I do. Don’t you make no mistake, sir. I’m in real earnest, I am; and if at any time you want a dorg, or a score o’—Blow it! hold your tongue, will you,” he said, breaking off short in his speech, this portion of which was born of constant repetition. “But don’t you make no mistake, sir—he shan’t come no more; and as to the place being searched, that wasn’t your doing; that was spite, that was, and Mr Jack Screwby—an ugly cuss! But they’ve got him for ’sault and violence, and he’ll get it hot, and no mistake, sir. And now my sarvice to you both, gents, and I’m off; but I thought I’d come to say as I was sorry and glad too, and you understands me, I knows.”

As he turned to go, Sir Francis crossed the room, and tried to thrust a five-pound note into his hands; but D. Wragg waved him off.

“No, sir; I promised ’em at home, if you wanted to do anything of that kind, as I wouldn’t take it—and I won’t—so there now. But look here! don’t you make no mistake; I ain’t proud, and if you says to me, ‘Mr D. Wragg, will you take a glass of wine to drink my son back again to health?’—why, hang me if I don’t.”

Crash went D. Wragg’s hat down upon the floor as he spoke, and after his arms had flown about at all manner of angles with his body, he folded them tightly, and stood gazing from one to the other.

“You shall drink his health, indeed, Mr Wragg,” said Sir Francis, smiling; and the decanters being produced, D. Wragg did drink Lionel’s health, and then in another glass that of Sir Francis, then took another to drink Harry Clayton’s, and yet one more for the benefit of all absent friends, when he stumped off, evidently wonderfully steadied in his action by what he had imbibed.

Volume Three—Chapter Nineteen.

Richard Pellet’s Visitors.

The clerk whose duty it was to show visitors into Richard Pellet’s private office ought to have been well paid, for he must have been a valuable acquisition to his employer. Doubtless it was the result of training—he was for ever supposing that “the firm” was engaged. It was so when Jared last called. It was so when Harry Clayton determined to try and make friends with the husband of his late mother, and appeared at the office door. And it was so when, an hour after, a plainly-dressed, pale-looking woman asked to see Mr Richard Pellet. But if, the clerk said, she would give her name, he would go and see.

“Ellen Pellet,” was the calm, quiet answer.

“Mrs Ellen Pellet?” queried the clerk.

“Yes,” was the reply.

The man stared, hesitated, went half-way to the inner office, returned, hesitated again, and then turned to go; while more than one head was raised from ledger or letter to exchange meaning looks, after a glance at the very unusual kind of visitor to Austin Friars.

“It ain’t my business,” muttered the clerk to himself, and passing down the little passage, he opened the private office door of the firm, heedless of a light, gliding step behind him, and announced Mrs Ellen Pellet.

“Who?” roared Richard Pellet, leaping from his seat, and glaring at the clerk.

“It is I,” said a quiet voice in the doorway, and Richard sank back pale and gasping in his seat.

For the visitor was already in the room.

“Oh yes! Ah, to be sure!” stammered Richard, striving hard to recover himself, with a miserable mask-like smile overspreading his features. “Glad to see you—sit down. That will do, Bailly; I’m engaged if any one should call.”

The clerk left the office, and closed the door, walking back to his stool with a prominence in one cheek which drew forth sundry winks from fellow-labourers in Pellet and Company’s money-mill. But the door of Richard Pellet’s private office was thick and baize-lined, and no inkling of the scene within reached the ears of the clerks.

No sooner had the door closed upon them, than the smile was driven from Richard’s face by a bitter scowl, and rising from his chair, he took two or three strides to where his visitor stood, hissing between his teeth—“Curse you! what brings you here?” Such a fierce aspect, accompanied as it was by threatening gestures, would have made many recoil; but Richard’s visitor stepped towards him, and caught him by the breast, exclaiming—

“I have been unhappy lately; I could not rest there. I want my child!”

“Curse your child!” cried Richard, in an angry whisper, and then, with a cowardly, back-handed blow, he sent the poor creature staggering against the wall; but her countenance hardly underwent a change, as, starting forward again, she caught him once more by the coat, repeating her words—

“I want my child!”

“How dare you come here?” he exclaimed, in a low, angry voice. “How dare you come here to disgrace and annoy me? How came you away from—from your lodging that I got for you?”

“I came away—I want my child!” was the only reply.

“There! hush! Don’t speak so loud!” said Richard, in an angry whisper, as he glanced uneasily at the door, and stepping to it, slipped into its socket a little brass bolt. “Did I not tell you never to come here? and did you not promise?”

“Yes, yes!” was the hoarse answer; “but I want, I will have, our little one. I have been to the man who had it—I found him out; but he would not give it to me. You have told him not. I could not rest for thinking about it. I want my child, and then we will go far away together.”

“Go and seek it where it has gone,” said Richard, brutally, almost beside himself with suppressed rage;—“it is dead!”

“It is a lie—a lie!” cried the woman, excitedly, her pale face flushing with anger. “That man told me the same; but he is in your pay, and you have hidden it from me.”

She clung to him now fiercely, clutching the ostentatiously-displayed smoothly-plaited shirt-front, and turning it into a crumpled rag.

“Hush! hush! For God’s sake, be still!” he exclaimed. “They will hear you in the outer office. I have not got the child; it died months ago.”

“It is a lie!” exclaimed the woman, more angrily. “You drove me mad once with your ill-treatment, but you shall not do it again.” Then, raising her voice—“I will have my child!”

As Richard Pellet’s face turned of a ghastly muddy hue, he glanced again and again at the door, his hands trembling with the cowardly rage that, under different circumstances, might have made the life of the woman before him—his wife—not worth a moment’s purchase. The coarse, heavy, insolent smile was gone; for he was attacked in his weakest point, and already in imagination he could see the side looks and laughter of his clerks, and hear the sneering innuendoes of fellow-men of his own stamp when there was a public exposé, and Richard Pellet, the wealthy banker, who for the sake of money had kept his weak insane wife in obscurity for years, that he might commit bigamy for the fortune of the Widow Clayton, was arraigned for his offence against his country’s laws, and the story of his wife’s wrongs came forth.

What was he to do? He must get her away quietly—by subterfuge—he could lead her in one way he knew, and she would not believe the truth.

The scandal, after so many years lying hidden, would now most certainly be bruited abroad. Some men would have laughed it to scorn, and faced it with brazen effrontery; but Richard Pellet was a religious man—a patron of philanthropic societies—even now upon his table lay half-a-dozen annual reports with his name thereon as steward or committee-man, for all men to read. Why, his very sober beneficent look carried weight, and he was always placed in the front rank upon the platform at Exeter Hall meetings. In fact, in May, during the meetings, he adopted white cravats and frills. And now, in spite of money, care, secrecy, this matter would be spread abroad. He could hear it already; and to hide this example of his cruel love of greed, had he dared, and could have hidden the crime, he would have struck down the patient sufferer whom he had treated with such a mingling of cruelty and neglect, dead at his feet, with as little compunction as he had already shown in sending her staggering to the wall.

But the wife of long ago, whose reason had gone astray years before, the soft eyes, the pale face, and trembling lips were here no more; and Richard Pellet, as he shrank from her, felt himself to be almost helpless in the hands of one whose strength was augmented by her position, for he dared not raise his voice. He knew, too, that now the time had gone when he could command, and he must try subterfuge, and get her away abroad, where she would be safely kept. He blamed himself now that he had not placed her in an asylum, but he recalled his reason—it would have been too public a proceeding; and in these fleeting moments the question came, were the gold and position he had won worth the price that he had paid?

As he stood there in her grasp, his mind was made up, and he said quietly, “Sit down.”

“No—no—no!” was the hasty reply, as if she dreaded his influence. “I want my child: give me my child, and let me go.”

“But, Ellen, this is madness and folly,” he whispered. “You know it is not here. He told you that it was dead, did he?”

“Yes,” she cried, angrily; “but it was not true. You told him to say so. Where is she now?”

“Look here!” said Richard, writing an address upon a card—that of one of the boarding—houses in the neighbourhood. “Take this and go and wait there till I come, and we will go and see about it. But, for my sake, do not make a disturbance here—it would be ruin to me.”

The poor creature, half reft of her senses, gazed earnestly in his face for a few moments, while the angry light faded from her eye. In her tigress-like rage for her lost little one, if met by anger she was ready to dare, urged by her maternal instinct; but these gentle words disarmed her resentment, and falling on her knees at Richard Pellet’s feet, she burst into tears, sobbing as she begged of him to let her have her child.

“Yes, yes! you shall; only get up,” said Richard. “It shall all be made right, only go now.”

“Then you will give her to me?” she said, imploringly. “I will not say a word to any one about being your wife if you will give me my child. I know now why you shut me up there with Mrs Walls. I have thought it out: it was that you might marry some one rich; for I, when my head went, was not fit to be your wife. But I could not help it.”

“Well, well; go now,” cried Richard, impatiently; “and we will talk about that afterwards.”

She rose to her feet slowly, clasping his hand in both her own, and gazing earnestly in his face, as if trying to read his thoughts; and they must have been plain to read, for, as if she saw in his face cruelty, treachery, and a repetition of her long sufferings, she dashed the hand away, and stood defying him once more, the former rage flashing in her eyes as she repeated her demand—“Give me my child!”

“Go and wait for me there, then,” said Richard, sullenly.

“I will never leave you till I have my child,” she exclaimed.

Again the cruel, malignant look came into his face as Richard Pellet cursed laws, protection, everything that stayed him from crushing out the life that now rose in rebellion against him. He cursed his own hypocrisy, which now fettered him with chains such as stayed him from setting this burden at defiance and casting it off for ever.

“I told you before that she was dead,” he now said, throwing himself back in his chair.

“Dead—dead—dead!” echoed his wife, “and I told you it was a lie—a cruel lie—like those you have told me before. But she is not dead. She was too young, too beautiful to die. Why, I tried to die a hundred times there, in that cold, bare room, in the bitter winters, and I could not. She could not die. You have taken her away, and I will not be cheated again. She is not yours, but mine—mine—my very own. Give me my little one!” she cried, raising her voice.

“Here! come with me, then, and you shall have her!” cried Richard, desperately; and snatching up an overcoat, and buttoning it closely over his breast, he led the way into the outer office. “Back in an hour,” he said abruptly; and then, closely followed by his unwelcome visitor, he passed into the street, called the first cab he encountered, and, after giving some instructions to the driver, he motioned to his wife to enter; but she refused until he had set the example, when, following him, she took the opposite seat, and the door was slammed, and the vehicle driven off.

The clerks in the outer office suspended work as soon as the heavy door swung to, and began to give due attention to this strange visit, which was on all sides declared to be “a rum go,” when the door again opened, and Harry Clayton entered.

“Mr Pellet returned?” he asked.

“Been at the office again, sir; but he has just gone out with a lady. Said he would be back in an hour.”

“I’ll wait,” said Harry, and he sat for an hour, and then for another, but still Richard did not return, so he left, and slowly sauntered towards London Bridge.

“I don’t want to give him the opportunity of saying I avoided him,” thought Harry, and then his thoughts turned towards money matters, and the possibility of Richard being compelled to disgorge a portion of the money that should by rights have been Mrs Clayton’s son’s—he did not know that it was in his power to make him give up all. Then he began to wonder what sort of a reception he should meet with. The last encounter had been far from cordial, and since his mother’s funeral, Harry’s letters had been but few and far between.

“I will see him, though,” said Harry, “if I follow him for a week.”

Volume Three—Chapter Twenty.

Beating the Bars.

“Now!” exclaimed Richard Pellet, as soon as he and his unwelcome visitor were in the cab, “will you wait patiently, if I take you somewhere, till I can place you where you will see your little one?”

She gazed long and earnestly in his face before answering.

“Will you keep your word?”

“I will!” he said, and she bent her head, when, lowering the front window, Richard gave fresh instructions to the driver, who drew up at the end of a long busy street.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked, suddenly.

“Only where you can stay for a day or two,” said he, preparing to get out. “Sit still for a few minutes till I come back.”

“But you are going to leave me,” she cried, clinging to his arm.

“I tell you I will come back,” he exclaimed, angrily; and, apparently satisfied, she sank back in her seat.

Five—ten minutes elapsed, but the occupant of the cab did not stir. At the end of another five minutes, Richard returned, panting and out of breath, spoke to the driver again, and once more the cab jangled over the stones and drew up at a half-open door.

Richard sprang up and took tight hold of his companion’s arm, but she followed him with alacrity, only starting back as the street-door closed behind her, when she found herself in the presence of Mrs Walls and in her old gaol.

Richard turned to leave, but the cheated woman turned with him, clinging to him tightly, and imploring him not to leave her there in the most piteous manner. He tried to shake her off; he swung her to and fro; he loosened one hand, but only for the other to cling to him more tightly, till, enraged by her persistence, and unable to govern the vile passions that she had roused, he struck her heavily with his clenched fist, so that she fell back half stunned and with a thin stream of blood flowing from her lip.

“Why, you great brute—you cowardly ruffian!” exclaimed Mrs Walls, who had some feeling of compassion yet for the suffering member of her sex. “That wasn’t bargained for.”

“Hold your tongue!” cried Richard, fiercely. “Keep to your engagement, and let her loose this time, and you shall suffer for it, even if I do myself. There is law, recollect, for such as you.”

“I’d suffer it for two pins, so as you should be pulled down too,” muttered the woman, as she wiped the blood from the prisoner’s lips, and then with a scowl Richard turned to go.

“I shall be back in three days at the latest,” he said. Then he paid and dismissed the cabman, walked hastily through a few streets, and then took another cab and drove off.

“Gone!” exclaimed Ellen Pellet, opening her eyes to gaze about her in an anxious manner as she tried to make for the door.

Mrs Walls nodded, and then half led, half pushed her into a back parlour.

“He’ll be back in two days, and then you’re going away from here, and for good, and I’m glad of it,” said the woman, not unkindly, considering that but a day since her prisoner had contrived to escape. “I don’t want you here any more.”

“To take me to her?”

“To be sure,” said Mrs Walls, as she would have spoken to a child. The next minute the door was closed, and the key turned upon the prisoner, who sank down upon a chair, and pressed her hands in a bewildered way to her forehead.

She sat without moving for an hour, and then began to pace round and round the room to find, after trying door and window, that the former was fast and the latter only slid down a few inches at the top, the bottom being of ground-glass, and preventing a view of the outer world unless the occupant of the room stood upon a chair; and even then only the backs of houses and a blackened wall or two were to be seen.

Escape now seemed to be the sole idea in the poor creature’s mind. She recalled in a darkened way a long period of imprisonment, and evidently dreaded its recurrence, for again and again she tried the door, shaking it gently, but it was locked, though the key remained in, so that she could touch the end as it projected about the sixteenth of an inch through the keyhole.

Another hour passed, and another, of torture and dread of treachery.

Could she not get away to her little one? That was the great thought which crushed all others; and as if determining to escape, she began to try with her nails to turn the key, repeating her efforts till the wards hung downward. Then, by means of a wooden splint, one of a dozen upon the chimney-piece, she thrust the key nearly out of the keyhole, where it hung while she listened attentively, then, with one more gentle push, it fell rattling down upon the oilcloth of the passage.

She stood listening, her bosom heaving painfully, but no steps followed the noise—it was evidently not heard, and, sinking upon her knees, she tore up the edge of the tacked-down carpet, till she could pass her worn and bony fingers beneath, and drag it away from the door, leaving the bottom exposed.

There, beneath the door, was the key plainly to be seen, for the light from a staircase window fell upon it; but it was out of reach, and the aperture would not allow the passage of her fingers. She knelt there though, biting her nails for a minute and listening, before taking up the splint that before had been her friend.

She tried to reach the key, passing the splint beneath the door, but it was not long enough. She took another—sane enough now in her desire to escape—and tearing a strip from her handkerchief, bound two splints tightly together, and tried again.

Yes; they would pass under easily, and she could touch the key and move it. She could hear it glide along the oilcloth for some distance in one direction; so she tried from the other side, and moved it back.

Forwards and backwards she moved that key a score of times, indefatigable in her efforts; but it would come no nearer, for there was an inequality over which it would not pass—the floorcloth at that spot was doubled.

Suddenly she stopped, for she heard steps upon the stairs, and Mrs Walls came by, her dress brushing against the key and slightly altering its position. Then once more all was silent; she had passed by without noticing that it was out of the door, and nothing was heard but the faint sound of the traffic in the street.

The splints again at work—this way, that way, but no sound of grating key upon the oilcloth, and after many trials, the prisoner laid her head upon the floor, and tried to catch sight of the object of her search.

There it was: just the ring visible, but beyond the reach of the splints, for it had been swept along a few inches by the dress. But three splints might do it: so another was tied to the others, and once more the trial was made.

Joy! They touched the key; but they bent and would hardly stir it from the weakness of the wood.

What should she do? How could she get out? Why did she allow herself to be trapped when it seemed to her troubled brain that her little one was calling! But if she stayed, would he let her see her child? Had not he said—had not the tailor said—it was dead. It was a lie—a cruel lie—it could not be dead. They had hidden it away from her where she was never to see it more.

With these thoughts exciting the crushed and patient sufferer, she paced round and round the room, to pause, at last, to tear at the screws that held the lock to her prison door, and only to leave off with bleeding fingers.

A new thought, and she darted to the window, tore down the red worsted blind-cord, and ran back to the door. Down upon her knees with the stiff cord doubled, and a great loop thrust gently under to try and draw the key towards her.

Now it caught, drew it a little way, let it slip, and came through alone; now it thrust it back when the cord was again pushed through. Another trial, and the cord caught, the key grating over the oilcloth, but only to be checked once more by the double fold and lost.

Disappointment upon disappointment, and a great dread upon her mind that her gaoler would return, find out her attempt to escape, and defeat it by bearing away the key.

Another trial, and another, and another, and once more the key caught against that double in the oilcloth; but now a vigorous snatch and it had fallen over it and close to the door, and though the cord came through without, she could now plainly see the wards of the key—touch them with one of the splints—draw them towards her—touch them with a finger—hold the key in her hand—and be at liberty once more.

Her heart beat with excitement, and then seemed to come to a dead stop, for as she stood where she had leaped to her feet, there came once again the sound of footsteps, now descending, and the steps were stayed by the door, where it was evident that some one was listening.

Beat—beat—beat—beat—again her heart throbbed wildly for a few moments. Then again, heavy pulsations that seemed as if they would make her head split with each agonising pang. Then once more her heart seemed to stop.

Would whoever was listening there see that the key was gone, and ask for it? Would she be compelled to give it up, or would they keep watch at the door to see that she did not escape?

“Do you want anything?” said the voice of Mrs Walls.

“No—no!” was the answer, and the last speaker’s heart beat more wildly in dread lest her eagerness should excite suspicion.

No! there was no notice taken: the steps went on along the passage, and seemed to descend to an underground kitchen, while for some minutes the prisoner stood motionless as a statue.

All silent once more but the grating noise as the key was softly pushed into the lock. Then slowly—gradually—by a tremendous effort over self, when she was longing to rush out, the key was turned, creaking loudly in the old worn lock. But now the bolt shot back, the handle was turned, and she stood in the passage, after the door had resented the movement by giving two or three loud cracks.

She stood there ready dressed, just in time to hear a sharp voice that she at once recognised exclaim—

“What’s that?”

Then a chair made a loud scraping noise upon the floor below, as if some one had suddenly risen.

There was not a moment to lose; there were steps already upon the kitchen-stairs as she ran along the passage to the front door. But there was an obstacle here: the door was locked, and a great chain up, whose ring was at the bottom of a spiral.

To turn back the lock was but the work of an instant; and then she seized the chain and tried to raise it from the spiral fastening, with steps coming nearer at every turn: one—two—three—would it never come off? Must she be dragged back again when she was so near to liberty? It was a lifelong task condensed in a few seconds. The last turn—the chain falling with a heavy clang—the door dragged open, as a firm hand grasped her shoulder, and tried to draw her back. Then a wild, despairing shriek rang down Borton Street, as a momentary struggle ensued for liberty.

Volume Three—Chapter Twenty One.

Tim Ruggles Sets Himself Right.

“Mr Pellet, sir,” said Tim Ruggles, “I ran out of Mr Purkis’s shop, sir, like a madman. Yesterday, sir, I think it was: no, it wasn’t, it was the day before, or some other time, I don’t know when, for my head’s all in a wuzzle, sir, and I hardly know what’s what. But I ran out of his shop, sir, after he had whispered two words in my ear, and them two words, sir, were—‘Mrs Ruggles.’”

“There!” interrupted Mrs Pellet; “that’s all a part of the past now, so let it be forgotten. But sit down.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Tim, standing in his old position by the chimney-piece; “it’s all a part of the past, but if you’ll let me set myself right with your family, I shall be glad.”

“Right! set yourself right! why, you are right,” said Jared, warmly. “You don’t suppose we ever thought that you knew?”

“No, sir,” said Tim, still standing; “perhaps not, sir; but I should like to tell you all about it, sir. It will ease my mind, like, so let me be obstinate for once in a way. You see, sir, I was stunned like that morning, and hardly knew what to make of things. Your good lady had partly told me the misfortune, as you may recollect, perhaps, when you came and stopped her, sir—when I rushed off to Mr Purkis’s; and then, after a long talk with him, feeling worse than ever, I ran all the way to Carnaby Street, sending the people right and left, sir, for I wouldn’t believe it true; and being a married man, sir, which makes two one, it seemed to me that I was in it, and had been the cause of it all, and ungrateful to you, as is the best friend I ever had. No, sir, I wouldn’t believe, though young Ichabod Gunnis had told me, and Mrs Pellet had quietly said the same, and then beadle Purkis; but when I rushed up into my room in Carnaby Street—first-floor back, first bell, two pulls—I knew it was all true then, for there was a letter on the table, as I afterwards found was written to Mrs Ruggles’ relations to say she was coming. And there she was, sir, trembling in the middle of the room, dressed and ready to go, sir; Sunday things on, and three or four big bundles about, with all the best of everything we had got packed up; and there was the four teaspoons, and my first wife’s brooch. When I saw all this, I recollected as there was a cab standing at the door when I came in; and then, without her dropping the bundle she was a-tying up, and busting out a-cryin’, I knew it all in a moment, that it was all true as true, and that she was going off that morning with everything she could lay her hands on, even to my poor wife’s silk dress, only I came back just in time to stop her.”

Tim Ruggles covered his face with his hands for a moment, and then went on.

“I’m only little, sir, and poor and weak, and I don’t know whether I feel the same as other people do, sir, when they are in trouble; but I couldn’t be in a violent rage, and storm and swear and abuse her, sir and ma’am”—and, probably due to the fact of Tim’s head being all in a “wuzzle,” he looked at Mrs Jared when he said “sir,” and at Jared himself when he said “ma’am;”—“No, I couldn’t do it, sir; for there was a strange sort of feeling came over me of our having broken the same bread together for years, she being my wife, and this seemed to stop me; though the nearest point I come to was—but I’m getting wuzzled. I wasn’t frightened, sir, not a bit: I was hurt, and cut, and sore, to think that a honest man’s wife should have done such a crime; and then made it ten times worse by getting you suspected, because she had a spite against you and Mrs Pellet here, sir, for taking so much notice of my poor Pine, and saying that she was not properly used, for I once let it out that you had said so. Partly that, and partly, you know, because it would clear her; for there was a deal of notice being taken of it all then, so she put the little key in your music-box, sir.

“Put the little key in your music-box, sir,” continued Tim; “it’s all true, sir, for she went down upon her knees, sir, and confessed to it all; and how she had had pounds and pounds, and that you caught her that night in the dark, when she had gone to put back a half-crown or two that was marked, and she was afraid it was found out then; but it was a letter from the vicar which settled it all. And oh! sir, if I had only known of all this, I’d never have asked you to speak up for her to be pew-opener. Yes, sir, it was a letter from the vicar had done it all, telling her never to go near the church again, and giving her what we poor journeymen tailors call the bullet.

“Oh! I was cut, sir, after all you had done for us, sir, and the customer you had been to me, for it never seemed like coming out to work a day here, sir; I was always at home, and treated like a friend; and what with the thoughts of that, and the kind way you had noticed little Pine, and the cruel manner she had treated that poor little dead angel, I worked myself up at last, sir, and I actually said and wished then, that the vicar had not promised that he wouldn’t prosecute her; for she deserved it, sir, if ever a woman did. Yes, sir, I was worked up, and in my rage, I seized the iron, sir, and she shrieked out, and though it was only cold, I thought it wouldn’t be manly to hit her with that, so I put it down, and caught up the sleeve-board, and stood over her with it, quite furious, while she told all, and begged for mercy over and over again. And then, sir, I was that mad that I stamped about the room, and she was frightened of me, hard a woman as she was.

“‘Mind my eyes—mind my eyes!’ she kept on cryin’, as I stood over her, and made her own to all her treachery; while at times, sir, I didn’t know whether to be mad or to cry with shame, sir; and to hear her telling all, and then to think of her black-heartedness after it was all found out—going to rob me, sir, and taking even my poor wife’s brooch. It was cruel—cruel—cruel!

“But then,” continued Tim, “I held up, sir, though I could have broken down a score of times, and I spurred myself on by thinking of the way she used to treat poor little Pine, till, seeing me flourish the sleeve-board about in that mad way, sir, the wicked creature was frightened for her life, and, jumping up, and giving me a push, she darted out of the room, and before I got over my surprise, sir, she was gone. And perhaps it was best, sir, or in my rage I might so far have forgotten myself as to have struck her, when, you know, sir, I should never after have forgiven myself—never, so sure as my name is Tim Ruggles.”

“It’s very sad,” said Mrs Jared, for Tim had paused; “but, of course, after the fright is over, she will come back.”

“Never, ma’am, never,” said Tim. “She has opened a gulf between us, ma’am, that there would be no bridging over—authority for saying so. I’m now, ma’am, what I ought always to have been since my poor wife was taken from me—a widower, and I mean to keep so. No, ma’am, I’m not sorry she’s gone; for though a wonderful woman, ma’am, a most strong-minded woman, ma’am, she was not happy in her ways; and since she has left me, I’ve been thinking things over, and seeing them a little clearer than I used to, and I’m afraid I didn’t do my duty by some one who is passed away and gone. But I’m sorry, sir and ma’am, and what more can I say? being only a weak man, and thinking I was doing all for the best; though I don’t mind saying to you, sir, that what some one else said was quite right: Mrs Ruggles did marry me. But it’s all over now, sir: she has gone, and I didn’t strike her, sir; for I never should have forgiven myself if I’d struck a woman, bad as she might be.”

“Well,” said Jared, kindly; “and now suppose we say, let all this be forgotten, and sit down.”

“No, sir, not yet,” said Tim, “not yet. I’m not done, sir, I’ve something else to tell you, but perhaps it would be best that Miss Patty should not stay, and you can tell her yourselves afterwards.”

Patty rose and left the room.

“You see,” said Tim, “I had a visit only yesterday from a decent-looking lady who came with a little quiet knock; and at first I thought she was making a mistake and had come to the wrong room. But no, she knew me well enough, though I did not remember her pale worn face for a minute, until I knew her all at once as little Pine’s mother, when, ma’am, I could have run away if I’d had a chance. It did seem so hard to tell her, when she came almost in a threatening way like to ask me for her child, and when I told her it was dead and gone, it was heartbreaking to see how she took on, and said I’d killed it at first; but the next moment she turned wild and strange, and said the child was not dead, but that I had joined with Mr Richard Pellet to keep her little one from her. And then I was quite frightened, for she told me she was mad, and that she was Mrs Richard Pellet, and that little Pine was her own dear child; and what with wondering whether what she said was true, and puzzling how it could be that my darling was yours too, I got wuzzled; but I told her all I could, and begged of her to listen, but the poor thing seemed quite frantic with her sorrow, and I had to let her go, believing me a cheat and a liar, and that I had been cruel to poor little Pine.

“But there,” said Tim, after a pause, “I could only pity her, poor thing, and hope that Time would make all things come right, as I hope he will, sir. But he seems a terrible long while about it, and I’m afraid it won’t be in my day; at least I can’t seem to see it.”

Then Tim found out that he must go, and he hurried away as if not a moment were to be lost, satisfied now, he said, that he had set himself right, while Jared and his wife stood together thoughtful and silent, the latter with tears in her eyes reproaching herself for not seeing through the mystery sooner.

“For, O Jared!” she said, “if we had only had the poor little thing here, who can tell but its life might have been saved!”

Volume Three—Chapter Twenty Two.

In Chase.

“Five o’clock,” said Harry Clayton, as the clerk came in to lay a couple of letters upon the table of his employer’s private office. “How long have I been waiting this time?”

“Better than an hour, sir,” said the clerk.

“What time do you close?” inquired Harry.

“Five o’clock, sir,” said the clerk; “he won’t come here now.”

“S’pose not,” said Harry. “I’ll run down to Norwood. Hardly like going without an invite though, now. It won’t seem like home,” he muttered; and then he looked at the door, as much surprised as the clerk, for there stood the figure of poor Ellen.

“That’s the lady he went out with,” said the clerk, in an undertone.

“Has he not come back?” said Ellen, hoarsely. “Has not Mr Richard Pellet returned?”

“No,” said Harry, quietly. “I am waiting for him.”

“Who are you?” said his companion, abruptly.

“Who am I?” said Harry, smiling good-humouredly. “My name is Clayton.”

“Her son?” she exclaimed.

“The late Mrs Clayton’s son, if that is what you mean; and Mr Pellet is my stepfather!”

“I thought so; and where is she?”

“In heaven, I trust,” said Harry, reverently.

“Dead! dead! And did he kill her, as he killed me, to marry some one else?”

“Hush!” said Harry. “Perhaps you had better go,” he said to the clerk, who was feasting, open-mouthed, upon the gossip banquet before him, but immediately left the room.

“Where is he now?” she said, eagerly.

“At Norwood, I expect,” said Harry. “But, may I ask, who are you?”

“Me!—me!” she exclaimed, passionately. “I am the woman who has been his slave through life—the woman he drove mad, and then kept hidden away that he might marry money. I’m mad, I know, but only sometimes—only sometimes. And now—and now, he has robbed me of my child—his child!—no, no! my child—my own darling; and they try to cheat me; they say it is dead. But no, it could not die; it is well and happy, and,” she continued, in an undertone, “I have half maddened him. I was here this morning and told him I would have my little one. I would not leave him, but he contrived to evade me.” Then, catching Harry’s wrist, she whispered a few words in his ear which made him turn pale with horror.

“Nonsense! No, no! not so bad as that,” he said, hoarsely.

“Yes, yes, I fear it is. Take me with you now—at once.”

Harry stood for a moment thinking, and half confused, at times, too, doubting the wisdom of taking such a companion; then, evidently having formed his plans, he said hurriedly, “Come then!” and in a few minutes they had secured a cab, and were rattling over London Bridge.

A train due in five minutes, but it seemed to them five hours before it came. Off at last, though; and very soon after leaving the station their footsteps were crunching over the gravel sweep that led to the front door of Richard Pellet’s place, when, as soon almost as they reached the porch, the door flew open, and a burst of warm light greeted them, their approach having been heralded by a bell from the lodge.

“Mr Pellet in?” said Harry to one of the gentlemen in drab and coach-lace.

“Not been gone out ten minutes, sir.”

“Do you know where to?” said Harry.

The gentleman in coach-lace looked at his fellow, and then back at Harry, to answer—

“Station, sir; carriage not come back yet. Came ’ome and had early dinner, and ordered carriage at five.”

“No idea where he is gone?” said Harry, anxiously.

The gentleman in coach-lace looked at his fellow once again, before answering, while Ellen whispered to Harry, as she tightly clutched his arm, “Ask him again—again,” but there was no need.

“Paris, I think, sir,” said the man. “I shouldn’t tell any one, sir; but it can’t be wrong to tell you. Glad to see you here again, sir. Like dinner d’reckly?”

“No, no,” said Harry, hesitating. “Did you notice anything particular?—but what makes you say Paris?”

“Because he told me to look what times trains run from London Bridge to Newhaven, sir; and what time the Dieppe boat started. His hand shook so, sir, he couldn’t find out for himself.”

“Was he ill? Did you see anything particular in him?” said Harry, anxiously.

“Didn’t seem himself at all, sir; and did nothing hardly at dinner but drink wine, sir.”

“There, there!” whispered Mrs Richard, “I told you so; he is wild, and you must stop him, or he will—”

Harry shuddered, and turned away to snatch his portmonnaie from his pocket and count its contents.

“You had better stay here,” he said.

“No, no! I must go with you. I want—I want to be with you. If anything were to happen—if he committed any rash act, I should feel that his blood was upon my head. Come!” she said, eagerly, and with a strange look in her eyes. “Come! there is no time to lose. I want—I want to be on the way.”

By consulting Bradshaw, Harry found that they might reach Newhaven before the boat started; perhaps catch the very train by which Richard Pellet travelled, though the probability was that they would find him to have an hour’s start of them, but by a slow train—that is, if he had gone at all, which Harry was sometimes disposed to doubt. But then he had taken luggage, and had written a direction, so the man said; and in corroboration he brought a blotting-pad, and part of a book of adhesive luggage labels, one of which was written upon; but, perhaps from want of legibility, smeared hastily over. But there, plain enough to read, was the address—“R. Pellet, Hotel Laroche, R—.”

That was all. Where would “R” be? Some Rue in Paris, Harry thought; when his eyes fell upon the blotting-pad—one that had hardly been used, but upon which, in reverse, he could now make out the same address, left by another label that had been blotted upon it. “R. Pellet” was perfectly plain; and then, with a little puzzling, he made out the rest,—“Hotel Laroche, Rouen.”

“Can we have the brougham?” said Harry, for he was now satisfied.

“D’reckly, sir,” answered the man. But “d’reckly” proved to be a full half-hour afterwards, when, just as Harry was about to set off on foot for the station, the brougham came round to the door, and they stepped in.

“Station—quick!” said Harry.

The man drove quickly; but they were only in time to see one train glide away through the darkness, leaving them waiting impatiently for the next.

Fortunately for the travellers, the trains succeeded each other very rapidly, and getting out at London Bridge, they had just time to cross over and reach the express as the last bell rang, hurrying into a carriage and giving vent to a sigh of relief as they felt it glide away into the outer darkness.

Gazing out of the window at the lamps here and there dimly seen through the fog that hung over them, Harry’s companion sat without speaking a word. Harry had ventured one or two remarks, but she had only made an impatient gesture with her hand, and, out of respect for her evident anxiety, he remained silent, and sat pondering over the probable termination of his expedition. It had been so hurried and excited an affair, that he had not before had time to think calmly: neither was a rapid express train upon the Brighton railway a desirable place for quiet meditation.

However, as they rushed along, he tried to link together the incidents that had led to what now seemed like a wild and foolish chase. What would his stepfather say to him for hunting him in this fashion, and for bringing with him this woman? But then her dark suspicion that he was wild with rage, and meditated self-destruction, joined to the accounts he had heard at Norwood of his strange unsettled state, which seemed to tend to the same conclusion, satisfied him upon the whole that he had done right in coming. It was evident that his companion had spoken the truth, and was connected with his stepfather in some way, from the clerk having pointed her out as the lady with whom his employer had gone out that morning.

“It must be right,” muttered Harry; and then his thoughts strayed away for awhile to Duplex Street, and he found himself forming plans for the future, in which Patty Pellet occupied a very prominent place.

His train of thought was interrupted by his companion uttering a moan, as though in deep distress; but, thinking it better not to intrude, he leaned back in his place, and the rest of the journey was performed in silence.

Newhaven at last, with the keen breeze blowing off the sea. Night black as Erebus, and the glimmering lamps looking down upon half-thawed snow lying here and there in patches. No fog visible, every wreath of vapour being chased away by the brisk breeze; but an utterly desolate aspect of misery everywhere, which made the warm glow of the great new-looking hotel-rooms pleasant by contrast.

“Boat, sir? half-an-hour, sir. Just time for refreshments, sir. Stout grey gentleman, sir, by last train? Not here, sir. Yes, sir, quite sure; must have known if one had come; perhaps gone to the little hotel in the town. Time to go and get back before the boat started? Should think not, sir; leastwise shouldn’t like to try.”

So said the waiter; and Harry and his companion started out into the dark night to search waiting-room, wharf, and steamer, deck and cabin, for him of whom they were in quest.

Volume Three—Chapter Twenty Three.

The End of a Journey.

“Perhaps, after all, he has not come,” said Harry to his silent companion, for no word left her lips; she only restlessly led him from place to place, pressing his arm with her hand when she wished him to speak to porter or guard. Once he heard her mutter a few words—“To escape and hide—taken her there;” but she made no reply to his remark.

They had searched the waiting-rooms of the station and hotel, paced up and down the wharf, boarded the steamer, and examined every labelled berth, but there was no sign of either Richard Pellet or his luggage. Then they returned to the pier, and watched in the direction that would be taken by any one coming from the little hotel in the town, till a blinding storm of wind-borne snow would have made Harry lead his companion into shelter, but she seemed not to pay the slightest heed to the weather, as she gazed incessantly here and there, trying to catch a glimpse of the missing man.

The mooring cables creaked and groaned as the steamer rose and fell upon the swell in the little harbour, the water rushing fiercely past, black and angry, save where it broke and glistened now and again upon the bows of a boat, or upon the piles and piers around, while the snow fell fitfully in great soft pats, whirled here and there, each flake darting from its fellow when they passed the lamps, which flickered and danced as the squalls penetrated every nook and cranny. Now the platform and pier would be white, but in a few moments a black patch would break out here, another there, growing rapidly larger, till, once more, all would be a wet, slippery, blackened sheet, upon whose surface the rays of the lamps flickered and blinked.

A bitter night—cold, dark, and dreary; the men about, clad in oilskin wrappers, which glistened with the wet that streamed down them as the snow melted. Nearly every one carried a lanthorn to swing about as a signal to guide his steps amongst the railway trucks. Dark clouds floated by, to halt now and then, and send shimmering down what seemed a winding-sheet of snow. Then would come a moaning gust of wind, sweeping the heavier clouds away, to leave the heavens but little lighter. The few passengers bound for Dieppe hurried across the pier, and made the best of their way on board to secure their berths, perhaps with no very pleasant anticipations of the coming night, and, saving for here and there a railway official with a lanthorn, scarcely a soul was to be seen as Harry and his companion still kept watch in the direction of the town.

The time had nearly expired, so nearly, that if Richard Pellet were to take his departure by that steamer, he must be there within the next five minutes, while upon their once more going on board, and questioning the steward respecting the advent of a short, stout, grey gentleman, that functionary, evidently put somewhat out of temper by the weather, and the poor array of passengers, incontinently cursed the stout gentleman, and turned his back upon the querists, who made their way back over the slippery deck, crossed the gangway, and again began to pace up and down upon the landing-stage.

If Richard Pellet had come down, which Harry now very much doubted, he must, as the waiter had suggested, have gone into the town, and Harry now repented that he had not at once hurried on there, and made inquiries. For, though he kept scouting the idea as absurd, and telling himself that his stepfather had some other reason for coming down here, his imagination was full of horrors suggested by his memory of destroyed directions and cards, and of men who had sought hotels in remote places to do some deed which should only produce an inquest on the body of a man unknown, unrecognised, unclaimed, so that the memory of the horror might soon pass away, and relatives only know that one of their family was missing.

His fears must though, he felt, be groundless, for Richard Pellet, wealthy, prosperous, was not the man to make an end of his life; but then he might not after all be prosperous; his affairs might be in a hopeless state of confusion; and now this strange connection with the woman at his side might have urged him to flight or the commission of the crime at which she had hinted.

But might not the woman be deceiving him? A glance, though, at the anxious, pallid face at his side, showed him plainly enough that even if she believed not the words she had uttered, she was moved by some strong impulse to overtake his stepfather; and, after all, what she had whispered might be true.

At last he determined to speak—to question her; but it was in vain, for he could obtain no answer. In fact, she had, in her eagerness to overtake the man whom she believed to have her child, forgotten the ruse that she had used to set Harry in search of his stepfather. It was the half insane prompting of her fevered brain; but as soon as her object was effected, it was entirely forgotten—crushed out of her memory by the intense desire to overtake him. Richard Pellet and her child: there seemed room for nothing else in her thoughts; and once only had she spoken to Harry during the last quarter of an hour of their watch, and then only to inquire whether there was any other boat, and when answered in the negative, she relapsed into her former silence.

The night darker than ever, a star now and then appearing, but only to be directly blotted out by some dense cloud; whenever a light patch of sky was visible low down on the horizon, the interlacing rigging and masts of the few vessels about could be seen rocking to and fro, while the steamer lights rose and fell in a way that betokened rough weather in the Channel. In the intervals of the squalls, too, would be heard the long, low roar of the sea, breaking upon the beach below the chalk cliffs that towered away to the west, or round by the sandy bay by Seaford. Waves rose, too, and washed with a heavy dash against the pier at the harbour entrance; and more than once Harry had heard it hinted that the steamer would not put to sea in such weather.

But the hints were from those ill-informed: the steamer was bound for Dieppe that night, and as Harry and his companion stood by the gangway, looking down upon the vessel’s deck, the paddles began to revolve, and Harry thought she had started, and that he had come, after all, on an errand of folly—such an one as a little forethought would have stayed him from attempting. But the boat was not yet off: the movement had only been to ease the strain upon the cables stretched on to the landing-place, for, as if eager to set off, the vessel had been tugging at them, until one threatened to part.

Another squall, and a fall of snow, during which the last bell rang, and a man shouted to Harry to know if he were going on board.

“No,” he answered, but hesitatingly, as if it were possible that he whom they sought might, after all, be in the steamer; but it was too late now to search, for two men seized the gangway to draw it back, as the signal was given to go on. The wheels creaked, and the first beat of the paddle was heard, when the figure of a man bearing a valise was seen to hurry down towards the boat.

What followed seemed to occupy but a moment or two, and Harry felt powerless to do more than look on. For, as he first caught sight of and recognised the figure in spite of its wrappings, he was suddenly thrust back, and his companion darted forward, half shrieking, “My child! where is she?”

Richard Pellet stopped, turned, as if to hurry back; but the next moment he dropped the valise and ran a few steps forward along the edge of the landing-stage, as if to leap the distance between that and the steamer as she came by. Then he turned for an instant, just in time to see a woman wrest herself from a man who had tried to stay her: in another second she was upon him, crying, as she grasped at his breast, “Give me my child!”

Then there was a shout, a shriek, and Richard Pellet had stepped backward to fall from the wharf in front of one of the paddle-boxes, where his wife would have followed, but for one of the men, who dragged her away.

And what saw those who had rushed to the edge of the wharf, holding their lanthorns, and swinging them to and fro, while others flung ropes, or rushed to the places where boats were moored? The black, gliding hull of the steamer, the turbulent water, churned into a white foam by the beating paddles, and a momentary glimpse of a grey head and two raised hands, as they were sucked into the stream, and beaten beneath the floats, which crashed down heavily upon the drowning man’s head, before there was a clank, clanking noise in the engine-room, and the huge wheels ceased to revolve.

Then, as the white foam was swept away, and the steamer lay to, the life-buoy was thrown over, men were seen with lanthorns in boats rising and falling upon the black water, which reflected the gleam of the light; but in spite of searchings here and there, backwards and forwards, no one was seen clinging to the life-buoy, or hauled into either of the boats; no grey head or appealing hands were visible at the summit of a wave or in its hollow; black water only, everywhere, save when it curled back in a creamy foam from shore or pile.

Then came once more the order, “Go on a-head!” the “clink, clank, clank,” in the engine-room, where there was a warm red glow from furnace-doors, and the hot smell of oil and steam, a loud hiss or two, the huge cylinders, beginning to swing to and fro, and the pistons to rise and fall with their cranks, churning the black water again into white foam. Then the stern lights of the steamer might be seen rising and falling as she passed out of the harbour mouth, and slowly, one by one the boats returned to their moorings, and those who had manned them, to the landing-stage.

“Name on portmanter, R. Pellet,” said one man in wet oilskins, holding down his lanthorn, and examining the little black valise as it lay upon the pier, now covered with snow-flakes. “Very shocking, but I don’t see as we could have saved him, or done more than we did.”

“Get his body to-morrow, d’ye think?” said a bystander with a short pipe to a fishy-looking man in a blue jersey and a sou’wester.

“May be yes, may be no,” said the man addressed; “but most like no, for he’ll be carried out to sea, safe as wheat.”

Then there was a buzz of voices as fresh faces appeared on the scene.

“Here, for God’s sake, help!” exclaimed Harry Clayton, sick himself almost unto death; “this lady has fainted.”

Volume Three—Chapter Twenty Four.

After a Lapse.

“I cannot refrain from writing to congratulate you, my dear Clayton,” wrote Sir Francis Redgrave, in a letter the young man sat reading in his rooms at Cambridge, as he leaned back, his temples throbbing, worn out with the arduous mental struggle in which he had been engaged. “Such an honour,” said Sir Francis, “is, I know, not easily earned, and I feel that yours has been a long and gallant fight. It would have afforded me great pleasure if Lionel had been gifted with your assiduity, and been possessed of similar tastes; but I have never tried to force him. I can get from him but few letters now, so can readily suppose that you have not been more favoured, and are therefore, most likely, not aware of his engagement. I enter into these details with you, on account of the interest you have always displayed in all concerning him. The lady is one whom he has

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many months since he had seen Patty, she had never been long absent from his thoughts even in his busy college life. He had, however, refrained from seeking the Pellet family in the new home to which they had removed on the sudden accession of wealth consequent on his stepfather’s death, until his industry and perseverance had brought forth fruit of which he might be justly proud.

On the day after the receipt of Sir Francis Redgrave’s letter, Harry had taken up his temporary abode in one of the hotels in the neighbourhood of the Strand, and set out at once to find Jared’s new residence at Highgate. He was disappointed, however, in his hope of seeing Patty, and there was something like constraint in the manner in which Mrs Jared informed him of her absence.

He made a second visit early the next day, but with no better success; and on coming away shaped his course towards the scene of so many adventures. First, he had a look at the old Duplex Street house, and then went on, intending to call on the little Frenchman and Janet, who, as the former had resolved, had left the naturalist’s house as soon as he was sufficiently recovered from the effects of his accident.

Finding that he would be within a short distance of Brownjohn Street, he altered his route in a degree so as to stroll through the well-remembered locality, and pay a visit, en passant, to the shop of the naturalist, should he still find it in the occupation of its old tenant.

As Harry Clayton entered the close neighbourhood of Decadia, he could scarcely fancy but that he had left London a week since—the aspect of the district seemed the same.

There was the squalid teeming place as of old, rejoicing in all its minglings of animated nature; the children tumbled still in the gutters; the gin-palaces drove thriving trades; costermongers’ barrows were piled with shellfish; and the slatternly women and hulking soft-handed men, hung about or sat on the doorsteps.

But Brownjohn Street was not quite the same, for there was a brightness about D. Wragg’s house, evidently due to paint; and upon approaching more closely, Harry found that D. Wragg seemed to be fuller of “natur’” than ever.

He was in the shop as Harry entered the doorway, and his face brightened with genuine pleasure as he recognised his visitor, and he commenced jigging and working about at a tremendous rate; but the next minute he had spread the newspaper he was reading upon the counter, and began to smooth it over a few times, and make it perfectly straight.

“You’re just in time, sir,” he said. “Only look here,” and he tapped the paper over and over again. “Isn’t it a game? Five years’ penal. Came out after his twelvemonth for your job, and then got in for it again. I always said he must come to it. ‘Don’t you make no mistake, Jack Screwby,’ I says, ‘you’ll be dropped on hotter yet some day; mark my words if you won’t.’ For, you see, as soon as he was out, he used to come worrying and cheeking me again. ‘It’ll come to you, my lad, see if it won’t.’ And now there it all is down in black and white: ‘Violent assault and ’tempt to murder.’ Lots o’ that sort o’ thing about here, bless you! And I could take you out here of an evening, and point you out half a hundred o’ birds o’ that sort as want the same kind o’ salt put on their tails. But there! Jack Screwby’s gone, and we shan’t see no more of him for five years certain.”

“And how is Mrs Winks?” said Harry.

“There ain’t no such person living here at all now, sir,” said D. Wragg, pulling up his collars, and speaking with dignity. “Don’t you make no mistake, sir. Mrs Winks is no more; and busy as a bee has she been this very week, marking all her linen over again in big letters—W, r, a, g, g—though I kep’ on telling her—such is the beautiful, clean, tidy, mending natur’ of that woman—as there wasn’t a rag among ’em.”

“What! married?” ejaculated Harry, with real surprise.

“Married it is, sir. Don’t you make no mistake. We both found the place awful lonely as soon as our lodgers had gone; and what with the theayter getting unpleasant on account of Mrs Winks being stouter than she used to, and people’s knees getting a deed in her way when she went round with her basket, and me having so much natur’ in hand to attend to, we agreed between ourselves as she should give the theayter up, and take a share in this here business, sir, and all under one name, sir.”

“And a very wise act too,” said Harry, smiling.

“Twenty years did I know her, sir, before I made the venter; and I don’t mind tellin’ you, sir, as is a gent I respex, if Mrs D. Wragg wasn’t quite so stout, she’d be an angel. But there, sir, don’t you make no mistake. I’m as happy as the day’s long; and talk about people’s pussonal appearance! why, look at me!”

In his modest self-disparagement, D. Wragg again became quite mechanical in his fits and starts, ending by crumpling up the newspaper, and sweeping an empty cage from the counter with his turnip-sowing arm.

“Looks are nothing, Mr Wragg, if the heart is right,” said Harry, smiling; “but I must be going. I thought I would look in as I passed.”

“Thanky, sir, thanky, which it’s very kind; but just a minute, sir. I wanted to tell you as I’ve quite done with the dorg business, and refused lots of commissions; and now, though I say it, as didn’t oughter, there ain’t a squarer shop in all London than this here. You’d hardly believe it, sir, but if I didn’t sell that there Sergeant Falkner a canary bird and cage last week, I’m a Dutchman. Brings his missus with him to choose it, he does, and calls agen yesterday—no, the day afore—to say as it sings splendid, and shook hands when he went, quite friendly. But won’t you take just a taste o’ something before you go, sir? The missus will be put out at not seeing you; stepped out, she has, for a few potatoes. And how we have talked about you, surely! Look here, sir, here’s the werry thing as I hung up in that winder as soon as he was found—and none too soon neither, for I was obligated to have my shutters up for a week, and they did smash half a dozen of the first-floor panes as it was. ‘There,’ says I to the people, ‘don’t you make no mistake: I ain’t burked the gent as took it into his head to dress up and come to see—’ But there! I won’t say no more—and I hung out that, sir.”

As D. Wragg spoke, he produced a dusty, smoke and fly-stained card, upon which, in large type, was printed—

THE GENT IS FOUND. HE WAS RUN OVER by A CAB!!! (Signed) D. Wragg.

“That there cost me two-and-six, sir; but don’t you make no mistake, it saved me one pound two and six in winders, and ever so much more in character. But is there anything in my way before you go, sir? Always happy to supply you, and can do a stroke of almost everything in natur’, except dorgs, which, as I said afore, I’ve quite done with; for, you see, sir, dorgs ain’t respectable, and don’t do now.”

Harry had some difficulty in getting away without seeing Mrs D. Wragg; but he urged that his time was precious, and at last, after a hearty hand-shake, he was allowed to continue his way, thinking very deeply, as he wandered slowly on, till he reached a quiet little street near to that named after the great Northumbrian earl—a tame, empty, flat, and apparently, to a spectator, highly unprofitable, double row of houses, upon the door of one of which was a brass-plate bearing the words—

MONSIEUR CANAU, Professor of Music.

Volume Three—Chapter Twenty Five.

Vive L’amour.

“Yes, Mr Canau is at home,” said a very mealy-faced girl, who replied to Harry Clayton’s knock; and he was shown into a barely-furnished but neat parlour, to wait while, apparently, some lesson was being concluded in the back room, where a voice could be heard counting loudly:—“One, two, three; one, two, three;” and a duet between pianoforte and violin appeared to be in fierce progress. Then there was silence, a buzz of voices, and very tightly dressed, very fierce-looking—with his closely-cut hair, as he walked behind an enormous moustache,—the little exile entered.

“Ah! mon cher, cher ami!” he exclaimed; and in a moment his arms were round his visitor. But directly after, he seemed to recollect himself, and drew back hastily to hold out his hand. “I beg pardon—thousand pardons; but I shall never be an Englishman.”

Then, running to the door, he cried in a loud voice, “Mes amis—mes amis—entrez.”

Harry Clayton’s heart beat, as the next minute Jared Pellet entered with Patty and Janet, who both started with surprise, Patty colouring deeply, and the latter looking from one to the other with something nearly akin to anger.

Harry hesitated but for one moment; and then, obeying the dictates of his heart, and heedless of the presence of father and friends, caught Patty in his arms, and kissed her tenderly.

“Aha!” said Canau; “but you do not apologise, as I did, mon ami. I did draw back, and make offer of my hand.”

“So I do—now and for ever,” cried Harry, “if Patty here will take it. You will forgive me, I know, Mr Pellet, for seeming brusque, but I cannot talk,—I cannot make professions. I am indeed, though, earnest and true, and I believe that you have read me aright.”

“Yes, yes—yes, yes,” said Jared, softly. “I know, but it is not for me to read. We will go and sit with Janet, and you will join us soon.”

“But, papa!” cried Patty, blushing a deeper crimson, as she hurried to his side.

“Well, my child,” he said, as he kissed her white forehead fondly, “shall I stay then?”

“Miss Pellet will, I hope, give me a short interview alone,” said Harry, crossing to her side as Canau and Janet left the room.

“Patty, dear Patty,” he said, “I am no courtly wooer, only a poor student.”

“No, no!” exclaimed Jared. “Haven’t we seen the honours you have won.”

“I have little to offer,” continued Harry, “but the true love of an honest man; but it is so true, so unselfish a love, that I blush not to offer it here in your father’s presence. But I have much to learn from you, for I tremble—this is not the welcome I had hoped to receive. You shrank from me almost with coldness, though you know that from our first meeting I have loved you. Mine may be a simple love, but I offer you a heart that never gave thought to another. But still I would not press you for that which was not yours to give. Tell me that you are not free in thought, and I will say no more.”

There was a few moments’ pause, during which Jared fiercely stroked his cheek, and then thrust his hands into his pockets, shrugging his shoulders almost up to his ears, à la Canau,—but, though Patty essayed to speak, her words were inaudible, as she covered her face with her hands and burst into tears.

Treading upon tip-toe as if he were amongst pedal-keys, Jared softly left the room, and for the next few minutes, Harry, grown eloquent with affection, pleaded his cause earnestly, till Janet glided in, looking curiously from one to the other.

“Ah, Janet!” exclaimed Harry, catching her hands in his, “you know how I have loved her from the first. You will speak for me, will you not?”

“No; why should I?” said Janet, coldly, as she turned from him to Patty, taking her to her breast in a motherly fashion, as if to protect her. “She is rich now, and you are proud to know her; but look back at when she was poor. You were ashamed to know her then before your fine friends. And then look at your cruel suspicions. Do you think I could not read them all? I have told her a hundred times over that yours was but a passing fancy—that you saw her pretty face, and liked it, and—and that was all.”

“I was weak and unjust, I know,” said Harry; “but have I not tried to expiate my sin? But why do you speak of a passing fancy? What do you mean? How can you be so unjust? Are there to be fresh riddles now?”

“Why should you trouble her when you are promised to some one else?” cried Janet, fiercely, as she turned upon him, holding Patty to her breast the while, and stroking her luxuriant hair.

“I! Promised to some one else?” exclaimed Harry. “Well, yes,” he added, gloomily. “I suppose it is to be so—to Alma Mater—to my studies.”

“Hush, Patty. No; I will not be silent,” cried Janet, excitedly; for Patty had turned imploringly to her. “I will speak to him—I will not be silent. Have you,” she exclaimed to Harry, “have you forgotten your stay in Essex, at a pleasant house with a lawn in front, stretching down to the road?”

She looked at him searchingly, as if she would read his very thoughts, while she awaited his answer.

“Forgotten! no, certainly not,” said Harry. “Nearly two years ago, was it not?”

“Yes, yes; I see that you remember,” cried Janet, with a tinge of sarcasm in her tones.

“Well!” said Harry, looking from one to the other in evident perplexity, for Patty’s eyes were fixed upon him anxiously, as if her happiness depended upon his answer.

“Well!” said Janet, scornfully, “do you remember?”

“You are speaking in riddles,” cried Harry, almost angrily, in his turn. “What does this mean? If you allude to my visit nearly two years since, with a brother student to his home—yes, I was there a week—a pleasant, happy week of home-life, such as I have seldom known.”

“Happy, no doubt,” said Janet, harshly.

There was a simple look of wonder and bewilderment in Harry’s face that directly disarmed suspicion, and the harsh aspect slowly faded from Janet’s countenance as the young man said calmly—

“Janet, I cannot understand what you would accuse me of; but it cannot be any falling away from my love for Patty; and as to being promised to another, I never till now spoke words of love to woman.”

The doubt and suspicion faded away still further, to leave poor Janet’s countenance almost sweet in its expression of loving sadness, as she turned away to whisper in her friend’s ear, and to kiss her fondly; and her eyes were suffused with tears, as she gently pressed back Patty’s clinging hands, and glided from the room.

For, trembling, fluttering, half-pained, half-joyous, Patty would have followed, but there were other hands to arrest her half-way; and as the door softly swung to, she felt herself drawn unresisting, now, closer and closer, to another’s breast.

Shall we tell of the words that fell now from Harry’s impassioned lips?—of the gentle, dove-like eyes that now looked up, half-scared, half-wonderingly in his, till that look was subdued and softened into one that was all love? Of the hour, that fled like minutes, as he drew the yielding little form closer, till her breath fanned his cheek, and her red, half-pouted lips seemed to ask the kiss they dared not then return? Enough, if we say that, as Harry sat proudly there, and whispered of the future, it was with a little head nestling in his breast; and when—how long after, neither knew—Jared was heard loudly approaching the room, violently humming one of the melodies from “Zampa,” and, of course, so pre-occupied, that he stumbled over the mat, and kicked it back into its place before rattling the door handle and entering, they did not move; why should they?

Jared stood and gazed for a moment with bended head, half smiling, and evidently about to utter some bantering remark; but it did not leave his lips, which began to twitch, and his face to work as he turned from them.

“Father, dear father!” cried Patty, as she fled to his side, “you are not angry?”

“Angry? No, my darling, I am not angry,” and he drew her to him to kiss her tenderly. “I am not angry, but glad and thankful to see my child happy. It brings back thoughts of old times when I—but this will not do. And what will somebody at home say to it all? I am a weak old fogey, and let you have your own way, but there is moth—I mean mamma, to consult, remember.”

At that moment the door was once more softly opened, and Janet entered slowly, to look at the trio inquiringly, till in Harry’s happy face she read all she wished to learn, and pressed his hand as he led her to a chair, sitting down by her side, and talking to her for some time, so that father and daughter might converse for a while without interruption.

Evening fell upon them unawares, and the black shadows made Janet’s countenance darker still, as, at last, gazing earnestly in Harry’s face, she laid one bony hand on his, and tried to speak, but the words died inaudibly away.

“Did you wish to ask me something?” said Harry, softly; for he had in those happy hours learned the poor girl’s secret.

“Yes.”

“You may trust me,” he said, gently; “but you are a woman of strong good sense. Let me ask you something first—Is it wise?”

“I think so,” said Janet, sadly. “I am not mad now. I suffered then, but it has passed away, to leave me wiser and better, I hope. Do you think,” she added, somewhat bitterly, “that I shall be like the little one that cried for the moon?”

Harry was silent for a while, thinking, but he was interrupted by Janet’s whisper—

“Tell me—is he well?”

“Yes,” said Harry.

“And you have seen him?”

“Not for above a year.”

“But you have had news; tell me what it is.”

Harry was again thoughtful and silent. Should he tell her or no? The blow must come some day; had it not better fall upon her now, and be at an end?

“Do you fear to tell me?” she said again.

Harry’s answer was to draw Sir Francis Redgrave’s letter from his pocket, and place it in her hands.

“Read it,” he said, “when you are alone.”

Volume Three—Chapter Twenty Six.

At the New Home.

Parted at last, for Harry had seen father and daughter into an omnibus, one which must have been Ben Jonson’s “chariot at hand here of love, in which my lady rideth,” and drawn by swans or doves, instead of a jangling piece of wood and iron work, with a wretched knacker on either side of the pole. How memory, though, dwelt upon her whose soft kiss—the first—was yet dewy sweet upon his lips—upon his, for she was his promised wife; and as he passed through the streets, walking as if upon air, flushed, proud, happy, he saw nothing but the bright future his fancy painted.

Then came the recollection of Janet, and he admired her as he thought of the calm resignation with which she seemed to pour out the lavish tenderness of her nature upon Patty.

At this point Harry glided selfishly away again in thought to add fresh colouring to his happy future.

Harry was early at Highgate the next day, to find Mrs Jared very stern and uncompromising; but he was too much for her in his downright honest declaration.

“Don’t be hard upon me, Mrs Pellet—don’t send me away; for indeed I love her very, very dearly.”

Mrs Jared was beaten, as well she might be, for there were Jared and Patty looking on. It was not consistent, she knew; but Harry stayed that day and dined with them, and saw Jared ready to go off to the vicar’s, stay to have a string tucked in here—Jared always was great in strings—and a brushing there; while, in the exertion of making the most of himself, he burst a pearl button off his wrist-band.

And now Patty was called into requisition to sew that button on again; and I vow and declare that the fresh disc of pearl which she held between her lips while she made a knot at the end of her thread, was not so bright and pure-looking as the little regular teeth over which Harry went into raptures.

Who would not have been Jared, and had that downy cheek laid against his wrist? Why, if it had been any other wrist, it must have beat and throbbed at a redoubled rate! Or who would not have been the thread which Patty bit in two when the button had been duly stabbed in all its eyes over and over again? Why, that thread must have been conscious, and enjoyed it, or it never would have held out so long, instead of being bitten through at first!

Jared gone, leaving Harry Clayton in his fold amongst the lambs of his flock. Very reprehensible, no doubt; but no worse than Mrs Jared’s behaviour. For though left at home as guardian, she either turned wilfully blind, or else her assertion was true that there was so much to settle and arrange that she thought she never should get to be at home in her new house. In fact, she was constantly away; and when by chance she did come into the room, it was to murmur to Patty about some precious thing or another that she was sure must have been left at Duplex Street.

Strange proceedings there were that afternoon at Highgate. Why could not Harry allow Patty to busily ply her needle instead of insisting upon holding one hand in his? Why, too, must he fancy that he had grown domestic, and want to help and prepare the tea? for in spite of the change in circumstances, it was hard work for Mrs Pellet and Patty to break themselves of their old homely ways. Harry kept the latter in a state of nervous flutter the whole time as he whispered. But then, at a certain stage in their existence, people do make themselves so absurd, or rather, as Richard Pellet used to say, “such fools.” The fact is, lovers imagine the whole world to be blind to their actions, when the fact is—bless the sweet innocency of their hearts!—the handkerchief is around their own eyes.

Yes; Harry must make the toast, which ought now, of course, to have been made in the kitchen—and fill up a great deal of the available space by the fire, manifesting not the slightest intention of going away so long as he could feast his eyes. There was no one there but a couple of small Pellets—little round Pellets, who sat very still, and looked on most solemnly. It was not at all surprising, seeing how such instruction is neglected at our great seats of learning, that Harry Clayton, in spite of honours, should burn that toast very often, and leave great white patches where all should have been brown.

Yes; they were as homely as ever at Highgate, though in the midst of plenty; for Mrs Jared said that she could never settle to the ways adopted by some people, even if she had a million a week. And now she was away inspecting a regiment of white jam-pots suffering from an attack of mould; so if there was any cause for the ruddy glow in Patty’s cheeks, it must have been due to a combination of Mrs Jared’s unconventional behaviour, and the example set by Adam and Eve some little time since; though there is still the possibility of the fire being to blame.

That afternoon glided away magically, and Jared was late for tea. It did not matter in the least, though he apologised for being so long away. And then what an evening was spent! for Canau arrived with Janet and a long black case, the sight of which set Jared’s fingers strumming upon the table.

Musical, of course, they were all the evening, and to Patty the notes now were those of love. But there was room for sadness even then, and Patty’s heart felt heavy as she saw the yearning, eager, almost envious look in Janet’s eyes, and thought of the poor girl’s future, till she crossed the room, and told her that she should always be happy could they but be near.

Volume Three—Chapter Twenty Seven.

In the Reflector.

Jared Pellet used to declare with a grim smile that he thought he had been more happy as a poor man in Duplex Street than he was now that he had inherited his brother’s property and thriving business; for he had never known how much misery, poverty, and wretchedness was in the world before the secretaries of different charities began taking ample care to keep him well-informed upon the subject. Jared used to say he thought, he was not sure though, he almost found the money a trouble to him; in fact, it would have been a burden if he had not somewhat lightened it by the arrangement he made respecting Harry and the money brought by his mother into the firm. He did not now find so much time for dreaming over his old organ, sooner than part from which he would almost have given up the worldly goods now in his possession.

The old house was kept on for some time in Duplex Street almost intact; and when it was decided to give it up, Mrs Jared had a good long cry over it, in spite of its pinched looks and bare rooms, but where she said that she had passed so many, many happy hours, gone never to return.

Wonderful was the collection of odds and ends brought away to be deposited in the wealthy new home—one and all articles that it was declared to be impossible to leave behind. One was Jared’s glue-pot, which showed its malignant disposition to the very last, and, after being wrapped up carefully in paper, proved to have a quantity of nasty, foul, sticky water somewhere in its internal regions, which ran out all over the other objects packed in the box.

Patty, too, must be obstinate about the old tin-kettle of a piano, with the rusty wires, being left behind. What were instruments of great compass from Broadwood or Collard? They could not make her feel that she was to desert old friends. How many boxes of strange pieces of ware, and fragments of this and that, were packed up under the name of playthings, it is hard to say.

One, at least, of Mrs Jared’s weaknesses has been already mentioned. This may not come in the same list, but during the arrangements what time the house in Duplex Street was turned what she called inside out, and the question was in full discussion as to what was to be taken, what left to be sold, this lady suddenly exclaimed, in answer to expostulations—“What! leave that rolling-pin and paste-board? No, not if I know it: I’ve had them twenty years, and—”

The remainder of Mrs Jared’s speech was inaudible from her head suddenly disappearing in the depths of a big box, where she was rolling the implements in question in the folds of an old scorched ironing-blanket for safety. It is worthy of remark, that at the time Mrs Jared was packing, her jacket was hung beside her on the knob of the door, and that jacket was handsome, and of ermine.

“Well, dear, is there anything else you would like to take?” said Jared.