Works of ellen wood, p.982
Works of Ellen Wood, page 982
“Would the sharpest officer in Scotland Yard take me for anyone but old Major Carlen?” laughed he. “I’m sure I look like his double in this elegant cloak. It was his, once.”
“His! What, Major Carlen’s?”
“Just so. He made me a present of it.”
“You have seen him, then!”
“I sent for him,” answered Tom, putting off the old cloak and coughing painfully after his recent exertion. “I thought I should like to see the old fellow; I was not afraid he’d betray me; Carlen would not do that; and I dropped a quiet note to his club, taking the chance of his being in town.”
“Taking the chance! Suppose he had not been in town, Tom, and the note had fallen into wrong hands — some inquisitive waiter, let us say, who chose to open it?”
“Well — what then? A waiter would only turn up his nose at Mr. Dominic Turk, the retired schoolmaster, and close up the note again for the Major.”
“And what would Major Carlen make of Mr. Dominic Turk?”
“Major Carlen would know my handwriting, Charley.”
“And he came in answer to it?”
“He came: and blew me up in a loud and awful fashion; seemed to be trying to blow the ceiling off. First, he threatened to go out and bring in the police; next, he vowed he would go straight to Blanche and tell her all. Finally, he calmed down and promised to send me one of his cast-off cloaks to disguise me, in case I had to go into the streets. Isn’t it a beauty?”
“Well, now, Tom, if you can be serious for once, what is going to become of you, and what is to be done? I’ve come to know.”
“Wish I could tell you; don’t know myself,” said he lightly.
“What was it you said to Lake about giving yourself up?”
“Upon my word of honour, Charley, I sometimes feel inclined to do it. I couldn’t be much worse off in prison than I am here. Sick and sad, lad, needing comforts that can’t be had in such a place as this; no one to see after me, no one to attend to me. Anyway, it would end the suspense.”
I sat turning things about in my mind. It all seemed so full of hazard. That he must be got away from his present quarters was certain. I told him so.
“But you are so recklessly imprudent, you see, Tom,” I observed, “and it increases the risk. You have had Miss Betsy Lee here.”
Tom flung himself back with a laugh. “She has been here twice, the good little soul. The old man came once.”
“Don’t you think you might as well take up your standing to-morrow on the top of the Monument, and proclaim yourself to the public at large? You try me greatly, Tom!”
“Try you because I see the Lees! Come, Charley, that’s good. They are as safe as you are.”
“In intention perhaps. How came you to let them know you were to be found here?”
“How came I?” he carelessly rejoined. “Let’s see? Oh, I remember. One evening when I was hipped, fit to die of it all and of the confinement to this wretched room, I strolled out. My feet took me to the old ground — Lambeth — and to Lee’s. He chanced to see me, and invited me in. Over some whisky and water, I opened out my woes to them; not of course the truth, but as near as might be. Told them of a curmudgeon creditor of past days that I feared was coming down upon me, so that I had to be in close hiding for a bit.”
“But you need not have told them where.”
“Oh, they’ll be cautious. Miss Betsy was so much struck with my cough and my looks that she said she should make some jelly for me, of the kind she used to make for her mother before she died; and the good little girl has brought me some over here twice in a jar. They are all right, Charley.”
It was of no use contending with him. After sitting a little time longer, I promised that he should shortly see me again or hear from me, and took my departure. Full of doubt and trouble, I wanted to be alone, to decide, if possible, what was to be done.
What to do about Tom I knew not. That he required nursing and nourishment, and that he ought to be moved where he could have it, was indisputable. But — the risk!
Three-parts of the night I lay awake, thinking of different plans. None seemed feasible. In the morning I was hardly fit for my day’s work, and set to it with unsteady nerves and a worried brain. If I had only someone to consult with, some capable man who would help me! I did think of Mr. Serjeant Stillingfar; but I knew he would not like it, would probably refuse advice. One who now and again sat in the position of judge, sentencing men himself, would scarcely choose to aid in concealing an escaped convict.
I was upstairs in the dining-room at one o’clock, taking luncheon with Annabel, when the door was thrown back by Watts and there loomed into the room the old blue cloak with the red lining. For a moment I thought it was the one I had seen the past night in Southwark, and my heart leaped into my mouth. Watts’s quiet announcement dispelled the alarm.
“Major Carlen, sir.”
The Major unclasped his cloak after shaking hands with us, and flung it across the sofa, just as Tom had flung his on the bed. I pointed to the cold beef, and asked if he would take some.
“Don’t mind if I do, Charles,” said he, drawing a chair to the table: “I’m too much bothered just now to eat as I ought. A pretty kettle of fish this is, lad, that you and I have had brought upon us!”
I gave him a warning look, glancing at Annabel. The old fellow understood me — she had not been trusted with the present trouble. That Tom Heriot had effected his escape, Annabel knew; that it was expected he would make his way home, she knew; but that he had long been here, and was now close at hand, I had never told her. Why inflict upon her the suspense I had to endure?
“Rather a chilly day for the time of year,” observed the Major, as he coughed down his previous words. “Just a little, Mrs. Strange; underdone, please.”
Annabel, who carved at luncheon-time, helped him carefully. “And what kettle of fish is it that you and Charles are troubled with, Major?” she inquired, smiling.
“Ah — aw — don’t care to say much about it,” answered the Major, more ready at an excuse than I should have deemed him. “Blanche is up to her ears in anger against Level; says she’ll get a separation from him, and all that kind of nonsense. But you and I may as well not make it our business, Charles, I expect: better let married folk fight out their own battles. And have you heard from your Aunt Lucy yet, Mrs. Strange?”
So the subject was turned off for the time; but down below, in my office, the Major went at it tooth and nail, talking himself into a fever. All the hard names in the Major’s vocabulary were hurled at Tom. His original sin was disgraceful enough, never to be condoned, said the Major; but his present imprudent procedure was worse, and desperately wicked.
“Are Blanche and her husband still at variance?” I asked, when he had somewhat cooled down on the other subject.
“They just are, and are likely to remain so,” growled the Major. “It’s Blanche’s fault. Men have ways of their own, and she’s a little fool for wishing to interfere with his. Don’t let your wife begin that, Charles; it’s my best advice to you. You are laughing, young fellow! Well, perhaps you and Level don’t row in quite the same boat; but you can’t foresee the shoals you may pitch into. No one can.”
We were interrupted by Lennard, who had come back on the previous day, pale and pulled down by his sharp attack of illness, but the same efficient man of business as ever. A telegram had been delivered, which he could not deal with without me.
“I’ll be off, then,” said the Major; “I suppose I’m only hindering work. And I wish you well through your difficulties, Charles,” he added significantly. “I wish all of us well through them. Good-day, Mr. Lennard.”
The Major was ready enough to wish that, but he could not suggest any means by which it might be accomplished. I had asked him; and he confessed himself incompetent to advise. “I should send him off to sea in a whaling-boat and keep him there,” was all the help he gave.
Lennard stayed beyond time that evening, and was ready in my private room to go over certain business with me that had transpired during my own absence. I could not give the necessary attention to it, try as earnestly as I would: Tom and his business kept dancing in my brain to the exclusion of other things. Lennard asked me whether I was ill.
“No,” I answered; “at least, not in body.” And as I spoke, the thought crossed me to confide the trouble to Lennard. He had seen too much trouble himself not to be safe and cautious, and perhaps he might suggest something.
“Let Captain Heriot come to me,” he immediately said. “He could not be safer anywhere. Sometimes we let our drawing-room floor; it is vacant now, and he can have it. My wife and my daughter Charlotte will attend to his comforts and nurse him, if that may be, into health. It is the best thing that can be done with him, Mr. Charles.”
I saw that it was, seeming to discern all the advantages of the proposal at a grasp, and accepted it. We consulted as to how best to effect Tom’s removal, which Lennard himself undertook. I dropped a hasty note to “Mr. Turk” to prepare him to be in readiness the following evening, and Lennard posted it when he went out. He had no sooner gone, than the door of my private room slowly opened, and, rather to my surprise, Leah appeared.
“I beg your pardon, sir, for presuming to disturb you here,” she said; “but I can’t rest. There’s some great trouble afloat; I’ve seen it in your looks and ways, sir, ever since Sunday. Your face couldn’t deceive me when you were my little nursling, Master Charles, and it can’t deceive me now. Is it about Mr. Tom?”
“Well, yes, it is, Leah.”
Her face turned white. “He has not got himself taken, surely!”
“No; it’s not so bad as that — yet.”
“Thank Heaven for it!” she returned. “I knew it was him, and I’m all in a twitter about him from morning till night. I can’t sleep or eat for dreading the news that any moment may bring of him. It seems to me, Mr. Charles, that one must needs be for ever in a twitter in this world; before one trouble is mended, another turns up. No sooner am I a bit relieved about poor Nancy, that unfortunate daughter of mine, than there comes Mr. Tom.”
The relief that Leah spoke of was this: some relatives of Leah’s former husband, Nancy’s father, had somehow got to hear of Nancy’s misfortunes. Instead of turning from her, they had taken her and her cause in hand, and had settled her and her three children in a general shop in Hampshire near to themselves, where she was already beginning to earn enough for a good living. The man who was the cause of all the mischief had emigrated, and meant never to return to Europe.
And Leah had taken my advice in the matter, and disclosed all to Watts. He was not in the least put out by it, as she had feared he would be; only told her she was a simpleton for not having told him before.
CHAPTER VII.
WITH MR. JONES
My Dear Charles, — I particularly wish you to come to me. I want
some legal advice, and I would rather you acted for me than
anyone else. Come up this morning, please.
Your affectionate sister,
BLANCHE.
The above note, brought from Gloucester Place on Monday morning by one of Lady Level’s servants, reached me before ten o’clock. By the dashing character of the handwriting, I judged that Blanche had not been in the calmest temper when she penned it.
“Is Lord Level at home?” I inquired of the man Sanders.
“No, sir. His lordship went down to Marshdale yesterday evening. A telegram came for him, and I think it was in consequence of that he went.”
I wrote a few words to Blanche, telling her I would be with her as soon as I could, and sent it by Sanders.
But a lawyer’s time is not always his own. One client after another kept coming in that morning, as if on purpose; and it was half-past twelve in the day when I reached Gloucester Place.
The house in Gloucester Place was, and had been for some little time now, entirely rented by Lord Level of Major Carlen. The Major, when in London, had rooms in Seymour Street, but lived chiefly at his club.
“Her ladyship has gone out, sir,” was Sanders’s greeting to me, when he answered my ring at the door-bell.
“Gone out?”
“Just gone,” confirmed Major Carlen, who was there, it seemed, and came forward in the wake of Sanders. “Come in, Charles.”
He turned into the dining-room, and I after him. “Blanche ought to have waited in,” I remarked. “I have come up at the greatest inconvenience.”
“She has gone off in a tantrum,” cried the Major, lowering his voice as he carefully closed the door and pushed a chair towards me, just as if the house were still in his occupancy.
“But where has she gone?” I asked, not taking the chair, but standing with my elbow on the mantelpiece.
“Who’s to know? To you, in Essex Street, I shouldn’t wonder. She was on the heights of impatience at your not coming.”
“Not to Essex Street, I think, Major. I should have seen her.”
“Nonsense! There’s fifty turnings and windings between this and Essex Street, where you might miss one another; your cab taking the straight way and she the crooked,” retorted the Major. “When Blanche gets her back up, you can’t easily put it down.”
“Something has gone contrary, I expect.”
“Nothing has gone contrary but herself,” replied the Major, who seemed in a cross and contrary mood on his own part. “Women are the very deuce for folly.”
“Well, what is it all about, sir? I suppose you can tell me?”
The Major sat down in Lord Level’s easy-chair, pushed back his cloak, and prepared to explain.
“What it’s all about is just nothing, Charles; but so far as Madam Blanche’s version goes, it is this,” said he. “They were about to sit down, yesterday evening, to dinner — which they take on Sundays at five o’clock (good, pious souls!), and limit their fare to roast beef and a tart — when a telegram arrived from Marshdale. My lord seemed put out about it; my lady was no doubt the same. ‘I must go down at once, Blanche,’ said he, speaking on the spur of the moment. ‘But why? Where’s the need of it?’ returned she. ‘Surely there can be nothing at Marshdale to call you away on Sunday and in this haste?’ ‘Yes,’ said he, ‘there is; there’s illness.’ And then, Blanche says, he tried to cough down the words, as if he had made a slip of the tongue. ‘Who is ill?’ said Blanche. ‘Let me see the telegram.’ Level slid the telegram into his pocket, and told her it was Mr. Edwards, the old steward. Down he sat again at the table, swallowed a mouthful of beef, sent Sanders to put up a few things in his small portmanteau, and was off in a cab like the wind. Fact is,” added the Major, “had he failed to catch that particular train, he would not have got down at all, being Sunday; and Sanders says that catching it must have been a near shave for his lordship.”
“Is that all?”
“No. This morning there was delivered here a letter for his lordship; post-mark Marshdale, handwriting a certain Italian one that Blanche has seen before. She has seen the writer, too, it seems — a fair lady called Nina. Blanche argues that as the letter came from Marshdale, the lady must be at Marshdale, and she means to know without delay, she says, who and what this damsel is, and what the tie may be that binds her to Lord Level and gives her the right to pursue him, as she does, and the power to influence his movements, and to be at her beck and call. The probability is,” added the shrewd Major, “that this person wrote to him on the Saturday, but, being a foreigner, was not aware that he would not receive her letter on Sunday morning. Finding that he did not arrive at Marshdale on the Sunday, and the day getting on, she despatched the telegram. That’s how I make it out, Charles; I don’t know if I am right.”
“You think, then, that some Italian lady is at Marshdale?”
“Sure of it,” returned the Major. “I’ve heard of it before to-day. Expect she lives there, making journeys to her own land between whiles, no doubt. The best and the worst of us get homesick.”
“You mean that she lives there in — in — well, in a manner not quite orthodox, and that Lord Level connives at it?”
“Connives at it!” echoed the old reprobate. “Why, he is at the top and bottom of it. Level’s a man of the world, always was, and does as the world does. And that little ignorant fool, Blanche, ferrets out some inkling of this, and goes and sets up a fuss! Level’s as good a husband to her as can be, and yet she’s not content! Commend me to foolish women! They are all alike!”
In his indignation against women in general, Major Carlen rose from his chair and began striding up and down the room. I was pondering on what he had said to me.
“What right have wives to rake up particulars of their husbands’ private affairs?” he demanded fiercely. “If Level does go off to Marshdale for a few days’ sojourn now and again, is it any business of Blanche’s what he goes for, or what he does there, or whom he sees? Suppose he chose to maintain a whole menagerie of — of — Italian monkeys there, ought Blanche to interfere and make bones over it?”
“But — —”
“He does not offend her; he does not allow her to see that anything exists to offend her: why, then, should she suspect this and suspect that, and peep and peer after Level as if she were a detective told off expressly to watch his movements?” continued the angry man. “Only an ignorant girl would dream of doing it. I am sick of her folly.”
“Well now, Major Carlen, will you listen to me for a moment?” I said, speaking quietly and calmly as an antidote to his heat. “I don’t believe this. I think you and Blanche are both mistaken.”
He brought himself to an anchor on the hearthrug, and stared at me under his thick, grizzled eyebrows. “What is it that you don’t believe, Charles?”
“This that you insinuate about Marshdale. I have faith in Lord Level; I like Lord Level; and I think you are misjudging him.”
“Oh, indeed!” responded the Major. “I suppose you know what a wild blade Level always was?”
