A Little World

“God bless all here!” said the vicar, fervently, by way of benediction, as he stood in the passage; and then they would have departed, but for Timson, who turned back to shake hands once more with Jared, exclaiming —

“There’s my hand, Mr Pellet, sir: I always declared it wasn’t you.”

And again, as Jared stood at the door, watching the two down the street, Timson turned again to shout, – “I always said it wasn’t;” while the gentle, reproving voice of the old vicar was heard to ejaculate —

“Oh, Timson!”

Volume Three – Chapter Thirteen.

An Accident

“No news,” day after day – day after day, till Harry was weary of repeating the words to the troubled father. Sergeant Falkner came often enough to repeat his story, that so far he had done everything possible; but that he had scent of something which he felt sure must turn out right.

At last Harry was wandering one evening towards Decadia, he knew not why, he said, but it always appeared to him as if elucidation of the mystery must come from that direction; and though he would not own to it, he made this surmise his excuse for going often to Brownjohn Street, seeing Janet but seldom – Canau often – quite an intimacy having arisen between the latter and himself.

Harry wandered thoughtfully on, till, nearing the end of St Martin’s Lane, he started back, for from out of a busy street there came a sharp rattling of wheels, a shout, a dull heavy sound; then the customary rush of sight-seers till a crowd had collected.

“There, that’s the seccun’ acciden’ I’ve seen at that there corner with my own blessed eyes,” said a man. “Them cabs comes cutting along fierce, never thinking as they’ve got anything to do but shout, and everybody’s to get out o’ the way in a instan’. If its panels as scratches, they pulls up; but if its human flesh and blood, drive on. It ought to be put a stop to – that it ought.”

There was a chorus of indignant acquiescent growls, though no one said what ought to be stopped; and Harry Clayton pressed forward through the swaying crowd, in the midst of which the shiny crown of a policeman’s hat was to be seen.

“Get a stretcher – Take him to the hospital – Poor creature!” exclaimed various voices; and then came a score of indignant commands: “Give him air! – Stand back, will yer!” – the speakers never seeing the necessity of themselves moving.

“Why don’t you look alive, and take him to the hospital!” exclaimed a strident voice again.

“Non – non! chez moi – chez moi!” groaned the sufferer.

“What’s he say? He’s foreign! Any one here understand Dutch? Anybody know who he is?”

“I do,” said Harry, pushing foward. “He wishes to be taken home,” just as, half insensible, the sufferer babbled a few words in his native tongue, to which he seemed naturally to revert; and then, under the young man’s guidance, poor Canau was borne to his lodgings, and a surgeon procured – one who came the more willingly upon Harry furnishing him with his address, and undertaking, if necessary, to defray all expense.

“I did try to get away; but I was confused, and stumbled; and ah! ma belle patrie!” muttered Canau, “I shall see thee no more.”

For the surgeon had made his examination, bandaged, and done all that was possible to ease the sufferer, and then taken his departure.

“I am hurt – much hurt,” said Canau, feebly, as he reached out a withered hand to Harry; “but I should like just once – ”

He turned his eyes towards a violin hung upon the wall; but when Janet eagerly reached it down, and Canau tried to raise the bow, his bruised muscles refused to act, and he shook his head.

“Had you not better try and sleep?” said Harry to the injured man, who seemed momentarily to grow more feverish and excited.

“Sleep!” he exclaimed, hoarsely, “sleep now? Shall I not soon sleep without waking? No, no – no, no! Look here! you are a gentleman – you have feelings. Listen! Years ago – many now – I fled from my country. I was sought for; I was called ‘traitor!’ But why? mon Dieu, why? Because I loved my rightful monarch, and would have seen him on the throne. But might is right, even as you say it here; and I fled to beggary and wretchedness amongst these poor – I, a gentleman – to drink at last to drown my misery, till I tried to live by my violin, and then I took to that poor child, saved her from misery and death, and now she loves me.”

Worn out at last, and half delirious with the fever from the injuries he had received, the Frenchman at last dozed off, when Harry rose to leave, wondering whether, after all, Canau knew what had become of Lionel, and hopeful that, if he did, his prostrate and weak state would offer opportunities for arriving at the truth.

As Harry reached the bottom, D. Wragg, pipe in hand, made his appearance, craning his neck, and thrusting his face forward in disagreeable proximity to that of his visitor, as in answer to Harry’s “Good night,” he exclaimed —

“I know!”

“Know what,” said Harry, sharply, his thoughts instantly reverting to Lionel, and the hope that if D. Wragg knew anything, now in his state of semi-intoxication, he might divulge some clue to the mystery that had troubled them for so long. But if D. Wragg possessed a secret, it seemed to be one from which he felt in no haste to part; for, with drunken solemnity, he merely shook his head a great many times, and then drew back softly into his shop, closing the door after him; but only to open it again a few inches, so as to allow the passage of his head as he muttered gruffly, throwing the words, as it were, at his visitor —

“Never mind!”

Volume Three – Chapter Fourteen.

A Question

“Been here five minutes, sir,” said Sergeant Falkner, as Harry Clayton entered the passage of the Regent Street house. “Yes, five minutes exactly,” he continued, referring to his watch. “I’d allowed myself ten minutes to wait and see if Sir Richard woke up; and if he had not at the end of that time, I was off. But as you’ve come, sir, that’ll do as well, for I promised him I’d look in and state progress every day.”

“What news have you, then?” said Harry.

“I don’t know as I have any as yet, sir.”

Harry gave a fresh gesture of impatience.

“Slow and sure, sir, ’s my motto,” said the sergeant. “’Tain’t always that one can make a dead swoop down. I should have liked to have brought you word that I had found next day after getting instructions; but a case of this sort is like hatching chickens – it takes time. You’ve been thinking as the eggs are all addled, but p’raps you’re wrong, sir. I don’t know. I won’t say but what I might have heard one little thing beginning to peck inside, and one may have a good brood yet – who knows!”

“But have you anything authentic you can tell me?” said Harry, who was wearied out with these many purposeless visits, the endless consultations, the trivial information demanded, and after all the small result.

“Nothing, sir, as yet. Only I tell you this, I think I shall have something for you directly.”

“Hope deferred,” said Harry, bitterly.

“Maketh the heart sick – eh, sir? Exactly so, and good news is the physic as makes it well again. Have a little more patience with me, and you may be satisfied yet.”

Harry bent his head.

“Look here, sir,” said the sergeant; “just another word before I go. You’ve been very often to Decadia lately.”

“Yes,” said Harry.

“Well, sir, if you’ll take my advice, you won’t go there so often. Why not? you think. My answer to that is – We haven’t found your friend yet; and my experience of some parts of London is, that there are men in it who think a deal more of a pound or two than they do of a man’s life.”

Here Sergeant Falkner fixed a bold clear eye upon that of the young man for a few seconds, nodded sagely, and then departed.

Left alone, Harry stood thoughtful and half startled for a few minutes before going up to Sir Francis’ room, where the baronet still remained sleeping, evidently under the influence of some sedative, for there was a graduated bottle upon the little table by the head of his couch, and a faint odour that reminded Harry of visits to a photographer’s pervaded the room.

“Must be ether!” he said, softly, as he went on tip-toe to the bedside, and anxiously looked down on the pallid troubled face, whose expression – even in sleep – told of the tortured mind, and the pangs which the old man was called upon to suffer.

“Let him sleep,” said Harry to himself, and he stole gently from the room to sit and think for a while, when, the hour being far too early for bed, he lit a cigar, and went out for half-an-hour’s stroll before retiring for the night.

“I wonder whether we shall ever see him again?” thought Harry, as he turned down one of the quiet streets, intending to make a circuit and return to the chambers by another route. His thoughts were busy now, – he was running over in a half-troubled way the words of the sergeant that night, for they had left their impression; then he felt disheartened and sad, as he thought of Patty’s intimacy with the Decadia people, and the way in which she was dragged into the affair, trembling, too, as it struck him that there might be legal inquiry, and she called upon to give evidence. At last he came to the conclusion that he would go and boldly beg of Jared Pellet to keep her away from the wretched district, and quickened his steps as if about to go at once, till he recollected the hour, and once more slackened his pace.

The street was perfectly empty, the lines of lamps looking in the distance like a vista of golden beads hung in the air.

Suddenly he was aroused from his musings, and, turning sharply, he was face to face with, and so close as to be even touching, his follower, who, with one arm upraised, was about to seize him by the neck, the gaslight falling full upon the features of Mr John Screwby.

Mr John Screwby had indeed been about to administer the garotter’s hug, for he had followed Harry through the frequented streets till he had turned into one that was retired, and afforded an opportunity that this gentleman did not feel disposed to resist.