by Ellen Wood
How dark and sullen he looked, I can recall even now. Deprived of my promised partner, Verena, I went down alone. Sir Dace following with Jack, into whose arm he put his own.
“I wish you joy of your chief officer, Captain Tanerton!” cried he, a sardonic smile on his lips.
It must have been, I suppose, about nine o’clock. We were all back in the drawing-room, and Coralie had been singing. But somehow the song fell flat; the contretemps about Verena, or perhaps the sullenness it had left on Sir Dace, produced a sense of general discomfort; and nobody asked for another. Coralie took her dainty work-box off a side-table, and sat down by me on the sofa.
“I may as well take up my netting, as not,” she said to me in an undertone. “Verena began a new collar to-day — which she will be six months finishing, if she ever finishes it at all. She dislikes the work; I love it.” Netting was the work most in vogue at that time. Mrs. Todhetley had just netted herself a cap.
“Do you think we shall see your sister to-night?” I asked of Coralie in a whisper.
“Of course you will, if you don’t run away too soon. She’ll not come in later than ten o’clock.”
“Don’t you fancy that it has put out Sir Dace very much?”
Coralie nodded. “It is something new for papa to attempt to control us; and he does not like to find he can’t. In this affair I take his part; not Verena’s. Edward Pym is not a suitable match for her in any way. For myself, I dislike him.”
“I don’t much like him, either; and I am sure Captain Tanerton does not. Your sister is in love with him, and can see no fault. Cupid’s eyes are blind, you know.”
“I don’t know it at all,” she laughed. “My turn with Cupid has not yet come, Johnny Ludlow. I do not much think Cupid could blind me, though he may be blind himself. If — why, what’s this?”
Slowly lifting the lid of the box, which had been resting on her lap unopened, she saw a sealed note there, lying uppermost, above the netting paraphernalia. It was addressed to herself, in Verena’s handwriting. Coralie opened it with her usual deliberation.
“Dear Coralie,
“As I find you and papa intend to keep me a prisoner, and as I do not choose to be kept a prisoner, and do not think you have any right to exercise this harsh control over me, I am leaving home for a few days. Tell papa that I shall be perfectly safe and well taken care of, even if I could not take care of myself — which I can, as you must know.
“Ever yours,
“Vera.”
Coralie laughed just a little. It seemed as if nothing ever put her out: she did know that Verena could, as the note phrased it, take care of herself. She went up to her father, who was standing by the fire talking with the Squire and Tanerton. Sir Dace, fresh from a hot country, was always chilly, as I have said before, and kept up a big fire whether it was warm or cold.
“Papa, here is a note from Verena. I have just found it in my work-box. Would you like to see what she says?”
Sir Dace put his coffee-cup on the mantelpiece, and took the note from Coralie. I never saw any expression like that of his face as he read. I never saw any face go so darkly white. Evidently he did not take the news in the same light way that Coralie did.
A cry broke from him. Staggering back against the shelf, he upset a vase that stood at the corner. A beautiful vase of Worcester china, with a ground of delicate gilt tracery, and a deliciously-painted landscape standing out from it. It was not at the vase, lying in pieces on the fender, we looked, but at Sir Dace. His face was contorted; his eyes were rolling. Tanerton, ever ready, caught his arm.
“Help me to find her, my friends!” he gasped, when the threatened fit had passed. “Help me this night to find my daughter! As sure as we are living, that base man will marry her to-morrow, if we do not, and then it will be too late.”
“Goodness bless me, yes!” cried the Squire, brushing his hair the wrong way, his good old red face all excitement, “Let us start at once! Johnny, you come with me. Where can we go first?”
That was the question for them all — where to go? London was a large place; and to set out to look for a young lady in it, not knowing where to look, was as bad as looking for the needle in the bottle of hay.
“She may be at that villain’s place,” panted Sir Dace, whose breath seemed to be all wrong. “Where does he live? You know, I suppose,” appealing to Jack.
“No, I don’t,” said Jack. “But I can find out. I dare say it is in Ship Street. Most of — —”
“Where is Ship Street?” interrupted the Squire, looking more helpless than a lunatic.
“Ship Street, Tower Hill,” explained Jack; and I dare say the Squire was as wise as before. “Quite a colony of officers live there, while their vessels are lying in St. Katherine’s Docks. Ship Street lies handy, you see; they have to be on board by six in the morning.”
“I knew a young fellow who lodged all the way down at Poplar, because it was near to his ship,” contended the Squire.
“No doubt. His ship must have been berthed in the East India Docks; they are much further off. I will go away at once, then. But,” added Jack, arresting his steps, and turning to Sir Dace, “don’t you think it may be as well to question the household? Your daughter may have left some indication of her movements.”
Jack’s thought was not a bad one. Coralie rang the bell for their own maid, Esther, a dull, silent kind of young woman. But Esther knew nothing. She had not helped Miss Verena to dress that evening, only Miss Coralie. Miss Verena said she did not want her. She believed Maria saw her go out.
Maria, the housemaid, was called: a smart young woman, with curled hair and a pink bow in her cap. Her tale was this. While the young ladies were dressing for dinner, she entered the drawing-room to attend to the fire, and found it very low. She went on her knees to coax it up, when Miss Verena came in in her white petticoat, a little shawl on her neck. She walked straight up to Miss Fontaine’s work-box, opened it and shut it, and then went out of the room again.
“Did she speak to you?” asked John Tanerton.
“Yes, sir. Leastways she made just a remark— ‘What, that fire out again?’ she said. That was all, sir.”
“Go on,” sharply cried Sir Dace.
“About ten minutes later, I was at the front-door, letting out the water-rate — who is sure to call, as my missis told him, at the most ill-convenient time — when Miss Verena came softly down the stairs with her bonnet and mantle on. I felt surprised. ‘Don’t shut me in, Maria, when I want to go out,’ she said to me in a laughing sort of way, and I pulled the door back and begged her pardon. That was all, sir.”
“How was she dressed?” asked Coralie.
“I couldn’t say,” answered the girl; “except that her clothes were dark. Her black veil was down over her face; I noticed that; and she had a little carpet-bag in her hand.”
So there we were, no wiser than before. Verena had taken flight, and it was impossible to say whither.
They were for running all over the world. The Squire would have started forthwith, and taken the top of the Monument to begin with. John Tanerton, departing on his search to find Pym’s lodgings, found we all meant to attend him, including Ozias.
“Better let me go alone,” said Jack. “I am Pym’s master at sea, and can perhaps exercise some little authority on shore. Johnny Ludlow can go with me.”
“And you, papa, and Mr. Todhetley might pay a visit to Madame Tussaud’s,” put in Coralie, who had not lost her equanimity the least in the world, seeming to look upon the escapade as more of a joke than otherwise. “They will very probably be found at Madame Tussaud’s: it is a safe place of resort when people want to talk secrets and be under shelter.”
There might be reason in what Coralie said. Certainly there was no need for a procession of live people and two cabs to invade the regions of Tower Hill. So Jack, buttoning his light over-coat over his dinner toggery, got into a hansom with me, and the two old gentlemen went off to see the kings and queens.
“Drive like the wind,” said Jack to the cabman. “No. 23, Ship Street, Tower Hill.”
“I thought you did not know his number,” I said, as we went skimming over the stones.
“I do not know Pym’s: am not sure that he puts up in Ship Street. My second mate, Mark Ferrar, lives at No. 23, and I dare say he can direct me to Pym’s.”
Mark Ferrar! The name struck on my memory. “Does Ferrar come from Worcester, do you know, Jack? Is he related to the Battleys of Crabb?”
“It is the same,” said Jack. “I have heard his history. One of his especial favourites is Mr. Johnny Ludlow.”
“How strange! — strange that he should be in your ship! Does he do well? Is he a good sailor?”
“First-rate. Ferrar is really a superior young man, steady and painstaking, and has got on wonderfully. As soon as he qualifies for master, which will be in another year or two, he will be placed in command, unless I am mistaken. Our owners see what he is, and push him forward. They drafted him into my ship two years ago.”
How curious it was! Mark Ferrar, the humble charity-boy, the frog, who had won the heart of poor King Sanker, rising thus quickly towards the top of the tree! I had always liked Mark; had seen how trustworthy he was.
Our cab might fly like the wind; but Tower Hill seemed a long way off in spite of it. Dashing into Ship Street at last, I looked about me, and saw a narrow street with narrow houses on either side, narrow doors that somehow did not look upright, and shutters closed before the downstairs windows.
No. 23. Jack got out, and knocked at the door. A young boy opened it, saying he believed Mr. Ferrar was in his parlour.
You had to dive down a step to get into the passage. I followed Jack in. The parlour-door was on the right, and the boy pushed it open. A smart, well-dressed sailor sat at the table, his head bent over books and papers, apparently doing exercises by candle-light.
It was Mark Ferrar. His honest, homely face, with the wide mouth and plain features, looked much the same; but the face was softened into — I had almost said — that of a gentleman. Mark finished the sentence he was writing, looked up, and saw his captain.
“Oh, sir, is it you?” he said, rising. “I beg your pardon.”
“Busy at your books, I see, Mr. Ferrar?”
Mark smiled — the great, broad, genuine smile I so well remembered. “I had to put them by for other books, while I was studying to pass for chief, sir. That done, I can get to them again with an easy conscience.”
“To be sure. Can you tell me where Mr. Pym lodges?”
“Close by: a few doors lower down. But I can show you the house, sir.”
“Have you forgotten me, Mark?” I asked, as he took up his cap to come with us.
An instant’s uncertain gaze; the candle was behind him, and my face in the shade. His own face lighted up with a glad light.
“No, sir, that indeed I have not, I can never forget Mr. Johnny Ludlow. But you are about the last person, sir, I should have expected to see here.”
In the moment’s impulse, he had put out his hand to me; then, remembering, I suppose, what his position was in the old days, drew it back quickly. “I beg your pardon, sir,” he said, with the same honest flush that used to be for ever making a scarlet poppy of his face. But I was glad to shake hands with Mark Ferrar.
“How are all your people at Worcester, Mark?” I asked, as we went down the street.
“Quite well, thank you, sir. My old father is hearty yet, and my brother and sister are both married. I went down to see them last week, and stayed a day or two.”
The greatest change in Ferrar lay in his diction. He spoke as we spoke. Associating now with men of education, he had taken care to catch up their tone and accent; and he was ever, afloat or ashore, striving to improve himself.
Ferrar opened Pym’s door without knocking, dived down the step, for the houses were precisely similar, and entered the parlour. He and Pym occupied the same apartments in each house: the parlour and the little bed-room behind it.
The parlour was in darkness, save for what light came into it from the street gas-lamp, for these shutters were not closed. Ferrar went into the passage and shouted out for the landlady, Mrs. Richenough. I thought it an odd name.
She came in from the kitchen at the end of the passage, carrying a candle. A neat little woman with grey hair and a puckered face; the sleeves of her brown gown were rolled up to the elbows, and she wore a check apron.
“Mr. Pym, sir?” she said, in answer to Ferrar. “He dressed hisself and went out when he’d swallowed down his tea. He always do go out, sir, the minute he’s swallowed it.”
“Do you expect him back to-night?” questioned Jack.
“Why yes, sir, I suppose so,” she answered, “he mostly comes in about eleven.”
“Has any young lady been here this evening, ma’am?” blandly continued Jack. “With Mr. Pym? — or to inquire for him?”
Mrs. Richenough resented the question. “A young lady!” she repeated, raising her voice. “Well, I’m sure! what next?”
“Take care: it is our captain who speaks to you,” whispered Ferrar in her ear; and the old woman dropped a curtsy to Jack. Captains are captains with the old landladies in Ship Street.
“Mr. Pym’s sister — or cousin,” amended Jack.
“And it’s humbly asking pardon of you, sir. I’m sure I took it to mean one of them fly-away girls that would like to be running after our young officers continual. No, sir; no young lady has been here for Mr. Pym, or with him.”
“We can wait a little while to see whether he comes in, I presume, ma’am,” said Jack.
Intimating that Mr. Pym’s captain was welcome to wait the whole night if he pleased, Mrs. Richenough lighted the lamp that stood on the table, shut the shutters, and made Jack another curtsy as she withdrew.
“Do you wish me to remain, sir?” asked Mark.
“Not at all,” was the captain’s answer. “There will be a good deal to do to-morrow, Mr. Ferrar: mind you are not late in getting on board.”
“No fear, sir,” replied Ferrar.
And he left us waiting.
III.
The dwellings in Ship Street, Tower Hill, may be regarded as desirable residences by the young merchant-seamen whose vessels are lying in the neighbouring clocks, but they certainly do not possess much attraction for the general eye.
Seated in Edward Pym’s parlour, the features of the room gradually impressed themselves upon my mind, and they remain there still. They would have remained, I think, without the dreadful tragedy that was so soon to take place in it. It was weary work waiting. Captain Tanerton, tired with his long and busy day, was nodding asleep in the opposite chair, and I had nothing to do but look about me.
It was a small room, rather shabby, the paper of a greenish cast, the faded carpet originally red: and the bedroom behind, as much as could be seen of it through the half-open door, looked smaller and poorer. The chairs were horsehair, the small table in the middle had a purple cloth on it, on which stood the lamp, that the landlady had just lighted. A carved ivory ornament, representing a procession of priests and singers, probably a present to Mrs. Richenough from some merchant-captain, stood under a glass shade on a bracket against the wall; the mantelpiece was garnished with a looking-glass and some china shepherds and shepherdesses. A monkey-jacket of Pym’s lay across the back of a chair; some books and his small desk were on the chiffonier. In the rooms above, as we learnt later, lodged a friend of Pym’s, one Alfred Saxby, who was looking out for a third mate’s berth.
At last Pym came in. Uncommonly surprised he seemed to see us sitting there, but not at all put out: he thought the captain had come down on some business connected with the ship. Jack quietly opened the ball; saying what he had to say.
“Yes, sir. I do know where Miss Verena Fontaine is, but I decline to say,” was Pym’s answer when he had listened.
“No, sir, nothing will induce me to say,” he added to further remonstrance,
“and you cannot compel me. I am under your authority at sea, Captain Tanerton, but I am not on shore — and not at all in regard to my private affairs. Miss Verena Fontaine is under the protection of friends, and that is quite enough.”
Enough or not enough, this was the utmost we could get from him. His captain talked, and he talked, each of them in a civilly-cold way; but nothing more satisfactory came of it. Pym wound up by saying the young lady was his cousin, and he could take care of her without being interfered with.
“Do you trust him, Johnny Ludlow?” asked Jack, as we came away.
“I don’t trust him on the whole; not a bit of it. But he seems to speak truth in saying she is with friends.”
And, as the days went on, bringing no tidings of Verena, Sir Dace Fontaine grew angry as a raging tiger.
When a ship is going out of dock, she is more coquettish than a beauty in her teens. Not in herself, but in her movements. Advertised to sail to-day, you will be told she’ll not start until to-morrow; and when to-morrow comes the departure will be put off until the next day, perhaps to the next week.
Thus it was with the Rose of Delhi. From some uncompromising exigencies, whether connected with the cargo, the crew, the brokers, or any other of the unknown mysteries pertaining to ships, the day that was to have witnessed her departure — Thursday — did not witness it. The brokers, Freeman and Co., let it transpire on board that she would go out of dock the next morning. About mid-day Captain Tanerton presented himself at their office in Eastcheap.
