Part 21

"I hate and detest him," said Pym warmly--therefore, as the reader must perceive, no love was lost between him and Jack. "He is an awful screw for keeping one to one's duty, and I expect we shall have no end of squalls. Ah, Verena," continued the young man, in a changed tone, "had you only listened to my prayers at Crabb, I need not have sailed again at all."

Mr. Edward Pym was a bold wooer. He had urged Verena to cut the matter short by marrying him at once. She stopped his words.

"I will marry you in twelve months from this, if all goes well, but not before. It is waste of time to speak of it, Edward--as I have told you. Were I to marry without papa's consent--and you know he will not give it--he can take most of the money that came to me from mamma. Only a small income would remain to me. I shall not risk _that_."

"As if Sir Dace would exact it! He might go into one of his passions at first, but he'd soon come round; he'd not touch your money, Vera." And Edward Pym, in saying this, fully believed it.

"You don't know papa. I have been used to luxuries, Edward, and I could not do without them. What would two hundred pounds a-year be for me--living as I have lived? And for you, also, for you would be my husband? Next May I shall be of age, and my fortune will be safe--all my own."

"A thousand things may happen in a year," grumbled Pym, who was wild to lead an idle life, and hated the discipline on board ship. "The _Rose of Delhi_ may go down, and I with it."

"She has not gone down yet. Why should she go down now?"

"What right had Coralie to intercept your letter?" asked Pym, passing to another phase of his grievances.

"She had no right; but she did it. I asked Esther, our own maid, to run and put it in the post for me. Coralie, coming in from walking, met Esther at the door, saw the letter in her hand, and took it from her, saying she would go back and post it herself. Perhaps Esther suspected something: she did not tell me this. Coralie had the face to tell it me herself yesterday."

"Well, Vera, you should have managed better," returned Pym, feeling frightfully cross.

"Oh, Edward, don't you see how it is?" wailed the girl, in a piteous tone of appeal--"that they are all against me. Or, rather, against you. Papa, Coralie, and Ozias: and I fancy now that Coralie has spoken to Esther. Papa makes them think as he thinks."

"It is a fearful shame. Is this to be our only interview?"

"No," said Vera. "I will see you every day until you sail."

"You may not be able to. We shall be watched, now Coralie has turned against us."

"I will see you every day until you sail," repeated the girl, with impassioned fervour. "Come what may, I will contrive to see you."

In making this promise, Miss Verena Fontaine probably did not understand the demands on a chief mate's time when a ship is getting ready for sea. To rush up from the docks at the mid-day hour, and rush back again in time for work, was not practicable. Pym had done it once; he could not do it twice. Therefore, the only time to be seized upon was after six o'clock, when the _Rose of Delhi_ was left to herself and her watchman for the night, and the dock-gates were shut. This brought it, you see, to about seven o'clock, before Pym could be hovering, like a wandering ghost, up and down the Marylebone Road; for he had to go to his lodgings in Ship Street first and put himself to rights after his day's work, to say nothing of drinking his tea. And seven o'clock was Miss Verena Fontaine's dinner hour. Sir Dace Fontaine's mode of dining was elaborate; and, what with the side-dishes, the puddings and the dessert, it was never over much before nine o'clock.

For two days Verena made her dinner at luncheon. Late dining did not agree with her, she told Coralie, and she should prefer some tea in her room. Coralie watched, and saw her come stealing in each night soon after nine. Until that hour, she had promenaded with Edward Pym in the bustling lighted streets, or in the quieter walks of the Regent's Park. On the third day, Sir Dace told her that she must be in her place at the dinner-table. Verena wondered whether the order emanated from his arbitrary temper, or whether he had any suspicion. So, that evening she dined as usual; and when she and Coralie went into the drawing-room at eight o'clock, she said her head ached, and she should go to bed.

That night there was an explosion. Docked of an hour at the beginning of their interview, the two lovers made up for it by lingering together an hour longer at the end of it. It was striking ten when Verena came in, and found herself confronted by her father. Verena gave Coralie the credit of betraying her, but in that she was wrong. Sir Dace--he might have had his suspicions--suddenly called for a particular duet that was a favourite with his daughters, bade Coralie look it out, and sent up for Verena to come down and sing it. Miss Verena was not to be found, so could not obey.

Sir Dace, I say, met her on the stairs as she came in. He put his hand on her shoulder to turn her footsteps to the drawing-room, and shut the door. Then came the explosion. Verena did not deny that she had been out with Pym. And Sir Dace, in very undrawing-room-like language, swore that she should see Pym no more.

"We have done no harm, papa. We have been to Madame Tussaud's."

"Listen to me, Verena. Attempt to go outside this house again while that villain is in London, and I will carry you off, as I carried you from Crabb. You cannot beard _me_."

It was not pleasant to look at the face of Sir Dace as he said it. At these moments of excitement, it would take a dark tinge underneath the skin, as if the man, to use Jack Tanerton's expression, had a touch of the tar-brush; and the dark sullen eyes would gleam with a peculiar light, that did not remind one of an angel.

"We saw Henry the Eighth and his six wives," went on Vera. "Jane Seymour looked the nicest."

"How _dare_ you talk gibberish, at a moment like this?" raved Sir Dace. "As to that man, I have cursed him. And you will learn to thank me for it."

Verena turned whiter than a sheet. Her answering words seemed brave enough, but her voice shook as she spoke them.

"Papa, you have no right to interfere with my destiny in life; no, though you are the author of my being. I have promised to be the wife of my cousin Edward, and no earthly authority shall stay me. You may be able to control my movements now by dint of force, for you are stronger than I am; but my turn will come."

"Edward Pym--hang him!--is bad to the backbone."

"I will have him whether he is bad or good," was Verena's mental answer: but she did not say it aloud.

"And I will lock you in your room from this hour, if you dare defy me," hissed Sir Dace.

"I do not defy you, papa. It is your turn, I say; and you have strength and power on your side."

"Take care you do not. It would be the worse for you."

"Very well, papa," sighed Verena. "I cannot help myself now; but in a twelvemonth's time I shall be my own mistress. We shall see then."

Sir Dace looked upon the words as a sort of present concession. He concluded Miss Verena had capitulated and would not again go a-roving. So he did not go the length of locking her in her room.

Verena was mild as milk the next day, and good as gold. She never stirred from the side of Coralie, but sat practising a new netting-stitch, her temper sweet, her face placid. The thought of stealing out again to meet Mr. Pym was apparently further off than Asia.

I have said that I was in London at this time, staying with Miss Deveen. It was curious that I should be so during those dreadful events that were so soon to follow. Connected with the business that kept me and Mr. Brandon in town, was a short visit made us by the Squire. Not that the Squire need have come; writing would have done; but he was nothing loth to do so: and it was lovely weather. He stayed with Mr. Brandon at his hotel in Covent Garden; and we thought he meant to make a week of it. The Squire was as fond of the sights and the shops as any child.

I went down one morning to breakfast with them at the Tavistock, and there met Jack Tanerton. Later, we started to take a look at a famous cricket-match that was being played at Lord's. In crossing the Marylebone Road, we met Sir Dace Fontaine.

His lodgings were close by, he said, and he would have us go in. It was the day I have just told you of; when Verena sat, good as gold, by her sister's side, trying the new netting-stitch.

The girls were in a sort of boudoir, half-way up the stairs. The French would, I suppose, call it the entresol: a warm-looking room, with stained glass in the windows, and a rich coloured carpet. Coralie and Vera were, as usual, dressed alike, in delicate summer-muslins. Vera--how pretty she looked!--had blue ribbon in her hair: her blue eyes laughed at seeing us, a pink flush set off her dimples.

"When do you sail, Captain Tanerton?" abruptly asked Sir Dace, suddenly interrupting the conversation.

"On Thursday, all being well," answered Jack.

"Do you take out the same mate?--that Pym?"

"I believe so; yes, Sir Dace."

We had to go away, or should not find standing-room on the cricket-ground. Sir Dace said he would accompany us, and called out to Ozias to bring his hat. Before the hat came, he thought better of it, and said he would not go; those sights fatigued him. I did not know what had taken place until later, or I might have thought he stayed at home to guard Verena. He gave us a cordial invitation to dinner in the evening, we must all go, he said; and Mr. Brandon was the only one of us who declined.

"I am very busy," said Jack, "but I will contrive to get free by seven this evening."

"Very busy indeed, when you can spend the day at Lord's!" laughed Verena.

"I am not going to Lord's," said Jack. Which was true. "I have come up this way to see an invalid passenger who is going out in my ship."

"Oh," quoth Vera, "I thought what a nice idle time you were having of it. Mind, Johnny Ludlow, that you take me in to dinner to-night. I have something to tell you."

Close upon the dinner-hour named, seven, the Squire and I were again at Sir Dace Fontaine's. Tanerton's cab came dashing up at the same moment. Coralie was in the drawing-room alone, her white dress and herself resplendent in coral ornaments. Sir Dace came in, and the Squire began telling him about the cricket-match, saying he ought to have been there. Presently Sir Dace rang the bell.

"How is it that dinner's late?" he asked sternly of Ozias--for Sir Dace liked to be served to the moment.

"The dinner only wait for Miss Verena, sir," returned Ozias, "She no down yet."

Sir Dace turned round sharply to look at the sofa behind him, where I sat with Coralie, talking in an undertone. He had not noticed, I suppose, but that both sisters were there.

"Let Miss Verena be told that we wait for her," he said, waving his hand to Ozias.

Back came Ozias in a minute or two. "Miss Verena, she no upstairs, sir. She no anywhere."

Of all the frowns that ever made a face ugly, the worst sat on Sir Dace Fontaine's, as he turned to Coralie.

"Have you let her go out?" he asked.

"Why of course she is not out, papa," answered Coralie, calm and smiling as usual.

"Let Esther go into Miss Verena's room, Ozias, and ask her to come down at once."

"Esther go this last time, Miss Coralie. She come down and say, Ozias, Miss Verena no upstairs at all; she go out."

"How dare----" began Sir Dace; but Coralie interrupted him.

"Papa, I will go and see. I am sure Verena cannot be out; I am sure she is _not_. She went into her room to dress when I went into mine. She came to me while she was dressing asking me to lend her my pearl comb; she had just broken one of the teeth of her own. She meant to come down to dinner then and was dressing for it: she had no thought of going out."

Coralie halted at the door to say all this, and then ran up the stairs. She came down crest-fallen. Verena had stolen a march on them. In Sir Dace Fontaine's passionate anger, he explained the whole to us, taking but a few short sentences to do it. Verena had been beguiled into a marriage engagement with Edward Pym: he, Sir Dace, had forbidden her to go out of the house to meet him; and, as it appeared, she had set his authority at defiance. They were no doubt tramping off now to some place of amusement; a theatre, perhaps: the past evening they had gone to Madame Tussaud's. "Will you take in Miss Fontaine, Squire?" concluded Sir Dace, with never a break between that and the explanation.

How dark and sullen he looked, I can recall even now. Deprived of my promised partner, Verena, I went down alone. Sir Dace following with Jack, into whose arm he put his own.

"I wish you joy of your chief officer, Captain Tanerton!" cried he, a sardonic smile on his lips.

It must have been, I suppose, about nine o'clock. We were all back in the drawing-room, and Coralie had been singing. But somehow the song fell flat; the contretemps about Verena, or perhaps the sullenness it had left on Sir Dace, produced a sense of general discomfort; and nobody asked for another. Coralie took her dainty work-box off a side-table, and sat down by me on the sofa.

"I may as well take up my netting, as not," she said to me in an undertone. "Verena began a new collar to-day--which she will be six months finishing, if she ever finishes it at all. She dislikes the work; I love it." Netting was the work most in vogue at that time. Mrs. Todhetley had just netted herself a cap.

"Do you think we shall see your sister to-night?" I asked of Coralie in a whisper.

"Of course you will, if you don't run away too soon. She'll not come in later than ten o'clock."

"Don't you fancy that it has put out Sir Dace very much?"

Coralie nodded. "It is something new for papa to attempt to control us; and he does not like to find he _can't_. In this affair I take his part; not Verena's. Edward Pym is not a suitable match for her in any way. For myself, I dislike him."

"I don't much like him, either; and I am sure Captain Tanerton does not. Your sister is in love with him, and can see no fault. Cupid's eyes are blind, you know."

"I don't know it at all," she laughed. "My turn with Cupid has not yet come, Johnny Ludlow. I do not much think Cupid could blind me, though he may be blind himself. If--why, what's this?"

Slowly lifting the lid of the box, which had been resting on her lap unopened, she saw a sealed note there, lying uppermost, above the netting paraphernalia. It was addressed to herself, in Verena's handwriting. Coralie opened it with her usual deliberation.

"DEAR CORALIE,

"As I find you and papa intend to keep me a prisoner, and as I do not choose to be kept a prisoner, and do not think you have any right to exercise this harsh control over me, I am leaving home for a few days. Tell papa that I shall be perfectly safe and well taken care of, even if I could not take care of myself--which I _can_, as you must know.

"Ever yours, "VERA."

Coralie laughed just a little. It seemed as if nothing ever put her out: she did know that Verena could, as the note phrased it, take care of herself. She went up to her father, who was standing by the fire talking with the Squire and Tanerton. Sir Dace, fresh from a hot country, was always chilly, as I have said before, and kept up a big fire whether it was warm or cold.

"Papa, here is a note from Verena. I have just found it in my work-box. Would you like to see what she says?"

Sir Dace put his coffee-cup on the mantelpiece, and took the note from Coralie. I never saw any expression like that of his face as he read. I never saw any face go so _darkly_ white. Evidently he did not take the news in the same light way that Coralie did.

A cry broke from him. Staggering back against the shelf, he upset a vase that stood at the corner. A beautiful vase of Worcester china, with a ground of delicate gilt tracery, and a deliciously-painted landscape standing out from it. It was not at the vase, lying in pieces on the fender, we looked, but at Sir Dace. His face was contorted; his eyes were rolling. Tanerton, ever ready, caught his arm.

"Help me to find her, my friends!" he gasped, when the threatened fit had passed. "Help me this night to find my daughter! As sure as we are living, that base man will marry her to-morrow, if we do not, and then it will be too late."

"Goodness bless me, yes!" cried the Squire, brushing his hair the wrong way, his good old red face all excitement, "Let us start at once! Johnny, you come with me. Where can we go first?"

That was the question for them all--where to go? London was a large place; and to set out to look for a young lady in it, not knowing where to look, was as bad as looking for the needle in the bottle of hay.

"She may be at that villain's place," panted Sir Dace, whose breath seemed to be all wrong. "Where does he live? You know, I suppose," appealing to Jack.

"No, I don't," said Jack. "But I can find out. I dare say it is in Ship Street. Most of----"

"Where is Ship Street?" interrupted the Squire, looking more helpless than a lunatic.

"Ship Street, Tower Hill," explained Jack; and I dare say the Squire was as wise as before. "Quite a colony of officers live there, while their vessels are lying in St. Katherine's Docks. Ship Street lies handy, you see; they have to be on board by six in the morning."

"I knew a young fellow who lodged all the way down at Poplar, because it was near to his ship," contended the Squire.

"No doubt. His ship must have been berthed in the East India Docks; they are much further off. I will go away at once, then. But," added Jack, arresting his steps, and turning to Sir Dace, "don't you think it may be as well to question the household? Your daughter may have left some indication of her movements."

Jack's thought was not a bad one. Coralie rang the bell for their own maid, Esther, a dull, silent kind of young woman. But Esther knew nothing. She had not helped Miss Verena to dress that evening, only Miss Coralie. Miss Verena said she did not want her. She believed Maria saw her go out.

Maria, the housemaid, was called: a smart young woman, with curled hair and a pink bow in her cap. Her tale was this. While the young ladies were dressing for dinner, she entered the drawing-room to attend to the fire, and found it very low. She went on her knees to coax it up, when Miss Verena came in in her white petticoat, a little shawl on her neck. She walked straight up to Miss Fontaine's work-box, opened it and shut it, and then went out of the room again.

"Did she speak to you?" asked John Tanerton.

"Yes, sir. Leastways she made just a remark--'What, that fire out again?' she said. That was all, sir."

"Go on," sharply cried Sir Dace.

"About ten minutes later, I was at the front-door, letting out the water-rate--who is sure to call, as my missis told him, at the most ill-convenient time--when Miss Verena came softly down the stairs with her bonnet and mantle on. I felt surprised. 'Don't shut me in, Maria, when I want to go out,' she said to me in a laughing sort of way, and I pulled the door back and begged her pardon. That was all, sir."

"How was she dressed?" asked Coralie.

"I couldn't say," answered the girl; "except that her clothes were dark. Her black veil was down over her face; I noticed that; and she had a little carpet-bag in her hand."

So there we were, no wiser than before. Verena had taken flight, and it was impossible to say whither.

They were for running all over the world. The Squire would have started forthwith, and taken the top of the Monument to begin with. John Tanerton, departing on his search to find Pym's lodgings, found we all meant to attend him, including Ozias.

"Better let me go alone," said Jack. "I am Pym's master at sea, and can perhaps exercise some little authority on shore. Johnny Ludlow can go with me."

"And you, papa, and Mr. Todhetley might pay a visit to Madame Tussaud's," put in Coralie, who had not lost her equanimity the least in the world, seeming to look upon the escapade as more of a joke than otherwise. "They will very probably be found at Madame Tussaud's: it is a safe place of resort when people want to talk secrets and be under shelter."

There might be reason in what Coralie said. Certainly there was no need for a procession of live people and two cabs to invade the regions of Tower Hill. So Jack, buttoning his light over-coat over his dinner toggery, got into a hansom with me, and the two old gentlemen went off to see the kings and queens.

"Drive like the wind," said Jack to the cabman. "No. 23, Ship Street, Tower Hill."

"I thought you did not know his number," I said, as we went skimming over the stones.

"I do not know Pym's: am not sure that he puts up in Ship Street. My second mate, Mark Ferrar, lives at No. 23, and I dare say he can direct me to Pym's."

Mark Ferrar! The name struck on my memory. "Does Ferrar come from Worcester, do you know, Jack? Is he related to the Battleys of Crabb?"

"It is the same," said Jack. "I have heard his history. One of his especial favourites is Mr. Johnny Ludlow."

"How strange!--strange that he should be in your ship! Does he do well? Is he a good sailor?"

"First-rate. Ferrar is really a superior young man, steady and painstaking, and has got on wonderfully. As soon as he qualifies for master, which will be in another year or two, he will be placed in command, unless I am mistaken. Our owners see what he is, and push him forward. They drafted him into my ship two years ago."

How curious it was! Mark Ferrar, the humble charity-boy, the _frog_, who had won the heart of poor King Sanker, rising thus quickly towards the top of the tree! I had always liked Mark; had seen how trustworthy he was.

Our cab might fly like the wind; but Tower Hill seemed a long way off in spite of it. Dashing into Ship Street at last, I looked about me, and saw a narrow street with narrow houses on either side, narrow doors that somehow did not look upright, and shutters closed before the downstairs windows.

No. 23. Jack got out, and knocked at the door. A young boy opened it, saying he believed Mr. Ferrar was in his parlour.

You had to dive down a step to get into the passage. I followed Jack in. The parlour-door was on the right, and the boy pushed it open. A smart, well-dressed sailor sat at the table, his head bent over books and papers, apparently doing exercises by candle-light.

It was Mark Ferrar. His honest, homely face, with the wide mouth and plain features, looked much the same; but the face was softened into--I had almost said--that of a gentleman. Mark finished the sentence he was writing, looked up, and saw his captain.

"Oh, sir, is it you?" he said, rising. "I beg your pardon."

"Busy at your books, I see, Mr. Ferrar?"

Mark smiled--the great, broad, genuine smile I so well remembered. "I had to put them by for other books, while I was studying to pass for chief, sir. That done, I can get to them again with an easy conscience."

"To be sure. Can you tell me where Mr. Pym lodges?"

"Close by: a few doors lower down. But I can show you the house, sir."

"Have you forgotten me, Mark?" I asked, as he took up his cap to come with us.

An instant's uncertain gaze; the candle was behind him, and my face in the shade. His own face lighted up with a glad light.

"No, sir, that indeed I have not, I can never forget Mr. Johnny Ludlow. But you are about the last person, sir, I should have expected to see here."

In the moment's impulse, he had put out his hand to me; then, remembering, I suppose, what his position was in the old days, drew it back quickly. "I beg your pardon, sir," he said, with the same honest flush that used to be for ever making a scarlet poppy of his face. But I was glad to shake hands with Mark Ferrar.

"How are all your people at Worcester, Mark?" I asked, as we went down the street.