"You're not well, sir," he said; "I will lead the pony."
When I looked again at the landscape round me, we had descended in theinterval from the higher ground to the lower. The house and the lake haddisappeared, to be seen no more.
CHAPTER XXIV. IN THE SHADOW OF ST. PAUL'S.
In ten days I was at home again--and my mother's arms were round me.
I had left her for my sea-voyage very unwillingly--seeing that she wasin delicate health. On my return, I was grieved to observe a change forthe worse, for which her letters had not prepared me. Consulting ourmedical friend, Mr. MacGlue, I found that he, too, had noticed mymother's failing health, but that he attributed it to an easilyremovable cause--to the climate of Scotland. My mother's childhood andearly life had been passed on the southern shores of England. The changeto the raw, keen air of the North had been a trying change to a personat her age. In Mr. MacGlue's opinion, the wise course to take would beto return to the South before the autumn was further advanced, andto make our arrangements for passing the coming winter at Penzance orTorquay.
Resolved as I was to keep the mysterious appointment which summonedme to London at the month's end, Mr. MacGlue's suggestion met with noopposition on my part. It had, to my mind, the great merit of obviatingthe necessity of a second separation from my mother--assuming that sheapproved of the doctor's advice. I put the question to her the same day.To my infinite relief, she was not only ready, but eager to take thejourney to the South. The season had been unusually wet, even forScotland; and my mother reluctantly confessed that she "did feel acertain longing" for the mild air and genial sunshine of the Devonshirecoast.
We arranged to travel in our own comfortable carriage by post--resting,of course, at inns on the road at night. In the days before railwaysit was no easy matter for an invalid to travel from Perthshire toLondon--even with a light carriage and four horses. Calculating our rateof progress from the date of our departure, I found that we had justtime, and no more, to reach London on the last day of the month.
I shall say nothing of the secret anxieties which weighed on my mind,under these circumstances. Happily for me, on every account, my mother'sstrength held out. The easy and (as we then thought) the rapid rate oftraveling had its invigorating effect on her nerves. She slept betterwhen we rested for the night than she had slept at home. After twicebeing delayed on the road, we arrived in London at three o'clock on theafternoon of the last day of the month. Had I reached my destination intime?
As I interpreted the writing of the apparition, I had still some hoursat my disposal. The phrase, "at the month's end," meant, as I understoodit, at the last hour of the last day in the month. If I took up myposition "under the shadow of Saint Paul's," say, at ten that night, Ishould arrive at the place of meeting with two hours to spare, beforethe last stroke of the clock marked the beginning of the new month.
At half-past nine, I left my mother to rest after her long journey, andprivately quit the house. Before ten, I was at my post. The night wasfine and clear; and the huge shadow of the cathedral marked distinctlythe limits within which I had been bid to wait, on the watch for events.
The great clock of Saint Paul's struck ten--and nothing happened.
The next hour passed very slowly. I walked up and down; at one timeabsorbed in my own thoughts; at another, engaged in watching the gradualdiminution in the number of foot passengers who passed me as the nightadvanced. The City (as it is called) is the most populous part ofLondon in the daytime; but at night, when it ceases to be the center ofcommerce, its busy population melts away, and the empty streets assumethe appearance of a remote and deserted quarter of the metropolis. Asthe half hour after ten struck--then the quarter to eleven--then thehour--the pavement steadily became more and more deserted. I could countthe foot passengers now by twos and threes; and I could see the placesof public refreshment within my view beginning already to close for thenight.
I looked at the clock; it pointed to ten minutes past eleven. At thathour, could I hope to meet Mrs. Van Brandt alone in the public street?
The more I thought of it, the less likely such an event seemed to be.The more reasonable probability was that I might meet her once more,accompanied by some friend--perhaps under the escort of Van Brandthimself. I wondered whether I should preserve my self-control, in thepresence of that man, for the second time.
While my thoughts were still pursuing this direction, my attention wasrecalled to passing events by a sad little voice, putting a strangelittle question, close at my side.
"If you please, sir, do you know where I can find a chemist's shop openat this time of night?"
I looked round, and discovered a poorly clad little boy, with a basketover his arm, and a morsel of paper in his hand.
"The chemists' shops are all shut," I said. "If you want any medicine,you must ring the night-bell."
"I dursn't do it, sir," replied the small stranger. "I am such a littleboy, I'm afraid of their beating me if I ring them up out of their beds,without somebody to speak for me."
The little creature looked at me under the street lamp with such aforlorn experience of being beaten for trifling offenses in his face,that it was impossible to resist the impulse to help him.
"Is it a serious case of illness?" I asked.
"I don't know, sir."
"Have you got a doctor's prescription?"
He held out his morsel of paper.
"I have got this," he said.
I took the paper from him, and looked at it.
It was an ordinary prescription for a tonic mixture. I looked first atthe doctor's signature; it was the name of a perfectly obscure personin the profession. Below it was written the name of the patient for whomthe medicine had been prescribed. I started as I read it. The name was"Mrs. Brand."
The idea instantly struck me that this (so far as sound went, at anyrate) was the English equivalent of Van Brandt.
"Do you know the lady who sent you for the medicine?" I asked.
"Oh yes, sir! She lodges with mother--and she owes for rent. I havedone everything she told me, except getting the physic. I've pawned herring, and I've bought the bread and butter and eggs, and I've takencare of the change. Mother looks to the change for her rent. It isn't myfault, sir, that I've lost myself. I am but ten years old--and all thechemists' shops are shut up!"
Here my little friend's sense of his unmerited misfortunes overpoweredhim, and he began to cry.
"Don't cry, my man!" I said; "I'll help you. Tell me something moreabout the lady first. Is she alone?"
"She's got her little girl with her, sir."
My heart quickened its beat. The boy's answer reminded me of that otherlittle girl whom my mother had once seen.
"Is the lady's husband with her?" I asked next.
"No, sir--not now. He was with her; but he went away--and he hasn't comeback yet."
I put a last conclusive question.
"Is her husband an Englishman?" I inquired.
"Mother says he's a foreigner," the boy answered.
I turned away to hide my agitation. Even the child might have noticedit!
Passing under the name of "Mrs. Brand"--poor, so poor that she wasobliged to pawn her ring--left, by a man who was a foreigner, alone withher little girl--was I on the trace of her at that moment? Was this lostchild destined to be the innocent means of leading me back to the womanI loved, in her direst need of sympathy and help? The more I thought ofit, the more strongly the idea of returning with the boy to the housein which his mother's lodger lived fastened itself on my mind. The clockstruck the quarter past eleven. If my anticipations ended in misleadingme, I had still three-quarters of an hour to spare before the monthreached its end.
"Where do you live?" I asked.
The boy mentioned a street, the name of which I then heard for the firsttime. All he could say, when I asked for further particulars, was thathe lived close by the river--in which direction, he was too confused andtoo frightened to be able to tell me.
While we were st
ill trying to understand each other, a cab passed slowlyat some little distance. I hailed the man, and mentioned the name ofthe street to him. He knew it perfectly well. The street was rathermore than a mile away from us, in an easterly direction. He undertookto drive me there and to bring me back again to Saint Paul's (ifnecessary), in less than twenty minutes. I opened the door of the cab,and told my little friend to get in. The boy hesitated.
"Are we going to the chemist's, if you please, sir?" he asked.
"No. You are going home first, with me."
The boy began to cry again.
"Mother will beat me, sir, if I go back without the medicine."
"I will take care that your mother doesn't beat you. I am