It was about a fortnight after their visit to Carne, and Jim, after several hours' hard work outside, was bolting a hasty breakfast in his quarters one morning, when his orderly came up to say that a man was wanting to see him.
"What kind of a man, Joyce?"
"An elderly man, sir; looks to me like a sailor."
"A sailor? And he wants me?"
"Yes, sir; very important, he says, and private."
"Oh well, bring him up, and, Joyce--see to my things, will you? We have an inspection at twelve. The Duke's coming down to see if we're all in order."
"Right, sir!" And Joyce disappeared with a salute, and reappeared in a moment with the fag end of it, as he ushered in--old Seth Rimmer.
"Why--Mr. Rimmer!" And Jim jumped up with outstretched hand. "Whatever brings you so far away from home? Nothing wrong, is there?"--for the old man's face was very grim and gray and hard-set, and he did not take Jim's hand, but stood holding his hat in both his own.
"Yes, Mester Jim, there's wrong, great wrong, an' I cum to see if yo'--if yo'--if---- Where's Kattie?"
"Kattie?" echoed Jim in vast astonishment.
"Ay--our Kattie! Where is she, I ask yo'. If yo'----" And he raised one knotted, trembling hand in commination.
"But--Seth--I don't understand. Sit down and tell me quietly. I know nothing of Kattie. You don't mean that she's gone away? You can't mean that. Kattie!"
"Ay--gone away--day after you wur with her."
"Good God! Kattie! And you have thought---- Oh, Seth! you couldn't think that of me?" And he sprang up and stood fronting him.
And the woeful soul, looking despairingly out of the weather-worn gray eyes into the frank boyish face, saw the black eyes blur suddenly and then blaze, and knew that its wild suspicions were unfounded.
"Ah dunnot know what to think," said the old man wearily. "Hoo's gone an' nivver a track of her. An' yo' wur there last, and yo' wur aye fond of her. An' so----"
"I would no more harm a hair of Kattie's head than I would Grace Eager's, Seth. And you ought to have known that--you who have known us all our lives."
"Ay--ah know! But hoo's gone, an' ah connot get a word of her, an'----" And the tired old arms dropped on to the table, and the weary old head dropped into them, and he sobbed with great heaves that seemed like to burst the sturdy old chest.
Jim was terribly distressed. With the wisdom that comes of deepest sympathy he rose quietly and left the old man to his grief. He found Joyce down below, busily polishing and brushing, and sent him off to procure some more breakfast, and, returning presently to his room, found old Seth as he had left him, with his head in his arms, but fallen fast asleep, and he knew that the outbreak and the rest would do him good.
He sat over against him for close on an hour, cudgelling his brains for some ray of light in this new cloud of darkness. And then, as his time was getting short, he went quietly out again, and Joyce togged him up in all his war-paint, and made him fully fit to meet the critical eyes of all the royal dukes under the sun.
Old Seth was still sound asleep when he went into the room, but he went quietly up to him and laid a hand on his shoulder, and the old man lifted his head and looked vaguely at the splendid apparition, and then began to struggle to his feet.
"It's only me, Seth. Listen now! I've got to go out for an inspection, and it may take a couple of hours or more, You are to stop here till I come back, and then we'll see what is best to be done. Here is food. Eat all you can, and then lie down on that sofa. You're done up. And don't go out of this room till I come back. You understand?"
"Ay--yo're verra good. Ah con do wi' a rest, for ah walked aw the way fro' Wynsloe."
"You must be nearly dead. Help yourself now, and I'll be back as soon as I can." And he went clanking down the stairs and swung on to his horse and away, with a dull sick feeling at the heart at thought of Kattie.
Who could have done this thing? He remembered her expressed wish to get to London, when they were walking down to the Mere that other day. It was, perhaps, not quite so bad--as yet--as old Seth feared.
The girl's longing for what seemed to her the wider, brighter life might have led her to risk her poor little fortune in the metropolis. Or it might be that she had not come to London at all, but had gone away with some village lover. But--on the whole--he was inclined to think London her more likely aim. And as to whether she had come alone he had nothing whatever to go upon.
It was long after midday before he got back to his quarters, but old Seth had not found the time any too long, having been fast asleep ever since he had eaten.
Jim got out of his trappings and lit a pipe, which he had taken to of late as at once a promoter of thought and a soother of undue exertion in that direction.
And after a time old Seth stretched himself and opened his eyes, and then sat up.
"Ah've slep'," he said quietly. "But yo' towd me to."
"You'll feel all the better for it. Now, tell me all you can about this matter, Seth, and we'll see if we can see through it. Where is young Seth?"
"Hoo's away."
"And who have you left with Mrs. Rimmer?"
"Hoo's dead and buried." And the strong old voice came near to breaking again.
"Dead!"
"Ay! It killed her. She wur not strong, as yo' know, and thought of it wur too much for her. Hoo just fretted and died."
"Oh, Seth, I am sorry--sorrier than I can tell you. That's dreadful for you."
"Ah dun' know. Mebbe it's best she's gone. Hoo'll fret no more, and hoo suffered much."
"I am very, very sorry. What could have made you think I could do such a thing, Seth? You know how we've always liked Kattie, all of us, and how good Mrs. Rimmer always was to us. How could you think any of us could do such a thing?"
"One gets moithered wi' grief, yo' know. An' that night after yo'd gone she were talking o' nowt but Lunnon, Lunnon, Lunnon, till I got sick on't. An' I towd her to shut up, and what was it had started her o' that tack? An' she said it was seet o' yo', an' yo'd bin talking o' it to her."
"As we went down to the boat she was saying how she would like to see London, and I told her she was far better off where she was. I think that was all I said, Seth."
"Ah believe yo'. She wur flighty at times, an' she got stowed o' th' sand-hills an' th' sea. It wur a dull life for a young thing, I know, but ah couldna mend it, wi' th' missus bad like that."
"It's a sad business, Seth," said Jim despondently. "And I don't know what we can do about it. If she really did come to London you might look for her here for the rest of your life and never find her."
"Ay, it's a mortal big place. The clatter an' the bustle mazes me till my head spins round. But I conna go whoam till I've looked for her."
"I'll find you a room. My man Joyce is sure to know where to get one. Have you enough money with you?"
"Ah havena much, but it mun do. When it's done ah'll go whoam."
"You must let me see to your board and lodging, at the very least, Seth----"
"Ah con pay my way--for a time. It doan't cost me much to live."
"Whatever you say, I shall see to your board and lodging, Seth, so don't make any trouble about it. I wonder now"--as a sudden idea struck him.
"Han yo' thowt o' something?"--with a gleam of hope.
"There's an old friend of my father who has been very kind to me. I was just wondering if he could help us at all."
The hope died out of Seth's eyes. From all he had ever heard of Captain Denzil he did not place much faith in any friend of his rendering any very reliable help in such a matter.
Nevertheless, it was a good thought on Jim's part.
Joyce solved the lodging difficulty off-hand, and old Seth, assured of bed and board, gave himself up to the impossible task of finding a lost girl who had no desire to be found.
Jim made him promise to report himself each day, so that he could keep some track of his doings. He wrote down his address on a card and put it in his pocket, and watched him go forth the first day with many misgivings.
He saw him go out into the crowded street, bent as he had never been before, peering intently into the bewildering maze of hurrying faces, with a look of dogged perplexity as to where to go first on his own sad gray face. The throng bumped into him, and jostled him to and fro, and passed on, unheeding or vituperative, and at last he turned and went slowly out of sight, and Jim wondered if he would ever see him again.
He was dining that night with Lord Deseret, and determined to ask his advice on the matter. The very look of that calm white face gave one the impression of incomprehensibly vast experience and unusual insight into the depths of human nature. He might be able to suggest something.
My lord's immediate object, apart from his liking for the boy, was to learn the result of their visit to Carne. He had blamed himself, but not unduly, for the incautious words that had set the ball rolling. But who on earth would ever have imagined boys of that age in such ignorance of matters so vital?
He chatted pleasantly throughout the dinner, drawing from the ingenuous Jim many a little self-revelation, which all tended to the confirmation of the good opinion he had formed of him. And he found the modesty which acknowledged many lacks, and was not ashamed to ask for explanations of things it did not understand, distinctly refreshing in an age when self-assertion was much to the fore. He noticed too a lessening of the previous boyish gaiety and carelessness, and traces of the clouds which had suddenly obscured his sun.
"And how did you fare at Carne?" he asked, as soon as they were alone. "I feel somewhat guilty in that matter, you see. From what I know of it I can imagine you heard upsetting and discomforting things. Perhaps now I can be of some assistance to you."
"You are very kind to me, sir, and I wanted to ask your advice. But in that matter"--he shook his head despondently--"I don't see how any one can help. It's all a tangle, but in my own mind I'm sure Jack must be Lady Susan Sandys's boy, and that means that I--that I am----"
"You are yourself, my dear lad, and, unless I am very much mistaken, you will render a very good account of yourself when your chance comes."
"I will do my best, sir, but that does not alter the fact that I am out of it as far as Carne is concerned. And that means a great deal to me. Not that I want it for itself, but--well, there are other things----" And he stuck, with a choking in the throat.
"Don't tell me anything you don't want to, but if I can help I would very much like to."
"It's this way, sir. Jack and I are both in love with Gracie----"
"And who is Gracie, now?"
"Grace Eager--she is the sister of Mr. Eager, our curate at Wynsloe. It is he who has done everything for us----"
"He's a very fine fellow, then, and has done good work."
"Oh, he's the finest man in the world. We were growing up little savages, running wild on the flats, when he came, and he has made us into men--he and Gracie between them. And Gracie is wonderful and lovely and all that is good. And now----"
"Has she chosen Jack?"
"We are to say nothing more about it for a year--just to wait and see. You see we all grew up together, and she had never thought of us in that way, and it upset everything----"
"I think I understand. Now, my dear boy, will you take it from an old man, who has seen more of the world than perhaps has been good for him, that there is not the slightest ground for your feeling as you do. I knew your father very intimately. We had many failings in common. He behaved as we most of us behaved in those days--according to our lights, or shadows, and in accord with the times in which we lived. I cannot exonerate him any more than the rest of you. Still, do not think too harshly of him! He was the product of his age. Now, what valid grounds have you for believing your brother to be in any way better circumstanced than yourself?"
"He's so much the better man, sir. Jack's got a head on him and will----"
"If you applied that to the peerage generally, I'm afraid you would bar many escutcheons," said the old man, with a smile. "Brains by no means always follow the direct lines of descent. In fact, as you ought to know, a cross strain frequently produces a finer result. From that point of view you may set your mind at ease. As to how the matter is to be settled eventually, that is beyond me. Time works out his own strange solutions of difficulties. I'm afraid you'll have to leave it to him. Then, again, you are both going into this war. If only one of you should come back----"
"Yes, that would settle it. I have been looking to that as the only settlement," said Jim solemnly.
"Meaning that Jack would most likely come back, and that you would most likely not."
"I think that would be the best settlement, sir. The better man should get the prizes, and there can be no question which is the better of us two."
"Jim, my boy,"--and the long thin white hand came down gently on the boy's strong brown one, and rested on it impressively--"there are better things in this world even than brains. Clean hearts, clean consciences, clean lives----"
"Jack has all those, sir."
"And so have you, and they are worth more than all the brains in the world in some people's eyes. Did brains ever win a girl's heart?--or any one else's?"
"I'm afraid I don't know much about them; sir," said a touch of the old Jim.
"And as to the tangle," continued the old man, very well satisfied with his work, "it may be considerably more involved than you imagine. Supposing, for instance, that your father was actually married to the other girl before he married Lady Susan! Where do you find yourselves then? It is by no means impossible--such very strange things were done in those times. I could tell you of infinitely stranger things than that."
"I have hardly thought of it in that light," said Jim.
"Take my advice and think no more of your tangle. Just go ahead with the work you have in hand, and when your chance comes, as it will, make the most of it."
"You have done me good, sir. May I ask you about another matter?"
"Surely, my boy. Another tangle?"
And Jim told him briefly about Kattie, and old Seth's visit and impossible quest.
"He's a fine old fellow, and young Seth saved my life twice. I'd like to help him if I could, but I don't know what I can do. Besides, Kattie was a nice girl. She used to play with us all on the sands, you know."
"You don't know, for certain, that she has come to London?"
"Old Seth seems sure of it."
"Who else was there when you all used to play together on the sands?"
"Oh, Gracie, and Margaret and George Hempath, and Ralph Harben----"
"Who is Ralph Harben?"
"Son of Mr. Harben, Sir George's partner. They're the big army contractors, you know."
"And where is he now?"
"Up here in London. He's in the Dragoons--lieutenant. So is George."
"Any one else?"
"Mr. Eager and Sir George, and Bob Lethem, their groom. They all used to ride over, you see, and we needed all hands, so we used to press Bob into the service."
"And you don't think there is any entanglement there?"
"What--Kattie and Bob? No, I'm sure there isn't. You see, Kattie got rather large ideas, and she was certainly very pretty. She would never have looked at Bob, I'm certain."
"I will see if I can learn anything. There are ways if you know how to use them."
"Thank you, sir. I thought if any one could help us it would be you."
"How are you mounted? You ought to have a second horse if you're going out. They will allow you two, I suppose."
"I believe so. I was thinking of buying one out of that money you gave me."
"Keep it, my boy. You may need it all. You never know what may happen when you get abroad. If you'll take my advice you'll always carry a good supply in a belt next your skin when you're campaigning. I'll find you a horse up to all your requirements. You want height and bone and muscle for a charger on campaign. Beauty Is a fifth consideration. Your life may depend upon your horse."
"There is no doubt about our going, then, sir?" asked the boy, with a sparkle in his eyes.
"No doubt, I'm afraid, my boy; but their plans are very undecided. I was speaking with Clarendon only last night, and, as far as I can make out, what our Government would like would be to coerce Russia by making a demonstration in force, and the Tsar is much too pig-headed for that--as they would know if they knew him as well as I do."
"You know him, sir?
"I was ambassador there for nearly ten years, and in ten years one learns a man fairly well. He is an unusually strong-willed and determined man, bigoted too, and believes absolutely in his mission----"
"What is that, sir?"
"Oh--briefly--to conquer the world on the lines laid down by his ancestor, Peter the Great. But the man who sets out to conquer the world always finds his Waterloo sooner or later."
And Jim went home that night feeling very much less under a cloud on his own account, and not unhopeful on Seth's. For this new old friend of his impressed him deeply as one who knew a great deal more than most people, and as the kind of man who, if he took a matter up, would not rest till he attained his end.
But as for Kattie, if she had indeed come to London, he had nothing but fears.
Old Seth had a heart-breaking time of it.
To all intents and purposes he found himself in a foreign country. He wandered bewilderedly here and there, thinking that where the crowds were thickest there would be most chance of finding her he sought. But, to his amazement, the crowds seemed equally thick wherever he went, and every single person seemed to him to be hurrying for his or her life on business that did not admit of a moment's delay.
He lost himself regularly every day. From the moment he loosed from his quiet little harbour of refuge in the morning, till, by means of the address on his card, he found himself eventually and miraculously piloted back there by a 'series of top-hatted policemen, he was simply tossing to and fro on the swirling waves of the mighty whirlpool, without the slightest knowledge of where he was, except that he was in London, and Kattie was somewhere in London too.
He tried to talk to people, policemen and cabmen on the stands, who were the only ones who seemed not to be spending themselves in aimless rushings to and fro. But his uncouth speech was Hebrew to them. At first they grinned and shook their heads. Then, catching what sounded like a rough attempt at English, they tried to understand, but soon gave it up in spite of his woeful face and evident distress, and it was only when at last he wanted to get home, and produced his card, that they were able to assist him.
Fortunately the weather was cold and damp--conditions to which he was accustomed. Hot summer days and the airless, evil-smelling streets would have knocked him over in a week.
It seemed to Jim that the sad old face grew grayer and gaunter each day when he came in to give his monotonous report, which was comprehended in a dismal shake of the head and the simple word, "Nowt!"
And Jim, hopeless himself of anything coming of the disheartening quest, still did his best each day to cheer him. And Seth was glad of the chance of speaking a word or two with some one who understood his talk and sympathised with his woes.
"A most 'mazing place," he said, one time, "an' thicker wi' folk than ah could ha' believed. An' ah connot understand them an' they connot understand me. Ah wish----"
But the poor old fellow's wishes were never to be realised--not the obvious ones at all events. He was neither to find Kattie, nor to find himself safe home again in the spoiled cottage by the Mere.
Perhaps it was best so.
The inevitable happened--that which Jim had feared for him from the time he saw him drift helplessly away into the crowd that first day.
He had written all about the matter to Jack, and Jack's reply, while it lacked nothing in sympathy for old Seth in his bereavement; yet expressed in unmistakable language the writer's astonishment and indignation that he could for one moment have thought any of them guilty of such a deed.
Jim had also waited hopefully on Lord Deseret, to see if his efforts had met with any success. But, so far, they had not.
"I confess I had certain ideas on the subject," said his lordship, "and I have had them followed up, but quite without result. My people are entirely at fault. Is it possible we are all on a false scent and she is nearer home all the time? The indications pointing to her having come to London are, after all, exceedingly slight and vague."
"I've no idea," said Jim despondently. "I wish the old chap would go home. He can do no good here and he's on my mind day and night. I'm certain he'll get run over one of these days."
And, sure enough, there came a day when no Seth put in an appearance, and Jim's fears felt themselves justified.
He sent Joyce round to his lodgings. The old man had never turned up the night before.
It came at a bad time too, for they were working might and main at their preparations for the coming campaign. The Guards had left for Southampton the day before. They themselves were down for service and the call might come any day. War, indeed, had not yet been formally declared, but that was a minor matter. There was no doubt about what was going to happen.
So Jim packed off Joyce in a hansom, with orders to make the round of the hospitals and report at once if he got any news.
He was back at midday. The old man was lying at Guy's, broken to pieces and not expected to last the day out.
Jim jumped into the cab with a very heavy heart. It was just what he had feared, and it was terribly sad. And yet, as his cab wormed its slow course through the traffic about London Bridge, there came to him a dim apprehension that what seemed to them so sorrowful a happening might, after all, in some inscrutable way, be the better way for old Seth. For his life, if he had lived, must have been a sad and broken affair, and now----
He found the old man lying quietly in his bed, with the screens already drawn round it. He was only just in time.
The gaunt gray face brightened at sight of him, as Jim took his hand gently and sat down beside him.
"Ah'm fain to see yo'," he said, with difficulty. "'Twur a waggin . . . aw my fault. . . . Tell her. . . . Tell her . . ."--the crushed chest laboured in agony,--"tell her to come whoam. . . ."
And presently, without having spoken again, the dim light failed suddenly in the weather-worn gray eyes, and the life faded out of the gnarled brown hand, and Jim, boy still, put down his head and sobbed at the grim sadness of it all.
A nurse peeped round the screen and was surprised at the sight, for the eagerness of the splendid young officer to get to the uncouth old wreck, of whom, beyond his mortal injuries, they had been able to make so little, had impressed them all.
It was not till Jim had mopped himself up at last, and stood taking a last sad look at the tired old face, that she came in again.
"You knew the old man, sir?" she said sympathetically, behind which lay considerable curiosity.
"I've known him all my life. He's one of our people from Carne. It's terribly sad, you know. His daughter left home, and he came up to look for her. Think of it--to look for her in London! And I was afraid, all the time, how it would end. And it has. Poor old Seth!"
He told them all they wanted to know, and arranged with them to have the old man decently buried, and gave them money for the purpose and something for the hospital, and his own name and address.
"Then you're going to the war," said the nurse, with an animated face.
"Oh yes; we may go any day now."
"You ought to take some of us with you. You'll need us, you'll see."
He had promised to call on Mme Beteta that afternoon, and would have put off the visit but that he knew she would be disappointed, and she had shown herself so very kindly disposed towards him.
So he went, but madame's shrewd eyes fathomed his state of mind at once.
"Now you have some trouble, and perhaps it is my chance to be of use," she said, and bit by bit drew from him all the story of Kattie's disappearance and old Seth's death.
"If any one can find her, Lord Deseret will. He is a very, very clever old man, and in some things very young. She is pretty, you say?"
"We always thought her very pretty, even as a wild girl about the sands, and she has grown prettier still."
"London is a bad place for a pretty girl such as she. Even if you find her----" And she broke off and looked at him musingly. "What could you do if you did find her?"
"Get her to go home."
"And if she would not?"
"Then--I don't know. It is horrible to think of Kattie running loose in London."
"When Lord Deseret finds her, bring her to me and I will see what I can do," said madame thoughtfully; and there the matter rested.
Jim reaped--and duly passed along to Jack--the benefit of Lord Deseret's long and wide experience of life under many conditions. As a young man he had served with Wellington in the Peninsula, and he had also been with him at Waterloo, where he had, as fellow aide-de-camp, Fitzroy Somerset, now Lord Raglan, who was to command the present expedition to the East.
So Jim and my lord between them evolved, by process of continuous elimination, a campaigning kit, which, if to Jim's inexperienced eyes it lacked much, comprehended, according to his lordship, everything that was absolutely necessary, and probably even yet some things which he would hasten to throw away under pressure of circumstance.
"How long it will last it is hard to say," said Lord Deseret. "If you should by any chance be kept there till the winter I will send you out all you will need."
"Oh, surely we and the Frenchmen between us can clean it all up before then," said innocent Jim.
"We shall know better when we learn where you're bound for, and what you've got to do. At present no one seems to know. They are all very mysterious about it, which is all right if it's policy, but if it's ignorance----"
Jack was first to go, and Jim was mightily put out that engineers should get ahead of cavalry. They had hoped to be able to run down to Carne to say good-bye, but that was quite out of the question. The army had been rusting, more or less, for forty years, and, now that the call had come, every man on the roll was hard at work scraping the accumulated deposit off his bit of the machine, and oiling the parts. The days were all too short for what had to be done, and leave was out of the question.
Jim was here, there, and everywhere, helping to buy horses for the coming wastage, for if he had no head for business he certainly knew horses from tail to muzzle, from hoof to shoulder, and all in between. He was kept hard at work till the call came for the cavalry, and then every minute of every day was over-full, and his head spun with the calls upon his forethought and ingenuity.
He made long lists of the things he had to see to, on scraps of paper with a pencil that was always blunt and often missing, and as each item was attended to he duly scored it off, and so kept fairly straight.
His men had taken to him, and consulted him now as an oracle, and within his capacity he enjoyed it all immensely.
Lord Deseret's munificence knew no bounds. In addition to a great brown charger, whose peculiar delights were military music and the roar of artillery--the first of which enjoyments the campaign was unfortunately to offer him few opportunities of indulging in, though he had his fill of the other--his lordship presented Jim with a pair of unusually fine silver mounted revolvers, of a calibre calculated to make short work of the biggest Russian born, and one of these he was to hand over to Jack as soon as they met out East. And for Jim himself, as a very special mark of his goodwill, he bought a sword, selected out of many and suiting his grip and reach as if it had been made for him.
"A most gentlemanly weapon," said the old man, as he poised it with knowledge in his thin white hands. "May it help you to carve your way to much honour! But war is not a gentlemanly business nowadays. That other brutal little thing will probably serve you better."
And so we come to the very last night. The 8th were to leave at six the next morning for Southampton, and Jim was making his way back to his quarters, dead tired, but vaguely hopeful that he had failed in none of the multifarious calls on these last short hours.
His list had been an unusually long one that day. But he had ploughed doggedly through it, and reduced it item by item, till it was cleared off. After his actual military duties had come final letters to Gracie and Mr. Eager and his grandfather--he might never see any of them again. All the same he wrote in the best of spirits, though in grievous regret at not being able to run down and say good-bye.
Then he had made a round of farewell calls among the friends he had made in London, and had even made time to drop in on Mme Beteta for a cup of tea. He had finished up with a quiet dinner with Lord Deseret in Park Lane, and now, in the spirit, England lay behind him, and his compass pointed due east.
Out of the depths of his very large experience, Lord Deseret had given him many a useful hint and much wise advice over their cigars and coffee, and had finally shaken his hand and bidden him "God-speed!" with more emotion than Jim had believed it possible for that calm white face to show.
And Mme Beteta, too, had held his band as he said "Good-bye," and said, with much feeling, "I would have been glad if you had got into some mischief so that I might have had the pleasure of helping you. I will hope all the time to see you come back alive and whole."
"You are all too good to me," laughed Jim, overcome by the kindness he was everywhere meeting with. "I feel as if I was getting more than my proper share. If Jack had been here now, you'd have thought ever so much more of him."
"Perhaps!" smiled madame. "We will see when you both come back,"
He was hurrying back to his quarters, bent on getting a good night's sleep if possible, since the coming nights on board ship might be less conducive thereto, when, as he swung round a corner where a gas lamp hung, deep in his own thoughts and with his head bent down, a timid hand fell on his arm, and as he hastily shook it off, a soft voice jerked:
"Jim!"
He whirled round in vast amazement, and got a shock.
"Kattie! . . . oh,Kattie!"
"I did so want to see you before you went. I only heard to-day----"
She looked so pretty in the fluttering light of the lamp, so touchingly soft and sweet, like some beautiful wild bird drawn to a possibly hostile hand by stress of need and prepared for instant flight.
She was very nicely dressed too, better than he had ever seen her before, in well-fitting dark clothes and a little fur pork-pie hat, like the one Gracie used to wear in the winter. And under it her eyes shone brightly and her face glowed and quivered with many emotions.
The passers-by were beginning to notice and look back at them. He led her into a quieter side-street where there was almost no traffic.
"But what are you doing here, Kattie? We have been searching for you for a month past, and now----"
"I couldn't help it, Jim. I had to come----"
"But why, Kattie? Why? Do you know what you've done by running away like that?" And he could not keep the feeling out of his voice, as he thought of poor old Seth, and her mother, and the broken home. "Your mother is dead. It killed her." Kattie's hands were over her face and she was sobbing. "And your father came to London to look for you, and got run over. His hand was in mine as he died, and his last words were for you, 'Tell her to come home!' he said, and then he died."
The slender figure shook with sobs. Perhaps he had been too brutal to blurt it out like that. He ought to have broken it to her by degrees.
"Oh, why did you do it, Kattie?" he said, more gently.
And Kattie, shaken out of herself by his news and his manner, sobbed out her secret.
"Jim, Jim, don't be so hard to me! It was for you, you, you----"
"Kattie," he cried, aghast.
"Yes," she choked on in a passion of surrender and self-revelation. "It was you I wanted--you--always. And I thought if I could only get to London where you were----"
"Oh, Kattie!" And he could say no more for the feeling that was in him, and Kattie hung on to his arm and he did not shake her off.
"Kattie," he said at last, in a deep hoarse voice, "has it been my fault? I did not know----"
"No no, no! It was not your fault. But I could not help it."
"I am very sorry, dear. If I had known--but I never dreamt of it. How did you get here?"
She hesitated, and then said, briefly:
"I got some one to bring me."
"Who?"
"I cannot tell you."
"It was an evil thing to do, whoever it was, and I hope some of the sorrow will fall upon him," he said hotly. "But you must not stop here, Kattie. You must go home."
"Home!" she said wildly. "I have no home. I will wait here till you come back from the war, Jim----"
"Kattie! . . . For God's sake, don't talk like that! You don't know what you are saying, child. I may never come back at all . . . And if I do----"
"Oh, Jim!Jim!"
She hardly knew what she was saying. She only knew that for months she had been longing for Jim, and now he was here, and he was going, and she might never see him again.
The pretty, quivering, wild-rose face was turned up to his. Her eager arms stole round his neck.
"Jim!"
Now, thanks be to thee, Charles Eager, muscular Christian and strenuous apostle of clean living and the higher things!--sitting by your dying fire in Mrs. Jex's cottage at Wyvveloe, thinking much of your boys and praying for them, perchance,--nay, of a certainty, for thoughts such as yours are prayers and resolve themselves into familiar phrases--"that they fall into no sin, neither run into any kind of danger"--"from battle and murder and from sudden death,"--at which the thinker by the fire fell into deeper musing. And thanks be to all your teaching of the Christian virtues and truest manhood, both by precept and example!
For Jim Carron was only a man like other men, and young blood is hot. And Kattie, in her fervour, was more than pretty.
Jim's big chest rose and fell as if he had been running a race--say with the devil, or as if he had been engaged in mortal combat. Perhaps he had--both.
He broke her hands apart with a firm, gentle grip.
"Kattie dear! You don't know what you are saying. You know it can't be. God help us! What am I to do with you?"
And then he bethought him of Mme Beteta and saw his way.
"Come with me!" he said, and drew her arm tightly through his and led her down the street, and on and on till they came to a thoroughfare where there were cabs. He hailed one, handed her in, gave the driver the address, and sat down beside her.
Kattie asked no questions. She was with Jim. That was enough. Her arm stole inside his again and nestled and throbbed there. She would have asked no more--not very much more--than to ride by his side like that in the joggling cab for ever.
The cab stopped at last before the house in South Audley Street. Jim jumped out and rang the bell, paid the man, and led her up the steps.
"Is madame in?" he asked of the maid who opened the door.
"Just come in, sir."
"Will you beg her to see me for a moment?" And she showed them into a small sitting-room and went noiselessly away.
"Will you please to come to madame's room, sir?" And they were ushered into the cosy room where Mme Beteta had just sat down to supper before a blazing fire. Her wraps lay on the sofa where she had flung them on entering.
She looked lazed and tired, all except her face, and her great dark eyes opened wide at sight of Kattie. Jim had indeed told her that the girl they were searching for was pretty, but this girl, with all that was working in her still in her face and her eyes, was very much more than pretty.
"Mme Beteta, will you do something for me?" began Jim impulsively.
"I have only been waiting the opportunity, my boy, as I told you this afternoon. What is it now--and who is your friend? Won't you sit down, my dear?" to Kattie. "You look very tired."
Kattie sank into the proffered chair, and Jim stood behind it.
"This is Kattie Rimmer, a friend of ours from Carne. She finds herself suddenly alone in London. If you will take care of her I would be so grateful to you."
"Indeed I will, if she will stop with me for a time. You are much too good-looking, my dear, to be alone in this big place. I shall be glad to have something young and pretty about me. My dear old Manuela is worth her weight in gold, but, truly, she is no beauty. And when I go abroad, presently, you shall come with me there also, if you feel so inclined."
Madame understood--partly, at all events, and possibly guessed wrongly at the rest. But there was no mistaking her kindliness. She saw that the girl was under the influence of some overpowering emotion, and she talked on for the sake of talking and to give her time.
"Kattie dear, will you promise me to stop with madame?" asked Jim anxiously. For it was one thing to have got her there--and a great thing; but it might be quite another thing to get her to stop.
"Must I, Jim?" And the great eyes, swimming with tears, snatched a hasty glance at him.
"Yea, Kattie, you must. And, madame, I cannot thank you enough. Sometime, perhaps--if I come back alive----"
And at that Kattie sprang up and flung her arms round his neck again, crying, "Oh, Jim! Jim!"
And he kissed her gently and put her away, and she sank down into the chair, a convulsive heap of sobs.
He mutely begged madame to follow him, and left the room.
"It is terribly sad," he said to her, In the other room. "I met her near my quarters to-night. She had been waiting for me, and she says--she says"--he stumbled--"well, she says she came to London after me. And, you know, I never had a thought of her--poor little Kattie! And I didn't know what to do with her, and so I brought her to you."
"You did quite right, my boy. For your sake--and, yes--for her own--I will do my best for her. She is a pretty little thing--much too pretty to go to waste in London."
"You are very good, madame, and I am very grateful. Perhaps you would consult Lord Deseret about her too, if you think well. He has been very kind in the matter."
"And you have no feeling for her at all?"
"There is only one girl in all the world for me, and that is Gracie Eager. You'll understand when you see her."
Then he wrung her hand very warmly, and said a final good-bye, and went away,--very tired, but with something of a load off his heart as regarded Kattie at all events.