bill came over him. He had forwarded the money to her the previous night in his wife’s name.
He caught the train; was too soon for it; it was five minutes behind time. If those who saw him depart could but have divined the errand he was bent on, what a commotion would have spread over Deerham! If the handsome lady, seated opposite to him, the only other passenger in that compartment, could but have read the cause which rendered him so self-absorbed, so insensible to her attractions, she would have gazed at him with far more interest.
“Who is that gentleman?” she privately asked of the guard when she got the opportunity.
“Mr. Verner, of Verner’s Pride.”
He sat back on his seat, heeding nothing. Had all the pretty women of the kingdom been ranged before him, on a row, they had been nothing to Mr. Verner then. Had Lucy Tempest been there, he had been equally regardless of her. If Frederick Massingbird were indeed in life, Verner’s Pride was no longer his: but it was not of that he thought: it was of the calamity that would involve his wife. A calamity which, to the refined, sensitive mind of Lionel Verner, was almost worse than death itself.
What would the journey bring forth for him? Should he succeed in seeing Captain Cannonby? He awaited the fiat with feverish heat; and wished the fast express engine would travel faster.
The terminus gained at last, a Hansom took him to Dr. Cannonby’s. It was half-past two o’clock. He leaped out of the cab and rang, entering the hall when the door was opened.
“Can I see Dr. Cannonby?”
“The doctor’s just gone out, sir. He will be home at five.”
It was a sort of checkmate, and Lionel stood looking at the servant—as if the man could telegraph some impossible aërial message to his master to bring him back then.
“Is Captain Cannonby staying here?” was his next question.
“No, sir. He was staying here, but he went away this morning.”
“He is home from Paris then?”
“He came back two or three days ago, sir,” replied the servant.
“Do you know where he is gone?”
“I don’t, sir. I fancy it’s somewhere in the country.”
“Dr. Cannonby would know?”
“I dare say he would, sir. I should think so.”
Lionel turned to the door. Where was the use of his lingering? He looked back to ask a question.
“You are sure that Captain Cannonby has gone out of town?”
“Oh yes, sir.”
He descended the steps, and the man closed the door upon him. Where should he go? What should he do with himself for the next two and a half mortal hours? Go to his club? Or to any of the old spots of his London life? Not he: some familiar faces might be in town; and he was in no mood for familiar faces then.
Sauntering hither, sauntering thither, he came to Westminster Bridge. One of the steamers was approaching the pier to take in passengers, on its way down the river. For want of some other mode in which to employ his time, Lionel went down to the embarking place, and stepped on board.
Does any thing in this world happen by chance? What secret unknown impulse could have sent Lionel Verner on board that steamer? Had Dr. Cannonby been at home he would not have gone near it: had he turned to the right hand instead of to the left, on leaving Dr. Cannonby’s house, the boat would never have seen him.
It was not crowded, as those steamers sometimes are crowded, suggesting visions of the bottom of the river. The day was fine; warm for September, but not too hot; the gliding down the stream delightful. With a heart at ease, Lionel would have found it so: as it was, he could scarcely have told whether he was going down the stream or up, whether it was wet or dry. He could see but one thing—the image of Frederick Massingbird.
As the boat drew up to the Temple pier, the only person, waiting to embark, was a woman; a little body in a brown faded silk dress. Whether, seeing his additional freight was to be so trifling, the manager of the steamer did not take the usual care to bring it alongside, certain it is, that in some way the woman fell in stepping on board; her knees on the boat, her feet hanging down to the water. Lionel, who was sitting near, sprang forward and pulled her out of danger.
“I declare I never ought to come aboard these nasty steamers!” she exclaimed, as he placed her in a seat. “I’m greatly obliged to you, sir: I might have gone in else; there’s no saying. The last time I was aboard one I was in danger of being killed. I fell through the port-hole, sir.”
“Indeed!” responded Lionel, who could not be so discourteous as not to answer. “Perhaps your sight is not good?”
“Well, yes it is, sir, as good as most folks’ at middle age. I get timid aboard ’em, and it makes me confused and awkward, and I suppose I don’t mind where I put my feet. This was in Liverpool, sir, a week or two ago. It was a passenger-ship just in from Australia, and the bustle and confusion aboard was dreadful—they say it’s mostly so with them vessels that are coming home. I had gone down to meet my husband, sir; he has been away four years—and it’s a pity he ever went, for all the good he has done. But he’s back safe himself, so I must not grumble.”
“That’s something,” said Lionel.
“True, sir. It would have been a strange thing if I had lost my life just as he had come home. And I should, but for a gentleman on board. He seized hold of me by the middle, and somehow contrived to drag me up again. A strong man he must have been! I shall always remember him with gratitude, I’m sure: as I shall you, sir. His name, my husband told me after, was Massingbird.”
All Lionel’s inertness was gone at the sound of the name. “Massingbird?” he repeated.
“Yes, sir. He had come home in the ship