well to save the next train for Lipthwaite, and although there was not another until late in the day. Yet we have heard what he told Mrs. Hawkesley of one whom he had left at home—we have heard him repeat to Vernon that a dying wife lay there, and he had spoken the truth.
He went through the formality of entering the station, and of looking at the clock and time-bills, and seeing that he had missed the train. He then took careful note of the next departure, and went out. And the old man turned back into the old city, and wandered aimlessly through the narrow and quaintly-named streets and lanes, sometimes standing still with no apparent object, sometimes watching the sturdy labourers, as they loaded or unloaded carts, and sometimes following with his eye the slow ascent of huge sacks to the hooded doors of the warehouses—but Mr. Berry could have given but poor account why he had stood still, or what he had seen. But he wandered on, and twice crossed the river, by different bridges, and lingered so long upon the lonely arches of one of these that he became an object of interest to an officer on duty, who watched him so sedulously that even Berry himself became aware that he was dogged.
“You seem to know me,” he said at last to the policeman.
“Well, no, sir,” said the officer, whose shrewdness told him that the stranger was eminently respectable up to that moment, whatever might be his views for the future; “but don’t you find it rather hot, walking about here so long together?”
“It is hot, is it?” said Mr. Berry.
“I would not walk here, if I had no call to it,” replied the officer.
“Ah! if you had no call to it,” repeated Mr. Berry, mechanically. “Well, perhaps I have no call to it.”
“Then I would get in the shade, off the bridge, sir.”
“In the shade, off the bridge. I dare say that you are quite right. When you come off the bridge here is something to help to cool you.”
He put a shilling into the hand of the man, and walked away, but the present, though not unaccepted, did not prevent the officer from following pretty closely, as if to be ready should the suspected man take his advice, and suddenly place himself in the shade and off the bridge by a spring from the parapet. Once through the gate, and Berry’s life would be in charge of some other initial and number.
But Mr. Berry had no such thought as that which entered the mind of the officer, and he returned to Lipthwaite by the afternoon train.
Every one about the station knew him, and he imagined that more than one person who would, ordinarily, have addressed, or at least recognised him, seemed to keep out of his way. This idea took stronger possession of him when, in a street leading to the station, a gentleman with whom he was rather intimate crossed over, and thus avoided speech, although saluting Berry as they passed.
“It has happened,” he said, “and they don’t want to tell me.”
He walked out less rapidly in the direction of his house, with that strange sensation which we experience when making our way to a scene in which we are to meet a new expression on every face around us.
At the gate of his house was the carriage of the medical man who was in attendance on Mrs. Berry.
“Is he still here? I am too late—and too soon.”
But as he opened the gate, the doctor came from the house, and shook hands with him.
“Well, we are low, but not more so than yesterday,” said the medical man, in answer to Berry’s look. “There is great persistency, great persistency.”
Mr. Berry did not ask for an explanation of the word, but manifested evident relief.
“I had feared to hear a worse account,” he said. “My visit to town was on the most urgent business, as you may imagine.”
“Certainly, certainly. And this kind of thing may continue a long time, and yet may be abruptly terminated. There is no new symptom to-day. But I want to say a word to you,” he added, they being within hearing of his servant. “Just take a turn with me in the shrubbery. She is sleeping now, so that you could not go up. Just a word.”
CHAPTER LXXXVII.
The boat from Boulogne to Folkstone was loosed from her moorings, and was beginning her way between the piers of the harbour.
Laura was on board.
She had gone down into the cabin, from an instinct that made her avoid heedless observation, rather than with any view of concealment, and she designed to come on deck again as soon as the vessel should be well on her course. In her hand, from which it never seemed to part, was a large packet, carefully sealed, and directed, to provide against any possible accident, with the address of Mr. Hawkesley. But the care which Mrs. Lygon bestowed upon her charge seemed to render it in the highest degree improbable that it would escape from her keeping.
To the surprise of the few passengers below, the vessel suddenly slackened speed, which it did not resume.
Three or four hurried on deck, to ascertain the cause of the delay, but Mrs. Lygon remained below, almost alone.
She quietly waited the resumption of the voyage, attributing the delay to some casual obstruction, when the steward entered the cabin, and spoke to the only two persons who were in it, besides Mrs. Lygon. They looked a little surprised, but with much docility obeyed the man’s invitation to come out with him.
Laura was alone. The next moment there entered a tall gentleman in plain clothes, who advanced towards her, raised his hat, and in English, but with a slight accent, begged to know whether he had the honour of addressing Mrs. Lygon.
Somewhat tremulously, Laura replied in the affirmative.
“In that case, I have also the honour of bearing a message to Mrs. Lygon.”