Run to Earth, Mary Elizabeth Braddon [epub ebook reader .TXT] 📗
- Author: Mary Elizabeth Braddon
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as they can be cooked.”
Thomas Milsom nodded. He pushed open the rough wooden door which was so
familiar to him, and went into the dingy little den which, in the
‘Jolly Tar’, was known as the private parlour.
It was the room in which he had first seen Valentine Jernam. Two years
and a half had passed since he had last entered it; and during that
time Mr. Milsom had been paying the penalty of his misdeeds in Van
Dieman’s Land. This dingy little den, with its greasy walls and low,
smoky ceiling, was a kind of paradise to the returned wanderer. Here,
at least, was freedom. Here, at least, he was his own master: free to
enjoy strong drinks and strong tobacco—free to be lazy when he
pleased, and to work after the fashion that suited him best.
He seated himself in one chair, and planted his legs on another. Then
he took a short clay pipe from his pocket, filled and lighted it, and
began to smoke, in a slow meditative manner, stopping every now and
then to mutter to himself, between the puffs of tobacco.
Mr. Milsom had finished his second pipe of shag tobacco, and had given
utterance to more than one exclamation of anger and impatience, when
the door was opened, and Dennis Wayman made his appearance, bearing a
tray with a couple of covered dishes and a large pewter pot.
“I thought I’d bring you your grub myself, mate,” he said; “though I’m
precious busy in yonder. I’m uncommonly glad to see you back again.
I’ve been wondering where you was ever since you disappeared.”
“You’d have left off wondering if you’d known I was on the other side
of this blessed world of ours. I thought you knew I was—”
Mr. Milsom’s delicacy of feeling prevented his finishing this speech.
“I knew you had got into trouble,” answered Mr. Wayman. “At least, I
didn’t know for certain, but I guessed as much; though sometimes I was
half inclined to think you had turned cheat, and given me the slip.”
“Bolted with the swag, I suppose you mean?”
“Precisely!” answered Dennis Wayman, coolly.
“Which shows your suspicious nature,” returned Milsom, in a sulky tone.
“When an unlucky chap turns his back upon his comrades, the worst word
in their mouths isn’t half bad enough for him. That’s the way of the
world, that is. No, Dennis Wayman; I didn’t bolt with the swag—not
sixpence of Valentine Jernam’s money have I had the spending of; no
even what I won from him at cards. I was nobbled one day, without a
moment’s warning, on a twopenny-halfpenny charge of burglary—never you
mind whether it was true, or whether it was false—that ain’t worth
going into. I was took under a false name, and I stuck to that false
name, thinking it more convenient. I should have sent to let you know,
if I could have found a safe hand to take my message; but I couldn’t
find a living creature that was anything like safe—so there I was,
remanded on a Monday, tried on a Tuesday, and then a fortnight after
shipped off like a bullock, along of so many other bullocks; and that’s
the long and the short of it.”
After having said which, Mr. Milsom applied himself to his supper,
which consisted of a smoking steak, and a dish of still more smoking
potatoes.
Dennis Wayman sat watching him for some minutes in thoughtful silence.
The intent gaze with which he regarded the face of his friend, was that
of a man who was by no means inclined to believe every syllable he had
heard. After Milsom had devoured about a pound of steak, and at least
two pounds of potatoes, Mr. Wayman ventured to interrupt his operations
by a question.
“If you didn’t collar the money, what became of it?” he asked.
“Put away,” returned the other man, shortly; “and as safe as a church,
unless my bad luck goes against me harder than it ever went yet.”
“You hid it?” said Wayman, interrogatively.
“I did.”
“Where?”
Mr. Milsom looked at his friend with a glance of profound cunning.
“Wouldn’t you like to know—oh, wouldn’t you just like to know, Mr.
Wayman?” he said. “And wouldn’t you just dose me with a cup of drugged
coffee, and cut off to ransack my hiding-place while I was lying
helpless in your hospitable abode. That’s the sort of thing you’d do,
if I happened to be a born innocent, isn’t it, Mr. Wayman? But you see
I’m not a born innocent, so you won’t get the chance of doing anything
of the kind.”
“Don’t be a fool,” returned Dennis Wayman, in a surly tone. “You’ll
please to remember that one half of Valentine Jernam’s money belongs to
me, and ought to have been in my possession long before this. I was an
idiot to trust it in your keeping.”
“You trusted it in my keeping because you were obliged to do so,”
answered Black Milsom, “and I owe you no gratitude for your
confidence. I happened to know a Jew who was willing to give cash for
the notes and bills of exchange; and you trusted them to me because it
was the only way to get them turned into cash.”
The landlord of the ‘Jolly Tar’ nodded a surly assent to this rather
cynical statement.
“I saw my friend the Jew, and made a very decent bargain,” resumed
Milsom. “I hid the money in a convenient place, intending to bring you
your share at the earliest opportunity. I was lagged that very night,
and had no chance of touching the cash after I had once stowed it away.
So, you see, it was no fault of mine that you didn’t get the money.”
“Humph!” muttered Mr. Wayman. “It has been rather hard lines for me to
be kept out of it so long. And now you have come back, I suppose you
can take me at once to the hiding place. I want money very badly just
now.”
“Do you?” said Thomas Milsom, with a sneer. “That’s a complaint you’re
rather subject to, isn’t it—the want of money? Now, as I’ve answered
your questions, perhaps you’ll answer mine. Has there been much stir
down this way while I’ve been over the water?”
“Very little; things have been as dull as they well could be.”
“Ah! so you’ll say, of course. Can you tell me whether any one has
lived in my old place while my back has been turned?”
The landlord of the ‘Jolly Tar’ started with a gesture of alarm.
“It wasn’t there you hid the money, was it?” he asked, eagerly.
“Suppose it was, what then?”
“Why every farthing of it is lost. The place has been taken by a man,
who has pulled the best part of it down, and rebuilt it. If you hid
your money there, there’s little chance of your ever seeing it
again,” said Wayman.
Black Milsom’s dark face grew livid, as he started from his chair and
dragged on the crater coat which he had taken off on entering the room.
“It would be like my luck to lose that money,” he said; “it would be
just like my luck. Come, Wayman. What are you staring at, man?” he
cried impatiently. “Come.”
“Where?”
“To my old place. You can tell me all about the changes at we go. I
must see to this business at once.”
The moon was shining over the masts and rigging in the Pool, and over
the housetops of Bermondsey and Wapping, as Black Milsom and his
companion started on their way to the old house by the water.
They went, as on a former occasion, in that vehicle which Mr. Wayman
called his trap; and as they drove along the lonely road, across the
marshy flat by the river, Dennis Wayman told his companion what had
happened in his absence.
“For a year the house stood empty,” he said; “but at the end of that
time an old sea-captain took a fancy to it because of the water about
it, and the view of the Pool from the top windows. He bought it, and
pulled it almost all to pieces, rebuilt it, and I doubt if there is any
of the old house standing. He has made quite a smart little place of
it. He’s a queer old chap, this Cap’en Duncombe, I’m told, and rather a
tough customer.”
“I’ll see the inside of his house, however tough he may be,” answered
Milsom, in a dogged tone. “If he’s a tough customer, he’ll find me a
tougher. Has he got any family?”
“One daughter—as pretty a girl as you’ll see within twenty miles of
London!”
“Well, we’ll go and have a look at his place to-night. We’d better put
up your trap at the ‘Pilot Boat.’”
Mr. Wayman assented to the wisdom of this arrangement. The “Pilot Boat”
was a dilapidated-looking, low-roofed little inn, where there were some
tumble-down stables, which were more often inhabited by bloated grey
water-rats than by horses. In these stables Mr. Wayman lodged his pony
and vehicle, while he and Milsom walked on to the cottage.
“Why I shouldn’t have known the place!” cried Milsom, as his companion
pointed to the captain’s habitation.
The transformation was, indeed, complete. The dismal dwelling, which
had looked as if it were, in all truth, haunted by a ghost, had been
changed into one of the smartest little cottages to be seen in the
suburbs of eastern London.
The ditch had been narrowed and embanked, and two tiny rustic bridges,
of fantastical wood-work, spanned its dark water. The dreary pollard-willows had vanished, and evergreens occupied their places. The black
rushes had been exchanged for flowers. A trim little garden appeared
where all had once been waste ground; and a flag-staff, with a bit of
bunting, gave a naval aspect to the spot.
All was dark; not one glimmer of light to be seen in any of the
windows.
The garden was secured by an iron gate, and surrounded by iron rails on
all sides, except that nearest the river. Here, the only boundary was a
hedge of laurels, which were still low and thin; and here Dennis Wayman
and his companion found easy access to the neatly-kept pleasure-ground.
With stealthy footsteps they invaded Captain Duncombe’s little domain,
and walked slowly round the house, examining every door and window as
they went.
“Is the captain a rich man?” asked Milsom.
“Yes; I believe he’s pretty well off—some say uncommonly well off. He
spent over a thousand pounds on this place.”
“Curse him for his pains!” returned Black Milsom, savagely. “He knows
how to take care of his property. It would be a very clever burglar
that would get into that house. The windows are all secured with
outside shutters, that seem as solid as if they were made of iron, and
the doors don’t yield the twentieth part of an inch.”
Then, after completing his examination of the house, Milsom exclaimed,
in the same savage tone—
“Why, the man has swept away every timber of the place I lived in.”
“I told you as much,” answered Wayman; “I’ve heard say there was
nothing left of old Screwton’s house but a few solid timbers and a
stack of chimneys.”
Screwton was the name of the miser whose ghost had been supposed to
haunt the old place.
Black Milsom gave a start as Dennis uttered the words
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