It was still early in the summer when I stood at last before the Captain's house in London, with the knocker raised in my hand, but half fearing to strike from bashfulness; for a new access of shyness flooded my heart at the prospect of seeing Jenny. Something of the hesitation that had delayed me at Sunset Towers when I had stood fingering the handle of her door possessed me now. Twice I laid the knocker silently back, and paced up and down before the dark straight slice of a house, as it seemed to me, looking eagerly up at the windows, hoping Jenny might see me and let me in. But she didn't see me; or if she did she made no sign. So perforce I took the knocker in hand once more, and followed a feeble tap with a couple of sounding blows which echoed thunderingly down the street. Then I stood waiting with ill-suppressed excitement for the door to open.
Presently there were light steps within, and the door opened. A servant girl stood before me eyeing me dubiously. I was taken aback, for ignorant of city manners, and not considering that Jenny knew nothing of my presence there, I had expected to see my little playmate herself. So I blurted out, "Jenny!" and quickly tried to cover my mistake by saying, "I want to see Jenny."
"You wish to see Miss Jenny Field?" the maid enquired with smug politeness, to my complete confusion.
"Yes," I said. "Tell her."
But she stood facing me doubtfully, and asked, "And what name, please?"
Then indeed I drew myself up, conscious of the dignity of my lawful appellation, and emboldened by the smart new suit I had first taken the precaution to obtain, and pronounced grandly, "Thomas Garth Playden, of the brig Revenge."
At that I was admitted, and bidden to wait in the hall. The maid disappeared. Then suddenly there was a glad cry; a door flew open, and the maid was unceremoniously thrust aside. Before me stood a slim little figure that I knew at once, though now there was a band of deep red ribbon restraining the disorderly locks, and the dark eyes had lost their fierceness but glowed with an intensity of ardour that seemed to burn into me like the light from the deep heart of a sunset.
"Tommy!" she cried, with hands outstretched to me.
If it hadn't been for that wretched maid huddled so amazedly against the wall, with wide eyes open and mouth agape at this unladylike behaviour, I should have flung my arms about my little sweetheart, and so boldly leapt that line which is so difficult to cross. But I merely took the outstretched hands in mine, still furtively eyeing the maid, and said feebly enough, "I've come."
The glow faded from Jenny's eyes. Looking demurely away from me she said, "Yes."
Then the girl did recover her wits and took herself off. But the chance had slipped away, and when I would have put my arms about Jenny's shoulders she gently released herself, and politely invited me to come and see papa.
As I entered the drawing-room I managed to whisper, "Jenny, I've killed him."
She started, and would have held me back, but the Captain had seen me, and called out a hearty, "Tommy, boy, come along in."
I only felt a keen squeeze at my hand. Jenny had understood.
So the vision of my home-coming wasn't realized in all the wonderful colours in which I had painted it in my imagination. But still, there was Jenny before me; and while the Captain chatted, questioning me of my experiences, comparing notes of foreign towns and ways, and storms and adventures at sea, I watched the slim little girl who had grown wonderfully tall and slender in the passage of a single year. Indeed I didn't quite know whether it was the same Jenny I had played and quarreled with only a twelvemonth ago. It wasn't so much that she had grown; rather she seemed to have settled to a subdued seriousness not quite in keeping with the Jenny of my games and squabbles. I couldn't hear her saying now, "I hate you," as she had used to do. And yet a gesture here and there, and the tone of her voice when she threw in a quick word, touched at memories of the past, linking up this grave-eyed girl with the child of the year before.
As the evening wore away I had quite accepted the change in her, and the thought did just come to me that she too must have been surveying me with something of the same enquiry. I wondered whether she was as satisfied with the new Tommy as I was with the new Jenny. For though at first the change in her had taken me aback, I soon realized I was more head over heels in love with the charming girl who sat there at her father's feet, solemnly resting her eyes on mine, and now and again broadening her lips in a wonderful smile, than ever I had been with the bright vivid tempestuous little creature I had known at Sunset Towers. For now there seemed to be a depth and reserve behind those eyes, whereas before their glitter had told of a wonderful keen life, it is true, but one that played merely on the surface of things.
I had little leisure to notice the Captain. He was extraordinarily kind, even boisterous, in his welcome. He asked but little of my truancy from Sunset Towers, and spoke chiefly of my doings at sea. He showed nothing of the dark fear that had used to overshadow his face even in his most genial moments. I wondered whether somehow he had heard of his enemy's death, though not knowing who had rid him of his tormentor. But I said nothing of the matter. With the memory of that dark evening when I had parted with him last I was cautious how I spoke of dangerous things. And in any case it would keep. Moreover, the thought of it only came to me in fitful starts, for my heart was with the daughter, not the father.
When I rose to go he seemed surprised. "What? How?" he exclaimed, rising. "But you're not running away again, are you?"
"I must go back to Dirk," I said.
"Dirk, eh?" he repeated.
"I'm under orders," I explained. "I must report every night."
"Tush!" he cried impatiently, "That's over now. You come and live with me, laddie." Then he looked sharply at me and in a low voice, "You don't bear me ill-will, Tommy, do you?"
I knew of what he was thinking, and the pain in his voice hurt me like a physical wound. I gripped his hand and explained as well as I could that I was under some kind of bond, owing to my father's will, to apprentice myself to a profession, and I had taken Dirk as my master and must obey him.
"Right, quite right," said the Captain, evidently recognizing the necessity of the position, but still feeling for some way to evade it. After a moment he said, "Well, I reckon you've served your apprenticeship; and, as for money, you needn't worry your mind about that. You leave Dirk and come to me. I dare say I can teach you a thing or two."
"Can you take me to sea?" I asked.
At that he smiled rather sadly, and answered, "Well, no, I should think my sailing days are done."
He sat down, and with his head in his hands seemed to be musing regretfully.
I told him where I was lodging, and promised to come as often and stay as late as I could. He glanced across at Jenny, and said, "Yes, I'd lay you'll do that right enough, laddie." We shook hands cordially, and his last words were, "You see, you're always running away from me, Tommy. I never know where to lay hands on you. You frighten me, my boy. I like to have you near me."
He seemed strangely moved. I remembered Worthing telling me how disturbed he had been when he had heard of my escape from Rancey Bridge.
As I said good night to Jenny she stopped me at the door to say, "And you've really killed him, Tommy?"
"Yes," I said.
"Sure?" she asked, fixing me steadily with her eyes,
"Sure," I replied confidently.
"Oh, Tommy!" she sighed, lifting her face to mine. I kissed her. Then she slipped away from me, and smiling roguishly cried: "There, good night. Little boys should be in bed."
So I walked away to my lodging in a dream.
I learnt later why she had enquired so seriously as to whether I was sure I had accomplished my task. It seemed that once before she had thought I had fulfilled the mission. Her father had grown wonderfully cheerful, and she had imagined that at last the terror must have been lifted from his life. His moving to London had seemed to her a sign that the evil days were over, and that he could come out of hiding. It was just before the removal that Picardino had appeared, and she had given him the message that had reached me at Naples.
I asked her whether she had been angry with me for not obeying her summons. She replied that she had been so angry that if at last I had come to her she wouldn't have spoken to me for it had seemed to her that there was nothing to keep me from her as the task had been fulfilled; and even without a summons I should have returned to her. But then she had learnt the reason of my delay. For somehow her father had been deceived into a false assurance of safety. The enemy had risen up against him once more.
Poor little Jenny had had a terrible time, for Abou had begged to be sent back to his own people as his master didn't seem to need him now; so when the evil had arisen afresh Jenny had been left alone to tend a half-mad father. He had refused to go back to Sunset Towers without Abou to take care of him. He had remained in London, determined to face out the persecution and take what might befall. Jenny had comforted herself by saying that I must be on the man's track, and some day would assuredly run him to earth. At that I felt very guilty, for all this while I had been gaily sailing the seas with Dirk without a notion in my head as to how my mission was to be accomplished.
However, a few days before my arrival a complete change had come over the Captain, and Jenny had told herself, that at last I had been successful. And then she told me she knew I would soon be home again; and somehow her confidence in me was inexpressibly delicious.
So I spent the days with Jenny; but all that we said to each other, however precious in my own memory, would be of little interest to others; and at any rate it doesn't concern the story I have set myself to tell. It is enough to say that we were wonderfully happy together, though the words I wanted to speak always seemed to catch at my throat, yet when alone I could be eloquent enough on the theme of my passion. Also the Captain fathered me with an overflowing affection which left no doubt in my mind that when Jenny and I stepped out of girl- and boyhood nothing would please him better than the fulfilment of the dream with which I flattered my own heart.
I'm afraid I forgot Worthing for a time. It wasn't until the third or fourth day that I stepped out for the city to look him up. Even so it was a duty call, for I grudged every minute away from Jenny. I think I was relieved when I learnt he was away.
Jenny told me he had called on her father a long time ago. It was while she was waiting for me to come back to her, and she had told Worthing what she thought of my desertion. He had smiled darkly at her when she declared she would never speak to me again; and indeed he had so angered her that she had stamped her foot at him and told him she believed it was he himself who was keeping me away from her.
"I was like that," she said simply enough, as she told me the story. "I was a silly girl, wasn't I, Tommy?" Words thronged to my lips in such a gush of protestation that I stuttered stupidly and couldn't utter a coherent syllable. She went on with a laugh, "And he said to me in such a strange way, 'I am keeping him from you,' and walked away and left me."
I thought nothing of it, partly because I was too intent upon Jenny herself, and partly because I knew the reserved, bitter way in which Worthing chose to disguise his real thoughts.
That was all I learnt of Worthing, for Jenny hadn't seen him since.
A few days later I made my way to the city a second time. I remember Dirk had changed our lodging that same morning, owing to a rather nasty brawl. There was a strange excitement among the clerks in the office when I went in and enquired if Worthing had returned yet. The senior clerk took me gravely aside, and speaking confidentially said: "You were his friend, I think?"
"Yes," I replied, in unaccountable alarm at something sinister in the tone of his voice.
"Yes," he repeated, stroking his chin. Then suddenly looking me in the eyes, and laying a hand very gently on my shoulder, he said sadly, "He's dead," and as I started back, "Dead," he repeated, "and the master too. They were found murdered in a boat at Naples."
