Run to Earth - Mary Elizabeth Braddon (ebook reader .txt) 📗
- Author: Mary Elizabeth Braddon
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own sake.”
“Captain George is right, though,” answered the clerk. “Jernam Brothers
are growing rich; Jernam Brothers are prospering. But you haven’t told
me your plans yet, captain.”
“Well, since you say I had better cut this quarter, I suppose I must;
though I like to see the rigging above the housetops, and to hear the
jolly voices of the sailors, and to know that the ‘Pizarro’ lies hard
by in the Pool. However, there’s an old aunt of mine, down in a sleepy
little village in Devonshire, who’d be glad to see me, and none the
worse for a small slice of Jernam Brothers’ good luck; so I’ll take a
place on the Plymouth coach to-morrow morning, and go down and have a
peep at her. You’ll be able to keep a look-out on the repairs aboard of
the ‘Pizarro’, and I can be back in time to meet George on the fifth.”
“Where are you to meet him?”
“In this room.”
The factotum shook his head.
“You’re both a good deal too fond of this house,” he said. “The people
that have got it now are strangers to us. They’ve bought the business
since our last trip. I don’t like the look on them.”
“No more do I, if it comes to that. I was sorry to hear the old folks
had been done up. But come, Joyce, some more rum-and-water. Let’s
enjoy ourselves to-night, man, if I’m to start by the first coach to-morrow morning. What’s that?”
The captain stopped, with the bell-rope in his hand, to listen to the
sound of music close at hand. A woman’s voice, fresh and clear as the
song of a sky-lark, was singing “Wapping Old Stairs,” to the
accompaniment of a feeble old piano.
“What a voice!” cried the sailor. “Why, it seems to pierce to the very
core of my heart as I listen to it. Let’s go and hear the music,
Joyce.”
“Better not, captain,” answered the warning voice of the clerk. “I tell
you they’re a bad lot in this house. It’s a sort of concert they give
of a night; an excuse for drunkenness, and riot, and low company. If
you’re going by the coach to-morrow, you’d better get to bed early to-night. You’ve been drinking quite enough as it is.”
“Drinking!” cried Valentine Jernam; “why, I’m as sober as a judge.
Come, Joyce, let’s go and listen to that girl’s singing.”
The captain left the room, and Harker followed, shrugging his shoulders
as he went.
“There’s nothing so hard to manage as a baby of thirty years old,” he
muttered; “a blessed infant that one’s obliged to call master.”
He followed the captain, through a dingy little passage, into a room
with a sanded floor, and a little platform at one end. The room was
full of sailors and disreputable-looking women; and was lighted by
several jets of coarse gas, which flared in the bleak March wind.
A group of black-bearded, foreign-looking seamen made room for the
captain and his companion at one of the tables. Jernam acknowledged
their courtesy with a friendly nod.
“I don’t mind standing treat for a civil fellow like you,” he said;
“come, mates, what do you say to a bowl of punch?”
The men looked at him and grinned a ready assent.
Valentine Jernam called the landlord, and ordered a bowl of rum-punch.
“Plenty of it, remember, and be sure you are not too liberal with the
water,” said the captain.
The landlord nodded and laughed. He was a broad-shouldered,
square-built man, with a flat, pale face, broad and square, like his
figure—not a pleasant-looking man by any means.
Valentine Jernam folded his arms on the rickety, liquor-stained table,
and took a leisurely survey of the apartment.
There was a pause in the concert just now. The girl had finished her
song, and sat by the old square piano, waiting till she should be
required to sing again. There were only two performers in this
primitive species of concert—the girl who sang, and an old blind man,
who accompanied her on the piano; but such entertainment was quite
sufficient for the patrons of the ‘Jolly Tar’, seven-and-twenty years
ago, before the splendours of modern music-halls had arisen in the
land.
Valentine Jernam’s dark eyes wandered round the room, till they lighted
on the face of the girl sitting by the piano. There they fixed
themselves all at once, and seemed as if rooted to the face on which
they looked. It was a pale, oval face, framed in bands of smooth black
hair, and lighted by splendid black eyes; the face of a Roman empress
rather than a singing-girl at a public-house in Shadwell. Never before
had Valentine Jernam looked on so fair a woman. He had never been a
student or admirer of the weaker sex. He had a vague kind of idea that
there were women, and mermaids, and other dangerous creatures, lurking
somewhere in this world, for the destruction of honest men; but beyond
this he had very few ideas on the subject.
Other people were taking very little notice of the singer. The regular
patrons of the ‘Jolly Tar’ were accustomed to her beauty and her
singing, and thought very little about her. The girl was very quiet,
very modest. She came and went under the care of the old blind pianist,
whom she called her grandfather, and she seemed to shrink alike from
observation or admiration.
She began to sing again presently.
She stood by the piano, facing the audience, calm as a statue, with her
large black eyes looking straight before her. The old man listened to
her eagerly, as he played, and nodded fond approval every now and then,
as the full, rich notes fell upon his ear. The poor blind face was
illuminated with the musician’s rapture. It seemed as if the noisy,
disreputable audience had no existence for these two people.
“What a lovely creature!” exclaimed the captain, in a tone of subdued
intensity.
“Yes, she’s a pretty girl,” muttered the clerk, coolly.
“A pretty girl!” echoed Jernam; “an angel, you mean! I did not know
there were such women in the world; and to think that such a woman
should be here, in this place, in the midst of all this tobacco-smoke,
and noise, and blasphemy! It seems hard, doesn’t it, Joyce?”
“I don’t see that it’s any harder for a pretty woman than an ugly one,”
replied Harker, sententiously. “If the girl had red hair and a snub
nose, you wouldn’t take the trouble to pity her. I don’t see why you
should concern yourself about her, because she happens to have black
eyes and red lips. I dare say she’s a bad lot, like most of ‘em about
here, and would as soon pick your pocket as look at you, if you gave
her the chance.”
Valentine Jernam made no reply to these observations. It is possible
that he scarcely heard them. The punch came presently; but he pushed
the bowl towards Joyce, and bade that gentleman dispense the mixture.
His own glass remained before him untouched, while the foreign seamen
and Joyce Harker emptied the bowl. When the girl sang, he listened;
when she sat in a listless attitude, in the pauses between her songs,
he watched her face.
Until she had finished her last song, and left the platform, leading
her blind companion by the hand, the captain of the ‘Pizarro’ seemed
like a creature under the influence of a spell. There was only one exit
from the room, so the singing-girl and her grandfather had to pass
along the narrow space between the two rows of tables. Her dark stuff
dress brushed against Jernam as she passed him. To the last, his eyes
followed her with the same entranced gaze.
When she had gone, and the door had closed upon her, he started
suddenly to his feet, and followed. He was just in time to see her
leave the house with her grandfather, and with a big, ill-looking man,
half-sailor, half-landsman, who had been drinking at the bar.
The landlord was standing behind the bar, drawing beer, as Jernam
looked out into the street, watching the receding figures of the girl
and her two companions.
“She’s a pretty girl, isn’t she?” said the landlord, as Jernam shut the
door.
“She is, indeed!” cried the sailor. “Who is she?—where does she come
from?—what’s her name?”
“Her name is Jenny Milsom, and she lives with her father, a very
respectable man.”
“Was that her father who went out with her just now?”
“Yes, that’s Tom Milsom.”
“He doesn’t look very respectable. I don’t think I ever set eyes on a
worse-looking fellow.”
“A man can’t help his looks,” answered the landlord, rather sulkily;
“I’ve known Tom Milsom these ten years, and I’ve never known any harm
of him.”
“No, nor any good either, I should think, Dennis Wayman,” said a man
who was lounging at the bar; “Black Milsom is the name we gave him over
at Rotherhithe. I worked with him in a shipbuilder’s yard seven years
ago: a surly brute he was then, and a surly brute he is now; and a
lazy, skulking vagabond into the bargain, living an idle life out at
that cottage of his among the marshes, and eating up his pretty
daughter’s earnings.”
“You seem to know Milsom’s business as well as you do your own, Joe
Dermot,” answered the landlord, with some touch of anger in his tone.
“It’s no use looking savage at me, Dennis,” returned Dermot; “I never
did trust Black Milsom, and never will. There are men who would take
your life’s blood for the price of a gallon of beer, and I think Milsom
is one of ‘em.”
Valentine Jernam listened attentively to this conversation—not
because he was interested in Black Milsom’s character, but because he
wanted to hear anything that could enlighten him about the girl who had
awakened such a new sentiment in his breast.
The clerk had followed his master, and stood in the shadow of the
doorway, listening even more attentively than his employer; the small,
restless eyes shifted to and fro between the faces of the speakers.
More might have been said about Mr. Thomas Milsom; but it was evident
that the landlord of the ‘Jolly Tar’ was inclined to resent any
disrespectful allusion to that individual. The man called Joe Dermot
paid his score, and went away. The captain and his factotum retired to
the two dingy little apartments which were to accommodate them for the
night.
All through that night, sleeping or waking, Valentine Jernam was
haunted by the vision of a beautiful face, the sound of a melodious
voice, and the face and the voice belonged alike to the singing-girl.
The captain of the ‘Pizarro’ left his room at five o’clock, and tapped
at Joyce Marker’s door with the intention of bidding him goodbye.
“I’m off, Joyce,” he said; “be sure you keep your eye upon the repairs
between this and the fifth.”
He was prepared to receive a drowsy answer; but to his surprise the
door was opened, and Joyce stood dressed upon the threshold.
“I’m coming to the coach-office with you, captain,” answered Harker. “I
don’t like this place, and I want to see you safe out of it, never to
come back to it any more.”
“Nonsense, Joyce; the place suits me well enough.”
“Does it?” asked the factotum, in a whisper; “and the landlord suits
you, I suppose?—and that man they call Black Milsom? There’s something
more
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