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Read Ebook: The Story of Charles Strange: A Novel. Vol. 1 (of 3) by Wood Henry Mrs
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Ebook has 880 lines and 32760 words, and 18 pages
face," I answered. "But it looks sad. And what a silent woman she is. Speaking of her face though, sir, it puts me in mind of someone's, and I cannot think whose."
"You may have seen her somewhere or other," remarked Mr. Brightman.
"Yes, but I can't remember where. I'll ask her."
Mrs. Watts was then coming into the room with some water, which Mr. Brightman had rung for. She looked about forty-five years old; a thin, bony woman of middle height, with a pale, gray, wrinkled face, and gray hairs banded under a huge cap, tied under her chin.
"There's something about your face that seems familiar to me, Mrs. Watts," I said, as she put down the glass and the bottle of water. "Have I ever seen you before?"
She was pouring out the water, and did not look at me. "I can't say, sir," she answered in a low tone.
She shook her head. "Watts and I lived in Ely Place for some years before we came here, sir," she then said. "It's not impossible you may have seen me in the street when I was doing the steps; but I never saw you pass by that I know of."
"And before that, where did you live?"
"Before that, sir? At Dover."
"Ah! well," I said, for this did not help me out with my puzzle; "I suppose it is fancy."
Mr. Brightman caught up the last word as Mrs. Watts withdrew. "Fancy, Charles; that's what it must be. And fancy sometimes plays wonderful tricks with us."
"Yes, sir; I expect it is fancy. For all that, I feel perplexed. The woman's voice and manner seem to strike a chord in my memory as much as her face does."
"Captain Heriot, sir."
Sitting one evening in my room at dusk in the summer weather, the window open to the opposite wall and to the side view of the Thames, waiting for Lake to come in, Watts had thus interrupted me to show in Tom Heriot. I started up and grasped his hands. He was a handsome young fellow, with the open manners that had charmed the world in the days gone by, and charmed it still.
"Charley, boy! It is good to see you."
"Why, we have been here for days! What a fellow you are, not to know that we are now quartered here. Don't you read the newspapers? It used to be said, you remember, that young Charley lived in a wood."
I laughed. "And how are things with you, Tom?"
"Rather down; have been for a long time; getting badder and badder."
My heart gave a thump. In spite of his laughing air and bright smile, I feared it might be too true.
"I am going to the deuce, headlong, Charley."
"Don't, Tom!"
"Don't what? Not go or not talk of it? It is as sure as death, lad."
"Have you made holes in your money?"
"Fairly so. I think I may say so, considering that the whole of it is spent."
"Oh, Tom!"
"What shall you do? You will never make your pay suffice."
"Sell out, I expect."
"And then?"
Tom shrugged his shoulders in answer. They were very slender shoulders. His frame was slight altogether, suggesting that he might not be strong. He was about as tall as I--rather above middle height.
"Take a clerkship with you, at twenty shillings a week, if you'd give it me. Or go out to the Australian diggings to pick up gold. How grave you look, Charles!"
"It is a grave subject. But I hope you are saying this in joke, Tom."
"Half in joke, half in earnest. I will not sell out if I can help it; be sure of that, old man; but I think it will have to come to it. Can you give me something to drink, Charley? I am thirsty."
"Will you take some tea? I am just going to have mine. Or anything else instead?"
"I was thinking of brandy and soda. But I don't mind if I do try tea, for once. Ay, I will. Have it up, Charley."
I rang the bell, and Mrs. Watts brought it up.
"Anything else, sir?" she stayed to ask.
She gave a sharp word at her own stupidity, and left the room. Tom's eyes had been fixed upon her, following her to the last. He began slowly pushing back his bright brown hair, as he would do in his boyhood when anything puzzled him.
"Who here?"
"Leah."
"That servant of yours."
"That is our messenger's wife: Mrs. Watts."
"Mrs. Watts she may be now, for aught I know; but she was Leah Williams when we were youngsters, Charley."
"Impossible, Tom. This old woman cannot be Leah."
"I tell you, lad, it is Leah," he persisted. "No mistake about it. At the first moment I did not recollect her. I have a good eye for faces, but she is wonderfully altered. Do you mean to say she has not made herself known to you?"
I shook my head. But even as Tom spoke, little items of remembrance that had worried my brain began to clear themselves bit by bit. Mrs. Watts came in with the milk.
She had put it down on the tray when Tom walked up to her, holding out his hand, his countenance all smiles, his hazel eyes dancing.
"How are you, Leah, after all these years? Shake hands for auld lang syne. Do you sing the song still?"
Leah gave one startled glance and then threw her white apron up to her face with a sob.
"Come, come," said Tom kindly. "I didn't want to startle you, Leah."
"I didn't think you would know me, sir," she said, lifting her woebegone face. "Mr. Charles here did not."
"Not know you! I should know you sooner than my best sweetheart," cried Tom gaily.
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