Volume Three—Chapter Thirteen.
An Accident.
“No news,” day after day—day after day, till Harry was weary of repeating the words to the troubled father. Sergeant Falkner came often enough to repeat his story, that so far he had done everything possible; but that he had scent of something which he felt sure must turn out right.
At last Harry was wandering one evening towards Decadia, he knew not why, he said, but it always appeared to him as if elucidation of the mystery must come from that direction; and though he would not own to it, he made this surmise his excuse for going often to Brownjohn Street, seeing Janet but seldom—Canau often—quite an intimacy having arisen between the latter and himself.
Harry wandered thoughtfully on, till, nearing the end of St Martin’s Lane, he started back, for from out of a busy street there came a sharp rattling of wheels, a shout, a dull heavy sound; then the customary rush of sight-seers till a crowd had collected.
“There, that’s the seccun’ acciden’ I’ve seen at that there corner with my own blessed eyes,” said a man. “Them cabs comes cutting along fierce, never thinking as they’ve got anything to do but shout, and everybody’s to get out o’ the way in a instan’. If its panels as scratches, they pulls up; but if its human flesh and blood, drive on. It ought to be put a stop to—that it ought.”
There was a chorus of indignant acquiescent growls, though no one said what ought to be stopped; and Harry Clayton pressed forward through the swaying crowd, in the midst of which the shiny crown of a policeman’s hat was to be seen.
“Get a stretcher—Take him to the hospital—Poor creature!” exclaimed various voices; and then came a score of indignant commands: “Give him air!—Stand back, will yer!”—the speakers never seeing the necessity of themselves moving.
“Why don’t you look alive, and take him to the hospital!” exclaimed a strident voice again.
“Non—non! chez moi—chez moi!” groaned the sufferer.
“What’s he say? He’s foreign! Any one here understand Dutch? Anybody know who he is?”
“I do,” said Harry, pushing foward. “He wishes to be taken home,” just as, half insensible, the sufferer babbled a few words in his native tongue, to which he seemed naturally to revert; and then, under the young man’s guidance, poor Canau was borne to his lodgings, and a surgeon procured—one who came the more willingly upon Harry furnishing him with his address, and undertaking, if necessary, to defray all expense.
“I did try to get away; but I was confused, and stumbled; and ah! ma belle patrie!” muttered Canau, “I shall see thee no more.”
For the surgeon had made his examination, bandaged, and done all that was possible to ease the sufferer, and then taken his departure.
“I am hurt—much hurt,” said Canau, feebly, as he reached out a withered hand to Harry; “but I should like just once—”
He turned his eyes towards a violin hung upon the wall; but when Janet eagerly reached it down, and Canau tried to raise the bow, his bruised muscles refused to act, and he shook his head.
“Had you not better try and sleep?” said Harry to the injured man, who seemed momentarily to grow more feverish and excited.
“Sleep!” he exclaimed, hoarsely, “sleep now? Shall I not soon sleep without waking? No, no—no, no! Look here! you are a gentleman—you have feelings. Listen! Years ago—many now—I fled from my country. I was sought for; I was called ‘traitor!’ But why? mon Dieu, why? Because I loved my rightful monarch, and would have seen him on the throne. But might is right, even as you say it here; and I fled to beggary and wretchedness amongst these poor—I, a gentleman—to drink at last to drown my misery, till I tried to live by my violin, and then I took to that poor child, saved her from misery and death, and now she loves me.”
Worn out at last, and half delirious with the fever from the injuries he had received, the Frenchman at last dozed off, when Harry rose to leave, wondering whether, after all, Canau knew what had become of Lionel, and hopeful that, if he did, his prostrate and weak state would offer opportunities for arriving at the truth.
As Harry reached the bottom, D. Wragg, pipe in hand, made his appearance, craning his neck, and thrusting his face forward in disagreeable proximity to that of his visitor, as in answer to Harry’s “Good night,” he exclaimed—
“I know!”
“Know what,” said Harry, sharply, his thoughts instantly reverting to Lionel, and the hope that if D. Wragg knew anything, now in his state of semi-intoxication, he might divulge some clue to the mystery that had troubled them for so long. But if D. Wragg possessed a secret, it seemed to be one from which he felt in no haste to part; for, with drunken solemnity, he merely shook his head a great many times, and then drew back softly into his shop, closing the door after him; but only to open it again a few inches, so as to allow the passage of his head as he muttered gruffly, throwing the words, as it were, at his visitor—
“Never mind!”