Whenever any particular question pressed itself strongly on Tom’s mind for solution, he had a habit of looking at it, not from one or two points of view only, but from several; and if nineteen ways out of a difficulty proved, from one cause or another, to be unavailable, he generally found the twentieth to be the very mode of egress for which he had been seeking. So it was in the present case. After considerable cudgelling of his brains, he hit on a simple expedient which seemed to him to be worth trying, but which might or might not prove successful in the result.
On the occasion of Tom’s first visit to Pincote, among other pieces played by Jane in the drawing-room after dinner, was a plaintive little waltz, entitled “Venez à Moi,” which took his fancy more than anything he had heard for a long time. Later on in the evening he had asked Jane to play it again, and for days afterwards the air clung to his memory, and seemed in some strange way to mix itself up in his musings whenever he thought of Jane. As if Jane had some faint divination that such was the case, the next time Tom was at Pincote she played the waltz again—this time without being asked; and so also on the third and last time he spent an evening with her. It was on this third occasion, as the final bars of the waltz were dying away in slow-breathed sweetness, that the eyes of Tom and Jane met across the piano—met for a moment only; but that one moment sufficed to reveal a secret which, as yet, they had hardly ventured to whisper to themselves. From that day forth, never so long as they lived, could that simple French melody be forgotten by either of them.
Tom thought of Blondin, and determined to try the effect of “Venez à Moi” in attracting Jane’s attention. Only, as he happened to live in this unromantic nineteenth century, and to be possessed neither of a harp nor of skill to play one, there was nothing left for him but to whistle it.
Retiring from the window a dozen yards or more, but still keeping well within the shelter of the shrubbery, Tom accordingly began to “flute the darkness with his low sweet note.” In other words, he began to whistle “Venez à Moi.” At the end of five minutes, which to him seemed more like an hour, the venetians were lifted, and some one could be seen peering into the darkness. A few quick strides carried Tom to the window.
Although startled when the first notes of the familiar air fell on her ear, Jane was not long in divining who it was that was there. Inventing an errand for her companion which took that young lady out of the room for a few minutes, she hurried to the window and looked out. A tap from Tom, and the window was opened. Although surprised to see him, and at being so summoned, she frankly offered her hand.
“When you shall have heard my errand, Miss Culpepper, you will, I am sure, pardon the liberty I have taken,” said Tom.
Her thoughts reverted in an instant to her father, but he was snoring peacefully in the dining-room. “I hope, Mr. Bristow, that you are the bearer of no ill news,” she said with simple earnestness.
“My news is either good or bad, as people may choose to take it,” answered Tom. “Miss Culpepper—my friend, Lionel Dering, is hiding within a mile of this house.”
“Oh, Mr. Bristow!” His words took her breath away. She turned giddy, and had to clutch at the window to keep herself from falling.
“The place where he has been hiding since his escape from prison is safe no longer,” resumed Tom. “Another hiding-place must be found for him, and at once. In this great strait, I have ventured here to ask your assistance.”