Chapter XXXIX: Old Seth Goes Home

Old Seth had a heart-breaking time of it.

To all intents and purposes he found himself in a foreign country. He wandered bewilderedly here and there, thinking that where the crowds were thickest there would be most chance of finding her he sought. But, to his amazement, the crowds seemed equally thick wherever he went, and every single person seemed to him to be hurrying for his or her life on business that did not admit of a moment's delay.

He lost himself regularly every day. From the moment he loosed from his quiet little harbour of refuge in the morning, till, by means of the address on his card, he found himself eventually and miraculously piloted back there by a 'series of top-hatted policemen, he was simply tossing to and fro on the swirling waves of the mighty whirlpool, without the slightest knowledge of where he was, except that he was in London, and Kattie was somewhere in London too.

He tried to talk to people, policemen and cabmen on the stands, who were the only ones who seemed not to be spending themselves in aimless rushings to and fro. But his uncouth speech was Hebrew to them. At first they grinned and shook their heads. Then, catching what sounded like a rough attempt at English, they tried to understand, but soon gave it up in spite of his woeful face and evident distress, and it was only when at last he wanted to get home, and produced his card, that they were able to assist him.

Fortunately the weather was cold and damp--conditions to which he was accustomed. Hot summer days and the airless, evil-smelling streets would have knocked him over in a week.

It seemed to Jim that the sad old face grew grayer and gaunter each day when he came in to give his monotonous report, which was comprehended in a dismal shake of the head and the simple word, "Nowt!"

And Jim, hopeless himself of anything coming of the disheartening quest, still did his best each day to cheer him. And Seth was glad of the chance of speaking a word or two with some one who understood his talk and sympathised with his woes.

"A most 'mazing place," he said, one time, "an' thicker wi' folk than ah could ha' believed. An' ah connot understand them an' they connot understand me. Ah wish----"

But the poor old fellow's wishes were never to be realised--not the obvious ones at all events. He was neither to find Kattie, nor to find himself safe home again in the spoiled cottage by the Mere.

Perhaps it was best so.

The inevitable happened--that which Jim had feared for him from the time he saw him drift helplessly away into the crowd that first day.

He had written all about the matter to Jack, and Jack's reply, while it lacked nothing in sympathy for old Seth in his bereavement; yet expressed in unmistakable language the writer's astonishment and indignation that he could for one moment have thought any of them guilty of such a deed.

Jim had also waited hopefully on Lord Deseret, to see if his efforts had met with any success. But, so far, they had not.

"I confess I had certain ideas on the subject," said his lordship, "and I have had them followed up, but quite without result. My people are entirely at fault. Is it possible we are all on a false scent and she is nearer home all the time? The indications pointing to her having come to London are, after all, exceedingly slight and vague."

"I've no idea," said Jim despondently. "I wish the old chap would go home. He can do no good here and he's on my mind day and night. I'm certain he'll get run over one of these days."

And, sure enough, there came a day when no Seth put in an appearance, and Jim's fears felt themselves justified.

He sent Joyce round to his lodgings. The old man had never turned up the night before.

It came at a bad time too, for they were working might and main at their preparations for the coming campaign. The Guards had left for Southampton the day before. They themselves were down for service and the call might come any day. War, indeed, had not yet been formally declared, but that was a minor matter. There was no doubt about what was going to happen.

So Jim packed off Joyce in a hansom, with orders to make the round of the hospitals and report at once if he got any news.

He was back at midday. The old man was lying at Guy's, broken to pieces and not expected to last the day out.

Jim jumped into the cab with a very heavy heart. It was just what he had feared, and it was terribly sad. And yet, as his cab wormed its slow course through the traffic about London Bridge, there came to him a dim apprehension that what seemed to them so sorrowful a happening might, after all, in some inscrutable way, be the better way for old Seth. For his life, if he had lived, must have been a sad and broken affair, and now----

He found the old man lying quietly in his bed, with the screens already drawn round it. He was only just in time.

The gaunt gray face brightened at sight of him, as Jim took his hand gently and sat down beside him.

"Ah'm fain to see yo'," he said, with difficulty. "'Twur a waggin . . . aw my fault. . . . Tell her. . . . Tell her . . ."--the crushed chest laboured in agony,--"tell her to come whoam. . . ."

And presently, without having spoken again, the dim light failed suddenly in the weather-worn gray eyes, and the life faded out of the gnarled brown hand, and Jim, boy still, put down his head and sobbed at the grim sadness of it all.

A nurse peeped round the screen and was surprised at the sight, for the eagerness of the splendid young officer to get to the uncouth old wreck, of whom, beyond his mortal injuries, they had been able to make so little, had impressed them all.

It was not till Jim had mopped himself up at last, and stood taking a last sad look at the tired old face, that she came in again.

"You knew the old man, sir?" she said sympathetically, behind which lay considerable curiosity.

"I've known him all my life. He's one of our people from Carne. It's terribly sad, you know. His daughter left home, and he came up to look for her. Think of it--to look for her in London! And I was afraid, all the time, how it would end. And it has. Poor old Seth!"

He told them all they wanted to know, and arranged with them to have the old man decently buried, and gave them money for the purpose and something for the hospital, and his own name and address.

"Then you're going to the war," said the nurse, with an animated face.

"Oh yes; we may go any day now."

"You ought to take some of us with you. You'll need us, you'll see."

He had promised to call on Mme Beteta that afternoon, and would have put off the visit but that he knew she would be disappointed, and she had shown herself so very kindly disposed towards him.

So he went, but madame's shrewd eyes fathomed his state of mind at once.

"Now you have some trouble, and perhaps it is my chance to be of use," she said, and bit by bit drew from him all the story of Kattie's disappearance and old Seth's death.

"If any one can find her, Lord Deseret will. He is a very, very clever old man, and in some things very young. She is pretty, you say?"

"We always thought her very pretty, even as a wild girl about the sands, and she has grown prettier still."

"London is a bad place for a pretty girl such as she. Even if you find her----" And she broke off and looked at him musingly. "What could you do if you did find her?"

"Get her to go home."

"And if she would not?"

"Then--I don't know. It is horrible to think of Kattie running loose in London."

"When Lord Deseret finds her, bring her to me and I will see what I can do," said madame thoughtfully; and there the matter rested.