Part 18 (1/2)

”Oh, come out, mah love! I'm a-waiting foh you heah!

Doan' you keep yuh window closed to-night.”

It was a c.o.o.n song which Stretton was humming over to himself. His voice dropped to a murmur, He stopped and laughed softly to himself, as though the song had very dear a.s.sociations in his thoughts. Then his voice rose again, and there was now a kind of triumph in the lilt of the song, which had nothing to do with the words--

”De stars all a-gwine put dey little ones to bed Wid dey 'hush now, sing a lullaby,'

De man in de moon nod his sleepy, sleepy head, And do sandman put a little in his eye.”

The words went lilting out over the quiet sea. It seemed to Stretton that they came from a lighted window just behind him, and were sung in a woman's voice. He was standing on a lawn surrounded by high dark trees in the warmth of a summer night. He was looking out past the islets over eight miles of quiet water to the cl.u.s.tered lights of the yachts in Oban Bay. The c.o.o.n song was that which his wife had sung to him on one evening he was never to forget; and this night he had recovered its a.s.sociations. It was no longer ”a mere song sung by somebody.” It seemed to him, so quickly did his antic.i.p.ations for once outrun his judgment, that he had already recovered his wife.

The _Perseverance_ was moored alongside of the quay at eight o'clock in the morning, and just at that time Millie was reading a letter of condolence from Lionel Callon.

CHAPTER XIII

TONY STRETTON RETURNS TO STEPNEY

Mr. Chase left the mission quite early in the evening and walked towards his lodging. That side of his nature which clamoured for enjoyments and a life of luxury was urgent with him to-night. As he turned into his street he began to debate with himself whether he should go in search of a cab and drive westwards out of the squalor. A church clock had just struck nine; he would find his club open and his friends about the fire. Thus debating he came to his own door, and had unconsciously taken his latch-key from his pocket before he had decided upon his course. The latch-key decided him. He opened the door and went quickly up to his sitting-room. The gas was low, and what light there was came from the fire. Chase shut the door gently, and his face underwent a change. There came a glitter into his eyes, a smile to his lips. He crossed to the little cupboard in the corner and unlocked it, stealthily, even though he was alone. As he put his hand into it and grasped the decanter, something stirred in his armchair.

The back of the chair was towards him. He remained for a second or two motionless, listening. But the sound was not repeated. Chase noiselessly locked the cupboard again and came back to the fire. A man was sitting asleep in the chair.

Chase laid a hand upon his shoulder and shook him.

”Stretton,” he said; and Tony Stretton opened his eyes.

”I fell asleep waiting for you,” he said.

”When did you get back?” asked Chase.

”I landed at Yarmouth this morning. I came up to London this afternoon.”

Chase turned up the gas and lit a cigarette.

”You have not been home, then?” he said. ”There is news waiting for you there. Your father is dead!”

”I know,” Stretton replied. ”He died a month ago.”

Mr. Chase was perplexed. He drew up a chair to the fire and sat down.

”You know that?” he asked slowly; ”and yet you have not gone home?”

”No,” replied Stretton. ”And I do not mean to go.”

Stretton was speaking in the quietest and most natural way. There was no trace in his manner of that anxiety which during the last few days had kept him restless and uneasy. He had come to his decision. Chase was aware of the stubborn persistence of his friend; and it was rather to acquire knowledge than to persuade that he put his questions.

”But why? You went away to make an independent home, free from the restrictions under which you and your wife were living. Well, you have got that home now. The reason for your absence has gone.”

Stretton shook his head.