London - Edward Rutherfurd [480]
Mrs Meredith, that day, was a happier woman than she had ever been before, and Jack had only been home from prison a few hours.
Only now could she feel sure that if life and love were a treacherous battle, she had won. She had got everything she wanted; she had caught her man and brought him safely in. Around her home she could see only peace and security. It was a new feeling; she supposed it would take some getting used to. Even the little party she had so carefully planned for the next day suddenly seemed unimportant; the year-long tour of Europe might be curtailed. Perhaps six months would do, she thought. Then I could have him all to myself at Bocton. This thought had been filling her imagination for several delicious minutes as she prepared to go out when the quiet of the house was suddenly disturbed by a shout, followed by a piteous cry.
“What the devil can that be?” Jack remarked as he went to the door and vanished down the passage.
He appeared, a minute later, grinning broadly at her, and holding firmly, by one ear, a boot-blackened urchin.
“Dear heavens, Jack,” she cried half in horror, half amusement, “don’t bring the filthy thing in here. Why are you holding it?”
“Why, because,” he informed her with a wink, “this is a dangerous criminal. Your footman’s just caught him stealing a shilling off the kitchen table. He was supposed to be sweeping the chimney.” He turned to the boy. “We’ll call the Bow Street Runners, you little monster. What do you think of that?”
“I never stole nothing,” the boy cried.
“You did.”
“Never before, sir. I promise. Please don’t be hard on me.” It was said with such conviction one would almost have believed him.
“Take the creature away, Jack,” the lady of the house pleaded, “whatever you do.”
But Jack Meredith, who hadn’t the least intention of doing anything more than boxing the boy’s ears and kicking him out, was rather enjoying the spectacle of all this soot threatening his wife’s spotless chamber. The urchin, who had now started to cry, most obligingly shook his head, scattering soot and causing my lady to scream in vexation. The tear streaks left white marks down his blackened cheeks. It had to be admitted that he looked a rather pitiful sight. Like a small animal caught fatally in the claws of some much larger predator, he seemed suddenly to give up, hanging limply at the captain’s side, and quivering with fear. Even the fastidious lady of the house began to feel a little sorry for him.
“What’s your name, boy?” she brought herself to ask more kindly.
No answer.
“Do you always steal?”
The head shook vigorously.
“Don’t you know it’s wrong?”
The head nodded with real conviction.
“Does someone tell you to do it?” Meredith asked.
An unhappy nod.
“Who?”
No reply.
Just then, as the two adults looked at each other and shrugged, the little boy made a sudden, desperate bid to escape. With a wrench that must have caused his ear agonizing pain, he jerked his head away, whipped round, and scuttled down the passage.
With three rapid strides and a long arm, Jack caught him this time by the hand, whirled him back to where he came from, and then exclaimed in surprise.
“Here’s a strange thing. Look at this.”
He held up the boy’s hand. Then he took the other hand, remarking that it was the same. He noticed also, at that moment, that the boy’s hair, out of which most of the soot had now fallen, had a curious white patch in it. “What an odd little fellow,” he remarked. “He’s got spirit, though.” And glanced back at his wife.
She stood transfixed, white as though she had seen a ghost, staring at the child speechlessly.
“What is it?” he cried