The Compass of Truth by Brenda Clough

Author:Brenda Clough [Clough, Brenda W.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Victorian thriller, historical adventure, action/adventure
ISBN: 9781611389685
Publisher: Book View Cafe
Published: 2021-08-17T05:00:00+00:00

Book 4

Walter Hartright’s narrative

All his life Camlet was prey to the most severe seasickness. Even with the aid of the chemical remedies Marian learned from Count Fosco, he was justifiably wary of a long voyage. Only the truest affection would get him across the Atlantic again. At that period the chemist on the ground floor of Sensational’s building made the mixture up for him, and Camlet even licensed them to sell it, under the label ‘Mrs. Gadsbee’s Infallible Rubbing Remedy for Mal de Mer.’ Armed with several bottles of this preparation, Camlet kept to his deck chair on the voyage over but was not violently ill. I could not but be thankful, since I was sleeping in the bunk above his.

I spent my time pacing the first-class deck, pondering my situation. I, to be a grandfather! Laura a grandmother! It ought to be an occasion of unalloyed joy. Yet the outcome could only be misery. Wally must either be chained to an uncongenial woman and her blackmailing brother, or pay them all his life. Clarence had said it: Wally would pay one way or another.

We made port at last, late in the day. The stink and noise of New York City poaching in the afternoon sunshine reached out to us across the narrowing strip of dirty waves. The port teemed with shipping, and the noise of half a hundred languages made it sound almost like the docks in London. We emerged after lugubrious official delay in the customs-shed into an oven-like maze of grimy piers and quays. Camlet tipped a porter to carry our trunks to the cab stand, and we trudged through the press after his hand-cart for what seemed like miles, past bales of goods covered with tarpaulins, waiting rooms packed with sweating immigrants, quays piled high with barrels. “Keep a good watch, Hartright,” Camlet said. “Marian may be meeting us. I wired of our arrival date.”

And then, as we passed one of the better lounges, the most heavenly music floated out. Was it a violin? The instrument was played with earnest enthusiasm if not professional skill. Camlet craned his neck to stare through the cloudy window. “Hartright! Is that your son?”

Past the surging hats and bonnets I glimpsed a profile as clean-cut as a cameo. “Good heavens, it is!”

We called to our porter to wait, and pushed through the door. Wally was playing in a small open space in front of a bench, upon which was set a battered black instrument case that supported the sheets of music. Beside the case was a placard lettered in his hand: “Not begging! Practising! Please do not offer money.” Around him an open-mouthed audience crowded close, intently listening, mostly ragged immigrants or impoverished dock workers but also persons of quality in decent dress.

“Wally!” I cried.

The bow skittered squawking to a halt. “Father! Welcome to America!”

“What are you at? It was only by the greatest of good luck that we espied you over here,” I scolded. “Since when have you taken

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