OF SERVICE AT St. Michael's, our parish of preference—it is close enough to Castle Square to prove an easy walk, once we are established in that house. My mother, upon observing that the day should be fine, determined to mark the Sabbath by quitting her bed. She rose in good time to accompany us into St. Michael's Square, where I had the pleasure of hearing a sermon neither too long nor too bombastic, and of meeting afterwards with Mr. Hill in the vestibule.
The surgeon appeared much refreshed, and remarkably jovial for a man so recently bereaved of a patient.
“Has your brother told you, Miss Austen, of our excellent luck last evening?” he enquired, in a voice lowered for the benefit of the milling crowd. “After touring the public rooms of the Dolphin, the George, the Star, and the Coach and Horses, we chanced to meet with Sir Francis Farnham himself, sitting over sherry in the Vine. We informed him, in the most lowering tone imaginable, of the loss of our former patient—which intelligence we had confirmed from the stories everywhere circulating, at the inns aforementioned—”
“—and which you had published in the first part yourselves. Well done!” I cried, and then subsided at a glance of curiosity from Frank's Mary. “And how did the gentleman take the news?”
“He said all that was proper—declared himself shocked at the poor conditions of the prison hulk— lamented the fate of two other Frenchmen, who had died of the fire before it was put out—and announced that the remainder should be exchanged to France tomorrow or Tuesday at the latest. In a word, Sir Francis conducted himself as a cunning rogue might be expected to do.”
“That is very well,” I mused, “for he must consider himself safe. Once LaForge's intelligence is known at the Admiralty, however, he shall begin to be afraid— and in his actions then, may show his hand.”
“Such an event is what we must hope for,” said Mr. Hill gravely, “because I do not think we can expect to expose Sir Francis in any other way. He professed himself determined to quit Southampton on the morrow; we must rely upon his betraying himself in London.”
“Mr. Hill,” said Frank, with a clap on the surgeon's shoulder, “I intend to visit my friend, Tom Seagrave, in Gaoler's Alley this morning; should you like to bear me company?”
“Gaoler's Alley?” cried Mary, with a look of pique. “But it is Sunday, Frank! Cannot you sit quietly at home, and work a litde on the drawing-room fringe?”
“Sunday is a day for charity, Mary—and one must behave like a Christian to all of God's reprobates,” Frank said genially. “The loss of Seagrave's principal witness in the hulk last evening has put his defence in question. I should dearly love Mr. Hill's advice and counsel—and I know that Tom should be comforted by any appearance of interest in his case.”
“Then by all means take Jane,” urged my mother, with a friendly nod for Mr. Hill. She was devising a match, I litde doubted, between myself and the aging surgeon; like a boy who would shoot fish in a barrel, my mother cannot be in the presence of a single gentleman of any age without hitting upon a marriage. “You cannot keep Jane at home, when there is a gaol or an inquest to be had. I daresay Mr. Hill is exactly the same. It is wonderful, is it not, how alike two strangers' hearts may be? Jane was always such a charitable girl—quite a slave to the sick and downtrodden! She should have made an excellent wife in Bengal, I always said, for they have a vast amount of beggars there. I urged her once to consider a bride-ship—Mr. Austen's sister took passage in one, you know, and was so fortunate as to marry a surgeon!—but Jane could not be persuaded.”2
“Quite right,” said Mr. Hill with a twinkle. “Such a jewel should settle for nothing less than a true physician.” And then he bowed.
GAOLER'S ALLEY DEBOUCHES FROM THE HIGH, FOUR streets below St. Michael's Square. For our achievement of the small prison was required but a few moments' exertion; the sharp air of a bright March morning hastened our steps and brought animation to our looks. Frank swung along as though the breeze tugging at his cockade was fresh from a thousand frigates' sails, while Mr. Hill offended the Sabbath by whistling between his teeth. We were all, I believe, feeling chuffed by our