GONE.
CARRY was in unusually low spirits. She had that morning received a
letter from Fred Bingham, written from the country. In it he told
her that he feared he should be detained three weeks, but that he
would make arrangements for the marriage to take place immediately he
returned; but that it must be done quietly before a registrar. Carry
quite believed that it would be as he said, still she was sick and
low at the thought that another month of this wearying deception and
secrecy must take place. After the shop was closed for the night, she
took a piece of work as usual, but finding that it was in vain to
endeavour to keep her attention fixed, and that now and then a tear
would fall upon it, she put her work down and took up the “Times,”
not for the sake of reading it, but to screen her face from her
father.
Stephen Walker was smoking his pipe quietly, and was thinking sadly
to himself how greatly Carry had changed in the three months, when
he was startled by a sharp cry of pain from her, and looking up saw
the paper fall from her hands. She had risen to her feet, her eyes
stared wildly, and her face was deadly pale. For a moment she stood
immoveable, then she tottered, and with a low gasping cry sank back
upon the seat, and Stephen Walker was just in time to support her
as she fainted. Terribly alarmed at this sudden attack, her father
laid her upon the little sofa, and hurried to fetch water to sprinkle
her forehead, but it was a long time before there were any signs
of returning animation. Then she opened her eyes and looked round
wildly, then with a shuddering sigh closed them again, and remained
for some time without speaking. At last, in answer to her father's
earnest entreaties to speak, she rose into a sitting position, and
said, faintly,—
“I am better again now, father; I will go up to bed.”
She was so weak, however, that she had to accept her father's
assistance, and having seen her to her door, the old man returned
sadly downstairs.
“Poor child, poor child!” he said to himself, as he sat down again
and mechanically refilled his pipe, “what a change! She is evidently
unhappy, evidently begins to doubt him already. I am afraid he is a
rascal; if so, the sooner she knows it the better. What ought I to
do?” and he thought deeply for a while. “Yes, that is the only plan;
next time he comes I will follow him out and talk to him myself. I
will tell him that I can see that he is here too often for Carry's
peace of mind. I will ask him as a man to keep away altogether if he
is only playing with my child's affections. If he repeats to me what
he has told her, I will ask him at any rate to stay away until he is
in a position to make her his wife. In the meantime, if I could but
get her away from him, the change would strengthen her. Why should I
not?” he went on more briskly. “I have two or three hundred pounds at
the bank, why should I not put some one in charge of the shop and go
away for a month to the seaside? It would be the very thing for her.
Yes, yes, if I had Carry all to myself at the seaside, I should soon
get her round again. I wish I had thought of it before. I will see
about getting some one to-morrow. I will take Carry to a doctor, too;
he shall give her some tonics.”
Stephen Walker went up to bed and felt quite relieved at the thoughts
of his plans for Carry's benefit. He woke up, however, in the night
with a vague idea that some one had been kissing and crying over him.
As he fairly roused himself and sat up, he fancied he heard his door
close softly, but was not sure that it was not imagination. He spoke,
and there was no answer, and after a thought of the pleasant surprise
he had in store for Carry in the morning, he fell asleep again.
In the morning when Stephen Walker came downstairs he found that,
contrary to custom, he was the first up.
“Poor child,” he said to himself, “she is tired, I dare say, after
fainting last night. Well, a good long sleep will do her good,”
and so Stephen Walker bustled about, folded the newspapers, and
served the customers, sending round Tom Holl before he started on
his rounds, to ask his mother to come in for half-an-hour, if she
could spare time. Mrs. Holl soon came round, laid and lit the fire,
and prepared breakfast. It was by this time half-past nine, and the
regular customers were all served.
“Now, Mrs. Holl, I will go up and call Carry. How astonished she will
be when I tell her its half-past nine, and breakfast's ready!”
Stephen Walker was away two or three minutes and then returned,
looking white and scared. He sat down in a chair, trembling in every
limb.
“What is the matter, Mr. Walker?”
“I don't know, Mrs. Holl; I have knocked, and knocked, and I cannot
make her hear.”
“I dare say she's sleeping sound,” Mrs. Holl said; “she's not been
looking well of late; shall I go up and wake her?”
Stephen Walker made a gesture of assent, and Mrs. Holl went upstairs
to Carry's room. She knocked at first gently, and then more loudly.
There was no answer. Mrs. Holl was not a nervous woman, but she felt
frightened—she did not know of what. The fear of Stephen Walker had
infected her, and this strange silence made her as timid as he had
been. She tried the handle to see if the door was locked. It was not;
the door yielded to her touch, but it was with a nervous trembling
that Mrs. Holl pushed the door open, and entered. What she had
expected to see—what she was afraid of—she knew not, but no sight
could have affected her so much, not even the sight of the girl dead
in her bed, as did that deserted room, that unused bed, that letter
lying upon the table. Mrs. Holl saw the truth at once, and as she
thought of Carry, thought of the old man downstairs, she sat down,
and began to cry. Presently she heard a step on the stairs. What
should she say? how should she break it to him? She hurried out and
met him outside the door.
“Don't go in, don't go in; come downstairs, and I will tell you all
about it.”
“Is she——?”
He did not finish the question—indeed he had scarcely uttered the
words, but Mrs. Holl guessed them by the movement of his lips.
“No, she's not dead; she's not, indeed. Please, go down——”
But Stephen Walker pushed past her, and stood in the empty room. A
low cry broke from him, then his eye caught the letter on the table;
it was addressed to himself. He could not stand to read it; he sank
down in a chair. He opened the letter with trembling hands, but the
trembling ceased, and his figure seemed to stiffen into stone as he
read on—
“Father, father, what can I say to you—how can I write it? He has
married another; I saw it in the paper this evening; yet he promised,
promised over and over again to marry me. Only this morning I had a
letter from him saying he would marry me in three weeks, and when
he was writing it he must have been married already. I leave his
letter that you may see that I spoke truly when I said he promised
to marry me, and oh, father, I believed him so; I thought him true
and honourable, and oh, father, forgive me, forgive me, for I have
disgraced you. I cannot live, father, I cannot live with this shame.
When you receive this, Carry and her sins will be over. Oh, father,
forgive me. I know you will, and then God will forgive, too. I have
suffered so much, surely He will have pity on me. Father, do not
think of me as I have been for the last month. Try and think that
I died young; think of me as the little Carry who loved you so, so
much, and never remember the miserable girl who has brought shame
upon herself and you.”
Mrs. Holl was frightened at the ghastly pallor and the set rigid
expression which grew upon the old man's face as he read on. There he
sat still and immovable. When he had finished, his lips were livid,
and his eyes fixed.
“Don't take on so, now don't, there's a good creature,” Mrs. Holl
said, soothingly; “she will come back again safe enough; don't take
on so.”
But Mrs. Holl's words were addressed to deaf ears, and seeing that he
paid no attention to her, she came close to him and touched him. Then
a sharp contraction passed over his face, and in another moment he
lay on the ground in a violent fit. Mrs. Holl was a strong woman, and
accustomed to hard work, but it needed all her strength to hold the
old man during the first paroxysm of the attack. She was unwilling
to call for assistance, as she wished to hide what had happened from
the neighbours until, at any rate, she knew what the father might
determine upon doing. When she saw that the paroxysm was over, the
kind hearted woman, wishing to spare him the sight of his daughter's
empty room, took the still insensible man up in her strong arms and
carried him down to the parlour. Presently he opened his eyes, then
putting his hand over his face, remained immovable.
“Please put up the shutters, and close the shop,” he said at length.
Mrs. Holl hesitated.
“I wouldn't do that, Mr. Walker, not if I were you; it would tell
all the neighbours something wrong had taken place. If you bear up,
and give out she's gone away on a visit, no one will be any the
wiser, when she comes back, which she's sure to do sooner or later;
and you may be sure I would bite my tongue out before I would speak
a word. You must not be hard on her, Mr. Walker. Poor young thing,
she has had no mother to advise her right, and young girls, if they
ain't looked after, are as certain to go wrong as a horse is to go to
water. You won't be hard on her now, Mr. Walker; you'll forgive her
when she comes back?” Mrs. Holl said pleadingly.
“She will never come back,” the old man said hoarsely, “never. He has
married some one else, and she could not bear the disgrace. She is
dead now.”
Mrs. Holl sat down in sudden horror. She had not for a moment
suspected this. She had only thought that Carry had eloped with some
one, and that the letter was to tell her father of it and to beg for
forgiveness. This was too dreadful, and as Mrs. Holl thought of the
girl she had known so long and seen so lately, now lying dead, or
perhaps being swept along by the cold river, she put her apron over
her head and cried unrestrainedly. Stephen Walker shed no tears. He
sat immovable, crushed and hopeless. When Mrs. Holl recovered, she
went outside and put up the shutters, and then closing the door, went
back into the parlour.
“Don't take on so, there's a dearie; let me pour you out a little
tea. You must not give way. If it is true, poor child, she's happy
now. Whatever has happened, she was as good a girl as ever lived, and
if she has sinned, she has suffered.” The old man did not seem to
hear that he was spoken to; and Mrs. Holl, feeling powerless before
this great grief, prepared to leave him to himself. First, however,
she reached down a Bible from the shelf, and placed it before him.
Then she said, “I will come in again this afternoon and see if I can
do anything for you. Keep your heart up, there's a dearie; do try
and think she was always a good girl, and that she is happy now, and
please try and read the good book; I've heard them say in church that
it binds up the bleeding heart.”
As Mrs. Holl turned to leave, Mr. Walker roused himself a little,
“Thank you,” he said, faintly; “Thank you, you are very good; will
you send the Policeman, the one I have met at your house, here? I
want him to search—,” and here he stopped. But Mrs. Holl understood
him; he wanted him to search for the body, and with a nod of assent,
for she could not speak, she turned and left him to his great sorrow.
Mrs. Holl hurried home, and then sitting down before the fire, and
covering her head again with her apron, she gave way to a great fit
of crying, to the astonishment and alarm of the cripple lad who was
the only inmate of the house.
“What is the matter, mother! what is the matter? Is anything wrong
with father or the children?”
Mrs. Holl shook her head, but continued to cry, silently rocking
herself backwards and forwards in her chair.
The cripple hastily wheeled his box to her side. “What is it, mother?
you frighten me.”
“Oh James!” she sobbed, finding words at last; “Carry Walker, poor
girl!”
“Yes mother, yes; what of her?” the cripple panted out.
“She has been deceived, my boy, by some villain, and has drowned
herself.”
The cripple gave a cry as of sharp pain. His mother looked round, and
read his secret in his face.
“Oh, my poor boy, my poor boy!” she cried, kneeling by his box, and
putting her arm round him. “To think of this. But it could not have
been, James; she never could have been for you. Don't take on, my
poor lad.”
“Oh mother, I never thought it!” he cried; “I never thought it;
but I loved her so, loved her with all my life, and to think—oh
Carry, Carry!” he broke out wildly; “oh that I who loved you so,
was helpless to protect you! oh that I must sit here and be able to
do nothing to avenge you—to think that you, so good, so kind, so
gentle, are gone—oh mother, mother! I shall go mad!”
In vain Mrs. Holl endeavoured to calm the lad; his wild excitement,
his grief, and his sense of helplessness, turned his brain; hour
after hour he raved, and before night was in a state of raging fever.
Mrs. Holl sent a neighbour off for a doctor, who ordered his hair to
be cut off, and ice to be placed on his temples, but for the next few
days his life was despaired of, and John was obliged to stay at home
to assist Sarah with the delirious lad, and enable her to slip away
for half an hour three times a day to the broken-hearted old man in
New Street.