THE FLITTING
Disappointed, Mrs. Chester had stepped back into her little hall, and
the postman with the detective followed. Then they went further still
and settled themselves in the parlor, as if come for a prolonged stay.
To the detective's inquiry whether the missing Dorothy had recently met
any strangers, made acquaintances who might be able to furnish some clew
to her present whereabouts--as friends of longer standing had not been
able--the mother answered: "No. She was always at home or in the
immediate neighborhood."
But conquering her timidity, the country-woman now interrupted:
"Wait a minute. Mabel was here yesterday, wasn't she?"
"Why, yes. She came home with my little girl from Sunday school and
spent part of the day. Why she did not stay longer I don't know. What
of it?" returned mother Martha, drearily.
"She didn't stay longer because she was sent home. I was there and I
noticed what a good-natured child she was not to get mad about it. She
told her mother that Dorothy had a gentleman caller and had to see him
on business. We both laughed over it, 'cause 'twas so grown-up an'
old-fashioned like. An', sister, she said as how city children didn't
scarce have any childhood, they begun to be beauin' each other round so
early. We _laughed_, but still, I thought 'twas a pity, for I like
little girls to stay such, long as they can."
"Nonsense! My Dorothy is--was the simplest child in the world. A
gentleman caller--the idea is ridiculous!" cried Mrs. Chester,
indignantly, and poor Mrs. Jones felt herself snubbed and wished that
she had held her tongue.
Not so the detective, who quietly asked:
"Who is this Mabel, and where can she be found?"
"She's my niece an' likely she'll be found in bed, by now. No matter
about that, though. If you'd like to see her I'll fetch her to once,"
answered Mrs. Jones, promptly rising.
"Do so, please," said the officer, and the woman hurried away.
The postman friend employed the interval of her absence in telling the
plans formed by "the boys" for the benefit of their ailing comrade.
"You see, Mrs. Chester, John's about the best liked man on the force and
we want he should be the best cared for. So, to-night, after I saw you I
ran over to the hospital myself and saw one the doctors--the one that
has most to say about John. He wants to get him into the country right
away. Then back I hurried and got leave of absence, from Wednesday night
till next Monday morning, and I'm going with you, to help you on the
trip and see him settled all straight. No--Don't say a word yet! It'll
be all right. It's settled. You can get ready."
"Oh! but I can't, I can't!" protested Martha, deeply touched by this
kindness, yet feeling as if she were being fairly hurled out of her old
life into the new one. Besides, if this mystery of Dorothy's
disappearance were not cleared she could never leave the city, never!
and so she stoutly declared.
"But--it's a case of adopted daughter _versus_ a husband's life, seems
to me," put in the detective quietly. "Moreover, I'm told by Lathrop,
here, that Chester isn't to be worried about anything. _Anything._ His
chance of recovery depends on it."
The tortured housemistress was vastly relieved to see not only Mabel,
but the entire household of Bruce-and-Jones, coming swiftly toward the
house and presently entering at the doorway, left open because of the
great heat. Both the plumber and his wife were panting from their
exertions; Mr. Jones was as excited as if he were going to a circus; his
wife uncommonly proud of her part in the occasion; and the terrified
Mabel weeping loudly:
"I don't know a thing! I don't--I don't!"
"Why, Miss Bruce, what a surprising statement from such a bright-looking
young lady as you!" exclaimed the detective, suavely, and the girl
stopped sobbing long enough to see that this was no formidable
policeman in blue-and-brass but a very simple gentleman, in a business
suit rather the worse for wear. In another moment he had gallantly
placed this possibly important witness in the coziest corner of the
sofa, and had placed himself beside her, as if to protect her from the
inquisitiveness of her friends.
Then in a tone so low that it effectually prevented their words being
overheard, he deftly drew from the now reassured Mabel a much better
description of Dorothy's caller than fear would have extorted. Indeed,
she became inclined to enlarge upon facts, as she saw her statements
recorded in a small notebook. But this finally held no more than the
brief entry:
"Tall. Light hair. Left eye squints. Eyebrows meet. Glib. Name not
given."
Then the notebook was closed and pocketed, the cross-examination was
over, and all were free to take a part in a discussion--which they did
so volubly, that the detective smiled and called a halt. Moreover, his
words had the weight of one who knew, as he said:
"We've gone into this business very promptly, and it must, for the
present, be kept out of the newspapers, else the guilty party who is
detaining Dorothy--if there is such a party--will be warned and may
escape. It is but twelve hours since the child disappeared. At the end
of another twenty-four will be time enough to publish. Meanwhile, Madam,
rest assured that we shall keep steadily at work, trying to locate your
missing daughter and--I wish you all good-evening."
The gentleman's departure was a relief. It seemed to lessen the horror
of Dorothy's absence, though her mother was glad to know that the
efforts of the police were being made to trace her. But--Why, the
darling might come walking in, at any moment, and how distressed she'd
be to find herself an object of such unpleasant importance!
"Now, Mrs. Chester," said Mr. Lathrop, "we 'boys' don't want you to
worry one minute about this moving business. We've agreed to send a
professional packer and his men here, the first thing to-morrow morning.
You needn't touch one thing. It's better that you should not, for if
all is left to this man he is responsible for everything. You just
rest, visit John and get him braced up for his journey, and take it
easy. If little Dorothy is back before Thursday morning, when we start,
all right. She shall go with us and be the life of the party. If she
isn't--why, as soon as she does come, some way will be found, somebody,
to bring her safely to you."
"Oh, Mr. Lathrop! You and the 'boys' are goodness itself, but I can't--I
cannot go away in such uncertainty. If Dorothy isn't found--John will be
the first one to say that we must wait until she is."
This was a natural attitude of mind, and Mr. Lathrop, as well as all the
other friends of the Chesters, anticipated it. But by slow degrees, the
arguments of her pastor, the hospital doctors, and the honest neighbors
who sympathized with the tortured mother, finally succeeded in bringing
her to view the matter as they did.
"Not an effort shall be relaxed, any more than if you were on the spot
to direct us. We all feel as if we, too, had lost a beloved child and
none of us will rest until this mystery is cleared. Trust the advice of
all your best-wishers, Mrs. Chester, and take this fine chance offered
your lame husband to make the long journey under the care of his postman
friend," urged the minister, and his final argument procured her
consent.
"Oh! these last two days! Shall I ever forget them!" cried Mrs. Chester,
when Wednesday evening had arrived and she sat in her dismantled home
upon one of her incoming tenant's chairs. "To think that on Monday
morning, when you came, Mrs. Jones, I hadn't touched a single thing to
pack! and now--there isn't one left. All in boxes an' crates, over there
to the station; me all alone; no Dorothy C.; no John--I'm just
heart-broke!"
Mrs. Jones's patience was tried. For these two busy days she and her
"Bill" had stayed at No. 77, helping where help was needed, and keeping
a careful eye to the "professional" packing which they more than half
distrusted. The frail country-woman had just gone through the same sort
of business, almost single-handed, and she felt that her new friend
failed to realize the blessings of her lot and that a reproof was in
order.
"Well, Mis' Chester, you may be. I can't tell. I never had chick nor
child to make me sad or glad, ary one. But if I'd adopted one, right out
of the streets as you did, an' she'd seen fit to run away an' turn her
back on a good home, after enjoyin' it so long, an' I'd still got my
_man_ left, an' folks had been that generous to me, payin' for
everything--Laws! I sh'd think I had some mercies left. _Some._"
Mother Martha rose. She was not offended, but she was deeply hurt and
she was glad the time had come to say good-bye. With a weary smile she
held out her hand, saying:
"Well, that's right, too, but you don't understand. Nobody can who
hasn't lived with _Dorothy_. There was never a child like her. Never.
I'll be going. I said good-bye to everybody--everything, this side the
city, and I've fixed it to sleep at a boarding house right across the
street from the Hospital. We've got to make an early start and I'll be
close on hand. If she--O my darling!--Good-bye. I--I hope you'll be as
happy here as I was before all this trouble came upon me. No. I don't
want company. I want to be alone. It's the only way I can bear it
and--good-bye, old home! Good-bye--good-bye!"
The door opened and the mistress of the prettiest house on Brown Street
vanished into the darkness of a somber, sultry night; and what her
feelings were only those who have thus parted with a beloved home can
understand; and what the hours of sleeplessness which followed only she
herself knew.
The morning found her sunshiny and bright, as if her whole heart were in
this sudden flitting, and waiting in the carriage at the hospital door,
while an orderly and Mr. Lathrop, superintended by a nurse and doctor,
helped John Chester to make his first short journey upon crutches.
The excitement of the event had sent a flush to his cheeks and a
brightness to his eyes which made him look so like his old self that his
wife rejoiced that, after all, there had been no delay in their removal.
Yet, once in the carriage, with his useless legs stretched out before
him, he suddenly demanded:
"Why, where's my girl? Where's Dorothy C.?"
He looked toward his wife, but it was Mr. Lathrop who answered:
"Oh! she's coming later. We--we couldn't bother with a child, this
trip."
"Couldn't 'bother' with my Dorothy! Why, friend, you're the best I have,
but you don't know Dorothy. Humph! She's more brains in her curly head
than anybody in this party has in theirs. Beg pardon, all, but--but you
see I'm rather daft on Dorothy. I simply cannot go without her. What's
more, I shan't even try."
This was worse than they had expected. Martha had felt that her husband
should no longer be deceived as to the state of things; even in his
weakened condition she believed that his good sense would support him
under their dreadful trial, and that he would suffer less if the news
were gently broken to him here than if he were left to learn it later,
in some ruder way. But her judgment had been overruled even as now his
decision was; for without an instant's delay Mr. Lathrop ordered the
carriage to drive on and that memorable journey had begun.
As he was lifted out of the vehicle at the station entrance, he turned
upon his wife and for the first time in her memory of him spoke harshly
to her:
"Martha, you're deceiving me. Taking advantage of my helplessness.
You've always been jealous of my love for little Dorothy, and now, I
suppose, just because I can't work to support her you've got rid of her.
Well, I shall have her back. I may be a cripple, but my brain isn't
lame--it's only my legs--and I'll find some way to take care of her. She
shall come back. Trust me. Now, go ahead!"
He submitted to the porter and his friend Lathrop, and, the train just
rolling in, he was carried through the gates and placed aboard it in the
parlor car where seats had been procured. He had never before traveled
in such luxury, but instead of the gay abandon with which he would once
have accepted and enjoyed it, he seemed now not to notice anything
about him. Except that, just as the train was moving out, he caught at a
newsboy hurrying from it, seized a paper, tossed a nickel, and spread
the sheet open on his knee.
Alas! for all the over-wise precautions of his friends! The first words
his eyes rested upon were the scare-head capitals of this sentence:
THE FATE OF POSTMAN JOHN CHESTER'S DAUGHTER DOROTHY STILL
UNKNOWN--KIDNAPPING AND MURDER THE PROBABLE SOLUTION OF THE
MYSTERY.
He stared at the letters as if they had no significance. Then he read
them singly, in pairs, in dozens--trying to make his shocked brain
comprehend their meaning. The utmost he could do was to see them as
letters of fire, printed on the air before him, and on the darkness of
the tunnel they now entered. A darkness so suggestive of the misery that
had shrouded a once happy household that poor Martha, burying her face
in her hands, could only sob aloud.
But from the stricken "father John" came neither sob nor groan, for
there was still upon him the numbness of the shock he had received; and
it was in that same silence that he made the long journey, with its
several changes, and came at last to the farmhouse on the hilltop, which
was to have been made glad by a child's presence and was now so
desolate.