THE DISAPPEARANCE OF ABEL DEATH.
She spoke in a hoarse voice, and very slowly, a scraping, grating
cough accompanying her words. "Mr. Samuel Boyd, sir, of Catchpole
Square," might, according to her utterance, have lain in a
charnel-house among the bones of the dead when she fished him up for
the information of Inspector Robson. Such a rasping cough, forcing
what little blood she had in her poor body up into her pallid face,
where it stood out in blotches of dull, unhealthy red! Such a wearing,
tearing cough, as though some savage, malignant beast, lurking in her
chest, was clawing at it in sheer devilry, and scraping it clean to
the bone! But she did not seem to mind it, nor, by her manner, did she
invite pity for it. The cough was an old companion, "and goes on so,"
she said to a juvenile friend, "when it takes me unawares, that it
almost twists my head off." This was not said in a tone of
complaining; it was merely a plain statement of fact.
The name of Samuel Boyd had scarcely passed the girl's lips, when
Inspector Robson darted forward to catch the woman, who, but for his
timely help, would have fallen to the ground. Assisted by Dick he bore
her to a bench, and there they succeeded in restoring her to
consciousness.
The attitude of the child was remarkable for its composure, which
sprang from no lack of feeling, but partly from familiarity with
suffering, and partly from a pitiful strength of character which
circumstances had brought too early into play. Too early, indeed, for
she was but twelve years of age, and had about her few of the graces
which speak of a happy child-life. How different is the springtime of
such a child from that of one brought up in a home of comparative
comfort, where the pinching and grinding for the barest necessaries of
life are happily unfelt! What pregnant lessons are to be learned from
a child so forlorn--say, for instance, the lesson of gratitude for the
better fortune and the pleasant hours of which we take no account!
But Gracie Death did not murmur or repine. She simply suffered, and
suffered in dull patience. It was her lot, and she bore it.
The introduction of the name of Samuel Boyd of Catchpole Square
brought a startled look into Dick's eyes, and he glanced at Inspector
Robson to see if it made any impression upon him. The Inspector gave
no indication of this, but devoted his whole attention to the woman,
who, the moment she revived, was in full possession of her senses.
"My husband!" she moaned. "My husband!"
"Has he run away from you?" asked the Inspector.
"No, sir, no," replied Mrs. Death. "He was too fond of us for that.
The best husband, the best father! If you have any mercy in you, find
him for me! What shall I do without him? What will the children do
without him?"
"We shall starve," said Gracie, answering the question, coldly and
impassively.
Inspector Robson coughed behind his hand, and his cough awoke the
demon in Gracie's chest to emulation so strong that it straightway set
to work, and the spectators had a practical illustration of her
statement that it was "enough to twist her head off."
"The child has a bad cough," said Inspector Robson, with a look of
pity; "she oughtn't to be out on such a night."
"I _would_ come with mother," said Gracie. "It ain't her fault, it's
mine."
The Inspector coughed again, and Gracie's demon followed suit.
"Did your husband drink?" asked the Inspector.
"No, sir, no," said the woman, reproachfully. "How can you ask it?
Gracie will tell you. Did father drink, Gracie?"
"Yes," she answered. "Tea. Very weak. I like it strong," and added,
"when I can get it."
"I wish I had a cup to give you," said Inspector Robson.
"So do I," said Gracie, "and a cup for mother."
"If there's anything you wish to tell me," said the Inspector,
addressing the woman, "I will see what can be done. Take your time,
and don't hurry. He was employed by Mr. Samuel Boyd, you say."
"Yes, sir, of Catchpole Square. He was Mr. Boyd's clerk, and a hard
time he had of it. We did the best we could upon his miserable salary,
but what with one thing and another we were worried out of our lives."
"Did I worry you, mother?" asked Gracie. "I'd stop coughing if I
could, but I can't. If it didn't worry mother, gentlemen, I wouldn't
mind. It ketches me that tight that I can't hold it if I try ever so.
I _do_ try, mother!"
"You do, my dear. A little while ago"--to the Inspector again--"we
borrowed three pounds of a money-lender and signed a paper, and though
we've paid it twice over he makes out that we owe him more than we did
at the beginning. Our bits of furniture aren't worth much, but it's
all we have, and every time he comes he threatens to sell us up."
"I wish he'd sell my cough up," said Gracie, with a queer little
laugh, "I'd let it go cheap. It wouldn't fetch much, I reckon, but he
can have it and welcome, because it worries mother."
"That's the way she talks of it, sir. She never thinks of herself."
"Oh, don't I, though? You mustn't believe everything mother says,
gentlemen."
"Let me go on, dear, and don't interrupt, or you'll make the gentlemen
angry."
"I'd be sorry to do that. You _will_ help mother won't you, please!"
"We'll try," replied Inspector Robson, kindly and patiently.
"Then I won't say another word till she's done," said Gracie.
"Last Friday night he came home in a terrible state," continued the
woman, fondling Gracie's cheek with her trembling hand. "He hoped to
get the loan of a few pounds from Mr. Boyd, so that we could pay the
money-lender off, and buy a chest protector for Gracie, and a little
warm clothing for the other children."
It was as much as Gracie could do to refrain from protesting that she
didn't want a chest protector, or any nonsense of that sort, but when
she passed her word she was not in the habit of breaking it, so she
contented herself with shutting her thin white lips tight, and looking
defiantly at the mist that filled the room. Which revenged itself by
tickling her throat to such a degree that she almost choked.
"He went out in the morning full of hope," said Mrs. Death, when the
fit of coughing was over, "and came home full of despair. Instead of
getting the loan which was to set us free and give the children a
chance, he had been discharged. Discharged, gentlemen, discharged, at
a moment's notice! It came upon me like a thunder-clap, and when I saw
my husband sitting at the table with his face hidden in his hands, I
wondered what we were sent into the world for. Look at my little
Gracie here, gentlemen. She doesn't weigh half her proper weight, and
she hasn't an ounce of flesh on her bones. She's more like a skeleton
than anything else, and so are we all. Look at her, and look at me,
and think of our little children at home almost at the point of death,
and you'll understand why my poor dear husband was filled with
despair. Oh, it's bitter cruel, bitter, bitter cruel! One tries, and
tries, and tries, and never a spark of light to comfort us. Nothing
but misery, nothing but misery, nothing but misery!"
It was terrible to hear the repetition of her words, terrible to
witness her agony and her just rebellion against her cruel fate.
Gracie did not speak, but slid her little hand, cold as ice, into the
hand of her mother, who clasped it convulsively. Quietly and
impassively the child watched the faces of the listeners to note the
effect the appeal had upon them.
"Would it be a breach of duty to introduce a mug of hot tea into a
police station?" asked Dick of the Inspector.
"No, it would not," said Inspector Robson. "There's a can in the
cupboard there. Here's a shilling. Get it filled."
"I must stop and hear the end of this story," said Dick. "I've a
reason for it. The constable can go, can't he?"
Inspector Robson nodded, and the tin can and the shilling being given
to the constable, he departed on the errand.
By this time the woman had sufficiently recovered to proceed.
"There my poor husband sat, the picture of misery, and never said a
word, and I hadn't a word of comfort to give him. To tell him to bear
up--what would have been the use of that? I put before him what little
food there was in the cupboard, but he pushed it away and wouldn't
touch it. All at once he started up and said, 'I'm going out.' 'Where
to?' I asked, and I put my hand on his arm to keep him at home, for
his face was dreadful to see, and I was afraid of--I don't know what.
He guessed what was in my mind. 'No,' he said, 'don't think that of
me. You've got enough trouble to bear as it is; I won't bring more on
you. I'll fight on to the bitter end.' You know what was in my mind, I
dare say."
"Yes, I know."
The woman resumed. "'Where are you going?' I asked him again. 'To
Catchpole Square,' he answered. 'I'll make another appeal to Mr.
Boyd.' I didn't think there was any hope for us, but I knew it would
dishearten him if I said as much, and I let him go. As near as I can
remember it was half past nine, and I expected him back before eleven,
but at eleven there was no sign of him. I did not dare to leave the
house, for the children hadn't got to sleep yet, and if he returned
while I was away it would put everything in confusion. I waited and
waited till I could bear it no longer, and then I went out to look for
him, thinking that perhaps Mr. Boyd had relented, and had given my
husband work to do which kept him in the office all night. It was past
two when I reached Catchpole Square, and looked up at the windows.
There's never any life to be seen there, and I didn't see any then.
There was a bell-pull at the door that wouldn't ring, so I knocked and
knocked and kept on knocking without any one coming. I hung about the
Square for an hour and more, and knocked again and again as loud as I
could, and at last I came away and ran home, hoping to see my husband
there. Gracie was awake, and said nobody had come while I was away.
Can you understand my feelings, sir?"
"I can," replied Inspector Robson, as the constable entered the office
with an empty cup and the can of hot tea. "Take a drink of this before
you go on. It'll warm you up." He filled the cup with the steaming
liquid and gave it to her.
Gracie's eyes glittered, but she did not move, and when her mother
offered her the mug she said, "No, mother. After you's manners," in
quite an elegant way, as though their mission to the police station
was to take afternoon tea with the Inspector. Mrs. Death, too well
acquainted with her child's character to attempt any persuasion,
therefore drank first, deep sighs of satisfaction betokening her
gratitude. Refilling the cup Inspector Robson handed it to Gracie,
who, before she put it to her lips, said, in her best society manner,
"To you and yours, sir, and gentlemen all, and may none of you ever
feel the want of it. The Lord make us truly thankful! Hallelujah!"
A form of grace which, but for the pathetic side of the picture, might
have caused some amusement to those who heard it.
Nothing of Gracie's face could be seen except her coal black eyes
glittering like dusky stars above the white rim of the mug as she
tilted it, and though the tea scalded her throat she made no pause
till the last drop was finished. Then she sidled up to her mother and
stood quietly there, her child-soul filled with thankfulness which was
not expressed in her thin, sallow face.
"Saturday passed, sir," said the woman, pressing Gracie to her side
and resuming her story, "and he didn't come home, and nobody could
tell me anything about him. It was the same all day Sunday and all
yesterday; I was never off my feet. Half-a-dozen times every day have
I been to Catchpole Square, knocking at the door without being able to
make anybody hear. What am I to do, what _am_ I to do? If somebody
don't help me, I shall go mad!"
"The only thing I can suggest just now," said Inspector Robson, "is
that your husband's disappearance should be made public. Come to the
magistrate's court to-morrow morning at twelve or one o'clock. I will
be there, and will see that you get a hearing. Some of the reporters
will take notice of it, and it will get into the papers. It's the best
advice I can give you."
"I'll follow it, sir," said the woman, but it was evident that she had
given up hope. "Thank you kindly for listening to me so patiently.
Come, Gracie, we'll go home. Will it be sure to get into the papers,
sir, if I come to the magistrate's court?"
Inspector Robson looked at Dick, who nodded. "I think I can promise
that. Now get home as quickly as possible, and put your little girl to
bed. Her cough is dreadful."
In a voice as hoarse as any raven's, and quite composedly, as if the
Inspector were the object of compassion, Grace said, "Don't let it
worry you, please. _I_ don't mind it, not a bit." She drew her breath
hard as she added without any show of feeling, "You _will_ find
father, won't you? Mother'll never forget you for it. You've been ever
so good to us. I never tasted such tea, and, oh my! wasn't it hot
neither? Come along, mother.
"You had better leave your address," said Dick, who had listened to
the woman's story with absorbed attention.
"We live at Draper's Mews, number 7, second floor back." While Dick
was writing it down Inspector Robson slipped a sixpence into Gracie's
hand. Then, patting her shoulder, he gave her an encouraging smile,
which she acknowledged, as she did the sixpence, though her fingers
closed quickly and tightly over the coin, with the same gravity as
distinguished all her movements. Emerging into the street she began to
cough with great violence, and gasped and fought with her little
fists, as though the demon in her chest, now that he had got her
outside, was bent upon tearing her to pieces. The men in the police
station listened compassionately until the child and her cough were
lost in the fog through which she and her mother were slowly creeping.