LETTERS FROM FLORENCE.
Aunt Rob, a healthy, homely woman of forty-five, was standing at the
door of her house, looking up and down the street for the form of one
she loved, looking up to heaven for a message to ease her bruised
heart. A terrible blow had fallen upon her home, and the grief, the
fear, the tortured love in her eyes, were pitiable to see. Before Dick
was near enough to observe these signs of distress she had caught
sight of him and was running towards him, the tears streaming down her
cheeks.
"Oh, Dick, Dick!" she cried. "You have come to tell us about Florence!
Where is she? What message has she sent? Is she safe, is she well? Why
don't you speak? Can't you see that I'm heartbroken, heartbroken? For
God's sake, speak!"
In truth he could not. The overwhelming terror and surprise that fell
upon him deprived him for a time of the power of speech; he could do
nothing but stare at her in dismay and alarm. When speech was restored
to him he said, in a voice as agitated as her own.
"I don't know what you mean, Aunt Rob. I have brought no message from
Florence. I came to see her." Involuntarily his hand wandered to his
breast, where Florence's handkerchief lay.
"You are deceiving me," she said, her limbs trembling, her face
convulsed; "you are punishing me because I said it was time you looked
after yourself! Perhaps I was as unhappy as you were when you left the
house. If you had been a little more patient with me you would never
have gone away." She turned from him, her body shaking with grief.
"Dear Aunt Rob," he said, passing his arm around her, "indeed, indeed
there is no thought in my mind that is not charged with love for you
and Uncle Rob and Florence. I would lay down my life for you. I see
that something terrible has occurred. What is it--where is Florence?
But, no, don't answer me in the street. Come inside--come, come!"
His heart beat fast and loud as he led the sobbing woman into the
house.
"Don't shut the door, Dick," she sobbed. "It shall never be said that
I shut my door against my child. Day and night it shall be open to her
if she comes back as she went away, a good and innocent girl. But if
she comes back with the loss of her good name---- Oh, my God! What am
I saying--what am I saying?"
"Ah," said Dick, in a tone of stern reproof, "what are you saying,
indeed, Aunt Rob, when you couple Florence's name with thoughts like
those? You, her mother, who have had daily proofs of her purity and
goodness! My life upon her innocence--my life, my life! Though all the
world were against her I would stand by her side, and strike down
those who dared defame her. For shame, Aunt Rob, for shame!"
"Oh, Dick, you comfort me--you comfort me!" She took his hand, and
kissed it, and he bent forward and kissed her lips. "I would not have
said it, but I am torn this way and that with doubt and despair. It's
the suspense, Dick, the suspense! Oh, Florence, Florence, the best,
the sweetest, the dearest! Where are you, my dear, where are you?"
"Attend to me, Aunt Rob," said Dick, holding himself in control in
order that he might the better control her. "You must not go on like
this--you must calm yourself--for Florence's sake, for your own and
Uncle Rob's. If I am to be of any assistance--and I am here for that
purpose, heart and hand--I must know what has happened. Try and be
calm and strong, as you have always been, and we shall be able to work
our way through this trouble--yes, we shall. That's right--dry your
eyes"----
"I have been unkind to you, Dick," she said, with an imploring look at
him.
"You have never been unkind--to me or to anyone. It isn't in your
nature. Whatever happens to me I've brought upon myself and I'm going
to reform and become a pattern to all young fellows who want to be
Good (with a capital G, please, Aunt Rob) and don't exactly know how
to set about it."
"You'd put heart in a stone, Dick," said Aunt Rob, checking her sobs.
"Let me be a minute, and I shall be all right."
The room in which they were conversing looked out upon the street, and
turning his back upon his aunt while she was battling with her grief,
he peered this way and that, as she had done, and listened for the
sound of a familiar footstep in the passage. He raised up a picture of
Florence running suddenly in, laughing, with her hair tumbling over
her shoulders, as he had often seen it, and throwing her arms round
her mother's neck, crying, "Why, what is all this fuss about? Can't a
girl go out for a walk without turning the house upside down? Oh, you
foolish people!" And then throwing her arms round _his_ neck in her
sisterly way, and asking, in pretended anger, what he meant by looking
as serious as if the world was coming to an end? He could almost hear
her voice. The room was filled with little mementoes of her, dumb
memorials with a living spirit in them. There was a framed picture of
her on the wall, a lovely face, bright and open, brown eyes in which
dwelt the spirit of truth, dark brown hair with a wilful tendency to
tumble down and kiss the fair neck--(the most distracting, teasing,
bewitching hair; in short, Florence's hair)--smiling mouth in which
there was innocent gaiety, but no sign of weakness; the typical face
of a young girl of an ingenuous, trustful nature. A close observer
would have detected in it an underlying earnestness, indicating
tenacity and firmness of purpose where those qualities were required,
and would have judged her one who would go straight to her duty and
brave the consequences, whatever they might be. Gazing at that
embodiment of happy, healthy springtime Dick said inly, "Florence do
anything that is not sweet, and pure, and womanly! I would not believe
it if an angel from heaven came down and told me!"
Aunt Rob turned to him, calmer and more composed. "Tears have done me
good, Dick," she said. "It would ease a man's heart if he could cry as
we can."
"We feel as much, Aunt Rob," he replied.
"I don't doubt it, Dick. Uncle Rob went away with dry eyes in a state
of distraction; he is flying everywhere in search of Florence."
"She has gone?" His voice was strange in his ears. Prepared as he was
for the news it came as a shock upon him.
"She has gone," said Aunt Rob, covering her face with her hands.
"Don't give way again, aunt. Pull yourself together, and tell me all."
"I will, Dick, as much as I know. You haven't been in the house for a
fortnight, or you would have noticed that Florence was changed. She
seldom smiled, she neither played nor sang, her step had lost its
lightness. She wouldn't let me do anything for her, and I settled it
in my mind that it was a lover's quarrel. I _must_ speak about Mr.
Reginald, Dick."
"Yes, aunt, go on."
"We had seen for some time that they were fond of each other. There
was no regular engagement; it hadn't come to that, but we were young
ourselves once, and we knew the ways of young people. So we made Mr.
Reginald welcome, and we saw how happy Florence was to have him with
us. It was on the tip of my tongue more than once to ask him to tell
us more about himself than we knew, but Uncle Rob stopped me. 'All in
good time,' he said, 'a few months, or even a year or two, won't make
much difference. I'm not in a hurry to get rid of Florence.' More was
I, but I was beginning to wish that things were settled, whether it
was to be a long engagement or a short one. There was a change in Mr.
Reginald, too, I couldn't tell in what way, but there it was in his
face. He came and dined with us Sunday week, and since then I haven't
set eyes on him. You know what last night was--the most dreadful fog
we have had for years. It was at about five o'clock that I saw
Florence with her hat and mantle on. 'Why, child,' I said to her, 'you
are never going out in this thick fog!' 'Yes, I am, mother,' she
answered. 'Don't fear that I shall be lost; I'll soon be back.' She
was as good as her word, for she was home again before Uncle Rob went
to the Station, and the three of us had tea together. She helped him
on with his coat, and I recollected afterwards how she kissed and
clung to him when he wished her good night. It was in her mind then to
run away. At eight o'clock there was a knock at the street door, and
Florence ran out to answer it. She often did so when she expected a
letter from Mr. Reginald. She kept in the passage a little while and I
heard the rustling of paper, but she had nothing in her hand when she
returned to the room. Her face was very white, and she said she had a
headache, and would go to bed early. I asked her if she had received a
letter, and she answered, yes, she had, and said, 'Don't ask me any
questions about it, please, mother.' 'Do answer me only one,' I
begged. 'Have you and Mr. Reginald quarrelled?' 'Oh, no,' she
answered, and I knew she was speaking the truth, or she wouldn't have
answered at all. She was very gentle and quiet, and I thought to
myself, 'Oh, my dear, my dear, why don't you confide in your mother
who loves the ground you tread on?' But _you_ know what Florence is,
Dick. She takes after me in a good many ways. Nothing will make me
speak if I make up my mind not to, and it's the same with her. See,
now, how we put our own faults into our children. So we sat at the
fireside, and I felt as if there was a wall between us. She had some
sewing in her lap, but not a stitch did she do. There she sat, staring
into the fire. Ah, I thought, if I could see what you see I should
know! Suddenly she knelt down and laid her head in my lap, and it was
as much as I could do to keep back my tears. I could have cried
easily, but I knew that my dear was in trouble, and that my crying
would make it worse. Presently she raised her head and said, 'Mother,
you love father very much.' 'With all my heart, darling,' I answered.
'And you have always loved him,' she said again, 'and would have
endured anything for him?' My heart fell as I said that I had always
loved him, and would do anything in the world for him. She was quiet a
few minutes, and then she said, 'You mustn't think I have done
anything wrong, mother.' 'I don't, my dear child, I don't,' I said.
'It is only,' she said, 'that sometimes we are pulling two ways at
once.' Then she rose, and sitting by my side, laid her head upon my
breast. I was nursing my baby again, and would you believe it? I sang
an old nursery song and kissed and kissed her, and smoothed her
beautiful hair, and we sat so for quite half an hour almost in
silence. It was striking nine when she said she would go to bed, and
as I didn't feel inclined to sit up alone I went to bed, too. We have
been to bed much earlier, Dick, since you went away. Soon after nine
all the lights were out and the house was quiet. In the middle of the
night I woke and went to her room, and called softly, 'Florence!
Florence!' She didn't answer me, and I was glad to think she was
asleep. She always keeps her bedroom door locked, or I would have gone
in. I get up earlier than she does, and I was down before eight; and
there on the mantelshelf was an envelope addressed, 'For Mother,' in
Florence's handwriting. There was a key inside, and my heart beat so
that I thought it would jump out of my body as I flew upstairs and
opened the door with it. Florence was not in the room, and her bed had
not been slept in. But on the dressing table, was another envelope
addressed to me. I tore it open, and this is what I found inside."
She handed a sheet of notepaper to Dick, and he read:
"Darling Mother and Father,--I have gone away for a little while
because it is my duty to go. Do not be uneasy or unhappy about me. I
am quite safe, and very soon--as soon as ever I can--I will let you
know where I am, and what it is that took me away. It grieves me
sorely to give you a moment's pain, but I am doing what I believe is
right. With a heart full of love for you both, my dear, dear Mother
and Father,
"Your Ever Loving and Devoted Daughter,
"Florence."
"What do you make of it, Dick?" asked Aunt Rob, her fingers twining
convulsively.
"I make so much good out of it," he replied, handing the letter back
to her, "that I wonder at your going on in the way you've done. She
says she is quite safe, and will let you know soon what took her away.
What more do you want to convince you that before long the mystery
will be cleared up? Upon my word, I've a good mind to be downright
angry with you."
He spoke with so much confidence that she brightened up, but this
cheerful view of Florence's flight from home was not the genuine
outcome of his thoughts. Had he not disguised his feelings in his
desire to comfort Aunt Rob, he would have struck terror to her heart.
Every incident that presented itself deepened the shadows which
threatened Florence's safety and the peace and happiness of the home
of which she was the pride and joy. The latest discovery, that of her
flight, pointed almost to the certainty of her having been in
Catchpole Square last night, and to her having dropped the
handkerchief which Constable Pond had given to his wife. Thankful
indeed, was Dick that the man had been guilty of a breach of duty. Had
he delivered up the handkerchief at the Bishop Street Police Station,
with an account of how he came by it, Florence's father would have
recognised it as belonging to his daughter, and he would have had an
agonising duty before him. Perplexed and bewildered as Dick was by
these developments he succeeded in concealing his anxiety from Aunt
Rob's observation.
"Have you any idea, Dick, what she means when she speaks of her duty?"
she asked.
"None whatever," he replied. "Can you give me Mr. Reginald's address?"
"No. I never heard where he lived, and never asked him. He has written
Florence a good many letters, and now and then she has read me a bit
out of them, but she never gave me one to read outright myself. She
has left her desk behind her. Would I be justified in breaking it
open?"
"No, you would not. It would be showing a sad want of confidence in
her. At what time do you expect uncle home?"
"I can't say with certainty. He may come in at any minute, or he
mightn't come home till late. He's hunting high and low for Florence,
and there's no knowing where he may be. He's got leave for a day's
absence from the office. You're not going, Dick?" For Dick had put on
his hat, and was buttoning up his coat.
"I must. I've a lot of business to attend to, and I've an idea of a
clue which may lead to something."
"You'll be back as soon as you can, won't you? Your room is all
ready."
"I know. Uncle Rob told me. But I can't come back to-night."
"Oh, Dick, haven't you forgiven me for the hard words I said to you?
Don't harbour animosity, lad, don't! My temper got the better of
me----"
"My dear Aunt Rob," said Dick, interrupting her, "no son could love a
mother more than I love you. If I were base enough to harbour
animosity towards you or yours I shouldn't deserve to live. There's
the postman's knock!"
They both ran out for the letter. "It's from Florence--from
Florence!" cried Aunt Rob.
"My Darling Mother and Father" (Florence wrote)--"I am writing a
hurried line to relieve your anxiety, only to let you know that I am
safe and well, and that I will write again to-morrow. When you know
all I am sure you will forgive me. Never forget, dear Mother, what I
said to you last night, that I have done nothing wrong. God bless you
both. With my dearest, fondest love,
"Ever your faithful and affectionate daughter,
"Florence."
"If you see Dick, give him my love, and tell him all."
"That ought to satisfy you, Aunt Rob," said Dick. "She is safe, she is
well. My love to Uncle Rob."
He kissed her, waved his hand, and was gone.
The fog had entirely disappeared, and the contrast between the weather
of yesterday and that of to-day struck him as no less marked than the
contrast between himself of yesterday and himself of to-day. Yesterday
he was one of the idlest of young fellows, lounging about with his
hands in his pockets, with no work to do, and no prospect of any.
To-day the hours were not long enough for the work he had to perform.
As there are sluggish horses which need but the whip to make them go
like steam, so there are men who cannot work without a strong
incentive. Dick was of this order, and the incentive which had
presented itself was in its nature so stirring as to bring into play
all his mental and physical resources. Thus spurred on, you might have
searched London through without meeting his match.
The immediate object he had in view was to gain an entrance into the
house of Samuel Boyd, and this must be done to-night. Whatever
discoveries he made there, or if he made none, the ground would to
some extent be cleared. To accomplish his purpose he required a rope,
with a grapnel at the end of it, strong enough to bear a man's weight.
His funds were low. Of the sovereign Uncle Rob had given him, 3s. 6d.
had gone for a week's rent, and 2s. for food; he had 14s. 6d. left.
Knowing that there was a chance of picking up in some second-hand shop
a rope and grapnel for half the money which they would cost new, he
turned down the meanest streets, where humble dealers strove to eke
out a living. He passed a wardrobe shop in which male and female
attire of the lowest kind was exposed for sale; a rag and bone shop,
stuffed with articles fit for the dunghill, and over the door of which
an Aunt Sally in a perpetual slate of strangulation was spinning round
and round to the tune of a March wind; a fried fish shop through the
window of which he saw a frowzy, perspiring woman frying penny pieces
(heads), three halfpenny pieces (tails), and two penny pieces
(middles); more wardrobe shops, more fried fish shops, more rag and
bone shops, with black dolls spinning and strangling. In one of these
he chanced upon the very thing he needed, and after a heated
discussion with a dirty-faced old man in list slippers and a greasy
skull cap, he issued from the fetid air within to the scarcely less
fetid air without, with the rope and grapnel wrapped in the torn copy
of an evening paper.
Congratulating himself on his purchase he hurried along, and
finding himself no farther than half a mile from Draper's Mews, he
determined--having an hour or two to spare--to go to No. 7, where poor
little Gracie and her mother resided, for the purpose of ascertaining
whether anything had been discovered relating to the disappearance of
Abel Death.