THE SEARCH.
“It is nearly a week since Mr. Fleetwood was here,” said Mrs. Elder, as
she placed her workbasket on the table and drew up a chair.
Florence, who had just brought in a lighted lamp, sighed, but made no
answer to the remark.
“He seemed more than disappointed, I thought, at your persistent
refusal to make any advances toward a reconciliation with Mrs. Dainty,”
added Mrs. Elder.
“Yes: he was offended.” There was a touch of sadness in the low voice
of Florence Harper.
“No, not offended, dear,” said Mrs. Elder, quickly. “That is too strong
a word. He was disturbed.”
“He asks of me too much, Aunt Mary.” Florence spoke with some warmth.
“I am but human.”
“Perhaps he does. But the condition of things at Mrs. Dainty’s must be
his excuse. See into what a state of mind Madeline has fallen.”
“Poor child! I cannot sleep, sometimes, for thinking of her,” said
Florence.
“I can hardly wonder at Mr. Fleetwood, seeing that his heart is wrapped
up in those children. He has seen how much power for good you can
have over them, and, now that an evil hand is at work, seeking to mar
the sweet beauty of Madeline’s spirit, can you feel surprise at his
eagerness to bring her again within the sphere of your influence? I
cannot, Florence.”
“Then you think I ought to go?”
Aunt Mary was silent.
“Mrs. Dainty has not desired my return.”
“She has not communicated such a desire; but Mr. Fleetwood has over and
over again said that only weak pride keeps her from doing so. Shall not
something be conceded for the children’s sake?”
“If you think I ought to call and see Mrs. Dainty, as Mr. Fleetwood
proposes, I will go to-morrow,” said Florence.
Aunt Mary was silent.
“You will not advise me?” Florence spoke in a perplexed voice.
“If you act from my advice, you will not act freely,” said Mrs. Elder.
“The question, moreover, is one of such difficult solution, that I do
not see it clearly enough to speak with decision.”
The bell at this moment rung violently, causing both Florence and her
aunt to start and look with inquiring eyes into each other’s faces. A
few moments afterward a man’s feet were heard moving quickly along the
passage.
“Mr. Fleetwood!” ejaculated Mrs. Elder, rising as the old gentleman
entered hurriedly.
“Florence,” said Mr. Fleetwood, in an agitated manner, as he laid his
hand upon the arm of Miss Harper, “you are wanted!”
“For what? Has any thing happened to the children?”
“Yes,—something dreadful! Madeline is lost or stolen!”
“Oh, Mr. Fleetwood! Lost! Stolen! What do you mean?”
“Madeline has been gone from the house for several hours, and we have
searched for her everywhere in vain. Two or three persons in the
neighborhood are positive that they saw her, or a child answering in
all things her description, in company with a woman dressed in black.
That infamous Mrs. Jeckyl, without doubt!”
“Dreadful! Dreadful!” exclaimed Florence, clasping her hands and
turning very pale.
“Ah, Florence! Florence!” said Mr. Fleetwood, “if you had only thrown
the wings of your love around her, this would not have been!”
Florence covered her face with her hands, and for some moments wept
bitterly.
“I have only wished to do right,” she said, at length, with forced
composure. “More has been required of me than I had strength to
perform. But speak now, Mr. Fleetwood: I am ready to move at your
bidding.”
“Poor Agnes is almost beside herself. A little while ago she said, in
her mother’s presence, ‘Oh, if Miss Harper were only here!’ And her
mother said, in reply, ‘If she had not left us, this could not have
happened.’ The way is plain for you, dear child! Come with me! Come!”
The old man’s voice was pleading and tremulous. His heart was
overburdened.
“This moment,” replied Florence, as she turned and glided from the
room. In less than a minute she re-entered the little parlor, with
bonnet and shawl, ready to accompany Mr. Fleetwood. She had no cause
to complain of her reception at Mrs. Dainty’s. Agnes, the moment she
entered, sprung forward to meet her, and, laying her face against her
bosom, sobbed violently. Mrs. Dainty arose with a slight assumption
of dignity, but gave her hand with far more warmth of manner than Mr.
Fleetwood had hoped for.
“I am glad to see you, Miss Harper,” she said,— “glad for the sake of
Agnes. Oh, we are in dreadful trouble! Poor Madeline! Uncle John has
told you all. Oh, my child! my child! Where can she be? It will kill
me!”
And Mrs. Dainty fell into a fit of hysterical sobbing.
“Have you no further intelligence of Madeline?” Mr. Fleetwood inquired
of Mr. Dainty.
“None. I have just returned from the Police-Office. Not a word of the
child, although reports have come in from all parts of the city.”
“Where did Mrs. Jeckyl live at the time she came here?” asked Florence.
None could answer the question.
“Is there no one of whom she could be inquired about?”
“Mrs. Ashton, I think, knows something in regard to her,” said Mr.
Fleetwood.
“Has any one been to see her?” inquired Florence.
“No one. We should have thought of that before,” said Mr. Dainty. “Who
knows her residence?”
Mrs. Dainty gave the required information, and a servant was despatched
immediately with a note to Mrs. Ashton. That lady could not say where
Mrs. Jeckyl lived, but thought she was at a certain boarding-house in
Twelfth Street. Thither Mr. Dainty went without delay.
“Does a Mrs. Jeckyl board here?” he inquired of the waiter who came to
the door.
“No, sir,” was answered, in a tone plainly enough conveying the
information that the woman about whom he made inquiry was known to the
servant.
“When did she leave?” he asked.
“A month ago.”
“Where can I find her?”
“Don’t know.”
“Where did she go when she left your house?”
“Don’t know, sir.”
The waiter’s manner showed some impatience, as if the very name of the
woman were an offence to him.
“I wish to see Mrs. Brainard. Is she at home?”
“Yes, sir. Walk into the parlor, and I will call her down.”
Mr. Dainty went into the parlor, and in a few moments the woman who
kept the boarding-house entered.
“You had a Mrs. Jeckyl here a few weeks ago?” said Mr. Dainty.
“I had.”
“Do you know where she is now?”
“No, sir.” Mrs. Brainard’s voice had in it something of impatience and
something of disgust.
“When did she leave your house?”
“Nearly four weeks ago.”
“Where did she go?”
“I really cannot answer the question, sir. I was so glad to get her
out of my house that I let all interest in her die the moment she was
beyond my door.”
“Do not any of your servants know where she went?”
“It is possible, sir. I will inquire of the chambermaid.”
“If you please; for I must find her, alive or dead!”
“Is there any thing wrong about her?” asked Mrs. Brainard, curiously.
“I am afraid she has stolen my child!” said Mr. Dainty, his manner
growing excited.
“Stolen your child!” Mrs. Brainard became pale and agitated, and her
eyes turned toward a little girl, not seven years old, who at the
moment entered the room. She reached out her hand, and the child drew
to her side. The moment Mrs. Brainard’s arm could be thrown around the
little one, she clasped her eagerly, as if she felt that she had just
escaped impending danger.
“If you can aid me in tracing her,” said Mr. Dainty, “you will confer
the highest benefit.”
Mrs. Brainard left the room, and returned in a little while with the
chambermaid, who thought Mrs. Jeckyl went to a house in Fifth Street
near Noble. The name of the person who kept the house she did not
remember. This was all the chambermaid could tell. The waiter was
questioned, but from him nothing was elicited.
“How did this woman conduct herself while in your house?” asked Mr.
Dainty.
“She made herself very offensive to most of my boarders, and gained
a singular influence over two of them,—ladies, who were invalids and
had been suffering for years with nervous complaints. She is a woman
of masculine intellect, sir. Few men are her equal in an argument. Her
satire is withering.”
“So I should infer from the little I saw of her. You speak of her
influence over two ladies in your family. How was this obtained?”
“In what I regard as a very disorderly way. Mrs. Jeckyl is a ‘medium,’
as it is called.”
“A mesmerist,” said Mr. Dainty.
“Or spiritualist, as some say. The thing has various names.”
“The power, if any power is possessed by these people,” said Mr.
Dainty, with strong evidence of feeling, “is demoniac.”
“Just what I have said from the beginning,” replied Mrs. Brainard.
“I have seen much evil, but no good, result from these disorderly
practices. Had I known Mrs. Jeckyl to be a ‘medium,’ she would not have
found entrance into my house. I have closed my doors against more than
one of them.”
“Then Mrs. Jeckyl mesmerized the ladies to whom you refer?”
“She had table-tippings, rappings, writings, and all sorts of
_diablerie_ going on in their rooms for nearly a week, turning the
heads of my boarders, when I closed down upon her with a strong
hand, adding a notice to vacate her apartment. She demurred, and was
insolent. But I have a will of my own, sir, and was not to be thwarted.
If she had not left at the time specified in my notice, I would have
had her trunk set out on the pavement.”
“I cannot but applaud your spirit,” said Mr. Dainty. “Desperate
diseases require desperate remedies. But time passes, and I must not
linger. What you say of the woman only adds to my anxiety and fear. I
must find her, and rescue my child, ere sleep closes an eyelid.”
“Heaven give you success!” said Mrs. Brainard.
Taking a carriage, Mr. Dainty was driven rapidly to Fifth and Noble,
where he alighted, and commenced to make inquiries from house to house;
but no one had heard of a Mrs. Jeckyl. After a fruitless search of half
an hour, it occurred to him that the woman might have assumed another
name: so he went over the ground again, describing her person.
“There _was_ such a woman here.” He received this reply at one of the
houses where he called.
“Was her name Jeckyl?”
“No, sir; I think it was Hawks. But I’ll inquire, sir, if you’ll wait a
minute. Won’t you walk in?”
Mr. Dainty entered the house, and was shown into one of the parlors,
where, after waiting a short time, a lady joined him.
“Pardon this intrusion,” said Mr. Dainty, rising. “But I am in search
of an Englishwoman who some three or four weeks ago took boarding in
this neighborhood. Your servant informs me that there was a person here
answering to her description.”
“What was the name of the woman of whom you are in search?” was
inquired.
“Jeckyl,” replied Mr. Dainty.
The lady shook her head.
“She may have reason to pass by another name,” remarked Mr. Dainty.
“I don’t know how that may be. A tall, sinister-looking Englishwoman,
with an eye that held a lurking serpent, took boarding here some weeks
ago. But she only remained three or four days. She was disagreeable to
us, and we made ourselves disagreeable to her; and so we parted.”
“Where did she go?” Mr. Dainty asked, eagerly.
The lady shook her head.
“No one in this house knows. She went as she came,—a marvel and a
mystery.”
“And beyond this you can give no information in regard to her?”
“None whatever.”
Mr. Dainty stood for some moments silent and perplexed. Then, with
a sickening sense of disappointment, he retired, and, entering the
carriage which awaited him at the door, ordered the driver to take him
to his own house as rapidly as possible. He brought with him neither
light nor comfort, and found none awaiting his arrival. Not a single
gleam of intelligence touching the absent one had shone in upon his
afflicted family.
What more could be done? The evening had waned, and it was now past the
hour of nine. To abandon all search for the night seemed cruel; yet,
without a single clue to unravel the mystery of the child’s absence,
what step could be taken toward accomplishing her recovery? Whither
were they to go in search of her?
The wretched mother, from a state of almost frantic excitement,
had fallen into a condition little removed from stupor. The family
physician was called in to see her, but he prescribed nothing. Her
trouble was beyond the reach of any medicines he could give.
Anxious and sleepless was that night in the house of Mr. Dainty.
Early in the morning the search for Madeline was renewed. Not the
least active in this search was Miss Harper. With a perseverance and
assiduity unknown to the sterner sex, she steadily sought to find the
clue that was to unravel the mystery of Madeline’s absence. Starting
where Mr. Dainty had begun, at Mrs. Brainard’s, she went from thence to
the house in Fifth Street where a woman answering to the description
of Mrs. Jeckyl had made a brief sojourn. Beyond this point Mr. Dainty
had failed to go; but Florence was not to be thrown off so easily. Her
woman’s tact and feeling all came in to quicken the interest of every
member in the family, and the result was a declaration on the part of
a servant, who was questioned repeatedly, that she thought she could
recognise the hack-driver who took the woman, with her trunk, away.
In company with this servant, an Irish girl, Florence visited the
various hack-stands in the city; but at none of them did the girl
recognise any driver as the one for whom they were in search, and they
were going back, the heart of Florence heavy with disappointment, when
her companion exclaimed,—
“’Deed, and that’s the very mon himself, so it is!”
And she pointed to a hackman who was leisurely driving his carriage
along, just in advance of them.
To spring forward was but a natural impulse, and in a moment the driver
reined up his horses at the sign given by Florence. Leaving his box, he
stepped to the pavement, saying, as he did so,—
“Want a carriage, miss?”
“I wish to ask you a question or two first,” replied Florence, slightly
confused at the abruptness with which she was confronted by the man.
“As many as you please, miss,” returned the hack-driver.
“How long is it since that woman left your house?” asked Florence,
turning to the girl.
“About two weeks,” was answered.
“In the morning or afternoon?”
“In the morning.”
“And this is the man who drove her away?”
“I think so. He looks like him, ony way.”
“About two weeks ago,” said Florence, now addressing the hack-driver,
“a tall woman, dressed in black, was taken, with her trunk, from a
house in Fifth Street near Noble. Do you remember any thing about it?
Were you the driver?”
“I was,” replied the man.
The whole frame of Miss Harper quivered instantly with an eager impulse.
“Can you take me to the house where you left her?” she asked.
The man stood in thought for some moments, and then answered,—
“I think so.”
“Will you accompany me?” Florence spoke to the girl.
“Certainly, miss: I’m at your service.”
“Drive me there as quickly as possible.” And Florence stepped toward
the door of the carriage, which was instantly thrown open by the
hackman. Entering, with the girl, she seated herself, and was soon
driven rapidly away toward the northern part of the city, and through
streets with the aspect of which she was unfamiliar. At last the
carriage stopped before a house of not over-inviting exterior. It was
old, dingy-looking, and had a deserted aspect, all the shutters being
closed to the third story.
“This is the place, miss,” said the driver, as he opened the
carriage-door.
“Are you certain?” inquired Florence, a slight tremor running along her
nerves as she looked up at the house.
“Dead sure,” replied the hackman, in a confident voice. “I know the
house by its shut-up look. I’ve passed here many a time, and have never
seen a window open yet, or the sign of a human about the house.”
“Come,” said Florence to the Irish girl, and the two stepped from the
carriage, and, crossing the pavement, ascended the steps. The bell
was rung, and, after waiting for a few moments, the door opened, and
a slightly-formed girl, about fifteen years of age, with a singularly
interesting face, inquired their errand.
“Does a Mrs. Jeckyl live here?” asked Florence.
“No, ma’am,” replied the girl.
“Mrs. Hawks?” said the companion of Florence.
The girl shook her head.
“We were told,” said Florence, “that a woman bearing one of these names
came to your house about two weeks ago. She was a tall Englishwoman,
dressed in black.”
“Won’t you come in and see my mother?” And the girl moved back a pace
or two from the door.
According to the invitation, Florence stepped over the threshold and
entered the house, following the girl, who conducted her into the
back-parlor, which was feebly lighted by the rays that came in through
a small opening in the shutters.
“Sit down,” said the girl, “and I will call my mother.” And she passed,
with a gliding motion, noiselessly from the apartment.
The eyes of Florence soon accommodated themselves to the feeble light,
and, gazing around the room, she noted its contents with curious
interest. The furniture was meagre and plain, the carpets worn, and the
window-curtains faded. A few articles, which seemed the relics of a
better condition, indicated the possession of taste. While yet engaged
in making these observations, Florence, whose eyes had been peering
into the adjoining parlor, the shutters of which were closed tightly,
turned her head and met the steady, penetrating gaze of a woman who had
entered so silently that no sound of footfall had disturbed the air.
This woman was in height a little above the medium stature; of slender
proportions; with an unusually high and broad forehead; faded, almost
sallow, complexion; eyes black as coals, yet bright as fire; lips
arching, thin, and flexible; and a delicate, receding chin. Florence
arose, and stood before the woman in momentary confusion, her eyes
drooping beneath her singularly penetrating gaze.
“Pardon this intrusion,” said Florence, with considerable hesitation of
manner. “I am in search of a person who, as I am informed, came to your
house some time within the past two weeks.”
The woman requested Florence to resume her seat, and then, drawing a
chair in front of her, said, in a low, musical, yet not altogether
pleasant voice,—
“What is the name of the person you are seeking?”
“Mrs. Jeckyl,” replied Florence.
The woman shook her head.
“She has gone by the name of Hawks, I believe,” said Florence.
Another shake of the head, accompanied by the remark,—
“I do not know any one bearing either name.”
“She is an Englishwoman, tall of stature.”
“Ah!” The response was in a quick voice, in which was a shade of
surprise.
“She dressed in black,” said Florence.
“Did you say her name was Jeckyl?” asked the woman.
“Yes. But I believe she has also gone by the name of Hawks.”
“Was she young, or old?”
“Past the middle point of life.”
“A woman answering your description was here about two weeks ago, and
remained several days. But her name was Fordham.”
“Another _alias_, no doubt,” said Florence, in a quickened voice. “And
now, madam, if you will tell me where I can find her, you will confer
an obligation beyond all price.”
“Is she a relation?” inquired the woman, looking steadily into the
excited face of her young visitor.
“No!” answered Florence, with an expression of disgust.
“Why do you seek her?” The manner and tone of the woman threw a chill
over the feelings of Miss Harper.
“The person I seek has, it is feared, enticed away, or stolen, a little
girl, whose mother is almost beside herself in consequence.”
“A grave charge to bring against any one,” said the woman, seriously.
“I hardly think it can apply to Mrs. Fordham.”
“You know something of her antecedents, then?” Florence spoke
inquiringly.
“Nothing,” answered the woman, almost coldly.
“Where can I find her now?”
“I have neither seen nor heard of her since she left my house,” said
the woman.
The look of distress that settled on the countenance of Miss Harper
seemed to awaken a motion of sympathy in the woman’s heart.
“Whose child is missing?” she inquired, in a soft voice.
“The child of Mrs. Edward Dainty, number 400 —— Street; a little girl,
eleven years old. She has been absent since yesterday. The woman
suspected of the crime of enticing her away was employed, a short time
ago, as governess, but dismissed almost immediately, in consequence of
certain defects that entirely destroyed her right influence over the
children.”
“What were those defects?” inquired the woman, evincing a new interest
in the matter.
“She attempted, it was thought, to magnetize the children.”
“Ah!” The woman seemed more interested, and leaned toward Florence,
fixing upon her, as she did so, her dark, bright, weird-looking eyes.
There was a brief pause.
“Well, what of it?” inquired the woman, seeing that Florence remained
silent.
“The consequences were serious, so far as the little girl I refer to
was concerned,” said Florence. “She was changed almost from the hour
Mrs. Jeckyl drew her within the sphere of her influence.”
“Delicately organized, and easily impressed, no doubt.” The woman spoke
half to herself.
“She is a sweet, lovely child,” said Florence, “and it is terrible to
think of her pure, almost infantine spirit coming within the sphere of
such a woman. Death, in my regard, would be a blessing instead.”
“You speak warmly on the subject,” said the woman.
“I have cause to do so, for I feel warmly,” said Florence.
“You have met Mrs. Jeckyl, as you call her?”
“No. Happily, I never crossed her path. My foot has not touched the
slime of her serpent trail!”
The woman’s face darkened, as if a shadow had fallen upon it.
“If the person you call Jeckyl, and the one who passed a few days in
my house, are the same,” she said, “your language is far too strong.
Though she is to me, partially, a stranger, yet I have had testimony
in regard to her of the highest and most authoritative character. I
know her quality as well as if I had seen her heart laid open and read
it like the pages of a book. She belongs to an exceptional class in
the present time. To ordinary people she is unintelligible. The high
purposes of her life are not appreciated by them. She cannot be weighed
in their balance.”
The woman spoke rapidly, and with enthusiasm, quick changes running
over her face, and her eyes brightening and darkening by turns like a
stormy sky. A low shudder of fear crept into the heart of Florence as
she looked at this woman; and the Irish girl who accompanied her, and
who had until now remained standing, moved backward toward the door of
the room, gaining which, as a point of advantage, she said,—
“’Deed, and, miss, I think as how we’d as well be going from here.”
“Stay a moment.” And Florence reached forth a hand toward the girl.
“I shouldn’t wonder if I was riding on a broomstick next!” muttered the
latter, as she receded into the passage.
“Don’t go, if you please. I will be with you directly.” There was a
tremor of anxiety in the tones of Florence.
“I will not call in question a word you have said,” remarked Florence,
speaking in a deprecatory tone, as she turned to the woman. “All I ask
now is that you give me some clue by which I can trace this person from
the time she left your house. That is my errand here; and I beg, in
the name of humanity, that you will satisfy it to the extent of your
ability.”
“I asked her no questions when she left,” replied the woman. “She came
with a message from an absent one in the upper spheres,—a message
that filled my heart with reverent gladness. As an honored guest, she
remained for a few days an inmate of my house, and then went as she
came. The spirits led her here, and the spirits withdrew her in their
own good time. She is gifted in a high degree; and they have chosen her
as one of their most favored messengers to darkly-wandering mortals. I
bless the day she came to this house. Ah! now I see the white garments,
and now the angel-face, of that blessed daughter who ten years ago left
my heart desolate.”
The woman’s eyes were elevated, and she seemed in an ecstatic vision.
“She removed the veil from my dull eyes,—that honored messenger!” she
continued, “and, by a pure vision, I now see beyond the dark boundary
which conceals the beautiful world where the blessed ones dwell. She
likewise unstopped my ears, so that they can hear spirit-voices. I
hearken to them all day long.”
“I call nothing of this in question,” said Florence, rising, and
moving toward the door; “but other matters of interest press on me
too imperatively for delay. Once again, let me implore you to give
me some light. Think again! Is there no one likely to be informed of
her present home, to whom you could refer me? Let your mother’s heart
counsel for me in this matter!”
“I trust the spirits in all things. For wise ends they have hidden from
me all that pertains to their favored messenger. She came in mystery,
and departed as she came. In the spirit I meet her almost daily. In the
body I know her not.”
The Irish girl had already retreated beyond the outer door, and stood
upon the marble steps. Hopeless of gaining any information here
touching the object of her search, Florence, over whose spirit had
fallen a strange, suffocating fear, as if her very life were waning,
turned from the woman, and almost rushed, panic-stricken, from the
house.
“’Dade, and it’s the divil’s den!” ejaculated the Irish girl, bluntly,
as they crowded into the carriage. “I wouldn’t go into that house again
for a mint o’ money. I expected every instant to see you spirited off!”
Florence did not answer the girl, but ordered the driver to leave her
at the house in Fifth Street and then to take her to the residence of
Mr. Dainty. She brought neither light, hope, nor comfort to those who
had anxiously awaited her return, and found none for her own troubled
heart.