Amongst Frederick Walcheren’s varied accomplishments, swimming held a
prominent position. From a child he had exercised this most useful of
all practices, until he was as much at home in the water as on land.
And on that fatal Saturday there was every inducement for him to spend
a long time in his favourite occupation. The day was transcendently
beautiful; the sea was sparkling with electricity and warm as a tepid
bath; and the beach was crowded with spectators, eager to watch and
applaud the various feats of natation which he performed. He was in
good temper with himself and the world, poor fellow! and anxious
to give them all the pleasure in his power. So he remained in the
warm, exhilarating water as long as possible, performing all sorts of
extraordinary dives and plunges and strange modes of swimming, whilst
the people on the shore were full of admiration for his skill. At last
he felt he had had about enough of it for the present, and dressed to
return to the hotel. As he descended the steps of his machine, a young
man of ordinary appearance, who was apparently waiting for him, came
forward.
‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ he began, ‘but, from witnessing your feats
of skill in the water, I presume you are a swimming master, and should
like to know your terms for a course of lessons.’
Frederick laughed heartily at the idea, but he was not snob enough to
be offended by the young man’s mistake.
‘Indeed, I wish I were anything half so useful,’ he replied; ‘but I am
only an amateur like yourself. Swimming is not at all difficult; it
only requires pluck and practice. Anyone could attain my proficiency
if he cared to take the trouble.’
‘You’ll forgive me for mentioning it, sir?’ said the stranger, who
feared he might have offended him.
‘With all my heart. There was no harm in asking,’ replied Frederick, as
he heard the town clock strike three, and hastened towards the hotel.
He reached it, almost running, and, going breathlessly upstairs, threw
open the door of their sitting-room. But Jenny was not there. A waiter
was employed putting the last touches to the luncheon-table, which was
evidently only waiting their return to be spread with the noonday meal.
‘Where is Mrs Walcheren?’ inquired Frederick.
‘I don’t know, sir,’ replied the stolid waiter, as he continued putting
out cruets and water bottles.
Frederick ran up to their bedroom, which was on an upper floor, and
finding that also empty, put on his straw hat again and descended to
the vestibule.
‘Has my wife--Mrs Walcheren, gone out?’ he asked of the porter.
‘Well, sir, I really can’t say. There’s been a gentleman asking that
question here already, but I couldn’t give him no satisfaction. I
suppose the lady must be out, because we can’t find her nowhere, but
none of us see her pass through the hall, and I’ll take my oath she
hasn’t come in, for I’ve never left my post one minute. Perhaps she
went to the beach to you, sir.’
‘Oh, doubtless, but about the gentleman who called to see her, what was
his name?’
‘He didn’t leave no name, sir, but said he would call again.’
‘What was he like? Short and stout and middle-aged, with rather a red
complexion, eh?’
He concluded at once that it must have been Mr Crampton, who had
followed his daughter on the receipt of her letter that morning.
‘Well, not very red in the face, sir, but stoutish certainly, and not
over tall.’
‘I know him,’ replied Frederick, thinking he did. ‘If he comes again
during my absence, ask him to walk upstairs and wait until we return.’
‘All right, sir.’
Of course it was Mr Crampton, he thought. It could be no one else, and
he must be by Jenny’s side when their encounter took place. If old
Crampton thought that, by right of his paternity, he would bully Jenny,
he was very much mistaken. He would have to answer to her husband
first. He went back to the beach, thinking he should find her amongst
all the nursemaids, children, serenaders and fruit-sellers, and was
prepared to meet her with a little scolding for exposing herself to
the heat of the day and the vulgarities of the Dover sands. But she
was not there. The beach was almost deserted now, for the babies and
their attendants had gone back to their lodgings to early dinner,
and the serenaders were performing in front of the ‘pubs,’ in hopes
of earning a meal. There would have been no difficulty in discerning
Jenny’s distinguished little figure on the long line of sand and
shingle, but it was evident she was not there. Where could the minx
have hidden herself? Frederick was a little inclined to feel cross,
although it _was_ the first day of their married life, because Jenny
had so decidedly said she would rather not go out that morning, and,
if she had not done so, he should not have left her to herself. Could
she have ventured into the town? She had come away so hurriedly, that
she might have found herself in want of some trifling article that she
had forgotten and gone to the shops to procure it. He turned his steps,
therefore, in that direction, but saw her nowhere in the streets. He
even asked one or two pedestrians if they had met a young lady in a
broad-brimmed hat trimmed with poppies and grasses, but they all shook
their heads. Frederick wandered about the streets for some time, and
then resolved to go back to the hotel. After all, Jenny was not a baby.
She had been well used to look after herself, and had a watch to tell
her the proper time to return. It was more than likely she was already
at the Castle Warden. His first inquiry on re-entering was naturally
for her.
‘No, sir, the lady ain’t been in yet,’ was the disappointing reply,
‘but the gentleman as I spoke of, he came again and left his card.’
‘Where is it?’ said Frederick, eagerly, and was handed the one which
Henry Hindes had left behind him.
‘Did you ask him to wait and see us?’ he inquired.
‘Well, sir, to tell you the truth, I had gone for my dinner and didn’t
see the gentleman this time, but William tells me he seemed in a great
hurry like, and didn’t ask to wait, but said he had no time to come
again to-day, as he had to catch a train for London.’
‘Oh, very well, it is of no consequence,’ replied Frederick Walcheren
rather testily. ‘Tell them not to serve luncheon until Mrs Walcheren
returns. She cannot be many minutes now.’
But it was many many minutes before she came back to the hotel.
Frederick went upstairs to their sitting-room, and tried to occupy his
mind with newspapers, and persuade himself that he was not particularly
anxious for his wife’s return. But there is nothing more irritating
than to be kept in suspense, especially for a trifle. He could not help
wondering where Jenny had gone to, and why she had gone, and why the
dickens she hadn’t come back again! If the stranger who had inquired
for her had not left a proof that he was Mr Henry Hindes instead of Mr
Crampton, he should have almost fancied that she had been silly enough
to have been lured away again by her father. But that was folly! Jenny
was his wife; by love and by law. No one could ever take her from him
again unless that quibble about her age would be considered sufficient
to annul the marriage. But the next moment he laughed at the idea. Mr
Crampton would surely never be such a fool as to take advantage of
a loop-hole that would bring disgrace upon his daughter’s name! How
foolish he was to let so absurd an idea worry him!
But why the deuce didn’t Jenny come back? It was now four o’clock. This
was carrying a joke too far. She couldn’t possibly have lost her way
in such a place as Dover. Besides, she wasn’t the sort of girl to lose
her way! Even if she had broken her leg, or done any unlikely thing of
that sort, she would have had the nous to call assistance, or send him
a message to say what was the matter. The only solution of the mystery
that he could think of, was that she had gone for a walk and wandered
so far away that she was too tired to walk home quicker. But why, in
that case, had she not procured some vehicle to convey her back again.
The more Frederick thought of it, the more puzzled he became. When five
o’clock struck, he went out of doors for the second time, and ran all
over the place, making inquiries of everybody he met. One girl said she
had seen a very pretty young lady at about one o’clock that afternoon,
walking towards the cliffs. She particularly noticed that she wore a
large chip hat with scarlet poppies in it, and a white dress. She had
a book in her hand, and she went up that way, continued his informant,
pointing in the direction of the grassy downs. Frederick thanked her
and commenced running off in the direction she had intimated. Of
course, he said to himself, the cool breezy downs would be far more
likely to attract Jenny than the hot beach. How foolish it was of him
not to have thought of that before! He walked rapidly straight ahead of
him for three or four miles, and then stopped to consider what he was
doing. Jenny was not there! He could see from end to end of the broad
wide expanse, and a sheep would have been visible to the naked eye.
What was the use of his rushing about in that aimless manner, after a
full-grown woman. Jenny was such a spoilt child, the Lord only knew
whether she might not be playing a practical joke on him all this time,
and hiding away for her own pleasure to see how much she could frighten
him. He had been far wiser to eat his luncheon in comfort and let the
young lady see that that sort of trick would not do with him. He was
beginning to feel a little angry and hurt by this time. It was not
good manners, to say the least of it--it showed a lack of good feeling
and good taste to make him look like a fool in the eyes of the hotel
servants, so soon after their wedding-day. He should give up the search
as a bad job, and return to the Castle Warden and rest. Without doubt,
she would come in for her dinner.
He gained the hotel again, but still no news had been heard of the
missing lady. By this time every menial in the house knew that the
bride (for when can people ever hide the glaring fact that they were
married yesterday?) had played truant, designedly or otherwise, and
many were the conjectures as to her reason for making herself so
conspicuous. Meanwhile, Frederick Walcheren sat in his own apartments,
by turns angry, impatient, anxious and despairing. He hardly took heed
how the time went on. Every moment he expected to hear the sound of
Jenny’s footstep running up the staircase--to hear her merry voice
telling him the reason of her extraordinary absence--to feel her arms
round his neck and her lips pleading for forgiveness. But the hours
went on till seven and eight o’clock had struck, and still she was
not there. As the last hour sounded Frederick heard a low tap on his
door; he was not in the mood to see strangers or talk with them, but
he cried, ‘Come in!’ The door opened, and the landlord of the Castle
Warden entered and closed it securely behind him.
‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ he commenced, ‘but I am told that your lady
has not come home, and that you are rather uneasy about her.’
‘Well, I am, naturally,’ replied Frederick, ‘in fact, I don’t know
what the devil to think about her absence. It is most extraordinary! I
went out to bathe this morning, leaving Mrs Walcheren here, and when I
returned she was gone. No one saw her go out, nor can I hear any news
of her, except from a little girl, who says she met her walking in the
direction of the cliffs, about one o’clock this afternoon. I have been
all over the cliffs, and the town, and the beach, but can neither see
nor hear anything more. What should you advise me to do, Mr Cameron? I
am nearly distracted with anxiety.’
‘The lady was seen going towards the cliffs,’ said the landlord,
musingly, ‘our cliffs are not very safe for strangers. I hope there
has not been an accident.’
At this Frederick leapt from his seat as if he had been shot.
‘My God! man,’ he cried, ‘what do you mean? You cannot think it
possible that--that--’
He tried to finish the sentence, but failed.
‘Indeed, sir, I meant nothing but that we must look at all possible
contingencies if we are to find the young lady. It is a long time for
her to be away, and, if I mistake not (though I hope you will excuse my
mentioning it), the day after her wedding.’
‘Yes, yes; I don’t care who knows it,’ replied Frederick in a voice of
pain. ‘We were only married yesterday, that makes this all the more
mysterious and extraordinary; but how are we to ascertain the truth?
What am I to do?’
‘If you will allow me, sir, I will send some of the boatmen who know
the cliffs to search for Mrs Walcheren, and they will soon relieve
your suspense, for if she is there they will find her safe enough.’
‘By all means; I ought to have thought of it myself. Thank you, Mr
Cameron; pray send for the boatmen as soon as possible, and I will
accompany them.’
Mr Cameron looked dubious.
‘If you will permit me, sir, to advise you, I should say stay here, in
case of your being wanted, or other news arriving.’
But Frederick was not to be persuaded.
‘Stay here!’ he echoed; ‘what on earth should I do that for? My place
is with the men who are going to find her. She has lost her way,
probably, and is wandering about in the dark. Of course, I shall
accompany them.’
But the landlord kept his back firmly against the door, and prevented
the young man passing out.
‘You will forgive me, sir, but you must not go--not just yet--not till
I have said something. I have been trying to break it to you, Mr
Walcheren, but I am afraid I have done it badly. They _have_ found her,
sir. She was found hours ago, and I came to tell you so.’
Frederick Walcheren stared at him, as if he thought he was mad.
‘_Found!_’ he ejaculated, ‘and hours ago. What do you mean? Why has she
not come home then? Is she injured--hurt? Has any accident happened to
her?’
‘Yes, sir, there has indeed, and you must try and bear it like a man.
The lady has been hurt--badly--and she was found on the beach by two
boatmen at five o’clock, or thereabouts.’
‘Hurt! my darling. Oh! my God! this is hard,’ exclaimed Frederick, in
a voice of anguish. ‘But where is she? Why have they not brought her
here? Why did they not send for me?’
‘Well, sir, they did not know where the lady belonged at first, nor who
she was, so they carried her to the nearest public-house; “The Bottle
and Spurs,” which is half-way down the cliffs to the town.’
‘A public-house!’ cried Walcheren, indignantly; ‘how dared they take
a lady there? What was Mrs Walcheren about, to consent to it? Order a
carriage at once, if you please, Mr Cameron, and I will go and fetch
her home.’
The landlord fidgeted with the handle of the door.
‘Well, you see, sir, I am not sure if the authorities will allow of her
removal. It’s the usual thing, under the circumstances, you see, and
sorry as I should be to disoblige you, I’m afraid my customers might
object to her being brought here. “The Bottle and Spurs” is a very
respectable house, sir, and everything will be done, I feel sure, as
can be done, to make things as little unpleasant for you as possible,
but the authorities--’
Still the unhappy man did not understand the extent of his calamity. He
sat down again and passed his hand wearily through his hair.
‘What does it all mean?’ he muttered in a dazed manner. ‘At all
events order the carriage and send for the best doctor in the town to
accompany me.’
‘The doctor is here sir,’ replied the landlord, quickly, ‘ready to
speak to you. Dr M‘Coll, one of our most skilful practitioners.’
Then he opened the door, and called out, ‘Will you step up, doctor,
please, the gentleman is ready to see you,’ and in another minute
a middle-aged kindly-looking man entered the room and went up to
Walcheren’s side.
‘Doctor!’ said Frederick faintly, ‘what is all this about? I don’t
understand it. Have you seen my wife? Is she much hurt?’
‘She is not suffering now, my dear sir,’ replied the doctor.
‘Thank God for that. But why did you not bring her home? I have been in
such awful suspense all the afternoon.’
‘I am sure you must have been, but now I am going to take you to see
her. Here, Mr Cameron, a glass of brandy for Mr Walcheren. No! no soda
thanks. I want him to take it as it is.’
He held the liquor to Frederick’s lips, who drank it at a draught, and
put down the wine-glass with a deep sigh.
‘You must nerve yourself to hear what I have to tell you,’ said Dr
M‘Coll firmly. ‘I told you your wife no longer suffered, it is because
she has gone beyond the reach of suffering. She had been dead for hours
before the boatmen found her.’
The young man sprung from his seat with the one word on his
lips--‘DEAD!’ He stared at his informant for a moment wildly, and then
sinking down on his chair again, threw his arms over his stricken face
and burst into a storm of tears.
‘Leave him alone,’ whispered the doctor to the landlord; ‘they will
save his brain.’ But the next minute Frederick leapt up, and, seizing
Dr M‘Coll by the arm, exclaimed,--
‘Take me to her. Don’t let us lose a moment. Oh, my God! my darling, my
darling!’
He tore down the staircase as he spoke, closely followed by the
landlord and the doctor. The waiters and chambermaids, who were hanging
about the passages discussing the awful event that had occurred, made
way respectfully for him as he appeared, and looked after the bereaved
bridegroom with melancholy interest. But Frederick might have passed
through the ranks of a regiment at that moment without perceiving them.
There was but one idea in his brain--to get as quickly as he could to
the side of his beloved. He had heard distinctly what the doctor said,
but he did not realise that Jenny was dead--that she would never speak
to him, nor smile at him, nor kiss him any more. The drive to the
public-house was performed in mournful silence, and when they reached
it they were at once taken through the bar to a back room, where on
a table was placed, just as she had been found, all that was left
of sweet Jenny Walcheren. Her chip hat, so fresh and pretty in the
morning, was still attached to her hair, by a long pin with a butterfly
at the end of it, but it was crushed and forced back upon her head by
the awful fall she had sustained. Her white dress had been decently
composed about her young limbs; she might have almost have deceived
one into the belief that she was sleeping, except for the purple lips
which were drawn off the white teeth, and a dark blue bruise over the
right eye, where her temple had struck the cruel rocks. But Frederick
saw nothing but that he had regained his wife, and falling on her body,
covered it with kisses, imploring her by every fond entreaty he could
frame, to open her eyes once more and look at him, and to unclose her
bruised and livid lips and speak his name. At last his madness calmed
down a little, leaving a dull despair behind it, when he turned to the
doctor and said,--
‘Tell me, for mercy’s sake, how did it happen?’
‘We are as much in the dark as you are, my dear young friend,’ replied
Dr M‘Coll, ‘all we know is, that two Deal boatmen, Jackson and Barnes
by name, went to the lower beach after their boats, which are drawn up
there, at five this afternoon, and found the poor lady lying under the
cliffs, over which there is no doubt she must have fallen, but how,
there is nothing to tell. They did not know her name, so carried her
here and sent for me. But I could do nothing. She must have been dead
for two or three hours before I saw her. When I was convinced of that,
I set inquiries on foot, to find out who she was, and they soon led me
to the Castle Warden Hotel.’
‘It wasn’t easy to mistake her,’ interposed Mr Cameron, whose own eyes
were suspiciously red; ‘the prettiest bride, as everyone says, we have
had in the hotel for the last twelve month.’
‘Don’t, don’t,’ said Frederick, in a voice of the keenest pain.
‘Doctor, how shall we take her back? She shall not lie here! I must
take her to the hotel at once.’
‘My dear Mr Walcheren, even if that were admissible, it would not be
permitted. The body must not be touched until after the inquest, which,
unfortunately, cannot be held till Monday.’
‘She must lie here on this rough table, within sound of those rough
voices, for forty-eight hours? Oh, impossible! I will not allow it!’
‘My dear sir, you must allow it! It is the law! This poor young lady
has met her death in a mysterious manner, and, until the police have
evidence that it was an accident, they will not, in the cause of
justice, permit the body to be tampered with.’
‘An accident! but how could it be anything but an accident?’ said
Frederick, staring at the doctor.
‘I have no doubt myself whatever in the matter; but the law must be
satisfied. Meanwhile, let me persuade you, Mr Walcheren, to return to
the hotel and try and calm yourself. You can do no good by remaining
here, and I will engage that every respect shall be paid to her
remains.’
‘_I_ go away,’ said Frederick, in a broken voice, ‘and leave her lying
here? Oh, no; you mistake me! It is impossible! If I may not take her
away yet, I shall stay by her till I can! Nothing shall persuade me to
leave her, my darling little wife!’ and he took one of her dead hands
and kissed it fondly as he spoke.
‘If you are determined--’ began Dr M‘Coll.
‘I am determined, and nothing will shake my determination. Here I
remain till they take my angel from me. But is an inquest imperative?
I cannot bear to think of it! It is such an indignity--such a public
insult! A body of strangers, men, too, whom I would not have allowed in
her presence whilst living, to be admitted to view her remains. I am
rich, doctor! Can no payment of money avert this outrage?’
‘Nothing can avert it, Mr Walcheren; but I will take care it is
conducted as quietly as possible. Remember, it is in the cause of
justice; and now, what can I do for you? Can I wire the sad news to any
of her relatives, or yours? You should have your own friends near you
in this trial.’
Frederick turned and seized the doctor’s hands as if he were a child,
clinging to him in his trouble.
‘Advise me, tell me what to do,’ he said. ‘I am unfit to think for the
best. My head is all in a maze. Doctor, I must tell you the truth. This
was a runaway marriage. She was an only child, and her parents doated
on her. I dare not think what they will say. How am I to break it to
them? Ought I to go myself?’
‘I don’t think they would let you leave Dover until after the inquest,
Mr Walcheren, but your late wife’s relations should certainly be told
at once. If you wish it, to-morrow being a free day with me, I will go
and break the sad intelligence to them.’
‘It will greatly relieve me if you will. And every expense, you know
doctor--’
‘Yes, yes. We need not mention that at present. When you have strength
to write down the names and addresses, I will make my arrangements.’
‘And what about the gentleman who called twice to see Mrs Walcheren
to-day?’ inquired the landlord. ‘Is he a relation of hers?’
‘No, curse him!’ said Frederick unthinkingly.
The doctor and the landlord glanced at one another.
‘I have _his_ name and address on his card,’ whispered Mr Cameron
significantly to his companion. ‘I fancy he will be subpœnaed. He may
have seen the poor lady after she left the hotel.’
‘What are you whispering about?’ said Frederick irritably.
‘Nothing, sir. I will speak to the people of the house. I know them
well, and they will see you have everything you may want.’
‘And I will communicate with you directly I return to Dover,’ added the
doctor.
And so they left him to his vigil, with his hand clasping the hand of
his dead wife, and his face bowed down till it was lost in the folds of
her dress.