CHAPTER XXVII
A GHOST IN WHITECHAPEL
Despite a certain amount of relief at leaving a neighborhood so fullof horrible associations, those first few weeks in London werecertainly not halcyon ones. My post was by no means a sinecure. Everymorning I had thirty or forty letters to answer, besides which therewas an immense amount of copying to be done. The subject matter ofall this correspondence was by no means interesting to me, and thework itself, although I forced myself to accomplish it with at anyrate apparent cheerfulness was tedious and irksome. Apart from allthis, I found it unaccountably hard to concentrate my thoughts upon mysecretarial labors. The sight of the closely written pages, given meto copy, continually faded away, and I saw in their stead Warrenslopes with the faint outlines of the Court--in the distance BruceDeville walking side by side with Olive Berdenstein, as I had seenthem on the day before I had come away. She had now at any rate whatshe had so much desired--the man whom she loved with so absorbing apassion--all to herself, free to devote himself to her, if he hadindeed the inclination, and with no other companionship at hand todistract his thoughts from her. I found myself wondering more thanonce whether she would ever succeed in making her bargain withhim. The little news which we had was altogether indefinite. Alice didnot mention either of them in her scanty letters. She was on the pointof moving to Eastminster--in fact, she was already spending most ofher time there. From Bruce Deville himself we had heard nothing,although my mother had written to him on the first day of our arrivalin London. Once or twice she had remarked upon his silence, and I hadlistened to her surmises without remark.
I am afraid that as a secretary I was not a brilliant success in thosefirst few unhappy weeks. But my mother made no complaint. I could seethat it made her happy to have me with her. My silence she doubtlessattributed to my anxiety concerning my father. I did my best to hidemy unhappiness from her.
News of some sort came from Alice at last. She wrote from Eastminstersaying that she had nearly finished the necessary preparations there,and was looking forward to my father's return. She had heard from himthat morning, she said. He was at Ventnor, and much improved inhealth. She was expecting him home in a week.
But in the afternoon of that same day a strange thing happened. Mymother was compelled to go to the East End of London, and at the lastmoment insisted upon my going with her. She was on the committee inconnection with the proposed erection of some improved dwelling housessomewhere in Whitechapel, and the meeting was to be held in a schoolroom in the Commercial Road. I was looking pale, she said, and thedrive there would do me good, so I went with her, lacking energy torefuse, and sat in the carriage whilst she went in to the meeting--aproceeding which I very soon began to regret.
The surroundings and environment of the place were in every waydepressing. The carriage had been drawn up at the corner of two greatthoroughfares--avenues through which flows the dark tide of all thatis worst and most wretched of London poverty. For a few minutes Iwatched the people. It was horrible, yet in a sense fascinating. Butwhen the first novelty had worn off the whole thing suddenly sickenedme. I removed my eyes from the pavement with a shudder. I would watchthe people no longer. Nothing, I told myself, should induce me to lookagain upon that stream of brutal and unsexed men and women. I kept myeyes steadfastly fixed upon the rug at my feet. And then a strangething happened to me. Against my will a moment came when I was forcedto raise my eyes. A man hurrying past the carriage had half haltedupon the pavement only a foot or two away from me. As I looked up oureyes met. He was dressed in a suit of rusty black, and he had ahandkerchief tied closely around his neck in lieu of collar. He waswearing a flannel shirt and no tie. His whole appearance, so far asdress was concerned, was miserably in accord with the shabbiness ofhis surroundings. Yet from underneath his battered hat a pair ofpiercing eyes met mine, and a delicate mouth quivered for a momentwith a curious and familiar emotion. I sprang from my seat andstruggled frantically with the fastening of the carriagedoor. Disguise was all in vain, so far as I was concerned. It was myfather who stood there looking at me. I pushed the carriage door openat last and sprang out upon the pavement. I was a minute toolate--already he was a vanishing figure. At the corner of a squalidlittle court he turned round and held out one hand threateninglytowards me. I paused involuntarily. The gesture was one which it washard to disobey. Yet I think that I most surely should have disobeyedit, but for the fact that during my momentary hesitation he haddisappeared. I hurried forward a few steps. There was no sign of himanywhere. He had passed down some steps and vanished in a wildernessof small courts; to pursue him was hopeless. Already a little crowd ofpeople were gazing at me boldly and curiously. I turned round andstepped back into the carriage.
I waited in an agony of impatience until my mother came out. Then Itold her with trembling voice what had happened.
Her face grew paler as she listened, but I could see that she wasinclined to doubt my story.
"It could not have been your father," she exclaimed, her voice shakingwith agitation. "You must have been mistaken."
I shook my head sadly. There was no possibility of any mistake so faras I was concerned.
"It was my father. That girl has broken her word," I criedbitterly. "She has seen him and--she knows. He is hiding from her!"
We drove straight to the telegraph office. My mother wrote out amessage to Mr. Deville. I, too, sent one to Olive. Then we drove backto our rooms. There was nothing to be done but wait.
It was six o'clock before the first answer came back. It was fromMr. Bruce Deville. I tore it open and read it.
"You must be mistaken. Can answer for it she has taken no steps. Sheis still here. Mr. Ffolliot has not returned. Impossible for them tohave met."
The pink paper fluttered to the ground at our feet. I tore open thesecond one; it was from Olive Berdenstein----
"Do not understand you. I have no intention of breaking our compact."
We read them both over again carefully. Then we looked at oneanother.
"He must have taken fright needlessly," I said, in a low tone.
"You are still certain, then, that it was he?" she asked.
"Absolutely!" I answered. "If only we could find him! In a week itwill be too late."
"Too late!" she repeated. "What do you mean?"
"The ceremony at Eastminster is on Sunday week. He was to have beenthere at least a week before. I am afraid that he will not go at allnow."
"We must act at once," my mother declared, firmly. "I know exactlywhere you saw him. I will go there at once."
"We will go there together," I cried. "I shall be ready in a minute."
She shook her head.
"I must go alone," she said, quietly. "You would only be in the way. Iknow the neighborhood and the people. They will tell me more if I amalone."
She was away until midnight. When at last she returned I saw at onceby her face that she had been unsuccessful.
"There is no clue, then?" I asked.
She shook her head.
"None."
We sat and looked at one another in silence.
"To-morrow," she said, "I will try again."
But to-morrow came and went, and we were still hopelessly in thedark. On the morning of the third day we were in despair. Then, as wesat over our breakfast, almost in despair, a letter was brought tome. It was from Alice, and enclosed in it was one from my father.
"You seem," she wrote, "to have been very anxious about father lately,so I thought you would like to read this letter from him. We arealmost straight here now, but it has been very hard work, and I havemissed you very much...."
There was more of the same sort, but I did not stop to read it. Ipassed it on to my mother, and eagerly read the few lines from myfather. His letter was dated three days ago--the very day of mymeeting with him in the Commercial Road, and the postmark was Ventnor.
"My dear child," he commenced, "I am better and shall return forcertain on Monday. The air here is delightful, and I have fel
t myselfgrowing stronger every day. If you see the Bishop tell him that youhave heard from me. My love to Kate, if you are writing. I hope thatshe will be coming down for next week. There is a good deal for me tosay to her.--Your affectionate father, Horace Ffolliot."
My mother read both letters, and then looked up at me with a greatrelief in her face.
"After all you see you must have been mistaken," she exclaimed. "Therecan be no doubt about it."
And I said no more, but one thing was as certain as my lifeitself--the man who had waved me back from following him along thepavements of the Commercial Road was most surely no other man than myfather.