Samuel Boyd of Catchpole Square: A Mystery

The faint light of early morn was in the sky. A new day was dawning, to bring joy to some, despair to some, to raise this toiler up, to dash this toiler down. No warning of these issues in the peaceful grey light of morn. Majestic nature rolls its allotted course heedless of the fret of life. The yellow gas in the street lamps had a ghastly glare; at the end of a street a cat with green eyes gleaming like evil jewels stood in the middle of the road, and scampered off at his approach. A wretched man who seemed to start out of the ground cried, "Hi!" and flung a stone after it, and then, with folded arms and head sunk low on his breast, slinked off with a scowl, as though he had struck at the world for its treatment of him; two or three blear-eyed human night-birds, shivering in the grey light which, in its promise of a fair day, brought no solace to them, slouched close to the walls and houses, and cast lowering glances upon Dick as he passed; a forlorn woman, who had better have been in her grave, said, "Good morning, my dear," in a voice so false and hollow in its horrible gaiety that he shuddered as he heard it, and hurried on. But he turned and threw the degraded creature a sixpence. In his state of mind all forms of misery appealed strongly to him.

He reached Paradise Row in safety, and got into the house without disturbing his landlady. Locking the door of his room, he threw off his clothes and went to bed, deeming it wiser to seek three or four hours' rest in a natural way than to sleep with his clothes on. He was wearied and exhausted, but so excited that sleep did not come readily to him. Drowsily courting it he found himself dwelling upon the last words in the document he had stolen-there was no mincing the matter; he had stolen it: "Notation 2647." What could be the meaning of those words? Notation 2647-notation 2647. He repeated it dozens of times, and dreamt that the wax figure of the Chinaman was pursuing him over mountain and field, through fire and water, shouting after him, "Notation 2647!" Youth and a healthy physique, however, triumphed over these disordered fancies, and after awhile he sank into a dreamless sleep, and arose, refreshed and full of vigour, at half past eight. He heard the snoring of Constable Pond, and the soft footsteps of Mrs. Pond outside his door. He stepped into the passage, and it was like the breath of spring to his senses to meet her smiling face.

"Good morning, sir," she said. "I hope you slept well."

"Capitally," he replied. "The bed is very comfortable. Did I disturb you at all last night?" He waited in anxiety for her answer.

"Oh, no, sir. I'm asleep the minute I put my head on the pillow. Pond says I should be a blessing to burglars. Can I get you anything for breakfast?"

"Nothing, thank you," he said. "I take my meals out."

The next moment he was on his way to Aunt Rob. She was expecting his arrival, and ran to open the door for him.

"I've been waiting for you, Dick. Have you had breakfast?"

"Wouldn't stop for it, Aunt Rob," he answered, "I thought you would give me a bite."

"It's ready laid for you, my dear. I had a letter from Florence this morning, and one has come for you."

"From Florence?" he cried.

"No, it's not her writing." She gave him both letters, and said that Uncle Rob had gone out early in the morning to seek for her. "We haven't had a wink of sleep all night," she said.

He read Florence's letter first. It was to the same effect as her letters of yesterday. She was quite well and safe, and begged them not to be anxious about her. Her dear love to darling mother and father, and to Dick. She would write twice every day, and hoped with all her heart that everything would soon be all right.

"It is a happiness to know that she is safe and well," said Dick. "We must have patience, Aunt Rob."

"But what does she mean by her 'duty,' Dick?"

"We shall hear that from her own lips by-and-by," he replied.

"And isn't it strange," said the anxious mother, "that she doesn't say a word of Mr. Reginald?"

"Yes, it is strange." But in his heart he did not think so. He believed he knew why the name was not mentioned.

"What is your letter about, Dick?"

He opened it, read it hurriedly, and did not betray the agitation it caused him. "A private letter, aunt, from an old friend. Has Uncle Bob got another day's leave of absence from the office?"

"No; he must go back to his duty to-night. He wanted to see you badly, but he couldn't stop at home, he's that restless. I wish you'd have a talk with him."

"I'll manage it. If I don't catch him here, I'll drop in at the station."

He was itching to read his letter more carefully, but he would not arouse her suspicions by running away too suddenly, so he remained with her a few minutes longer, and then, saying he would see her again in the course of the day, took his leave.

"Are you going anywhere particular, Dick?" she asked, accompanying him to the door.

"I am going to look for Florence," he replied, kissing her. "It will be hard if we don't soon get some good news. Keep up your heart, dear aunt."

He did not take the letter from his pocket till he was in a quiet street.

"My Dear Dick" (it ran), "The reason that I have had the address on the envelope written in a strange hand is that I do not want mother to know I am writing to you. You must not tell her. I feel sure you will get my letter this morning, because you will have heard of my going away, and will go to mother's to get some news of me. I need your help, dear Dick. I am at 16, Park Street, Islington, first floor. Come at 2 o'clock; I shall be looking out for you; and let it be a secret between us. I know how true and faithful you are, and I have no fear that you will betray me. With constant love, my dear Dick,

"Your affectionate Cousin,"Florence."

CHAPTER XXII

DICK RELIEVES GRACIE'S FEELING BY ONE EXPRESSIVE WORD

"At last!" said Dick. "At last a ray of light! What's the time?" He looked at a clock in a baker's shop. "Five minutes past ten. Ought I to go to her at once? No, I think not. Had she wanted me earlier she would have said, 'Come to me the moment you get this letter.' Four long hours to wait. What am I to do with myself till two o'clock?"

With the idea of making time fly faster he began to count his steps- ten, twenty, thirty, one hundred, two hundred, three hundred. He made a calculation. A step a second, three hundred steps three hundred seconds, five minutes, and five minutes more employed in thought and calculation. Ten minutes gone, ten minutes nearer to Florence. He came to another shop with a clock in it; it marked eight minutes past ten. He had done all this in three minutes. He had walked too quickly, and was fast working himself up to fever heat. "Keep cool, my lad," he muttered; "you'll mar instead of mend if you don't keep cool."

But the events of the last few hours, with their tragic issues, pressed so heavily upon him that he found it no easy matter to keep cool. Much easier was it to conjure up the feelings of a murderer, who, oppressed with the weight of his undiscovered crime, fancies he discerns in every face the knowledge of his guilt-turning his head over his shoulder every minute to see if he was being dogged-starting at familiar sounds, especially at the sound of bells and clocks striking the hour, every peal proclaiming to all the world that a Murderer was passing that way-tortured by the devilish temptation to leap into the middle of the road, and flinging up his arms to scream aloud, "Stop, you grinning fools! I did it!" Then running to a bridge, with a mob at his heels, and flinging himself into the river.

For some minutes Dick was under a spell of this nature. He looked nervously at the head-lines on the newspaper bills, and listened for the shouting of the newsboys, "Murder! Murder! Frightful Murder in Catchpole Square!" But no such words reached his ears. Passing the shop in which he had purchased the rope and grapnel, he was almost prepared to see the dirty-faced old man, in his list slippers and greasy skull cap, run out and cry, "Stop that man! Ask him what he did with the rope he bought of me last night. Stop him-stop him!"

"I am losing my senses," said Dick, "indulging in these fancies. I shall be deluding myself presently into the belief that it was I who murdered Samuel Boyd. I'll go and see little Gracie. I may get some news of Abel Death."

Gracie was in bed, and Mrs. Death was in the adjoining room, preparing a linseed poultice for her. She looked into Dick's face, and dropped her eyes.

"You've heard nothing, sir?"

"Nothing," he replied. "I have come to see Gracie. Is she any better?"

"She's no worse, sir," said Mrs. Death, with a sigh, "but I can hardly keep her in bed, and the trouble I have to put a poultice on her is beyond description; I have almost to go on my bended knees. She's the dearest child, sir; she never thinks of herself."

Upon Dick's entrance Gracie sat up in bed and put out her hand; it was hot and clammy, and Dick patted it kindly, and held it in his. The faces of the other children, who were all sitting on the floor, playing shop with stones and broken pieces of crockery, became illumined at sight of Dick.

"It's good of you to come," said Gracie. "I thought you would. You mustn't mind my coughing a bit. I'm ever so much better, but mother will worry about me. I want to whisper to you. Do you think father's dead?"

"No, Gracie," he said, to comfort her. "I don't think that."

"Then what's keeping him away? Is he afraid of somebody? Father never did anything wrong. We'll look for him together when I'm well. Shall we?"

"Yes, Gracie; and so that you may get well soon and find him, you mustn't sit up in bed." He put her head gently on the hard pillow, and arranged the scanty coverings over her. She made no resistance, but kept her eyes upon him, gravely and steadily.

"I've been dreaming of you all night long," she said.

"Now, what do you want?" said Dick to Connie, who was standing at his knee.

"Here's two ounces of tea," said Connie, giving him a stone, "and some scrag of mutton" (giving him another), "and a silk dress" (giving him another), "and a pound of sugar, and a penn'orth of brandy balls, and a pair of boots, and four pounds of potatoes, and a pint of beer" – all represented by stones, which Dick accepted with an air of great enjoyment. "If you haven't got any money we'll trust you." Having effected which sale upon these unbusinesslike conditions, the child trotted back to her brothers and sisters, who put their heads together and whispered.

Mrs. Death entered with the poultice, and was about to put it on, when a soft tapping was heard on the passage door. Before any one could answer it the handle was turned and Dr. Vinsen presented himself.

Gracie lay back in bed, and clutched Dick's hand tight.

As Dr. Vinsen glanced around the room, Dick thought his eyes were smaller and sleepier than on the first occasion they had met; his heavy white lids hung low, and partially veiled them; but this aspect of languor was more than counterbalanced by the fringe of yellow hair round his bald head, which gave him a luminous, not to say a saint-like appearance.

"Ah, Mr. Dick Remington," he said, in the pleasantest of voices, "good morning, good morning. Are you also here on a mission of kindness to our little patient-our lit-tle pa-tient? Permit me." He disengaged the clammy hand which clasped Dick's, and timed Gracie's pulse by his large gold watch, at which the children stared in awe. "Rather feverish, but an improvement. What do you say? It's nothing to worry about? Then we'll not worry about it. Why should we? Life brings a peck of worries in its train-why should we make the peck overflow-o-ver-flow?" With his head on one side, like a large yellow-fringed bird, he smilingly invited an opinion from Dick.

"Why, indeed?" said Dick.

"True-true. Why?" As though not he, but Dick, had made the inquiry. "We are getting along nicely, Mrs. Death, I am happy to say. In a short time we shall have our little patient running about again, playing with her companions, as well as ever. The troubles of children, eh, Mr. Remington?"

"Yes," said Dick, vaguely.

"A private word in your ear. Have we heard from our missing friend?"

"I believe not," replied Dick.

"Sad-sad-sad! But there is time-there is always time; and hope-there is always hope. She bears up."

"What else can she do? Knocking your head against a stone wall is not an agreeable diversion."

"Your head, my young friend, your head," said Dr. Vinsen, jocosely. Then turning to Mrs. Death, "What is this? A linseed poultice? Very proper. Let it be very hot. Our little patient makes a face. If she never has a worse trouble than a linseed poultice she is to be envied. Here is a bottle of medicine-a tablespoonful every four hours. I will call again to-morrow. You will not shut your door against me, eh?"

"No, indeed, sir. We don't shut the door against our best friends."

"So kind of you to say so." He paused to contemplate the group of children on the floor. "This" – with a comprehensive wave of his hand, so as to take in the whole of the room-"is a scene for an artist, and on the walls of the Academy would attract attention, even from the aristocracy."

"That wouldn't help them much," observed Dick.

"I don't know-I really don't know. It enlarges the scope, widens the sympathies-wi-dens the sym-pa-thies. Be happy, children, be happy." He went through the ceremony of shaking hands with Dick and Mrs. Death, and with an amiable smile, in which his halo seemed to take part, left the room.

"Dick," whispered Gracie. He bent towards her. "May I call you Dick?"

"Yes, Gracie."

"Wait a bit till my cough's over." She almost choked herself in her effort to finish the sentence before the cough commenced. It lasted a long time, but Dick, supporting her in his arms, was glad to hear that it was looser. Then she whispered to him again, "Don't let 'em hear us, Dick. Say Damn!

"Damn!" said Dick, without the least hesitation.

She sank back and smiled. It was the first time Dick had seen her smile, and it brought a wonderful light into her sallow face. Whatever may have been the reason for the singular request, she was evidently much relieved.

CHAPTER XXIII

FLORENCE AND REGINALD

The hands of all the clocks in Islington that kept correct time marked the hour of two as Dick stood before the door of 16, Park Street. His hand was on the knocker, when the door was opened, and Florence drew him into the house.

"Come upstairs, Dick," she said, panting as if she had been running. "I saw you from the window, and ran down. Oh, Dick, I am so glad to see you-so glad, so glad!"

On the landing of the first floor she stopped and kissed him. "Come in, Dick, come in."

They entered a comfortably furnished room, and by the aid of the better light he saw that she was struggling to keep back her tears.

"Are you well, Florence?" he asked anxiously.

"In health? Oh, yes," she answered. "But I am in trouble. That is why I sent for you."

"You did right. I am here to help you. You may rely upon me, Florence."

"I do, dear. Tell me first. How is my dear mother-and my dear father-how are they, Dick?"

"You know how they must be, Florence, loving you as they do. They are in the most terrible trouble about you. Uncle Rob has been hunting all over London for you. I don't wish to distress you, but they have not had a moment's rest. It is right that I should tell you this."

"You are quite right, dear. Poor mother and father! It cuts me to the heart, but I could not act in any other way. You shall judge, Dick-you shall judge-and if you condemn me-"

"Don't give way, Florence."

"I won't. I will be brave. I have been brave to do what I have done. Such a cruel thing, such a cruel, cruel thing! – but it was my duty-my duty! Oh, Dick, if you knew what love was, you would know of what it was capable. I may speak to you, dear, as a sister to a brother, may I not?"

"Yes, Florence, as a sister to a brother," he said, quietly.

"I can understand now so many things to which I was blind a year ago-what love will lead a woman to do, how it can harden the heart-"

"Harden the heart!" he cried.

"Was my heart not hardened," she said, piteously, "when I stole away like a thief from the parents who loved and cherished me, knowing, as I knew, that I was bringing misery upon them? Was my heart not hardened when, at the call of love, I trod love under my feet? My prayer was that my separation would not be long, and that, when I was free to speak, they would forgive me and take me to their hearts again. But what can repay them for the suffering I have inflicted upon them-how shall I atone for the wound my own hand has dealt?"

"They will not think of it, Florence, if all is well with you, if, when you are free to speak, they approve of what you have done."

"Do you doubt it, Dick?" she asked, her hand at her heart.

"No-on my soul, no!" he cried. "I could never doubt it-I-" He came to a sudden stop as his eyes fell upon the hand that lay at her breast. She saw the earnest gaze, but did not remove her hand. "That ring, Florence!"

"My wedding ring, Dick," she said, and pressed her lips upon it.

"You are married!"

"I am married, dear."

"To Mr. Reginald?"

"Yes; but that is not the name I bear."

He covered his face with his hands. He had long known that she was lost to him, but only at this moment did he fully realise it. And not alone that. He was overwhelmed by the thought of the damning evidence in his pocket, a virtual accusation of murder made by the murdered man himself against his son, against Florence's husband! An ashen face confronted her as he took his hands from his eyes.

"Dick!" she cried.

"It is nothing, dear, nothing." His eyes wandered around the room. "You are not living here alone?"

"No, Dick. My husband is in that room. Come and see him. Tread softly, softly!"

She opened the door, and he followed her into the room, and there, in bed, lay the son of Samuel Boyd, the man lying dead in his house in Catchpole Square.

"The doctor has given him a sleeping draught," said Florence, in a low tone. "He has been very ill, and no one to nurse him but I." With tender care she smoothed the pillow, and drew the counterpane over his shoulders, then stooped and kissed him. When she raised her face it was illumined. Love shone there, and a divine pity. There are memories which dwell in the mind till the hour of death, and this revelation of devoted love would dwell in Dick's mind till his life was ended.

"Is he changed much?" she asked.

"He is worn and thin," Dick replied. "Has he been ill long?"

"A good many days, but thank God! the doctor says he will get well. If he sleeps till eight or nine o'clock it will help his recovery greatly."

They re-entered the sitting room. Dick took a chair with its back to the light, and each looked at the other in silence awhile. Florence was the first to speak.

"Where shall I commence, Dick?"

"At the beginning," he replied. "Hide nothing from me if you are sure you can trust me."

"I am sure. There is no shame in an honest love, dear."

"None, Florence.

"It is eighteen months ago that Reginald and I first met. Mother and I were spending an evening with a friend when he came in and was introduced to us as Mr. Reginald, A few days afterwards we met him in the street, and he walked a little way with us, and asked if he might call and see us; and soon he became a regular visitor. How does love come, Dick? It is a mystery, but I know I used to think a great deal of him when he was away, and once or twice when we expected him and he did not come I felt unhappy. When I heard his voice I was happy again, and then I knew I loved him. One day he spoke to me, and my heart was filled with happiness when he told me he loved me. He said he feared he was wrong in speaking to me of love, for there was a secret in his life which he did not wish to disclose for a time; and he asked, if we entered into an engagement, that I should say nothing of it to my parents without his consent. I loved him, Dick, and trusted him, and I consented to everything he proposed. So I had a lover, and no one at home knew anything of it. Do not misjudge Reginald; he is the soul of honour, and I would as soon doubt the goodness of God as I would doubt the good faith and honour of the man I love. Do I hear him moving?"

She rose, and stepped softly to the bedroom. Returning, she said,

"No, he is sleeping peacefully. Oh, Dick, dear, you would pity him if you knew how he has suffered, and how little he deserves it. It is two months to-day that he spoke very seriously to me, in consequence of something you said. You will remember it, Dick. You were in a situation as clerk, and one night you told us that you were acting as clerk to Mr. Samuel Boyd of Catchpole Square, and that you intended to give up your situation because of the bad character he bore. He was a money-lender, you said, and had brought ruin on a number of poor people. Mother didn't like the idea of your throwing up your situation, but when you asked her if she would advise you to stop with such a man she said, no, she wouldn't, and that Mr. Samuel Boyd was a rascal. I didn't think anything of it at the time except that I was sorry for you. Reginald recalled that conversation, and warned me to prepare for a disclosure that might cause me to shrink from him. He had kept his name concealed, he said, because he was ashamed of his father, who was no other than the Mr. Samuel Boyd of whom such hard words were spoken at home. He told me of his life; how during his boyhood he was kept at school, and then sent abroad to learn languages; how he knew nothing of his father's doings, who described himself as a financier; how, his education being completed, his father summoned him home, and how, while he lived in Catchpole Square, he was shocked at the discovery of the kind of business his father was engaged in. It was so revolting to Reginald that he spoke his mind freely; they had quarrels, and the end of it was that he left his father's house, determined to get his own living in a more honest way. Wasn't it noble of him, Dick?"

"It was what an honourable man would do."

"When Reginald had told me all this, he said he was sure that if it came to the knowledge of mother and father that he was Mr. Samuel Boyd's son they would forbid him the house; and he begged me to give him a proof of my love by consenting to a marriage at a registrar's office, and to keep it a secret till he was in a position to furnish a home for me. I loved him so that I consented, and I promised, too, to keep it secret till he gave me permission to speak to mother and father. So we went one morning to a registrar's office, and were married. I wasn't absent from home more than two hours, and no one suspected the step we had taken. I can't say I was happy; keeping a secret of that kind from parents so kind and dear made me appear in my own eyes very ungrateful, but Reginald was so hopeful that I bore up, and prayed for the day to arrive when we could ask forgiveness. Do you condemn me, Dick? Do you condemn Reginald? Put yourself in his place, and say whether, if you loved a girl as he loves me, you could bear the idea of losing her?"

"I would lose my heart's blood first," said Dick. "But it was hard for Uncle and Aunt Rob."

"Yes, it was hard, and it often made me very wretched, but I couldn't break my promise to Reginald; that would have been a bad commencement for a young wife. The worst of it was that he wasn't getting along very well. 'I shall be getting desperate presently,' he said, 'unless things take a turn for the better. Our little home seems farther off than ever.' I cheered him up, and said there was plenty of time before us, and that I was sure there was some good luck in store for him. So things went on till a fortnight ago, when he said he was afraid he had done wrong in persuading me to a secret marriage. 'But I've an idea,' he said, 'and whatever comes of it I'll carry it out. Don't ask me what it is; it's something I must keep to myself.' Dick," said Florence, breaking off, "that night at home when you and mother were speaking against Mr. Samuel Boyd, did you do so purposely because Reginald was with us?"