Chapter LI. Mrs Holmes.

Otago Witness, Issue 1704, 19 July 1884, Page 24

Chapter LI. Mrs Holmes.

It was a hot summer afternoon, and the scorching sun was baking fiercely down on a narrow back street of a very unfashionable district of London. ' ' ' This back street was opposite a long row of mews, and ' the close atmosphere assailed tbe nostrils, strongly impregnated 'with the savour of stablest Horses and, groom's were ever present 1 there, and a disorderly wife and a child or two, were generally looking in a contemplative lazy way at the operation of the rubbing dowa or watering the horses. The houses opposite were small, mostly let in tenements or lodging-houses, and in one of these lodging-houßes on this summer afternoon two young women were sitting working. This particular lodging-bouse belonged to a Mrs D,odds. Mrs D,odds was the widow (and always highly respectable, she was fond of assuring her lodgersj of a departed job-master, 1 and she had chosen this situation, she frei quently said, " because the. smell of the horses reminded her of poor TbVf ragrance that the late poor p,odds had carried about with him no doubt had 'tender recollections for his widow, but it ' was ' certainly trying to her lodgers, the windowß closed all day, still the taint came in, and, in consequence of this peculiarity Mrs JJodd'g lodging-s^were nqt popular, a,nd consequently were cheap, " The two young women, her present lodgers, were sitting with the windows closed, and the hot sun was shining in through the duskytinted originally white blinds. The Broall room was close, and one of tbe young women, who wore a widow's cap, was bending over a small table in a corner writing, while the the other wa» embroidering coloured flowers on a piece ef art-tinted satin, Presently the young woman writing at the table turned ro md, and gave a tired sigh, and as she looked up surely those dark, wistful, beautiful eyes were familiar to us. " This is done at last, Bessie " -'• weary tone," but T "—' „ . back!"--" . . „, oae said, m a _ -n^pose it will only, be sent . ~~0 i,ne other's." | It was Florence Blunt who spoke, and now 1 Bessie Chester answered.

"It is tiresome, and they publish ouch rubbish," she said, " but I am sure you are clever, Flo. But how tired you look, dear." And Bessie got up and laid her hand on her sister's shoulders*.

" I am a little 'bit tired," answered Florence, trying to smile. " It is such a horrid, close place this," went on Bessie, "it's just killing you, Florence !"

" Let us try to bear it a little while longgr, dear," answered Florence. " It's safe No one will' look for us "here, and it'a a refuge to me, Bessie, a refuge after all I've gone through !" And tears gathered in Florence's eyes as she leaned her head back against her sister.

"Well, you bad your own way Flo. Of course, I don't protend to have all your fine feelings, but to my taste to have gone with Sir Robert, and got divorced from that brute, would have been a happier life than you have chosen. Hundreds of women run away from their husbands and get divorced, and if anyone had a good excuse it would be you. Why should you set up to be better than other people?" '' " I don't set up to be better than other people, Bessie, for I know very well I am not," said Florence sorrowfully ; " I am not a good woman, but putting the sin aside I could not have borne to see Robert look at me as I bave seen men look at the woman they once had loved J No, anything is better— poverty, misery, anything — than shame !" •• Well, my dear, have your own way; I promised, and I'll keep my word, never to tell Sir Robert where yoti are ; J'm sorry for him, poor fellow, and it's a great position, and he promised me faithfully he would marry you as soon as he could. '?-'

" Yes, after months of anxiety and waiting; after seeing his love change, perhaps, and his heart grow cold to me. Bessie, it is best as it is — I married Harry for the most contemptible motives, and I mußt bear the punishment— l shall never willingly see Robert Blunt again." ' " And yet you' care for him?" said Bessie. • " Tco well to ruin his life," answered Florence, in a low tone, and she ro3e from her seat and went to one of the windows and opened it. o • ' • 1 " The air is Btifling," she said, and then after a few moments' silence she turned round and spoke in a different tone to Bessie. X About that money, Bessie dear," she said, " I think we shall be obliged to get some more to-day ; the rent is to be paid to-morrow, you know, and we have only a few pounds left. • " Very well, • I can go to the man," said Bessie, rising and putting away her work; "he said we could baye money on tbe bracelet whenever we liked.' You don't think of selling it outright, Florence, do you? He said he knew a gentleman who would give seven hundred pounds for it 'any day."

• " We need not part with it yet at anyrate," replied Florence, gently. "We have had fifty pounds. Will you get another fifty to-day, Bessie, and I hope before that is done some of these things I have written will be accepted." And Florence sighed. "Shall I go .'now, then?" asked Bessie, briskly. She was glad of the little change, perhaps; she was weary of this dull, close room, but she was quite loyal to her sister. 1 " If you will, dear," said Florence, " but be sure to put on a thick veil, Bessie, and take a cab, do not go in an omnibus or the train." "All right," Bftid'^ Bessie, and she went to put on her hat while Florence stood there gazing vaguely out of the window at the steaming horses, at the rough men and the idle women, with her thoughts far away on the Sreen hills by Weirmere, where she had spent er happy girlish days. She sighed deeply ; sbe was thinking of her fond, proud father ; what would He have said if< he could have ever dreamed that his darling would have lived in a place like this ? Would have bidden her head there, glad to escape from the misery and degradation of her married life

"Poor father," she sad, softly and gently. Florence, indeed, had always been most tenderly attached to her father; and the misery of her life bad begun at the time of bis untimely death. Then Bhe thought of Robert,his long love and faithfulness, and her own madness.

" Where are you, my dear, my dear," she whispered below her breath, "on whose living face I shall never look again ?" But as she ppoke sbe drew from the bosom of her black dress a small, soft, leather oase, and when' she opened it there was Robert, smiling,' handsome : a man with a noble, honest face — and the eyes were looking at her with the same kind look she -remembered and loved so well.

She kissed the photograph, and hid it again on her breast, and then Bessie entered the room j ready to j?o out. [ Bessie was plainly dressed in black, and she told Florence to lie down in the little bedroom ! at the back and try' to get some rest while sbe [ was away. ; "Take care of yourself, my darling," she | said, " I'll sbon be back," and Florence pro- ' mised to take' her advice, and ' Bessie went f cheerfully away. ' '. ' She walked, 'down the narrow street, and . then down 1 another narrow street, which opened i into a third. ■ The sun was hot, the air under i the green trees in the' parks or in the pleasant ; country lanes pure and beautiful. Here it was , close, almost stifling, with a Warm thick haze, on. which seemed to float the taint of many impurities. Bessie was glad to call the first hansom cab she saw, and found some pleasure in the long drive that' she bad to take before sbe reached her proposed destination. This destination was a large jeweller's shop, in a somewhat obscure district of London. Here Bessie bad deposited Florence's diamond bracelet, and the master of the establishment had assured her it was worth seven hundred pounds, whicih was really much, below its value, on account of the remarkable beauty and brilliancy of the stones/. The jeweller had advanced Bessie fifty pounds on it, and had retailed the bracelet, after giving Jessie ah acknowledgment for it, and telling her it would be quite safe in his strong-room. It bad been left in the name of Mrs Holmes, and the correct address, where, Florence and Bessie then lived. Bessie accordingly desired' her cabman .to drive to this jeweller's in such and .such a street. The cabman found the street without a,ny difficulty, and Bessie pat out her head to look for the shop. She looked and looked and pould not see it. She thought they must have driven past it, and $he ordered the cabman >.to drive back; he did drive back and forward' again, and Bessie could see nothing of the shop. Bhe grew sick and faint. Had she mistaken the street ? No, the name of the street and the name of the master of the shop and the number were all printed quite plainly on the receipt which she held in her hand. Then she got out of the cab. paid th<» — but told him to follow her as "^ • him again. SheJo"*-^* «" an > shop:)- »- J •" , - 1 - 0 might want ~ »«u at the numbers of the , ~uu sne came at last to the number she held on the printed paper in her hand. She rubbed her eyes, she gasped for breath : no jeweller's shop was there, a neat fresh ladies' fancy work shop had appeared in its stead. Almost breathless, Bessie ran into this shop. 11 Was there not a jeweller's shop here ?" Bhe

asked of the smart young serving-woman behind the counter.

"Yes, madam," answered this young woman, pleasantly ; "we took it with the fixtures from Mr Brombridge, the jeweller."

"And where has he gone?"' interrupted Bessie, pale and breathless. "He sailed last week for Australia, madam " replied the young woman ; "he didn't do very well here, but lately he got a little money somehow, and he Bold the shop and house above and *he furniturb at a valuation to my mother. But I'm afraid, madam, you are not well? Will you sit down, the day is bo very close ?"

Bessie staggered to a seat and sat down and wiped her damp brow, while a deadly faintneßs seemed to overpower her. The loss of this bracelet meant starvation to them, Bhe knew well ; starvation, or a long bitter struggle with penury and despair. She drank the water the kind young shopwoman brought her, and she murmured her thanks, and then went out into the street and called her cab, bidding the man drive her to the street next to where Bhe and Floreuce lived.

Oh J that miserable drive in despair ! How could she tell Florence ? And Bessie wrang her hands, and heavy tear-drops streamed down her pale cbeeka. . She scarcely knew how she got home. She dared not speak when' she went into the little room, for Mrs Dobbs was there busy preparing the tea which Florence bad ordered to be ready for her sister's return, Florence noticed how ill Bessie looked, and thought she" was exhausted by the heat, and she hastily got her some wine and made her drink it. Then when the sisters were alone Bessie fell sobbing on Florence's breast, and told her direful tale.

" We— we— will starve 1" sobbed Bessie, and Florence was also much overcome. , " What can we do?" asked Bessie, in despai*. " We must trust in' God," answered Fid"' rence, after a moment's silence, " Surely He will not let us Btarve."

I To be concluded in our next).