Page:Once a Week, Series 1, Volume II Dec 1859 to June 1860.pdf/384

 21, 1860.] due investigation they felt that they could not dispute the evidence, and paid the money.

that wilderness which lies west of Brompton, at the time we speak of, there existed a Lilliputian cottage, wherein dwelt George Richardson, lately managing and confidential clerk, now junior partner in a merchant’s house in the city. One evening, in NoverberNovember [sic], 185—, home came George by the buss, and startled his little wife by announcing that he must start on a secret mission to Leghorn the next day, events of importance connected with the business had occurred there requiring the presence of one of the partners, and the lot had fallen upon him as the junior in respect of age as well as of position in the firm. A steamer was to leave the river the next evening.

“Therefore,” said George, “get my things ready, and I will take them with me to the office to-morrow morning, for I shall not have time to return here.”

“Shall I not see you again after you leave home to-morrow morning?” asked Bessie Richardson, anxiously.

“No, darling, you must wish me good-bye, then.”

Bessie’s face put on a disappointed look.

“Why, you silly girl, the parting must come sooner or later, and why not in the morning as well as the evening?” said he, smoothing her hair caressingly.

Bessie did not see the force of this reasoning. To a woman a good-bye is no good-bye at all, unless it occurs at the very last moment.

However, it could not be helped it seemed, so the little woman hustled about, and got his things to rights, and stood in the little dining-room with the tears welling up into her eyes. The next morning, when the cab drove up to the door, there was a thick fog, and Bessie felt alarmed, as women do at a parting, with a vague, undefined dread of some calamity.

“How soon shall I hear from you, George?”

“In a month, I hope; but it may be six weeks, or even more, so don’t be uneasy. I will write, you may be sure, the first opportunity, and I may be back myself before my letter.”

“I wish you were not going in this fog.”

“Foolish girl!” kissing her. “The steamer won’t start in a fog; don’t alarm yourself about that. Besides, it’s only the morning frost; when the sun gets up, it will be bright and clear.”

She bore the parting better than could have been expected; for, truth to tell, she did not mean that to be the final one. In her secret little heart she had determined to make an expedition to the City, and have the real good-bye at the proper time, and she was looking forward joyfully to the surprise and pleasure it would be to George. So she put up a cheerful face to his, and returned his last nod from the cab with a smile.

But when, as the day advanced, the fog, instead of clearing, increased in density, and she perceived that her journey to the City was impracticable, then the reality of the parting first came full upon her. It was their first separation, and the suddenness of the thing, and the distance, and the uncertainty of the post, and finally the breaking up of her little plan for a final and overwhelming good-bye, overcame her, and she retired to her room, and was no more seen for several hours.

By afternoon, the fog was so thick in the City and on the river, that Richardson felt certain the steamer would not start. “However,” thought he, “I will have my trunk taken down, see the captain, and sleep on board, if necessary, to be ready directly he is able to get under weigh.”

George had literally to feel his way through the narrow lanes to the river; by-and-by he found the wharf gates, but all beyond was a blank, save where some red spots of lights, looking strangely high and distant, told him of lamps enveloped in the misty cloud. Confident, however, in his knowledge of the place, but in reality deceived in all its bearings, on he went, till, in a moment, his foot trod only on the empty air, and he fell headlong—a splash—and the black river closed over him—one struggle to the surface—a desperate attempt to strike out in his thick great coat and water-logged boots, and George Richardson was swept away by the remorseless tide only to be yielded up a corpse.

A month passed away. Bessie was daily expecting the promised letter; but the postman passed the door, or only knocked to bring any other but the looked-for envelope. George would surely be at home himself, and allay her anxiety by his presence in a day or two. Did he not say he might return before a letter could reach her?

Six weeks, and no letter. Bessie became really anxious; away she went to the senior partner: he was somewhat uneasy himself; but, so far from adding to her anxiety, he assured her there was yet no cause for alarm. They had expected to hear before from Richardson certainly, but it was quite possible his voyage might have been longer than they calculated. His letter might have miscarried, or he might be at home himself any day; in short, the good old man almost reassured the poor little wife, and she went home more tranquil in her mind than she had been for many a day.

Two months had now elapsed, and it could no longer be concealed that there was grave cause for apprehension; but forasmuch as poor Bessie on every trifling occasion—to wit, when George travelled by railway—pictured to her mind the most awful accidents, or if he was half-an-hour late for dinner, felt a calm certainty that something had happened, so did she now resolve that nothing could be wrong, in proportion as real reasons for alarm increased, insomuch that as they became almost certainties to the reflecting masculine mind,—so did they diminish to this unreasoning little woman. In fact, she dared not admit the idea into her mind; she resolutely excluded it, stedfastly clinging to that lightest bubble of hope in her sea of doubt, and resolved that darling George would be restored to her arms in good time. It could not be in Nature or in Providence that one she loved so well should never look upon her face again. So her heart reasoned.

At length, however, arrived the steamer itself without Richardson. It was then ascertained that no one answering his description had sailed