“I shall always remember this dear day,” Florence said, as they sat over their last little dinner at home.
“That’s a good thing,” Walter said, “and so will I, dear wife. When I come back we’ll have another like it in memory of this one’s success.” Then he remembered Alfred Wimple. “I should like to know who that girl was,” he thought; “wonder if she’s the daughter of another tailor he doesn’t want to pay, and if I met him to-morrow I wonder what lie he would tell me about her—he always lied, poor beggar.” And this shows that his thoughts were sometimes not as charitable as his words.
The next day very early Walter departed for Southampton. Florence went to see him safely on board.
“We shall have the good little journey together,” he said dismally, for he was loth enough to leave her now that the parting time had come.
But it seemed as if the train flew along the rails in its hurry to get near the sea, and the journey was over directly. There was all the bustle of getting on board; and almost before she knew it, Florence was on her way back to London alone. As if in a dream she walked home from the station, thinking of her husband watching the sea as it widened between him and England. She was glad she had seen the ship, she could imagine him seated at the long table in the saloon, with the punkahs—useless enough at present—waving overhead, or in his cabin, looking out through the porthole at the white crests to the waves. Yes. She could see all his surroundings plainly. She gave a long sigh. She was a brave little woman, and had tried so hard not to break down before Walter, though in the last moment on board, when she had felt as if her heart would break, she had not been able altogether to help it. And now, as she walked home in the dusk without him, she felt as if she could not live through the long months of separation.
“But I will—I will,” she said to herself while the tears trickled down her face; “only it is hard, for there is no one in the world like him, no one—no one; and we have never been parted before.”
Every moment, too, she remembered, took him farther away. She told herself again and again how much good the journey would do him, how glad she was that he would get the change; but human nature is human nature still, and will not be controlled by argument. So she quickened her pace, resolving not to give way till she was safe in the darkness of her own room, hidden from the eyes of the servants, and then she would let her feelings have their fling.
She looked up at the house with a sigh. It would be so still without Walter. There was a flickering light in the drawing-room. Probably the servants had put a lamp there, for the days were growing shorter; it was nearly dark already. The children would be in bed, but they were certain not to be asleep, and she thought of the little shout of welcome they would give when they heard her footstep on the stair as she went up to kiss them. She let herself in with Walter’s latchkey—she kissed it as she took it from her pocket, and nearly cried again—and then, having entered, stood still and wondered. There in the hall were two square boxes—boxes of the sort that were used before overland trunks came into fashion, and when American arks were unknown. They were covered with brown holland, bordered with faded red braid, and corded with thick brown cord. Stitched on to each cover was a small white card, on each of which was written, in a hand Florence knew well, Mrs. Baines, care of Mrs. Walter Hibbert. While she was still contemplating the address, a servant, who had heard her enter, came up.
“Mrs. Baines has been here since eleven o’clock, ma’am,” she said; “she’s in the drawing-room, and has had nothing to eat all day except a cup of tea, and a little toast that nurse made her have at four o’clock. She’s been waiting to see you.”
It was evident that there had been some catastrophe. Florence went wearily upstairs, and, after a moment’s hesitation to gather courage, entered the drawing-room.