The Stourbridge Observer, Cradley Heath, Halesowen & District Chronicle.
Stourbridge, West Midlands, England, 1884-12-27 00:00:00

ONE CHRISTMAS NIGHT

CHAPTER 111.

NOT COMO back!" I said. "Why where can she
be?"
"She's at Mrs. Grainger's, sir. Mr. Canyon spoke
to her as she was going out, and she said ,he should
not be long, but she has not come in."
"I will go for her," I said, rousing myself and
shivering, for it seemed to me that the night haa
become very cold. "You need not sit up, Mary."
"cry well, sir. Supper is all laid, and the fire
male up."
"I'm glad of that. It is a cold night."
The girl went straight upstairs, glad to be re.
le :sed, and I threw on my overcoat and went out in
search of Hope. Something has happened. Mrs.
Grainger must be very ill—perhaps dead. I shivered
-again as I thought of it—our dear old friend—and
Hope was detained. At my own gate I almost ran
into the arms of a woman who was standing there
looking up at the house. I knew her at once' for
an ill-doing, drunken creature, who kept her hus-
band's house and her miserable chi:dren in a stite
,of wretchedness better imagined than descrited.
Hope had been kind to her,—who in the village had
Hope not been kind to? and she evinced a dog-like
affection for her that was pathetic to see, though my
darling's efforts had not met with much success as
far as her reform -tion was concerned.

"What are you doing here, Nannie ?" I asked her.
"Go home, there's a good soul."
"Yes, sir," she answered, in an odd voice. "I'm
after no harm, Mr. Westover. I'm not drunk,
air."

"I'm glad to know it, Nannie. What is it ?"
"I was waiting to see the missis go in, sir."
"What for ?"

I don't know, sir. Perhaps I fancy things,
often do, God knows devils and wild beasts and
such. But I saw her; I'm sure of it."
"'Wien ?"
"The clock went half-past seven as I spoke to
her, Mr. Westover.''
I iJust the time she had gone out; Nannie had seen
her leave the house. I don't know why I was glad
to know that she had done so; but I was.
"Which way did she go, Nannie? She has not
come back. lam afraid Mrs. Grainger is worse."
All the village knew Mrs. Grainger, and she, too,
was a friend of this poor degraded creature, so I
could speak of her even to such a one as Nannie.
"That's just it, sir," the woman replied. "Which
way did she go? I saw her there, standing right
under the lamp; her face was all white and wild,
and there was blood upon it."
" Blood ! Nannie, do you know what you are
saying? You have been drinking; go home, there's
a good creature, and don't talk nonsense."
"As Heaven hears me, I haven't, Mr. Westover!
As I am a living woman, I have tasted nothing
since yesterday—not a single drop—and I saw the
mistress just where you are standing now! She
startled me, and I didn t see which way she
went. I was going to speak to her, and she was
gone."
"She is at Mrs. Grainger's, Nannie. lam ariaid
something is wrong there. She might have heard of
it before you saw her, and did not like to tell me.
Don't hang about here, there's a good woman. Go
home now, and keep sober ; Mrs. Westover will
be very glad to think you have been good all
to-day."
Nannie stood aside and let me pass, with a
strange look upon her face. She seemed afraid of
something, and I saw her linger and look again at
the house before she finally turned and wont off in
the direction of her miserable home. I went on to
"The Willows," and found ever) thing dark and shut
up for the night. It was an early household, and it
was late for Rippleton. My heart sank to its lowest
ebb as I gazed at the shuttered windows and saw
not a gleam of light anywhere. I must have news
of her, e en at the risk of disturbing Mrs. Grainger,
and I knocked cautiously at the side door which
was nearest the servants' part of the house. Some
one came almost immediately—the cook—and stared
at me in amazement.
"Is there anything the matter, sir ? " she asked.
"My wife !" I gasped out. "Mrs. Westover—where
is she ? "

"She isn't here, sir," the woman said, and I think
she thought I had been drinking, for she shrank
• back a little as I pressed forward to the door.
"She hasn't been here this evening at all. I heard
missis say that she supposed you had comp-my at
home, and Mrs. Westover couldn t come. She was
disappointed, was missis, but she wouldn't let any of

us e-o-me ro tid to see for. her."

- _
"But she did come; she left home at half past
• seven to come here," I said, helplessly, feeling as if
the ground and the sky were going together in one
vast whirl of confusion.
Mrs. Grainger's maid came down while I was
ta'king to the cook. Her mistress had heard the
knock and wanted to know who was there, and she
was as much amazed as the other had been. Mrs.
• Grainger was very well indeed for her, she said,
and had been expecting Hope all the evening, but
nothing had been seen or heard of her.
What could I do? There was =thing for me but
to go back again. what had become of my darling?
Where had she gone to? She had spoken to me in
her usual bright fashion when she brought me my
tea, and to Canyon as well as he let her out, and
Nannie had seen her all pale and with blood—bah!
that was all nonsense. Nannie had seen her out,
• that was all, and had fancied the rest.
My own house seemed like a grave as I opened
the door with my pass key and went in again.
Perhaps Hope had come in while I was out. If
-she had, how foolish all my fears would seem.
There was no Hope there. The fire was burning
brightly in the breakfast parlour, where our supper
was waiting for us, and everything in the room
seemed to speak of my darling, but her place was
vacant. I went upstairs and knocked at the
Canyons' door. After a little while Mrs. Canyon
• came out in her dressing-room, and I fancied there
were traces of tears upon her face.
"I was not asleep," she said. "But I had to
-put something on. Do you want Frank? He is
-asle€ p."
Either of you," I said. "lam alarmed—un-
necessarily so, perhaps; but Hopeis not in the house.
Do you know where she went to?'
"Surely, to Mrs. Grainger's ; she told me she was
going; and Frank let her out"
"I know—l know, but she did not go. She has
not been there ; I cannot find her." - - -

Mrs, Canyon's face caught something of my
-terror, and she sat down on the nearest chair.
"You frighten me," she said. "Where can she
le ? She must have met with an accident."
"I amafraid so. But when and. where? Nannie
Burt saw her come out of the house, but did not
14P0 which way she turned. I have been to 'The
Willows' and--"
I could not go on. Excitement and alarm were
telling upon me, and Mrs. Canyon roused herself to
-elver me.
"Don't be cast down, Mr. Westover," she said.
'Drink some wine; I will call Frank."
° With a woman's intuitive knowledge of what was
wanted, she brought me a glass of wine from the
sideboard. And put it before tie with a biscuit.
"Drink that," she said, "and eat if you can. I
Will get Frank up in a minute."
I drank the wine, and found myself wondering
in the midst of my own distress what it was that
was worrying her; she had always seemed such a
happy, bright-hearted little woman, and she had
been certainly weeping—grieving alone in the silence
and solitude of the night. It had nothing to do
With my trouble ; her astonishment was genuine when
I told her what had happened, and she looked me full
in the face when she spoke of Elope.
Canyon had put on some clothes, and was standing
by my side before I thought it possible he could
bare waled.
"I don't understand," he said. " Clara has
brought me some story about Mrs. Westover being
—l3(ing lost; she is surely mistaken. What is the
mat ter E"
His voice was shaky and he trembled; but there
was nothing in that; he had been overworking him-
self at that mound in th 3 garden and he htid been
suddenly roused to be told an almost incredible story.
"It is true," I said; "which way did she go when
you let her out ?"
"I'm hanged if I know," Canyon replied, staring
at me with a wondering look. "I opened the door
for her, and I undt-rstood her to say that she was
going to Mrs. Grainger's. I never looked after her;
she was out of sight in a minute."
"So she would be of course. She never went to
4 The Willows.' I have just been there. They know
nothing of her. What—what shall I do? What
an I do E"

"Search for her everywhere," Carlyan said.
41 Don't be downhearted, my boy. She can't be far
off. If she has met with any accident—ani that is
what you have to fear most, I think—we 511411 be
sure to get news of her somewhe:e. Wait. five
minutes for me, and then we will go out and seek
for her."

don't think he kept me five minutes, and we
went out into the night to look fordimstl.r.cdtar one
, ling
and . We
were within the London police
fairly intelligent policeman was eni rally to be
men
found about our village. The local ge
the
whole willing and officious, but stupiZer/e•Teonne of
them had se^n anything of Hope and all we could
do was to set them to search and send the news of
her 'disappearance to headquarters. As for us,
.we walked ourselves stupid through that long night,
and sent scouts all round the neighbourhood without
the slightest gleam of success. I don't know why I
new it was hopeless, but I did. The conviction
Was in my heart that my darling had gone out of
121 Y life for ever when the door had closed upon her
that evening. •
It was so. From that hour Hope might have sunk
:into the earth for anything that any living soul
could hear of her. I cannot recall what passed in
'the dull awful days that went by, as if each one was
'a Year, a,ter hut terrible night. I remember things
:pat passed like a man in a strange dream—always
hoping
and waiting, and always .disappointed. I
have a dim re,ollection of Veing told that our next-
doer neigh, ours whose garden adjoins ours, were
!t °ing to leave Ilippleton, and of their little dog,
Which had attached itself to my lost Hope in a
CUjtheir3 Glegree'
having been found nosily killed in
gar.len. It was a cdd little creature - a
Illengrel—h.it very tvieky and ,iever. and from Ow

day of our wedding it had taken a fancy to Hope.
It would have been given to her by the lady who
had it, but that it really belonged to a son of
hers who was a', &a; but it made our houso its
home almost as much as it did its own master's.
Some one had maimed it teiribly and er elly I was
told, and it was feared it would die, but its
mistress was going to take it away with
her and try what could be done with it.
I suppose I was very cowardly and weak-
hearted ; but my trouble was more than I
could bear, and I sank under it, falling into a low
prostrate state in which I believe 1 should have
died, but for Mr. and Mrs. Canyon. They took
charge of me and my house, and tended me as a
brother and sister would have done doing all in
their power to rouse and Interest me. .1 think the
first thing that really brought n.e back to my senses
was Mrs. Grainger's death. She had been getting
worse ever since the shock of Hope's loss, and she
died suddenly a few days before Christmas. I was
a richer man by her death by a good many thou-
sands, which should have been my wife's, but what
were riches to me now—what was anything in all
this wide world?

We were to bury her on Christmas Day. She
chose the day herself. It had been her Wedding
day, and the melancholy of the occasion suited well
with our sad thoughts. The Canyons were ;ust as
sad and cast down over what had happened as I was.
Mrs. Canyon was pale and thin, and looked like a
woman out of whose life every joy had departed;
and his glossy hair was turning grey. I noticed it
when at length I roused myself to pay the last
tribute of love and ai; ection to our old friend; and
reproached myself with having been selfish and
cowardly in my affliction.
I could not sleep that Christmas Eve. We had
been so happy on the last one—Hope and I—and so
full of innocent projects for the future and plans for
the joyous time that was to come to us. To lie in
bed was impossible, and after making ineffectual
efforts to sleep, each one more abortive than the last,
I got up and went out into the garden. It was
pretty in its white covering, for the snow lay pure
and fresh on everything, and sparkled in the moon-
light on every bush and twig like a million jewels.
I did not care for the garden now; the improvements
had long been finished, Carlyon had taken care of
that, and everybody said it was very pretty, but it
was all nothing to me. rlt was as light as day out-
side here in the flood of silver light that seemed to
turn the whole landscape into fairyland. Lights
twinkled in windows afar off, bat there was no sign
of any living thing near me. The bells rang out on
the night air with a rush of jubilant melody, telling
the sleeping world that the day of days in our
Christian Church—the day when the star shone over
Bethlehem—had dawned once again upon the world,
and Hope was standing by my side in the silvery
light, looking at me with sweet, sad eyes, as I had
seen her look a hundred times in life.„