Miss Earle was sitting at the Murcester end of the London wire. While telegraph services in the UK were originally run by private companies, the Post Office took them over in 1870. So this is indeed a Post Office tale. (Reference) Her left arm rested on the table; her chin lay cradled in her hand; and her eyes were glued to the crawling, moon-faced clock on the wall at her right-hand side.
Up and down the long room the keys of the sounders clicked and jabbered and called. Backwards and forwards boys in uniforms hurried, carrying baskets of messages from clerk to clerk. To and fro a superintendent stalked, like a shopwalker at a sale—wanting only the frock-coated hall-mark of the trade. From time to time he shouted instructions, or, stooping over a man's shoulder, said something that the din stifled a yard away. The great gallery was a seething whirlpool of noise. But its jangling, tuneless roar was a fit accompaniment to Florence Earle's thoughts. For she had something to think about that August afternoon!
In the bosom of her blouse the letter—his letter—burned. The laboured, printed, carefully disguised characters were written on her heart. The words were the supreme appeal to her infatuation—her mental state the proof of that appeal's success. Once more she would succumb to Harry Shelton's pleading.
Allured, intrigued, and caught by the bank clerk's charm, she had consented to the secret engagement upon which he had laid such stress. He had urged that publicity would spoil his prospects; the bank, he said, had strict, grandmotherly views, even rules, against improvident marriages by its staff. They must wait—wait until his talents, forcing him out of the ruck, had secured him the promotion his merit made his due. Shelton's manner and eloquence would have convinced a clever woman. Small wonder that Florence Earle, fair-haired, fluffy, and hardly out of her teens, believed and trusted him. She had told no one; not even her own folk. And for a whole year she had lived in the paradise of fools. Then had come the crash.
Two months back Harry Shelton had bolted—bolted with five hundred pounds of the bank's money. The evening he had spent in rowing Florence up the long-disused canal, that was more beautiful than the sleepy Severn it fed. He had made love to her as only he, in her, imagination, could make it; had risen to heights which she, in her inexperience, had believed that no man living could attain. The next day the town rang with the news of his crime and flight.
For Florence the first weeks that followed Shelton's flight had been one ceaseless nightmare, with the same ever-recurring dream. She saw him captured, felt the cold clasp of the fetters on his wrists, endured the waiting in the cells, underwent the horror of the trial, heard the callous lips of the judge announce his sentence, and, finally, passed with him into the great prison where he must spend the best years of his life. Then, with sudden sharpness, had come the reaction. She began to believe that he had succeeded in evading pursuit; she even gloried in his cleverness; lost, at last, all sense of his wrong-doing. As her pride grew, so her confidence increased to quiet certainty. When he was safe he would send for her. He could not live without her. Had he not told her so a thousand beautiful times?
When, at the end of seven weeks, his letter came it found her calm. Quite simply, the expected had happened. He had need of her—she would go. That was all. "I am risking everything for your sake," it ran. "I am leaving London and coming to Murcester on Friday week by the train which arrives at two forty-five. Go to the boat-house on the canal, get out the boat, and I will join you there. I am penniless—so bring all the money you have, and all your valuables. We will row up to Fernhill Heath, catch a train for Birmingham, and then go to Southampton to take ship for Argentina. There we shall be able to get married. Don't fail me. But I know you won't do that." Then there was a post- script: "I wonder how my darling will like me in a beard?"
Shelton had known her only too well. Not for a moment did she hesitate. She had drawn all her money from the savings bank—the whole of her aunt's legacy of two hundred pounds, the nest-egg about which Shelton had so often rallied her. She had collected her trinkets, had hidden in the boat-house such few clothes as she could take from home without exciting suspicion. That very day, in ten minutes, as soon as the clock-hands crawled to the hour of two, she would leave Murcester post-office for good and all. Going down to the boat-house she would see her Harry once more.
Lost in the superb ecstasy of her daydream, she dwelt now in a fairyland of her own making. She was a thousand miles away from her surroundings. She did not hear the superintendent approaching; nor did she know that he stood beside her in silence for a while. But when he put his hand lightly on her shoulder she leapt from her seat with a cry of fear. "Oh, how you startled me!" she said.
The man stared at her frightened face. The cheeks were drawn, there were lines about the mouth, the eyes were eloquent of want of sleep. He shook his head.
"You want a rest, Miss Earle," he said, kindly. " You'd better take some sick leave, I'm thinking."
"It's nothing," she brought out, hastily. "Oh, There's nothing the matter with me, really. It's only toothache that has kept me from sleeping lately. I shall be all right in a day or two. As there was a lull I thought I'd rest my face a little, and was half asleep when you came. That's why you startled me so. Then, before he could say anything, she went on, quickly, "It's curious how slack the work is on the London wire to-day !"
The words were hardly out of her mouth when the key before her began to click its contradiction. M.R., M.R., it called. (M.R. is the code for Murcester.) The superintendent laughed. "They mean to give you something to do now," he said. "But take my advice, and a little sick leave to cap it !" He patted her shoulder with his kind, fat hand, swung his heavy body slowly round, and began his sentry-like parade again.
Florence Earle took up her pencil, gave the answering signal, and began to take down the message. The operator at the London end was in a hurry and it came at lightning speed—so fast that, writing with mechanical precision, it was not until all of it was on the flimsy pink paper that she realized the purport of the words. Then, reading it over to see that it made sense, the full horror of what she saw mastered her and made her its own. With a hand on her pulsing, hammering heart, her silent lips mouthed the written words. It was as if she had signed and sealed the death-warrant of the man she loved. This was what the message said :—
"Chief Constable, Murcester. — Shelton believed to be on board London train due Murcester at two forty-five. — Travers, Paddington."
She sat staring before her for three priceless minutes, incapable of movement, utterly broken and crushed. Then the revulsion came, driving her into activity. Her brain galloped. A dozen useless plans had birth and death in vain. Suddenly, with a swift intaking of her breath, she seized the pad before her. Off it she ripped the two copies of the horrible message, thrust the carbon paper under the next page, and wrote the telegram afresh. But instead of two forty-five she put five forty-five. She flung the altered forms into a wicker basket at her side. A watchful messenger hastened up. He put them into a little pouch, set it in a pneumatic tube, and pulled a lever. The pouch went hurtling down to the delivery room below. Five minutes later one of the copies would be in the chief constable's hands.
Florence Earle rose to her feet, walked across to the attendance-book, signed off duty, and went out of the door into the cloakroom immediately. A fine colour had conquered her pallor; a happy smile hid the tiredness of her eyes. She looked radiant, positively radiant, as she passed.
As she hurried through the narrow streets of the cathedral city she was the happiest woman alive. She was proud of her artifice; she gloried in the quick alertness of her scheme. But above all she was glad because she was no longer a useless, passive onlooker. She was an accomplice, she had helped Harry, she had done something which counted—something for which he would be grateful all the years of his life. Her strategy, and hers alone, had saved him. When the detectives met the slow train at a quarter to six she and Shelton would be speeding away in the opposite direction, winning on to the sea and the haven beyond. Oh, she had saved him—she had been of use! Without her ... He would never, never forget the greatness of his debt.
She came hot-foot to the little stile at the side of the country road. Beyond it lay the path to the clump of beeches and the tiny boat-house where his skiff swung, It was solitary as ever; there was no sign of life about the deserted, long-disused canal.
She put the key into the door of the tumble-down boat-house, turned it it, and went in. Out of a locker she took a little wicker basket. It held the few of her treasures that she had been able to bring without risk. From the bosom of her blouse she drew an envelope. It covered Shelton's letter and a number of folded bank-notes. Carefully she put it back again, reassured. Then she sat down on the locker and took her watch from her waistbelt. It was now nearly three. Harry would be with her almost any minute. With a sudden gasp of recollection, she snatched at the basket, set it on her knee, dived into it, and drew out a hand glass. Her hair rebelled distractingly; impatience helped it to be stubborn. Her fingers were all thumbs; she could do nothing with them. Even when her hair was something like decent there were other troubles. Her blouse had lost a button at the back. Harry would notice it at once. He always hated untidiness. And, gracious heavens, the band of her skirt showed! The hurried walk had left her a bundle of untidiness. It took her a quarter of an hour to remedy all these trivial but important things. Even then she was only half satisfied. But impatience soon put everything else out of mind. For Shelton, long overdue, had not come.
The fifteen minutes grew to thirty, then won on to forty-five, and still there was no sign of him. She began to wonder if she had made a mistake. Her eager eyes searched the letter once more. No; he had said Friday. There was no mistake. Her nightmare began again, for all her wakefulness.
She gave his absence every cause but capture. That she absolutely refused to believe in, even to think of. He was too smart, too clever, too dexterous. He had thought it wise not to leave his hiding-place just yet. Yes; that must be it. To-morrow another letter would reach her, explaining everything. After all, it didn't matter. She had endured eight long weeks. She could afford to wait a little longer for her life's happiness. But oh! she had so wanted to see him, to feel herself held in his arms once more, to hear him call her all the old endearing names again. There in the darkness of the boat-house she wept out her disappointment, drawing relief from her tears. Then she forced herself into action. She must do nothing to-day which could by any chance jeopardize to-morrow.
She looked at her watch. It was after four. She was on duty at five. Though she had never meant to go back again, it was now the only thing to do. So she thrust the wicker basket into the locker, hurried out, and fastened the door. Breathless, half dead with disappointment and fatigue, she reached the post-office a couple of minutes before five. She passed into the telegraph gallery and sat down at her appointed place.
Fate was kind to her there. The telegrams rolled in; a flood of Press work came. For nearly three hours she sat writing up news at express speed. A few minutes before eight there was a lull. Immediately her imagination, so long checked, began to riot. Then, tired out with work and worry, for the first time for weeks she lost courage. Her belief in Shelton's successful escape oozed out. She had no heart to hope. Depression, heavy and all-obsessing, gripped and held.
Suddenly (she had been resting her head on her hand) she sat bolt upright and listened. From far away the sound of shouting voices seemed to be carried along the street. The noise came closer, gathered strength, grew something like distinct. Outside, the roadway seemed alive. The pavements rang with the tread of running feet. The newsboys were shouting under the very windows now. They shouted all together and one cry mixed with another, indistinguishable still. Then, clear and shrill above them all, a voice came up to Florence as she sat:—
"Arrest of Harry Shelton! Capture of the bank thief! Speshul! Speshul edition!"
Duty, discipline, the habit of years, went from Florence in a flash. She tore across the long gallery, flew down the stone stairs, terror driving her with whips of fear. Out into the street she dashed, flung a boy a coin, snatched a still damp sheet from his hand. Every letter of the great headlines stabbed her heart. "Clever Capture by Belboro Detectives! Arrest of the Missing Bank Clerk!" These words, in huge, leaded type, dominated the first page.
Flurence staggered; then nerved herself to read on.
"Harry Shelton, the missing bank clerk, was arrested at Murcester this afternoon."
This afternoon? Then he had come after all. And she had failed him. She had made some awful mistake. It was her fault. She had misread his letter. Beside herself with despair, she read on to know the truth. But the worst was yet to come.
"The capture was effected on Shelton's arrival by the five forty-five train this afternoon. From a statement made to us by the guard, we understand that he left London by the express due at two forty-five, but for some reason or other (probably suspecting that he had been watched at Paddington) he changed into the slow train at Oxford, due here three hours later. The detectives were waiting for him on the platform."
Florence Earle stumbled forward with half-shut eyes. Her trembling, outstretched hands still held the paper close. She was hatless in the roadway; a gathering, curious crowd watched her as she went. There was a buzzing in her ears. Her head shook, her lips twitched. No sense of time and place remained. She only knew he was caught, and that it was her fault. Suddenly—perhaps because at times of greatest stress the human mind falls back on commonplaces, too tired to find new phrases for its grief—she lifted up her head, stared upwards, and whispered dully, "All is lost!" Then she collapsed in a heap.
But she was wrong. All was not lost. Fate, Providence, Kismet, or what you will, had intervened. Florence Earle was saved.
Annotation by Nina Zumel