Worthing has by this time pushed itself forward towards the van, but a
very short time ago it was a sleepy little place, made up of rows of
small houses, or villas planted in gardens, neater, trimmer, and more
flowery than you could easily find elsewhere. The turf was fine
delicate stuff from the neighbouring downs, in which an intruding daisy
or dandelion scarcely dared to show its head; it required a long and
patient search to find a morsel of groundsel for a bird; the tiniest
gardens were full of trim surprises--you went up mounds and round
corners, and came upon little ponds in which lived two gold fish, or
found a miniature Alpine settlement in a corner which was almost a
labyrinth. It was then chiefly inhabited by middle-aged maiden ladies,
kind good people, who were a good deal under bondage to their servants,
and their servants' meals, and every now and then were startled by some
terrible discovery of finding a trusted butler or gardener tipsy, as
they often were. A good deal of not unkindly gossip was talked, and
wafts of a stronger kind floating down from London, with some great
family which would come for quiet and retirement, caused little shocks
to thrill through the community. The houses were all neatly painted and
shuttered, the red brick pavement daintily clean, but even in winter
there was a curious languor in the air, so that Ibbetson walking from
the station felt an immediate discouragement as to the result of his
errand.
George Smith. Why do people not ticket themselves more clearly in the
midst of the thronging crowds of life? he was thinking, with a little
unreasonable vexation. How many George Smiths might there not be even
in this little feminine place? He went down to the post-office,
stepping on the brick pavement with the rueful conviction that he should
not have done so without first scraping his boots; and inclined to
apologise for the prints he left behind him. The very post-office
struck him with awe: the letters were in neat little bundles, an old
lady in a pink cap looked sternly at him through her spectacles;
Ibbetson had a ridiculous feeling that he would be a marked man for the
rest of the day.
Smiths. The list very soon became lengthy. Marine Parade, Ambrose
Place, Church Street, Broadwater, Seaview Cottage, Belle Vue House,
Esplanade--the old lady would have nothing to do with Christian names,
or whether men or women dwelt in these homes. "There may be a gentleman
among them," was all she would say, with a cautious regard to her duty
of keeping up an imaginary balance in the society of Worthing. Old
ladies generally at once succumbed to Jack, but this one proved an
exception. As he went out she asked him to be kind enough to shut the
door behind him.
At the end of three hours Jack was no nearer his object than when he
arrived, and was conscious that he was already regarded in Worthing with
the deepest suspicion. He had found it so unpleasant to knock vaguely
at doors and inquire what persons of the name of Smith lived within,
that he had once or twice put the question to boys or trades-people whom
he had seen outside, and the consequence was that rumours began to float
about the town, which, having always been as ready to catch rumours as a
cobweb is to catch flies, laid hold with great avidity of the idea that
a gang of burglars was calling at its innocent houses, with designs upon
the plate. Jack could not understand why he should be stared at by
little knots of people, even when he tried quite a new quarter, but the
consciousness of lively comment which we cannot hear is always
embarrassing, and if it half amused it half nettled him, so that he was
not sorry to turn into the hotel for luncheon. He took the waiter into
his confidence, but that personage was not suggestive. That there were
a good many Smiths about in the world, could hardly be said to throw a
helpful light; Ibbetson was disinclined to appeal to the police, and the
solitary specimen he saw looked as if he had been chosen for size rather
than wits. He pulled himself together, resisted a growing inclination
to take a nap, and set off once more on his search.
Near a church had sounded promising, but it was not very easy, he found,
to get far away from one of the two. Once or twice he fancied he had
hold of a clue, and followed it up perseveringly till it came to
nothing, as was invariably the case. And at last he found himself very
near the close of a short winter's afternoon, with no name left on his
list except one at Broadwater. Jack was not one of those people who
have an unlimited store of energy, and he looked with some disgust at
the road which lay stretching away before him, flat, muddy, and
uninteresting. That chalky country wants the rich colouring of summer
to put a little beauty into its life. Then, when the wind ripples
across the great corn-fields, and the larks are singing all above, and
the clouds throw swift velvety shadows upon the softly swelling downs,
and the pink dog roses clamber over the hedges, it is a pleasant
pastoral country along which you may wander for hours, and strike upon
picturesque old windmills, and quaint little village churches nestling
under the downs--but in grey winter, not much charm is left. Ibbetson
went doggedly along, neither looking left or right. He began to think
of Rome, which, indeed, was never far from his thoughts. Absence from
Phillis had shown him more and more how much nearer she had been to him
always than he had fancied, but surely a hundred times more now that she
was lost. His own folly seemed absolutely inexplicable. As a gloom
began to creep over the distance, he pictured her perhaps standing on
the Pincio watching the wonders of the sunset, the golden glow, the
grave and glorious purple of the domes, lying softly rounded against the
sky; the pale stretch of distance which, sweeping onward towards the
sea, before it reaches it seems to gain something of its immensity; the
pines of Monte Mario, the shadows of the darkening streets. Was she
perhaps leaning against the balustrade, over the violet-beds below? And
if so, who was with her? Phillis was not a person to gaze carelessly at
such a scene; and to gaze at it with another who is conscious of its
power, is sometimes the beginning of a life-long sympathy. Afterwards
we look back at what has so much impressed us, and our friend is there
too, has become a part of it for ever. Jack thought out this point
moodily. If it had been Mr Penington instead of Oliver Trent whose
misdealings he had been trying to bring to light, it is possible he
would have walked more briskly towards the low church tower which he saw
before him. As it was, he was haunted by the doubt, should he not go
back to Rome? It would be easy enough. Nothing kept him from it except
that new energy which seemed to impel him towards work. He was not
really ambitious. What had stirred him was a strong feeling that his
idle life was unworthy of himself and her--nay, perhaps more of himself
than of her. For when a man who believes that he is a responsible being
is once roused to face his idleness, it is apt to become a nightmare
under which he can no longer remain quiet Ibbetson longed to go, but he
knew very well that he must stay.
There is a pretty village green at Broadwater, and old trees cluster
round the church. Coming out of the churchyard was the sexton, and to
him Jack addressed the question which he had learned to vary, although
only for his own satisfaction. The old man looked at him doubtfully.
"There's a many Smiths about," he said, striking at once on the waiter's
truism. "I'm a Smith myself. Might it be something to his advantage,
or the other way, that was a bringing you?"
"For his advantage, I hope," Ibbetson said smiling. "But you are not
the man. George Smith, about five-and-twenty, sallow, with black hair."
"Ah! Comes from London?"
Jack looked at him eagerly. "Is he here after all?" he said quickly.
"Come, that's good news at last."
"What makes you so keen about it?" asked the old man curiously. "Well,
it don't matter to me. Them that he's with won't be very ready for you
to see him or to thank me for telling you where to find him, but Elias
Brooks shouldn't have tried to make mischief between me and the vicar,
this very day, too. I said I'd be even with him, and I will. There,
sir, that's the cottage, hard by. George Smith is lodging there, has
been there for weeks, ill, and if they tell you to the contrary, you
needn't believe them. I said I'd be even with him. Thank you, sir.
Don't you listen to nothing they tell you."
Jack walked through a little garden to Elias Brooks' door, and knocked
twice. He could see the old sexton hobbling away, unwilling perhaps to
be pointed out as guide, but still furtively watching. At the second
knock the door was partially opened, and a stout bullet-headed man
appeared.
"I wish to speak to Mr George Smith," said Ibbetson, placing himself so
near the door that it could not be closed.
"No one of that name here," said the man in a surly tone.
"Yes, he is here," Jack said quietly. "Perhaps he is called by another
name, but Mr Trent has seen him."
"Are you come from him?"
"No. But I know that Mr Smith is in your house, and I mean to see him.
I suppose you would prefer my doing it quietly to calling in the
police?"
Nothing could have been more cool or determined than his manner, and
Elias was evidently uncomfortable.
"I don't know who your Mr Trent may be," he growled, "nor Smith
neither. There's an invalid gentleman here by the name of James, and he
don't want no visitors."
"Which is it to be? Will you admit me, or shall I send for the police?"
asked Jack, unheeding.
"I tell you he's ill."
"Well, choose for yourself."