A FORGOTTEN COAT
Lady Jane Carruthers was one of those elderly ladies who are never
quite well, yet seldom actually ill. She was a great believer in what
she called "air."
"If you breathe the right air you're all right; and if you breathe the
wrong air you're all wrong, and there's the whole science of medicine
in a nutshell; believe me, my dear, because I know; mine's the
teaching of actual experience. So long as I'm well in a place I stay
there; I know the air's right; but so soon as I begin to feel a little
out of sorts I know the air has ceased to be right, I go away at once;
the consequence is that there are very few people who move about as
much as I do."
It chanced that, in one of her pursuits after the right air, Lady
Jane went to Littlehampton; and, being there, with nothing to do
except breathe the right air, by way of doing something she sent for
her nephew, the Hon. Robert Spencer. She dispatched to him this
telegram--
"Come down to me this afternoon. I wish to speak to you."
When he received the telegram the Honourable Robert pulled a face; he
happened to have a good deal to do. His impulse was to wire back--
"Can't come. Speak on."
However, he felt that the result of such a message might be
disastrous; so, instead of sending it, he obeyed his aunt's commands,
and went down to Littlehampton.
On his arrival, in response to his inquiries, Lady Jane informed him
that the local air was still on its trial; she was not yet quite sure
if it was, or was not, all right. It was true that she had had a touch
of indigestion; but she was not certain if that had anything to do
with the lobster salad she had had for luncheon three days running, or
with some peculiarity in the neighbouring atmosphere. It was true that
too much ozone was a disturbing influence; on the other hand she
admitted that yesterday she had eaten rather more of the salad than
she had meant to eat. Certainly the local lobsters were delicious; she
had determined so much; but, for the present, the question of the
quality of the local air was in suspense. The nephew knew his aunt. He
was aware that if he asked her if there actually was anything which
she wished to speak to him about she would look at him with chilly
gaze, and inquire if she had not been speaking to him on matters of
the most serious import already. Was he a Christian? Was he void of
all human feeling? Did he take no interest in her health? Then what
did he mean? As he did not wish to be asked what he meant in a tone of
voice he had heard before, he listened to her ladyship doubting, now
the lobsters, now the air, with the best grace in the world; for the
Honourable Robert Spencer really was an excellent fellow. And, in
course of time, his virtue was rewarded.
After dinner--at which there was no fish at all, as if it had been he
who had suffered from the lobsters--she assumed a portentous air, and
requested him to bring a dispatch-box, which stood on a side table,
and place it in front of her; which he did.
"Robert," she began, "I regret to have to tell you that you are one of
the most careless persons I have ever encountered." He admitted it;
inwardly wondering of what act of carelessness he had been guilty this
time, and what the dispatch-box had to do with it anyhow. Her ladyship
went on. "When you were staying with me in Cairo, after you left me,
you lost a suit-case; or, at least, you said you lost a suit-case."
"My dear aunt, I not only said, I actually did lose a suit-case; and a
most important loss it was; for all I can tell it may have transformed
the whole course of my life; and--and somebody else's life as well. By
some stroke of good fortune you haven't come across it, have you?"
"No, Robert, I have not; nor do I imagine that anybody ever will, in
this world." Whether she thought it likely that somebody would in
another world was not quite clear. "I do not know if you are aware
that, apart from your suit-case, you lost something else when you were
staying with me at Cairo. I imagine, from your manner, that you have
not discovered your loss even yet."
"It's very possible; I seem to have such a genius for losing things
that sometimes I don't know what I do lose."
"I am grieved to hear you say so; it amazes me. It only shows how
incapable a man is of looking after his own belongings; as I have
always maintained. I never lost anything in my life, except a pair of
house-shoes, which I left at Horsham House, and which have never been
returned to me to this hour."
"I hope it was nothing very important I left."
"It depends upon what you call important. There are different
standards in such matters; though you appear to have none. I should
call it important; but then my wardrobe is limited. You left a coat
and waistcoat."
"Well, I rather fancy that my wardrobe is more limited than yours;
but--I don't recall that coat and waistcoat."
"I am not surprised; after what you have just said, nothing would
surprise me. Baker brought them to me after you had gone; an admirable
servant, Baker. Were I to repeat to her what you have admitted she
would credit it with difficulty; she knows my ways. In the inside
pocket of the coat were some papers."
"Papers? Aunt! What papers?"
Lady Jane unlocked the dispatch-box; took from it a small packet; and,
placing her glasses on her nose, proceeded to read what was written on
half-a-sheet of note-paper.
"This is an inventory of what was contained in the pockets of your two
garments. Unlike you, fortunately, or I don't know where I should be,
I am a creature of method; I do everything by rule. I drew up this
list after Baker had searched the garments in my presence. In the
waistcoat were three pockets; which contained, one penknife; two
toothpicks--which I threw away; one pencil, or, rather, part of a
pencil; three wax matches, loose, which were most dangerous, and which
I had destroyed; a cigar-cutter, or, rather, what I presume is a
cigar-cutter, Baker didn't know what it was; four visiting-cards,
three of them your own, and the fourth somebody else's, and all of
them shockingly untidy; and the return half of a ticket from Brighton
to London, which was then more than three months old. In the coat were
five pockets; it has always been a mystery to me what men want with so
many pockets; judging from what was in yours I am inclined to think
that they use them merely as receptacles for rubbish. Some of the
things which were in yours I had thrown away; the following are
what I have kept. One pocket-handkerchief; one pair of gloves; one
tobacco-pouch; one pipe, a horrid, smelling thing which I had boiled
in soapy water, but which still smells; one matchbox--empty. I suppose
it was meant to contain the matches which were loose in your
waistcoat; a cigar-case; a golf ball; while in the inside pocket were
the papers of which I have told you."
"I don't suppose they're anything very serious, after what you've just
been reading."
"Don't you? Then you must have your own ideas of what is serious; if I
had thought they were of no interest I shouldn't have troubled you to
come to Littlehampton."
"But, my dear aunt, what are they? You--you do keep a man on
tenter-hooks."
"I don't know why you say that. I am going to tell you what they are;
but, as you are of opinion that they are not serious, I should have
imagined that you were in no hurry. There are letters written to you
by Miss Lindsay; there are nine of them; some men would have thought
them serious."
As he took the packet which she held out to him his countenance
changed in a manner which was almost comically sudden.
"Letters written by---- Why, they're Nora's! But--I thought----"
"Never mind what you thought, Robert; you see what they are. As this
envelope is sealed, and is inscribed that it is not to be opened till
after the writer's death, some persons might have thought that that
was of interest also."
He regarded the envelope she offered as if he found it difficult to
believe that his eyes were not playing him a trick. "Aunt, it's--it's
the envelope which Donald Lindsay sent me, and---- But I don't
understand; it's incredible! Aunt, why didn't you let me know this
before?"
"Why should I? It was in a coat of which you thought so little that
you didn't even know you'd lost it; the natural inference was that you
were hardly likely to leave anything of the least importance in the
pocket of a coat which you valued at nothing."
"But--I thought I put it in my suit-case--I've chased the case half
round the world. Aunt, what have you done?"
"What have I done? You mean, what have you done? If anything has been
done I trust it is something from which you will learn a lesson. I
said to myself, if these are of the least consequence, he will ask for
them; since he has been guilty of such culpable carelessness I'll wait
till he does ask. But I waited, and I waited, and you never asked, you
never once alluded to them. What could I conclude? At last they
slipped my memory, as sometimes trifles will do; I came upon them, by
mere accident, as I was looking through this dispatch-box last night;
so I sent for you that I might give them to you in person, though,
naturally, I had long ago come to the conclusion that they were not of
the slightest importance."
He drew a long breath.
"Well, this is the most extraordinary thing that ever has happened to
me!"
"If that is the case I can only hope that it will teach you not to
leave papers in the pockets of a coat which you fling down anywhere,
anyhow, and instantly forget."
"I--I hope it will teach me something of the kind. As this envelope
may contain a communication of much consequence, may I ask you to
excuse me while I go to examine it at once?
"Why is it necessary that you should leave me? Why can't you examine
it here? You know what an interest I take in all that concerns you.
Sit down; open your envelope; see what's inside; you need fear no
interruption from me."
"Then--if you don't mind--I will." Inside the envelope were two sheets
of large letter paper, closely covered, on all eight sides, with
Donald Lindsay's fine handwriting. Robert Spencer had not read far
before he broke into exclamation. "What the--I beg your pardon,
aunt--I didn't quite--but this is most extraordinary." As he read on,
more than once he punctuated his reading with interjectional remarks;
evidently what he read occasioned him profound surprise. When he had
finished he looked about him as if he was not quite sure where he was.
When he perceived Lady Jane he started from his chair in evident
perturbation; as good as her word, she had not interrupted him by so
much as a movement, and now sat eyeing him grimly. He turned to her
with a laugh which did not sound very natural. "Well, aunt, we've done
it, you and I, between us!"
"Pray attribute nothing to me; I decline to accept any responsibility
for your criminal carelessness."
"I can only say that while Nora Lindsay has been treated like a
fraudulent pauper, turned out of house and home, sent out into the
world to earn her bread, she may be starving for all I know; I've left
no stone unturned, but I've been able to find no trace of her; all the
time the letter has been lying in your desk which shows that she is
one of the richest women in England, and I verily believe that her
father owed no man anything."
"If that is so, Robert, then I don't envy you your feelings when you
reflect that Miss Lindsay's sufferings are solely and entirely the
result of your own misconduct."
"If you had only let me know you had the letter!"
"Are you attempting to fasten blame on me? For your monstrous and
incredible negligence in doing nothing, and less than nothing, to
safeguard a document which you now assert is of such importance!"
"Well, what's done's done! And Nora has had her home taken from her,
and the things she cared for scattered to the four winds; it's been
one of the greatest steals on record! and she's been shamed in the
face of all the world, and she may be eating out her heart in some
last refuge of the destitute, and all the while---- It's a pretty
story, on my word!"
"It all comes from your mother and father taking it for granted that
the girl was a beggar; I nearly had a serious quarrel with your mother
because I told her I shouldn't be surprised if, after all, she was
mistaken; but your mother's like her son."
"Thank you, aunt; my mother only took for granted what others took for
granted. I've heard you say some severe things about Miss Lindsay."
"I've simply said that you're not in a position to marry a penniless
girl; and you're not."
"If I could only have found her I'd have made her marry me, though she
hadn't a shoe to her foot, nor a penny in her pocket; I'd not have let
her go until she did. Thank God, she knew it, and that's why she's
hidden herself. Poor Nora! Will she--will she ever forgive any of us!
It's a tragedy I've never heard the like of; and all through some
one's blundering. But, as I've said, talk's no healer. I can't go
to-night, there's no train; but I shall go up to town in the morning
to investigate some of the statements which are contained in this
letter; and now, if you don't mind, aunt, I must get out of doors; I
must have what you're so fond of--air."
He wanted something more than air; he wanted a vent for the feelings
which filled his breast, as it seemed to him, to bursting point. He
tore up and down the front; he had it to himself at that hour, so that
the unusual pace at which he strode along did not attract inconvenient
attention. The promenade at Littlehampton is not a very long one, but
he walked ever so many miles before he had done with it. It was easy
enough to blame Lady Jane; he felt strongly that that lady had not
behaved so well as she might have done; keeping a letter from him
while the weeks stretched out into months seemed to him to be a course
of action for which there was no excuse; but, all the same, he was
perfectly well aware that the fault was originally his. The parable of
the grain of mustard-seed came into his mind as he thought of the
Upas-tree of disaster which had sprung from a beginning which was
apparently so insignificant; he thought he had put the letter in his
suit-case and he had left it in one of his pockets instead; because of
that slight misadventure ruin had come to Nora; such ruin! His aunt
had punished him severely. He could not recall the coat even then; the
only explanation of which he could think was that he had supposed he
had packed the coat itself in his suitcase. If Lady Jane had but
dropped so much as a hint! He did not know how much cause he had to
rejoice because the letter was not where he had believed it to be; if
Mr. Morgan had only found it when he reclaimed the suit-case it might
have provided him with the means of keeping Nora Lindsay out of her
own for an indefinite length of time; the tragedy might have become a
tragedy indeed.
In the morning, when Mr. Spencer reached the station, on the platform
were two familiar figures. He advanced to greet them.
"Why, Mr. Nash, and Miss Harding! this is an unexpected pleasure; I
didn't expect to find such pleasant memories of Cloverlea at
Littlehampton."
"Miss Harding," exclaimed the gentleman, "is now my wife; she is Mrs.
Nash. We"--he hesitated, and then went on--"we are just finishing our
honeymoon."
Mr. Spencer's face expressed astonishment which was hardly flattering
to either of the parties concerned.
"You--don't say so; then--that's another unexpected pleasure. Mrs.
Nash, you must allow me to offer you my congratulations."
He was about to go with some of the banal remarks which are made on
such occasions when he was struck by the look which was on the young
wife's face, and by the singularity of her attitude. She seemed to be
in mortal terror. Shrinking back, cowering, she clung to her husband's
arm, as if she was afraid that Spencer would have struck her. Nor did
Herbert Nash wear the expression of beatitude which is supposed to be
proper to a bridegroom who is returning from his honeymoon. It was
apparently with an effort that he said to Robert Spencer--
"If you are going up by this train, Mr. Spencer, will you allow my
wife and me to travel with you? If--if we can get a compartment to
ourselves we have something to tell you, touching Miss Lindsay's
affairs, which--which I think we ought to tell you."
The separate compartment was found; and, as a consequence, between
Littlehampton and London, Robert Spencer read human nature, as it
were, by flashes of lightning. Both husband and wife laid bare their
breasts to him; and what they left unsaid he saw between the lines. It
was a journey neither of the trio ever forgot. By the time the train
entered the terminus his soul shuddered at the thought of the mountain
of wrong which had been laid upon the woman he loved; who, after all,
was the merest girl. Yet, acutely though he felt for her, he felt also
for the miserable pair who were in front of him; already they had
probably suffered even more than Nora; and the worst of their
sufferings were still to come.
The three got into a four-wheeled cab and drove to Memorial Buildings.
Mr. Clifford was out. Then, the clerk who received them asked if they
were Messrs. Morgan and Nash.
"This is Mr. Nash," explained the Honourable Robert, "but my name's
Spencer. Has Mr. Morgan been here?"
No, he had not. Mr. Clifford had been at the office till eleven
o'clock; and had then left word that if Messrs. Nash and Morgan called
in his absence they were to be informed that he had gone to Mr.
Hooper, of Fountain Court, Temple, where they would find him if they
liked to follow.