THE SEARCH RENEWED.
James Fielding being gone, Sophy proceeded to put her long-cherished
plans into execution. She gave notice to Mrs. Billow that she was going
to leave. Had she been informed that the sky was on the point of
falling, Mrs. Billow could not have been more astonished. Sophy had been
there now more than five years, and her good landlady had come to look
upon her as a daughter; as one, indeed, who by education and habits was
far above herself; as one who had been brought up, and had married, in a
station far above her own, and with whom, therefore, she could not feel
upon quite equal terms, but yet she loved her as she might have done had
Sophy really been a daughter. She had been so long Sophy's only friend;
she had nursed her through her illness; she had soothed and consoled her
when there were none else to do so; she had looked upon her child as
almost belonging to her also;--so that when, after the first incredulous
burst of astonishment was over, she saw that Sophy was really in
earnest, and that she was going to leave her, Mrs. Billow sat down and
had a great cry over it. She, too, was a lonely woman; her husband, from
the nature of his pursuits, allowed her to have no friends; and he
himself passed his existence in sleep and drunkenness; so that she had
attached herself very much to her young widow lodger and her baby, and
felt that, for her at least, it would be a heavy loss when she went.
When Mrs. Billow had recovered herself sufficiently to speak, she said--
"And where on earth are you going, my dear?"
"I am going to Italy," Sophy said, quietly.
"Italy!" Mrs. Billow said, in the greatest consternation; "going to
foreign parts! Then I shall never see you again!" And here the good
woman again gave way to plentiful tears.
"I shall only be gone a year, Mrs. Billow; I shall be sure to be back in
that time."
But Mrs. Billow was not to be comforted.
"No, no, my dear, I shall never see you again. They all say it is only
for a year when they go to foreign parts; but they never come back
again. My nephew--that is, my sister Jane's son--William, he went to
Australy. 'Never mind, mother,' he said to her, 'I shall be back in a
year or two, a rich man;' and she never heard of him afterwards. It
always is so--either you get wrecked under the sea, or eaten by savages,
or something dreadful; any how, they never come back again."
Sophy after some difficulty persuaded Mrs. Billow that there was a great
difference between Italy and Australia; that one was a four months'
journey and the other four days; and that it all, with the exception of
two hours, was by land.
Mrs. Billow was somewhat comforted by this information; but was still
very despondent and low for the few days Sophy remained with her.
Mr. Billow, too, was much put out, and, indeed, felt himself personally
aggrieved. She had been with them so long, that he had come to look upon
the twelve shillings a week as a species of annuity which he received by
right. As he said, he should never get another lodger who would suit him
so well, who would give so little trouble, and ask no questions; indeed,
that he did not think that he would take any lodger at all again, and
that, therefore, it was a clear robbery of twelve shillings a week.
Sophy's friends, too, the Harleys, were greatly grieved when they heard
that Sophy and her child were leaving, and could not understand why she
wanted to go to Italy; but the only explanation they received was that
she wished to learn the language. They tried very hard to dissuade her
from her intention, but without avail; and in less than ten days after
James Fielding had left town, Sophy and her child started for Italy, her
destination being Florence.
That fortnight's travelling Sophy enjoyed as she had never enjoyed
anything before. She journeyed by comparatively short stages; for time
was no object to her, nor did she spare money. She was resolved to enjoy
herself, and she entered into all the novelty of the scene with as much
zest as a schoolgirl out for her holidays. It was all so new and so
strange to her. She had never travelled before, except on that hurried
flight to Scotland, when her heart was so troubled at the thought of the
old man she had left behind. Her life had been always so monotonous and
even, that the rapid motion, the strange sights and dresses, and the
novelty of everything, flushed her cheeks and brightened her eyes with
pleasurable excitement; besides, had she not at last entered upon that
enterprise upon which her heart and thoughts had for the last three
years been fixed--that enterprise, the result of which was to make her
child rich; and although, before that was to come, she might have
trouble and danger to encounter, still that was distant as yet: she had
a year's holiday before her, and she was determined to make the most of
it.
Little James was fortunately no drawback to this pleasure. Children
generally go into either one extreme or the other: when travelling, they
are either terribly peevish and irritable, or as good as gold.
Fortunately, James chose the latter alternative; he either looked out of
the windows and talked a great deal--principally about the horses and
sheep and cattle grazing quietly in the meadows, as the train flew past
them--or else slept for hours on the seat.
They went by train as far as Chambery, and then by diligence and in
sledges over Mont Cenis. Very cold this journey was; but Sophy was well
wrapped up, and, with her child nestling on her lap, felt nothing but
enjoyment as they passed over the pass and through the magnificent
scenery which was all so new to her. At Susa they again took train, and
thence through Turin to Genoa.
Here Sophy stopped for a day, and wandered through the long streets and
narrow lanes, with the picturesque houses and quaint little jewellers'
shops. The next morning they went by steamer to Leghorn, starting again
next day by train to Florence. Past Pisa, with its leaning tower and
lofty campaniles, visible for miles across the plain; and then along
lovely valleys, studded with pretty villages, where every foot of ground
is a garden; till at last the hills receded, and before them lay
Florence in all its beauty. Here Sophy remained in a hotel for a week,
waiting for answers to an advertisement she had inserted in the local
paper on the day of her arrival--
"An English lady, with a little boy, desires to enter into an Italian
family residing a short distance from Florence, where she can be treated
as one of themselves."
To this she had many answers, but she finally selected one to which she
was recommended by the proprietor of the hotel, to whom she had
mentioned her wishes. He had, in turn, spoken to his wife, and she was
sure that her brother Giacomo would be glad to receive the lady. Giacomo
was written to, and came over to Florence with his wife. He lived in the
valley through which Sophy had journeyed from Pisa, and his wife and he
would be glad to receive the signora and her child, if she would not
find the place too rough for her.
Sophy, before deciding, went over to see it, and when she did so, she
accepted their proposal at once. The house stood by itself on the side
of the hill, a little way out of a village, and the view from its
windows was lovely. It was the property of her hosts, who owned,
besides, about fifty acres of ground--a large farm in that locality,
where ground is very valuable. The family consisted of her host, a fine
specimen of the small Italian _proprietario;_ his wife, a cheery,
talkative woman of about forty; and three daughters, from seventeen to
twenty-one, all lively, hearty girls, even more talkative than their
mother.
Here Sophy and her child took up their abode. She had studied Italian
for the four years that she had had this journey in anticipation, and
could write and speak it grammatically, although, of course, her accent
was very imperfect. At first she was unable to follow the rapid
conversation around her, but before long she was quite at home at it,
and could talk away as fast as themselves. Sophy insisted upon being
treated as one of the family, helped the girls and their mother in their
household work, and was very happy. Little James was soon as much at
home as herself: he speedily picked up the language, and in six months
spoke it as well, or better, than English, which, indeed, he would have
quite lost, had not Sophy spoken to him in it when they were alone
together.
It was a very quiet, happy life. In the morning Sophy assisted at the
domestic work; that done, she sat under the shelter of the vines,
working sometimes, and looking over the lovely country, with its
picturesque houses--picturesque not only in shape but in colour, with
their fancifully painted walls--with its innumerable little
gardens--they could be hardly called fields--separated by trees, over
and between which the vines clustered and hung with graceful festoons;
with the hills rising on either side, cultivated to the very tops; and
over all the bright Italian sky, with its intense, cloudless blue.
It was very charming; and as she sat there, and listened to her boy's
laughter, as he romped with the sisters, by whom he was made chief pet
and favourite, she would close her eyes, and almost wish it could last
for ever. Had she been alone in the world, she would have been well
content that it should be so. The interest of the money that she had
would have been amply sufficient for her present mode of life, but, for
her boy's sake, she must leave it, as he, the rightful heir to a noble
property, must not grow up an Italian peasant. Her purpose must be
carried out; yet still she felt it very hard to have to return again to
England, with that heavy task before her of finding the will. Not that
she ever wavered for an instant; but, as the time drew on, her spirits
drooped, her cheek paled again, and she would sit for long hours without
speaking, musing over every detail of her purposed plans. And so, at the
end of the year, Sophy and her child took their leave of their quiet
Italian home, not without many tears on their own parts and those of
their friends; giving each of the women pretty presents and keepsakes,
and promising that they should hear from her before long, and that some
day she would pay them another, though it might be only a short, visit.
Sophy did not go straight back, but proceeded to Bologna, and made an
excursion from there, which lasted three days; then--having carried out
the two objects she had proposed to herself when she left England--she
went back again over the St. Gothard; travelling, as before, without
haste, until she returned to King Edward Street, Lambeth.
Great was the pleasure with which she was received by Mrs. Billow and
her other friends. Her rooms were still unlet--for Mr. Billow had
remained firm to his determination to receive no other lodgers--and so
Sophy went into them again, telling Mrs. Billow, however, that she
should not, probably, occupy them for long, as she should shortly be
going away again. James Fielding and his wife came over to see her as
soon as he heard of her return. His business was still prospering, and
Sophy liked his wife very much, but refused to go and stay with them, as
they wanted her to do.
About ten days after her return, she said, one day, to the Harleys, who
were sitting with her--
"I am going into the country in a fortnight or so. I have been so long
accustomed to fields and trees, that I long to be in them again, or, at
any rate, out of London. I have nothing to do now, and feel lonely and
sad here. It is such a change for Jamie, too, after the open-air life he
has had for the last year. But I want to ask you something. I may, at
any moment, have to go far away again, and this time I cannot take him
with me. If I come up suddenly, and leave him with you, will you take
care of him as your own? It may be for three months--it may be for three
years. Of course, I shall pay you; but it is not that. Will you take
care of him as your own?"
Both husband and wife agreed willingly to take the child, if necessary,
but asked what his mother could be going to do that she could not take
her boy with her? But to this they received no reply: she had to go, and
that was all she would tell them.
The next day, when Mrs. Billow was out, and Jamie had gone over for a
game of play with his friends opposite, Sophy went down into the
kitchen, perfectly astounding Mr. Billow--who was, as usual, dozing over
the fire--by her appearance there.
"Mrs. Billow is out, and I want to have some talk with you alone, Mr.
Billow," she said quietly, sitting down opposite to the old man.
"What can I do for you, Mrs. Gregory?" he asked, when he had roused
himself a little.
"Nothing, just at present, Mr. Billow. I want to ask you a question. I
know that, in your way of business, you become connected with all sorts
of strange characters."
Mr. Billow opened his eyes in greater surprise than before. Was she
coming, as her husband had done more than five years before, to ask to
be introduced to two men for some desperate business? or what could she
want? He was too astonished to speak, and Sophy continued--
"Now, do you think, Mr. Billow, that, in the circle of your
acquaintance, you could find any one who could imitate a handwriting so
exactly that it should not be known?"
"Do you mean you want a forger?"
"Not exactly that," Sophy said, quite composedly--for she had thought
all this over so frequently, that it seemed to come quite as a matter of
course to her--"not exactly that, Mr. Billow. I want a man who can
exactly imitate a handwriting, so that, if I send you a specimen of the
hand I want copied, and the words of a letter to be written in that
handwriting, the letter can be executed so that no one will know the
difference. I may as well mention, that it is not for any purpose of
getting money, or anything of that sort; it is a simple ordinary
letter."
"It is such an extraordinary thing for you to ask."
"Quite so, Mr. Billow, I am quite aware of that; but that is my
business, not yours. Of course it is an unusual thing, and I am ready to
pay an unusual price for it. What could you get me such a thing done
for?"
Mr. Billow thought for some little time.
"It is not at all in my line," he said, at last, "still, I could get at
a man who would do it; but I daresay he would charge a twenty pound
note."
"Very well, Mr. Billow, when the time comes, which may not be for a long
time yet, I will send you a specimen of handwriting, a copy of the
letter to be written, and thirty pounds, and I shall expect it back in
two or three days at most after you receive it. That is all I wanted to
say, Mr. Billow, I need not ask you not to mention it to your wife."
So saying, Sophy Gregory went up to her own room again, leaving Mr.
Billow so extremely surprised that he was unable to settle comfortably
off to sleep again for the rest of the evening.
Sophy did not carry out the intention she had expressed of going into
the country with her child; for a day or two before she had intended to
start, a letter came from her foster-mother, saying, that it wanted a
month yet of her usual time of writing; but that Miss Harmer had broken
so much during the last two months, that she thought she ought to write
to Sophy as she had put so much stress upon it. The writer went on to
say that as far as she heard the village people say, there was no
immediate danger at all, but that she had given up going in to
Canterbury to mass, and kept entirely in the house.
Sophy, after she got this letter, sat for a long time quietly looking
into the fire. The colour died out from her face, and her expression
changed and hardened strangely. So it was come at last, this time for
which she had waited so long and so patiently; it was now or never this
great prize was to be won, this grievous wrong to be righted. She did
not doubt or hesitate a moment, yet still she could not help being
sorry. She was so happy with her boy, she loved him so much that it
seemed hard to go away and leave him; and perhaps--who could say? never
see him again. But all this feeling, natural as it was, she shortly put
aside, and began once again to think over her plans; at last--with a
face very different from that with which she had sat down--she got up,
put on her things, and went out, across the water to a strange looking
shop near Drury Lane Theatre; here she purchased some of the things she
needed, and ordered others, which would require preparation, to be made
up at once, and sent home the next evening.
Then back again to King Edward Street. Mr. Billow told her that Jamie
was over at Mr. Harley's, and there she went. There was something so
unusual and strange in her look and manner that both Mr. and Mrs. Harley
noticed it at once, and asked if she were ill, or if anything was the
matter.
Sophy shook her head, and sat down without speaking; her child ran up to
her side to show her some new toy which his friends had given him: but
she did not look down at him, she only put her hand on his head and
stroked it gently while she was speaking.
"The other day, Mrs. Harley," she began, "you said that when I came up
from the country you would take care of Jamie for me. I find that I must
go away upon this business at once, the day after to-morrow; are you
willing to take him now?"
"Certainly, if you require it," Mrs. Harley said; "but must this be,
Sophy? I don't know why, but this strange mystery makes me quite uneasy;
and you look so white and unlike yourself."
"I am quite well," Sophy replied; but she could not say more, for Jamie
awakening to the fact that his mammy was going away without him, set up
such a terrible roaring that all farther conversation was suspended for
some time; at last, on the promise that he should go out the next day
and choose any plaything he liked, his tears were dried, and for the
rest of the day he was occupied debating with himself, and with every
one else, on the respective merits of a big farm-yard, a big Noah's ark,
a big ship, or a big horse. The next day Sophy packed up; she did this
quietly and methodically, talking very little to Jamie, but with every
faculty absorbed in the one thought of the work she had before her. In
the afternoon she bade good-bye to her friends opposite, left them money
for half a year's keep for James, and said she would send the next
instalment when the time came. Just as she was going out Mrs. Harley
said--
"But you have not given us your address, Sophy. Where are we to write to
you?"
"Not at all," she said. "Please put an advertisement in the _Times_ the
first Monday of each month--'S. G., Jamie is well.' If anything should
be the matter in the mean time, advertise in the same way. I shall be
sure to see it. Good-bye, God bless you! take care of Jamie."
Mr. and Mrs. Harley had a long talk together after Sophy had gone across
to her own house, and they came to the conclusion that it was very
strange; and they were both inclined to believe that their friend's
brain must be a little touched; still, what could they do? she was not
mad enough to be shut up. Altogether it was very strange.
That evening Sophy wrote a letter to James Fielding saying that she was
going away for a time, but imploring him on no account to institute any
inquiry after her, as such a proceeding might damage her to an extent he
could not possibly imagine. She told him that she had left Jamie with
the Harleys, and recalled his promise that in case of anything happening
to her, he would take care of her boy. She inclosed her will appointing
him to be her boy's guardian, and her sole executor in case of her
death.
In the morning she got up early, and dressed very quietly, keeping the
blinds down, so as not to disturb Jamie. She took a little breakfast,
kissed her sleeping child--one long, loving kiss,--and was gone.