_THE INDIAN SCARF._
A man in love sees wonders.
A few hours later, and Arthur Forrest was lodged for the night in an
hotel which looked out upon one of the quaint, old-fashioned streets in
the ancient city of York.
The journey had by no means diminished his excitement. He was literally
aflame with the fever of anxiety and suspense that consumed him,
for this was his first young dream, and it mastered him with an
absoluteness which only that first in the series that often diversifies
the adolescence of humanity, male and female, can possess.
Afterward we know what to expect; then everything is new, wonderful,
incomprehensible--the sweet waking up to a heavenly mystery. And
it comes generally at a time when life is at its fullest; when
imagination, passion, sentiment reign in the soul with undisputed
sway; when the heart is uncontaminated--at least partially so--by the
influences which those to whom youth's Eden is a forgotten land delight
to throw round the inexperienced, giving them lessons, they would say,
in the great art of living--lessons, alas! which the young are only too
ready to receive and put into practice.
Arthur was in this first ecstatic stage. No doubt to the experienced
onlooker it might appear highly ridiculous; to himself it was intensely
real. His very existence seemed to have changed in the dazzling glamour
that the treacherous little god had cast over his vision. He saw all
his past, his present, his future in relation to this _one_ thing--his
chances of success with the fair Margaret.
It was late when he reached York--too late for him to think of going
farther that night.
He ordered a private sitting-room, for no particular reason but the
necessity he felt for quiet meditation, that he might unravel the
tormenting problems of the how, the why and the wherefore which, in
spite of Adèle's encouraging assurance, had begun to embarrass him
sorely. How should he present himself to Mrs. Grey? What could he give
as a reason for having left London to seek her out? In what light would
she look upon his intrusion? These thoughts perplexed him as far into
the night he paced the floor of his sitting-room, resting himself by
the continual movement, but sorely interfering with the rest of the
gentleman who occupied the room below his. He had taken many turns
up and down before any light had dawned upon his mind, and in final
despair he was about to retire to his bedroom and try the effect of
darkness, when suddenly his eyes fell on something that had hitherto
escaped them. It was an Indian scarf of great brilliancy which had been
left lying on a small low chair in one of the corners of the room.
It brought a certain memory to Arthur's mind. He took it up, handling
it with reverential tenderness. Where had he seen it before? Why
did the sight of it affect him so strangely? He looked at it, he
touched it; he laid it down and retiring to some distance examined
it again. Then by degrees the sought-for link returned. The pictures,
the crimson-covered seat, the pale woman, her shabby dress, and in
striking contrast with it, the costly fabric on her shoulders. It was
a coincidence, he said to himself--a very strange one--that here,
when he was seeking Margaret, he should find the fac-simile of what
she had worn on the occasion of their first meeting. Could it be the
same--hers, left behind her? If so, here was an opening thrown by kind
Fate into his lap.
The silken scarf should be his excuse; with it he would present himself
to Mrs. Grey. It was valuable in itself, and she had evidently had some
other reason besides its intrinsic worth for prizing it. She would be
grateful for its preservation, and the bearer of her treasure would
have a certain claim on her consideration.
Arthur determined to discover the history of the scarf on the next
day, and if he should find it at all fit in with his ideas to take
it back to its owner in triumph. For that night it was too late to
do anything. He looked despairingly at the little French clock over
the chimney-piece. It was two o'clock A. M., and an absolute silence
reigned in the house.
But he possessed the sanguine nature of youth. He could not doubt that
he had found a solution to the problem which had been agitating his
mind. His anxieties being thus partially set at rest, he began to feel
tired. With the silk scarf close to his hand he fell asleep; its colors
mingled in confusion inextricable with all his dreams; it was the first
object that met his gaze on the following morning.
He felt inclined to ring at once and make inquiries, but on second
thought he decided that to take such a step would scarcely be wise.
Young men in Arthur Forrest's position are keenly susceptible to
ridicule. Undue anxiety might possibly seem suspicious. He controlled
himself so far as to dress, to walk into his sitting-room, and to
restore the scarf to the place it had occupied on the previous evening;
then he rang for breakfast.
While the waiter was busy about the table he looked across the room as
though for the first time the appearance of the scarf had struck him;
then he took it up and examined it with apparent curiosity.
The waiter noticed his movement. "Ah! sir," he said briskly, "queer
thing that."
"This scarf?" said Arthur carelessly; "it's certainly a very handsome
one."
"I didn't mean the scarf, sir, but the tale, as one may say, that hangs
on to it. It was left in this very room, identical, some four or five
days ago, it may be, and I was the waiter as attended on the gentleman
and little girl: a pretty creature she was too, with--"
"A gentleman and little girl?" broke in Arthur, forgetful of his
prudence in his astonishment.
"Yes, sir; a gentleman not young, as one might say, to be the father
of the little lady; and a lady she was, every inch of her, so pretty
and well-behaved. It's _my_ belief"--here the waiter lowered his voice
and looked confidential--"there was somethink there over and above what
met the eye, as one might say, sir." Then he disappeared to fetch the
tea-pot.
Arthur was strangely interested in the little tale. "Stop," he said as
the waiter was about to leave the room again; "what makes you think
there was something mysterious about these people?"
The waiter smiled pleasantly. His loquaciousness was natural to
him, but it had so often received rude checks that he had long ago
been taught to control it. "It interests you, do it, sir?" he said
cheerfully. "Well, now, to speak confidential, it's _my_ belief as
that gentleman wasn't father at all to that there little lady. She
cried considerable that first night, for the chambermaid had been given
somethink a little extra by the gentleman when he came into the hotel
that every care might be taken of the little lady. And it was all on
and off, so she says, the little lady a-crying and a-sobbing, and 'Oh,
my mamma! I want my mamma; take me home.' Not much sleep had the little
lady, or Jane either, for the matter of that. She has an uncommon soft
heart, has Jane, and the little lady's sobs, she says, would have
melted a heart of stone, let alone hers. Well, sir, as I was a-saying,
it looked queer; but next morning the gentleman--He was a fine man,
sir, he was, but had a look with him as if from foreign parts, which,
as one may say, looked queer again, the little lady being very fair,
with hair the color of that there frame, sir, all in curls over her
face, and the loveliest complexion you ever see. What was I a-telling
you of? Oh! The next morning the gentleman, he ordered breakfast, and
he _and_ the little lady had it in this very room, as it might be now,
sir, and certainly it wasn't no later, I being the waiter, Jane coming
in now and again to see if little missy wanted for anythink. Seemed to
us, Jane and me, that the gentleman said somethink in private, as it
might be, to the little lady, for they seemed more friendlier-like,
and after a bit little missy she write a letter and she look a deal
cheerfuler, as one might say. The poor little dear hadn't so much--not
as a change with her, sir." Again the waiter lowered his voice: "Looked
queer, it did, and so says Jane to me in that very passage out there.
Strange to tell, sir, the words is scarcely so much as out of our
mouths before the bell rings violent-like, and Jane is sent out by
that there gentleman, twenty pounds in her hand, and cart blank to
get everythink ready made, and expense no object, as might be thought
necessary for a young lady. It didn't take her long, I can answer for
that. She come back with the things packed in a small portmanter, and
her accounts made out all proper and business-like. It's Jane all over,
sir. She do like to have everythink square and correct. 'But,' says
the gentleman as grand as you please, 'I didn't want no accounts, and
divide the change between yourself and the garçong;' by which he meant
me, sir. It's the French way. They started that morning, and the little
lady tell Jane, 'I shall come back very soon, I shall,' and then she
puts her arms round her neck, 'Thank you,' she says in such a pretty
way that Jane was quite upset like. And when she and the gentleman's
gone there's this kind of shawl, as you have just remarked upon, sir,
a-lying here in this room, and here it's been ever since. That's the
story, sir, and I think you'll agree with me that it looks queer."
"It _is_ strange," said Arthur very thoughtfully, "I can't understand
it at all. Do you know," he continued, turning to the waiter, "I am
almost sure I know the owner of this scarf. It is, I see, a thing of
some value, but if the proprietor of the hotel will put it in my charge
for a time, I will leave a deposit to any amount he may think fit in
its place, and restore it to him faithfully if I should prove to have
been mistaken."
"I can't see for myself as how he can make any objection, sir; however,
with your permission I must leave you now--there's my bell."
The waiter did not stay away longer than he could possibly help.
Arthur's interest in the scarf seemed to him a new link in the story
which had so powerfully excited the curiosity of various members of the
establishment. On his return he found the young man still holding the
scarf in his hand, with a thoughtful look on his face. But his patient
receptivity of the waiter's good-humored chat seemed to have passed. "I
wish to speak to the proprietor of the hotel," he said shortly.
"At once, sir?" asked the man in a disappointed tone. He was full to
the brim of fresh particulars, hastily set in order during his journey
from one breakfast-table to another.
"As soon as possible," was the reply, "I must leave York by an early
train."
For Arthur Forrest could scarcely control his impatience. The waiter's
dramatic little tale had awakened his interest. He had a kind of fancy
that it was connected in some way with Margaret.
The proprietor found him pacing the room excitedly. He was politely
surprised at the interest taken by the young gentleman in this small
item of property left in his house, agreed with him that it was an
article of some value, but refused to receive any deposit in exchange
for it, with the exception of the young gentleman's card, and his
assurance that they should hear whether or no the owner had been found,
and finally presented his little bill, swollen in various items to
fit in reasonably with the importance the young gentleman appeared
to attach to the discovery he had made in the establishment. The
landlord might have asked for double the amount; Arthur would have
been perfectly unconscious. He was only anxious to get away with his
treasure--to unearth the mystery it seemed to hide.
In all haste he sent for the friendly waiter, pressed half a sovereign
into his willing hand, urging him to order a fly and get his traps
together without delay.
In an incredibly short space of time the lumbering vehicle, as light as
any that could be found in the ancient city, was bearing him through
the narrow streets and overhanging gates to the station--a fresh stage
on his journey to _her_.