Arthur went to Durant’s chambers again next morning, with a forlorn hope
that something or other might have brought his friend back, without
whom, it appeared to him, that he did not know what measures to take.
Durant had held the keys of his fortune one way or another, and could
guide him with the right thing to do, the right way to set about
everything. He had never doubted that Durant would be in town, and would
help him, and the first sensation in his mind was one of irritation
mingled with disappointment. Of course, the only thing to be done,
failing Durant, was to go to Underhayes, where he knew his friend had
already gone without success. But what else was there to do, what other
clew was there? At the great railway-station, where he got the train to
Underhayes, it was his bad fortune to meet again with Denham, whom he
had seen not very long ago in Vienna. Arthur gnashed his teeth at sight
of this butterfly fluttering in his way again, no doubt to disturb his
mind with some foolish buzz or other--and did his best to avoid him; but
he was not a man to be avoided. He came forward with all his usual
warmth of friendliness and surprise to see the other in England.
“You here, Curtis!” he said.
“You always say, ‘you here,’ whenever we meet,” said Arthur,
half-annoyed, half-amused, remembering so clearly the greeting which
this man had given him at Paris, in the Bois. Denham was the first of
his own world whom Nancy had met, and how many little mistakes and
disagreements, quarrels which looked so ridiculously causeless at this
distance, which might have been so easily avoided, yet which raised such
rapid pulses then in their foolish young bosoms--had arisen while they
were meeting him, going to the theatre with him, or resisting his
invitations; for after all he had always been friendly, and had tried to
please the bride, hard though she was to please.
“Yes, you always turn up so unexpectedly, just when one thinks you a
hundred miles off. The other day you were in Vienna, and you said
nothing of coming here.”
“And you were the other day in Vienna, and said nothing of coming here.”
“Of course, we are both the Queen’s servants,” said Denham; “and public
business, eh? consumes a great deal of our time. But do you know,
Curtis, I wanted to see you. I hope I did not lead you into delusion? I
told you I thought I met Mrs. Curtis on the other side of the water.”
“Yes;” Arthur’s tone was curt and sharp; he had no intention of
listening to anything about Nancy, as if it was news to him, and yet he
knew so little, and would have been so thankful to hear anything from
anybody! His voice sounded harsh and peremptory in its agitation.
“Meaning no offence,” said Denham, with a scrap of mock humility; “but I
find I made a mistake. It was at one of the stations on this line I met
Mrs. Curtis, that was my blunder. I forgot till I came here to-day, when
it suddenly flashed across me, that it was here or somewhere near. I
hope I have not caused you any anxiety.”
“Not at all,” said Arthur, with a blank countenance, which his
diplomatic experience had taught him to wear when he chose; but then
Denham was a brother of the trade, and it was scarcely worth while
wasting it on him. “My--wife’s family lived near. It is very natural
that you should have met her hereabouts. I thought it a mistake, you may
remember.”
“Ah, did you? I did not recollect. I thought I might have been giving
you deluding information. I hope you have good reports?”
He did not know what to say. He was a dealer in gossip, and would have
given much to hear the full details of this separation, especially now
when he was on the verge of half-a-dozen country houses; but at the
same time he did not want to worry the man whom he was sorry for, by
betraying his partial knowledge of the facts. He had made a great deal
of Nancy in Paris, betraying her peculiarities, her ignorance to many
admiring listeners, and he would have liked a second chapter, which
probably would have amused society still more. But he did not want to
affront Arthur or wound his feelings. What could he say? ought he to
make believe that he had never heard anything? or delicately that there
was a something, a mist of report, which he knew?
“Perfectly,” said Arthur, with cold self-restraint. “I am going to her
now. Her mother, to whom she was much attached, is lately dead.”
“Oh, really!” said Denham; and he watched the young man’s face with keen
scrutiny. Fortunately, he himself was not going by the train which went
to Underhayes. He accompanied Arthur to the door of his carriage, and
stood there talking. “My _hommages_ to Mrs. Curtis,” he said, “I
daresay she has forgotten me; but lay me at her feet, Curtis, all the
same. One does not easily forget a face like hers; you won’t mind me
saying so much?”
“Oh no--surely not;” said Arthur, smiling. He put himself into a corner
of the train, glad to escape the other’s eyes. No, there were not many
such faces as hers. Then, all suddenly, her aspect as she sat in the
little Victoria in the Bois, that cold bright winter day, came up before
him, he could not tell how; how bright she had looked! no wonder that
Denham said one did not easily forget such a face. Her husband had been
trying to forget it for two years, and now, the moment he had suspended
that effort, how it came back! And where was she, where was he to find
her? How slowly the train seemed to go! Might she be visible perhaps
somewhere on one of the crowded railway platforms which they passed,
where Denham had seen her? He gazed out anxiously whenever they stopped.
Why should it be Denham, Denham! who cared nothing about her, that had
seen her, and not Arthur, to whom such a meeting would have been new
life? This was what was called providential; but what strange
mistakes--mistakes that the poorest clerk in an office would be
discharged if he made--were set down to Providence. If _he_ had but met
her, and not Denham, what trouble might have been spared!
It was about noon when he reached Underhayes; and he went direct,
remembering what Durant had written, to the shop of Raisins, the grocer.
Sarah Jane was dusting her drawing-room, when her maid brought her word
that a gentleman wanted to see her. It was her pleasure, and not
necessity (she liked people to know this), that made her dust the
drawing-room herself. Servants were negligent, they chipped the china
ornaments, and were not half particular enough about the gilding; but
Sarah Jane had nearly completed this self-imposed task. She put down the
long feather brush which she had been using in a corner, and took off
her housemaid’s gloves.
“Show the gentleman in,” she said, with some grandeur; but when she saw
who it was, Sarah Jane screamed out with surprise and excitement.
“Arthur!” she cried. She was almost as much startled as if he had come
back from the dead.
“Where is Nancy?” he said. He had got into such a state of excitement
now that he forgot all preliminaries, and plunged at once into the
subject which interested himself.
“Nancy? Oh, Arthur, wait a bit, I am so startled. You made my heart
jump! Whoever thought of seeing you here?”
“It is not so very wonderful to see me when you reflect that my wife has
been here for years. Where is she? You used to be kind and sympathetic,
Sarah Jane. Tell me where my wife is! Where is Nancy? There can be no
reason why I should not know.”
“Oh, it is so nice to see you again,” said Sarah Jane. “Such a long time
you have been away, two years and a half. It is a long time. Oh, how I
wish Nancy was here! I tried all I could to make her write to you when
poor mother died. But she was always so self-willed, you know.”
“Where is she?” said Arthur. He went up to Sarah Jane and grasped her by
the arm. He was beginning to lose the little self-control he had, and
his very eyes were dim with the heat of his excitement. It is impossible
to believe that he really hurt her, but it pleased her to assume that he
did, which came to much the same thing.
“Oh, you monster!” cried Sarah Jane. “Oh, you savage! If that is how you
used poor Nancy, I don’t wonder she wouldn’t take any notice. Let go, or
I’ll call my husband. Oh, my arm! I am sure it is black and blue.”
“Pardon me, pardon me!” said poor Arthur. “I did not mean to hurt you,
God knows; but I am almost out of my senses. My good girl, tell me where
she is. I have been travelling night and day. If I am impatient, you
must forgive me. Tell me, where is my wife?”
“Oh, Arthur, I am so sorry. I never thought you would take on so. Nancy
might be very proud if she saw you like that. I never thought a man
would mind so much, they take things so easy. Raisins never would. If I
were to go and leave him, I’m sure he’d let me. Oh, don’t you be afraid,
I ain’t so silly as to try.”
Arthur had to make a violent effort to restrain himself; but it was
clear she must be treated with in a more cunning way.
“Will you answer me a simple question? Do you know where Nancy is?” he
said; then with truer policy, “I will hear all about Raisins and
yourself after, and you must tell me what you will like for a wedding
present.”
“Oh, Arthur, how kind you are! I always said you were nice. Oh, anything
that _you_ like, I am sure! You would be sure to choose something
delightful; and we are brother and sister, ain’t we, Arthur? I must give
you a kiss to thank you,” said Sarah Jane.
There was no harm in the kiss, and Arthur accepted it meekly. He drew a
little further off when it was over, but took her hand and held it fast.
“All that afterwards,” he said. “You may be sure I will do all I can to
please you. But tell me first, tell me now, do you know where she is? I
must hear this first. You can’t tell me unless you know.”
“That is just it,” said Sarah Jane. “Of course, I should have told you
directly. They promised to write, but they never wrote but once.”
“What does _they_ mean? Who was with her, and where was the letter
from?”
“Don’t hold me so fast, you frighten me,” cried Sarah Jane. “It was
Matilda that was with her. Charley has gone to New Zealand, and Matilda
is going after him; and Raisins and me, we don’t know whether we mayn’t
follow. Don’t crush my hand like that, Arthur, you hurt me. There was no
date to the letter. No, I can’t say that I expected to hear again just
yet; five weeks, it is not so very long.”
“And did not you want to write? You might have wished to see your sister
again.”
“In five weeks, and me married?” said Sarah Jane naïvely, “Oh, no; I
knew they’d write when they wanted me, and what should I want them for?
When you’re in trouble, it’s natural you should think of your friends;
but when you’re doing very nicely, and quite happy, what do you want
with them? But, Arthur, to show you I’m speaking true, I’ll fetch you
the letter, if you will let me go; and then if you can make anything out
of it--let me go, Arthur. I promise I’ll bring you the letter. Oh,
please, I can’t tell you any more. Let me go!”
When he did so, which he was half afraid of doing, she kept her word,
and produced out of a gay little desk, lined with red, a crumpled note,
with the marks of greasy fingers upon it, the sight of which gave
Arthur, poor fellow, a sickening sensation. Small feelings so mingle
with great that the thought that such a greasy scrap was a relic of his
wife gave him as distinct a pang as if some great disappointment had
happened to him. A lover, such as he felt himself still to be, ought to
have been ready to take to his lips or his heart the meanest message
that came from the beloved; but this gave him a feeling of disgust. And
yet how he loved Nancy, and how his heart struggled and throbbed at the
idea of finding some trace of her. It was at once a relief and a
terrible disappointment to find that the greasy letter was not from
Nancy at all, but from Matilda, though, as it was the fingers of Mr.
Raisins and the pocket of his bride which had produced the stains upon
the letter, Nancy’s own autograph might have been in precisely the same
condition, unprotected by the divinity that should hedge a woman
beloved.
“I don’t know where she means to settle, nor what we’re going to do,”
wrote Matilda. “She’s always the same hoity-toity creature as ever. She
talks about a house she has heard of somewhere right in the country. I
can’t tell you any more; but I’ll write again; and in the meantime
you’ll be glad to hear that I’ve got some very nice calico, and begun my
outfit.”
This was all.
“She _is_ so taken up about her outfit,” said Sarah Jane. “You would
think nobody had ever got such a thing before. But poor Matilda was
always old-maidish in her ways. Lord, Arthur! what’s the matter? Have
you found out anything? What a turn you did give me, to be sure!” cried
Sarah Jane.
It was something which gave Arthur “a turn” too, as far as that effect
can be produced upon a male subject. It was simply the postmark
“Oakenden” on the envelope of the letter. He had not seen it before, nor
looked for it, being too anxious for the information inside. It startled
him beyond measure now. “Oakenden!” he repeated to himself as in a
dream. Something more than chance, some design which he could not
fathom, some vague trembling of meaning not yet comprehensible, but
tending towards light, seemed to flicker through the word. It was the
post-town of _home_. He knew it as well as he knew the village at his
father’s park gates. What had taken her there of all places in the
world?
“Thank you,” he said, speaking, he felt, out of a mist of vague wonder
and dawning hope that seemed to envelope him in an atmosphere of his
own. “Thank you; I think this will be of some use. I know the place.
Good-bye. I must go directly and see if they are there.”
“Stop a moment,” said Sarah Jane. “Stop and have some dinner with us.
Raisins would like to see you, and--where is the place, Arthur? I should
like to know too, for one never knows what may happen, and they are two
lone women with nobody to look after them. It is so different when there
is a man.”
“I will let you know when I have found them,” said Arthur. “Good-bye, I
cannot wait longer now.”
“But, Arthur, do stop and have some dinner! Look here,” said Sarah Jane,
getting between him and the door, “do you mean to take her back? Is that
what you mean?”
“Take her back?” he said, with a half groan. “Was it I who sent her
away?”
“For look here,” said Sarah Jane, “I don’t say you haven’t a right to be
angry. Raisins would not stand the half, no, nor a tenth part from me
what you stood from Nancy. But she’s not the same now. She’s that proud
she’ll never let you see it if she can help it; but she’s very changed.
She can’t live with her own folks now. Her and me are not such friends
as we were because of that; but I suppose it will please you. She’s
taken to study and so forth, and she don’t find her own folks good
enough company. She’ll be all for us, I shouldn’t wonder, the moment she
sees you; but don’t you believe her, Arthur. It was all she could do to
keep one of us as long as poor mother lived. She’s as changed as
possible. She’s a lady, that’s what she is nowadays,” said Sarah Jane.
Arthur only partially heard this long speech; he had no patience with
it. He watched the door, and seized his opportunity, when Sarah Jane had
ended her peroration, to hasten away, waving his hand to her.
“Well, I’m sure!” she said, as he darted down the stairs; and Mr.
Raisins made many jokes at dinner upon the folly of the man who left a
slice of “_that_ beef” to run after a rebellious wife.
“She should stay where she was if I had her in hand,” said the grocer,
not without an idea that the example was a dangerous one for Sarah Jane.
“You wouldn’t find me leaving my dinner for her, a woman as had given me
up.” He did not mean that his wife should entertain any delusions on
this respect. Whatever “swells” might be, grocers were not such fools.
Arthur rushed direct to the railway without losing a moment. He did not
make a pilgrimage to the Bates’ house, as Durant had done; he brushed
past the old haircloth sofa standing out exposed to rain and damp at the
broker’s door, and was not conscious of its existence. There was a train
about to start, that was all he knew. When he got back to London he
drove, without losing a moment, to the other railway, and went off at
the earliest possible moment to Oakenden. He arrived there late in the
afternoon, with nothing, not so much as a bag, remembering nothing
beyond the fact that Nancy had been there. But what could he do when he
got there? He did not know how to find such a needle in that bottle of
hay. The town was not large, but it was bustling and busy. It had new
streets even since Arthur left home; and through what weary labour must
he go before he could find the two, who might have veiled themselves in
any one of five hundred new little brick houses? He took a rapid walk
through the new streets in the dusk of the evening, gazing at all the
parlour windows. It was not likely that fortune would answer his appeal
by bringing Nancy to look out just at the moment he passed. Such a thing
might happen to Denham, who had nothing to do with it, but not to him,
to whom it was everything. If he had been seeking a criminal there might
have been hope for him, or had he been in one of the blessed countries
where everybody has _ses papiers_. Why has not everybody _ses papiers_
in England? Arthur was ready, in the heat of his feelings, to give up
his birthright if that might have helped him to find his wife.
At last he bethought himself of the post office, and pulling his hat
down over his brows, and his coat-collar up over his chin, he betook
himself there to see if he could find any clue. Curtis? Oh, yes, there
were the Curtises of Oakley, Sir John and her ladyship, the best known
people in the county; and the Reverend Hubert at the Rectory, and old
Miss Curtis at Oakley Dene. In the town? Well, yes, there was a Mrs.
Curtis in Acorn Terrace, No. 12; hadn’t been there long; did not get
very many letters. “Yes, probably that is the lady,” said Arthur, his
heart beating loudly. He went off without a moment’s hesitation to the
little new brick terrace. It seemed to him that there could now be no
doubt on the subject. He knew that Nancy would not take a false name.
How unconscious she must be who was coming to her through the night--for
it was quite dark now, the lamps lighted, the parlour windows shining.
There was bright firelight in the window of No. 12, Acorn Terrace, and
the sound of a piano, and some one singing. Could it be _her_? He
knocked, his heart sounding louder than any knocker, and was admitted
with innocent confidence. Yes, Mrs. Curtis was at home; and the maid
had prepared the lamp, which she carried in before him, announcing
simply, “A gentleman, please, Ma’am.” The inhabitants made Arthur out
before he made them out, and a mild old lady in a widow’s cap rose from
a chair by the fire. What could Arthur do but stammer forth apologies,
his very voice choked with disappointment. “I beg a thousand pardons, it
is a mistake,” he said, rushing out again, leaving the ladies in the
parlour half angry, half interested. What a blank of helplessness he
felt closing round him as he got outside again, hot with shame, and
quivering with the shock of his disappointment. This was no use it was
evident, and where could he go to inquire further? Not to the police, as
if his innocent wife had been a culprit. He could not subject Nancy to
that indignity. He walked about the streets for an hour or two longer,
wondering what he could do. A directory? Her name would not be in it.
The post-office had failed him; and he could not go calling her name
through the streets as the Eastern princess did. Nancy! Nancy! He might
make it echo to all the four winds, but what would that do for him? It
occurred to him at last to try the hotels, as he remembered the date of
Matilda’s letter; but no ladies bearing the names of Mrs. Curtis and
Miss Bates had been heard of anywhere. At one of the hotels (probably at
all) they recognised him, and as he was by this time prostrate with
exhaustion and disappointment, he decided to remain all night,
telegraphing to his servant to meet him there next day. He must go home
now that he was so near; not to-night, but to-morrow, when he was more
fit to meet strangers. Strangers! his own father and mother, his
familiar friends, the servants who had nursed him from his childhood and
loved him all his life; but a preoccupied mind is always unnatural. They
were as strangers to him now.