"There has been no personal cruelty on Richard's part toward her," she
resumed, with a half-smile. "It's true I locked her up for a few days
once, but he was in Paris, and had nothing to do with it. You could not
prove a single act of cruelty toward her."
Still I did not answer, though she paused and regarded me keenly.
"We were not married till we had reason to believe her dead," she
continued; "there is no harm in that. If she has forged those papers,
she is to blame. We were married openly, in our parish church; what
could be said against that?"
"Let us return to what I told you at first," I said; "if you find
Olivia, you have no more authority over her than I have. You will be
obliged to return to England alone; and I shall place her in some safe
custody. I shall ascertain precisely how the law stands, both, here and
in England. Now I advise you, for Foster's sake, make as much haste home
as you can; for he will be left without nurse or doctor while we two are
away."
She sat gnawing her under lip for some minutes, and looking as vicious
as Madam was wont to do in her worst tempers.
"You will let me make some inquiries to satisfy myself?" she said.
"Certainly," I replied; "you will only discover, as I have, that the
school was broken up a month ago, and Ellen Martineau has disappeared."
I kept no very strict watch over her during the day, for I felt sure she
would find no trace of Olivia in Noireau. At night I saw her again. She
was worn out and despondent, and declared herself quite ready to return
to Falaise by the omnibus at five o'clock in the morning. I saw her off,
and gave the driver a fee, to bring me word for what town she took her
ticket at the railway-station. When he returned in the evening, he told
me he had himself bought her one for Honfleur, and started her fairly on
her way home.
As for myself, I had spent the day in making inquiries at the offices of
the _octrois_--those local custom-houses which stand at every entrance
into a town or village in France, for the gathering of trifling,
vexatious taxes upon articles of food and merchandise. At one of these I
had learned, that, three or four weeks ago, a young Englishwoman with a
little girl had passed by on foot, each carrying a small bundle, which
had not been examined. It was the _octroi_ on the road to Granville,
which was between thirty and forty miles away. From Granville was the
nearest route to the Channel Islands. Was it not possible that Olivia
had resolved to seek refuge there again? Perhaps to seek me! My heart,
bowed down by the sad picture of her and the little child leaving the
town on foot, beat high again at the thought of Olivia in Guernsey.
I set off for Granville by the omnibus next morning, and made further
inquiries at every village we passed through, whether any thing had been
seen of a young Englishwoman and a little girl. At first the answer was
yes; then it became a matter of doubt; at last everywhere they replied
by a discouraging no. At one point of our journey we passed a
dilapidated sign-post with a rude, black figure of the Virgin hanging
below it. I could just decipher upon one finger of the post, in
half-obliterated letters, "Ville-en-bois." It recurred to me that this
was the place where fever was raging like the pest.
"It is a poor place," said the driver, disparagingly; "there is nothing
there but the fever, and a good angel of a curé, who is the only doctor
into the bargain. It is two leagues and a kilometre, and it is on the
road to nowhere."
I could not stop in my quest to turn aside, and visit this village
smitten with fever, though I felt a strong inclination to do so. At
Granville I learned that a young lady and a child had made the voyage to
Jersey a short time before; and I went on with stronger hope. But in
Jersey I could obtain no further information about her; nor in Guernsey,
whither I felt sure Olivia would certainly have proceeded. I took one
day more to cross over to Sark, and consult Tardif; but he knew no more
than I did. He absolutely refused to believe that Olivia was dead.
"In August," he said, "I shall hear from her. Take courage and comfort.
She promised it, and she will keep her promise. If she had known herself
to be dying, she would have sent me word."
"It is a long time to wait," I said, with an utter sinking of spirit.
"It is a long time to wait!" he echoed, lifting up his hands, and
letting them fall again with a gesture of weariness; "but we must wait
and hope."
To wait in impatience, and to hope at times, and despair at times, I
returned to London.