He felt very lonely. Something of the Christmas spirit descended on
him--the true, the unacknowledged Christmas spirit, in which, after we
have directed the last stack of cards, and hurried out aglow with the
last parcel, we sit before the bare mantel-piece, discovering that most
of our acquaintances have become too advanced to observe the season.
We are quite sure it is "advancement," though it looks a little like
stinginess. He wondered, as he entered the lane, whether the other
child he was remembering would have proved a disappointment too;
wondered if the ache in his heart would be intelligible to her, or if
he would appear to her absurd. It interested him to wonder.
Conjecturing the disposition of the strange woman whose whereabouts he
did not know, he endued her with many attributes that he admired, and
she moved before his mental vision gradually as a fair and slightly
pathetic figure, prepared to be his confidante. He fancied she was
unhappy with her husband. At least the sadness of life had touched her
enough to tinge her sentiment with cynicism, and she had flashes of wit
on rainy days.
It surprised him that he had made no attempt to trace her; his
curiosity was awake. Many things were more unlikely than that she was
living in the town. As he passed Rose Villa he was in two minds about
ringing the bell and trying to gather information from the present
occupants. He would probably have obeyed the impulse, but while he
hesitated the householder came out--a middle-aged little man, with a
sanguine complexion, and gaiters.
Conrad accosted him. "Excuse me," he began.
The gentleman saluted with his crop. "'Morning," he said.
"I was looking at your bell with the idea of troubling you with an
inquiry about a 'missing friend.' May I ask if you happen to know the
address of your predecessor here--Dr. Page?"
"Who?" said the little man briskly.
"Dr. Page."
"No. Don't know the name. Took the place of people
called--er--Greames.... Agents might tell you--Chipper and Stokes in
the High Street. Page? Doctor? N-no." He shook his head. "Sorry."
"I thank you."
"Not at all. Neighbours, I think, sir? For long?"
"No; it's a very temporary pleasure of mine," said Conrad.
"Congratulate you," said the little man. "If your friend was a doctor,
probably knew better than to stop. Much misled myself. Recommended
here for my health. Most in-_ju_-rious! Damp, sir, Sweetbay is damp.
They call it a 'humid atmosphere'; 'humid atmosphere' be damned, sir!
Take your clothes off the peg in the morning and wring 'em out. That's
not a humid atmosphere--it's a death-trap."
"You astonish me," said Conrad. "I understood the climate was so
salubrious that the inhabitants would all live to be a hundred if they
didn't die of the dulness young." He lifted his hat. "I am obliged."
"Pleasure," said the neighbour. "Er--hope we shall--er, er----"
"I hope so too," smiled Conrad. "Er--no doubt."
"'Morning," said the gentleman, saluting with his crop.
It was discomfiting to find the occupant of Mary's former home so
completely ignorant of Mary. Such ignorance, there, on the very
threshold, in view of the sun shutters that had framed her face, seemed
rather callous of him. As Conrad watched him swagger up the lane, he
resented the usurper's privilege to stretch his gaitered legs on the
hearth to whose history he was so utterly indifferent.
Somehow the drawing-room looked emptier still to Conrad for the
colloquy, when he went indoors. In the violent disassociation of the
next house from Mary Page, this one seemed suddenly foreign to him;
suddenly he felt that he had committed a fatuous and a mournful act in
taking it. Sweetbay had meant to him four persons, and of these, three
had fled, and the fourth was lost. Why should he stay here? He
thought vaguely of a little dinner at "Odd-and-even's," and a stall at
the Alhambra. He nearly stretched his arm for the time-table--and all
the while the melancholy that oppressed him urged him to remain and
find Mary. His mind demanded her more insistently than before. It was
no longer a whim: it was a strenuous desire. "After all, it would be a
crazy thing, to go to London for pleasure!" he mused. "I'll hear what
the agents have to say."
He strolled to their office after luncheon, and a small boy told him
that Mr. Stokes was in. For once Conrad chafed at the local languor.
The torpid tradesmen, unconcerned whether he bought or not, had amused
him, but the heavy young man who gazed at him with vacant eyes was
irritating.
"Dr. Page?" echoed the young man dully; "Rose Villa? There was a Dr.
Page in Esselfield, wasn't there?"
"I don't know," said Conrad. "Perhaps you can tell me. Where is
Esselfield?"
"That's along the Esselfield Road," said Mr. Stokes with deliberation.
"What do you want to know for?"
"I'm trying to learn the address of a friend who has moved," Conrad
explained, labouredly polite.
"Oh y-e-s." He paused so long that it seemed doubtful if he would
speak again. "There was a Dr. Page in Esselfield; I can't say if he's
there still."
"The gentleman I mean was--well, he must be an elderly man," said
Conrad. He could not remember in the least how Dr. Page had looked; he
wished he knew his Christian name. "An elderly man. He had a family.
They used to be at Rose Villa, next door to Mowbray Lodge. I'm talking
of years ago--a good many years ago.... Perhaps your partner might be
able to assist me?"
"Major Bompas lives at Rose Villa now," said Mr. Stokes. His tone was
a little firmer, the tone of one who says a helpful thing.
"And he took it of people called 'Greames'; I know all that. Dr. Page
had the house before the Greames."
"Oh," murmured Mr. Stokes, "did he? Y-e-s.... No, I couldn't say, I'm
sure. Mr. Greames lived there before Major Bompas. Mr. Greames was
there a long while back."
"Dr. Page lived there in--let me think, where are we now? It must have
been in eighteen seventy-seven."
"Oh Gawd!" said the young man faintly. For the first time an
expression humanised his countenance, an expression of dismay tempered
with entertainment. It made Conrad feel prehistoric. "Eighteen
sev-enty-sev-en? I'm sure I couldn't tell you who lived there then."
A snigger escaped him. "There was a Dr. Page at Esselfield," he
repeated; "he may have been at Rose Villa first."
"Is there any place in the town," asked Conrad, with frank disgust,
"where it's possible to see an old directory?"
"I shouldn't think," averred the heavy young man, "that a directory was
published in Sweetbay in 'sev-enty-sev-en." There was nearly a twinkle
in his eyes.
"Thank you," said Conrad. "Good afternoon."
He went forth to seek the Esselfield Road incensed as well as
disappointed now. 'Seventy-seven? Who was this blank-faced dolt to
jeer at 'seventy-seven? Sweetbay had been an infinitely more
attractive place in 'seventy-seven than it was to-day. The High Street
bored him as he walked. Once it had been stimulating, replete with
interest, and now it was unworthy his attention. He looked at it as a
young girl looks at a married man. There was a fresh-coloured woman
dandling her baby behind the glass door of a baker's shop as he passed,
and he recognised with a frown that she had not been born in
'seventy-seven. It was a small matter, but it depressed him more.
The sepulchral window of a monumental mason caught his glance.
Overhead was the inscription, "Established 1852." He wavered in his
course and entered. The interior was like a premature graveyard,
ranged with marble tombstones waiting for allotment, and brittle
wreaths lamenting the dissolution of "Beloved" relatives who were still
alive. There seemed to him something appropriate in pursuing his
investigations among the tombstones. But though the business had been
established in 1852, the mason himself proved to be very recent. When
he realised that his interlocutor was not there to give an order, the
sympathetic droop of his bearing evaporated, and he straightened into a
careless soul to whom the mention of 'seventy-seven was almost as
disconcerting as it had been to Mr. Stokes.
The Esselfield Road was thick with mud after the heavy rains. His long
tramp--for he had learnt that it was necessary to walk--had no
enlivening effect on Conrad's mood, nor was the village cheering when
he reached it. A few houses were scattered beside a common; some geese
waddled around a pond. Beyond an inn, a labourer in his cups shouted a
refrain of the London music-halls.
Conrad went into the "bar-parlour" and asked for beer. In the
sensitiveness to his years which was being so rapidly developed in him
he observed with satisfaction that the untidy proprietress was
middle-aged. "Yes, there had been a Dr. Page,". she told him. "Not
what you might call a regular doctor--he didn't do nothing. She
believed he had moved into Sweetbay, so as to be near the sea."
"I understood that he moved here from Sweetbay. An elderly man. He
had a family," said Conrad with fatigue.
"There was two young gals," she agreed. "_They_ was always about."
"'About'?" he murmured.
"Picking, and skating, and that. I used to say they was never at 'ome."
"Oho?" said Conrad. And added to himself, "The younger children grown
up. Girls of spirit!"--"When did they leave?" he continued.
"Oh, it must be a long time," she answered. She turned to a man who
had the air of being her husband. "'Ow long is it since that Dr. Page
was 'ere, pa?"
"Dr. Page," drawled the man wonderingly. "Oh, it's a long time ago."
"Yes," she repeated, "it's a long time ago."
"But, roughly, how long?" persisted Conrad.
"W-e-ll, it must be--eight years or more," she said, visibly resenting
an occasion to be definite.
In his soul he groaned; if eight years seemed so remote, what would
they think of twenty-five? Again he was bowed beneath the sense of
senility. "You don't happen to know where he settled in Sweetbay?" he
proceeded.
She shook her head, she had no idea at all; neither of the pair had any
idea, so he finished his ale, and paid for some cigars, which there was
of course no need to smoke.
The lamps were winking through the dusk when he drew in sight of
Sweetbay. At a stationer's he bought a directory of the current year,
and studied it at the counter. It contained a "Captain Page," and
"John Page, milkman." He found also "Miss Page, ladies' outfitter,"
and "Mrs. Page, laundress," but there was no "Page" of promise among
the leaves. He availed himself of the opportunity to inquire again
concerning the likelihood of his discovering an ancient copy of the
work, but at his reference to 'seventy-seven the stationer, too, fell
agape. It recurred to Conrad that in connection with Mr. Boultbee the
post-office had been suggested. Physically he was tired by now, but
mentally he was unflagging, and he bent his steps to the general
post-office forthwith. The clerk who sold the stamps to him "couldn't
say"; she retired, however, to repeat his question to the postmistress,
and it was at this point that the outlook brightened. The postmistress
was a young and gracious woman in a pink blouse, and she came forward
with a confident smile to inform him that Dr. Page was no longer a
resident of Sweetbay, but had removed to Redhill. "Redhill?" He had
not suspected that anyone ever got out there.
"An elderly man. He had a family," he reiterated with exhaustion.
"Two young girls."
"Oh, yes," she nodded, "that's the same. Very pretty, tall young
ladies? _They_ were always in and out."
"Really?" said Conrad. Mary's sisters began to beckon to him. "Can
you help me to communicate with Dr. Page?"
"We have the address he left with us--the one we used to forward
letters to; I don't know if he's there still." She confessed the
limitation of her knowledge with regret. "It's some years since he
went from Sweetbay."
"Perhaps you would be so merciful as to give me the one you have? I am
an old friend of Dr. Page's family--very old--and till Providence
directed my steps to you I despaired of finding them again." He
outlined the difficulties he had encountered, but he had grown
diffident of mentioning 'seventy-seven.
The postmistress laughed quite mirthfully at his recital, which,
encouraged by her appreciation, he falsified sufficiently to make
amusing. After bidding the clerk turn to a book, she announced to him
that the address was "Home Rest, Peregrine Place," and the assurances
of his gratitude seemed amply to repay her.
Conrad went to bed with much more exhilaration than he had looked for.
The day, after all, had seen something accomplished. Within his head,
when he punched the pillow, the project of running Dr. Page to earth on
the morrow promised agreeable developments. At the onset the interview
would be a trifle embarrassing he foresaw, inasmuch as the gentleman on
whom he intruded would certainly have no recollection of his name; but
the ice would break under a few suave references to "My first visit to
the neighbourhood since I was a boy," and "My little playmates of long
ago"--he would put her in the plural, his inquiries could be
concentrated gradually. If Mary herself were living in Redhill he
might remain there. He would intimate that he thought of doing so--it
would forefend the suspicion of impetuosity.
The sun was shining when he woke. The birds chirruped among the fir
trees, and there were echoes of old-time music in his heart while he
brushed his hair--until he fought to draw up a sailor's knot under one
of those "double collars" that have led to so much domestic unhappiness
at the breakfast-table.
He travelled by the South-Eastern and Chatham, but he reached Redhill,
and smelt the tannery as he searched for an exit from the station. The
salient features of Redhill are the smell of leather, the shrieks of
trains, and the all-night barking of mongrels. He was directed to
Station Road, and told to "bear to the left." The townlet seemed to
him to blend the most unpleasant characteristics of Clapham Junction
and Hanley in the Potteries. He started briskly. The way was long,
and several times he paused to seek further information. Occasionally
a carriage passed, the occupants with protesting noses. By degrees all
the villas and the pavement dropped behind him; the smell of the
tannery was fainter, and the path on either side was bordered by a
hedge. From the altitude of a butcher's cart a boy in blue encouraged
him with the assurance that Peregrine Place was "straight on."
Presently the way wound, and a terrace of small semi-detached houses
with little front gardens gladdened his view. As he drew close he saw
"Home Rest" painted on the gate-post at the corner. Outside, in the
sequestered road, a venerable tenant, with a velvet skull-cap and
silvery hair, was pottering around a camera. At Conrad's approach he
lifted his head, and regarded him with gentle curiosity. The sight of
the blue eyes and placid face seemed suddenly familiar to Conrad; he
felt far-off memories stirring in him as his gaze met the old man's
features, and, doffing his hat, he murmured, with the deference that
sat so well upon him:--
"Dr. Page, I think?"
"Heh?" said the old gentleman, inclining the other ear.
"You don't know me," said Conrad wistfully, but in a louder tone. "We
haven't met since I was a boy, Dr. Page--that's many years ago."
The old gentleman indicated Home Rest impatiently.
"Next door," he snapped, "Dr. Page lives next door!"
Conrad retreated with hasty apologies, feeling considerably foolish.
He would have preferred to stroll awhile before repeating his exordium,
and only the consciousness of being watched by the old gentleman who
had misled him constrained him to unlatch the gate.
A neat servant answered that Dr. Page was not at home. He was relieved.
"I'll call again," he said. "When do you expect him to come in?"
"Oh, he's away, sir, he won't be back for two or three days. Would you
like to see Mrs. Page, sir?"
He had no remembrance of a Mrs. Page, but there was the objection to
travelling fruitlessly, and the thought that a woman would be
susceptible to the prettiness of his visit. He hesitated--he answered
that he would. The girl conducted him to a small, cheerless
drawing-room, and returned to say that Mrs. Page would be down in a few
minutes. There were antimacassars everywhere, and the cold white
mantelpiece exhibited the perpetual porcelain courtship which has never
advanced; the amorous male still smirked inanely, and the simpering
maiden seemed still to hope. Conrad was much attracted by a large
album that reposed on an occasional table. He sat tempted to unclasp
it, and had just risen and made a tentative step in its direction when
he heard the doorknob move.
The lady who came in seemed to deprecate her entrance; she was
evidently timid, and she blinked. He thought at first that she
suffered from some affection of the eyes, but when she spoke, he opined
that the blinking was due entirely to nervousness.
"Mr. Warrener?" she said in a whisper.
"Mrs. Page," he began, "I must crave your pardon for intruding on you
in this fashion. It's very audacious of me because, even when I tell
you who I am, I daren't suppose that you will recollect me."
Her eyelids fluttered more, and she said:--
"Wo--won't you sit down?" She wore mittens, and plucked at them.
"Thank you." Instinctively he lowered his voice, as if he were
speaking to an invalid. "My excuse is rather unusual--I hope it won't
appear to you preposterous. When I was a boy, your children and I used
to be bosom friends, and I found myself in Sweetbay the other day for
the first time since. I needn't tell you that I went to look at the
house, and the desire to--to find them all again was very strong.... I
was fortunate enough to learn that you had moved to Redhill, so I
decided to risk your ridicule, and throw myself on your forbearance."
"Oh, not at all," she faltered. "I--I'm sure I--" Her nervousness
seemed increased, rather than diminished, by his address. There was an
awkward pause.
"I trust Dr. Page and--and my former comrades are all well?"
"Oh, thank you, yes they are all quite well."
He wished that Mary's were not the only name among them he could
recall; "All well!" he said, forcing a hearty note, "All well! It's
strange to me to think of them as grown-up. Time--er--brings many
changes, madam?"
"Indeed," she concurred timorously; "as you say!" But she volunteered
no news, and he began to feel that they were getting on slowly; his
harassed gaze wandered to the china courtship.
"May I ask if they are still with you?" he ventured.
"My eldest daughter is married," she replied. "The others are ... I
hope very soon. I--er don't quite understand when it was you knew
them? While we were in Sweetbay, I think you said?"
"Yes," he answered musingly, "when the daughter who is married was a
little girl, Mrs. Page. To think that she's a woman and a wife! Why,
Miss Mary and I were like brother and sister then--how wonderful it
would be to meet her now!"
"My daughter's name is Ursula," she demurred. She blinked fast. There
was another pause.
"'Ur--Ursula?'" stammered Conrad, with the precursory sinking of an
awful fear. "Miss Mary _not_ the eldest? ... But surely at Rose Villa
she was the eldest at home--during that summer, at least?"
"I think there must be some mistake," she quavered; "I have no daughter
'Mary.' I think there must be some mistake."
"Good heavens!" gasped Conrad. He was covered with confusion. "My
dear madam, what can I say to you? I--I have been most shamefully
deceived. I knew the family of a Dr. Page in Sweetbay in
'seventy-seven. I was assured--I was officially misinformed--that they
had removed to Redhill. This house was mentioned to me as their
residence. I am abased, I can't sufficiently express my regret.
Possibly--I'll say 'probably'--my informant was led astray by the
sameness of the surname and the profession, but nothing can excuse an
error that has caused you so much annoyance. Nothing!" he repeated
implacably. "I can only offer you my profoundest, my most contrite
apologies."
The lady was now blinking so rapidly that it was dazzling to watch her.
"My husband never practised in Sweetbay," the said. "My husband's name
is 'Napoleon Page.' We had never seen Sweetbay in 'seventy-seven. Our
house was not called 'Rose Villa.' Oh dear no! I'm afraid there must
be some mistake."
"Obviously," cried Conrad; "it overwhelms me. I shall severely
reprimand the person who--who is responsible. Permit me to thank you
for the patience, the infinite courtesy with which you have listened to
my--my totally irrelevant reminiscences. I-- Pray don't trouble to
ring, madam!"
His cheeks were hot when he gained the step. He walked towards the
station swiftly, eager to leave "Home Rest" and Redhill far behind.
Long after the train, for which he was obliged to wait, had started,
the incident continued to distress him. He smarted anew in the
compartment. He was even denied the unction of feeling he had made a
satisfactory exit, and the certainty that the lady would describe his
later demeanour as "flurried" annoyed him more than he could say in the
presence of his fellow-passengers. To fall into the mistake was
natural, he argued, but he wished ardently that he had extricated
himself from it with more grace, with more of the leisurely elegance he
could display if the situation were to occur again.
Well, he had done with his search for Mary! He said he abandoned it in
disgust, and was still firm on the point when he reached Mowbray Lodge.
He began to reconsider packing his portmanteaux. For two days he made
no further inquiry of anyone, and lingered, as it were, under protest.
Yet in England at least he might spend December amid worse surroundings
than Sweetbay presented now; he owned that. From the chief
thoroughfares the last speck of mud had long since been removed; the
pink sidewalks shone as spotless as when he trod them in October. The
air was tender, there was an azure sky, a sunlit sea curled innocently
upon the beach. Yes, of a truth, he might fare worse. If it were not
for the dulness, he could scarcely fare better. On the third
afternoon, as he sauntered through the High Street, it occurred to him
that it could do no harm to announce his failure to the mirthful
postmistress. He did not pledge himself to resume his efforts, but----
It certainly was very dull, and if he were more explicit she might be
able to give him another hint.
She recognised him at once, and advanced, sparkling as before.
"Did you find your friends, sir?" she asked as he saluted her.
"I did not," said Conrad, "but I intruded on an inoffensive household
who were perfect strangers to me. The Dr. Page whose address you very
kindly furnished was not my Dr. Page at all."
"Oh dear! how very awkward," she said. "I am so sorry."
"It was awkward, wasn't it?" he concurred. "Of course I threw all the
blame on you, so they forgave me, but I'm now quite helpless. My
friends seem to have vanished as utterly as if Sweetbay had closed over
their heads, and to complete the difficulty this family of spurious
Pages arose since. I foresee that as often as I make another attempt I
shall be directed to Redhill. I didn't like to tell you before,
because it makes me sound so old, but the people I mean are the Pages
who lived here in 'seventy-seven. I beg of you not to jump. Everybody
jumps--that's why I have grown so nervous of mentioning the date."
Her eyes were full of amusement; she leant her elbows on the counter.
"I wasn't in the office then," she said reflectively.
"Naturally," he returned. "You must have been in your cradle. _I_ was
only a little boy. They were companions of my cherub stage; believe
me, I was rosily young."
"There's a gentleman in the town who might be able to tell you
something," she suggested: "Mr. Irquetson, the vicar of All Saints. He
has been here thirty years, or more."
"Really?" exclaimed Conrad, and added, "It's a shame to be beaten,
isn't it?"
"Oh, it is," she agreed; "and he's a very nice gentleman; he'll be glad
to help you if he can."
"Well, I think I'll go to see him; if he has been here thirty years, he
can hardly fail to remember the Dr. Page I'm talking about." He
glanced at the clock. "Do you think he's likely to be in now?"
"I should think the morning would be the best time, sir," she answered;
"but you might try--it isn't far. If you'll wait a second, I'll write
the address down for you."
"You are too good," said Conrad impressively. His pulses quickened at
the chance. Instantly the thought of quitting Sweetbay was forgotten.
Again he thanked her, and again she bowed graciously over her pink
blouse as he withdrew. When he turned at the doors, she was bowing
still.
They swung to behind him, and he wished he had reported himself to her
three days ago. What amiability! He had never seen anything to
compare with it in a post-office. As he strode towards the vicar's, he
was possessed by amazement. The experience had an air of the ideal, as
everybody will admit. Probably the mirthful postmistress was the only
member of her calling ever known to exhibit a pleasant countenance to
the public, excepting-- But the Exception merits a paragraph to
herself, and as she has nothing to do with the story, you are
recommended to skip to the next chapter.
Excepting a little lady who once brightened the ancient post-office of
Southampton Row. The "post-office," have I said? Rather should I say
she brightened the district with that sunny smile of hers, and the
daily flower freshening her neat little frock. To watch her, it seemed
she found long hours "in the cage" the very poetry of bread-winning.
Dull matrons from Russell Square, and tired clerks from Guilford Street
alike felt the encouragement of her cheerfulness, and went on their way
refreshed. One may well believe she was the unwitting cause of many
kindly actions in West Central London, for a crowd was ever at the
counter, and the sourest soul of all on whom she smiled must for a
space have viewed the world with friendlier eyes. Often I used to
wonder, as I bought a postcard, and waited for the farthing change,
whether it was interest in her duties, or the message of the daily
flower that kept that light of happiness in the girlish face. When she
vanished, Southampton Row was grey. They repainted and replanned it;
and built spruce hotels, and pink "mansions," but nothing could make
good the loss. It was whispered she had left to be married. All
Bloomsbury must hope that he is kind to her!