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.