Next morning Mr Brown, with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders up to his ears as usual, went down at his ordinary rapid pace to old Mrs Thomson’s house. Nancy had locked the house-door, which, like an innocent almost rural door as it was, opened from without. She was upstairs, very busy in a most congenial occupation—turning out the old lady’s wardrobe, and investigating the old stores of lace and fur and jewellery. She knew them pretty well by heart before; but now that, according to her idea, they were her own, everything naturally acquired a new value. She had laid them out in little heaps, each by itself, on the dressing-table; a faintly-glittering row of old rings and brooches, most of them entirely valueless, though Nancy was not aware of that. On the bed—the bed where two days ago that poor old pallid figure still lay in solemn ownership of the “property” around it—Nancy had spread forth her mistress’s ancient boas and vast muffs, half a century old; most of them were absolutely dropping to pieces; but as long as they held together with any sort of integrity, Nancy was not the woman to lessen the number of her possessions. The bits of lace were laid out upon the old sofa, each at full length. With these delightful accumulations all round her, Nancy was happy. She had entered, as she supposed, upon an easier and more important life. Mistress of the empty house and all its contents, she carried herself with an air of elation and independence which she had never ventured to display before. No doubt had ever crossed her mind on the subject. She had taken it for granted that the expulsion of the Christians meant only her own triumph. She had even taken credit, both to herself and other people, for greater guiltiness than she really had incurred. The will was not her doing, though Mrs Christian said so and Nancy was willing to believe as much; but she was glad to be identified as the cause of it, and glad to feel that she was the person who would enjoy the benefit. She was in this holiday state of mind, enjoying herself among her supposed treasures, when she was interrupted by the repeated and imperative demands for entrance made by Mr Brown at the locked door.
Nancy went down to open it, but not in too great a hurry. She was rather disposed to patronise the attorney. She put on her white apron, and went to the door spreading it down with a leisurely hand. To Nancy’s surprise and amazement, Mr Brown plunged in without taking any notice of her. He went into the parlour, looked all round, then went up-stairs, three steps at a time, into the best parlour, uncomfortably near the scene of Nancy’s operations. There was the old cabinet for which he had been looking. When he saw it he called to her to look here. Nancy, who had followed him close, came forward immediately. He was shaking the door of the cabinet to see if it was locked. It was a proceeding of which Nancy did not approve.
“I suppose this is where she kept her papers,” said Mr Brown; “get me the keys. I want to see what’s to be found among her papers touching this daughter of hers. You had better bring me all the keys. Make haste, for I have not any time to lose.”
“Missis never kept any papers there,” said Nancy, alarmed and a little anxious. “There’s the best china tea-set and the silver service—that’s all you’ll find there.”
“Bring me the keys, however,” said Mr Brown. “Where did she keep her papers, eh? You know all about her, I suppose. Do you know anything about Phœbe Thomson, that I’ve got to hunt up? She was Mrs Thomson’s daughter, I understand. What caused her to leave her mother? I suppose you know. What is she? How much can you tell me about her?”
“As much as anybody living,” said Nancy, too well pleased to divert him from his inquiries after the keys. “I was but a girl when it happened; but I remember it like yesterday. She went off—missis never liked to have it mentioned,” said Nancy, coming to a dead stop.
“Go on,” cried Mr Brown; “she can’t hear you now, can she? Go on.”
“She went off with a soldier—that’s the truth. They were married after; but missis never thought that mattered. He was a common man, and as plain a looking fellow as you’d see anywhere. Missis cast her off, and would have nothing to say to her. She over-persuaded me, and I let her in one night; but missis wouldn’t look at her. She never came back. She was hurt in her feelin’s. We never heard of her more.”
“Nor asked after her, I suppose?” said the lawyer, indignantly. “Do you mean the old wretch never made any inquiry about her own child?”
“Meaning missis?” said Nancy. “No—I don’t know as she ever did. She said she’d disown her; and she was a woman as always kept her word.”
“Old beast!” said John Brown between his teeth; “but, look here; if she’s married, she is not Phœbe Thomson. What’s her name?”
“I can’t tell,” said Nancy, looking a little frightened. “Sure, neither she is—to think of us never remarking that! But dear, dear! will that make any difference to the will?”
Mr Brown smiled grimly, but made no answer. “Have you got anything else to tell me about her? Did she ever write to her mother? Do you know what regiment it is, or where it was at that time?” said the attorney. “Think what you are about, and tell me clearly—what year was she married, and where were you at the time?”
Nancy grew nervous under this close questioning. She lost her self-possession and all her fancied importance. “We were in the Isle o’ Man, where the Christians come from. I was born there myself. Missis’s friends was mostly there. It was by her husband’s side she belonged to Carlingford. It was about a two miles out of Douglas—a kind of a farmhouse. It was the year—the year—I was fifteen,” said Nancy, faltering.
“And how old are you now?” said the inexorable questioner, who had taken out his memorandum-book.
Nancy dropped into a chair and began to sob. “It’s hard on a person bringing things back,” said Nancy,—“and to think if she should actually turn up again just as she was! As for living in the house with her, I couldn’t think of such a thing. Sally Christian, or some poor-spirited person might do it, but not me as am used to be my own mistress,” cried Nancy, with increasing agitation. “She had the temper of —— oh! she was her mother’s temper. Dear, dear! to think as she might be alive, and come back to put all wrong! It was in the year ’eight—that’s the year it was.”
“Then you didn’t think she would come back,” said Mr Brown.
“It’s a matter o’ five-and-thirty years; and not knowing even her name, nor the number of the regiment, nor nothing—as I don’t,” said Nancy, cautiously; “and never hearing nothing about her, what was a person to think? And if it’s just Phœbe Thomson you’re inquiring after, and don’t say nothing about the marriage nor the regiment, you may seek long enough before you find her,” said Nancy, with a glance of what was intended to be private intelligence between herself and her questioner, “and all correct to the will.”
Mr Brown put up his memorandum-book sharply in his pocket. “Bring me the keys. Look here, bring me all the keys,” he said. “What’s in this other room, eh? It was her bedroom, I suppose. Hollo, what’s all this?”
For all Nancy’s precautions had not been able to ward off this catastrophe. He pushed into the room she had left to admit him, where all her treasures were exhibited. His quick eye glanced round in an instant, and understood it. Trembling as Nancy was with new alarms, she had still strength to make one struggle.
“Missis’s things fall to me,” said Nancy, half in assertion, half in entreaty; “that’s how it always is; the servant gets the lady’s wardrobe—the servant as has nursed her and done for her, when there’s no daughter—that’s always understood.”
“Bring me the keys,” said Mr Brown.
The keys were in the open wardrobe, a heavy bunch. John Brown seized hold of the furs on the bed and began to toss them into the wardrobe. Some of them dropped in pieces in his hands and were tossed out again. He took no notice of the lace or the trinkets, but swiftly-locked every keyhole he could find in the room—drawers, boxes, cupboards, everything. Nancy looked on with fierce exclamations. She would have her rights—she was not to be put upon. She would have the law of him. She would let everybody know how he was taking upon himself as if he was the master of the house.
“And so I am, my good woman; when will you be ready to leave it?” said Mr Brown. “You shall have due time to get ready, and I won’t refuse you the trumpery you’ve set your heart upon. Judging from the specimen, it won’t do Phœbe Thomson much good. But not in this sort of way, you know. I must put a stop to this. Now let me hear what’s the earliest day you can leave the house.”
“I’m not going to leave the house!” cried Nancy; “I’ve lived here thirty years, and here I’ll die. Missis’s meaning was to leave me in the house, and make me commforable for life. Many’s the time she’s said so. Do you think you’re going to order me about just as you please? What do you suppose she left the property like that for but to spite the Christians, and to leave a good home to me?”
“When will you be ready to leave?” repeated Mr Brown, without paying the least attention to her outcries and excitement.
“I tell you I’m not agoing to leave!” screamed Nancy. “To leave?—me!—no, not for all the upstarts in Carlingford, if they was doubled and tripled. My missis meant me to stay here commforable all my days. She meant me to have a girl and make myself commforable. Many and many’s the time she’s said so.”
“But she did not say so in the will,” said the inexorable executor; “and so out you must go, and that very shortly. Now don’t say anything. It is no use fighting with me. You’ll be well treated if you leave directly and quietly; otherwise, you shan’t have anything. The other keys, please. Now mind what I say. You’re quite able to make a noise and a disturbance, but you’re not able to resist me. You shall have time to make your preparations and look out another home for yourself; but take care you don’t compel me to use severe measures—that’s enough.”
“But I won’t!—not if you drag me over the stones. I won’t go. I’ll speak to Mr Curtis,” cried the unfortunate Nancy.
“Pshaw!” said John Brown. Mr Curtis was the other attorney in Carlingford, the one whom probably Mrs Christian had in her mind when she threatened him with her solicitor. He laughed to himself angrily as he went down-stairs. If he was to undertake this troublesome business, at least he was not going to be hampered by a parcel of furious women. When he had locked up everything and was leaving the house, Nancy threw open an upper window and threw a malediction after him. “You’ll never find her! It’ll go back to them as it belongs to,” shouted Nancy. He smiled to himself again as he turned away. Was it possible that John Brown began to think it might be as well if he never did find her? The prophecy certainly was not unpleasant to him, though poor Nancy meant it otherwise. Mr Brown hurried up the monotonous side of Grove Street, we are afraid not without a little private exhilaration in the thought that Phœbe Thomson was not unlike the proverbial needle in the bundle of hay. The chances were she was dead years ago; and though he would neither lose a minute in beginning, nor leave any means unused in pursuing the search for her, it was certain he would not be inconsolable if he never heard any more of Phœbe Thomson. Doubtless he would not have acknowledged as much in words, and did not even have any express confidences with himself on the subject, lest his own mind might have been shocked by the disclosure of its involuntary sentiment. Still he took an interest in Mrs Thomson’s bequest, greater than he took in the properties intrusted to him by his other clients. He could not help himself. He felt affectionately interested in that twenty thousand pounds.
But as he came up to it, John Brown remembered, with a little interest, that spot of the quiet street where Bessie, yesterday, ran across to speak to him. He could not help recalling her appearance as she approached him, though young girls were greatly out of his way. Poor Bessie! The baker’s cart occupied at that moment the spot which Bessie had crossed; and one of the Carlingford ladies was leaving the door of the Christians’ little house. Mr Brown, though no man was less given to colloquies with his acquaintances in the street, crossed over to speak to her. He could not help being interested in everything about that melancholy little house, nor feeling that the very sight of it was a reproach to his thoughts. Poor Bessie! there she stood yesterday in her black frock—the light-footed, soft-voiced creature—not much more than a child beside the middle-aged old bachelor who could find it in his heart to be harsh to her. Across that very spot he passed hastily, with many compunctions in the mind which had been roused so much out of its usual ways of thinking by the events and cogitations of the last four-and-twenty hours. The lady to whom he paid such a marked token of respect was quite flattered and excited to meet him. He was the hero of the day at Carlingford. The last account of this extraordinary affair was doubtless to be had from himself.
“You’ve been at the Christians’. I suppose you were there for some purpose so early in the morning,” said the abrupt Mr Brown, after the necessary salutations were over.
“Yes—but I am a very early person,” said the lady. “Oh, forgive me. I know quite well you don’t care to hear what sort of a person I am; but really, Mr Brown, now that you are quite the hero of the moment yourself, do let me congratulate you. They say there is not a chance of finding this Phœbe Thomson. Some people even say she is a myth and never existed; and that it was only a device of the old lady to give her an excuse for leaving you the money. Dear me! did you ask me a question? I forget. I am really so interested to see you”
“I like an answer when it’s practicable,” said the lawyer. “I said I supposed you were about some business at Miss Christian’s house?”
“I must answer you this time, mustn’t I, or you won’t talk to me any longer?” said the playful interlocutor, whom John Brown could have addressed in terms other than complimentary. “Yes, poor thing, I’ve been at Miss Christian’s, and on a disagreeable business too, in the present circumstances. We are going to send our Mary away to a finishing-school. So I had to tell poor Bessie we shouldn’t want any more music-lessons after this quarter. I was very sorry, I am sure—and there was Mrs Mayor taking her little girls away from the morning-class. When they expected to get Mrs Thomson’s money they had been a little careless, I suppose; and to give three days’ holiday in the middle of the quarter, without any reason for it but an old person’s death, you know—a death out of the house—is trying to people’s feelings; and Mrs Christian had given everybody to understand that her daughter would soon have no occasion for teaching. People don’t like these sort of things; and Mrs Mayor heard of somebody else a little nearer, who is said to be very good at bringing on little children. I said all I could to induce her to change her mind; but I believe they’re to leave next quarter. Poor Bessie! I am very sorry for her, I am sure.”
“And this is how you ladies comfort a good young woman when she meets with a great disappointment?” said John Brown.
“La!—a disappointment! You know that only means one thing to a girl,” said the lady, “but you’re always so severe. Bessie has had no disappointment, as people understand the word; yet there’s young Dr Rider, you know, very attentive, and I do hope he’ll propose directly, and set it all right for her, poor thing, for she’s a dear good girl. But to hear you speak so—of all people—Mr Brown. Why, isn’t it your fault? I declare I would hate you if I was Bessie Christian. If the doctor were to be off too, and she really had a disappointment, it would be dreadfully hard upon her, poor girl; but it’s to be hoped things will turn out better than that. Good morning! but you have not told me a word about your own story—all Carlingford is full of it. People say you are the luckiest man!”
These words overtook, rather than were addressed to, him as he hurried off indignant. John Brown was not supposed to be an observant person, but somehow he saw the genteel people of Carlingford about the streets that day in a surprisingly distinct manner—saw them eager to get a little occupation for themselves anyhow—saw them coming out for their walks, and their shopping, and their visits, persuading themselves by such means that they were busy people, virtuously employed, and making use of their life. What was Bessie doing? Mr Brown thought he would like to see her, and that he would not like to see her. It was painful to think of being anyhow connected with an arrangement which condemned to that continued labour such a young soft creature—a creature so like, and yet so unlike, those other smiling young women who were enjoying their youth. And just because it was painful Mr Brown could not take his thoughts off that subject. If Phœbe Thomson turned up he should certainly try to induce her to do something for the relations whom her mother had disappointed so cruelly. If Phœbe Thomson did not turn up—well, what then?—if she didn’t? Mr Brown could not tell: it would be his duty to do something. But, in the mean time, he did nothing except shake his fist at young Rider’s drag as it whirled the doctor past to his patients, and repeat the “shabby fellow!” of last night with an air of disgust. John Brown had become very popular just at that moment; all his friends invited him to dinner, and dropped in to hear about this story which had electrified Carlingford. And all over the town the unknown entity called Phœbe Thomson was discussed in every possible kind of hypothesis, and assumed a different character in the hands of every knot of gossips. Nobody thought of Bessie Christian; but more and more as nobody thought of her, that light little figure running across the quiet street, and wanting to speak to him, impressed itself like a picture upon the retentive but not very fertile imagination of Mrs Thomson’s executor. It troubled, and vexed, and irritated, and unsettled him. One little pair of willing hands—one little active cheerful soul—and all the burden of labour, and patience, and dread monotony of life that God had allotted to that pretty creature; how it could be, and nobody step in to prevent it, was a standing marvel to John Brown.