Chapter XXI: A Successful Search

"IS Mrs. Harper at home?"

"Yes. Please walk this way."

Hope felt a little nervous as she mounted the carpeted stairs. It was a lodging-house, but a very superior one; and when she was ushered into the big front drawing-room, with a blazing fire, sweet-scented flowers, and every token of comfort in it, she began to wish herself away.

From the depths of a soft cushioned chair by the fire, a lady rose to greet her. She was a tall fair woman, rather plump in face, and dressed in thorough good taste. No greater contrast could be found than between her and her brother.

"I must introduce myself," Hope said in her pretty gracious way. "I have been staying with Mr. Spencer lately, and he asked me to come and see you. I am in town for one or two days. He is not up to travelling, or I daresay would have come to town himself. I thought perhaps you would like to hear about him from me. He was very much surprised when he heard from you. He told me he had lost sight of you for many years."

"I hope it was a pleasant surprise," said Mrs. Harper, with a gleam of amusement in her eyes. "Do come near the fire, and tell me all you know about my brother."

She drew another easy chair forward, and reseated herself. If she was curious about Hope, she concealed her curiosity well.

Hope very simply stated her position at "The Retreat."

Mrs. Harper listened very quietly to all she said. But nothing escaped her.

"Well," she said at last, "I suppose people do not change for the better as they grow older. Our faults become follies, our fancies eccentricities, and every bad habit is accentuated, this is what the preachers say. Poor dear Alan always was a prig and a screw. I don't expect him to be anything else. Still he is my brother, and it will be his privilege to help me, should I need his help. I must certainly go down to see him. Did he send no message to me?"

"Yes, he said he would write soon."

"After he had heard about me from you?" Mrs. Harper spoke a little sharply, and Hope winced at her plain speaking.

"I know Alan of old, and, from what I hear of his establishment, I should not think there is much comfort in it. I think I shall wait till this cold weather is over, before I venture down. Now, Miss St. Clair, you can tell him that you have seen me; that you cannot make me out; that I look as if I do not need pecuniary aid from him, but that I have told you very little about myself, except that I consider it is his privilege to help me."

"Yes," assented Hope quickly; "I will tell him all that."

"Now tell me honestly if you think my visit will benefit him or myself most?"

Hope looked at her gravely. She would not join this lady in laughing at her brother.

"I think you may benefit him most," she replied. "I shall be going abroad soon. His housekeeper is a tyrant, and does not make him as comfortable as she should. The house needs a mistress badly. He is old and lonely and unhappy, Mrs. Harper. He wants care and affection, and there is no one to give it to him."

Mrs. Harper gazed into the fire without speaking.

"I shall not be the one to give it to him," she said at last. "I am lonely too, but he and I are as far as the North Pole from the South in our tastes and feelings. When do you return to him?"

"Perhaps to-morrow," said Hope. "I am anxious to find a friend of mine first, if I can; but I feel that it is like looking for a needle in a haystack."

"Man or woman?"

Hope briefly told her. Mrs. Harper was interested at once.

"It is quite a romance. Do tell me if you're successful. But London swallows up plenty of little women like that."

Hope was pressed to stay to tea, but she declined. She parted from Mrs. Harper feeling she would like to meet her again. Then she went off to several book-shops to try to glean any information about Miss Rill. At one shop only, one of the assistants remembered her.

"She called late one evening," he said, "and didn't seem to know what book she wanted. She asked me several strange questions, as to how long I had been employed here, whether there were many changes amongst us, and whether I had ever come across a man called Robert Manners. Then she took up a small book hastily, paid for it, and walked out of the shop."

"And you have never seen her since?" questioned Hope eagerly.

"Not that I know of, madam."

It was not a clue, and yet the revelation seemed infinitely pathetic to Hope.

Miss Rill was evidently searching London in a quiet way for traces of her old lover. She knew he was in the bookselling trade, and was visiting every bookseller in turn, buying books that she did not want, and impoverishing herself by so doing.

When dark set in, Hope turned towards her lodgings. Over her tea, she cross-questioned her landlady again, and discovered that Miss Rill was very fond of attending evening church at a certain St. Mark's, not very far away.

"She always used to go of a Friday," Mrs. Edgar said. "And I shouldn't wonder if she went there still. As it's Friday to-night, miss, would you like to go there?"

Hope was feeling very tired. The day had seemed a long one to her. She could hardly believe that it was only that morning that she had taken her three-mile walk through sunny frosty fields. But the desire to find Miss Rill overcame all her fatigue. She felt as if she were personally responsible for her safety, and, refreshed by her tea, she set out again, to attend the half-past six service at St. Mark's.

It was one of those dingy town churches that do not attract the upper classes; indeed as she entered it, there were not more than half a dozen people in it. When the service began, there were about twenty in the congregation; and not one of them bore any resemblance to Miss Rill.

But Hope found rest and refreshment from the beautiful old liturgy which was simply and reverently rendered, and when the Vicar came forward to the lectern and preached one of a series of sermons on the miracles of our Lord, Hope listened with delight. She could well understand now why Miss Rill had found her way here.

It was not an eloquent sermon, but it was an earnest forcible one, and the Saviour's love and power were brought straight down through the ages to bear upon the lives of those who were in the church that night.

"What wilt thou that I should do unto thee?" was the question reiterated again and again. And before Hope left the church she bowed her knee in humble supplication:

"Increase my faith and love."

As she came out, she stopped to speak to the old verger, and, describing Miss Rill as well as she could, asked him if he could remember having seen her.

He responded at once:

"Yes, only last Friday. I thought she'd been rather ill from the look of her. She come in and was took bad in her seat. 'Twas just on closin', after the sermon, and I got her to the vestry; and the Vicar and me had her in a dead faint for over twenty minutes. The Vicar he fetched in a doctor, and he brought her round and took her in a keb. Would you like to speak to the Vicar, miss? We hain't set eyes on her since."

Elope went to the vestry with relief in her heart, for she realised that she was on the right track at last. The Vicar was courteous, and willing to give her all the information in his power.

"I'm afraid," he said, "it was a case of starvation and exhaustion; the doctor seemed to think so. We have many of these cases every winter, and they are very difficult to relieve. I have her address, but when I went to see her, I found she had been removed to St. Thomas's Hospital. Her landlady had done it, I fear, because she did not want to be troubled with her. She was suffering from a severe chill with fever, the landlady told me. But she will have every care in the hospital."

"Thank you," said Hope. "I must see her to-morrow, poor thing! I little thought she was in want of money."

She walked back to the lodgings, hearing again Miss Rill's eager voice when describing her ideas of London life:

"'I'm going to walk in the streets and live like a lady in it. It's the dream of my life coming true!'

"And now her landlady has turned her out of her house, to die perhaps in a hospital. Oh, it is pitiful!"

Hope did not sleep very well that night. Miss Rill's pathetic story was in her heart and brain. "Perhaps I may have been brought up to town to save her," she repeated to herself; "but what can I do? My own future is very insecure and uncertain!"

Early the next morning, she went off to the hospital. Though it was not in the visiting hours, a friendly sister allowed her to go into the ward.

"If you are a friend of hers, it would be a kindness to take her home. We cannot keep her here, for she has no organic disease; it is simply a case of weakness and exhaustion."

Hope could not reply. She hardly knew how to act. She followed her guide into the big cheerful-looking ward. In one corner of it was Miss Rill's bed. Hope started as she came up and looked down upon her. Was this hollow-cheeked white-faced woman the little hardy roundabout Miss Rill? She could for a moment scarcely believe it. But slowly Miss Rill opened her eyes, and then with a start she raised herself to a sitting position, stretching out her hands like a little child.

"Am I dreaming? Are you Miss St. Clair? I think I'm dying."

"Oh no, you are going to get quite well. It is I myself in the flesh, and I've been hunting high and low for you. I came up to London and meant to take you by surprise. Then I found you had left your nice lodgings. I am sadly afraid you have not been taking care of yourself."

Hope talked on, so as to put her at her ease.

The tears began to trickle down the sick woman's cheeks.

"Oh," she said, with a weary sigh; "how I have longed to see the face of a friend! And my sweet cottage? Tell me how it is looking."

Hope did not want to excite her, so she said nothing of the change of hands that had taken place.

"The daffodils are just coming up," she said gently, "and there will be a fine show of apple-blossoms soon. You must come back to the country, Miss Rill. London does not suit you."

"It is rather an expensive place," said Miss Rill. "I think I have missed the country air."

"Do you think you are well enough to come out in a cab with me? I should like to take you back to your old lodgings."

A nervous shrunken look came into Miss Rill's face.

"My dear, I'm afraid I'd better not. If these good people will keep me a little longer, it would—it would be advisable. I do feel so rested and comfortable. And I really have found London lodgings so expensive, that, between ourselves, my savings have fast melted away. I have thought it all out, and if they will keep me a few days longer, I mean then to apply to a very good registry office that was recommended to me. There are posts of caretaker that are often vacant in town, and I am sure that such an office would suit me. Oh, sister, is that you? What? Food again?"

"Yes," said the sister cheerfully. "It is a cup of nice hot soup, and you must take it before you venture out with your friend. I am so glad she has come for you. The fact is, we shall be overcrowded to-night, and your bed will be wanted. I am sure the rest and food has worked wonders for you, has it not? You must look after yourself a little more carefully in the future."

Miss Rill's lips quivered, but she made no reply. Hope hastened to say:

"I will look after her, sister, I can assure you. Can we have a cab in an hour's time?"

"Yes, I will see to it."

Miss Rill seemed almost stunned by this sudden decision. She said nothing till she was in the cab, driving away from the hospital. Then she laid a trembling hand on Hope's arm.

"My dear, you had better tell the cabman to drive to the nearest workhouse. I will struggle no longer against the fate that is driving me there. I have exactly five shillings left of all my savings. I hoped before I saw you that I should die in the hospital. I don't seem able to die like other people do. I suppose I must be extraordinarily strong."

The tears were quietly trickling down her cheeks.

Hope impulsively put her arms round her and cried too.

"You shall not go to the workhouse. I believe God sent me up to London to save you from it. I'm going to take you back to your old lodgings with me. Not to the last place at which you were, but to Mrs. Edgar's. I will make it right with the landlady. I mean to feed you up and nurse you; and when you are quite well and strong again, it will be time enough to talk of earning money. Two letters have come for you since you have left. One unfortunately was given back to the postman, but the other one was forgotten, and is waiting for you. Perhaps a friend or relation has died and left you a fortune! You never know what a letter may bring."

Hope spoke cheerily, but she was feeling painfully perplexed and troubled.

When the lodgings were reached, Mrs. Edgar received Miss Rill back with every expression of kindness. She was put to bed in her old room, a fire lighted, and everything done to make her comfortable. Then Hope telegraphed to Mr. Spencer, saying that she could not well return to him that day, but would write explanation; and a good long letter followed, telling him all she had discovered and done.

"If you could spare me for a few days longer," she wrote, "I should be very glad. Poor Miss Rill is in a very exhausted state, and I do not want to leave her until she is better. Of course, I need hardly say that I am paying my own expenses up here."

Having written this, she sent a note to Mrs. Harper, telling her of the result of her search, and then she went upstairs to Miss Rill again.

"Could I have my letter?" the poor woman asked directly she saw her.

Hope gave it to her, but she could not read it.

"I'm afraid my eyes are rather weak. Will you kindly read it to me?"

So Hope read slowly and clearly as follows:—

"'DEAR JANE,—Even after all these years I cannot call you anything else. I hear you are living in London in comfortable circumstances. Strange that you should wish to end your days in the bustle of a city, and I in the quiet and peace of the country. I was surprised, when I came down to look you up, to find you gone. Memories tugged hard, when I trod your cottage path. But we have learnt to live without each other. I found your cottage wanting an owner, and for auld lang syne I took it, and am living in it now. Why am I writing to you, you will ask! I hardly know myself, except that your presence seems to wander round here, and I wonder if I had managed things better, whether the two of us might not have kept each other company in this snug nest? I should like to hear your experiences in London. I managed to save, and have now a small annuity, enough to keep me from want for the rest of my days.

"'Very truly yours,

"'ROBERT MANNERS.'"

Miss Rill sat up in bed with flushed cheeks.

"Wonderful! Wonderful!" she exclaimed. "So I have been searching all this time in vain. Tell me, Miss St. Clair, all about it. Why have you left my cottage? How did he come to take it? He above all others in this wide world!"

Hope told her everything. She could not quite make out if she were glad or sorry at receiving such a letter. The pitifulness of it all did not seem to strike Miss Rill. She sank back upon her pillow soon, and with a wistful smile asked Hope to put the letter into her hand.

"I will answer it when I feel a little stronger," she said.

But Hope was determined that Robert Manners should know as soon as possible why Miss Rill had not answered his letter before; and that same evening she wrote to him herself, telling him of Miss Rill's weak state of health.

"If he has a heart at all, he will come and see her," she said to herself.

The next day Miss Rill was sufficiently strong to tell Hope her late experiences in town.

"I know you will think me sentimental and foolish," she said. "But though I enjoyed my first few weeks in London very much, I could not rest until I knew whether Robert—Mr. Manners—was still living. I only wanted to know; I did not want to see him; but he was the only old friend I had in London, and so I began my search. I knew he was a bookseller, so I went to every bookseller's in turn, trying to find him, and the consequence was I had to buy a good many books. Oh! I know it was foolish, but I felt I could not take up their time for nothing, and I did not want to be pushing with my inquiries; they were so much more civil when they knew I meant to buy.

"I don't like London; it is a cruel place for the poor and weak. The only nice people in it are the policemen, and I've never had anything but civility from them. They've conducted me across streets times without number—and that without my paying them a penny! Ah, well, God has punished me for my restlessness and faithlessness! I could not wait for His time. What an event it would have been if I had stayed on in my cottage and seen Bob—Mr. Manners—walking up the path one day! I never dreamt he would come back to those parts again! It seems so strange, so sweet that he should be living there now. Well—he says we have learnt to live without each other—I suppose we have, and I shall be happy if I am taken before I have to go to the workhouse. It is my own foolish fault. I saved, and then I spent, and the sooner my life ends, the better."

Hope gently remonstrated with her.

"If you had not been wanted in this world a little longer, God would not have sent me up to London at this identical time when you were needing a friend."

Miss Rill seized hold of her hand, and a hot tear fell on it.

"Ah! I am ungrateful. And God is good, though I had to come to London to find it out. It was all so quiet and peaceful in my cottage. I went to church once on a Sunday, but there my religion began and ended. When I was lonely and forlorn here, I went one evening to St. Mark's. I can't tell you, Miss St. Clair, what comfort came to me through the Vicar's addresses. I got to know the Lord as my personal Friend and Saviour. I believe He is taking care of me, though I am so faithless; but I can't help thinking the loss of my savings is the natural consequence of my own folly."

"We won't talk any more about it," said Hope cheerfully. "You have found a Friend who will undertake for you, Miss Rill, and if your loneliness drove you to Him, you will bless that bit of loneliness through all eternity."