My wind is turned to bitter north
That was so soft a south before
A. H. Clough, Poem
In fairness to Charles it must be said that he sent to find Sam before he left the White Lion. But the servant was not in the taproom or the stables. Charles guessed indeed where he was. He could not send there; and thus he left Lyme without seeing him again. He got into his four-wheeler in the yard, and promptly drew down the blinds. Two hearse-like miles passed before he opened them again, and let the slanting evening sunlight, for it was now five o’clock, brighten the dingy paintwork and upholstery of the carriage.
It did not immediately brighten Charles’s spirits. Yet grad-ually, as he continued to draw away from Lyme, he felt as if a burden had been lifted off his shoulders; a defeat suffered, and yet he had survived it. Grogan’s solemn warning—that the rest of his life must be lived in proof of the justice of what he had done—he accepted. But among the rich green fields and May hedgerows of the Devon countryside it was difficult not to see the future as fertile—a new life lay ahead of him, great challenges, but he would rise to them. His guilt seemed almost beneficial: its expiation gave his life its hither-to lacking purpose.
An image from ancient Egypt entered his mind—a sculp-ture in the British Museum, showing a pharaoh standing be-side his wife, who had her arm round his waist, with her other hand on his forearm. It had always seemed to Charles a perfect emblem of conjugal harmony, not least since the figures were carved from the same block of stone. He and Sarah were not yet carved into that harmony; but they were of the same stone.
He gave himself then to thoughts of the future, to practi-cal arrangements. Sarah must be suitably installed in London. They should go abroad as soon as his affairs could be settled, the Kensington house got rid of, his things stored ... perhaps Germany first, then south in winter to Florence or Rome (if the civil conditions allowed) or perhaps Spain. Granada! The Alhambra! Moonlight, the distant sound below of singing gypsies, such grateful, tender eyes ... and in some jasmine-scented room they would lie awake, in each other’s arms, infinitely alone, exiled, yet fused in that loneliness, insepara-ble in that exile.
Night had fallen. Charles craned out and saw the distant lights of Exeter. He called out to the driver to take him first to Endicott’s Family Hotel. Then he leaned back and reveled in the scene that was to come. Nothing carnal should disfig-ure it, of course; that at least he owed to Ernestina as much as to Sarah. But he once again saw an exquisite tableau of tender silence, her hands in his ...
They arrived. Telling the man to wait Charles entered the hotel and knocked on Mrs. Endicott’s door.
Oh it’s you, sir.
Miss Woodruff expects me. I will find my own way.
Already he was turning away towards the stairs.
The young lady’s left, sir
Left! You mean gone out
No, sir. I mean left.” He stared weakly at her. “She took the London train this morning, sir.
But I ... are you sure
Sure as I’m standing here, sir. I distinctly heard her say the railway station to the cabman, sir. And he asked what train, and she said, plain as I’m speaking to you now, the London.” The plump old lady came forward. “Well I was surprised myself, sir. Her with three days still paid on her room.
But did she leave no address
Not a line, sir. Not a word to me where she was going.” That black mark very evidently cancelled the good one merited by not asking for three days’ money back.
No message was left for me
I thought it might very likely be you she was a-going off with, sir. That’s what I took the liberty to presume.
To stand longer there became an impossibility. “Here is my card. If you hear from her—if you would let me know. Without fail. Here. Something for the service and postage.
Mrs. Endicott smiled ingratiatingly. “Oh thank you, sir. Without fail.
He went out; and as soon came back.
This morning—a manservant, did he not come with a letter and packet for Miss Woodruff?” Mrs. Endicott looked blank. “Shortly after eight o’clock?” Still the proprietress looked blank. Then she called for Betsy Anne, who appeared and was severely cross-examined by her mistress ... that is, until Charles abruptly left.
He sank back into his carriage and closed his eyes. He felt without volition, plunged into a state of abulia. If only he had not been so scrupulous, if only he had come straight back after ... but Sam. Sam! A thief! A spy! Had he been tempted into Mr. Freeman’s pay? Or was his crime explicable as resentment over those wretched three hundred pounds? How well did Charles now understand the scene in Lyme— Sam must have realized he would be discovered as soon as they returned to Exeter; must therefore have read his letter ... Charles flushed a deep red in the darkness. He would break the man’s neck if he ever saw him again. For a moment he even contemplated going to a police station office and charging him with ... well, theft at any rate. But at once he saw the futility of that. And what good would it do in the essential: the discovery of Sarah
He saw only one light in the gloom that descended on him. She had gone to London; she knew he lived in London. But if her motive was to come, as Grogan had once suggested, knocking on his door, would not that motive rather have driven her back to Lyme, where she supposed him to be? And had he not decided that all her intentions were honor-able? Must it not seem to her that he was renounced, and lost, forever? The one light flickered, and went out.
He did something that night he had not done for many years. He knelt by his bed and prayed; and the substance of his prayer was that he would find her; if he searched for the rest of his life, he would find her.
