Yet even so, how could he find her? He might, say, in a poem convey to her his desire for a meeting. Would she comply? And if she did, what would be his position, supposing the inspection to result unfavourably for her? Could he, in effect, say to her: "Thank you for letting me have a look at you; that is all I wanted. Good-bye"?
She must, she should remain in dreamland. He would forget her postscript; in future throw her envelopes unglanced at into the wastepaper basket. Having by this ****** exercise of his will replaced her in London, he himself started for New York--on his way back to Europe, so he told himself. Still, being in New York, there was no reason for not lingering there a while, if merely to renew old memories.
Of course, if he had really wanted to find Sylvia it would have been easy from the date upon the envelope to have discovered the ship "sailing the following Saturday." Passengers were compelled to register their names in full, and to state their intended movements after arrival in America. Sylvia was not a common Christian name.
By the help of a five-dollar bill or two--. The idea had not occurred to him before. He dismissed it from his mind and sought a quiet hotel up town.
New York was changed less than he had anticipated. West Twentieth Street in particular was precisely as, leaning out of the cab window, he had looked back upon it ten years ago. Business had more and more taken possession of it, but had not as yet altered its appearance. His conscience smote him as he turned the corner that he had never once written to Ann. He had meant to, it goes without saying, but during those first years of struggle and failure his pride had held him back. She had always thought him a fool; he had felt she did. He would wait till he could write to her of success, of victory. And then when it had slowly, almost imperceptibly, arrived--! He wondered why he never had. Quite a nice little girl, in some respects. If only she had been less conceited, less self-willed. Also rather a pretty girl she had shown signs of becoming. There were times-- He remembered an evening before the lamps were lighted. She had fallen asleep curled up in Abner's easy chair, one small hand resting upon the arm. She had always had quite attractive hands--a little too thin. Something had moved him to steal across softly without waking her. He smiled at the memory.
And then her eyes, beneath the level brows! It was surprising how Ann was coming back to him. Perhaps they would be able to tell him, the people of the house, what had become of her. If they were decent people they would let him wander round a while. He would explain that he had lived there in Abner Herrick's time. The room where they had sometimes been agreeable to one another while Abner, pretending to read, had sat watching them out of the corner of an eye. He would like to sit there for a few moments, by himself.
He forgot that he had rung the bell. A very young servant had answered the door and was staring at him. He would have walked in if the small servant had not planted herself deliberately in his way. It recalled him to himself.
"I beg pardon," said Matthew, "but would you please tell me who lives here?"
The small servant looked him up and down with growing suspicion.
"Miss Kavanagh lives here," she said. "What do you want?"
The surprise was so great it rendered him speechless. In another moment the small servant would have slammed the door.
"Miss Ann Kavanagh?" he inquired, just in time.
"That's her name," admitted the small servant, less suspicious.
"Will you please tell her Mr. Pole--Mr. Matthew Pole," he requested.
"I'll see first if she is in," said the small servant, and shut the door.
It gave Matthew a few minutes to recover himself, for which he was glad. Then the door opened again suddenly.
"You are to come upstairs," said the small servant.
It sounded so like Ann that it quite put him at his ease. He followed the small servant up the stairs.
"Mr. Matthew Pole," she announced severely, and closed the door behind him.
Ann was standing by the window and came to meet him. It was in front of Abner's empty chair that they shook hands.
"So you have come back to the old house," said Matthew.
"Yes," she answered. "It never let well. The last people who had it gave it up at Christmas. It seemed the best thing to do, even from a purely economical point of view.
"What have you been doing all these years?" she asked him.
"Oh, knocking about," he answered. "Earning my living." He was curious to discover what she thought of Matthew, first of all.
"It seems to have agreed with you," she commented, with a glance that took him in generally, including his clothes.
"Yes," he answered. "I have had more luck than perhaps I deserved."
"I am glad of that," said Ann.
He laughed. "So you haven't changed so very much," he said.
"Except in appearance.
"Isn't that the most important part of a woman?" suggested Ann.
"Yes," he answered, thinking. "I suppose it is."
She was certainly very beautiful.
"How long are you stopping in New York?" she asked him.
"Oh, not long," he explained.
"Don't leave it for another ten years," she said, "before letting me know what is happening to you. We didn't get on very well together as children; but we mustn't let him think we're not friends. It would hurt him."
She spoke quite seriously, as if she were expecting him any moment to open the door and join them. Involuntarily Matthew glanced round the room. Nothing seemed altered. The worn carpet, the faded curtains, Abner's easy chair, his pipe upon the corner of the mantelpiece beside the vase of spills.
"It is curious," he said, "finding this vein of fancy, of tenderness in you. I always regarded you as such a practical, unsentimental young person."
"Perhaps we neither of us knew each other too well, in those days," she answered.
The small servant entered with the tea.
"What have you been doing with yourself?" he asked, drawing his chair up to the table.
She waited till the small servant had withdrawn.
"Oh, knocking about," she answered. "Earning my living."
