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.