Conrad in Quest of His Youth: An Extravagance of Temperament. Merrick Leonard
himself of the opportunity to inquire again concerning the likelihood of his discovering an ancient copy of the work, but at his reference to 'seventy-seven the stationer, too, fell agape. It recurred to Conrad that in connection with Mr. Boultbee the post-office had been suggested. Physically he was tired by now, but mentally he was unflagging, and he bent his steps to the general post-office forthwith. The clerk who sold the stamps to him "couldn't say"; she retired, however, to repeat his question to the postmistress, and it was at this point that the outlook brightened. The postmistress was a young and gracious woman in a pink blouse, and she came forward with a confident smile to inform him that Dr. Page was no longer a resident of Sweetbay, but had removed to Redhill. "Redhill?" He had not suspected that anyone ever got out there.
"An elderly man. He had a family," he reiterated with exhaustion. "Two young girls."
"Oh, yes," she nodded, "that's the same. Very pretty, tall young ladies? They were always in and out."
"Really?" said Conrad. Mary's sisters began to beckon to him. "Can you help me to communicate with Dr. Page?"
"We have the address he left with us—the one we used to forward letters to; I don't know if he's there still." She confessed the limitation of her knowledge with regret. "It's some years since he went from Sweetbay."
"Perhaps you would be so merciful as to give me the one you have? I am an old friend of Dr. Page's family—very old—and till Providence directed my steps to you I despaired of finding them again." He outlined the difficulties he had encountered, but he had grown diffident of mentioning 'seventy-seven.
The postmistress laughed quite mirthfully at his recital, which, encouraged by her appreciation, he falsified sufficiently to make amusing. After bidding the clerk turn to a book, she announced to him that the address was "Home Rest, Peregrine Place," and the assurances of his gratitude seemed amply to repay her.
Conrad went to bed with much more exhilaration than he had looked for. The day, after all, had seen something accomplished. Within his head, when he punched the pillow, the project of running Dr. Page to earth on the morrow promised agreeable developments. At the onset the interview would be a trifle embarrassing he foresaw, inasmuch as the gentleman on whom he intruded would certainly have no recollection of his name; but the ice would break under a few suave references to "My first visit to the neighbourhood since I was a boy," and "My little playmates of long ago"—he would put her in the plural, his inquiries could be concentrated gradually. If Mary herself were living in Redhill he might remain there. He would intimate that he thought of doing so—it would forefend the suspicion of impetuosity.
The sun was shining when he woke. The birds chirruped among the fir trees, and there were echoes of old-time music in his heart while he brushed his hair—until he fought to draw up a sailor's knot under one of those "double collars" that have led to so much domestic unhappiness at the breakfast-table.
He travelled by the South-Eastern and Chatham, but he reached Redhill, and smelt the tannery as he searched for an exit from the station. The salient features of Redhill are the smell of leather, the shrieks of trains, and the all-night barking of mongrels. He was directed to Station Road, and told to "bear to the left." The townlet seemed to him to blend the most unpleasant characteristics of Clapham Junction and Hanley in the Potteries. He started briskly. The way was long, and several times he paused to seek further information. Occasionally a carriage passed, the occupants with protesting noses. By degrees all the villas and the pavement dropped behind him; the smell of the tannery was fainter, and the path on either side was bordered by a hedge. From the altitude of a butcher's cart a boy in blue encouraged him with the assurance that Peregrine Place was "straight on." Presently the way wound, and a terrace of small semi-detached houses with little front gardens gladdened his view. As he drew close he saw "Home Rest" painted on the gate-post at the corner. Outside, in the sequestered road, a venerable tenant, with a velvet skull-cap and silvery hair, was pottering around a camera. At Conrad's approach he lifted his head, and regarded him with gentle curiosity. The sight of the blue eyes and placid face seemed suddenly familiar to Conrad; he felt far-off memories stirring in him as his gaze met the old man's features, and, doffing his hat, he murmured, with the deference that sat so well upon him:—
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