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diff --git a/4307-h/4307-h.htm b/4307-h/4307-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..305a6f2 --- /dev/null +++ b/4307-h/4307-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,21013 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + In the Year of Jubilee, by George Gissing + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of In the Year of Jubilee, by George Gissing + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: In the Year of Jubilee + +Author: George Gissing + +Release Date: January 6, 2010 [EBook #4307] +Last Updated: October 27, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN THE YEAR OF JUBILEE *** + + + + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Janet Blenkinship, and David Widger + + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + IN THE YEAR OF JUBILEE + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By George Gissing + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PART1"> <b>Part I: Miss. Lord</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER 1 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER 2 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER 3 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER 4 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER 5 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER 6 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER 7 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER 8 </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PART2"> <b>Part II: Nature’s Graduate</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER 1 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER 2 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER 3 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER 4 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER 5 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER 6 </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PART3"> <b>Part III: Into Bontage</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER 1 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER 2 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER 3 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER 4 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER 5 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER 6 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER 7 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER 8 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PART4"> <b>Part IV: The Veiled Figure</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER 1 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER 2 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER 3 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER 4 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER 5 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0028"> CHAPTER 6 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0029"> CHAPTER 7 </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PART5"> <b>Part V: Compassed Round</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0030"> CHAPTER 1 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0031"> CHAPTER 2 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0032"> CHAPTER 3 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0033"> CHAPTER 4 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0034"> CHAPTER 5 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0035"> CHAPTER 6 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0036"> CHAPTER 7 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0037"> CHAPTER 8 </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PART6"> <b>Part VI: A Virtue of Necessity</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0038"> CHAPTER 1 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0039"> CHAPTER 2 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0040"> CHAPTER 3 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0041"> CHAPTER 4 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0042"> CHAPTER 5 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0043"> CHAPTER 6 </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_PART1" id="link2H_PART1"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h1> + Part I: Miss. Lord + </h1> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER 1 + </h2> + <p> + At eight o’clock on Sunday morning, Arthur Peachey unlocked his front + door, and quietly went forth. He had not ventured to ask that early + breakfast should be prepared for him. Enough that he was leaving home for + a summer holiday—the first he had allowed himself since his marriage + three years ago. + </p> + <p> + It was a house in De Crespigny Park; unattached, double-fronted, with + half-sunk basement, and a flight of steps to the stucco pillars at the + entrance. De Crespigny Park, a thoroughfare connecting Grove Lane, + Camberwell, with Denmark Hill, presents a double row of similar dwellings; + its clean breadth, with foliage of trees and shrubs in front gardens, + makes it pleasant to the eye that finds pleasure in suburban London. In + point of respectability, it has claims only to be appreciated by the + ambitious middle-class of Camberwell. Each house seems to remind its + neighbour, with all the complacence expressible in buff brick, that in + this locality lodgings are <i>not</i> to let. + </p> + <p> + For an hour after Peachey’s departure, the silence of the house was + unbroken. Then a bedroom door opened, and a lady in a morning gown of the + fashionable heliotrope came downstairs. She had acute features; eyes which + seemed to indicate the concentration of her thoughts upon a difficult + problem, and cheeks of singular bloom. Her name was Beatrice French; her + years numbered six and twenty. + </p> + <p> + She entered the dining-room and drew up the blind. Though the furniture + was less than a year old, and by no means of the cheapest description, + slovenly housekeeping had dulled the brightness of every surface. On a + chair lay a broken toy, one of those elaborate and costly playthings which + serve no purpose but to stunt a child’s imagination. Though the time was + midsummer, not a flower appeared among the pretentious ornaments. The + pictures were a strange medley—autotypes of some artistic value + hanging side by side with hideous oleographs framed in ponderous gilding. + Miss. ——— then violently rang the bell. When the summons + had been twice French looked about her with an expression of strong + disgust, repeated, there appeared a young woman whose features told of + long and placid slumbers. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well? what does this mean?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘The cook doesn’t feel well, miss; she can’t get up.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then get breakfast yourself, and look sharp about it.’ + </p> + <p> + Beatrice spoke with vehemence; her cheeks showed a circle of richer hue + around the unchanging rose. The domestic made insolent reply, and there + began a war of words. At this moment another step sounded on the stairs, + and as it drew near, a female voice was raised in song. + </p> + <p> + ‘<i>And a penny in his pocket, la-de-da, la-de-da,—and a penny in + his pocket, la-de-da</i>!’ + </p> + <p> + A younger girl, this, of much slighter build; with a frisky gait, a jaunty + pose of the head; pretty, but thin-featured, and shallow-eyed; a long + neck, no chin to speak of, a low forehead with the hair of washed-out + flaxen fluffed all over it. Her dress was showy, and in a taste that set + the teeth on edge. Fanny French, her name. + </p> + <p> + ‘What’s up? Another row?’ she asked, entering the room as the servant went + out. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ve known a good many fools,’ said Beatrice, ‘but Ada’s the biggest I’ve + come across yet.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Is she? Well, I shouldn’t wonder,’ Fanny admitted impartially. And with a + skip she took up her song again. ‘<i>A penny paper collar round his neck, + la-de-da</i>—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Are you going to church this morning?’ asked her sister. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes. Are you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Come for a walk instead. There’s something I want to talk to you about.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Won’t it do afterwards? I’ve got an appointment.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘With Lord?’ + </p> + <p> + Fanny laughed and nodded. + </p> + <p> + Interrupted by the reappearance of the servant, who brought a tray and + began to lay the table, they crossed the hall to the drawing-room. In + half-an-hour’s time a sluttish meal was prepared for them, and whilst they + were satisfying their hunger, the door opened to admit Mrs. Peachey. Ada + presented herself in a costume which, at any season but high summer, would + have been inconveniently cool. Beneath a loose thin dressing-gown her + feet, in felt slippers, showed stockingless, her neck was bare almost to + the bosom, and the tresses of pale yellow, upon which she especially + prided herself, lay raggedly pinned together on the top of her flat head. + She was about twenty-eight years old, but at present looked more than + thirty. Her features resembled Fanny’s, but had a much less amiable + expression, and betokened, if the thing were possible, an inferior + intellect. Fresh from the morning basin, her cheeks displayed that + peculiar colourlessness which results from the habitual use of paints and + powders; her pale pink lips, thin and sullen, were curiously wrinkled; she + had eyes of slate colour, with lids so elevated that she always seemed to + be staring in silly wonder. + </p> + <p> + ‘So you’ve got breakfast, have you?’ were her first words, in a thin and + rather nasal voice. ‘You may think yourselves lucky.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You have a cheek of your own,’ replied Beatrice. ‘Whose place is it to + see that we get meals?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And what can any one do with servants like I’ve got?’ retorted the + married sister. + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s your own fault. You should get better; and when you’ve got them, you + should manage them. But that’s just what you can’t do.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, <i>you</i>’d be a wonderful housekeeper, we know all about that. If + you’re not satisfied, you’d better find board and lodging somewhere else, + as I’ve told you often enough. You’re not likely to get it as cheap.’ + </p> + <p> + They squabbled for some minutes, Fanny looking on with ingenuous + amusement, and putting in a word, now for this side, now for that. + </p> + <p> + ‘And what am I going to have for breakfast?’ demanded Mrs. Peachey at + length, surveying the table. ‘You’ve taken jolly good care of yourselves, + it seems to me.’ + </p> + <p> + She jumped up, and rang the bell. When a minute’s interval brought no + reply, she rang again. Beatrice thought it probable that the bell might be + rung without effect, ‘till all was blue.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘We’ll see about that,’ answered her sister, and forthwith invaded the + lower parts of the house. Thence, presently, her voice became audible, + rising gradually to shrillness; with it there blended the rougher accents + of the housemaid, now in reckless revolt. Beatrice listened for a minute + or two in the hall, then passed on into the drawing-room with a + contemptuous laugh. Fanny, to whom the uproar seemed to bring a renewal of + appetite, cut herself a slice of bread and butter, and ate it as she stood + at the window. + </p> + <p> + ‘Dirty cat! beast! swine!’ + </p> + <p> + The mistress of the house, fairly beaten away by superior force of + vocabulary, reappeared with these and other exclamations, her face livid, + her foolish eyes starting from their sockets. Fanny, a sort of Mother + Cary’s chicken, revelled in the row, and screamed her merriment. + </p> + <p> + It was long before the domestic uproar wholly subsided, but towards eleven + o’clock the sisters found themselves together in the drawing-room. Ada + sprawled limply on a sofa; Beatrice sat with legs crossed in the most + comfortable chair; and Fanny twirled about on a music stool. + </p> + <p> + The only books in the room were a few show-volumes, which belonged to + Arthur Peachey, and half-a-dozen novels of the meaner kind, wherewith Ada + sometimes beguiled her infinite leisure. But on tables and chairs lay + scattered a multitude of papers: illustrated weeklies, journals of + society, cheap miscellanies, penny novelettes, and the like. At the end of + the week, when new numbers came in, Ada Peachey passed many hours upon her + sofa, reading instalments of a dozen serial stories, paragraphs relating + to fashion, sport, the theatre, answers to correspondents (wherein she + especially delighted), columns of facetiae, and gossip about notorious + people. Through a great deal of this matter Beatrice followed her, and + read much besides in which Ada took no interest; she studied a daily + newspaper, with special note of law suits, police intelligence, wills, + bankruptcies, and any concern, great or small, wherein money played a + part. She understood the nature of investments, and liked to talk about + stocks and shares with her male acquaintances. + </p> + <p> + They were the daughters of a Camberwell builder, lately deceased; to each + of them had fallen a patrimony just sufficient for their support in + elegant leisure. Ada’s money, united with a small capital in her husband’s + possession, went to purchase a share in the business of Messrs. Ducker, + Blunt & Co., manufacturers of disinfectants; Arthur Peachey, + previously a clerk to the firm, became a junior partner, with the result + that most of the hard work was thrown upon his shoulders. At their + marriage, the happy pair first of all established themselves in a modest + house near Camberwell Road; two years later, growing prosperity brought + about their removal to De Crespigny Park, where they had now resided for + some twelve months. Unlike their elder sister, Beatrice and Fanny had + learnt to support themselves, Beatrice in the postal service, and Fanny, + sweet blossom! by mingling her fragrance with that of a florist’s shop in + Brixton; but on their father’s death both forsook their employment, and + came to live with Mrs. Peachey. Between them, these two were the owners of + house-property, which produced L140 a year. They disbursed, together, a + weekly sum of twenty-four shillings for board and lodging, and spent or + saved the rest as their impulses dictated. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER 2 + </h2> + <p> + Ada brooded over her wrongs; Beatrice glanced over <i>The Referee</i>. + Fanny, after twirling awhile in maiden meditation, turned to the piano and + jingled a melody from ‘The Mikado.’ She broke off suddenly, and, without + looking round, addressed her companions. + </p> + <p> + ‘You can give the third seat at the Jubilee to somebody else. I’m provided + for.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Who are you going with?’ asked Ada. + </p> + <p> + ‘My masher,’ the girl replied with a giggle. + </p> + <p> + ‘Where?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Shop-windows in the Strand, I think.’ + </p> + <p> + She resumed her jingling; it was now ‘Queen of my Heart.’ Beatrice, + dropping her paper, looked fixedly at the girl’s profile, with an eyelid + droop which signified calculation. + </p> + <p> + ‘How much is he really getting?’ she inquired all at once. + </p> + <p> + ‘Seventy-five pounds a year. “<i>Oh where, oh where, is my leetle dog + gone?</i>”’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Does he say,’ asked Mrs. Peachey, ‘that his governor will stump up?’ + </p> + <p> + They spoke a peculiar tongue, the product of sham education and mock + refinement grafted upon a stock of robust vulgarity. One and all would + have been moved to indignant surprise if accused of ignorance or defective + breeding. Ada had frequented an ‘establishment for young ladies’ up to the + close of her seventeenth year; the other two had pursued culture at a + still more pretentious institute until they were eighteen. All could ‘play + the piano;’ all declared—and believed—that they ‘knew French.’ + Beatrice had ‘done’ Political Economy; Fanny had ‘been through’ Inorganic + Chemistry and Botany. The truth was, of course, that their minds, + characters, propensities had remained absolutely proof against such + educational influence as had been brought to bear upon them. That they + used a finer accent than their servants, signified only that they had + grown up amid falsities, and were enabled, by the help of money, to dwell + above-stairs, instead of with their spiritual kindred below. + </p> + <p> + Anticipating Fanny’s reply, Beatrice observed, with her air of sagacity: + </p> + <p> + ‘If you think you’re going to get anything out of an old screw like Lord, + you’ll jolly soon find your mistake.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t you go and make a fool of yourself, Fanny,’ said Mrs. Peachey. + ‘Why, he can’t be more than twenty-one, is he?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘He’s turned twenty-two.’ + </p> + <p> + The others laughed scornfully. + </p> + <p> + ‘Can’t I have who I like for a masher?’ cried Fanny, reddening a little. + ‘Who said I was going to marry him? I’m in no particular hurry to get + married. You think everybody’s like yourselves.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘If there was any chance of old Lord turning up his toes,’ said Beatrice + thoughtfully. ‘I dare say he’ll leave a tidy handful behind him, but then + he may live another ten years or more.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And there’s Nancy,’ exclaimed Ada. ‘Won’t she get half the plunder?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘May be plenty, even then,’ said Beatrice, her head aside. ‘The piano + business isn’t a bad line. I shouldn’t wonder if he leaves ten or fifteen + thousand.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Haven’t you got anything out of Horace?’ asked Ada of Fanny. ‘What has he + told you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘He doesn’t know much, that’s the fact.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Silly! There you are. His father treats him like a boy; if he talked + about marrying, he’d get a cuff on the ear. Oh, I know all about old + Lord,’ Ada proceeded. ‘He’s a regular old tyrant. Why, you’ve only to look + at him. And he thinks no small beer of himself, either, for all he lives + in that grubby little house; I shouldn’t wonder if he thinks us beneath + him.’ + </p> + <p> + She stared at her sisters, inviting their comment on this <i>ludicrous</i> + state of things. + </p> + <p> + ‘I quite believe Nancy does,’ said Fanny, with a point of malice. + </p> + <p> + ‘She’s a stuck-up thing,’ declared Mrs. Peachey. ‘And she gets worse as + she gets older. I shall never invite her again; it’s three times she has + made an excuse—all lies, of course. + </p> + <p> + ‘Who will <i>she</i> marry?’ asked Beatrice, in a tone of disinterested + speculation. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Peachey answered with a sneer: + </p> + <p> + ‘She’s going to the Jubilee to pick up a fancy Prince.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘As it happens,’ objected Fanny, ‘she isn’t going to the Jubilee at all. + At least she says she isn’t. She’s above it—so her brother told me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I know who <i>wants</i> to marry her,’ Ada remarked, with a sour smile. + </p> + <p> + ‘Who is that?’ came from the others. + </p> + <p> + ‘Mr. Crewe.’ + </p> + <p> + With a significant giggle, Fanny glanced at the more sober of her sisters; + she, the while, touched her upper lip with the point of her tongue, and + looked towards the window. + </p> + <p> + ‘Does he?’ Fanny asked of the ceiling. + </p> + <p> + ‘He wants money to float his teetotal drink,’ said Beatrice. ‘Hasn’t he + been at Arthur about it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not that I know,’ answered the wife. + </p> + <p> + ‘He tried to get round me, but I—’ + </p> + <p> + A scream of incredulity from Fanny, and a chuckle from Mrs. Peachey, + covered the rest of the sentence. Beatrice gazed at them defiantly. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, idiots! What’s up now?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, nothing.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘There’s nobody knows Luckworth Crewe better than I do,’ Beatrice pursued + disdainfully, ‘and I think he knows <i>me</i> pretty well. He’ll make a + fool of himself when he marries; I’ve told him so, and he as good as said + I was right. If it wasn’t for that, I should feel a respect for him. He’ll + have money one of these days.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And he’ll marry Nancy Lord,’ said Ada tauntingly. + </p> + <p> + ‘Not just yet.’ + </p> + <p> + Ada rolled herself from the sofa, and stood yawning. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, I shall go and dress. What are you people going to do? You needn’t + expect any dinner. I shall have mine at a restaurant.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Who have you to meet?’ asked Fanny, with a grimace. + </p> + <p> + Her sister disregarded the question, yawned again, and turned to Beatrice. + </p> + <p> + ‘Who shall we ask to take Fan’s place on Tuesday? Whoever it 15, they’ll + have to pay. Those seats are selling for three guineas, somebody told me.’ + </p> + <p> + Conversation lingered about this point for a few minutes, till Mrs. + Peachey went upstairs. When the door was open, a child’s crying could be + heard, but it excited no remark. Presently the other two retired, to make + themselves ready for going out. Fanny was the first to reappear, and, + whilst waiting for her sister, she tapped out a new music-hall melody on + the piano. + </p> + <p> + As they left the house, Beatrice remarked that Ada really meant to have + her dinner at Gatti’s or some such place; perhaps they had better indulge + themselves in the same way. + </p> + <p> + ‘Suppose you give Horace Lord a hint that we’ve no dinner at home? He + might take us, and stand treat.’ + </p> + <p> + Fanny shook her head. + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t think he could get away. The guv’nor expects him home to dinner + on Sundays.’ + </p> + <p> + The other laughed her contempt. + </p> + <p> + ‘You see! What good is he? Look here, Fan, you just wait a bit, and you’ll + do much better than that. Old Lord would cut up rough as soon as ever such + a thing was mentioned; I know he would. There’s something I have had in my + mind for a long time. Suppose I could show you a way of making a heap of + money—no end of money—? Shouldn’t you like it better,—to + live as you pleased, and be independent?’ + </p> + <p> + The listener’s face confessed curiosity, yet was dubious. + </p> + <p> + ‘What do you say to going into business with me?’ pursued Miss French. + ‘We’ve only to raise a little money on the houses, and in a year or two we + might be making thousands.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Business? What sort of business?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Suppose somebody came to you and said: Pay me a sovereign, and I’ll make + you a member of an association that supplies fashionable clothing at about + half the ordinary price,—wouldn’t you jump at it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘If I thought it wasn’t a swindle,’ Fanny replied ingenuously. + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course. But you’d be made to see it wasn’t. And suppose they went on + to say: Take a ten-pound share, and you shall have a big interest on it, + as well as your dresses for next to nothing. How would you like that?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Can it be done?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ve got a notion it can, and I think I know two or three people who + would help to set the thing going. But we must have some capital to show. + Have you the pluck to join in?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And suppose I lose my money?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ll guarantee you the same income you’re getting now—if that will + satisfy you. I’ve been looking round, and making inquiries, and I’ve got + to know a bit about the profits of big dressmakers. We should start in + Camberwell, or somewhere about there, and fish in all the women who want + to do the heavy on very little. There are thousands and thousands of them, + and most of them’—she lowered her voice—‘know as much about + cut and material as they do about stockbroking. Do you twig? People like + Mrs. Middlemist and Mrs. Murch. They spend, most likely, thirty or forty + pounds a year on their things, and we could dress them a good deal more + smartly for half the money. Of course we should make out that a dress we + sold them for five guineas was worth ten in the shops, and the real cost + would be two. See? The thing is to persuade them that they’re getting an + article cheap, and at the same time making money out of other people.’ + </p> + <p> + Thus, and at much greater length, did Miss. French discourse to her + attentive sister. Forgetful of the time, Fanny found at length that it + would be impossible to meet Horace Lord as he came out of church; but it + did not distress her. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER 3 + </h2> + <p> + Nancy Lord stood at the front-room window, a hand grasping each side of + her waist, her look vaguely directed upon the limetree opposite and the + house which it in part concealed. She was a well-grown girl of three and + twenty, with the complexion and the mould of form which indicate, whatever + else, habitual nourishment on good and plenteous food. In her ripe lips + and softly-rounded cheeks the current of life ran warm. She had hair of a + fine auburn, and her mode of wearing it, in a plaited diadem, answered the + purpose of completing a figure which, without being tall, had some + stateliness and promised more. Her gown, trimmed with a collar of lace, + left the neck free; the maiden cincture at her waist did no violence to + natural proportion. + </p> + <p> + This afternoon—it was Monday—she could not occupy or amuse + herself in any of the familiar ways. Perhaps the atmosphere of national + Jubilee had a disturbing effect upon her,—in spite of her professed + disregard for the gathering tumult of popular enthusiasm. She had not left + home to-day, and the brilliant weather did not tempt her forth. On the + table lay a new volume from the circulating library,—something about + Evolution—but she had no mind to read it; it would have made her too + conscious of the insincerity with which she approached such profound + subjects. For a quarter of an hour and more she had stood at the window, + regarding a prospect, now as always, utterly wearisome and depressing to + her. + </p> + <p> + Grove Lane is a long acclivity, which starts from Camberwell suburban + dwellings. The houses vary considerably in size and Green, and, after + passing a few mean shops, becomes a road of aspect, also in date,—with + the result of a certain picturesqueness, enhanced by the growth of fine + trees on either side. Architectural grace can nowhere be discovered, but + the contract-builder of today has not yet been permitted to work his will; + age and irregularity, even though the edifices be but so many + illustrations of the ungainly, the insipid, and the frankly hideous, have + a pleasanter effect than that of new streets built to one pattern by the + mile. There are small cottages overgrown with creepers, relics of + Camberwell’s rusticity; rows of tall and of squat dwellings that lie + behind grassy plots, railed from the road; larger houses that stand in + their own gardens, hidden by walls. Narrow passages connect the Lane with + its more formal neighbour Camberwell Grove; on the other side are ways + leading towards Denmark Hill, quiet, leafy. From the top of the Lane, + where Champion Hill enjoys an aristocratic seclusion, is obtainable a + glimpse of open fields and of a wooded horizon southward. + </p> + <p> + It is a neighbourhood in decay, a bit of London which does not keep pace + with the times. And Nancy hated it. She would have preferred to live even + in a poor and grimy street which neighboured the main track of business + and pleasure. + </p> + <p> + Here she had spent as much of her life as she remembered, from the end of + her third year. Mr. Lord never willingly talked of days gone by, but by + questioning him she had learnt that her birthplace was a vaguely indicated + part of northern London; there, it seemed, her mother had died, a year or + so after the birth of her brother Horace. The relatives of whom she knew + were all on her father’s side, and lived scattered about England. When she + sought information concerning her mother, Mr. Lord became evasive and + presently silent; she had seen no portrait of the dead parent. Of late + years this obscure point of the family history had often occupied her + thoughts. + </p> + <p> + Nancy deemed herself a highly educated young woman,—‘cultured’ was + the word she would have used. Her studies at a day-school which was + reputed ‘modern’ terminated only when she herself chose to withdraw in her + eighteenth year; and since then she had pursued ‘courses’ of independent + reading, had attended lectures, had thought of preparing for examinations—only + thought of it. Her father never suggested that she should use these + acquirements for the earning of money; little as she knew of his affairs, + it was obviously to be taken for granted that he could ensure her + life-long independence. Satisfactory, this; but latterly it had become a + question with her how the independence was to be used, and no intelligible + aim as yet presented itself to her roving mind. All she knew was, that she + wished to live, and not merely to vegetate. Now there are so many ways of + living, and Nancy felt no distinct vocation for any one of them. + </p> + <p> + She was haunted by an uneasy sense of doubtfulness as to her social + position. Mr. Lord followed the calling of a dealer in pianos; a + respectable business, to be sure, but, it appeared, not lucrative enough + to put her above caring how his money was made. She knew that one’s father + may be anything whatever, yet suffer no social disability, provided he + reap profit enough from the pursuit. But Stephen Lord, whilst resorting + daily to his warehouse in Camberwell Road—not a locality that one + would care to talk about in ‘cultured’ circles—continued, after + twenty years, to occupy this small and ugly dwelling in Grove Lane. + Possibly, owing to an imperfect education, he failed to appreciate his + daughter’s needs, and saw no reason why she should not be happy in the old + surroundings. + </p> + <p> + On the other hand, perhaps he cared very little about her. Undoubtedly his + favourite was Horace, and in Horace he had suffered a disappointment. The + boy, in spite of good schooling, had proved unequal to his father’s hope + that he would choose some professional career, by preference the law; he + idled away his schooldays, failed at examinations, and ultimately had to + be sent into ‘business.’ Mr Lord obtained a place for him in a large + shipping agency; but it still seemed doubtful whether he would make any + progress there, notwithstanding the advantage of his start; at + two-and-twenty he was remunerated with a mere thirty shillings a week, a + nominal salary,’ his employers called it. Nancy often felt angry with her + brother for his lack of energy and ambition; he might so easily, she + thought, have helped to establish, by his professional dignity, her own + social status at the level she desired. + </p> + <p> + There came into view a familiar figure, crossing from the other side of + the way. Nancy started, waved her hand, and went to open the door. Her + look had wholly altered; she was bright, mirthful, overflowing with + affectionate welcome. + </p> + <p> + This friend of hers, Jessica Morgan by name, had few personal attractions. + She looked overwrought and low-spirited; a very plain and slightly-made + summer gown exhibited her meagre frame with undue frankness; her face + might have been pretty if health had filled and coloured the flesh, but as + it was she looked a ghost of girlhood, a dolorous image of frustrate sex. + In her cotton-gloved hand she carried several volumes and notebooks. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m so glad you’re in,’ was her first utterance, between pants after + hasty walking and the jerks of a nervous little laugh. ‘I want to ask you + something about Geometrical Progression. You remember that formula—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How can I remember what I never knew?’ exclaimed Nancy. ‘I always hated + those formulas; I couldn’t learn them to save my life.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, that’s nonsense! You were much better at mathematics than I was. Do + just look at what I mean.’ + </p> + <p> + She threw her books down upon a chair, and opened some pages of scrawled + manuscript, talking hurriedly in a thin falsetto. + </p> + <p> + Her family, a large one, had fallen of late years from a position of + moderate comfort into sheer struggle for subsistence. Jessica, armed with + certificates of examinational prowess, got work as a visiting governess. + At the same time, she nourished ambitions, discernible perhaps in the + singular light of her deep-set eyes and a something of hysteric + determination about her lips. Her aim, at present, was to become a + graduate of London University; she was toiling in her leisure hours—the + hours of exhaustion, that is to say—to prepare herself for + matriculation, which she hoped to achieve in the coming winter. Of her + intimate acquaintances only one could lay claim to intellectual + superiority, and even she, Nancy Lord to wit, shrank from the ordeals of + Burlington House. To become B.A., to have her name in the newspapers, to + be regarded as one of the clever, the uncommon women—for this + Jessica was willing to labour early and late, regardless of failing + health, regardless even of ruined complexion and hair that grew thin + beneath the comb. + </p> + <p> + She talked only of the ‘exam,’ of her chances in this or that ‘paper,’ of + the likelihood that this or the other question would be ‘set.’ Her brain + was becoming a mere receptacle for dates and definitions, vocabularies and + rules syntactic, for thrice-boiled essence of history, ragged scraps of + science, quotations at fifth hand, and all the heterogeneous rubbish of a + ‘crammer’s’ shop. When away from her books, she carried scraps of paper, + with jottings to be committed to memory. Beside her plate at meals lay + formulae and tabulations. She went to bed with a manual and got up with a + compendium. + </p> + <p> + Nancy, whose pursuit of ‘culture’ followed a less exhausting track, + regarded the girl with a little envy and some compassion. Esteeming + herself in every respect Jessica’s superior, she could not help a slight + condescension in the tone she used to her; yet their friendship had much + sincerity on both sides, and each was the other’s only confidante. As soon + as the mathematical difficulty could be set aside, Nancy began to speak of + her private troubles. + </p> + <p> + ‘The Prophet was here last night,’ she said, with a girlish grimace. ‘He’s + beginning again. I can see it coming. I shall have to snub him awfully + next time.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, what a worry he is!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, but there’s something worse. I suspected that the Pasha knew of it; + now I feel sure he’s encouraging him.’ + </p> + <p> + By this oriental style Nancy signified her father. The Prophet was her + father’s partner in business, Mr. Samuel Bennett Barmby. + </p> + <p> + ‘I feel sure now that they talked it over when the Prophet was taken into + partnership. I was thrown in as a “consideration.”’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But how could your father possibly think—?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s hard to say what he <i>does</i> think about me. I’m afraid I shall + have to have a talk with him. If so, it will be a long talk, and a very + serious talk. But he isn’t well just now, and I must put it off.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘He isn’t well?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘A touch of gout, he says. Two days last week he didn’t go to business, + and his temper was <i>that ‘orrible</i>!’ Nancy had a habit of facetiously + quoting vulgarities; this from an acquaintance of theirs who often + supplied them with mirth. ‘I suppose the gout does make one bad-tempered.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Has he been coming often?—Mr. Barmby, I mean.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Pretty well. I think I must turn matchmaker, and get him married to some + one. It oughtn’t to be difficult. The Prophet “has points.”’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I dare say some people would think him handsome,’ assented Miss Morgan, + nibbling a finger which showed an ink-stain, and laughing shyly. + </p> + <p> + ‘And his powers of conversation!—Don’t you know any one that would + do for him?’ + </p> + <p> + They jested on this theme until Nancy chose to become serious again. + </p> + <p> + ‘Have you any lessons to-morrow?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No. Thank goodness every one is going to see the procession, or the + decorations, or the illuminations, and all the rest of the nonsense,’ + Jessica replied. ‘I shall have a good long day of work; except that I’ve + promised to go in the afternoon, and have tea with the little girls at + Champion Hill. I wish you’d come too; they’d be delighted to see you, and + there’ll be nobody except the governess.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy looked up in doubt. + </p> + <p> + ‘Are you sure? Won’t the dowager be at home?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘She hasn’t left her room for three weeks.’ + </p> + <p> + They exchanged a look of some special significance. + </p> + <p> + ‘Then I suppose,’ said Nancy, with a peculiar smile, ‘that’s why Mr + Tarrant has been calling?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Has he? How do you know?’ + </p> + <p> + Again they looked at each other, and Nancy laughed. + </p> + <p> + ‘I have happened to meet him twice, the last few days.’ She spoke in an + off-hand way. ‘The first time, it was just at the top of the lane; he was + coming away. The second time, I was walking along Champion Hill, and he + came up behind me, going to the house.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Did he talk?’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy gave a nod. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, both times. But he didn’t tell me that the dowager was worse.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘High and mighty?’ asked Jessica. + </p> + <p> + ‘Not quite so majestic as usual, I thought. I didn’t feel quite so much of + a shrimp before him. And decidedly he was in better spirits. Perhaps the + dowager’s death would be important to him?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Very likely. Will you come to-morrow?’ + </p> + <p> + Miss. Lord hesitated—then, with a sudden frankness: + </p> + <p> + ‘To tell you the truth, I’m afraid he might be there.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, I don’t think so, not on Jubilee Day.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But that’s the very reason. He may come to be out of the uproar.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I meant he was more likely to be out of town altogether.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy, still leaning over the table, propped her chin on her hands, and + reflected. + </p> + <p> + ‘Where does he go, I wonder?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, all sorts of places, no doubt. Men of that kind are always + travelling. I suppose he goes shooting and fishing—’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy’s laugh made an interruption. + </p> + <p> + ‘No, no, he doesn’t! He told me once that he didn’t care for that sort of + thing.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, well, you know much more about him than I do,’ said Miss Morgan, with + a smile. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ve often meant to ask you—have they anything to do with Tarrant’s + black-lead?’ + </p> + <p> + Jessica declared that she had never heard of it. + </p> + <p> + ‘Never heard of it? nonsense! A few years ago it used to be posted up + everywhere, and I see it sometimes even now, but other kinds seem to have + driven it out of the market. Now that’s just like you! Pray, did you ever + hear of Pears’ Soap?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Really? Oh, there’s hope of you. You’ll be a woman of the world some + day.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t tease, Nancy. And what would it matter if he <i>was</i> there + to-morrow?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh! I don’t know. But I shouldn’t particularly like his lordship to + imagine that I went in the hope of paying my respects to him, and having + the reward of a gracious smile.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘One can’t always be thinking about what other people think,’ said Jessica + impatiently. ‘You’re too sensitive. Any one else in your position would + have lots of such friends.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘In my position! What <i>is</i> my position?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Culture is everything now-a-days,’ observed Miss. Morgan, with the air of + one who feels herself abundantly possessed of that qualification. + </p> + <p> + But Nancy laughed. + </p> + <p> + ‘You may depend upon it, Mr. Tarrant doesn’t think so.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘He calls himself a democrat.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And talks like one: doesn’t he?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh! that’s only his way, I think. He doesn’t really mean to be haughty, + and—and so on.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I wish I knew if he had any connection with Tarrant’s blacklead,’ said + Miss. Lord mischievously. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why not ask him?’ + </p> + <p> + They laughed merrily, Jessica’s thin note contrasting with the mellow + timbre of her friend’s voice. + </p> + <p> + ‘I will some day.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You would never dare to!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I daren’t? Then I will!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It would be dreadfully rude.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t mind being thought rude,’ replied Nancy, with a movement of the + head, ‘if it teaches people that I consider myself as good as they are.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, will you come to-morrow?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Ye-es; if you’ll go somewhere else with me in the evening.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Where to?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘To walk about the streets after dark, and see the crowds and the + illuminations.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy uttered this with a sly mirthfulness. Her friend was astonished. + </p> + <p> + ‘Nonsense! you don’t mean it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I do. I want to go for the fun of the thing. I should feel ashamed of + myself if I ran to stare at Royalties, but it’s a different thing at + night. It’ll be wonderful, all the traffic stopped, and the streets + crammed with people, and blazing with lights. Won’t you go?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But the time, the time! I can’t afford it. I’m getting on so wretchedly + with my Greek and my chemistry.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You’ve time enough,’ said Nancy. ‘And, you know, after all it’s a + historical event. In the year 3000 it will be ‘set’ in an examination + paper, and poor wretches will get plucked because they don’t know the + date.’ + </p> + <p> + This was quite a new aspect of the matter to Jessica Morgan. She pondered + it, and smiled. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, I suppose it will. But we should have to be out so late.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why not, for once? It needn’t be later than half-past eleven.’ Nancy + broke off and gesticulated. ‘That’s just why I want to go! I should like + to walk about all night, as lots of people will. The public-houses are + going to be kept open till two o’clock.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you want to go into public-houses?’ asked Jessica, laughing. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why not? I should like to. It’s horrible to be tied up as we are; we’re + not children. Why can’t we go about as men do?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Won’t your father make any objection?’ asked Jessica. + </p> + <p> + ‘We shall take Horace with us. Your people wouldn’t interfere, would + they?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I think not. Father is away in Yorkshire, and will be till the end of the + week. Poor mother has her rheumatism. The house is so dreadfully damp. We + ought never to have taken it. The difference of rent will all go in + doctors’ bills.—I don’t think mother would mind; but I must be back + before twelve, of course.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t see the “of course,”’ Nancy returned impatiently, ‘but we could + manage that. I’ll speak to the Pasha to-night, and either come, or let you + have a note, to-morrow morning. If there’s any objection, I’m not sure + that I shan’t make it the opportunity for setting up my standard of + revolt. But I don’t like to do that whilst the Pasha is out of sorts—it + might make him worse.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You could reason with him quietly.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Reason with the Pasha—How innocent you are, Jess! How unworldly! It + always refreshes me to hear you talk.’ + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER 4 + </h2> + <p> + Only twelve months ago Stephen Lord had renewed the lease of his house for + a period of seven years. Nancy, had she been aware of this transaction, + would assuredly have found courage to enter a protest, but Mr. Lord + consulted neither son nor daughter on any point of business; but for this + habit of acting silently, he would have seemed to his children a still + more arbitrary ruler than they actually thought him. + </p> + <p> + The dwelling consisted of but eight rooms, one of which, situated at the + rear of the entrance passage, served Mr. Lord as sitting-room and + bed-chamber; it overlooked a small garden, and afforded a side glimpse of + the kitchen with its outer appurtenances. In the front room the family + took meals. Of the chambers in the storey above, one was Nancy’s, one her + brother’s; the third had, until six years ago, been known as + ‘Grandmother’s room,’ and here its occupant, Stephen Lord’s mother, died + at the age of seventy-eight. Wife of a Norfolk farmer, and mother of nine + children, she was one of the old-world women whose thoughts found abundant + occupation in the cares and pleasures of home. Hardship she had never + known, nor yet luxury; the old religion, the old views of sex and of + society, endured with her to the end. + </p> + <p> + After her death the room was converted into a parlour, used almost + exclusively by the young people. At the top of the house slept two + servants, each in her own well-furnished retreat; one of them was a girl, + the other a woman of about forty, named Mary Woodruff. Mary had been in + the house for twenty years; she enjoyed her master’s confidence, and, + since old Mrs. Lord’s death, exercised practical control in the humbler + domestic affairs. + </p> + <p> + With one exception, all parts of the abode presented much the same + appearance as when Stephen Lord first established himself antiquated, and + in primitive taste. Nancy’s bedroom alone here. The furniture was old, + solid, homely; the ornaments were displayed the influence of modern ideas. + On her twentieth birthday, the girl received permission to dress + henceforth as she chose (a strict sumptuary law having previously been in + force), and at the same time was allowed to refurnish her chamber. Nancy + pleaded for modern reforms throughout the house, but in vain; even the + drawing-room kept its uninviting aspect, not very different, save for the + removal of the bed, from that it had presented when the ancient lady slept + here. In her own little domain, Miss. Lord made a clean sweep of rude + appointments, and at small expense surrounded herself with pretty things. + The woodwork and the furniture were in white enamel; the paper had a + pattern of wild-rose. A choice chintz, rose-leaf and flower on a white + ground, served for curtains and for bed-hangings. Her carpet was of green + felt, matching in shade the foliage of the chintz. On suspended shelves + stood the books which she desired to have near her, and round about the + walls hung prints, photographs, chromolithographs, selected in an honest + spirit of admiration, which on the whole did no discredit to Nancy’s + sensibilities. + </p> + <p> + To the best of Nancy’s belief, her father had never seen this room. On its + completion she invited him to inspect it, but Mr. Lord coldly declined, + saying that he knew nothing, and cared nothing, about upholstery. + </p> + <p> + His return to-day was earlier than usual. Shortly after five o’clock Nancy + heard the familiar heavy step in the passage, and went downstairs. + </p> + <p> + ‘Will you have a cup of tea, father?’ she asked, standing by the door of + the back room, which was ajar. + </p> + <p> + ‘If it’s ready,’ replied a deep voice. + </p> + <p> + She entered the dining-room, and rang the bell. In a few minutes Mary + Woodruff appeared, bringing tea and biscuits. She was a neat, quiet, + plain-featured woman, of strong physique, and with set lips, which rarely + parted save for necessary speech. Her eyes had a singular expression of + inquietude, of sadness. A smile seldom appeared on her face, but, when it + did, the effect was unlooked for: it touched the somewhat harsh lineaments + with a gentleness so pleasing that she became almost comely. + </p> + <p> + Having set down the tray, she went to Mr. Lord’s door, gave a soft tap, + and withdrew into the kitchen. + </p> + <p> + Nancy, seated at the table, turned to greet her father. In early life, + Stephen Lord must have been handsome; his face was now rugged, of + unhealthy tone, and creased with lines betokening a moody habit. He looked + much older than his years, which were fifty-seven. Dressed with excessive + carelessness, he had the appearance rather of one at odds with fortune + than of a substantial man of business. His short beard was raggedly + trimmed; his grizzled hair began to show the scalp. Judging from the + contour of his visage, one might have credited him with a forcible and + commanding character; his voice favoured that impression; but the + countenance had a despondent cast, the eyes seemed to shun observation, + the lips suggested a sullen pride, indicative of some defect or vice of + will. + </p> + <p> + Yet in the look which he cast upon her, Nancy detected a sign of more + amiability than she had found in him of late. She addressed him with + confidence. + </p> + <p> + ‘Early to-day, father.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes.’ + </p> + <p> + The monosyllable sounded gruff, but again Nancy felt satisfaction. Mr. + Lord, who disliked to seat himself unless he were going to keep his + position for some time, took the offered beverage from his daughter’s + hand, and stood with it before the fireplace, casting glances about the + room. + </p> + <p> + ‘How have you felt, father?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Nothing to complain of.’ + </p> + <p> + His pronunciation fell short of refinement, but was not vulgar. Something + of country accent could still be detected in it. He talked like a man who + could strike a softer note if he cared to, but despises the effort. + </p> + <p> + ‘I suppose you will have a rest to-morrow?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I suppose so. If your grandmother had lived,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘she + would have been eighty-four this week on Thursday.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘The 23rd of June. Yes, I remember.’ + </p> + <p> + Mr. Lord swallowed his tea at two draughts, and put down the cup. + Seemingly refreshed, he looked about him with a half smile, and said + quietly: + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ve had the pleasure of punishing a scoundrel to-day. That’s worth more + than the Jubilee.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy waited for an explanation, but it was not vouchsafed. + </p> + <p> + ‘A scoundrel?’ she asked. + </p> + <p> + Her father nodded—the nod which signified his pleasure that the + subject should not be pursued. Nancy could only infer that he spoke of + some incident in the course of business, as indeed was the case. + </p> + <p> + He had no particular aptitude for trade, and that by which he lived (he + had entered upon it thirty years ago rather by accident than choice) was + thoroughly distasteful to him. As a dealer in pianofortes, he came into + contact with a class of people who inspired him with a savage contempt, + and of late years his business had suffered considerably from the + competition of tradesmen who knew nothing of such conflicts between + sentiment and interest. A majority of his customers obtained their pianos + on the ‘hire-purchase system,’ and oftener than not, they were persons of + very small or very precarious income, who, rabid in the pursuit of + gentility, signed agreements they had little chance of fulfilling; when in + pecuniary straits, they either raised money upon the instruments, or + allowed them to fall into the hands of distraining creditors. Inquiry into + the circumstances of a would-be customer sometimes had ludicrous results; + a newly-married couple, for instance, would be found tenanting two + top-floor rooms, the furnishing whereof seemed to them incomplete without + the piano of which their friends and relatives boasted. Not a few + professional swindlers came to the office; confederate rogues, vouching + for each other’s respectability, got possession of pianos merely to pawn + or sell them, having paid no more than the first month’s charge. It was Mr + Lord’s experience that year by year the recklessness of the vulgar became + more glaring, and deliberate fraud more artful. To-day he had successfully + prosecuted a man who seemed to have lived for some time on the + hire-purchase system, and it made him unusually cheerful. + </p> + <p> + ‘You don’t think of going to see the Queen to-morrow?’ said his daughter, + smiling. + </p> + <p> + ‘What have I to do with the Queen? Do you wish to go?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not to see Her Majesty. I care as little about her as you do. But I + thought of having a walk in the evening.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy phrased it thus with intention. She wished to intimate that, at her + age, it could hardly be necessary to ask permission. But her father looked + surprised. + </p> + <p> + ‘In the evening? Where?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, about the main streets—to see the people and the + illuminations.’ + </p> + <p> + Her voice was not quite firm. + </p> + <p> + ‘But,’ said her father, ‘there’ll be such a swarm of blackguards as never + was known. How can you go into such a crowd? It’s astonishing that you + should think of it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘The blackguards will be outnumbered by the decent people, father.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You suppose that’s possible?’ he returned gloomily. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, I think so,’ Nancy laughed. ‘At all events, there’ll be a great + majority of people who pretend to be decent. I have asked Jessica Morgan + to go with me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What right had you to ask her, without first finding out whether you + could go or not?’ + </p> + <p> + It was spoken rather gravely than severely. Mr. Lord never looked fixedly + at his daughter, and even a glance at her face was unusual; but at this + juncture he met her eyes for an instant. The nervous motion with which he + immediately turned aside had been marked by Nancy on previous occasions, + and she had understood it as a sign of his lack of affection for her. + </p> + <p> + ‘I am twenty-three years old, father,’ she replied, without + aggressiveness. + </p> + <p> + ‘That would be something of an answer if you were a man,’ observed the + father, his eyes cast down. + </p> + <p> + ‘Because I am a woman, you despise me?’ + </p> + <p> + Stephen was startled at this unfamiliar mode of address. He moved + uneasily. + </p> + <p> + ‘If I despised you, Nancy, I shouldn’t care very much what you did. I + suppose you must do as you like, but you won’t go with my permission.’ + </p> + <p> + There was a silence, then the girl said: + </p> + <p> + ‘I meant to ask Horace to go with us.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Horace—pooh!’ + </p> + <p> + Again a silence. Mr. Lord laid down his cup, moved a few steps away, and + turned back. + </p> + <p> + ‘I didn’t think this kind of thing was in your way,’ he said gruffly. ‘I + thought you were above it.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy defended herself as she had done to Jessica, but without the + playfulness. In listening, her father seemed to weigh the merits of the + case conscientiously with wrinkled brows. At length he spoke. + </p> + <p> + ‘Horace is no good. But if Samuel Barmby will go with you, I make no + objection.’ + </p> + <p> + A movement of annoyance was Nancy’s first reply. She drummed with her + fingers on the table, looking fixedly before her. + </p> + <p> + ‘I certainly can’t ask Mr. Barmby to come with us,’ she said, with an + effort at self-control. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, you needn’t. I’ll speak about it myself.’ + </p> + <p> + He waited, and again it chanced that their eyes met. Nancy, on the point + of speaking, checked herself. A full minute passed, and Stephen stood + waiting patiently. + </p> + <p> + ‘If you insist upon it,’ said Nancy, rising from her chair, ‘we will take + Mr. Barmby with us.’ + </p> + <p> + Without comment, Mr. Lord left the room, and his own door closed rather + loudly behind him. + </p> + <p> + Not long afterwards Nancy heard a new foot in the passage, and her brother + made his appearance. Horace had good looks, but his face showed already + some of the unpleasant characteristics which time had developed on that of + Stephen Lord, and from which the daughter was entirely free; one judged + him slow of intellect and weakly self-willed. His hair was of pale + chestnut, the silky pencillings of his moustache considerably darker. His + cheek, delicately pink and easily changing to a warmer hue, his + bright-coloured lips, and the limpid glistening of his eyes, showed him of + frail constitution; he was very slim, and narrow across the shoulders. The + fashion of his attire tended to a dandiacal extreme,—modish silk + hat, lavender necktie, white waistcoat, gaiters over his patent-leather + shoes, gloves crushed together in one hand, and in the other a bamboo + cane. For the last year or two he had been progressing in this direction, + despite his father’s scornful remarks and his sister’s good-natured + mockery. + </p> + <p> + ‘Father in yet?’ he asked at the door of the dining-room, in subdued + voice. + </p> + <p> + Nancy nodded, and the young man withdrew to lay aside his outdoor + equipments. + </p> + <p> + ‘What sort of temper?’ was his question when he returned. + </p> + <p> + ‘Pretty good—until I spoilt it.’ + </p> + <p> + Horace exhibited a pettish annoyance. + </p> + <p> + ‘What on earth did you do that for? I want to have a talk with him + to-night.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘About what?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, never mind; I’ll tell you after.’ + </p> + <p> + Both kept their voices low, as if afraid of being overheard in the next + room. Horace began to nibble at a biscuit; the hour of his return made it + unnecessary for him, as a rule, to take anything before dinner, but at + present he seemed in a nervous condition, and acted mechanically. + </p> + <p> + ‘Come out into the garden, will you?’ he said, after receiving a brief + explanation of what had passed between Nancy and her father. ‘I’ve + something to tell you.’ + </p> + <p> + His sister carelessly assented, and with heads uncovered they went through + the house into the open air. The garden was but a strip of ground, bounded + by walls of four feet high; in the midst stood a laburnum, now heavy with + golden bloom, and at the end grew a holly-bush, flanked with laurels; a + border flower-bed displayed Stephen Lord’s taste and industry. Nancy + seated herself on a rustic bench in the shadow of the laburnum, and Horace + stood before her, one of the branches in his hand. + </p> + <p> + ‘I promised Fanny to take her to-morrow night,’ he began awkwardly. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, you have?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And we’re going together in the morning, you know.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I know now. I didn’t before,’ Nancy replied. + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course we can make a party in the evening.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course.’ + </p> + <p> + Horace looked up at the ugly house-backs, and hesitated before proceeding. + </p> + <p> + ‘That isn’t what I wanted to talk about,’ he said at length. ‘A very queer + thing has happened, a thing I can’t make out at all.’ + </p> + <p> + The listener looked her curiosity. + </p> + <p> + ‘I promised to say nothing about it, but there’s no harm in telling you, + you know. You remember I was away last Saturday afternoon? Well, just when + it was time to leave the office, that day, the porter came to say that a + lady wished to see me—a lady in a carriage outside. Of course I + couldn’t make it out at all, but I went down as quickly as possible, and + saw the carriage waiting there,—a brougham,—and marched up to + the door. Inside there was a lady—a great swell, smiling at me as if + we were friends. I took off my hat, and said that I was Mr. Lord. “Yes,” + she said, “I see you are;” and she asked if I could spare her an hour or + two, as she wished to speak to me of something important. Well, of course + I could only say that I had nothing particular to do,—that I was + just going home. “Then will you do me the pleasure,” she said, “to come + and have lunch with me? I live in Weymouth Street, Portland Place.” + </p> + <p> + The young man paused to watch the effect of his narrative, especially of + the last words. Nancy returned his gaze with frank astonishment. + </p> + <p> + ‘What sort of lady was it?’ she asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, a great swell. Somebody in the best society—you could see that + at once.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But how old?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, I couldn’t tell exactly; about forty, I should think.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh!—Go on.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘One couldn’t refuse, you know; I was only too glad to go to a house in + the West End. She opened the carriage-door from the inside, and I got in, + and off we drove. I felt awkward, of course, but after all I was decently + dressed, and I suppose I can behave like a gentleman, and—well, she + sat looking at me and smiling, and I could only smile back. Then she said + she must apologise for behaving so strangely, but I was very young, and + she was an old woman,—one couldn’t call her that, though,—and + she had taken this way of renewing her acquaintance with me. Renewing? But + I didn’t remember to have ever met her before, I said. “Oh, yes, we have + met before, but you were a little child, a baby in fact, and there’s no + wonder you don’t remember me?” And then she said, “I knew your mother very + well.” + </p> + <p> + Nancy leaned forward, her lips apart. + </p> + <p> + ‘Queer, wasn’t it? Then she went on to say that her name was Mrs. Damerel; + had I ever heard it? No, I couldn’t remember the name at all. She was a + widow, she said, and had lived mostly abroad for a great many years; now + she was come back to settle in England. She hadn’t a house of her own yet, + but lived at a boarding-house; she didn’t know whether to take a house in + London, or somewhere just out in the country. Then she began to ask about + father, and about you; and it seemed to amuse her when I looked puzzled. + She’s a jolly sort of person, always laughing.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Did she say anything more about our mother?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ll tell you about that presently. We got to the house, and went in, and + she took me upstairs to her own private sitting-room, where the table was + laid for two. She said that she usually had her meals with the other + people, but it would be better for us to be alone, so that we could talk.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How did she know where to find you?’ Nancy inquired. + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course I wondered about that, but I didn’t like to ask. Well, she went + away for a few minutes, and then we had lunch. Everything was A-1 of + course; first-rate wines to choose from, and a rattling good cigar + afterwards—for me, I mean. She brought out a box; said they were her + husband’s, and had a laugh about it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How long has she been a widow?’ asked Nancy. + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t know. She didn’t wear colours, I noticed; perhaps it was a + fashionable sort of mourning. We talked about all sorts of things; I soon + made myself quite at home. And at last she began to explain. She was a + friend of mother’s, years and years ago, and father was the cause of their + parting, a quarrel about something, she didn’t say exactly what. And it + had suddenly struck her that she would like to know how we were getting + on. Then she asked me to promise that I would tell no one.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘She knew about mother’s death, I suppose?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh yes, she knew about that. It happened not very long after the affair + that parted them. She asked a good many questions about you. And she + wanted to know how father had got on in his business.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What did you say?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, I told her I really didn’t know much about it, and she laughed at + that.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How long did you stay there?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Till about four. But there’s something else. Before I went away she gave + me an invitation for next Saturday. She wants me to meet her at Portland + Road Station, and go out to Richmond, and have dinner there.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Shall you go?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, it’s very awkward. I want to go somewhere else on Saturday, with + Fanny. But I didn’t see how to refuse.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy wore a look of grave reflection, and kept silence. + </p> + <p> + ‘It isn’t a bad thing, you know,’ pursued her brother, ‘to have a friend + of that sort. There’s no knowing what use she might be, especially just + now.’ + </p> + <p> + His tone caused Nancy to look up. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why just now?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ll tell you after I’ve had a talk with father to-night,’ Horace + replied, setting his countenance to a show of energetic resolve. + </p> + <p> + ‘Shall I guess what you’re going to talk about?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘If you like.’ + </p> + <p> + She gazed at him. + </p> + <p> + ‘You’re surely not so silly as to tell father about all that nonsense?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What nonsense?’ exclaimed the other indignantly. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why, with Fanny French.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You’ll find that it’s anything but nonsense,’ Horace replied, raising his + brows, and gazing straight before him, with expanded nostrils. + </p> + <p> + ‘All right. Let me know the result. It’s time to go in.’ + </p> + <p> + Horace sat alone for a minute or two, his legs at full length, his feet + crossed, and the upper part of his body bent forward. He smiled to + himself, a smile of singular fatuity, and began to hum a popular tune. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER 5 + </h2> + <p> + When they assembled at table, Mr. Lord had recovered his moderate + cheerfulness. Essentially, he was anything but ill-tempered; Horace and + Nancy were far from regarding him with that resentful bitterness which is + produced in the victims of a really harsh parent. Ten years ago, as they + well remembered, anger was a rare thing in his behaviour to them, and + kindness the rule. Affectionate he had never shown himself; reserve and + austerity had always distinguished him. Even now-a-days, it was generally + safe to anticipate mildness from him at the evening meal. In the matter of + eating and drinking his prudence notably contradicted his precepts. He + loved strong meats, dishes highly flavoured, and partook of them without + moderation. At table his beverage was ale; for wine—unless it were + very sweet port—he cared little; but in the privacy of his own room, + whilst smoking numberless pipes of rank tobacco, he indulged freely in + spirits. The habit was unknown to his children, but for some years he had + seldom gone to bed in a condition that merited the name of sobriety. + </p> + <p> + When the repast was nearly over, Mr. Lord glanced at his son and said + unconcernedly: + </p> + <p> + ‘You have heard that Nancy wants to mix with the rag-tag and bobtail + to-morrow night?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I shall take care of her,’ Horace replied, starting from his reverie. + </p> + <p> + ‘Doesn’t it seem to you rather a come-down for an educated young lady?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, there’ll be lots of them about.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Will there? Then I can’t see much difference between them and the servant + girls.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy put in a word. + </p> + <p> + ‘That shows you don’t in the least understand me, father.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘We won’t argue about it. But bear in mind, Horace, that you bring your + sister back not later than half-past eleven. You are to be here by + half-past eleven.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s rather early,’ replied the young man, though in a submissive tone. + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s the hour I appoint. Samuel Barmby will be with you, and he will know + the arrangement; but I tell you now, so that there may be no + misunderstanding.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy sat in a very upright position, displeasure plain upon her + countenance. But she made no remark. Horace, who had his reasons for + desiring to preserve a genial tone, affected acquiescence. Presently he + and his sister went upstairs to the drawing-room, where they sat down at a + distance apart—Nancy by the window, gazing at the warm clouds above + the roofs opposite, the young man in a corner which the dusk already + shadowed. Some time passed before either spoke, and it was Horace’s voice + which first made itself heard. + </p> + <p> + ‘Nancy, don’t you think it’s about time we began to behave firmly?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It depends what you mean by firmness,’ she answered in an absent tone. + </p> + <p> + ‘We’re old enough to judge for ourselves.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I am, no doubt. But I’m not so sure about you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, all right. Then we won’t talk about it.’ + </p> + <p> + Another quarter of an hour went by. The room was in twilight. There came a + knock at the door, and Mary Woodruff, a wax-taper in her hand, entered to + light the gas. Having drawn the blind, and given a glance round to see + that everything was in order, she addressed Nancy, her tone perfectly + respectful, though she used no formality. + </p> + <p> + ‘Martha has been asking me whether she can go out to-morrow night for an + hour or two.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You don’t wish to go yourself?’ Miss. Lord returned, her voice + significant of life-long familiarity. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh no!’ + </p> + <p> + And Mary showed one of her infrequent smiles. + </p> + <p> + ‘She may go immediately after dinner, and be away till half-past ten.’ + </p> + <p> + The servant bent her head, and withdrew. As soon as she was gone, Horace + laughed. + </p> + <p> + ‘There you are! What did father say?’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy was silent. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, I’m going to have a word with him,’ continued the young man, + sauntering towards the door with his hands in his pockets. He looked + exceedingly nervous. ‘When I come back, I may have something to tell you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Very likely,’ remarked his sister in a dry tone, and seated herself under + the chandelier with a book. + </p> + <p> + Horace slowly descended the stairs. At the foot he stood for a moment, + then moved towards his father’s door. Another hesitancy, though briefer, + and he knocked for admission, which was at once granted. Mr. Lord sat in + his round-backed chair, smoking a pipe, on his knees an evening paper. He + looked at Horace from under his eyebrows, but with good humour. + </p> + <p> + ‘Coming to report progress?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, father,—and to talk over things in general.’ + </p> + <p> + The slim youth—he could hardly be deemed more than a lad tried to + assume an easy position, with his elbow on the corner of the mantelpiece; + but his feet shuffled, and his eyes strayed vacantly. It cost him an + effort to begin his customary account of how things were going with him at + the shipping-office. In truth, there was nothing particular to report; + there never was anything particular; but Horace always endeavoured to show + that he had made headway, and to-night he spoke with a very pronounced + optimism. + </p> + <p> + ‘Very well, my boy,’ said his father. ‘If you are satisfied, I shall try + to be the same. Have you your pipe with you?—At your age I hadn’t + begun to smoke, and I should advise you to be moderate; but we’ll have a + whiff together, if you like.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ll go and fetch it,’ Horace replied impulsively. + </p> + <p> + He came back with a rather expensive meerschaum, recently purchased. + </p> + <p> + ‘Hollo! luxuries!’ exclaimed his father. + </p> + <p> + ‘It kept catching my eye in a window,—and at last I couldn’t resist. + Tobacco’s quite a different thing out of a pipe like this, you know.’ + </p> + <p> + No one, seeing them thus together, could have doubted of the affectionate + feeling which Stephen Lord entertained for his son. It appeared in his + frequent glances, in the relaxation of his features, in a certain + abandonment of his whole frame, as though he had only just begun to enjoy + the evening’s repose. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ve something rather important to speak about, father,’ Horace began, + when he had puffed for a few minutes in silence. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh? What’s that?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You remember telling me, when I was one and twenty, that you wished me to + work my way up, and win an income of my own, but that I could look to you + for help, if ever there was need of it—?’ + </p> + <p> + Yes, Stephen remembered. He had frequently called it to mind, and wondered + whether it was wisely said, the youth’s character considered. + </p> + <p> + ‘What of that?’ he returned, still genially. ‘Do you think of starting a + new line of ocean steamships?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, not just yet,’ Horace answered, with an uncertain laugh. ‘I have + something more moderate in view. I may start a competition with the P. and + O. presently.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Let’s hear about it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I dare say it will surprise you a little. The fact is, I—I am + thinking of getting married.’ + </p> + <p> + The father did not move, but smoke ceased to issue from his lips, and his + eyes, fixed upon Horace, widened a little in puzzled amusement. + </p> + <p> + ‘Thinking of it, are you?’ he said, in an undertone, as one speaks of some + trifle. ‘No harm in thinking. Too many people do it without thinking at + all.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m not one of that kind,’ said Horace, with an air of maturity which was + meant to rebuke his father’s jest. ‘I know what I’m about. I’ve thought it + over thoroughly. You don’t think it too soon, I hope?’ + </p> + <p> + Horace’s pipe was going out; he held it against his knee and regarded it + with unconscious eyes. + </p> + <p> + ‘I dare say it won’t be,’ said Mr. Lord, ‘when you have found a suitable + wife.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, but you misunderstand me. I mean that I have decided to marry a + particular person.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And who may that be?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘The younger Miss. French—Fanny.’ + </p> + <p> + His voice quivered over the name; at the end he gave a gasp and a gulp. Of + a sudden his lips and tongue were very dry, and he felt a disagreeable + chill running down his back. For the listener’s face had altered + noticeably; it was dark, stern, and something worse. But Mr. Lord could + still speak with self-control. + </p> + <p> + ‘You have asked her to marry you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, I have; and she has consented.’ + </p> + <p> + Horace felt his courage returning, like the so-called ‘second wind’ of a + runner. It seemed to him that he had gone through the worst. The + disclosure was made, and had resulted in no outbreak of fury; now he could + begin to plead his cause. Imagination, excited by nervous stress, brought + before him a clear picture of the beloved Fanny, with fluffy hair upon her + forehead and a laugh on her never-closed lips. He spoke without effort. + </p> + <p> + ‘I thought that there would be no harm in asking you to help us. We should + be quite content to start on a couple of hundred a year—quite. That + is only about fifty pounds more than we have.’ + </p> + <p> + Calf-love inspires many an audacity. To Horace there seemed nothing + outrageous in this suggestion. He had talked it over with Fanny French + several times, and they had agreed that his father could not in decency + offer them <i>less</i> than a hundred a year. He began to shake out the + ashes from his pipe, with a vague intention of relighting it. + </p> + <p> + ‘You really imagine,’ said his father, ‘that I should give you money to + enable you to marry that idiot?’ + </p> + <p> + Evidently he put a severe restraint upon himself. The veins of his temples + were congested; his nostrils grew wide; and he spoke rather hoarsely. + Horace straightened his back, and, though in great fear, strung himself + for conflict. + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t see—what right—to insult the young lady.’ + </p> + <p> + His father took him up sternly. + </p> + <p> + ‘Young lady? What do you mean by “young lady”? After all your education, + haven’t you learnt to distinguish a lady from a dressed-up kitchen wench? + <i>I</i> had none of your advantages. There was—there would have + been some excuse for <i>me</i>, if I had made such a fool of myself. What + were you doing all those years at school, if it wasn’t learning the + difference between real and sham, getting to understand things better than + poor folks’ children? You disappointed me, and a good deal more than I + ever told you. I had hoped you would come from school better able to make + a place in the world than your father was. I made up my mind long ago that + you should never go into my business; you were to be something a good deal + better. But after all you couldn’t, or wouldn’t, do what I wanted. Never + mind—I said to myself—never mind; at all events, he has learnt + to <i>think</i> in a better way than if I had sent him to common schools, + and after all that’s the main thing. But here you come to me and talk of + marrying a low-bred, low-minded creature, who wouldn’t be good enough for + the meanest clerk!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How do you know that, father? What—what right have you to say such + things, without knowing more of her than you do?’ + </p> + <p> + There was a brief silence before Mr. Lord spoke again. + </p> + <p> + ‘You are very young,’ he said, with less vehement contempt. ‘I must + remember that. At your age, a lad has a sort of devil in him, that’s + always driving him out of the path of common sense, whether he will or no. + I’ll try my best to talk quietly with you. Does your sister know what has + been going on?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I daresay she does. I haven’t told her in so many words.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I never thought of it,’ pursued Mr. Lord gloomily. ‘I took it for granted + that everybody must see those people as I myself did. I have wondered now + and then why Nancy kept up any kind of acquaintance with them, but she + spoke of them in the rational way, and that seemed enough. I may have + thought that they might get some sort of good out of <i>her</i>, and I + felt sure she had too much sense to get harm from <i>them</i>. If it + hadn’t been so, I should have forbidden her to know them at all. What have + you to say for yourself? I don’t want to think worse of you than I need. I + can make allowance for your age, as I said. What do you see in that girl? + Just talk to me freely and plainly.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘After all you have said,’ replied Horace, his voice still shaky, ‘what’s + the use? You seem to be convinced that there isn’t a single good quality + in her.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘So I am. What I want to know is, what good <i>you</i> have found.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘A great deal, else I shouldn’t have asked her to marry me.’ + </p> + <p> + A vein of stubbornness, unmistakable inheritance from Stephen Lord, had + begun to appear in the youth’s speech and bearing. He kept his head bent, + and moved it a little from side to side. + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you think her an exception in the family, then?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘She’s a great deal better in every way than her sisters. But I don’t + think as badly of them as you do.’ + </p> + <p> + Mr. Lord stepped to the door, and out into the passage, where he shouted + in his deep voice ‘Nancy!’ The girl quickly appeared. + </p> + <p> + ‘Shut the door, please,’ said her father. All three were now standing + about the room. ‘Your brother has brought me a piece of news. It ought to + interest you, I should think. He wants to marry, and out of all the world, + he has chosen Miss. French—the youngest.’ Horace’s position was + trying. He did not know what to do with his hands, and he kept balancing + now on one foot, now on the other. Nancy had her eyes averted from him, + but she met her father’s look gravely. + </p> + <p> + ‘Now, I want to ask you,’ Mr. Lord proceeded, ‘whether you consider Miss. + French a suitable wife for your brother? Just give me a plain yes or no.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I certainly don’t,’ replied the girl, barely subduing the tremor of her + voice. + </p> + <p> + ‘Both my children are not fools, thank Heaven! Now tell me, if you can, + what fault you have to find with the “young lady,” as your brother calls + her?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘For one thing, I don’t think her Horace’s equal. She can’t really be + called a lady.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You are listening?’ + </p> + <p> + Horace bit his lip in mortification, and again his head swung doggedly + from side to side. + </p> + <p> + ‘We might pass over that,’ added Mr. Lord. ‘What about her character? Is + there any good point in her?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t think she means any harm. But she’s silly, and I’ve often thought + her selfish.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You are listening?’ + </p> + <p> + Horace lost patience. + </p> + <p> + ‘Then why do you pretend to be friends with her?’ he demanded almost + fiercely. + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t,’ replied his sister, with a note of disdain. ‘We knew each other + at school, and we haven’t altogether broken off, that’s all.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It isn’t all!’ shouted the young man on a high key. ‘If you’re not + friendly with her and her sisters, you’ve been a great hypocrite. It’s + only just lately you have begun to think yourself too good for them. They + used to come here, and you went to them; and you talked just like friends + would do. It’s abominable to turn round like this, for the sake of taking + father’s side against me!’ + </p> + <p> + Mr. Lord regarded his son contemptuously. There was a rather long silence; + he spoke at length with severe deliberation. + </p> + <p> + ‘When you are ten years older, you’ll know a good deal more about young + women as they’re turned out in these times. You’ll have heard the talk of + men who have been fools enough to marry choice specimens. When common + sense has a chance of getting in a word with you, you’ll understand what I + now tell you. Wherever you look now-a-days there’s sham and rottenness; + but the most worthless creature living is one of these trashy, flashy + girls,—the kind of girl you see everywhere, high and low,—calling + themselves “ladies,”—thinking themselves too good for any honest, + womanly work. Town and country, it’s all the same. They’re educated; oh + yes, they’re educated! What sort of wives do they make, with their + education? What sort of mothers are they? Before long, there’ll be no such + thing as a home. They don’t know what the word means. They’d like to live + in hotels, and trollop about the streets day and night. There won’t be any + servants much longer; you’re lucky if you find one of the old sort, who + knows how to light a fire or wash a dish. Go into the houses of men with + small incomes; what do you find but filth and disorder, quarrelling and + misery? Young men are bad enough, I know that; they want to begin where + their fathers left off, and if they can’t do it honestly, they’ll embezzle + or forge. But you’ll often find there’s a worthless wife at the bottom of + it,—worrying and nagging because she has a smaller house than some + other woman, because she can’t get silks and furs, and wants to ride in a + cab instead of an omnibus. It is astounding to me that they don’t get + their necks wrung. Only wait a bit; we shall come to that presently!’ + </p> + <p> + It was a rare thing for Stephen Lord to talk at such length. He ceased + with a bitter laugh, and sat down again in his chair. Horace and his + sister waited. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ve no more to say,’ fell from their father at length. ‘Go and talk + about it together, if you like.’ + </p> + <p> + Horace moved sullenly towards the door, and with a glance at his sister + went out. Nancy, after lingering for a moment, spoke. + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t think you need have any fear of it, father.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Perhaps not. But if it isn’t that one, it’ll be another like her. There’s + not much choice for a lad like Horace.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy changed her purpose of leaving the room, and drew a step nearer. + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t you think there <i>might</i> have been?’ + </p> + <p> + Mr. Lord turned to look at her. + </p> + <p> + ‘How? What do you mean?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t want to make you angry with me—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Say what you’ve got to say,’ broke in her father impatiently. + </p> + <p> + ‘It isn’t easy, when you so soon lose your temper.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘My girl,’—for once he gazed at her directly,—‘if you knew all + I have gone through in life, you wouldn’t wonder at my temper being + spoilt.—What do you mean? What could I have done?’ + </p> + <p> + She stood before him, and spoke with diffidence. + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t you think that if we had lived in a different way, Horace and I + might have had friends of a better kind?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘A different way?—I understand. You mean I ought to have had a big + house, and made a show. Isn’t that it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You gave us a good education,’ replied Nancy, still in the same tone, + ‘and we might have associated with very different people from those you + have been speaking of; but education alone isn’t enough. One must live as + the better people do.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Exactly. That’s your way of thinking. And how do you know that I could + afford it, to begin with?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Perhaps I oughtn’t to have taken that for granted.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Perhaps not. Young women take a good deal for granted now a-days. But + supposing you were right, are you silly enough to think that richer people + are better people, as a matter of course?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not as a matter of course,’ said Nancy. ‘But I’m quite sure—I know + from what I’ve seen—that there’s more chance of meeting nice people + among them.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What do you mean by “nice”?’ Mr. Lord was lying back in his chair, and + spoke thickly, as if wearied. ‘People who can talk so that you forget + they’re only using words they’ve learnt like parrots?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No. Just the contrary. People who have something to say worth listening + to.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘If you take my advice, you’ll pay less attention to what people say, and + more to what they do. What’s the good of a friend who won’t come to see + you because you live in a small house? That’s the plain English of it. If + I had done as I thought right, I should never have sent you to school at + all. I should have had you taught at home all that’s necessary to make a + good girl and an honest woman, and have done my best to keep you away from + the kind of life that I hate. But I hadn’t the courage to act as I + believed. I knew how the times were changing, and I was weak enough to be + afraid I might do you an injustice. I did give you the chance of making + friends among better people than your father. Didn’t I use to talk to you + about your school friends, and encourage you when they seemed of the right + kind? And now you tell me that they don’t care for your society because + you live in a decent, unpretending way. I should think you’re better + without such friends.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy reflected, seemed about to prolong the argument, but spoke at length + in another voice. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, I will say good-night, father.’ + </p> + <p> + It was not usual for them to see each other after dinner, so that a + good-night could seldom be exchanged. The girl, drawing away, expected a + response; she saw her father nod, but he said nothing. + </p> + <p> + ‘Good-night, father,’ she repeated from a distance. + </p> + <p> + ‘Good-night, Nancy, good-night,’ came in impatient reply. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER 6 + </h2> + <p> + On Tuesday afternoon, when, beneath a cloudless sky, the great London + highways reeked and roared in celebration of Jubilee, Nancy and her friend + Miss. Morgan walked up Grove Lane to Champion Hill. Here and there a house + had decked itself with colours of loyalty; otherwise the Lane was as quiet + as usual. + </p> + <p> + Champion Hill is a gravel byway, overhung with trees; large houses and + spacious gardens on either hand. Here the heat of the sun was tempered. A + carriage rolled softly along; a nurse with well-dressed children loitered + in the shade. One might have imagined it a country road, so profound the + stillness and so leafy the prospect. + </p> + <p> + A year ago, Jessica Morgan had obtained a three months’ engagement as + governess to two little girls, who were sent under her care to the house + of their grandmother at Teignmouth. Their father, Mr Vawdrey of Champion + Hill, had recently lost his wife through an illness contracted at a + horse-race, where the lady sat in wind and rain for some hours. The + children knew little of what is learnt from books, but were surprisingly + well informed on matters of which they ought to have known nothing; they + talked of theatres and race-courses, of ‘the new murderer’ at Tussaud’s, + of police-news, of notorious spendthrifts and demi-reps; discussed their + grown-up acquaintances with precocious understanding, and repeated + scandalous insinuations which could have no meaning for them. Jessica was + supposed to teach them for two hours daily; she found it an impossibility. + Nevertheless a liking grew up between her and her charges, and, save by + their refusal to study, the children gave her no trouble; they were + abundantly good-natured, they laughed and sported all day long, and did + their best to put life into the pale, overworked governess. + </p> + <p> + Whilst living thus at the seaside, Jessica was delighted by the arrival of + Nancy Lord, who came to Teignmouth for a summer holiday. With her came + Mary Woodruff. The faithful servant had been ill; Mr Lord sent her down + into Devon to make a complete recovery, and to act as Nancy’s humble + chaperon. Nancy’s stay was for three weeks. The friends saw a great deal + of each other, and Miss. Lord had the honour of being presented to Mrs. + Tarrant, the old lady with whom Jessica lived, Mr. Vawdrey’s + mother-in-law. At the age of three score and ten, Mrs. Tarrant still led + an active life, and talked with great volubility, chiefly of herself; + Nancy learnt from her that she had been married at seventeen, and had had + two children, a son and a daughter, both deceased; of relatives there + remained to her only Mr Vawdrey and his family, and a grandson, Lionel + Tarrant. + </p> + <p> + One evening, as Jessica returned from a ramble with the children, they + encountered a young man who was greeted, without much fervour, as ‘cousin + Lionel.’ Mr. Tarrant professed himself merely a passing visitant; he had + come to inquire after the health of his grandmother, and in a day or two + must keep an appointment with friends elsewhere. Notwithstanding this + announcement, he remained at Teignmouth for a fortnight, exhibiting a + pious assiduity in his attendance upon the old lady. Naturally, he made + acquaintance with Miss. Lord, whom his cousins regarded as a great + acquisition, so vivacious was she, so ready to take part in any kind of + lively amusement. Mr. Tarrant had been at Oxford; his speech was marked + with the University accent; he talked little, and seemed to prefer his own + society. In conversation with Nancy, though scrupulously courteous and + perfectly good-natured, he never forgot that she was the friend of his + cousins’ governess, that their intercourse must be viewed as an irregular + sort of thing, and that it behoved him to support his dignity whilst + condescending to a social inferior. So, at all events, it struck Miss. + Lord, very sensitive in such matters. Fond of fitting people with + nicknames, she called this young man sometimes ‘His Royal Highness,’ + sometimes ‘His Majesty.’ + </p> + <p> + Of Mr. Tarrant’s station in life nothing was discovered. His grandmother, + though seemingly in possession of ample means, betrayed an indifferent + education, and in her flow of gossip never referred to ancestral + dignities, never made mention of the calling her husband had pursued. Mr. + Vawdrey was known to be ‘in business,’—a business which must be + tolerably lucrative. + </p> + <p> + On their return to London, the children passed from Miss. Morgan’s care + into that of Mrs. Baker, who kept house for the widower at Champion Hill; + but Jessica did not wholly lose sight of them, and, at their request, she + persuaded Nancy Lord to make an occasional call with her. Mrs. Baker + (relict, it was understood, of a military officer who had fallen in + Eastern warfare) behaved to the young ladies with much friendliness. They + did not meet Mr. Vawdrey. + </p> + <p> + Early in the following year, old Mrs. Tarrant, forsaking Teignmouth, came + to live under her son-in-law’s roof; the winter had tried her health, and + henceforth she seldom left home. + </p> + <p> + To-day, as on former occasions (only two or three in all), Nancy was + reluctant to approach the big house; its imposing front made her feel that + she came only on sufferance; probably even Mrs. Baker did not regard her + as having a right to call here on terms of equality. Yet the place touched + her curiosity and her imagination; she liked to study the luxurious + appointments within, and to walk about the neglected but pleasant garden, + quiet and secluded as if whole counties divided it from Camberwell. In the + hall she and Jessica were at once welcomed by the children, who first + informed them that tea would be served out of doors, and next made known + that ‘cousin Lionel’ was here, in Mrs. Tarrant’s drawing-room. The second + piece of news vexed Nancy; she resolved never to come again, unless on + formal invitation. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Baker, an agreeable woman, received them as if she were the mistress + of the house. With Jessica she chatted about matters examinational, which + she seemed thoroughly to understand; with Miss Lord she talked of wider + subjects, in a tone not unpleasing to Nancy, seeing that it presumed, on + her part, some knowledge of the polite world. It was observable that Mr. + Vawdrey’s daughters had benefited by the superintendence of this lady; + they no longer gossiped loudly about murders and scandals, but demeaned + themselves more as became their years. + </p> + <p> + On the arrival of other ladies to call upon Mrs. Baker, the children drew + their friends away into the garden, where tea now awaited them. Amid the + trees and flowers time passed not unpleasantly, until, on happening to + turn her head, Nancy perceived at a distance the approaching figure of Mr. + Lionel Tarrant. He sauntered over the grass with easy, indolent step; his + straw hat and light lounge costume (excellent tailoring) suited the season + and the place. Jessica, who regarded the young man with something of awe, + stood up to shake hands, but Miss. Lord kept her place in the garden + chair. + </p> + <p> + ‘Did you see the procession?’ Tarrant inquired. ‘Ah, then I can give you + very important news—thrilling news. I know the colour of the Queen’s + bonnet, and of her parasol.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Please don’t keep us in suspense,’ said Nancy. + </p> + <p> + ‘They were of pale primrose. Touching, don’t you think?’ + </p> + <p> + He had seated himself crosswise on a camp-stool, and seemed to be admiring + the contour of his brown boots. Lionel’s age was not more than + seven-and-twenty; he enjoyed sound health, and his face signified + contentment with the scheme of things as it concerned himself; but a + chronic languor possessed him. It might be sheer laziness, possibly a + result of that mental habit, discernible In his look, whereby he had come + to regard his own judgment as the criterion of all matters in heaven and + earth. Yet the conceit which relaxed his muscles was in the main amiable; + it never repelled as does the conceit of a fop or a weakling or a vulgar + person; he could laugh heartily, even with his own affectations for a + source of amusement. Of personal vanity he had little, though women + esteemed him good-looking; his steady, indolent gaze made denial of such + preoccupation. Nor could he be regarded as emasculate; his movements + merely disguised the natural vigour of a manly frame, and his + conversational trifling hinted an intellectual reserve, a latent power of + mind, obvious enough in the lines of his countenance. + </p> + <p> + Nancy was excusable for supposing that he viewed her slightingly. He spoke + as one who did not expect to be quite understood by such a hearer, + addressing her, without the familiarity, much as he addressed his young + cousins. To her, his careful observance of formalities seemed the reverse + of flattering; she felt sure that with young women in his own circle he + would allow himself much more freedom. Whether the disparagement applied + to her intellect or to her social status might be a question; Nancy could + not decide which of the two she would prefer. Today an especial uneasiness + troubled her from the first moment of his appearance; she felt a stronger + prompting than hitherto to assert herself, and, if possible, to surprise + Mr. Tarrant. But, as if he understood her thought, his manner became only + more bland, his calm aloofness more pronounced. + </p> + <p> + The children, who were never at ease in their cousin’s presence, succeeded + in drawing Jessica apart, and chattered to her about the educational + methods imposed by Mrs. Baker, airing many grievances. They nourished a + hope that Miss. Morgan might again become their governess; lessons down at + Teignmouth had been nothing like so oppressive as here at Champion Hill. + </p> + <p> + Tarrant, meanwhile, having drunk a cup of tea, and touched his moustache + with a silk handkerchief, transferred himself from the camp-stool to the + basket chair vacated by Jessica. He was now further from Nancy, but facing + her. + </p> + <p> + ‘I have been talking with Mrs. Bellamy,’ fell from him, in the same tone + of idle good nature. ‘Do you know her? She has but one subject of + conversation; an engrossing topic, to be sure; namely, her servants. Do + you give much thought to the great servant question? I have my own modest + view of the matter. It may not be novel, but my mind has worked upon it in + the night watches.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy, resolved not to smile, found herself smiling. Not so much at what + he said, as at the manner of it. Her resentment was falling away; she felt + the influence of this imperturbable geniality. + </p> + <p> + ‘Shall I tell you my theory?’ + </p> + <p> + He talked with less reserve than on the last occasion when they had sat + together. The mellow sunlight, the garden odours, the warm, still air, + favoured a growth of intimacy. + </p> + <p> + ‘By all means,’ was Nancy’s reply. + </p> + <p> + ‘We must begin by admitting that the ordinary woman hates nothing so much + as to have another woman set in authority over her.’ He paused, and + laughed lazily. ‘Now, before the triumph of glorious Democracy, only those + women kept servants who were capable of rule,—who had by birth the + instinct of authority. They knew themselves the natural superiors of their + domestics, and went through an education fitting them to rule. Things + worked very well; no servant-difficulty existed. Now-a-days, every woman + who can afford it must have another woman to wait upon her, no matter how + silly, or vulgar, or depraved she may be; the result, of course, is a + spirit of rebellion in the kitchen. Who could have expected anything + else?’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy played with a dandelion she had plucked, and gave sign neither of + assent nor disagreement. + </p> + <p> + ‘Mrs. Bellamy,’ continued the young man, ‘marvels that servants revolt + against her. What could be more natural? The servants have learnt that + splendid doctrine that every one is as good as everybody else, and Mrs. + Bellamy is by no means the person to make them see things differently. And + this kind of thing is going on in numberless houses—an utterly + incompetent mistress and a democratic maid in spirited revolt. The + incompetents, being in so vast a majority, will sooner or later spoil all + the servants in the country.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You should make an article of it,’ said Nancy, ‘and send it to <i>The + Nineteenth Century</i>.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘So I might.’ He paused, and added casually, ‘You read <i>The Nineteenth + Century</i>?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Now and then.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy felt herself an impostor, for of leading reviews she knew little + more than the names. And Tarrant’s look, so steady, yet so good-tempered, + disturbed her conscience with the fear that he saw through her. She was + coming wretchedly out of this dialogue, in which she had meant to make a + figure. + </p> + <p> + He changed the subject; was it merely to spare her? + </p> + <p> + ‘Shall you go to Teignmouth again this year?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t know yet. I think not.’ + </p> + <p> + Silence followed. Tarrant, to judge from his face, was absorbed in + pleasant thought; Nancy, on the other hand, felt so ill at ease that she + was on the point of rising, when his voice checked her. + </p> + <p> + ‘I have an idea’—he spoke dreamily—‘of going to spend next + winter in the Bahamas.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why the Bahamas?’ + </p> + <p> + Speaking with all the carelessness she could command, Nancy shivered a + little. Spite of her ‘culture,’ she had but the vaguest notion where the + Bahamas were. To betray ignorance would be dreadful. A suspicion awoke in + her that Tarrant, surprised by her seeming familiarity with current + literature, was craftily testing the actual quality of her education. Upon + the shiver followed a glow, and, in fear lest her cheeks would redden, she + grew angry. + </p> + <p> + He was replying. + </p> + <p> + ‘Partly because it is a delightful winter climate; partly because I have a + friend there; partly because the islands are interesting. A man I knew at + Oxford has gone out there, and is likely to stay. His father owns nearly + the whole of an island; and as he’s in very bad health, my friend may soon + come into possession. When he does, he’s going to astonish the natives.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How?’ + </p> + <p> + A vision of savages flashed before Nancy’s mind. She breathed more freely, + thinking the danger past. + </p> + <p> + ‘Simply by making a fortune out of an estate that is lying all but barren. + Before the emancipation of the niggers, the Bahamas flourished + wonderfully; now they are fallen to decay, and ruled, so far as I + understand it, by a particularly contemptible crew of native whites, who + ought all to be kicked into the sea. My friend’s father is a man of no + energy; he calls himself magistrate, coroner, superintendent of the + customs, and a dozen other things, but seems to have spent his time for + years in lying about, smoking and imbibing. His son, I’m afraid, waits + impatiently for the old man’s removal to a better world. He believes there + are immense possibilities of trade.’ + </p> + <p> + Trying hard to recollect her geography, Miss. Lord affected but a slight + interest. + </p> + <p> + ‘There’s no direct way of getting there,’ Tarrant pursued. ‘What route + should you suggest?’ + </p> + <p> + She was right, after all. He wished to convict her of ignorance. Her + cheeks were now burning, beyond a doubt, and she felt revengeful. + </p> + <p> + ‘I advise you to make inquiries at a shipping-office,’ was her distant + reply. + </p> + <p> + ‘It seems’—he was smiling at Nancy—‘I shall have to go to New + York, and then take the Cuba mail.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Are you going to join your friend in business?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Business, I fear, is hardly my vocation.’ + </p> + <p> + There was a tremor on Nancy’s lips, and about her eyelids. She said + abruptly: + </p> + <p> + ‘I thought you were perhaps in business?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Did you? What suggested it?’ + </p> + <p> + Tarrant looked fixedly at her; in his expression, as in his voice, she + detected a slight disdain, and that decided her to the utterance of the + next words. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh’—she had assumed an ingenuous air—‘there’s the Black Lead + that bears your name. Haven’t you something to do with it?’ + </p> + <p> + She durst not watch him, but a change of his countenance was distinctly + perceptible, and for the moment caused her a keen gratification. His eyes + had widened, his lips had set themselves; he looked at once startled and + mortified. + </p> + <p> + ‘Black lead?’ The words fell slowly, in a voice unlike that she had been + hearing. ‘No. I have nothing to do with it.’ + </p> + <p> + The silence was dreadful. Nancy endeavoured to rise, but her limbs would + not do their office. Then, her eyes fixed on the grass, she became aware + that Tarrant himself had stood up. + </p> + <p> + ‘Where are the children?’ he was saying absently. + </p> + <p> + He descried them afar off with Miss. Morgan, and began to saunter in that + direction. As soon as his back was turned, Nancy rose and began to walk + towards the house. In a few moments Jessica and the girls were with her. + </p> + <p> + ‘I think we must go,’ she said. + </p> + <p> + They entered, and took leave of Mrs. Baker, who sat alone in the + drawing-room. + </p> + <p> + ‘Did you say good-bye to Mr. Tarrant?’ Jessica asked, as they came forth + again. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I didn’t. But I suppose it doesn’t matter.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy had thought of telling her friend what she had done, of boasting + that she had asked the impossible question. But now she felt ashamed of + herself, and something more than ashamed. Never again could she enter this + garden. And it seemed to her that, by a piece of outrageous, of wanton, + folly, she had for ever excluded herself from the society of all + ‘superior’ people. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER 7 + </h2> + <p> + ‘Now, <i>I</i> look at it in this way. It’s to celebrate the fiftieth year + of the reign of Queen Victoria—yes: but at the same time, and far + more, it’s to celebrate the completion of fifty years of Progress. + National Progress, without precedent in the history of mankind! One may + say, indeed, Progress of the Human Race. Only think what has been done in + this half-century: only think of it! Compare England now, compare the + world, with what it was in 1837. It takes away one’s breath!’ + </p> + <p> + Thus Mr. Samuel Bennett Barmby, as he stood swaying forward upon his toes, + his boots creaking. Nancy and Jessica listened to him. They were ready to + start on the evening’s expedition, but Horace had not yet come home, and + on the chance of his arrival they would wait a few minutes longer. + </p> + <p> + ‘I shall make this the subject of a paper for our Society next winter—the + Age of Progress. And with special reference to one particular—the + Press. Only think now, of the difference between our newspapers, all our + periodicals of to-day, and those fifty years ago. Did you ever really + consider, Miss. Morgan, what a marvellous thing one of our great + newspapers really is? Printed in another way it would make a volume—absolutely; + a positive volume; packed with thought and information. And all for the + ridiculous price of one penny!’ + </p> + <p> + He laughed; a high, chuckling, crowing laugh; the laugh of triumphant + optimism. Of the man’s sincerity there could be no question; it beamed + from his shining forehead, his pointed nose; glistened in his prominent + eyes. He had a tall, lank figure, irreproachably clad in a suit of grey: + frock coat, and waistcoat revealing an expanse of white shirt. His cuffs + were magnificent, and the hands worthy of them. A stand-up collar, of + remarkable stiffness, kept his head at the proper level of self-respect. + </p> + <p> + ‘By the bye, Miss. Lord, are you aware that the Chinese Empire, with four + <i>hundred</i> MILLION inhabitants, has only <i>ten</i> daily papers? + Positively; only ten.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How do you know?’ asked Nancy. + </p> + <p> + ‘I saw it stated in a paper. That helps one to <i>grasp</i> the difference + between civilisation and barbarism. One doesn’t think clearly enough of + common things. Now that’s one of the benefits one gets from Carlyle. + Carlyle teaches one to see the marvellous in everyday life. Of course in + many things I don’t agree with him, but I shall never lose an opportunity + of expressing my gratitude to Carlyle. Carlyle and Gurty! Yes, Carlyle and + Gurty; those two authors are an education in themselves.’ + </p> + <p> + He uttered a long ‘Ah!’ and moved his lips as if savouring a delicious + morsel. + </p> + <p> + ‘Now here’s an interesting thing. If all the cabs in London were put end + to end,’—he paused between the words, gravely,—‘what do you + think, Miss. Morgan, would be the total length?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, I have no idea, Mr. Barmby.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Forty miles—positively! Forty miles of cabs!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How do you know?’ asked Nancy. + </p> + <p> + ‘I saw it stated in a paper.’ + </p> + <p> + The girls glanced at each other, and smiled. Barmby beamed upon them with + the benevolence of a man who knew his advantages, personal and social. + </p> + <p> + And at this moment Horace Lord came in. He had not the fresh appearance + which usually distinguished him; his face was stained with perspiration, + his collar had become limp, the flower at his buttonhole hung faded. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, here I am. Are you going?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I suppose you know you have kept us waiting,’ said his sister. + </p> + <p> + ‘Awf’ly sorry. Couldn’t get here before.’ + </p> + <p> + He spoke as if he had not altogether the command of his tongue, and with a + fixed meaningless smile. + </p> + <p> + ‘We had better not delay,’ said Barmby, taking up his hat. ‘Seven o’clock. + We ought to be at Charing Cross before eight; that will allow us about + three hours.’ + </p> + <p> + They set forth at once. By private agreement between the girls, Jessica + Morgan attached herself to Mr. Barmby, allowing Nancy to follow with her + brother, as they walked rapidly towards Camberwell Green. Horace kept + humming popular airs; his hat had fallen a little to the side, and he + swung his cane carelessly. His sister asked him what he had been doing all + day. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, going about. I met some fellows after the procession. We had a + splendid view, up there on the top of Waterloo House.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Did Fanny go home?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘We met her sisters, and had some lunch at a restaurant. Look here; you + don’t want me to-night. You won’t mind if I get lost in the crowd? Barmby + will be quite enough to take care of you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You are going to meet her again, I suppose?’ + </p> + <p> + Horace nodded. + </p> + <p> + ‘We had better agree on a rendezvous at a certain time. I say, Barmby, + just a moment; if any of us should get separated, we had better know where + to meet, for coming home.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, there’s no fear of that.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘All the same, it <i>might</i> happen. There’ll be a tremendous crush, you + know. Suppose we say the place where the trams stop, south of Westminster + Bridge, and the time a quarter to eleven?’ + </p> + <p> + This was agreed upon. + </p> + <p> + At Camberwell Green they mingled with a confused rush of hilarious crowds, + amid a clattering of cabs and omnibuses, a jingling of tram-car bells. + Public-houses sent forth their alcoholic odours upon the hot air. Samuel + Barmby, joyous in his protectorship of two young ladies, for he regarded + Horace as a mere boy, bustled about them whilst they stood waiting for the + arrival of the Westminster car. + </p> + <p> + ‘It’ll have to be a gallant rush! You would rather be outside, wouldn’t + you, Miss. Lord? Here it comes: charge!’ + </p> + <p> + But the charge was ineffectual for their purpose. A throng of far more + resolute and more sinewy people swept them aside, and seized every vacant + place on the top of the vehicle. Only with much struggle did they obtain + places within. In an ordinary mood, Nancy would have resented this + hustling of her person by the profane public; as it was, she half enjoyed + the tumult, and looked forward to get more of it along the packed streets, + with a sense that she might as well amuse herself in vulgar ways, since + nothing better was attainable. This did not, however, modify her contempt + of Samuel Barmby; it seemed never to have occurred to him that the + rough-and-tumble might be avoided, and time gained, by the simple + expedient of taking a cab. + </p> + <p> + Sitting opposite to Samuel, she avoided his persistent glances by reading + the rows of advertisements above his head. Somebody’s ‘Blue;’ somebody’s + ‘Soap;’ somebody’s ‘High-class Jams;’ and behold, inserted between the + Soap and the Jam—‘God so loved the world, that He gave His + only-begotten Son, that whoso believeth in Him should not perish, but have + everlasting life.’ Nancy perused the passage without perception of + incongruity, without emotion of any kind. Her religion had long since + fallen to pieces, and universal defilement of Scriptural phrase by the + associations of the market-place had in this respect blunted her + sensibilities. + </p> + <p> + Barmby was talking to Jessica Morgan. She caught his words now and then. + </p> + <p> + ‘Can you tell me what is the smallest tree in the world?—No, it’s + the Greenland birch. Its full-grown height is only three inches—positively! + But it spreads over several feet.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy was tempted to lean forward and say, ‘How do you know?’ But the jest + seemed to involve her in too much familiarity with Mr Barmby; for her own + peace it was better to treat him with all possible coldness. + </p> + <p> + A woman near her talked loudly about the procession, with special + reference to a personage whom she called ‘Prince of Wiles.’ This + enthusiast declared with pride that she had stood at a certain street + corner for seven hours, accompanied by a child of five years old, the same + who now sat on her lap, nodding in utter weariness; together they were + going to see the illuminations, and walk about, with intervals devoted to + refreshments, for several hours more. Beyond sat a working-man, overtaken + with liquor, who railed vehemently at the Jubilee, and in no measured + terms gave his opinion of our Sovereign Lady; the whole thing was a ‘lay,’ + an occasion for filling the Royal pocket, and it had succeeded to the tune + of something like half a million of money, wheedled, most of it, from the + imbecile poor. ‘Shut up!’ roared a loyalist, whose patience could endure + no longer. ‘We’re not going to let a boozing blackguard like you talk in + that way about ‘er Majesty!’ Thereupon, retort of insult, challenge to + combat, clamour from many throats, deep and shrill. Nancy laughed, and + would rather have enjoyed it if the men had fought. + </p> + <p> + At Westminster Bridge all jumped confusedly into the street and ran for + the pavement. It was still broad daylight; the sun—a potentate who + keeps no Jubilee—dropping westward amid the hues of summer eventide, + was unmarked, for all his splendour, by the roaring multitudes. + </p> + <p> + ‘Where are you going to leave us?’ Nancy inquired of her brother. + </p> + <p> + ‘Charing Cross, or somewhere about there.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Keep by me till then.’ + </p> + <p> + Barmby was endeavouring to secure her companionship. He began to cross the + bridge at her side, but Nancy turned and bade him attend upon Miss. + Morgan, saying that she wished to talk with her brother. In this order + they moved towards Parliament Street, where the crowd began to thicken. + </p> + <p> + ‘Now let us decide upon our route,’ exclaimed Barmby, with the air of a + popular leader planning a great demonstration. ‘Miss. Lord, we will be + directed by your wishes. Where would you like to be when the lighting-up + begins?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t care. What does it matter? Let us go straight on and see whatever + comes in our way.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s the right spirit! Let us give ourselves up to the occasion! We + can’t be wrong in making for Trafalgar Square. Advance!’ + </p> + <p> + They followed upon a group of reeling lads and girls, who yelled in chorus + the popular song of the day, a sentimental one as it happened— + </p> + <p> + ‘<i>Do not forget me, Do not forget me, Think sometimes of me still</i>’— + </p> + <p> + Nancy was working herself into a nervous, excited state. She felt it + impossible to walk on and on under Barmby’s protection, listening to his + atrocious commonplaces, his enthusiasms of the Young Men’s Debating + Society. The glow of midsummer had entered into her blood; she resolved to + taste independence, to mingle with the limitless crowd as one of its + units, borne in whatever direction. That song of the streets pleased her, + made sympathetic appeal to her; she would have liked to join in it. + </p> + <p> + Just behind her—it was on the broad pavement at Whitehall—some + one spoke her name. + </p> + <p> + ‘Miss. Lord! Why, who would have expected to see you here? Shouldn’t have + dared to think of such a thing; upon my word, I shouldn’t!’ + </p> + <p> + A man of about thirty, dressed without much care, middle-sized, wiry, + ruddy of cheek, and his coarse but strong features vivid with festive + energy, held a hand to her. Luckworth Crewe was his name. Nancy had come + to know him at the house of Mrs. Peachey, where from time to time she had + met various people unrecognised in her own home. His tongue bewrayed him + for a native of some northern county; his manner had no polish, but a + genuine heartiness which would have atoned for many defects. Horace, who + also knew him, offered a friendly greeting; but Samuel Barmby, when the + voice caught his ear, regarded this intruder with cold surprise. + </p> + <p> + ‘May I walk on with you?’ Crewe asked, when he saw that Miss. Lord felt no + distaste for his company. + </p> + <p> + Nancy deigned not even a glance at her nominal protector. + </p> + <p> + ‘If you are going our way,’ she replied. + </p> + <p> + Barmby, his dignity unobserved, strode on with Miss. Morgan, of whom he + sought information concerning the loud-voiced man. Crewe talked away. + </p> + <p> + ‘So you’ve come out to have a look at it, after all. I saw the Miss + Frenches last Sunday, and they told me you cared no more for the Jubilee + than for a dog-fight. Of course I wasn’t surprised; you’ve other things to + think about. But it’s worth seeing, that’s my opinion. Were you out this + morning?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No. I don’t care for Royalties.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No more do I. Expensive humbugs, that’s what I call ‘em. But I had a look + at them, for all that. The Crown Prince was worth seeing; yes, he really + was. I’m not so prejudiced as to deny that. He’s the kind of chap I should + like to get hold of, and have a bit of a talk with, and ask him what he + thought about things in general. It’s been a big affair, hasn’t it? I know + a chap who made a Jubilee Perfume, and he’s netting something like a + hundred pounds a day.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Have you any Jubilee speculation on hand?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t ask me! It makes me mad. I had a really big thing,—a Jubilee + Drink,—a teetotal beverage; the kind of thing that would have sold + itself, this weather. A friend of mine hit on it, a clerk in a City + warehouse, one of the cleverest chaps I ever knew. It really was <i>the</i> + drink; I’ve never tasted anything like it. Why, there’s the biggest + fortune on record waiting for the man who can supply <i>the</i> drink for + total-abstainers. And this friend of mine had it. He gave me some to taste + one night, about a month ago, and I roared with delight. It was all + arranged. I undertook to find enough capital to start with, and to manage + the concern. I would have given up my work with Bullock and Freeman. I’d + have gone in, tooth and nail, for that drink! I sat up all one night + trying to find a name for it; but couldn’t hit on the right one. A name is + just as important as the stuff itself that you want to sell. Next morning—it + was Sunday—I went round to my friend’s lodgings, and’—he + slapped his thigh—‘I’m blest if the chap hadn’t cut his throat!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Betting and forgery. He would have been arrested next day. But the worst + of it was that his beverage perished with him. I hadn’t a notion how it + was made; he wouldn’t tell me till I planked down money to start with; and + not a drop of it could be found anywhere. And to think that he had + absolutely struck oil, as they say; had nothing to do but sit down and + count the money as it came in! That’s the third man I’ve known go wrong in + less than a year. Betting and embezzlement; betting and burglary; betting + and forgery. I’ll tell you some time about the chap who went in for + burglary. One of the best fellows I ever knew; when he comes out, I must + give him a hand. But ten to one he’ll burgle again; they always do; + burglary grows on a man, like drink.’ + </p> + <p> + His laughter rang across the street; Barmby, who kept looking back, + surprised and indignant that this acquaintance of Miss. Lord’s was not + presented to him, paused for a moment, but Nancy waved to him + commandingly, ‘Straight on!’ + </p> + <p> + They reached Charing Cross. Horace, who took no part in the conversation, + and had dropped behind, at this point found an opportunity of stealing + away. It was Crewe who first remarked his absence. + </p> + <p> + ‘Hollo! where’s your brother?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Gone, evidently.—Hush! Don’t say anything. Will you do something + for me, Mr. Crewe?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course I will. What is it?’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy pursued in a low voice. + </p> + <p> + ‘He’s gone to meet Fanny French. At least, he told me so; but I want to + know whether it is really Fanny, or some one else. He said they were to + meet in front of the Haymarket Theatre. Will you go as quickly as you can, + and see if Fanny is there?’ + </p> + <p> + Crewe laughed. + </p> + <p> + ‘Like a bird!—But how am I to meet you again?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘We’ll be at the top of Regent Street at nine o’clock,—by Peter + Robinson’s. Don’t lose time.’ + </p> + <p> + He struck off in the westerly direction, and Barmby, looking round at that + moment, saw him go. Engrossed in thought of Nancy, Samuel did not yet + perceive that her brother had vanished. + </p> + <p> + ‘Your friend isn’t coming any further?’ he said, in a tone of forbearance. + </p> + <p> + ‘No.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But where’s Mr. Lord?’ exclaimed Jessica. + </p> + <p> + Nancy pretended to look back for him, and for a minute or two they waited. + Barmby, glad to be delivered from both male companions, made light of the + matter; Horace could take care of himself; they had the appointment for a + quarter to eleven;—on! And he now fixed himself resolutely at + Nancy’s side. + </p> + <p> + She, delighted with the success of her stratagem, and careless of what + might result from it, behaved more companionably. To Luckworth Crewe’s + society she had no objection; indeed, she rather liked him; but his + presence would have hindered the escape for which she was preparing. Poor + Jessica might feel it something of a hardship to pass hours alone with + ‘the Prophet,’ but that could not be helped. Nancy would be free to-night, + if never again. They turned into the Strand, and Barmby voiced his opinion + of the public decorations. + </p> + <p> + ‘There’s very little of what can be called Art,—very little indeed. + I’m afraid we haven’t made much progress in Art.—Now what would + Ruskin say to this kind of thing? The popular taste wants educating. My + idea is that we ought to get a few leading men Burne Jones and—and + William Morris—and people of that kind, you know, Miss. Lord,—to + give lectures in a big hall on the elements of Art. A great deal might be + done in that way, don’t you think so, Miss. Morgan?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have no faith in anything popular,’ Jessica replied loftily. + </p> + <p> + ‘No, no. But, after all, the people have got the upper hand now-a-days, + and we who enjoy advantages of education, of culture, ought not to allow + them to remain in darkness. It isn’t for our own interest, most decidedly + it isn’t.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Did your sisters go to see the procession?’ Nancy asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, they were afraid of the crowd. The old gentleman took them out to + Tooting Common this afternoon, and they enjoyed themselves. Perhaps I + should have been wiser if I had imitated their example; I mean this + morning; of course I wouldn’t have missed this evening for anything + whatever. But somehow, one feels it a sort of duty to see something of + these great public holidays. I caught a glimpse of the procession. In its + way it was imposing—yes, really. After all, the Monarchy is a great + <i>fact</i>—as Gurty would have said. I like to keep my mind open to + facts.’ + </p> + <p> + The sun had set, and with approach of dusk the crowds grew denser. Nancy + proposed a return westwards; the clubs of Pall Mall and of St James’s + Street would make a display worth seeing, and they must not miss + Piccadilly. + </p> + <p> + ‘A little later,’ said their escort, with an air of liberality, ‘we must + think of some light refreshment. We shall be passing a respectable + restaurant, no doubt.’ + </p> + <p> + Twilight began to obscure the distance. Here and there a house-front + slowly marked itself with points of flame, shaping to wreath, festoon, or + initials of Royalty. Nancy looked eagerly about her, impatient for the + dark, wishing the throng would sweep her away. In Pall Mall, Barmby felt + it incumbent upon him to name the several clubs, a task for which he was + inadequately prepared. As he stood staring in doubt at one of the coldly + insolent facades, Jessica gazing in the same direction, Nancy saw that her + moment had come. She darted off, struggled through a moving crowd, and + reached the opposite pavement. All she had now to do was to press onward + with the people around her; save by chance, she could not possibly be + discovered. + </p> + <p> + Alarm at her daring troubled her for a few minutes. As a matter of course + Barmby would report this incident to her father,—unless she plainly + asked him not to do so, for which she had no mind. Yet what did it matter? + She had escaped to enjoy herself, and the sense of freedom soon overcame + anxieties. No one observed her solitary state; she was one of millions + walking about the streets because it was Jubilee Day, and every moment + packed her more tightly among the tramping populace. A procession, this, + greatly more significant than that of Royal personages earlier in the day. + Along the main thoroughfares of mid-London, wheel-traffic was now + suspended; between the houses moved a double current of humanity, this way + and that, filling the whole space, so that no vehicle could possibly have + made its way on the wonted track. At junctions, pickets of police directed + progress; the slowly advancing masses wheeled to left or right at word of + command, carelessly obedient. But for an occasional bellow of hilarious + blackguardism, or for a song uplifted by strident voices, or a cheer at + some flaring symbol that pleased the passers, there was little noise; only + a thud, thud of footfalls numberless, and the low, unvarying sound that + suggested some huge beast purring to itself in stupid contentment. + </p> + <p> + Nancy forgot her identity, lost sight of herself as an individual. Her + blood was heated by close air and physical contact. She did not think, and + her emotions differed little from those of any shop-girl let loose. The + ‘culture,’ to which she laid claim, evanesced in this atmosphere of + exhalations. Could she have seen her face, its look of vulgar abandonment + would have horrified her. + </p> + <p> + Some one trod violently on her heel, and she turned with a half-angry + laugh, protesting. ‘Beg your pardon, miss,’ said a young fellow of the + clerkly order. ‘A push be’ind made me do it.’ He thrust himself to a place + beside her, and Nancy conversed with him unrestrainedly, as though it were + a matter of course. The young man, scrutinising her with much freedom, + shaped clerkly compliments, and, in his fashion, grew lyrical; until, at a + certain remark which he permitted himself, Nancy felt it time to shake him + off. Her next encounter was more noteworthy. Of a sudden she felt an arm + round her waist, and a man, whose breath declared the source of his + inspiration, began singing close to her ear the operatic ditty, ‘Queen of + my Heart.’ He had, moreover, a good tenor voice, and belonged, vaguely, to + some stratum of educated society. + </p> + <p> + ‘I think you had better leave me alone,’ said Nancy, looking him severely + in the face. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, if you really think so,’—he seemed struck by her manner of + speech,—‘of course I will: but I’d much rather not.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I might find it necessary to speak to a policeman at the next corner.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, in that case.’—He raised his hat, and fell aside. And Nancy + felt that, after all, the adventure had been amusing. + </p> + <p> + She was now in Regent Street, and it came to her recollection that she had + made an appointment with Luckworth Crewe for nine o’clock. Without any + intention of keeping it; but why not do so? Her lively acquaintance would + be excellent company for the next hour, until she chose to bring the + escapade to an end. And indeed, save by a disagreeable struggle, she could + hardly change the direction of her steps. It was probably past nine; Crewe + might have got tired of waiting, or have found it impossible to keep a + position on the pavement. Drawing near to the top of Regent Street, she + hoped he might be there. And there he was, jovially perspiring; he saw her + between crowded heads, and crushed through to her side. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER 8 + </h2> + <p> + ‘Where are your friends?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s more than I can tell you.’ + </p> + <p> + They laughed together. + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s a miracle we’ve been able to meet,’ said Crewe. ‘I had to thrash a + fellow five minutes ago, and was precious near getting run in. Shall we go + the Tottenham Court Road way? Look out! You’d better hold on to my arm. + These big crossings are like whirlpools; you might go round and round, and + never get anywhere. Don’t be afraid; if any one runs up against you, I’ll + knock him down.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘There wouldn’t be room for him to fall,’ said Nancy, wild with merriment, + as they swayed amid the uproar. For the first time she understood how + perilous such a crowd might be. A band of roisterers, linked arm in arm, + were trying to break up the orderly march of thousands into a chaotic + fight. The point for which Crewe made was unattainable; just in front of + him a woman began shrieking hysterically; another fainted, and dropped + into her neighbour’s arms. + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t get frightened!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not I! I like it. It’s good fun.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You’re the right sort, you are. But we must get out of this. It’s worse + than the pit-door on the first night of a pantomime. I must hold you up; + don’t mind.’ + </p> + <p> + His arm encircled her body, and for a moment now and then he carried + rather than led her. They were safe at length, in the right part of Oxford + Street, and moving with the stream. + </p> + <p> + ‘I couldn’t find your brother,’ Crewe had leisure to say; ‘and I didn’t + see Fanny French. There weren’t many people about just then, either. They + must have gone off before I came.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, they must. It doesn’t matter.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You have some life in you.’ He gazed at her admiringly. ‘You’re worth + half a million of the girls that squeak and wobble when there’s a bit of + rough play going on.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I hope so. Did you set me down as one of that kind?’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy found that her tongue had achieved a liberty suitable to the + occasion. She spoke without forethought, and found pleasure in her + boldness. + </p> + <p> + ‘Not I,’ Crewe answered. ‘But I never had a chance before now of telling + you what I thought.’ + </p> + <p> + Some one in front of them ignited a Bengal light and threw it into the + air; the flame flashed across Nancy’s features, and fell upon the hat of a + man near her. + </p> + <p> + ‘How do you mean to get home?’ asked Crewe presently. Nancy explained that + all her party were to meet on the other side of the river. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, then, there’s plenty of time. When you’ve had enough of this kind of + thing we can strike off into the quiet streets. If you were a man, which + I’m glad you’re not, I should say I was choking for a glass of beer.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Say it, and look for a place where you can quench your thirst.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It must be a place, then, where you can come in as well. You don’t drink + beer, of course, but we can get lemonade and that kind of thing. No wonder + we get thirsty; look up there.’ + </p> + <p> + Following the direction of his eyes, Nancy saw above the heads of the + multitude a waving dust-canopy, sent up by myriad tramplings on the + sun-scorched streets. Glare of gas illumined it in the foreground; beyond, + it dimmed all radiance like a thin fog. + </p> + <p> + ‘We might cut across through Soho,’ he pursued, ‘and get among the + restaurants. Take my arm again. Only a bit of cross-fighting, and we shall + be in the crowd going the other way. Did you do physics at school? + Remember about the resultant of forces? Now <i>we</i>’re a force tending + to the right, and the crowd is a force making for straight on; to find the—’ + </p> + <p> + His hat was knocked over his eyes, and the statement of the problem ended + in laughter. + </p> + <p> + With a good deal of difficulty they reached one of the southward byways; + and thenceforth walking was unimpeded. + </p> + <p> + ‘You know that I call myself Luckworth Crewe,’ resumed Nancy’s companion + after a short silence. + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course I do.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, the fact is, I’ve no right to either of the names. I thought I’d + just tell you, for the fun of the thing; I shouldn’t talk about it to any + one else that I know. They tell me I was picked up on a doorstep in Leeds, + and the wife of a mill-hand adopted me. Their name was Crewe. They called + me Tom, but somehow it isn’t a name I care for, and when I was grown up I + met a man called Luckworth, who was as kind as a father to me, and so I + took his name in place of Tom. That’s the long and short of it.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy looked a trifle disconcerted. + </p> + <p> + ‘You won’t think any worse of me, because I haven’t a name of my own?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why should I? It isn’t your fault.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No. But I’m not the kind of man to knuckle under. I think myself just as + good as anybody else I’ll knock the man down that sneers at me; and I + won’t thank anybody for pitying me; that’s the sort of chap I am. And I’m + going to have a big fortune one of these days. It’s down in the books. I + know I shall live to be a rich man, just as well as I know that I’m + walking down Dean Street with Miss. Lord.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I should think it very possible,’ his companion remarked. + </p> + <p> + ‘It hasn’t begun yet. I can only lay my hand on a few hundred pounds, one + way and another. And I’m turned thirty. But the next ten years are going + to do it. Do you know what I did last Saturday? I got fifteen hundred + pounds’ worth of advertising for our people, from a chap that’s never yet + put a penny into the hands of an agent. I went down and talked to him like + a father. He was the hardest nut I ever had to crack, but in thirty-five + minutes I’d got him—like a roach on a hook. And it’ll be to his + advantage, mind you. That fifteen hundred ‘ll bring him in more business + than he’s had for ten years past. I got him to confess he was going down + the hill. “Of course,” I said, “because you don’t know how to advertise, + and won’t let anybody else know for you?” In a few minutes he was telling + me he’d dropped more than a thousand on a patent that was out of date + before it got fairly going. “All right,” said I. “Here’s your new + cooking-stove. You’ve dropped a thousand on the other thing; give your + advertising to us, and I’ll guarantee you shall come home on the + cooking-stove.”’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Come home on it?’ Nancy inquired, in astonishment. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, it’s our way of talking,’ said the other, with his hearty laugh. ‘It + means to make up one’s loss. And he’ll do it. And when he has, he’ll think + no end of me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I daresay.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not long ago, I boxed a chap for his advertising. A fair turn-up with the + gloves. Do you suppose I licked him? Not I; though I could have done it + with one hand. I just let him knock me out of time, and two minutes after + he put all his business into my hands.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, you’ll get rich,’ declared Nancy, laughing. ‘No doubt about it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘There was a spot down the South Western Railway where we wanted to stick + up a board, a great big board, as ugly as they make ‘em. It was in a man’s + garden; a certain particular place, where the trains slow, and folks have + time to read the advertisement and meditate on it. That chap wouldn’t + listen. What! spoil his garden with our da——with our + confounded board! not for five hundred a year! Well, I went down, and I + talked to him—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Like a father,’ put in Nancy. + </p> + <p> + ‘Just so, like a father. “Look here,” said I, “my dear sir, you’re + impeding the progress of civilisation. How could we have become what we + are without the modern science and art of advertising? Till advertising + sprang up, the world was barbarous. Do you suppose people kept themselves + clean before they were reminded at every corner of the benefits of soap? + Do you suppose they were healthy before every wall and hoarding told them + what medicine to take for their ailments? Not they indeed! Why, a man like + you—an enlightened man, I see it in your face (he was as ugly as + Ben’s bull-dog), ought to be proud of helping on the age.” And I made him + downright ashamed of himself. He asked me to have a bit of dinner, and we + came to terms over the cheese.’ + </p> + <p> + In this strain did Luckworth Crewe continue to talk across the gloomy + solitudes of Soho. And Nancy would on no account have had him cease. She + was fascinated by his rough vigour and by his visions of golden + prosperity. It seemed to her that they reached very quickly the restaurant + he had in view. With keen enjoyment of the novelty, she followed him + between tables where people were eating, drinking, smoking, and took a + place beside him on a cushioned seat at the end of the room. + </p> + <p> + ‘I know you’re tired,’ he said. ‘There’s nearly half-an-hour before you + need move.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy hesitated in her choice of a refreshment. She wished to have + something unusual, something that fitted an occasion so remarkable, yet, + as Crewe would of course pay, she did not like to propose anything + expensive. + </p> + <p> + ‘Now let me choose for you,’ her companion requested. ‘After all that + rough work, you want something more than a drop of lemonade. I’m going to + order a nice little bottle of champagne out of the ice, and a pretty + little sandwich made of whatever you like.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Champagne—?’ + </p> + <p> + It had been in her thoughts, a sparkling audacity. Good; champagne let it + be. And she leaned back in defiant satisfaction. + </p> + <p> + ‘I didn’t expect much from Jubilee Day,’ observed the man of business, + ‘but that only shows how things turn out—always better or worse than + you think for. I’m not likely to forget it; it’s the best day I’ve had in + my life yet, and I leave you to guess who I owe <i>that</i> to.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I think this is good wine,’ remarked Nancy, as if she had not heard him. + </p> + <p> + ‘Not bad. You wouldn’t suppose a fellow of my sort would know anything + about it. But I do. I’ve drunk plenty of good champagne, and I shall drink + better.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy ate her sandwich and smiled. The one glass sufficed her; Crewe drank + three. Presently, looking at her with his head propped on his hand, he + said gravely: + </p> + <p> + ‘I wonder whether this is the last walk we shall have together?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Who can say?’ she answered in a light tone. + </p> + <p> + ‘Some one ought to be able to say.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I never make prophecies, and never believe other people’s.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Shows your good sense. But <i>I</i> make wishes, and plenty of them.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘So do I,’ said Nancy. + </p> + <p> + ‘Then let us both make a wish to ourselves,’ proposed Crewe, regarding her + with eyes that had an uncommon light in them. + </p> + <p> + His companion laughed, then both were quiet for a moment. + </p> + <p> + They allowed themselves plenty of time to battle their way as far as + Westminster Bridge. At one point police and crowd were in brief conflict; + the burly guardians of order dealt thwacking blows, right and left, sound + fisticuffs, backed with hearty oaths. The night was young; by magisterial + providence, hours of steady drinking lay before the hardier jubilants. + Thwacks and curses would be no rarity in another hour or two. + </p> + <p> + At the foot of Parliament Street, Nancy came face to face with Samuel + Barmby, on whose arm hung the wearied Jessica. Without heeding their + exclamations, she turned to her protector and bade him a hearty + good-night. Crewe accepted his dismissal. He made survey of Barmby, and + moved off singing to himself, ‘<i>Do not forget me—do not forget me</i>—’ + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PART2" id="link2H_PART2"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Part II: Nature’s Graduate + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER 1 + </h2> + <p> + The disorder which Stephen Lord masked as a ‘touch of gout’ had in truth a + much more disagreeable name. It was now twelve months since his doctor’s + first warning, directed against the savoury meats and ardent beverages + which constituted his diet; Stephen resolved upon a change of habits, but + the flesh held him in bondage, and medical prophecy was justified by the + event. All through Jubilee Day he suffered acutely; for the rest of the + week he remained at home, sometimes sitting in the garden, but generally + keeping his room, where he lay on a couch. + </p> + <p> + A man of method and routine, sedentary, with a strong dislike of + unfamiliar surroundings, he could not be persuaded to try change of air. + The disease intensified his native stubbornness, made him by turns fretful + and furious, disposed him to a sullen solitude. He would accept no + tendance but that of Mary Woodruff; to her, as to his children, he kept up + the pretence of gout. He was visited only by Samuel Barmby, with whom he + discussed details of business, and by Mr. Barmby, senior, his friend of + thirty years, the one man to whom he unbosomed himself. + </p> + <p> + His effort to follow the regimen medically prescribed to him was even now + futile. At the end of a week’s time, imagining himself somewhat better, he + resumed his daily walk to Camberwell Road, but remained at the warehouse + only till two or three o’clock, then returned and sat alone in his room. + On one of the first days of July, when the weather was oppressively hot, + he entered the house about noon, and in a few minutes rang his bell. Mary + Woodruff came to him. He was sitting on the couch, pale, wet with + perspiration, and exhausted. + </p> + <p> + ‘I want something to drink,’ he said wearily, without raising his eyes. + </p> + <p> + ‘Will you have the lime-water, sir?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes—what you like.’ + </p> + <p> + Mary brought it to him, and he drank two large glasses, with no pause. + </p> + <p> + ‘Where is Nancy?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘In town, sir. She said she would be back about four.’ + </p> + <p> + He made an angry movement. + </p> + <p> + ‘What’s she doing in town? She said nothing to me. Why doesn’t she come + back to lunch? Where does she go to for all these hours?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t know, sir.’ + </p> + <p> + The servant spoke in a low, respectful voice, looking at her master with + eyes that seemed to compassionate him. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, it doesn’t matter.’ He waved a hand, as if in dismissal. ‘Wait—if + I’m to be alone, I might as well have lunch now. I feel hungry, as if I + hadn’t eaten anything for twenty-four hours. Get me something, Mary.’ + </p> + <p> + Later in the afternoon his bell again sounded, and Mary answered it. As he + did not speak at once,—he was standing by the window with his hands + behind him,—she asked him his pleasure. + </p> + <p> + ‘Bring me some water, Mary, plain drinking-water.’ + </p> + <p> + She returned with a jug and glass, and he took a long draught. + </p> + <p> + ‘No, don’t go yet. I want to—to talk to you about things. Sit down + there for a minute.’ + </p> + <p> + He pointed to the couch, and Mary, with an anxious look, obeyed him. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m thinking of leaving this house, and going to live in the country. + There’s no reason why I shouldn’t. My partner can look after the business + well enough.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It might be the best thing you could do, sir. The best for your health.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, it might. I’m not satisfied with things. I want to make a decided + change, in every way.’ + </p> + <p> + His face had grown more haggard during the last few days, and his eyes + wandered, expressing fretfulness or fear; he spoke with effort, and seemed + unable to find the words that would convey his meaning. + </p> + <p> + ‘Now I want you to tell me plainly, what do you think of Nancy?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Think of her, sir?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, no—don’t speak in that way. I don’t want you to call me ‘sir’; + it isn’t necessary; we’ve known each other so long, and I think of you as + a friend, a very good friend. Think of me in the same way, and speak + naturally. I want to know your opinion of Nancy.’ + </p> + <p> + The listener had a face of grave attention: it signified no surprise, no + vulgar self-consciousness, but perhaps a just perceptible pleasure. And in + replying she looked steadily at her master for a moment. + </p> + <p> + ‘I really don’t feel I can judge her, Mr. Lord. It’s true, in a way, I + ought to know her very well, as I’ve seen her day by day since she was a + little thing. But now she’s a well-educated and clever young lady, and she + has got far beyond me—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Ay, there it is, there it is!’ Stephen interrupted with bitterness. + ‘She’s got beyond us—beyond me as well as you. And she isn’t what I + meant her to be, very far from it. I haven’t brought them up as I wished. + I don’t know—I’m sure I don’t know why. It was in own hands. When + they were little children, I said to myself: hey shall grow up plain, + good, honest girl and boy. I said that I wouldn’t educate them very much; + I saw little good that came of it, in our rank of life. I meant them to be + simple-minded. I hoped Nancy would marry a plain countryman, like the men + I used to know when I was a boy; a farmer, or something of that kind. But + see how it’s come about. It wasn’t that I altered my mind about what was + best. But I seemed to have no choice. For one thing, I made more money at + business than I had expected, and so—and so it seemed that they + ought to be educated above me and mine. There was my mother, did a better + woman ever live? She had no education but that of home. She could have + brought up Nancy in the good, old-fashioned way, if I had let her. I wish + I had, yes, I wish I had.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t think you could have felt satisfied,’ said the listener, with + intelligent sympathy. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why not? If she had been as good and useful a woman as <i>you</i> are—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Ah, you mustn’t think in that way, Mr. Lord. I was born and bred to + service. Your daughter had a mind given her at her birth, that would never + have been content with humble things. She was meant for education and a + higher place.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What higher place is there for her? She thinks herself too good for the + life she leads here, and yet I don’t believe she’ll ever find a place + among people of a higher class. She has told me herself it’s my fault. She + says I ought to have had a big house for her, so that she might make + friends among the rich. Perhaps she’s right. I have made her neither one + thing nor another. Mary, if I had never come to London, I might have lived + happily. My place was away there, in the old home. I’ve known that for + many a year. I’ve thought: wait till I’ve made a little more money, and + I’ll go back. But it was never done; and now it looks to me as if I had + spoilt the lives of my children, as well as my own. I can’t trust Nancy, + that’s the worst of it. You don’t know what she did on Jubilee night. She + wasn’t with Mr. Barmby and the others—Barmby told me about it; she + pretended to lose them, and went off somewhere to meet a man she’s never + spoken to me about. Is that how a good girl would act? I didn’t speak to + her about it; what use? Very likely she wouldn’t tell me the truth. She + takes it for granted I can’t understand her. She thinks her education puts + her above all plain folk and their ways—that’s it.’ + </p> + <p> + Mary’s eyes had fallen, and she kept silence. + </p> + <p> + ‘Suppose anything happened to me, and they were left to themselves. I have + money to leave between them, and of course they know it. How could it do + them anything but harm? Do you know that Horace wants to marry that girl + Fanny French—a grinning, chattering fool—if not worse. He has + told me he shall do as he likes. Whether or no it was right to educate + Nancy, I am very sure that I ought to have done with <i>him</i> as I meant + at first. He hasn’t the brains to take a good position. When his schooling + went on year after year, I thought at last to make of him something better + than his father—a doctor, or a lawyer. But he hadn’t the brains: he + disappointed me bitterly. And what use can he make of my money, when I’m + in my grave? If I die soon he’ll marry, and ruin his life. And won’t it be + the same with Nancy? Some plotting, greedy fellow—the kind of man + you see everywhere now-a-days, will fool her for the money’s sake.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘We must hope they’ll be much older and wiser before they have to act for + themselves,’ said Mary, looking into her master’s troubled face. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes!’ He came nearer to her, with a sudden hopefulness. ‘And whether I + live much longer or not, I can do something to guard them against their + folly. They needn’t have the money as soon as I am gone.’ + </p> + <p> + He seated himself in front of his companion. + </p> + <p> + ‘I want to ask you something, Mary. If they were left alone, would you be + willing to live here still, as you do now, for a few more years?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I shall do whatever you wish—whatever you bid me, Mr. Lord,’ + answered the woman, in a voice of heartfelt loyalty. + </p> + <p> + ‘You would stay on, and keep house for them?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But would they go on living here?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I could make them do so. I could put it down as a condition, in my will. + At all events, I would make Nancy stay. Horace might live where he liked—though + not with money to throw about. They have no relatives that could be of any + use to them. I should wish Nancy to go on living here, and you with her; + and she would only have just a sufficient income, paid by my old friend + Barmby, or by his son. And that till she was—what? I have thought of + six-and-twenty. By that time she would either have learnt wisdom, or she + never would. She must be free sooner or later.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But she couldn’t live by herself, Mr. Lord.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You tell me you would stay,’ he exclaimed impulsively. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, but I am only her servant. That wouldn’t be enough.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It would be. Your position shall be changed. There’s no one living to + whom I could trust her as I could to you. There’s no woman I respect so + much. For twenty years you have proved yourself worthy of respect—and + it shall be paid to you.’ + </p> + <p> + His vehemence would brook no opposition. + </p> + <p> + ‘You said you would do as I wished. I wish you to have a new position in + this house. You shall no longer be called a servant; you shall be our + housekeeper, and our friend. I will have it, I tell you!’ he cried + angrily. ‘You shall sit at table with us, and live with us. Nancy still + has sense enough to acknowledge that this is only your just reward; from + her, I know, there won’t be a word of objection. What can you have to say + against it?’ + </p> + <p> + The woman was pale with emotion. Her reserve and sensibility shrank from + what seemed to her an invidious honour, yet she durst not irritate the + sick man by opposition. + </p> + <p> + ‘It will make Nancy think,’ he pursued, with emphasis. ‘It will help her, + perhaps, to see the difference between worthless women who put themselves + forward, and the women of real value who make no pretences. Perhaps it + isn’t too late to set good examples before her. I’ve never found her + ill-natured, though she’s wilful; it isn’t her heart that’s wrong—I + hope and think not—only her mind, that’s got stuffed with foolish + ideas. Since her grandmother’s death she’s had no guidance. You shall talk + to her as a woman can; not all at once, but when she’s used to thinking of + you in this new way.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You are forgetting her friends,’ Mary said at length, with eyes of + earnest appeal. + </p> + <p> + ‘Her friends? She’s better without such friends. There’s one thing I used + to hope, but I’ve given it up. I thought once that she might have come to + a liking for Samuel Barmby, but now I don’t think she ever will, and I + believe it’s her friends that are to blame for it. One thing I know, that + she’ll never meet with any one who will make her so good a husband as he + would. We don’t think alike in every way; he’s a young man, and has the + new ideas; but I’ve known him since he was a boy, and I respect his + character. He has a conscience, which is no common thing now-a-days. He + lives a clean, homely life—and you won’t find many of his age who + do. Nancy thinks herself a thousand times too good for him; I only hope he + mayn’t prove a great deal too good for <i>her</i>. But I’ve given up that + thought. I’ve never spoken to her about it, and I never shall; no good + comes of forcing a girl’s inclination. I only tell you of it, Mary, + because I want you to understand what has been going on.’ + </p> + <p> + They heard a bell ring; that of the front door. + </p> + <p> + ‘It’ll be Miss. Nancy,’ said Mary, rising. + </p> + <p> + ‘Go to the door then. If it’s Nancy, tell her I want to speak to her, and + come back yourself.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Mr. Lord—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Do as I tell you—at once!’ + </p> + <p> + All the latent force of Stephen’s character now declared itself. He stood + upright, his face stern and dignified. In a few moments, Nancy entered the + room, and Mary followed her at a distance. + </p> + <p> + ‘Nancy,’ said the father, ‘I want to tell you of a change in the house. + You know that Mary has been with us for twenty years. You know that for a + long time we haven’t thought of her as a servant, but as a friend, and one + of the best possible. It’s time now to show our gratitude. Mary will + continue to help us as before, but henceforth she is one of our family. + She will eat with us and sit with us; and I look to you, my girl, to make + the change an easy and pleasant one for her.’ + </p> + <p> + As soon as she understood the drift of her father’s speech, Nancy + experienced a shock, and could not conceal it. But when silence came, she + had commanded herself. An instant’s pause; then, with her brightest smile, + she turned to Mary and spoke in a voice of kindness. + </p> + <p> + ‘Father is quite right. Your place is with us. I am glad, very glad.’ + </p> + <p> + Mary looked from Mr. Lord to his daughter, tried vainly to speak, and left + the room. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER 2 + </h2> + <p> + His father’s contemptuous wrath had an ill effect upon Horace. Of an + amiable disposition, and without independence of character, he might have + been guided by a judicious parent through all the perils of his calf-love + for Fanny French; thrown upon his own feeble resources, he regarded + himself as a victim of the traditional struggle between prosaic age and + nobly passionate youth, and resolved at all hazards to follow the heroic + course—which meant, first of all, a cold taciturnity towards his + father, and, as to his future conduct, a total disregard of the domestic + restraints which he had hitherto accepted. In a day or two he sat down and + wrote his father a long letter, of small merit as a composition, and + otherwise illustrating the profitless nature of the education for which + Stephen Lord had hopefully paid. It began with a declaration of rights. He + was a man; he could no longer submit to childish trammels. A man must not + be put to inconvenience by the necessity of coming home at early hours. A + man could not brook cross-examination on the subject of his intimacies, + his expenditure, and so forth. Above all, a man was answerable to no one + but himself for his relations with the other sex, for the sacred hopes he + cherished, for his emotions and aspirations which transcended even a man’s + vocabulary.—With much more of like tenor. + </p> + <p> + To this epistle, delivered by post, Mr. Lord made no answer. + </p> + <p> + Horace flattered himself that he had gained a victory. There was nothing + like ‘firmness,’ and that evening, about nine, he went to De Crespigny + Park. As usual, he had to ring the bell two or three times before any one + came; the lively notes of a piano sounded from the drawing-room, + intimating, no doubt, that Mrs. Peachey had guests. The door at length + opened, and he bade the servant let Miss. Fanny know that he was here; he + would wait in the dining-room. + </p> + <p> + It was not yet dark, but objects could only just be distinguished; the + gloom supplied Horace with a suggestion at which he laughed to himself. He + had laid down his hat and cane, when a voice surprised him. + </p> + <p> + ‘Who’s that?’ asked some one from the back of the room. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, are <i>you</i> there, Mr. Peachey?—I’ve come to see Fanny. I + didn’t care to go among the people.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘All right. We’d better light the gas.’ + </p> + <p> + With annoyance, Horace saw the master of the house come forward, and + strike a match. Remains of dinner were still on the table. The two + exchanged glances. + </p> + <p> + ‘How is your father?’ Peachey inquired. He had a dull, depressed look, and + moved languidly to draw down the blind. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, he isn’t quite up to the mark. But it’s nothing serious, I think.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Miss. Lord quite well?—We haven’t seen much of her lately.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t know why, I’m sure.—Nobody can depend upon her very much.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, I’ll leave you,’ said the other, with a dreary look about the room. + ‘The table ought to have been cleared by now—but that’s nothing + new.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Confounded servants,’ muttered Horace. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh yes, the servants,’ was Peachey’s ironical reply. + </p> + <p> + As soon as he was left alone, Horace turned out the gas. Then he stood + near the door, trembling with amorous anticipation. But minutes went by; + his impatience grew intolerable; he stamped, and twisted his fingers + together. Then of a sudden the door opened. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why, it’s dark, there’s nobody here.’ + </p> + <p> + Fanny discovered her mistake. She was seized and lifted off her feet. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh! Do you want to eat me? I’ll hit you as hard as I can, I will! You’re + spoiling my dress?’ + </p> + <p> + The last remonstrance was in a note that Horace did not venture to + disregard. + </p> + <p> + ‘Strike a light, silly! I know you’ve done something to my dress.’ + </p> + <p> + Horace pleaded abjectly to be forgiven, and that the room might remain + shadowed; but Fanny was disturbed in temper. + </p> + <p> + ‘If you don’t light the gas, I’ll go at once.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I haven’t any matches, darling.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, just like you! You never have anything. I thought every man carried + matches.’ + </p> + <p> + She broke from him, and ran out. Wretched in the fear that she might not + return, Horace waited on the threshold. In the drawing-room some one was + singing ‘The Maid of the Mill.’ It came to an end, and there sounded + voices, which the tormented listener strove to recognise. For at least ten + minutes he waited, and was all but frantic, when the girl made her + appearance, coming downstairs. + </p> + <p> + ‘Never do that again,’ she said viciously. ‘I’ve had to unfasten my + things, and put them straight. What a nuisance you are!’ + </p> + <p> + He stood cowed before her, limp and tremulous. + </p> + <p> + ‘There, light the gas. Why couldn’t you come into the drawing-room, like + other people do?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Who is there?’ asked the young man, when he had obeyed her. + </p> + <p> + ‘Go and see for yourself.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t be angry, Fanny.’ He followed her, like a dog, as she walked round + the table to look at herself in the mirror over the fireplace. ‘It was + only because I’m so fond of you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, what a silly you are!’ she laughed, seating herself on the arm of an + easy-chair. ‘Go ahead! What’s the latest?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, for one thing, I’ve had a very clear understanding with the gov’nor + about my independence. I showed him that I meant having my own way, and he + might bully as much as he liked.’ + </p> + <p> + It was not thus that Horace would naturally have spoken, not thus that he + thought of his father. Fanny had subdued him to her own level, poisoned + him with the desires excited by her presence. And he knew his baseness; he + was not ignorant of the girl’s ignoble nature. Only the fury of a virgin + passion enabled him to talk, and sometimes think, as though he were in + love with ideal purity. + </p> + <p> + ‘I didn’t think you had the pluck,’ said Fanny, swinging one of her feet + as she tittered. + </p> + <p> + ‘That shows you haven’t done me justice.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And you’re going to stay out late at night?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘As late as I like,’ Horace answered, crossing his arms. + </p> + <p> + ‘Then where will you take me to-morrow?’ + </p> + <p> + It happened that Horace was in funds just now; he had received his + quarter’s salary. Board and lodging were no expense to him; he provided + his own clothing, but, with this exception, had to meet no serious claim. + So, in reply to Fanny’s characteristic question, he jingled coins. + </p> + <p> + ‘Wherever you like.—“Dorothy,” “Ruddigore—“’ + </p> + <p> + Delighted with his assent, she became more gracious, permitted a modest + caress, and presently allowed herself to be drawn on to her lover’s knee. + She was passive, unconcerned; no second year graduate of the pavement + could have preserved a completer equanimity; it did not appear that her + pulse quickened ever so slightly, nor had her eyelid the suspicion of a + droop. She hummed ‘Queen of my Heart,’ and grew absent in speculative + thought, whilst Horace burned and panted at the proximity of her white + flesh. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, how I do love you, Fanny!’ + </p> + <p> + She trod playfully on his toe. + </p> + <p> + ‘You haven’t told the old gentleman yet?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I—I’m thinking about it. But, Fanny, suppose he was to—to + refuse to do anything for us. Would it make any difference? There are lots + of people who marry on a hundred and fifty a year—oh lots!’ + </p> + <p> + The maiden arched her brows, and puckered her lips. Hitherto it had been + taken for granted that Mr. Lord would be ready with subsidy; Horace, in a + large, vague way, had hinted that assurance long ago. Fanny’s + disinclination to plight her troth—she still deemed herself + absolutely free—had alone interfered between the young man and a + definite project of marriage. + </p> + <p> + ‘What kind of people?’ she asked coldly. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh—respectable, educated people, like ourselves.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And live in apartments? Thank you; I don’t quite see myself. There isn’t + a bit of hurry, dear boy. Wait a bit.’ She began to sing ‘Wait till the + clouds roll by.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘If you thought as much of me as I do of you—’ + </p> + <p> + Tired of her position, Fanny jumped up and took a spoonful of sweet jelly + from a dish on the table. + </p> + <p> + ‘Have some?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Come here again. I’ve something more to tell you. Something very + important.’ + </p> + <p> + She could only be prevailed upon to take a seat near him. Horace, beset + with doubts as to his prudence, but unable to keep the secret, began to + recount the story of his meeting with Mrs. Damerel, whom he had now seen + for the second time. Fanny’s curiosity, instantly awakened, grew eager as + he proceeded. She questioned with skill and pertinacity, and elicited many + more details than Nancy Lord had been able to gather. + </p> + <p> + ‘You’ll promise me not to say a word to any one?’ pleaded Horace. + </p> + <p> + ‘I won’t open my lips. But you’re quite sure she’s as old as you say?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Old enough to be my mother, I assure you.’ + </p> + <p> + The girl’s suspicions were not wholly set at rest, but she made no further + display of them. + </p> + <p> + ‘Now just think what an advantage it might be to you, to know her,’ Horace + pursued. ‘She’d introduce you at once to fashionable society, really + tip-top people. How would you like that?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not bad,’ was the judicial reply. + </p> + <p> + ‘She must have no end of money, and who knows what she might do for me!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s a jolly queer thing,’ mused the maiden. + </p> + <p> + ‘There’s no denying that. We must keep it close, whatever we do.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You haven’t told anybody else?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not a soul!’ Horace lied stoutly. + </p> + <p> + They were surprised by the sudden opening of the door; a servant appeared + to clear the table. Fanny reprimanded her for neglecting to knock. + </p> + <p> + ‘We may as well go into the drawing-room. There’s nobody particular. Only + Mrs. Middlemist, and Mr. Crewe, and—’ + </p> + <p> + In the hall they encountered Crewe himself, who stood there conversing + with Beatrice. A few words were exchanged by the two men, and Horace + followed his enchantress into the drawing-room, where he found, seated in + conversation with Mrs. Peachey, two persons whom he had occasionally met + here. One of them, Mrs. Middlemist, was a stout, coarse, high-coloured + woman, with fingers much bejewelled. Until a year or two ago she had + adorned the private bar of a public-house kept by her husband; retired + from this honourable post, she now devoted herself to society and the + domestic virtues. The other guest, Mrs. Murch by name, proclaimed herself, + at a glance, of less prosperous condition, though no less sumptuously + arrayed. Her face had a hungry, spiteful, leering expression; she spoke in + a shrill, peevish tone, and wriggled nervously on her chair. In eleven + years of married life, Mrs. Murch had borne six children, all of whom died + before they were six months old. She lived apart from her husband, who had + something to do with the manufacture of an Infants’ Food. + </p> + <p> + Fanny was requested to sing. She sat down at the piano, rattled a prelude, + and gave forth an echo of the music-halls: + </p> + <p> + ‘<i>It’s all up with poor Tommy now. I shall never more be happy, I vow. + It’s just a week to-day Since my Sairey went away, And it’s all up with + poor Tommy now</i>.’ + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Middlemist, who prided herself upon serious vocal powers, remarked + that comic singing should be confined to men. + </p> + <p> + ‘You haven’t a bad voice, my dear, if you would only take pains with it. + Now sing us “For Ever and for Ever.”’ + </p> + <p> + This song being the speaker’s peculiar glory, she was of course requested + to sing it herself, and, after entreaty, consented. Her eyes turned + upward, her fat figure rolling from side to side, her mouth very wide + open, Mrs. Middlemist did full justice to the erotic passion of this great + lyric: + </p> + <p> + ‘<i>Perchawnce if we ‘ad never met, We ‘ad been spared this mad regret, + This hendless striving to forget—For hever—hand—for + he-e-e-ver!</i>’ + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Murch let her head droop sentimentally. Horace glanced at Fanny, who, + however, seemed absorbed in reflections as unsentimental as could be. + </p> + <p> + In the meanwhile, on a garden seat under the calm but misty sky, sat + Luckworth Crewe and Beatrice French. Crewe smoked a cigar placidly; + Beatrice was laying before him the suggestion of her great commercial + scheme, already confided to Fanny. + </p> + <p> + ‘How does it strike you?’ she asked at length. + </p> + <p> + ‘Not bad, old chap. There’s something in it, if you’re clever enough to + carry it through. And I shouldn’t wonder if you are.’ ‘Will you help to + set it going?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Can’t help with money,’ Crewe replied. + </p> + <p> + ‘Very well; will you help in other ways? Practical hints, and so on?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course I will. Always ready to encourage merit in the money-making + line. What capital are you prepared to put into it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not much. The public must supply the capital.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘A sound principle,’ Crewe laughed. ‘But I shouldn’t go on the old lines. + You didn’t think of starting a limited company? You’d find difficulties. + Now what you want to start is a—let us call it the South London + Dress Supply Association, or something of that kind. But you won’t get to + that all at once. You ought to have premises to begin with.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m aware of it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Can you raise a thousand or so?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, I could—if I chose.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Now, look here. Your notion of the Fashion Club is a deuced good one, and + I don’t see why it shouldn’t be pretty easily started. Out of every five + hundred women, you can reckon on four hundred and ninety-nine being fools; + and there isn’t a female fool who wouldn’t read and think about a circular + which promised her fashionable dresses for an unfashionable price. That’s + a great and sound basis to start on. What I advise is, that you should + first of all advertise for a dress-making concern that would admit a + partner with a small capital. You’ll have between ten and twelve hundred + replies, but don’t be staggered; go through them carefully, and select a + shop that’s well situated, and doing a respectable trade. Get hold of + these people, and induce them to make changes in their business to suit + your idea. Then blaze away with circulars, headed “South London Fashion + Club;” send them round the whole district, addressed to women. Every idiot + of them will, at all events, come and look at the shop; that can be + depended upon; in itself no bad advertisement. Arrange to have a special + department—special entrance, if possible—with “The Club” + painted up. Yes, by jingo! Have a big room, with comfortable chairs, and + the women’s weekly papers lying about, and smart dresses displayed on + what-d’ye-call-’ems, like they have in windows. Make the subscription very + low at first, and give rattling good value; never mind if you lose by it. + Then, when you’ve got hold of a lot of likely people, try them with the + share project. By-the-bye, if you lose no time, you can bring in the + Jubilee somehow. Yes, start with the “Jubilee Fashion Club.” I wonder + nobody’s done it already.’ + </p> + <p> + Beatrice was growing elated. + </p> + <p> + ‘The public has to wait for its benefactors,’ she replied. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ll tell you what, would you like me to sketch you out a prospectus of + the Club?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, you might do that if you like. You won’t expect to be paid?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Hang it! what do you take me for?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Business is business,’ Miss. French remarked coldly. + </p> + <p> + ‘So it is. And friendship is friendship. Got a match?’ He laughed. ‘No, I + suppose you haven’t.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ll go and get you one if you like.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘There’s a good fellow. I’ll think in the meantime.’ + </p> + <p> + Beatrice rose lazily, and was absent for several minutes. When she + returned, Crewe re-lit his cigar. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why shouldn’t I start the shop on my own account?’ Beatrice asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘You haven’t capital enough. A little place wouldn’t do.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I think I can get Fanny to join me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Can you? What will young Lord have to say to that?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Psh! That’s all fooling. It’ll never come to anything. Unless, of course, + the old man turned up his toes, and left the boy a tidy sum. But he won’t + just yet. I’ve told Fanny that if she’ll raise something on her houses, + I’ll guarantee her the same income she has now.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Take my advice,’ said Crewe weightily, ‘and hook on to an established + business. Of course, you can change the name if you like; and there’d have + to be alterations, and painting up, to give a new look.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s risky, dealing with strangers. How if they got hold of my idea, and + then refused to take me in?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well now, look here. After all, I’ll make a bargain with you, old chap. + If I can introduce you to the right people, and get you safely started, + will you give me all your advertising, on the usual commission?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You mean, give it to Bullock and Freeman?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, I don’t. It’s a secret just yet, but I’m going to start for myself.’ + </p> + <p> + Beatrice was silent. They exchanged a look in the gloom, and Crewe nodded, + in confirmation of his announcement. + </p> + <p> + ‘How much have you got?’ Miss. French inquired carelessly. + </p> + <p> + ‘Not much. Most of the capital is here.’ He touched his forehead. ‘Same as + with you.’ + </p> + <p> + The young woman glanced at him again, and said in a lower voice: + </p> + <p> + ‘You’d have had more by now, if—’ + </p> + <p> + Crewe waited, puffing his cigar, but she did not finish. + </p> + <p> + ‘Maybe,’ he replied impartially. ‘Maybe not.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t think I’m sorry,’ Beatrice hastened to add. ‘It was an idea, like + any other.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not half a bad idea. But there were obstacles.’ + </p> + <p> + After a pause, Beatrice inquired: + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you still think the same about women with money?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Just the same,’ Crewe replied at once, though with less than his usual + directness; the question seemed to make him meditative. ‘Just the same. + Every man looks at it in his own way, of course. I’m not the sort of chap + to knuckle under to my wife; and there isn’t one woman in a thousand, if + she gave her husband a start, could help reminding him of it. It’s the + wrong way about. Let women be as independent as they like as long as + they’re not married. I never think the worse of them, whatever they do + that’s honest. But a wife must play second fiddle, and think her husband a + small god almighty—that’s my way of looking at the question.’ + </p> + <p> + Beatrice laughed scornfully. + </p> + <p> + ‘All right. We shall see.—When do you start business?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘This side Christmas. End of September, perhaps.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You think to snatch a good deal from B. & F., I daresay?’ + </p> + <p> + Crewe nodded and smiled. + </p> + <p> + ‘Then you’ll look after this affair for me?’ said Beatrice, with a return + to the tone of strict business. + </p> + <p> + ‘Without loss of time. You shall be advised of progress. Of course I must + debit you with exes.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘All right. Mind you charge for all the penny stamps.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Every one—don’t you forget it.’ + </p> + <p> + He stood up, tilted forward on his toes, and stretched himself. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ll be trotting homewards. It’ll be time for by-by when I get to + Kennington.’ + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER 3 + </h2> + <p> + Nancy was undisturbed by the promotion of Mary Woodruff. A short time ago + it would have offended her; she would have thought her dignity, her social + prospects, imperilled. She was now careless on that score, and felt it a + relief to cast off the show of domestic authority. Henceforth her position + would be like that of Horace. All she now desired was perfect freedom from + responsibility,—to be, as it were, a mere lodger in the house, to + come and go unquestioned and unrestrained by duties. + </p> + <p> + Thus, by aid of circumstance, had she put herself into complete accord + with the spirit of her time. Abundant privilege; no obligation. A + reference of all things to her sovereign will and pleasure. Withal, a + defiant rather than a hopeful mood; resentment of the undisguisable fact + that her will was sovereign only in a poor little sphere which she would + gladly have transcended. + </p> + <p> + Now-a-days she never went in the direction of Champion Hill, formerly her + favourite walk. If Jessica Morgan spoke of her acquaintances there, she + turned abruptly to another subject. She thought of the place as an abode + of arrogance and snobbery. She recalled with malicious satisfaction her + ill-mannered remark to Lionel Tarrant. Let him think of her as he would; + at all events he could no longer imagine her overawed by his social + prestige. The probability was that she had hurt him in a sensitive spot; + it might be hoped that the wound would rankle for a long time. + </p> + <p> + Her personal demeanour showed a change. So careful hitherto of feminine + grace and decorum, she began to affect a mannishness of bearing, a + bluntness of speech, such as found favour at De Crespigny Park. In a few + weeks she had resumed friendly intercourse with Mrs. Peachey and her + sisters, and spent an occasional evening at their house. Her father asked + no questions; she rarely saw him except at meals. A stranger must have + observed the signs of progressive malady in Mr. Lord’s face, but Nancy was + aware of nothing to cause uneasiness; she thought of him as suffering a + little from ‘gout;’ elderly people were of course subject to such + disorders. On most days he went to business; if he remained at home, Mary + attended him assiduously, and he would accept no other ministration. + </p> + <p> + Nancy was no longer inclined to study, and cared little for reading of any + sort. That new book on Evolution, which she had brought from the library + just before Jubilee Day, was still lying about; a dozen times she had + looked at it with impatience, and reminded herself that it must be + returned. Evolution! She already knew all about Darwinism, all she needed + to know. If necessary she could talk about it—oh, with an air. But + who wanted to talk about such things? After all, only priggish people,—the + kind of people who lived at Champion Hill. Or idiots like Samuel Bennett + Barmby, who bothered about the future of the world. What was it to <i>her</i>—the + future of the world? She wanted to live in the present, to enjoy her + youth. An evening like that she had spent in the huge crowd, with a man + like Crewe to amuse her with his talk, was worth whole oceans of + ‘culture.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Culture’ she already possessed, abundance of it. The heap of books she + had read! Last winter she had attended a course of lectures, delivered by + ‘a young University gentleman with a tone of bland omniscience, on ‘The + History of Hellenic Civilisation;’ her written answers to the little ‘test + papers’ had been marked ‘very satisfactory.’ Was it not a proof of culture + achieved? Education must not encroach upon the years of maturity. Nature + marked the time when a woman should begin to live. + </p> + <p> + There was poor Jessica. As July drew on, Jessica began to look cadaverous, + ghostly. She would assuredly break down long before the time of her + examination. What a wretched, what an absurd existence! Her home, too, was + so miserable. Mrs. Morgan lay ill, unable to attend to anything; if she + could not have a change of air, it must soon be all over with her. But + they had no money, no chance of going to the seaside. + </p> + <p> + It happened at length that Mr. Lord saw Jessica one evening, when she had + come to spend an hour in Grove Lane. After her departure, he asked Nancy + what was the matter with the girl, and Nancy explained the situation. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, why not take her with you, when you go away?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I didn’t know that I was going away, father. Nothing has been said of + it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s your own business. I leave you to make what plans you like.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy reflected. + </p> + <p> + ‘<i>You</i> ought to have a change,’ she said considerately. ‘It would do + you good. Suppose we all go to Teignmouth? I should think that would suit + you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why Teignmouth?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I enjoyed it last year. And the lodgings were comfortable. We could have + the same, from the first week in August.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How do you know?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I wrote the other day, and asked,’ Nancy replied with a smile. + </p> + <p> + But Mr. Lord declined to leave home. Mary Woodruff did her best to + persuade him, until he angrily imposed silence. In a day or two he said to + Nancy: + </p> + <p> + ‘If you wish to go to Teignmouth, take Jessica and her mother. People + mustn’t die for want of a five-pound note. Make your arrangements, and let + me know what money you’ll need.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s very kind of you, father.’ + </p> + <p> + Mr. Lord turned away. His daughter noticed that he walked feebly, and she + felt a moment’s compunction. + </p> + <p> + ‘Father—you are not so well to-day.’ + </p> + <p> + Without looking round, he replied that he would be well enough if left + alone; and Nancy did not venture to say more. + </p> + <p> + A few days later, she called in De Crespigny Park after dinnertime. Mrs. + Peachey and Fanny were at Brighton; Beatrice had preferred to stay in + London, being very busy with her great project. Whilst she talked of it + with Nancy, Peachey and Luckworth Crewe came in together. There was + sprightly conversation, in which the host, obviously glad of his wife’s + absence, took a moderate part. Presently, Miss. Lord and he found + themselves gossiping alone; the other two had moved aside, and, as a look + informed Nancy, were deep in confidential dialogue. + </p> + <p> + ‘What do you think of that business?’ she asked her companion in an + undertone. + </p> + <p> + ‘I shouldn’t wonder if it answers,’ said the young man, speaking as usual, + with a soft, amiable voice. ‘Our friend is helping, and he generally knows + what he’s about.’ + </p> + <p> + Crewe remained only for half-an-hour; on shaking hands with him, Nancy + made known that she was going to the seaside next Monday for a few weeks, + and the man of business answered only with ‘I hope you’ll enjoy yourself.’ + Soon afterwards, she took leave. At the junction of De Crespigny Park and + Grove Lane, some one approached her, and with no great surprise Nancy saw + that it was Crewe. + </p> + <p> + ‘Been waiting for you,’ he said. ‘You remember you promised me another + walk.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, it’s much too late.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course it is. I didn’t mean now. But to-morrow.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Impossible.’ She moved on, in the direction away from her home. ‘I shall + be with friends in the evening, the Morgans.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Confound it! I had made up my mind to ask you for last Saturday, but some + country people nabbed me for the whole of that day. I took them up the + Monument, and up St Paul’s.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ve never been up the Monument,’ said Nancy. + </p> + <p> + ‘Never? Come to-morrow afternoon then. You can spare the afternoon. Let’s + meet early somewhere. Take a bus to London Bridge. I’ll be at the north + end of London Bridge at three o’clock.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘All right; I’ll be there,’ Nancy replied off-hand. + </p> + <p> + ‘You really will? Three, sharp. I was never late at an appointment, + business or pleasure.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Which do you consider this?’ asked his companion, with a shrewd glance. + </p> + <p> + ‘Now that’s unkind. I came here to-night on business, though. You quite + understand that, didn’t you? I shouldn’t like you to make any mistake. + Business, pure and simple.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why, of course,’ replied Nancy, with an ingenuous air. ‘What else could + it be?’ And she added, ‘Don’t come any further. Ta-ta!’ + </p> + <p> + Crewe went off into the darkness. + </p> + <p> + The next afternoon, Nancy alighted at London Bridge a full quarter of an + hour late. It had been raining at intervals through the day, and clouds + still cast a gloom over the wet streets. Crewe, quite insensible to + atmospheric influence, came forward with his wonted brisk step and + animated visage. At Miss. Lord’s side he looked rather more plebeian than + when walking by himself; his high-hat, not of the newest, utterly + misbecame his head, and was always at an unconventional angle, generally + tilting back; his clothes, of no fashionable cut, bore the traces of + perpetual hurry and multifarious impact. But he carried a perfectly new + and expensive umbrella, to which, as soon as he had shaken hands with her, + he drew Nancy’s attention. + </p> + <p> + ‘A present this morning, from a friend of mine in the business. I ran into + his shop to get shelter. Upon my word, I had no intention; didn’t think + anything about it. However, he owed me an acknowledgment; I’ve sent him + three customers from our office since I saw him last. By-the-bye, I shall + have half a day at the seaside on Monday. There’s a sale of building-plots + down at Whitsand. The estate agents run a complimentary special train for + people going down to bid, and give a lunch before the auction begins. Not + bad business.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Are <i>you</i> going to bid?’ asked Nancy. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m going to have a look, at all events; and if I see anything that takes + my fancy—. Ever been to Whitsand? I’m told it’s a growing place. I + should like to get hold of a few advertising stations.—Where is it + you are going to on Monday? Teignmouth? I don’t know that part of the + country. Wish I could run down, but I shan’t have time. I’ve got my work + cut out for August and September. Would you like to come and see the place + where I think of opening shop?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Is it far?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No. We’ll walk round when we’ve been up the Monument. You don’t often go + about the City, I daresay. Nothing doing, of course, on a Saturday + afternoon.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy made him moderate his pace, which was too quick for her. Part of the + pleasure she found in Crewe’s society came from her sense of being so + undeniably his superior; she liked to give him a sharp command, and + observe his ready obedience. To his talk she listened with a good-natured, + condescending smile, occasionally making a remark which implied a more + liberal view, a larger intelligence, than his. Thus, as they stood for a + moment to look down at the steamboat wharf, and Crewe made some remark + about the value of a cargo just being discharged, she said carelessly: + </p> + <p> + ‘I suppose that’s the view you take of everything? You rate everything at + market price.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Marketable things, of course. But you know me well enough to understand + that I’m not always thinking of the shop. Wait till I’ve made money.—Now + then, clumsy!’ + </p> + <p> + A man, leaning over the parapet by Nancy’s side, had pushed against her. + Thus addressed he glared at the speaker, but encountered a bellicose look + which kept him quiet. + </p> + <p> + ‘I shall live in a big way,’ Crewe continued, as they walked on towards + Fish Street Hill. ‘Not for the swagger of it; I don’t care about that, but + because I’ve a taste for luxury. I shall have a country house, and keep + good horses. And I should like to have a little farm of my own, a model + farm; make my own butter and cheese, and know that I ate the real thing. I + shall buy pictures. Haven’t I told you I like pictures? Oh yes. I shall go + round among the artists, and encourage talent that hasn’t made itself + known.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Can you recognise it?’ asked Nancy. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, I shall learn to. And I shall have my wife’s portrait painted by + some first-rate chap, never mind what it costs, and hung in the Academy. + That’s a great idea of mine—to see my wife’s portrait in the + Academy.’ + </p> + <p> + His companion laughed. + </p> + <p> + ‘Take care, then, that your wife is ornamental.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ll take precious good care of that!’ Crewe exclaimed merrily. ‘Do you + suppose I should dream of marrying a woman who wasn’t good-looking?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t shout, please. People can hear you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I beg your pardon.’ His voice sank to humility. ‘That’s a bad habit of + mine. But I was going to say—I went to the Academy this year just to + look at the portraits of men’s wives. There was nothing particular in that + line. Not a woman I should have felt particularly proud of. Tastes differ, + of course. Mine has altered a good deal in the last ten years. A man can’t + trust himself about women till he’s thirty or near it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Talk of something else,’ Nancy commanded. + </p> + <p> + ‘Certainly. There’s the sun coming out. You see, I was afraid it would + keep on raining, and you would have an excuse for staying at home.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I needed no excuse,’ said Nancy. ‘If I hadn’t wished to come, you may be + sure I should have said so.’ + </p> + <p> + Crewe flashed a look at her. + </p> + <p> + ‘Ah, that’s how I like to hear you speak! That does one good. Well, here + we are. People used to be fond of going up, they say, just to pitch + themselves down. A good deal of needless trouble, it seems to me. Perhaps + they gave themselves the off-chance of changing their minds before they + got to the top.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Or wanted to see if life looked any better from up there,’ suggested + Nancy. + </p> + <p> + ‘Or hoped somebody would catch them by the coat-tails, and settle a + pension on them out of pity.’ + </p> + <p> + Thus jesting, they began the ascent. Crewe, whose spirits were at high + pressure, talked all the way up the winding stairs; on issuing into + daylight, he became silent, and they stood side by side, mute before the + vision of London’s immensity. Nancy began to move round the platform. The + strong west wind lashed her cheeks to a glowing colour; excitement added + brilliancy to her eyes. As soon as she had recovered from the first + impression, this spectacle of a world’s wonder served only to exhilarate + her; she was not awed by what she looked upon. In her conceit of + self-importance, she stood there, above the battling millions of men, + proof against mystery and dread, untouched by the voices of the past, and + in the present seeing only common things, though from an odd point of + view. Here her senses seemed to make literal the assumption by which her + mind had always been directed: that she—Nancy Lord—was the mid + point of the universe. No humility awoke in her; she felt the stirring of + envies, avidities, unavowable passions, and let them flourish unrebuked. + </p> + <p> + Crewe had his eyes fixed upon her; his lips parted hungrily. + </p> + <p> + ‘Now <i>that’s</i> how I should like to see you painted,’ he said all at + once. ‘Just like that! I never saw you looking so well. I believe you’re + the most beautiful girl to be found anywhere in this London!’ + </p> + <p> + There was genuine emotion in his voice, and his sweeping gesture suited + the mood of vehemence. Nancy, having seen that the two or three other + people on the platform were not within hearing, gave an answer of which + the frankness surprised even herself. + </p> + <p> + ‘Portraits for the Academy cost a great deal, you know.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I know. But that’s what I’m working for. There are not many men down + yonder,’ he pointed over the City, ‘have a better head for money-making + than I have.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, prove it,’ replied Nancy, and laughed as the wind caught her + breath. + </p> + <p> + ‘How long will you give me?’ + </p> + <p> + She made no answer, but walked to the side whence she could look westward. + Crewe followed close, his features still set in the hungry look, his eyes + never moving from her warm cheek and full lips. + </p> + <p> + ‘What it must be,’ she said, ‘to have about twenty thousand a year!’ + </p> + <p> + The man of business gave a gasp. In the same moment he had to clutch at + his hat, lest it should be blown away. + </p> + <p> + ‘Twenty thousand a year?’ he echoed. ‘Well, it isn’t impossible. Men get + beyond that, and a good deal beyond it. But it’s a large order.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course it is. But what was it you said? The most beautiful girl in all + London? That’s a large order, too, isn’t it? How much is she worth?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You’re talking for the joke now,’ said Crewe. ‘I don’t like to hear that + kind of thing, either. You never think in that way.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘My thoughts are my own. I may think as I choose.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes. But you have thoughts above money.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Have I? How kind of you to say so.—I’ve had enough of this wind; + we’ll go down.’ + </p> + <p> + She led the way, and neither of them spoke till they were in the street + again. Nancy felt her hair. + </p> + <p> + ‘Am I blown to pieces?’ she asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘No, no; you’re all right. Now, will you walk through the City?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Where’s the place you spoke of?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Farringdon Street. That’ll bring you round to Blackfriars Bridge, when + you want to go home. But there’s plenty of time yet.’ + </p> + <p> + So they rambled aimlessly by the great thoroughfares, and by hidden + streets of which Nancy had never heard, talking or silent as the mood + dictated. Crewe had stories to tell of this and that thriving firm, of + others struggling in obscurity or falling from high estate; to him the + streets of London were so many chapters of romance, but a romance always + of to-day, for he neither knew nor cared about historic associations. Vast + sums sounded perpetually on his lips; he glowed with envious delight in + telling of speculations that had built up great fortunes. He knew the + fabulous rents that were paid for sites that looked insignificant; he + repeated anecdotes of calls made from Somerset House upon men of business, + who had been too modest in returning the statement of their income; he + revived legends of dire financial disaster, and of catastrophe barely + averted by strange expedients. To all this Nancy listened with only + moderate interest; as often as not, she failed to understand the details + which should have excited her wonder. None the less, she received an + impression of knowledge, acuteness, power, in the speaker; and this was + decidedly pleasant. + </p> + <p> + ‘Here’s the place where I think of starting for myself,’ said Crewe, as he + paused at length before a huge building in Farringdon Street. + </p> + <p> + ‘This?—Can you afford such a rent?’ + </p> + <p> + Her companion burst into laughter. + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t mean the whole building. Two or three rooms, that’s all, + somewhere upstairs.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy made a jest of her mistake. + </p> + <p> + ‘An advertising agent doesn’t want much space,’ said Crewe. ‘I know a chap + who’s doing a pretty big business in one room, not far from here.—Well, + we’ve had a long walk; now you must rest a bit, and have a cup of tea.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I thought you were going to propose champagne.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh—if you like—’ + </p> + <p> + They went to a restaurant in Fleet Street, and sat for half an hour over + the milder beverage. Crewe talked of his projects, his prospects; and + Nancy, whom the afternoon had in truth fatigued a little, though her mind + was still excited, listened without remark. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well,’ he said at length, leaning towards her, ‘how long do you give me?’ + </p> + <p> + She looked away, and kept silence. + </p> + <p> + ‘Two years:—just to make a solid start; to show that something worth + talking ‘about is to come?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ll think about it.’ + </p> + <p> + He kept his position, and gazed at her. + </p> + <p> + ‘I know it isn’t money that would tempt you.’ He spoke in a very low + voice, though no one was within earshot. ‘Don’t think I make any mistake + about <i>that</i>! But I have to show you that there’s something in me. I + wouldn’t marry any woman that thought I made love to her out of interest.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy began to draw on her gloves, and smiled, just biting her lower lip. + </p> + <p> + ‘Will you give me a couple of years, from to-day? I won’t bother you. It’s + honour bright!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ll think about it,’ Nancy repeated. + </p> + <p> + ‘Whilst you’re away?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, whilst I’m away at Teignmouth.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And tell me when you come back?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Tell you—how long. Yes.’ + </p> + <p> + And she rose. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER 4 + </h2> + <p> + From the mouth of Exe to the mouth of Teign the coast is uninteresting. + Such beauty as it once possessed has been destroyed by the railway. Cliffs + of red sandstone drop to the narrow beach, warm between the blue of sky + and sea, but without grandeur, and robbed of their native grace by + navvy-hewing, which for the most part makes of them a mere embankment: + their verdure stripped away, their juttings tunnelled, along their base + the steel parallels of smoky traffic. Dawlish and Teignmouth have in + themselves no charm; hotel and lodging-house, shamed by the soft pure + light that falls about them, look blankly seaward, hiding what remains of + farm or cottage in the older parts. Ebb-tide uncovers no fair stretch of + sand, and at flood the breakers are thwarted on a bulwark of piled stone, + which supports the railway, or protects a promenade. + </p> + <p> + But inland these discontents are soon forgotten; there amid tilth and + pasture, gentle hills and leafy hollows of rural Devon, the eye rests and + the mind is soothed. By lanes innumerable, deep between banks of fern and + flower; by paths along the bramble-edge of scented meadows; by the secret + windings of copse and brake and stream-worn valley—a way lies upward + to the long ridge of Haldon, where breezes sing among the pines, or sweep + rustling through gorse and bracken. Mile after mile of rustic loveliness, + ever and anon the sea-limits blue beyond grassy slopes. White farms dozing + beneath their thatch in harvest sunshine; hamlets forsaken save by women + and children, by dogs and cats and poultry, the labourers afield. Here + grow the tall foxgloves, bending a purple head in the heat of noon; here + the great bells of the convolvulus hang thick from lofty hedges, massing + their pink and white against dark green leafage; here amid shadowed + undergrowth trail the long fronds of lustrous hartstongue; wherever the + eye falls, profusion of summer’s glory. Here, in many a nook carpeted with + softest turf, canopied with tangle of leaf and bloom, solitude is safe + from all intrusion—unless it be that of flitting bird, or of some + timid wild thing that rustles for a moment and is gone. From dawn to + midnight, as from midnight to dawn, one who would be alone with nature + might count upon the security of these bosks and dells. + </p> + <p> + By Nancy Lord and her companions such pleasures were unregarded. For the + first few days after their arrival at Teignmouth, they sat or walked on + the promenade, walked or sat on the pier, sat or walked on the Den—a + long, wide lawn, decked about with shrubs and flower-beds, between + sea-fronting houses and the beach. Nancy had no wish to exert herself, for + the weather was hot; after her morning bathe with Jessica, she found + amusement enough in watching the people—most of whom were here + simply to look at each other, or in listening to the band, which played + selections from Sullivan varied with dance music, or in reading a novel + from the book-lender’s,—that is to say, gazing idly at the page, and + letting such significance as it possessed float upon her thoughts. + </p> + <p> + She was pleasantly conscious that the loungers who passed by, male and + female, gave something of attention to her face and costume. Without + attempting to rival the masterpieces of fashion which invited envy or + wonder from all observers, she thought herself nicely dressed, and had in + fact, as always, made good use of her father’s liberality. Her taste in + garments had a certain timidity that served her well; by avoiding the + extremes of mode, and in virtue of her admirable figure, she took the eye + of those who looked for refinement rather than for extravagance. The + unconsidered grace of her bearing might be recognised by all whom such + things concerned; it by no means suggested that she came from a small + house in Camberwell. In her companions, to be sure, she was unfortunate; + but the over-modest attire and unimpressive persons of Mrs. Morgan and + Jessica at least did her the office of relief by contrast. + </p> + <p> + Nancy had made this reflection; she was not above it. Yet her actual + goodness of heart saved her from ever feeling ashamed of the Morgans. It + gratified her to think that she was doing them a substantial kindness; but + for her, they would have dragged through a wretched summer in their + unwholesome, jimcrack house, without a breath of pure air, without a sight + of the free heaven. And to both of them that would probably have meant a + grave illness. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Morgan was a thin, tremulous woman, with watery eyes and a singular + redness about the prominent part of her face, which seemed to indicate a + determination of blood to the nose. All her married life had been spent in + a cheerless struggle to maintain the externals of gentility. Not that she + was vain or frivolous—indeed her natural tendencies made for + homeliness in everything—but, by birth and by marriage connected + with genteel people, she felt it impossible to abandon that mode of living + which is supposed to distinguish the educated class from all beneath it. + She had brought into the world three sons and three daughters; of the + former, two were dead, and of the latter, one,—in each case, poverty + of diet having proved fatal to a weak constitution. For close upon thirty + years the family had lived in houses of which the rent was out of all + reasonable proportion to their means; at present, with a total income of + one hundred and sixty pounds (Mr. Morgan called himself a commission + agent, and seldom had anything to do), they paid in rent and rates a + matter of fifty-five, and bemoaned the fate which neighboured them with + people only by courtesy to be called gentlefolk. Of course they kept a + servant,—her wages nine pounds a year. Whilst the mother and elder + daughter were at Teignmouth, Mr Morgan, his son, and the younger girl felt + themselves justified in making up for lack of holiday by an extra supply + of butcher’s meat. + </p> + <p> + Well-meaning, but with as little discretion in this as in other things, + Mrs. Morgan allowed scarce an hour of the day to pass without uttering her + gratitude to Nancy Lord for the benefit she was enjoying. To escape these + oppressive thanks, Nancy did her best never to be alone with the poor + lady; but a <i>tete-a-tete</i> was occasionally unavoidable, as, for + instance, on the third or fourth day after their arrival, when Mrs. Morgan + had begged Nancy’s company for a walk on the Den, whilst Jessica wrote + letters. At the end of a tedious hour Jessica joined them, and her face + had an unwonted expression. She beckoned her friend apart. + </p> + <p> + ‘You’ll be surprised. Who do you think is here?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No one that will bore us, I hope.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Mr. Tarrant. I met him near the post-office, and he stopped me.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy frowned. + </p> + <p> + ‘Are they all here again?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No; he says he’s alone.—One minute, mamma; please excuse us.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘He was surprised to see you?’ said Nancy, after reflecting. + </p> + <p> + ‘He said so. But—I forgot to tell you—in a letter to Mrs. + Baker I spoke of our plans. She had written to me to propose a pupil for + after the holidays.—Perhaps she didn’t mention it to Mr. Tarrant.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Evidently not!’ Nancy exclaimed, with some impatience. ‘Why should you + doubt his word?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I can’t help thinking’—Jessica smiled archly—‘that he has + come just to meet—somebody.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Somebody? Who do you mean?’ asked her friend, with a look of sincere + astonishment. + </p> + <p> + ‘I may be mistaken’—a glance completed the suggestion. + </p> + <p> + ‘Rubbish!’ + </p> + <p> + For the rest of that day the subject was unmentioned. Nancy kept rather to + herself, and seemed meditative. Next morning she was in the same mood. The + tide served for a bathe at eleven o’clock; afterwards, as the girls walked + briskly to and fro near the seat where Mrs. Morgan had established herself + with a volume of Browning,—Jessica insisted on her reading Browning, + though the poor mother protested that she scarcely understood a word,—they + came full upon the unmistakable presence of Mr. Lionel Tarrant. Miss. + Morgan, in acknowledging his salute, offered her hand; it was by her that + the young man had stopped. Miss. Lord only bent her head, and that + slightly. Tarrant expected more, but his half-raised hand dropped in time, + and he directed his speech to Jessica. He had nothing to say but what + seemed natural and civil; the dialogue—Nancy remained mute—occupied + but a few minutes, and Tarrant went his way, sauntering landwards. + </p> + <p> + As Mrs. Morgan had observed the meeting, it was necessary to offer her an + explanation. But Jessica gave only the barest facts concerning their + acquaintance, and Nancy spoke as though she hardly knew him. + </p> + <p> + The weather was oppressively hot; in doors or out, little could be done + but sit or lie in enervated attitudes, a state of things accordant with + Nancy’s mood. Till late at night she watched the blue starry sky from her + open window, seeming to reflect, but in reality wafted on a stream of + fancies and emotions. Jessica’s explanation of the arrival of Lionel + Tarrant had strangely startled her; no such suggestion would have occurred + to her own mind. Yet now, she only feared that it might not be true. A + debilitating climate and absolute indolence favoured that impulse of + lawless imagination which had first possessed her on the evening of + Jubilee Day. With luxurious heedlessness she cast aside every thought that + might have sobered her; even as she at length cast off all her garments, + and lay in the warm midnight naked upon her bed. + </p> + <p> + The physical attraction of which she had always been conscious in + Tarrant’s presence seemed to have grown stronger since she had dismissed + him from her mind. Comparing him with Luckworth Crewe, she felt only a + contemptuous distaste for the coarse vitality and vigour, whereto she had + half surrendered herself, when hopeless of the more ambitious desire. + </p> + <p> + Rising early, she went out before breakfast, and found that a little rain + had fallen. Grass and flowers were freshened; the air had an exquisite + clearness, and a coolness which struck delightfully on the face, after the + close atmosphere within doors. She had paused to watch a fishing-boat off + shore, when a cheery voice bade her ‘good-morning,’ and Tarrant stepped to + her side. + </p> + <p> + ‘You are fond of this place,’ he said. + </p> + <p> + ‘Not particularly.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then why do you choose it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It does for a holiday as well as any other.’ + </p> + <p> + He was gazing at her, and with the look which Nancy resented, the look + which made her feel his social superiority. He seemed to observe her + features with a condescending gratification. Though totally ignorant of + his life and habits, she felt a conviction that he had often bestowed this + look upon girls of a class below his own. + </p> + <p> + ‘How do you like those advertisements of soaps and pills along the pier?’ + he asked carelessly. + </p> + <p> + ‘I see no harm in them.’ + </p> + <p> + Perversity prompted her answer, but at once she remembered Crewe, and + turned away in annoyance. Tarrant was only the more good-humoured. + </p> + <p> + ‘You like the world as it is? There’s wisdom in that. Better be in harmony + with one’s time, advertisements and all.’ He added, ‘Are you reading for + an exam?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I? You are confusing me with Miss. Morgan.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, not for a moment! I couldn’t possibly confuse you with any one else. + I know Miss. Morgan is studying professionally; but I thought you were + reading for your own satisfaction, as so many women do now-a-days.’ + </p> + <p> + The distinction was flattering. Nancy yielded to the charm of his voice + and conversed freely. It began to seem not impossible that he found some + pleasure in her society. Now and then he dropped a word that made her + pulses flutter; his eyes were constantly upon her face. + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t you go off into the country sometimes?’ he inquired, when she had + turned homewards. + </p> + <p> + ‘We are thinking of having a drive to-day.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And I shall most likely have a ride; we may meet.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy ordered a carriage for the afternoon, and with her friends drove up + the Teign valley; but they did not meet Tarrant. But next morning he + joined them on the pier, and this time Jessica had no choice but to + present him to her mother. Nancy felt annoyed that this should have come + about; Tarrant, she supposed, would regard poor Mrs. Morgan with secret + ridicule. Yet, if that were his disposition, he concealed it perfectly; no + one could have behaved with more finished courtesy. He seated himself by + Mrs. Morgan, and talked with her of the simplest things in a pleasant, + kindly humour. Yesterday, so he made known, he had ridden to Torquay and + back, returning after sunset. This afternoon he was going by train to + Exeter, to buy some books. + </p> + <p> + Again he strolled about with Nancy, and talked of idle things with an + almost excessive amiability. As the girl listened, a languor crept upon + her, a soft and delicious subdual of the will to dreamy luxury. Her eyes + were fixed on the shadows cast by her own figure and that of her + companion. The black patches by chance touched. She moved so as to part + them, and then changed her position so that they touched again—so + that they blended. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER 5 + </h2> + <p> + Nancy had written to her father, a short letter but affectionate, begging + him to let her know whether the improvement in his health, of which he had + spoken before she left home, still continued. The answer came without + delay. On the whole, said Mr. Lord, he was doing well enough; no need + whatever to trouble about him. He wrote only a few lines, but closed with + ‘love to you, my dear child,’ an unwonted effusiveness. + </p> + <p> + At the same time there came a letter from Horace. + </p> + <p> + ‘You will be surprised,’ it began, ‘at the address I write from. As you + know, I had planned to go to Brighton; but on the day before my holiday + commenced I heard from F. F., saying that she and Mrs. Peachey had had a + quarrel, and she was tired of Brighton, and was coming home. So I waited a + day or two, and then, as I had half promised, I went to see Mrs. D. We had + a long talk, and it ended in my telling her about F., and all the row + there’s been. Perhaps you will think I had better have kept it to myself, + but Mrs. D. and I are on first-rate terms, and she seems to understand me + better than any one I ever met. We talked about my holiday, and she + persuaded me to come to Scarborough, where she herself was going for a + week or two. It’s rather an expensive affair, but worth the money. Of + course I have lodgings of my own. Mrs. D. is at a big hotel, where friends + of hers are staying. I have been introduced to two or three people, great + swells, and I’ve had lunch with Mrs. D. at the hotel twice. This kind of + life suits me exactly. I don’t think I get on badly with the swells. Of + course I say not a word about my position, and of course nobody would + think of asking questions. You would like this place; I rather wish you + were here. Of course father thinks I have come on my own hook. It’s very + awkward having to keep a secret of this kind; I must try and persuade Mrs. + D. to have a talk with father. But one thing I can tell you,—I feel + pretty sure that she will get me, somehow or other, out of that beastly + City life; she’s always talking of things I might do. But not a word to + any one about all this—be sure.’ + </p> + <p> + This news caused Nancy to ponder for a long time. The greater part of the + morning she spent at home, and in her own room; after lunch, she sat idly + on the promenade, little disposed for conversation. + </p> + <p> + It was the second day since Tarrant had told her that he was going to + Exeter, and they had not again met; the Morgans had not seen him either. + The next morning, however, as all three were sitting in one of their + favourite places, Tarrant approached them. Mrs. Morgan, who was fluttered + by the natural supposition of a love affair between Miss. Lord and the + interesting young man, made it easy for them to talk together. + </p> + <p> + ‘Did you get your books?’ Nancy asked, when silence followed on + trivialities. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, and spent half a day with them in a favourite retreat of mine, + inland. It’s a very beautiful spot. I should like you to see it. Indeed, + you ought to.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy turned her eyes to the sea. + </p> + <p> + ‘We might walk over there one afternoon,’ he added. + </p> + <p> + ‘Mrs. Morgan can’t walk far.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why should we trouble her? Are you obliged to remain under Mrs. Morgan’s + wing?’ + </p> + <p> + It was said jestingly, but Nancy felt piqued. + </p> + <p> + ‘Certainly not. I am quite independent.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘So I should have supposed. Then why not come?’ + </p> + <p> + He seemed perfectly self-possessed, but the voice was not quite his own. + To Nancy, her eyes still looking straight forward, it sounded as though + from a distance; it had an effect upon her nerves similar to that she had + experienced three days ago, when they were walking about the pier. Her + hands fell idly; she leaned back more heavily on the seat; a weight was on + her tongue. + </p> + <p> + ‘A country ramble of an hour or two,’ pursued the voice, which itself had + become languorous. ‘Surely you are sometimes alone? It isn’t necessary to + give a detailed account of your time?’ + </p> + <p> + She answered impatiently. ‘Of course not.’ In this moment her thoughts had + turned to Luckworth Crewe, and she was asking herself why this invitation + of Tarrant’s affected her so very differently from anything she had felt + when Crewe begged her to meet him in London. With him she could go + anywhere, enjoying a genuine independence, a complete self-confidence, + thinking her unconventional behaviour merely good fun. Tarrant’s proposal + startled her. She was not mistress of the situation, as when trifling with + Crewe. A sense of peril caused her heart to beat quickly. + </p> + <p> + ‘This afternoon, then,’ the voice was murmuring. + </p> + <p> + She answered mechanically. ‘It’s going to rain, I think.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I think not. But, if so, to-morrow.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘To-morrow is Sunday.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes. Monday, then.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy heard him smother a laugh. She wished to look at him, but could not. + </p> + <p> + ‘It won’t rain,’ he continued, still with the ease of one who speaks of + everyday matters. ‘We shall see, at all events. Perhaps you will want to + change your book at the library.’ A novel lay on her lap. ‘We’ll leave it + an open possibility—to meet there about three o’clock.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy pointed out to sea, and asked where the steamer just passing might + be bound for. Her companion readily turned to this subject. + </p> + <p> + The rain—she half hoped for it—did not come. By luncheon-time + every doubtful cloud had vanished. Before sitting down to table, she + observed the sky at the open window. + </p> + <p> + ‘Lovely weather!’ sighed Mrs. Morgan behind her. ‘But for you, dear Nancy, + I should have been dreaming and wishing—oh, how vainly!—in the + stifling town.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘We’ll have another drive this afternoon,’ Nancy declared. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, how delightful! But pray, pray, not on our account—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Jessica,’—Nancy turned to her friend, who had just entered the + room,—‘we’ll have the carriage at three. And a better horse than + last time; I’ll take good care of that. Pen, ink, and paper!’ she cried + joyously. ‘The note shall go round at once.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You’re a magnificent sort of person,’ said Jessica. ‘Some day, no doubt, + you’ll keep a carriage and pair of your own.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Shan’t I, just! And drive you down to Burlington House, for your exams. + By-the-bye, does a female Bachelor of Arts lose her degree if she gets + married?’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy was sprightlier than of late. Her mood maintained itself throughout + the first half of the drive, then she seemed to be overcome by a sudden + weariness, ceased to talk, and gave only a listless look at things which + interested her companions. By when they reached home again, she had a pale + troubled countenance. Until dinner nothing more was seen of her, and after + the meal she soon excused herself on the plea of a headache. + </p> + <p> + Again there passed two days, Sunday and Monday, without Tarrant’s + appearing. Mrs. Morgan and Jessica privately talked much of the + circumstance. Sentimental souls, they found this topic inexhaustible; + Jessica, having her mind thus drawn away from Burlington House, benefited + not a little by the mystery of her friend’s position; she thought, + however, that Nancy might have practised a less severe reticence. To Mrs. + Morgan it never occurred that so self-reliant a young woman as Miss. Lord + stood in need of matronly counsel, of strict chaperonage; she would have + deemed it an impertinence to allow herself the most innocent remark + implying such a supposition. + </p> + <p> + On Wednesday afternoon, about three o’clock, Nancy walked alone to the + library. There, looking at books and photographs in the window, stood + Lionel Tarrant. He greeted her as usual, seemed not to remark the hot + colour in her cheeks, and stepped with her into the shop. She had meant to + choose a novel, but, with Tarrant looking on, felt constrained to exhibit + her capacity for severe reading. The choice of grave works was not large, + and she found it difficult to command her thoughts even for the perusal of + titles; however, she ultimately discovered a book that promised anything + but frivolity, Helmholtz’s ‘Lectures on Scientific Subjects,’ and at this + she clutched. + </p> + <p> + Two loudly-dressed women were at the same time searching the shelves. + </p> + <p> + ‘I wonder whether this is a pretty book?’ said one to the other, taking + down a trio of volumes. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, it looks as if it might be pretty,’ returned her friend, examining + the cover. + </p> + <p> + They faced to the person behind the counter. + </p> + <p> + ‘Is this a pretty book?’ one of them inquired loftily. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh yes, madam, that’s a very pretty book—very pretty.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy exchanged a glance with her companion and smiled. When they were + outside again Tarrant asked: + </p> + <p> + ‘Have you found a pretty book?’ + </p> + <p> + She showed the title of her choice. + </p> + <p> + ‘Merciful heavens! You mean to read that? The girls of to-day! What mere + man is worthy of them? But—I must rise to the occasion. We’ll have a + chapter as we rest.’ + </p> + <p> + Insensibly, Nancy had followed the direction he chose. His words took for + granted that she was going into the country with him. + </p> + <p> + ‘My friends are on the pier,’ she said, abruptly stopping. + </p> + <p> + ‘Where doubtless they will enjoy themselves. Let me carry your book, + please. Helmholtz is rather heavy.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Thanks, I can carry it very well. I shall turn this way.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, no. My way this afternoon.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy stood still, looking up the street that led towards the sea. She was + still bright-coloured; her lips had a pathetic expression, a child-like + pouting. + </p> + <p> + ‘There was an understanding,’ said Tarrant, with playful firmness. + </p> + <p> + ‘Not for to-day.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No. For the day when you disappointed me. The day after, I didn’t think + it worth while to come here; yesterday I came, but felt no surprise that I + didn’t meet you. To-day I had a sort of hope. This way.’ + </p> + <p> + She followed, and they walked for several minutes in silence. + </p> + <p> + ‘Will you let me look at Helmholtz?’ said the young man at length. ‘Most + excellent book, of course. “Physiological Causes of Harmony in Music,” + “Interaction of Natural Forces,” “Conservation of Force.”—You enjoy + this kind of thing?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘One must know something about it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I suppose so. I used to grind at science because everybody talked + science. In reality I loathed it, and now I read only what I like. Life’s + too short for intellectual make-believe. It is too short for anything but + enjoyment. Tell me what you read for pure pleasure. Poetry?’ + </p> + <p> + They had left the streets, and were pursuing a road bordered with gardens, + gardens of glowing colour, sheltered amid great laurels, shadowed by + stately trees; the air was laden with warm scents of flower and leaf. On + an instinct of resistance, Nancy pretended that the exact sciences were + her favourite study. She said it in the tone of superiority which habit + had made natural to her in speaking of intellectual things. And Tarrant + appeared to accept her declaration without scepticism; but, a moment + after, he turned the talk upon novels. + </p> + <p> + Thus, for half an hour and more, they strolled on by upward ways, until + Teignmouth lay beneath them, and the stillness of meadows all about. + Presently Tarrant led from the beaten road into a lane all but overgrown + with grass. He began to gather flowers, and offered them to Nancy. + Personal conversation seemed at an end; they were enjoying the brilliant + sky and the peaceful loveliness of earth. They exchanged simple, natural + thoughts, or idle words in which was no thought at all. + </p> + <p> + Before long, they came to an old broken gate, half open; it was the + entrance to a narrow cartway, now unused, which descended windingly + between high thick hedges. Ruts of a foot in depth, baked hard by summer, + showed how miry the track must be in the season of rain. + </p> + <p> + ‘This is our way,’ said Tarrant, his hand on the lichened wood. ‘Better + than the pier or the promenade, don’t you think?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But we have gone far enough.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy drew back into the lane, looked at her flowers, and then shaded her + eyes with them to gaze upward. + </p> + <p> + ‘Almost. Another five minutes, and you will see the place I told you of. + You can’t imagine how beautiful it is.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Another day—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘We are all but there—’ + </p> + <p> + He seemed regretfully to yield; and Nancy yielded in her turn. She felt a + sudden shame in the thought of having perhaps betrayed timidity. Without + speaking, she passed the gate. + </p> + <p> + The hedge on either side was of hazel and dwarf oak, of hawthorn and + blackthorn, all intertwined with giant brambles, and with briers which + here and there met overhead. High and low, blackberries hung in + multitudes, swelling to purple ripeness. Numberless the trailing and + climbing plants. Nancy’s skirts rustled among the greenery; her cheeks + were touched, as if with a caress, by many a drooping branchlet; in + places, Tarrant had to hold the tangle above her while she stooped to + pass. + </p> + <p> + And from this they emerged into a small circular space, where the cartway + made a turn at right angles and disappeared behind thickets. They were in + the midst of a plantation; on every side trees closed about them, with a + low and irregular hedge to mark the borders of the grassy road. Nancy’s + eyes fell at once upon a cluster of magnificent foxgloves, growing upon a + bank which rose to the foot of an old elm; beside the foxgloves lay a + short-hewn trunk, bedded in the ground, thickly overgrown with mosses, + lichens, and small fungi. + </p> + <p> + ‘Have I misled you?’ said Tarrant, watching her face with frank pleasure. + </p> + <p> + ‘No, indeed you haven’t. This is very beautiful!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I discovered it last year, and spent hours here alone. I couldn’t ask you + to come and see it then,’ he added, laughing. + </p> + <p> + ‘It is delightful!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Here’s your seat,—who knows how many years it has waited for you?’ + </p> + <p> + She sat down upon the old trunk. About the roots of the elm above grew + masses of fern, and beneath it a rough bit of the bank was clothed with + pennywort, the green discs and yellowing fruity spires making an exquisite + patch of colour. In the shadow of bushes near at hand hartstongue + abounded, with fronds hanging to the length of an arm. + </p> + <p> + ‘Now,’ said Tarrant, gaily, ‘you shall have some blackberries. And he went + to gather them, returning in a few minutes with a large leaf full. He saw + that Nancy, meanwhile, had taken up the book from where he dropped it to + the ground; it lay open on her lap. + </p> + <p> + ‘Helmholtz! Away with him!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No; I have opened at something interesting.’ + </p> + <p> + She spoke as though possession of the book were of vital importance to + her. Nevertheless, the fruit was accepted, and she drew off her gloves to + eat it. Tarrant seated himself on the ground, near her, and gradually fell + into a half-recumbent attitude. + </p> + <p> + ‘Won’t you have any?’ Nancy asked, without looking at him. + </p> + <p> + ‘One or two, if you will give me them.’ + </p> + <p> + She chose a fine blackberry, and held it out. Tarrant let it fall into his + palm, and murmured, ‘You have a beautiful hand.’ When, a moment after, he + glanced at her, she seemed to be reading Helmholtz. + </p> + <p> + The calm of the golden afternoon could not have been more profound. Birds + twittered softly in the wood, and if a leaf rustled, it was only at the + touch of wings. Earth breathed its many perfumes upon the slumberous air. + </p> + <p> + ‘You know,’ said Tarrant, after a long pause, and speaking as though he + feared to break the hush, ‘that Keats once stayed at Teignmouth.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy did not know it, but said ‘Yes.’ The name of Keats was familiar to + her, but of his life she knew hardly anything, of his poetry very little. + Her education had been chiefly concerned with names. + </p> + <p> + ‘Will you read me a paragraph of Helmholtz?’ continued the other, looking + at her with a smile. ‘Any paragraph, the one before you.’ + </p> + <p> + She hesitated, but read at length, in an unsteady voice, something about + the Conservation of Force. It ended in a nervous laugh. + </p> + <p> + ‘Now I’ll read something to you,’ said Tarrant. And he began to repeat, + slowly, musically, lines of verse which his companion had never heard: + </p> + <p> + ‘<i>O what can ail thee, Knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering? The + sedge has wither’d from the lake, And no birds sing</i>.’ + </p> + <p> + He went through the poem; Nancy the while did not stir. It was as though + he murmured melody for his own pleasure, rather than recited to a + listener; but no word was inaudible. Nancy knew that his eyes rested upon + her; she wished to smile, yet could not. And when he ceased, the silence + held her motionless. + </p> + <p> + ‘Isn’t it better?’ said Tarrant, drawing slightly nearer to her. + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course it is.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I used to know thousands of verses by heart.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Did you ever write any?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Half-a-dozen epics or so, when I was about seventeen. Yet, I don’t come + of a poetical family. My father—’ + </p> + <p> + He stopped abruptly, looked into Nancy’s face with a smile, and said in a + tone of playfulness: + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you remember asking me whether I had anything to do with—’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy, flushing over all her features, exclaimed, ‘Don’t! please don’t! + I’m ashamed of myself!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I didn’t like it. But we know each other better now. You were quite + right. That was how my grandfather made his money. My father, I believe, + got through most of it, and gave no particular thought to me. His mother—the + old lady whom you know—had plenty of her own—to be mine, she + tells me, some day. Do you wish to be forgiven for hurting my pride?’ he + added. + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t know what made me say such a thing—’ + </p> + <p> + She faltered the words; she felt her will subdued. Tarrant reached a hand, + and took one of hers, and kissed it; then allowed her to draw it away. + </p> + <p> + ‘Now will you give me another blackberry?’ + </p> + <p> + The girl was trembling; a light shone in her eyes. She offered the leaf + with fruit in it; Tarrant, whilst choosing, touched the blue veins of her + wrist with his lips. + </p> + <p> + ‘What are you going to do?’ she asked presently. ‘I mean, what do you aim + at in life?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Enjoyment. Why should I trouble about anything else. I should be content + if life were all like this: to look at a beautiful face, and listen to a + voice that charms me, and touch a hand that makes me thrill with such + pleasure as I never knew.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s waste of time.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, never time was spent so well! Look at me again like that—with + the eyes half-closed, and the lips half-mocking. Oh, the exquisite lips! + If I might—if I might—’ + </p> + <p> + He did not stir from his posture of languid ease, but Nancy, with a quick + movement, drew a little away from him, then rose. + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s time to go back,’ she said absently. + </p> + <p> + ‘No, no; not yet. Let me look at you for a few minutes more!’ + </p> + <p> + She began to walk slowly, head bent. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well then, to-morrow, or the day after. The place will be just as + beautiful, and you even more. The sea-air makes you lovelier from day to + day.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy looked back for an instant. Tarrant followed, and in the deep leafy + way he again helped her to pass the briers. But their hands never touched, + and the silence was unbroken until they had issued into the open lane. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER 6 + </h2> + <p> + The lodgings were taken for three weeks, and more than half the time had + now elapsed. + </p> + <p> + Jessica, who declared herself quite well and strong again, though her face + did not bear out the assertion, was beginning to talk of matters + examinational once more. Notwithstanding protests, she brought forth from + their hiding-place sundry arid little manuals and black-covered notebooks; + her thoughts were divided between algebraic formulae and Nancy’s relations + with Lionel Tarrant. Perhaps because no secret was confided to her, she + affected more appetite for the arid little books than she really felt. + Nancy would neither speak of examinations, nor give ear when they were + talked about; she, whether consciously or not, was making haste to + graduate in quite another school. + </p> + <p> + On the morning after her long walk with Tarrant, she woke before sunrise, + and before seven o’clock had left the house. A high wind and hurrying + clouds made the weather prospects uncertain. She strayed about the Den, + never losing sight for more than a minute or two of the sea-fronting house + where Tarrant lived. But no familiar form approached her, and she had to + return to breakfast unrewarded for early rising. + </p> + <p> + Through the day she was restless and silent, kept alone as much as + possible, and wore a look which, as the hours went on, darkened from + anxiety to ill-humour. She went to bed much earlier than usual. + </p> + <p> + At eleven next morning, having lingered behind her friends, she found + Tarrant in conversation with Mrs. Morgan and Jessica on the pier. His + greeting astonished her; it had precisely the gracious formality of a year + ago; a word or two about the weather, and he resumed his talk with Miss. + Morgan—its subject, the educational value of the classics. Obliged + to listen, Nancy suffered an anguish of resentful passion. For a quarter + of an hour she kept silence, then saw the young man take leave and saunter + away with that air which, in satire, she had formerly styled majestic. + </p> + <p> + And then passed three whole days, during which Lionel was not seen. + </p> + <p> + The evening of the fourth, between eight and nine o’clock, found Nancy at + the door of the house which her thoughts had a thousand times visited. A + servant, in reply to inquiry, told her that Mr Tarrant was in London; he + would probably return to-morrow. + </p> + <p> + She walked idly away—and, at less than a hundred yards’ distance, + met Tarrant himself. His costume showed that he had just come from the + railway station. Nancy would gladly have walked straight past him, but the + tone in which he addressed her was a new surprise, and she stood in + helpless confusion. He had been to London—called away on sudden + business. + </p> + <p> + ‘I thought of writing—nay, I did write, but after all didn’t post + the letter. For a very simple reason—I couldn’t remember your + address.’ + </p> + <p> + And he laughed so naturally, that the captive walked on by his side, + unresisting. Their conversation lasted only a few minutes, then Nancy + resolutely bade him good-night, no appointment made for the morrow. + </p> + <p> + A day of showers, then a day of excessive heat. They saw each other + several times, but nothing of moment passed. The morning after they met + before breakfast. + </p> + <p> + ‘To-morrow is our last day,’ said Nancy. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, Mrs. Morgan told me.’ Nancy herself had never spoken of departure. + ‘This afternoon we’ll go up the hill again.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t think I shall care to walk so far. Look at the mist; it’s going + to be dreadfully hot again.’ + </p> + <p> + Tarrant was in a mood of careless gaiety; his companion appeared to + struggle against listlessness, and her cheek had lost its wonted colour. + </p> + <p> + ‘You have tea at four or five, I suppose. Let us go after that, when the + heat of the day is over.’ + </p> + <p> + To this, after various objections, Nancy consented. Through the hours of + glaring sunshine she stayed at home, lying inert, by an open window. Over + the tea-cups she was amiable, but dreamy. When ready to go out, she just + looked into the sitting-room, where Jessica bent over books, and said + cheerfully: + </p> + <p> + ‘I may be a little late for dinner. On no account wait—I forbid it!’ + </p> + <p> + And so, without listening to the answer, she hurried away. + </p> + <p> + In the upward climbing lanes, no breeze yet tempered the still air; the + sky of misted sapphire showed not a cloud from verge to verge. Tarrant, as + if to make up for his companion’s silence, talked ceaselessly, and always + in light vein. Sunshine, he said, was indispensable to his life; he never + passed the winter in London; if he were the poorest of mortals, he would, + at all events, beg his bread in a sunny clime. + </p> + <p> + ‘Are you going to the Bahamas this winter?’ Nancy asked, mentioning the + matter for the first time since she heard of it at Champion Hill. + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t know. Everything is uncertain.’ + </p> + <p> + And he put the question aside as if it were of no importance. + </p> + <p> + They passed the old gate, and breathed with relief in the never-broken + shadow of tangled foliage. Whilst pushing a bramble aside, Tarrant let his + free arm fall lightly on Nancy’s waist. At once she sprang forward, but + without appearing to notice what had happened. + </p> + <p> + ‘Stay—did you ever see such ivy as this?’ + </p> + <p> + It was a mass of large, lustrous leaves, concealing a rotten trunk. Whilst + Nancy looked on, Tarrant pulled at a long stem, and tried to break it + away. + </p> + <p> + ‘I must cut it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You shall see.’ + </p> + <p> + He wove three stems into a wreath. + </p> + <p> + ‘There now, take off your hat, and let me crown you. Have I made it too + large for the little head?’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy, after a moment’s reluctance, unfastened her hat, and stood + bareheaded, blushing and laughing. + </p> + <p> + ‘You do your hair in the right way—the Greek way. A diadem on the + top—the only way when the hair and the head are beautiful. It leaves + the outline free—the exquisite curve that unites neck and head. Now + the ivy wreath; and how will you look?’ + </p> + <p> + She wore a dress of thin, creamy material, which, whilst seeming to cumber + her as little as garments could, yet fitted closely enough to declare the + healthy beauty of her form. The dark green garland, for which she bent a + little, became her admirably. + </p> + <p> + ‘I pictured it in my letter,’ said Tarrant, ‘the letter you never got.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Where is it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, I burnt it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Tell me what was in it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘All sorts of things—a long letter.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I think that’s all nonsense about forgetting my address.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Mere truth. In fact, I never knew it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Be so good as to tell me,’ she spoke as she walked on before him, ‘what + you meant by your behaviour that morning before you went to London.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But how did I behave?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Very strangely.’ + </p> + <p> + Tarrant affected not to understand; but, when she again turned, Nancy saw + a mischievous smile on his face. + </p> + <p> + ‘A bit of nonsense.—Shall I tell you?’ He stepped near, and suddenly + caught both her hands,—one of them was trailing her sunshade. + ‘Forgive me in advance—will you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t know about that.’ And she tried, though faintly, to get free. + </p> + <p> + ‘But I will make you—now, refuse!’ + </p> + <p> + His lips had just touched hers, just touched and no more. Rosy red, she + trembled before him with drooping eyelids. + </p> + <p> + ‘It meant nothing at all, really,’ he pursued, his voice at its softest. + ‘A sham trial—to see whether I was hopelessly conquered or not. Of + course I was.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy shook her head. + </p> + <p> + ‘You dare to doubt it?—I understand now what the old poet meant, + when he talked of bees seeking honey on his lady’s lips. That fancy isn’t + so artificial as it seemed.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s all very pretty’—she spoke between quick breaths, and tried + to laugh—‘but you have thrown my hat on the ground. Give it me, and + take the ivy for yourself.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I am no Bacchus.’ He tossed the wreath aside. ‘Take the hat; I like you + in it just as well.—You shall have a girdle of woodbine, instead.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t believe your explanation,’ said Nancy. + </p> + <p> + ‘Not believe me?’ + </p> + <p> + With feigned indignation, he moved to capture her again; but Nancy + escaped. Her hat in her hand, she darted forward. A minute’s run brought + her into the open space, and there, with an exclamation of surprise, she + stopped. Tarrant, but a step or two behind her, saw at almost the same + moment the spectacle which had arrested her flight. Before them stood two + little donkeys munching eagerly at a crop of rosy-headed thistles. They—the + human beings—looked at each other; Tarrant burst into extravagant + laughter, and Nancy joined him. Neither’s mirth was spontaneous; Nancy’s + had a note of nervous tension, a ring of something like recklessness. + </p> + <p> + ‘Where can they come from?’ she asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘They must have strayed a long way. I haven’t seen any farm or cottage.—But + perhaps some one is with them. Wait, I’ll go on a little, and see if some + boy is hanging about.’ + </p> + <p> + He turned the sharp corner, and disappeared. For two or three minutes + Nancy stood alone, watching the patient little grey beasts, whose pendent + ears, with many a turn and twitch, expressed their joy in the feast of + thistles. She watched them in seeming only; her eyes beheld nothing. + </p> + <p> + A voice sounded from behind her—‘Nancy!’ Startled, she saw Tarrant + standing high up, in a gap of the hedge, on the bank which bordered the + wood. + </p> + <p> + ‘How did you get there?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Went round.’ He showed the direction with his hand. ‘I can see no one, + but somebody may come. It’s wonderful here, among the trees. Come over.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How can I?—We will drive the donkeys away.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No; it’s much better here; a wild wood, full of wonderful things. The + bank isn’t too steep. Give me your hand, and you can step up easily, just + at this place.’ + </p> + <p> + She drew near. + </p> + <p> + ‘Your sunshade first.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, it’s too much trouble,’ she said languidly, all but plaintively. ‘I’d + rather be here.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Obey!—Your sunshade—’ + </p> + <p> + She gave it. + </p> + <p> + ‘Now, your hand.’ + </p> + <p> + He was kneeling on the top of the bank. With very little exertion, Nancy + found herself beside him. Then he at once leapt down among the brushwood, + a descent of some three feet. + </p> + <p> + ‘We shall be trespassing,’ said Nancy. + </p> + <p> + ‘What do I care? Now, jump!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘As if you could catch me!’ Again she uttered her nervous laugh. ‘I am + heavy.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Obey! Jump!’ he cried impatiently, his eyes afire. + </p> + <p> + She knelt, seated herself, dropped forward. Tarrant caught her in his + arms. + </p> + <p> + ‘You heavy! a feather weight! Why, I can carry you; I could run with you.’ + </p> + <p> + And he did carry her through the brushwood, away into the shadow of the + trees. + </p> + <p> + At dinner-time, Mrs. Morgan and her daughter were alone. They agreed to + wait a quarter of an hour, and sat silent, pretending each to be engaged + with a book. At length their eyes met. + </p> + <p> + ‘What does it mean, Jessica?’ asked the mother timidly. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m sure I don’t know. It doesn’t concern us. She didn’t mean to be back, + by what she said.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But—isn’t it rather—?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, Nancy is all right. I suppose she’ll have something to tell you, + to-night or to-morrow. We must have dinner; I’m hungry.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘So am I, dear.—Oh, I’m quite afraid to think of the appetites we’re + taking back. Poor Milly will be terrified.’ + </p> + <p> + Eight o’clock, nine o’clock. The two conversed in subdued voices; Mrs. + Morgan was anxious, all but distressed. Half-past nine. ‘What <i>can</i> + it mean, Jessica? I can’t help feeling a responsibility. After all, Nancy + is quite a young girl; and I’ve sometimes thought she might be steadier.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Hush! That was a knock.’ + </p> + <p> + They waited. In a minute or two the door was opened a few inches, and a + voice called ‘Jessica!’ + </p> + <p> + She responded. Nancy was standing in the gloom. + </p> + <p> + ‘Come into my room,’ she said curtly. + </p> + <p> + Arrived there, she did not strike a light. She closed the door, and took + hold of her friend’s arm. + </p> + <p> + ‘We can’t go back the day after to-morrow, Jessica. We must wait a day + longer, till the afternoon of Friday.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why? What’s the matter, Nancy?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Nothing serious. Don’t be frightened, I’m tired, and I shall go to bed.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But why must we wait?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Listen: will you promise me faithfully—as friend to friend, faith + fully—not to tell the reason even to your mother?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I will, faithfully.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then, it’s this. On Friday morning I shall be married to Mr Tarrant.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Gracious!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I may tell you more, before then; but perhaps not. We shall be married by + licence, and it needs one day between getting the licence and the + marriage. You may tell your mother, if you like, that I want to stay + longer on <i>his</i> account. I don’t care; of course she suspects + something. But not a syllable to hint at the truth. I have been your best + friend for a long time, and I trust you.’ + </p> + <p> + She spoke in a passionate whisper, and Jessica felt her trembling. + </p> + <p> + ‘You needn’t have the least fear of me, dear.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I believe it. Kiss me, and good-night!’ + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PART3" id="link2H_PART3"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Part III: Into Bontage + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER 1 + </h2> + <p> + During his daughter’s absence, Stephen Lord led a miserable life. The + wasting disease had firm hold upon him; day by day it consumed his flesh, + darkened his mind. The more need he had of nursing and restraint, the less + could he tolerate interference with his habits, invasion of his gloomy + solitude. The doctor’s visits availed nothing; he listened to advice, or + seemed to listen, but with a smile of obstinate suspicion on his furrowed + face which conveyed too plain a meaning to the adviser. + </p> + <p> + On one point Mary had prevailed with him. After some days’ resistance, he + allowed her to transform the cabin-like arrangements of his room, and give + it the appearance of a comfortable bed-chamber. But he would not take to + his bed, and the suggestion of professional nursing excited his wrath. + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you write to Nancy?’ he asked one morning of his faithful attendant, + with scowling suspicion. + </p> + <p> + ‘No.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You are telling me the truth?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I never write to any one.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Understand plainly that I won’t have a word said to her about me.’ + </p> + <p> + This was when Horace had gone away to Scarborough, believing, on his + father’s assurance, that there was no ground whatever for anxiety. + Sometimes Mr. Lord sat hour after hour in an unchanging position, his dull + eyes scarcely moving from one point. At others he paced his room, or + wandered about the house, or made an attempt at gardening—which soon + ended in pain and exhaustion. Towards night he became feverish, his hollow + cheeks glowing with an ominous tint. In the morning he occasionally + prepared himself as if to start for his place of business; he left the + house, and walked for perhaps a couple of hundred yards, then slackened + his pace, stopped, looked about him in an agony of indecision, and at + length returned. After this futile endeavour, he had recourse to the + bottles in his cupboard, and presently fell into a troubled sleep. + </p> + <p> + At the end of the second week, early one evening, three persons came to + him by appointment: his partner Samuel Barmby, Mr. Barmby, senior, and a + well-dressed gentleman whom Mary—she opened the door to them—had + never seen before. They sat together in the drawing-room for more than an + hour; then the well-dressed gentleman took his leave, the others remaining + for some time longer. + </p> + <p> + The promoted servant, at Mr. Lord’s bidding, had made a change in her + dress; during the latter part of the day she presented the appearance of a + gentlewoman, and sat, generally with needlework, sometimes with a book, + alone in the dining-room. On a Sunday, whilst Nancy and her brother were + away, the Barmby family—father, son, and two daughters—came to + take tea and spend the evening, Mary doing the honours of the house; she + bore herself without awkwardness, talked simply, and altogether justified + Mr. Lord’s opinion of her. When the guests were gone, Stephen made no + remark, but, in saying good-night to her, smiled for an instant—the + first smile seen upon his face for many days. + </p> + <p> + Mary remained ignorant of the disease from which he was suffering; in the + matter of his diet, she consulted and obeyed him, though often enough it + seemed to her that his choice suited little with the state of an invalid. + He ate at irregular times, and frequently like a starving man. Mary + suspected that, on the occasions when he went out for half-an-hour after + dark, he brought back food with him: she had seen him enter with something + concealed beneath his coat. All his doings were to her a subject of + ceaseless anxiety, of a profound distress which, in his presence, she was + obliged to conceal. If she regarded him sadly, the sufferer grew petulant + or irate. He would not endure a question concerning his health. + </p> + <p> + On the day which was understood to be Nancy’s last at Teignmouth, he + brightened a little, and talked with pleasure, as it seemed, of her return + on the morrow. Horace had written that he would be home this evening, but + Mr. Lord spoke only of his daughter. At about six o’clock he was sitting + in the garden, and Mary brought him a letter just delivered; he looked at + the envelope with a smile. + </p> + <p> + ‘To tell us the train she’s coming by, no doubt.’ + </p> + <p> + Mary waited. When Mr. Lord had read the brief note, his face darkened, + first with disappointment, then with anger. + </p> + <p> + ‘Here, look at it,’ he said harshly. ‘What else was to be expected?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Dearest Father,’ wrote Nancy, ‘I am sorry that our return must be put + off; we hope to get back on Friday evening. Of course this will make no + difference to you.—With best love, dear father, and hoping I shall + find you much better—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What does she mean by behaving in this way?’ resumed the angry voice, + before Mary had read to the end. ‘What does she mean by it? Who gave her + leave to stay longer? Not a word of explanation. How does she know it will + make no difference to me? What does she mean by it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘The fine weather has tempted them,’ replied Mary. ‘I daresay they want to + go somewhere.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What right has she to make the change at a moment’s notice?’ vociferated + the father, his voice suddenly recovering its old power, his cheeks and + neck suffused with red wrath. ‘And hopes she will find me better. What + does <i>she</i> care whether she finds me alive or dead?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, don’t say that! You wouldn’t let her know that you were worse.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What does it mean? I hate this deceitful behaviour! She knew before, of + course she knew; and she left it to the last moment, so that I couldn’t + write and prevent her from staying. As if I should have wished to! As if I + cared a brass farthing how long she stays, or, for that matter, whether I + ever see her again!’ + </p> + <p> + He checked the course of his furious speech, and stood staring at the + letter. + </p> + <p> + ‘What did you say?’ He spoke now in a hoarse undertone. ‘You thought they + were going somewhere?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Last year there used to be steamers that went to places on certain days—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Nonsense! She wouldn’t alter all their plans for that. It’s something I + am not to know—of course it is. She’s deceitful—like all + women.’ + </p> + <p> + He met Mary’s eye, suddenly turned upon him. His own fell before it, and + without speaking again he went into the house. + </p> + <p> + In half-an-hour’s time his bell rang, and not Mary, but the young servant + responded. According to her directions, she knocked at the door, and, + without opening it, asked her master’s pleasure. Mr. Lord said that he was + going out, and would not require a meal till late in the evening. + </p> + <p> + It was nearly ten o’clock when he returned. Mary, sitting in the front + room, rose at his entrance. + </p> + <p> + ‘I want nothing,’ he said. ‘I’ve been to the Barmbys’.’ Voice and + movements proved how the effort had taxed him. In sitting down, he + trembled; fever was in his eyes, and pain in every line of his + countenance. + </p> + <p> + Mary handed him a letter; it came from Horace, and was an intimation that + the young gentleman would not return to-night, but to-morrow. When Mr. + Lord had read it, he jerked a contemptuous laugh, and threw the sheet of + note-paper across the table. + </p> + <p> + ‘There you are. Not much to choose between daughter and son. He’s due at + business in the morning; but what does that matter? It doesn’t suit his + lordship to keep time.’ + </p> + <p> + He laughed again, his emphasis on ‘lordship’ showing that he consciously + played with the family name. + </p> + <p> + ‘But I was a fool to be angry. Let them come when they will.’ + </p> + <p> + For a few minutes he lay back in the chair, gazing at vacancy. + </p> + <p> + ‘Has the girl gone to bed?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ll tell her she can go.’ + </p> + <p> + Mary soon returned, and took up the book with which she had been engaged. + In a low voice, and as if speaking without much thought, Stephen asked her + what she was reading. It was a volume of an old magazine, bought by Mr. + Lord many years ago. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, yes. Nancy laughs at it—calls it old rubbish. These young + people are so clever.’ + </p> + <p> + His companion made no remark. Unobserved, he scrutinised her face for a + long time, and said at length: + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t let <i>us</i> fall out, Mary. You’re not pleased with me, and I + know why. I said all women were deceitful, and you took it too seriously. + You ought to know me better. There’s something comes on me every now and + then, and makes me say the worst I can no matter who it hurts. Could I be + such a fool as to think ill of <i>you</i>?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It did hurt me,’ replied the other, still bent over her book. ‘But it was + only the sound of it. I knew you said more than you meant.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m a fool, and I’ve been a fool all my life. Is it likely I should have + wise children? When I went off to the Barmbys’, I thought of sending + Samuel down to Teignmouth, to find out what they were at. But I altered my + mind before I got there. What good would it have done? All I <i>can</i> do + I’ve done already. I made my will the other day; it’s signed and + witnessed. I’ve made it as I told you I should. I’m not much longer for + this world, but I’ve saved the girl from foolishness till she’s + six-and-twenty. After that she must take care of herself.’ + </p> + <p> + They sat silent whilst the clock on the mantelpiece ticked away a few more + minutes. Mr. Lord’s features betrayed the working of turbid thought, a + stern resentment their prevailing expression. When reverie released him, + he again looked at his companion. + </p> + <p> + ‘Mary, did you ever ask yourself what sort of woman Nancy’s mother may + have been?’ + </p> + <p> + The listener started, like one in whom a secret has been surprised. She + tried to answer, but after all did not speak. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ll tell you,’ Stephen pursued. ‘Yes, I’ll tell you. You must know it. + Not a year after the boy’s birth, she left me. And I made myself free of + her—I divorced her.’ + </p> + <p> + Their eyes just met. + </p> + <p> + ‘You needn’t think that it cost me any suffering. Not on her account; not + because I had lost my wife. I never felt so glad, before or since, as on + the day when it was all over, and I found myself a free man again. I + suffered only in thinking how I had fooled away some of the best years of + my life for a woman who despised me from the first, and was as heartless + as the stones of the street. I found her in beggary, or close upon it. I + made myself her slave—it’s only the worthless women who accept from + a man, who expect from him, such slavish worship as she had from me. I + gave her clothing; she scarcely thanked me, but I thought myself happy. I + gave her a comfortable home, such as she hadn’t known for years; for a + reward she mocked at my plain tastes and quiet ways—but I thought no + ill of it—could see nothing in it but a girlish, lighthearted sort + of way that seemed one of her merits. As long as we lived together, she + pretended to be an affectionate wife; I should think no one ever matched + her in hypocrisy. But the first chance she had—husband, children, + home, all flung aside in a moment. Then I saw her in the true light, and + understood all at once what a blind fool I had been.’ + </p> + <p> + He breathed quickly and painfully. Mary sat without a movement. + </p> + <p> + ‘I thought I had done a great thing in marrying a wife that was born above + me. Her father had been a country gentleman; horse-racing and such things + had brought him down, and from her twelfth year his daughter lived—I + never quite knew how, but on charity of some kind. She grew up without + trying to earn her own living; she thought herself too good for that, + thought she had a claim to be supported, because as a child she was waited + upon by servants. When I asked her once if she couldn’t have done + something, she stared at me and laughed in my face. For all that she was + glad enough to marry a man of my sort—rough and uneducated as I was. + She always reminded me of it, though—that I had no education; I + believe she thought that she had a perfect right to throw over such a + husband, whenever she chose. Afterwards, I saw very well that <i>her</i> + education didn’t amount to much. How could it, when she learnt nothing + after she was twelve? She was living with very poor people who came from + my part of the country—that’s how I met her. The father led some + sort of blackguard life in London, but had no money for her, nor yet for + his other girl, who went into service, I was told, and perhaps made + herself a useful, honest woman. He died in a hospital, and he was buried + at my expense—not three months before his daughter went off and left + me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You will never tell your children,’ said Mary, when there had been a long + pause. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ve often thought it would only be right if I told them. I’ve often + thought, the last year or two, that Nancy ought to know. It might make her + think, and do her good.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, no,’ returned the other hurriedly. ‘Never let her know of it—never. + It might do her much harm.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You know now, Mary, why I look at the girl so anxiously. She’s not like + her mother; not much like her in face, and I can’t think she’s like her in + heart. But you know what her faults are as well as I do. Whether I’ve been + right or wrong in giving her a good education, I shall never know. Wrong, + I fear—but I’ve told you all about that.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You don’t know whether she’s alive or not?’ asked Mary, when once more it + was left to her to break silence. + </p> + <p> + ‘What do I care? How should I know?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t be tempted to tell them—either of them!’ said the other + earnestly. + </p> + <p> + ‘My friend Barmby knows. Whether he’s told his son, I can’t say; it’s + twenty years since we spoke about it. If he <i>did</i> ever mention it to + Samuel, then it might somehow get known to Horace or the girl, when I’m + gone.—I won’t give up the hope that young Barmby may be her husband. + She’ll have time to think about it. But if ever she should come to you and + ask questions—I mean, if she’s been told what happened—you’ll + set me right in her eyes? You’ll tell her what I’ve told you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I hope it may never—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘So do I,’ Stephen interrupted, his voice husky with fatigue. ‘But I count + on you to make my girl think rightly of me, if ever there’s occasion. I + count on you. When I’m dead, I won’t have her think that I was to blame + for her mother’s ill-doing. That’s why I’ve told you. You believe me, + don’t you?’ + </p> + <p> + And Mary, lifting her eyes, met his look of appeal with more than a + friend’s confidence. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER 2 + </h2> + <p> + From chambers in Staple Inn, Lionel Tarrant looked forth upon the + laborious world with a dainty enjoyment of his own limitless leisure. The + old gables fronting upon Holborn pleased his fancy; he liked to pass under + the time-worn archway, and so, at a step, estrange himself from commercial + tumult,—to be in the midst of modern life, yet breathe an atmosphere + of ancient repose. + </p> + <p> + He belonged to an informal club of young men who called themselves, + facetiously, the Hodiernals. <i>Vixi hodie</i>! The motto, suggested by + some one or other after a fifth tumbler of whisky punch, might bear more + than a single interpretation. Harvey Munden, the one member of this genial + brotherhood who lived by the sweat of his brow, proposed as a more + suitable title, Les Faineants; that, however, was judged pedantic, not to + say offensive. For these sons of the Day would not confess to indolence; + each deemed himself, after his own fashion, a pioneer in art, letters, + civilisation. They had money of their own, or were supported by some one + who could afford that privilege; most of them had, ostensibly, some + profession in view; for the present, they contented themselves with + living, and the weaker brethren read in their hodiernity an obligation to + be ‘up to date.’ + </p> + <p> + Tarrant professed himself critical of To-day, apprehensive of To-morrow; + he cast a backward eye. None the less, his avowed principle was to savour + the passing hour. When night grew mellow, and the god of whisky inspired + his soul, he shone in a lyrical egoism which had but slight correspondence + with the sincerities of his solitude. His view of woman—the + Hodiernals talked much of woman—differed considerably from his + thoughts of the individual women with whom he associated; protesting + oriental sympathies, he nourished in truth the chivalry appropriate to his + years and to his education, and imaged an ideal of female excellence + whereof the prime features were moral and intellectual. + </p> + <p> + He had no money of his own. What could be saved for him from his father’s + squandered estate—the will established him sole inheritor—went + in the costs of a liberal education, his grandmother giving him assurance + that he should not go forth into the world penniless. This promise Mrs. + Tarrant had kept, though not exactly in the manner her grandson desired. + Instead of making him a fixed allowance, the old lady supplied him with + funds at uncertain intervals; with the unpleasant result that it was + sometimes necessary for him to call to her mind his dependent condition. + The cheques he received varied greatly in amount,—from handsome + remittances of a hundred pounds or so, down to minim gifts which made the + young man feel uncomfortable when he received them. Still, he was provided + for, and it could not be long before this dependency came to an end. + </p> + <p> + He believed in his own abilities. Should it ever be needful, he could turn + to journalism, for which, undoubtedly, he had some aptitude. But why do + anything at all, in the sense of working for money? Every year he felt + less disposed for that kind of exertion, and had a greater relish of his + leisurely life. Mrs. Tarrant never rebuked him; indeed she had long since + ceased to make inquiry about his professional views. Perhaps she felt it + something of a dignity to have a grandson who lived as gentleman at large. + </p> + <p> + But now, in the latter days of August, the gentleman found himself, in one + most important particular, at large no longer. On returning from + Teignmouth to Staple Inn he entered his rooms with a confused, + disagreeable sense that things were not as they had been, that his freedom + had suffered a violation, that he could not sit down among his books with + the old self-centred ease, that his prospects were completely, + indescribably changed, perchance much for the worse. In brief, Tarrant had + gone forth a bachelor, and came back a married man. + </p> + <p> + Could it be sober fact? Had he in very deed committed so gross an + absurdity? + </p> + <p> + He had purposed no such thing. Miss. Nancy Lord was not by any means the + kind of person that entered his thoughts when they turned to marriage. He + regarded her as in every respect his inferior. She belonged to the social + rank only just above that of wage-earners; her father had a small business + in Camberwell; she dressed and talked rather above her station, but so, + now-a-days, did every daughter of petty tradesfolk. From the first he had + amused himself with her affectation of intellectual superiority. Miss. + Lord represented a type; to study her as a sample of the pretentious + half-educated class was interesting; this sort of girl was turned out in + thousands every year, from so-called High Schools; if they managed to pass + some examination or other, their conceit grew boundless. Craftily, he had + tested her knowledge; it seemed all sham. She would marry some hapless + clerk, and bring him to bankruptcy by the exigencies of her ‘refinement.’ + </p> + <p> + So had he thought of Nancy till a few months ago. But in the spring-time, + when his emotions blossomed with the blossoming year, he met the girl + after a long interval, and saw her with changed eyes. She had something + more than prettiness; her looks undeniably improved. It seemed, too, that + she bore herself more gracefully, and even talked with, at times, an + approximation to the speech of a lady. These admissions signified much in + a man of Tarrant’s social prejudice—so strong that it exercised an + appreciable effect upon his every-day morals. He began to muse about Miss. + Lord, and the upshot of his musing was that, having learnt of her + departure for Teignmouth, he idly betook himself in the same direction. + </p> + <p> + But as for marriage, he would as soon have contemplated taking to wife a + barmaid. Between Miss. Lord and the young lady who dispenses refreshment + there were distinctions, doubtless, but none of the first importance. Then + arose the question, in what spirit, with what purpose, did he seek her + intimacy? The answer he simply postponed. + </p> + <p> + And postponed it very late indeed. Until the choice was no longer between + making love in idleness, and conscientiously holding aloof; but between + acting like a frank blackguard, and making the amends of an honest man. + </p> + <p> + The girl’s fault, to be sure. He had not credited himself with this power + of fascination, and certainly not with the violence of passion which + recklessly pursues indulgence. Still, the girl’s fault; she had behaved—well, + as a half-educated girl of her class might be expected to behave. + Ignorance she could not plead; that were preposterous. Utter subjugation + by first love; that, perhaps; she affirmed it, and possibly with truth; a + flattering assumption, at all events. But, all said and done, the issue + had been of her own seeking. Why, then, accuse himself of blackguardly + conduct, if he had turned a deaf ear to her pleading? Not one word of + marriage had previously escaped his lips, nor anything that could imply a + promise. + </p> + <p> + Well, there was the awkward and unaccountable fact that he <i>felt</i> + himself obliged to marry her; that, when he seemed to be preparing + resistance, downright shame rendered it impossible. Her face—her + face when she looked at him and spoke! The truth was, that he had not + hesitated at all; there was but one course open to him. He gave glances in + the other direction; he wished to escape; he reviled himself for his + folly; he saw the difficulties and discontents that lay before him; but + choice he had none. + </p> + <p> + Love, in that sense of the word which Tarrant respected, could not be said + to influence him. He had uttered the word; yes, of course he had uttered + it; as a man will who is goaded by his raging blood. But he was as far as + ever from loving Nancy Lord. Her beauty, and a certain growing charm in + her companionship, had lured him on; his habitual idleness, and the + vagueness of his principles, made him guilty at last of what a moralist + would call very deliberate rascality. He himself was inclined to see his + behaviour in that light; yet why had Nancy so smoothed the path of + temptation? + </p> + <p> + That <i>her</i> love was love indeed, he might take for granted. To a + certain point, it excused her. But she seemed so thoroughly able to + protect herself; the time of her green girlhood had so long gone by. For + explanation, he must fall back again on the circumstances of her origin + and training. Perhaps she illustrated a social peril, the outcome of + modern follies. Yes, that was how he would look at it. A result of + charlatan ‘education’ operating upon crude character. + </p> + <p> + Who could say what the girl had been reading, what cheap philosophies had + unsettled her mind? Is not a little knowledge a dangerous thing? + </p> + <p> + Thus far had he progressed in the four and twenty hours which followed his—or + Nancy’s—conquest. Meanwhile he had visited the office of the + registrar, had made his application for a marriage licence, a proceeding + which did not tend to soothe him. Later, when he saw Nancy again, he + experienced a revival of that humaner mood which accompanied his pledge to + marry her, the mood of regret, but also of tenderness, of compassion. A + tenderness that did not go very deep, a half-slighting compassion. His + character, and the features of the case, at present allowed no more; but + he preferred the kindlier attitude. + </p> + <p> + Of course he preferred it. Was he not essentially good-natured? Would he + not, at any ordinary season, go out of his way to do a kindness? Did not + his soul revolt against every form of injustice? Whom had he ever injured? + For his humanity, no less than for his urbanity, he claimed a noteworthy + distinction among young men of the time. + </p> + <p> + And there lay the pity of it. But for Nancy’s self-abandonment, he might + have come to love her in good earnest. As it was, the growth of their + intimacy had been marked with singular, unanticipated impulses on his + side, impulses quite inconsistent with heartless scheming. In the + compunctious visitings which interrupted his love-making at least twice, + there was more than a revolt of mere honesty, as he recognised during his + brief flight to London. Had she exercised but the common prudence of + womanhood! + </p> + <p> + Why, that she did not, might tell both for and against her. Granting that + she lacked true dignity, native refinement, might it not have been + expected that artfulness would supply their place? Artful fencing would + have stamped her of coarse nature. But coarseness she had never betrayed; + he had never judged her worse than intellectually shallow. Her + self-surrender might, then, indicate a trait worthy of admiration. Her + subsequent behaviour undeniably pleaded for respect. She acquainted him + with the circumstances of her home life, very modestly, perhaps + pathetically. He learnt that her father was not ill to do, heard of her + domestic and social troubles, that her mother had been long dead, things + weighing in her favour, to be sure. + </p> + <p> + If only she had loved him less! + </p> + <p> + It was all over; he was married. In acting honourably, it seemed probable + that he had spoilt his life. He must be prepared for anything. Nancy said + that she should not, could not, tell her father, yet awhile; but that + resolution was of doubtful stability. For his own part, he thought it + clearly advisable that the fact should not become known at Champion Hill; + but could he believe Nancy’s assurance that Miss. Morgan remained in the + dark? Upon one catastrophe, others might naturally follow. + </p> + <p> + Here, Saturday at noon, came a letter of Nancy’s writing. A long letter, + and by no means a bad one; superior, in fact, to anything he thought she + could have written. It moved him somewhat, but would have moved him more, + had he not been legally bound to the writer. On Sunday she could not come + to see him; but on Monday, early in the afternoon— + </p> + <p> + Well, there were consolations. A wise man makes the best of the + inevitable. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER 3 + </h2> + <p> + Since his return he had seen no one, and none of his friends knew where he + had been. A call from some stray Hodiernal would be very unseasonable this + Monday afternoon; but probably they were all enjoying their elegant + leisure in regions remote from town. As the hour of Nancy’s arrival drew + near, he sat trying to compose himself—with indifferent success. At + one moment his thoughts found utterance, and he murmured in a strange, + bewildered tone—‘My wife.’ Astonishing words! He laughed at their + effect upon him, but unmirthfully. And his next murmur was—‘The + devil!’ A mere ejaculation, betokening his state of mind. + </p> + <p> + He reached several times for his pipe, and remembered when he had touched + it that the lips with which he greeted Nancy ought not to be redolent of + tobacco. In outward respect, at all events, he would not fall short. + </p> + <p> + Just when his nervousness was becoming intolerable, there sounded a knock. + The knock he had anticipated—timid, brief. He stepped hastily from + the room, and opened. Nancy hardly looked at him, and neither of them + spoke till the closing of two doors had assured their privacy. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, you had no difficulty in finding the place?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No—none at all.’ + </p> + <p> + They stood apart, and spoke with constraint. Nancy’s bosom heaved, as + though she had been hastening overmuch; her face was deeply coloured; her + eyes had an unwonted appearance, resembling those of a night-watcher at + weary dawn. She cast quick glances about the room, but with the diffidence + of an intruder. Her attitude was marked by the same characteristic; she + seemed to shrink, to be ashamed. + </p> + <p> + ‘Come and sit down,’ said Tarrant cheerfully, as he wheeled a chair. + </p> + <p> + She obeyed him, and he, stooping beside her, offered his lips. Nancy + kissed him, closing her eyes for the moment, then dropping them again. + </p> + <p> + ‘It seems a long time, Nancy—doesn’t it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes—a very long time.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You couldn’t come on Sunday?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I found my father very ill. I didn’t like to leave home till to-day.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Your father ill?—You said nothing of it in your letter.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No—I didn’t like to—with the other things.’ + </p> + <p> + A singular delicacy this; Tarrant understood it, and looked at her + thoughtfully. Again she was examining the room with hurried glance; upon + him her eyes did not turn. He asked questions about Mr. Lord. Nancy could + not explain the nature of his illness; he had spoken of gout, but she + feared it must be something worse; the change in him since she went away + was incredible and most alarming. This she said in short, quick sentences, + her voice low. Tarrant thought to himself that in her too, a very short + time had made a very notable change; he tried to read its significance, + but could reach no certainty. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m sorry to hear all this—very sorry. You must tell me more about + your father. Take off your hat, dear, and your gloves.’ + </p> + <p> + Her gloves she removed first, and laid them on her lap; Tarrant took them + away. Then her hat; this too he placed on the table. Having done so, he + softly touched the plaits of her hair. And, for the first time, Nancy + looked up at him. + </p> + <p> + ‘Are you glad to see me?’ she asked, in a voice that seemed subdued by + doubt of the answer. + </p> + <p> + ‘I am—very glad.’ + </p> + <p> + His hand fell to her shoulder. With a quick movement, a stifled + exclamation, the girl rose and flung her arms about him. + </p> + <p> + ‘Are you really glad?—Do you really love me?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Never doubt it, dear girl.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Ah, but I can’t help. I have hardly slept at night, in trying to get rid + of the doubt. When you opened the door, I felt you didn’t welcome me. + Don’t you think of me as a burden? I can’t help wondering why I am here.’ + </p> + <p> + He took hold of her left hand, and looked at it, then said playfully: + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course you wonder. What business has a wife to come and see her + husband without the ring on her finger?’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy turned from him, opened the front of her dress, unknotted a string + of silk, and showed her finger bright with the golden circlet. + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s how I must wear it, except when I am with you. I keep touching—to + make sure it’s there.’ + </p> + <p> + Tarrant kissed her fingers. + </p> + <p> + ‘Dear,’—she had her face against him—‘make me certain that you + love me. Speak to me like you did before. Oh, I never knew in my life what + it was to feel ashamed!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Ashamed? Because you are married, Nancy?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Am I really married? That seems impossible. It’s like having dreamt that + I was married to you. I can hardly remember a thing that happened.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘The registry at Teignmouth remembers,’ he answered with a laugh. ‘Those + books have a long memory.’ + </p> + <p> + She raised her eyes. + </p> + <p> + ‘But wouldn’t you undo it if you could?—No, no, I don’t mean that. + Only that if it had never happened—if we had said good-bye before + those last days—wouldn’t you have been glad now?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why, that’s a difficult question to answer,’ he returned gently. ‘It all + depends on your own feeling.’ + </p> + <p> + For whatever reason, these words so overcame Nancy that she burst into + tears. Tarrant, at once more lover-like, soothed and fondled her, and drew + her to sit on his knee. + </p> + <p> + ‘You’re not like your old self, dear girl. Of course, I can understand it. + And your father’s illness. But you mustn’t think of it in this way. I do + love you, Nancy. I couldn’t unsay a word I said to you—I don’t wish + anything undone.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Make me believe that. I think I should be quite happy then. It’s the + hateful thought that perhaps you never wanted me for your wife; it <i>will</i> + come, again and again, and it makes me feel as if I would rather have + died.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Send such thoughts packing. Tell them your husband wants all your heart + and mind for himself.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But will you never think ill of me?’ + </p> + <p> + She whispered the words, close-clinging. + </p> + <p> + ‘I should be a contemptible sort of brute.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No. I ought to have—. If we had spoken of our love to each other, + and waited.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘A very proper twelvemonth’s engagement,—meetings at five o’clock + tea,—fifty thousand love-letters,—and all that kind of thing. + Oh, we chose a better way. Our wedding was among the leaves and flowers. + You remember the glow of evening sunlight between the red pine and the + silver birch? I hope that place may remain as it is all our lives; we will + go there—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Never! Never ask me to go there. I want to forget—I hope some day I + may forget.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘If you hope so, then I will hope the same.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And you love me—with real, husband’s love—love that will + last?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why should <i>I</i> answer all the questions?’ He took her face between + his hands. What if the wife’s love should fail first?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You can say that lightly, because you know—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What do I know?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You know that I am <i>all</i> love of you. As long as I am myself, I must + love you. It was because I had no will of my own left, because I lived + only in the thought of you day and night—’ + </p> + <p> + Their lips met in a long silence. + </p> + <p> + ‘I mustn’t stay past four o’clock,’ were Nancy’s next words. ‘I don’t like + to be away long from the house. Father won’t ask me anything, but he knows + I’m away somewhere, and I’m afraid it makes him angry with me.’ She + examined the room. ‘How comfortable you are here! what a delightful old + place to live in!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Will you look at the other rooms?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not to-day—when I come again. I must say good-bye very soon—oh, + see how the time goes! What a large library you have! You must let me look + at all the books, when I have time.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Let you? They are yours as much as mine.’ + </p> + <p> + Her face brightened. + </p> + <p> + ‘I should like to live here; how I should enjoy it after that hateful + Grove Lane! Shall I live here with you some day?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘There wouldn’t be room for two. Why, your dresses would fill the whole + place.’ + </p> + <p> + She went and stood before the shelves. + </p> + <p> + ‘But how dusty you are! Who cleans for you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No one. A very rickety old woman draws a certain number of shillings each + week, on pretence of cleaning.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What a shame! She neglects you disgracefully. You shall go away some + afternoon, and leave me here with a great pile of dusters.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You can do that kind of thing? It never occurred to me to ask you: are + you a domestic person?’ + </p> + <p> + She answered with something of the old confident air. + </p> + <p> + ‘That was an oversight, wasn’t it? After all, how little you know about + me!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you know much more of me?’ + </p> + <p> + Her countenance fell. + </p> + <p> + ‘You are going to tell me—everything. How long have you lived here?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Two years and a half.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And your friends come to see you here? Of course they do. I meant, have + you many friends?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Friends, no. A good many acquaintances.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Men, like yourself?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Mostly men, fellows who talk about art and literature.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And women?’ Nancy faltered, half turning away. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, magnificent creatures—Greek scholars—mathematicians—all + that is most advanced!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s the right answer to a silly question,’ said Nancy humbly. + </p> + <p> + Whereat, Tarrant fixed his gaze upon her. + </p> + <p> + ‘I begin to think that—’ + </p> + <p> + He checked himself awkwardly. Nancy insisted on the completion of his + thought. + </p> + <p> + ‘That of all the women I know, you have the most sense.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I had rather hear you say that than have a great fortune.’ She blushed + with joy. ‘Perhaps you will love me some day, as I wish to be loved.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ll tell you another time. If it weren’t for my father’s illness, I + think I could go home feeling almost happy. But how am I to know what you + are doing?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What do you wish me to do?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Just tell me how you live. What shall you do now, when I’m gone?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Sit disconsolate,’—he came nearer—‘thinking you were just a + little unkind.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, don’t say that.’ Nancy was flurried. ‘I have told you the real + reason. Our housekeeper says that father was disappointed and angry + because I put off my return from Teignmouth. He spoke to me very coldly, + and I have hardly seen him since. He won’t let me wait upon him; and I + have thought, since I know how ill he really is, that I must seem + heartless. I will come for longer next time.’ + </p> + <p> + To make amends for the reproach he had uttered in spite of himself, + Tarrant began to relate in full the events of his ordinary day. + </p> + <p> + ‘I get my own breakfast—the only meal I have at home. Look, here’s + the kitchen, queer old place. And here’s the dining-room. Cupboards + everywhere, you see; we boast of our cupboards. The green paint is <i>de + rigueur</i>; duck’s egg colour; I’ve got to like it. That door leads into + the bedroom. Well, after breakfast, about eleven o’clock that’s to say, I + light up—look at my pipe-rack—and read newspapers. Then, if + it’s fine, I walk about the streets, and see what new follies men are + perpetrating. And then—’ + </p> + <p> + He told of his favourite restaurants, of his unfashionable club, of a few + houses where, at long intervals, he called or dined, of the Hodiernals, of + a dozen other small matters. + </p> + <p> + ‘What a life,’ sighed the listener, ‘compared with mine!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘We’ll remedy that, some day.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘When?’ she asked absently. + </p> + <p> + ‘Wait just a little.—You don’t wish to tell your father?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I daren’t tell him. I doubt whether I shall ever dare to tell him face to + face.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t think about it. Leave it to me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I must have letters from you—but how? Perhaps, if you could promise + always to send them for the first post—I generally go to the + letter-box, and I could do so always—whilst father is ill.’ + </p> + <p> + This was agreed upon. Nancy, whilst they were talking, took her hat from + the table; at the same moment, Tarrant’s hand moved towards it. Their eyes + met, and the hand that would have checked her was drawn back. Quickly, + secretly, she drew the ring from her finger, hid it somewhere, and took + her gloves. + </p> + <p> + ‘Did you come by the back way?’ Tarrant asked, when he had bitten his lips + for a sulky minute. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, as you told me.’ + </p> + <p> + He said he would walk with her into Chancery Lane; there could be no risk + in it. + </p> + <p> + ‘You shall go out first. Any one passing will suppose you had business + with the solicitor underneath. I’ll overtake you at Southampton + Buildings.’ + </p> + <p> + Impatient to be gone, she lingered minute after minute, and broke + hurriedly from his restraining arms at last. The second outer door, which + Tarrant had closed on her entrance, surprised her by its prison-like + massiveness. In the wooden staircase she stopped timidly, but at the exit + her eyes turned to an inscription above, which she had just glanced at + when arriving: <i>Surrexit e flammis</i>, and a date. Nancy had no Latin, + but guessed an interpretation from the last word. Through the little + court, with its leafy plane-trees and white-worn cobble-stones, she walked + with bent head, hearing the roar of Holborn through the front archway, and + breathing more freely when she gained the quiet garden at the back of the + Inn. + </p> + <p> + Tarrant’s step sounded behind her. Looking up she asked the meaning of the + inscription she had seen. + </p> + <p> + ‘You don’t know Latin? Well, why should you? <i>Surrexit e flammis</i>, + “It rose again from the flames.” + </p> + <p> + ‘I thought it might be something like that. You will be patient with my + ignorance?’ + </p> + <p> + A strange word upon Nancy’s lips. No mortal ere this had heard her confess + to ignorance. + </p> + <p> + ‘But you know the modern languages?’ said Tarrant, smiling. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes. That is, a little French and German—a very little German.’ + </p> + <p> + Tarrant mused, seemingly with no dissatisfaction. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER 4 + </h2> + <p> + In her brother’s looks and speech Nancy detected something mysterious. + Undoubtedly he was keeping a secret from her, and there could be just as + little doubt that he would not keep it long. Whenever she questioned him + about the holiday at Scarborough, he put on a smile unlike any she had + ever seen on his face, so profoundly thoughtful was it, so loftily + reserved. On the subject of Mrs. Damerel he did not choose to be very + communicative; Nancy gathered little more than she had learnt from his + letter. But very plainly the young man held himself in higher esteem than + hitherto; very plainly he had learnt to think of ‘the office’ as a burden + or degradation, from which he would soon escape. Prompted by her own + tormenting conscience, his sister wondered whether Fanny French had + anything to do with the mystery; but this seemed improbable. She mentioned + Fanny’s name one evening. + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you see much of her?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not much,’ was the dreamy reply. ‘When are you going to call?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, not at present,’ said Nancy. + </p> + <p> + ‘You’ve altered again, then?’ + </p> + <p> + She vouchsafed no answer. + </p> + <p> + ‘There’s something I think I ought to tell you,’ said Horace, speaking as + though he were the elder and felt a responsibility. ‘People have been + talking about you and Mr. Crewe.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What!’ She flashed into excessive anger. ‘Who has been talking?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘The people over there. Of course I know it’s all nonsense. At least’—he + raised his eyebrows—‘I suppose it is.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘<i>I</i> should suppose so,’ said Nancy, with vehement scorn. + </p> + <p> + Their father’s illness imposed a restraint upon trifling conversation. + Mary Woodruff, now attending upon Mr. Lord under the doctor’s directions, + had held grave talk with Nancy. The Barmbys, father and son, called + frequently, and went away with gloomy faces. Nancy and her brother were + summoned, separately, to the invalid’s room at uncertain times, but + neither was allowed to perform any service for him; their sympathy, more + often than not, excited irritation; the sufferer always seemed desirous of + saying more than the few and insignificant words which actually passed his + lips, and generally, after a long silence, he gave the young people an + abrupt dismissal. With his daughter he spoke at length, in language which + awed her by its solemnity; Nancy could only understand him as meaning that + his end drew near. He had been reviewing, he said, the course of her life, + and trying to forecast her future. + </p> + <p> + ‘I give you no more advice; it would only be repeating what I have said + hundreds of times. All I can <i>do</i> for your good, I have done. You + will understand me better if you live a few more years, and I think, in + the end, you will be grateful to me.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy, sitting by the bedside, laid a hand upon her father’s and sobbed. + She entreated him to believe that even now she understood how wisely he + had guided her. + </p> + <p> + ‘Tried to, Nancy; tried to, my dear. Guidance isn’t for young people + now-a-days. Don’t let us shirk the truth. I have never been satisfied with + you, but I have loved you—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And I you, dear father—I have! I have!—I know better now how + good your advice was. I wish—far, far more sincerely than you think—that + I had kept more control upon myself—thought less of myself in every + way—’ + </p> + <p> + Whilst she spoke through her tears, the yellow, wrinkled face upon the + pillow, with its sunken eyes and wasted lips, kept sternly motionless. + </p> + <p> + ‘If you won’t mock at me,’ Stephen pursued, ‘I will show you an example + you would do well to imitate. It is our old servant, now my kindest, + truest friend. If I could hope that you will let her be <i>your</i> + friend, it would help to put my mind at rest. Don’t look down upon her,—that’s + such a poor way of thinking. Of all the women I have known, she is the + best. Don’t be too proud to learn from her, Nancy. In all these twenty + years that she has been in my house, whatever she undertook to do, she did + well;—nothing too hard or too humble for her, if she thought it her + duty. I know what that means; I myself have been a poor, weak creature, + compared with her. Don’t be offended because I ask you to take pattern by + her. I know her value now better than I ever knew it before. I owe her a + debt I can’t pay.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy left the room burdened with strange and distressful thoughts. When + she saw Mary she looked at her with new feelings, and spoke to her less + familiarly than of wont. Mary was very silent in these days; her face had + the dignity of a profound unspoken grief. + </p> + <p> + To his son, Mr. Lord talked only of practical things, urging sound advice, + and refraining, now, from any mention of their differences. Horace, + absorbed in preoccupations, had never dreamt that this illness might prove + fatal; on finding Nancy in tears, he was astonished. + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you think it’s dangerous?’ he asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m afraid he will never get well.’ + </p> + <p> + It was Sunday morning. The young man went apart and pondered. After the + mid-day meal, having heard from Mary that his father was no worse, he left + home without remark to any one, and from Camberwell Green took a cab to + Trafalgar Square. At the Hotel Metropole he inquired for Mrs. Damerel; her + rooms were high up, and he ascended by the lift. Sunk in a deep chair, her + feet extended upon a hassock, Mrs. Damerel was amusing herself with a + comic paper; she rose briskly, though with the effort of a person who is + no longer slim. + </p> + <p> + ‘Here I am, you see!—up in the clouds. Now, <i>did</i> you get my + letter?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No letter, but a telegram.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘There, I thought so. Isn’t that just like me? As soon as I had sent out + the letter to post, I said to myself that I had written the wrong address. + What address it <i>was</i>, I couldn’t tell you, to save my life, but I + shall see when it comes back from the post-office. I rather suspect it’s + gone to Gunnersbury; just then I was thinking about somebody at + Gunnersbury—or somebody at Hampstead, I can’t be sure which. What a + good thing I wired!—Oh, now, Horace, I <i>don’t</i> like that, I + don’t really!’ + </p> + <p> + The young man looked at her in bewilderment. + </p> + <p> + ‘What don’t you like?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why, that tie. It won’t do at all. Your taste is generally very good, but + that tie! I’ll choose one for you to-morrow, and let you have it the next + time you come. Do you know, I’ve been thinking that it might be well if + you parted your hair in the middle. I don’t care for it as a rule; but in + your case, with your soft, beautiful hair, I think it would look well. + Shall we try? Wait a minute; I’ll run for a comb.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But suppose some one came—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Nobody will come, my dear boy. Hardly any one knows I’m here. I like to + get away from people now and then; that’s why I’ve taken refuge in this + cock-loft.’ + </p> + <p> + She disappeared, and came back with a comb of tortoise-shell. + </p> + <p> + ‘Sit down there. Oh, what hair it is, to be sure! Almost as fine as my + own. I think you’ll have a delicious moustache.’ + </p> + <p> + Her personal appearance was quite in keeping with this vivacity. Rather + short, and inclining—but as yet only inclining—to rotundity of + figure, with a peculiarly soft and clear complexion, Mrs. Damerel made a + gallant battle against the hostile years. Her bright eye, her moist lips, + the admirable smoothness of brow and cheek and throat, bore witness to + sound health; as did the rows of teeth, incontestably her own, which she + exhibited in her frequent mirth. A handsome woman still, though not of the + type that commands a reverent admiration. Her frivolity did not exclude a + suggestion of shrewdness, nor yet of capacity for emotion, but it was + difficult to imagine wise or elevated thought behind that narrow brow. She + was elaborately dressed, with only the most fashionable symbols of + widowhood; rings adorned her podgy little hand, and a bracelet her white + wrist. Refinement she possessed only in the society-journal sense, but her + intonation was that of the idle class, and her grammar did not limp. + </p> + <p> + ‘There—let me look. Oh, I think that’s an improvement—more <i>distingue</i>. + And now tell me the news. How is your father?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Very bad, I’m afraid,’ said Horace, when he had regarded himself in a + mirror with something of doubtfulness. ‘Nancy says that she’s afraid he + won’t get well.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, you don’t say that! Oh, how very sad! But let us hope. I can’t think + it’s so bad as that.’ + </p> + <p> + Horace sat in thought. Mrs. Damerel, her bright eyes subduing their gaiety + to a keen reflectiveness, put several questions regarding the invalid, + then for a moment meditated. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, we must hope for the best. Let me know to-morrow how he gets on—be + sure you let me know. And if anything <i>should</i> happen—oh, but + that’s too sad; we won’t talk about it.’ + </p> + <p> + Again she meditated, tapping the floor, and, as it seemed, trying not to + smile. + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t be downcast, my dear boy. Never meet sorrow half-way—if you + knew how useful I have found it to remember that maxim. I have gone + through sad, sad things—ah! But now tell me of your own affairs. + Have you seen <i>la petite</i>?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I just saw her the other evening,’ he answered uneasily. + </p> + <p> + ‘Just? What does that mean, I wonder? Now you don’t look anything like so + well as when you were at Scarborough. You’re worrying; yes, I know you + are. It’s your nervous constitution, my poor boy. So you just saw her? No + more imprudences?’ + </p> + <p> + She examined his face attentively, her lips set with tolerable firmness. + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s a very difficult position, you know,’ said Horace, wriggling in his + chair. ‘I can’t get out of it all at once. And the truth is, I’m not sure + that I wish to.’ + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Damerel drew her eyebrows together, and gave a loud tap on the floor. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, that’s weak—that’s very weak! After promising me! Now listen; + listen seriously.’ She raised a finger. ‘If it goes on, I have nothing—more—whatever + to do with you. It would distress me very, very much; but I can’t interest + myself in a young man who makes love to a girl so very far beneath him. Be + led by me, Horace, and your future will be brilliant. Prefer this young + lady of Camberwell, and lose everything.’ + </p> + <p> + Horace leaned forward and drooped his head. + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t think you form anything like a right idea of her,’ he said. + </p> + <p> + The other moved impatiently. + </p> + <p> + ‘My dear boy, I know her as well as if I’d lived with her for years. Oh, + how silly you are! But then you are so young, so very young.’ + </p> + <p> + With the vexation on her face there blended, as she looked at him, a + tenderness unmistakably genuine. + </p> + <p> + ‘Now, I’ll tell you what. I have really no objection to make Fanny’s + acquaintance. Suppose, after all, you bring her to see me one of these + days. Not just yet. You must wait till I am in the mood for it. But before + very long.’ + </p> + <p> + Horace looked up with pleasure and gratitude. + </p> + <p> + ‘Now, that’s really kind of you!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Really? And all the rest is only pretended kindness? Silly boy! Some day + you will know better. Now, think, Horace; suppose you were so unhappy as + to lose your father. Could you, as soon as he was gone, do something that + you know would have pained him deeply?’ + </p> + <p> + The pathetic note was a little strained; putting her head aside, Mrs. + Damerel looked rather like a sentimental picture in an advertisement. + Horace did not reply. + </p> + <p> + ‘You surely wouldn’t,’ pursued the lady, with emphasis, watching him + closely; ‘you surely wouldn’t and couldn’t marry this girl as soon as your + poor father was in his grave?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, of course not.’ + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Damerel seemed relieved, but pursued her questioning. + </p> + <p> + ‘You couldn’t think of marrying for at least half a year?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Fanny wouldn’t wish it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, of course not,—well now, I think I must make her acquaintance. + But how weak you are, Horace! Oh, those nerves! All finely, delicately + organised people, like you, make such blunders in life. Your sense of + honour is such a tyrant over you. Now, mind, I don’t say for a moment that + Fanny isn’t fond of you,—how could she help being, my dear boy? But + I do insist that she will be very much happier if you let her marry some + one of her own class. You, Horace, belong to a social sphere so far, far + above her. If I could only impress that upon your modesty. You are made to + associate with people of the highest refinement. How deplorable to think + that a place in society is waiting for you, and you keep longing for + Camberwell!’ + </p> + <p> + The listener’s face wavered between pleasure in such flattery and the + impulse of resistance. + </p> + <p> + ‘Remember, Horace, if anything <i>should</i> happen at home, you are your + own master. I could introduce you freely to people of wealth and fashion. + Of course you could give up the office at once. I shall be taking a house + in the West-end, or a flat, at all events. I shall entertain a good deal—and + think of your opportunities! My dear boy, I assure you that, with personal + advantages such as yours, you might end by marrying an heiress. Nothing + more probable! And you can talk of such a girl as Fanny French—for + shame! + </p> + <p> + ‘I mustn’t propose any gaieties just now,’ she said, when they had been + together for an hour. ‘And I shall wait so anxiously for news of your + father. If anything <i>did</i> happen, what would your sister do, I + wonder?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m sure I don’t know—except that she’d get away from Camberwell. + Nancy hates it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Who knows? I may be able to be of use to her. But, you say she is such a + grave and learned young lady? I am afraid we should bore each other.’ + </p> + <p> + To this, Horace could venture only an uncertain reply. He had not much + hope of mutual understanding between his sister and Mrs. Damerel. + </p> + <p> + At half-past five he was home again, and there followed a cheerless + evening. Nancy was in her own room until nine o’clock. She came down for + supper, but had no appetite; her eyes showed redness from weeping; Horace + could say nothing for her comfort. After the meal, they went up together + to the drawing-room, and sat unoccupied. + </p> + <p> + ‘If we lose father,’ said Nancy, in a dull voice very unlike her ordinary + tones, ‘we shall have not a single relative left, that is anything to us.’ + </p> + <p> + Her brother kept silence. + </p> + <p> + ‘Has Mrs. Damerel,’ she continued, ‘ever said anything to you about + mother’s family?’ + </p> + <p> + After hesitation, Horace answered, ‘Yes,’ and his countenance showed that + the affirmative had special meaning. Nancy waited with an inquiring look. + </p> + <p> + ‘I haven’t told you,’ he added, ‘because—we have had other things to + think about. But Mrs. Damerel is mother’s sister, our aunt.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How long have you known that?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘She told me at Scarborough.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But why didn’t she tell you so at first?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s what I can’t understand. She says she was afraid I might mention + it; but I don’t believe that’s the real reason.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy’s questioning elicited all that was to be learnt from her brother, + little more than she had heard already; the same story of a disagreement + between Mrs. Damerel and their father, of long absences from England, and + a revival of interest in her relatives, following upon Mrs. Damerel’s + widowhood. + </p> + <p> + ‘She would be glad to see you, if you liked. But I doubt whether you would + get on very well.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘She doesn’t care about the same things that you do. She’s a woman of + society, you know.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But if she’s mother’s sister. Yes, I should like to know her.’ Nancy + spoke with increasing earnestness. ‘It makes everything quite different. I + must see her.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, as I said, she’s quite willing. But you remember that I’m supposed + not to have spoken about her at all. I should have to get her to send you + a message, or something of that kind. Of course, we have often talked + about you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I can’t form an idea of her,’ said Nancy impatiently. ‘Is she good? Is + she really kind? Couldn’t you get her portrait to show me?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I should be afraid to ask, unless she had given me leave to speak to + you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘She really lives in good society?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Haven’t I told you the sort of people she knows? She must be very well + off; there can’t be a doubt of it.’ + </p> + <p> + I don’t care so much about that,’ said Nancy in a brooding voice. ‘It’s + herself,—whether she’s kind and good and wishes well to us. + </p> + <p> + The next day there was no change in Mr. Lord’s condition; a deep silence + possessed the house. In the afternoon Nancy went to pass an hour with + Jessica Morgan; on her return she met Samuel Barmby, who was just leaving + after a visit to the sick man. Samuel bore himself with portentous + gravity, but spoke only a few commonplaces, affecting hope; he bestowed + upon Nancy’s hand a fervent pressure, and strode away with the air of an + undertaker who had called on business. + </p> + <p> + Two more days of deepening gloom, then a night through which Nancy sat + with Mary Woodruff by her father’s bed. Mr. Lord was unconscious, but from + time to time a syllable or a phrase fell from his lips, meaningless to the + watchers. At dawn, Nancy went to her chamber, pallid, exhausted. Mary, + whose strength seemed proof against fatigue, moved about the room, + preparing for a new day; every few minutes she stood with eyes fixed on + the dying face, and the tears she had restrained in Nancy’s presence + flowed silently. + </p> + <p> + When the sun made a golden glimmer upon the wall, Mary withdrew, and was + absent for a quarter of an hour. On returning, she bent at once over the + bed; her eyes were met by a grave, wondering look. + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you know me?’ she whispered. + </p> + <p> + The lips moved; she bent lower, but could distinguish no word. He was + speaking; the murmur continued; but she gathered no sense. + </p> + <p> + ‘You can trust me, I will do all I can.’ + </p> + <p> + He seemed to understand her, and smiled. As the smile faded away, passing + into an austere calm, Mary pressed her lips upon his forehead. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER 5 + </h2> + <p> + After breakfast, and before Arthur Peachey’s departure for business, there + had been a scene of violent quarrel between him and his wife. It took + place in the bed-room, where, as usual save on Sunday morning, Ada + consumed her strong tea and heavily buttered toast; the state of her + health—she had frequent ailments, more or less genuine, such as + afflict the indolent and brainless type of woman—made it necessary + for her to repose till a late hour. Peachey did not often lose + self-control, though sorely tried; the one occasion that unchained his + wrath was when Ada’s heedlessness or ill-temper affected the well-being of + his child. This morning it had been announced to him that the nurse-girl, + Emma, could no longer be tolerated; she was making herself offensive to + her mistress, had spoken insolently, disobeyed orders, and worst of all, + defended herself by alleging orders from Mr. Peachey. Hence the outbreak + of strife, signalled by furious shrill voices, audible to Beatrice and + Fanny as they sat in the room beneath. + </p> + <p> + Ada came down at half-past ten, and found Beatrice writing letters. She + announced what any who did not know her would have taken for a final + resolve. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m going—I won’t put up with that beast any longer. I shall go and + live at Brighton.’ + </p> + <p> + Her sister paid not the slightest heed; she was intent upon a business + letter of much moment. + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you hear what I say? I’m going by the first train this afternoon.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘All right,’ remarked Beatrice placidly. ‘Don’t interrupt me just now. + </p> + <p> + The result of this was fury directed against Beatrice, who found herself + accused of every domestic vice compatible with her position. She was a + sordid creature, living at other people’s expense,—a selfish, + scheming, envious wretch— + </p> + <p> + ‘If I were your husband,’ remarked the other without looking up, ‘I should + long since have turned you into the street—if I hadn’t broken your + neck first.’ + </p> + <p> + Exercise in quarrel only made Ada’s voice the clearer and more shrill. It + rose now to the highest points of a not inconsiderable compass. But + Beatrice continued to write, and by resolute silence put a limit to her + sister’s railing. A pause had just come about, when the door was thrown + open, and in rushed Fanny, hatted and gloved from a walk. + </p> + <p> + ‘He’s dead!’ she said excitedly. ‘He’s dead!’ + </p> + <p> + Beatrice turned with a look of interest. ‘Who? Mr. Lord?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes. The blinds are all down. He must have died in the night.’ + </p> + <p> + Her cheeks glowed and her eyes sparkled, as though she had brought the + most exhilarating news. + </p> + <p> + ‘What do I care?’ said Mrs. Peachey, to whom her sister had addressed the + last remark. + </p> + <p> + ‘Just as much as I care about your affairs, no doubt,’ returned Fanny, + with genial frankness. + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t be in too great a hurry,’ remarked Beatrice, who showed the + calculating wrinkle at the corner of her eye. ‘Because he’s dead, that + doesn’t say that your masher comes in for money.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Who’ll get it, then?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘There may be nothing worth speaking of to get, for all we know.’ + </p> + <p> + Beatrice had not as yet gained Fanny’s co-operation in the commercial + scheme now being elaborated; though of far more amiable nature than Mrs. + Peachey, she heartily hoped that the girl might be disappointed in her + expectations from Mr. Lord’s will. An hour later, she walked along Grove + Lane, and saw for herself that Fanny’s announcement was accurate; the + close-drawn blinds could mean but one thing. + </p> + <p> + To-day there was little likelihood of learning particulars, but on the + morrow Fanny might perchance hear something from Horace Lord. However, the + evening brought a note, hand-delivered by some stranger. Horace wrote only + a line or two, informing Fanny that his father had died about eight + o’clock that morning, and adding: ‘Please be at home to-morrow at twelve.’ + </p> + <p> + At twelve next day Fanny received her lover alone in the drawing-room. He + entered with the exaggerated solemnity of a very young man who knows for + the first time a grave bereavement, and feels the momentary importance it + confers upon him. Fanny, trying to regard him without a smile, grimaced; + decorous behaviour was at all times impossible to her, for she neither + understood its nature nor felt its obligation. In a few minutes she smiled + unrestrainedly, and spoke the things that rose to her lips. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ve been keeping a secret from you,’ said Horace, in the low voice which + had to express his sorrow,—for he could not preserve a gloomy + countenance with Fanny before him. ‘But I can tell you now.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘A secret? And what business had you to keep secrets from me?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s about Mrs. Damerel. When I was at the seaside she told me who she + really is. She’s my aunt—my mother’s sister. Queer, isn’t it? Of + course that makes everything different. And she’s going to ask you to come + and see her. It’ll have to be put off a little—now; but not very + long, I dare say, as she’s a relative. You’ll have to do your best to + please her.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m sure I shan’t put myself out of the way. People must take me as they + find me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Now don’t talk like that, Fanny. It isn’t very kind—just now. I + thought you’d be different to-day.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘All right.—Have you anything else to tell me?’ + </p> + <p> + Horace understood her significant glance, and shook his head. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ll let you know everything as soon as I know myself.’ + </p> + <p> + Having learnt the day and hour of Mr. Lord’s funeral, Ada and Fanny made a + point of walking out to get a glimpse of it. The procession of vehicles in + Grove Lane excited their contempt, so far was it from the splendour they + had anticipated. + </p> + <p> + ‘There you are!’ said Ada; ‘I shouldn’t wonder if it’s going to be a jolly + good take in for you, after all. If he’d died worth much, they wouldn’t + have buried him like that.’ + </p> + <p> + Fanny’s heart sank. She could conceive no other explanation of a simple + burial save lack of means, or resentment in the survivors at the + disposition made of his property by the deceased. When, on the morrow, + Horace told her that his father had strictly charged Mr Barmby to have him + buried in the simplest mode compatible with decency, she put it down to + the old man’s excessive meanness. + </p> + <p> + On this occasion she learnt the contents of Mr. Lord’s will, and having + learnt them, got rid of Horace as soon as possible that she might astonish + her sisters with the report. + </p> + <p> + In the afternoon of that day, Beatrice had an appointment with Luckworth + Crewe. She was to meet him at the office he had just taken in Farringdon + Street, whence they would repair to a solicitor’s in the same + neighbourhood, for the discussion of legal business connected with Miss. + French’s enterprise. She climbed the staircase of a big building, and was + directed to the right door by the sound of Crewe’s voice, loudly and + jocularly discoursing. He stood with two men in the open doorway, and at + the sight of Beatrice waved a hand to her. + </p> + <p> + ‘Take your hook, you fellows; I have an engagement.’ The men, glancing at + Miss. French facetiously, went their way. ‘How do, old chum? It’s all in a + mess yet; hold your skirts together. Come along this way.’ + </p> + <p> + Through glue-pots and shavings and an overpowering smell of paint, + Beatrice followed to inspect the premises, which consisted of three rooms; + one, very much the smallest, about ten feet square. Three workmen were + busy, and one, fitting up shelves, whistled a melody with ear-piercing + shrillness. + </p> + <p> + ‘Stop that damned noise!’ shouted Crewe. ‘I’ve told you once already. Try + it on again, my lad, and I’ll drop you down the well of the staircase—you’ve + too much breath, you have.’ + </p> + <p> + The other workmen laughed. It was evident that Crewe had made friends with + them all. + </p> + <p> + ‘Won’t be bad, when we get the decks cleared,’ he remarked to Beatrice. + ‘Plenty of room to make twenty thousand a year or so.’ + </p> + <p> + He checked himself, and asked in a subdued voice, ‘Seen anything of the + Lords?’ + </p> + <p> + Beatrice nodded with a smile. ‘And heard about the will. Have you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, I haven’t. Come into this little room.’ + </p> + <p> + He closed the door behind them, and looked at his companion with + curiosity, but without show of eagerness. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, it’s a joke,’ said Miss. French. + </p> + <p> + ‘Is it? How?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Fanny’s that mad about it! She’d got it into her silly noddle that Horace + Lord would drop in for a fortune at once. As it is, he gets nothing at all + for two years, except what the Barmbys choose to give him. And if he + marries before he’s four-and-twenty, he loses everything—every + cent!’ + </p> + <p> + Crewe whistled a bar of a street-melody, then burst into laughter. + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s how the old joker has done them, is it? Quite right too. The lad + doesn’t know his own mind yet. Let Fanny wait if she really wants him—and + if she can keep hold of him. But what are the figures?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Nothing startling. Of course I don’t know all the ins and outs of it, but + Horace Lord will get seven thousand pounds, and a sixth share in the piano + business. Old Barmby and his son are trustees. They may let Horace have + just what they think fit during the next two years. If he wants money to + go into business with, they may advance what they like. But for two years + he’s simply in their hands, to be looked after. And if he marries—pop + goes the weasel!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And Miss. Lord?’ asked Crewe carelessly. + </p> + <p> + Beatrice pointed a finger at him. + </p> + <p> + ‘You want to know badly, don’t you? Well, it’s pretty much the same as the + other. To begin with, if she marries before the age of six-and-twenty, she + gets nothing whatever. If she doesn’t marry, there’s two hundred a year to + live on and to keep up the house.—Oh, I was forgetting; she must not + only keep single to twenty-six, but continue to live where she does now, + with that old servant of theirs for companion. At six-and-twenty she takes + the same as her brother, about seven thousand, and a sixth share in Lord + and Barmby.’ + </p> + <p> + Again Crewe whistled. + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s about three years still to live in Grove Lane,’ he said + thoughtfully. ‘Well, the old joker has pinned them, and no mistake. I + thought he had more to leave.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course you did,’ remarked Beatrice significantly. + </p> + <p> + ‘Look here, old fellow, don’t talk to me like that,’ he replied + good-humouredly, but with a reproof not to be mistaken. ‘I thought nothing + about it in the way that <i>you</i> mean. But it isn’t much, after living + as he has done. I suppose you don’t know how the money lies?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have it all from Fanny, and it’s a wonder she remembered as much as she + did.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, Fanny’s pretty smart in L. s. d. But did she say what becomes of the + money if either of them break the terms?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Goes to a girl’s orphanage, somewhere in the old man’s country. But + there’s more than I’ve accounted for yet. Young Barmby’s sisters get + legacies—a hundred and fifty apiece. And, last of all, the old + servant has an annuity of two hundred. He made her a sort of housekeeper + not long ago, H. L. says; thought no end of her.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t know anything about her,’ said Crewe absently. ‘I should like to + know the business details. What arrangement was made, I wonder, when he + took Barmby into partnership?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I shouldn’t be surprised if he simply gave him a share. Old Barmby and + Lord were great chums. Then, you see, Samuel Barmby has a third of his + profits to pay over, eventually.’ + </p> + <p> + Beatrice went on to speak of the mysterious Mrs. Damerel, concerning whom + she had heard from Fanny. The man of business gave particular ear to this + story, and asked many questions. Of a sudden, as if dismissing matters + which hardly concerned him, he said mirthfully: + </p> + <p> + ‘You’ve heard about the row at Lillie Bridge yesterday?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I saw something about it in the paper.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, I was there. Pure chance; haven’t been at that kind of place for a + year and more. It was a match for the Sprint Championship and a hundred + pounds. Timed for six o’clock, but at a quarter past the chaps hadn’t come + forward. I heard men talking, and guessed there was something wrong; they + thought it a put-up job. When it got round that there’d be no race, the + excitement broke out, and then—I’d have given something for you to + see it! First of all there was a rush for the gate-money; a shilling a + piece, you know, we’d all paid. There were a whole lot of North-of-England + chaps, fellow countrymen of mine, and I heard some of them begin to send + up a roar that sounded dangerous. I was tumbling along with the crowd, + quite ready for a scrimmage—I rather enjoy a fight now and then,—and + all at once some chap sang out just in front, ‘Let’s burst up the blooming + show!’—only he used a stronger word. And a lot of us yelled hooray, + and to it we went. I don’t mean I had a hand in the pillaging and + smashing,—it wouldn’t have done for a man just starting in business + to be up at the police-court,—but I looked on and laughed—laughed + till I could hardly stand! They set to work on the refreshment place. It + was a scene if you like! Fellows knocking off the heads of bottles, and + drinking all they could, then pouring the rest on the ground. Glasses and + decanters flying right and left,—sandwiches and buns, and I don’t + know what, pelting about. They splintered all the small wood they could + lay their hands on, and set fire to it, and before you could say Jack + Robinson the whole place was blazing. The bobbies got it pretty warm—bottles + and stones and logs of wood; I saw one poor chap with the side of his face + cut clean open. It does one good, a real stirring-up like that; I feel + better to-day than for the last month. And the swearing that went on! It’s + a long time since I heard such downright, hearty, solid swearing. There + was one chap I kept near, and he swore for a full hour without stopping, + except when he had a bottle at his mouth; he only stopped when he was + speechless with liquor.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I wish I’d been there,’ said Miss. French gaily. ‘It must have been no + end of fun.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘A right down good spree. And it wasn’t over till about eight o’clock. I + stayed till the police had cleared the grounds, and then came home, + laughing all the way. It did me good, I tell you!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, shall we go and see the lawyer?’ suggested Beatrice. + </p> + <p> + ‘Right you are.—Have a drink first? Nice quiet place round in Fleet + Street—glass of wine. No? As you please, old chum.—Think this + shop ‘ll do, don’t you? You must come round when it’s finished. But I + daresay you’ll be here many a time—on biz.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, I daresay.’ + </p> + <p> + And as they went down the stairs, Crewe laughed again at his recollections + of yesterday’s sport. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER 6 + </h2> + <p> + Gusts of an October evening swept about the square of the old Inn, and + made rushes at the windows; all the more cosy seemed it here in Tarrant’s + room, where a big fire, fed into smokeless placidity, purred and crackled. + Pipe in mouth, Tarrant lay back in his big chair, gracefully indolent as + ever. Opposite him, lamp-light illuminating her face on one side, and + fire-gloom on the other, Nancy turned over an illustrated volume, her + husband’s gift today. Many were the presents he had bestowed upon her, + costly some of them, all flattering the recipient by a presumption of + taste and intelligence. + </p> + <p> + She had been here since early in the afternoon, it was now near seven + o’clock. + </p> + <p> + Nancy looked at the pictures, but inattentively, her brows slightly + knitted, and her lips often on the point of speech that concerned some + other matter. Since the summer holiday she had grown a trifle thinner in + face; her beauty was no longer allied with perfect health; a heaviness + appeared on her eyelids. Of course she wore the garb of mourning, and its + effect was to emphasise the maturing change manifest in her features. + </p> + <p> + For several minutes there had passed no word; but Tarrant’s face, no less + than his companion’s, signalled discussion in suspense. No unfriendly + discussion, yet one that excited emotional activity in both of them. The + young man, his pipe-hand falling to his knee, first broke silence. + </p> + <p> + ‘I look at it in this way. We ought to regard ourselves as married people + living under exceptionally favourable circumstances. One has to bear in + mind the brutal fact that man and wife, as a rule, see a great deal too + much of each other—thence most of the ills of married life: + squabblings, discontents, small or great disgusts, leading often enough to + <i>altri guai</i>. People get to think themselves victims of + incompatibility, when they are merely suffering from a foolish custom—the + habit of being perpetually together. In fact, it’s an immoral custom. What + does immorality mean but anything that tends to kill love, to harden + hearts? The common practice of man and wife occupying the same room is + monstrous, gross; it’s astounding that women of any sensitiveness endure + it. In fact, their sensitiveness is destroyed. Even an ordinary honeymoon + generally ends in quarrel—as it certainly ought to. You and I escape + all that. Each of us lives a separate life, with the result that we like + each other better as time goes on; I speak for myself, at all events. I + look forward to our meetings. I open the door to you with as fresh a + feeling of pleasure as when you came first. If we had been ceaselessly + together day and night—well, you know the result as well as I do.’ + </p> + <p> + He spoke with indulgent gravity, in the tone of kindness to which his + voice was naturally attuned. And Nancy’s reply, though it expressed a + stronger feeling, struck the same harmonious note. + </p> + <p> + ‘I can agree with all that. But it applies to people married in the + ordinary way. I was speaking of ourselves, placed as we are.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t pretend to like the concealment,’ said Tarrant. ‘For one thing, + there’s a suggestion of dishonour about it. We’ve gone over all that—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, I don’t mean that for a moment. It isn’t really dishonourable. My + father could never have objected to <i>you</i> for my husband. He only + wanted to guard me—Mary says so, and he told her everything. He + thought me a silly, flighty girl, and was afraid I should be trapped for + the sake of my money. I wish—oh how I wish I had had the courage to + tell him! He would have seen you, and liked and trusted you—how + could he help?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It might have been better—but who knows whether he would have seen + me with your eyes, Nancy?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, yes. But I was going to say——’ + </p> + <p> + She hesitated. + </p> + <p> + ‘Say on.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘There are so many difficulties before us, dear.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not if we continue to think of each other as we do now. Do you mean it + might be discovered?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, through no fault of ours.’ + </p> + <p> + She hesitated again. + </p> + <p> + ‘Quite sure you haven’t told anybody?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No one.’ + </p> + <p> + Tarrant had a doubt on this point. He strongly suspected that Jessica + Morgan knew the truth, but he shrank from pressing Nancy to an avowal of + repeated falsehood. + </p> + <p> + ‘Then it’s very unlikely we should be found out. Who would dream of + tracking you here, for instance? And suppose we were seen together in the + street or in the country, who would suspect anything more than + love-making? and that is not forbidden you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No. But—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But suppose I—’ + </p> + <p> + She rose, crossed to him, seated herself on his knee and put an arm about + his neck. Before she had spoken another word, Tarrant understood; the + smile on his face lost its spontaneity; a bitter taste seemed to distort + his lips. + </p> + <p> + ‘You think—you are afraid—’ + </p> + <p> + He heard a monosyllable, and sat silent. This indeed had not entered into + his calculations; but why not? He could hardly say; he had ignored the not + unimportant detail, as it lurked among possibilities. Perhaps had + willingly ignored it, as introducing a complication oppressive to his + indolence, to his hodiernal philosophy. And now he arraigned + mother-nature, the very divinity whom hitherto he had called upon to + justify him. All at once he grew cold to Nancy. The lulled objections to + matrimony awoke in him again; again he felt that he had made a fool of + himself. Nancy was better than he had thought; he either loved her, or + felt something towards her, not easily distinguishable from love. His + inferior she remained, but not in the sense he had formerly attributed to + the word. Her mind and heart excelled the idle conception he had formed of + them. But Nancy was not his wife, as the world understands that relation; + merely his mistress, and as a mistress he found her charming, lovable. + What she now hinted at, would shatter the situation. Tarrant thought not + of the peril to her material prospects; on that score he was indifferent, + save in so far as Mr Lord’s will helped to maintain their mutual + independence. But he feared for his liberty, in the first place, and in + the second, abhorred the change that must come over Nancy herself. Nancy a + mother—he repelled the image, as though it degraded her. + </p> + <p> + Delicacy, however, constrained him to a disguise of these emotions. He + recognised the human sentiments that should have weighed with him; like a + man of cultivated intelligence, he admitted their force, their beauty. + None the less, a syllable on Nancy’s lips had arrested the current of his + feelings, and made him wish again that he had been either more or less a + man of honour down at Teignmouth. + </p> + <p> + ‘And yet,’ he said to himself, ‘could I have resisted an appeal for + marriage <i>now</i>? That comes of being so confoundedly humane. It’s a + marvel that I didn’t find myself married to some sheer demirep long ago.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy was speaking. + </p> + <p> + ‘Will it make you love me less?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have always refused to prophesy about love,’ he answered, with forced + playfulness. + </p> + <p> + ‘But you wouldn’t—you wouldn’t?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘We should find ourselves in a very awkward position.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I know,’ said Nancy hurriedly. ‘I can’t see what would be done. But you + seem colder to me all at once, Lionel. Surely it oughtn’t to—to turn + you away from me. Perhaps I am mistaken.’ + </p> + <p> + This referred to the alarming possibility, and Tarrant caught at hope. + Yes, she might be mistaken; they wouldn’t talk about it; he shook it away. + </p> + <p> + ‘Let me fill my pipe again. Yes, you can do it for me. That reminds me of + a story Harvey Munden tells. A man he knew, a doctor, got married, and + there was nothing his wife wouldn’t do for him. As he sat with her one + evening, smoking, a patient called him into the consulting-room. He had + only just lighted a fresh pipe, and laid it down regretfully. ‘I’ll keep + it in for you,’ said his wife. And she did so, with dainty and fearful + puffs, at long intervals. But the doctor was detained, and when he came + back—well, the poor wife had succumbed to her devotion. She never + kept in his pipe again. + </p> + <p> + Nancy tried to laugh. She was in her own chair again, and sat resting her + cheek upon her hand, gazing at the fire. + </p> + <p> + ‘How is it, Lionel, that no one ever knocks at your door when I’m here.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, very simple. I sport the oak—as you know.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But don’t you think some friend of yours might see a light in your + window, and come up?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘If so, <i>il respecte la consigne</i>.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, no; I don’t like you when you begin to use French words. I think it + reminds me of once when you did it a long time ago,—and I thought + you—never mind.’ + </p> + <p> + Tarrant laughed. + </p> + <p> + ‘Weren’t they strange—those meetings of ours at Champion Hill? What + did you think me? Arrogant? Insolent? That is my tendency with strangers, + I admit.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But I was asking you a question,’ said Nancy. ‘You mean that no one would + knock, if he saw your outer door closed. But what would they think?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No doubt—that I was working. I am supposed to be secretly engaged + on some immortal composition.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy pondered. + </p> + <p> + ‘I do hope no one that knows you will ever see me coming or going.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What could it matter? They wouldn’t know who you were.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But to have such things thought. I should feel it just as if they knew + me. I believe I could never come again.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why, what’s the matter with you?’ Tarrant asked. ‘You have tears in your + eyes. You’re not well to-day.’ He checked himself on an unwelcome thought, + and proceeded more carelessly. ‘Do you suppose for a moment that any + friend of mine is ass enough to think with condemnation of a girl who + should come to my rooms—whatever the circumstances? You must get rid + of that provincialism—let us call it Camberwellism.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘They wouldn’t think it any harm—even if—?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘My dear girl, we have outgrown those ancestral prejudices.’ Tarrant’s + humour never quite deserted him, least of all when he echoed the talk of + his world; but his listener kept a grave face. ‘We have nothing to do with + Mrs. Grundy’s morals.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But you believe in a morality of some kind?’ she pursued with diffidence. + ‘You used the word “immoral” just now.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy felt no consciousness of the gulf that yawned between herself as she + spoke now and the old self which had claimed ‘superiority.’ Her mind was + so completely unsettled that she never tried to connect its present state + with its earlier phases. For the most part, her sensations and her + reflections were concerned with the crude elements of life; the + exceptional moments she spent in a world of vague joys and fears, wherein + thought, properly speaking, had no share. Before she could outlive the + shock of passion which seemed at once to destroy and to re-create her, she + was confronted with the second supreme crisis of woman’s existence,—its + natural effects complicated with the trials of her peculiar position. + Tarrant’s reception of her disclosure came as a new disturbance—she + felt bewildered and helpless. + </p> + <p> + He, preoccupied with the anxiety he affected to dismiss, had no + inclination to debate ethical problems. For a while he talked jestingly, + and at length fell into a mood of silence. Nancy did not stay much longer; + they parted without mention of the subject uppermost in their thoughts. + </p> + <p> + They had no stated times of meeting. Tarrant sent an invitation whenever + it pleased him. When the next arrived, in about a week, Nancy made reply + that she did not feel well enough to leave home. It was the briefest + letter Tarrant had yet received from her, and the least affectionate. He + kept silence for a few days, and wrote again. This time Nancy responded as + usual, and came. + </p> + <p> + To the involuntary question in his eyes, hers answered unmistakably. For + the first few minutes they said very little to each other. Tarrant was + struggling with repulsions and solicitudes of which he felt more than half + ashamed; Nancy, reticent for many reasons, not the least of them a + resentful pride, which for the moment overcame her fondness, endeavoured + to speak of trivial things. They kept apart, and at length the + embarrassment of the situation held them both mute. + </p> + <p> + With a nervous movement, the young man pushed forward the chair on which + Nancy usually sat. + </p> + <p> + ‘I see that you don’t look well.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy turned to the window. She had unbuttoned her jacket, and taken off + her gloves, but went no further in the process of preparing herself for + the ordinary stay of some hours. + </p> + <p> + ‘Did something in my letter displease you?’ inquired her husband. + </p> + <p> + ‘You mean—because I didn’t come? No; I really didn’t feel well + enough.’ + </p> + <p> + Tarrant hesitated, but the softer feeling prevailed with him. He helped to + remove her jacket, seated her by the fire, and led her to talk. + </p> + <p> + ‘So there’s no doubt of it?’ + </p> + <p> + Her silence made answer. + </p> + <p> + ‘Then of course there’s just as little doubt as to what we must do.’ + </p> + <p> + His voice had not a convincing sincerity; he waited for the reply. + </p> + <p> + ‘You mean that we can’t keep the secret?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How is it possible?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But you are vexed about it. You don’t speak to me as you used to. I don’t + think you ever will again.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It will make no change in <i>me</i>,’ said Tarrant, with resolute good + humour. ‘All I want to be sure of is that you are quite prepared for the + change in your prospects.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Are <i>you</i>, dear?’ + </p> + <p> + Her tone and look deprived the inquiry of unpleasant implication. He + answered her with a laugh. + </p> + <p> + ‘You know exactly how I regard it. In one way I should feel relief. Of + course I don’t like the thought that I shall have caused you to suffer + such a loss.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I should never have that thought. But are you quite sure about the result + to yourself? You remember saying that you couldn’t be certain how—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How it will be taken at Champion Hill? I was going to tell you the latest + report from there. It is very doubtful whether I should ever have to break + the news.’ + </p> + <p> + They did not look at each other. + </p> + <p> + ‘Everything, in that quarter, must be long since settled. Pray remember + that I have no vast expectations. Quite certainly, it won’t be a large + fortune; very likely not more than your own. But enough to live on, no + doubt. I know the value of money—no man better. It would be pleasant + enough to play with thousands a year. But I don’t grumble so long as I + have a competency.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy meditated, and sighed. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, it’s a pity. Father never meant me to be penniless if I married + wisely.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I suppose not.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course not!’ + </p> + <p> + They both meditated. + </p> + <p> + ‘It wouldn’t be possible—would it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why,’ he answered with a laugh, ‘last time you were here you spoke in + quite the other way. You were utterly miserable at the thought of living + through it alone.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes—I don’t know whether I could—even if—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What are you thinking of?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ve been talking with Mary,’ she replied, after an uneasy pause. ‘She + has lived with us so long; and since father’s death it seems quite natural + to make a friend of her. No one could be more devoted to me than she is. I + believe there’s nothing she wouldn’t do. I believe I might trust her with + any secret.’ + </p> + <p> + The obvious suggestion demanded thought. + </p> + <p> + ‘By-the-bye,’ said Tarrant, looking up, ‘have you seen your aunt again?’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy’s face changed to a cold expression. + </p> + <p> + ‘No. And I don’t think I shall.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Probably you were as little sympathetic to her as she to you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t like her,’ was the brief reply. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ve had curious thoughts about that lady,’ said Tarrant, smiling. ‘The + mystery, it seems to me, is by no means solved. You think she really <i>is</i> + your aunt?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Impossible to doubt it. Any one could see her likeness to Horace at + once.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Ah, you didn’t mention that. I had a fear that she might be simply an + adventuress, with an eye to your brother’s money.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘She is what she says, I’m sure. But I shall never ask her to come and see + me again, and I don’t think she’ll want to. That would be fortunate if—if + we wished—’ + </p> + <p> + Tarrant nodded. At the same moment they heard a sound that startled them. + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s a knock at the door,’ said Nancy, rising as if to escape. + </p> + <p> + ‘So it is. Banging with a stick. Let him bang. It must be a stranger, or + he’d respect the oak.’ + </p> + <p> + They sat listening. The knock sounded again, loud and prolonged. Tarrant + joked about it; but a third time came the summons. + </p> + <p> + ‘I may as well go and see who it is.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh—you won’t let any one—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course not. Sit quietly.’ + </p> + <p> + He went out, closing the room-door behind him, and opened the heavy door + which should have ensured his privacy. For five minutes he was absent, + then returned with a face portending news. + </p> + <p> + ‘It was Vawdrey. He knew my habit of sporting the oak, and wouldn’t go + away till he had made sure. My grandmother is dying. They telegraphed to + Vawdrey in the City, and he came here at once to tell me. I must go. + Perhaps I shall be too late.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What did he think of your keeping him outside?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I made some sort of excuse. He’s a good-natured fellow; it didn’t matter. + Stay a little after I’m gone; stay as long as you like, In fact. You can + pull to the inner door when you go.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What did the telegram say?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Mrs. Tarrant sinking. Come immediately.’ Of course we expected it. It’s + raining hard: wait and see if it stops; you must take care of yourself.’ + </p> + <p> + For this, Nancy was not slow in exhibiting her gratitude, which served as + mask of the pleasure she could not decently betray. When her husband had + hastened off, she sat for a few minutes in thought; then, alone here for + the first time, she began to walk about the rooms, and to make herself + more intimately acquainted with their contents. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER 7 + </h2> + <p> + Whilst she was thus occupied, darkness came on. She did not care to light + the lamp, so made herself ready, and stole forth. + </p> + <p> + The rain had ceased. Walking alone at night was a pleasure in which she + now indulged herself pretty frequently; at such times Mary Woodruff + believed her in the company of Miss. Morgan. The marked sobriety of her + demeanour since Mr. Lord’s death, and the friendliness, even the + affection, she evinced in their common life at home, had set Mary’s mind + at ease concerning her. No murmur at her father’s will had escaped Nancy, + in this respect very unlike her brother, who, when grief was forgotten, + declared himself ill-used; she seemed perfectly content with the + conditions laid upon her, and the sincerity of her mourning could not be + doubted. Anxious to conciliate the girl in every honest way, Mary behaved + to her with the same external respect as ever, and without a hint of + express guardianship. The two were on excellent terms. It seemed likely + that before long they would have the house to themselves; already Horace + had spoken of taking lodgings in a part of London more congruous with the + social aspirations encouraged by his aunt, Mrs. Damerel. + </p> + <p> + From Chancery Lane she passed into Fleet Street, and sauntered along with + observation of shop-windows. She was unspeakably relieved by the events of + the afternoon; it would now depend upon her own choice whether she + preserved her secret, or declared herself a married woman. Her husband had + proved himself generous as well as loving; yes, she repeated to herself, + generous and loving; her fears and suspicions had been baseless. Mrs. + Tarrant’s death freed them from all sordid considerations. A short time, + perhaps a day or two, might put an end to irregularities, and enable her + to hold up her head once more. + </p> + <p> + Feeling hungry, she entered a restaurant, and dined. Not carelessly, but + with fastidious choice of viands. This was enjoyable; she began to look + more like herself of a few months ago. + </p> + <p> + She would return to Camberwell by train from Ludgate Hill. At the circus, + crowding traffic held her back for a minute or two; just as she ran + forward, a familiar voice caused her to stop again. She became flurried, + lost her head, stood still amid a tumult of omnibuses, cabs and carts; but + a hand grasped her by the arm, and led her safely to the opposite + pavement. + </p> + <p> + ‘What do you mean by shouting at me in the street?’ were her first words. + </p> + <p> + The person addressed was Luckworth Crewe; he had by no means anticipated + such wrathful greeting, and stood in confusion. + </p> + <p> + ‘I beg your pardon, Miss. Lord. I didn’t think I shouted. I only meant to + call your attention.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why should you call my attention?’ Her cheeks were flushed with anger; + she regarded him as though he were a stranger guilty of mere insolence. ‘I + don’t wish to speak to you.’ + </p> + <p> + With astonishment, Crewe found himself alone. But a rebuff such as this, + so irrational as he thought it, so entirely out of keeping with Miss. + Lord’s behaviour, he could by no means accept. Nancy was walking towards + the railway-station; he followed. He watched her as she took a ticket, + then put himself in her way, with all the humility of countenance he could + command. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m so sorry I offended you. It wasn’t the right thing to do; I ought to + have waited till you were across. I’m a blundering sort of fellow in those + things. Do let me beg your pardon, and forgive me.’ + </p> + <p> + She was calmer now, though still tremulous. But for the attack of + nervousness, she would have met Crewe with nothing worse than a slight + reserve, to mark a change in their relations. Very soon after her father’s + death he had written a becoming letter, though it smacked of commercial + phraseology. To the hope expressed in it, that he might be allowed to call + upon her in a few weeks’ time, Nancy made no reply. A fortnight later he + wrote again, this time reminding her, with modest propriety, of what had + occurred between them before she left town in August. Nancy responded, and + in grave, friendly language, begged him to think of her no more; he must + not base the slightest hope upon anything she might have said. To her + surprise, Crewe held his peace, and she saw him now for the first time + since their ascent of the Monument. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m ashamed that I lost my temper, Mr. Crewe. I am in a hurry to get + home.’ + </p> + <p> + In the booking-office at Ludgate Hill it is not easy to detain, by + chivalrous discourse, a lady bent on escaping; but Crewe attempted it. He + subdued his voice, spoke rapidly and with emotion, implored that he might + be heard for a moment. Would she not permit him to call upon her? He had + waited, respecting her seclusion. He asked for nothing whatever but + permission to call, as any acquaintance might. + </p> + <p> + ‘Have you heard I have opened an office in Farringdon Street? I should so + like to tell you all about it—what I’m doing—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No one calls to see me,’ said Nancy, with firmness. ‘I wish to live quite + alone. I’m very sorry to seem unfriendly.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Is it anything I’ve done?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No—nothing whatever. I assure you, nothing. Let us say good-bye; I + can’t stop another moment.’ + </p> + <p> + They shook hands and so parted. + </p> + <p> + ‘You’re back early,’ said Mary, when Nancy entered the drawing-room. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes. I left Jessica to her books sooner than usual. The examination draws + near.’ + </p> + <p> + Quiet, sad, diligent ever, Mary kept unchanged the old domestic routine. + There was the same perfect order, the same wholesome economy, as when she + worked under the master’s eyes. Nancy had nothing to do but enjoy the + admirable care with which she was surrounded; she took it all as a matter + of course, never having considered the difference between her own home and + those of her acquaintances. + </p> + <p> + Horace had dined, and was gone out again. They talked of him; Mary said + that he had spoken of moving into lodgings very soon. + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course he doesn’t tell us everything,’ said Nancy. ‘I feel pretty sure + that he’s going to leave the office, but how he means to live I don’t + understand. Perhaps Mrs. Damerel will give him money, or lend it him. I + only hope she may break it off between him and Fanny.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Hasn’t he told you that Fanny is often with Mrs. Damerel?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘With her?’ Nancy exclaimed. ‘He never said a word of it to me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘He said so to me this evening, and laughed when I looked surprised.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well then, I don’t pretend to understand what’s going on. We can’t do + anything.’ + </p> + <p> + About nine o’clock the servant entered the room, bringing Miss. Lord a + note, which had just been left by a cab-driver. Nancy, seeing that the + address was in Tarrant’s hand, opened it with a flutter of joy; such a + proceeding as this, openly sending a note by a messenger, could only mean + that her husband no longer cared to preserve secrecy. To her astonishment, + the envelope contained but a hurried line. + </p> + <p> + ‘Not a word yet to any one. Without fail, come to-morrow afternoon, at + four.’ + </p> + <p> + With what show of calmness she could command, she looked up at her + companion. + </p> + <p> + ‘The idea of his sending in this way! It’s that Mr. Crewe I’ve told you + of. I met him as I was coming home, and had to speak to him rather sharply + to get rid of him. Here comes his apology, foolish man!’ + </p> + <p> + Living in perpetual falsehood, Nancy felt no shame at a fiction such as + this. Mere truth-telling had never seemed to her a weighty matter of the + law. And she was now grown expert in lies. But Tarrant’s message disturbed + her gravely. Something unforeseen must have happened—something, + perhaps, calamitous. She passed a miserable night. + </p> + <p> + When she ascended the stairs at Staple Inn, next afternoon, it wanted ten + minutes to four. As usual at her coming, the outer door stood open, + exposing the door with the knocker. She had just raised her hand, when, + with a sound of voices from inside, the door opened, and Tarrant appeared + in company with a stranger. Terror-stricken, she stepped back. Tarrant, + after a glance, paid no attention to her. + </p> + <p> + ‘All right,’ he was saying to his friend, ‘I shall see you in a day or + two. Good-bye, old man.’ + </p> + <p> + The stranger had observed Nancy, but withheld his eyes from her, and + quickly vanished down the stairs. + </p> + <p> + ‘Who was that?’ she whispered. + </p> + <p> + ‘I told you four o’clock.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It is four.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No—ten minutes to at least. It doesn’t matter, but if you had been + punctual you wouldn’t have had a fright.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy had dropped into a chair, white and shaking. Tarrant’s voice, + abruptly reproachful, affected her scarcely less than the preceding shock. + In the struggle to recover herself she sobbed and choked, and at length + burst into tears. Tarrant spoke impatiently. + </p> + <p> + ‘What’s the matter? Surely you are not so childish’— + </p> + <p> + She stood up, and went into the bedroom, where she remained for several + minutes, returning at length without her jacket, but with her hat still + on. + </p> + <p> + ‘I couldn’t help it; and you shouldn’t speak to me in that way. I have + felt ill all the morning.’ + </p> + <p> + Looking at her, the young man said to himself, that love was one thing, + wedded life another. He could make allowance for Nancy’s weakness—but + it was beyond his power to summon the old warmth and tenderness. If + henceforth he loved her, it must be with husband’s love—a phrase + which signified to him something as distinct as possible from the ardour + he had known; a moral attachment instead of a passionate desire. + </p> + <p> + And there was another reason for his intolerant mood. + </p> + <p> + ‘You hadn’t spoken to any one before you got my note?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No.—Why are you treating me like this? Are you ashamed that your + friend saw me?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Ashamed? not at all.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Who did he think I was?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t know. He doesn’t know anything about you, at all events. As you + may guess, I have something not very pleasant to tell. I didn’t mean to be + unkind; it was only the surprise at seeing you when I opened the door. I + had calculated the exact time. But never mind. You look cold; warm + yourself at the fire. You shall drink a glass of wine; it will put your + nerves right again.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, I want nothing. Tell me at once what it is.’ + </p> + <p> + But Tarrant quietly brought a bottle and glass from his cupboard. Nancy + again refused, pettishly. + </p> + <p> + ‘Until you have drunk,’ he said, with a smile of self-will, ‘I shall tell + you nothing.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t know what I’ve done to make you like this.’ + </p> + <p> + Her sobs and tears returned. After a moment of impatience, Tarrant went up + to her with the glass, laid a hand upon her shoulder, and kissed her. + </p> + <p> + ‘Now, come, be reasonable. We have uncommonly serious things to talk + about.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What did your friend think of me?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That you were one of the prettiest girls he had ever been privileged to + see, and that I was an enviable fellow to have such a visitor. There now, + another sip, and let us have some colour back into your cheeks. There’s + bad news, Nancy; confoundedly bad news, dear girl. My grandmother was dead + when I got there. Well, the foolish old woman has been muddling her + affairs for a long time, speculating here and there without taking any + one’s advice, and so on; and the result is that she leaves nothing at + all.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy was mute. + </p> + <p> + ‘Less than nothing, indeed. She owed a few hundreds that she had no means + of paying. The joke of the thing is, that she has left an elaborate will, + with legacies to half-a-dozen people, myself first of all. If she had been + so good as to die two years ago, I should have come in for a thousand a + year or so. No one suspected what was going on; she never allowed Vawdrey, + the one man who could have been useful to her, to have an inkling of the + affair. An advertising broker got her in his clutches. Vawdrey’s lawyer + has been going through her papers, and finds everything quite + intelligible. The money has gone in lumps, good after bad. Swindling, of + course, but perfectly legal swindling, nothing to be done about it. A + minute or two before her death she gasped out some words of revelation to + the nurse, enough to set Vawdrey on the track, when he was told.’ + </p> + <p> + Still the listener said nothing. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, I had a talk with Vawdrey. He’s a blackguard, but not a bad fellow. + Wished he could help me, but didn’t quite see how, unless I would go into + business. However, he had a suggestion to make.’ + </p> + <p> + For Nancy, the pause was charged with apprehensions. She seemed to + discover in her husband’s face a purpose which he knew would excite her + resistance. + </p> + <p> + ‘He and I have often talked about my friend Sutherland, in the Bahamas, + and Vawdrey has an idea that there’ll be a profitable opening in that + quarter, before long. Sutherland has written to me lately that he thinks + of bestirring himself in the projects I’ve told you about; he has got the + old man’s consent to borrow money on the property. Now Vawdrey, naturally + enough, would like Sutherland to join him in starting a company; the + thoughts of such men run only on companies. So he offers, if I will go out + to the Bahamas for a month or two, and look about me, and put myself in a + position to make some kind of report—he offers to pay my expenses. + Of course if the idea came to anything, and a company got floated, I + should have shares.’ + </p> + <p> + Again he paused. The listener had wide, miserable eyes. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, I told him at once that I would accept the proposal. I have no + right to refuse. All I possess in the world, at this moment, is about + sixty pounds. If I sold all my books and furniture, they might bring + another sixty or so. What, then, is to become of me? I must set to work at + something, and here’s the first work that comes to hand. But,’ his voice + softened, ‘this puts us face to face with a very grave question; doesn’t + it? Are we to relinquish your money, and be both of us penniless? Or is + there any possibility of saving it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How <i>can</i> we? How could the secret be kept?’ + </p> + <p> + Voice and countenance joined in utter dismay. + </p> + <p> + ‘It doesn’t seem to me,’ said Tarrant slowly, ‘a downright impossibility. + It <i>might</i> be managed, with the help of your friend Mary, and + granting that you yourself have the courage. But’—he made a large + gesture—‘of course I can’t exact any such thing of you. It must seem + practicable to you yourself.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What are we to do if my money is lost?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t say <i>we</i>.’ He smiled generously, perhaps too generously. ‘A + man must support his wife. I shall arrange it somehow, of course, so that + <i>you</i> have no anxiety. But—’ + </p> + <p> + His voice dropped. + </p> + <p> + ‘Lionel!’ She sprang up and approached him as he stood by the fireplace. + ‘You won’t leave me, dear? How can you think of going so far away—for + months—and leaving me as I am now? Oh, you won’t leave me!’ + </p> + <p> + He arched his eyebrows, and smiled gently. + </p> + <p> + ‘If that’s how you look at it—well, I must stay.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You can do something here,’ Nancy continued, with rapid pleading. ‘You + can write for the papers. You always said you could—yes, you did say + so. We don’t need very much to live upon—at first. I shall be + content—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘A moment. You mean that the money must be abandoned.’ + </p> + <p> + She had meant it, but under his look her confused thoughts took a new + direction. + </p> + <p> + ‘No. We needn’t lose it. Only stay near me, and I will keep the secret, + through everything. You will only need, then, just to support yourself, + and that is so easy. I will tell Mary how it is. She can be trusted, I am + sure she can. She would do anything for me. She knows that father was not + thinking of a man such as you. It would be cruelly wrong if I lost + everything. I will tell her, and she will help me. Scarcely any one comes + to the house, as it is; and I will pretend to have bad health, and shut + myself up. And then, when the time comes, Mary will go away with me, and—and + the child shall be taken care of by some people we can trust to be kind to + it. Horace is going to live in lodgings; and Mrs. Damerel, I am sure, + won’t come to see me again; and I can get rid of other people. The Barmbys + shall think I am sulking about the will; I’m sure they think already that + I dislike them because of it. Let them think it; I will refuse, presently, + to see them at all. It’s only a few months. If I tell people I’m not well, + nobody will feel surprised if I go away for a month or two—now—soon. + Mary would go with me, of course. I might go for December and January. + Father didn’t mean I was never to have change of air. Then there would be + February and March at home. And then I might go away again till near the + end of May. I’m sure we can manage it.’ + </p> + <p> + She stopped, breathless. Tarrant, who had listened with averted face, + turned and spoke judicially. + </p> + <p> + ‘There’s one thing you’re forgetting, Nancy. Do you propose that we shall + never acknowledge the child? Remember that even if you were bold enough, + after our second marriage, to acknowledge it in the face of scandal—that + wouldn’t be safe. Any one, if suspicion is aroused, can find out when we + were actually married.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘We can’t think of that. The child may not live.’ + </p> + <p> + Tarrant moved, and the movement startled Nancy. It meant that she had + pained him, perhaps made him think of her with repugnance. + </p> + <p> + ‘I hardly know what I am saying. You know I don’t wish that. But all I can + think of now is to keep you near me. I can’t bear to be separated from + you. I love you so much more than you love me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Let me just tell you what I had in mind, Nancy. Supposing the secret can + be kept, we must eventually live abroad, that is to say, if our child is + not to grow up a stranger to us, which neither you nor I could wish. Now, + at Nassau, the capital of the Bahamas, a lot of Americans always spend the + winter. If I made acquaintances among them, it might be a very useful + step, it would be preparing for the future.’ + </p> + <p> + To Nancy this sounded far from convincing. She argued against it in a + perfectly natural way, and as any one else would have done who knew + Tarrant. More than once he had declared to her that he would rather die + than drag out his life in one of the new countries, that he could not + breathe in an atmosphere of commercialism unrelieved by historic + associations. Nancy urged that it would be better to make a home on the + continent, whither they could go, at any moment, without a sense of exile. + </p> + <p> + ‘So it comes to this,’ he interrupted, with an air of resignation. ‘I must + refuse Vawdrey’s offer, and, in doing so, refuse an excellent chance of + providing for our future, <i>if</i>—what is by no means improbable—the + secret should be discovered. I must turn to journalism, or be a clerk. + Well and good. My wife decrees it.’ + </p> + <p> + And he began to hum an air, as if the matter were dismissed. There was a + long silence. + </p> + <p> + ‘How long would you be away?’ murmured Nancy, at length. + </p> + <p> + ‘I suppose two months at most.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘November—December.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘The second of those months you might be spending, as you said, away from + London. Down in Devon, perhaps. I can’t blame your thoughts about it; but + it seems—doesn’t it?—a trifle inconsiderate, when you think + what may result from my journey.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Would you promise me to be back by the end of the year?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not promise, Nancy. But do my best. Letters take fourteen days, that’s + all. You should hear by every mail.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why not promise?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Because I can’t foresee how much I may have to do there, and how long it + will take me. But you may be very sure that Vawdrey won’t pay expenses for + longer than he can help. It has occurred to me that I might get materials + for some magazine articles. That would help to float me with the editors, + you know, if it’s necessary.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy sighed. + </p> + <p> + ‘If I consented—if I did my best not to stand in your way—would + you love me better when you came back?’ + </p> + <p> + The answer was a pleased laugh. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why, there,’ he cried, ‘you’ve given in a nutshell the whole duty of a + wife who wishes to be loved!’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy tried to laugh with him. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER 8 + </h2> + <p> + He must be a strong man whom the sudden stare of Penury does not daunt + and, in some measure, debase. Tarrant, whatever the possibilities of his + nature, had fallen under a spell of indolent security, which declared its + power only when he came face to face with the demand for vigorous action. + The moment found him a sheer poltroon. ‘What! Is it possible that I—<i>I</i>—am + henceforth penniless? I, to whom the gods were so gracious? I, without + warning, flung from sheltered comfort on to the bare road side, where I + must either toil or beg?’ The thing seemed unintelligible. He had never + imagined such ruin of his hopes. + </p> + <p> + For the first time, he turned anxious thoughts upon the money to which his + wife was—would be—might be—entitled. He computed the + chances of success in the deception he and she were practising, and knew + with shame that he must henceforth be party to a vulgar fraud. Could Nancy + be trusted to carry through this elaborate imposition—difficult for + the strongest-minded woman? Was it not a certainty that some negligence, + or some accident, must disclose her secret? Then had he a wife and child + upon his hands, to support even as common men support wife and child, by + incessant labour. The prospect chilled him. + </p> + <p> + If he went to the West Indies, his absence would heighten the probability + of Nancy’s detection. Yet he desired to escape from her. Not to abandon + her; of that thought he was incapable; but to escape the duty—repulsive + to his imagination—of encouraging her through the various stages of + their fraud. From the other side of the Atlantic he would write + affectionate, consolatory letters; face to face with her, could he support + the show of tenderness, go through an endless series of emotional + interviews, always reminding himself that the end in view was hard cash? + Not for love’s sake; he loved her less than before she proved herself his + wife in earnest. Veritable love—no man knew better—would have + impelled him to save himself and her from a degrading position. + </p> + <p> + Was he committing himself to a criminality which the law would visit? + Hardly that—until he entered into possession of money fraudulently + obtained. + </p> + <p> + In miserable night-watchings, he fell to the most sordid calculations. + Supposing their plot revealed, would Nancy in fact be left without + resources? Surely not,—with her brother, her aunt, her lifelong + friends the Barmbys, to take thought for her. She could not suffer + extremities. And upon this he blushed relief. + </p> + <p> + Better to make up his mind that the secret must inevitably out. For the + moment, Nancy believed she had resigned herself to his departure, and that + she had strength to go through with the long ordeal. But a woman in her + situation cannot be depended upon to pursue a consistent course. It is + Nature’s ordinance that motherhood shall be attained through phases of + mental disturbance, which leave the sufferer scarce a pretence of + responsibility. Nancy would play strange pranks, by which, assuredly, he + would be driven to exasperation if they passed under his eyes. He had no + mind to be called father; perhaps even his humanity might fail under the + test to which, as a lover, he had given scarce a casual thought. By + removing himself, and awaiting the issue afar off, he gained time and + opportunity for reflection. Of course his wife could not come to want; + that, after all, was the one clearly comforting thought. Her old servant + would take good care of her, happen what might. + </p> + <p> + He must taste of liberty again before sinking into the humdrum of married + life. The thought of an ocean voyage, of the new life amid tropic + splendours, excited his imagination all the more because it blended with + the thought of recovered freedom. Marriage had come upon him with unfair + abruptness; for such a change as that, even the ordinary bachelor demands + a season preparative; much more, then, the young man who revelled in a + philosophic sense of detachment, who wrote his motto ‘Vixi hodie!’ For + marriage he was simply unfit; forced together, he and his wife would soon + be mutually detestable. A temporary parting might mature in the hearts of + both that affection of which the seed was undeniably planted. With passion + they had done; the enduring tenderness of a reasonable love must now unite + them, were they to be united at all. And to give such love a chance of + growing in him, Tarrant felt that he must lose sight of Nancy until her + child was born. + </p> + <p> + Yes, it had begun already, the trial he dreaded. A letter from Nancy, + written and posted only an hour or two after her return home—a long, + distracted letter. Would he forgive her for seeming to be an obstacle in + the way of what he had proposed? Would he promise her to be faithful? + Would he— + </p> + <p> + He had hardly patience to read it through. + </p> + <p> + The next evening, on returning home about ten o’clock, he was startled by + the sight of Nancy’s figure at the foot of his staircase. + </p> + <p> + ‘What has happened?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Nothing—don’t be frightened. But I wanted to see you tonight.’ + </p> + <p> + She gripped his hand. + </p> + <p> + ‘How long have you waited? What! Hours? But this is downright madness—such + a night as this! Couldn’t you put a note for me in the letter-box?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t—don’t speak so! I wanted to see you.’ She hurried her words, + as if afraid he would refuse to listen. ‘I have told Mary—I wanted + you to know—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Come in. But there’s no fire, and you’re chilled through. Do you want to + be ill? What outrageous silliness!’ + </p> + <p> + Her vitality was indeed at a low ebb, and reproaches made her weep. + Tarrant half carried her up to his room, made a light, and fell to his + knees at fire-building. + </p> + <p> + ‘Let me do it,’ Nancy exclaimed. ‘Let me wait upon you—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘If you don’t sit still and keep quiet, you’ll make me angry in earnest.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then you’re not <i>really</i> angry with me? I couldn’t help it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, I’m afraid you couldn’t,’ Tarrant muttered cheerlessly. + </p> + <p> + ‘I wanted to tell you that Mary will be our friend. She was speechless + with astonishment; at first I didn’t know what she would say; she looked + at me as she had never looked before—as if she were the mistress, + and I the servant. But see what I have come to; all I felt was a dread + lest she should think it her duty to cast me off. I haven’t a bit of pride + left. I could have fallen on my knees before her; I almost did. But she + was very good and kind and gentle at last. She’ll do everything she can + for me.’ + </p> + <p> + The fire in a blaze, Tarrant stood up and regarded it gloomily. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, did she think it possible?’ he asked at length. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, she did. She said it would be very difficult, but the secret might + be kept—if I were strong enough. And I <i>am</i> strong enough—I + <i>will</i> be—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It doesn’t look like it,’ said Tarrant, taking the edge off his words + with a smile. + </p> + <p> + ‘I won’t come again in this way. Where have you been tonight?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, with friends.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Which friends? where?’ + </p> + <p> + He moved impatiently. + </p> + <p> + ‘People you don’t know, Nancy, and wouldn’t care about if you did. Do you + know what time it is?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Do tell me where you have been. It isn’t prying into your affairs. Your + friends ought to be mine; at least, I mean, I ought to know their names, + and something about them. Suppose I were to tell you I had been spending + the evening with friends—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘My dear girl, I shouldn’t ask a question, unless you invited it. However, + it’s better to tell you that I have been making arrangements to sublet + these chambers. I can’t afford to keep them, even if there were any use in + it. Harvey Munden has introduced me to a man who is likely to relieve me + of the burden. I shall warehouse my books and furniture—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then you are going? Really going to leave England?’ + </p> + <p> + He affected astonishment; in truth, nothing now could surprise him. + </p> + <p> + ‘But wasn’t it all decided between us? Didn’t you repeat it in your + letter?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes—I know—but I didn’t think it would come so soon.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘We won’t talk about it to-night,’ said Tarrant firmly. ‘For one thing, + there’s no time. Come closer to the fire, and get warm through; then I + must see you home.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy hung her head. When, in a few moments, she looked up again, it was + to say drily: + </p> + <p> + ‘There’s no need for you to see me home.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m going to, at all events.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why? You don’t care much about me. I might as well be run over—or + anything—’ + </p> + <p> + To this remark no sort of answer was vouchsafed. Nancy sat with her feet + on the fender, and Tarrant kept up a great blaze with chips, which + sputtered out their moisture before they began to crackle. He and she both + seemed intent on this process of combustion. + </p> + <p> + ‘Now you’re quite warm,’ said the young man, as if speaking to a child, + ‘and it’s time to go.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy rose obediently, gazed at him with dreaming eyes, and suffered + herself to be led away by the arm. In Chancery Lane, Tarrant hailed a + crawling hansom. When they were driving rapidly southward, Nancy began to + question him about the date of his departure; she learnt that he might be + gone in less than a week. + </p> + <p> + ‘If you could behave quietly and sensibly, we would have an evening to + make final arrangements.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I can,’ she answered, with a calm that surprised him. ‘If you go without + letting me see you again, I don’t know what I might do. But I can be as + sensible as you are, if I’m treated fairly.’ + </p> + <p> + He grasped her hand. + </p> + <p> + ‘Remember, dear girl, that I have a good deal to worry me just now. Do you + suppose I leave you with a light heart?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘If you can persuade me that you care—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I care a good deal more than I can easily say. Your position is a very + hard one,—harder than mine. But I’m going away to work for your + future. I see clearly that it’s the best thing I could do. Whether + Vawdrey’s ideas come to anything or not, I shall make profit out of the + journey; I mean to write,—I think it’s all I can do to any purpose,—and + the material I shall get together over there will give me a start. Don’t + think I am cold-hearted because I talk in this way; if I broke down, so + much the worse for both of us. The time has come for serious work.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But we shan’t lose my money. I’ve made up my mind we shan’t.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s impossible for you to guard against every danger. We must be + prepared for the worst, and that responsibility rests on me. Try and keep + your mind at ease; whatever happens, to protect you is my duty, and I + shall not fail in it.’ + </p> + <p> + Speaking thus, Tarrant felt the glow of virtue. His words were perfectly + sincere, but had reference to a future which his thoughts left comfortably + vague. + </p> + <p> + They were to meet again, probably for the definite parting, three days + hence. Tarrant, whose desire for escape had now become incontrollable, + used the intervening time in a rush of preparations. He did not debate + with himself as to the length of his sojourn in the West Indies; that must + be determined by circumstances. Explicitly he had avoided a promise on the + subject. What money he possessed he would take with him; it might be to + his interest, for Nancy’s likewise, to exceed the term of absence provided + for in his stipulations with Mr. Vawdrey. But all he deliberately thought + of was the getting away. Impatient with Nancy, because of the vagaries + resultant from her mental and physical state, he himself exhibited a + flagrant triumph of instinct over reason. Once in enjoyment of liberty, he + would reflect, like a practical man, on the details of his position, + review and recognise his obligations, pay his debt to honour; but liberty + first of all. Not his the nature to accept bondage; it demoralised him, + made him do and say things of which he was ashamed. Only let him taste the + breezes of ocean, and the healthful spirit which is one with rectitude + would again inspire him. + </p> + <p> + Much to his surprise, he neither saw nor heard from Nancy until the hour + appointed. She came very punctually. On opening the door to her, with an + air of resolute cheerfulness, he saw something in her face that removed + the necessity for playing a part. It was the look which had so charmed him + in their love-days, the indescribable look, characteristic of Nancy, and + of her alone; a gleam between smile and laughter, a glance mingling pride + with submission, a silent note of personality which thrilled the senses + and touched the heart. + </p> + <p> + ‘What now?’ he asked, holding her hand and gazing at her. ‘Some good + news?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘None that I know of. How hot your room is! Why, you look glad to see me!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Was I ever anything else?’ + </p> + <p> + She answered him with a smile. + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s a very pleasant surprise,’ he continued, watching her as she threw + off her out-door things. ‘I expected a doleful visage, eyes red with + weeping.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Did you? See how much a man thinks of himself! If you choose to go away, + I choose to think as little of you as possible. That’s common sense—isn’t + it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t want you to cry about it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh yes, you do. It flatters you, and you like flattery. But I’ve been too + obliging. I feel myself again, and there’s no more flattery for you—till + you come back. I don’t ask you when that will be. I ask you nothing at + all. I am independent of you.’ + </p> + <p> + Tarrant grew uneasy. He feared that this mood of jest would change only + too suddenly, and her collapse into feminine feebleness be the more + complete. + </p> + <p> + ‘Be as independent as you like,’ he said; ‘only keep your love for me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, indeed! It’s your experience, is it, that the two things can go + together? That’s the difference between man and woman, I suppose. I shall + love you just as little as possible—and how little that will be, + perhaps I had better not tell you.’ + </p> + <p> + Still he stood gazing at her. + </p> + <p> + ‘You look very beautiful to-day.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I know. I saw it for myself before I left home. But we won’t talk about + that. When do you go?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘My goods will be warehoused to-morrow, and the next day I go to + Liverpool.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m glad it’s so soon. We shan’t need to see each other again. Smoke your + pipe. I’m going to make a cup of tea.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Kiss me first. You forgot when you came in.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You get no kiss by ordering it. Beg for it prettily, and we’ll see.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What does it all mean, Nancy? How can you have altered like this?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You prefer me as I was last time?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not I, indeed. You make me feel that it will be very hard to leave you. I + shall carry away a picture of you quite different from the dreary face + that I had got to be afraid of.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy laughed, and of a sudden held out her hands to him. + </p> + <p> + ‘Haven’t I thought of that? These were the very words I hoped to hear from + you. Now beg for a kiss, and you shall have one.’ + </p> + <p> + Never, perhaps, had they spent together so harmonious an evening. Nancy’s + tenderness took at length a graver turn, but she remained herself, face + and speech untroubled by morbid influence. + </p> + <p> + ‘I won’t see you again,’ she said, ‘because I mightn’t be able to behave + as I can to-day. To-day I am myself; for a long time I have been living I + don’t know how.’ + </p> + <p> + Tarrant murmured something about her state of health. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, I know all about that. A strange thought came to me last night. When + my father was alive I fretted because I couldn’t be independent; I wanted + to be quite free, to live as I chose; I looked forward to it as the one + thing desirable. Now, I look back on that as a time of liberty. I am in + bondage, now—threefold bondage.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How threefold?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘To you, because I love you, and couldn’t cease loving you, however I + tried. Then, to my father’s will, which makes me live in hiding, as if I + were a criminal. And then—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What other tyranny?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You mustn’t expect all my love. Before long some one else will rule over + me.—What an exchange I have made! And I was going to be so + independent.’ + </p> + <p> + To the listener, her speech seemed to come from a maturer mind than she + had hitherto revealed. But he suffered from the thought that this might be + merely a pathological phase. In reminding him of her motherhood, she + checked the flow of his emotion. + </p> + <p> + ‘You’ll remember,’ Nancy went on, ‘that I’m not enjoying myself whilst you + are away. I don’t want you to be unhappy—only to think of me, and + keep in mind what I’m going through. If you do that, you won’t be away + from me longer than you can help.’ + </p> + <p> + It was said with unforced pathos, and Tarrant’s better part made generous + reply. + </p> + <p> + ‘If you find it too hard, dear, write to me, and tell me, and there shall + be an end of it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Never. You think me wretchedly weak, but you shall see—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s of your own free will you undertake it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, of my own free will,’ she answered firmly. ‘I won’t come to you + penniless. It isn’t right I should do so. My father didn’t mean that. If I + had had the sense and the courage to tell him, all this misery would have + been spared. That money is mine by every right, and I won’t lose it. Not + only for your sake and my own—there is some one else to think of.’ + </p> + <p> + Tarrant gave her a kind look. + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t count upon it. Trust to me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I like to hear you say that, but I don’t wish you to be put to proof. You + are not the kind of man to make money.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How do you mean it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘As you like to take it. Silly boy, don’t I love you just because you are + <i>not</i> one of the money-making men? If you hadn’t a penny in the + world, I should love you just the same; and I couldn’t love you more if + you had millions.’ + </p> + <p> + The change which Tarrant expected did not come. To the end, she was brave + and bright, her own best self. She said good-bye without a tear, refused + to let him accompany her, and so, even as she had resolved, left in her + husband’s mind an image beckoning his return. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PART4" id="link2H_PART4"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Part IV: The Veiled Figure + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER 1 + </h2> + <p> + Before his admission to a partnership in Mr. Lord’s business, Samuel + Barmby lived with his father and two sisters in Coldharbour Lane. Their + house was small, old and crumbling for lack of repair; the landlord, his + ground-lease having but a year or two to run, looked on with equanimity + whilst the building decayed. Under any circumstances, the family must soon + have sought a home elsewhere, and Samuel’s good fortune enabled them to + take a house in Dagmar Road, not far from Grove Lane; a new and most + respectable house, with bay windows rising from the half-sunk basement to + the second storey. Samuel, notwithstanding his breadth of mind, privately + admitted the charm of such an address as ‘Dagmar Road,’ which looks well + at the head of note-paper, and falls with sonority from the lips. + </p> + <p> + The Barmby sisters, Lucy and Amelia by name, were unpretentious young + women, without personal attractions, and soberly educated. They professed + a form of Dissent; their reading was in certain religious and + semi-religious periodicals, rarely in books; domestic occupations took up + most of their time, and they seldom had any engagements. At appointed + seasons, a festivity in connection with ‘the Chapel’ called them forth; it + kept them in a flutter for many days, and gave them a headache. In the + strictest sense their life was provincial; nominally denizens of London, + they dwelt as remote from everything metropolitan as though Camberwell + were a village of the Midlands. If they suffered from discontent, no one + heard of it; a confession by one or the other that she ‘felt dull’ excited + the sister’s surprise, and invariably led to the suggestion of ‘a little + medicine.’ + </p> + <p> + Their brother they regarded with admiration, tempered by anxiety. ‘Great + talents,’ they knew by report, were often perilous to the possessor, and + there was reason to fear that Samuel Bennett Barmby had not resisted all + the temptations to which his intellect exposed him. At the age of + one-and-twenty he made a startling announcement; ‘the Chapel’ no longer + satisfied the needs of his soul, and he found himself summoned to join the + Church of England as by law established. Religious intolerance not being a + family characteristic, Mr. Barmby and his daughters, though they looked + grave over the young man’s apostasy, admitted his freedom in this matter; + their respected friend Mr. Lord belonged to the Church, and it could not + be thought that so earnest-minded a man walked in the way to perdition. At + the same time, Samuel began to exhibit a liking for social pleasures, + which were, it might be hoped, innocent, but, as they kept him from home + of evenings, gave some ground for uneasiness. He had joined a society of + young men who met for intellectual debate, and his success as an orator + fostered the spiritual pride already discernible in him. His next step + could not be regarded without concern, for he became a member of the + National Sunday League. Deceptive name! At first the Miss. Barmbys + supposed this was a union for safe-guarding the Sabbath-day; it appalled + them to discover that the League had quite an opposite tendency, that its + adherents sallied forth together on ‘Sunday excursions,’ that they + received tickets for Sunday admission to picture galleries, and in various + other ways offended orthodox feeling. But again the father and sisters + gave patient ear to Samuel’s elaborate arguments. They became convinced + that he had no evil intentions. The elder girl, having caught up a + pregnant phrase in some periodical she approved, began to remark that + Samuel had ‘a modern mind;’ and this eventually consoled them. + </p> + <p> + When it began to be observed that Samuel talked somewhat frequently of + Miss. Lord, the implied suggestion caused a tremor of confused feeling. To + the Miss. Barmbys, Nancy seemed an enigmatic person; they had tried to + like her, but could not; they objected to her assumption of superiority, + and were in grave doubt as to her opinions on cardinal points of faith and + behaviour. Yet, when it appeared a possibility that their brother might + woo Miss. Lord and win her for a wife, the girls did their best to see her + in a more favourable light. Not for a moment did it occur to them that + Nancy could regard a proposal from Samuel as anything but an honour; to <i>them</i> + she might behave slightingly, for they were of her own sex, and not + clever; but a girl who prided herself on intellectual attainments must of + course look up to Samuel Bennett with reverence. In their unworldliness—of + a truth they were good, simple creatures—the slight difference of + social position seemed unimportant. And with Samuel’s elevation to a + partnership, even that one shadowy obstacle was removed. Henceforth they + would meet Nancy in a conciliatory spirit, and, if she insisted upon it, + bow down before her. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Barmby, senior, whose years drew nigh to three-score, had a great + advantage in point of physical health over his old friend Stephen Lord, + and his mind enjoyed a placidity which promised him length of days. Since + the age of seventeen he had plied a pen in the office of a Life Assurance + Company, where his salary, by small and slow increments, had grown at + length to two hundred and fifty a year. Himself a small and slow person, + he had every reason to be satisfied with this progress, and hoped for no + further advance. He was of eminently sober mind, profoundly conscientious, + and quite devoid of social ambition,—points of character which + explained the long intimacy between him and Stephen Lord. Yet one habit he + possessed which foreshadowed the intellectual composition of his son,—he + loved to write letters to the newspapers. At very long intervals one of + these communications achieved the honour of type, and then Mr Barmby was + radiant with modest self-approval. He never signed such letters with his + own name, but chose a pseudonym befitting the subject. Thus, if moved to + civic indignation by pieces of orange-peel on the pavement, he styled + himself ‘Urban Rambler;’ if anxious to protest against the overcrowding of + ‘bus or railway-carriage, his signature was ‘Otium cum Dignitate.’ When he + took a holiday at the seaside, unwonted leisure and novel circumstances + prompted him to address local editors at considerable length. The + preservation of decency by bathers was then his favourite topic, and he + would sign ‘Pudor,’ or perchance ‘Paterfamilias.’ His public epistles, if + collected, would have made an entertaining and instructive volume, so + admirably did they represent one phase of the popular mind. ‘No, sir,’—this + sentence frequently occurred,—‘it was not thus that our fathers + achieved national and civic greatness.’ And again: ‘All the feelings of an + English parent revolt,’ &c. Or: ‘And now, sir, where is this to end?’—a + phrase applied at one moment to the prospects of religion and morality, at + another to the multiplication of muffin-bells. + </p> + <p> + On a Sunday afternoon, Mr. Barmby often read aloud to his daughters, and + in general his chosen book was ‘Paradise Lost.’ These performances had an + indescribable solemnity, but it unfortunately happened that, as his + fervour increased, the reader became regardless of aspirates. Thus, at the + culmination of Satanic impiety, he would give forth with shaking voice— + </p> + <p> + ‘<i>Ail, orrors, ail! and thou profoundest Ell, Receive thy new + possessor!’’</i> + </p> + <p> + This, though it did not distress the girls, was painful to Samuel Bennett, + who had given no little care to the correction of similar lapses in his + own speech. + </p> + <p> + Samuel conceived himself much ahead of his family. Quite uneducated, in + any legitimate sense of the word, he had yet learnt that such a thing as + education existed, and, by dint of busy perusal of penny popularities, had + even become familiar with names and phrases, with modes of thought and of + ambition, appertaining to a world for ever closed against him. He spoke of + Culture, and imagined himself far on the way to attain it. His mind was + packed with the oddest jumble of incongruities; Herbert Spencer jostled + with Charles Bradlaugh, Matthew Arnold with Samuel Smiles; in one breath + he lauded George Eliot, in the next was enthusiastic over a novel by Mrs. + Henry Wood; from puerile facetiae he passed to speculations on the origin + of being, and with equally light heart. Save for Pilgrim’s Progress and + Robinson Crusoe, he had read no English classic; since boyhood, indeed, he + had probably read no book at all, for much diet of newspapers rendered him + all but incapable of sustained attention. Whatever he seemed to know of + serious authors came to him at second or third hand. Avowing his faith in + Christianity when with orthodox people, in the society of sceptics he + permitted himself to smile at the old faiths,—though he preferred to + escape this temptation, the Nonconformist conscience still reigning within + him. At home he posed as a broad-minded Anglican, and having somewhere + read that Tennyson’s ‘In Memoriam’ represented this attitude, he spoke of + the poem as ‘one of the books that have made me what I am.’ + </p> + <p> + His circle of acquaintances lay apart from that in which the Lords moved; + it consisted for the most part of young men humbly endowed in the matter + of income, and making little pretence of social dignity. When others + resorted to theatre or public-house, or places not so readily designated, + Samuel and his friends met together to discourse on subjects of which they + knew somewhat less than nothing. Some of them occasionally held audacious + language, especially when topics such as the relations of the sexes + invited their wisdom; they had read something somewhere which urged them + to cast off the trammels of conventional thought; they ‘ventured to say’ + that in a very few years ‘surprising changes of opinion would come about.’ + These revolutionaries, after startling the more sober of their hearers, + went quietly home to mother or landlady, supped on cheese and cocoa, and + next day plied the cleric pen with exemplary zeal. + </p> + <p> + Samuel believed himself in love. That he should conceive matrimonial + intentions with regard to Stephen Lord’s daughter was but the natural + issue of circumstance; from that conception resulted an amorous mood, so + much inflamed by Nancy’s presence that a young man, whose thoughts did not + often transgress decorum, had every reason to suppose himself her victim. + When Nancy rejected his formal offer of devotion, the desire to wed her + besieged him more vigorously; Samuel was piqued at the tone of lofty + trifling in which the girl answered his proposal; for assuredly he + esteemed himself no less remarkable a person than he appeared in the eyes + of his sisters, and his vanity had been encouraged by Mr. Lord’s favour. + Of his qualities as a man of business there was no doubt; in one direction + or another, he would have struck the road to fortune; why Nancy should + regard him with condescension, and make him feel at once that his suit was + hopeless, puzzled him for many a day. He tried flattery, affecting to + regard her as his superior in things of the intellect, but only with the + mortifying result that Miss. Lord accepted his humility as quite natural. + Then he held apart in dignified reserve, and found no difficulty in + maintaining this attitude until after Mr. Lord’s death. Of course he did + not let his relatives know of the repulse he had suffered, but, when + speaking to them of what had happened on Jubilee night, he made it appear + that his estimate of Miss. Lord was undergoing modification. ‘She has lost + him, all through her flightiness,’ said the sisters to each other. They + were not sorry, and felt free again to criticise Nancy’s ideas of maidenly + modesty. + </p> + <p> + The provisions of Mr. Lord’s will could not but trouble the intercourse + between Grove Lane and Dagmar Road. Mr. Barmby, senior, undertook with + characteristic seriousness the guardianship conferred upon him. He had + long interviews with Horace and Nancy, in which he acquitted himself + greatly to his own satisfaction. Samuel, equally a trustee, showed his + delicacy by holding aloof save when civility dictated a call upon the + young people. But his hopes had revived; he was quite willing to wait + three years for Nancy, and it seemed to him more than probable that this + period of reflection would bring the young lady to a sense of his merits. + In the meantime, he would pursue with energy the business now at his sole + direction, and make it far more lucrative than when managed on Mr. Lord’s + old-fashioned principles. + </p> + <p> + As the weeks went on, it seemed more clear than at first that Nancy + resented the authority held by Samuel and his father. They were not + welcome at the house in Grove Lane; the Miss. Barmbys called several times + without being admitted, though they felt sure that Nancy was at home. + Under these circumstances, it became desirable to discover some + intermediary who would keep them acquainted with the details of Nancy’s + life and of her brother’s. Such intermediary was at hand, in the person of + Miss. Jessica Morgan. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER 2 + </h2> + <p> + Until of late there had existed a bare acquaintance between Jessica and + the Barmby family. The two or three hours which she perforce spent in + Samuel’s company on Jubilee night caused Jessica no little embarrassment; + as a natural result, their meetings after that had a colour of intimacy, + and it was not long before Miss. Morgan and the Miss. Barmbys began to see + more of each other. Nancy, on a motive correspondent with that which + actuated her guardians, desired Jessica’s familiarity with the household + in Dagmar Road; her friend could thus learn and communicate sundry facts + of importance, else hidden from her in the retirement to which she was now + condemned. How did the Barmbys regard her behaviour to them? Did they, in + their questioning, betray any suspicion fraught with danger? Jessica, + enjoying the possession of a most important secret, which she had + religiously guarded even from her mother, made time to accept the Barmbys’ + invitations pretty frequently, and invited the girls to her own home as + often as she could afford a little outlay on cakes and preserves. + </p> + <p> + It made a salutary distraction in her life. As December drew near, she + exhibited alarming symptoms of over-work, and but for the romance which + assured to her an occasional hour of idleness, she must have collapsed + before the date of her examination. As it was, she frightened one of her + pupils, at the end of a long lesson, by falling to the floor and lying + there for ten minutes in unconsciousness. The warning passed unheeded; day + and night she toiled at her insuperable tasks, at times half frenzied by + the strangest lapses of memory, and feeling, the more she laboured, only + the more convinced that at the last moment every fact she had acquired + would ruthlessly desert her. + </p> + <p> + Her place of abode favoured neither health nor mental tranquillity. It was + one of a row of new houses in a new quarter. A year or two ago the site + had been an enclosed meadow, portion of the land attached to what was once + a country mansion; London, devourer of rural limits, of a sudden made + hideous encroachment upon the old estate, now held by a speculative + builder; of many streets to be constructed, three or four had already come + into being, and others were mapped out, in mud and inchoate masonry, + athwart the ravaged field. Great elms, the pride of generations passed + away, fell before the speculative axe, or were left standing in mournful + isolation to please a speculative architect; bits of wayside hedge still + shivered in fog and wind, amid hoardings variegated with placards and + scaffolding black against the sky. The very earth had lost its wholesome + odour; trampled into mire, fouled with builders’ refuse and the noisome + drift from adjacent streets, it sent forth, under the sooty rain, a smell + of corruption, of all the town’s uncleanliness. On this rising locality + had been bestowed the title of ‘Park.’ Mrs. Morgan was decided in her + choice of a dwelling here by the euphonious address, Merton Avenue, + Something-or-other Park. + </p> + <p> + The old mansion—not very old, and far from beautiful, but stoutly + built—stood grim and desolate, long dismantled, and waiting only to + be torn down for the behoof of speculative dealers in old material. What + aforetime was a tree-bordered drive, now curved between dead stumps, a + mere slushy cartway; the stone pillars, which had marked the entrance, + damaged in the rending away of metal with a market value, drooped + sideways, ready at a touch to bury themselves in slime. + </p> + <p> + Through summer months the Morgans had suffered sufficiently from the + defects of their house; with the coming on of winter, they found + themselves exposed to miseries barely endurable. At the first slight + frost, cistern and water-pipes went to ruin; already so damp that unlovely + vegetation had cropped up on cellar walls, the edifice was now drenched + with torrents of water. Plaster fell from the ceilings; paper peeled away + down the staircase; stuccoed portions of the front began to crack and + moulder. Not a door that would close as a door should; not a window that + would open in the way expected of it; not a fireplace but discharged its + smoke into the room, rather than by the approved channel. Everywhere + piercing draughts, which often entered by orifices unexplained and + unexplainable. From cellar floor to chimney-pot, no square inch of honest + or trustworthy workmanship. So thin were the parti-walls that conversation + not only might, but must, be distinctly heard from room to room, and from + house to house; the Morgans learnt to subdue their voices, lest all they + said should become common property of the neighbourhood. For the privilege + of occupying such a residence, ‘the interior,’ said advertisement, + ‘handsomely decorated,’ they were racked with an expenditure which, away + in the sweet-scented country, would have housed them amid garden graces + and orchard fruitfulness. + </p> + <p> + At this time, Mr. Morgan had joined an acquaintance in the establishment + of a debt-collecting agency; his partner provided the modest capital + needful for such an enterprise, and upon himself fell the disagreeable + work. A man of mild temper and humane instincts, he spent his day in + hunting people who would not or could not pay the money they owed, + straining his wits to circumvent the fraudulent, and swooping relentlessly + upon the victims of misfortune. The occupation revolted him, but at + present he saw no other way of supporting the genteel appearances which—he + knew not why—were indispensable to his life. He subsisted like a + bird of prey; he was ever on the look out for carrion which the law + permitted him to seize. From the point of view forced upon him, society + became a mere system of legalised rapine. ‘You are in debt; behold the + bond. Behold, too, my authority for squeezing out of you the uttermost + farthing. You must beg or starve? I deplore it, but I, for my part, have a + genteel family to maintain on what I rend from your grip.’ He set his + forehead against shame; he stooped to the basest chicanery; he exposed + himself to insult, to curses, to threats of violence. Sometimes a whole + day of inconceivably sordid toil resulted in the pouching of a few pence; + sometimes his reward was a substantial sum. He knew himself despised by + many of the creditors who employed him. ‘Bad debts? For how much will you + sell them to me?’ And as often as not he took away with his bargain a + glance which was equivalent to a kick. + </p> + <p> + The genteel family knew nothing of these expedients. Mrs. Morgan talked + dolorously to her friends of ‘commercial depression,’ and gave it to be + vaguely understood that her husband had suffered great losses because he + conducted his affairs in the spirit of a gentleman. Her son was in an + office;’ her elder daughter was attempting the art of fiction, which did + not promise to be lucrative; Jessica, more highly educated, would shortly + matriculate at the University of London—a consoling prospect, but + involving the payment of a fee that could with difficulty be afforded. + </p> + <p> + Every friend of the family held it a matter of course that Jessica would + succeed in the examination. It seemed probable that she would have a place + in Honours. + </p> + <p> + And, meanwhile, the poor girl herself was repenting of the indiscreet + boastfulness with which she had made known her purpose. To come out in an + inferior class would be painful enough; how support the possibility of + absolute failure? Yet she knew only too well that in certain ‘subjects’ + she was worse than shaky. Her Greek—her Chemistry—her Algebra— + </p> + <p> + By way of propitiating the stern fates, she began to talk with Lucy and + Amelia Barmby in a tone of diffidence. Half a year ago, she would have + held her head very high in such company; now the simple goodness of the + old-fashioned girls made an appeal to her aching heart, and their homely + talk soothed her exhausted brain. + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s fearfully difficult,’ she said to them one evening, as she sat in + their parlour. ‘And I lose so much time with my pupils. Really, you know, + I haven’t a fair chance. I was showing Nancy Lord the Algebra paper set + last summer, and she confessed she could hardly do a single question.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘She couldn’t?’ exclaimed one of the sisters in astonishment. ‘But we + always thought she was so very clever.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘So she is—in many things. But she never dreamt of going in for such + an examination as this.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And do you really know more than she does?’ + </p> + <p> + Jessica smiled with affected modesty. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, I have studied so much more.’ + </p> + <p> + It was sweet to gain this triumph over her friend, whose progress in the + school of life she watched with the jealousy of a girl condemned to + sterile passions. + </p> + <p> + Their talk was interrupted by the entrance of Samuel Barmby, and his elder + sister, addressing him without reflection, said wonderingly: + </p> + <p> + ‘Sam, did you know that Nancy Lord couldn’t pass the examination that + Miss. Morgan is going in for?’ + </p> + <p> + Jessica blushed, and hastened to extenuate this crude statement. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, I didn’t say that. Only that she would have to study very hard if she + went in for the matriculation.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course she would,’ Samuel assented, largely, as he took his stand + before the fireplace and beamed upon the female trio. ‘Miss Lord goes in + for broad culture; that’s quite a different thing from studying for + examinations.’ + </p> + <p> + To the hearers, Jessica not excepted, this seemed to argue the spirit of + broad culture in Samuel himself. Miss. Morgan pursued nervously: + </p> + <p> + ‘Examinations are nothing. I believe very stupid people often do well in + them, and clever people often fail.’ + </p> + <p> + Her voice sank on the last word, and she tried to read Barmby’s face + without meeting his look. Of late, a change had come about in her + estimation of Samuel. Formerly she spoke of him with contemptuous + amusement, in the tone set by Nancy; since she had become a friend of the + family, his sisters’ profound respect had influenced her way of thinking, + and in secret she was disposed rather to admire ‘the Prophet.’ He had + always struck her as a comely man, and, her education notwithstanding, she + never perceived in his remarks that downright imbecility which excited + Nancy’s derision. On Jubilee night he was anything but a tedious + companion; apart from her critical friend, Jessica had listened without + impatience to his jests, his instructive facts, his flowing rhetoric. + Now-a-days, in her enfeebled state of body and mind, she began to look + forward with distinct pleasure to her occasional meetings with Samuel, + pleasure which perhaps was enhanced by the air of condescension wherewith + he tempered his courtesy. Morbid miseries brought out the frailty of her + character. Desiring to be highly esteemed by Mr. Barmby, she found herself + no less willing to join his sisters in a chorus of humbly feminine + admiration, when he discoursed to them from an altitude. At moments, after + gazing upon his eloquent countenance, she was beset by strange impulses + which brought blood to her cheek, and made her dread the Miss. Barmbys’ + scrutiny. + </p> + <p> + ‘I look upon examinations,’ Samuel was saying, ‘as a professional matter. + I never went in for them myself, simply because I—I turned my + energies in another direction.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You <i>could</i> have passed them,’ remarked one of his sisters, ‘easily + enough.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘In Miss. Morgan’s presence,’—he stroked his chin, and smiled with + delicious fatuity—‘I prefer to say nothing on that point.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh but of course you could, Mr. Barmby,’ sounded Jessica’s voice, in an + unsteady falsetto, whilst her eyes were turned upon the floor. ‘You would + have thought nothing of this matriculation, which seems to me so + dreadful.’ + </p> + <p> + Profoundly flattered, Samuel addressed the girl in his suavest tones. + </p> + <p> + ‘I have a theory, Miss. Morgan, that young ladies ought not to undergo + these ordeals. The delicacy of their nervous system unfits them for such a + strain. I’m sure we shall all feel very glad when you are successfully + through the trial. After it, you ought to have a long rest.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, you ought—indeed you ought,’ assented the girls. + </p> + <p> + ‘By the bye,’ said Samuel, ‘my father has heard from Miss. Lord that she + is going away for a month or two. She says her health requires it.’ + </p> + <p> + Jessica sat silent, still with downcast eyes. + </p> + <p> + ‘But it’s a new thing, isn’t it,’ remarked Amelia, ‘for Miss. Lord to be + in bad health?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘She has suffered a good deal, I’m afraid,’ said Jessica, ‘since her + father’s death. The doctor tells her she oughtn’t to live in that dull + house through the winter.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘In that case,’ Samuel exclaimed, ‘of course she must go at once—of + course!’ + </p> + <p> + He never spoke of Nancy but with stress of unctuous generosity. This, if + his hearers knew what he had suffered at her hands, must tell greatly to + his credit; if they were not aware of the circumstances, such a tone would + become him as the young lady’s hopeful admirer. + </p> + <p> + ‘I fear her nerves are affected,’ pursued Jessica. ‘She can’t bear + society. So unlike her, isn’t it? She goes out very little indeed,—sometimes + not for days together. And really she sees nobody. I’m getting quite + anxious about her.’ + </p> + <p> + The subject was an awkward one in this house, and it soon gave place to + freer conversation. On her way home, though mechanically repeating dates + and formulae, Jessica could not resist the tendency of her thoughts, to + dwell on Samuel’s features and Samuel’s eloquence. This was a new danger; + she had now little more than a fortnight for her final ‘cram,’ and any + serious distraction meant ruin. + </p> + <p> + In a day or two she took leave of Nancy, who had chosen for her winter + retreat no less remote a spot than Falmouth. Horace having settled himself + in lodgings, the house was to be shut up; Mary Woodruff of course went + down into Cornwall. Nancy had written a letter to Mr. Barmby, senior, + excusing herself for not being able to see him before her departure; it + was an amiable letter, but contained frank avowal of pain and discontent + at the prospect of her long pupilage. ‘Of course I submit to the burden my + father chose to lay upon me, and before long, I hope, I shall be able to + take things in a better spirit. All I ask of you, dear Mr. Barmby, is to + have forbearance with me until I get back my health and feel more + cheerful. You know that I could not be in better hands whilst Mary is with + me. I shall write frequently, and give you an account of myself. Let me + hear sometimes, and show me that you make allowance for my very trying + position.’ + </p> + <p> + Jessica heard the letter discussed by its recipient and his family. Samuel + spoke with his wonted magnanimity; his father took a liberal view of the + matter. And in writing to her friend a few days later, Jessica was able to + say: ‘I think you may safely stay at Falmouth for the whole winter. You + will not be interfered with if you write nicely. I shouldn’t wonder if + they would let you keep out of their reach <i>as long as it is necessary</i>.’ + </p> + <p> + The week of Jessica’s ordeal was now at hand. She had had another + fainting-fit; her sleep was broken every night with hideous dreams; she + ate scarce enough to keep herself alive; a perpetual fever parched her + throat and burned at her temples. + </p> + <p> + On the last day of ‘cram,’ she sat from morning to night in her + comfortless little bedroom, bending over the smoky fire, reading + desperately through a pile of note-books. The motive of vanity no longer + supported her; gladly she would have crept away into a life of + insignificance; but the fee for the examination was paid, and she must + face the terrors, the shame, that waited her at Burlington House. No hope + of ‘passing.’ Perhaps at the last moment a stroke of mortal illness would + come to her relief. + </p> + <p> + Not so. She found herself in the ghastly torture-hall, at a desk on which + lay sheets of paper, not whiter than her face. Somebody gave her a scroll, + stereotyped in imitation of manuscript—the questions to be answered. + For a quarter of an hour she could not understand a word. She saw the face + of Samuel Barmby, and heard his tones—‘The delicacy of a young + lady’s nervous system unfits her for such a strain.’ + </p> + <p> + That evening she went home with a half-formed intention of poisoning + herself. + </p> + <p> + But the morrow saw her seated again before another scroll of stereotype, + still thinking of Samuel Barmby, still hearing his voice. The man was + grown hateful to her; he seemed to haunt her brain malignantly, and to + paralyse her hand. + </p> + <p> + Day after day in the room of torture, until all was done. Then upon her + long despair followed a wild, unreasoning hope. Though it rained, she + walked all the way home, singing, chattering to herself, and reached the + house-door without consciousness of the distance she had traversed. Her + mother and sister came out into the hall; they had been watching for her. + </p> + <p> + ‘I did a good paper to-day—I think I’ve passed after all—yes, + I feel sure I’ve passed!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You look dreadful,’ exclaimed Mrs. Morgan. ‘And you’re wet through—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I did a good paper to-day—I feel sure I’ve passed!’ + </p> + <p> + She sat down to a meal, but could not swallow. + </p> + <p> + ‘I feel sure I’ve passed—I feel sure—’ + </p> + <p> + And she fell from the chair, to all appearances stone-dead. + </p> + <p> + They took her upstairs, undressed her, sent for the doctor. When he came, + she had been lying for half-an-hour conscious, but mute. She looked + gravely at him, and said, as if repeating a lesson: + </p> + <p> + ‘The delicacy of a young lady’s nervous system unfits her for such a + strain.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Undoubtedly,’ repeated the doctor, with equal gravity. + </p> + <p> + ‘But,’ she added eagerly, ‘let Mr. Barmby know at once that I have + passed.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘He shall know at once,’ said the doctor. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER 3 + </h2> + <p> + A lady who lived at Kilburn, and entertained largely in a house not + designed for large entertainment, was ‘at home’ this evening. At eleven + o’clock the two drawing-rooms contained as many people as could sit and + stand with semblance of comfort; around the hostess, on the landing, + pressed a crowd, which grew constantly thicker by affluence from the + staircase. In the hall below a ‘Hungarian band’ discoursed very loud + music. Among recent arrivals appeared a troupe of nigger minstrels, + engaged to give their exhilarating entertainment—if space could be + found for them. Bursts of laughter from the dining-room announced the + success of an American joker, who, in return for a substantial cheque, + provided amusement in fashionable gatherings. A brilliant scene. The air, + which encouraged perspiration, was rich with many odours; voices + endeavouring to make themselves audible in colloquy, swelled to a + tumultuous volume that vied with the Hungarian clangours. + </p> + <p> + In a corner of the staircase, squeezed behind two very fat women in very + low dresses, stood Horace Lord. His heated countenance wore a look of + fretful impatience; he kept rising upon his toes in an endeavour to + distinguish faces down in the hall. At length his expression changed, and + with eager eyes he began to force a way for himself between the fat women. + Not unrewarded with glaring glances, and even with severe remarks, he + succeeded in gaining the foot of the staircase, and came within reach of + the persons for whom he had been waiting. These were Mrs. Damerel and + Fanny French. The elder lady exhibited a toilet of opulence corresponding + with her mature charms; the younger, as became a <i>debutante</i>, wore + graceful white, symbol of her maiden modesty. + </p> + <p> + ‘You promised to be early,’ said Horace, addressing Mrs. Damerel, but + regarding Fanny, who stood in conversation with a florid man of uncertain + age. + </p> + <p> + ‘Couldn’t get here before, my dear boy.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Surely you haven’t brought that fellow with you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Hush! You mustn’t talk in that way. We met at the door. Mrs. Dane knows + him. What does it matter?’ + </p> + <p> + Horace moved aside to Fanny. Flushed with excitement, her hair adorned + with flowers, she looked very pretty. + </p> + <p> + ‘Come along,’ he said, gripping her hand more violently than he intended. + ‘Let us get upstairs.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, you hurt me! Don’t be so silly.’ + </p> + <p> + The man beside her gave Horace a friendly nod. His name was Mankelow. + Horace had met him once or twice of late at Mrs. Damerel’s, but did not + like him, and felt still less disposed to do so now that Mankelow was + acquainted with Fanny French. He suspected that the two were more familiar + than Fanny pretended. With little ceremony, he interposed himself between + the girl and this possible rival. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why didn’t you make her come earlier?’ he said to Fanny, as they began a + slow upward struggle in the rear of Mrs. Damerel. + </p> + <p> + ‘It isn’t fashionable to come early.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Nonsense! Look at the people here already.’ + </p> + <p> + Fanny threw up her chin, and glanced back to see that Mankelow was + following. In his vexation, Horace was seized with a cough—a cough + several times repeated before he could check it. + </p> + <p> + ‘Your cold’s no better,’ said Fanny. ‘You oughtn’t to have come out at + night.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It <i>is</i> better,’ he replied sharply. ‘That’s the first time I’ve + coughed to-day. Do you mean you would rather not have found me here?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How silly you are! People will hear what you’re saying.’ + </p> + <p> + It was Fanny’s ‘first season,’ but not her first ‘at home.’ Mrs. Damerel + seemed to be taking an affectionate interest in her, and had introduced + her to several people. Horace, gratified in the beginning, now suffered + from jealousy; it tortured him to observe Fanny when she talked with men. + That her breeding was defective, mattered nothing in this composite world + of pseudo-elegance. Young Lord, who did not lack native intelligence, + understood by this time that Mrs. Damerel and her friends were far from + belonging to a high order of society; he saw vulgarity rampant in every + drawing-room to which he was admitted, and occasionally heard things which + startled his suburban prejudices. But Fanny, in her wild enjoyment of + these novel splendours, appeared to lose all self-control. She flirted + outrageously, and before his very eyes. If he reproached her, she laughed + at him; if he threatened to free himself, she returned a look which + impudently bade him try. Horace had all her faults by heart, and no longer + tried to think that he respected her, or that, if he married such a girl, + his life could possibly be a happy one; but she still played upon his + passions, and at her beck he followed like a dog. + </p> + <p> + The hostess, Mrs. Dane, a woman who looked as if she had once been + superior to the kind of life she now led, welcomed him with peculiar + warmth, and in a quick confidential voice bade him keep near her for a few + minutes. + </p> + <p> + ‘There’s some one I want to introduce you to—some one I’m sure you + will like to know.’ + </p> + <p> + Obeying her, he soon lost sight of Fanny; but Mrs. Dane continued to talk, + at intervals, in such a flattering tone, that his turbid emotions were + soothed. He had heard of the Chittles? No? They were very old friends of + hers, said Mrs. Dane, and she particularly wanted him to know them. Ah, + here they came; mother and daughter. Horace observed them. Mrs. Chittle + was a frail, worn, nervous woman, who must once have been comely; her + daughter, a girl of two-and-twenty, had a pale, thin face of much + sweetness and gentleness. They seemed by no means at home in this company; + but Mrs. Chittle, when she conversed, assumed a vivacious air; the + daughter, trying to follow her example, strove vainly against an excessive + bashfulness, and seldom raised her eyes. Why he should be expected to pay + special attention to these people, Horace was at a loss to understand; but + Mrs. Chittle attached herself to him, and soon led him into familiar + dialogue. He learnt from her that they had lived for two or three years in + a very quiet country place; they had come up for the season, but did not + know many people. She spoke of her daughter, who stood just out of + earshot,—her eyes cast down, on her face a sad fixed smile,—and + said that it had been necessary almost to force her into society. ‘She + loves the country, and is so fond of books; but at her age it’s really a + shame to live like a nun—don’t you think so, Mr. Lord?’ Decidedly it + was, said Horace. ‘I’m doing my best,’ pursued Mrs. Chittle, ‘to cure her + of her shyness. She is really afraid of people—and it’s such a pity. + She says that the things people talk about don’t interest her; but <i>all</i> + people are not frivolous—are they, Mr. Lord?’ Horace hoped not; and + presently out of mere good-nature he tried to converse with the young lady + in a way that should neither alarm her shyness nor prove distasteful to + her intelligence. But with very little success. From time to time the girl + glanced at him with strange timidity, yet seemed quite willing to listen + as long as he chose to talk. + </p> + <p> + Fanny, being at a considerable distance from home, was to return to the + boarding-house where her chaperon now lived, and have a room there for the + night. Horace disliked this arrangement, for the objectionable Mankelow + lived in the same house. When he was able to get speech with Fanny, he + tried to persuade her to go with him all the way home to Camberwell in a + cab. Miss. French would not listen to the suggestion. + </p> + <p> + ‘Who ever heard of such a thing? It wouldn’t be proper.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Proper! Oh, I like that!’ he replied, with scathing irony. + </p> + <p> + ‘You can either like it or not. Mrs. Damerel wouldn’t dream of allowing + it. I think she’s quite as good a judge of propriety as you are.’ + </p> + <p> + They were in a corner of the dining-room. Fanny, having supped much to her + satisfaction, had a high colour, and treated her lover with more than + usual insolence. Horace had eaten little, but had not refrained from + beverages; he was disposed to assert himself. + </p> + <p> + ‘It seems to me that we ought to have an understanding. You never do as I + wish in a single thing. What do you mean by it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, if you’re going to be nasty—’ + </p> + <p> + She made the gesture of a servant-girl who quarrels with her young man at + the street-corner. + </p> + <p> + ‘I can’t stand the kind of treatment you’ve given me lately,’ said Horace, + with muffled anger. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ve told you I shall do just as I like.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Very well. That’s as much as to say that you care nothing about me. I’m + not going to be the slave of a girl who has no sense of honour—not + even of decency. If you wish me to speak to you again you must speak + first.’ + </p> + <p> + And he left her, Fanny laughing scornfully. + </p> + <p> + It drew towards one o’clock when, having exhausted the delights of the + evening, and being in a decidedly limp condition, Mrs. Damerel and her + protegee drove home. Fanny said nothing of what had passed between her and + Horace. The elder lady, after keeping silence for half the drive, spoke at + length in a tone of indulgent playfulness. + </p> + <p> + ‘So you talked a good deal with Mr. Mankelow?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not for long. Now and then. He took me down to supper—the first + time.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m afraid somebody will be a little jealous. I shall get into trouble. I + didn’t foresee this.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Somebody must treat me in a reasonable way,’ Fanny answered, with a dry + laugh. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m quite sure he will,’ said Mrs. Damerel suavely. ‘But I feel myself a + little responsible, you know. Let me put you on your guard against Mr. + Mankelow. I’m afraid he’s rather a dangerous man. I have heard rather + alarming stories about him. You see he’s very rich, and very rich men, if + they’re rather handsome as well, say and do things—you understand?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Is he really very rich?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, several thousands a year, and a prospect of more when relatives + die. I don’t mean to say that he is a bad man. He belongs to a very good + family, and I believe him perfectly honourable. He would never do any one + any harm—or, if he happened to, without meaning it, I’m quite sure + he’d repair it in the honourable way.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You said he was dangerous—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘To a young lady who is already engaged. Confess that you think him rather + good-looking.’ + </p> + <p> + Having inflamed the girl’s imagination, Mrs. Damerel presently dropped the + subject, and fell again into weary silence. + </p> + <p> + At noon of the next day she received a call from Horace, who found her + over tea and toast in her private sitting-room. The young man looked + bilious; he coughed, too, and said that he must have caught fresh cold + last night. + </p> + <p> + ‘That house was like an oven. I won’t go to any more such places. That + isn’t my idea of enjoying myself.’ + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Damerel examined him with affectionate solicitude, and reflected + before speaking. + </p> + <p> + ‘Haven’t you been living rather fast lately?’ + </p> + <p> + He avoided her eyes. + </p> + <p> + ‘Not at all.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Quite sure? How much money have you spent this last month?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not much.’ + </p> + <p> + By careful interrogation—the caressing notes of her voice seemed to + convey genuine feeling—Mrs. Damerel elicited the fact that he had + spent not less than fifty pounds in a few weeks. She looked very grave. + </p> + <p> + ‘What would our little Fanny say to this?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t care what she would say.’ + </p> + <p> + And he unburdened himself of his complaints against the frivolous charmer, + Mrs. Damerel listening with a compassionate smile. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m afraid it’s all too true, dear boy. But didn’t I warn you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You have made her worse. And I more than half believe you have purposely + put her in the way of that fellow Mankelow. Now I tell you plainly’—his + voice quivered—‘if I lose her, I’ll raise all the money I can and + play the very devil.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Hush! no naughty words! Let us talk about something else till you are + quieter.—What did you think of Mrs. Chittle?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I thought nothing of her, good or bad.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Of her daughter, then. Isn’t she a sweet, quiet girl? Do you know that + she is rich? It’s perfectly true. Mrs. Chittle is the widow of a man who + made a big fortune out of a kind of imitation velvet. It sold only for a + few years, then something else drove it out of the market; but the money + was made. I know all about it from Mrs. Dane.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s nothing to me,’ said Horace peevishly. + </p> + <p> + But Mrs. Damerel continued: + </p> + <p> + ‘The poor girl has been very unfortunate. In the last year of her father’s + life they lived in good style, town-house and country-house. And she fell + in love with somebody who—who treated her badly; broke it off, in + fact, just before the wedding. She had a bad illness, and since then she + has lived as her mother told you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How do you know she told me?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I—oh, I took it for granted. She said you had had a long talk. You + can see, of course, that they’re not ordinary people. Didn’t Winifred—her + name is Winifred—strike you as very refined and lady-like?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘She hardly spoke half-a-dozen words.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s her nervousness. She has quite got out of the habit of society. + But she’s very clever, and so good. I want you to see more of her. If she + comes here to tea, will you—just to please me—look in for + half-an-hour?’ + </p> + <p> + She bent her head aside, wistfully. Horace vouchsafed no reply. + </p> + <p> + ‘Dear boy, I know very well what a disappointment you are suffering. Why + not be quite open with me? Though I’m only a tiresome old aunt, I feel + every bit as anxious for your happiness as if I were your mother—I + do indeed, Horace. You believe me, don’t you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You have been very kind, in many ways. But you’ve done harm to Fanny—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No harm whatever, Horace—believe me. I have only given her an + opportunity of showing what she really is. You see now that she thinks of + nothing at all but money and selfish pleasures. Compare her, my dear, with + such a girl as Winifred Chittle. I only mean—just to show you the + difference between a lady and such a girl as Fanny. She has treated you + abominably, my poor boy. And what would she bring you? Not that I wish you + to marry for money. I have seen too much of the world to be so foolish, so + wicked. But when there <i>are</i> sweet, clever, lady-like girls, with + large incomes—! And a handsome boy like you! You may blush, but + there’s no harm in telling the truth. You are far too modest. You don’t + know how you look in the eyes of an affectionate, thoughtful girl—like + Winifred, for instance. It’s dreadful to think of you throwing yourself + away! My dear, it may sound shocking to you, but Fanny French isn’t the + sort of girl that men <i>marry</i>.’ + </p> + <p> + Horace showed himself startled. + </p> + <p> + ‘You are so young,’ pursued the mature lady, with an indulgent smile. ‘You + need the advice of some one who knows the world. In years to come, you + will feel very grateful to me. Now don’t let us talk any more of that, + just now; but tell me something about Nancy. How much longer does she mean + to stay in Cornwall?’ + </p> + <p> + He answered absently. + </p> + <p> + ‘She talks of another month or two.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But what have her guardians to say to that? Why, she has been away for + nearly half a year. How can that be called living at the old house?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s no business of mine.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Nor of mine, you mean to say. Still, it does seem rather strange. I + suppose she is quite to be trusted?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Trusted? What harm can come to her? She’s keeping out of Sam Barmby’s + way, that’s all. I believe he plagued her to marry him. A nice husband for + Nancy!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I wish we had taken to each other,’ said Mrs. Damerel musingly. ‘I think + she was a little jealous of the attention I had paid to <i>you</i>. But + perhaps we shall do better some day. And I’m quite content so long as <i>you</i> + care a little for me, dear boy. You’ll never give me up, will you?’ + </p> + <p> + It was asked with unusual show of feeling; she leaned forward, her eyes + fixed tenderly upon the boy’s face. + </p> + <p> + ‘You would never let a Fanny French come between us, Horace dear?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I only wish you hadn’t brought her among your friends.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Some day you will be glad of what I did. Whatever happens, I am your best + friend—the best and truest friend you will ever have. You will know + it some day.’ + </p> + <p> + The voice impressed Horace, its emotion was so true. Several times through + the day he recalled and thought of it. As yet he had felt nothing like + affection for Mrs. Damerel, but before their next meeting an impulse he + did not try to account for caused him to write her a letter—simply + to assure her that he was not ungrateful for her kindness. The reply that + came in a few hours surprised and touched him, for it repeated in yet + warmer words all she had spoken. ‘Let me be in the place of a mother to + you, dear Horace. Think of me as if I were your mother. If I were your + mother indeed, I could not love you more.’ He mused over this, and + received from it a sense of comfort which was quite new to him. + </p> + <p> + All through the winter he had been living as a gentleman of assured + independence. This was managed very simply. Acting on Mrs. Damerel’s + counsel he insured his life, and straightaway used the policy as security + for a loan of five hundred pounds from a friend of Mrs. Damerel’s. The + insurance itself was not effected without a disagreeable little episode. + As a result of the medical examination, Horace learnt, greatly to his + surprise, that he would have to pay a premium somewhat higher than the + ordinary. Unpleasant questions were asked: Was he quite sure that he knew + of no case of consumption in his family? Quite sure, he answered stoutly, + and sincerely. Why? Did the doctor think <i>him</i> consumptive? Oh dear + no, but—a slight constitutional weakness. In fine, the higher + premium must be exacted. He paid it with the indifference of his years, + but said nothing to Mrs. Damerel. + </p> + <p> + And thereupon began the sowing of wild oats. At two-and-twenty, after + domestic restraint and occupations that he detested, he was let loose upon + life. Five hundred pounds seemed to him practically inexhaustible. He did + not wish to indulge in great extravagance; merely to see and to taste the + world. + </p> + <p> + Ah, the rapture of those first nights, when he revelled amid the tumult of + London, pursuing joy with a pocket full of sovereigns! Theatres, + music-halls, restaurants and public-houses—he had seen so little of + these things, that they excited him as they do a lad fresh from the + country. He drew the line nowhere. Love of a worthy woman tells for + chastity even in the young and the sensual; love of a Fanny French merely + debauches the mind and inflames the passions. Secure in his paganism, + Horace followed where the lures of London beckoned him; he knew not + reproach of conscience; shame offered but thin resistance to his boiling + blood. By a miracle he had as yet escaped worse damage to health than a + severe cold, caught one night after heroic drinking. That laid him by the + heels for a time, and the cough still clung to him. + </p> + <p> + In less than two years he would command seven thousand pounds, and a share + in the business now conducted by Samuel Barmby. What need to stint himself + whilst he felt able to enjoy life? If Fanny deceived him, were there not, + after all, other and better Fannys to be won by his money? For it was a + result of this girl’s worthlessness that Horace, in most things so + ingenuous, had come to regard women with unconscious cynicism. He did not + think he could be loved for his own sake, but he believed that, at any + time, the show of love, perhaps its ultimate sincerity, might be won by + display of cash. + </p> + <p> + Midway in the month of May he again caught a severe cold, and was confined + to the house for nearly three weeks. Mrs. Damerel, who nursed him well and + tenderly, proposed that he should go down for change of air to Falmouth. + He wrote to Nancy, asking whether she would care to see him. A prompt + reply informed him that his sister was on the point of returning to + London, so that he had better choose some nearer seaside resort. + </p> + <p> + He went to Hastings for a few days, but wearied of the place, and came + back to his London excitements. Nancy, however, had not yet returned; nor + did she until the beginning of July. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER 4 + </h2> + <p> + This winter saw the establishment of the South London Fashionable Dress + Supply Association—the name finally selected by Beatrice French and + her advisers. It was an undertaking shrewdly conceived, skilfully planned, + and energetically set going. Beatrice knew the public to which her + advertisements appealed; she understood exactly the baits that would prove + irresistible to its folly and greed. In respect that it was a public of + average mortals, it would believe that business might be conducted to the + sole advantage of the customer. In respect that it consisted of women, it + would give eager attention to a scheme that permitted each customer to + spend her money, and yet to have it. In respect that it consisted of + ignorant and pretentious women, this public could be counted upon to + deceive itself in the service of its own vanity, and maintain against all + opposition that the garments obtained on this soothing system were + supremely good and fashionable. + </p> + <p> + On a basis of assumptions such as these, there was every possibility of + profitable commerce without any approach to technical fraud. + </p> + <p> + By means of the familiar ‘goose-club,’ licensed victuallers make + themselves the bankers of people who are too weak-minded to save their own + money until they wish to spend it, and who are quite content to receive in + ultimate return goods worth something less than half the deposit. By means + of the familiar teapot, grocers persuade their customers that an excellent + trade can be done by giving away the whole profit on each transaction. + Beatrice French, an observant young woman, with a head for figures, had + often noted and reflected upon these two egregious illustrations of human + absurdity. Her dressmaking enterprise assimilated the features of both, + and added novel devices that sprang from her own fruitful brain. The + ‘Fashion Club,’ a wheel within a wheel, was merely the goose-club; + strictly a goose-club, for the licensed victualler addresses himself to + the male of the species. The larger net, cast for those who lacked money + or a spirit of speculation, caught all who, in the realm of grocery, are + lured by the teapot. Every sovereign spent with the Association carried a + bonus, paid not in cash but in kind. These startling advantages were made + known through the medium of hand-bills, leaflets, nicely printed little + pamphlets, gorgeously designed placards; the publicity department, being + in the hands of Mr. Luckworth Crewe, of Farringdon Street, was most ably + and vigorously conducted. + </p> + <p> + Thanks also to Luckworth Crewe, Beatrice had allied herself with partners, + who brought to the affair capital, experience, and activity. Before + Christmas—an important point—the scene of operations was + ready: a handsome shop, with the new and attractive appendages (so-called + ‘club-room,’ refreshment-bar, &c.) which Crewe and Beatrice had + visioned in their prophetic minds. Before the close of the year + substantial business had been done, and 1888 opened with exhilarating + prospects. + </p> + <p> + The ineptitude of uneducated English women in all that relates to their + attire is a fact that it boots not to enlarge upon. Beatrice French could + not be regarded as an exception; for though she recognised monstrosities, + she very reasonably distrusted her own taste in the choice of a garment. + For her sisters, monstrosities had a distinct charm, and to this class of + women belonged all customers of the Association who pretended to think for + themselves as to wherewithal they should be clothed. But women in general + came to the shop with confessed blankness of mind; beyond the desire to + buy something that was modish, and to pay for it in a minus quantity, they + knew, felt, thought nothing whatever. Green or violet, cerulean or + magenta, all was one to them. In the matter of shape they sought merely a + confident assurance from articulate man or woman—themselves being + somewhat less articulate than jay or jackdaw—that this or that was + ‘the feature of the season.’ They could not distinguish between a becoming + garment and one that called for the consuming fires of Heaven. It is often + assumed as a commonplace that women, whatever else they cannot do, may be + trusted to make up their minds about habiliments. Nothing more false, as + Beatrice French was abundantly aware. A very large proportion of the + servant-keeping females in Brixton, Camberwell, and Peckham could not, + with any confidence, buy a chemise or a pair of stockings; and when it + came to garments visible, they were lost indeed. + </p> + <p> + Fanny French began to regret that she had not realised her capital, and + put it into the Association. Wishing at length to do so, she met with a + scornful rebuff. Beatrice would have none of her money, but told her she + might use the shop like any other customer, which of course Fanny did. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Peachey, meanwhile, kept declaring to both her sisters that they must + not expect to live henceforth in De Crespigny Park on the old nominal + terms. Beatrice was on the way to wealth; Fanny moved in West End society, + under the chaperonage of a rich woman; they ought to be ashamed of + themselves for not volunteering handsome recognition of the benefits they + had received beneath their sister’s roof. But neither Beatrice nor Fanny + appeared to see the matter in this light. The truth was, that they both + had in view a change of domicile. The elder desired more comfort and more + independence than De Crespigny Park could afford her; the younger desired + a great many things, and flattered herself that a very simple step would + put her in possession of them. + </p> + <p> + The master of the house no longer took any interest in the fortunes of his + sisters-in-law. He would not bid them depart, he would not bid them stay, + least of all would he demand money from them. Of money he had no need, and + he was the hapless possessor of a characteristic not to be found in any + other member of his household—natural delicacy. + </p> + <p> + Arthur Peachey lived only for his child, the little boy, whose newly + prattling tongue made the sole welcome he expected or cared for on his + return from a hard day’s work. Happily the child had good health, but he + never left home without dread of perils that might befall it in his + absence. On the mother he counted not at all; a good-tempered cow might + with more confidence have been set to watch over the little one’s safety. + The nurse-girl Emma, retained in spite of her mistress’s malice, still + seemed to discharge her duties faithfully; but, being mortal, she demanded + intervals of leisure from time to time, and at such seasons, as Peachey + too well knew, the child was uncared for. Had his heart been resolute as + it was tender, he would long ago have carried out a project which haunted + him at every moment of anger or fear. In the town of Canterbury lived a + sister of his who for several years had been happily wedded, but remained + childless. If the worst came to the worst, if his wife compelled him to + the breaking-up of a home which was no home, this married sister would + gladly take the little boy into her motherly care. He had never dared to + propose the step; but Ada might perchance give ready assent to it, even + now. For motherhood she had no single qualification but the physical. + Before her child’s coming into the world, she snarled at the restraints it + imposed upon her; at its birth, she clamoured against nature for the pains + she had to undergo, and hated her husband because he was the intermediate + cause of them. The helpless infant gave her no pleasure, touched no + emotion in her heart, save when she saw it in the nurse’s care, and + received female compliments upon its beauty. She rejected it at night + because it broke her sleep; in the day, because she could not handle it + without making it cry. When Peachey remonstrated with her, she stared in + insolent surprise, and wished that <i>he</i> had had to suffer all her + hardships of the past year. + </p> + <p> + Peachey could not be said to have any leisure. On returning from business + he was involved forthwith in domestic troubles and broils, which consumed + the dreary evening, and invaded even his sleep. Thus it happened that at + long intervals he was tempted, instead of going home to dinner, to spend a + couple of hours at a certain small eating-house, a resort of his bachelor + days, where he could read the newspapers, have a well-cooked chop in + quietude, and afterwards, if acquaintances were here, play a game of + chess. Of course he had to shield this modest dissipation with a flat + falsehood, alleging to his wife that business had kept him late. Thus on + an evening of June, when the soft air and the mellow sunlight overcame him + with a longing for rest, he despatched a telegram to De Crespigny Park, + and strolled quietly about the streets until the hour and his appetite + pointed him tablewards. The pity of it was that he could not dismiss + anxieties; he loathed the coward falsehood, and thought more of home than + of his present freedom. But at least Ada’s tongue was silent. + </p> + <p> + He seated himself in the familiar corner, and turned over illustrated + papers, whilst his chop hissed on the grid. Ah, if he were but unmarried, + what a life he might make for himself now that the day’s labour brought + its ample reward! He would have rooms in London, and a still, clean + lodging somewhere among the lanes and fields. His ideals expressed the + homeliness of the man. On intellect he could not pride himself; his + education had been but of the ‘commercial’ order; he liked to meditate + rather than to read; questions of the day concerned him not at all. A weak + man, but of clean and kindly instincts. In mercantile life he had + succeeded by virtue of his intensely methodical habits—the + characteristic which made him suffer so from his wife’s indolence, + incapacity, and vicious ill-humour. + </p> + <p> + Before his marriage he had thought of women as domestic beings. A wife was + the genius of home. He knew men who thanked their wives for all the + prosperity and content that they enjoyed. Others he knew who told quite a + different tale, but these surely were sorrowful exceptions. Nowadays he + saw the matter in a light of fuller experience. In his rank of life + married happiness was a rare thing, and the fault could generally be + traced to wives who had no sense of responsibility, no understanding of + household duties, no love of simple pleasures, no religion. + </p> + <p> + Yes, there was the point—no religion. Ada had grown up to regard + church-going as a sign of respectability, but without a shadow of + religious faith. Her incredible ignorance of the Bible story, of Christian + dogmas, often amazed him. Himself a believer, though careless in the + practice of forms, he was not disturbed by the modern tendency to look for + morals apart from faith; he had not the trouble of reflecting that an + ignorant woman is the last creature to be moralised by anything but the + Christian code; he saw straight into the fact—that there was no hope + of impressing Ada with ideas of goodness, truthfulness, purity, simply + because she recognised no moral authority. + </p> + <p> + For such minds no moral authority—merely as a moral authority—is + or can be valid. Such natures are ruled only by superstition—the + representative of reasoned faith in nobler beings. Rob them of their + superstition, and they perish amid all uncleanliness. + </p> + <p> + Thou shalt not lie—for God consumes a liar in the flames of hell! + Ada Peachey could lend ear to no admonition short of that. And, living + when she did, bred as she was, only a John Knox could have impressed her + with this menace—to be forgotten when the echoes of his voice had + failed. + </p> + <p> + He did not enjoy his chop this evening. In the game of chess that followed + he played idly, with absent thoughts. And before the glow of sunset had + died from the calm heaven he set out to walk homeward, anxious, + melancholy. + </p> + <p> + On approaching the house he suffered, as always, from quickened pulse and + heart constricted with fear. Until he knew that all was well, he looked + like a man who anticipates dread calamity. This evening, on opening the + door, he fell back terror-stricken. In the hall stood a police-constable, + surrounded by a group of women: Mrs. Peachey, her sisters, Emma the + nurse-girl, and two other servants. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, here you are at last!’ exclaimed his wife, in a voice exhausted with + rage. ‘You’re just in time to see this beast taken off to the lock-up. + Perhaps you’ll believe me now!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What is it? What has she done?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Stolen money, that’s what she’s done—your precious Emma! She’s been + at it for a long time; I’ve told you some one was robbing me. So I marked + some coins in my purse, and left it in the bedroom whilst we were at + dinner; and then, when I found half-a-crown gone—and it was her + evening out, too—I sent for a policeman before she knew anything, + and we made her turn out her pockets. And there’s the half-crown! Perhaps + you’ll believe it this time!’ + </p> + <p> + The girl’s face declared her guilt; she had hardly attempted denial. Then, + with a clamour of furious verbosity, Ada enlightened her husband on other + points of Emma’s behaviour. It was a long story, gathered, in the last few + minutes, partly from the culprit herself, partly from her fellow-servants. + Emma had got into the clutches of a jewellery tallyman, one of the fellows + who sell trinkets to servant-girls on the pay-by-instalment system. She + had made several purchases of gewgaws, and had already paid three or four + times their value, but was still in debt to the tallyman, who threatened + all manner of impossible proceedings if she did not make up her arrears. + Bottomless ignorance and imbecile vanity had been the girl’s ruin, aided + by a grave indiscretion on Peachey’s part, of which he was to hear + presently. + </p> + <p> + Some one must go to the police-station and make a formal charge. Ada would + undertake this duty with pious eagerness, enjoying it all the more because + of loud wailings and entreaties which the girl now addressed to her + master. Peachey looked at his sisters-in-law, and in neither face + perceived a compassionate softening. Fanny stood by as at a spectacle + provided for her amusement, without rancour, but equally without pity. + Beatrice was contemptuous. What right, said her countenance, had a + servant-girl to covet jewellery? And how pitiable the spirit that prompted + to a filching of half-crowns! For the criminals of finance, who devastate + a thousand homes, Miss French had no small admiration; crimes such as the + present were mean and dirty. + </p> + <p> + Ada reappeared, hurriedly clad for going forth; but no one had fetched a + cab. Incensed, she ordered her husband to do so. + </p> + <p> + ‘Who are you speaking to?’ he replied wrathfully. ‘I am not your servant.’ + </p> + <p> + Fanny laughed. The policeman, professionally calm, averted a smiling face. + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s nothing to me,’ said Mrs. Peachey. ‘I’m quite willing to walk. Come + along, constable.’ + </p> + <p> + Her husband interposed. + </p> + <p> + ‘The girl doesn’t go from my house until she’s properly dressed.’ He + turned to the other servants. ‘Please to blow the whistle at the door, or + get a cab somehow. Emma, go upstairs and put your things on.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It was about time you behaved like a man,’ fell quietly from Beatrice. + </p> + <p> + ‘You’re right.’ He looked sternly at the speaker. ‘It <i>is</i> time, and + that you shall all know.’ + </p> + <p> + The culprit, suddenly silent, obeyed his order. The constable went out at + the front door, and there waited whilst a cab-summoning whistle shrilled + along De Crespigny Park. + </p> + <p> + Ada had ascended to the first landing, to make sure that the culprit did + not escape her. Beatrice and Fanny retired into the drawing-room. After a + lapse of some ten minutes two cabs rattled up to the door from opposite + directions, each driver lashing his horse to gain the advantage. So nearly + were they matched, that with difficulty the vehicles avoided a collision. + The man who had secured a place immediately in front of the doorsteps, + waved his whip and uttered a shout of insulting triumph; his rival + answered with volleys of abuse, and drove round as if meditating an + assault; it was necessary for the policeman to interfere. Whereupon the + defeated competitor vowed that it was sanguinary hard lines; that for the + sanguinary whole of this sanguinary day had he waited vainly for a + sanguinary fare, and but for a sanguinary stumble of his sanguinary horse— + </p> + <p> + Tired of waiting, and suspicious of the delay, Ada went up to the room + where the servant was supposed to be making ready. It was a little room, + which served as night-nursery; by the girl’s bed stood a cot occupied by + the child. Ada, exclaiming ‘Now, come along!’ opened the door violently. A + candle was burning; the boy, awake but silent, sat up in his cot, and + looked about with sleepy, yet frightened eyes. + </p> + <p> + ‘Where are you?’ + </p> + <p> + Emma could not be seen. Astonished and enraged, Ada rushed forward; she + found the girl lying on the floor, and after bending over her, started + back with a cry half of alarm, half of disgust. + </p> + <p> + ‘Come up here at once!’ she screamed down the staircase. ‘Come up! The + wretch has cut her throat!’ + </p> + <p> + There was a rush of feet. Peachey, the first to enter, saw a gash on the + neck of the insensible girl; in her hand she held a pair of scissors. + </p> + <p> + ‘I hope you’re satisfied,’ he said to his wife. + </p> + <p> + The police-officer, animated by a brisk succession of events such as he + could not hope for every day, raised the prostrate figure, and speedily + announced that the wound was not mortal. + </p> + <p> + ‘She’s fainted, that’s all. Tried to do for herself with them scissors, + and didn’t know the way to go about it. We’ll get her off sharp to the + surgeon.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’ll be attempted suicide, now, as well as stealing,’ cried Ada. + </p> + <p> + Terrified by the crowd of noisy people, the child began to cry loudly. + Peachey lifted him out of the cot, wrapped a blanket about him, and + carried him down to his own bedroom. There, heedless of what was going on + above, he tried to soothe the little fellow, lavishing caresses and tender + words. + </p> + <p> + ‘My little boy will be good? He’ll wait here, quietly, till father comes + back? Only a few minutes, and father will come back, and sit by him. Yes—he + shall sleep here, all night—’ + </p> + <p> + Ada burst into the room. + </p> + <p> + ‘I should think you’d better go and look after your dear Emma. As if I + didn’t know what’s been going on! It’s all come out, so you needn’t tell + me any lies. You’ve been giving her money. The other servants knew of it; + she confessed it herself. Oh, you’re a nice sort of man, you are! Men of + your sort are always good at preaching to other people. You’ve given her + money—what does <i>that</i> mean? I suspected it all along. You + wouldn’t have her sent away; oh no! She was so good to the child—and + so good to somebody else! A dirty servant! I’d choose some one better than + that, if I was a man. How much has she cost you? As much, no doubt, as one + of the swell women in Piccadilly Circus—’ + </p> + <p> + Peachey turned upon her, the sweat beading on his ghastly face. + </p> + <p> + ‘Go!—Out of this room—or by God I shall do something fearful!—Out!’ + </p> + <p> + She backed before him. He seized her by the shoulders, and flung her + forth, then locked the door. From without she railed at him in the + language of the gutter and the brothel. Presently her shouts were mingled + with piercing shrieks; they came from the would-be-suicide, who, restored + to consciousness, was being carried down for removal in the cab. Peachey, + looking and feeling like a man whom passion had brought within sight of + murder, stopped his ears and huddled himself against the bedside. The + child screamed in terror. + </p> + <p> + At length came silence. Peachey opened the door, and listened. Below, + voices sounded in quiet conversation. + </p> + <p> + ‘Who is down there?’ he called. + </p> + <p> + ‘All of us except Ada,’ replied Beatrice. ‘The policeman said she needn’t + go unless she liked, but she <i>did</i> like.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Very well.’ + </p> + <p> + He ran up to the deserted bedroom, carefully gathered together his child’s + day-garments, and brought them down. Then, as well as he could, he dressed + the boy. + </p> + <p> + ‘Is it time to get up?’ inquired the little three-year-old, astonished at + all that was happening, but soothed and amused by the thought that his + father had turned nurse. ‘It isn’t light yet.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You are going somewhere with father, dear. Somewhere nice.’ + </p> + <p> + The dialogue between them, in sweet broken words such as the child had not + yet outgrown, and the parent did not wish to abandon for common speech, + went on until the dressing was completed. + </p> + <p> + ‘Now, will my boy show me where his clothes are for going out? His cap, + and his coat—’ + </p> + <p> + Oh yes, they were up in the nursery; boy would show father—and + laughed merrily that he knew something father didn’t. A few minutes more, + and the equipment was completed. + </p> + <p> + ‘Now wait for me here—only a minute. My boy won’t cry, if I leave + him for a minute?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Cry! of course not!’ Peachey descended to the drawing-room, closed the + door behind him, and stood facing his sisters-in-law. + </p> + <p> + ‘I want to tell you that I am going away, and taking the child with me. + Ada needn’t expect me back to-night—nor ever. As long as I live I + will never again be under the same roof with her. You, Beatrice, said it + was about time I behaved like a man. You were right. I’ve put up long + enough with things such as no man ought to endure for a day. Tell your + sister that she may go on living here, if she chooses, for another six + months, to the end of the year—not longer. She shall be supplied + with sufficient money. After Christmas she may find a home for herself + where she likes; money will be paid to her through a lawyer, but from this + day I will neither speak nor write to her. You two must make your own + arrangements; you have means enough. You know very well, both of you, why + I am taking this step; think and say about me what you like. I have no + time to talk, and so I bid you good-bye.’ + </p> + <p> + They did not seek to detain him, but stood mute whilst he left the room. + </p> + <p> + The little boy, timid and impatient, was at the head of the stairs. His + father enveloped him warmly in a shawl, and so they went forth. It was not + long before they met with a vacant cab. Half-an-hour’s drive brought them + to the eating-house where Peachey had had his chop that evening, and here + he obtained a bedroom for the night. + </p> + <p> + By eleven o’clock the child slept peacefully. The father, seated at a + table, was engaged in writing to a solicitor. + </p> + <p> + At midnight he lay softly down by the child’s side, and there, until dawn, + listened to the low breathing of his innocent little bedfellow. Though he + could not sleep, it was joy, rather than any painful excitement, that kept + him wakeful. A great and loathsome burden had fallen from him, and in the + same moment he had rescued his boy out of an atmosphere of hated impurity. + At length he could respect himself, and for the first time in four long + years he looked to the future with tranquil hope. + </p> + <p> + Careless of the frank curiosity with which the people of the house + regarded him, he went down at seven o’clock, and asked for a railway + time-table. Having found a convenient train to Canterbury, he ordered + breakfast for himself and the child to be laid in a private room. It was a + merry meal. Sunshine of midsummer fell warm and bright upon the table; the + street below was so full of busy life that the little boy must needs have + his breakfast by the window, where he could eat and look forth at the same + time. No such delightful holiday had he ever enjoyed. Alone with father, + and going away by train into wonderful new worlds. + </p> + <p> + ‘Is Emma coming?’ he asked. + </p> + <p> + It was significant that he did not speak of his mother. + </p> + <p> + They drove to the railway station, Peachey no less excited than the child. + From here he despatched a telegram to his partners, saying that he should + be absent for a day or two. + </p> + <p> + Then the train, struggling slowly out of London’s welter, through the + newest outposts of gloom and grime, bore them, hearts companioned in love + and blamelessness, to the broad sunny meadows and the sweet hop-gardens of + Kent. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER 5 + </h2> + <p> + ‘Serves her jolly well right,’ said Beatrice. + </p> + <p> + ‘A lot <i>she’ll</i> care,’ said Fanny. ‘I should think myself precious + lucky. She gets rid of him, and of the kid too, and has as much as she + wants to live on. It’s better than she deserves.—Do you believe he’s + been carrying on with that girl?’ + </p> + <p> + Miss. French laughed contemptuously. + </p> + <p> + ‘Not he!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, there’s been a jolly good row to-night, if we never see another. We + shall all be in the papers!’ The prospect had charms for Fanny. ‘What are + you going to do? Live here till Christmas?’ + </p> + <p> + Beatrice was quietly reviewing the situation. She kept silence, and her + sister also became meditative. Suddenly Fanny inquired: + </p> + <p> + ‘What sort of a place is Brussels?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Brussels? Why? I know nothing about it. Not much of a place, I think; + sprouts come from there, don’t they?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s a big town,’ said the other, ‘and a lively sort of place, they say. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why do you ask me, if you know? What about it?’ + </p> + <p> + As usual when performing the operation which, in her, answered to thought, + Fanny shuffled with her hands on her waist. At a distance from Beatrice + she stood still, and said: + </p> + <p> + ‘Some one I know is going there. I’ve a good mind to go too. I want to see + abroad.’ + </p> + <p> + Her sister asked several searching questions, but Fanny would not make + known whether the friend was male or female. + </p> + <p> + ‘I shouldn’t be much surprised,’ remarked the woman of business, + indifferently, ‘if you go and make a fool of yourself before long. That + Mrs. Damerel is up to some game with you; any one could see it with half + an eye. I suppose it isn’t Lord that’s going to Brussels?’ + </p> + <p> + Fanny sputtered her disdain. + </p> + <p> + ‘If you had any common sense,’ pursued her sister, ‘you’d stick to him; + but you haven’t. Oh yes, you think you can do better. Very well, we shall + see. If you find yourself in a hole one of these days, don’t expect <i>me</i> + to pull you out. I wouldn’t give you a penny to save you from the + workhouse.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Wait till you’re asked. I know where all <i>your</i> money ‘ll go to. And + that’s into Crewe’s pocket. He’ll fool you out of all you have.’ + </p> + <p> + Beatrice reddened with wrath. But, unlike the other members of her family, + she could command her tongue. Fanny found it impossible to draw another + word from her. + </p> + <p> + On returning from the police-station, haggard and faint with excitement, + but supported by the anticipation of fresh attacks upon her husband, Ada + immediately learnt what had happened. For the first moment she could + hardly believe it. She rushed upstairs, and saw that the child was really + gone; then a blind frenzy took hold upon her. Alarming and inexplicable + sounds drew her sisters from below; they found her, armed with something + heavy, smashing every breakable object in her bedroom—mirrors, + toilet-ware, pictures, chimney-piece ornaments. + </p> + <p> + ‘She’s gone mad!’ shrieked Fanny. ‘She’ll kill us!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That beast shall pay for it!’ yelled Ada, with a frantic blow at the + dressing-table. + </p> + <p> + Wanton destruction of property revolted all Beatrice’s instincts. + Courageous enough, she sprang upon the wild animal, and flung her down. + </p> + <p> + Now indeed the last trace of veneer was gone, the last rag of + pseudo-civilisation was rent off these young women; in physical conflict, + vilifying each other like the female spawn of Whitechapel, they revealed + themselves as born—raw material which the mill of education is + supposed to convert into middle-class ladyhood. As a result of being held + still by superior strength Ada fell into convulsions, foamed at the mouth, + her eyes starting from their sockets; then she lay as one dead. + </p> + <p> + ‘You’ve killed her,’ cried the terrified Fanny. + </p> + <p> + ‘No fear. Give me some water to pitch over her.’ + </p> + <p> + With a full jug from another bedroom, she drenched the prostrate figure. + When Ada came round she was powerless; even her rancorous lips could utter + only a sound of moaning. The sisters stripped her stark naked on the + floor, made a show of drying her with towels, and tumbled her into bed. + Then Beatrice brewed a great jorum of hot whisky-punch, and after drinking + freely to steady her shaken nerves, poured a pint or so down Mrs. + Peachey’s throat. + </p> + <p> + ‘There won’t be a funeral just yet,’ she remarked, with a laugh. ‘Now + we’ll have supper; I feel hungry.’ + </p> + <p> + They went to bed at something after midnight. The servants, having stolen + a bottle of spirits from the cupboard, which Beatrice left open, both got + drunk, and slept till morning upon the kitchen-floor. + </p> + <p> + On the morrow, Miss. French, attired as a walking advertisement of the + South London Fashionable Dress Supply Association, betook herself to + Farringdon Street for an interview with her commercial friend. Crewe was + absent, but one of three clerks, who occupied his largest room, informed + her that it could not be very long before he returned, and being so + familiar a figure here, she was permitted to wait in the agent’s sanctum. + When the door closed upon her, the three young men discussed her character + with sprightly freedom. Beatrice, the while, splendidly indifferent to the + remarks she could easily divine, made a rapid examination of loose papers + lying on Crewe’s desk, read several letters, opened several books, and + found nothing that interested her until, on turning over a slip of paper + with pencilled figures upon it, she discovered a hotel-bill, the heading: + Royal Hotel, Falmouth. It was for a day and night’s entertainment, the + debtor ‘Mr. Crewe,’ the date less than a week gone by. This document she + considered attentively, her brows knitted, her eyes wide. But a sound + caused her to drop it upon the desk again. Another moment, and Crewe + entered. + </p> + <p> + He looked keenly at her, and less good-humouredly than of wont. These + persons never shook hands, and indeed dispensed, as a rule, with all forms + of civility. + </p> + <p> + ‘What are you staring at?’ asked Crewe bluffly. + </p> + <p> + ‘What are <i>you</i> staring at?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Nothing, that I know.’ He hung up his hat, and sat down. ‘I’ve a note to + write; wait a minute.’ + </p> + <p> + The note written, and given to a clerk, Crewe seemed to recover + equanimity. His visitor told him all that happened in De Crespigny Park, + even to the crudest details, and they laughed together uproariously. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m going to take a flat,’ Beatrice then informed him. ‘Just find me + something convenient and moderate, will you? A bachelor’s flat.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What about Fanny?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘She has something on; I don’t know what it is. Talks about going to + Brussels—with a friend.’ + </p> + <p> + Crewe looked astonished. + </p> + <p> + ‘You ought to see after her. I know what the end ‘ll be. Brussels? I’ve + heard of English girls going there, but they don’t usually come back.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What can I do? I’m pretty certain that Damerel woman has a game on hand. + She doesn’t want Fanny to marry her nephew—if Lord <i>is</i> her + nephew. She wants his money, that’s my idea.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Mine, too,’ remarked the other quietly. ‘Look here, old chap, it’s your + duty to look after your little damned fool of a sister; I tell you that + plainly. I shan’t think well of you if you don’t.’ + </p> + <p> + Beatrice displayed eagerness to defend herself. She had done her best; + Fanny scorned all advice, and could not be held against her will. + </p> + <p> + ‘Has she given up all thought of Lord?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m not sure, but I think so. And it looks as if he was going his own + way, and didn’t care much. He never writes to her now. Of course it’s that + woman’s doing.’ + </p> + <p> + Crewe reflected. + </p> + <p> + ‘I shall have to look into Mrs. Damerel’s affairs. Might be worth while. + Where is she living?’ He made a note of the information. ‘Well, anything + else to tell me?’ + </p> + <p> + Beatrice spoke of business matters, then asked him if he had been out of + town lately. The question sounded rather abrupt, and caused Crewe to + regard her with an expression she privately interpreted. + </p> + <p> + ‘A few short runs. Nowhere particular.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh?—Not been down into Cornwall?’ + </p> + <p> + He lost his temper. + </p> + <p> + ‘What are you after? What business is it of yours? If you’re going to spy + on me, I’ll soon let you know that I won’t stand that kind of thing.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t disturb yourself,’ said Beatrice, with a cold smile. ‘I haven’t + been spying, and you can go where you like for anything I care. I guessed + you <i>had</i> been down there, that’s all.’ + </p> + <p> + Crewe kept silence, his look betraying uneasiness as well as anger. + Speaking at length, he fixed her with keen eyes. + </p> + <p> + ‘If it’s any satisfaction to you, you’re welcome to know that I have been + into Cornwall—and to Falmouth.’ + </p> + <p> + Beatrice merely nodded, and still he searched her face. + </p> + <p> + ‘Just answer me a plain question, old chap. Come, there’s no nonsense + between us; we know each other—eh?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh yes, we know each other,’ Miss. French answered, her lips puckering a + little. + </p> + <p> + ‘What do you know about <i>her</i>? What has she been doing all this + time?’ + </p> + <p> + Beatrice laughed. + </p> + <p> + ‘I know just as little about her as I care.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You care a good deal more than you’ll confess. I wouldn’t be up to + women’s tricks, if I were you.’ + </p> + <p> + She revolted. + </p> + <p> + ‘After all, I suppose I <i>am</i> a woman?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, I suppose so.’ Crewe grinned good-naturedly. ‘But that isn’t in the + terms of our partnership, you remember. You can be a reasonable fellow + enough, when you like. Just tell me the truth. What do you know about + Nancy Lord?’ Beatrice assumed an air of mystery. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ll tell you that, if you tell me what it is you want of her. Is it her + money?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Her money be damned!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s herself, then.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And what if it is? What have <i>you</i> to say to it?’ + </p> + <p> + Her eyes fell, and she muttered ‘Nothing.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Just bear that in mind, then. And now that I’ve answered your question, + answer mine. What have you heard about her? Or what have you found out?’ + </p> + <p> + She raised her eyes again and again, but in a mocking voice said, + ‘Nothing.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You’re telling me a lie.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You’re a brute to say so!’ + </p> + <p> + They exchanged fierce glances, but could not meet each other’s eyes + steadily. Crewe, mastering his irritation, said with a careless laugh: + </p> + <p> + ‘All right, I believe you. Didn’t mean to offend you, old chap.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I won’t be called that!’ She was trembling with stormy emotions. ‘You + shall treat me decently.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Very well. Old girl, then.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m a good deal younger than you are. And I’m a good deal better than + you, in every way. I’m a lady, at all events, and you can’t pretend to be + a gentleman. You’re a rough, common fellow—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Holloa! Holloa! Draw it mild.’ + </p> + <p> + He was startled, and in some degree abashed; his eyes, travelling to the + door, indicated a fear that this singular business-colloquy might be + overheard. But Beatrice went on, without subduing her voice, and, having + delivered herself of much plain language, walked from the room, leaving + the door open behind her. + </p> + <p> + As a rule, she returned from her day’s occupations to dinner, in De + Crespigny Park, at seven o’clock. To-day her arrival at home was + considerably later. About three o’clock she made a call at the + boarding-house where Mrs. Damerel lived, but was disappointed in her wish + to see that lady, who would not be in before the hour of dining. She + called again at seven, and Mrs. Damerel received her very graciously. It + was the first time they had met. Beatrice, in no mood for polite grimaces, + at once disclosed the object of her visit; she wanted to talk about Fanny; + did Mrs. Damerel know anything of a proposed journey to Brussels? The lady + professed utter ignorance of any such intention on Fanny’s part. She had + not seen Fanny for at least a fortnight. + </p> + <p> + ‘How can that be? She told me she dined here last Sunday.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s very strange,’ answered Mrs. Damerel, with suave concern. ‘She + certainly did not dine here.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And the Sunday before?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Your sister has dined here only once, Miss. French, and that was three + months ago.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then I don’t understand it. Haven’t you been taking her to theatres, and + parties, and that kind of thing?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have taken her once to a theatre, and twice to evening “at homes.” The + last time we were together anywhere was at Mrs. Dane’s, about the middle + of May. Since then I have seen her hardly at all. I’m very much afraid you + are under some misconception. Thinking your sister was engaged to marry my + nephew, Mr. Lord, I naturally desired to offer her a few friendly + attentions. But it came out, at length, that she did not regard the + engagement as serious. I was obliged to speak gravely to my young nephew, + and beg him to consider his position. There is the second dinner-bell, but + I am quite at your service, Miss. French, if you wish to question me + further.’ + </p> + <p> + Beatrice was much inclined to resent this tone, and to use her vernacular. + But it seemed only too probable that Fanny had been deceiving her, and, as + she really feared for the girl’s safety, prudence bade her be civil with + Mrs. Damerel. + </p> + <p> + ‘Can’t you help me to find out what Fanny has really been doing?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m afraid it’s quite out of my power. She never confided in me, and it + is so long since I have seen anything of her at all.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s best to speak plainly,’ said Beatrice, in her business tone. ‘Can’t + you think of any man, in the society you introduced her to, who may be + trying to lead her astray?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Really, Miss. French! The society in which I move is not what you seem to + suppose. If your sister is in any danger of <i>that</i> kind, you must + make your inquiries elsewhere—in an inferior rank of life.’ + </p> + <p> + Beatrice no longer contained herself. + </p> + <p> + ‘Perhaps I know rather more than you think about your kind of society. + There’s not much to choose between the men and the women.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Miss. French, I believe you reside in a part of London called Camberwell. + And I believe you are engaged in some kind of millinery business. This + excuses you for ill-manners. All the same, I must beg you to relieve me of + your presence.’ She rang the bell. ‘Good evening.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I dare say we shall see each other again,’ replied Beatrice, with an + insulting laugh. ‘I heard some one say to-day that it might be as well to + find out <i>who you really are</i>. And if any harm comes to Fanny, I + shall take a little trouble about that inquiry myself.’ + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Damerel changed colour, but no movement betrayed anxiety. In the + attitude of dignified disdain, she kept her eyes on a point above Miss. + French’s head, and stood so until the plebeian adversary had withdrawn. + </p> + <p> + Then she sat down, and for a few minutes communed with herself. In the + end, instead of going to dinner, she rang her bell again. A servant + appeared. + </p> + <p> + ‘Is Mr. Mankelow in the dining-room?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, ma’am.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Ask him to be kind enough to come here for a moment.’ + </p> + <p> + With little delay, Mr. Mankelow answered the summons which called him from + his soup. He wore evening dress; his thin hair was parted down the middle; + his smooth-shaven and rather florid face expressed the annoyance of a + hungry man at so unseasonable an interruption. + </p> + <p> + ‘Do forgive me,’ began Mrs. Damerel, in a pathetic falsetto. ‘I have been + so upset, I felt obliged to seek advice immediately, and no one seemed so + likely to be of help to me as you—a man of the world. Would you + believe that a sister of that silly little Miss. French has just been here—a + downright virago—declaring that the girl has been led astray, and + that I am responsible for it? Can you imagine such impertinence? She has + fibbed shockingly to the people at home—told them she was constantly + here with me in the evenings, when she must have been—who knows + where. It will teach me to meddle again with girls of that class.’ + </p> + <p> + Mankelow stood with his hands behind him, and legs apart, regarding the + speaker with a comically puzzled air. + </p> + <p> + ‘My dear Mrs. Damerel,’—he had a thick, military sort of voice,—‘why + in the world should this interpose between us and dinner? Afterwards, we + might—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But I am really anxious about the silly little creature. It would be + extremely disagreeable if my name got mixed up in a scandal of any kind. + You remember my telling you that she didn’t belong exactly to the + working-class. She has even a little property of her own; and I shouldn’t + wonder if she has friends who might make a disturbance if her—her + vagaries could be in any way connected with me and my circle. Something + was mentioned about Brussels. She has been chattering about some one who + wanted to take her to Brussels—’ + </p> + <p> + The listener arched his eyebrows more and more. + </p> + <p> + ‘What <i>can</i> it matter to you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘To be sure, I have no acquaintance with any one who could do such things—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why, of course not. And even if you had, I understand that the girl is + long out of her teens—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Long since.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then it’s her own affair—and that of the man who cares to purchase + such amusement. By-the-bye, it happens rather oddly that I myself have to + run over to Brussels on business; but I trust’—he laughed—‘that + my years and my character—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, Mr. Mankelow, absurd! It’s probably some commercial traveller, or man + of that sort, don’t you think? The one thing I <i>do</i> hope is, that, if + anything like this happens, the girl will somehow make it clear to her + friends that <i>I</i> had no knowledge whatever of what was going on. But + that can hardly be hoped, I fear!—’ + </p> + <p> + Their eyes crossed; they stood for a moment perusing vacancy. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, I think it might be hoped,’ said Mankelow airily. ‘She seemed to me + a rather reckless sort of young person. It’s highly probable she will + write letters which release every one but herself from responsibility. In + fact’—he gazed at her with a cynical smile—‘my knowledge of + human nature disposes me to assure you that she certainly will. She might + even, I should say, write a letter to <i>you</i>—perhaps a cheeky + sort of letter, which would at once set your mind at ease.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, if you really take that view—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I do indeed. Don’t you think we might dismiss the matter, and dine?’ + </p> + <p> + They did so. + </p> + <p> + Until noon of to-day, Mrs. Peachey had kept her bed, lying amid the wreck + wrought by last night’s madness. She then felt well enough to rise, and + after refreshment betook herself by cab to the offices of Messrs Ducker, + Blunt & Co., manufacturers of disinfectants, where she conversed with + one of the partners, and learnt that her husband had telegraphed his + intention to be absent for a day or two. Having, with the self-respect + which distinguished her, related her story from the most calumnious point + of view, she went home again to nurse her headache and quarrel with Fanny. + But Fanny had in the meantime left home, and, unaccountable fact, had + taken with her a large tin box and a dress-basket; heavily packed, said + the servants. Her direction to the cabman was merely Westminster Bridge, + which conveyed to Mrs. Peachey no sort of suggestion. + </p> + <p> + When Beatrice came back, and learnt this event, she went apart in wrathful + gloom. Ada could not engage her in a quarrel. It was a wretchedly dull + evening. + </p> + <p> + They talked next morning, and Beatrice announced her purpose of going to + live by herself as soon as possible. But she would not quarrel. Left + alone, Ada prepared to visit certain of their relatives in different parts + of London, to spread among them the news of her husband’s infamy. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER 6 + </h2> + <p> + When Mary Woodruff unlocked the house-door and entered the little hall, it + smelt and felt as though the damp and sooty fogs of winter still lingered + here, untouched by the July warmth. She came alone, and straightway spent + several hours in characteristic activity—airing, cleaning, + brightening. For a few days there would be no servant; Mary, after her + long leisure down in Cornwall, enjoyed the prospect of doing all the work + herself. They had reached London last evening, and had slept at a family + hotel, where Nancy remained until the house was in order for her. + </p> + <p> + Unhappily, their arrival timed with a change of weather, which brought + clouds and rain. The glories of an unshadowed sky would have little more + than availed to support Nancy’s courage as she passed the creaking little + gate and touched the threshold of a home to which she returned only on + compulsion; gloom overhead, and puddles underfoot, tried her spirit + sorely. She had a pale face, and thin cheeks, and moved with languid step. + </p> + <p> + Her first glance was at the letter-box. + </p> + <p> + ‘Nothing?’ + </p> + <p> + Mary shook her head. During their absence letters had been re-addressed by + the post-office, and since the notice of return nothing had come. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m quite sure a letter has been lost.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, it may have been. But there’ll be an answer to your last very soon.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t think so. Most likely I shall never hear again.’ + </p> + <p> + And Nancy sat by the window of the front room, looking, as she had looked + so many a time, at the lime tree opposite and the house visible through + wet branches. A view unchanged since she could remember; recalling all her + old ambitions, revolts, pretences, and ignorances; recalling her father, + who from his grave still oppressed her living heart. + </p> + <p> + Somewhere near sounded the wailing shout of a dustman. It was like the + voice of a soul condemned to purge itself in filth. + </p> + <p> + ‘Mary!’ She rose up and went to the kitchen. ‘I can’t live here! It will + kill me if I have to live in this dreadful place. Why, even you have been + crying; I can see you have. If <i>you</i> give way, think what it must be + to me!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s only for a day or two, dear,’ answered Mary. ‘We shall feel at home + again very soon. Miss. Morgan will come this evening, and perhaps your + brother.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I must do something. Give me some work.’ + </p> + <p> + Mary could not but regard this as a healthy symptom, and she suggested + tasks that called for moderate effort. Sick of reading—she had read + through a whole circulating library in the past six months—Nancy + bestirred herself about the house; but she avoided her father’s room. + </p> + <p> + Horace did not come to-day; a note arrived from him, saying that he would + call early to-morrow morning. But at tea-time Jessica presented herself. + She looked less ghostly than half a year ago; the grave illness through + which she had passed seemed to have been helpful to her constitution. Yet + she was noticeably changed. In her letters Nancy had remarked an excessive + simplicity, a sort of childishness, very unlike Jessica’s previous way of + writing; and the same peculiarity now appeared in her conversation. By + turns she was mawkish and sprightly, tearful and giggling. Her dress, + formerly neglected to the point of untidiness, betrayed a new-born taste + for fashionable equipment; she suddenly drew attention to it in the midst + of serious talk, asking with a bashful smirk whether Nancy thought it + suited her. + </p> + <p> + ‘I got it at Miss. French’s place—the Association, you know. It’s + really wonderful how cheap things are there. And the very best cut, by + dressmakers from Paris.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy wondered, and felt that her diminishing regard for Miss. Morgan had + suffered a fresh blow. + </p> + <p> + There was much news to receive and impart. In writing from Falmouth, Nancy + had referred to the details of her own life with studied ambiguity. She + regretted having taken Jessica into her confidence, and avoided penning a + word which, if read by any one but her correspondent, would betray the + perilous secret. Jessica, after her illness, was inclined to resent this + extreme caution, which irritated her curiosity; but in vain she assured + Nancy that there was not the least fear of her letters falling into wrong + hands. For weeks at a time she heard nothing, and then would come a + letter, long indeed, but without a syllable of the information she + desired. Near the end of May she received a line or two, ‘I have been + really ill, but am now much better. I shall stay here only a few weeks + more. Don’t be anxious; I am well cared for, and the worst is over.’ + </p> + <p> + She heard the interpretation from Nancy’s lips, and laughed and cried over + it. + </p> + <p> + ‘What you must have suffered, my poor dear! And to be separated from the + little darling! Oh, it’s too cruel! You are sure they will be kind to it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Mary has every confidence in the woman. And I like the look of her; I + don’t feel uneasy. I shall go there very often, of course.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And when is <i>he</i> coming back? He oughtn’t to have kept away all this + time. How unkind!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not at all,’ Nancy replied, with sudden reserve. ‘He is acting for the + best. You mustn’t ask me about that; you shall know more some day.’ + </p> + <p> + Jessica, whose face made legible presentment of her every thought, looked + disappointed and peevish. + </p> + <p> + ‘And you are really going in for the examination again?’ Nancy asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, of course I am!’ answered the other perkily; ‘but not till summer of + next year. I’m not allowed to study much yet; the doctor says I might do + my brain a serious injury. I read a great deal; books that rest the mind—poetry + and fiction; of course only the very best fiction. I shall soon be able to + begin teaching again; but I must be very careful. Only an hour or two a + day at first, and perhaps quite young children.’ + </p> + <p> + Evidently the girl felt a certain pride in what she had undergone. Her + failure to matriculate was forgotten in the sense that she offered a most + interesting case of breakdown from undue mental exertion. The doctor had + declared his astonishment that she held up until the examination was over. + </p> + <p> + ‘He simply wouldn’t believe me when I told him the hours I worked. He said + I ought to be on my trial for attempted suicide!’ + </p> + <p> + And she laughed with extravagant conceit. + </p> + <p> + ‘You have quite made friends with the Barmbys,’ said Nancy, eyeing her + curiously. + </p> + <p> + ‘They are very nice people. Of course the girls quite understand what a + difference there is between themselves and me. I like them because they + are so modest; they would never think of contradicting my opinion about + anything.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And what about the Prophet?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t think you ever quite understood him,’ Jessica replied, with an + obvious confusion which perplexed her friend. ‘He isn’t at all the kind of + man you thought.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No doubt I was wrong,’ Nancy hastened to say. ‘It was prejudice. And you + remember that I never had any fault to find with his—his character.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You disliked him,’ said the other sharply. ‘And you still dislike him. + I’m sure you do.’ + </p> + <p> + So plainly did Jessica desire a confirmation of this statement, that Nancy + allowed herself to be drawn into half avowing a positive dislike for + Samuel. Whereupon Jessica looked pleased, and tossed her head in a + singular way. + </p> + <p> + ‘I needn’t remind you,’ fell from Nancy, after a moment of troubled + reflection, ‘how careful you must be in talking about me to the Barmbys.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, don’t have the slightest fear.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Weren’t you delirious in your illness?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I should think I was indeed! For a long time.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I hope you said nothing—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘About you? Oh, not a word; I’m quite sure. I talked all the time about my + studies. The doctor heard me one day repeating a long bit of Virgil. And I + kept calling for bits of paper to work out problems in Geometrical + Progression. Just fancy! I don’t think most girls are delirious in that + way. If I had said anything about you that sounded queer, of course mother + would have told me afterwards. Oh, it was quite an intellectual delirium.’ + </p> + <p> + Had Jessica, since her illness, become an insufferable simpleton? or—Nancy + wondered—was it she herself who, through experience and sorrows, was + grown wiser, and saw her friend in a new light? It troubled her gravely + that the preservation of a secret more than ever momentous should depend + upon a person with so little sense. The girl’s departure was a relief; but + in the silence that followed upon silly talk, she had leisure to + contemplate this risk, hitherto scarce taken into account. She spoke of it + with Mary, the one friend to whom her heart went out in absolute trust, + from whom she concealed but few of her thoughts, and whose moral worth, + only understood since circumstances compelled her reliance upon it, had + set before her a new ideal of life. Mary, she well knew, abhorred the + deceit they were practising, and thought hard things of the man who made + it a necessity; so it did not surprise her that the devoted woman showed + no deep concern at a new danger. + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s more the shame than anything else, that I fear now,’ said Nancy. ‘If + I have to support myself and my child, I shall do it. How, I don’t know; + but other women find a way, and I should. If he deserts me, I am not such + a poor creature as to grieve on that account; I should despise him too + much even to hate him. But the shame of it would be terrible. It’s common, + vulgar cheating—such as you read of in the newspapers—such as + people are punished for. I never thought of it in that way when he was + here. Yet he felt it. He spoke of it like that, but I wouldn’t listen.’ + </p> + <p> + Mary heard this with interest. + </p> + <p> + ‘Did he wish you to give it up?’ she asked. ‘You never told me that.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘He said he would rather we did. But that was when he had never thought of + being in want himself. Afterwards—yes, even then he spoke in the + same way; but what could we do?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t fear that he will forsake you,’ said Mary. ‘You will hear from him + very soon. He knows the right and the wrong, and right will be stronger + with him in the end.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘If only I were sure that he has heard of his child’s birth. If he <i>has</i>, + and won’t even write to me, then he is no man, and it’s better we should + never see each other again.’ + </p> + <p> + She knew the hours of postal delivery, and listened with throbbing heart + to the double knocks at neighbouring houses. When the last postman was + gone by, she sat down, sick with disappointment. + </p> + <p> + At bedtime she said to Mary, ‘My little baby is asleep; oh, if I could but + see it for a moment!’ And tears choked her as she turned away. + </p> + <p> + It was more than two months since she had heard from her husband. + </p> + <p> + At first Tarrant wrote as frequently as he had promised. She learnt + speedily of his arrival at New York, then that he had reached Nassau, the + capital of the Bahamas, then that he was with his friend Sutherland on the + little island amid the coral reefs. Subsequent letters, written in buoyant + spirits, contained long descriptions of the scenery about him, and of the + life he led. He expressed a firm confidence in Sutherland’s enterprises; + beyond a doubt, there was no end of money to be made by an energetic man; + he should report most favourably to Mr. Vawdrey, whose co-operation would + of course be invaluable. For his own part, whether he profited or not from + these commercial schemes, he had not been mistaken in foreseeing material + for journalism, even for a book. Yes, he should certainly write a book on + the Bahamas, if only to expose the monstrous system of misgovernment which + accounted for the sterility into which these islands had fallen. The + climate, in winter at all events, was superb. Sutherland and he lay about + in delicious sunshine, under a marvellous sky, smoking excellent cigars, + and talking over old Oxford days. He quoted Tennyson: ‘Larger + constellations burning,’ &c. + </p> + <p> + At the end of December, when Nancy, according to their agreement, began to + hope for his return, a letter in a very different tone burdened her with + dismal doubts. Tarrant had quarrelled with his friend. He had discovered + that Sutherland was little better than a swindler. ‘I see that the + fellow’s professed energy was all sham. He is the laziest scamp + imaginable; lazier even than his boozing old father. He schemes only to + get money out of people; and his disappointment on finding that <i>I</i> + have no money to lose, has shown itself at length in very gross forms. I + find he is a gambler; there has just been a tremendous row between him and + an American, whom he is said to have cheated at cards. Last year he was + for several weeks in Mexico City, a place notorious for gambling, and + there lost a large sum of money that didn’t belong to him.’ The upshot was + that he could no longer advise Mr. Vawdrey to have anything to do with + Sutherland. But he must not leave the Bahamas yet; that would be most + unwise, as he was daily gathering most valuable information. Vawdrey might + be induced to lend him a hundred pounds or so. But he would write again + very soon. + </p> + <p> + It was the close of January when he dated his next letter. Vawdrey had + sent him fifty pounds; this, however, was to include the cost of his + return to England. ‘See, then, what I have decided. I shall make a hurried + tour through the West Indian Islands, then cross to the States, and travel + by land to New York or Boston, seeing all I can afford to on the way. If I + have to come home as a steerage passenger, never mind; that, too, will be + valuable experience.’ There followed many affectionate phrases, but + Nancy’s heart remained cold. + </p> + <p> + He wrote next from Washington, after six weeks’ silence. Difficulties of + which he would speak at length in another letter had caused him to + postpone answering the two letters he had received. Nancy must never lose + faith in him; his love was unshaken; before the birth of her child he + would assuredly be back in England. Let her address to New York. He was + well, but could not pretend to be very cheerful. However, courage! He had + plans and hopes, of which she should soon hear. + </p> + <p> + After that, Nancy knew nothing of him, save that he was living in New + York. He wrote two or three times, but briefly, always promising details + in the next epistle. Then he ceased to correspond. Not even the + announcement of the child’s birth elicited a word from him. One subsequent + letter had Nancy despatched; this unanswered, she would write no more. + </p> + <p> + She was herself surprised at the calmness with which she faced so dreadful + a possibility as desertion by the man she had loved and married, the + father of her baby. It meant, perhaps, that she could not believe such + fate had really befallen her. Even in Tarrant’s last short letter sounded + a note of kindness, of truthfulness, incompatible, it seemed to her, with + base cruelty. ‘I dreamt of you last night, dearest, and woke up with a + heart that ached for your suffering.’ How could a man pen those words, and + be meditating dastardly behaviour to the woman he addressed? Was he ill, + then? or had fatal accident befallen him? She feared such explanation only + in her weakest moments. If, long ago, he could keep silence for six weeks + at a time, why not now for months? As for the news she had sent him—does + a man think it important that a little child has been born into the world? + Likely enough that again he merely ‘postponed’ writing. Of course he no + longer loved her, say what he might; at most he thought of her with a + feeling of compassion—not strong enough to overcome his dislike of + exertion. He would come back—when it pleased him. + </p> + <p> + Nancy would not sully her mind by thinking that he might only return when + her position made it worth his while. He was not a man of that stamp. + Simply, he had ceased to care for her; and having no means of his own, + whilst she was abundantly provided, he yielded to the temptation to hold + aloof from a woman whose claim upon him grew burdensome. Her thoughts + admitted no worse accusation than this. Did any grave ill befall her; if, + for instance, the fact of her marriage became known, and she were left + helpless; her letter to New York would not be disregarded. To reflect thus + signified a mental balance rare in women, and remarkable in one situated + as Nancy was. She talked with her companion far less consistently, for + talk served to relieve the oppression of her heart and mind. + </p> + <p> + When, next morning, Horace entered the sitting-room, brother and sister + viewed each other with surprise. Neither was prepared for the outward + change wrought in both by the past half-year. Nancy looked what she in + truth had become, a matronly young woman, in uncertain health, and + possessed by a view of life too grave for her years; Horace, no longer a + mere lad, exhibited in sunken cheeks and eyes bright with an unhappy + recklessness, the acquisition of experience which corrupts before it can + mature. Moving to offer her lips, Nancy was checked by the young man’s + exclamation. + </p> + <p> + ‘What on earth has been the matter with you? I never saw any one so + altered.’ + </p> + <p> + His voice, with its deepened note, and the modification of his very + accent, due to novel circumstances, checked the hearer’s affectionate + impulse. If not unfeeling, the utterance had nothing fraternal. Deeply + pained, and no less alarmed by this warning of the curiosity her + appearance would excite in all who knew her, Nancy made a faltering reply. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why should you seem astonished? You know very well I have had an + illness.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But what sort of illness? What caused it? You used always to be well + enough.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You had better go and talk to my medical attendant,’ said Nancy, in a + cold, offended voice. + </p> + <p> + Horace resumed with irritability. + </p> + <p> + ‘Isn’t it natural for me to ask such questions? You’re not a bit like + yourself. And what did you mean by telling me you were coming back at + once, when I wanted to join you at Falmouth?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I meant to. But after all, I had to stay longer.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh well, it’s nothing to me.’ + </p> + <p> + They had not even shaken hands, and now felt no desire to correct the + omission, which was at first involuntary. Horace seemed to have lost all + the amiability of his nature; he looked about him with restless, excited + eyes. + </p> + <p> + ‘Are you in a hurry?’ asked his sister, head erect. + </p> + <p> + ‘No hurry that I know of.—You haven’t heard what’s been going on?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Where?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course it won’t interest you. There’s something about you I can’t + understand. Is it father’s will that has spoilt your temper, and made you + behave so strangely?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It is not <i>my</i> temper that’s spoilt. And as for behaving strangely—.’ + She made an effort to command herself. ‘Sit down, Horace, and let me know + what is the matter with you. Why we should be unfriendly, I really can’t + imagine. I have suffered from ill health, that’s all. I’m sorry I behaved + in that way when you talked of coming to Falmouth; it wasn’t meant as you + seem to think. Tell me what you have to tell.’ + </p> + <p> + He could not take a reposeful attitude, but, after struggling with some + reluctance, began to explain the agitation that beset him. + </p> + <p> + ‘Mrs. Damerel has done something I didn’t think any woman would be capable + of. For months she has been trying to ruin Fanny, and now it has come—she + has succeeded. She made no secret of wanting to break things off between + her and me, but I never thought her plotting could go as far as this. + Fanny has run away—gone to the Continent with a man Mrs. Damerel + introduced to her.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Perhaps they are married,’ said Nancy, with singular impulsiveness. + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course they’re not. It’s a fellow I knew to be a scoundrel the first + time I set eyes on him. I warned Fanny against him, and I told Mrs. + Damerel that I should hold her responsible if any harm came of the + acquaintance she was encouraging between him and Fanny. She did encourage + it, though she pretended not to. Her aim was to separate me and Fanny—she + didn’t care how.’ + </p> + <p> + He spoke in a high, vehement note; his cheeks flushed violently, his + clenched fist quivered at his side. + </p> + <p> + ‘How do you know where she is gone?’ Nancy asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘She as good as told her sister that she was going to Brussels with some + one. Then one day she disappeared, with her luggage. And that fellow—Mankelow’s + his name—has gone too. He lived in the same boarding-house with Mrs. + Damerel.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That is all the evidence you have?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Quite enough,’ he replied bitterly. + </p> + <p> + ‘It doesn’t seem so to me. But suppose you’re right, what proof have you + that Mrs. Damerel had anything to do with it? If she is our mother’s + sister—and you say there can be no doubt of it—I won’t believe + that she could carry out such a hateful plot as this.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What does it matter who she is? I would swear fifty times that she has + done it. You know very well, when you saw her, you disliked her at once. + You were right in that, and I was wrong.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I can’t be sure. Perhaps it was she that disliked me, more than I did + her. For one thing, I don’t believe that people make such plots. And what + plotting was needed? Couldn’t any one have told you what a girl like Fanny + French would do if she lost her head among people of a higher class?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then Mrs. Damerel must have foreseen it. That’s just what I say. She + pretended to be a friend to the girl, on purpose to ruin her.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Have you accused her of it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, I have.’ His eyes flashed. Nancy marvelled at this fire, drawn from + a gentle nature by what seemed to her so inadequate, so contemptible a + cause. ‘Of course she denied it, and got angry with me; but any one could + see she was glad of what had happened. There’s an end between us, at all + events. I shall never go to see her again; she’s a woman who thinks of + nothing but money and fashion. I dislike her friends, every one of them + I’ve met. I told her that what she had done ought to be a punishable + crime.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy reflected, then said quietly: + </p> + <p> + ‘Whether you are right or wrong, I don’t think you would have got any good + from her. But will you tell me what you are going to do? I told you that I + thought borrowing money only to live on it in idleness was very foolish.’ + </p> + <p> + Her brother stiffened his neck. + </p> + <p> + ‘You must allow me to judge for myself.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But have you judged for yourself? Wasn’t it by Mrs. Damerel’s advice that + you gave up business?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Partly. But I should have done it in any case.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Have you any plans?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, I haven’t,’ he answered. ‘You can’t expect a man to have plans whose + life has been thoroughly upset.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy, reminded of his youthfulness by the tone in which he called himself + a ‘man,’ experienced a revival of natural feeling. Though revolting + against the suggestion that a woman akin to them had been guilty of what + her brother believed, she was glad to think that Fanny French had + relinquished all legitimate claim upon him, and that his connection with + ‘smart’ society had come to an end. Obvious enough were the perils of his + situation, and she, as elder sister, recognised a duty towards him; she + softened her voice, and endeavoured to re-establish the confidence of old + time. Impossible at once, though with resolution she might ultimately + succeed. Horace, at present, was a mere compound of agitated and inflamed + senses. The life he had been leading appeared in a vicious development of + his previously harmless conceit and egoism. All his characteristics had + turned out, as it were, the seamy side; and Nancy with difficulty + preserved her patience as he showed point after point of perverted + disposition. The result of their talk was a careless promise from Horace + that he would come to Grove Lane not seldomer than once a week. + </p> + <p> + He stayed only an hour, resisting Nancy’s endeavour to detain him at least + for the mid-day meal. To Mary he spoke formally, awkwardly, as though + unable to accept her position in the house, and then made his escape like + one driven by an evil spirit. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0029" id="link2HCH0029"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER 7 + </h2> + <p> + With the clearing of the sky, Nancy’s spirit grew lighter. She went about + London, and enjoyed it after her long seclusion in the little Cornish + town; enjoyed, too, her release from manifold restraints and perils. Her + mental suffering had made the physical harder to bear; she was now + recovering health of mind and body, and found with surprise that life had + a new savour, independent of the timorous joy born with her child. + Strangely, as it seemed to her, she grew conscious of a personal freedom + not unlike what she had vainly desired in the days of petulant girlhood; + the sense came only at moments, but was real and precious; under its + influence she forgot everything abnormal in her situation, and—though + without recognising this significance—knew the exultation of a woman + who has justified her being. + </p> + <p> + A day or two of roaming at large gave her an appetite for activity. + Satisfied that her child was safe and well cared for, she turned her eyes + upon the life of the world, and wished to take some part in it—not + the part she had been wont to picture for herself before reality + supplanted dreams. Horace’s example on the one hand, and that of Jessica + Morgan on the other, helped her to contemn mere social excitement and the + idle vanity which formerly she styled pursuit of culture. Must there not + be discoverable, in the world to which she had, or could obtain, access, + some honest, strenuous occupation, which would hold in check her + unprofitable thoughts and soothe her self-respect? + </p> + <p> + That her fraud, up to and beyond the crucial point, had escaped detection, + must be held so wonderful, that she felt justified in an assurance of + impunity. The narrowest escape of which she was aware had befallen only a + few weeks ago. On the sixth day after the birth of the child, there was + brought to her lodgings at Falmouth a note addressed to ‘Miss. Lord.’ + Letters bearing this address had arrived frequently, and by the people of + the house were supposed to be for Mary Woodruff, who went by the name of + ‘Miss. Lord,’ Nancy having disguised herself as ‘Mrs. Woodruff;’ but they + had always come by post, and the present missive must be from some + acquaintance actually in the town. Nancy could not remember the + handwriting. Breaking open the envelope as she lay in bed, she saw with + alarm the signature ‘Luckworth Crewe.’ He was at Falmouth on business, + Crewe wrote, and, before leaving London, he had ventured to ask Miss + Lord’s address from her brother, whom he casually met somewhere. Would + Nancy allow him to see her, were it but for a minute or two? Earnestly he + besought this favour. He desired nothing more than to see Miss. Lord, and + to speak with her in the way of an ordinary acquaintance. After all this + time, she had, he felt sure, forgiven his behaviour at their last meeting. + Only five minutes of conversation— + </p> + <p> + All seemed lost. Nancy was silent in despair. But Mary faced the perilous + juncture, and, to all appearances, averted catastrophe. She dressed + herself, and went straight to the hotel where Crewe had put up, and where + he awaited an answer. Having made known who she was, she delivered a + verbal message: Miss. Lord was not well enough to see any one to-day, and, + in any case, she could not have received Mr Crewe; she begged him to + pardon her; before long, they might perhaps meet in London, but, for her + own part, she wished Mr. Crewe would learn to regard her as a stranger. Of + course there followed a dialogue; and Mary, seeming to speak with all + freedom, convinced Crewe that his attempt to gain an interview was quite + hopeless. She gave him much information concerning her mistress—none + of it false, but all misleading—and in the end had to resist an + offer of gold coins, pressed upon her as a bribe for her good word with + Nancy. + </p> + <p> + The question was—had Crewe been content to leave Falmouth without + making inquiries of other people? To a man of his experience, nothing was + easier than such investigation. But, with other grounds of anxiety, this + had ceased to disturb Nancy’s mind. Practically, she lived as though all + danger were at an end. The task immediately before her seemed very simple; + she had only to resume the old habits, and guard against thoughtless + self-betrayal in her everyday talk. The chance that any one would discover + her habit of visiting a certain house at the distance of several miles + from Camberwell, was too slight for consideration. + </p> + <p> + She wrote to Mr. Barmby, senior, informing him of her return, in improved + health, to Grove Lane, and thanking him once more for his allowing her to + make so long a stay in Cornwall. If he wished to see her, she would be at + home at any time convenient to him. In a few days the old gentleman + called, and for an hour or two discoursed well-meaning commonplace. He was + sorry to observe that she looked a trifle pale; in the autumn she must go + away again, and to a more bracing locality—he would suggest + Broadstairs, which had always exercised the most beneficial effect upon + his own health. Above all, he begged her to refrain from excessive study, + most deleterious to a female constitution. Then he asked questions about + Horace, and agreed with Nancy that the young man ought to decide upon some + new pursuit, if he had definitely abandoned the old; lack of steady + occupation was most deleterious at his age. In short, Mr. Barmby rather + apologised for his guardianship than sought to make assertion of it; and + Nancy, by a few feminine devices, won a better opinion than she had + hitherto enjoyed. On the day following, Samuel Barmby and his sisters + waited upon Miss. Lord; all three were surprisingly solemn, and Samuel + talked for the most part of a ‘paragraph’ he had recently read, which + stated that the smoke of London, if properly utilised, would be worth a + vast sum of money. ‘The English are a wasteful people,’ was his + conclusion; to which Nancy assented with a face as grave as his own. + </p> + <p> + Not a little to her astonishment, the next day brought her a long letter + in Samuel’s fair commercial hand. It began by assuring her that the writer + had no intention whatever of troubling her with the renewal of a suit so + firmly rejected on more than one occasion; he wished only to take this + opportunity of her return from a long absence to express the abiding + nature of his devotion, which years hence would be unbroken as to-day. He + would never distress her by unwelcome demonstrations; possibly she might + never again hear from his lips what he now committed to paper. Enough for + him, Samuel, to cherish a love which could not but exalt and purify him, + which was indeed, ‘in the words of Shakespeare, “a liberal education.”’ In + recompense of his self-command, he only besought that Miss. Lord would + allow him, from time to time, to look upon her face, and to converse with + her of intellectual subjects. ‘A paper,’ he added, ‘which I read last week + at our Society, is now being printed—solely at the request of + friends. The subject is one that may interest you, “The Influence of + Culture on Morality.” I beg that you will accept the copy I shall have the + pleasure of sending you, and that, at some future date, you will honour me + with your remarks thereon.’ + </p> + <p> + Which epistle Nancy cruelly read aloud to Mary, with a sprightliness and + sarcastic humour not excelled by her criticisms of ‘the Prophet’ in days + gone by. Mary did not quite understand, but she saw in this behaviour a + proof of the wonderful courage with which Nancy faced her troubles. + </p> + <p> + A week had passed, and no news from America. + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t care,’ said Nancy. ‘Really and truly, I don’t care. Yesterday I + never once thought of it—never once looked for the postman. The + worst is over now, and he may write or not, as he likes.’ + </p> + <p> + Mary felt sure there would be an explanation of such strange silence. + </p> + <p> + ‘Only illness or death would explain it so as to make me forgive him. But + he isn’t ill. He is alive, and enjoying himself.’ + </p> + <p> + There was no bitterness in her voice. She seemed to have outlived all + sorrows and anxieties relative to her husband. + </p> + <p> + Mary suggested that it was always possible to call at Mr. Vawdrey’s house + and make inquiries of Mrs. Baker. + </p> + <p> + ‘No, I won’t do that. Other women would do it, but I won’t. So long as I + mayn’t tell the truth, I should only set them talking about me; you know + how. I see the use, now, of having a good deal of pride. I’m only sorry + for those letters I wrote when I wasn’t in my senses. If he writes now, I + shall not answer. He shall know that I am as independent as he is. What a + blessed thing it is for a woman to have money of her own! It’s because + most women haven’t, that they’re such poor, wretched slaves.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘If he knew you were in want,’ said her companion, ‘he would never have + behaved like this.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Who can say?—No, I won’t pretend to think worse of him than I do. + You’re quite right. He wouldn’t leave his wife to starve. It’s certain + that he hears about me from some one. If I were found out, and lost + everything, some one would let him know. But I wouldn’t accept support + from him, now. He might provide for his child, but he shall never provide + for me, come what may—never!’ + </p> + <p> + It was in the evening, after dinner. Nancy had a newspaper, and was + reading the advertisements that offered miscellaneous employment. + </p> + <p> + ‘What do you think this can be?’ she asked, looking up after a long + silence. ‘“To ladies with leisure. Ladies desiring to add to their income + by easy and pleasant work should write”’—&c. &c. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ve no faith in those kind of advertisements,’ said Mary. + </p> + <p> + ‘No; of course it’s rubbish. There’s no easy and pleasant way of earning + money; only silly people expect it. And I don’t want anything easy or + pleasant. I want honest hard work. Not work with my hands—I’m not + suited for that, but real work, such as lots of educated girls are doing. + I’m quite willing to pay for learning it; most likely I shall have to. Who + could I write to for advice?’ + </p> + <p> + They were sitting upstairs, and so did not hear a visitor’s knock that + sounded at the front door. The servant came and announced that Miss. + French wished to see Miss. Lord. + </p> + <p> + ‘Miss. French? Is it the younger Miss. French?’ + </p> + <p> + The girl could not say; she had repeated the name given to her. Nancy + spoke to her friend in a low voice. + </p> + <p> + ‘It may be Fanny. I don’t think Beatrice would call, unless it’s to say + something about her sister. She had better come up here, I suppose?’ + </p> + <p> + Mary retired, and in a few moments there entered, not Fanny, but Beatrice. + She was civilly, not cordially, welcomed. Her eye, as she spoke the words + natural at such a meeting, dwelt with singular persistency on Nancy’s + face. + </p> + <p> + ‘You are quite well again?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Quite, thank you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It has been a troublesome illness, I’m afraid.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy hesitated, detecting a peculiarity of look and tone which caused her + uneasiness. + </p> + <p> + ‘I had a sort of low fever—was altogether out of sorts—“below + par,” the doctor said. Are you all well?’ + </p> + <p> + Settling herself comfortably, as if for a long chat, Beatrice sketched + with some humour the course of recent events in De Crespigny Park. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m out of it all, thank goodness. I prefer a quiet life. Then there’s + Fanny. You know all about <i>her</i>, I dare say?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Nothing at all,’ Nancy replied distantly. + </p> + <p> + ‘But your brother does. Hasn’t he been to see you yet?’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy was in no mood to submit to examination. + </p> + <p> + ‘Whatever I may have heard, I know nothing about Fanny’s, affairs, and, + really, they don’t concern me. + </p> + <p> + ‘I should have thought they might,’ rejoined the other, smiling absently. + ‘She has run away from her friends’—a pause—‘and is living + somewhere rather mysteriously’—another pause—‘and I think it + more than likely that she’s <i>married</i>.’ + </p> + <p> + The listener preserved a face of indifference, though the lines were + decidedly tense. + </p> + <p> + ‘Doesn’t that interest you?’ asked Beatrice, in the most genial tone. + </p> + <p> + ‘If it’s true,’ was the blunt reply. + </p> + <p> + ‘You mean, you are glad if she has married somebody else, and not your + brother?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, I am glad of that.’ + </p> + <p> + Beatrice mused, with wrinkles at the corner of her eye. Then, fixing Nancy + with a very keen look, she said quietly: + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m not sure that she’s married. But if she isn’t, no doubt she ought to + be.’ + </p> + <p> + On Nancy’s part there was a nervous movement, but she said nothing. Her + face grew rigid. + </p> + <p> + ‘I have an idea who the man is,’ Miss. French pursued; ‘but I can’t be + quite certain. One has heard of similar cases. Even <i>you</i> have, no + doubt?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t care to talk about it,’ fell mechanically from Nancy’s lips, + which had lost their colour. + </p> + <p> + ‘But I’ve come just for that purpose.’ + </p> + <p> + The eyes of mocking scrutiny would not be resisted. They drew a gaze from + Nancy, and then a haughty exclamation. + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t understand you. Please say whatever you have to say in plain + words.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t be angry with me. You were always too ready at taking offence. I + mean it in quite a friendly way; you can trust me; I’m not one of the + women that chatter. Don’t you think you ought to sympathise a little with + Fanny? She has gone to Brussels, or somewhere about there. But she <i>might</i> + have gone down into Cornwall—to a place like Falmouth. It was quite + far enough off—don’t you think?’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy was stricken mute, and her countenance would no longer disguise what + she suffered. + </p> + <p> + ‘No need to upset yourself,’ pursued the other in smiling confidence. ‘I + mean no harm. I’m curious, that’s all; just want to know one or two + things. We’re old friends, and whatever you tell me will go no further, + depend upon that.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What do you mean?’ + </p> + <p> + The words came from lips that moved with difficulty. Beatrice, still + smiling, bent forward. + </p> + <p> + ‘Is it any one that I know?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Any one—? Who—?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That made it necessary for you to go down into Cornwall, my dear.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy heaved a sigh, the result of holding her breath too long. She half + rose, and sat down again. In a torture of flashing thoughts, she tried to + determine whether Beatrice had any information, or spoke conjecturally. + Yet she was able to discern that either case meant disaster; to have + excited the suspicions of such a person, was the same as being unmasked; + an inquiry at Falmouth, and all would at once be known. + </p> + <p> + No, not all. Not the fact of her marriage; not the name of her husband. + </p> + <p> + Driven to bay by such an opponent, she assumed an air wholly unnatural to + her—one of cynical effrontery. + </p> + <p> + ‘You had better say what you know.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘All right. Who was the father of the child born not long ago?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s asking a question.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And telling what I know at the same time. It saves breath.’ + </p> + <p> + Beatrice laughed; and Nancy, become a mere automaton, laughed too. + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s more like it,’ said Miss. French cheerfully. ‘Now we shall get on + together. It’s very shocking, my dear. A person of my strict morality + hardly knows how to look you in the face. Perhaps you had rather I didn’t + try. Very well. Now tell me all about it, comfortably. I have a guess, you + know.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What is it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Wait a little. I don’t want to be laughed at. Is it any one I know?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You have never seen him, and I dare say never heard of him.’ + </p> + <p> + Beatrice stared incredulously. + </p> + <p> + ‘I wouldn’t tell fibs, Nancy.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m telling the truth.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s very queer, then.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Who did you think—?’ + </p> + <p> + The speaking automaton, as though by defect of mechanism, stopped short. + </p> + <p> + ‘Look straight at me. I shouldn’t have been surprised to hear that it was + Luckworth Crewe.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy’s defiant gaze, shame in anguish shielding itself with the front of + audacity, changed to utter astonishment. The blood rushed back into her + cheeks; she voiced a smothered exclamation of scorn. + </p> + <p> + ‘The father of my child? Luckworth Crewe?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I thought it not impossible,’ said Beatrice, plainly baffled. + </p> + <p> + ‘It was like you.’ Nancy gave a hard laugh. ‘You judged me by yourself. + Have another guess!’ + </p> + <p> + Surprised both at the denial, so obviously true, and at the unexpected + tone with which Nancy was meeting her attack, Miss. French sat meditative. + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s no use guessing,’ she said at length, with complete good-humour. ‘I + don’t know of any one else.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Very well. You can’t expect me to tell you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘As you please. It’s a queer thing; I felt pretty sure. But if you’re + telling the truth, I don’t care a rap who the man is.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You can rest in peace,’ said Nancy, with careless scorn. + </p> + <p> + ‘Any way of convincing me, except by saying it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes. Wait here a moment.’ + </p> + <p> + She left the room, and returned with the note which Crewe had addressed to + her from the hotel at Falmouth. + </p> + <p> + ‘Read that, and look at the date.’ + </p> + <p> + Beatrice studied the document, and in silence canvassed the possibilities + of trickery. No; it was genuine evidence. She remembered the date of + Crewe’s journey to Falmouth, and, in this new light, could interpret his + quarrelsome behaviour after he had returned. Only the discovery she had + since made inflamed her with a suspicion which till then had never entered + her mind. + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course, you didn’t let him see you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course not.’. + </p> + <p> + ‘All right. Don’t suppose I wanted to insult you. I took it for granted + you were married. Of course it happened before your father’s death, and + his awkward will obliged you to keep it dark?’ + </p> + <p> + Again Nancy was smitten with fear. Deeming Miss. French an unscrupulous + enemy, she felt that to confess marriage was to abandon every hope. Pride + appealed to her courage, bade her, here and now, have done with the + ignoble fraud; but fear proved stronger. She could not face exposure, and + all that must follow. + </p> + <p> + She spoke coldly, but with down-dropt eyes. + </p> + <p> + ‘I am not married.’ + </p> + <p> + The words cost her little effort. Practically, she had uttered them + before; her overbold replies were an admission of what, from the first, + she supposed Beatrice to charge her with—not secret wedlock, but + secret shame. Beatrice, however, had adopted that line of suggestion + merely from policy, hoping to sting the proud girl into avowal of a + legitimate union; she heard the contrary declaration with fresh surprise. + </p> + <p> + ‘I should never have believed it of Miss. Lord,’ was her half ingenuous, + half sly comment. + </p> + <p> + Nancy, beginning to realise what she had done, sat with head bent, + speechless. + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t distress yourself,’ continued the other. ‘Not a soul will hear of + it from me. If you like to tell me more, you can do it quite safely; I’m + no blabber, and I’m not a rascal. I should never have troubled to make + inquiries about you, down yonder, if it hadn’t been that I suspected + Crewe. That’s a confession, you know; take it in return for yours.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy was tongue-tied. A full sense of her humiliation had burst upon her. + She, who always condescended to Miss. French, now lay smirched before her + feet, an object of vulgar contempt. + </p> + <p> + ‘What does it matter?’ went on Beatrice genially. ‘You’ve got over the + worst, and very cleverly. Are you going to marry him when you come in for + your money?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Perhaps—I don’t know—’ + </p> + <p> + She faltered, no longer able to mask in impudence, and hardly restraining + tears. Beatrice ceased to doubt, and could only wonder with amusement. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why shouldn’t we be good friends, Nancy? I tell you, I am no rascal. I + never thought of making anything out of your secret—not I. If it had + been Crewe, marriage or no marriage—well, I might have shown my + temper. I believe I have a pretty rough side to my tongue; but I’m a good + enough sort if you take me in the right way. Of course I shall never rest + for wondering who it can be—’ + </p> + <p> + She paused, but Nancy did not look up, did not stir. + </p> + <p> + ‘Perhaps you’ll tell me some other time. But there’s one thing I should + like to ask about, and it’s for your own good that I should know it. When + Crewe was down there, don’t you think he tumbled to anything?’ + </p> + <p> + Perplexed by unfamiliar slang, Nancy raised her eyes. + </p> + <p> + ‘Found out anything, you mean? I don’t know.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But you must have been in a jolly fright about it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I gave it very little thought,’ replied Nancy, able now to command a + steady voice, and retiring behind a manner of frigid indifference. + </p> + <p> + ‘No? Well, of course I understand that better now I know that you can’t + lose anything. Still, it is to be hoped he didn’t go asking questions. + By-the-bye, you may as well just tell me: he has asked you to marry him, + hasn’t he?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes.’ + </p> + <p> + Beatrice nodded. + </p> + <p> + ‘Doesn’t matter. You needn’t be afraid, even if he got hold of anything. + He isn’t the kind of man to injure you out of spite.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I fear him as little as I fear you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, as I’ve told you, you needn’t fear me at all. I like you better for + this—a good deal better than I used to. If you want any help, you + know where to turn; I’ll do whatever I can for you; and I’m in the way of + being useful to my friends. You’re cut up just now; it’s natural. I won’t + bother you any longer. But just remember what I’ve said. If I can be of + any service, don’t be above making use of me.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy heard without heeding; for an anguish of shame and misery once more + fell upon her, and seemed to lay waste her soul. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PART5" id="link2H_PART5"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Part V: Compassed Round + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0030" id="link2HCH0030"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER 1 + </h2> + <p> + There needed not Mary Woodruff’s suggestion to remind Nancy that no + further away than Champion Hill were people of whom, in extremity, she + might inquire concerning her husband. At present, even could she have + entertained the thought, it seemed doubtful whether the Vawdrey household + knew more of Tarrant’s position and purposes than she herself; for, only a + month ago, Jessica Morgan had called upon the girls and had ventured a + question about their cousin, whereupon they answered that he was in + America, but that he had not written for a long time. To Mrs. Baker, + Jessica did not like to speak on the subject, but probably that lady could + have answered only as the children did. + </p> + <p> + Once, indeed, a few days after her return, Nancy took the familiar walk + along Champion Hill, and glanced, in passing, at Mr. Vawdrey’s house; + afterwards, she shunned that region. The memories it revived were + infinitely painful. She saw herself an immature and foolish girl, behaving + in a way which, for all its affectation of reserve and dignity, no doubt + offered to such a man as Lionel Tarrant a hint that here, if he chose, he + might make a facile conquest. Had he not acted upon the hint? It wrung her + heart with shame to remember how, in those days, she followed the lure of + a crude imagination. A year ago? Oh, a lifetime! + </p> + <p> + Unwilling, now, to justify herself with the plea of love; doubtful, in + very truth, whether her passion merited that name; she looked back in the + stern spirit of a woman judging another’s frailty. What treatment could + she have anticipated at the hands of her lover save that she had received? + He married her—it was much; he forsook her—it was natural. The + truth of which she had caught troublous glimpses in the heyday of her + folly now stood revealed as pitiless condemnation. Tarrant never respected + her, never thought of her as a woman whom he could seriously woo and wed. + She had a certain power over his emotions, and not the sensual alone; but + his love would not endure the test of absence. From the other side of the + Atlantic he saw her as he had seen her at first, and shrank from returning + to the bondage which in a weak moment he had accepted. + </p> + <p> + One night about this time she said to herself: + </p> + <p> + ‘I was his mistress, never his wife.’ + </p> + <p> + And all her desperate endeavours to obscure the history of their love, to + assert herself as worthy to be called wife, mother, had fallen fruitless. + Those long imploring letters, despatched to America from her solitude by + the Cornish sea, elicited nothing but a word or two which sounded more + like pity than affection. Pity does not suffice to recall the wandering + steps of a man wedded against his will. + </p> + <p> + In her heart, she absolved him of all baseness. The man of ignoble thought + would have been influenced by her market value as a wife. Tarrant, all the + more because he was reduced to poverty, would resolutely forget the crude + advantage of remaining faithful to her. + </p> + <p> + Herein Nancy proved herself more akin to her father than she had ever + seemed when Stephen Lord sought eagerly in her character for hopeful + traits. + </p> + <p> + The severity of her self-judgment, and the indulgence tempering her + attitude towards Tarrant, declared a love which had survived its phase of + youthful passion. But Nancy did not recognise this symptom of moral + growth. She believed herself to have become indifferent to her husband, + and only wondered that she did not hate him. Her heart seemed to spend all + its emotion on the little being to whom she had given life—a healthy + boy, who already, so she fancied, knew a difference between his mother and + his nurse, and gurgled a peculiar note of contentment when lying in her + arms. Whether wife or not, she claimed every privilege of motherhood. Had + the child been a weakling, she could not have known this abounding solace: + the defect would have reproached her. But from the day of his birth he + manifested so vigorous a will to live, clung so hungrily to the + fountain-breast, kicked and clamoured with such irresistible + self-assertion, that the mother’s pride equalled her tenderness. ‘My own + brave boy! My son!’ Wonderful new words: honey upon the lips and rapture + to the ear. She murmured them as though inspired with speech never uttered + by mortal. + </p> + <p> + The interval of a day between her journeys to see the child taxed her + patience; but each visit brought a growth of confidence. No harm would + befall him: Mary had chosen wisely. + </p> + <p> + Horace kept aloof and sent no message. When at length she wrote to him a + letter all of sisterly kindness, there came a stinted reply. He said that + he was going away for a holiday, and might be absent until September. + ‘Don’t bother about me. You shall hear again before long. There’s just a + chance that I may go in for business again, with prospect of making money. + Particulars when I see you.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy found this note awaiting her after a day’s absence from home, and + with it another. To her surprise, Mrs. Damerel had written. ‘I called + early this afternoon, wishing particularly to see you. Will you please let + me know when I should find you at home? It is about Horace that I want to + speak.’ It began with ‘My dear Nancy,’ and ended, ‘Yours affectionately.’ + Glad of the opportunity thus offered, she answered at once, making an + appointment for the next day. + </p> + <p> + When Mrs. Damerel came, Nancy was even more struck than at their former + meeting with her resemblance to Horace. Eyes and lips recalled Horace at + every moment. This time, the conversation began more smoothly. On both + sides appeared a disposition to friendliness, though Nancy only marked her + distrust in the hope of learning more about this mysterious relative and + of being useful to her brother. + </p> + <p> + ‘You have a prejudice against me,’ said the visitor, when she had inquired + concerning Nancy’s health. ‘It’s only natural. I hardly seem to you a real + relative, I’m afraid—you know so little about me; and now Horace has + been laying dreadful things to my charge.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘He thinks you responsible for what has happened to Fanny French,’ Nancy + replied, in an impartial voice. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, and I assure you he is mistaken. Miss. French deceived him and her + own people, leading them to think that she was spending her time with me, + when really she was—who knows where? To you I am quite ready to + confess that I hoped something might come between her and Horace; but as + for plotting—really lam not so melodramatic a person. All I did in + the way of design was to give Horace an opportunity of seeing the girl in + a new light. You can imagine very well, no doubt, how she conducted + herself. I quite believe that Horace was getting tired and ashamed of her, + but then came her disappearance, and that made him angry with me.’ + </p> + <p> + Even the voice suggested Horace’s tones, especially when softened in + familiar dialogue. Nancy paid closer attention to the speaker’s looks and + movements than to the matter of what she said. Mrs. Damerel might possibly + be a well-meaning woman—her peculiarities might result from social + habits, and not from insincerity; yet Nancy could not like her. Everything + about her prompted a question and a doubt. How old was she? Probably much + older than she looked. What was her breeding, her education? Probably far + less thorough than she would have one believe. Was she in good + circumstances? Nancy suspected that her fashionable and expensive dress + signified extravagance and vanity rather than wealth. + </p> + <p> + ‘I have brought a letter to show you which she has sent me from abroad. + Read it, and form your own conclusion. Is it the letter of an injured + innocent?’ + </p> + <p> + A scrawl on foreign note-paper, which ran thus: + </p> + <p> + DEAR MRS DAMEREL,—Just a word to console you for the loss of my + society. I have gone to a better world, so dry your tears. If you see my + masher, tell him I’ve met with somebody a bit more like a man. I should + advise him to go to school again and finish his education. I won’t trouble + you to write. Many thanks for the kindness you <i>didn’t</i> mean to do + me.—Yours in the best of spirits (I don’t mean Cognac), + </p> + <p> + FANNY (<i>nee</i>) FRENCH. + </p> + <p> + Nancy returned the paper with a look of disgust, saying, ‘I didn’t think + she was as bad as that.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No more did I. It really gave me a little shock of surprise.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you think it likely she is married?’ + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Damerel pursed her lips and arched her eyebrows with so unpleasant an + effect on Nancy that she looked away. + </p> + <p> + ‘I have no means whatever of forming an opinion.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But there’s no more fear for Horace,’ said Nancy. + </p> + <p> + ‘I hope not—I think not. But my purpose in coming was to consult + with you about the poor boy. He has renounced me; he won’t answer my + letters; and I am so dreadfully afraid that a sort of despair—it + sounds ridiculous, but he is so very young—may drive him into + reckless living. You have taken part with him against me, I fear—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, I haven’t. I told him I was quite sure the girl had only herself to + blame, whatever happened.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How kind of you!’ Mrs. Damerel sank her voice to a sort of cooing, not + unmelodious, but to Nancy’s ear a hollow affectation. ‘If we could + understand each other! I am so anxious for your dear brother’s happiness—and + for yours, believe me. I have suffered greatly since he told me I was his + enemy, and cast me off.’ + </p> + <p> + Here sounded a note of pathos which impressed the critical listener. There + was a look, too, in Mrs. Damerel’s eyes quite unlike any that Nancy had + yet detected. + </p> + <p> + ‘What do you wish him to do?’ she asked. ‘If I must tell you the truth, I + don’t think he’ll get any good in the life of society.’ + </p> + <p> + Society’s representative answered in a tone of affectionate frankness: + </p> + <p> + ‘He won’t; I can see that. I don’t wish him to live idly. The question is, + What ought he to do? I think you know a gentleman of his acquaintance, Mr. + Crewe?’ + </p> + <p> + The question was added rather abruptly, and with a watchful gaze. + </p> + <p> + ‘I know him a little.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Something has been said, I believe, about Horace investing money in Mr. + Crewe’s business. Do you think it would be advisable?’ + </p> + <p> + Surprise kept Nancy silent. + </p> + <p> + ‘Is Mr. Crewe trustworthy? I understand he has been in business for + himself only a short time.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy declared herself unable to judge Mr. Crewe, whether in private or in + commercial life. And here she paused, but could not refrain from adding + the question whether Mrs. Damerel had personal knowledge of him. + </p> + <p> + ‘I have met him once.’ + </p> + <p> + Immediately, all Nancy’s suspicions were revived. She had felt a desire to + talk of intimate things, with mention of her mother’s name; but the + repulsion excited in her by this woman’s air of subtlety, by looks, + movements, tones which she did not understand, forbade it. She could not + speak with satisfaction even of Horace, feeling that Mrs. Damerel’s + affection, however genuine, must needs be baleful. From this point her + part in the dialogue was slight. + </p> + <p> + ‘If any of Miss. French’s relatives,’ said the visitor presently, ‘should + accuse me to you, you will be able to contradict them. I am sure I can + depend upon you for that service?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I am not likely to see them; and I should have thought you would care + very little what was said about you by people of that kind.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I care little enough,’ rejoined Mrs. Damerel, with a curl of the lips. + ‘It’s Horace I am thinking of. These people will embitter him against me, + so long as they have any ground to go upon.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But haven’t you let him know of that letter?’ + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Damerel seemed to fall into abstraction, answered with a vague ‘Yes,’ + and after surveying the room, said softly: + </p> + <p> + ‘So you must live here alone for another two or three years?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It isn’t compulsory: it’s only a condition.’ + </p> + <p> + Another vague ‘Yes.’ Then: + </p> + <p> + ‘I do so wish Horace would come back and make his home here.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m afraid you have spoilt him for that,’ said Nancy, with relief in this + piece of plain speaking. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Damerel did not openly resent it. She looked a mild surprise, and + answered blandly: + </p> + <p> + ‘Then I must undo the mischief. You shall help me. When he has got over + this little trouble, he will see who are his true friends. Let us work + together for his good.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy was inclined, once more, to reproach herself, and listened with + patience whilst her relative continued talking in grave kindly tones. Lest + she should spoil the effect of these impressive remarks, Mrs. Damerel then + took leave. In shaking hands, she bent upon the girl a gaze of affection, + and, as she turned away, softly sighed. + </p> + <p> + Of what had passed in the recent interview with Beatrice French, Nancy + said nothing to her faithful companion. This burden of shame must be borne + by herself alone. It affected profoundly the courageous mood which had + promised to make her life tolerable; henceforth, she all but abandoned the + hope of gaining that end for which she had submitted to so deep a + humiliation. Through Beatrice, would not her secret, coloured shamefully, + become known to Luckworth Crewe, and to others? Already, perchance, a + growing scandal attached to her name. Fear had enabled her to endure + dishonour in the eyes of one woman, but at any moment the disgrace might + front her in an intolerable shape; then, regardless of the cost, she would + proclaim her marriage, and have, in return for all she had suffered, + nothing but the reproach of an attempted fraud. + </p> + <p> + To find employment, means of honourable support, was an urgent necessity. + </p> + <p> + She had written in reply to sundry advertisements, but without result. She + tried to draw up an advertisement on her own account, but found the + difficulty insuperable. What was there she could do? Teach children, + perhaps; but as a visiting governess, the only position of the kind which + circumstances left open to her, she could hope for nothing more than the + paltriest remuneration. Be somebody’s ‘secretary’? That sounded pleasant, + but very ambitious: a sense of incompetency chilled her. In an office, in + a shop, who would dream of giving her an engagement? + </p> + <p> + Walking about the streets of London in search of suggestions, she gained + only an understanding of her insignificance. In the battle of life every + girl who could work a sewing-machine or make a matchbox was of more + account than she. If she entered a shop to make purchases, the young women + at the counter seemed to smile superiority. Of what avail her ‘education,’ + her ‘culture’? The roar of myriad industries made mocking laughter at such + futile pretensions. She shrank back into her suburban home. + </p> + <p> + A little book on ‘employments for women,’ which she saw advertised and + bought, merely heightened her discouragement. Here, doubtless, were + occupations she might learn; but, when it came to choosing, and + contemplating the practical steps that must be taken, her heart sank. She + was a coward; she dreaded the world; she saw as never yet the blessedness + of having money and a secure home. + </p> + <p> + The word ‘home’ grew very sweet to her ears. A man, she said to herself, + may go forth and find his work, his pleasure, in the highways; but is not + a woman’s place under the sheltering roof? What right had a mother to be + searching abroad for tasks and duties? Task enough, duty obvious, in the + tending of her child. Had she but a little country cottage with needs + assured, and her baby cradled beside her, she would ask no more. + </p> + <p> + How idle all the thoughts of her girlhood! How little she knew of life as + it would reveal itself to her mature eyes! + </p> + <p> + Fatigued into listlessness, she went to the lending-library, and chose a + novel for an hour’s amusement. It happened that this story was concerned + with the fortunes of a young woman who, after many an affliction sore, + discovered with notable suddenness the path to fame, lucre, and the + husband of her heart: she became at a bound a successful novelist. Nancy’s + cheek flushed with a splendid thought. Why should not <i>she</i> do + likewise? At all events—for modesty was now her ruling + characteristic—why should she not earn a little money by writing + Stories? Numbers of women took to it; not a few succeeded. It was a + pursuit that demanded no apprenticeship, that could be followed in the + privacy of home, a pursuit wherein her education would be of service. With + imagination already fired by the optimistic author, she began to walk + about the room and devise romantic incidents. A love story, of course—and + why not one very like her own? The characters were ready to her hands. She + would begin this very evening. + </p> + <p> + Mary saw the glow upon her face, the delightful frenzy in her eyes, and + wondered. + </p> + <p> + ‘I have an idea,’ said Nancy. ‘Don’t ask me about it. Just leave me alone. + I think I see my way.’ + </p> + <p> + Daily she secluded herself for several hours; and, whatever the literary + value of her labour, it plainly kept her in good spirits, and benefited + her health. Save for the visits to her baby, regular as before, she hardly + left home. + </p> + <p> + Jessica Morgan came very often, much oftener than Nancy desired; not only + was her talk wearisome, but it consumed valuable time. She much desired to + see the baby, and Nancy found it difficult to invent excuses for her + unwillingness. When importunity could not be otherwise defeated, she + pretended a conscientious scruple. + </p> + <p> + ‘I have deceived my husband in telling him that no one knows of our + marriage but Mary. If I let you see the child, I should feel that I was + deceiving him again. Don’t ask me; I can’t.’ + </p> + <p> + Not unnaturally this struck Jessica as far-fetched. She argued against it, + and became petulant. Nancy lost patience, but remembered in time that she + was at Jessica’s mercy, and, to her mortification, had to adopt a coaxing, + almost a suppliant, tone, with the result that Miss. Morgan’s overweening + conceit was flattered into arrogance. Her sentimental protestations became + strangely mixed with a self-assertiveness very galling to Nancy’s pride. + Without the slightest apparent cause for ill-humour, she said one day: + </p> + <p> + ‘I do feel sorry for you; it must be a dreadful thing to have married a + man who has no sense of honour.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy fired up. + </p> + <p> + ‘What do you mean?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How can he have, when he makes you deceive people in this way for the + sake of the money he’ll get?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘He doesn’t! It’s my own choice.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then he oughtn’t let you do it. No honourable man would.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That has nothing to do with you,’ Nancy exclaimed, anger blanching her + cheek. ‘Please don’t talk about my husband. You say things you ought to be + ashamed of.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, don’t be angry!’ The facile tears started in Jessica’s eyes. ‘It’s + because I feel indignant on your account, dear.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t want your indignation. Never mention this subject again, or I + shall feel sure you do it on purpose to annoy me.’ + </p> + <p> + Jessica melted into mawkishness; none the less, Nancy felt a slave to her + former friend, who, for whatever reason, seemed to have grown hypocritical + and spiteful. When next the girl called, she was told that Miss. Lord had + left home for the day, a fiction which spared Nancy an hour’s torment. + Miss. Morgan made up for it by coming very early on the next Sunday + afternoon, and preparing herself avowedly for a stay until late in the + evening. Resolute to avoid a long <i>tete-a-tete</i>, which was sure to + exasperate her temper, Nancy kept Mary in the room, and listened to no + hint from Jessica that they should retire for the accustomed privacy. + </p> + <p> + At four o’clock they were joined by Samuel Barmby, whom, for once, Nancy + welcomed with pleasure. Samuel, who had come in the hope of finding Miss. + Lord alone, gave but the coldest attention to Jessica; Mary, however, he + greeted with grave courtesy, addressing to her several remarks which were + meant as a recognition of social equality in the quondam servant. He was + dressed with elaborate care. Snowy cuffs concealed half his hands; his + moustache, of late in training, sketched the graceful curl it would + presently achieve; a faint perfume attended the drawing forth of his silk + handkerchief. + </p> + <p> + Samuel never lacked a subject for the display of eloquence. Today it was + one that called for indignant fervour. + </p> + <p> + ‘A most disgraceful fact has come under my notice, and I am sorry to say, + Miss. Lord, that it concerns some one with whom you are acquainted.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Indeed?’ said Nancy, not without tremor. ‘Who is that?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Mr. Peachey, of De Crespigny Park. I believe you are on terms of + friendship with the family.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, you can hardly call it friendship. I know them.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then I may speak without fear of paining you. You are aware that Mr + Peachey is a member of the firm of Ducker, Blunt & Co., who + manufacture disinfectants. Now, if any manufacture should be carried on in + a conscientious spirit—as of course <i>all</i> manufactures should—surely + it is that of disinfectants. Only think what depends upon it! People who + make disinfectants ought to regard themselves as invested with a sacred + trust. The whole community looks to them for protection against disease. + The abuse of such confidence cannot be too severely condemned, all the + more so, that there is absolutely no legal remedy against the adulteration + of disinfectants. Did you know that, Miss. Lord? The law guards against + adulteration of food, but it seems—I have been making inquiry into + the matter—that no thought has ever been given by the legislature to + the subject of disinfectants!’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy saw that Jessica was watching the speaker with jealous eyes, and, in + spite of prudence, she could not help behaving to Mr. Barmby more + graciously than usual; a small revenge for the treatment she had suffered + at the hands of Miss. Morgan. + </p> + <p> + ‘I could point out a great number of such anomalies,’ pursued Samuel. ‘But + this matter of disinfectants is really one of the gravest. My father has + written to <i>The Times</i> about it, and his letter will probably be + inserted to-morrow. I am thinking of bringing it before the attention of + our Society.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Do Mr. Peachey’s people adulterate their disinfectants?’ inquired Nancy. + </p> + <p> + ‘I was going to tell you. Some acquaintances of ours have had a severe + illness in their house, and have been using disinfectants made by Ducker, + Blunt & Co. Fortunately they have a very good medical man, and through + him it has been discovered that these pretended safeguards are all but + absolutely worthless. He had the stuff analysed. Now, isn’t this shameful? + Isn’t this abominable? For my own part, I should call it constructive + murder.’ + </p> + <p> + The phrase came by haphazard to Samuel’s tongue, and he uttered it with + gusto, repeating it twice or thrice. + </p> + <p> + ‘Constructive murder—nothing short of that. And to think that these + people enjoy a positive immunity—impunity.’ He corrected himself + quickly; then, uncertain whether he had really made a mistake, reddened + and twisted his gloves. ‘To think’—he raised his voice—‘that + they are capable of making money out of disease and death! It is one of + the worst illustrations of a corrupt spirit in the commercial life of our + times that has yet come under my observation.’ + </p> + <p> + He remained for a couple of hours, talking ceaselessly. A glance which he + now and then cast at Miss. Morgan betrayed his hope that she would take + her leave before the necessary time of his own departure. Jessica, + perfectly aware of this desire, sat as though no less at home than Nancy. + Every remark she made was a stroke of malice at her friend, and in her + drawn features appeared the passions by which she was tormented. + </p> + <p> + As soon as Mr. Barmby had regretfully withdrawn, Nancy turned upon the + girl with flashing eyes. + </p> + <p> + ‘I want to speak to you. Come downstairs.’ + </p> + <p> + She led the way to the dining-room. Jessica followed without a word. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why are you behaving like this? What has come to you?’ + </p> + <p> + The feeble anaemic creature fell back before this outbreak of wholesome + wrath; her eyes stared in alarm. + </p> + <p> + ‘I won’t put up with it,’ cried Nancy. ‘If you think you can insult me + because I trusted you when you were my only friend, you’ll find your + mistake. A little more, and you shall see how little your power over me is + worth. Am I to live at <i>your</i> mercy! I’d starve rather. What do you + mean by it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh—Nancy—to think you should speak to me like this.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You are to be allowed to spit poison at me—are you? And I must bear + it? No, that I won’t! Of course I know what’s the matter with you. You + have fallen in love with Samuel Barmby.—You have! Any one can see + it. You have no more command of yourself than a child. And because he + prefers me to you, you rage against me. Idiot! What is Samuel Barmby to + me? Can I do more to keep him off? Can I say to him, “Do have pity on poor + Miss. Morgan, who—“’ + </p> + <p> + She was interrupted by a scream, on which followed a torrent of frenzied + words from Jessica. + </p> + <p> + ‘You’re a bad-hearted woman! You’ve behaved disgracefully yourself—oh! + I know more than you think; and now you accuse me of being as bad. Why did + you get married in such a hurry? Do you think I didn’t understand it? It’s + you who have no command over yourself. If the truth were known, no decent + woman would ever speak to You again. And you’ve got your reward. Pretend + as you like, I know your husband has deserted you. What else could you + expect? That’s what makes you hate every one that hasn’t fallen into the + mud. I wouldn’t have such a character as yours! All this afternoon you’ve + been looking at that man as no married woman could who respected herself. + You encourage him; he comes here often—’ + </p> + <p> + Hysterical passion strangled her voice, and before she could recover + breath, Nancy, terrible in ire, advanced upon her. + </p> + <p> + ‘Leave this house, and never dare to show yourself here again! Do what you + like, I’ll endure you no longer—be off!’ + </p> + <p> + Jessica retreated, her bloodless lips apart, her eyes starting as in + suffocation. She stumbled against a chair, fell to the ground, and, with a + cry of anguish, threw herself upon her knees before Nancy. + </p> + <p> + ‘What did I say? I didn’t mean it—I don’t know what I have been + saying—it was all madness. Oh, do forgive me! That isn’t how I + really think of you—you know it isn’t—I’m not so wicked as + that. We have been friends so long—I must have gone mad to speak + such words. Don’t drive me away from you, dear, dear Nancy! I implore you + to forgive me! Look, I pray to you on my knees to forget it. Despise me + for being such a weak, wicked creature, but don’t drive me away like that! + I didn’t mean one word I said.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Rubbish! Of course you meant it. You have thought it every day, and + you’ll say it again, behind my back, if not to my face. Stand up, and + don’t make yourself sillier than you are.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You can’t call me anything too bad—but don’t drive me away. I can’t + bear it. You are the only friend I have in the world—the only, only + friend. No one was ever kind and good to me but you, and this is how I + have repaid you. Oh, I hate myself! I could tear my tongue out for saying + such things. Only say that you’ll try to forgive me—dear Nancy—dear—’ + </p> + <p> + She fell with face upon the carpet, and grovelled there in anguish of + conflicting passions, a lamentable object. Unable to bear the sight of + her, Nancy moved away, and stood with back turned, perforce hearing the + moans and sobs and half-articulate words which lasted until the fit of + hysteria left its victim in mute exhaustion. Then, contemptuously pitiful, + she drew near again to the prostrate figure. + </p> + <p> + ‘Stand up at once, and let us have an end of this vulgar folly. Stand up, + or I’ll leave you here, and never speak to you again.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Nancy—can you forgive me?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I believe you have never got over your illness. If I were you, I should + see the doctor again, and try to be cured. You’ll end in an asylum, if you + don’t mind.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I often feel almost mad—I do really. Will you forget those dreadful + words I spoke? I know you can’t forgive me at once—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Only stand up, and try to behave like a reasonable being. What do I care + for your words?’ + </p> + <p> + The girl raised herself, threw her arms over a chair, and wept miserably. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0031" id="link2HCH0031"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER 2 + </h2> + <p> + On an afternoon at the end of October, Samuel Barmby, returned from + business, found Miss. Morgan having tea with his sisters. For a month or + two after Midsummer the Barmbys had scarcely seen her; now their friendly + intercourse was renewed, and Jessica came at least once a week. She had an + engagement at a girls’ school in this neighbourhood, and, though her + health threatened another collapse, she talked of resuming study for the + Matriculation of next year. + </p> + <p> + Samuel, perfectly aware of the slavish homage which Miss. Morgan paid him, + took pleasure in posing before her. It never entered his mind to make any + return beyond genial patronage, but the incense of a female devotee was + always grateful to him, and he had come to look upon Jessica as a young + person peculiarly appreciative of intellectual distinction. A week ago, + walking with her to the omnibus after an evening she had spent in Dagmar + Road, he had indulged a spirit of confidence, and led her to speak of + Nancy Lord. The upshot of five minutes’ conversation was a frank inquiry, + which he could hardly have permitted himself but for the shadow of night + and the isolating noises around them. As an intimate friend, did she feel + able to tell him whether or not Miss. Lord was engaged to be married? + Jessica, after a brief silence, answered that she did <i>not</i> feel at + liberty to disclose what she knew on the subject; but the words she used, + and her voice in uttering them, left no doubt as to her meaning. Samuel + said no more. At parting, he pressed the girl’s hand warmly. + </p> + <p> + This afternoon, they began by avoiding each other’s look. Samuel seemed + indisposed for conversation; he sipped at a cup of tea with an abstracted + and somewhat weary air, until Miss. Morgan addressed him. + </p> + <p> + ‘To-morrow is the evening of your lecture, isn’t it, Mr. Barmby?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘To-morrow.’ + </p> + <p> + By the agency of a friend who belonged to a society of mutual improvement + at Pentonville, Samuel had been invited to go over and illumine with his + wisdom the seekers after culture in that remote district, a proposal that + flattered him immensely, and inspired him with a hope of more than + suburban fame. For some months he had spoken of the engagement. He was to + discourse upon ‘National Greatness: its Obligations and its Dangers.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course it will be printed afterwards?’ pursued the devotee. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, I don’t know. It’s hardly worth that.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, I’m sure it will be!’ + </p> + <p> + And Jessica appealed to the sisters, who declared that certain passages + they had been privileged to hear seemed to them very remarkable. + </p> + <p> + Ladies were to be admitted, but the Miss. Barmbys felt afraid to undertake + so long a journey after dark. + </p> + <p> + ‘I know some one who would very much like to go,’ said Jessica, steadying + her voice. ‘Could you spare me a ticket to give away, Mr Barmby?’ + </p> + <p> + Samuel smiled graciously, and promised the ticket. + </p> + <p> + Of course it was for Jessica’s own use. On the following evening, long + before the hour which would have allowed her ample time to reach + Pentonville by eight o’clock, she set forth excitedly. Unless Samuel + Barmby were accompanied by some friend from Camberwell,—only too + probable,—she might hope to make the return journey under his + protection. Perhaps he would speak again of Nancy Lord, and this time he + should be answered with less reserve. What harm if she even told him the + name of the man whom Nancy was ‘engaged’ to marry? + </p> + <p> + Nancy was no longer her friend. A show of reconciliation had followed that + scene on the Sunday afternoon three months ago; but Jessica well knew that + she had put herself beyond forgiveness, nor did she desire it. Even + without the memory of her offence, by this time she must needs have + regarded Nancy with steadfast dislike. Weeks had gone by since their last + meeting, which was rendered so unpleasant by mutual coldness that a + renewal of intercourse seemed out of the question. + </p> + <p> + She would not be guilty of treachery. But, in justice to herself, she + might give Samuel Barmby to understand how hopeless was his wooing. + </p> + <p> + To her disappointment, the lecture-room was small and undignified; she had + imagined a capacious hall, with Samuel Bennett Barmby standing up before + an audience of several hundred people. The cane-bottomed chairs numbered + not more than fifty, and at eight o’clock some of them were still + unoccupied. Nor did the assembly answer to her expectation. It seemed to + consist of young shopmen, with a few females of their kind interspersed. + She chose a place in the middle of the room, where the lecturer could + hardly fail to observe her presence. + </p> + <p> + With Barmby’s entrance disillusion gave way before the ardours of flesh + and spirit. The whole hour through she never took her eyes from him. His + smooth, pink face, with its shining moustache, embodied her ideal of manly + beauty; his tall figure inflamed her senses; the words that fell from his + lips sounded to her with oracular impressiveness, conveying a wisdom + before which she bowed, and a noble enthusiasm to which she responded in + fervent exaltation. And she had been wont to ridicule this man, to join in + mockery of his eloquence with a conceited wanton such as Nancy Lord! No, + it never came from her heart; it was moral cowardice; from the first she + had recognised Samuel Barmby’s infinite superiority to the ignoble, the + impure girl who dared to deride him. + </p> + <p> + He saw her; their eyes met once, and again, and yet again. He knew that + she alone in the audience could comprehend his noble morality, grasp the + extent of his far-sighted speculations. To her he spoke. And in his deep + glowing heart he could not but thank her for such evidence of sympathy. + </p> + <p> + There followed a tedious debate, a muddy flow of gabble and balderdash. It + was over by ten o’clock. With jealous eyes she watched her hero surrounded + by people who thought, poor creatures, that they were worthy of offering + him congratulations. At a distance she lingered. And behold, his eye once + more fell upon her! He came out from among the silly chatterers, and + walked towards her. + </p> + <p> + ‘You played me a trick, Miss. Morgan. I should never have allowed you to + come all this way to hear me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘If I had come ten times the distance, I should have been repaid!’ + </p> + <p> + His round eyes gloated upon the flattery. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, well, I mustn’t pretend that I think the lecture worthless. But you + might have had the manuscript to read. Are you quite alone? Then I must + take care of you. It’s a wretched night; we’ll have a cab to King’s + Cross.’ + </p> + <p> + He said it with a consciousness of large-handed generosity. Jessica’s + heart leapt and throbbed. + </p> + <p> + She was by his side in the vehicle. Her body touched his. She felt his + warm breath as he talked. In all too short a time they reached the railway + station. + </p> + <p> + ‘Did you come this way? Have you a ticket? Leave that to me.’ + </p> + <p> + Again largely generous, he strode to the booking-office. + </p> + <p> + They descended and stood together upon the platform, among hurrying + crowds, in black fumes that poisoned the palate with sulphur. This way and + that sped the demon engines, whirling lighted waggons full of people. + Shrill whistles, the hiss and roar of steam, the bang, clap, bang of + carriage-doors, the clatter of feet on wood and stone—all echoed and + reverberated from a huge cloudy vault above them. High and low, on every + available yard of wall, advertisements clamoured to the eye: theatres, + journals, soaps, medicines, concerts, furniture, wines, prayer-meetings—all + the produce and refuse of civilisation announced in staring letters, in + daubed effigies, base, paltry, grotesque. A battle-ground of + advertisements, fitly chosen amid subterranean din and reek; a symbol to + the gaze of that relentless warfare which ceases not, night and day, in + the world above. + </p> + <p> + For the southward train they had to wait ten minutes. Jessica, keeping as + close as possible to her companion’s side, tried to converse, but her + thoughts were in a tumult like to that about her. She felt a faintness, a + quivering in her limbs. + </p> + <p> + ‘May I sit down for a moment?’ she said, looking at Barmby with a + childlike appeal. + </p> + <p> + ‘To be sure.’ + </p> + <p> + She pointed in a direction away from the crowd. + </p> + <p> + ‘I have something to say—it’s quieter—’ + </p> + <p> + Samuel evinced surprise, but allowed himself to be led towards the black + mouth of the tunnel, whence at that moment rushed an engine with glaring + lights upon its breast. + </p> + <p> + ‘We may not be alone in the train,’ continued Jessica. ‘There’s something + you ought to know I must tell you to-night. You were asking me about Nancy + Lord.’ + </p> + <p> + She spoke with panting breath, and looked fixedly at him. The eagerness + with which he lent ear gave her strength to proceed. + </p> + <p> + ‘You asked me if she was engaged.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes—well?’ + </p> + <p> + He had even forgotten his politeness; he saw in her a mere source of + information. Jessica moved closer to him on the bench. + </p> + <p> + ‘Had you any reason for thinking she was?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No particular reason, except something strange in her behaviour.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Would you like to know the whole truth?’ + </p> + <p> + It was a very cold night, and a keen wind swept the platform; but Jessica, + though indifferently clad, felt no discomfort from this cause. Yet she + pressed closer to her companion, so that her cheek all but touched his + shoulder. + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course I should,’ Barmby answered. ‘Is there any mystery?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I oughtn’t to tell.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then you had better not. But why did you begin?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You ought to know.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why ought I to know?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Because you—.’ She broke off. A sudden chill made her teeth + chatter. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well—why?’ asked Samuel, with impatience. + </p> + <p> + ‘Are you—are you in love with her?’ + </p> + <p> + Voice and look embarrassed him. So did the girl’s proximity; she was now + all but leaning on his shoulder. Respectable Mr. Barmby could not be aware + that Jessica’s state of mind rendered her scarcely responsible for what + she said or did. + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s a very plain question,’ he began; but she interrupted him. + </p> + <p> + ‘I oughtn’t to ask it. There’s no need for you to answer. I know you have + wanted to marry her for a long time. But you never will.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Perhaps not—if she has promised somebody else.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘If I tell you—will you be kind to me?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Kind?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I didn’t mean that,’ she added hurriedly. ‘I mean—will you + understand that I felt it a duty? I oughtn’t to tell a secret; but it’s a + secret that oughtn’t to be kept. Will you understand that I did it out of—out + of friendship for you, and because I thought it right?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, certainly. After going so far, you had better tell me and have done + with it.’ + </p> + <p> + Jessica approached her lips to his ear, and whispered: + </p> + <p> + ‘She is married.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What? Impossible!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘She was married at Teignmouth, just before she came back from her + holiday, last year.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well! Upon my word! And that’s why she has been away in Cornwall?’ + </p> + <p> + Again Jessica whispered, her body quivering the while: + </p> + <p> + ‘She has a child. It was born last May.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well! Upon my word! Now I understand. Who could have imagined!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You see what she is. She hides it for the sake of the money.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But who is her husband?’ asked Samuel, staring at the bloodless face. + </p> + <p> + ‘A man called Tarrant, a relative of Mr. Vawdrey, of Champion Hill. She + thought he was rich. I don’t know whether he is or not, but I believe he + doesn’t mean to come back to her. He’s in America now.’ + </p> + <p> + Barmby questioned, and Jessica answered, until there was nothing left to + ask or to tell,—save the one thing which rose suddenly to Jessica’s + lips. + </p> + <p> + ‘You won’t let her know that I have told you?’ + </p> + <p> + Samuel gravely, but coldly, assured her that she need not fear betrayal. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0032" id="link2HCH0032"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER 3 + </h2> + <p> + It was to be in three volumes. She saw her way pretty clearly to the end + of the first; she had ideas for the second; the third must take care of + itself—until she reached it. Hero and heroine ready to her hand; + subordinate characters vaguely floating in the background. After an hour + or two of meditation, she sat down and dashed at Chapter One. + </p> + <p> + Long before the end of the year it ought to be finished. + </p> + <p> + But in August came her baby’s first illness; for nearly a fortnight she + was away from home, and on her return, though no anxiety remained, she + found it difficult to resume work. The few chapters completed had a sorry + look; they did not read well, not at all like writing destined to be read + in print. After a week’s disheartenment she made a new beginning. + </p> + <p> + At the end of September baby again alarmed her. A trivial ailment as + before, but she could not leave the child until all was well. Again she + reviewed her work, and with more repugnance than after the previous + interruption. But go on with it she must and would. The distasteful + labour, slow, wearisome, often performed without pretence of hope, went on + until October. Then she broke down. Mary Woodruff found her crying by the + fireside, feverish and unnerved. + </p> + <p> + ‘I can’t sleep,’ she said. ‘I hear the clock strike every hour, night + after night.’ + </p> + <p> + But she would not confess the cause. In writing her poor novel she had + lived again through the story enacted at Teignmouth, and her heart failed + beneath its burden of hopeless longing. Her husband had forsaken her. Even + if she saw him again, what solace could be found in the mere proximity of + a man who did not love her, who had never loved her? The child was not + enough; its fatherless estate enhanced the misery of her own solitude. + When the leaves fell, and the sky darkened, and the long London winter + gloomed before her, she sank with a moan of despair. + </p> + <p> + Mary’s strength and tenderness were now invaluable. By sheer force of will + she overcame the malady in its physical effects, and did wonders in the + assailing of its moral source. Her appeal now, as formerly, was to the + nobler pride always struggling for control in Nancy’s character. A few + days of combat with the besieging melancholy that threatened disaster, and + Nancy could meet her friend’s look with a smile. She put away and turned + the key upon her futile scribbling; no more of that. Novel-writing was not + her vocation; she must seek again. + </p> + <p> + Early in the afternoon she made ready to go forth on the only business + which now took her from home. It was nearly a week since she had seen her + boy. + </p> + <p> + Opening the front door, she came unexpectedly under two pairs of eyes. + Face to face with her stood Samuel Barmby, his hand raised to signal at + the knocker, just withdrawn from him. And behind Barmby was a postman, + holding a letter, which in another moment would have dropped into the box. + </p> + <p> + Samuel performed the civil salute. + </p> + <p> + ‘Ha!—How do you do, Miss. Lord?—You are going out, I’m + afraid.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, I am going out.’ + </p> + <p> + She replied mechanically, and in speaking took the letter held out to her. + A glance at it sent all her blood rushing upon the heart. + </p> + <p> + ‘I want to see you particularly,’ said Samuel. ‘Could I call again, this + afternoon?’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy gazed at him, but did not hear. He saw the sudden pallor of her + cheeks, and thought he understood it. As she stood like a statue, he spoke + again. + </p> + <p> + ‘It is very particular business. If you could give me an appointment—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Business?—Oh, come in, if you like.’ + </p> + <p> + She drew back to admit him, but in the passage stood looking at her + letter. Barmby was perplexed and embarrassed. + </p> + <p> + ‘You had rather I called again?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Called again? Just as you like.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, then I will stay,’ said Samuel bluntly. For he had things in mind + which disposed him to resent this flagrant discourtesy. + </p> + <p> + His voice awakened Nancy. She opened the door of the dining-room. + </p> + <p> + ‘Will you sit down, Mr. Barmby, and excuse me for a few minutes?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Certainly. Don’t let me inconvenience you, Miss. Lord.’ + </p> + <p> + At another time Nancy would have remarked something very unusual in his + way of speaking, especially in the utterance of her name. But for the + letter in her hand she must have noticed with uneasiness a certain + severity of countenance, which had taken the place of Barmby’s wonted + smile. As it was, she scarcely realised his presence; and, on closing the + door of the room he had entered, she forthwith forgot that such a man + existed. + </p> + <p> + Her letter! His handwriting at last. And he was in England. + </p> + <p> + She flew up to her bedroom, and tore open the envelope. He was in London; + ‘Great College Street, S. W.’ A short letter, soon read. + </p> + <p> + DEAREST NANCY,—I am ashamed to write, yet write I must. All your + letters reached me; there was no reason for my silence but the + unwillingness to keep sending bad news. I have still nothing good to tell + you, but here I am in London again, and you must know of it. + </p> + <p> + When I posted my last letter to you from New York, I meant to come back as + soon as I could get money enough to pay my passage. Since then I have gone + through a miserable time, idle for the most part, ill for a few weeks, and + occasionally trying to write something that editors would pay for. But + after all I had to borrow. It has brought me home (steerage, if you know + what that means), and now I must earn more. + </p> + <p> + If we were to meet, I might be able to say something else. I can’t write + it. Let me hear from you, if you think me worth a letter.—Yours + ever, dear girl, + </p> + <p> + L. + </p> + <p> + For a quarter of an hour she stood with this sheet open, as though still + reading. Her face was void of emotion; she had a vacant look, cheerless, + but with no more decided significance. + </p> + <p> + Then she remembered that Samuel Barmby was waiting for her downstairs. He + might have something to say which really concerned her. Better see him at + once and get rid of him. With slow step she descended to the dining-room. + The letter, folded and rolled, she carried in her hand. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr. Barmby.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t mention it. Will you sit down?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, of course.’ She spoke abstractedly, and took a seat not far from + him. ‘I was just going out, but—there’s no hurry.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I hardly know how to begin. Perhaps I had better prepare you by saying + that I have received very strange information.’ + </p> + <p> + His air was magisterial; he subdued his voice to a note of profound + solemnity. + </p> + <p> + ‘What sort of information?’ asked Nancy vaguely, her brows knitted in a + look rather of annoyance than apprehension. + </p> + <p> + ‘Very strange indeed.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You have said that already.’ + </p> + <p> + Her temper was failing. She felt a nervous impulse to behave rudely, to + declare the contempt it was always difficult to disguise when talking with + Barmby. + </p> + <p> + ‘I repeat it, because you seem to have no idea what I am going to speak + of. I am the last person to find pleasure in such a disagreeable duty as + is now laid upon me. In that respect, I believe you will do me justice.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Will you speak plainly? This roundabout talk is intolerable.’ + </p> + <p> + Samuel drew himself up, and regarded her with offended dignity. He had + promised himself no small satisfaction from this interview, had foreseen + its salient points. His mere aspect would be enough to subdue Nancy, and + when he began to speak she would tremble before him. Such a moment would + repay him for the enforced humility of years. Perhaps she would weep; she + might even implore him to be merciful. How to act in that event he had + quite made up his mind. But all such anticipations were confused by + Nancy’s singular behaviour. She seemed, in truth, not to understand the + hints which should have overwhelmed her. + </p> + <p> + More magisterial than ever, he began to speak with slow emphasis. + </p> + <p> + ‘Miss. Lord,—I will still address you by that name,—though for + a very long time I have regarded you as a person worthy of all admiration, + and have sincerely humbled myself before you, I cannot help thinking that + a certain respect is due to me. Even though I find that you have deceived + me as to your position, the old feelings are still so strong in me that I + could not bear to give you needless pain. Instead of announcing to my + father, and to other people, the strange facts which I have learnt, I come + here as a friend,—I speak with all possible forbearance,—I do + my utmost to spare you. Am I not justified in expecting at least courteous + treatment?’ + </p> + <p> + A pause of awful impressiveness. The listener, fully conscious at length + of the situation she had to face, fell into a calmer mood. All was over. + Suspense and the burden of falsehood had no longer to be endured. Her part + now, for this hour at all events, was merely to stand by whilst Fate + unfolded itself. + </p> + <p> + ‘Please say whatever you have to say, Mr. Barmby,’ she replied with quiet + civility. ‘I believe your intention was good. You made me nervous, that + was all.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Pray forgive me. Perhaps it will be best if I ask you a simple question. + You will see that the position I hold under your father’s will leaves me + no choice but to ask it. Is it true that you are married?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I will answer if you tell me how you came to think that I was married.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have been credibly informed.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘By whom?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You must forgive me. I can’t tell you the name.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then I can’t answer your question.’ + </p> + <p> + Samuel mused. He was unwilling to break a distinct promise. + </p> + <p> + ‘No doubt,’ said Nancy, ‘you have undertaken not to mention the person.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘If it is some one who used to be a friend of mine, you needn’t have any + scruples. She as good as told me what she meant to do. Of course it is + Miss. Morgan?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘As you have yourself spoken the name—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Very well. She isn’t in her senses, and I wonder she has kept the secret + so long.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You admit the truth of what she has told me?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes. I am married.’ + </p> + <p> + She made the avowal in a tone very like that in which, to Beatrice French, + she had affirmed the contrary. + </p> + <p> + ‘And your true name is Mrs. Tarrant?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That is my name.’ + </p> + <p> + The crudely masculine in Barmby prompted one more question, but some other + motive checked him. He let his eyes wander slowly about the room. Even yet + there was a chance of playing off certain effects which he had rehearsed + with gusto. + </p> + <p> + ‘Can you imagine,’—his voice shook a little,—‘how much I + suffer in hearing you say this?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘If you mean that you still had the hopes expressed in your letter some + time ago, I can only say, in my defence, that I gave you an honest + answer.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes. You said you could never marry me. But of course I couldn’t + understand it in this sense. It is a blow. I find it very hard to bear.’ + </p> + <p> + He rose and went to the window, as if ashamed of the emotion he could not + command. Nancy, too much occupied with her own troubles to ask or care + whether his distress was genuine, laid Tarrant’s letter upon a side-table, + and began to draw off her gloves. Then she unbuttoned her jacket. These + out-of-door garments oppressed her. Samuel turned his head and came slowly + back. + </p> + <p> + ‘There are things that might be said, but I will not say them. Most men in + my position would yield to the temptation of revenge. But for many years I + have kept in view a moral ideal, and now I have the satisfaction of + conquering my lower self. You shall not hear one word of reproach from my + lips.’ + </p> + <p> + He waited for the reply, the expected murmur of gratitude. Nancy said + nothing. + </p> + <p> + ‘Mrs. Tarrant,’—he stood before her,—‘what do you suppose must + be the result of this?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘There can only be one.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You mean the ruin of your prospects. But do you forget that all the money + you have received since Mr. Lord’s death has been obtained by false + pretences? Are you not aware that this is a criminal offence?’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy raised her eyes and looked steadily at him. + </p> + <p> + ‘Then I must bear the punishment.’ + </p> + <p> + For a minute Barmby enjoyed her suffering. Of his foreseen effects, this + one had come nearest to succeeding. But he was not satisfied; he hoped she + would beseech his clemency. + </p> + <p> + ‘The punishment might be very serious. I really can’t say what view my + father may take of this deception.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Is there any use in talking about it? I am penniless—that’s all you + have to tell me. What else I have to bear, I shall know soon enough.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘One thing I must ask. Isn’t your husband in a position to support you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I can’t answer that. Please to say nothing about my husband.’ + </p> + <p> + Barmby caught at hope. It might be true, as Jessica Morgan believed, that + Nancy was forsaken. The man Tarrant might be wealthy enough to disregard + her prospects. In that case an assiduous lover, one who, by the exercise + of a prudent generosity, had obtained power over the girl, could yet hope + for reward. Samuel had as little of the villain in his composition as any + Camberwell householder. He cherished no dark designs. But, after the + manner of his kind, he was in love with Nancy, and even the long pursuit + of a lofty ideal does not render a man proof against the elementary forces + of human nature. + </p> + <p> + ‘We will suppose then,’ he said, with a certain cheerfulness, ‘that you + have nothing whatever to depend upon but your father’s will. What is + before you? How can you live?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That is my own affair.’ + </p> + <p> + It was not said offensively, but in a tone of bitter resignation. Barmby + sat down opposite to her, and leaned forward. + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you think for one moment,’—his voice was softly melodious,—‘that + I—I who have loved you for years—could let you suffer for want + of money?’ + </p> + <p> + He had not skill to read her countenance. Trouble he discerned, and shame; + but the half-veiled eyes, the quivering nostril, the hard, cold lips, + spoke a language beyond Samuel’s interpretation. Even had he known of the + outrages previously inflicted upon her pride, and that this new attack + came at a moment when her courage was baffled, her heart cruelly wounded, + he would just as little have comprehended the spirit which now kept her + mute. + </p> + <p> + He imagined her overcome by his generosity. Another of his great effects + had come off with tolerable success. + </p> + <p> + ‘Put your mind at rest,’ he pursued mellifluously. ‘You shall suffer no + hardships. I answer for it.’ + </p> + <p> + Still mute, and her head bowed low. Such is the power of nobility + displayed before an erring soul! + </p> + <p> + ‘You have never done me justice. Confess that you haven’t!’ + </p> + <p> + To this remarkable appeal Nancy perforce replied: + </p> + <p> + ‘I never thought ill of you.’ + </p> + <p> + When she had spoken, colour came into her cheeks. Observing it, Samuel was + strangely moved. Had he impressed her even more profoundly than he hoped + to do? Jessica Morgan’s undisguised subjugation had flattered him into + credulity respecting his influence over the female mind. + </p> + <p> + ‘But you didn’t think me capable of—of anything extraordinary?’ Even + in her torment, Nancy marvelled at this revelation of fatuity. She did not + understand the pranks of such a mind as Barmby’s when its balance is + disturbed by exciting circumstance. + </p> + <p> + ‘What are you offering me?’ she asked, in a low voice. ‘How could I take + money from you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I didn’t mean that you should. Your secret has been betrayed to me. + Suppose I refuse to know anything about it, and leave things as they + were?’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy kept her eyes down. + </p> + <p> + ‘Suppose I say: Duty bids me injure this woman who has injured <i>me</i>; + but no, I will not! Suppose I say: I can make her regret bitterly that she + married that other man; but no, I will not! Suppose, instead of making + your secret known, I do my utmost to guard it! What would be your opinion + of this behaviour?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I should think it was kindly meant, but useless.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Useless? Why?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Because it isn’t in your power to guard the secret. Jessica Morgan won’t + leave her work half done.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘If that’s all, I say again that you can put your mind at rest. I answer + for Miss. Morgan. With her my will is law.’ + </p> + <p> + Samuel smiled. A smile ineffable. The smile of a suburban deity. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why should you take any trouble about me?’ said Nancy. ‘I can do nothing + for you in return.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You can.’ + </p> + <p> + She looked anxiously at him, for his voice sounded ominous. + </p> + <p> + ‘What?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You can acknowledge that you never did me justice.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s true that I didn’t,’ she answered languidly; speaking as though the + concession mattered little. + </p> + <p> + Barmby brightened. His hands were upon his knees; he raised his chin, and + smiled at vacancy. + </p> + <p> + ‘You thought me unworthy of you. You can confess to me that you were + mistaken.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I didn’t know you as I do now,’ fell from the expressionless lips. + </p> + <p> + ‘Thank you for saying that! Well, then, your anxiety is at an end. You are + not in the hands of a mercenary enemy, but of a man whose principles + forbid him to do anything ignoble, who has an ideal of life, the result of + much study and thought. You have never heard me speak about religion, but + you would be gravely mistaken if you thought I had no religious + convictions. Some day I shall treat that subject before our Society, and + it is probable that my views will give rise to a good deal of discussion. + I have formed a religion for myself; when I write my essay, I think I + shall call it “The Religion of a Man of Business.” One of the great evils + of the day is the vulgar supposition that commerce has nothing to do with + religious faith. I shall show how utterly wrong that is. It would take too + long to explain to you my mature views of Christianity. I am not sure that + I recognise any of the ordinary dogmas; I think I have progressed beyond + them. However, we shall have many opportunities of talking about these + things.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy uttered a mere ‘Yes.’ She was looking at Tarrant’s letter on the + side-table, and wishing to be alone that she might read it again. + </p> + <p> + ‘In the meantime,’ Samuel pursued, ‘whatever difficulty arises, confide it + to me. Probably you will wish to tell me more before long; you know that I + am not unworthy to be your adviser. And so let us shake hands, in sign of + genuine friendship.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy gave her fingers, which felt very cold upon Barmby’s warm, moist + palm. + </p> + <p> + ‘This conversation has been trying to you,’ he said, ‘but relief of mind + will soon follow. If anything occurs to me that may help to soothe you, I + will write.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Thank you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘At the beginning of our interview you didn’t think it would end like + this?’ + </p> + <p> + There was something of the boy in Samuel, perhaps the wholesomest part of + him. Having manifested his admirable qualities, he felt a light-hearted + pleasure in asking for renewed assurance of the good opinion he had + earned. + </p> + <p> + ‘I hardly cared,’ said Nancy, as she rose with a sigh of weariness. + </p> + <p> + ‘But you have got over that. You will be quite cheerful now?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘In time, no doubt.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I shall call again—let us say on Wednesday evening. By that time I + shall be able to put you entirely at ease with regard to Miss Morgan.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy made no reply. In shaking hands, she regarded the radiant Samuel + with a dreamy interest; and when he had left her, she still gazed for a + few moments at the door. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0033" id="link2HCH0033"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER 4 + </h2> + <p> + The habit of confidence prompted Nancy to seek Mary Woodruff, and show her + the long-expected letter. But for Barmby’s visit she would have done so. + As it was, her mind sullenly resisted the natural impulse. Forlorn misery, + intensified by successive humiliations, whereof the latest was the + bitterest, hardened her even against the one, the indubitable friend, to + whom she had never looked in vain for help and solace. Of course it was + not necessary to let Mary know with what heart-breaking coldness Tarrant + had communicated the fact of his return; but she preferred to keep silence + altogether. Having sunk so low as to accept, with semblance of gratitude, + pompous favours, dishonouring connivance, at the hands of Samuel Barmby, + she would now stand alone in her uttermost degradation. Happen what might, + she would act and suffer in solitude. + </p> + <p> + Something she had in mind to do which Mary, if told of it, would regard + with disapproval. Mary was not a deserted and insulted wife; she could + reason and counsel with the calmness of one who sympathised, but had + nothing worse to endure. Even Mary’s sympathy was necessarily imperfect, + since she knew not, and should never know, what had passed in the crucial + interviews with Beatrice French, with Jessica Morgan, and with Samuel + Barmby. Bent on indulging her passionate sense of injury, hungering for a + taste of revenge, however poor, Nancy executed with brief delay a project + which had come into her head during the hour of torture just elapsed. + </p> + <p> + She took a sheet of notepaper, and upon it wrote half-a-dozen lines, thus: + </p> + <p> + ‘As your reward for marrying me is still a long way off, and as you tell + me that you are in want, I send you as much as I can spare at present. + Next month you shall hear from me again.’ + </p> + <p> + Within the paper she folded a five-pound note, and placed both in an + envelope, which she addressed to Lionel Tarrant, Esq., at his lodgings in + Westminster. Having posted this at the first pillar-box she walked on. + </p> + <p> + Her only object was to combat mental anguish by bodily exercise, to + distract, if possible, the thoughts which hammered upon her brain by + moving amid the life of the streets. In Camberwell Road she passed the + place of business inscribed with the names ‘Lord and Barmby’; it made her + think, not of the man who, from being an object of her good-natured + contempt, was now become a hated enemy, but of her father, and she mourned + for him with profounder feeling than when her tears flowed over his + new-made grave. But for headstrong folly, incredible in the retrospect, + that father would have been her dear and honoured companion, her friend in + every best sense of the word, her guide and protector. Many and many a + time had he invited her affection, her trust. For long years it was in her + power to make him happy, and, in doing so, to enrich her own life, to + discipline her mind as no study of books, even had it been genuine, ever + could. Oh, to have the time back again—the despised privilege—the + thwarted embittered love! She was beginning to understand her father, to + surmise with mature intelligence the causes of his seeming harshness. To + her own boy, when he was old enough, she would talk of him and praise him. + Perhaps, even thus late, his spirit of stern truthfulness might bear fruit + in her life and in her son’s. + </p> + <p> + The tender memory and pure resolve did not long possess her. They soon + yielded before the potency of present evil, and for an hour or more she + walked along the sordid highway, nursing passions which struck their venom + into her heart. + </p> + <p> + It was one of those cold, dry, clouded evenings of autumn, when London + streets affect the imagination with a peculiar suggestiveness. New-lit + lamps, sickly yellow under the dying day, stretch in immense vistas, + unobscured by fog, but exhibit no detail of the track they will presently + illumine; one by one the shop-fronts grow radiant on deepening gloom, and + show in silhouette the figures numberless that are hurrying past. By + accentuating a pause between the life of daytime and that which will begin + after dark, this grey hour excites to an unwonted perception of the city’s + vastness and of its multifarious labour; melancholy, yet not dismal, the + brooding twilight seems to betoken Nature’s compassion for myriad mortals + exiled from her beauty and her solace. Noises far and near blend into a + muffled murmur, sound’s equivalent of the impression received by the eye; + it seems to utter the weariness of unending ineffectual toil. + </p> + <p> + Nancy had now walked as far as Newington, a district unfamiliar to her, + and repulsive. By the Elephant and Castle she stood watching the + tumultuous traffic which whirls and roars at this confluence of six + highways; she had neither a mind to go on, nor yet to return. The + conductor of an omnibus close at hand kept bellowing ‘London Bridge!’ and + her thoughts wandered to that day of meeting with Luckworth Crewe, when he + took her up the Monument. She had never felt more than an idle interest in + Crewe, and whenever she remembered him nowadays, it was only to reflect + with bitterness that he doubtless knew a part of her secret,—the + part that was known to Beatrice French,—and on that account had + ceased to urge his suit; yet at this moment she wished that she had + pledged herself to him in good faith. His behaviour argued the steadfast + devotion of an honest man, however lacking in refinement. Their long + engagement would have been brightened with many hopes; in the end she + might have learned to love him, and prosperity would have opened to her a + world of satisfactions, for which she could no longer hope. + </p> + <p> + It grew cold. She allowed the movements of a group of people to direct her + steps, and went eastward along New Kent Road. But when the shops were + past, and only a dreary prospect of featureless dwellings lay before her, + she felt her heart sink, and paused in vacillating wretchedness. + </p> + <p> + From a house near by sounded a piano; a foolish jingle, but it smote her + with a longing for companionship, for friendly, cheerful talk. And then of + a sudden she determined that this life of intolerable isolation should + come to an end. Her efforts to find employment that would bring her among + people had failed simply because she applied to strangers, who knew + nothing of her capabilities, and cared nothing for her needs. But a way + offered itself if she could overcome the poor lingering vestiges of pride + and shame which hitherto had seemed to render it impossible. In this hour + her desolate spirit rejected everything but the thought of relief to be + found in new occupation, fresh society. She had endured to the limit of + strength. Under the falling night, before the grey vision of a city which, + by its alien business and pleasure, made her a mere outcast, she all at + once found hope in a resource which till now had signified despair. + </p> + <p> + Summoning the first empty cab, she gave an address known to her only by + hearsay, that of the South London Fashionable Dress Supply Association, + and was driven thither in about a quarter of an hour. The shop, with its + windows cunningly laid out to allure the female eye, spread a brilliant + frontage between two much duller places of business; at the doorway stood + a commissionaire, distributing some newly printed advertisements to the + persons who entered, or who paused in passing. Nancy accepted a paper + without thinking about it, and went through the swing doors held open for + her by a stripling in buttons; she approached a young woman at the nearest + counter, and in a low voice asked whether Miss. French was on the + premises. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m not sure, madam. I will inquire at once.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘She calls me “madam,”’ said Nancy to herself whilst waiting. ‘So do + shopkeepers generally. I suppose I look old.’ + </p> + <p> + The young person (she honeyed a Cockney twang) speedily came back to + report that Miss. French had left about half-an-hour ago, and was not + likely to return. + </p> + <p> + ‘Can you give me her private address?’ + </p> + <p> + Not having seen Miss. French since the latter’s unwelcome call in Grove + Lane, she only knew that Beatrice had left De Crespigny Park to inhabit a + flat somewhere or other. + </p> + <p> + ‘I wish to see her particularly, on business.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Excuse me a moment, madam.’ + </p> + <p> + On returning, the young person requested Nancy to follow her up the shop, + and led into a glass-partitioned office, where, at a table covered with + fashion-plates, sat a middle-aged man, with a bald head of peculiar + lustre. He rose and bowed; Nancy repeated her request. + </p> + <p> + ‘Could I despatch a message for you, madam?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘My business is private.’ + </p> + <p> + The bald-headed man coughed urbanely, and begged to know her name. + </p> + <p> + ‘Miss. Lord—of Grove Lane.’ + </p> + <p> + Immediately his countenance changed from deprecating solemnity to a broad + smile of recognition. + </p> + <p> + ‘Miss. Lord! Oh, to be sure; I will give you the address at once. Pray + pardon my questions; we have to be so very careful. So many people desire + private interviews with Miss. French. I will jot down the address.’ + </p> + <p> + He did so on the back of an advertisement, and added verbal directions. + Nancy hurried away. + </p> + <p> + Another cab conveyed her to Brixton, and set her down before a block of + recently built flats. She ascended to the second floor, pressed the button + of a bell, and was speedily confronted by a girl of the natty parlour-maid + species. This time she began by giving her name, and had only a moment to + wait before she was admitted to a small drawing-room, furnished with + semblance of luxury. A glowing fire and the light of an amber-shaded lamp + showed as much fashionable upholstery and bric-a-brac as could be squeezed + into the narrow space. Something else was perceptible which might perhaps + have been dispensed with; to wit, the odour of a very savoury meal, a meal + in which fried onions had no insignificant part. But before the visitor + could comment to herself upon this disadvantage attaching to flats, + Beatrice joined her. + </p> + <p> + ‘I could hardly believe it! So you have really looked me up? Awfully jolly + of you! I’m quite alone; we’ll have a bit of dinner together.’ + </p> + <p> + Miss. French was in her most expansive mood. She understood the call as + one of simple friendliness. + </p> + <p> + ‘I wasn’t sure that you knew the address. Got it at the shop? They don’t + go telling everybody, I hope—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Some one there seemed to know my name,’ said Nancy, whom the warmth and + light and cheery welcome encouraged in the step she had taken. And she + explained. + </p> + <p> + ‘Ah, Mr. Clatworthy—rum old cove, when you get to know him. Yes, + yes; no doubt he has heard me speak of you—in a general way, you + know. Come into my snooze-corner, and take your things off.’ + </p> + <p> + The snooze-corner, commonly called a bedroom, lacked one detail of comfort—pure + air. The odour of dinner blending with toilet perfumes made an atmosphere + decidedly oppressive. Beatrice remarked on the smallness of the chamber, + adding archly, ‘But I sleep single.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What’s your brother doing?’ she asked, while helping to remove Nancy’s + jacket. ‘I passed him in Oxford Street the other day, and he either didn’t + see me, or didn’t want to. Thought he looked rather dissipated.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I know very little about him,’ answered the visitor, who spoke and acted + without reflection, conscious chiefly at this moment of faintness induced + by fatigue and hunger. + </p> + <p> + ‘Fanny’s in Paris,’ pursued Miss. French. ‘Writes as if she was amusing + herself. I think I shall run over and have a look at her. Seen Ada? She’s + been playing the fool as usual. Found out that Arthur had taken the kid to + his sister’s at Canterbury; went down and made a deuce of a kick-up; they + had to chuck her out of the house. Of course she cares no more about the + child than I do; it’s only to spite her husband. She’s going to law with + him, she says. She won’t leave the house in De Crespigny Park, and she’s + running up bills—you bet!’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy tried to laugh. The effort, and its semi-success, indicated + surrender to her companion’s spirit rather than any attention to the + subject spoken of. + </p> + <p> + They returned to the drawing-room, but had not time to begin a + conversation before the servant summoned them to dinner. A very satisfying + meal it proved; not badly cooked, as cooking is understood in Brixton, and + served with more of ceremony than the guest had expected. Fried scallops, + rump steak smothered in onions, an apple tart, and very sound Stilton + cheese. Such fare testified to the virile qualities of Beatrice’s mind; + she was above the feminine folly of neglecting honest victuals. Moreover, + there appeared two wines, sherry and claret. + </p> + <p> + ‘Did you ever try this kind of thing?’ said the hostess finally, reaching + a box of cigarettes. + </p> + <p> + ‘I?—Of course not,’ Nancy replied, with a laugh. + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s expected of a sensible woman now-a-days. I’ve got to like it. Better + try; no need to make yourself uncomfortable. Just keep the smoke in your + mouth for half-a-minute, and blow it out prettily. I buy these in the + Haymarket; special brand for women.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And you dine like this, by yourself, every day?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Like this, but not always alone. Some one or other drops in. Luckworth + Crewe was here yesterday.’ + </p> + <p> + Speaking, she watched Nancy, who bore the regard with carelessness, and + replied lightly: + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s an independent sort of life, at all events.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Just the kind of life that suits me. I’m my own mistress.’ + </p> + <p> + There was a suggested allusion in the sly tone of the last phrase; but + Nancy, thinking her own thoughts, did not perceive it. As the servant had + left them alone, they could now talk freely. Beatrice, by her frequent + glance of curiosity, seemed to await some explanation of a visit so + unlooked-for. + </p> + <p> + ‘How are things going with you?’ she asked at length, tapping the ash of + her cigarette over a plate. + </p> + <p> + ‘I want something to do,’ was the blunt reply. + </p> + <p> + ‘Too much alone—isn’t that it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Just what I thought. You don’t see him often?’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy had ceased her pretence of smoking, and leaned back. A flush on her + face, and something unwonted in the expression of her eyes,—something + like a smile, yet touched with apathy,—told of physical influences + which assisted her resolve to have done with scruple and delicacy. She + handled her wine-glass, which was half full, and, before answering, raised + it to her lips. + </p> + <p> + ‘No, I don’t see him often.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, I told you to come to me if I could be any use. What’s your idea?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you know of anything I could do? It isn’t so much to earn money, as to—to + be occupied, and escape from loneliness. But I must have two afternoons in + the week to myself.’ + </p> + <p> + Beatrice nodded and smiled. + </p> + <p> + ‘No,—not for that,’ Nancy added hastily. ‘To see my boy.’ + </p> + <p> + The other appeared to accept this correction. + </p> + <p> + ‘All right. I think I can find you something. We’re opening a branch.’ She + mentioned the locality. ‘There’ll be a club-room, like at headquarters, + and we shall want some one ladylike to sit there and answer questions. You + wouldn’t be likely to see any one that knows you, and you’d get a good + deal of fun out of it. Hours from ten to five, but Saturday afternoon off, + and Wednesday after three, if that would do?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, that would do very well. Any payment, at first?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, we wouldn’t be so mean as all that. Say ten shillings a week till + Christmas, and afterwards we could see’—she laughed—‘whether + you’re worth more.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I know nothing about fashions.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You can learn all you need to know in an hour. It’s the ladylike + appearance and talk more than anything else.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy sipped again from her wine-glass. + </p> + <p> + ‘When could I begin?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘The place ‘ll be ready on Monday week. Next week you might put in a few + hours with us. Just sit and watch and listen, that’s all; to get the hang + of the thing.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Thank you for being so ready to help me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not a bit of it. I haven’t done yet. There’s a condition. If I fix up + this job for you, will you tell me something I want to know?’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy turned her eyes apprehensively. + </p> + <p> + ‘You can guess what it is. I quite believe what you told me some time ago, + but I shan’t feel quite easy until I know—’ + </p> + <p> + She finished the sentence with a look. Nancy’s eyes fell. + </p> + <p> + ‘Curiosity, nothing else,’ added the other. ‘Just to make quite sure it + isn’t anybody I’ve thought of.’ + </p> + <p> + There was a long silence. Leaning forward upon the table, Nancy turned her + wine-glass about and about. She now had a very high colour, and breathed + quickly. + </p> + <p> + ‘Is it off, then?’ said Beatrice, in an indifferent tone. + </p> + <p> + Thereupon Nancy disclosed the name of her husband—her lover, as + Miss. French thought him. Plied with further questions, she told where he + was living, but gave no account of the circumstances that had estranged + them. Abundantly satisfied, Beatrice grew almost affectionate, and talked + merrily. + </p> + <p> + Nancy wished to ask whether Luckworth Crewe had any knowledge of her + position. It was long before her lips could utter the words, but at length + they were spoken. And Beatrice assured her that Crewe, good silly fellow, + did not even suspect the truth. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0034" id="link2HCH0034"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER 5 + </h2> + <p> + ‘For a man,’ said Tarrant, ‘who can pay no more than twelve and sixpence a + week, it’s the best accommodation to be found in London. There’s an air of + civilisation about the house. Look; a bath, and a little book-case, and an + easy-chair such as can be used by a man who respects himself. You feel you + are among people who tub o’ mornings and know the meaning of leisure. Then + the view!’ + </p> + <p> + He was talking to his friend Harvey Munden, the journalist. The room in + which they stood might with advantage have been larger, but as a + bed-chamber it served well enough, and only the poverty of its occupant, + who put it to the additional use of sitting-room and study, made the lack + of space particularly noticeable. The window afforded a prospect pleasant + enough to eyes such as theirs. Above the lower houses on the opposite side + of the way appeared tall trees, in the sere garb of later autumn, growing + by old Westminster School; and beyond them, grey in twilight, rose the + towers of the Abbey. From this point of view no vicinage of modern + brickwork spoilt their charm; the time-worn monitors stood alone against a + sky of ruddy smoke-drift and purple cloud. + </p> + <p> + ‘The old Adam is stronger than ever in me,’ he pursued. ‘If I were + condemned for life to the United States, I should go mad, and perish in an + attempt to swim the Atlantic.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then why did you stay so long?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I could have stayed with advantage even longer. It’s something to have + studied with tolerable thoroughness the most hateful form of society yet + developed. I saw it at first as a man does who is living at his ease; at + last, as a poor devil who is thankful for the institution of free lunches. + I went first-class, and I came back as a steerage passenger. It has been a + year well spent.’ + </p> + <p> + It had made him, in aspect, more than a twelve-month older. His lounging + attitude, the spirit of his talk, showed that he was unchanged in bodily + and mental habits; but certain lines new-graven upon his visage, and an + austerity that had taken the place of youthful self-consciousness, + signified a more than normal progress in experience. + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you know,’ said Munden slyly, ‘that you have brought back a + trans-Atlantic accent?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Accent? The devil! I don’t believe it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Intonation, at all events.’ + </p> + <p> + Tarrant professed a serious annoyance. + </p> + <p> + ‘If that’s true, I’ll go and live for a month in Limerick.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It would be cheaper to join a Socialist club in the East End. But just + tell me how you stand. How long can you hold out in these aristocratic + lodgings?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Till Christmas. I’m ashamed to say how I’ve got the money, so don’t ask. + I reached London with empty pockets. And I’ll tell you one thing I have + learnt, Munden. There’s no villainy, no scoundrelism, no baseness + conceivable, that isn’t excused by want of money. I understand the whole + “social question.” The man who has never felt the perspiration come out on + his forehead in asking himself how he is going to keep body and soul + together, has no right to an opinion on the greatest question of the day.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What particular scoundrelism or baseness have you committed?’ asked the + other. + </p> + <p> + Tarrant averted his eyes. + </p> + <p> + ‘I said I could understand such things.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘One sees that you have been breathed upon by democracy.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I loathe the word and the thing even more than I did, which is saying a + good deal.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Be it so. You say you are going to work?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, I have come back to work. Even now, it’s difficult to realise that I + must work or starve. I understand how fellows who have unexpectedly lost + their income go through life sponging on relatives and friends. I + understand how an educated man goes sinking through all the social grades, + down to the common lodging-house and the infirmary. And I honestly believe + there’s only one thing that saves me from doing likewise.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And what’s that?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I can’t tell you—not yet, at all events.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I always thought you a very fine specimen of the man born to do nothing,’ + said Munden, with that smile which permitted him a surprising candour in + conversation. + </p> + <p> + ‘And you were quite right,’ returned Tarrant, with a laugh. ‘I am a born + artist in indolence. It’s the pity of pities that circumstances will + frustrate Nature’s purpose.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You think you can support yourself by journalism?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I must try.—Run your eye over that.’ + </p> + <p> + He took from the table a slip of manuscript, headed, ‘A Reverie in Wall + Street.’ Munden read it, sat thoughtful for a moment, and laughed. + </p> + <p> + ‘Devilish savage. Did you write it after a free lunch?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Wrote it this morning. Shall I try one of the evening papers with it,—or + one of the weeklies?’ + </p> + <p> + Munden suggested a few alterations, and mentioned the journal which he + thought might possibly find room for such a bit of satire. + </p> + <p> + ‘Done anything else?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Here’s a half-finished paper—“The Commercial Prospects of the + Bahamas.”’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Let me look.’ + </p> + <p> + After reading a page or two with critically wrinkled forehead, Munden laid + it down. + </p> + <p> + ‘Seems pretty solid,—libellous, too, I should say. You’ve more stuff + in you than I thought. All right: go ahead.—Come and dine with me + to-morrow, to meet a man who may be useful.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘To-morrow I can’t. I dine at Lady Pollard’s.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Who is she?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Didn’t you know Pollard of Trinity?—the only son of his mother, and + she a widow.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Next day, then.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Can’t. I dine with some people at Bedford Park.’ + </p> + <p> + Munden lifted his eyebrows. + </p> + <p> + ‘At this rate, you may live pretty well on a dress suit. Any more + engagements?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘None that I know of. But I shall accept all that offer. I’m hungry for + the society of decent English people. I used to neglect my acquaintances; + I know better now. Go and live for a month in a cheap New York + boarding-house, and you’ll come out with a wholesome taste for English + refinement.’ + </p> + <p> + To enable his friend to read, Tarrant had already lit a lamp. Munden, + glancing about the room, said carelessly: + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you still possess the furniture of the old place?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No,’ was the answer, given with annoyance. ‘Vawdrey had it sold for me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Pictures, books, and all the nick-nacks?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Everything.—Of course I’m sorry for it; but I thought at the time + that I shouldn’t return to England for some years.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You never said anything of that kind to me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, I didn’t,’ the other replied gloomily. And all at once he fell into + so taciturn a mood, that his companion, after a few more remarks and + inquiries, rose from his chair to leave. + </p> + <p> + From seven to nine Tarrant sat resolutely at his table, and covered a few + pages with the kind of composition which now came most easily to him,—a + somewhat virulent sarcasm. He found pleasure in the work; but after nine + o’clock his thoughts strayed to matters of personal interest, and got + beyond control. Would the last post of the evening bring him an answer to + a letter he had despatched this morning? At length he laid down his pen, + and listened nervously for that knock which, at one time or another, is to + all men a heart-shaking sound. + </p> + <p> + It came at the street door, and was quickly followed by a tap at his own. + Nancy had lost no time in replying. What her letter might contain he found + it impossible to conjecture. Reproaches? Joyous welcome? Wrath? + Forgiveness? He knew her so imperfectly, that he could not feel sure even + as to the probabilities of the case. And his suspense was abundantly + justified. Her answer came upon him with the force of a shock totally + unexpected. + </p> + <p> + He read the lines again and again; he stared at the bank-note. His first + sensation was one of painful surprise; thereupon succeeded fiery + resentment. Reason put in a modest word, hinting that he had deserved no + better; but he refused to listen. Nothing could excuse so gross an insult. + He had not thought Nancy capable of this behaviour. Tested, she betrayed + the vice of birth. Her imputation upon his motive in marrying her was + sheer vulgar abuse, possible only on vulgar lips. Well and good; now he + knew her; all the torment of conscience he had suffered was needless. And + for the moment he experienced a great relief. + </p> + <p> + In less than ten minutes letter and bank-note were enclosed in a new + envelope, and addressed back again to the sender. With no word of comment; + she must interpret him as she could, and would. He went out, and threw the + offensive packet into the nearest receptacle for such things. + </p> + <p> + Work was over for to-night. After pacing in the obscurity of Dean’s Yard + until his pulse had recovered a normal beat, he issued into the peopled + ways, and turned towards Westminster Bridge. + </p> + <p> + Despite his neglect of Nancy, he had never ceased to think of her with a + tenderness which, in his own judgment, signified something more than the + simple fidelity of a married man. Faithful in the technical sense he had + not been, but the casual amours of a young man caused him no + self-reproach; Nancy’s image remained without rival in his mind; he had + continued to acknowledge her claims upon him, and, from time to time, to + think of her with a lover’s longing. As he only wrote when prompted by + such a mood, his letters, however unsatisfying, were sincere. Various + influences conflicted with this amiable and honourable sentiment. The + desire of independence which had speeded him away from England still + accompanied him on his return; he had never ceased to regret his marriage, + and it seemed to him that, without this legal bondage, it would have been + much easier to play a manly part at the time of Nancy’s becoming a mother. + Were she frankly his mistress, he would not be keeping thus far away when + most she needed the consolation of his presence. The secret marriage + condemned him to a course of shame, and the more he thought of it, the + more he marvelled at his deliberate complicity in such a fraud. When + poverty began to make itself felt, when he was actually hampered in his + movements by want of money, this form of indignity, more than any galling + to his pride, intensified the impatience with which he remembered that he + could no longer roam the world as an adventurer. Any day some trivial + accident might oppress him with the burden of a wife and child who looked + to him for their support. Tarrant the married man, unless he were content + to turn simple rogue and vagabond, must make for himself a place in the + money-earning world. His indolence had no small part in his revolt against + the stress of such a consideration. The climate of the Bahamas by no means + tended to invigorate him, and in the United States he found so much to + observe,—even to enjoy,—that the necessity of effort was kept + out of sight as long as, by one expedient and another, he succeeded in + procuring means to live upon without working. + </p> + <p> + During the homeward voyage—a trial such as he had never known, amid + squalid discomforts which enraged even more than they disgusted him—his + heart softened in anticipation of a meeting with Nancy, and of the sight + of his child. Apart from his fellow-travellers,—in whom he could + perceive nothing but coarseness and vileness,—he spent the hours in + longing for England and for the home he would make there, in castigating + the flagrant faults of his character, moderating his ambitions, and + endeavouring to find a way out of the numerous grave difficulties with + which his future was beset. + </p> + <p> + Landed, he rather forgot than discarded these wholesome meditations. What + he had first to do was so very unpleasant, and taxed so rudely his + self-respect, that he insensibly fell back again into the rebellious + temper. Choice there was none; reaching London with a few shillings in his + pocket, of necessity he repaired forthwith to Mr Vawdrey’s office in the + City, and made known the straits into which he had fallen. + </p> + <p> + ‘Now, my dear fellow,’ said Mr. Vawdrey, with his usual good-humour, ‘how + much have you had of me since you started for the Bahamas?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That is hardly a fair question,’ Tarrant replied, endeavouring not to + hang his head like an everyday beggar. ‘I went out on a commission—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘True. But after you ceased to be a commissioner?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You have lent me seventy pounds. Living in the States is expensive. What + I got for my furniture has gone as well, yet I certainly haven’t been + extravagant; and for the last month or two I lived like a tramp. Will you + make my debt to you a round hundred? It shall be repaid, though I may be a + year or two about it.’ + </p> + <p> + The loan was granted, but together with a great deal of unpalatable + counsel. Having found his lodging, Tarrant at once invested ten pounds in + providing himself with a dress suit, and improving his ordinary attire,—he + had sold every garment he could spare in New York. For the dress suit he + had an immediate use; on the very platform of Euston Station, at his + arrival, a chance meeting with one of his old college friends resulted in + an invitation to dine, and, even had not policy urged him to make the most + of such acquaintances, he was in no mood for rejecting a summons back into + the world of civilisation. Postponing the purposed letter to Nancy (which, + had he written it sooner, would have been very unlike the letter he + subsequently sent), he equipped himself once more as a gentleman, and + spent several very enjoyable hours in looking up the members of his former + circle—Hodiernals and others. Only to Harvey Munden did he confide + something of the anxieties which lay beneath his assumed lightheartedness. + Munden was almost the only man he knew for whom he had a genuine respect. + </p> + <p> + Renewal of intercourse with people of good social standing made him more + than ever fretful in the thought that he had clogged himself with + marriage. Whatever Nancy’s reply to his announcement that he was home + again, he would have read it with discontent. To have the fact forced upon + him (a fact he seriously believed it) that his wife could not be depended + upon even for elementary generosity of thought, was at this moment + especially disastrous; it weighed the balance against his feelings of + justice and humanity, hitherto, no matter how he acted, always + preponderant over the baser issues of character and circumstance. + </p> + <p> + He stood leaning upon the parapet of Westminster Bridge, his eyes scanning + the dark facade of the Houses of Parliament. + </p> + <p> + How would the strong, unscrupulous, really ambitious man act in such a + case? What was to prevent him from ignoring the fact that he was married, + and directing his course precisely as he would have done if poverty had + come upon him before his act of supreme foolishness? Journalism must have + been his refuge then, as now; but Society would have held out to him the + hope of every adventurer—a marriage with some woman whose wealth and + connections would clear an upward path in whatever line he chose to + follow. Why not abandon to Nancy the inheritance it would degrade him to + share, and so purchase back his freedom? The bargain might be made; a + strong man would carry it through, and ultimately triumph by daring all + risks. + </p> + <p> + Having wrought himself to this point of insensate revolt, he quitted his + musing-station on the bridge, and walked away. + </p> + <p> + Nancy did not write again. There passed four or five days, and Tarrant, + working hard as well as enjoying the pleasures of Society, made up his + mind not to see her. He would leave events to take their course. A + heaviness of heart often troubled him, but he resisted it, and told + himself that he was becoming stronger. + </p> + <p> + After a long day of writing, he addressed a packet to a certain + periodical, and went out to post it. No sooner had he left the house than + a woman, who had been about to pass him on the pavement, abruptly turned + round and hurriedly walked away. But for this action, he would not have + noticed her; as it was, he recognised the figure, and an impulse which + allowed of no reflection brought him in a moment to her side. In the + ill-lighted street a face could with difficulty be observed, but Nancy’s + features were unmistakable to the eye that now fell upon them. + </p> + <p> + ‘Stop, and let me speak to you,’ he exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + She walked only the more quickly, and he was obliged to take her by the + arm. + </p> + <p> + ‘What do you want?’ + </p> + <p> + She spoke as if to an insolent stranger, and shook off his grasp. + </p> + <p> + ‘If you have nothing to say to me, why are you here?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Here? I suppose the streets are free to me?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Nothing would bring you to Great College Street if you didn’t know that I + was living here. Now that we have met, we must talk.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have nothing at all to say to you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, then <i>I</i> will talk.—Come this way; there’s a quiet place + where no one will notice us.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy kept her eyes resolutely averted from him; he, the while, searched + her face with eagerness, as well as the faint rays of the nearest lamp + allowed it. + </p> + <p> + ‘If you have anything to say, you must say it here.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s no use, then. Go your way, and I’ll go mine.’ + </p> + <p> + He turned, and walked slowly in the direction of Dean’s Yard. There was + the sound of a step behind him, and when he had come into the dark, quiet + square, Nancy was there too. + </p> + <p> + ‘Better to be reasonable,’ said Tarrant, approaching her again. ‘I want to + ask you why you answered a well-meant letter with vulgar insult?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘The insult came from you,’ she answered, in a shaking voice. + </p> + <p> + ‘What did I say that gave you offence?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How can you ask such a question? To write in that way after never + answering my letter for months, leaving me without a word at such a time, + making me think either that you were dead or that you would never let me + hear of you again—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I told you it was a mere note, just to let you know I was back. I said + you should hear more when we met.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Very well, we have met. What have you to say for yourself?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘First of all, this. That you are mistaken in supposing I should ever + consent to share your money. The thought was natural to you, no doubt; but + I see things from a different point of view.’ + </p> + <p> + His cold anger completely disguised the emotion stirred in him by Nancy’s + presence. Had he not spoken thus, he must have given way to joy and + tenderness. For Nancy seemed more beautiful than the memory he had + retained of her, and even at such a juncture she was far from exhibiting + the gross characteristics attributed to her by his rebellious imagination. + </p> + <p> + ‘Then I don’t understand,’ were her next words, ‘why you wrote to me again + at all.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘There are many things in me that you don’t understand, and can’t + understand.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, I think so. That’s why I see no use in our talking.’ + </p> + <p> + Tarrant was ashamed of what he had said—a meaningless retort, which + covered his inability to speak as his heart prompted. + </p> + <p> + ‘At all events I wanted to see you, and it’s fortunate you passed just as + I was coming out.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy would not accept the conciliatory phrase. + </p> + <p> + ‘I hadn’t the least intention of seeing you,’ she replied. ‘It was a + curiosity to know where you lived, nothing else. I shall never forgive you + for the way in which you have behaved to me, so you needn’t try to explain + yourself.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Here and now, I should certainly not try. The only thing I will say about + myself is, that I very much regret not having made known that you were + married to me when plain honesty required it. Now, I look upon it as + something over and done with, as far as I am concerned. I shall never + benefit by the deception—’ + </p> + <p> + She interrupted him. + </p> + <p> + ‘How do you know that <i>I</i> shall benefit by it? How can you tell what + has been happening since you last heard from me in America?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have taken it for granted that things are the same.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then you didn’t even take measures to have news of me from any one else?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What need? I should always have received any letter you sent.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You thought it likely that I should appeal to you if I were in + difficulties.’ + </p> + <p> + He stood silent, glad of the obscurity which made it needless for him to + command his features. At length: + </p> + <p> + ‘What is the simple fact? Has your secret been discovered, or not?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How does it concern you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Only in this way: that if you are to be dependent upon any one, it must + be upon me.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy gave a scornful laugh. + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s very generous, considering your position. But happily you can’t + force me to accept your generosity, any more than I can compel you to take + a share of my money.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Without the jibe at my poverty,’ Tarrant said, ‘that is a sufficient + answer. As we can’t even pretend to be friendly with each other, I am very + glad there need be no talk of our future relations. You are provided for, + and no doubt will take care not to lose the provision. If ever you prefer + to forget that we are legally bound, I shall be no obstacle.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have thought of that,’ replied Nancy, after a pause, her voice + expressing satisfaction. ‘Perhaps we should do better to make the + understanding at once. You are quite free; I should never acknowledge you + as my husband.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You seriously mean it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Do I seem to be joking?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Very well. I won’t say that I should never acknowledge you as my wife; so + far from that, I hold myself responsible whenever you choose to make any + kind of claim upon me. But I shall not dream of interfering with your + liberty. If ever you wish to write to me, you may safely address to the + house at Champion Hill.—And remember always,’ he added sternly, + ‘that it was not I who made such a parting necessary.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy returned his look through the gloom, and said in like tone: + </p> + <p> + ‘I shall do my best never to think of it at all. Fortunately, my time and + my thoughts are occupied.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How?’ Tarrant could not help asking, as she turned away; for her tone + implied some special significance in the words. + </p> + <p> + ‘You have no right to ask anything whatever about me,’ came from Nancy, + who was already moving away. + </p> + <p> + He allowed her to go. + </p> + <p> + ‘So it is to be as I wished,’ he said to himself, with mock courage. ‘So + much the better.’ + </p> + <p> + And he went home to a night of misery. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0035" id="link2HCH0035"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER 6 + </h2> + <p> + Not long after the disappearance of Fanny French, Mrs. Damerel called one + day upon Luckworth Crewe at his office in Farringdon Street. Crewe seldom + had business with ladies, and few things could have surprised him more + than a visit from this lady in particular, whom he knew so well by name, + and regarded with such special interest. She introduced herself as a + person wishing to find a good investment for a small capital; but the + half-hour’s conversation which followed became in the end almost a + confidential chat. Mrs. Damerel spoke of her nephew Horace Lord, with + whom, she understood, Mr. Crewe was on terms of intimacy; she professed a + grave solicitude on his account, related frankly the unhappy circumstances + which had estranged the young man from her, and ultimately asked whether + Crewe could not make it worth his own while to save Horace from the shoals + of idleness, and pilot him into some safe commercial haven. This meeting + was the first of many between the fashionable lady and the keen man of + affairs. Without a suspicion of how it had come about, Horace Lord + presently found himself an informal partner in Crewe’s business; he + invested only a nominal sum, which might be looked upon as a premium of + apprenticeship; but there was an understanding that at the close of the + term of tutelage imposed by his father’s will, he should have the offer of + a genuine partnership on very inviting terms. + </p> + <p> + Horace was not sorry to enter again upon regular occupation. He had + considerably damaged his health in the effort to live up to his ideal of + thwarted passion, and could no longer entertain a hope that Fanny’s + escapade was consistent with innocence. Having learnt how money slips + through the fingers of a gentleman with fastidious tastes, he welcomed a + prospect of increased resources, and applied himself with some energy to + learning his new business. But with Mrs. Damerel he utterly refused to be + reconciled, and of his sister he saw very little. Nancy, however, approved + the step he had taken, and said she would be content to know that all was + well with him. + </p> + <p> + Upon a Sunday morning, when the church bells had ceased to clang, + Luckworth Crewe, not altogether at his ease in garb of flagrant + respectability, sat by the fireside of a pleasant little room conversing + with Mrs. Damerel. Their subject, as usual at the beginning of talk, was + Horace Lord. + </p> + <p> + ‘He won’t speak of you at all,’ said Crewe, in a voice singularly subdued, + sympathetic, respectful. ‘I have done all I could, short of telling him + that I know you. He’s very touchy still on that old affair.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How would he like it,’ asked the lady, ‘if you told him that we are + acquaintances?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Impossible to say. Perhaps it would make no difference one way or + another.’ + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Damerel was strikingly, yet becomingly, arrayed. The past year had + dealt no less gently with her than its predecessors; if anything, her + complexion had gained in brilliancy, perhaps a consequence of the hygienic + precautions due to her fear of becoming stout. A stranger, even a + specialist in the matter, might have doubted whether the fourth decade lay + more than a month or two behind her. So far from seeking to impress her + visitor with a pose of social superiority, she behaved to him as though + his presence honoured as much as it delighted her; look, tone, bearing, + each was a flattery which no obtuseness could fail to apprehend, and + Crewe’s countenance proved him anything but inappreciative. Hitherto she + had spoken and listened with her head drooping in gentle melancholy; now, + with a sudden change intended to signify the native buoyancy of her + disposition, she uttered a rippling laugh, which showed her excellent + teeth, and said prettily: + </p> + <p> + ‘Poor boy! I must suffer the penalty of having tried to save him from one + of my own sex.—Not,’ she added, ‘that I foresaw how that poor silly + girl would justify my worst fears of her. Perhaps,’ her head drooping + again, ‘I ought to reproach myself with what happened.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t see that at all,’ replied Crewe, whose eyes lost nothing of the + exhibition addressed to them. ‘Even if you had been the cause of it, which + of course you weren’t, I should have said you had done the right thing. + Every one knew what Fanny French must come to.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Isn’t it sad? A pretty girl—but so ill brought up, I fear. Can you + give me any news of her sister, the one who came here and frightened me + so?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, she’s going on as usual.’ + </p> + <p> + Crewe checked himself, and showed hesitation. + </p> + <p> + ‘She almost threatened me,’ Mrs. Damerel pursued, with timid sweetness. + ‘Do you think she is the kind of person to plot any harm against one?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘She had better not try it on,’ said Crewe, in his natural voice. Then, as + if recollecting himself, he pursued more softly: ‘But I was going to speak + of her. You haven’t heard that Miss. Lord has taken a position in the new + branch of that Dress Supply Association?’ + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Damerel kept an astonished silence. + </p> + <p> + ‘There can’t be any doubt of it; I have been told on the best authority. + She is in what they call the “club-room,” a superintendent. It’s a queer + thing; what can have led her to it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I must make inquiries,’ said Mrs. Damerel, with an air of concern. ‘How + sad it is, Mr. Crewe, that these young relatives of mine,—almost the + only relatives I have,—should refuse me their confidence and their + affection. Pray, does Horace know of what his sister is doing?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I thought I wouldn’t speak to him about it until I had seen you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How very kind! How grateful I am to you for your constant + thoughtfulness!’ + </p> + <p> + Why Crewe should have practised such reticence, why it signified kindness + and thoughtfulness to Mrs. Damerel, neither he nor she could easily have + explained. But their eyes met, with diffident admiration on the one side, + and touching amiability on the other. Then they discussed Nancy’s + inexplicable behaviour from every point of view; or rather, Mrs. Damerel + discussed it, and her companion made a pretence of doing so. Crewe’s + manner had become patently artificial; he either expressed himself in + trivial phrases, which merely avoided silence, or betrayed an + embarrassment, an abstraction, which caused the lady to observe him with + all the acuteness at her command. + </p> + <p> + You haven’t seen her lately?’ she asked, when Crewe had been staring at + the window for a minute or two. + </p> + <p> + ‘Seen her?—No; not for a long time.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I think you told me you haven’t called there since Mr. Lord’s death?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I never was there at all,’ he answered abruptly. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, I remember your saying so. Of course there is no reason why she + shouldn’t go into business, if time is heavy on her hands, as I dare say + it may be. So many ladies prefer to have an occupation of that kind + now-a-days. It’s a sign of progress; we are getting more sensible; Society + used to have such silly prejudices. Even within my recollection—how + quickly things change!—no lady would have dreamt of permitting her + daughter to take an engagement in a shop or any such place. Now we have + women of title starting as milliners and modistes, and soon it will be + quite a common thing to see one’s friends behind the counter.’ + </p> + <p> + She gave a gay little laugh, in which Crewe joined unmelodiously,—for + he durst not be merry in the note natural to him,—then raised her + eyes in playful appeal. + </p> + <p> + ‘If ever I should fall into misfortune, Mr. Crewe, would you put me in the + way of earning my living.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You couldn’t. You’re above all that kind of thing. It’s for the rough and + ready sort of women, and I can’t say I have much opinion of them.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s a very nice little compliment; but at the same time, it’s rather + severe on the women who are practical.—Tell me frankly: Is my—my + niece one of the people you haven’t much opinion of?’ + </p> + <p> + Crewe shuffled his feet. + </p> + <p> + ‘I wasn’t thinking of Miss. Lord.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But what is really your opinion of her?’ Mrs. Damerel urged softly. + </p> + <p> + Crewe looked up and down, smiled in a vacant way, and appeared very + uncomfortable. + </p> + <p> + ‘May I guess the truth?’ said his playful companion. + </p> + <p> + ‘No, I’ll tell you. I wanted to marry her, and did my best to get her to + promise.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I thought so!’ She paused on the note of arch satisfaction, and mused. + ‘How nice of you to confess!—And that’s all past and forgotten, is + it?’ + </p> + <p> + Never man more unlike himself than the bold advertising-agent in this + colloquy. He was subdued and shy; his usual racy and virile talk had given + place to an insipid mildness. He seemed bent on showing that the graces of + polite society were not so strange to him as one might suppose. But under + Mrs. Damerel’s interrogation a restiveness began to appear in him, and at + length he answered in his natural blunt voice: + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, it’s all over—and for a good reason.’ + </p> + <p> + The lady’s curiosity was still more provoked. + </p> + <p> + ‘No,’ she exclaimed laughingly, ‘I am <i>not</i> going to ask the reason. + That would be presuming too far on friendship.’ + </p> + <p> + Crewe fixed his eyes on a corner of the room, and seemed to look there for + a solution of some difficulty. When the silence had lasted more than a + minute, he began to speak slowly and awkwardly. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ve half a mind to—in fact, I’ve been thinking that you ought to + know.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘The good reason?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes. You’re the only one that could stand in the place of a mother to + her. And I don’t think she ought to be living alone, like she is, with no + one to advise and help her.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have felt that very strongly,’ said Mrs. Damerel. ‘The old servant who + is with her can’t be at all a suitable companion—that is, to be + treated on equal terms. A very strange arrangement, indeed. But you don’t + mean that you thought less well of her because she is living in that way?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course not. It’s something a good deal more serious than that.’ + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Damerel became suddenly grave. + </p> + <p> + ‘Then I certainly ought to know.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You ought. I think it very likely she would have been glad enough to make + a friend of you, if it hadn’t been for this—this affair, which stood + in the way. There can’t be any harm in telling you, as you couldn’t wish + anything but her good.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That surely you may take for granted.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well then, I have an idea that she’s trying to earn money because some + one is getting all he can out of her—leaving her very little for + herself; and if so, it’s time you interfered.’ + </p> + <p> + The listener was so startled that she changed colour. + </p> + <p> + ‘You mean that some man has her in his power?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘If I’m not mistaken, it comes to that. But for her father’s will, she + would have been married long ago, and—she ought to be.’ + </p> + <p> + Having blurted out these words, Crewe felt much more at ease. As Mrs. + Damerel’s eyes fell, the sense of sexual predominance awoke in him, and he + was no longer so prostrate before the lady’s natural and artificial + graces. + </p> + <p> + ‘How do you know this?’ she asked, in an undertone. + </p> + <p> + ‘From some one who had it from Miss. Lord herself.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Are you quite sure that it isn’t a malicious falsehood?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘As sure as I am that I sit here. I know the man’s name, and where he + lives, and all about him. And I know where the child is at nurse. + </p> + <p> + ‘The child?—Oh—surely—never!’ + </p> + <p> + A genuine agitation possessed her; she had a frightened, pain-stricken + look, and moved as if she must act without delay. + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s nearly six months old,’ Crewe continued. ‘Of course that’s why she + was away so long.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But why haven’t you told me this before? It was your duty to tell me—your + plain duty. How long have you known?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I heard of it first of all about three months ago, but it was only the + other day that I was told the man’s name, and other things about him.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Is it known to many people? Is the poor girl talked about?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, no,’ Crewe replied, with confidence. ‘The person who told me is the + only one who has found it out; you may depend upon that.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It must be a woman,’ said Mrs. Damerel sharply. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, it’s a woman. Some one <i>I</i> know very well. She told me just + because she thought I was still hoping to marry Miss. Lord, and—well, + the truth is, though we’re good friends, she has a little spite against + me, and I suppose it amused her to tell me something disagreeable.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have no doubt,’ said Mrs. Damerel, ‘that the secret has been betrayed + to a dozen people.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ll go bail it hasn’t!’ returned Crewe, falling into his vernacular. + </p> + <p> + ‘I can hardly believe it at all. I should never have dreamt that such a + thing was possible. What is the man’s name? what is his position?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Tarrant is his name, and he’s related somehow to a Mr. Vawdrey, well + known in the City, who has a big house over at Champion Hill. I have no + notion how they came together, or how long it was going on. But this Mr. + Tarrant has been in America for a year, I understand; has only just come + back; and now he’s living In poorish lodgings,—Great College Street, + Westminster. I’ve made a few inquiries about him, but I can’t get at very + much. A man who knows Vawdrey tells me that Tarrant has no means, and that + he’s a loafing, affected sort of chap. If that’s true,—and it seems + likely from the way he’s living,—of course he will be ready enough + to marry Miss. Lord when the proper time has come; I’m only afraid that’s + all he had in view from the first. And I can’t help suspecting, as I said, + that she’s supporting him now. If not, why should she go and work in a + shop? At all events, a decent man wouldn’t allow her to do it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘A decent man,’ said the listener, ‘would never have allowed her to fall + into disgrace.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Certainly not,’ Crewe assented with energy. ‘And as for my keeping quiet + about it, Mrs. Damerel, you’ve only to think what an awkward affair it was + to mention. I’m quite sure you’ll have a little feeling against me, + because I knew of it—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I beg you not to think that!’ She returned to her manner of suave + friendliness. ‘I shall owe you gratitude for telling me, and nothing but + gratitude. You have behaved with very great delicacy; I cannot say how + highly I appreciate your feeling on the poor girl’s behalf.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘If I can be of any use, I am always at your service.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Thank you, dear Mr. Crewe, thank you! In you I have found a real friend,—and + how rarely they are met with! Of course I shall make inquiries at once. My + niece must be protected. A helpless girl in that dreadful position may + commit unheard-of follies. I fear you are right. He is making her his + victim. With such a secret, she is absolutely at his mercy. And it + explains why she has shunned me. Oh, do you think her brother knows it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m quite sure he doesn’t; hasn’t the least suspicion.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course not. But it’s wonderful how she has escaped. Your informant—how + did she find it out? You say she had the story from the girl’s own lips. + But why? She must have shown that she knew something.’ + </p> + <p> + Crewe imparted such details as had come to his knowledge; they were + meagre, and left many obscurities, but Mrs. Damerel rewarded him with + effusive gratitude, and strengthened the spell which she had cast upon + this knight of Farringdon Street. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0036" id="link2HCH0036"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER 7 + </h2> + <p> + Every day Tarrant said to himself: ‘I am a free man; I was only married in + a dream.’ Every night he thought of Nancy, and suffered heartache. + </p> + <p> + He thought, too, of Nancy’s child, his own son. That Nancy was a tender + mother, he knew from the letter she had written him after the baby’s + birth,—a letter he would have liked to read again, but forbore. Must + not the separation from her child be hard? If he saw the poor little + mortal, how would the sight affect him? At moments he felt a longing + perhaps definable as the instinct of paternity; but he was not the man to + grow sentimental over babies, his own or other people’s. Irony and sarcasm—very + agreeable to a certain class of newspaper readers—were just now his + stock-in-trade, and he could not afford to indulge any softer mode of + meditation. + </p> + <p> + His acquaintances agreed that the year of absence had not improved him. He + was alarmingly clever; he talked well; but his amiability, the poetry of + his mind, seemed to have been lost in America. He could no longer admire + or praise. + </p> + <p> + For his own part, he did not clearly perceive this change. It struck him + only that the old friends were less interesting than he had thought them; + and he looked for reception in circles better able to appreciate his + epigrams and paradoxes. + </p> + <p> + A few weeks of such life broke him so completely to harness, that he + forgot the seasonable miseries which had been wont to drive him from + London at the approach of November. When the first fog blackened against + his windows, he merely lit the lamp and wrote on, indifferent. Two years + ago he had declared that a London November would fatally blight his soul; + that he must flee to a land of sunshine, or perish. There was little time, + now, to think about his soul. + </p> + <p> + One Monday morning arrived a letter which surprised and disturbed him. It + ran thus: + </p> + <p> + ‘Mrs. Eustace Damerel presents her compliments to Mr. Tarrant, and would + take it as a great favour if he could call upon her, either to-morrow or + Tuesday, at any hour between three and seven. She particularly desires to + see Mr. Tarrant on a private matter of mutual interest.’ + </p> + <p> + Now this could have but one meaning. Mrs. Eustace Damerel was, of course, + Nancy’s relative; from Nancy herself, or in some other way, she must have + learnt the fact of his marriage. Probably from Nancy, since she knew where + he lived. He was summoned to a judicial interview. Happily, attendance was + not compulsory. + </p> + <p> + Second thoughts advised him that he had better accept the invitation. He + must know what measures were in progress against him. If Nancy had already + broken her word, she might be disposed to revenge herself in every way + that would occur to an angry woman of small refinement; she might make + life in London impossible for him. + </p> + <p> + He sat down and penned a reply, saying that he would call upon Mrs. + Damerel at five to-morrow. But he did not post this. After all, a day’s + delay would only irritate him; better to go this afternoon, in which case + it was not worth while sending an answer. + </p> + <p> + It seemed to him very probable that Nancy would be with her aunt, to + confront him. If so,—if indeed she were going to act like any coarse + woman, with no regard but for her own passions and Interests,—he + would at least have the consolation of expelling from his mind, at once + and for ever, her haunting image. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Damerel, who during the past twelve months had changed her abode + half-a-dozen times, now occupied private lodgings in Tyburnia. On his + admittance, Tarrant sat alone for nearly five minutes in a pretentiously + furnished room—just the room in which he had expected to find + Nancy’s relative; the delay and the surroundings exasperated his nervous + mood, so that, when the lady entered, he behaved with slighter courtesy + than became his breeding. Nothing in her appearance surprised or + interested him. There was a distant facial resemblance to Nancy, natural + in her mother’s sister; there was expensive, though not particularly + tasteful dress, and a gait, a manner, distinguishable readily enough from + what they aimed at displaying—the grace of a woman born to social + privilege. + </p> + <p> + It would be a humiliating conversation; Tarrant braced himself to go + through with it. He stood stiffly while his hostess regarded him with + shrewd eyes. She had merely bent her head. + </p> + <p> + ‘Will you sit down, Mr. Tarrant?’ + </p> + <p> + He took a chair without speaking. + </p> + <p> + ‘I think you know me by name?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have heard of a Mrs. Damerel.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Some time ago, I suppose? And in that you have the advantage of me. I + heard your name yesterday for the first time.’ + </p> + <p> + It was the sharp rejoinder of a woman of the world. Tarrant began to + perceive that he had to do with intelligence, and would not be allowed to + perform his share of the talking <i>de haut en bas.</i> + </p> + <p> + ‘In what can I be of service to you?’ he asked with constrained civility. + </p> + <p> + ‘You can tell me, please, what sort of connection there is between you and + my niece, Miss. Lord.’ + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Damerel was obviously annoyed by his demeanour, and made little + effort to disguise her feeling. She gave him the look of one who does not + mean to be trifled with. + </p> + <p> + ‘Really,’ answered the young man with a smile, ‘I don’t know what + authority you have to make such inquiries. You are not, I believe, Miss. + Lord’s guardian.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, but I am her only relative who can act on her behalf where knowledge + of the world is required. As a gentleman, you will bear this in mind. It’s + quite true that I can’t oblige you to tell me anything; but when I say + that I haven’t spoken even to my niece of what I have heard, and haven’t + communicated with the gentlemen who <i>are</i> her guardians, I think you + will see that I am not acting in a way you ought to resent.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You mean, Mrs. Damerel, that what passes between us is in confidence?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I only mean, Mr. Tarrant, that I am giving you an opportunity of + explaining yourself—so that I can keep the matter private if your + explanation is satisfactory.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You have a charge of some kind to bring against me,’ said Tarrant + composedly. ‘I must first of all hear what it is. The prisoner at the bar + can’t be prosecuting counsel at the same time.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you acknowledge that you are on intimate terms with Miss. Lord?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have known her for a year or two.’ + </p> + <p> + Tarrant began to exercise caution. Nancy had no hand in this matter; some + one had told tales about her, that was all. He must learn, without + committing himself, exactly how much had been discovered. + </p> + <p> + ‘Are you engaged to her?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Engaged to marry her? No.’ + </p> + <p> + He saw in Mrs. Damerel’s clear eye that she convicted him of ambiguities. + </p> + <p> + ‘You have not even made her a promise of marriage?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How much simpler, if you would advance a clear charge. I will answer it + honestly.’ + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Damerel seemed to weigh the value of this undertaking. Tarrant met + her gaze with steady indifference. + </p> + <p> + ‘It may only be a piece of scandal,—a mistake, or a malicious + invention. I have been told that—that you are in everything but law + my niece’s husband.’ + </p> + <p> + They regarded each other during a moment’s silence. Tarrant’s look + indicated rapid and anxious thought. + </p> + <p> + ‘It seems,’ he said at length, ‘that you have no great faith in the person + who told you this.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It is the easiest matter in the world to find out whether the story is + true or not. Inquiries at Falmouth would be quite sufficient, I dare say. + I give you the opportunity of keeping it quiet, that’s all.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You won’t care to let me know who told you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘There’s no reason why I shouldn’t,’ said Mrs. Damerel, after reflection. + ‘Do you know Mr. Luckworth Crewe?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t think I ever heard the name.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Indeed? He is well acquainted with Miss. Lord. Some one he wouldn’t + mention gave him all the particulars, having learnt them from Miss Lord + herself, and he thought it his duty to inform me of my niece’s very + painful position.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Who is this man?’ Tarrant asked abruptly. + </p> + <p> + ‘I am rather surprised you have never heard of him. He’s a man of + business. My nephew, Mr. Horace Lord, is shortly to be in partnership with + him.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Crewe? No, the name is quite strange to me.’ + </p> + <p> + Tarrant’s countenance darkened; he paused for an instant, then added + impatiently: + </p> + <p> + ‘You say he had “all the particulars.” What were they, these particulars?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Will one be enough? A child was born at Falmouth, and is now at a place + just outside London, in the care of some stranger.’ + </p> + <p> + The source of this information might, or might not, be Nancy herself. In + either case, there was no further hope of secrecy. Tarrant abandoned his + reserve, and spoke quietly, civilly. + </p> + <p> + ‘So far, you have heard the truth. What have you to ask of me, now?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You have been abroad for a long time, I think?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘For about a year.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Does that mean that you wished to see no more of her?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That I deserted her, in plain words? It meant nothing of the kind.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You are aware, then, that she has taken a place in a house of business, + just as if she thought it necessary to earn her own living?’ + </p> + <p> + Tarrant displayed astonishment. + </p> + <p> + ‘I am aware of no such thing. How long has that been going on?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then you don’t see her?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have seen her, but she told me nothing of that.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘There’s something very strange in this, Mr. Tarrant. You seem to me to be + speaking the truth. No, please don’t take offence. Before I saw you, you + were a total stranger to me, and after what I had heard, I couldn’t think + very well of you. I may as well confess that you seem a different kind of + man from what I expected. I don’t wish to offend you, far from it. If we + can talk over this distressing affair in a friendly way, so much the + better. I have nothing whatever in view but to protect my niece—to + do the best that can be done for her.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That I have taken for granted,’ Tarrant replied. ‘I understand that you + expected to meet a scoundrel of a very recognisable type. Well, I am not + exactly that. But what particular act of rascality have you in mind? + Something worse than mere seduction, of course.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Will you answer a disagreeable question? Are you well-to-do?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Anything but that.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Indeed? And you can form no idea why Nancy has gone to work in a shop?’ + </p> + <p> + Tarrant raised his eyebrows. + </p> + <p> + ‘I see,’ he said deliberately. ‘You suspect that I have been taking money + from her?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I <i>did</i> suspect it; now it seems to me more unlikely.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Many thanks,’ he answered, with cold irony. ‘So the situation was this: + Miss. Lord had been led astray by a rascally fellow, who not only left her + to get on as best she could, but lived on her income, so that she had at + length to earn money for her own needs. There’s something very clear and + rounded, very dramatic, about that. What I should like to know is, whether + Miss. Lord tells the story in this way.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I can’t say that she does. I think it was Mr. Crewe who explained things + like that.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I am obliged to Mr. Crewe. But he may, after all, only repeat what he has + heard. It’s a pity we don’t know Miss. Lord’s actual confidante.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course you have <i>not</i> received assistance from her?’ + </p> + <p> + Tarrant stared for a moment, then laughed unpleasantly. + </p> + <p> + ‘I have no recollection of it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Another disagreeable question. Did you really go away and leave her to + get on as best she could?’ + </p> + <p> + He looked darkly at her. + </p> + <p> + ‘And if I did?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Wasn’t it rather unaccountable behaviour—in a gentleman?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Possibly.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I can’t believe it. There is something unexplained.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, there <i>is</i> something unexplained.—Mrs. Damerel, I should + have thought you would naturally speak first to your niece. Why did you + send for me before doing so?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘To find out what sort of man you were, so that I should be able to form + my own opinion of what Nancy chose to tell me. Perhaps she may refuse to + tell me anything at all—we are not like ordinary relatives, I am + sorry to say. But I dare say you know better than I do how she thinks of + me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have heard her speak of you only once or twice. At all events, now that + you are prepared, you will go and see her?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I must. It would be wrong to stand by and do nothing.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And you will see her guardians?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That must depend. I certainly shall if she seems to be suffering + hardships. I must know why she goes out to work, as if she were pinched + for money. There is her child to support, of course, but that wouldn’t + make any difference to her; she is well provided for.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes. There’s no choice but to fall back upon the villain theory.’ + </p> + <p> + He rose, and took up his hat. + </p> + <p> + ‘You mustn’t go yet, Mr. Tarrant,’ said his hostess firmly. ‘I have said + that I can’t believe such things of you. If you would only explain—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s just what I can’t do. It’s as much a mystery to me as to you—her + wishing to earn money.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I was going to say—if you would only explain your intentions as to + the future—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘My intentions will depend entirely on what I hear from your niece. I + shall see her as soon as possible. Perhaps you can tell me at what hour + she returns from business?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, I can’t. I wish you would talk a little longer.’ + </p> + <p> + His eyes flashed angrily. + </p> + <p> + ‘Mrs. Damerel, I have said all that I am willing to say. What you have + heard is partly true; you probably won’t have to wait very long for the + rest of the story, but I have no time and no inclination to tell it. Go + and see your niece to-morrow by all means,—or her guardians, if it + seems necessary. + </p> + <p> + ‘I am very sorry we are parting in this way.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You must remember how difficult it is to keep one’s temper under certain + kinds of accusation.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t accuse you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, then, to explain calmly that one couldn’t commit this or that + sordid rascality;—it comes to the same thing. However, I am obliged + to you for opening my eyes. I have got into a very foolish position, and I + promise you I will get out of it as quickly as may be.’ + </p> + <p> + Whereupon he bowed his leave-taking, and withdrew. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0037" id="link2HCH0037"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER 8 + </h2> + <p> + It was not yet dark, but street-lamps had begun to flare and flicker in + the gust of a cold, damp evening. A thin and slippery mud smeared the + pavement. Tarrant had walked mechanically as far as to the top of Park + Lane before he began to consider his immediate course. Among the people + who stood waiting for omnibuses, he meditated thus: + </p> + <p> + ‘She may not get home until seven or half-past; then she will have a meal. + I had better put it off till about half-past eight. That leaves me some + four hours to dispose of. First of all I’ll walk home, and—yes, by + all the devils! I’ll finish that bit of writing. A year ago I could no + more have done it, under such circumstances, than have built a suspension + bridge. To-day I will—just to show that I’ve some grit in me.’ + </p> + <p> + Down Park Lane, and by Buckingham Palace across to Westminster, he kept + his thoughts for the most part on that bit of writing. Only thus could he + save himself from an access of fury which would only have injured him—the + ire of shame in which a man is tempted to beat his head against stone + walls. He composed aloud, balancing many a pretty antithesis, and + polishing more than one lively paradox. + </p> + <p> + In his bedroom-study the fire had gone out. No matter; he would write in + the cold. It was mere amanuensis work, penning at the dictation of his + sarcastic demon. Was he a sybarite? Many a poor scribbler has earned bed + and breakfast with numb fingers. The fire in his body would serve him for + an hour or two. + </p> + <p> + So he sat down, and achieved his task to the last syllable. He read it + through, corrected it, made it up for post, and rose with the plaudits of + conscience. ‘Who shall say now that I am a fop and a weakling?’ + </p> + <p> + Half-past seven. Good; just time enough to appease his hunger and reach + Grove Lane by the suitable hour. He went out to the little coffee-shop + which was his resort in Spartan moods, ate with considerable appetite, and + walked over Westminster Bridge to the Camberwell tram. To kill time on the + journey he bought a halfpenny paper. + </p> + <p> + As he ascended Grove Lane his heart throbbed more than the exercise + warranted. At the door of the house, which he had never yet entered, and + which he had not looked upon for more than a year, he stood to calm + himself, with lips set and cheek pale in the darkness. Then a confident + peal at the knocker. + </p> + <p> + It was Mary who opened. He had never seen her, but knew that this grave, + hard-featured person, not totally unlike a born gentlewoman, must be Mary + Woodruff. And in her eyes he read a suspicion of his own identity. + </p> + <p> + ‘Is Miss. Lord at home?’ he asked, in a matter-of-fact way. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes.—What name shall I mention?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Mr. Tarrant.’ + </p> + <p> + Her eyes fell, and she requested him to enter, to wait in the hall for a + moment; then went upstairs. She was absent for a few minutes, and on + returning asked him to follow her. She led to the drawing-room: on the + way, Tarrant felt a surprise that in so small a house the drawing-room + should be correctly situated on the upper floor. + </p> + <p> + Here he had again to wait. A comfortable room, he thought, and with a true + air of home about it. He knew how significant is this impression first + received on entering a strange abode; home or encampment, attraction or + repulsion, according to the mind of the woman who rules there. Was it + Nancy, or Mary, who made the atmosphere of the house? + </p> + <p> + The door opened, and he faced towards it. + </p> + <p> + Nancy’s dress had an emphasis of fashion formerly unknown to it; + appropriate enough considering her new occupation. The flush upon her + cheeks, the light of doubtful meaning in her eyes, gave splendour to a + beauty matured by motherhood. In the dark street, a fortnight ago, Tarrant + could hardly be said to have seen her; he gazed in wonder and admiration. + </p> + <p> + ‘What has brought you here?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘A cause quite sufficient.—This is a little house; can we talk + without being overheard?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You can shout if you wish to,’ she answered flippantly. ‘The servant is + Out, and Mary is downstairs.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy did not seat herself, and offered no seat to the visitor. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why have you made yourself a shop-girl?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I didn’t know that I had.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I am told you go daily to some shop or other.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I am engaged at a place of business, but I don’t.—However, that + doesn’t matter. What business is it of yours?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Who is Mr. Luckworth Crewe?’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy kept her eyes still more resolutely fronting his severe look. + </p> + <p> + ‘A man I used to know.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You don’t see him now-a-days?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s many months since I saw him.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Who, then, is the woman who has told him your whole story—with + embellishments, and who says she has had it from you yourself?’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy was speechless. + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t say there is any such person,’ Tarrant continued. ‘The man may + have lied in that particular. But he has somehow got to know a good deal + about you,—where and when your child was born, where it is now, + where I live, and so on. And all this he has reported to your aunt, Mrs. + Damerel.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘To her?—How do you know?’ + </p> + <p> + For answer he held out Mrs. Damerel’s note of invitation, then added: + </p> + <p> + ‘I have been with her this afternoon. She is coming to offer you her + protection against the scoundrel who has ruined you, and who is now living + upon you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What do you mean?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s the form the story has taken, either in Mr. Crewe’s mind, or in + that of the woman who told it to him.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t they know that I am married?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Evidently not.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And they think you—are having money from me?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s how they explain your taking a place in a shop.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy laughed, and laughed again. + </p> + <p> + ‘How ridiculous!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m glad you can get amusement out of it. Perhaps you can suggest how the + joke began?’ + </p> + <p> + She moved a few steps, then turned again to him. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, I know who the woman must be. It’s Beatrice French.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘A bosom friend of yours, of course.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Nothing of the kind.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But you have taken her into your confidence—up to a certain point?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, I have told her. And she told Mr. Crewe? I understand that. Well, + what does it matter?’ + </p> + <p> + Tarrant was at a loss to interpret this singular levity. He had never + truly believed that reading of Nancy’s character by means of which he + tried to persuade himself that his marriage was an unmitigated calamity, + and a final parting between them the best thing that could happen. His + memories of her, and the letters she had written him, coloured her + personality far otherwise. Yet was not the harsh judgment after all the + true one? + </p> + <p> + ‘It doesn’t matter to you,’ he said, ‘that people think you an unmarried + mother,—that people are talking about you with grins and sneers?’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy reddened in angry shame. + </p> + <p> + ‘Let them talk!’ she exclaimed violently. ‘What does it matter, so long as + they don’t know I’m married?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘So long as they don’t know?—How came you to tell this woman?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you suppose I told her for amusement? She found out what had happened + at Falmouth,—found out simply by going down there and making + inquiries; because she suspected me of some secret affair with a man she + wants to marry herself—this Mr. Crewe. The wonder of wonders is that + no one else got to know of it in that way. Any one who cared much what + happened to me would have seen the all but impossibility of keeping such a + secret.’ + </p> + <p> + It is a notable instance of evolutionary process that the female mind, in + wrath, flies to just those logical ineptitudes which most surely + exasperate the male intelligence. Tarrant gave a laugh of irate scorn. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why, you told me the other day that I cared particularly whether your + secret was discovered or not—that I only married you in the hope of + profiting by it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Wouldn’t any woman think so?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I hope not. I believe there are some women who don’t rush naturally to a + base supposition.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Did I?’ Nancy exclaimed, with a vehement passion that made her breast + heave. ‘Didn’t I give you time enough—believe in you until I could + believe no longer?’ + </p> + <p> + The note of her thrilling voice went to Tarrant’s heart, and his head + drooped. + </p> + <p> + ‘That may be true,’ he said gravely. ‘But go on with your explanation. + This woman came to you, and told you what she had discovered?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And you allowed her to think you unmarried?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What choice had I? How was my child to be brought up if I lost + everything?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Good God, Nancy! Did you imagine I should leave you to starve?’ + </p> + <p> + His emotion, his utterance of her name, caused her to examine him with a + kind of wonder. + </p> + <p> + ‘How did I know?—How could I tell, at that time, whether you were + alive or dead?—I had to think of myself and the child.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘My poor girl!’ + </p> + <p> + The words fell from him involuntarily. Nancy’s look became as scornful and + defiant as before. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, that was nothing. I’ve gone through a good deal more than that.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Stop. Tell me this. Have you in your anger—anger natural enough—allowed + yourself to speak to any one about me in the way I should never forgive? + In the spirit of your letter, I mean. Did you give this Beatrice French + any ground for thinking that I made a speculation of you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I said nothing of that kind.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Nor to any one else?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘To no one.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yet you told this woman where I was living, and that I had been abroad + for a long time. Why?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, I told her so much about you,’ Nancy replied. ‘Not when she first + came to me, but afterwards—only the other day. I wanted employment, + and didn’t know how to get it, except through her. She promised me a place + if I would disclose your name; not that she knew or cared anything about + <i>you</i>, but because she still had suspicions about Mr. Crewe. I was + desperate, and I told her.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Desperate? Why?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How can I make you understand what I have gone through? What do you care? + And what do <i>I</i> care whether you understand or not? It wasn’t for + money, and Beatrice French knew it wasn’t.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then it must have been that you could not bear the monotony of your + life.’ + </p> + <p> + Her answer was a short, careless laugh. + </p> + <p> + ‘Where is this shop? What do you do?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s a dress-supply association. I advise fools about the fashions, and + exhibit myself as a walking fashion-plate. I can’t see how it should + interest you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Whatever concerns you, Nancy, interests me more than anything else in the + world.’ + </p> + <p> + Again she laughed. + </p> + <p> + ‘What more do you want to know?’ + </p> + <p> + She was half turned from him, leaning at the mantelpiece, a foot on the + fender. + </p> + <p> + ‘You said just now that you have gone through worse things than the shame + of being thought unmarried. Tell me about it all.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not I, indeed. When I was willing to tell you everything, you didn’t care + to hear it. It’s too late now.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s not too late, happily, to drag you out of this wretched slough into + which you are sinking. Whatever the cost, <i>that</i> shall be done!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Thank you, I am not disposed to let any one drag me anywhere. I want no + help; and if I did, you would be the last person I should accept it from. + I don’t know why you came here after the agreement we made the other + night.’ + </p> + <p> + Tarrant stepped towards her. + </p> + <p> + ‘I came to find out whether you were telling lies about me, and I should + never have thought it possible but for my bad conscience. I know you had + every excuse for being embittered and for acting revengefully. It seems + you have only told lies about yourself. As, after all, you are my wife, I + shan’t allow that.’ + </p> + <p> + Once more she turned upon him passionately. + </p> + <p> + ‘I am <i>not</i> your wife! You married me against your will, and shook me + off as soon as possible. I won’t be bound to you; I shall act as a free + woman.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Bound to me you are, and shall be—as I to you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You may say it fifty times, and it will mean nothing.—How bound to + you? Bound to share my money?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I forgive you that, because I have treated you ill. You don’t mean it + either. You know I am incapable of such a thought. But that shall very + soon be put right. Your marriage shall be made known at once.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Known to whom?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘To the people concerned—to your guardians.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t trouble yourself,’ she answered, with a smile. ‘They know it + already.’ + </p> + <p> + Tarrant half closed his eyes as he looked at her. + </p> + <p> + ‘What’s the use of such a silly falsehood?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I told you I had gone through a good deal more than you imagined. I have + struggled to keep my money, in spite of shames and miseries, and I will + have it for myself—and my child! If you want to know the truth, go + to Samuel Barmby, and ask him what he has had to do with me. I owe no + explanation to <i>you</i>.’ + </p> + <p> + Tarrant could see her face only in profile. Marvelling at the + complications she gradually revealed, he felt his blood grow warm with + desire of her beauty. She was his wife, yet guarded as by maidenhood. A + familiar touch would bring the colour to her cheeks, the light of + resentment to her eyes. Passion made him glad of the estrangement which + compelled a new wooing, and promised, on her part, a new surrender. + </p> + <p> + ‘You don’t owe it me, Nancy; but if I beg you to tell me all—because + I have come to my senses again—because I know how foolish and cruel + I have been—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Remember what we agreed. Go your way, and let me go mine.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I had no idea of what I was agreeing to. I took it for granted that your + marriage was strictly a secret, and that you might be free in the real + sense if you chose.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, and you were quite willing, because it gave you your freedom as + well. I am as free as I wish to be. I have made a life for myself that + satisfies me—and now you come to undo everything. I won’t be + tormented—I have endured enough.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then only one course is open to me. I shall publish your marriage + everywhere. I shall make a home for you, and have the child brought to it; + then come or not, as you please.’ + </p> + <p> + At mention of the child Nancy regarded him with cold curiosity. + </p> + <p> + ‘How are you to make a home for me? I thought you had difficulty enough in + supporting yourself.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That is no concern of yours. It shall be done, and in a day or two. Then + make your choice.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You think I can be forced to live with a man I don’t love?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I shouldn’t dream of living with a woman who didn’t love me. But you are + married, and a mother, and the secrecy that is degrading you shall come to + an end. Acknowledge me or not, I shall acknowledge <i>you</i>, and make it + known that I am to blame for all that has happened.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And what good will you do?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I shall do good to myself, at all events. I’m a selfish fellow, and shall + be so to the end, no doubt.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy glanced at him to interpret the speech by his expression. He was + smiling. + </p> + <p> + ‘What good will it do you to have to support me? The selfishness I see in + it is your wishing to take me from a comfortable home and make me poor.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That can’t be helped. And, what’s more, you won’t think it a hardship.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How do you know that? I have borne dreadful degradations rather than lose + my money.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That was for the child’s sake, not for your own.’ + </p> + <p> + He said it softly and kindly, and for the first time Nancy met his eyes + without defiance. + </p> + <p> + ‘It was; I could always have earned my own living, somehow.’ + </p> + <p> + Tarrant paused a moment, then spoke with look averted. + </p> + <p> + ‘Is he well, and properly cared for?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘If he were not well and safe, I shouldn’t be away from him.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘When will you let me see him, Nancy?’ + </p> + <p> + She did not smile, but there was a brightening of her countenance, which + she concealed. Tarrant stepped to her side. + </p> + <p> + ‘Dear—my own love—will you try to forgive me? It was all my + cursed laziness. It would never have happened if I hadn’t fallen into + poverty. Poverty is the devil, and it overcame me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How can you think that <i>I</i> shall be strong enough to face it?’ she + asked, moving half a step away. ‘Leave me to myself; I am contented; I + have made up my mind about what is before me, and I won’t go through all + that again.’ + </p> + <p> + Tired of standing, she dropped upon the nearest chair, and lay back. + </p> + <p> + ‘You can’t be contented, Nancy, in a position that dishonours you. From + what you tell me, it seems that your secret is no secret at all. Will you + compel me to go to that man Barmby and seek information from him about my + own wife?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have had to do worse things than that.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t torture me by such vague hints. I entreat you to tell me at once + the worst that you have suffered. How did Barmby get to know of your + marriage? And why has he kept silent about it? There can’t be anything + that you are ashamed to say.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No. The shame is all yours.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I take it upon myself, all of it; I ought never to have left you; but + that baseness followed only too naturally on the cowardice which kept me + from declaring our marriage when honour demanded it. I have played a + contemptible part in this story; don’t refuse to help me now that I am + ready to behave more like a man. Put your hand in mine, and let us be + friends, if we mayn’t be more.’ + </p> + <p> + She sat irresponsive. + </p> + <p> + ‘You were a brave girl. You consented to my going away because it seemed + best, and I took advantage of your sincerity. Often enough that last look + of yours has reproached me. I wonder how I had the heart to leave you + alone.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy raised herself, and said coldly: + </p> + <p> + ‘It was what I might have expected. I had only my own folly to thank. You + behaved as most men would.’ + </p> + <p> + This was a harder reproach than any yet. Tarrant winced under it. He would + much rather have been accused of abnormal villainy. + </p> + <p> + ‘And I was foolish,’ continued Nancy, ‘in more ways than you knew. You + feared I had told Jessica Morgan of our marriage, and you were right; of + course I denied it. She has been the cause of my worst trouble.’ + </p> + <p> + In rapid sentences she told the story of her successive humiliations, + recounted her sufferings at the hands of Jessica and Beatrice and Samuel + Barmby. When she ceased, there were tears in her eyes. + </p> + <p> + ‘Has Barmby been here again?’ Tarrant asked sternly. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes. He has been twice, and talked in just the same way, and I had to sit + still before him—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Has he said one word that—?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, no,’ she interrupted hastily. ‘He’s only a fool—not man enough + to—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That saves me trouble,’ said Tarrant; ‘I have only to treat him like a + fool. My poor darling, what vile torments you have endured! And you + pretend that you would rather live on this fellow’s interested generosity—for, + of course, he hopes to be rewarded—than throw the whole squalid + entanglement behind you and be a free, honest woman, even if a poor one?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I see no freedom.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You have lost all your love for me. Well, I can’t complain of that. But + bear my name you shall, and be supported by me. I tell you that it was + never <i>possible</i> for me actually to desert you and the little one—never + possible. I shirked a duty as long as I could; that’s all it comes to. I + loafed and paltered until the want of a dinner drove me into honesty. Try + to forget it, dear Nancy. Try to forgive me, my dearest!’ + </p> + <p> + She was dry-eyed again, and his appeal seemed to have no power over her + emotions. + </p> + <p> + ‘You are forgetting,’ she said practically, ‘that I have lived on money to + which I had no right, and that I—or you—can be forced to repay + it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Repaid it must be, whether demanded or not. Where does Barmby live? + Perhaps I could see him to-night.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What means have you of keeping us all alive?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Some of my work has been accepted here and there; but there’s something + else I have in mind. I don’t ask you to become a poverty-stricken wife in + the ordinary way. I can’t afford to take a house. I must put you, with the + child, into as good lodgings as I can hope to pay for, and work on by + myself, just seeing you as often as you will let me. Even if you were + willing, it would be a mistake for us to live together. For one thing, I + couldn’t work under such conditions; for another, it would make you a + slave. Tell me: are you willing to undertake the care of the child, if + nothing else is asked of you?’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy gave him a disdainful smile, a smile like those of her girlhood. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m not quite so feeble a creature as you think me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You would rather have the child to yourself, than be living away from + him?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘If you have made up your mind, why trouble to ask such questions?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Because I have no wish to force burdens upon you. You said just now that + you could see little prospect of freedom in such a life as I have to offer + you. I thought you perhaps meant that the care of the child would—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I meant nothing,’ Nancy broke in, with fretful impatience. + </p> + <p> + ‘Where is he—our boy?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘At Dulwich. I told you that in my last letter.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes—yes. I thought you might have changed.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I couldn’t have found a better, kinder woman. Can you guess how many + answers I had to the advertisement? Thirty-two.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course five-and-twenty of them took it for granted you would pay so + much a week and ask no questions. They would just not have starved the + baby,—unless you had hinted to them that you were willing to pay a + lump sum for a death-certificate, in which case the affair would have been + more or less skilfully managed.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Mary knew all about that. She came from Falmouth, and spent two days in + visiting people. I knew I could rely on her judgment. There were only four + or five people she cared to see at all, and of these only one that seemed + trustworthy.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘To be sure. One out of two-and-thirty. A higher percentage than would + apply to mankind at large, I dare say. By-the-bye, I was afraid you might + have found a difficulty in registering the birth.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No. I went to the office myself, the morning that I was leaving Falmouth, + and the registrar evidently knew nothing about me. It isn’t such a small + place that everybody living there is noticed and talked of.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And Mary took the child straight to Dulwich?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Two days before I came,—so as to have the house ready for me. + </p> + <p> + ‘Perhaps it was unfortunate, Nancy, that you had so good a friend. But for + that, I should have suffered more uneasiness about you.’ + </p> + <p> + She answered with energy: + </p> + <p> + ‘There is no husband in the world worth such a friend as Mary.’ + </p> + <p> + At this Tarrant first smiled, then laughed. Nancy kept her lips rigid. It + happened that he again saw her face in exact profile, and again it warmed + the current of his blood. + </p> + <p> + ‘Some day you shall think better of that.’ + </p> + <p> + She paid no attention. Watching her, he asked: + </p> + <p> + ‘What are you thinking of so earnestly?’ + </p> + <p> + Her answer was delayed a little, but she said at length, with an absent + manner: + </p> + <p> + ‘Horace might lend me the money to pay back what I owe.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Your brother?—If he can afford it, there would be less objection to + that than to any other plan I can think of. But I must ask it myself; you + shall beg no more favours. I will ask it in your presence.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You will do nothing of the kind,’ Nancy replied drily. ‘If you think to + please me by humiliating yourself, you are very much mistaken. And you + mustn’t imagine that I put myself into your hands to be looked after as + though I had no will of my own. With the past you have nothing to do,—with + <i>my</i> past, at all events. Care for the future as you like.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But I must see your guardians.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No. I won’t have that.’ + </p> + <p> + She stood up to emphasise her words. + </p> + <p> + ‘I must. It’s the only way in which I can satisfy myself—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then I refuse to take a step,’ said Nancy. ‘Leave all that to me, and I + will go to live where you please, and never grumble, however poor I am. + Interfere, and I will go on living as now, on Samuel Barmby’s generosity.’ + </p> + <p> + There was no mistaking her resolution. Tarrant hesitated, and bit his lip. + </p> + <p> + ‘How long, then, before you act?’ he inquired abruptly. + </p> + <p> + ‘When my new home is found, I am ready to go there.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You will deal honestly with me? You will tell every one, and give up + everything not strictly yours?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have done with lies,’ said Nancy. + </p> + <p> + ‘Thank heaven, so have I!’ + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PART6" id="link2H_PART6"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Part VI: A Virtue of Necessity + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0038" id="link2HCH0038"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER 1 + </h2> + <p> + Upon the final tempest in De Crespigny Park there followed, for Arthur + Peachey, a calmer and happier season than he had ever known. To have acted + with stern resolve is always a satisfaction, especially to the man + conscious of weak good-nature, and condemned for the most part to yield. + In his cheap lodging at Clapham, Peachey awoke each morning with a vague + sense of joy, which became delight as soon as he had collected his senses. + He was a free man. No snarl greeted him as he turned his head upon the + pillow; he could lie and meditate, could rise quietly when the moment + sounded, could go downstairs to a leisurely meal, cheered perhaps by a + letter reporting that all was well with his dear little son. Simple, + elementary pleasures, but how he savoured them after his years of sordid + bondage! + </p> + <p> + It was the blessedness of divorce, without squalid publicity. It was the + vast relief of widowerhood, without dreary memories of death and burial. + </p> + <p> + In releasing himself from such companionship, the man felt as though he + had washed and become clean. + </p> + <p> + Innocent of scientific speculation, he had the misfortune about this time + to read in paper or magazine something on the subject of heredity, the + idle verbiage of some half-informed scribbler. It set him anxiously + thinking whether his son would develop the vices of the mother’s mind, and + from that day he read all the printed chatter regarding natural + inheritance that he could lay his hands on. The benefit he derived from + this course of study was neither more nor less than might have been + expected; it supplied him with a new trouble, which sometimes kept him + wakeful. He could only resolve that his boy should have the best education + procurable for money, if he starved himself in providing it. + </p> + <p> + He had begun to live with the utmost economy, and for a twofold reason: + the business of Messrs Ducker, Blunt & Co. threatened a decline, and, + this apart, he desired to get out of it, to obtain an interest in some + more honourable concern. For a long time it had been known to him that the + disinfectants manufactured by his firm were far from trustworthy, and of + late the complaints of purchasers had become frequent. With the + manufacturing department he had nothing to do; he tried to think himself + free from responsibility; for, in spite of amiable qualities, he was a man + of business, and saw a great part of life through the commercial + spectacles commonly worn now-a-days. Nevertheless conscience unsettled + him. One day he heard his partners joking over the legislative omission by + virtue of which they were able to adulterate their disinfectants to any + extent without fear of penalty; their laughter grated upon him, and he got + out of the way. If he could lay aside a few thousands of pounds, assuredly + his connection with the affair should be terminated. So he lived, for his + own part, on a pound a week, and informed Ada through his solicitor that + she must be satisfied with a certain very moderate allowance. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Peachey naturally laid herself out to give every one as much trouble + as possible. Insulting post-cards showered upon her husband at his place + of business. After a few weeks she discovered his lodging, and addressed + the post-cards thither; but she made no attempt at personal molestation. + The loss of her child gave her not the slightest concern, yet she + determined to find out where the boy was living. She remembered that + Peachey had relatives at Canterbury, and after a troublesome search + succeeded in her purpose. An interview with her husband’s married sister + proved so unsatisfactory to Ada, that she had recourse to her familiar + weapons, rage, insult, and menace; with the result that she was forcibly + removed, and made a scandal in the quiet street. + </p> + <p> + Then she consulted men of law, and found one who encouraged her to sue for + restitution of conjugal rights. It came to nothing, however; for in the + meantime she was growing tired of her solitary existence,—friends of + course she had none,—and the spirit moved her to try a change of + tactics. + </p> + <p> + She wrote a long, long letter, penitent, tear-bestained. ‘I have behaved + outrageously to you, dearest Arthur; I must have been mad to say and do + such things. The doctor tells me that my health has been in a very bad + state for a long time, and I really don’t remember half that has happened. + You were quite right when you told me that I should be better if I didn’t + live such an idle life, and I have quite, quite made up my mind to be an + industrious and a <i>good</i> woman. All yesterday I spent in needlework + and crying. Oh, the tears that I have shed! My darling husband, what can I + do to win your forgiveness? Do consider how lonely I am in this house. + Beatrice has been horrid to me. If I said all I think about <i>her</i>, + she wouldn’t like to hear it; but I am learning to control my tongue. She + lives alone in a flat, and has men to spend every evening with her; it’s + disgraceful! And there’s Fanny, who I am sure is leading an immoral life + abroad. Of course I shall never speak to her again. You were quite right + when you said my sisters were worthless.’—Peachey had never + permitted himself any such remark.—‘I will have no one but you, my + dear, good, sweet husband.’ + </p> + <p> + So on, over several pages. Reading it, the husband stood aghast at this + new revelation of female possibilities; at the end, he hurriedly threw it + into the fire, fearing, and with good reason, that weakness in his own + character to which the woman addressed herself. + </p> + <p> + Every day for a week there arrived a replica of this epistle, and at + length he answered. It was the fatal concession. Though he wrote with + almost savage severity, Ada replied in terms of exuberant gratitude. Oh, + how delighted she was to see his dear handwriting once more! How it + reminded her of happy days, when they loved each other so tenderly! Then + came two strophes of a sentimental drawing-room song, and lastly, an + impassioned appeal to be allowed to see her husband, were it only for five + minutes. + </p> + <p> + Another week of such besieging, and the poor fellow’s foolish heart gave + way. He would see the wretched woman, and tell her that, though never + could he consent to live with her again, he had no malicious feeling, and + was willing to be her friend at a distance. So, at six o’clock one + evening, behold him tremulously approaching the house in De Crespigny + Park,—tremulously, because he dreaded the assault upon his emotions + to which he so recklessly exposed himself. He was admitted by a very young + servant, in a very clean cap and apron. Silence possessed the dwelling; he + did not venture to tread with natural step. He entered the drawing-room, + and there, from amid a heap of household linen which required the needle, + rose the penitent wife. Ostentatiously she drew from her finger a thimble, + then advanced with head bent. + </p> + <p> + ‘How kind of you, Arthur! How—how very—’ + </p> + <p> + And she was dissolved in tears—so genuine, that they marked pale + rillets across the bloom of her cheeks. + </p> + <p> + About a month after that the furniture was removed from De Crespigny Park + to a much smaller house at Brixton, where Mr. and Mrs. Peachey took up + their abode together. A medical man shortly called, and Ada, not without + secret disgust, smilingly made known to her husband that she must now be + very careful of her health. + </p> + <p> + On one point only the man had held to a rational resolve; he would not + allow his little son to be brought back to London, away from the home + where he was happy and thriving. Out of mere self-will Ada strove for a + long time to overcome this decision; finding argument and artifice of no + avail, she dropped the matter. Peachey owed this triumph largely to the + firm commonsense of his sister, who plainly refused to let the little + fellow quit her care for that of such a woman as he was unfortunate enough + to call mother. + </p> + <p> + Christmas came, and with it an unanticipated call from Miss. Fanny French, + who said she had lately recovered from a serious illness in Paris; the + nature of her malady she did not specify; it had left her haggard and + thin, but by no means deficient in vivacity. She was dressed with tawdry + extravagance, wore a mass of false yellow hair, had her eyebrows dyed + black,—piquant contrast,—and her cheeks and lips richly + carmined. No veritable information as to her past and present could be + gleaned from the mixture of French and English which she ceaselessly + gabbled. She had come over for Christmas, that was all; could not dream of + returning to live in wretched England. At Brussels and in Paris she had + made hosts of friends, just the right sort of people. + </p> + <p> + Ada told her all the news. Of most interest was that which related to + Nancy Lord. Only a month ago it had become known that Nancy was married, + and the mother of a child. + </p> + <p> + ‘The Barmbys found it out somehow,’ Ada narrated. ‘She was married to a + man called Tarrant, some one we never heard of, on the very day of her + father’s death, and, of course, before she knew anything about his will. + Then, of course, it had to be kept dark, or she’d lose all her money. Her + husband hadn’t a farthing. She supported him, and they say he lived most + of the time in her house. He’s a regular scamp, a drinking, betting + fellow. Well, it all came out, and the Barmbys turned her into the street + at a moment’s notice—serve her right!’ + </p> + <p> + Fanny shrieked with merriment. + </p> + <p> + ‘And what is she doing?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘She went on her knees to Beatrice, and begged for a place at the shop, if + it was only a few shillings a week. Nice come-down for Nancy Lord, wasn’t + it? Of course Beatrice sent her off with a flea in her ear. I don’t know + where she’s living, but I’ve heard that her husband has gone to America, + and left her to shift for herself, now there’s nothing more to be got out + of her.’ + </p> + <p> + For supplementary details of this racy narrative, Fanny sought out + Beatrice; but to her astonishment and annoyance Beatrice would tell + nothing. The elder sister urged Fanny to give an account of herself, and + used some very plain speech of the admonitory kind. + </p> + <p> + ‘What has become of that jackanapes, Horace Lord?’ asked Fanny, after a + contemptuous remark about ‘sermons.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t know. The question is, what’s going to become of <i>you</i>?’ + </p> + <p> + Whereupon the girl grew vituperative in two languages, and made off. Her + relatives saw no more of her for a long time. + </p> + <p> + To Mrs. Peachey was born a daughter. Naturally, the months preceding this + event had been, for her husband, a renewal of martyrdom; his one + supporting solace lay in the thought of the little lad at Canterbury. All + the old troubles were revived; from morning to night the house rang with + brawls between mistress and servants; in the paroxysms favoured by her + physical condition, Ada behaved like a candidate for Bedlam, and more than + once obliged her husband to seek temporary peace in lodgings. He left home + at eight o’clock every morning, and returned as late as possible. The + necessity of passing long evenings made him haunt places of entertainment, + and he sometimes had recourse to drink,—he by nature the soberest of + men,—in fear of what awaited him on his tardy appearance at Brixton. + A month after Ada’s confinement he once more acted a sane part, and + announced by letter that he would die rather than continue living with his + wife. As it was fine autumn weather he went down to a seaside place, where + his Canterbury relatives and the little boy joined him for a holiday of + several weeks. Again Ada was to receive an allowance. She despatched a few + very virulent post-cards, but presently grew quiet, and appeared to accept + the situation. + </p> + <p> + In early winter Fanny French came over to England. She had again been ill, + and this time with results obviously graver. Her first call was upon + Beatrice, who still occupied the flat at Brixton, and here she unbosomed + herself of a dolorous story. All her money had vanished; stolen, most of + it, Fanny declared; she was without resources, and, as any one could see, + in a wretched state of health. Would Beatrice have compassion on her? + Would she lend her money till she was well enough to ‘look round’? + </p> + <p> + Miss. French at once took the girl into her own home, and had her looked + after. Fanny coughed in an alarming way; the doctor, speaking privately + with Beatrice, made an unpleasant report; was it possible to send the + patient to a mild climate for the winter months? Yes, Miss. French could + manage that, and would. A suitable attendant having been procured, Fanny + was despatched to Bournemouth, whence, in a day or two, she wrote to her + sister thus: + </p> + <p> + ‘You’ve been awfully kind to me, and I shan’t forget it when I’m well + again. Feel a good deal fitter already. Dullish place this, but I’ve got + to put up with it. I’ve had a letter from Ada. If you see her, tell her + she’s a beast, and I wish Arthur would wring her scraggy neck. She says + it’s all my own fault; wait till I’m back again, and I’ll pay her a call. + My own fault indeed! It seems to me I’m very much to be pitied.’ + </p> + <p> + Walking one day along the sea-front by herself, Fanny observed a young + man’s figure a few paces in advance of her, which seemed to awaken + recollections. Presently the young man turned and showed, beyond doubt, + the countenance of Horace Lord. He met her eyes, gave a doubtful, troubled + look, and was going past when Fanny accosted him. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, don’t you know me?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why, it <i>is</i>—it really <i>is</i>! How glad I am to see you! + But what on earth are you doing here?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Amusing myself—<i>comme vous voyez</i>; and you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, doing the same.’ + </p> + <p> + They had shaken hands, and were sauntering on together. + </p> + <p> + ‘Anything wrong with your health?’ Fanny asked, scrutinising the pale thin + face, with its touch of warmth on the cheeks. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, I’ve had a bit of a cold; nothing to speak of. You been out of + sorts?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘A little run down. Over-study, they say.’ + </p> + <p> + Horace looked his surprise. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why, I didn’t know you went in for that kind of thing.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Didn’t you? I’ve been studying abroad for a long time. Thinking of taking + a place as French teacher in some tip-top high school.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I am very glad to hear it. Capital idea. Sure I hope you’ll be + successful.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Thanks awf’ly. Tell me something about yourself. Why, it’s two years + since we saw each other, isn’t it? Are you married yet?’ + </p> + <p> + Horace smiled and coloured. + </p> + <p> + ‘No, no—not yet. I’m in business with Luckworth Crewe,—sort of + sleeping partner just now.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Are you really? And how’s your sister?’ + </p> + <p> + The young man bent his brows uncomfortably. + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t you know anything about her?’ he asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ve heard she’s married.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, a man called Tarrant. Very clever fellow; he writes for the papers.—I + say, Miss. French, I generally have a glass of wine and a biscuit, at the + confectioner’s, about this time. Will you give me the pleasure of your + company?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘<i>Charmee</i>, <i>Monsieur</i>! I generally go in for the same kind of + thing.’ + </p> + <p> + So they repaired to the cake-shop, and sat talking for half-an-hour of + trifles which made them laugh. + </p> + <p> + ‘And you really didn’t know me?’ said Fanny, when her glass of wine was + finished. ‘Have I changed so much?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘A good deal. Not for the worse, oh dear no!’ + </p> + <p> + The girl giggled. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, I don’t mind saying that <i>you</i> have changed a good deal for + the better.’ + </p> + <p> + Horace flushed at the compliment. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m much older,’ he answered with a sigh, as though the years of a + sexagenarian weighed upon him. + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s just what I like in you. You’re so much more of a man. Don’t be + offended.’ + </p> + <p> + They went forth again into the sunshine. At the door both coughed, and + both pretended that it wasn’t a cough at all, but a voluntary little hem. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0039" id="link2HCH0039"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER 2 + </h2> + <p> + Mrs. Damerel was younger than ever. She had spent October abroad, with her + friends Mrs. and Miss. Chittle, and the greater part of November at + Brighton, with other friends. Back in town she established herself at one + of the various boarding-houses honoured by her patronage, and prepared to + enjoy the social life of winter. + </p> + <p> + Half a year ago an unwonted depression had troubled her serene existence. + At the close of the London season she seemed weary and spiritless, very + unlike herself; having no invitation for the next two months, she withdrew + to Whitsand, and there spent some cheerless weeks. + </p> + <p> + Whitsand was the as yet unfashionable seaside place which had attracted + the speculative eye of Luckworth Crewe. For the past two years he had been + trying to inspire certain men of capital with his own faith in the + possibilities of Whitsand; he owned a share in the new hotel just opened; + whenever his manifold affairs allowed him a day’s holiday, he spent it at + Whitsand, pacing the small esplanade, and meditating improvements. That + these ‘improvements’ signified the conversion of a pretty little old-world + spot into a hideous brand new resort of noisy hordes, in no degree + troubled Mr. Crewe’s conscience. For his own part, he could appreciate the + charms of Whitsand as it stood; he was by no means insensible to natural + beauty and the ancient peace which so contrasted with his life of every + day; but first and foremost in his mind came the necessity of making + money; and to fill his pockets he would no more hesitate about destroying + the loveliest spot on earth, than the starving hunter would stay his hand + out of admiration for bird or beast. + </p> + <p> + It was with much delight that he heard of Mrs. Damerel’s retreat to + Whitsand. To the note in which she acquainted him with her arrival there + he replied effusively. ‘The patronage of a few really fashionable people, + such as yourself, would soon do wonders. We must have a special paragraph + in the local paper, drawing attention to your being there’—and so + on. An answer by return of post rather disappointed him. On no account, + wrote Mrs. Damerel, must her name be specially mentioned in the paper. She + had taken very simple lodgings, very inexpensive, and wished to live as + quietly as possible. But, after seeing the place, she quite agreed with Mr + Crewe that it had a future, and if he could run down some day, whilst she + was here, it would give her great pleasure to hear his projects explained + on the spot. + </p> + <p> + Crewe ran down. In speaking of Mrs. Damerel as a ‘really fashionable’ + person, he used no insincerity; from their first meeting he had seen in + this lady his ideal of social distinction; she was, in fact, the only + woman of skilfully pretentious demeanour with whom he had ever spoken. Her + distant likeness to Nancy Lord interested and attracted him; her suave + superiority awed his conscious roughness; she seemed to him exquisitely + gracious, wonderfully sweet. And as, little by little, he attained the + right to think of her almost as a friend, his humble admiration became + blended with feelings he took particular care not to betray, lest he + should expose himself to ridicule. That her age exceeded his own by some + years he was of course aware, but this fact soon dropped out of his mind, + and never returned to it. Not only did he think Mrs. Damerel a type of + aristocratic beauty, he saw in her countenance all the freshness and the + promise of youth. + </p> + <p> + The slight mystery attaching to her position only increased his + susceptibility to her charms. It seemed to him very probable that she had + but a moderate income; perhaps she was not free from anxieties on that + score. But such a woman would of course marry again, and marry well. The + thought grew troublesome, and presently accounted for ebullitions of + wrath, accompanied by more than usually vigorous language, when business + matters went wrong. + </p> + <p> + At Whitsand, Mrs. Damerel showed herself more than ever sweetly affable. + The season, she said, had been rather too much for her; she must take care + of her health; besides—and her smile played upon Crewe’s pulses—there + were troubles, cares, of which she could not speak <i>even</i> to so + valued a friend. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m afraid you’re anxious about your nephew,’ murmured the man of + business; though at the same time he suspected other things, for the + lodgings in which he found Mrs. Damerel were certainly modest. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, I trouble a good deal about him. If only dear Horace would be + reconciled to me. It seems such a long, long time. You know that we have + corresponded, but he refuses to see me. It pains me deeply, Mr Crewe.’ + </p> + <p> + And, after a silence: + </p> + <p> + ‘There’s a special reason why I wish he would be friends with me,—a + reason that concerns his own future. Why should I not tell you? I am sure + you will respect my confidence.—He will very soon become + independent, and then I do so fear he may make a foolish marriage. Yet all + the time there is a chance waiting for him which would establish his + fortune and his happiness for life. Did he ever speak to you of Miss. + Chittle?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t remember the name.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Such a dear, sweet girl, and with really large means. He was introduced + to her during the happy time when we saw so much of each other, and she at + once became interested in him. Her dear mother assured me of it. She is a + very shy, retiring girl, and has refused many offers, before and since + then. Isn’t it a pity? But I am losing all hope, and I so fear he may have + formed some other attachment.’ + </p> + <p> + Crewe went back to London resolved that Horace Lord should no longer ‘play + the fool.’ And he was successful. Horace had all but lost his resentment + against Mrs. Damerel; he kept aloof out of stubborn conceit—it had + not dignity enough to be called pride; the same feeling that still + estranged him from Nancy, though he would gladly have welcomed his + sister’s offer of affection. Persuaded, or commanded, by Luckworth Crewe, + he took the train to Whitsand, and remained there for several days. Mrs. + Damerel wrote her friend in Farringdon Street a letter of gratitude, which + acted upon him like champagne. In a postscript she said: ‘Mrs. Chittle and + her daughter have consented to come here for a week or two. They will take + rooms at the Imperial.’ + </p> + <p> + Before the end of September, Horace Lord was engaged to Winifred Chittle. + </p> + <p> + Two years had made very little change in Miss. Chittle’s appearance. She + was still colourless and abnormally shy, still had the look of one who + sheds secret tears, and her repugnance to Society had, if possible, + increased. Horace thought her pretty, was impressed by her extreme + gentleness and refinement, but she obtained no power over his emotions + such as that formerly exercised by Fanny French. It struck him, too, as a + very strange thing, that a young lady with a large fortune should be + willing to marry a man of his social insignificance. ‘My dear,’ said Mrs. + Damerel, ‘it was a case of love at first sight.’ But Horace, who had + gained some experience of life, could not believe this. He wooed, and won; + yet even when Winifred accepted him, he felt that she did it under some + constraint. Her pale face declared no happiness. + </p> + <p> + Had she chosen, Mrs. Damerel could have explained the mystery. She knew + that, several years ago, Winifred’s name had been blighted by a scandal, + and that the girl’s shrinking from every proposal of marriage was due, in + part perhaps, to the memory of love betrayed, in part to a sense of + honour, and to the suspicion that men, knowing her disgrace, condoned it + for the sake of her wealth. Interest made Mrs. Damerel generous; she + admitted every excuse for Winifred, and persuaded herself that in + procuring Horace such a wife she was doing him only a nominal wrong. The + young people could live apart from that corner of Society in which Miss. + Chittle’s name gave occasion to smiles or looks of perfunctory censure. If + Winifred, after marriage, chose to make confession, why, that was her own + affair, and Horace would be wise enough, all advantages considered, to + take the matter philosophically. + </p> + <p> + That was the view of a practical-minded observer. To read Winifred + perfectly, there needed a much more subtle and sympathetic intelligence. + The girl had, in truth, conceived a liking for Horace Lord, and it grew + stronger when she learnt that neither by birth nor present circumstances + did he belong to her own world. To please her mother she was willing to + take a husband, but the husband must be of her own choice. She wished to + enter upon a wholly new life, remote from the social conditions which of + late years had crushed her spirit. From the men who had hitherto + approached her, she shrank in fear. Horace Lord, good-looking and not + uneducated, yet so far from formidable, suggested a new hope; even though + he might be actuated by the ordinary motives, she discerned in him a + softness, a pliability of nature, which would harmonise with her own timid + disposition. To the thought of deceiving him on the subject of her past, + she was reconciled by a resolve to make his happiness the sole object of + her existence in the future. Horace was amiability itself, and seemed, if + not to love her ardently (which, perhaps, she did not even desire), at + least to regard her with an increasing affection. + </p> + <p> + Nothing was said about the condition of the prospective bridegroom’s + health, though Horace had confided to Mrs. Damerel that he suffered from a + troublesome cough, accompanied now and then by an alarming symptom. In her + boundless exultation at the end achieved, Mrs. Damerel made light of this + complaint. Horace was not free to marry until nearly the end of the year; + for, though money would henceforth be no matter of anxiety, he might as + well secure the small inheritance presently due to him. November and + December he should spend at Bournemouth under the best medical care, and + after that, if needful, his wife would go with him to Madeira or some such + place. + </p> + <p> + No wonder Mrs. Damerel could think of nothing but the great fact that + Horace had secured a fortune. Her own resources were coming to an end, and + but for the certainty that Horace would not grudge her an ample provision, + she must at this moment have been racking her brains (even as through the + summer) for help against the evil that drew near. Constitutional lightness + of heart had enabled her to enjoy life on a steadily, and rapidly, + diminishing fund. There had been hope in Nancy’s direction, as well as in + her brother’s; but the disclosure of Nancy’s marriage, and Horace’s + persistency in unfriendliness, brought Mrs. Damerel to a sense of peril. + One offer of marriage she had received and declined; it came from a man of + advanced years and small property. Another offer she might, or thought she + might, at any moment provoke; but only in direst extremity could she think + of bestowing her hand upon Luckworth Crewe. Crewe was in love with her, an + amusing fact in itself, and especially so in regard to his former + relations with Nancy Lord. He might become a wealthy man; on the other + hand, he might not; and in any case he was a plebeian. + </p> + <p> + All such miseries were now dismissed from her mind. She went abroad with + the Chittles, enjoyed herself at Brighton, and came home to prepare for + Horace’s wedding, Horace himself being at Bournemouth. After her letter of + gratitude to Crewe she had ceased to correspond with him; she did not + trouble to acquaint him with Horace’s engagement; and when Crewe, having + heard the news from his partner, ventured to send her a letter of + congratulation, Mrs. Damerel replied in two or three very civil but cold + sentences. Back in London, she did not invite the man of projects to call + upon her. The status she had lost when fears beset her must now be + recovered. Let Crewe cherish a passion for her if he liked, but let him + understand that social reasons made it laughably hopeless. + </p> + <p> + Horace was to come up to London in the third week of December, and to be + married on New Year’s Day; the honeymoon would be spent at Ventnor, or + somewhere thereabout. Afraid to lose sight of her relative for more than a + week or two, Mrs. Damerel had already been twice to Bournemouth, and now + she decided to go for a third time, just to talk quietly over the + forthcoming event, and, whether Horace broached the subject or not, to + apprise him of the straits into which she was drifting. Unannounced by + letter, she reached Bournemouth early in the afternoon, and went straight + to Horace’s lodgings. The young man had just finished luncheon, and, all + things considered, including the fact that it was a remarkably bright and + warm day for the time of year, he might have been expected to welcome Mrs. + Damerel cheerfully. Yet on seeing her his countenance fell; he betrayed an + embarrassment which the lady noted with anxious suspicion. + </p> + <p> + ‘Aren’t you glad to see me, dear boy?’ she began, with a kiss upon his + cheek. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes—oh yes. I never dreamt of your appearing just now, that was + all.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I couldn’t resist the temptation. Such a morning in London! Almost as + fine as it is here. And how is your cough?’ + </p> + <p> + Even as she made the inquiry, he answered it by coughing very badly. + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t think this place suits you, Horace,’ said Mrs. Damerel gravely. + ‘You’re not imprudent, I hope? Don’t go out after dark?’ + </p> + <p> + Oh, it was nothing, Horace maintained; for several days he had hardly + coughed at all. But with every word he uttered, Mrs. Damerel became more + convinced of something unusual in his state of mind; he could not keep + still, and, in trying to put himself at ease, assumed strange postures. + </p> + <p> + ‘When did you hear from Winifred?’ she asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yesterday—no, the day before.’ + </p> + <p> + He shrank from her scrutiny, and an expression of annoyance began to + disturb his features. Mrs. Damerel knew well enough the significance of + that particular look; it meant the irritation of his self-will, the + summoning of forces to resist something he disliked. + </p> + <p> + ‘There has been no difference between you, I hope?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No—oh no,’ Horace replied, wriggling under her look. + </p> + <p> + At that moment a servant opened the door. + </p> + <p> + ‘Two ladies have called in a carriage, sir, and would like to see you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ll go down. Excuse me for a moment, aunt.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Who are they, Horace?’ asked Mrs. Damerel, rising with an ill-concealed + look of dismay. + </p> + <p> + ‘Some friends I have made here. I’ll just go and speak to them.’ + </p> + <p> + He hurried away. No sooner was he gone than Mrs. Damerel sprang to the + window, where she could look down upon the carriage standing before the + house; it was open, and in it sat two ladies, one middle-aged, the other + much younger. To her vexation she could not, from this distance, clearly + discern their faces; but on glancing rapidly round the room, she saw + Horace’s little binocular. An instant brought it into focus upon the + carriage, and what she then saw gave Mrs. Damerel such a shock, that an + exclamation escaped her. Still she gazed through the glasses, and only + turned away when the vehicle drove on. + </p> + <p> + Horace came up flushed and panting. + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s all right. They wanted me to go for a drive, but I explained—’ + </p> + <p> + He saw the binocular in Mrs. Damerel’s hand, and at the same moment read + detection on her countenance. She gazed at him; he answered the look with + lowering challenge. + </p> + <p> + ‘Horace, that was Fanny French.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘So it was, aunt.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What is going on between you?’ + </p> + <p> + The young man took a seat on the edge of the table, and swung his leg. He + looked suddenly obstinate. + </p> + <p> + ‘We met by accident—here—the other day.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How can I believe that, Horace?’ said Mrs. Damerel, in a voice of soft + reproach. And she drew near to him. ‘Be truthful with me, dear. Do tell me + the truth!—Is she anything to you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have told you the truth, aunt. She came here, as I have done, for her + health. I haven’t seen her for two years.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And you don’t wish to renew acquaintance with her,—I’m sure you + don’t.’ + </p> + <p> + He looked away, and said nothing. + </p> + <p> + ‘My dear, do you know her character?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What about her?’ + </p> + <p> + The tone was startling, but Mrs. Damerel kept firm, though agitated. + </p> + <p> + ‘She has led the most disgraceful life. I heard about her half a year + after she ran away, but of course I wouldn’t tell you such painful + things.’ + </p> + <p> + Horace reddened with anger. + </p> + <p> + ‘And who is to blame for it?’ he cried passionately. ‘Who drove her to + it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, don’t, don’t come back to that again, Horace!’ pleaded the other. + ‘How can any one drive a girl into a life of scandalous immorality? It was + in herself, dear. She took to it naturally, as so many women do. Remember + that letter she wrote from Brussels, which I sent you a copy of—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It was a forgery!’ thundered Horace. ‘I have asked her. She says she + never wrote any such letter.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then she lies, as such creatures always do.’ + </p> + <p> + Bitterness of apprehension overcame Mrs. Damerel’s prudence. With flashing + eyes, she faced the young man and dared his wrath. As they stood thus, the + two were astonishingly like each other, from forehead to chin. + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s no use, I’m not going to quarrel with you, aunt. Think what you like + of Miss. French, <i>I</i> know the truth about her.’ + </p> + <p> + He slipped from the table, and moved away. + </p> + <p> + ‘I will say no more, Horace. You are independent, and must have your own + acquaintances. But after you are married—’ + </p> + <p> + The other voice interrupted. + </p> + <p> + ‘I had better tell you at once. I shall not marry Miss. Chittle. I am + going to write this afternoon to break it off.’ + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Damerel went pale, and stood motionless. + </p> + <p> + ‘Horace, you can’t be so wicked as that!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s better,’ he pursued recklessly, ‘to break it off now, than to marry + her and make her miserable. I don’t love her, and I have never really + thought I did. I was going to marry her only for her money. Why she wants + to marry me, I don’t know. There’s something wrong; she doesn’t really + care for me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘She does! I assure you she does!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then I can’t help it.’ + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Damerel went close to him, and touched his arm. + </p> + <p> + ‘My dear,’—her voice was so low that it seemed terror-stricken,—‘you + don’t mean to marry—any one else?’ + </p> + <p> + He drew apart, she followed him. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, that would be terrible! What can I say to open your eyes and show you + what you are doing? Horace, have you no sense of honour? Can you find it + in your heart to cast off a girl who loves you, and thinks that in so + short a time she will be your wife?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘This again is your fault,’ he replied, with a violence which proved the + conflict of emotions in him. ‘But for you, I should never have proposed to + Winifred—never dreamt of such a thing. What do I want with her + money? I have enough of my own, and I shall make more in business. Why + have you driven me into this? Did you expect to get some profit out of + it?’ + </p> + <p> + The blow struck home, and Mrs. Damerel flinched. + </p> + <p> + ‘I had your happiness in view, my dear.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘My happiness! that’s your view of things; that’s why I couldn’t really + like you, from the first. You think of nothing but money. Why you objected + to Fanny French at first was because you wished me to marry some one + richer. I don’t thank you for that kind of happiness; I had rather marry a + woman I can love.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And you can love such a creature as that?’ + </p> + <p> + Again she lost her self-command; the mere thought of Fanny’s possible + triumph exasperated her. + </p> + <p> + ‘I won’t hear her abused,’ cried Horace, with answering passion. ‘You are + the last person who ought to do it. Comparing her and you, I can’t help + saying—’ + </p> + <p> + An exclamation of pain checked his random words; he looked at Mrs. + Damerel, and saw her features wrung with anguish. + </p> + <p> + ‘You mustn’t speak to me like that!’ Once more she approached him. ‘If you + only knew—I can’t bear it—I’ve always been a worldly woman, + but you are breaking my heart, Horace! My dear, my dear, if only out of + pity for me—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why should I pity you?’ he cried impatiently. + </p> + <p> + ‘Because—Horace—give me your hand, dear; let me tell you + something.—I am your mother.’ + </p> + <p> + She sobbed and choked, clinging to his arm, resting her forehead against + it. The young man, stricken with amazement, stared at her, speechless. + </p> + <p> + ‘I am your own mother, dear,’ she went on, in a quivering voice. ‘Your + mother and Nancy’s. And neither of you can love me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How can that be?’ Horace asked, with genuine perplexity. ‘How could you + have married some one else?’ + </p> + <p> + She passed an arm about his neck, and hid her face against him. + </p> + <p> + ‘I left your father—and he made me free to marry again.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You were divorced?’ + </p> + <p> + Horace did not mean to speak brutally; in his wonderment he merely pressed + for a complete explanation. The answer was a sob, and for some moments + neither of them spoke. Then the mother, her face still hidden, went on in + a thick voice: + </p> + <p> + ‘I married because I was poor—for no other reason—and then + came the temptation. I behaved wickedly, I deserted my little children. + Don’t revenge yourself upon me now, darling! If only I could have told you + this before—I did so want to, but I was afraid. I had to conceal + half my love for you. You can’t imagine how I have suffered from your + anger, and from Nancy’s coldness. You don’t know me; I have never been + able to let you see what I really think and feel. I am worldly; I can’t + live without luxuries and society and amusements; but I love you, my dear + son, and it will break my heart if you ruin yourself. It’s true I thought + of Winifred’s money, but she is very fond of you, Horace; her mother has + told me she is. And it was because of my own position. I have spent nearly + all my husband left me; it wasn’t enough to supply me with an income; I + could only hope that something—that you, dear, would forgive your + poor mother, and help her. If you cast me off, what shall I do?’ + </p> + <p> + There was a silence. Then the young man spoke gravely: + </p> + <p> + ‘You are welcome, mother, to half my income. But you must leave me free to + marry as I like.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then I can’t take a penny from you,’ she answered, weeping. ‘If you ruin + yourself, you ruin me as well.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘The ruin would come if I married Winifred. I love Fanny; I love her with + all my heart and soul, and have never ceased to love her. Tell me what you + like about her, it will make no difference.’ + </p> + <p> + A fit of violent coughing stopped his speech; he turned away, and stood by + the window, holding his handkerchief to his mouth. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Damerel sank upon a chair in mute misery. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0040" id="link2HCH0040"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER 3 + </h2> + <p> + Below the hill at Harrow, in a byway which has no charm but that of + quietness, stands a row of small plain houses, built not long ago, yet at + a time when small houses were constructed with some regard for soundness + and durability. Each contains six rooms, has a little strip of garden in + the rear, and is, or was in 1889, let at a rent of six-and-twenty pounds. + The house at the far end of the row (as the inhabitants described it) was + then tenanted by Mary Woodruff, and with her, as a lodger, lived Mrs. + Tarrant. + </p> + <p> + As a lodger, seeing that she paid a specified weekly sum for her shelter + and maintenance; in no other respect could the wretched title apply to + her. To occupy furnished lodgings, is to live in a house owned and ruled + by servants; the least tolerable status known to civilisation. From her + long experience at Falmouth, Nancy knew enough of the petty miseries + attendant upon that condition to think of it with dread when the stress of + heroic crisis compelled her speedy departure from the old home. It is + seldom that heroic crisis bears the precise consequence presumed by the + actors in it; supreme moments are wont to result in some form of + compromise. So Nancy, prepared to go forth into the wilderness of + landladies, babe in arm, found that so dreary a self-sacrifice neither was + exacted of her, nor would indeed be permitted; she had to reckon with Mary + Woodruff. Mary, thanks to her old master, enjoyed an income more than + sufficient to her needs; if Nancy must needs go into lodgings,—inevitable, + perhaps, as matters stood,—her friend was ready with kind and + practical suggestion; to wit, that she should take and furnish a house for + herself, and place a portion of it at Mrs. Tarrant’s disposal. To this + even Tarrant could offer no objection; he stipulated only that his wife + should find a temporary refuge from the home she had occupied on false + pretences until Mary had her new house in readiness. This was managed + without difficulty. Nancy went to Dulwich, and for several weeks dwelt + with the honest woman who took care of her child. + </p> + <p> + Of the dealings between Nancy and her legal guardians Tarrant learned + nothing, save the bare fact that her marriage was avowed, and all benefit + under her father’s will renounced. He did not visit the house at Dulwich, + and only saw his child after the removal to Harrow. On this occasion he + asked Nancy what arrangements had been made concerning the money that must + be reimbursed to the Messrs Barmby; she replied that justice would be + done, but the affair was hers alone, and to her must be left. + </p> + <p> + Tarrant himself suggested the neighbourhood of Harrow for Nancy’s abode. + It united the conditions of being remote from Camberwell, of lying beyond + the great smoke-area, and of permitting him, poor as he was, to visit his + wife whenever he thought fit. + </p> + <p> + In December, Nancy had lived thus for all but a twelvemonth, seeing the + while none of her old acquaintances, and with very little news from her + old world. What she heard came through Horace, who, after learning with + astonishment the secret in his sister’s life, came by degrees to something + like the old terms of affection with her, and went over to Harrow pretty + frequently. Of his engagement to Winifred Chittle he at once informed + Nancy, who tried to be glad of it, but could have little faith in anything + traceable to the influence of Mrs. Damerel. With that lady the Harrow + household had no direct communication; Tarrant had written to her on the + night of crisis, civilly requesting her to keep aloof, as her advice and + assistance were in nowise needed. She answered him with good temper, and + wrote kindly to Nancy; after that, silence on both sides. + </p> + <p> + It wanted a few days to Christmas; with nightfall had come a roaring wind + and sleety rain; the house-door was locked; within, lamps and fires burned + cheerily. At half-past six, Nancy—she occupied the two front rooms—sat + in her parlour, resting after the exertion of putting her son to bed. To + judge from her countenance, she was well and happy. The furniture about + her aimed at nothing but homely comfort; the pictures and books, being + beyond dispute her own, had come from Grove Lane. + </p> + <p> + Save when Tarrant was here, Nancy and Mary of course lived like friends + who share a house, eating together and generally sitting together. During + an hour or two each day the younger woman desired solitude, for a reason + understood by her companion, who then looked after the baby. This present + evening Nancy had proposed to spend alone; but, after sitting idly for a + few minutes, she opened the door and called Mary—just then occupied + in teaching a young servant how to iron. + </p> + <p> + ‘I shall not write, after all,’ she said, when her friend came. ‘I’m too + tired. Bring your sewing, or your book, here.’ + </p> + <p> + Mary was never talkative; Nancy kept a longer silence than usual. + </p> + <p> + ‘How,’ she exclaimed at length, ‘do poor women with a lot of children + manage? It really is a mystery to me. Here am I with one baby, and with + the constant help of two people; yet he tires me out. Not a troublesome + baby, either; healthy and good-tempered. Yet the thought and anxiety and + downright hard labour for a good twelve hours out of the twenty-four! I + feel that a second child would be too much for me.’ + </p> + <p> + She laughed, but looked seriously for the reply. + </p> + <p> + ‘Poor mothers,’ said Mary, ‘can’t give the same care to their children + that you give to baby. The little ones grow up, or they don’t grow up—that’s + what it comes to.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes; that is to say, only the fit survive. A very good thing—when + other people’s children are in question. But I should kill myself in + taking care of them, if I had a large family.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have known mothers who did,’ Mary remarked. + </p> + <p> + ‘It comes to this. Nature doesn’t intend a married woman to be anything <i>but</i> + a married woman. In the natural state of things, she must either be the + slave of husband and children, or defy her duty. She can have no time to + herself, no thoughts for herself. It’s a hard saying, but who can doubt + that it is Nature’s law? I should like to revolt against it, yet I feel + revolt to be silly. One might as well revolt against being born a woman + instead of a man.’ + </p> + <p> + Mary reflected, but held her peace. + </p> + <p> + ‘Then comes in money,’ pursued Nancy, ‘and that alters the state of the + case at once. The wife with money says to people: Come here, and be my + slaves. Toil for me, whilst I am enjoying myself in ways that Dame Nature + wouldn’t allow. I want to read, to play music, to see my friends, to see + the world. Unless you will slave for me, I can’t budge from nursery and + kitchen.—Isn’t it a queer thing?’ + </p> + <p> + The less sophisticated woman had a difficulty in catching Nancy’s point of + view. She began to argue that domestic service was no slavery. + </p> + <p> + ‘But it <i>comes</i> to that,’ Nancy insisted. ‘And what I mean is, that + the thought has made me far more contented than I was at first. After all, + one can put up with a great deal, if you feel you’re obeying a law of + Nature. Now, I have brains, and I should like to use them; but Nature says + that’s not so important as bringing up the little child to whom I have + given life. One thought that troubles me is, that every generation of + women is sacrificed to the generation that follows; and of course that’s + why women are so inferior to men. But then again, Nature says that women + are born <i>only</i> to be sacrificed. I always come round to that. I + don’t like it, but I am bound to believe it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Children grow up,’ said Mary, ‘and then mothers are free.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Free to do what? To think of what they <i>might</i> have done in the best + years of their life.’ + </p> + <p> + It was not said discontentedly; Nancy’s mood seemed to be singularly calm + and philosophical. She propped her chin on her hand, and gazed at the + fire. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well,’ remarked Mary, with a smile, ‘you, at all events, are not one of + the poorest women. All seems to be going well, and you will be able, I am + sure, to get all the help you need.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Perhaps. But I shall never feel quiet in my conscience. I shall feel as + if I had defeated Nature by a trick, and fear that she’ll somehow be + revenged on me.’ + </p> + <p> + This was quite beyond Mary’s scope of thought, and she frankly said so. + </p> + <p> + ‘One thing I’m quite sure of, Nancy,’ she added, ‘and that is, that + education makes life very much harder to live. That’s why I don’t hold + with educating the poor—not beyond reading and writing. Without + education, life is very plain, though it may be a struggle. But from what + I have seen of highly-taught people, I’m very sure they suffer worse in + their minds than the poor ever do in their bodies.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy interrupted her. + </p> + <p> + ‘Hush! Was that baby?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Only the wind, I think.’ + </p> + <p> + Not content, Nancy went to the foot of the stairs. Whilst she stood there + listening, Mary came out, and said in a low voice: + </p> + <p> + ‘There’s a tap at the window.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No!—You must have been mistaken.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m sure it was a tap on the glass.’ + </p> + <p> + She withdrew to the back sitting-room, and Nancy, with quick step, went to + open the house-door. A great gust of wind forced it against her as soon as + she turned the handle; standing firm, she peeped into darkness. + </p> + <p> + ‘Any one there?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No enemy but winter and rough weather,’ chanted a familiar voice. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why, what brings you here, frightening lone women at this time of night? + Shut and lock the door for me. The house will be blown out of the + windows.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy retreated to her parlour, and stood there in an attitude of joyous + expectation. Without hurry Tarrant hung up his coat and hat in the + passage, then came forward, wiping rain from his moustache. Their eyes met + in a smile, frank and confident. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why have you come, Lionel?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No reason in particular. The fancy took me. Am I unwelcome?’ + </p> + <p> + For answer, his wife’s arms were thrown about him. A lovers’ meeting, with + more of tenderness, and scarcely less of warmth, than when Nancy knocked + at the door in Staple Inn. + </p> + <p> + ‘Are you hungry?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Only for what you have given me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Some tea, then, after that wretched journey.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No. How’s the boy?’ + </p> + <p> + He drew her upon his knee, and listened laughingly whilst the newest + marvels of babyhood were laughingly related. + </p> + <p> + ‘Anything from Horace?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not a word. He must be in London now; I shall write tomorrow.’ + </p> + <p> + Tarrant nodded carelessly. He had the smallest interest in his wife’s + brother, but could not help satisfaction in the thought that Horace was to + be reputably, and even brilliantly, married. From all he knew of Horace, + the probability had seemed that his marriage would be some culmination of + folly. + </p> + <p> + ‘I think you have something to tell me,’ Nancy said presently, when her + hand had been fondled for a minute or two. + </p> + <p> + ‘Nothing much, but good as far as it goes. Bunbury has asked me to write + him an article every week for the first six months of ‘90. Column and a + half, at two guineas a column.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Three guineas a week.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘O rare head!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘So there’s no anxiety for the first half of next year, at all events,’ + said Nancy, with a sigh of relief. + </p> + <p> + ‘I think I can count on a margin of fifty pounds or so by midsummer—towards + the debt, of course.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy bit her lip in vexation, but neither made nor wished to make any + protest. Only a week or two ago, since entering upon his patrimony, Horace + Lord had advanced the sum necessary to repay what Nancy owed to the + Barmbys. However rich Horace was going to be, this debt to him must be + cancelled. On that, as on most other points, Tarrant and his wife held a + firm agreement of opinion. Yet they wanted money; the past year had been a + time of struggle to make ends meet. Neither was naturally disposed to + asceticism, and if they did not grumble it was only because grumbling + would have been undignified. + </p> + <p> + ‘Did you dine with the great people on Thursday?’ Nancy asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, and rather enjoyed it. There were one or two clever women.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Been anywhere else?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘An hour at a smoking-concert the other evening. Pippit, the actor, was + there, and recited a piece much better than I ever heard him speak + anything on the stage. They told me he was drunk; very possibly that + accounted for it.’ + </p> + <p> + To a number of such details Nancy listened quietly, with bent head. She + had learned to put absolute faith in all that Tarrant told her of his + quasi-bachelor life; she suspected no concealment; but the monotony of her + own days lay heavy upon her whilst he talked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Won’t you smoke?’ she asked, rising from his knee to fetch the pipe and + tobacco-jar kept for him upon a shelf. Slippers also she brought him, and + would have unlaced his muddy boots had Tarrant permitted it. When he + presented a picture of masculine comfort, Nancy, sitting opposite, + cautiously approached a subject of which as yet there had been no word + between them. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oughtn’t you to get more comfortable lodgings?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, I do very well. I’m accustomed to the place, and I like the + situation.’ + </p> + <p> + He had kept his room in Great College Street, though often obliged to + scant his meals as the weekly rent-day approached. + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t you think we might make some better—some more economical + arrangement?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How?’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy took courage, and spoke her thoughts. + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s more expensive to live separately than if we were together.’ + </p> + <p> + Tarrant seemed to give the point his impartial consideration. + </p> + <p> + ‘H’m—no, I think not. Certainly not, with our present arrangements. + And even if it were we pay for your comfort, and my liberty.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Couldn’t you have as much liberty if we were living under the same roof? + Of course I know that you couldn’t live out here; it would put a stop to + your work at once. But suppose we moved. Mary might take a rather larger + house—it needn’t be much larger—in a part convenient for you. + We should be able to pay her enough to set off against her increased + expenses.’ + </p> + <p> + Smoking calmly, Tarrant shook his head. + </p> + <p> + ‘Impracticable. Do you mean that this place is too dull for you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It isn’t lively, but I wasn’t thinking of the place. If <i>you</i> lived + here, it would be all I should wish.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That sounds so prettily from your lips, Nancy, that I’m half ashamed to + contradict it. But the truth is that you can only say such things because + we live apart. Don’t deceive yourself. With a little more money, this life + of ours would be as nearly perfect as married life ever can be.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy remembered a previous occasion when he spoke to the same purpose. + But it was in the time she did not like to think of, and in spite of + herself the recollection troubled her. + </p> + <p> + ‘You must have more variety,’ he added. ‘Next year you shall come into + town much oftener—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m not thinking of that. I always like going anywhere with you; but I + have plenty of occupations and pleasures at home.—I think we ought + to be under the same roof.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Ought? Because Mrs. Tomkins would cry <i>haro</i>! if her husband the + greengrocer wasn’t at her elbow day and night?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Have more patience with me. I didn’t mean <i>ought</i> in the vulgar + sense—I have as little respect for Mrs. Tomkins as you have. I don’t + want to interfere with your liberty for a moment; indeed it would be very + foolish, for I know that it would make you detest me. But I so often want + to speak to you—and—and then, I can’t quite feel that you + acknowledge me as your wife so long as I am away.’ + </p> + <p> + Tarrant nodded. + </p> + <p> + ‘I quite understand. The social difficulty. Well, there’s no doubt it is a + difficulty; I feel it on your account. I wish it were possible for you to + be invited wherever I am. Some day it will be, if I don’t get run over in + the Strand; but—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I should like the invitations,’ Nancy broke in, ‘but you still don’t + understand me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, I think I do. You are a woman, and it’s quite impossible for a woman + to see this matter as a man does. Nancy, there is not one wife in fifty + thousand who retains her husband’s love after the first year of marriage. + Put aside the fools and the worthless; think only of women with whom you + might be compared—brave, sensible, pure-hearted; they can win love, + but don’t know how to keep it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why not put it the other way about, and say that men can love to begin + with, but so soon grow careless?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Because I am myself an instance to the contrary.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy smiled, but was not satisfied. + </p> + <p> + ‘The only married people,’ Tarrant pursued, ‘who can live together with + impunity, are those who are rich enough, and sensible enough, to have two + distinct establishments under the same roof. The ordinary eight or + ten-roomed house, inhabited by decent middle-class folk, is a gruesome + sight. What a huddlement of male and female! They are factories of quarrel + and hate—those respectable, brass-curtain-rodded sties—they + are full of things that won’t bear mentioning. If our income never rises + above that, we shall live to the end of our days as we do now.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy looked appalled. + </p> + <p> + ‘But how can you hope to make thousands a year?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have no such hope; hundreds would be sufficient. I don’t aim at a house + in London; everything there is intolerable, except the fine old houses + which have a history, and which I could never afford. For my home, I want + to find some rambling old place among hills and woods,—some house + where generations have lived and died,—where my boy, as he grows up, + may learn to love the old and beautiful things about him. I myself never + had a home; most London children don’t know what is meant by home; their + houses are only more or less comfortable lodgings, perpetual change within + and without.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Your thoughts are wonderfully like my father’s, sometimes,’ said Nancy. + </p> + <p> + ‘From what you have told me of him, I think we should have agreed in a + good many things.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And how unfortunate we were! If he had recovered from that illness,—if + he had lived only a few months,—everything would have been made + easy.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘For me altogether too easy,’ Tarrant observed. + </p> + <p> + ‘It has been a good thing for you to have to work,’ Nancy assented. ‘I + understand the change for the better in you. But’—she smiled—‘you + have more self-will than you used to have.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s just where I have gained.—But don’t think that I find it + easy or pleasant to resist your wish. I couldn’t do it if I were not so + sure that I am acting for your advantage as well as my own. A man who + finds himself married to a fool, is a fool himself if he doesn’t take his + own course regardless of his wife. But I am in a very different position; + I love you more and more, Nancy, because I am learning more and more to + respect you; I think of your happiness most assuredly as much as I think + of my own. But even if my own good weighed as nothing against yours, I + should be wise to resist you just as I do now. Hugger-mugger marriage is a + defilement and a curse. We know it from the experience of the world at + large,—which is perhaps more brutalised by marriage than by anything + else.—No need to test the thing once more, to our own disaster.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What I think is, that, though you pay me compliments, you really have a + very poor opinion of me. You think I should burden and worry you in + endless silly ways. I am not such a simpleton. In however small a house, + there could be your rooms and mine. Do you suppose I should interfere with + your freedom in coming and going?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Whether you meant to or not, you would—so long as we are struggling + with poverty. However self-willed I am, I am not selfish; and to see you + living a monotonous, imprisoned life would be a serious hindrance to me in + my own living and working. Of course the fact is so at present, and I + often enough think in a troubled way about you; but you are out of my + sight, and that enables me to keep you out of mind. If I am away from home + till one or two in the morning, there is no lonely wife fretting and + wondering about me. For work such as mine, I must live as though I were + not married at all.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But suppose we got out of our poverty,’ urged Nancy, ‘you would be living + the same life, I suppose; and how would it be any better for you or me + that we had a large house instead of a small one?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Your position will be totally changed. When money comes, friends come. + You are not hiding away from Society because you are unfit for it, only + because you can’t live as your social equals do. When you have friends of + your own, social engagements, interests on every hand, I shall be able to + go my own way without a pang of conscience. When we come together, it will + be to talk of your affairs as well as of mine. Living as you do now, you + have nothing on earth but the baby to think about—a miserable state + of things for a woman with a mind. I know it is miserable, and I’m + struggling tooth and nail to help you out of it.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy sighed. + </p> + <p> + ‘Then there are years of it still before me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Heaven forbid! Some years, no doubt, before we shall have a home; but not + before I can bring you in contact with the kind of people you ought to + know. You shall have a decent house—socially possible—somewhere + out west; and I, of course, shall still go on in lodgings.’ + </p> + <p> + He waited for Nancy’s reply, but she kept silence. + </p> + <p> + ‘You are still dissatisfied?’ + </p> + <p> + She looked up, and commanded her features to the expression which makes + whatever woman lovely—that of rational acquiescence. On the faces of + most women such look is never seen. + </p> + <p> + ‘No, I am content. You are working hard, and I won’t make it harder for + you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Speak always like that!’ Tarrant’s face was radiant. ‘That’s the kind of + thing that binds man to woman, body and soul. With the memory of that look + and speech, would it be possible for me to slight you in my life apart? It + makes you my friend; and the word friend is better to my ear than wife. A + man’s wife is more often than not his enemy. Harvey Munden was telling me + of a poor devil of an author who daren’t be out after ten at night because + of the fool-fury waiting for him at home.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy laughed. + </p> + <p> + ‘I suppose she can’t trust him.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And suppose she can’t? What is the value of nominal fidelity, secured by + mutual degradation such as that? A rational woman would infinitely rather + have a husband who was often unfaithful to her than keep him faithful by + such means. Husband and wife should interfere with each other not a jot + more than two friends of the same sex living together. If a man, under + such circumstances, worried his friend’s life out by petty prying, he + would get his head punched. A wife has no more justification in worrying + her husband with jealousies.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How if it were the wife that excited suspicion?’ asked Nancy. + </p> + <p> + ‘Infidelity in a woman is much worse than in a man. If a man really + suspects his wife, he must leave her, that’s all; then let her justify + herself if she can.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy cared little to discuss this point. In argument with any one else, + she would doubtless have maintained the equality of man and woman before + the moral law; but that would only have been in order to prove herself + modern-spirited. Tarrant’s dictum did not revolt her. + </p> + <p> + ‘Friends are equals,’ she said, after a little thought. ‘But you don’t + think me your equal, and you won’t be satisfied with me unless I follow + your guidance.’ + </p> + <p> + Tarrant laughed kindly. + </p> + <p> + ‘True, I am your superior in force of mind and force of body. Don’t you + like to hear that? Doesn’t it do you good—when you think of the + maudlin humbug generally talked by men to women? We can’t afford to + disguise that truth. All the same, we are friends, because each has the + other’s interest at heart, and each would be ashamed to doubt the other’s + loyalty.’ + </p> + <p> + The latter part of the evening they spent with Mary, in whom Tarrant + always found something new to admire. He regarded her as the most + wonderful phenomenon in nature—an uneducated woman who was neither + vulgar nor foolish. + </p> + <p> + Baby slept in a cot beside Nancy’s bed. For fear of waking him, the wedded + lovers entered their room very softly, with a shaded candle. Tarrant + looked at the curly little head, the little clenched hand, and gave a + silent laugh of pleasure. + </p> + <p> + On the breakfast-table next morning lay a letter from Horace. As soon as + she had opened it, Nancy uttered an exclamation which prepared her + companion for ill news. + </p> + <p> + ‘Just what I expected—though I tried not to think so. “I write aline + only to tell you that my marriage is broken off. You will know the + explanation before long. Don’t trouble yourself about it. I should never + have been happy with Winifred, nor she with me. We may not see each other + for some time, but I will write again soon.” He doesn’t say whether he or + she broke it off. I hope it was Winifred.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m afraid not,’ said Tarrant, ‘from the tone of that letter.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m afraid not, too. It means something wretched. He writes from his + London lodgings. Lionel, let me go back with you, and see him.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘By all means.’ + </p> + <p> + Her gravest fear Nancy would not communicate. And it hit the truth. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0041" id="link2HCH0041"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER 4 + </h2> + <p> + They parted at Baker Street, Tarrant for his lodgings and the work that + awaited him there, Nancy to go westward by another train. + </p> + <p> + When she reached the house from which her brother had dated his letter, it + was half-past ten. At the door stood a cab, and a servant was helping the + driver to hoist a big trunk on to the top. + </p> + <p> + ‘Is Mr. Lord still here?’ Nancy asked of the girl. + </p> + <p> + ‘He’s just this minute a-goin’, miss. This is his luggage.’ + </p> + <p> + She sent her name, and was quickly led up to the first floor. There stood + Horace, ready for departure. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why have you come?’ he asked, with annoyance. + </p> + <p> + ‘What else could I do on hearing such news?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I told you I should write again, and I said plainly that it was better we + shouldn’t see each other for some time.—Why will people pester me + out of my life?—I’m not a child to be hunted like this!’ + </p> + <p> + On the instant, he had fallen into a state of excitement which alarmed his + sister. There were drops of sweat on his forehead, and tears in his eyes; + the blood had rushed to his cheeks, and he trembled violently. + </p> + <p> + ‘I am so troubled about you,’ said Nancy, with anxious tenderness. ‘I have + been looking forward with such hope to your marriage,—and now—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I can’t tell you anything about it just now. It was all Mrs. Damerel’s + doing; the engagement, I mean. It’s a good thing I drew back in time.—But + I have a train to catch; I really mustn’t stay talking.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Are you going far, Horace?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘To Bournemouth again,—for the present. I’ve given up these rooms, + and I’m taking all my things away. In a month or two I may go abroad; but + I’ll let you know.’ + </p> + <p> + Already he was out of the room; his sister had no choice but to follow him + downstairs. He looked so ill, and behaved with such lack of + self-restraint, that Nancy kept her eyes upon him in an awestricken gaze, + as though watching some one on the headlong way to destruction. Pouring + rain obliged her to put up her umbrella as she stepped down on to the + pavement. Horace, having shouted a direction to the driver, entered the + cab. + </p> + <p> + ‘You haven’t even shaken hands with me, Horace,’ Nancy exclaimed, standing + at the window. + </p> + <p> + ‘Good-bye, dear; good-bye! You shouldn’t have come in weather such as + this. Get home as fast as you can. Good-bye!—Tell the fellow to + drive sharp.’ + </p> + <p> + And the cab clattered away, sending spurts of mud on to Nancy’s + waterproof. + </p> + <p> + She walked on for a few paces without reflection, until the vehicle + disappeared round a corner. Coming to herself, she made for the railway + again, which was at only a few minutes’ distance, and there she sat down + by the fire in the waiting-room. Her health for the last year had been + sound as in the days of girlhood; it was rarely that she caught cold, and + weather would have been indifferent to her but for the discomfort which + hindered her free movement. + </p> + <p> + Vexed at so futile a journey, she resolved not to return home without + making another effort to learn something about Horace. The only person to + whom she could apply was the one who would certainly be possessed of + information,—Mrs. Damerel. At the time of Horace’s engagement, Nancy + had heard from Mrs. Damerel, and replied to the letter; she remembered her + aunt’s address, and as the distance was not great, the temptation to go + there now proved irresistible. Her husband would dislike to hear of such a + step, but he had never forbidden communication with Mrs. Damerel. + </p> + <p> + By help of train and omnibus she reached her new destination in + half-an-hour, and felt a relief on learning that Mrs. Damerel was at home. + But it surprised her to be conducted into a room where lamps were burning, + and blinds drawn close; she passed suddenly from cheerless day to cosy + evening. Mrs. Damerel, negligently attired, received her with a show of + warm welcome, but appeared nervous and out of spirits. + </p> + <p> + ‘I am not very well,’ she admitted, ‘and that’s why I have shut out the + dreadful weather. Isn’t it the most sensible way of getting through the + worst of a London winter? To pretend that there is daylight is quite + ridiculous, so one may as well have the comforts of night.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have come to speak about Horace,’ said Nancy, at once. In any case, she + would have felt embarrassment, and it was increased by the look with which + Mrs. Damerel kept regarding her,—a look of confusion, of shrinking, + of intense and painful scrutiny. + </p> + <p> + ‘You know what has happened?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I had a letter from him this morning, to say that his marriage was broken + off—nothing else. So I came over from Harrow to see him. But he had + hardly a minute to speak to me. He was just starting for Bournemouth.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And what did he tell you?’ asked Mrs. Damerel, who remained standing,—or + rather had risen, after a pretence of seating herself. + </p> + <p> + ‘Nothing at all. He was very strange in his manner. He said he would + write.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You know that he is seriously ill?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I am afraid he must be.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘He has grown much worse during the last fortnight. Don’t you suspect any + reason for his throwing off poor Winifred?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I wondered whether he had met that girl again. But it seemed very + unlikely.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘He has. She was at Bournemouth for her health. She, too, is ill; + consumptive, like poor Horace,—of course a result of the life she + has been leading. And he is going to marry her.‘Nancy’s heart sank. She + could say nothing. She remembered Horace’s face, and saw in him the victim + of ruthless destiny. + </p> + <p> + ‘I have done my utmost. He didn’t speak of me?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Only to say that his engagement with Winifred was brought about by you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And wasn’t I justified? If the poor boy must die, he would at least have + died with friends about him, and in peace. I always feared just what has + happened. It’s only a few months ago that he forgave me for being, as he + thought, the cause of that girl’s ruin; and since then I have hardly dared + to lose sight of him. I went down to Bournemouth unexpectedly, and was + with him when that creature came to the door in a carriage. You haven’t + seen her. She looks what she is, the vilest of the vile. As if any one can + be held responsible for that! She was born to be what she is. And if I had + the power, I would crush out her hateful life to save poor Horace!’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy, though at one with the speaker in her hatred of Fanny French, found + it as difficult as ever to feel sympathetically towards Mrs. Damerel. She + could not credit this worldly woman with genuine affection for Horace; the + vehemence of her speech surprised and troubled her, she knew not how. + </p> + <p> + ‘He said nothing more about me?’ added Mrs. Damerel, after a silence. + </p> + <p> + ‘Nothing at all.’ + </p> + <p> + It seemed to Nancy that she heard a sigh of relief. The other’s face was + turned away. Then Mrs. Damerel took a seat by the fire. + </p> + <p> + ‘They will be married to-morrow, I dare say, at Bournemouth—no use + trying to prevent it. I don’t know whether you will believe me, but it is + a blow that will darken the rest of my life.’ + </p> + <p> + Her voice sounded slightly hoarse, and she lay back in the chair, with + drooping head. + </p> + <p> + ‘You have nothing to reproach yourself with,’ said Nancy, yielding to a + vague and troublous pity. ‘And you have done as much as any one could on + his behalf.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I shall never see him again—that’s the hardest thought. She will + poison him against me. He told me I had lied to him about a letter that + girl wrote from Brussels; she has made him think her a spotless innocent, + and he hates me for the truth I told about her.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘However short his life,’ said Nancy, ‘he is only too likely to find out + what she really is.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I am not sure of that. She knows he is doomed, and it’s her interest to + play a part. He will die thinking the worst of me.—Nancy, if he + writes to you, and says anything against me, you will remember what it + means?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘My opinion of people is not affected by hearsay,’ Nancy replied. + </p> + <p> + It was a remark of dubious significance, and Mrs. Damerel’s averted eyes + seemed to show that she derived little satisfaction from it. As the + silence was unbroken, Nancy rose. + </p> + <p> + ‘I hope you will soon get rid of your cold.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Thank you, my dear. I haven’t asked how the little boy is. Well, I hope?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Very well, I am glad to say.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And your husband—he is prospering?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I shouldn’t like to say he is prospering; it seems to mean so much; but I + think he is doing good work, and we are satisfied with the results.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘My dear, you are an admirable wife.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy coloured; for the first time, a remark of Mrs. Damerel’s had given + her pleasure. She moved forward with hand offered for leave-taking. They + had never kissed each other, but, as if overcoming diffidence, Mrs. + Damerel advanced her lips; then, as suddenly, she drew back. + </p> + <p> + ‘I had forgotten. I may give you my sore throat.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy kissed her cheek. + </p> + <p> + That night Mrs. Damerel was feverish, and the next day she kept her bed. + The servant who waited upon her had to endure a good many sharp reproofs; + trouble did not sweeten this lady’s temper, yet she never lost sight of + self-respect, and even proved herself capable of acknowledging that she + was in the wrong. Mrs. Damerel possessed the elements of civilisation. + </p> + <p> + This illness tried her patience in no slight degree. Something she had + wished to do, something of high moment, was vexatiously postponed. A whole + week went by before she could safely leave the house, and even then her + mirror counselled a new delay. But on the third day of the new year she + made a careful toilette, and sent for a cab,—the brougham she had + been wont to hire being now beyond her means. + </p> + <p> + She drove to Farringdon Street, and climbed to the office of Mr Luckworth + Crewe. Her knowledge of Crewe’s habits enabled her to choose the fitting + hour for this call; he had lunched, and was smoking a cigar. + </p> + <p> + ‘How delightful to see you here!’ he exclaimed. ‘But why did you trouble + to come? If you had written, or telegraphed, I would have saved you the + journey. I haven’t even a chair that’s fit for you to sit down on.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What nonsense! It’s a most comfortable little room. Haven’t you improved + it since I called?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I shall have to look out for a bigger place. I’m outgrowing this.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Are you really? That’s excellent news. Ah, but what sad things have been + happening!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s a bad business,’ Crewe answered, shaking his head. + </p> + <p> + ‘I thought I should have heard from you about it.’ + </p> + <p> + The reason of his silence she perfectly understood. Since Horace’s + engagement, there had been a marked change in her demeanour towards the + man of business; she had answered his one or two letters with such cold + formality, and, on the one occasion of his venturing to call, had received + him with so marked a reserve, that Crewe, as he expressed it to himself, + ‘got his back up.’ His ideas of chivalrous devotion were anything but + complex; he could not bend before a divinity who snubbed him; if the once + gracious lady chose to avert her countenance, he would let her know that + it didn’t matter much to him after all. Moreover, Mrs. Damerel’s behaviour + was too suggestive; he could hardly be wrong in explaining it by the fact + that her nephew, about to be enriched by marriage, might henceforth be + depended upon for all the assistance she needed. This, in the Americanism + which came naturally to Crewe’s lips, was ‘playing it rather low down,’ + and he resented it. + </p> + <p> + The sudden ruin of Horace Lord’s prospects (he had learnt the course of + events from Horace himself) amused and gratified him. How would the high + and mighty Mrs. Damerel relish this catastrophe? Would she have the + ‘cheek’ to return to her old graciousness? If so, he had the game in his + hands; she should see that he was not to be made a fool of a second time. + </p> + <p> + Yet the mere announcement of her name sufficed to shatter his resolve. Her + smile, her soft accents, her polished manners, laid the old spell upon + him. He sought to excuse himself for having forsaken her in her trial. + </p> + <p> + ‘It really floored me. I didn’t know what to say or do. I was afraid you + might think I was meddling with what didn’t concern me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, how could I have thought that? It has made me ill; I have suffered + more than I can tell you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You don’t look quite the thing,’ said Crewe, searching her face. + </p> + <p> + ‘Have you heard all?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I think so. He is married, and that’s the end of it, I suppose.’ + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Damerel winced at this blunt announcement. + </p> + <p> + ‘When was it?’ she asked, in an undertone. ‘I only knew he had made up his + mind.’ + </p> + <p> + Crewe mentioned the date; the day after Nancy’s call upon her. + </p> + <p> + ‘And are they at Bournemouth?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes. Will be for a month or so, he says.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, we won’t talk of it. As you say, that’s the end. Nothing worse + could have happened. Has he been speaking of me again like he used to?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I haven’t heard him mention your name.’ + </p> + <p> + She heaved a sigh, and began to look round the office. + </p> + <p> + ‘Let us try to forget, and talk of pleasanter things. It seems such a long + time since you told me anything about your business. You remember how we + used to gossip. I suppose I have been so absorbed in that poor boy’s + affairs; it made me selfish—I was so overjoyed, I really could think + of nothing else. And now—! But I must and will drive it out of my + mind. I have been moping at home, day after day, in wretched solitude. I + wanted to write to you, but I hadn’t the heart—scarcely the + strength. I kept hoping you might call—if only to ask how I was. Of + course everything had to be explained to inquisitive people—how I + hate them all! It’s the nature of the world to mock at misfortunes such as + this. It would really have done me good to speak for a few minutes with + such a friend as you—a real friend. I am going to live a quiet, + retired life. I am sick of the world, its falsity, and its malice, and its + bitter, bitter disappointments.’ + </p> + <p> + Crewe’s native wit and rich store of experience availed him nothing when + Mrs. Damerel discoursed thus. The silvery accents flattered his ear, and + crept into the soft places of his nature. He felt as when a clever actress + in a pathetic part wrought upon him in the after-dinner mood. + </p> + <p> + ‘You must bear up against it, Mrs. Damerel. And I don’t think a retired + life would suit you at all. You are made for Society.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t seek for compliments. I am speaking quite sincerely. Ah, those were + happy days that I spent at Whitsand! Tell me what you have been doing. Is + there any hope of the pier yet?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why, it’s as good as built!’ cried the other. ‘Didn’t you see the + advertisements, when we floated the company a month ago? I suppose you + don’t read that kind of thing. We shall begin at the works in early + spring.—Look here!’ + </p> + <p> + He unrolled a large design, a coloured picture of Whitsand pier as it + already existed in his imagination. Not content with having the mere + structure exhibited, Crewe had persuaded the draughtsman to add + embellishments of a kind which, in days to come, would be his own peculiar + care; from end to end, the pier glowed with the placards of advertisers. + Below, on the sands, appeared bathing-machines, and these also were + covered with manifold advertisements. Nay, the very pleasure-boats on the + sunny waves declared the glory of somebody’s soap, of somebody’s + purgatives. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ll make that place one of the biggest advertising stations in England—see + if I don’t! You remember the caves? I’m going to have them lighted with + electricity, and painted all round with advertisements of the most + artistic kind.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What a brilliant idea!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘There’s something else you might like to hear of. It struck me I would + write a Guide to Advertising, and here it is.’ He handed a copy of the + book. ‘It advertises <i>me</i>, and brings a little grist to the mill on + its own account. Three weeks since I got it out, and we’ve sold three + thousand of it. Costs nothing to print; the advertisements more than pay + for that. Price, one shilling.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But how you do work, Mr. Crewe! It’s marvellous. And yet you look so + well,—you have really a seaside colour!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I never ailed much since I can remember. The harder I work, the better I + feel.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I, too, have always been rather proud of my constitution.’ Her eyes + dropped. ‘But then I have led a life of idleness. Couldn’t you make me + useful in some way? Set me to work! I am convinced I should be so much + happier. Let me help you, Mr. Crewe. I write a pretty fair hand, don’t I?’ + </p> + <p> + Crewe smiled at her, made a sound as if clearing his throat, grasped his + knee, and was on the very point of momentous utterance, when the door + opened. Turning his head impatiently, he saw, not the clerk whose duty it + was to announce people, but a lady, much younger than Mrs. Damerel, and + more fashionably dressed, who for some reason had preferred to announce + herself. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why do you come in like that?’ Crewe demanded, staring at her. ‘I’m + engaged.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Are you indeed?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You ought to send in your name. + </p> + <p> + ‘They said you had a lady here, so I told them another would make no + difference.—How do you do, Mrs. Damerel? It’s so long since I had + the pleasure of seeing you.’ + </p> + <p> + Beatrice French stepped forward, smiling ominously, and eyeing first Crewe + then his companion with curiosity of the frankest impertinence. Mrs. + Damerel stood up. + </p> + <p> + ‘We will speak of our business at another time, Mr. Crewe.’ + </p> + <p> + Crewe, red with anger, turned upon Beatrice. + </p> + <p> + ‘I tell you I am engaged—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘To Mrs. Damerel?’ asked the intruder airily. + </p> + <p> + ‘You might suppose,’—he addressed the elder lady,—‘that this + woman has some sort of hold upon me—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m sure I hope not,’ said Mrs. Damerel, ‘for your own sake.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Nothing of the kind. She has pestered me a good deal, and it began in + this way.’ + </p> + <p> + Beatrice gave him so fierce a look, that his tongue faltered. + </p> + <p> + ‘Before you tell that little story,’ she interposed, ‘you had better know + what I’ve come about. It’s a queer thing that Mrs. Damerel should be here; + happens more conveniently than things generally do. I had something to + tell you about her. You may know it, but most likely you don’t.—You + remember,’ she faced the other listener, ‘when I came to see you a long + time ago, I said it might be worth while to find out who you really were. + I haven’t given much thought to you since then, but I’ve got hold of what + I wanted, as I knew I should.’ + </p> + <p> + Crewe did not disguise his eagerness to hear the rest. Mrs. Damerel stood + like a statue of British respectability, deaf and blind to everything that + conflicts with good-breeding; stony-faced, she had set her lips in the + smile appropriate to one who is braving torture. + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you know who she is—or not?’ Beatrice asked of Crewe. + </p> + <p> + He shuffled, and made no reply. + </p> + <p> + ‘Fanny has just told me in a letter; she got it from her husband. Our + friend here is the mother of Horace Lord and of Nancy. She ran away from + her first husband, and was divorced. Whether she really married + afterwards, I don’t quite know; most likely not. At all events, she has + run through her money, and wants her son to set her up again.’ + </p> + <p> + For a few seconds Mrs. Damerel bore the astonished gaze of her admirer, + then, her expression scarcely changing, she walked steadily to the door + and vanished. The silence was prolonged till broken by Beatrice’s laugh. + </p> + <p> + ‘Has she been bamboozling you, old man? I didn’t know what was going on. + You had bad luck with the daughter; shouldn’t wonder if the mother would + suit you better, all said and done.’ + </p> + <p> + Crewe seated himself and gave vent to his feelings in a phrase of pure + soliloquy: ‘Well, I’m damned!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I cut in just at the right time, did I?—No malice. I’ve had my hit + back at her, and that’s enough.’ + </p> + <p> + As the man of business remained absorbed in his thoughts, Beatrice took a + chair. Presently he looked up at her, and said savagely: + </p> + <p> + ‘What the devil do you want?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Nothing.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then take it and go.’ + </p> + <p> + But Beatrice smiled, and kept her seat. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0042" id="link2HCH0042"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER 5 + </h2> + <p> + Nancy stood before her husband with a substantial packet in brown paper. + It was after breakfast, at the moment of their parting. + </p> + <p> + ‘Here is something I want you to take, and look at, and speak about the + next time you come.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Ho, ho! I don’t like the look of it.’ He felt the packet. ‘Several quires + of paper here.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Be off, or you’ll miss the train.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Poor little girl! <i>Et tu</i>!’ + </p> + <p> + He kissed her affectionately, and went his way. In the ordinary course of + things Nancy would not have seen him again for ten days or a fortnight. + She expected a letter very soon, but on the fourth evening Tarrant’s + fingers tapped at the window-pane. In his hand was the brown paper parcel, + done up as when he received it. + </p> + <p> + Nancy searched his face, her own perturbed and pallid. + </p> + <p> + ‘How long have you been working at this?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Nearly a year. But not every day, of course. Sometimes for a week or more + I could get no time. You think it bad?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No,’—puff—‘not in any sense’—puff—‘bad. In one + sense, it’s good. But’—puff—‘that’s a private sense; a + domestic sense.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘The question is, dear, can it be sold to a publisher.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘The question is nothing of the kind. You mustn’t even try to sell it to a + publisher.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why not? You mean you would be ashamed if it came out. But I shouldn’t + put my own name to it. I have written it only in the hope of making money, + and so helping you. I’ll put any name to it you like.’ + </p> + <p> + Tarrant smoked for a minute or two, until his companion gave a sign of + impatience. He wore a very good-humoured look. + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s more than likely you might get the thing accepted—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, then why not?’ she interrupted eagerly, with bright eyes. + </p> + <p> + ‘Because it isn’t literature, but a little bit of Nancy’s mind and heart, + not to be profaned by vulgar handling. To sell it for hard cash would be + horrible. Leave that to the poor creatures who have no choice. You are not + obliged to go into the market.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But, Lionel, if it is a bit of my mind and heart, it must be a good book. + You have often praised books to me just on that account because they were + genuine.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘The books I praised were literature. Their authors came into the world to + write. It isn’t enough to be genuine; there must be workmanship. Here and + there you have a page of very decent English, and you are nowhere on the + level of the ordinary female novelist. Indeed—don’t take it ill—I + was surprised at what you had turned out. But—’ + </p> + <p> + He finished the sentence in smoke wreaths. + </p> + <p> + ‘Then I’ll try again. I’ll do better.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Never <i>much</i> better. It will never be literature.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What does that matter? I never thought myself a Charlotte Bronte or a + George Eliot. But so many women make money out of novels, and as I had + spare time I didn’t see why I shouldn’t use it profitably. We want money, + and if it isn’t actually disgraceful—and if I don’t use my own name—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘We don’t want money so badly as all that. I am writing, because I must do + something to live by, and I know of nothing else open to me except + pen-work. Whatever trash I turned out, I should be justified; as a man, + it’s my duty to join in the rough-and-tumble for more or less dirty + ha’pence. You, as a woman, have no such duty; nay, it’s your positive duty + to keep out of the beastly scrimmage.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It seemed to me that I was <i>doing</i> something. Why should a woman be + shut out from the life of the world?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It seems to me that your part in the life of the world is very + considerable. You have given the world a new inhabitant, and you are + shaping him into a man.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy laughed, and reflected, and returned to her discontent. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, every woman can do that.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not one woman in a thousand can bear a sound-bodied child; and not one in + fifty thousand can bring up rightly the child she has borne. Leisure you + must have; but for Heaven’s sake don’t waste it. Read, enjoy, sit down to + the feast prepared for you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I wanted to <i>do</i> something,’ she persisted, refusing to catch his + eye. ‘I have read enough.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Read enough? Ha, then there’s no more to be said.’ + </p> + <p> + His portentous solemnity overcame her. Laughter lighted her face, and + Tarrant, laying down his pipe, shouted extravagant mirth. + </p> + <p> + ‘Am I to burn it then?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You are not. You are to seal it with seven seals, to write upon it <i>peche + de jeunesse</i>, and to lay it away at the back of a very private drawer. + And when you are old, you shall some day bring it out, and we’ll put our + shaky heads together over it, and drop a tear from our dim old eyes.—By-the-bye, + Nancy, will you go with me to a music-hall to-morrow night?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘A music-hall?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes. It would do us both good, I think. I feel fagged, and you want a + change.—Here’s the end of March; please Heaven, another month shall + see us rambling in the lanes somewhere; meantime, we’ll go to a + music-hall. Each season has its glory; if we can’t hear the lark, let us + listen to the bellow of a lion-comique.—Do you appreciate this + invitation? It means that I enjoy your company, which is more than one man + in ten thousand can say of his wife. The ordinary man, when he wants to + dissipate, asks—well, not his wife. And I, in plain sober truth, + would rather have Nancy with me than anyone else.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You say that to comfort me after my vexation.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I say it because I think it.—The day after to-morrow I want you to + come over in the morning to see some pictures in Bond Street. And the next + day we’ll go to the theatre.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You can’t afford it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Mind your own business. I remembered this morning that I was young, and + that I shall not be so always. Doesn’t that ever come upon you?’ + </p> + <p> + The manuscript, fruit of such persevering toil, was hidden away, and its + author spoke of it no more. But she suffered a grave disappointment. Once + or twice a temptation flashed across her mind; if she secretly found a + publisher, and if her novel achieved moderate success (she might alter the + title), would not Tarrant forgive her for acting against his advice? It + was nothing more than advice; often enough he had told her that he claimed + no coercive right; that their union, if it were to endure, must admit a + genuine independence on both sides. But herein, as on so many other + points, she subdued her natural impulse, and conformed to her husband’s + idea of wifehood. It made her smile to think how little she preserved of + that same ‘genuine independence;’ but the smile had no bitterness. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile, nothing was heard of Horace. The winter passed, and June had + come before Nancy again saw her brother’s handwriting. It was on an + ordinary envelope, posted, as she saw by the office-stamp, at Brighton; + the greater her surprise to read a few lines which coldly informed her + that Horace’s wife no longer lived. ‘She took cold one evening a fortnight + ago, and died after three days’ illness.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy tried to feel glad, but she had little hope of any benefit to her + brother from this close of a sordid tragedy. She answered his letter, and + begged that, as soon as he felt able to do so, he would come and see her. + A month’s silence on Horace’s part had led her to conclude that he would + not come, when, without warning, he presented himself at her door. It was + morning, and he stayed till nightfall, but talked very little. Sitting in + the same place hour after hour, he seemed overcome with a complete + exhaustion, which made speech too great an effort and kept his thoughts + straying idly. Fanny’s name did not pass his lips; when Nancy ventured an + inquiry concerning her, he made an impatient gesture, and spoke of + something else. + </p> + <p> + His only purpose in coming, it appeared, was to ask for information about + the Bahamas. + </p> + <p> + ‘I can’t get rid of my cough, and I’m afraid it may turn to something + dangerous. You said, I remember, that people with weak chests wintered in + the Bahamas.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Lionel can tell you all about it. He’ll be here to-morrow. Come and have + a talk with him.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No.’ He moved pettishly. ‘Tell me as much as you know yourself. I don’t + feel well enough to meet people.’ + </p> + <p> + Looking at him with profound compassion, Nancy thought it very doubtful + whether he would see another winter. But she told him all she could + remember about Nassau, and encouraged him to look forward with pleasure + and hopefulness to a voyage thither. + </p> + <p> + ‘How are you going to live till then?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What do you mean?’ he answered, with a startled and irritated look. ‘I’m + not so bad as all that.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I meant—how are you going to arrange your life?’ Nancy hastened to + explain. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, I have comfortable lodgings.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But you oughtn’t to be quite alone.—I mean it must be so + cheerless.’ + </p> + <p> + She made a proposal that he should have a room in this little house, and + use it as a home whenever he chose; but Horace so fretted under the + suggestion, that it had to be abandoned. His behaviour was that of an old + man, enfeebled in mind and body. Once or twice his manner of speaking + painfully reminded Nancy of her father during the last days of his life. + </p> + <p> + With a peevish sort of interest he watched his little nephew toddling + about the room, but did not address a word to the child. + </p> + <p> + A cab was sent for to convey him to the railway station. Nancy had known + few such melancholy days as this. + </p> + <p> + On the morning when, by agreement, she was to go into town to see her + brother, there arrived a note from him. He had been advised to try a + health-resort in Switzerland, and was already on the way. Sorry he could + not let Nancy know before; would visit her on his return. Thus, in the + style of telegraphy, as though he wrote in hot haste. + </p> + <p> + From Switzerland came two letters, much more satisfactory in tone and + contents. The first, written in July, announced a distinct improvement of + health. No details being supplied, Nancy could only presume that her + brother was living alone at the hotel from which he dated. The second + communication, a month later, began thus: ‘I think I forgot to tell you + that I came here with Mrs. Damerel. She will stay till the end of the + summer, and then, perhaps, go with me to the Bahamas, if that seems + necessary. But I am getting wonderfully well and strong. Mrs. Damerel is + kinder to me than any one in the world ever was. I shall tell you more + about her some day.’ The writer went on to describe a project he had of + taking a small farm in Devonshire, and living upon it as a country + gentleman. + </p> + <p> + Tarrant warned his wife not to build hopes upon this surprising report, + and a few weeks brought news that justified him. Horace wrote that he had + suffered a very bad attack, and was only now sufficiently recovered to + hold a pen. ‘I don’t know what we shall do, but I am in good hands. No one + was ever better nursed, night and day—More before long.’ + </p> + <p> + Indeed, it was not long. A day or two after Nancy’s return from a seaside + holiday, Mary brought in a telegram. It came from Mrs. Damerel. ‘Your + brother died at ten o’clock last night, suddenly, and without pain. I am + posting a letter he had written for you.’ + </p> + <p> + When the promised letter arrived, it was found to bear a date two months + ago. An unwonted tenderness marked the opening words. + </p> + <p> + MY DEAREST SISTER—What I am going to write is not to be sent to you + at once. Sometimes I feel afraid that I can’t live very long, so I have + been making a will, and I want you to know why I have left you only half + of what I have to leave. The other half will go to some one who has an + equal claim on me, though you don’t know it. She has asked me to tell you. + If I get thoroughly well again, there will be no need of this letter, and + I shall tell you in private something that will astonish you very much. + But if I were to die, it will be best for you to learn in this way that + Mrs. Damerel is much more to us than our mother’s sister; she is our own + mother. She told me at the time when I was behaving like an idiot at + Bournemouth. It ought to have been enough to stop me. She confessed that + she had done wrong when you and I were little children; that was how she + came to marry again whilst father was still alive. Though it seemed + impossible, I have come to love her for her great kindness to me. I know + that I could trust you, dearest Nancy, to let her share whatever you have; + but it will be better if I provide for her in my will. She has been living + on a small capital, and now has little left. What I can give her is little + enough, but it will save her from the worst extremities. And I beg you, + dear sister, to forgive her fault, if only for my sake, because she has + been so loving to a silly and useless fellow. + </p> + <p> + I may as well let you know about my wife’s death. She was consumptive, but + seemed to get much better at Bournemouth; then she wanted to go to + Brighton. We lived there at a boardinghouse, and she behaved badly, very + badly. She made acquaintances I didn’t like, and went about with them in + spite of my objections. Like an obstinate fool, I had refused to believe + what people told me about her, and now I found it all out for myself. Of + course she only married me because I had money. One evening she made up + her mind to go with some of her friends in a boat, by moonlight. We + quarrelled about it, but she went all the same. The result was that she + got inflammation of the lungs, and died. I don’t pretend to be sorry for + her, and I am thankful to have been released from misery so much sooner + than I deserved. + </p> + <p> + And now let me tell you how my affairs stand— + </p> + <p> + At the first reading, Nancy gave but slight attention to this concluding + paragraph. Even the thought of her brother’s death was put aside by the + emotions with which she learnt that her mother still lived. After brooding + over the intelligence for half a day, she resolved to question Mary, who + perhaps, during so long a residence in Grove Lane, had learnt something of + the trouble that darkened her master’s life. The conversation led to a + disclosure by Mary of all that had been confided to her by Mr. Lord; the + time had come for a fulfilment of her promise to the dead man. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0043" id="link2HCH0043"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER 6 + </h2> + <p> + Horace’s letter Nancy sent by post to her husband, requesting him to let + her know his thoughts about it in writing before they again met. Of her + own feeling she gave no sign. ‘I want you to speak of it just as if it + concerned a stranger, plainly and simply. All I need say is, that I never + even suspected the truth.’ + </p> + <p> + Tarrant did not keep her long in suspense, and his answer complied in + reasonable measure with the desire she had expressed. + </p> + <p> + ‘The disclosure has, of course, pained you. Equally, of course, you wish + it were not necessary to let me know of it; you are in doubt as to how it + will affect me; you perhaps fear that I shall—never mind about + phrasing. First, then, a word on that point. Be assured once for all that + nothing external to yourself can ever touch the feeling which I now have + for you. “One word is too often profaned;” I will say simply that I hold + you in higher regard that any other human being. + </p> + <p> + ‘Try not to grieve, my dearest. It is an old story, in both senses. You + wish to know how I view the matter. Well, if a wife cannot love her + husband, it is better she should not pretend to do so; if she love some + one else, her marriage is at an end, and she must go. Simple enough—provided + there be no children. Whether it is ever permissible for a mother to + desert her children, I don’t know. I will only say that, in you yourself, + I can find nothing more admirable than the perfect love which you devote + to your child. Forsake it, you could not. + </p> + <p> + ‘In short, act as feeling dictates. Your mother lives; that fact cannot be + ignored. In your attitude towards her, do not consult me at all; whatever + your heart approves, I shall find good and right. Only, don’t imagine that + your feeling of to-day is final—I would say, make no resolve; they + are worth little, in any concern of life. + </p> + <p> + ‘Write to me again, and say when you wish to see me. + </p> + <p> + After reading this, Nancy moved about with the radiance of a great joy on + her countenance. She made no haste to reply; she let a day elapse; then, + in the silence of a late hour, took pen and paper. + </p> + <p> + ‘When do I wish to see you? Always; in every moment of my day. And yet I + have so far conquered “the unreasonable female”—do you remember + saying that?—that I would rather never see you again than bring you + to my side except when it was your pleasure to be with me. Come as soon as + you can—as soon as you will. + </p> + <p> + ‘My mother—how shall I word it? She is nothing to me. I don’t feel + that Nature bids me love her. I could pardon her for leaving my father; + like you, I see nothing terrible in that; but, like you, I <i>know</i> + that she did wrong in abandoning her little children, and her kindness to + Horace at the end cannot atone for it. I don’t think she has any love for + <i>me</i>. We shall not see each other; at all events, that is how I feel + about it at present. But I am very glad that Horace made provision for her—that + of course was right; if he had not done it, it would have been my duty. + </p> + <p> + ‘I had better tell you that Mary has known my mother’s story for a long + time—but not that she still lived. My father told her just before + his death, and exacted her promise that, if it seemed well, she would + repeat everything to me. You shall know more about it, though it is bad + all through. My dear father had reason bitterly to regret his marriage + long before she openly broke it. + </p> + <p> + ‘But come and see me, and tell me what is to be done now that we are free + to look round. There is no shame in taking what poor Horace has given us. + You see that there will be at least three thousand pounds for our share, + apart from the income we shall have from the business.’ + </p> + <p> + He was sure to come on the evening of the morrow. Nancy went out before + breakfast to post her letter; light-hearted in the assurance that her + husband’s days of struggle were over, that her child’s future no longer + depended upon the bare hope that its father would live and thrive by a + profession so precarious as that of literature, she gave little thought to + the details of the new phase of life before her. Whatever Tarrant proposed + would be good in her sight. Probably he would wish to live in the country; + he might discover the picturesque old house of which he had so often + spoken. In any case, they would now live together. He had submitted her to + a probation, and his last letter declared that he was satisfied with the + result. + </p> + <p> + Midway in the morning, whilst she was playing with her little boy,—rain + kept them in the house,—a knock at the front door announced some + unfamiliar visit. Mary came to the parlour, with a face of surprise. + </p> + <p> + ‘Who is it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Miss. Morgan.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What? Jessica?’ + </p> + <p> + Mary handed an envelope, addressed to ‘Mrs. Tarrant.’ It contained a sheet + of paper, on which was written in pencil: ‘I beg you to see me, if only + for a minute.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, I will see her,’ said Nancy, when she had frowned in brief + reflection. + </p> + <p> + Mary led away the little boy, and, a moment after, introduced Jessica + Morgan. At the appearance of her former friend, Nancy with difficulty + checked an exclamation; Miss. Morgan wore the garb of the Salvation Army. + Harmonious therewith were the features shadowed by the hideous bonnet: a + face hardly to be recognised, bloodless, all but fleshless, the eyes set + in a stare of weak-minded fanaticism. She came hurriedly forward, and + spoke in a quick whisper. + </p> + <p> + ‘I was afraid you would refuse to see me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why have you come?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I was impelled—I had a duty to perform.’ + </p> + <p> + Coldly, Nancy invited her to sit down, but the visitor shook her head. + </p> + <p> + ‘I mustn’t take a seat in your house. I am unwelcome; we can’t pretend to + be on terms of friendliness. I have come, first of all,’—her eyes + wandered as she spoke, inspecting the room,—‘to humble myself before + you—to confess that I was a dishonourable friend,—to make + known with my lips that I betrayed your secret—’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy interrupted the low, hurrying, panting voice, which distressed her + ear as much as the facial expression that accompanied it did her eyes. + </p> + <p> + ‘There’s no need to tell me. I knew it at the time, and you did me no + harm. Indeed, it was a kindness.’ + </p> + <p> + She drew away, but Jessica moved after her. + </p> + <p> + ‘I supposed you knew. But it is laid upon me to make a confession before + you. I have to ask your pardon, most humbly and truly.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you mean that some one has told you to do this?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh no!’ A gleam of infinite conceit shot over the humility of Jessica’s + countenance. ‘I am answerable only to my own soul. In the pursuit of an + ideal which I fear you cannot understand, I subdue my pride, and confess + how basely I behaved to you. Will you grant me your forgiveness?’ + </p> + <p> + She clasped her gloveless hands before her breast, and the fingers writhed + together. + </p> + <p> + ‘If it is any satisfaction to you,’ replied Nancy, overcome with wonder + and pity, ‘I will say those words. But don’t think that I take upon myself—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Only say them. I ask your pardon—say you grant it.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy uttered the formula, and with bowed head Jessica stood for a minute + in silence; her lips moved. + </p> + <p> + ‘And now,’ she said at length, ‘I must fulfil the second part of the duty + which has brought me here.’ Her attitude changed to one of authority, and + her eyes fixed themselves on Nancy’s, regarding her with the mild but + severe rebuke of a spiritual superior. ‘Having acknowledged my + wrong-doing, I must remind you of your own. Let me ask you first of all—have + you any religious life?’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy’s eyes had turned away, but at these words they flashed sternly upon + the speaker. + </p> + <p> + ‘I shall let you ask no such question.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I expected it,’ Jessica sighed patiently. ‘You are still in the darkness, + out of which <i>I</i> have been saved.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘If you have nothing more to say than this, I must refuse to talk any + longer.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘There is a word I must speak,’ pursued Jessica. ‘If you will not heed it + now, it will remain in your memory, and bear fruit at the appointed time. + I alone know of the sin which poisons your soul, and the experiences + through which I have passed justify me in calling you to repentance.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy raised her hand. + </p> + <p> + ‘Stop! That is quite enough. Perhaps you are behaving conscientiously; I + will try to believe it. But not another word, or I shall speak as I don’t + wish to.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It is enough. You know very well what I refer to. Don’t imagine that + because you are now a married woman—’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy stepped to the door, and threw it open. + </p> + <p> + ‘Leave the house,’ she said, in an unsteady tone. ‘You said you were + unwelcome, and it was true. Take yourself out of my sight!’ + </p> + <p> + Jessica put her head back, murmured some inaudible words, and with a smile + of rancorous compassion went forth into the rain. + </p> + <p> + On recovering from the excitement of this scene, Nancy regretted her + severity; the poor girl in the hideous bonnet had fallen very low, and her + state of mind called for forbearance. The treachery for which Jessica + sought pardon was easy to forgive; not so, however, the impertinent + rebuke, which struck at a weak place in Nancy’s conscience. Just when the + course of time and favour of circumstances seemed to have completely + healed that old wound, Jessica, with her crazy malice grotesquely + disguised, came to revive the half-forgotten pangs, the shame and the + doubt that had seemed to be things gone by. It would have become her, + Nancy felt, to treat her hapless friend of years ago in a spirit of gentle + tolerance; that she could not do so proved her—and she recognised + the fact—still immature, still a backward pupil in the school of + life.—‘And in the Jubilee year I thought myself a decidedly + accomplished person!’ + </p> + <p> + Never mind. Her husband would come this evening. Of him she could learn + without humiliation. + </p> + <p> + His arrival was later than of wont. Only at eleven o’clock, when with + disappointment she had laid aside her book to go to bed, did Tarrant’s rap + sound on the window. + </p> + <p> + ‘I had given you up,’ said Nancy. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yet you are quite good-tempered.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why not?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It is the pleasant custom of wives to make a husband uncomfortable if he + comes late.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then I am no true wife!’ laughed Nancy. + </p> + <p> + ‘Something much better,’ Tarrant muttered, as he threw off his overcoat. + </p> + <p> + He began to talk of ordinary affairs, and nearly half-an-hour elapsed + before any mention was made of the event that had bettered their + prospects. Nancy looked over a piece of his writing in an evening paper + which he had brought; but she could not read it with attention. The paper + fell to her lap, and she sat silent. Clearly, Tarrant would not be the + first to speak of what was in both their minds. The clock ticked; the rain + pattered without; the journalist smoked his pipe and looked thoughtfully + at the ceiling. + </p> + <p> + ‘Are you sorry,’ Nancy asked, ‘that I am no longer penniless?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Ah—to be sure. We must speak of that. No, I’m not sorry. If I get + run over, you and the boy—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Can make ourselves comfortable, and forget you; to be sure. But for the + present, and until you do get run over?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You wish to make changes?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘In one or two respects, perhaps. But leave me out of the question. You + have an income of your own to dispose of; nothing oppressively splendid, I + suppose. What do you think of doing?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What do you advise?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, no. Make your own suggestion. + </p> + <p> + Nancy smiled, hesitated, and said at length: + </p> + <p> + ‘I think we ought to take a house.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘In London?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s as you wish.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not at all. As <i>you</i> wish. Do you want society?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘In moderation. And first of all, yours. + </p> + <p> + Tarrant met her eyes. + </p> + <p> + ‘Of my society, you have quite as much as is good for you,’ he answered + amiably. ‘That you should wish for acquaintances, is reasonable enough. + Take a house somewhere in the western suburbs. One or two men I know have + decent wives, and you shall meet them.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But you? You won’t live with me?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You know my view of that matter.’ + </p> + <p> + Nancy kept her eyes down, and reflected. + </p> + <p> + ‘Will it be known to everybody that we don’t live together?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well,’ answered Tarrant, with a laugh, ‘by way of example, I should + rather like it to be known; but as I know <i>you</i> wouldn’t like it, let + the appearances be as ordinary as you please.’ + </p> + <p> + Again Nancy reflected. She had a struggle with herself. + </p> + <p> + ‘Just one question,’ she said at length. ‘Look me in the face. Are you—ever + so little—ashamed of me?’ + </p> + <p> + He regarded her steadily, smiling. + </p> + <p> + ‘Not in the least.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You were—you used to be?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Before I knew you; and before I knew myself. When, in fact, <i>you</i> + were a notable young lady of Camberwell, and <i>I</i>—’ + </p> + <p> + He paused to puff at his pipe. + </p> + <p> + ‘And you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘A notable young fool of nowhere at all.’ + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg’s In the Year of Jubilee, by George Gissing + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN THE YEAR OF JUBILEE *** + +***** This file should be named 4307-h.htm or 4307-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/4/3/0/4307/ + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Janet Blenkinship, and David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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