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+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: August, 2003  [Etext #4307]
+Posting Date: January 6, 2010
+Last Updated: May 23, 2010
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN THE YEAR OF JUBILEE ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Charles Aldarondo and Janet Blenkinship
+
+
+
+
+
+IN THE YEAR OF JUBILEE
+
+By George Gissing
+
+
+
+
+Part I: Miss. Lord
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 1
+
+
+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.
+
+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 _not_ to let.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'Well? what does this mean?'
+
+'The cook doesn't feel well, miss; she can't get up.'
+
+'Then get breakfast yourself, and look sharp about it.'
+
+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.
+
+'_And a penny in his pocket, la-de-da, la-de-da,--and a penny in his
+pocket, la-de-da_!'
+
+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.
+
+'What's up? Another row?' she asked, entering the room as the servant
+went out.
+
+'I've known a good many fools,' said Beatrice, 'but Ada's the biggest
+I've come across yet.'
+
+'Is she? Well, I shouldn't wonder,' Fanny admitted impartially. And
+with a skip she took up her song again. '_A penny paper collar round his
+neck, la-de-da_--'
+
+'Are you going to church this morning?' asked her sister.
+
+'Yes. Are you?'
+
+'Come for a walk instead. There's something I want to talk to you
+about.'
+
+'Won't it do afterwards? I've got an appointment.'
+
+'With Lord?'
+
+Fanny laughed and nodded.
+
+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.
+
+'So you've got breakfast, have you?' were her first words, in a thin and
+rather nasal voice. 'You may think yourselves lucky.'
+
+'You have a cheek of your own,' replied Beatrice. 'Whose place is it to
+see that we get meals?'
+
+'And what can any one do with servants like I've got?' retorted the
+married sister.
+
+'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.'
+
+'Oh, _you_'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.'
+
+They squabbled for some minutes, Fanny looking on with ingenuous
+amusement, and putting in a word, now for this side, now for that.
+
+'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.'
+
+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.'
+
+'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.
+
+'Dirty cat! beast! swine!'
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 2
+
+
+
+Ada brooded over her wrongs; Beatrice glanced over _The Referee_. 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.
+
+'You can give the third seat at the Jubilee to somebody else. I'm
+provided for.'
+
+'Who are you going with?' asked Ada.
+
+'My masher,' the girl replied with a giggle.
+
+'Where?'
+
+'Shop-windows in the Strand, I think.'
+
+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.
+
+'How much is he really getting?' she inquired all at once.
+
+'Seventy-five pounds a year. "_Oh where, oh where, is my leetle dog
+gone?_"'
+
+'Does he say,' asked Mrs. Peachey, 'that his governor will stump up?'
+
+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.
+
+Anticipating Fanny's reply, Beatrice observed, with her air of sagacity:
+
+'If you think you're going to get anything out of an old screw like
+Lord, you'll jolly soon find your mistake.'
+
+'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?'
+
+'He's turned twenty-two.'
+
+The others laughed scornfully.
+
+'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.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'And there's Nancy,' exclaimed Ada. 'Won't she get half the plunder?'
+
+'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.'
+
+'Haven't you got anything out of Horace?' asked Ada of Fanny. 'What has
+he told you?'
+
+'He doesn't know much, that's the fact.'
+
+'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.'
+
+She stared at her sisters, inviting their comment on this _ludicrous_
+state of things.
+
+'I quite believe Nancy does,' said Fanny, with a point of malice.
+
+'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.
+
+'Who will _she_ marry?' asked Beatrice, in a tone of disinterested
+speculation.
+
+Mrs. Peachey answered with a sneer:
+
+'She's going to the Jubilee to pick up a fancy Prince.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'I know who _wants_ to marry her,' Ada remarked, with a sour smile.
+
+'Who is that?' came from the others.
+
+'Mr. Crewe.'
+
+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.
+
+'Does he?' Fanny asked of the ceiling.
+
+'He wants money to float his teetotal drink,' said Beatrice. 'Hasn't he
+been at Arthur about it?'
+
+'Not that I know,' answered the wife.
+
+'He tried to get round me, but I--'
+
+A scream of incredulity from Fanny, and a chuckle from Mrs. Peachey,
+covered the rest of the sentence. Beatrice gazed at them defiantly.
+
+'Well, idiots! What's up now?'
+
+'Oh, nothing.'
+
+'There's nobody knows Luckworth Crewe better than I do,' Beatrice
+pursued disdainfully, 'and I think he knows _me_ 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.'
+
+'And he'll marry Nancy Lord,' said Ada tauntingly.
+
+'Not just yet.'
+
+Ada rolled herself from the sofa, and stood yawning.
+
+'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.'
+
+'Who have you to meet?' asked Fanny, with a grimace.
+
+Her sister disregarded the question, yawned again, and turned to
+Beatrice.
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'Suppose you give Horace Lord a hint that we've no dinner at home? He
+might take us, and stand treat.'
+
+Fanny shook her head.
+
+'I don't think he could get away. The guv'nor expects him home to dinner
+on Sundays.'
+
+The other laughed her contempt.
+
+'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?'
+
+The listener's face confessed curiosity, yet was dubious.
+
+'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.'
+
+'Business? What sort of business?'
+
+'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?'
+
+'If I thought it wasn't a swindle,' Fanny replied ingenuously.
+
+'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?'
+
+'Can it be done?'
+
+'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?'
+
+'And suppose I lose my money?'
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 3
+
+
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'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--'
+
+'How can I remember what I never knew?' exclaimed Nancy. 'I always hated
+those formulas; I couldn't learn them to save my life.'
+
+'Oh, that's nonsense! You were much better at mathematics than I was. Do
+just look at what I mean.'
+
+She threw her books down upon a chair, and opened some pages of scrawled
+manuscript, talking hurriedly in a thin falsetto.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'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.'
+
+'Oh, what a worry he is!'
+
+'Yes, but there's something worse. I suspected that the Pasha knew of
+it; now I feel sure he's encouraging him.'
+
+By this oriental style Nancy signified her father. The Prophet was her
+father's partner in business, Mr. Samuel Bennett Barmby.
+
+'I feel sure now that they talked it over when the Prophet was taken
+into partnership. I was thrown in as a "consideration."'
+
+'But how could your father possibly think--?'
+
+'It's hard to say what he _does_ 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.'
+
+'He isn't well?'
+
+'A touch of gout, he says. Two days last week he didn't go to business,
+and his temper was _that 'orrible_!' 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.'
+
+'Has he been coming often?--Mr. Barmby, I mean.'
+
+'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."'
+
+'I dare say some people would think him handsome,' assented Miss Morgan,
+nibbling a finger which showed an ink-stain, and laughing shyly.
+
+'And his powers of conversation!--Don't you know any one that would do
+for him?'
+
+They jested on this theme until Nancy chose to become serious again.
+
+'Have you any lessons to-morrow?'
+
+'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.'
+
+Nancy looked up in doubt.
+
+'Are you sure? Won't the dowager be at home?'
+
+'She hasn't left her room for three weeks.'
+
+They exchanged a look of some special significance.
+
+'Then I suppose,' said Nancy, with a peculiar smile, 'that's why Mr
+Tarrant has been calling?'
+
+'Has he? How do you know?'
+
+Again they looked at each other, and Nancy laughed.
+
+'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.'
+
+'Did he talk?'
+
+Nancy gave a nod.
+
+'Yes, both times. But he didn't tell me that the dowager was worse.'
+
+'High and mighty?' asked Jessica.
+
+'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?'
+
+'Very likely. Will you come to-morrow?'
+
+Miss. Lord hesitated--then, with a sudden frankness:
+
+'To tell you the truth, I'm afraid he might be there.'
+
+'Oh, I don't think so, not on Jubilee Day.'
+
+'But that's the very reason. He may come to be out of the uproar.'
+
+'I meant he was more likely to be out of town altogether.'
+
+Nancy, still leaning over the table, propped her chin on her hands, and
+reflected.
+
+'Where does he go, I wonder?'
+
+'Oh, all sorts of places, no doubt. Men of that kind are always
+travelling. I suppose he goes shooting and fishing--'
+
+Nancy's laugh made an interruption.
+
+'No, no, he doesn't! He told me once that he didn't care for that sort
+of thing.'
+
+'Oh, well, you know much more about him than I do,' said Miss Morgan,
+with a smile.
+
+'I've often meant to ask you--have they anything to do with Tarrant's
+black-lead?'
+
+Jessica declared that she had never heard of it.
+
+'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?'
+
+'Of course.'
+
+'Really? Oh, there's hope of you. You'll be a woman of the world some
+day.'
+
+'Don't tease, Nancy. And what would it matter if he _was_ there
+to-morrow?'
+
+'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.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'In my position! What _is_ my position?'
+
+'Culture is everything now-a-days,' observed Miss. Morgan, with the air
+of one who feels herself abundantly possessed of that qualification.
+
+But Nancy laughed.
+
+'You may depend upon it, Mr. Tarrant doesn't think so.'
+
+'He calls himself a democrat.'
+
+'And talks like one: doesn't he?'
+
+'Oh! that's only his way, I think. He doesn't really mean to be haughty,
+and--and so on.'
+
+'I wish I knew if he had any connection with Tarrant's blacklead,' said
+Miss. Lord mischievously.
+
+'Why not ask him?'
+
+They laughed merrily, Jessica's thin note contrasting with the mellow
+timbre of her friend's voice.
+
+'I will some day.'
+
+'You would never dare to!'
+
+'I daren't? Then I will!'
+
+'It would be dreadfully rude.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'Well, will you come to-morrow?'
+
+'Ye-es; if you'll go somewhere else with me in the evening.'
+
+'Where to?'
+
+'To walk about the streets after dark, and see the crowds and the
+illuminations.'
+
+Nancy uttered this with a sly mirthfulness. Her friend was astonished.
+
+'Nonsense! you don't mean it.'
+
+'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?'
+
+'But the time, the time! I can't afford it. I'm getting on so wretchedly
+with my Greek and my chemistry.'
+
+'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.'
+
+This was quite a new aspect of the matter to Jessica Morgan. She
+pondered it, and smiled.
+
+'Yes, I suppose it will. But we should have to be out so late.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'Do you want to go into public-houses?' asked Jessica, laughing.
+
+'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?'
+
+'Won't your father make any objection?' asked Jessica.
+
+'We shall take Horace with us. Your people wouldn't interfere, would
+they?'
+
+'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.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'You could reason with him quietly.'
+
+'Reason with the Pasha--How innocent you are, Jess! How unworldly! It
+always refreshes me to hear you talk.'
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 4
+
+
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'Will you have a cup of tea, father?' she asked, standing by the door of
+the back room, which was ajar.
+
+'If it's ready,' replied a deep voice.
+
+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.
+
+Having set down the tray, she went to Mr. Lord's door, gave a soft tap,
+and withdrew into the kitchen.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'Early to-day, father.'
+
+'Yes.'
+
+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.
+
+'How have you felt, father?'
+
+'Nothing to complain of.'
+
+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.
+
+'I suppose you will have a rest to-morrow?'
+
+'I suppose so. If your grandmother had lived,' he added thoughtfully,
+'she would have been eighty-four this week on Thursday.'
+
+'The 23rd of June. Yes, I remember.'
+
+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:
+
+'I've had the pleasure of punishing a scoundrel to-day. That's worth
+more than the Jubilee.'
+
+Nancy waited for an explanation, but it was not vouchsafed.
+
+'A scoundrel?' she asked.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'You don't think of going to see the Queen to-morrow?' said his
+daughter, smiling.
+
+'What have I to do with the Queen? Do you wish to go?'
+
+'Not to see Her Majesty. I care as little about her as you do. But I
+thought of having a walk in the evening.'
+
+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.
+
+'In the evening? Where?'
+
+'Oh, about the main streets--to see the people and the illuminations.'
+
+Her voice was not quite firm.
+
+'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.'
+
+'The blackguards will be outnumbered by the decent people, father.'
+
+'You suppose that's possible?' he returned gloomily.
+
+'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.'
+
+'What right had you to ask her, without first finding out whether you
+could go or not?'
+
+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.
+
+'I am twenty-three years old, father,' she replied, without
+aggressiveness.
+
+'That would be something of an answer if you were a man,' observed the
+father, his eyes cast down.
+
+'Because I am a woman, you despise me?'
+
+Stephen was startled at this unfamiliar mode of address. He moved
+uneasily.
+
+'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.'
+
+There was a silence, then the girl said:
+
+'I meant to ask Horace to go with us.'
+
+'Horace--pooh!'
+
+Again a silence. Mr. Lord laid down his cup, moved a few steps away, and
+turned back.
+
+'I didn't think this kind of thing was in your way,' he said gruffly. 'I
+thought you were above it.'
+
+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.
+
+'Horace is no good. But if Samuel Barmby will go with you, I make no
+objection.'
+
+A movement of annoyance was Nancy's first reply. She drummed with her
+fingers on the table, looking fixedly before her.
+
+'I certainly can't ask Mr. Barmby to come with us,' she said, with an
+effort at self-control.
+
+'Well, you needn't. I'll speak about it myself.'
+
+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.
+
+'If you insist upon it,' said Nancy, rising from her chair, 'we will
+take Mr. Barmby with us.'
+
+Without comment, Mr. Lord left the room, and his own door closed rather
+loudly behind him.
+
+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.
+
+'Father in yet?' he asked at the door of the dining-room, in subdued
+voice.
+
+Nancy nodded, and the young man withdrew to lay aside his outdoor
+equipments.
+
+'What sort of temper?' was his question when he returned.
+
+'Pretty good--until I spoilt it.'
+
+Horace exhibited a pettish annoyance.
+
+'What on earth did you do that for? I want to have a talk with him
+to-night.'
+
+'About what?'
+
+'Oh, never mind; I'll tell you after.'
+
+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.
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+'I promised Fanny to take her to-morrow night,' he began awkwardly.
+
+'Oh, you have?'
+
+'And we're going together in the morning, you know.'
+
+'I know now. I didn't before,' Nancy replied.
+
+'Of course we can make a party in the evening.'
+
+'Of course.'
+
+Horace looked up at the ugly house-backs, and hesitated before
+proceeding.
+
+'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.'
+
+The listener looked her curiosity.
+
+'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."
+
+The young man paused to watch the effect of his narrative, especially of
+the last words. Nancy returned his gaze with frank astonishment.
+
+'What sort of lady was it?' she asked.
+
+'Oh, a great swell. Somebody in the best society--you could see that at
+once.'
+
+'But how old?'
+
+'Well, I couldn't tell exactly; about forty, I should think.'
+
+'Oh!--Go on.'
+
+'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."
+
+Nancy leaned forward, her lips apart.
+
+'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.'
+
+'Did she say anything more about our mother?'
+
+'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.'
+
+'How did she know where to find you?' Nancy inquired.
+
+'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.'
+
+'How long has she been a widow?' asked Nancy.
+
+'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.'
+
+'She knew about mother's death, I suppose?'
+
+'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.'
+
+'What did you say?'
+
+'Oh, I told her I really didn't know much about it, and she laughed at
+that.'
+
+'How long did you stay there?'
+
+'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.'
+
+'Shall you go?'
+
+'Well, it's very awkward. I want to go somewhere else on Saturday, with
+Fanny. But I didn't see how to refuse.'
+
+Nancy wore a look of grave reflection, and kept silence.
+
+'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.'
+
+His tone caused Nancy to look up.
+
+'Why just now?'
+
+'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.
+
+'Shall I guess what you're going to talk about?'
+
+'If you like.'
+
+She gazed at him.
+
+'You're surely not so silly as to tell father about all that nonsense?'
+
+'What nonsense?' exclaimed the other indignantly.
+
+'Why, with Fanny French.'
+
+'You'll find that it's anything but nonsense,' Horace replied, raising
+his brows, and gazing straight before him, with expanded nostrils.
+
+'All right. Let me know the result. It's time to go in.'
+
+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.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 5
+
+
+
+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.
+
+When the repast was nearly over, Mr. Lord glanced at his son and said
+unconcernedly:
+
+'You have heard that Nancy wants to mix with the rag-tag and bobtail
+to-morrow night?'
+
+'I shall take care of her,' Horace replied, starting from his reverie.
+
+'Doesn't it seem to you rather a come-down for an educated young lady?'
+
+'Oh, there'll be lots of them about.'
+
+'Will there? Then I can't see much difference between them and the
+servant girls.'
+
+Nancy put in a word.
+
+'That shows you don't in the least understand me, father.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'That's rather early,' replied the young man, though in a submissive
+tone.
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+'Nancy, don't you think it's about time we began to behave firmly?'
+
+'It depends what you mean by firmness,' she answered in an absent tone.
+
+'We're old enough to judge for ourselves.'
+
+'I am, no doubt. But I'm not so sure about you.'
+
+'Oh, all right. Then we won't talk about it.'
+
+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.
+
+'Martha has been asking me whether she can go out to-morrow night for an
+hour or two.'
+
+'You don't wish to go yourself?' Miss. Lord returned, her voice
+significant of life-long familiarity.
+
+'Oh no!'
+
+And Mary showed one of her infrequent smiles.
+
+'She may go immediately after dinner, and be away till half-past ten.'
+
+The servant bent her head, and withdrew. As soon as she was gone, Horace
+laughed.
+
+'There you are! What did father say?'
+
+Nancy was silent.
+
+'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.'
+
+'Very likely,' remarked his sister in a dry tone, and seated herself
+under the chandelier with a book.
+
+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.
+
+'Coming to report progress?'
+
+'Yes, father,--and to talk over things in general.'
+
+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.
+
+'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.'
+
+'I'll go and fetch it,' Horace replied impulsively.
+
+He came back with a rather expensive meerschaum, recently purchased.
+
+'Hollo! luxuries!' exclaimed his father.
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+'I've something rather important to speak about, father,' Horace began,
+when he had puffed for a few minutes in silence.
+
+'Oh? What's that?'
+
+'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--?'
+
+Yes, Stephen remembered. He had frequently called it to mind, and
+wondered whether it was wisely said, the youth's character considered.
+
+'What of that?' he returned, still genially. 'Do you think of starting a
+new line of ocean steamships?'
+
+'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.'
+
+'Let's hear about it.'
+
+'I dare say it will surprise you a little. The fact is, I--I am thinking
+of getting married.'
+
+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.
+
+'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.'
+
+'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?'
+
+Horace's pipe was going out; he held it against his knee and regarded it
+with unconscious eyes.
+
+'I dare say it won't be,' said Mr. Lord, 'when you have found a suitable
+wife.'
+
+'Oh, but you misunderstand me. I mean that I have decided to marry a
+particular person.'
+
+'And who may that be?'
+
+'The younger Miss. French--Fanny.'
+
+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.
+
+'You have asked her to marry you?'
+
+'Yes, I have; and she has consented.'
+
+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.
+
+'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.'
+
+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 _less_ than a hundred a year. He began to shake out the ashes
+from his pipe, with a vague intention of relighting it.
+
+'You really imagine,' said his father, 'that I should give you money to
+enable you to marry that idiot?'
+
+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.
+
+'I don't see--what right--to insult the young lady.'
+
+His father took him up sternly.
+
+'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_ had none of your advantages. There was--there would have been
+some excuse for _me_, 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 _think_ 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!'
+
+'How do you know that, father? What--what right have you to say such
+things, without knowing more of her than you do?'
+
+There was a brief silence before Mr. Lord spoke again.
+
+'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?'
+
+'I daresay she does. I haven't told her in so many words.'
+
+'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 _her_,
+and I felt sure she had too much sense to get harm from _them_. 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.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'So I am. What I want to know is, what good _you_ have found.'
+
+'A great deal, else I shouldn't have asked her to marry me.'
+
+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.
+
+'Do you think her an exception in the family, then?'
+
+'She's a great deal better in every way than her sisters. But I don't
+think as badly of them as you do.'
+
+Mr. Lord stepped to the door, and out into the passage, where he shouted
+in his deep voice 'Nancy!' The girl quickly appeared.
+
+'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.
+
+'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.'
+
+'I certainly don't,' replied the girl, barely subduing the tremor of her
+voice.
+
+'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?'
+
+'For one thing, I don't think her Horace's equal. She can't really be
+called a lady.'
+
+'You are listening?'
+
+Horace bit his lip in mortification, and again his head swung doggedly
+from side to side.
+
+'We might pass over that,' added Mr. Lord. 'What about her character? Is
+there any good point in her?'
+
+'I don't think she means any harm. But she's silly, and I've often
+thought her selfish.'
+
+'You are listening?'
+
+Horace lost patience.
+
+'Then why do you pretend to be friends with her?' he demanded almost
+fiercely.
+
+'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.'
+
+'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!'
+
+Mr. Lord regarded his son contemptuously. There was a rather long
+silence; he spoke at length with severe deliberation.
+
+'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!'
+
+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.
+
+'I've no more to say,' fell from their father at length. 'Go and talk
+about it together, if you like.'
+
+Horace moved sullenly towards the door, and with a glance at his sister
+went out. Nancy, after lingering for a moment, spoke.
+
+'I don't think you need have any fear of it, father.'
+
+'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.'
+
+Nancy changed her purpose of leaving the room, and drew a step nearer.
+
+'Don't you think there _might_ have been?'
+
+Mr. Lord turned to look at her.
+
+'How? What do you mean?'
+
+'I don't want to make you angry with me--'
+
+'Say what you've got to say,' broke in her father impatiently.
+
+'It isn't easy, when you so soon lose your temper.'
+
+'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?'
+
+She stood before him, and spoke with diffidence.
+
+'Don't you think that if we had lived in a different way, Horace and I
+might have had friends of a better kind?'
+
+'A different way?--I understand. You mean I ought to have had a big
+house, and made a show. Isn't that it?'
+
+'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.'
+
+'Exactly. That's your way of thinking. And how do you know that I could
+afford it, to begin with?'
+
+'Perhaps I oughtn't to have taken that for granted.'
+
+'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?'
+
+'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.'
+
+'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?'
+
+'No. Just the contrary. People who have something to say worth listening
+to.'
+
+'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.'
+
+Nancy reflected, seemed about to prolong the argument, but spoke at
+length in another voice.
+
+'Well, I will say good-night, father.'
+
+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.
+
+'Good-night, father,' she repeated from a distance.
+
+'Good-night, Nancy, good-night,' came in impatient reply.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 6
+
+
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.'
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'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.'
+
+'Please don't keep us in suspense,' said Nancy.
+
+'They were of pale primrose. Touching, don't you think?'
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+'Shall I tell you my theory?'
+
+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.
+
+'By all means,' was Nancy's reply.
+
+'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?'
+
+Nancy played with a dandelion she had plucked, and gave sign neither of
+assent nor disagreement.
+
+'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.'
+
+'You should make an article of it,' said Nancy, 'and send it to _The
+Nineteenth Century_.'
+
+'So I might.' He paused, and added casually, 'You read _The Nineteenth
+Century_?'
+
+'Now and then.'
+
+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.
+
+He changed the subject; was it merely to spare her?
+
+'Shall you go to Teignmouth again this year?'
+
+'I don't know yet. I think not.'
+
+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.
+
+'I have an idea'--he spoke dreamily--'of going to spend next winter in
+the Bahamas.'
+
+'Why the Bahamas?'
+
+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.
+
+He was replying.
+
+'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.'
+
+'How?'
+
+A vision of savages flashed before Nancy's mind. She breathed more
+freely, thinking the danger past.
+
+'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.'
+
+Trying hard to recollect her geography, Miss. Lord affected but a slight
+interest.
+
+'There's no direct way of getting there,' Tarrant pursued. 'What route
+should you suggest?'
+
+She was right, after all. He wished to convict her of ignorance. Her
+cheeks were now burning, beyond a doubt, and she felt revengeful.
+
+'I advise you to make inquiries at a shipping-office,' was her distant
+reply.
+
+'It seems'--he was smiling at Nancy--'I shall have to go to New York,
+and then take the Cuba mail.'
+
+'Are you going to join your friend in business?'
+
+'Business, I fear, is hardly my vocation.'
+
+There was a tremor on Nancy's lips, and about her eyelids. She said
+abruptly:
+
+'I thought you were perhaps in business?'
+
+'Did you? What suggested it?'
+
+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.
+
+'Oh'--she had assumed an ingenuous air--'there's the Black Lead that
+bears your name. Haven't you something to do with it?'
+
+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.
+
+'Black lead?' The words fell slowly, in a voice unlike that she had been
+hearing. 'No. I have nothing to do with it.'
+
+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.
+
+'Where are the children?' he was saying absently.
+
+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.
+
+'I think we must go,' she said.
+
+They entered, and took leave of Mrs. Baker, who sat alone in the
+drawing-room.
+
+'Did you say good-bye to Mr. Tarrant?' Jessica asked, as they came forth
+again.
+
+'Yes.'
+
+'I didn't. But I suppose it doesn't matter.'
+
+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.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 7
+
+
+
+'Now, _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!'
+
+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.
+
+'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!'
+
+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.
+
+'By the bye, Miss. Lord, are you aware that the Chinese Empire, with
+four _hundred_ MILLION inhabitants, has only _ten_ daily papers?
+Positively; only ten.'
+
+'How do you know?' asked Nancy.
+
+'I saw it stated in a paper. That helps one to _grasp_ 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.'
+
+He uttered a long 'Ah!' and moved his lips as if savouring a delicious
+morsel.
+
+'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?'
+
+'Oh, I have no idea, Mr. Barmby.'
+
+'Forty miles--positively! Forty miles of cabs!'
+
+'How do you know?' asked Nancy.
+
+'I saw it stated in a paper.'
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'Well, here I am. Are you going?'
+
+'I suppose you know you have kept us waiting,' said his sister.
+
+'Awf'ly sorry. Couldn't get here before.'
+
+He spoke as if he had not altogether the command of his tongue, and with
+a fixed meaningless smile.
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+'Oh, going about. I met some fellows after the procession. We had a
+splendid view, up there on the top of Waterloo House.'
+
+'Did Fanny go home?'
+
+'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.'
+
+'You are going to meet her again, I suppose?'
+
+Horace nodded.
+
+'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.'
+
+'Oh, there's no fear of that.'
+
+'All the same, it _might_ 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?'
+
+This was agreed upon.
+
+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.
+
+'It'll have to be a gallant rush! You would rather be outside, wouldn't
+you, Miss. Lord? Here it comes: charge!'
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+Barmby was talking to Jessica Morgan. She caught his words now and then.
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'Where are you going to leave us?' Nancy inquired of her brother.
+
+'Charing Cross, or somewhere about there.'
+
+'Keep by me till then.'
+
+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.
+
+'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?'
+
+'I don't care. What does it matter? Let us go straight on and see
+whatever comes in our way.'
+
+'That's the right spirit! Let us give ourselves up to the occasion! We
+can't be wrong in making for Trafalgar Square. Advance!'
+
+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--
+
+'_Do not forget me, Do not forget me, Think sometimes of me still_'--
+
+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.
+
+Just behind her--it was on the broad pavement at Whitehall--some one
+spoke her name.
+
+'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!'
+
+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.
+
+'May I walk on with you?' Crewe asked, when he saw that Miss. Lord felt
+no distaste for his company.
+
+Nancy deigned not even a glance at her nominal protector.
+
+'If you are going our way,' she replied.
+
+Barmby, his dignity unobserved, strode on with Miss. Morgan, of whom he
+sought information concerning the loud-voiced man. Crewe talked away.
+
+'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?'
+
+'No. I don't care for Royalties.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'Have you any Jubilee speculation on hand?'
+
+'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 _the_
+drink; I've never tasted anything like it. Why, there's the biggest
+fortune on record waiting for the man who can supply _the_ 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!'
+
+'Why?'
+
+'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.'
+
+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!'
+
+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.
+
+'Hollo! where's your brother?'
+
+'Gone, evidently.--Hush! Don't say anything. Will you do something for
+me, Mr. Crewe?'
+
+'Of course I will. What is it?'
+
+Nancy pursued in a low voice.
+
+'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?'
+
+Crewe laughed.
+
+'Like a bird!--But how am I to meet you again?'
+
+'We'll be at the top of Regent Street at nine o'clock,--by Peter
+Robinson's. Don't lose time.'
+
+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.
+
+'Your friend isn't coming any further?' he said, in a tone of
+forbearance.
+
+'No.'
+
+'But where's Mr. Lord?' exclaimed Jessica.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'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?'
+
+'I have no faith in anything popular,' Jessica replied loftily.
+
+'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.'
+
+'Did your sisters go to see the procession?' Nancy asked.
+
+'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
+_fact_--as Gurty would have said. I like to keep my mind open to facts.'
+
+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.
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'I think you had better leave me alone,' said Nancy, looking him
+severely in the face.
+
+'Well, if you really think so,'--he seemed struck by her manner of
+speech,--'of course I will: but I'd much rather not.'
+
+'I might find it necessary to speak to a policeman at the next corner.'
+
+'Oh, in that case.'--He raised his hat, and fell aside. And Nancy felt
+that, after all, the adventure had been amusing.
+
+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.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 8
+
+
+
+'Where are your friends?'
+
+'That's more than I can tell you.'
+
+They laughed together.
+
+'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.'
+
+'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.
+
+'Don't get frightened!'
+
+'Not I! I like it. It's good fun.'
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+'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.'
+
+'Yes, they must. It doesn't matter.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'I hope so. Did you set me down as one of that kind?'
+
+Nancy found that her tongue had achieved a liberty suitable to the
+occasion. She spoke without forethought, and found pleasure in her
+boldness.
+
+'Not I,' Crewe answered. 'But I never had a chance before now of telling
+you what I thought.'
+
+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.
+
+'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.
+
+'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.'
+
+'Say it, and look for a place where you can quench your thirst.'
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+'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 _we_'re a force tending
+to the right, and the crowd is a force making for straight on; to find
+the--'
+
+His hat was knocked over his eyes, and the statement of the problem
+ended in laughter.
+
+With a good deal of difficulty they reached one of the southward byways;
+and thenceforth walking was unimpeded.
+
+'You know that I call myself Luckworth Crewe,' resumed Nancy's companion
+after a short silence.
+
+'Of course I do.'
+
+'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.'
+
+Nancy looked a trifle disconcerted.
+
+'You won't think any worse of me, because I haven't a name of my own?'
+
+'Why should I? It isn't your fault.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'I should think it very possible,' his companion remarked.
+
+'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."'
+
+'Come home on it?' Nancy inquired, in astonishment.
+
+'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.'
+
+'I daresay.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'Oh, you'll get rich,' declared Nancy, laughing. 'No doubt about it.'
+
+'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--'
+
+'Like a father,' put in Nancy.
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+'I know you're tired,' he said. 'There's nearly half-an-hour before you
+need move.'
+
+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.
+
+'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.'
+
+'Champagne--?'
+
+It had been in her thoughts, a sparkling audacity. Good; champagne let
+it be. And she leaned back in defiant satisfaction.
+
+'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 _that_ to.'
+
+'I think this is good wine,' remarked Nancy, as if she had not heard
+him.
+
+'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.'
+
+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:
+
+'I wonder whether this is the last walk we shall have together?'
+
+'Who can say?' she answered in a light tone.
+
+'Some one ought to be able to say.'
+
+'I never make prophecies, and never believe other people's.'
+
+'Shows your good sense. But _I_ make wishes, and plenty of them.'
+
+'So do I,' said Nancy.
+
+'Then let us both make a wish to ourselves,' proposed Crewe, regarding
+her with eyes that had an uncommon light in them.
+
+His companion laughed, then both were quiet for a moment.
+
+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.
+
+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, '_Do not forget me--do not forget me_--'
+
+
+
+
+Part II: Nature's Graduate
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 1
+
+
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'I want something to drink,' he said wearily, without raising his eyes.
+
+'Will you have the lime-water, sir?'
+
+'Yes--what you like.'
+
+Mary brought it to him, and he drank two large glasses, with no pause.
+
+'Where is Nancy?'
+
+'In town, sir. She said she would be back about four.'
+
+He made an angry movement.
+
+'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?'
+
+'I don't know, sir.'
+
+The servant spoke in a low, respectful voice, looking at her master with
+eyes that seemed to compassionate him.
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+'Bring me some water, Mary, plain drinking-water.'
+
+She returned with a jug and glass, and he took a long draught.
+
+'No, don't go yet. I want to--to talk to you about things. Sit down
+there for a minute.'
+
+He pointed to the couch, and Mary, with an anxious look, obeyed him.
+
+'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.'
+
+'It might be the best thing you could do, sir. The best for your
+health.'
+
+'Yes, it might. I'm not satisfied with things. I want to make a decided
+change, in every way.'
+
+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.
+
+'Now I want you to tell me plainly, what do you think of Nancy?'
+
+'Think of her, sir?'
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+'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--'
+
+'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.'
+
+'I don't think you could have felt satisfied,' said the listener, with
+intelligent sympathy.
+
+'Why not? If she had been as good and useful a woman as _you_ are--'
+
+'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.'
+
+'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.'
+
+Mary's eyes had fallen, and she kept silence.
+
+'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 _him_ 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.'
+
+'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.
+
+'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.'
+
+He seated himself in front of his companion.
+
+'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?'
+
+'I shall do whatever you wish--whatever you bid me, Mr. Lord,' answered
+the woman, in a voice of heartfelt loyalty.
+
+'You would stay on, and keep house for them?'
+
+'But would they go on living here?'
+
+'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.'
+
+'But she couldn't live by herself, Mr. Lord.'
+
+'You tell me you would stay,' he exclaimed impulsively.
+
+'Oh, but I am only her servant. That wouldn't be enough.'
+
+'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.'
+
+His vehemence would brook no opposition.
+
+'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?'
+
+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.
+
+'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.'
+
+'You are forgetting her friends,' Mary said at length, with eyes of
+earnest appeal.
+
+'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 _her_. 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.'
+
+They heard a bell ring; that of the front door.
+
+'It'll be Miss. Nancy,' said Mary, rising.
+
+'Go to the door then. If it's Nancy, tell her I want to speak to her,
+and come back yourself.'
+
+'Mr. Lord--'
+
+'Do as I tell you--at once!'
+
+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.
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+'Father is quite right. Your place is with us. I am glad, very glad.'
+
+Mary looked from Mr. Lord to his daughter, tried vainly to speak, and
+left the room.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 2
+
+
+
+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.
+
+To this epistle, delivered by post, Mr. Lord made no answer.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'Who's that?' asked some one from the back of the room.
+
+'Oh, are _you_ there, Mr. Peachey?--I've come to see Fanny. I didn't
+care to go among the people.'
+
+'All right. We'd better light the gas.'
+
+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.
+
+'How is your father?' Peachey inquired. He had a dull, depressed look,
+and moved languidly to draw down the blind.
+
+'Oh, he isn't quite up to the mark. But it's nothing serious, I think.'
+
+'Miss. Lord quite well?--We haven't seen much of her lately.'
+
+'I don't know why, I'm sure.--Nobody can depend upon her very much.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'Confounded servants,' muttered Horace.
+
+'Oh yes, the servants,' was Peachey's ironical reply.
+
+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.
+
+'Why, it's dark, there's nobody here.'
+
+Fanny discovered her mistake. She was seized and lifted off her feet.
+
+'Oh! Do you want to eat me? I'll hit you as hard as I can, I will!
+You're spoiling my dress?'
+
+The last remonstrance was in a note that Horace did not venture to
+disregard.
+
+'Strike a light, silly! I know you've done something to my dress.'
+
+Horace pleaded abjectly to be forgiven, and that the room might remain
+shadowed; but Fanny was disturbed in temper.
+
+'If you don't light the gas, I'll go at once.'
+
+'I haven't any matches, darling.'
+
+'Oh, just like you! You never have anything. I thought every man carried
+matches.'
+
+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.
+
+'Never do that again,' she said viciously. 'I've had to unfasten my
+things, and put them straight. What a nuisance you are!'
+
+He stood cowed before her, limp and tremulous.
+
+'There, light the gas. Why couldn't you come into the drawing-room, like
+other people do?'
+
+'Who is there?' asked the young man, when he had obeyed her.
+
+'Go and see for yourself.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'Oh, what a silly you are!' she laughed, seating herself on the arm of
+an easy-chair. 'Go ahead! What's the latest?'
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+'I didn't think you had the pluck,' said Fanny, swinging one of her feet
+as she tittered.
+
+'That shows you haven't done me justice.'
+
+'And you're going to stay out late at night?'
+
+'As late as I like,' Horace answered, crossing his arms.
+
+'Then where will you take me to-morrow?'
+
+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.
+
+'Wherever you like.--"Dorothy," "Ruddigore--"'
+
+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.
+
+'Oh, how I do love you, Fanny!'
+
+She trod playfully on his toe.
+
+'You haven't told the old gentleman yet?'
+
+'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!'
+
+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.
+
+'What kind of people?' she asked coldly.
+
+'Oh--respectable, educated people, like ourselves.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'If you thought as much of me as I do of you--'
+
+Tired of her position, Fanny jumped up and took a spoonful of sweet
+jelly from a dish on the table.
+
+'Have some?'
+
+'Come here again. I've something more to tell you. Something very
+important.'
+
+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.
+
+'You'll promise me not to say a word to any one?' pleaded Horace.
+
+'I won't open my lips. But you're quite sure she's as old as you say?'
+
+'Old enough to be my mother, I assure you.'
+
+The girl's suspicions were not wholly set at rest, but she made no
+further display of them.
+
+'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?'
+
+'Not bad,' was the judicial reply.
+
+'She must have no end of money, and who knows what she might do for me!'
+
+'It's a jolly queer thing,' mused the maiden.
+
+'There's no denying that. We must keep it close, whatever we do.'
+
+'You haven't told anybody else?'
+
+'Not a soul!' Horace lied stoutly.
+
+They were surprised by the sudden opening of the door; a servant
+appeared to clear the table. Fanny reprimanded her for neglecting to
+knock.
+
+'We may as well go into the drawing-room. There's nobody particular.
+Only Mrs. Middlemist, and Mr. Crewe, and--'
+
+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.
+
+Fanny was requested to sing. She sat down at the piano, rattled a
+prelude, and gave forth an echo of the music-halls:
+
+'_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_.'
+
+Mrs. Middlemist, who prided herself upon serious vocal powers, remarked
+that comic singing should be confined to men.
+
+'You haven't a bad voice, my dear, if you would only take pains with it.
+Now sing us "For Ever and for Ever."'
+
+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:
+
+'_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!_'
+
+Mrs. Murch let her head droop sentimentally. Horace glanced at Fanny,
+who, however, seemed absorbed in reflections as unsentimental as could
+be.
+
+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.
+
+'How does it strike you?' she asked at length.
+
+'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?'
+
+'Can't help with money,' Crewe replied.
+
+'Very well; will you help in other ways? Practical hints, and so on?'
+
+'Of course I will. Always ready to encourage merit in the money-making
+line. What capital are you prepared to put into it?'
+
+'Not much. The public must supply the capital.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'I'm aware of it.'
+
+'Can you raise a thousand or so?'
+
+'Yes, I could--if I chose.'
+
+'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.'
+
+Beatrice was growing elated.
+
+'The public has to wait for its benefactors,' she replied.
+
+'I'll tell you what, would you like me to sketch you out a prospectus of
+the Club?'
+
+'Yes, you might do that if you like. You won't expect to be paid?'
+
+'Hang it! what do you take me for?'
+
+'Business is business,' Miss. French remarked coldly.
+
+'So it is. And friendship is friendship. Got a match?' He laughed. 'No,
+I suppose you haven't.'
+
+'I'll go and get you one if you like.'
+
+'There's a good fellow. I'll think in the meantime.'
+
+Beatrice rose lazily, and was absent for several minutes. When she
+returned, Crewe re-lit his cigar.
+
+'Why shouldn't I start the shop on my own account?' Beatrice asked.
+
+'You haven't capital enough. A little place wouldn't do.'
+
+'I think I can get Fanny to join me.'
+
+'Can you? What will young Lord have to say to that?'
+
+'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.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'It's risky, dealing with strangers. How if they got hold of my idea,
+and then refused to take me in?'
+
+'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?'
+
+'You mean, give it to Bullock and Freeman?'
+
+'No, I don't. It's a secret just yet, but I'm going to start for
+myself.'
+
+Beatrice was silent. They exchanged a look in the gloom, and Crewe
+nodded, in confirmation of his announcement.
+
+'How much have you got?' Miss. French inquired carelessly.
+
+'Not much. Most of the capital is here.' He touched his forehead. 'Same
+as with you.'
+
+The young woman glanced at him again, and said in a lower voice:
+
+'You'd have had more by now, if--'
+
+Crewe waited, puffing his cigar, but she did not finish.
+
+'Maybe,' he replied impartially. 'Maybe not.'
+
+'Don't think I'm sorry,' Beatrice hastened to add. 'It was an idea, like
+any other.'
+
+'Not half a bad idea. But there were obstacles.'
+
+After a pause, Beatrice inquired:
+
+'Do you still think the same about women with money?'
+
+'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.'
+
+Beatrice laughed scornfully.
+
+'All right. We shall see.--When do you start business?'
+
+'This side Christmas. End of September, perhaps.'
+
+'You think to snatch a good deal from B. & F., I daresay?'
+
+Crewe nodded and smiled.
+
+'Then you'll look after this affair for me?' said Beatrice, with a
+return to the tone of strict business.
+
+'Without loss of time. You shall be advised of progress. Of course I
+must debit you with exes.'
+
+'All right. Mind you charge for all the penny stamps.'
+
+'Every one--don't you forget it.'
+
+He stood up, tilted forward on his toes, and stretched himself.
+
+'I'll be trotting homewards. It'll be time for by-by when I get to
+Kennington.'
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 3
+
+
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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 _her_--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.'
+
+'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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'Well, why not take her with you, when you go away?'
+
+'I didn't know that I was going away, father. Nothing has been said of
+it.'
+
+'It's your own business. I leave you to make what plans you like.'
+
+Nancy reflected.
+
+'_You_ 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.'
+
+'Why Teignmouth?'
+
+'I enjoyed it last year. And the lodgings were comfortable. We could
+have the same, from the first week in August.'
+
+'How do you know?'
+
+'I wrote the other day, and asked,' Nancy replied with a smile.
+
+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:
+
+'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.'
+
+'It's very kind of you, father.'
+
+Mr. Lord turned away. His daughter noticed that he walked feebly, and
+she felt a moment's compunction.
+
+'Father--you are not so well to-day.'
+
+Without looking round, he replied that he would be well enough if left
+alone; and Nancy did not venture to say more.
+
+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.
+
+'What do you think of that business?' she asked her companion in an
+undertone.
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+'Been waiting for you,' he said. 'You remember you promised me another
+walk.'
+
+'Oh, it's much too late.'
+
+'Of course it is. I didn't mean now. But to-morrow.'
+
+'Impossible.' She moved on, in the direction away from her home. 'I
+shall be with friends in the evening, the Morgans.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'I've never been up the Monument,' said Nancy.
+
+'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.'
+
+'All right; I'll be there,' Nancy replied off-hand.
+
+'You really will? Three, sharp. I was never late at an appointment,
+business or pleasure.'
+
+'Which do you consider this?' asked his companion, with a shrewd glance.
+
+'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.'
+
+'Why, of course,' replied Nancy, with an ingenuous air. 'What else could
+it be?' And she added, 'Don't come any further. Ta-ta!'
+
+Crewe went off into the darkness.
+
+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.
+
+'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.'
+
+'Are _you_ going to bid?' asked Nancy.
+
+'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?'
+
+'Is it far?'
+
+'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.'
+
+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:
+
+'I suppose that's the view you take of everything? You rate everything
+at market price.'
+
+'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!'
+
+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.
+
+'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.'
+
+'Can you recognise it?' asked Nancy.
+
+'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.'
+
+His companion laughed.
+
+'Take care, then, that your wife is ornamental.'
+
+'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?'
+
+'Don't shout, please. People can hear you.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'Talk of something else,' Nancy commanded.
+
+'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.'
+
+'I needed no excuse,' said Nancy. 'If I hadn't wished to come, you may
+be sure I should have said so.'
+
+Crewe flashed a look at her.
+
+'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.'
+
+'Or wanted to see if life looked any better from up there,' suggested
+Nancy.
+
+'Or hoped somebody would catch them by the coat-tails, and settle a
+pension on them out of pity.'
+
+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.
+
+Crewe had his eyes fixed upon her; his lips parted hungrily.
+
+'Now _that's_ 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!'
+
+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.
+
+'Portraits for the Academy cost a great deal, you know.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'Well, prove it,' replied Nancy, and laughed as the wind caught her
+breath.
+
+'How long will you give me?'
+
+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.
+
+'What it must be,' she said, 'to have about twenty thousand a year!'
+
+The man of business gave a gasp. In the same moment he had to clutch at
+his hat, lest it should be blown away.
+
+'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.'
+
+'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?'
+
+'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.'
+
+'My thoughts are my own. I may think as I choose.'
+
+'Yes. But you have thoughts above money.'
+
+'Have I? How kind of you to say so.--I've had enough of this wind; we'll
+go down.'
+
+She led the way, and neither of them spoke till they were in the street
+again. Nancy felt her hair.
+
+'Am I blown to pieces?' she asked.
+
+'No, no; you're all right. Now, will you walk through the City?'
+
+'Where's the place you spoke of?'
+
+'Farringdon Street. That'll bring you round to Blackfriars Bridge, when
+you want to go home. But there's plenty of time yet.'
+
+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.
+
+'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.
+
+'This?--Can you afford such a rent?'
+
+Her companion burst into laughter.
+
+'I don't mean the whole building. Two or three rooms, that's all,
+somewhere upstairs.'
+
+Nancy made a jest of her mistake.
+
+'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.'
+
+'I thought you were going to propose champagne.'
+
+'Oh--if you like--'
+
+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.
+
+'Well,' he said at length, leaning towards her, 'how long do you give
+me?'
+
+She looked away, and kept silence.
+
+'Two years:--just to make a solid start; to show that something worth
+talking 'about is to come?'
+
+'I'll think about it.'
+
+He kept his position, and gazed at her.
+
+'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 _that_! 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.'
+
+Nancy began to draw on her gloves, and smiled, just biting her lower
+lip.
+
+'Will you give me a couple of years, from to-day? I won't bother you.
+It's honour bright!'
+
+'I'll think about it,' Nancy repeated.
+
+'Whilst you're away?'
+
+'Yes, whilst I'm away at Teignmouth.'
+
+'And tell me when you come back?'
+
+'Tell you--how long. Yes.'
+
+And she rose.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 4
+
+
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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 _tete-a-tete_ 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.
+
+'You'll be surprised. Who do you think is here?'
+
+'No one that will bore us, I hope.'
+
+'Mr. Tarrant. I met him near the post-office, and he stopped me.'
+
+Nancy frowned.
+
+'Are they all here again?'
+
+'No; he says he's alone.--One minute, mamma; please excuse us.'
+
+'He was surprised to see you?' said Nancy, after reflecting.
+
+'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.'
+
+'Evidently not!' Nancy exclaimed, with some impatience. 'Why should you
+doubt his word?'
+
+'I can't help thinking'--Jessica smiled archly--'that he has come just
+to meet--somebody.'
+
+'Somebody? Who do you mean?' asked her friend, with a look of sincere
+astonishment.
+
+'I may be mistaken'--a glance completed the suggestion.
+
+'Rubbish!'
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'You are fond of this place,' he said.
+
+'Not particularly.'
+
+'Then why do you choose it?'
+
+'It does for a holiday as well as any other.'
+
+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.
+
+'How do you like those advertisements of soaps and pills along the
+pier?' he asked carelessly.
+
+'I see no harm in them.'
+
+Perversity prompted her answer, but at once she remembered Crewe, and
+turned away in annoyance. Tarrant was only the more good-humoured.
+
+'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?'
+
+'I? You are confusing me with Miss. Morgan.'
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+'Don't you go off into the country sometimes?' he inquired, when she had
+turned homewards.
+
+'We are thinking of having a drive to-day.'
+
+'And I shall most likely have a ride; we may meet.'
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 5
+
+
+
+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.
+
+At the same time there came a letter from Horace.
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'Did you get your books?' Nancy asked, when silence followed on
+trivialities.
+
+'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.'
+
+Nancy turned her eyes to the sea.
+
+'We might walk over there one afternoon,' he added.
+
+'Mrs. Morgan can't walk far.'
+
+'Why should we trouble her? Are you obliged to remain under Mrs.
+Morgan's wing?'
+
+It was said jestingly, but Nancy felt piqued.
+
+'Certainly not. I am quite independent.'
+
+'So I should have supposed. Then why not come?'
+
+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.
+
+'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?'
+
+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.
+
+'This afternoon, then,' the voice was murmuring.
+
+She answered mechanically. 'It's going to rain, I think.'
+
+'I think not. But, if so, to-morrow.'
+
+'To-morrow is Sunday.'
+
+'Yes. Monday, then.'
+
+Nancy heard him smother a laugh. She wished to look at him, but could
+not.
+
+'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.'
+
+Nancy pointed out to sea, and asked where the steamer just passing might
+be bound for. Her companion readily turned to this subject.
+
+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.
+
+'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.'
+
+'We'll have another drive this afternoon,' Nancy declared.
+
+'Oh, how delightful! But pray, pray, not on our account--'
+
+'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.'
+
+'You're a magnificent sort of person,' said Jessica. 'Some day, no
+doubt, you'll keep a carriage and pair of your own.'
+
+'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?'
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+Two loudly-dressed women were at the same time searching the shelves.
+
+'I wonder whether this is a pretty book?' said one to the other, taking
+down a trio of volumes.
+
+'Oh, it looks as if it might be pretty,' returned her friend, examining
+the cover.
+
+They faced to the person behind the counter.
+
+'Is this a pretty book?' one of them inquired loftily.
+
+'Oh yes, madam, that's a very pretty book--very pretty.'
+
+Nancy exchanged a glance with her companion and smiled. When they were
+outside again Tarrant asked:
+
+'Have you found a pretty book?'
+
+She showed the title of her choice.
+
+'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.'
+
+Insensibly, Nancy had followed the direction he chose. His words took
+for granted that she was going into the country with him.
+
+'My friends are on the pier,' she said, abruptly stopping.
+
+'Where doubtless they will enjoy themselves. Let me carry your book,
+please. Helmholtz is rather heavy.'
+
+'Thanks, I can carry it very well. I shall turn this way.'
+
+'No, no. My way this afternoon.'
+
+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.
+
+'There was an understanding,' said Tarrant, with playful firmness.
+
+'Not for to-day.'
+
+'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.'
+
+She followed, and they walked for several minutes in silence.
+
+'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?'
+
+'One must know something about it.'
+
+'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?'
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'This is our way,' said Tarrant, his hand on the lichened wood. 'Better
+than the pier or the promenade, don't you think?'
+
+'But we have gone far enough.'
+
+Nancy drew back into the lane, looked at her flowers, and then shaded
+her eyes with them to gaze upward.
+
+'Almost. Another five minutes, and you will see the place I told you of.
+You can't imagine how beautiful it is.'
+
+'Another day--'
+
+'We are all but there--'
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'Have I misled you?' said Tarrant, watching her face with frank
+pleasure.
+
+'No, indeed you haven't. This is very beautiful!'
+
+'I discovered it last year, and spent hours here alone. I couldn't ask
+you to come and see it then,' he added, laughing.
+
+'It is delightful!'
+
+'Here's your seat,--who knows how many years it has waited for you?'
+
+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.
+
+'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.
+
+'Helmholtz! Away with him!'
+
+'No; I have opened at something interesting.'
+
+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.
+
+'Won't you have any?' Nancy asked, without looking at him.
+
+'One or two, if you will give me them.'
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'You know,' said Tarrant, after a long pause, and speaking as though he
+feared to break the hush, 'that Keats once stayed at Teignmouth.'
+
+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.
+
+'Will you read me a paragraph of Helmholtz?' continued the other,
+looking at her with a smile. 'Any paragraph, the one before you.'
+
+She hesitated, but read at length, in an unsteady voice, something about
+the Conservation of Force. It ended in a nervous laugh.
+
+'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:
+
+'_O what can ail thee, Knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering? The
+sedge has wither'd from the lake, And no birds sing_.'
+
+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.
+
+'Isn't it better?' said Tarrant, drawing slightly nearer to her.
+
+'Of course it is.'
+
+'I used to know thousands of verses by heart.'
+
+'Did you ever write any?'
+
+'Half-a-dozen epics or so, when I was about seventeen. Yet, I don't come
+of a poetical family. My father--'
+
+He stopped abruptly, looked into Nancy's face with a smile, and said in
+a tone of playfulness:
+
+'Do you remember asking me whether I had anything to do with--'
+
+Nancy, flushing over all her features, exclaimed, 'Don't! please don't!
+I'm ashamed of myself!'
+
+'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.
+
+'I don't know what made me say such a thing--'
+
+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.
+
+'Now will you give me another blackberry?'
+
+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.
+
+'What are you going to do?' she asked presently. 'I mean, what do you
+aim at in life?'
+
+'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.'
+
+'It's waste of time.'
+
+'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--'
+
+He did not stir from his posture of languid ease, but Nancy, with a
+quick movement, drew a little away from him, then rose.
+
+'It's time to go back,' she said absently.
+
+'No, no; not yet. Let me look at you for a few minutes more!'
+
+She began to walk slowly, head bent.
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 6
+
+
+
+The lodgings were taken for three weeks, and more than half the time had
+now elapsed.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+And then passed three whole days, during which Lionel was not seen.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'To-morrow is our last day,' said Nancy.
+
+'Yes, Mrs. Morgan told me.' Nancy herself had never spoken of departure.
+'This afternoon we'll go up the hill again.'
+
+'I don't think I shall care to walk so far. Look at the mist; it's going
+to be dreadfully hot again.'
+
+Tarrant was in a mood of careless gaiety; his companion appeared to
+struggle against listlessness, and her cheek had lost its wonted colour.
+
+'You have tea at four or five, I suppose. Let us go after that, when the
+heat of the day is over.'
+
+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:
+
+'I may be a little late for dinner. On no account wait--I forbid it!'
+
+And so, without listening to the answer, she hurried away.
+
+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.
+
+'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.
+
+'I don't know. Everything is uncertain.'
+
+And he put the question aside as if it were of no importance.
+
+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.
+
+'Stay--did you ever see such ivy as this?'
+
+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.
+
+'I must cut it.'
+
+'Why?'
+
+'You shall see.'
+
+He wove three stems into a wreath.
+
+'There now, take off your hat, and let me crown you. Have I made it too
+large for the little head?'
+
+Nancy, after a moment's reluctance, unfastened her hat, and stood
+bareheaded, blushing and laughing.
+
+'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?'
+
+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.
+
+'I pictured it in my letter,' said Tarrant, 'the letter you never got.'
+
+'Where is it?'
+
+'Oh, I burnt it.'
+
+'Tell me what was in it.'
+
+'All sorts of things--a long letter.'
+
+'I think that's all nonsense about forgetting my address.'
+
+'Mere truth. In fact, I never knew it.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'But how did I behave?'
+
+'Very strangely.'
+
+Tarrant affected not to understand; but, when she again turned, Nancy
+saw a mischievous smile on his face.
+
+'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?'
+
+'I don't know about that.' And she tried, though faintly, to get free.
+
+'But I will make you--now, refuse!'
+
+His lips had just touched hers, just touched and no more. Rosy red, she
+trembled before him with drooping eyelids.
+
+'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.'
+
+Nancy shook her head.
+
+'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.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'I don't believe your explanation,' said Nancy.
+
+'Not believe me?'
+
+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.
+
+'Where can they come from?' she asked.
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'How did you get there?'
+
+'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.'
+
+'How can I?--We will drive the donkeys away.'
+
+'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.'
+
+She drew near.
+
+'Your sunshade first.'
+
+'Oh, it's too much trouble,' she said languidly, all but plaintively.
+'I'd rather be here.'
+
+'Obey!--Your sunshade--'
+
+She gave it.
+
+'Now, your hand.'
+
+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.
+
+'We shall be trespassing,' said Nancy.
+
+'What do I care? Now, jump!'
+
+'As if you could catch me!' Again she uttered her nervous laugh. 'I am
+heavy.'
+
+'Obey! Jump!' he cried impatiently, his eyes afire.
+
+She knelt, seated herself, dropped forward. Tarrant caught her in his
+arms.
+
+'You heavy! a feather weight! Why, I can carry you; I could run with
+you.'
+
+And he did carry her through the brushwood, away into the shadow of the
+trees.
+
+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.
+
+'What does it mean, Jessica?' asked the mother timidly.
+
+'I'm sure I don't know. It doesn't concern us. She didn't mean to be
+back, by what she said.'
+
+'But--isn't it rather--?'
+
+'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.'
+
+'So am I, dear.--Oh, I'm quite afraid to think of the appetites we're
+taking back. Poor Milly will be terrified.'
+
+Eight o'clock, nine o'clock. The two conversed in subdued voices; Mrs.
+Morgan was anxious, all but distressed. Half-past nine. 'What _can_ 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.'
+
+'Hush! That was a knock.'
+
+They waited. In a minute or two the door was opened a few inches, and a
+voice called 'Jessica!'
+
+She responded. Nancy was standing in the gloom.
+
+'Come into my room,' she said curtly.
+
+Arrived there, she did not strike a light. She closed the door, and took
+hold of her friend's arm.
+
+'We can't go back the day after to-morrow, Jessica. We must wait a day
+longer, till the afternoon of Friday.'
+
+'Why? What's the matter, Nancy?'
+
+'Nothing serious. Don't be frightened, I'm tired, and I shall go to
+bed.'
+
+'But why must we wait?'
+
+'Listen: will you promise me faithfully--as friend to friend, faith
+fully--not to tell the reason even to your mother?'
+
+'I will, faithfully.'
+
+'Then, it's this. On Friday morning I shall be married to Mr Tarrant.'
+
+'Gracious!'
+
+'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 _his_ 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.'
+
+She spoke in a passionate whisper, and Jessica felt her trembling.
+
+'You needn't have the least fear of me, dear.'
+
+'I believe it. Kiss me, and good-night!'
+
+
+
+
+Part III: Into Bontage
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 1
+
+
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'Do you write to Nancy?' he asked one morning of his faithful attendant,
+with scowling suspicion.
+
+'No.'
+
+'You are telling me the truth?'
+
+'I never write to any one.'
+
+'Understand plainly that I won't have a word said to her about me.'
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'To tell us the train she's coming by, no doubt.'
+
+Mary waited. When Mr. Lord had read the brief note, his face darkened,
+first with disappointment, then with anger.
+
+'Here, look at it,' he said harshly. 'What else was to be expected?'
+
+'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--'
+
+'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?'
+
+'The fine weather has tempted them,' replied Mary. 'I daresay they want
+to go somewhere.'
+
+'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 _she_ care whether she finds me alive or dead?'
+
+'Oh, don't say that! You wouldn't let her know that you were worse.'
+
+'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!'
+
+He checked the course of his furious speech, and stood staring at the
+letter.
+
+'What did you say?' He spoke now in a hoarse undertone. 'You thought
+they were going somewhere?'
+
+'Last year there used to be steamers that went to places on certain
+days--'
+
+'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.'
+
+He met Mary's eye, suddenly turned upon him. His own fell before it, and
+without speaking again he went into the house.
+
+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.
+
+It was nearly ten o'clock when he returned. Mary, sitting in the front
+room, rose at his entrance.
+
+'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.
+
+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.
+
+'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.'
+
+He laughed again, his emphasis on 'lordship' showing that he consciously
+played with the family name.
+
+'But I was a fool to be angry. Let them come when they will.'
+
+For a few minutes he lay back in the chair, gazing at vacancy.
+
+'Has the girl gone to bed?'
+
+'I'll tell her she can go.'
+
+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.
+
+'Yes, yes. Nancy laughs at it--calls it old rubbish. These young people
+are so clever.'
+
+His companion made no remark. Unobserved, he scrutinised her face for a
+long time, and said at length:
+
+'Don't let _us_ 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 _you_?'
+
+'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.'
+
+'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 _can_ 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.'
+
+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.
+
+'Mary, did you ever ask yourself what sort of woman Nancy's mother may
+have been?'
+
+The listener started, like one in whom a secret has been surprised. She
+tried to answer, but after all did not speak.
+
+'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.'
+
+Their eyes just met.
+
+'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.'
+
+He breathed quickly and painfully. Mary sat without a movement.
+
+'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 _her_
+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.'
+
+'You will never tell your children,' said Mary, when there had been a
+long pause.
+
+'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.'
+
+'No, no,' returned the other hurriedly. 'Never let her know of
+it--never. It might do her much harm.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'You don't know whether she's alive or not?' asked Mary, when once more
+it was left to her to break silence.
+
+'What do I care? How should I know?'
+
+'Don't be tempted to tell them--either of them!' said the other
+earnestly.
+
+'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 _did_ 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?'
+
+'I hope it may never--'
+
+'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?'
+
+And Mary, lifting her eyes, met his look of appeal with more than a
+friend's confidence.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 2
+
+
+
+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.
+
+He belonged to an informal club of young men who called themselves,
+facetiously, the Hodiernals. _Vixi hodie_! 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.'
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+Could it be sober fact? Had he in very deed committed so gross an
+absurdity?
+
+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.'
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+Well, there was the awkward and unaccountable fact that he _felt_
+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.
+
+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?
+
+That _her_ 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.
+
+Who could say what the girl had been reading, what cheap philosophies
+had unsettled her mind? Is not a little knowledge a dangerous thing?
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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!
+
+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.
+
+If only she had loved him less!
+
+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.
+
+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--
+
+Well, there were consolations. A wise man makes the best of the
+inevitable.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 3
+
+
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'Well, you had no difficulty in finding the place?'
+
+'No--none at all.'
+
+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.
+
+'Come and sit down,' said Tarrant cheerfully, as he wheeled a chair.
+
+She obeyed him, and he, stooping beside her, offered his lips. Nancy
+kissed him, closing her eyes for the moment, then dropping them again.
+
+'It seems a long time, Nancy--doesn't it?'
+
+'Yes--a very long time.'
+
+'You couldn't come on Sunday?'
+
+'I found my father very ill. I didn't like to leave home till to-day.'
+
+'Your father ill?--You said nothing of it in your letter.'
+
+'No--I didn't like to--with the other things.'
+
+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.
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+'Are you glad to see me?' she asked, in a voice that seemed subdued by
+doubt of the answer.
+
+'I am--very glad.'
+
+His hand fell to her shoulder. With a quick movement, a stifled
+exclamation, the girl rose and flung her arms about him.
+
+'Are you really glad?--Do you really love me?'
+
+'Never doubt it, dear girl.'
+
+'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.'
+
+He took hold of her left hand, and looked at it, then said playfully:
+
+'Of course you wonder. What business has a wife to come and see her
+husband without the ring on her finger?'
+
+Nancy turned from him, opened the front of her dress, unknotted a string
+of silk, and showed her finger bright with the golden circlet.
+
+'That's how I must wear it, except when I am with you. I keep
+touching--to make sure it's there.'
+
+Tarrant kissed her fingers.
+
+'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!'
+
+'Ashamed? Because you are married, Nancy?'
+
+'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.'
+
+'The registry at Teignmouth remembers,' he answered with a laugh. 'Those
+books have a long memory.'
+
+She raised her eyes.
+
+'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?'
+
+'Why, that's a difficult question to answer,' he returned gently. 'It
+all depends on your own feeling.'
+
+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.
+
+'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.'
+
+'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
+_will_ come, again and again, and it makes me feel as if I would rather
+have died.'
+
+'Send such thoughts packing. Tell them your husband wants all your heart
+and mind for himself.'
+
+'But will you never think ill of me?'
+
+She whispered the words, close-clinging.
+
+'I should be a contemptible sort of brute.'
+
+'No. I ought to have--. If we had spoken of our love to each other, and
+waited.'
+
+'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--'
+
+'Never! Never ask me to go there. I want to forget--I hope some day I
+may forget.'
+
+'If you hope so, then I will hope the same.'
+
+'And you love me--with real, husband's love--love that will last?'
+
+'Why should _I_ answer all the questions?' He took her face between his
+hands. What if the wife's love should fail first?'
+
+'You can say that lightly, because you know--'
+
+'What do I know?'
+
+'You know that I am _all_ 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--'
+
+Their lips met in a long silence.
+
+'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!'
+
+'Will you look at the other rooms?'
+
+'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.'
+
+'Let you? They are yours as much as mine.'
+
+Her face brightened.
+
+'I should like to live here; how I should enjoy it after that hateful
+Grove Lane! Shall I live here with you some day?'
+
+'There wouldn't be room for two. Why, your dresses would fill the whole
+place.'
+
+She went and stood before the shelves.
+
+'But how dusty you are! Who cleans for you?'
+
+'No one. A very rickety old woman draws a certain number of shillings
+each week, on pretence of cleaning.'
+
+'What a shame! She neglects you disgracefully. You shall go away some
+afternoon, and leave me here with a great pile of dusters.'
+
+'You can do that kind of thing? It never occurred to me to ask you: are
+you a domestic person?'
+
+She answered with something of the old confident air.
+
+'That was an oversight, wasn't it? After all, how little you know about
+me!'
+
+'Do you know much more of me?'
+
+Her countenance fell.
+
+'You are going to tell me--everything. How long have you lived here?'
+
+'Two years and a half.'
+
+'And your friends come to see you here? Of course they do. I meant, have
+you many friends?'
+
+'Friends, no. A good many acquaintances.'
+
+'Men, like yourself?'
+
+'Mostly men, fellows who talk about art and literature.'
+
+'And women?' Nancy faltered, half turning away.
+
+'Oh, magnificent creatures--Greek scholars--mathematicians--all that is
+most advanced!'
+
+'That's the right answer to a silly question,' said Nancy humbly.
+
+Whereat, Tarrant fixed his gaze upon her.
+
+'I begin to think that--'
+
+He checked himself awkwardly. Nancy insisted on the completion of his
+thought.
+
+'That of all the women I know, you have the most sense.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'How?'
+
+'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?'
+
+'What do you wish me to do?'
+
+'Just tell me how you live. What shall you do now, when I'm gone?'
+
+'Sit disconsolate,'--he came nearer--'thinking you were just a little
+unkind.'
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+'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 _de
+rigueur_; 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--'
+
+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.
+
+'What a life,' sighed the listener, 'compared with mine!'
+
+'We'll remedy that, some day.'
+
+'When?' she asked absently.
+
+'Wait just a little.--You don't wish to tell your father?'
+
+'I daren't tell him. I doubt whether I shall ever dare to tell him face
+to face.'
+
+'Don't think about it. Leave it to me.'
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+'Did you come by the back way?' Tarrant asked, when he had bitten his
+lips for a sulky minute.
+
+'Yes, as you told me.'
+
+He said he would walk with her into Chancery Lane; there could be no
+risk in it.
+
+'You shall go out first. Any one passing will suppose you had business
+with the solicitor underneath. I'll overtake you at Southampton
+Buildings.'
+
+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: _Surrexit e flammis_, 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.
+
+Tarrant's step sounded behind her. Looking up she asked the meaning of
+the inscription she had seen.
+
+'You don't know Latin? Well, why should you? _Surrexit e flammis_, "It
+rose again from the flames."
+
+'I thought it might be something like that. You will be patient with my
+ignorance?'
+
+A strange word upon Nancy's lips. No mortal ere this had heard her
+confess to ignorance.
+
+'But you know the modern languages?' said Tarrant, smiling.
+
+'Yes. That is, a little French and German--a very little German.'
+
+Tarrant mused, seemingly with no dissatisfaction.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 4
+
+
+
+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.
+
+'Do you see much of her?'
+
+'Not much,' was the dreamy reply. 'When are you going to call?'
+
+'Oh, not at present,' said Nancy.
+
+'You've altered again, then?'
+
+She vouchsafed no answer.
+
+'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.'
+
+'What!' She flashed into excessive anger. 'Who has been talking?'
+
+'The people over there. Of course I know it's all nonsense. At
+least'--he raised his eyebrows--'I suppose it is.'
+
+'_I_ should suppose so,' said Nancy, with vehement scorn.
+
+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.
+
+'I give you no more advice; it would only be repeating what I have said
+hundreds of times. All I can _do_ 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.'
+
+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.
+
+'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--'
+
+'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--'
+
+Whilst she spoke through her tears, the yellow, wrinkled face upon the
+pillow, with its sunken eyes and wasted lips, kept sternly motionless.
+
+'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 _your_ 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.'
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'Do you think it's dangerous?' he asked.
+
+'I'm afraid he will never get well.'
+
+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.
+
+'Here I am, you see!--up in the clouds. Now, _did_ you get my letter?'
+
+'No letter, but a telegram.'
+
+'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 _was_, 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 _don't_ like that,
+I don't really!'
+
+The young man looked at her in bewilderment.
+
+'What don't you like?'
+
+'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.'
+
+'But suppose some one came--'
+
+'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.'
+
+She disappeared, and came back with a comb of tortoise-shell.
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+'There--let me look. Oh, I think that's an improvement--more
+_distingue_. And now tell me the news. How is your father?'
+
+'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.'
+
+'Oh, you don't say that! Oh, how very sad! But let us hope. I can't
+think it's so bad as that.'
+
+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.
+
+'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 _should_ happen--oh, but
+that's too sad; we won't talk about it.'
+
+Again she meditated, tapping the floor, and, as it seemed, trying not to
+smile.
+
+'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
+_la petite_?'
+
+'I just saw her the other evening,' he answered uneasily.
+
+'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?'
+
+She examined his face attentively, her lips set with tolerable firmness.
+
+'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.'
+
+Mrs. Damerel drew her eyebrows together, and gave a loud tap on the
+floor.
+
+'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.'
+
+Horace leaned forward and drooped his head.
+
+'I don't think you form anything like a right idea of her,' he said.
+
+The other moved impatiently.
+
+'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.'
+
+With the vexation on her face there blended, as she looked at him, a
+tenderness unmistakably genuine.
+
+'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.'
+
+Horace looked up with pleasure and gratitude.
+
+'Now, that's really kind of you!'
+
+'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?'
+
+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.
+
+'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?'
+
+'Oh, of course not.'
+
+Mrs. Damerel seemed relieved, but pursued her questioning.
+
+'You couldn't think of marrying for at least half a year?'
+
+'Fanny wouldn't wish it.'
+
+'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!'
+
+The listener's face wavered between pleasure in such flattery and the
+impulse of resistance.
+
+'Remember, Horace, if anything _should_ 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!
+
+'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 _did_ happen, what would your sister do, I wonder?'
+
+'I'm sure I don't know--except that she'd get away from Camberwell.
+Nancy hates it.'
+
+'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.'
+
+To this, Horace could venture only an uncertain reply. He had not much
+hope of mutual understanding between his sister and Mrs. Damerel.
+
+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.
+
+'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.'
+
+Her brother kept silence.
+
+'Has Mrs. Damerel,' she continued, 'ever said anything to you about
+mother's family?'
+
+After hesitation, Horace answered, 'Yes,' and his countenance showed
+that the affirmative had special meaning. Nancy waited with an inquiring
+look.
+
+'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.'
+
+'How long have you known that?'
+
+'She told me at Scarborough.'
+
+'But why didn't she tell you so at first?'
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+'She would be glad to see you, if you liked. But I doubt whether you
+would get on very well.'
+
+'Why?'
+
+'She doesn't care about the same things that you do. She's a woman of
+society, you know.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'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?'
+
+'I should be afraid to ask, unless she had given me leave to speak to
+you.'
+
+'She really lives in good society?'
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'Do you know me?' she whispered.
+
+The lips moved; she bent lower, but could distinguish no word. He was
+speaking; the murmur continued; but she gathered no sense.
+
+'You can trust me, I will do all I can.'
+
+He seemed to understand her, and smiled. As the smile faded away,
+passing into an austere calm, Mary pressed her lips upon his forehead.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 5
+
+
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'I'm going--I won't put up with that beast any longer. I shall go and
+live at Brighton.'
+
+Her sister paid not the slightest heed; she was intent upon a business
+letter of much moment.
+
+'Do you hear what I say? I'm going by the first train this afternoon.'
+
+'All right,' remarked Beatrice placidly. 'Don't interrupt me just now.
+
+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--
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+'He's dead!' she said excitedly. 'He's dead!'
+
+Beatrice turned with a look of interest. 'Who? Mr. Lord?'
+
+'Yes. The blinds are all down. He must have died in the night.'
+
+Her cheeks glowed and her eyes sparkled, as though she had brought the
+most exhilarating news.
+
+'What do I care?' said Mrs. Peachey, to whom her sister had addressed
+the last remark.
+
+'Just as much as I care about your affairs, no doubt,' returned Fanny,
+with genial frankness.
+
+'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.'
+
+'Who'll get it, then?'
+
+'There may be nothing worth speaking of to get, for all we know.'
+
+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.
+
+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.'
+
+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.
+
+'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.'
+
+'A secret? And what business had you to keep secrets from me?'
+
+'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.'
+
+'I'm sure I shan't put myself out of the way. People must take me as
+they find me.'
+
+'Now don't talk like that, Fanny. It isn't very kind--just now. I
+thought you'd be different to-day.'
+
+'All right.--Have you anything else to tell me?'
+
+Horace understood her significant glance, and shook his head.
+
+'I'll let you know everything as soon as I know myself.'
+
+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.
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+'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.'
+
+The other workmen laughed. It was evident that Crewe had made friends
+with them all.
+
+'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.'
+
+He checked himself, and asked in a subdued voice, 'Seen anything of the
+Lords?'
+
+Beatrice nodded with a smile. 'And heard about the will. Have you?'
+
+'No, I haven't. Come into this little room.'
+
+He closed the door behind them, and looked at his companion with
+curiosity, but without show of eagerness.
+
+'Well, it's a joke,' said Miss. French.
+
+'Is it? How?'
+
+'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!'
+
+Crewe whistled a bar of a street-melody, then burst into laughter.
+
+'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?'
+
+'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!'
+
+'And Miss. Lord?' asked Crewe carelessly.
+
+Beatrice pointed a finger at him.
+
+'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.'
+
+Again Crewe whistled.
+
+'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.'
+
+'Of course you did,' remarked Beatrice significantly.
+
+'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 _you_ mean. But it isn't much, after
+living as he has done. I suppose you don't know how the money lies?'
+
+'I have it all from Fanny, and it's a wonder she remembered as much as
+she did.'
+
+'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?'
+
+'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.'
+
+'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?'
+
+'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.'
+
+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:
+
+'You've heard about the row at Lillie Bridge yesterday?'
+
+'I saw something about it in the paper.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'I wish I'd been there,' said Miss. French gaily. 'It must have been no
+end of fun.'
+
+'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!'
+
+'Well, shall we go and see the lawyer?' suggested Beatrice.
+
+'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.'
+
+'Oh, I daresay.'
+
+And as they went down the stairs, Crewe laughed again at his
+recollections of yesterday's sport.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 6
+
+
+
+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.
+
+She had been here since early in the afternoon, it was now near seven
+o'clock.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'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 _altri guai_. 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.'
+
+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.
+
+'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.'
+
+'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--'
+
+'Oh, I don't mean that for a moment. It isn't really dishonourable. My
+father could never have objected to _you_ 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?'
+
+'It might have been better--but who knows whether he would have seen me
+with your eyes, Nancy?'
+
+'Yes, yes. But I was going to say----'
+
+She hesitated.
+
+'Say on.'
+
+'There are so many difficulties before us, dear.'
+
+'Not if we continue to think of each other as we do now. Do you mean it
+might be discovered?'
+
+'Yes, through no fault of ours.'
+
+She hesitated again.
+
+'Quite sure you haven't told anybody?'
+
+'No one.'
+
+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.
+
+'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.'
+
+'No. But--'
+
+'But?'
+
+'But suppose I--'
+
+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.
+
+'You think--you are afraid--'
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'And yet,' he said to himself, 'could I have resisted an appeal for
+marriage _now_? That comes of being so confoundedly humane. It's a
+marvel that I didn't find myself married to some sheer demirep long
+ago.'
+
+Nancy was speaking.
+
+'Will it make you love me less?'
+
+'I have always refused to prophesy about love,' he answered, with forced
+playfulness.
+
+'But you wouldn't--you wouldn't?'
+
+'We should find ourselves in a very awkward position.'
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+'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.
+
+Nancy tried to laugh. She was in her own chair again, and sat resting
+her cheek upon her hand, gazing at the fire.
+
+'How is it, Lionel, that no one ever knocks at your door when I'm here.'
+
+'Oh, very simple. I sport the oak--as you know.'
+
+'But don't you think some friend of yours might see a light in your
+window, and come up?'
+
+'If so, _il respecte la consigne_.'
+
+'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.'
+
+Tarrant laughed.
+
+'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.'
+
+'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?'
+
+'No doubt--that I was working. I am supposed to be secretly engaged on
+some immortal composition.'
+
+Nancy pondered.
+
+'I do hope no one that knows you will ever see me coming or going.'
+
+'What could it matter? They wouldn't know who you were.'
+
+'But to have such things thought. I should feel it just as if they knew
+me. I believe I could never come again.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'They wouldn't think it any harm--even if--?'
+
+'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.'
+
+'But you believe in a morality of some kind?' she pursued with
+diffidence. 'You used the word "immoral" just now.'
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+With a nervous movement, the young man pushed forward the chair on which
+Nancy usually sat.
+
+'I see that you don't look well.'
+
+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.
+
+'Did something in my letter displease you?' inquired her husband.
+
+'You mean--because I didn't come? No; I really didn't feel well enough.'
+
+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.
+
+'So there's no doubt of it?'
+
+Her silence made answer.
+
+'Then of course there's just as little doubt as to what we must do.'
+
+His voice had not a convincing sincerity; he waited for the reply.
+
+'You mean that we can't keep the secret?'
+
+'How is it possible?'
+
+'But you are vexed about it. You don't speak to me as you used to. I
+don't think you ever will again.'
+
+'It will make no change in _me_,' 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.'
+
+'Are _you_, dear?'
+
+Her tone and look deprived the inquiry of unpleasant implication. He
+answered her with a laugh.
+
+'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.'
+
+'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--'
+
+'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.'
+
+They did not look at each other.
+
+'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.'
+
+Nancy meditated, and sighed.
+
+'Oh, it's a pity. Father never meant me to be penniless if I married
+wisely.'
+
+'I suppose not.'
+
+'Of course not!'
+
+They both meditated.
+
+'It wouldn't be possible--would it?'
+
+'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.'
+
+'Yes--I don't know whether I could--even if--'
+
+'What are you thinking of?'
+
+'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.'
+
+The obvious suggestion demanded thought.
+
+'By-the-bye,' said Tarrant, looking up, 'have you seen your aunt again?'
+
+Nancy's face changed to a cold expression.
+
+'No. And I don't think I shall.'
+
+'Probably you were as little sympathetic to her as she to you.'
+
+'I don't like her,' was the brief reply.
+
+'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
+_is_ your aunt?'
+
+'Impossible to doubt it. Any one could see her likeness to Horace at
+once.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'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--'
+
+Tarrant nodded. At the same moment they heard a sound that startled
+them.
+
+'That's a knock at the door,' said Nancy, rising as if to escape.
+
+'So it is. Banging with a stick. Let him bang. It must be a stranger, or
+he'd respect the oak.'
+
+They sat listening. The knock sounded again, loud and prolonged. Tarrant
+joked about it; but a third time came the summons.
+
+'I may as well go and see who it is.'
+
+'Oh--you won't let any one--'
+
+'Of course not. Sit quietly.'
+
+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.
+
+'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.'
+
+'What did he think of your keeping him outside?'
+
+'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.'
+
+'What did the telegram say?'
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 7
+
+
+
+Whilst she was thus occupied, darkness came on. She did not care to
+light the lamp, so made herself ready, and stole forth.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'What do you mean by shouting at me in the street?' were her first
+words.
+
+The person addressed was Luckworth Crewe; he had by no means anticipated
+such wrathful greeting, and stood in confusion.
+
+'I beg your pardon, Miss. Lord. I didn't think I shouted. I only meant
+to call your attention.'
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+'I'm ashamed that I lost my temper, Mr. Crewe. I am in a hurry to get
+home.'
+
+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.
+
+'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--'
+
+'No one calls to see me,' said Nancy, with firmness. 'I wish to live
+quite alone. I'm very sorry to seem unfriendly.'
+
+'Is it anything I've done?'
+
+'No--nothing whatever. I assure you, nothing. Let us say good-bye; I
+can't stop another moment.'
+
+They shook hands and so parted.
+
+'You're back early,' said Mary, when Nancy entered the drawing-room.
+
+'Yes. I left Jessica to her books sooner than usual. The examination
+draws near.'
+
+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.
+
+Horace had dined, and was gone out again. They talked of him; Mary said
+that he had spoken of moving into lodgings very soon.
+
+'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.'
+
+'Hasn't he told you that Fanny is often with Mrs. Damerel?'
+
+'With her?' Nancy exclaimed. 'He never said a word of it to me.'
+
+'He said so to me this evening, and laughed when I looked surprised.'
+
+'Well then, I don't pretend to understand what's going on. We can't do
+anything.'
+
+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.
+
+'Not a word yet to any one. Without fail, come to-morrow afternoon, at
+four.'
+
+With what show of calmness she could command, she looked up at her
+companion.
+
+'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!'
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'All right,' he was saying to his friend, 'I shall see you in a day or
+two. Good-bye, old man.'
+
+The stranger had observed Nancy, but withheld his eyes from her, and
+quickly vanished down the stairs.
+
+'Who was that?' she whispered.
+
+'I told you four o'clock.'
+
+'It is four.'
+
+'No--ten minutes to at least. It doesn't matter, but if you had been
+punctual you wouldn't have had a fright.'
+
+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.
+
+'What's the matter? Surely you are not so childish'--
+
+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.
+
+'I couldn't help it; and you shouldn't speak to me in that way. I have
+felt ill all the morning.'
+
+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.
+
+And there was another reason for his intolerant mood.
+
+'You hadn't spoken to any one before you got my note?'
+
+'No.--Why are you treating me like this? Are you ashamed that your
+friend saw me?'
+
+'Ashamed? not at all.'
+
+'Who did he think I was?'
+
+'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.'
+
+'No, I want nothing. Tell me at once what it is.'
+
+But Tarrant quietly brought a bottle and glass from his cupboard. Nancy
+again refused, pettishly.
+
+'Until you have drunk,' he said, with a smile of self-will, 'I shall
+tell you nothing.'
+
+'I don't know what I've done to make you like this.'
+
+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.
+
+'Now, come, be reasonable. We have uncommonly serious things to talk
+about.'
+
+'What did your friend think of me?'
+
+'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.'
+
+Nancy was mute.
+
+'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.'
+
+Still the listener said nothing.
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+'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.'
+
+Again he paused. The listener had wide, miserable eyes.
+
+'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?'
+
+'How _can_ we? How could the secret be kept?'
+
+Voice and countenance joined in utter dismay.
+
+'It doesn't seem to me,' said Tarrant slowly, 'a downright
+impossibility. It _might_ 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.'
+
+'What are we to do if my money is lost?'
+
+'Don't say _we_.' He smiled generously, perhaps too generously. 'A man
+must support his wife. I shall arrange it somehow, of course, so that
+_you_ have no anxiety. But--'
+
+His voice dropped.
+
+'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!'
+
+He arched his eyebrows, and smiled gently.
+
+'If that's how you look at it--well, I must stay.'
+
+'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--'
+
+'A moment. You mean that the money must be abandoned.'
+
+She had meant it, but under his look her confused thoughts took a new
+direction.
+
+'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.'
+
+She stopped, breathless. Tarrant, who had listened with averted face,
+turned and spoke judicially.
+
+'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.'
+
+'We can't think of that. The child may not live.'
+
+Tarrant moved, and the movement startled Nancy. It meant that she had
+pained him, perhaps made him think of her with repugnance.
+
+'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.'
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+'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, _if_--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.'
+
+And he began to hum an air, as if the matter were dismissed. There was a
+long silence.
+
+'How long would you be away?' murmured Nancy, at length.
+
+'I suppose two months at most.'
+
+'November--December.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'Would you promise me to be back by the end of the year?'
+
+'Not promise, Nancy. But do my best. Letters take fourteen days, that's
+all. You should hear by every mail.'
+
+'Why not promise?'
+
+'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.'
+
+Nancy sighed.
+
+'If I consented--if I did my best not to stand in your way--would you
+love me better when you came back?'
+
+The answer was a pleased laugh.
+
+'Why, there,' he cried, 'you've given in a nutshell the whole duty of a
+wife who wishes to be loved!'
+
+Nancy tried to laugh with him.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 8
+
+
+
+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_--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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+Was he committing himself to a criminality which the law would visit?
+Hardly that--until he entered into possession of money fraudulently
+obtained.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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--
+
+He had hardly patience to read it through.
+
+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.
+
+'What has happened?'
+
+'Nothing--don't be frightened. But I wanted to see you tonight.'
+
+She gripped his hand.
+
+'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?'
+
+'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--'
+
+'Come in. But there's no fire, and you're chilled through. Do you want
+to be ill? What outrageous silliness!'
+
+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.
+
+'Let me do it,' Nancy exclaimed. 'Let me wait upon you--'
+
+'If you don't sit still and keep quiet, you'll make me angry in
+earnest.'
+
+'Then you're not _really_ angry with me? I couldn't help it.'
+
+'No, I'm afraid you couldn't,' Tarrant muttered cheerlessly.
+
+'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.'
+
+The fire in a blaze, Tarrant stood up and regarded it gloomily.
+
+'Well, did she think it possible?' he asked at length.
+
+'Yes, she did. She said it would be very difficult, but the secret might
+be kept--if I were strong enough. And I _am_ strong enough--I _will_
+be--'
+
+'It doesn't look like it,' said Tarrant, taking the edge off his words
+with a smile.
+
+'I won't come again in this way. Where have you been tonight?'
+
+'Oh, with friends.'
+
+'Which friends? where?'
+
+He moved impatiently.
+
+'People you don't know, Nancy, and wouldn't care about if you did. Do
+you know what time it is?'
+
+'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--'
+
+'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--'
+
+'Then you are going? Really going to leave England?'
+
+He affected astonishment; in truth, nothing now could surprise him.
+
+'But wasn't it all decided between us? Didn't you repeat it in your
+letter?'
+
+'Yes--I know--but I didn't think it would come so soon.'
+
+'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.'
+
+Nancy hung her head. When, in a few moments, she looked up again, it was
+to say drily:
+
+'There's no need for you to see me home.'
+
+'I'm going to, at all events.'
+
+'Why? You don't care much about me. I might as well be run over--or
+anything--'
+
+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.
+
+'Now you're quite warm,' said the young man, as if speaking to a child,
+'and it's time to go.'
+
+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.
+
+'If you could behave quietly and sensibly, we would have an evening to
+make final arrangements.'
+
+'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.'
+
+He grasped her hand.
+
+'Remember, dear girl, that I have a good deal to worry me just now. Do
+you suppose I leave you with a light heart?'
+
+'If you can persuade me that you care--'
+
+'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.'
+
+'But we shan't lose my money. I've made up my mind we shan't.'
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'What now?' he asked, holding her hand and gazing at her. 'Some good
+news?'
+
+'None that I know of. How hot your room is! Why, you look glad to see
+me!'
+
+'Was I ever anything else?'
+
+She answered him with a smile.
+
+'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.'
+
+'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?'
+
+'I don't want you to cry about it.'
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+'Be as independent as you like,' he said; 'only keep your love for me.'
+
+'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.'
+
+Still he stood gazing at her.
+
+'You look very beautiful to-day.'
+
+'I know. I saw it for myself before I left home. But we won't talk about
+that. When do you go?'
+
+'My goods will be warehoused to-morrow, and the next day I go to
+Liverpool.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'Kiss me first. You forgot when you came in.'
+
+'You get no kiss by ordering it. Beg for it prettily, and we'll see.'
+
+'What does it all mean, Nancy? How can you have altered like this?'
+
+'You prefer me as I was last time?'
+
+'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.'
+
+Nancy laughed, and of a sudden held out her hands to him.
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+'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.'
+
+Tarrant murmured something about her state of health.
+
+'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.'
+
+'How threefold?'
+
+'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--'
+
+'What other tyranny?'
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+'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.'
+
+It was said with unforced pathos, and Tarrant's better part made
+generous reply.
+
+'If you find it too hard, dear, write to me, and tell me, and there
+shall be an end of it.'
+
+'Never. You think me wretchedly weak, but you shall see--'
+
+'It's of your own free will you undertake it?'
+
+'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.'
+
+Tarrant gave her a kind look.
+
+'Don't count upon it. Trust to me.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'How do you mean it?'
+
+'As you like to take it. Silly boy, don't I love you just because you
+are _not_ 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.'
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+Part IV: The Veiled Figure
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 1
+
+
+
+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.
+
+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.'
+
+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.
+
+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 _them_ 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.
+
+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.
+
+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--
+
+'_Ail, orrors, ail! and thou profoundest Ell, Receive thy new
+possessor!'_
+
+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.
+
+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.'
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 2
+
+
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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--
+
+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.
+
+'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.'
+
+'She couldn't?' exclaimed one of the sisters in astonishment. 'But we
+always thought she was so very clever.'
+
+'So she is--in many things. But she never dreamt of going in for such an
+examination as this.'
+
+'And do you really know more than she does?'
+
+Jessica smiled with affected modesty.
+
+'Oh, I have studied so much more.'
+
+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.
+
+Their talk was interrupted by the entrance of Samuel Barmby, and his
+elder sister, addressing him without reflection, said wonderingly:
+
+'Sam, did you know that Nancy Lord couldn't pass the examination that
+Miss. Morgan is going in for?'
+
+Jessica blushed, and hastened to extenuate this crude statement.
+
+'Oh, I didn't say that. Only that she would have to study very hard if
+she went in for the matriculation.'
+
+'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.'
+
+To the hearers, Jessica not excepted, this seemed to argue the spirit of
+broad culture in Samuel himself. Miss. Morgan pursued nervously:
+
+'Examinations are nothing. I believe very stupid people often do well in
+them, and clever people often fail.'
+
+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.
+
+'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.'
+
+'You _could_ have passed them,' remarked one of his sisters, 'easily
+enough.'
+
+'In Miss. Morgan's presence,'--he stroked his chin, and smiled with
+delicious fatuity--'I prefer to say nothing on that point.'
+
+'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.'
+
+Profoundly flattered, Samuel addressed the girl in his suavest tones.
+
+'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.'
+
+'Oh, you ought--indeed you ought,' assented the girls.
+
+'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.'
+
+Jessica sat silent, still with downcast eyes.
+
+'But it's a new thing, isn't it,' remarked Amelia, 'for Miss. Lord to be
+in bad health?'
+
+'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.'
+
+'In that case,' Samuel exclaimed, 'of course she must go at once--of
+course!'
+
+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.
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+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.'
+
+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 _as long as it is
+necessary_.'
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.'
+
+That evening she went home with a half-formed intention of poisoning
+herself.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'I did a good paper to-day--I think I've passed after all--yes, I feel
+sure I've passed!'
+
+'You look dreadful,' exclaimed Mrs. Morgan. 'And you're wet through--'
+
+'I did a good paper to-day--I feel sure I've passed!'
+
+She sat down to a meal, but could not swallow.
+
+'I feel sure I've passed--I feel sure--'
+
+And she fell from the chair, to all appearances stone-dead.
+
+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:
+
+'The delicacy of a young lady's nervous system unfits her for such a
+strain.'
+
+'Undoubtedly,' repeated the doctor, with equal gravity.
+
+'But,' she added eagerly, 'let Mr. Barmby know at once that I have
+passed.'
+
+'He shall know at once,' said the doctor.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 3
+
+
+
+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.
+
+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
+_debutante_, wore graceful white, symbol of her maiden modesty.
+
+'You promised to be early,' said Horace, addressing Mrs. Damerel,
+but regarding Fanny, who stood in conversation with a florid man of
+uncertain age.
+
+'Couldn't get here before, my dear boy.'
+
+'Surely you haven't brought that fellow with you?'
+
+'Hush! You mustn't talk in that way. We met at the door. Mrs. Dane knows
+him. What does it matter?'
+
+Horace moved aside to Fanny. Flushed with excitement, her hair adorned
+with flowers, she looked very pretty.
+
+'Come along,' he said, gripping her hand more violently than he
+intended. 'Let us get upstairs.'
+
+'Oh, you hurt me! Don't be so silly.'
+
+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.
+
+'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.
+
+'It isn't fashionable to come early.'
+
+'Nonsense! Look at the people here already.'
+
+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.
+
+'Your cold's no better,' said Fanny. 'You oughtn't to have come out at
+night.'
+
+'It _is_ 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?'
+
+'How silly you are! People will hear what you're saying.'
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'There's some one I want to introduce you to--some one I'm sure you will
+like to know.'
+
+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 _all_ 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.
+
+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.
+
+'Who ever heard of such a thing? It wouldn't be proper.'
+
+'Proper! Oh, I like that!' he replied, with scathing irony.
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+'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?'
+
+'Oh, if you're going to be nasty--'
+
+She made the gesture of a servant-girl who quarrels with her young man
+at the street-corner.
+
+'I can't stand the kind of treatment you've given me lately,' said
+Horace, with muffled anger.
+
+'I've told you I shall do just as I like.'
+
+'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.'
+
+And he left her, Fanny laughing scornfully.
+
+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.
+
+'So you talked a good deal with Mr. Mankelow?'
+
+'Not for long. Now and then. He took me down to supper--the first time.'
+
+'I'm afraid somebody will be a little jealous. I shall get into trouble.
+I didn't foresee this.'
+
+'Somebody must treat me in a reasonable way,' Fanny answered, with a dry
+laugh.
+
+'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?'
+
+'Is he really very rich?'
+
+'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.'
+
+'You said he was dangerous--'
+
+'To a young lady who is already engaged. Confess that you think him
+rather good-looking.'
+
+Having inflamed the girl's imagination, Mrs. Damerel presently dropped
+the subject, and fell again into weary silence.
+
+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.
+
+'That house was like an oven. I won't go to any more such places. That
+isn't my idea of enjoying myself.'
+
+Mrs. Damerel examined him with affectionate solicitude, and reflected
+before speaking.
+
+'Haven't you been living rather fast lately?'
+
+He avoided her eyes.
+
+'Not at all.'
+
+'Quite sure? How much money have you spent this last month?'
+
+'Not much.'
+
+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.
+
+'What would our little Fanny say to this?'
+
+'I don't care what she would say.'
+
+And he unburdened himself of his complaints against the frivolous
+charmer, Mrs. Damerel listening with a compassionate smile.
+
+'I'm afraid it's all too true, dear boy. But didn't I warn you?'
+
+'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.'
+
+'Hush! no naughty words! Let us talk about something else till you are
+quieter.--What did you think of Mrs. Chittle?'
+
+'I thought nothing of her, good or bad.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'It's nothing to me,' said Horace peevishly.
+
+But Mrs. Damerel continued:
+
+'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.'
+
+'How do you know she told me?'
+
+'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?'
+
+'She hardly spoke half-a-dozen words.'
+
+'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?'
+
+She bent her head aside, wistfully. Horace vouchsafed no reply.
+
+'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?'
+
+'You have been very kind, in many ways. But you've done harm to Fanny--'
+
+'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 _are_ 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 _marry_.'
+
+Horace showed himself startled.
+
+'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?'
+
+He answered absently.
+
+'She talks of another month or two.'
+
+'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?'
+
+'It's no business of mine.'
+
+'Nor of mine, you mean to say. Still, it does seem rather strange. I
+suppose she is quite to be trusted?'
+
+'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!'
+
+'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 _you_. But
+perhaps we shall do better some day. And I'm quite content so long as
+_you_ care a little for me, dear boy. You'll never give me up, will
+you?'
+
+It was asked with unusual show of feeling; she leaned forward, her eyes
+fixed tenderly upon the boy's face.
+
+'You would never let a Fanny French come between us, Horace dear?'
+
+'I only wish you hadn't brought her among your friends.'
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+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 _him_
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 4
+
+
+
+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.
+
+On a basis of assumptions such as these, there was every possibility of
+profitable commerce without any approach to technical fraud.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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
+_he_ had had to suffer all her hardships of the past year.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'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!'
+
+'What is it? What has she done?'
+
+'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!'
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+Ada reappeared, hurriedly clad for going forth; but no one had fetched a
+cab. Incensed, she ordered her husband to do so.
+
+'Who are you speaking to?' he replied wrathfully. 'I am not your
+servant.'
+
+Fanny laughed. The policeman, professionally calm, averted a smiling
+face.
+
+'It's nothing to me,' said Mrs. Peachey. 'I'm quite willing to walk.
+Come along, constable.'
+
+Her husband interposed.
+
+'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.'
+
+'It was about time you behaved like a man,' fell quietly from Beatrice.
+
+'You're right.' He looked sternly at the speaker. 'It _is_ time, and
+that you shall all know.'
+
+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.
+
+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--
+
+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.
+
+'Where are you?'
+
+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.
+
+'Come up here at once!' she screamed down the staircase. 'Come up! The
+wretch has cut her throat!'
+
+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.
+
+'I hope you're satisfied,' he said to his wife.
+
+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.
+
+'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.'
+
+'It'll be attempted suicide, now, as well as stealing,' cried Ada.
+
+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.
+
+'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--'
+
+Ada burst into the room.
+
+'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 _that_ 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--'
+
+Peachey turned upon her, the sweat beading on his ghastly face.
+
+'Go!--Out of this room--or by God I shall do something fearful!--Out!'
+
+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.
+
+At length came silence. Peachey opened the door, and listened. Below,
+voices sounded in quiet conversation.
+
+'Who is down there?' he called.
+
+'All of us except Ada,' replied Beatrice. 'The policeman said she
+needn't go unless she liked, but she _did_ like.'
+
+'Very well.'
+
+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.
+
+'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.'
+
+'You are going somewhere with father, dear. Somewhere nice.'
+
+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.
+
+'Now, will my boy show me where his clothes are for going out? His cap,
+and his coat--'
+
+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.
+
+'Now wait for me here--only a minute. My boy won't cry, if I leave him
+for a minute?'
+
+'Cry! of course not!' Peachey descended to the drawing-room, closed the
+door behind him, and stood facing his sisters-in-law.
+
+'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.'
+
+They did not seek to detain him, but stood mute whilst he left the room.
+
+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.
+
+By eleven o'clock the child slept peacefully. The father, seated at a
+table, was engaged in writing to a solicitor.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'Is Emma coming?' he asked.
+
+It was significant that he did not speak of his mother.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 5
+
+
+
+'Serves her jolly well right,' said Beatrice.
+
+'A lot _she'll_ 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?'
+
+Miss. French laughed contemptuously.
+
+'Not he!'
+
+'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?'
+
+Beatrice was quietly reviewing the situation. She kept silence, and her
+sister also became meditative. Suddenly Fanny inquired:
+
+'What sort of a place is Brussels?'
+
+'Brussels? Why? I know nothing about it. Not much of a place, I think;
+sprouts come from there, don't they?'
+
+'It's a big town,' said the other, 'and a lively sort of place, they
+say.
+
+'Why do you ask me, if you know? What about it?'
+
+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:
+
+'Some one I know is going there. I've a good mind to go too. I want to
+see abroad.'
+
+Her sister asked several searching questions, but Fanny would not make
+known whether the friend was male or female.
+
+'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?'
+
+Fanny sputtered her disdain.
+
+'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 _me_ to pull you out. I wouldn't give you a penny to save you
+from the workhouse.'
+
+'Wait till you're asked. I know where all _your_ money 'll go to. And
+that's into Crewe's pocket. He'll fool you out of all you have.'
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'She's gone mad!' shrieked Fanny. 'She'll kill us!'
+
+'That beast shall pay for it!' yelled Ada, with a frantic blow at the
+dressing-table.
+
+Wanton destruction of property revolted all Beatrice's instincts.
+Courageous enough, she sprang upon the wild animal, and flung her down.
+
+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.
+
+'You've killed her,' cried the terrified Fanny.
+
+'No fear. Give me some water to pitch over her.'
+
+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.
+
+'There won't be a funeral just yet,' she remarked, with a laugh. 'Now
+we'll have supper; I feel hungry.'
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'What are you staring at?' asked Crewe bluffly.
+
+'What are _you_ staring at?'
+
+'Nothing, that I know.' He hung up his hat, and sat down. 'I've a note
+to write; wait a minute.'
+
+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.
+
+'I'm going to take a flat,' Beatrice then informed him. 'Just find me
+something convenient and moderate, will you? A bachelor's flat.'
+
+'What about Fanny?'
+
+'She has something on; I don't know what it is. Talks about going to
+Brussels--with a friend.'
+
+Crewe looked astonished.
+
+'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.'
+
+'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 _is_ her
+nephew. She wants his money, that's my idea.'
+
+'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.'
+
+Beatrice displayed eagerness to defend herself. She had done her best;
+Fanny scorned all advice, and could not be held against her will.
+
+'Has she given up all thought of Lord?'
+
+'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.'
+
+Crewe reflected.
+
+'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?'
+
+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.
+
+'A few short runs. Nowhere particular.'
+
+'Oh?--Not been down into Cornwall?'
+
+He lost his temper.
+
+'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.'
+
+'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 _had_ been down there, that's all.'
+
+Crewe kept silence, his look betraying uneasiness as well as anger.
+Speaking at length, he fixed her with keen eyes.
+
+'If it's any satisfaction to you, you're welcome to know that I have
+been into Cornwall--and to Falmouth.'
+
+Beatrice merely nodded, and still he searched her face.
+
+'Just answer me a plain question, old chap. Come, there's no nonsense
+between us; we know each other--eh?'
+
+'Oh yes, we know each other,' Miss. French answered, her lips puckering
+a little.
+
+'What do you know about _her_? What has she been doing all this time?'
+
+Beatrice laughed.
+
+'I know just as little about her as I care.'
+
+'You care a good deal more than you'll confess. I wouldn't be up to
+women's tricks, if I were you.'
+
+She revolted.
+
+'After all, I suppose I _am_ a woman?'
+
+'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.
+
+'I'll tell you that, if you tell me what it is you want of her. Is it
+her money?'
+
+'Her money be damned!'
+
+'It's herself, then.'
+
+'And what if it is? What have _you_ to say to it?'
+
+Her eyes fell, and she muttered 'Nothing.'
+
+'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?'
+
+She raised her eyes again and again, but in a mocking voice said,
+'Nothing.'
+
+'You're telling me a lie.'
+
+'You're a brute to say so!'
+
+They exchanged fierce glances, but could not meet each other's eyes
+steadily. Crewe, mastering his irritation, said with a careless laugh:
+
+'All right, I believe you. Didn't mean to offend you, old chap.'
+
+'I won't be called that!' She was trembling with stormy emotions. 'You
+shall treat me decently.'
+
+'Very well. Old girl, then.'
+
+'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--'
+
+'Holloa! Holloa! Draw it mild.'
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'How can that be? She told me she dined here last Sunday.'
+
+'That's very strange,' answered Mrs. Damerel, with suave concern. 'She
+certainly did not dine here.'
+
+'And the Sunday before?'
+
+'Your sister has dined here only once, Miss. French, and that was three
+months ago.'
+
+'Then I don't understand it. Haven't you been taking her to theatres,
+and parties, and that kind of thing?'
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+'Can't you help me to find out what Fanny has really been doing?'
+
+'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.'
+
+'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?'
+
+'Really, Miss. French! The society in which I move is not what you seem
+to suppose. If your sister is in any danger of _that_ kind, you must
+make your inquiries elsewhere--in an inferior rank of life.'
+
+Beatrice no longer contained herself.
+
+'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.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'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 _who you really are_. And if any harm comes to Fanny, I
+shall take a little trouble about that inquiry myself.'
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'Is Mr. Mankelow in the dining-room?'
+
+'Yes, ma'am.'
+
+'Ask him to be kind enough to come here for a moment.'
+
+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.
+
+'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.'
+
+Mankelow stood with his hands behind him, and legs apart, regarding the
+speaker with a comically puzzled air.
+
+'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--'
+
+'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--'
+
+The listener arched his eyebrows more and more.
+
+'What _can_ it matter to you?'
+
+'To be sure, I have no acquaintance with any one who could do such
+things--'
+
+'Why, of course not. And even if you had, I understand that the girl is
+long out of her teens--'
+
+'Long since.'
+
+'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--'
+
+'Oh, Mr. Mankelow, absurd! It's probably some commercial traveller, or
+man of that sort, don't you think? The one thing I _do_ hope is, that,
+if anything like this happens, the girl will somehow make it clear to
+her friends that _I_ had no knowledge whatever of what was going on. But
+that can hardly be hoped, I fear!--'
+
+Their eyes crossed; they stood for a moment perusing vacancy.
+
+'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 _you_--perhaps a cheeky sort of
+letter, which would at once set your mind at ease.'
+
+'Oh, if you really take that view--'
+
+'I do indeed. Don't you think we might dismiss the matter, and dine?'
+
+They did so.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 6
+
+
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+Her first glance was at the letter-box.
+
+'Nothing?'
+
+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.
+
+'I'm quite sure a letter has been lost.'
+
+'Yes, it may have been. But there'll be an answer to your last very
+soon.'
+
+'I don't think so. Most likely I shall never hear again.'
+
+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.
+
+Somewhere near sounded the wailing shout of a dustman. It was like the
+voice of a soul condemned to purge itself in filth.
+
+'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 _you_ give way, think what it must
+be to me!'
+
+'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.'
+
+'I must do something. Give me some work.'
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'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.'
+
+Nancy wondered, and felt that her diminishing regard for Miss. Morgan
+had suffered a fresh blow.
+
+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.'
+
+She heard the interpretation from Nancy's lips, and laughed and cried
+over it.
+
+'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?'
+
+'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.'
+
+'And when is _he_ coming back? He oughtn't to have kept away all this
+time. How unkind!'
+
+'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.'
+
+Jessica, whose face made legible presentment of her every thought,
+looked disappointed and peevish.
+
+'And you are really going in for the examination again?' Nancy asked.
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+'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!'
+
+And she laughed with extravagant conceit.
+
+'You have quite made friends with the Barmbys,' said Nancy, eyeing her
+curiously.
+
+'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.'
+
+'And what about the Prophet?'
+
+'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.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'You disliked him,' said the other sharply. 'And you still dislike him.
+I'm sure you do.'
+
+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.
+
+'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.'
+
+'Oh, don't have the slightest fear.'
+
+'Weren't you delirious in your illness?'
+
+'I should think I was indeed! For a long time.'
+
+'I hope you said nothing--'
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+'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.'
+
+Mary heard this with interest.
+
+'Did he wish you to give it up?' she asked. 'You never told me that.'
+
+'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?'
+
+'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.'
+
+'If only I were sure that he has heard of his child's birth. If he
+_has_, and won't even write to me, then he is no man, and it's better we
+should never see each other again.'
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+It was more than two months since she had heard from her husband.
+
+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.
+
+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_ 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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'What on earth has been the matter with you? I never saw any one so
+altered.'
+
+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.
+
+'Why should you seem astonished? You know very well I have had an
+illness.'
+
+'But what sort of illness? What caused it? You used always to be well
+enough.'
+
+'You had better go and talk to my medical attendant,' said Nancy, in a
+cold, offended voice.
+
+Horace resumed with irritability.
+
+'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?'
+
+'I meant to. But after all, I had to stay longer.'
+
+'Oh well, it's nothing to me.'
+
+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.
+
+'Are you in a hurry?' asked his sister, head erect.
+
+'No hurry that I know of.--You haven't heard what's been going on?'
+
+'Where?'
+
+'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?'
+
+'It is not _my_ 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.'
+
+He could not take a reposeful attitude, but, after struggling with some
+reluctance, began to explain the agitation that beset him.
+
+'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.'
+
+'Perhaps they are married,' said Nancy, with singular impulsiveness.
+
+'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.'
+
+He spoke in a high, vehement note; his cheeks flushed violently, his
+clenched fist quivered at his side.
+
+'How do you know where she is gone?' Nancy asked.
+
+'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.'
+
+'That is all the evidence you have?'
+
+'Quite enough,' he replied bitterly.
+
+'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.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'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?'
+
+'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.'
+
+'Have you accused her of it?'
+
+'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.'
+
+Nancy reflected, then said quietly:
+
+'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.'
+
+Her brother stiffened his neck.
+
+'You must allow me to judge for myself.'
+
+'But have you judged for yourself? Wasn't it by Mrs. Damerel's advice
+that you gave up business?'
+
+'Partly. But I should have done it in any case.'
+
+'Have you any plans?'
+
+'No, I haven't,' he answered. 'You can't expect a man to have plans
+whose life has been thoroughly upset.'
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 7
+
+
+
+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.
+
+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?
+
+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--
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.'
+
+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.
+
+A week had passed, and no news from America.
+
+'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.'
+
+Mary felt sure there would be an explanation of such strange silence.
+
+'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.'
+
+There was no bitterness in her voice. She seemed to have outlived all
+sorrows and anxieties relative to her husband.
+
+Mary suggested that it was always possible to call at Mr. Vawdrey's
+house and make inquiries of Mrs. Baker.
+
+'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.'
+
+'If he knew you were in want,' said her companion, 'he would never have
+behaved like this.'
+
+'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!'
+
+It was in the evening, after dinner. Nancy had a newspaper, and was
+reading the advertisements that offered miscellaneous employment.
+
+'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.
+
+'I've no faith in those kind of advertisements,' said Mary.
+
+'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?'
+
+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.
+
+'Miss. French? Is it the younger Miss. French?'
+
+The girl could not say; she had repeated the name given to her. Nancy
+spoke to her friend in a low voice.
+
+'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?'
+
+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.
+
+'You are quite well again?'
+
+'Quite, thank you.'
+
+'It has been a troublesome illness, I'm afraid.'
+
+Nancy hesitated, detecting a peculiarity of look and tone which caused
+her uneasiness.
+
+'I had a sort of low fever--was altogether out of sorts--"below par,"
+the doctor said. Are you all well?'
+
+Settling herself comfortably, as if for a long chat, Beatrice sketched
+with some humour the course of recent events in De Crespigny Park.
+
+'I'm out of it all, thank goodness. I prefer a quiet life. Then there's
+Fanny. You know all about _her_, I dare say?'
+
+'Nothing at all,' Nancy replied distantly.
+
+'But your brother does. Hasn't he been to see you yet?'
+
+Nancy was in no mood to submit to examination.
+
+'Whatever I may have heard, I know nothing about Fanny's, affairs, and,
+really, they don't concern me.
+
+'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 _married_.'
+
+The listener preserved a face of indifference, though the lines were
+decidedly tense.
+
+'Doesn't that interest you?' asked Beatrice, in the most genial tone.
+
+'If it's true,' was the blunt reply.
+
+'You mean, you are glad if she has married somebody else, and not your
+brother?'
+
+'Yes, I am glad of that.'
+
+Beatrice mused, with wrinkles at the corner of her eye. Then, fixing
+Nancy with a very keen look, she said quietly:
+
+'I'm not sure that she's married. But if she isn't, no doubt she ought
+to be.'
+
+On Nancy's part there was a nervous movement, but she said nothing. Her
+face grew rigid.
+
+'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 _you_ have, no
+doubt?'
+
+'I don't care to talk about it,' fell mechanically from Nancy's lips,
+which had lost their colour.
+
+'But I've come just for that purpose.'
+
+The eyes of mocking scrutiny would not be resisted. They drew a gaze
+from Nancy, and then a haughty exclamation.
+
+'I don't understand you. Please say whatever you have to say in plain
+words.'
+
+'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
+_might_ have gone down into Cornwall--to a place like Falmouth. It was
+quite far enough off--don't you think?'
+
+Nancy was stricken mute, and her countenance would no longer disguise
+what she suffered.
+
+'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.'
+
+'What do you mean?'
+
+The words came from lips that moved with difficulty. Beatrice, still
+smiling, bent forward.
+
+'Is it any one that I know?'
+
+'Any one--? Who--?'
+
+'That made it necessary for you to go down into Cornwall, my dear.'
+
+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.
+
+No, not all. Not the fact of her marriage; not the name of her husband.
+
+Driven to bay by such an opponent, she assumed an air wholly unnatural
+to her--one of cynical effrontery.
+
+'You had better say what you know.'
+
+'All right. Who was the father of the child born not long ago?'
+
+'That's asking a question.'
+
+'And telling what I know at the same time. It saves breath.'
+
+Beatrice laughed; and Nancy, become a mere automaton, laughed too.
+
+'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.'
+
+'What is it?'
+
+'Wait a little. I don't want to be laughed at. Is it any one I know?'
+
+'You have never seen him, and I dare say never heard of him.'
+
+Beatrice stared incredulously.
+
+'I wouldn't tell fibs, Nancy.'
+
+'I'm telling the truth.'
+
+'It's very queer, then.'
+
+'Who did you think--?'
+
+The speaking automaton, as though by defect of mechanism, stopped short.
+
+'Look straight at me. I shouldn't have been surprised to hear that it
+was Luckworth Crewe.'
+
+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.
+
+'The father of my child? Luckworth Crewe?'
+
+'I thought it not impossible,' said Beatrice, plainly baffled.
+
+'It was like you.' Nancy gave a hard laugh. 'You judged me by yourself.
+Have another guess!'
+
+Surprised both at the denial, so obviously true, and at the unexpected
+tone with which Nancy was meeting her attack, Miss. French sat
+meditative.
+
+'It's no use guessing,' she said at length, with complete good-humour.
+'I don't know of any one else.'
+
+'Very well. You can't expect me to tell you.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'You can rest in peace,' said Nancy, with careless scorn.
+
+'Any way of convincing me, except by saying it?'
+
+'Yes. Wait here a moment.'
+
+She left the room, and returned with the note which Crewe had addressed
+to her from the hotel at Falmouth.
+
+'Read that, and look at the date.'
+
+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.
+
+'Of course, you didn't let him see you?'
+
+'Of course not.'.
+
+'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?'
+
+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.
+
+She spoke coldly, but with down-dropt eyes.
+
+'I am not married.'
+
+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.
+
+'I should never have believed it of Miss. Lord,' was her half ingenuous,
+half sly comment.
+
+Nancy, beginning to realise what she had done, sat with head bent,
+speechless.
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+'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?'
+
+'Perhaps--I don't know--'
+
+She faltered, no longer able to mask in impudence, and hardly
+restraining tears. Beatrice ceased to doubt, and could only wonder with
+amusement.
+
+'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--'
+
+She paused, but Nancy did not look up, did not stir.
+
+'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?'
+
+Perplexed by unfamiliar slang, Nancy raised her eyes.
+
+'Found out anything, you mean? I don't know.'
+
+'But you must have been in a jolly fright about it?'
+
+'I gave it very little thought,' replied Nancy, able now to command a
+steady voice, and retiring behind a manner of frigid indifference.
+
+'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?'
+
+'Yes.'
+
+Beatrice nodded.
+
+'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.'
+
+'I fear him as little as I fear you.'
+
+'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.'
+
+Nancy heard without heeding; for an anguish of shame and misery once
+more fell upon her, and seemed to lay waste her soul.
+
+
+
+
+Part V: Compassed Round
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 1
+
+
+
+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.
+
+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!
+
+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.
+
+One night about this time she said to herself:
+
+'I was his mistress, never his wife.'
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.'
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'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.'
+
+'He thinks you responsible for what has happened to Fanny French,' Nancy
+replied, in an impartial voice.
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+'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?'
+
+A scrawl on foreign note-paper, which ran thus:
+
+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 _didn't_ mean to
+do me.--Yours in the best of spirits (I don't mean Cognac),
+
+FANNY (_nee_) FRENCH.
+
+Nancy returned the paper with a look of disgust, saying, 'I didn't think
+she was as bad as that.'
+
+'No more did I. It really gave me a little shock of surprise.'
+
+'Do you think it likely she is married?'
+
+Mrs. Damerel pursed her lips and arched her eyebrows with so unpleasant
+an effect on Nancy that she looked away.
+
+'I have no means whatever of forming an opinion.'
+
+'But there's no more fear for Horace,' said Nancy.
+
+'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--'
+
+'No, I haven't. I told him I was quite sure the girl had only herself to
+blame, whatever happened.'
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+'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.'
+
+Society's representative answered in a tone of affectionate frankness:
+
+'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?'
+
+The question was added rather abruptly, and with a watchful gaze.
+
+'I know him a little.'
+
+'Something has been said, I believe, about Horace investing money in Mr.
+Crewe's business. Do you think it would be advisable?'
+
+Surprise kept Nancy silent.
+
+'Is Mr. Crewe trustworthy? I understand he has been in business for
+himself only a short time.'
+
+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.
+
+'I have met him once.'
+
+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.
+
+'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?'
+
+'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.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'But haven't you let him know of that letter?'
+
+Mrs. Damerel seemed to fall into abstraction, answered with a vague
+'Yes,' and after surveying the room, said softly:
+
+'So you must live here alone for another two or three years?'
+
+'It isn't compulsory: it's only a condition.'
+
+Another vague 'Yes.' Then:
+
+'I do so wish Horace would come back and make his home here.'
+
+'I'm afraid you have spoilt him for that,' said Nancy, with relief in
+this piece of plain speaking.
+
+Mrs. Damerel did not openly resent it. She looked a mild surprise, and
+answered blandly:
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+To find employment, means of honourable support, was an urgent
+necessity.
+
+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?
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+How idle all the thoughts of her girlhood! How little she knew of life
+as it would reveal itself to her mature eyes!
+
+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 _she_
+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.
+
+Mary saw the glow upon her face, the delightful frenzy in her eyes, and
+wondered.
+
+'I have an idea,' said Nancy. 'Don't ask me about it. Just leave me
+alone. I think I see my way.'
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'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.'
+
+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:
+
+'I do feel sorry for you; it must be a dreadful thing to have married a
+man who has no sense of honour.'
+
+Nancy fired up.
+
+'What do you mean?'
+
+'How can he have, when he makes you deceive people in this way for the
+sake of the money he'll get?'
+
+'He doesn't! It's my own choice.'
+
+'Then he oughtn't let you do it. No honourable man would.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'Oh, don't be angry!' The facile tears started in Jessica's eyes. 'It's
+because I feel indignant on your account, dear.'
+
+'I don't want your indignation. Never mention this subject again, or I
+shall feel sure you do it on purpose to annoy me.'
+
+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 _tete-a-tete_, 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.
+
+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.
+
+Samuel never lacked a subject for the display of eloquence. Today it was
+one that called for indignant fervour.
+
+'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.'
+
+'Indeed?' said Nancy, not without tremor. 'Who is that?'
+
+'Mr. Peachey, of De Crespigny Park. I believe you are on terms of
+friendship with the family.'
+
+'Oh, you can hardly call it friendship. I know them.'
+
+'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 _all_ 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!'
+
+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.
+
+'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 _The Times_ about it, and his letter will probably
+be inserted to-morrow. I am thinking of bringing it before the attention
+of our Society.'
+
+'Do Mr. Peachey's people adulterate their disinfectants?' inquired
+Nancy.
+
+'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.'
+
+The phrase came by haphazard to Samuel's tongue, and he uttered it with
+gusto, repeating it twice or thrice.
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+As soon as Mr. Barmby had regretfully withdrawn, Nancy turned upon the
+girl with flashing eyes.
+
+'I want to speak to you. Come downstairs.'
+
+She led the way to the dining-room. Jessica followed without a word.
+
+'Why are you behaving like this? What has come to you?'
+
+The feeble anaemic creature fell back before this outbreak of wholesome
+wrath; her eyes stared in alarm.
+
+'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 _your_ mercy! I'd starve rather. What do you
+mean by it?'
+
+'Oh--Nancy--to think you should speak to me like this.'
+
+'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--"'
+
+She was interrupted by a scream, on which followed a torrent of frenzied
+words from Jessica.
+
+'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--'
+
+Hysterical passion strangled her voice, and before she could recover
+breath, Nancy, terrible in ire, advanced upon her.
+
+'Leave this house, and never dare to show yourself here again! Do what
+you like, I'll endure you no longer--be off!'
+
+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.
+
+'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.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'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--'
+
+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.
+
+'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.'
+
+'Nancy--can you forgive me?'
+
+'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.'
+
+'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--'
+
+'Only stand up, and try to behave like a reasonable being. What do I
+care for your words?'
+
+The girl raised herself, threw her arms over a chair, and wept
+miserably.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 2
+
+
+
+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.
+
+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 _not_ 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.
+
+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.
+
+'To-morrow is the evening of your lecture, isn't it, Mr. Barmby?'
+
+'To-morrow.'
+
+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.'
+
+'Of course it will be printed afterwards?' pursued the devotee.
+
+'Oh, I don't know. It's hardly worth that.'
+
+'Oh, I'm sure it will be!'
+
+And Jessica appealed to the sisters, who declared that certain passages
+they had been privileged to hear seemed to them very remarkable.
+
+Ladies were to be admitted, but the Miss. Barmbys felt afraid to
+undertake so long a journey after dark.
+
+'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?'
+
+Samuel smiled graciously, and promised the ticket.
+
+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?
+
+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.
+
+She would not be guilty of treachery. But, in justice to herself, she
+might give Samuel Barmby to understand how hopeless was his wooing.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'You played me a trick, Miss. Morgan. I should never have allowed you to
+come all this way to hear me.'
+
+'If I had come ten times the distance, I should have been repaid!'
+
+His round eyes gloated upon the flattery.
+
+'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.'
+
+He said it with a consciousness of large-handed generosity. Jessica's
+heart leapt and throbbed.
+
+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.
+
+'Did you come this way? Have you a ticket? Leave that to me.'
+
+Again largely generous, he strode to the booking-office.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'May I sit down for a moment?' she said, looking at Barmby with a
+childlike appeal.
+
+'To be sure.'
+
+She pointed in a direction away from the crowd.
+
+'I have something to say--it's quieter--'
+
+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.
+
+'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.'
+
+She spoke with panting breath, and looked fixedly at him. The eagerness
+with which he lent ear gave her strength to proceed.
+
+'You asked me if she was engaged.'
+
+'Yes--well?'
+
+He had even forgotten his politeness; he saw in her a mere source of
+information. Jessica moved closer to him on the bench.
+
+'Had you any reason for thinking she was?'
+
+'No particular reason, except something strange in her behaviour.'
+
+'Would you like to know the whole truth?'
+
+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.
+
+'Of course I should,' Barmby answered. 'Is there any mystery?'
+
+'I oughtn't to tell.'
+
+'Then you had better not. But why did you begin?'
+
+'You ought to know.'
+
+'Why ought I to know?'
+
+'Because you--.' She broke off. A sudden chill made her teeth chatter.
+
+'Well--why?' asked Samuel, with impatience.
+
+'Are you--are you in love with her?'
+
+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.
+
+'That's a very plain question,' he began; but she interrupted him.
+
+'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.'
+
+'Perhaps not--if she has promised somebody else.'
+
+'If I tell you--will you be kind to me?'
+
+'Kind?'
+
+'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?'
+
+'Oh, certainly. After going so far, you had better tell me and have done
+with it.'
+
+Jessica approached her lips to his ear, and whispered:
+
+'She is married.'
+
+'What? Impossible!'
+
+'She was married at Teignmouth, just before she came back from her
+holiday, last year.'
+
+'Well! Upon my word! And that's why she has been away in Cornwall?'
+
+Again Jessica whispered, her body quivering the while:
+
+'She has a child. It was born last May.'
+
+'Well! Upon my word! Now I understand. Who could have imagined!'
+
+'You see what she is. She hides it for the sake of the money.'
+
+'But who is her husband?' asked Samuel, staring at the bloodless face.
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+'You won't let her know that I have told you?'
+
+Samuel gravely, but coldly, assured her that she need not fear betrayal.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 3
+
+
+
+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.
+
+Long before the end of the year it ought to be finished.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'I can't sleep,' she said. 'I hear the clock strike every hour, night
+after night.'
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+Samuel performed the civil salute.
+
+'Ha!--How do you do, Miss. Lord?--You are going out, I'm afraid.'
+
+'Yes, I am going out.'
+
+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.
+
+'I want to see you particularly,' said Samuel. 'Could I call again, this
+afternoon?'
+
+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.
+
+'It is very particular business. If you could give me an appointment--'
+
+'Business?--Oh, come in, if you like.'
+
+She drew back to admit him, but in the passage stood looking at her
+letter. Barmby was perplexed and embarrassed.
+
+'You had rather I called again?'
+
+'Called again? Just as you like.'
+
+'Oh, then I will stay,' said Samuel bluntly. For he had things in mind
+which disposed him to resent this flagrant discourtesy.
+
+His voice awakened Nancy. She opened the door of the dining-room.
+
+'Will you sit down, Mr. Barmby, and excuse me for a few minutes?'
+
+'Certainly. Don't let me inconvenience you, Miss. Lord.'
+
+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.
+
+Her letter! His handwriting at last. And he was in England.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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,
+
+L.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr. Barmby.'
+
+'Don't mention it. Will you sit down?'
+
+'Yes, of course.' She spoke abstractedly, and took a seat not far from
+him. 'I was just going out, but--there's no hurry.'
+
+'I hardly know how to begin. Perhaps I had better prepare you by saying
+that I have received very strange information.'
+
+His air was magisterial; he subdued his voice to a note of profound
+solemnity.
+
+'What sort of information?' asked Nancy vaguely, her brows knitted in a
+look rather of annoyance than apprehension.
+
+'Very strange indeed.'
+
+'You have said that already.'
+
+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.
+
+'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.'
+
+'Will you speak plainly? This roundabout talk is intolerable.'
+
+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.
+
+More magisterial than ever, he began to speak with slow emphasis.
+
+'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?'
+
+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.
+
+'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.'
+
+'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?'
+
+'I will answer if you tell me how you came to think that I was married.'
+
+'I have been credibly informed.'
+
+'By whom?'
+
+'You must forgive me. I can't tell you the name.'
+
+'Then I can't answer your question.'
+
+Samuel mused. He was unwilling to break a distinct promise.
+
+'No doubt,' said Nancy, 'you have undertaken not to mention the person.'
+
+'I have.'
+
+'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?'
+
+'As you have yourself spoken the name--'
+
+'Very well. She isn't in her senses, and I wonder she has kept the
+secret so long.'
+
+'You admit the truth of what she has told me?'
+
+'Yes. I am married.'
+
+She made the avowal in a tone very like that in which, to Beatrice
+French, she had affirmed the contrary.
+
+'And your true name is Mrs. Tarrant?'
+
+'That is my name.'
+
+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.
+
+'Can you imagine,'--his voice shook a little,--'how much I suffer in
+hearing you say this?'
+
+'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.'
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+'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.'
+
+He waited for the reply, the expected murmur of gratitude. Nancy said
+nothing.
+
+'Mrs. Tarrant,'--he stood before her,--'what do you suppose must be the
+result of this?'
+
+'There can only be one.'
+
+'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?'
+
+Nancy raised her eyes and looked steadily at him.
+
+'Then I must bear the punishment.'
+
+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.
+
+'The punishment might be very serious. I really can't say what view my
+father may take of this deception.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'One thing I must ask. Isn't your husband in a position to support you?'
+
+'I can't answer that. Please to say nothing about my husband.'
+
+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.
+
+'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?'
+
+'That is my own affair.'
+
+It was not said offensively, but in a tone of bitter resignation. Barmby
+sat down opposite to her, and leaned forward.
+
+'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?'
+
+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.
+
+He imagined her overcome by his generosity. Another of his great effects
+had come off with tolerable success.
+
+'Put your mind at rest,' he pursued mellifluously. 'You shall suffer no
+hardships. I answer for it.'
+
+Still mute, and her head bowed low. Such is the power of nobility
+displayed before an erring soul!
+
+'You have never done me justice. Confess that you haven't!'
+
+To this remarkable appeal Nancy perforce replied:
+
+'I never thought ill of you.'
+
+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.
+
+'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.
+
+'What are you offering me?' she asked, in a low voice. 'How could I take
+money from you?'
+
+'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?'
+
+Nancy kept her eyes down.
+
+'Suppose I say: Duty bids me injure this woman who has injured _me_; 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?'
+
+'I should think it was kindly meant, but useless.'
+
+'Useless? Why?'
+
+'Because it isn't in your power to guard the secret. Jessica Morgan
+won't leave her work half done.'
+
+'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.'
+
+Samuel smiled. A smile ineffable. The smile of a suburban deity.
+
+'Why should you take any trouble about me?' said Nancy. 'I can do
+nothing for you in return.'
+
+'You can.'
+
+She looked anxiously at him, for his voice sounded ominous.
+
+'What?'
+
+'You can acknowledge that you never did me justice.'
+
+'It's true that I didn't,' she answered languidly; speaking as though
+the concession mattered little.
+
+Barmby brightened. His hands were upon his knees; he raised his chin,
+and smiled at vacancy.
+
+'You thought me unworthy of you. You can confess to me that you were
+mistaken.'
+
+'I didn't know you as I do now,' fell from the expressionless lips.
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+'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.'
+
+Nancy gave her fingers, which felt very cold upon Barmby's warm, moist
+palm.
+
+'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.'
+
+'Thank you.'
+
+'At the beginning of our interview you didn't think it would end like
+this?'
+
+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.
+
+'I hardly cared,' said Nancy, as she rose with a sigh of weariness.
+
+'But you have got over that. You will be quite cheerful now?'
+
+'In time, no doubt.'
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 4
+
+
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+She took a sheet of notepaper, and upon it wrote half-a-dozen lines,
+thus:
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'I'm not sure, madam. I will inquire at once.'
+
+'She calls me "madam,"' said Nancy to herself whilst waiting. 'So do
+shopkeepers generally. I suppose I look old.'
+
+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.
+
+'Can you give me her private address?'
+
+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.
+
+'I wish to see her particularly, on business.'
+
+'Excuse me a moment, madam.'
+
+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.
+
+'Could I despatch a message for you, madam?'
+
+'My business is private.'
+
+The bald-headed man coughed urbanely, and begged to know her name.
+
+'Miss. Lord--of Grove Lane.'
+
+Immediately his countenance changed from deprecating solemnity to a
+broad smile of recognition.
+
+'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.'
+
+He did so on the back of an advertisement, and added verbal directions.
+Nancy hurried away.
+
+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.
+
+'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.'
+
+Miss. French was in her most expansive mood. She understood the call as
+one of simple friendliness.
+
+'I wasn't sure that you knew the address. Got it at the shop? They don't
+go telling everybody, I hope--'
+
+'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.
+
+'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.'
+
+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.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'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.
+
+'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!'
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'Did you ever try this kind of thing?' said the hostess finally,
+reaching a box of cigarettes.
+
+'I?--Of course not,' Nancy replied, with a laugh.
+
+'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.'
+
+'And you dine like this, by yourself, every day?'
+
+'Like this, but not always alone. Some one or other drops in. Luckworth
+Crewe was here yesterday.'
+
+Speaking, she watched Nancy, who bore the regard with carelessness, and
+replied lightly:
+
+'It's an independent sort of life, at all events.'
+
+'Just the kind of life that suits me. I'm my own mistress.'
+
+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.
+
+'How are things going with you?' she asked at length, tapping the ash of
+her cigarette over a plate.
+
+'I want something to do,' was the blunt reply.
+
+'Too much alone--isn't that it?'
+
+'Yes.'
+
+'Just what I thought. You don't see him often?'
+
+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.
+
+'No, I don't see him often.'
+
+'Well, I told you to come to me if I could be any use. What's your
+idea?'
+
+'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.'
+
+Beatrice nodded and smiled.
+
+'No,--not for that,' Nancy added hastily. 'To see my boy.'
+
+The other appeared to accept this correction.
+
+'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?'
+
+'Yes, that would do very well. Any payment, at first?'
+
+'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.'
+
+'I know nothing about fashions.'
+
+'You can learn all you need to know in an hour. It's the ladylike
+appearance and talk more than anything else.'
+
+Nancy sipped again from her wine-glass.
+
+'When could I begin?'
+
+'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.'
+
+'Thank you for being so ready to help me.'
+
+'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?'
+
+Nancy turned her eyes apprehensively.
+
+'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--'
+
+She finished the sentence with a look. Nancy's eyes fell.
+
+'Curiosity, nothing else,' added the other. 'Just to make quite sure it
+isn't anybody I've thought of.'
+
+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.
+
+'Is it off, then?' said Beatrice, in an indifferent tone.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 5
+
+
+
+'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!'
+
+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.
+
+'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.'
+
+'Then why did you stay so long?'
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+'Do you know,' said Munden slyly, 'that you have brought back a
+trans-Atlantic accent?'
+
+'Accent? The devil! I don't believe it.'
+
+'Intonation, at all events.'
+
+Tarrant professed a serious annoyance.
+
+'If that's true, I'll go and live for a month in Limerick.'
+
+'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?'
+
+'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.'
+
+'What particular scoundrelism or baseness have you committed?' asked the
+other.
+
+Tarrant averted his eyes.
+
+'I said I could understand such things.'
+
+'One sees that you have been breathed upon by democracy.'
+
+'I loathe the word and the thing even more than I did, which is saying a
+good deal.'
+
+'Be it so. You say you are going to work?'
+
+'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.'
+
+'And what's that?'
+
+'I can't tell you--not yet, at all events.'
+
+'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.
+
+'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.'
+
+'You think you can support yourself by journalism?'
+
+'I must try.--Run your eye over that.'
+
+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.
+
+'Devilish savage. Did you write it after a free lunch?'
+
+'Wrote it this morning. Shall I try one of the evening papers with
+it,--or one of the weeklies?'
+
+Munden suggested a few alterations, and mentioned the journal which he
+thought might possibly find room for such a bit of satire.
+
+'Done anything else?'
+
+'Here's a half-finished paper--"The Commercial Prospects of the
+Bahamas."'
+
+'Let me look.'
+
+After reading a page or two with critically wrinkled forehead, Munden
+laid it down.
+
+'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.'
+
+'To-morrow I can't. I dine at Lady Pollard's.'
+
+'Who is she?'
+
+'Didn't you know Pollard of Trinity?--the only son of his mother, and
+she a widow.'
+
+'Next day, then.'
+
+'Can't. I dine with some people at Bedford Park.'
+
+Munden lifted his eyebrows.
+
+'At this rate, you may live pretty well on a dress suit. Any more
+engagements?'
+
+'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.'
+
+To enable his friend to read, Tarrant had already lit a lamp. Munden,
+glancing about the room, said carelessly:
+
+'Do you still possess the furniture of the old place?'
+
+'No,' was the answer, given with annoyance. 'Vawdrey had it sold for
+me.'
+
+'Pictures, books, and all the nick-nacks?'
+
+'Everything.--Of course I'm sorry for it; but I thought at the time that
+I shouldn't return to England for some years.'
+
+'You never said anything of that kind to me.'
+
+'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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'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?'
+
+'That is hardly a fair question,' Tarrant replied, endeavouring not to
+hang his head like an everyday beggar. 'I went out on a commission--'
+
+'True. But after you ceased to be a commissioner?'
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+He stood leaning upon the parapet of Westminster Bridge, his eyes
+scanning the dark facade of the Houses of Parliament.
+
+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.
+
+Having wrought himself to this point of insensate revolt, he quitted his
+musing-station on the bridge, and walked away.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'Stop, and let me speak to you,' he exclaimed.
+
+She walked only the more quickly, and he was obliged to take her by the
+arm.
+
+'What do you want?'
+
+She spoke as if to an insolent stranger, and shook off his grasp.
+
+'If you have nothing to say to me, why are you here?'
+
+'Here? I suppose the streets are free to me?'
+
+'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.'
+
+'I have nothing at all to say to you.'
+
+'Well, then _I_ will talk.--Come this way; there's a quiet place where
+no one will notice us.'
+
+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.
+
+'If you have anything to say, you must say it here.'
+
+'It's no use, then. Go your way, and I'll go mine.'
+
+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.
+
+'Better to be reasonable,' said Tarrant, approaching her again. 'I want
+to ask you why you answered a well-meant letter with vulgar insult?'
+
+'The insult came from you,' she answered, in a shaking voice.
+
+'What did I say that gave you offence?'
+
+'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--'
+
+'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.'
+
+'Very well, we have met. What have you to say for yourself?'
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+'Then I don't understand,' were her next words, 'why you wrote to me
+again at all.'
+
+'There are many things in me that you don't understand, and can't
+understand.'
+
+'Yes, I think so. That's why I see no use in our talking.'
+
+Tarrant was ashamed of what he had said--a meaningless retort, which
+covered his inability to speak as his heart prompted.
+
+'At all events I wanted to see you, and it's fortunate you passed just
+as I was coming out.'
+
+Nancy would not accept the conciliatory phrase.
+
+'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.'
+
+'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--'
+
+She interrupted him.
+
+'How do you know that _I_ shall benefit by it? How can you tell what has
+been happening since you last heard from me in America?'
+
+'I have taken it for granted that things are the same.'
+
+'Then you didn't even take measures to have news of me from any one
+else?'
+
+'What need? I should always have received any letter you sent.'
+
+'You thought it likely that I should appeal to you if I were in
+difficulties.'
+
+He stood silent, glad of the obscurity which made it needless for him to
+command his features. At length:
+
+'What is the simple fact? Has your secret been discovered, or not?'
+
+'How does it concern you?'
+
+'Only in this way: that if you are to be dependent upon any one, it must
+be upon me.'
+
+Nancy gave a scornful laugh.
+
+'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.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'You seriously mean it?'
+
+'Do I seem to be joking?'
+
+'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.'
+
+Nancy returned his look through the gloom, and said in like tone:
+
+'I shall do my best never to think of it at all. Fortunately, my time
+and my thoughts are occupied.'
+
+'How?' Tarrant could not help asking, as she turned away; for her tone
+implied some special significance in the words.
+
+'You have no right to ask anything whatever about me,' came from Nancy,
+who was already moving away.
+
+He allowed her to go.
+
+'So it is to be as I wished,' he said to himself, with mock courage. 'So
+much the better.'
+
+And he went home to a night of misery.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 6
+
+
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'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.'
+
+'How would he like it,' asked the lady, 'if you told him that we are
+acquaintances?'
+
+'Impossible to say. Perhaps it would make no difference one way or
+another.'
+
+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:
+
+'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.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'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?'
+
+'Oh, she's going on as usual.'
+
+Crewe checked himself, and showed hesitation.
+
+'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?'
+
+'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?'
+
+Mrs. Damerel kept an astonished silence.
+
+'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?'
+
+'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?'
+
+'I thought I wouldn't speak to him about it until I had seen you.'
+
+'How very kind! How grateful I am to you for your constant
+thoughtfulness!'
+
+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.
+
+You haven't seen her lately?' she asked, when Crewe had been staring at
+the window for a minute or two.
+
+'Seen her?--No; not for a long time.'
+
+'I think you told me you haven't called there since Mr. Lord's death?'
+
+'I never was there at all,' he answered abruptly.
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+'If ever I should fall into misfortune, Mr. Crewe, would you put me in
+the way of earning my living.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'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?'
+
+Crewe shuffled his feet.
+
+'I wasn't thinking of Miss. Lord.'
+
+'But what is really your opinion of her?' Mrs. Damerel urged softly.
+
+Crewe looked up and down, smiled in a vacant way, and appeared very
+uncomfortable.
+
+'May I guess the truth?' said his playful companion.
+
+'No, I'll tell you. I wanted to marry her, and did my best to get her to
+promise.'
+
+'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?'
+
+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:
+
+'Yes, it's all over--and for a good reason.'
+
+The lady's curiosity was still more provoked.
+
+'No,' she exclaimed laughingly, 'I am _not_ going to ask the reason.
+That would be presuming too far on friendship.'
+
+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.
+
+'I've half a mind to--in fact, I've been thinking that you ought to
+know.'
+
+'The good reason?'
+
+'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.'
+
+'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?'
+
+'Of course not. It's something a good deal more serious than that.'
+
+Mrs. Damerel became suddenly grave.
+
+'Then I certainly ought to know.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'That surely you may take for granted.'
+
+'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.'
+
+The listener was so startled that she changed colour.
+
+'You mean that some man has her in his power?'
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+'How do you know this?' she asked, in an undertone.
+
+'From some one who had it from Miss. Lord herself.'
+
+'Are you quite sure that it isn't a malicious falsehood?'
+
+'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.
+
+'The child?--Oh--surely--never!'
+
+A genuine agitation possessed her; she had a frightened, pain-stricken
+look, and moved as if she must act without delay.
+
+'It's nearly six months old,' Crewe continued. 'Of course that's why she
+was away so long.'
+
+'But why haven't you told me this before? It was your duty to tell
+me--your plain duty. How long have you known?'
+
+'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.'
+
+'Is it known to many people? Is the poor girl talked about?'
+
+'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.'
+
+'It must be a woman,' said Mrs. Damerel sharply.
+
+'Yes, it's a woman. Some one _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.'
+
+'I have no doubt,' said Mrs. Damerel, 'that the secret has been betrayed
+to a dozen people.'
+
+'I'll go bail it hasn't!' returned Crewe, falling into his vernacular.
+
+'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?'
+
+'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.'
+
+'A decent man,' said the listener, 'would never have allowed her to fall
+into disgrace.'
+
+'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--'
+
+'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.'
+
+'If I can be of any use, I am always at your service.'
+
+'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?'
+
+'I'm quite sure he doesn't; hasn't the least suspicion.'
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 7
+
+
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+One Monday morning arrived a letter which surprised and disturbed him.
+It ran thus:
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'Will you sit down, Mr. Tarrant?'
+
+He took a chair without speaking.
+
+'I think you know me by name?'
+
+'I have heard of a Mrs. Damerel.'
+
+'Some time ago, I suppose? And in that you have the advantage of me. I
+heard your name yesterday for the first time.'
+
+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 _de haut en bas._
+
+'In what can I be of service to you?' he asked with constrained
+civility.
+
+'You can tell me, please, what sort of connection there is between you
+and my niece, Miss. Lord.'
+
+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.
+
+'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.'
+
+'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 _are_ her
+guardians, I think you will see that I am not acting in a way you ought
+to resent.'
+
+'You mean, Mrs. Damerel, that what passes between us is in confidence?'
+
+'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.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'Do you acknowledge that you are on intimate terms with Miss. Lord?'
+
+'I have known her for a year or two.'
+
+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.
+
+'Are you engaged to her?'
+
+'Engaged to marry her? No.'
+
+He saw in Mrs. Damerel's clear eye that she convicted him of
+ambiguities.
+
+'You have not even made her a promise of marriage?'
+
+'How much simpler, if you would advance a clear charge. I will answer it
+honestly.'
+
+Mrs. Damerel seemed to weigh the value of this undertaking. Tarrant met
+her gaze with steady indifference.
+
+'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.'
+
+They regarded each other during a moment's silence. Tarrant's look
+indicated rapid and anxious thought.
+
+'It seems,' he said at length, 'that you have no great faith in the
+person who told you this.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'You won't care to let me know who told you?'
+
+'There's no reason why I shouldn't,' said Mrs. Damerel, after
+reflection. 'Do you know Mr. Luckworth Crewe?'
+
+'I don't think I ever heard the name.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'Who is this man?' Tarrant asked abruptly.
+
+'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.'
+
+'Crewe? No, the name is quite strange to me.'
+
+Tarrant's countenance darkened; he paused for an instant, then added
+impatiently:
+
+'You say he had "all the particulars." What were they, these
+particulars?'
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+'So far, you have heard the truth. What have you to ask of me, now?'
+
+'You have been abroad for a long time, I think?'
+
+'For about a year.'
+
+'Does that mean that you wished to see no more of her?'
+
+'That I deserted her, in plain words? It meant nothing of the kind.'
+
+'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?'
+
+Tarrant displayed astonishment.
+
+'I am aware of no such thing. How long has that been going on?'
+
+'Then you don't see her?'
+
+'I have seen her, but she told me nothing of that.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'Will you answer a disagreeable question? Are you well-to-do?'
+
+'Anything but that.'
+
+'Indeed? And you can form no idea why Nancy has gone to work in a shop?'
+
+Tarrant raised his eyebrows.
+
+'I see,' he said deliberately. 'You suspect that I have been taking
+money from her?'
+
+'I _did_ suspect it; now it seems to me more unlikely.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'I can't say that she does. I think it was Mr. Crewe who explained
+things like that.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'Of course you have _not_ received assistance from her?'
+
+Tarrant stared for a moment, then laughed unpleasantly.
+
+'I have no recollection of it.'
+
+'Another disagreeable question. Did you really go away and leave her to
+get on as best she could?'
+
+He looked darkly at her.
+
+'And if I did?'
+
+'Wasn't it rather unaccountable behaviour--in a gentleman?'
+
+'Possibly.'
+
+'I can't believe it. There is something unexplained.'
+
+'Yes, there _is_ 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?'
+
+'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.'
+
+'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?'
+
+'I must. It would be wrong to stand by and do nothing.'
+
+'And you will see her guardians?'
+
+'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.'
+
+'Yes. There's no choice but to fall back upon the villain theory.'
+
+He rose, and took up his hat.
+
+'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--'
+
+'That's just what I can't do. It's as much a mystery to me as to
+you--her wishing to earn money.'
+
+'I was going to say--if you would only explain your intentions as to the
+future--'
+
+'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?'
+
+'No, I can't. I wish you would talk a little longer.'
+
+His eyes flashed angrily.
+
+'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.
+
+'I am very sorry we are parting in this way.'
+
+'You must remember how difficult it is to keep one's temper under
+certain kinds of accusation.'
+
+'I don't accuse you.'
+
+'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.'
+
+Whereupon he bowed his leave-taking, and withdrew.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 8
+
+
+
+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:
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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?'
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'Is Miss. Lord at home?' he asked, in a matter-of-fact way.
+
+'Yes.--What name shall I mention?'
+
+'Mr. Tarrant.'
+
+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.
+
+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?
+
+The door opened, and he faced towards it.
+
+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.
+
+'What has brought you here?'
+
+'A cause quite sufficient.--This is a little house; can we talk without
+being overheard?'
+
+'You can shout if you wish to,' she answered flippantly. 'The servant is
+Out, and Mary is downstairs.'
+
+Nancy did not seat herself, and offered no seat to the visitor.
+
+'Why have you made yourself a shop-girl?'
+
+'I didn't know that I had.'
+
+'I am told you go daily to some shop or other.'
+
+'I am engaged at a place of business, but I don't.--However, that
+doesn't matter. What business is it of yours?'
+
+'Who is Mr. Luckworth Crewe?'
+
+Nancy kept her eyes still more resolutely fronting his severe look.
+
+'A man I used to know.'
+
+'You don't see him now-a-days?'
+
+'It's many months since I saw him.'
+
+'Who, then, is the woman who has told him your whole story--with
+embellishments, and who says she has had it from you yourself?'
+
+Nancy was speechless.
+
+'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.'
+
+'To her?--How do you know?'
+
+For answer he held out Mrs. Damerel's note of invitation, then added:
+
+'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.'
+
+'What do you mean?'
+
+'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.'
+
+'Don't they know that I am married?'
+
+'Evidently not.'
+
+'And they think you--are having money from me?'
+
+'That's how they explain your taking a place in a shop.'
+
+Nancy laughed, and laughed again.
+
+'How ridiculous!'
+
+'I'm glad you can get amusement out of it. Perhaps you can suggest how
+the joke began?'
+
+She moved a few steps, then turned again to him.
+
+'Yes, I know who the woman must be. It's Beatrice French.'
+
+'A bosom friend of yours, of course.'
+
+'Nothing of the kind.'
+
+'But you have taken her into your confidence--up to a certain point?'
+
+'Yes, I have told her. And she told Mr. Crewe? I understand that. Well,
+what does it matter?'
+
+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?
+
+'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?'
+
+Nancy reddened in angry shame.
+
+'Let them talk!' she exclaimed violently. 'What does it matter, so long
+as they don't know I'm married?'
+
+'So long as they don't know?--How came you to tell this woman?'
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+'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?'
+
+'Wouldn't any woman think so?'
+
+'I hope not. I believe there are some women who don't rush naturally to
+a base supposition.'
+
+'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?'
+
+The note of her thrilling voice went to Tarrant's heart, and his head
+drooped.
+
+'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?'
+
+'Yes.'
+
+'And you allowed her to think you unmarried?'
+
+'What choice had I? How was my child to be brought up if I lost
+everything?'
+
+'Good God, Nancy! Did you imagine I should leave you to starve?'
+
+His emotion, his utterance of her name, caused her to examine him with a
+kind of wonder.
+
+'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.'
+
+'My poor girl!'
+
+The words fell from him involuntarily. Nancy's look became as scornful
+and defiant as before.
+
+'Oh, that was nothing. I've gone through a good deal more than that.'
+
+'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?'
+
+'I said nothing of that kind.'
+
+'Nor to any one else?'
+
+'To no one.'
+
+'Yet you told this woman where I was living, and that I had been abroad
+for a long time. Why?'
+
+'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 _you_, but because she still had suspicions about Mr. Crewe. I was
+desperate, and I told her.'
+
+'Desperate? Why?'
+
+'How can I make you understand what I have gone through? What do you
+care? And what do _I_ care whether you understand or not? It wasn't for
+money, and Beatrice French knew it wasn't.'
+
+'Then it must have been that you could not bear the monotony of your
+life.'
+
+Her answer was a short, careless laugh.
+
+'Where is this shop? What do you do?'
+
+'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.'
+
+'Whatever concerns you, Nancy, interests me more than anything else in
+the world.'
+
+Again she laughed.
+
+'What more do you want to know?'
+
+She was half turned from him, leaning at the mantelpiece, a foot on the
+fender.
+
+'You said just now that you have gone through worse things than the
+shame of being thought unmarried. Tell me about it all.'
+
+'Not I, indeed. When I was willing to tell you everything, you didn't
+care to hear it. It's too late now.'
+
+'It's not too late, happily, to drag you out of this wretched slough
+into which you are sinking. Whatever the cost, _that_ shall be done!'
+
+'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.'
+
+Tarrant stepped towards her.
+
+'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.'
+
+Once more she turned upon him passionately.
+
+'I am _not_ 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.'
+
+'Bound to me you are, and shall be--as I to you.'
+
+'You may say it fifty times, and it will mean nothing.--How bound to
+you? Bound to share my money?'
+
+'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.'
+
+'Known to whom?'
+
+'To the people concerned--to your guardians.'
+
+'Don't trouble yourself,' she answered, with a smile. 'They know it
+already.'
+
+Tarrant half closed his eyes as he looked at her.
+
+'What's the use of such a silly falsehood?'
+
+'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 _you_.'
+
+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.
+
+'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--'
+
+'Remember what we agreed. Go your way, and let me go mine.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'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.'
+
+At mention of the child Nancy regarded him with cold curiosity.
+
+'How are you to make a home for me? I thought you had difficulty enough
+in supporting yourself.'
+
+'That is no concern of yours. It shall be done, and in a day or two.
+Then make your choice.'
+
+'You think I can be forced to live with a man I don't love?'
+
+'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 _you_, and
+make it known that I am to blame for all that has happened.'
+
+'And what good will you do?'
+
+'I shall do good to myself, at all events. I'm a selfish fellow, and
+shall be so to the end, no doubt.'
+
+Nancy glanced at him to interpret the speech by his expression. He was
+smiling.
+
+'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.'
+
+'That can't be helped. And, what's more, you won't think it a hardship.'
+
+'How do you know that? I have borne dreadful degradations rather than
+lose my money.'
+
+'That was for the child's sake, not for your own.'
+
+He said it softly and kindly, and for the first time Nancy met his eyes
+without defiance.
+
+'It was; I could always have earned my own living, somehow.'
+
+Tarrant paused a moment, then spoke with look averted.
+
+'Is he well, and properly cared for?'
+
+'If he were not well and safe, I shouldn't be away from him.'
+
+'When will you let me see him, Nancy?'
+
+She did not smile, but there was a brightening of her countenance, which
+she concealed. Tarrant stepped to her side.
+
+'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.'
+
+'How can you think that _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.'
+
+Tired of standing, she dropped upon the nearest chair, and lay back.
+
+'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?'
+
+'I have had to do worse things than that.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'No. The shame is all yours.'
+
+'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.'
+
+She sat irresponsive.
+
+'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.'
+
+Nancy raised herself, and said coldly:
+
+'It was what I might have expected. I had only my own folly to thank.
+You behaved as most men would.'
+
+This was a harder reproach than any yet. Tarrant winced under it. He
+would much rather have been accused of abnormal villainy.
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+'Has Barmby been here again?' Tarrant asked sternly.
+
+'Yes. He has been twice, and talked in just the same way, and I had to
+sit still before him--'
+
+'Has he said one word that--?'
+
+'No, no,' she interrupted hastily. 'He's only a fool--not man enough
+to--'
+
+'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?'
+
+'I see no freedom.'
+
+'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 _possible_ 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!'
+
+She was dry-eyed again, and his appeal seemed to have no power over her
+emotions.
+
+'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.'
+
+'Repaid it must be, whether demanded or not. Where does Barmby live?
+Perhaps I could see him to-night.'
+
+'What means have you of keeping us all alive?'
+
+'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?'
+
+Nancy gave him a disdainful smile, a smile like those of her girlhood.
+
+'I'm not quite so feeble a creature as you think me.'
+
+'You would rather have the child to yourself, than be living away from
+him?'
+
+'If you have made up your mind, why trouble to ask such questions?'
+
+'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--'
+
+'I meant nothing,' Nancy broke in, with fretful impatience.
+
+'Where is he--our boy?'
+
+'At Dulwich. I told you that in my last letter.'
+
+'Yes--yes. I thought you might have changed.'
+
+'I couldn't have found a better, kinder woman. Can you guess how many
+answers I had to the advertisement? Thirty-two.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'And Mary took the child straight to Dulwich?'
+
+'Two days before I came,--so as to have the house ready for me.
+
+'Perhaps it was unfortunate, Nancy, that you had so good a friend. But
+for that, I should have suffered more uneasiness about you.'
+
+She answered with energy:
+
+'There is no husband in the world worth such a friend as Mary.'
+
+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.
+
+'Some day you shall think better of that.'
+
+She paid no attention. Watching her, he asked:
+
+'What are you thinking of so earnestly?'
+
+Her answer was delayed a little, but she said at length, with an absent
+manner:
+
+'Horace might lend me the money to pay back what I owe.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'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 _my_ past, at all events. Care for the future as you like.'
+
+'But I must see your guardians.'
+
+'No. I won't have that.'
+
+She stood up to emphasise her words.
+
+'I must. It's the only way in which I can satisfy myself--'
+
+'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.'
+
+There was no mistaking her resolution. Tarrant hesitated, and bit his
+lip.
+
+'How long, then, before you act?' he inquired abruptly.
+
+'When my new home is found, I am ready to go there.'
+
+'You will deal honestly with me? You will tell every one, and give up
+everything not strictly yours?'
+
+'I have done with lies,' said Nancy.
+
+'Thank heaven, so have I!'
+
+
+
+
+Part VI: A Virtue of Necessity
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 1
+
+
+
+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!
+
+It was the blessedness of divorce, without squalid publicity. It was the
+vast relief of widowerhood, without dreary memories of death and burial.
+
+In releasing himself from such companionship, the man felt as though he
+had washed and become clean.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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 _good_ 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 _her_, 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.'
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'How kind of you, Arthur! How--how very--'
+
+And she was dissolved in tears--so genuine, that they marked pale
+rillets across the bloom of her cheeks.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'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!'
+
+Fanny shrieked with merriment.
+
+'And what is she doing?'
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+'What has become of that jackanapes, Horace Lord?' asked Fanny, after a
+contemptuous remark about 'sermons.'
+
+'I don't know. The question is, what's going to become of _you_?'
+
+Whereupon the girl grew vituperative in two languages, and made off. Her
+relatives saw no more of her for a long time.
+
+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.
+
+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'?
+
+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:
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+'Well, don't you know me?'
+
+'Why, it _is_--it really _is_! How glad I am to see you! But what on
+earth are you doing here?'
+
+'Amusing myself--_comme vous voyez_; and you?'
+
+'Oh, doing the same.'
+
+They had shaken hands, and were sauntering on together.
+
+'Anything wrong with your health?' Fanny asked, scrutinising the pale
+thin face, with its touch of warmth on the cheeks.
+
+'Oh, I've had a bit of a cold; nothing to speak of. You been out of
+sorts?'
+
+'A little run down. Over-study, they say.'
+
+Horace looked his surprise.
+
+'Why, I didn't know you went in for that kind of thing.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'I am very glad to hear it. Capital idea. Sure I hope you'll be
+successful.'
+
+'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?'
+
+Horace smiled and coloured.
+
+'No, no--not yet. I'm in business with Luckworth Crewe,--sort of
+sleeping partner just now.'
+
+'Are you really? And how's your sister?'
+
+The young man bent his brows uncomfortably.
+
+'Don't you know anything about her?' he asked.
+
+'I've heard she's married.'
+
+'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?'
+
+'_Charmee_, _Monsieur_! I generally go in for the same kind of thing.'
+
+So they repaired to the cake-shop, and sat talking for half-an-hour of
+trifles which made them laugh.
+
+'And you really didn't know me?' said Fanny, when her glass of wine was
+finished. 'Have I changed so much?'
+
+'A good deal. Not for the worse, oh dear no!'
+
+The girl giggled.
+
+'Well, I don't mind saying that _you_ have changed a good deal for the
+better.'
+
+Horace flushed at the compliment.
+
+'I'm much older,' he answered with a sigh, as though the years of a
+sexagenarian weighed upon him.
+
+'That's just what I like in you. You're so much more of a man. Don't be
+offended.'
+
+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.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 2
+
+
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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 _even_
+to so valued a friend.
+
+'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.
+
+'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.'
+
+And, after a silence:
+
+'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?'
+
+'I don't remember the name.'
+
+'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.'
+
+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.'
+
+Before the end of September, Horace Lord was engaged to Winifred
+Chittle.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'Aren't you glad to see me, dear boy?' she began, with a kiss upon his
+cheek.
+
+'Yes--oh yes. I never dreamt of your appearing just now, that was all.'
+
+'I couldn't resist the temptation. Such a morning in London! Almost as
+fine as it is here. And how is your cough?'
+
+Even as she made the inquiry, he answered it by coughing very badly.
+
+'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?'
+
+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.
+
+'When did you hear from Winifred?' she asked.
+
+'Yesterday--no, the day before.'
+
+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.
+
+'There has been no difference between you, I hope?'
+
+'No--oh no,' Horace replied, wriggling under her look.
+
+At that moment a servant opened the door.
+
+'Two ladies have called in a carriage, sir, and would like to see you.'
+
+'I'll go down. Excuse me for a moment, aunt.'
+
+'Who are they, Horace?' asked Mrs. Damerel, rising with an ill-concealed
+look of dismay.
+
+'Some friends I have made here. I'll just go and speak to them.'
+
+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.
+
+Horace came up flushed and panting.
+
+'It's all right. They wanted me to go for a drive, but I explained--'
+
+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.
+
+'Horace, that was Fanny French.'
+
+'So it was, aunt.'
+
+'What is going on between you?'
+
+The young man took a seat on the edge of the table, and swung his leg.
+He looked suddenly obstinate.
+
+'We met by accident--here--the other day.'
+
+'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?'
+
+'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.'
+
+'And you don't wish to renew acquaintance with her,--I'm sure you
+don't.'
+
+He looked away, and said nothing.
+
+'My dear, do you know her character?'
+
+'What about her?'
+
+The tone was startling, but Mrs. Damerel kept firm, though agitated.
+
+'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.'
+
+Horace reddened with anger.
+
+'And who is to blame for it?' he cried passionately. 'Who drove her to
+it?'
+
+'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--'
+
+'It was a forgery!' thundered Horace. 'I have asked her. She says she
+never wrote any such letter.'
+
+'Then she lies, as such creatures always do.'
+
+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.
+
+'It's no use, I'm not going to quarrel with you, aunt. Think what you
+like of Miss. French, _I_ know the truth about her.'
+
+He slipped from the table, and moved away.
+
+'I will say no more, Horace. You are independent, and must have your own
+acquaintances. But after you are married--'
+
+The other voice interrupted.
+
+'I had better tell you at once. I shall not marry Miss. Chittle. I am
+going to write this afternoon to break it off.'
+
+Mrs. Damerel went pale, and stood motionless.
+
+'Horace, you can't be so wicked as that!'
+
+'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.'
+
+'She does! I assure you she does!'
+
+'Then I can't help it.'
+
+Mrs. Damerel went close to him, and touched his arm.
+
+'My dear,'--her voice was so low that it seemed terror-stricken,--'you
+don't mean to marry--any one else?'
+
+He drew apart, she followed him.
+
+'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?'
+
+'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?'
+
+The blow struck home, and Mrs. Damerel flinched.
+
+'I had your happiness in view, my dear.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'And you can love such a creature as that?'
+
+Again she lost her self-command; the mere thought of Fanny's possible
+triumph exasperated her.
+
+'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--'
+
+An exclamation of pain checked his random words; he looked at Mrs.
+Damerel, and saw her features wrung with anguish.
+
+'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--'
+
+'Why should I pity you?' he cried impatiently.
+
+'Because--Horace--give me your hand, dear; let me tell you something.--I
+am your mother.'
+
+She sobbed and choked, clinging to his arm, resting her forehead against
+it. The young man, stricken with amazement, stared at her, speechless.
+
+'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.'
+
+'How can that be?' Horace asked, with genuine perplexity. 'How could you
+have married some one else?'
+
+She passed an arm about his neck, and hid her face against him.
+
+'I left your father--and he made me free to marry again.'
+
+'You were divorced?'
+
+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:
+
+'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?'
+
+There was a silence. Then the young man spoke gravely:
+
+'You are welcome, mother, to half my income. But you must leave me free
+to marry as I like.'
+
+'Then I can't take a penny from you,' she answered, weeping. 'If you
+ruin yourself, you ruin me as well.'
+
+'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.'
+
+A fit of violent coughing stopped his speech; he turned away, and stood
+by the window, holding his handkerchief to his mouth.
+
+Mrs. Damerel sank upon a chair in mute misery.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 3
+
+
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'I shall not write, after all,' she said, when her friend came. 'I'm too
+tired. Bring your sewing, or your book, here.'
+
+Mary was never talkative; Nancy kept a longer silence than usual.
+
+'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.'
+
+She laughed, but looked seriously for the reply.
+
+'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.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'I have known mothers who did,' Mary remarked.
+
+'It comes to this. Nature doesn't intend a married woman to be anything
+_but_ 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.'
+
+Mary reflected, but held her peace.
+
+'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?'
+
+The less sophisticated woman had a difficulty in catching Nancy's point
+of view. She began to argue that domestic service was no slavery.
+
+'But it _comes_ 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 _only_ to be sacrificed. I always come round to
+that. I don't like it, but I am bound to believe it.'
+
+'Children grow up,' said Mary, 'and then mothers are free.'
+
+'Free to do what? To think of what they _might_ have done in the best
+years of their life.'
+
+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.
+
+'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.'
+
+'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.'
+
+This was quite beyond Mary's scope of thought, and she frankly said so.
+
+'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.'
+
+Nancy interrupted her.
+
+'Hush! Was that baby?'
+
+'Only the wind, I think.'
+
+Not content, Nancy went to the foot of the stairs. Whilst she stood
+there listening, Mary came out, and said in a low voice:
+
+'There's a tap at the window.'
+
+'No!--You must have been mistaken.'
+
+'I'm sure it was a tap on the glass.'
+
+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.
+
+'Any one there?'
+
+'No enemy but winter and rough weather,' chanted a familiar voice.
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+'Why have you come, Lionel?'
+
+'No reason in particular. The fancy took me. Am I unwelcome?'
+
+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.
+
+'Are you hungry?'
+
+'Only for what you have given me.'
+
+'Some tea, then, after that wretched journey.'
+
+'No. How's the boy?'
+
+He drew her upon his knee, and listened laughingly whilst the newest
+marvels of babyhood were laughingly related.
+
+'Anything from Horace?'
+
+'Not a word. He must be in London now; I shall write tomorrow.'
+
+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.
+
+'I think you have something to tell me,' Nancy said presently, when her
+hand had been fondled for a minute or two.
+
+'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.'
+
+'Three guineas a week.'
+
+'O rare head!'
+
+'So there's no anxiety for the first half of next year, at all events,'
+said Nancy, with a sigh of relief.
+
+'I think I can count on a margin of fifty pounds or so by
+midsummer--towards the debt, of course.'
+
+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.
+
+'Did you dine with the great people on Thursday?' Nancy asked.
+
+'Yes, and rather enjoyed it. There were one or two clever women.'
+
+'Been anywhere else?'
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+'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.
+
+'Oughtn't you to get more comfortable lodgings?'
+
+'Oh, I do very well. I'm accustomed to the place, and I like the
+situation.'
+
+He had kept his room in Great College Street, though often obliged to
+scant his meals as the weekly rent-day approached.
+
+'Don't you think we might make some better--some more economical
+arrangement?'
+
+'How?'
+
+Nancy took courage, and spoke her thoughts.
+
+'It's more expensive to live separately than if we were together.'
+
+Tarrant seemed to give the point his impartial consideration.
+
+'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.'
+
+'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.'
+
+Smoking calmly, Tarrant shook his head.
+
+'Impracticable. Do you mean that this place is too dull for you?'
+
+'It isn't lively, but I wasn't thinking of the place. If _you_ lived
+here, it would be all I should wish.'
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+'You must have more variety,' he added. 'Next year you shall come into
+town much oftener--'
+
+'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.'
+
+'Ought? Because Mrs. Tomkins would cry _haro_! if her husband the
+greengrocer wasn't at her elbow day and night?'
+
+'Have more patience with me. I didn't mean _ought_ 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.'
+
+Tarrant nodded.
+
+'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--'
+
+'I should like the invitations,' Nancy broke in, 'but you still don't
+understand me.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'Why not put it the other way about, and say that men can love to begin
+with, but so soon grow careless?'
+
+'Because I am myself an instance to the contrary.'
+
+Nancy smiled, but was not satisfied.
+
+'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.'
+
+Nancy looked appalled.
+
+'But how can you hope to make thousands a year?'
+
+'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.'
+
+'Your thoughts are wonderfully like my father's, sometimes,' said Nancy.
+
+'From what you have told me of him, I think we should have agreed in a
+good many things.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'For me altogether too easy,' Tarrant observed.
+
+'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.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'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?'
+
+'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.'
+
+'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?'
+
+'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.'
+
+Nancy sighed.
+
+'Then there are years of it still before me.'
+
+'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.'
+
+He waited for Nancy's reply, but she kept silence.
+
+'You are still dissatisfied?'
+
+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.
+
+'No, I am content. You are working hard, and I won't make it harder for
+you.'
+
+'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.'
+
+Nancy laughed.
+
+'I suppose she can't trust him.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'How if it were the wife that excited suspicion?' asked Nancy.
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+'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.'
+
+Tarrant laughed kindly.
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'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.'
+
+'I'm afraid not,' said Tarrant, 'from the tone of that letter.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'By all means.'
+
+Her gravest fear Nancy would not communicate. And it hit the truth.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 4
+
+
+
+They parted at Baker Street, Tarrant for his lodgings and the work that
+awaited him there, Nancy to go westward by another train.
+
+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.
+
+'Is Mr. Lord still here?' Nancy asked of the girl.
+
+'He's just this minute a-goin', miss. This is his luggage.'
+
+She sent her name, and was quickly led up to the first floor. There
+stood Horace, ready for departure.
+
+'Why have you come?' he asked, with annoyance.
+
+'What else could I do on hearing such news?'
+
+'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!'
+
+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.
+
+'I am so troubled about you,' said Nancy, with anxious tenderness. 'I
+have been looking forward with such hope to your marriage,--and now--'
+
+'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.'
+
+'Are you going far, Horace?'
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+'You haven't even shaken hands with me, Horace,' Nancy exclaimed,
+standing at the window.
+
+'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.'
+
+And the cab clattered away, sending spurts of mud on to Nancy's
+waterproof.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'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.'
+
+'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.
+
+'You know what has happened?'
+
+'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.'
+
+'And what did he tell you?' asked Mrs. Damerel, who remained
+standing,--or rather had risen, after a pretence of seating herself.
+
+'Nothing at all. He was very strange in his manner. He said he would
+write.'
+
+'You know that he is seriously ill?'
+
+'I am afraid he must be.'
+
+'He has grown much worse during the last fortnight. Don't you suspect
+any reason for his throwing off poor Winifred?'
+
+'I wondered whether he had met that girl again. But it seemed very
+unlikely.'
+
+'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.
+
+'I have done my utmost. He didn't speak of me?'
+
+'Only to say that his engagement with Winifred was brought about by
+you.'
+
+'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!'
+
+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.
+
+'He said nothing more about me?' added Mrs. Damerel, after a silence.
+
+'Nothing at all.'
+
+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.
+
+'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.'
+
+Her voice sounded slightly hoarse, and she lay back in the chair, with
+drooping head.
+
+'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.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'However short his life,' said Nancy, 'he is only too likely to find out
+what she really is.'
+
+'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?'
+
+'My opinion of people is not affected by hearsay,' Nancy replied.
+
+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.
+
+'I hope you will soon get rid of your cold.'
+
+'Thank you, my dear. I haven't asked how the little boy is. Well, I
+hope?'
+
+'Very well, I am glad to say.'
+
+'And your husband--he is prospering?'
+
+'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.'
+
+'My dear, you are an admirable wife.'
+
+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.
+
+'I had forgotten. I may give you my sore throat.'
+
+Nancy kissed her cheek.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'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.'
+
+'What nonsense! It's a most comfortable little room. Haven't you
+improved it since I called?'
+
+'I shall have to look out for a bigger place. I'm outgrowing this.'
+
+'Are you really? That's excellent news. Ah, but what sad things have
+been happening!'
+
+'It's a bad business,' Crewe answered, shaking his head.
+
+'I thought I should have heard from you about it.'
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'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.'
+
+'Oh, how could I have thought that? It has made me ill; I have suffered
+more than I can tell you.'
+
+'You don't look quite the thing,' said Crewe, searching her face.
+
+'Have you heard all?'
+
+'I think so. He is married, and that's the end of it, I suppose.'
+
+Mrs. Damerel winced at this blunt announcement.
+
+'When was it?' she asked, in an undertone. 'I only knew he had made up
+his mind.'
+
+Crewe mentioned the date; the day after Nancy's call upon her.
+
+'And are they at Bournemouth?'
+
+'Yes. Will be for a month or so, he says.'
+
+'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?'
+
+'I haven't heard him mention your name.'
+
+She heaved a sigh, and began to look round the office.
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+'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.'
+
+'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?'
+
+'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!'
+
+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.
+
+'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.'
+
+'What a brilliant idea!'
+
+'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 _me_, 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.'
+
+'But how you do work, Mr. Crewe! It's marvellous. And yet you look so
+well,--you have really a seaside colour!'
+
+'I never ailed much since I can remember. The harder I work, the better
+I feel.'
+
+'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?'
+
+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.
+
+'Why do you come in like that?' Crewe demanded, staring at her. 'I'm
+engaged.'
+
+'Are you indeed?'
+
+'You ought to send in your name.
+
+'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.'
+
+Beatrice French stepped forward, smiling ominously, and eyeing first
+Crewe then his companion with curiosity of the frankest impertinence.
+Mrs. Damerel stood up.
+
+'We will speak of our business at another time, Mr. Crewe.'
+
+Crewe, red with anger, turned upon Beatrice.
+
+'I tell you I am engaged--'
+
+'To Mrs. Damerel?' asked the intruder airily.
+
+'You might suppose,'--he addressed the elder lady,--'that this woman has
+some sort of hold upon me--'
+
+'I'm sure I hope not,' said Mrs. Damerel, 'for your own sake.'
+
+'Nothing of the kind. She has pestered me a good deal, and it began in
+this way.'
+
+Beatrice gave him so fierce a look, that his tongue faltered.
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+'Do you know who she is--or not?' Beatrice asked of Crewe.
+
+He shuffled, and made no reply.
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+'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.'
+
+Crewe seated himself and gave vent to his feelings in a phrase of pure
+soliloquy: 'Well, I'm damned!'
+
+'I cut in just at the right time, did I?--No malice. I've had my hit
+back at her, and that's enough.'
+
+As the man of business remained absorbed in his thoughts, Beatrice took
+a chair. Presently he looked up at her, and said savagely:
+
+'What the devil do you want?'
+
+'Nothing.'
+
+'Then take it and go.'
+
+But Beatrice smiled, and kept her seat.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 5
+
+
+
+Nancy stood before her husband with a substantial packet in brown paper.
+It was after breakfast, at the moment of their parting.
+
+'Here is something I want you to take, and look at, and speak about the
+next time you come.'
+
+'Ho, ho! I don't like the look of it.' He felt the packet. 'Several
+quires of paper here.'
+
+'Be off, or you'll miss the train.'
+
+'Poor little girl! _Et tu_!'
+
+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.
+
+Nancy searched his face, her own perturbed and pallid.
+
+'How long have you been working at this?'
+
+'Nearly a year. But not every day, of course. Sometimes for a week or
+more I could get no time. You think it bad?'
+
+'No,'--puff--'not in any sense'--puff--'bad. In one sense, it's good.
+But'--puff--'that's a private sense; a domestic sense.'
+
+'The question is, dear, can it be sold to a publisher.'
+
+'The question is nothing of the kind. You mustn't even try to sell it to
+a publisher.'
+
+'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.'
+
+Tarrant smoked for a minute or two, until his companion gave a sign of
+impatience. He wore a very good-humoured look.
+
+'It's more than likely you might get the thing accepted--'
+
+'Oh, then why not?' she interrupted eagerly, with bright eyes.
+
+'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.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'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--'
+
+He finished the sentence in smoke wreaths.
+
+'Then I'll try again. I'll do better.'
+
+'Never _much_ better. It will never be literature.'
+
+'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--'
+
+'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.'
+
+'It seemed to me that I was _doing_ something. Why should a woman be
+shut out from the life of the world?'
+
+'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.'
+
+Nancy laughed, and reflected, and returned to her discontent.
+
+'Oh, every woman can do that.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'I wanted to _do_ something,' she persisted, refusing to catch his eye.
+'I have read enough.'
+
+'Read enough? Ha, then there's no more to be said.'
+
+His portentous solemnity overcame her. Laughter lighted her face, and
+Tarrant, laying down his pipe, shouted extravagant mirth.
+
+'Am I to burn it then?'
+
+'You are not. You are to seal it with seven seals, to write upon it
+_peche de jeunesse_, 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?'
+
+'A music-hall?'
+
+'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.'
+
+'You say that to comfort me after my vexation.'
+
+'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.'
+
+'You can't afford it.'
+
+'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?'
+
+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.
+
+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.'
+
+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.
+
+His only purpose in coming, it appeared, was to ask for information
+about the Bahamas.
+
+'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.'
+
+'Lionel can tell you all about it. He'll be here to-morrow. Come and
+have a talk with him.'
+
+'No.' He moved pettishly. 'Tell me as much as you know yourself. I don't
+feel well enough to meet people.'
+
+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.
+
+'How are you going to live till then?'
+
+'What do you mean?' he answered, with a startled and irritated look.
+'I'm not so bad as all that.'
+
+'I meant--how are you going to arrange your life?' Nancy hastened to
+explain.
+
+'Oh, I have comfortable lodgings.'
+
+'But you oughtn't to be quite alone.--I mean it must be so cheerless.'
+
+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.
+
+With a peevish sort of interest he watched his little nephew toddling
+about the room, but did not address a word to the child.
+
+A cab was sent for to convey him to the railway station. Nancy had known
+few such melancholy days as this.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+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.'
+
+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.'
+
+When the promised letter arrived, it was found to bear a date two months
+ago. An unwonted tenderness marked the opening words.
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+And now let me tell you how my affairs stand--
+
+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.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 6
+
+
+
+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.'
+
+Tarrant did not keep her long in suspense, and his answer complied in
+reasonable measure with the desire she had expressed.
+
+'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.
+
+'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.
+
+'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.
+
+'Write to me again, and say when you wish to see me.
+
+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.
+
+'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.
+
+'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 _know_ 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 _me_.
+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.
+
+'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.
+
+'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.'
+
+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.
+
+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.
+
+'Who is it?'
+
+'Miss. Morgan.'
+
+'What? Jessica?'
+
+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.'
+
+'Yes, I will see her,' said Nancy, when she had frowned in brief
+reflection.
+
+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.
+
+'I was afraid you would refuse to see me.'
+
+'Why have you come?'
+
+'I was impelled--I had a duty to perform.'
+
+Coldly, Nancy invited her to sit down, but the visitor shook her head.
+
+'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--'
+
+Nancy interrupted the low, hurrying, panting voice, which distressed her
+ear as much as the facial expression that accompanied it did her eyes.
+
+'There's no need to tell me. I knew it at the time, and you did me no
+harm. Indeed, it was a kindness.'
+
+She drew away, but Jessica moved after her.
+
+'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.'
+
+'Do you mean that some one has told you to do this?'
+
+'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?'
+
+She clasped her gloveless hands before her breast, and the fingers
+writhed together.
+
+'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--'
+
+'Only say them. I ask your pardon--say you grant it.'
+
+Nancy uttered the formula, and with bowed head Jessica stood for a
+minute in silence; her lips moved.
+
+'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?'
+
+Nancy's eyes had turned away, but at these words they flashed sternly
+upon the speaker.
+
+'I shall let you ask no such question.'
+
+'I expected it,' Jessica sighed patiently. 'You are still in the
+darkness, out of which _I_ have been saved.'
+
+'If you have nothing more to say than this, I must refuse to talk any
+longer.'
+
+'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.'
+
+Nancy raised her hand.
+
+'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.'
+
+'It is enough. You know very well what I refer to. Don't imagine that
+because you are now a married woman--'
+
+Nancy stepped to the door, and threw it open.
+
+'Leave the house,' she said, in an unsteady tone. 'You said you were
+unwelcome, and it was true. Take yourself out of my sight!'
+
+Jessica put her head back, murmured some inaudible words, and with a
+smile of rancorous compassion went forth into the rain.
+
+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!'
+
+Never mind. Her husband would come this evening. Of him she could learn
+without humiliation.
+
+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.
+
+'I had given you up,' said Nancy.
+
+'Yet you are quite good-tempered.'
+
+'Why not?'
+
+'It is the pleasant custom of wives to make a husband uncomfortable if
+he comes late.'
+
+'Then I am no true wife!' laughed Nancy.
+
+'Something much better,' Tarrant muttered, as he threw off his overcoat.
+
+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.
+
+'Are you sorry,' Nancy asked, 'that I am no longer penniless?'
+
+'Ah--to be sure. We must speak of that. No, I'm not sorry. If I get run
+over, you and the boy--'
+
+'Can make ourselves comfortable, and forget you; to be sure. But for the
+present, and until you do get run over?'
+
+'You wish to make changes?'
+
+'Don't you?'
+
+'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?'
+
+'What do you advise?'
+
+'No, no. Make your own suggestion.
+
+Nancy smiled, hesitated, and said at length:
+
+'I think we ought to take a house.'
+
+'In London?'
+
+'That's as you wish.'
+
+'Not at all. As _you_ wish. Do you want society?'
+
+'In moderation. And first of all, yours.
+
+Tarrant met her eyes.
+
+'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.'
+
+'But you? You won't live with me?'
+
+'You know my view of that matter.'
+
+Nancy kept her eyes down, and reflected.
+
+'Will it be known to everybody that we don't live together?'
+
+'Well,' answered Tarrant, with a laugh, 'by way of example, I should
+rather like it to be known; but as I know _you_ wouldn't like it, let
+the appearances be as ordinary as you please.'
+
+Again Nancy reflected. She had a struggle with herself.
+
+'Just one question,' she said at length. 'Look me in the face. Are
+you--ever so little--ashamed of me?'
+
+He regarded her steadily, smiling.
+
+'Not in the least.'
+
+'You were--you used to be?'
+
+'Before I knew you; and before I knew myself. When, in fact, _you_ were
+a notable young lady of Camberwell, and _I_--'
+
+He paused to puff at his pipe.
+
+'And you?'
+
+'A notable young fool of nowhere at all.'
+
+
+
+
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