But I have been anticipating. This first evening of the meeting between
Robert Wentworth and Philip, all was _couleur de rose_, and my mind
was at rest. I sat more silent than usual, congratulating myself
upon the prospect of the great desire of my heart being gratified.
They two would be friends, even according to my somewhat _exigeante_
notion of what friendship should be. Then it was pleasant to listen to
Robert Wentworth's few words respecting his appreciation of Philip, so
honestly and heartily spoken.
'You must not forget that it is a brother's right to give you away,
when the time for giving away comes, Mary,' he said gently, as he
and I stood together by the open window a few minutes, whilst Philip
was turning over the music for Lilian, who was singing some of his
favourite airs for him.
'Will you? It is kind to wish it,' I murmured, feeling that it was a
great deal more than kind.
'Mr Dallas is, I believe, worthy of any man's sister, Mary.'
'I am glad you think so'--I paused a moment, then, as a sister should,
added--'Robert.'
He smiled, and talked pleasantly on, contriving to set me quite at ease
respecting the state of his own mind. I was now able to persuade myself
that he had been deceived, and that his friendship for me had never
really developed into a stronger feeling. Presently he said in his
abrupt friendly fashion: 'Why do _you_ not sing, Mary?'
'Oh, Lilian sings that so much better than I; and it is a favourite of
Philip's.'
'Well, come now and enchant our ears;' going towards the piano as
Lilian ceased, and looking out a song which he always said I sang well.
'Now, do your best.'
But although Philip and Lilian were more than satisfied, Robert was
not. He and I knew that it was not my best, their kind speeches
notwithstanding. He seemed to have quite changed his tactics with
regard to me--doing everything in his power to make me appear to
advantage in Philip's eyes. But he unconsciously deprived me of the
pleasant termination of the day, which I had been looking forward to.
Philip and he set forth together to walk to the railway station, and of
course there was no moonlight walk for me that night.
But there was the morrow--many a happy morrow to come, now, I told
myself, looking after them as they went down the lane together. The
more they saw of each other, the sooner they would become friends.
Lilian, who stood beside me at the gate, slipped her arm round my
waist, and laid her head against my shoulder in eloquent silence.
It was fortunate that the day had come round for paying my promised
visit to Nancy Dean. I felt that I needed some kind of reminder that
I did not live in a world all flowers and sunshine. I set forth the
next morning alone, thinking that Nancy might possibly feel less under
constraint than if Lilian were present during our interview. Philip had
some banking business to transact which would prevent his getting down
to us until late in the afternoon; and I had therefore ample time for
my errand before his arrival.
This time I found no difficulty in obtaining admittance; and was
informed that the rules allowed me to remain an hour, if I chose so to
do, with my friend Nancy Dean. That hour we were at liberty to spend
in either the dining-hall or exercise-ground, as we chose. We gazed
earnestly and curiously at each other as we shook hands; and I hope she
was as pleased with me by daylight as I was with her.
Without being handsome or even pretty, Nancy Dean's was a face which
pleased me much. If expressing a shade too much self-will and the
firmness which, untrained, is so apt to degenerate into obstinacy,
there was no trace of meanness, deceit, or dishonesty.
'You expected me to-day of course, Nancy?'
'I shouldn't be here if I hadn't, Miss,' she returned with a grave
smile. We had elected to spend the hour in the open air; and with
my arm linked in hers, we paced slowly up and down part of the old
court-yard, or exercise-ground as it was called.
'In that case, I ought to be thankful that no accident occurred to
prevent my coming. It might have, you know, and then poor I should have
had to bear the blame for anything which followed.'
'How could you have been to blame if an accident had happened, Miss?'
'My dear Nancy, if you had fallen back, _some one_ would have been in
fault, since we could hardly throw the blame upon an accident.'
'You mean _I_ should have been to blame, if I had gone wrong again
because you did not come?'
I smiled. 'I am not altogether sure which of us would have been _most_
in fault, Nancy.'
'But how could you'----
'One thing is clear. I did not succeed in giving you faith in me,
although I had faith in you.'
She looked dubiously at me a moment, then her eyes slowly filled with
tears. 'Perhaps I haven't been ready enough to believe in people. Till
now, nobody ever seemed to believe in _me_.'
'It is not for me to judge, Nancy. I can only say I am pleased that
you had the strength and courage to return here and remain, under the
circumstances.'
'You seem to know exactly the best thing to say to encourage me, Miss!'
ejaculated Nancy. 'And even when you hit hard, as you sometimes do, I
don't seem to mind it so much from you as I do from other people--it's
different, somehow! You don't seem to enjoy thinking about my
wickedness.'
'If I thought you wicked, I certainly should not enjoy thinking so; and
if you were, you would not have come back here. Poor Nancy, I am afraid
it has been rather hard for you!'
'If you could only know _how_ hard it has been!' she murmured. 'Think
of never being spoken to by any of the others for a week; kept in
silence and solitude, and looked upon as the worst creature that ever
breathed!'
'All the more credit to you for bearing it. But we will not talk about
that. Let us rather think about the future. I told you I am going to
be married shortly--in a month or two probably--and then we are going
abroad for a time.'
'Shall I have to stay here till you come back, Miss?' she asked
anxiously, her face falling at the thought.
'No; I do not wish it; that would be too much to expect. I am sure I
shall be able to make some arrangement for you; possibly I may arrange
for you to stay with a dear old friend of mine, who has only one young
servant, until my return; but I promise you shall not remain here much
longer.'
This was better; she brightened up wonderfully again, and we spent
the rest of the allotted time very cheerfully. What was perhaps most
cheering of all to poor Nancy was my little speech about hoping
by-and-by to set things right with her relations.
'It's too late for that, Miss,' she replied sadly; 'they know I've been
in prison, and poor mother's gone.'
'Too late, indeed! Why, there is almost a lifetime before you in which
to prove your innocence! Besides, after you have lived with me long
enough to enable me to speak from experience, I will take the matter
in hand, and write to your father and sister. In the meantime, we must
seek for the poor creature for whom you suffered, and if we can, get
her to give evidence that she put the ring into your box.'