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.