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.