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.’