As a rule, she returned from her day’s occupations to dinner, in

De Crespigny Park, at seven o’clock. To-day her arrival at home

was considerably later. About three o’clock she made a call at the

boarding-house where Mrs. Damerel lived, but was disappointed in her

wish to see that lady, who would not be in before the hour of

dining. She called again at seven, and Mrs. Damerel received her very

graciously. It was the first time they had met. Beatrice, in no mood for

polite grimaces, at once disclosed the object of her visit; she wanted

to talk about Fanny; did Mrs. Damerel know anything of a proposed

journey to Brussels? The lady professed utter ignorance of any such

intention on Fanny’s part. She had not seen Fanny for at least a

fortnight.

‘How can that be? She told me she dined here last Sunday.’

‘That’s very strange,’ answered Mrs. Damerel, with suave concern. ‘She

certainly did not dine here.’

‘And the Sunday before?’

‘Your sister has dined here only once, Miss. French, and that was three

months ago.’

‘Then I don’t understand it. Haven’t you been taking her to theatres,

and parties, and that kind of thing?’

‘I have taken her once to a theatre, and twice to evening “at homes.”

The last time we were together anywhere was at Mrs. Dane’s, about the

middle of May. Since then I have seen her hardly at all. I’m very

much afraid you are under some misconception. Thinking your sister was

engaged to marry my nephew, Mr. Lord, I naturally desired to offer her

a few friendly attentions. But it came out, at length, that she did not

regard the engagement as serious. I was obliged to speak gravely to my

young nephew, and beg him to consider his position. There is the second

dinner-bell, but I am quite at your service, Miss. French, if you wish

to question me further.’

Beatrice was much inclined to resent this tone, and to use her

vernacular. But it seemed only too probable that Fanny had been

deceiving her, and, as she really feared for the girl’s safety, prudence

bade her be civil with Mrs. Damerel.

‘Can’t you help me to find out what Fanny has really been doing?’

‘I’m afraid it’s quite out of my power. She never confided in me, and it

is so long since I have seen anything of her at all.’

‘It’s best to speak plainly,’ said Beatrice, in her business tone.

‘Can’t you think of any man, in the society you introduced her to, who

may be trying to lead her astray?’

‘Really, Miss. French! The society in which I move is not what you seem

to suppose. If your sister is in any danger of _that_ kind, you must

make your inquiries elsewhere--in an inferior rank of life.’

Beatrice no longer contained herself.

‘Perhaps I know rather more than you think about your kind of society.

There’s not much to choose between the men and the women.’

‘Miss. French, I believe you reside in a part of London called

Camberwell. And I believe you are engaged in some kind of millinery

business. This excuses you for ill-manners. All the same, I must beg you

to relieve me of your presence.’ She rang the bell. ‘Good evening.’

‘I dare say we shall see each other again,’ replied Beatrice, with an

insulting laugh. ‘I heard some one say to-day that it might be as well

to find out _who you really are_. And if any harm comes to Fanny, I

shall take a little trouble about that inquiry myself.’

Mrs. Damerel changed colour, but no movement betrayed anxiety. In the

attitude of dignified disdain, she kept her eyes on a point above Miss.

French’s head, and stood so until the plebeian adversary had withdrawn.

Then she sat down, and for a few minutes communed with herself. In the

end, instead of going to dinner, she rang her bell again. A servant

appeared.

‘Is Mr. Mankelow in the dining-room?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Ask him to be kind enough to come here for a moment.’

With little delay, Mr. Mankelow answered the summons which called him

from his soup. He wore evening dress; his thin hair was parted down the

middle; his smooth-shaven and rather florid face expressed the annoyance

of a hungry man at so unseasonable an interruption.

‘Do forgive me,’ began Mrs. Damerel, in a pathetic falsetto. ‘I have

been so upset, I felt obliged to seek advice immediately, and no one

seemed so likely to be of help to me as you--a man of the world. Would

you believe that a sister of that silly little Miss. French has just

been here--a downright virago--declaring that the girl has been

led astray, and that I am responsible for it? Can you imagine such

impertinence? She has fibbed shockingly to the people at home--told

them she was constantly here with me in the evenings, when she must have

been--who knows where. It will teach me to meddle again with girls of

that class.’

Mankelow stood with his hands behind him, and legs apart, regarding the

speaker with a comically puzzled air.

‘My dear Mrs. Damerel,’--he had a thick, military sort of voice,--‘why

in the world should this interpose between us and dinner? Afterwards, we

might--’

‘But I am really anxious about the silly little creature. It would be

extremely disagreeable if my name got mixed up in a scandal of any

kind. You remember my telling you that she didn’t belong exactly to

the working-class. She has even a little property of her own; and I

shouldn’t wonder if she has friends who might make a disturbance if

her--her vagaries could be in any way connected with me and my circle.

Something was mentioned about Brussels. She has been chattering about

some one who wanted to take her to Brussels--’

The listener arched his eyebrows more and more.

‘What _can_ it matter to you?’

‘To be sure, I have no acquaintance with any one who could do such

things--’

‘Why, of course not. And even if you had, I understand that the girl is

long out of her teens--’

‘Long since.’

‘Then it’s her own affair--and that of the man who cares to purchase

such amusement. By-the-bye, it happens rather oddly that I myself have

to run over to Brussels on business; but I trust’--he laughed--‘that my

years and my character--’

‘Oh, Mr. Mankelow, absurd! It’s probably some commercial traveller, or

man of that sort, don’t you think? The one thing I _do_ hope is, that,

if anything like this happens, the girl will somehow make it clear to

her friends that _I_ had no knowledge whatever of what was going on. But

that can hardly be hoped, I fear!--’

Their eyes crossed; they stood for a moment perusing vacancy.

‘Yes, I think it might be hoped,’ said Mankelow airily. ‘She seemed to

me a rather reckless sort of young person. It’s highly probable she will

write letters which release every one but herself from responsibility.

In fact’--he gazed at her with a cynical smile--‘my knowledge of human

nature disposes me to assure you that she certainly will. She might

even, I should say, write a letter to _you_--perhaps a cheeky sort of

letter, which would at once set your mind at ease.’

‘Oh, if you really take that view--’

‘I do indeed. Don’t you think we might dismiss the matter, and dine?’

They did so.

Until noon of to-day, Mrs. Peachey had kept her bed, lying amid the

wreck wrought by last night’s madness. She then felt well enough to

rise, and after refreshment betook herself by cab to the offices of

Messrs Ducker, Blunt & Co., manufacturers of disinfectants, where she

conversed with one of the partners, and learnt that her husband had

telegraphed his intention to be absent for a day or two. Having, with

the self-respect which distinguished her, related her story from the

most calumnious point of view, she went home again to nurse her headache

and quarrel with Fanny. But Fanny had in the meantime left home,

and, unaccountable fact, had taken with her a large tin box and a

dress-basket; heavily packed, said the servants. Her direction to the

cabman was merely Westminster Bridge, which conveyed to Mrs. Peachey no

sort of suggestion.

When Beatrice came back, and learnt this event, she went apart in

wrathful gloom. Ada could not engage her in a quarrel. It was a

wretchedly dull evening.

They talked next morning, and Beatrice announced her purpose of going

to live by herself as soon as possible. But she would not quarrel. Left

alone, Ada prepared to visit certain of their relatives in different

parts of London, to spread among them the news of her husband’s infamy.

CHAPTER 6

When Mary Woodruff unlocked the house-door and entered the little hall,

it smelt and felt as though the damp and sooty fogs of winter still

lingered here, untouched by the July warmth. She came alone, and

straightway spent several hours in characteristic activity--airing,

cleaning, brightening. For a few days there would be no servant; Mary,

after her long leisure down in Cornwall, enjoyed the prospect of doing

all the work herself. They had reached London last evening, and had

slept at a family hotel, where Nancy remained until the house was in

order for her.

Unhappily, their arrival timed with a change of weather, which brought

clouds and rain. The glories of an unshadowed sky would have little

more than availed to support Nancy’s courage as she passed the creaking

little gate and touched the threshold of a home to which she returned

only on compulsion; gloom overhead, and puddles underfoot, tried her

spirit sorely. She had a pale face, and thin cheeks, and moved with

languid step.

Her first glance was at the letter-box.

‘Nothing?’

Mary shook her head. During their absence letters had been re-addressed

by the post-office, and since the notice of return nothing had come.

‘I’m quite sure a letter has been lost.’

‘Yes, it may have been. But there’ll be an answer to your last very

soon.’

‘I don’t think so. Most likely I shall never hear again.’

And Nancy sat by the window of the front room, looking, as she had

looked so many a time, at the lime tree opposite and the house visible

through wet branches. A view unchanged since she could remember;

recalling all her old ambitions, revolts, pretences, and ignorances;

recalling her father, who from his grave still oppressed her living

heart.

Somewhere near sounded the wailing shout of a dustman. It was like the

voice of a soul condemned to purge itself in filth.

‘Mary!’ She rose up and went to the kitchen. ‘I can’t live here! It will

kill me if I have to live in this dreadful place. Why, even you have

been crying; I can see you have. If _you_ give way, think what it must

be to me!’

‘It’s only for a day or two, dear,’ answered Mary. ‘We shall feel at

home again very soon. Miss. Morgan will come this evening, and perhaps

your brother.’

‘I must do something. Give me some work.’

Mary could not but regard this as a healthy symptom, and she suggested

tasks that called for moderate effort. Sick of reading--she had read

through a whole circulating library in the past six months--Nancy

bestirred herself about the house; but she avoided her father’s room.

Horace did not come to-day; a note arrived from him, saying that he

would call early to-morrow morning. But at tea-time Jessica presented

herself. She looked less ghostly than half a year ago; the grave

illness through which she had passed seemed to have been helpful to her

constitution. Yet she was noticeably changed. In her letters Nancy had

remarked an excessive simplicity, a sort of childishness, very unlike

Jessica’s previous way of writing; and the same peculiarity now appeared

in her conversation. By turns she was mawkish and sprightly, tearful

and giggling. Her dress, formerly neglected to the point of untidiness,

betrayed a new-born taste for fashionable equipment; she suddenly drew

attention to it in the midst of serious talk, asking with a bashful

smirk whether Nancy thought it suited her.

‘I got it at Miss. French’s place--the Association, you know. It’s

really wonderful how cheap things are there. And the very best cut, by

dressmakers from Paris.’

Nancy wondered, and felt that her diminishing regard for Miss. Morgan

had suffered a fresh blow.

There was much news to receive and impart. In writing from Falmouth,

Nancy had referred to the details of her own life with studied

ambiguity. She regretted having taken Jessica into her confidence, and

avoided penning a word which, if read by any one but her correspondent,

would betray the perilous secret. Jessica, after her illness, was

inclined to resent this extreme caution, which irritated her curiosity;

but in vain she assured Nancy that there was not the least fear of her

letters falling into wrong hands. For weeks at a time she heard nothing,

and then would come a letter, long indeed, but without a syllable of the

information she desired. Near the end of May she received a line or two,

‘I have been really ill, but am now much better. I shall stay here only

a few weeks more. Don’t be anxious; I am well cared for, and the worst

is over.’

She heard the interpretation from Nancy’s lips, and laughed and cried

over it.

‘What you must have suffered, my poor dear! And to be separated from the

little darling! Oh, it’s too cruel! You are sure they will be kind to

it?’

‘Mary has every confidence in the woman. And I like the look of her; I

don’t feel uneasy. I shall go there very often, of course.’

‘And when is _he_ coming back? He oughtn’t to have kept away all this

time. How unkind!’

‘Not at all,’ Nancy replied, with sudden reserve. ‘He is acting for the

best. You mustn’t ask me about that; you shall know more some day.’

Jessica, whose face made legible presentment of her every thought,

looked disappointed and peevish.

‘And you are really going in for the examination again?’ Nancy asked.

‘Oh, of course I am!’ answered the other perkily; ‘but not till summer

of next year. I’m not allowed to study much yet; the doctor says I might

do my brain a serious injury. I read a great deal; books that rest the

mind--poetry and fiction; of course only the very best fiction. I shall

soon be able to begin teaching again; but I must be very careful. Only

an hour or two a day at first, and perhaps quite young children.’

Evidently the girl felt a certain pride in what she had undergone. Her

failure to matriculate was forgotten in the sense that she offered

a most interesting case of breakdown from undue mental exertion.

The doctor had declared his astonishment that she held up until the

examination was over.

‘He simply wouldn’t believe me when I told him the hours I worked. He

said I ought to be on my trial for attempted suicide!’

And she laughed with extravagant conceit.

‘You have quite made friends with the Barmbys,’ said Nancy, eyeing her

curiously.

‘They are very nice people. Of course the girls quite understand what a

difference there is between themselves and me. I like them because they

are so modest; they would never think of contradicting my opinion about

anything.’

‘And what about the Prophet?’

‘I don’t think you ever quite understood him,’ Jessica replied, with an

obvious confusion which perplexed her friend. ‘He isn’t at all the kind

of man you thought.’

‘No doubt I was wrong,’ Nancy hastened to say. ‘It was prejudice.

And you remember that I never had any fault to find with his--his

character.’

‘You disliked him,’ said the other sharply. ‘And you still dislike him.

I’m sure you do.’

So plainly did Jessica desire a confirmation of this statement, that

Nancy allowed herself to be drawn into half avowing a positive dislike

for Samuel. Whereupon Jessica looked pleased, and tossed her head in a

singular way.

‘I needn’t remind you,’ fell from Nancy, after a moment of troubled

reflection, ‘how careful you must be in talking about me to the

Barmbys.’

‘Oh, don’t have the slightest fear.’

‘Weren’t you delirious in your illness?’

‘I should think I was indeed! For a long time.’

‘I hope you said nothing--’

‘About you? Oh, not a word; I’m quite sure. I talked all the time about

my studies. The doctor heard me one day repeating a long bit of Virgil.

And I kept calling for bits of paper to work out problems in Geometrical

Progression. Just fancy! I don’t think most girls are delirious in that

way. If I had said anything about you that sounded queer, of course

mother would have told me afterwards. Oh, it was quite an intellectual

delirium.’

Had Jessica, since her illness, become an insufferable simpleton?

or--Nancy wondered--was it she herself who, through experience and

sorrows, was grown wiser, and saw her friend in a new light? It troubled

her gravely that the preservation of a secret more than ever momentous

should depend upon a person with so little sense. The girl’s departure

was a relief; but in the silence that followed upon silly talk, she had

leisure to contemplate this risk, hitherto scarce taken into account.

She spoke of it with Mary, the one friend to whom her heart went out

in absolute trust, from whom she concealed but few of her thoughts, and

whose moral worth, only understood since circumstances compelled her

reliance upon it, had set before her a new ideal of life. Mary, she well

knew, abhorred the deceit they were practising, and thought hard things

of the man who made it a necessity; so it did not surprise her that the

devoted woman showed no deep concern at a new danger.

‘It’s more the shame than anything else, that I fear now,’ said Nancy.

‘If I have to support myself and my child, I shall do it. How, I don’t

know; but other women find a way, and I should. If he deserts me, I am

not such a poor creature as to grieve on that account; I should despise

him too much even to hate him. But the shame of it would be

terrible. It’s common, vulgar cheating--such as you read of in the

newspapers--such as people are punished for. I never thought of it in

that way when he was here. Yet he felt it. He spoke of it like that, but

I wouldn’t listen.’

Mary heard this with interest.

‘Did he wish you to give it up?’ she asked. ‘You never told me that.’

‘He said he would rather we did. But that was when he had never thought

of being in want himself. Afterwards--yes, even then he spoke in the

same way; but what could we do?’

‘Don’t fear that he will forsake you,’ said Mary. ‘You will hear from

him very soon. He knows the right and the wrong, and right will be

stronger with him in the end.’

‘If only I were sure that he has heard of his child’s birth. If he

_has_, and won’t even write to me, then he is no man, and it’s better we

should never see each other again.’

She knew the hours of postal delivery, and listened with throbbing heart

to the double knocks at neighbouring houses. When the last postman was

gone by, she sat down, sick with disappointment.

At bedtime she said to Mary, ‘My little baby is asleep; oh, if I could

but see it for a moment!’ And tears choked her as she turned away.

It was more than two months since she had heard from her husband.

At first Tarrant wrote as frequently as he had promised. She learnt

speedily of his arrival at New York, then that he had reached Nassau,

the capital of the Bahamas, then that he was with his friend Sutherland

on the little island amid the coral reefs. Subsequent letters, written

in buoyant spirits, contained long descriptions of the scenery

about him, and of the life he led. He expressed a firm confidence in

Sutherland’s enterprises; beyond a doubt, there was no end of money to

be made by an energetic man; he should report most favourably to Mr.

Vawdrey, whose co-operation would of course be invaluable. For his own

part, whether he profited or not from these commercial schemes, he had

not been mistaken in foreseeing material for journalism, even for a

book. Yes, he should certainly write a book on the Bahamas, if only to

expose the monstrous system of misgovernment which accounted for the

sterility into which these islands had fallen. The climate, in winter

at all events, was superb. Sutherland and he lay about in delicious

sunshine, under a marvellous sky, smoking excellent cigars, and talking

over old Oxford days. He quoted Tennyson: ‘Larger constellations

burning,’ &c.

At the end of December, when Nancy, according to their agreement, began

to hope for his return, a letter in a very different tone burdened

her with dismal doubts. Tarrant had quarrelled with his friend. He had

discovered that Sutherland was little better than a swindler. ‘I see

that the fellow’s professed energy was all sham. He is the laziest scamp

imaginable; lazier even than his boozing old father. He schemes only to

get money out of people; and his disappointment on finding that _I_ have

no money to lose, has shown itself at length in very gross forms. I find

he is a gambler; there has just been a tremendous row between him and an

American, whom he is said to have cheated at cards. Last year he was for

several weeks in Mexico City, a place notorious for gambling, and there

lost a large sum of money that didn’t belong to him.’ The upshot was

that he could no longer advise Mr. Vawdrey to have anything to do with

Sutherland. But he must not leave the Bahamas yet; that would be most

unwise, as he was daily gathering most valuable information. Vawdrey

might be induced to lend him a hundred pounds or so. But he would write

again very soon.

It was the close of January when he dated his next letter. Vawdrey had

sent him fifty pounds; this, however, was to include the cost of his

return to England. ‘See, then, what I have decided. I shall make a

hurried tour through the West Indian Islands, then cross to the States,

and travel by land to New York or Boston, seeing all I can afford to

on the way. If I have to come home as a steerage passenger, never

mind; that, too, will be valuable experience.’ There followed many

affectionate phrases, but Nancy’s heart remained cold.

He wrote next from Washington, after six weeks’ silence. Difficulties

of which he would speak at length in another letter had caused him to

postpone answering the two letters he had received. Nancy must never

lose faith in him; his love was unshaken; before the birth of her child

he would assuredly be back in England. Let her address to New York. He

was well, but could not pretend to be very cheerful. However, courage!

He had plans and hopes, of which she should soon hear.

After that, Nancy knew nothing of him, save that he was living in New

York. He wrote two or three times, but briefly, always promising

details in the next epistle. Then he ceased to correspond. Not even

the announcement of the child’s birth elicited a word from him. One

subsequent letter had Nancy despatched; this unanswered, she would write

no more.

She was herself surprised at the calmness with which she faced so

dreadful a possibility as desertion by the man she had loved and

married, the father of her baby. It meant, perhaps, that she could not

believe such fate had really befallen her. Even in Tarrant’s last short

letter sounded a note of kindness, of truthfulness, incompatible, it

seemed to her, with base cruelty. ‘I dreamt of you last night, dearest,

and woke up with a heart that ached for your suffering.’ How could a man

pen those words, and be meditating dastardly behaviour to the woman he

addressed? Was he ill, then? or had fatal accident befallen him? She

feared such explanation only in her weakest moments. If, long ago, he

could keep silence for six weeks at a time, why not now for months?

As for the news she had sent him--does a man think it important that a

little child has been born into the world? Likely enough that again he

merely ‘postponed’ writing. Of course he no longer loved her, say what

he might; at most he thought of her with a feeling of compassion--not

strong enough to overcome his dislike of exertion. He would come

back--when it pleased him.

Nancy would not sully her mind by thinking that he might only return

when her position made it worth his while. He was not a man of that

stamp. Simply, he had ceased to care for her; and having no means of his

own, whilst she was abundantly provided, he yielded to the temptation

to hold aloof from a woman whose claim upon him grew burdensome. Her

thoughts admitted no worse accusation than this. Did any grave ill

befall her; if, for instance, the fact of her marriage became known, and

she were left helpless; her letter to New York would not be disregarded.

To reflect thus signified a mental balance rare in women, and remarkable

in one situated as Nancy was. She talked with her companion far less

consistently, for talk served to relieve the oppression of her heart and

mind.

When, next morning, Horace entered the sitting-room, brother and sister

viewed each other with surprise. Neither was prepared for the outward

change wrought in both by the past half-year. Nancy looked what she

in truth had become, a matronly young woman, in uncertain health, and

possessed by a view of life too grave for her years; Horace, no longer

a mere lad, exhibited in sunken cheeks and eyes bright with an unhappy

recklessness, the acquisition of experience which corrupts before it can

mature. Moving to offer her lips, Nancy was checked by the young man’s

exclamation.

‘What on earth has been the matter with you? I never saw any one so

altered.’

His voice, with its deepened note, and the modification of his very

accent, due to novel circumstances, checked the hearer’s affectionate

impulse. If not unfeeling, the utterance had nothing fraternal. Deeply

pained, and no less alarmed by this warning of the curiosity her

appearance would excite in all who knew her, Nancy made a faltering

reply.

‘Why should you seem astonished? You know very well I have had an

illness.’

‘But what sort of illness? What caused it? You used always to be well

enough.’

‘You had better go and talk to my medical attendant,’ said Nancy, in a

cold, offended voice.

Horace resumed with irritability.

‘Isn’t it natural for me to ask such questions? You’re not a bit like

yourself. And what did you mean by telling me you were coming back at

once, when I wanted to join you at Falmouth?’

‘I meant to. But after all, I had to stay longer.’

‘Oh well, it’s nothing to me.’

They had not even shaken hands, and now felt no desire to correct the

omission, which was at first involuntary. Horace seemed to have lost all

the amiability of his nature; he looked about him with restless, excited

eyes.

‘Are you in a hurry?’ asked his sister, head erect.

‘No hurry that I know of.--You haven’t heard what’s been going on?’

‘Where?’

‘Of course it won’t interest you. There’s something about you I can’t

understand. Is it father’s will that has spoilt your temper, and made

you behave so strangely?’

‘It is not _my_ temper that’s spoilt. And as for behaving strangely--.’

She made an effort to command herself. ‘Sit down, Horace, and let me

know what is the matter with you. Why we should be unfriendly, I really

can’t imagine. I have suffered from ill health, that’s all. I’m sorry

I behaved in that way when you talked of coming to Falmouth; it wasn’t

meant as you seem to think. Tell me what you have to tell.’

He could not take a reposeful attitude, but, after struggling with some

reluctance, began to explain the agitation that beset him.

‘Mrs. Damerel has done something I didn’t think any woman would be

capable of. For months she has been trying to ruin Fanny, and now it has

come--she has succeeded. She made no secret of wanting to break things

off between her and me, but I never thought her plotting could go as

far as this. Fanny has run away--gone to the Continent with a man Mrs.

Damerel introduced to her.’

‘Perhaps they are married,’ said Nancy, with singular impulsiveness.

‘Of course they’re not. It’s a fellow I knew to be a scoundrel the first

time I set eyes on him. I warned Fanny against him, and I told Mrs.

Damerel that I should hold her responsible if any harm came of the

acquaintance she was encouraging between him and Fanny. She did

encourage it, though she pretended not to. Her aim was to separate me

and Fanny--she didn’t care how.’

He spoke in a high, vehement note; his cheeks flushed violently, his

clenched fist quivered at his side.

‘How do you know where she is gone?’ Nancy asked.

‘She as good as told her sister that she was going to Brussels with

some one. Then one day she disappeared, with her luggage. And that

fellow--Mankelow’s his name--has gone too. He lived in the same

boarding-house with Mrs. Damerel.’

‘That is all the evidence you have?’

‘Quite enough,’ he replied bitterly.

‘It doesn’t seem so to me. But suppose you’re right, what proof have

you that Mrs. Damerel had anything to do with it? If she is our mother’s

sister--and you say there can be no doubt of it--I won’t believe that

she could carry out such a hateful plot as this.’

‘What does it matter who she is? I would swear fifty times that she has

done it. You know very well, when you saw her, you disliked her at once.

You were right in that, and I was wrong.’

‘I can’t be sure. Perhaps it was she that disliked me, more than I did

her. For one thing, I don’t believe that people make such plots. And

what plotting was needed? Couldn’t any one have told you what a girl

like Fanny French would do if she lost her head among people of a higher

class?’

‘Then Mrs. Damerel must have foreseen it. That’s just what I say. She

pretended to be a friend to the girl, on purpose to ruin her.’

‘Have you accused her of it?’

‘Yes, I have.’ His eyes flashed. Nancy marvelled at this fire,

drawn from a gentle nature by what seemed to her so inadequate, so

contemptible a cause. ‘Of course she denied it, and got angry with me;

but any one could see she was glad of what had happened. There’s an end

between us, at all events. I shall never go to see her again; she’s

a woman who thinks of nothing but money and fashion. I dislike her

friends, every one of them I’ve met. I told her that what she had done

ought to be a punishable crime.’

Nancy reflected, then said quietly:

‘Whether you are right or wrong, I don’t think you would have got any

good from her. But will you tell me what you are going to do? I told you

that I thought borrowing money only to live on it in idleness was very

foolish.’

Her brother stiffened his neck.

‘You must allow me to judge for myself.’

‘But have you judged for yourself? Wasn’t it by Mrs. Damerel’s advice

that you gave up business?’

‘Partly. But I should have done it in any case.’

‘Have you any plans?’

‘No, I haven’t,’ he answered. ‘You can’t expect a man to have plans

whose life has been thoroughly upset.’

Nancy, reminded of his youthfulness by the tone in which he called

himself a ‘man,’ experienced a revival of natural feeling. Though

revolting against the suggestion that a woman akin to them had been

guilty of what her brother believed, she was glad to think that Fanny

French had relinquished all legitimate claim upon him, and that his

connection with ‘smart’ society had come to an end. Obvious enough were

the perils of his situation, and she, as elder sister, recognised a duty

towards him; she softened her voice, and endeavoured to re-establish the

confidence of old time. Impossible at once, though with resolution she

might ultimately succeed. Horace, at present, was a mere compound of

agitated and inflamed senses. The life he had been leading appeared in

a vicious development of his previously harmless conceit and egoism.

All his characteristics had turned out, as it were, the seamy side; and

Nancy with difficulty preserved her patience as he showed point after

point of perverted disposition. The result of their talk was a careless

promise from Horace that he would come to Grove Lane not seldomer than

once a week.

He stayed only an hour, resisting Nancy’s endeavour to detain him at

least for the mid-day meal. To Mary he spoke formally, awkwardly, as

though unable to accept her position in the house, and then made his

escape like one driven by an evil spirit.

CHAPTER 7

With the clearing of the sky, Nancy’s spirit grew lighter. She went

about London, and enjoyed it after her long seclusion in the little

Cornish town; enjoyed, too, her release from manifold restraints and

perils. Her mental suffering had made the physical harder to bear; she

was now recovering health of mind and body, and found with surprise that

life had a new savour, independent of the timorous joy born with her

child. Strangely, as it seemed to her, she grew conscious of a personal

freedom not unlike what she had vainly desired in the days of petulant

girlhood; the sense came only at moments, but was real and precious;

under its influence she forgot everything abnormal in her situation,

and--though without recognising this significance--knew the exultation

of a woman who has justified her being.

A day or two of roaming at large gave her an appetite for activity.

Satisfied that her child was safe and well cared for, she turned her

eyes upon the life of the world, and wished to take some part in

it--not the part she had been wont to picture for herself before reality

supplanted dreams. Horace’s example on the one hand, and that of Jessica

Morgan on the other, helped her to contemn mere social excitement and

the idle vanity which formerly she styled pursuit of culture. Must there

not be discoverable, in the world to which she had, or could obtain,

access, some honest, strenuous occupation, which would hold in check her

unprofitable thoughts and soothe her self-respect?

That her fraud, up to and beyond the crucial point, had escaped

detection, must be held so wonderful, that she felt justified in an

assurance of impunity. The narrowest escape of which she was aware had

befallen only a few weeks ago. On the sixth day after the birth of the

child, there was brought to her lodgings at Falmouth a note addressed to

‘Miss. Lord.’ Letters bearing this address had arrived frequently, and

by the people of the house were supposed to be for Mary Woodruff, who

went by the name of ‘Miss. Lord,’ Nancy having disguised herself as

‘Mrs. Woodruff;’ but they had always come by post, and the present

missive must be from some acquaintance actually in the town. Nancy could

not remember the handwriting. Breaking open the envelope as she lay

in bed, she saw with alarm the signature ‘Luckworth Crewe.’ He was at

Falmouth on business, Crewe wrote, and, before leaving London, he had

ventured to ask Miss Lord’s address from her brother, whom he casually

met somewhere. Would Nancy allow him to see her, were it but for a

minute or two? Earnestly he besought this favour. He desired nothing

more than to see Miss. Lord, and to speak with her in the way of an

ordinary acquaintance. After all this time, she had, he felt sure,

forgiven his behaviour at their last meeting. Only five minutes of

conversation--

All seemed lost. Nancy was silent in despair. But Mary faced the

perilous juncture, and, to all appearances, averted catastrophe. She

dressed herself, and went straight to the hotel where Crewe had put

up, and where he awaited an answer. Having made known who she was, she

delivered a verbal message: Miss. Lord was not well enough to see any

one to-day, and, in any case, she could not have received Mr Crewe;

she begged him to pardon her; before long, they might perhaps meet

in London, but, for her own part, she wished Mr. Crewe would learn to

regard her as a stranger. Of course there followed a dialogue; and Mary,

seeming to speak with all freedom, convinced Crewe that his attempt

to gain an interview was quite hopeless. She gave him much information

concerning her mistress--none of it false, but all misleading--and in

the end had to resist an offer of gold coins, pressed upon her as a

bribe for her good word with Nancy.

The question was--had Crewe been content to leave Falmouth without

making inquiries of other people? To a man of his experience, nothing

was easier than such investigation. But, with other grounds of anxiety,

this had ceased to disturb Nancy’s mind. Practically, she lived as

though all danger were at an end. The task immediately before her seemed

very simple; she had only to resume the old habits, and guard against

thoughtless self-betrayal in her everyday talk. The chance that any one

would discover her habit of visiting a certain house at the distance of

several miles from Camberwell, was too slight for consideration.

She wrote to Mr. Barmby, senior, informing him of her return, in

improved health, to Grove Lane, and thanking him once more for his

allowing her to make so long a stay in Cornwall. If he wished to see

her, she would be at home at any time convenient to him. In a few days

the old gentleman called, and for an hour or two discoursed well-meaning

commonplace. He was sorry to observe that she looked a trifle pale; in

the autumn she must go away again, and to a more bracing locality--he

would suggest Broadstairs, which had always exercised the most

beneficial effect upon his own health. Above all, he begged her to

refrain from excessive study, most deleterious to a female constitution.

Then he asked questions about Horace, and agreed with Nancy that the

young man ought to decide upon some new pursuit, if he had definitely

abandoned the old; lack of steady occupation was most deleterious at his

age. In short, Mr. Barmby rather apologised for his guardianship than

sought to make assertion of it; and Nancy, by a few feminine devices,

won a better opinion than she had hitherto enjoyed. On the day

following, Samuel Barmby and his sisters waited upon Miss. Lord; all

three were surprisingly solemn, and Samuel talked for the most part of a

‘paragraph’ he had recently read, which stated that the smoke of London,

if properly utilised, would be worth a vast sum of money. ‘The English

are a wasteful people,’ was his conclusion; to which Nancy assented with

a face as grave as his own.

Not a little to her astonishment, the next day brought her a long letter

in Samuel’s fair commercial hand. It began by assuring her that the

writer had no intention whatever of troubling her with the renewal of

a suit so firmly rejected on more than one occasion; he wished only to

take this opportunity of her return from a long absence to express the

abiding nature of his devotion, which years hence would be unbroken

as to-day. He would never distress her by unwelcome demonstrations;

possibly she might never again hear from his lips what he now committed

to paper. Enough for him, Samuel, to cherish a love which could not but

exalt and purify him, which was indeed, ‘in the words of Shakespeare, “a

liberal education.”’ In recompense of his self-command, he only besought

that Miss. Lord would allow him, from time to time, to look upon her

face, and to converse with her of intellectual subjects. ‘A paper,’

he added, ‘which I read last week at our Society, is now being

printed--solely at the request of friends. The subject is one that may

interest you, “The Influence of Culture on Morality.” I beg that you

will accept the copy I shall have the pleasure of sending you, and that,

at some future date, you will honour me with your remarks thereon.’

Which epistle Nancy cruelly read aloud to Mary, with a sprightliness and

sarcastic humour not excelled by her criticisms of ‘the Prophet’ in days

gone by. Mary did not quite understand, but she saw in this behaviour a

proof of the wonderful courage with which Nancy faced her troubles.

A week had passed, and no news from America.

‘I don’t care,’ said Nancy. ‘Really and truly, I don’t care. Yesterday

I never once thought of it--never once looked for the postman. The worst

is over now, and he may write or not, as he likes.’

Mary felt sure there would be an explanation of such strange silence.

‘Only illness or death would explain it so as to make me forgive him.

But he isn’t ill. He is alive, and enjoying himself.’

There was no bitterness in her voice. She seemed to have outlived all

sorrows and anxieties relative to her husband.

Mary suggested that it was always possible to call at Mr. Vawdrey’s

house and make inquiries of Mrs. Baker.

‘No, I won’t do that. Other women would do it, but I won’t. So long as I

mayn’t tell the truth, I should only set them talking about me; you know

how. I see the use, now, of having a good deal of pride. I’m only sorry

for those letters I wrote when I wasn’t in my senses. If he writes now,

I shall not answer. He shall know that I am as independent as he is.

What a blessed thing it is for a woman to have money of her own! It’s

because most women haven’t, that they’re such poor, wretched slaves.’

‘If he knew you were in want,’ said her companion, ‘he would never have

behaved like this.’

‘Who can say?--No, I won’t pretend to think worse of him than I do.

You’re quite right. He wouldn’t leave his wife to starve. It’s certain

that he hears about me from some one. If I were found out, and lost

everything, some one would let him know. But I wouldn’t accept support

from him, now. He might provide for his child, but he shall never

provide for me, come what may--never!’

It was in the evening, after dinner. Nancy had a newspaper, and was

reading the advertisements that offered miscellaneous employment.

‘What do you think this can be?’ she asked, looking up after a long

silence. ‘“To ladies with leisure. Ladies desiring to add to their

income by easy and pleasant work should write”’--&c. &c.

‘I’ve no faith in those kind of advertisements,’ said Mary.

‘No; of course it’s rubbish. There’s no easy and pleasant way of earning

money; only silly people expect it. And I don’t want anything easy

or pleasant. I want honest hard work. Not work with my hands--I’m not

suited for that, but real work, such as lots of educated girls are

doing. I’m quite willing to pay for learning it; most likely I shall

have to. Who could I write to for advice?’

They were sitting upstairs, and so did not hear a visitor’s knock that

sounded at the front door. The servant came and announced that Miss.

French wished to see Miss. Lord.

‘Miss. French? Is it the younger Miss. French?’

The girl could not say; she had repeated the name given to her. Nancy

spoke to her friend in a low voice.

‘It may be Fanny. I don’t think Beatrice would call, unless it’s to say

something about her sister. She had better come up here, I suppose?’

Mary retired, and in a few moments there entered, not Fanny, but

Beatrice. She was civilly, not cordially, welcomed. Her eye, as

she spoke the words natural at such a meeting, dwelt with singular

persistency on Nancy’s face.

‘You are quite well again?’

‘Quite, thank you.’

‘It has been a troublesome illness, I’m afraid.’

Nancy hesitated, detecting a peculiarity of look and tone which caused

her uneasiness.

‘I had a sort of low fever--was altogether out of sorts--“below par,”

the doctor said. Are you all well?’

Settling herself comfortably, as if for a long chat, Beatrice sketched

with some humour the course of recent events in De Crespigny Park.

‘I’m out of it all, thank goodness. I prefer a quiet life. Then there’s

Fanny. You know all about _her_, I dare say?’

‘Nothing at all,’ Nancy replied distantly.

‘But your brother does. Hasn’t he been to see you yet?’

Nancy was in no mood to submit to examination.

‘Whatever I may have heard, I know nothing about Fanny’s, affairs, and,

really, they don’t concern me.

‘I should have thought they might,’ rejoined the other, smiling

absently. ‘She has run away from her friends’--a pause--‘and is living

somewhere rather mysteriously’--another pause--‘and I think it more than

likely that she’s _married_.’

The listener preserved a face of indifference, though the lines were

decidedly tense.

‘Doesn’t that interest you?’ asked Beatrice, in the most genial tone.

‘If it’s true,’ was the blunt reply.

‘You mean, you are glad if she has married somebody else, and not your

brother?’

‘Yes, I am glad of that.’

Beatrice mused, with wrinkles at the corner of her eye. Then, fixing

Nancy with a very keen look, she said quietly:

‘I’m not sure that she’s married. But if she isn’t, no doubt she ought

to be.’

On Nancy’s part there was a nervous movement, but she said nothing. Her

face grew rigid.

‘I have an idea who the man is,’ Miss. French pursued; ‘but I can’t

be quite certain. One has heard of similar cases. Even _you_ have, no

doubt?’

‘I don’t care to talk about it,’ fell mechanically from Nancy’s lips,

which had lost their colour.

‘But I’ve come just for that purpose.’

The eyes of mocking scrutiny would not be resisted. They drew a gaze

from Nancy, and then a haughty exclamation.

‘I don’t understand you. Please say whatever you have to say in plain

words.’

‘Don’t be angry with me. You were always too ready at taking offence.

I mean it in quite a friendly way; you can trust me; I’m not one of the

women that chatter. Don’t you think you ought to sympathise a little

with Fanny? She has gone to Brussels, or somewhere about there. But she

_might_ have gone down into Cornwall--to a place like Falmouth. It was

quite far enough off--don’t you think?’

Nancy was stricken mute, and her countenance would no longer disguise

what she suffered.

‘No need to upset yourself,’ pursued the other in smiling confidence.

‘I mean no harm. I’m curious, that’s all; just want to know one or two

things. We’re old friends, and whatever you tell me will go no further,

depend upon that.’

‘What do you mean?’

The words came from lips that moved with difficulty. Beatrice, still

smiling, bent forward.

‘Is it any one that I know?’

‘Any one--? Who--?’

‘That made it necessary for you to go down into Cornwall, my dear.’

Nancy heaved a sigh, the result of holding her breath too long. She half

rose, and sat down again. In a torture of flashing thoughts, she

tried to determine whether Beatrice had any information, or spoke

conjecturally. Yet she was able to discern that either case meant

disaster; to have excited the suspicions of such a person, was the same

as being unmasked; an inquiry at Falmouth, and all would at once be

known.

No, not all. Not the fact of her marriage; not the name of her husband.

Driven to bay by such an opponent, she assumed an air wholly unnatural

to her--one of cynical effrontery.

‘You had better say what you know.’

‘All right. Who was the father of the child born not long ago?’

‘That’s asking a question.’

‘And telling what I know at the same time. It saves breath.’

Beatrice laughed; and Nancy, become a mere automaton, laughed too.

‘That’s more like it,’ said Miss. French cheerfully. ‘Now we shall get

on together. It’s very shocking, my dear. A person of my strict morality

hardly knows how to look you in the face. Perhaps you had rather I

didn’t try. Very well. Now tell me all about it, comfortably. I have a

guess, you know.’

‘What is it?’

‘Wait a little. I don’t want to be laughed at. Is it any one I know?’

‘You have never seen him, and I dare say never heard of him.’

Beatrice stared incredulously.

‘I wouldn’t tell fibs, Nancy.’

‘I’m telling the truth.’

‘It’s very queer, then.’

‘Who did you think--?’

The speaking automaton, as though by defect of mechanism, stopped short.

‘Look straight at me. I shouldn’t have been surprised to hear that it

was Luckworth Crewe.’

Nancy’s defiant gaze, shame in anguish shielding itself with the front

of audacity, changed to utter astonishment. The blood rushed back into

her cheeks; she voiced a smothered exclamation of scorn.

‘The father of my child? Luckworth Crewe?’

‘I thought it not impossible,’ said Beatrice, plainly baffled.

‘It was like you.’ Nancy gave a hard laugh. ‘You judged me by yourself.

Have another guess!’

Surprised both at the denial, so obviously true, and at the unexpected

tone with which Nancy was meeting her attack, Miss. French sat

meditative.

‘It’s no use guessing,’ she said at length, with complete good-humour.

‘I don’t know of any one else.’

‘Very well. You can’t expect me to tell you.’

‘As you please. It’s a queer thing; I felt pretty sure. But if you’re

telling the truth, I don’t care a rap who the man is.’

‘You can rest in peace,’ said Nancy, with careless scorn.

‘Any way of convincing me, except by saying it?’

‘Yes. Wait here a moment.’

She left the room, and returned with the note which Crewe had addressed

to her from the hotel at Falmouth.

‘Read that, and look at the date.’

Beatrice studied the document, and in silence canvassed the

possibilities of trickery. No; it was genuine evidence. She remembered

the date of Crewe’s journey to Falmouth, and, in this new light, could

interpret his quarrelsome behaviour after he had returned. Only the

discovery she had since made inflamed her with a suspicion which till

then had never entered her mind.

‘Of course, you didn’t let him see you?’

‘Of course not.’.

‘All right. Don’t suppose I wanted to insult you. I took it for granted

you were married. Of course it happened before your father’s death, and

his awkward will obliged you to keep it dark?’

Again Nancy was smitten with fear. Deeming Miss. French an unscrupulous

enemy, she felt that to confess marriage was to abandon every hope.

Pride appealed to her courage, bade her, here and now, have done

with the ignoble fraud; but fear proved stronger. She could not face

exposure, and all that must follow.

She spoke coldly, but with down-dropt eyes.

‘I am not married.’

The words cost her little effort. Practically, she had uttered them

before; her overbold replies were an admission of what, from the first,

she supposed Beatrice to charge her with--not secret wedlock, but secret

shame. Beatrice, however, had adopted that line of suggestion merely

from policy, hoping to sting the proud girl into avowal of a legitimate

union; she heard the contrary declaration with fresh surprise.

‘I should never have believed it of Miss. Lord,’ was her half ingenuous,

half sly comment.

Nancy, beginning to realise what she had done, sat with head bent,

speechless.

‘Don’t distress yourself,’ continued the other. ‘Not a soul will hear of

it from me. If you like to tell me more, you can do it quite safely; I’m

no blabber, and I’m not a rascal. I should never have troubled to make

inquiries about you, down yonder, if it hadn’t been that I suspected

Crewe. That’s a confession, you know; take it in return for yours.’

Nancy was tongue-tied. A full sense of her humiliation had burst upon

her. She, who always condescended to Miss. French, now lay smirched

before her feet, an object of vulgar contempt.

‘What does it matter?’ went on Beatrice genially. ‘You’ve got over the

worst, and very cleverly. Are you going to marry him when you come in

for your money?’

‘Perhaps--I don’t know--’

She faltered, no longer able to mask in impudence, and hardly

restraining tears. Beatrice ceased to doubt, and could only wonder with

amusement.

‘Why shouldn’t we be good friends, Nancy? I tell you, I am no rascal.

I never thought of making anything out of your secret--not I. If it had

been Crewe, marriage or no marriage--well, I might have shown my temper.

I believe I have a pretty rough side to my tongue; but I’m a good enough

sort if you take me in the right way. Of course I shall never rest for

wondering who it can be--’

She paused, but Nancy did not look up, did not stir.

‘Perhaps you’ll tell me some other time. But there’s one thing I should

like to ask about, and it’s for your own good that I should know it.

When Crewe was down there, don’t you think he tumbled to anything?’

Perplexed by unfamiliar slang, Nancy raised her eyes.

‘Found out anything, you mean? I don’t know.’

‘But you must have been in a jolly fright about it?’

‘I gave it very little thought,’ replied Nancy, able now to command a

steady voice, and retiring behind a manner of frigid indifference.

‘No? Well, of course I understand that better now I know that you can’t

lose anything. Still, it is to be hoped he didn’t go asking questions.

By-the-bye, you may as well just tell me: he has asked you to marry him,

hasn’t he?’

‘Yes.’

Beatrice nodded.

‘Doesn’t matter. You needn’t be afraid, even if he got hold of anything.

He isn’t the kind of man to injure you out of spite.’

‘I fear him as little as I fear you.’

‘Well, as I’ve told you, you needn’t fear me at all. I like you better

for this--a good deal better than I used to. If you want any help, you

know where to turn; I’ll do whatever I can for you; and I’m in the way

of being useful to my friends. You’re cut up just now; it’s natural. I

won’t bother you any longer. But just remember what I’ve said. If I can

be of any service, don’t be above making use of me.’

Nancy heard without heeding; for an anguish of shame and misery once

more fell upon her, and seemed to lay waste her soul.

Part V: Compassed Round

CHAPTER 1

There needed not Mary Woodruff’s suggestion to remind Nancy that no

further away than Champion Hill were people of whom, in extremity, she

might inquire concerning her husband. At present, even could she

have entertained the thought, it seemed doubtful whether the Vawdrey

household knew more of Tarrant’s position and purposes than she herself;

for, only a month ago, Jessica Morgan had called upon the girls and had

ventured a question about their cousin, whereupon they answered that

he was in America, but that he had not written for a long time. To Mrs.

Baker, Jessica did not like to speak on the subject, but probably that

lady could have answered only as the children did.

Once, indeed, a few days after her return, Nancy took the familiar walk

along Champion Hill, and glanced, in passing, at Mr. Vawdrey’s house;

afterwards, she shunned that region. The memories it revived were

infinitely painful. She saw herself an immature and foolish girl,

behaving in a way which, for all its affectation of reserve and dignity,

no doubt offered to such a man as Lionel Tarrant a hint that here, if he

chose, he might make a facile conquest. Had he not acted upon the

hint? It wrung her heart with shame to remember how, in those days, she

followed the lure of a crude imagination. A year ago? Oh, a lifetime!

Unwilling, now, to justify herself with the plea of love; doubtful, in

very truth, whether her passion merited that name; she looked back in

the stern spirit of a woman judging another’s frailty. What treatment

could she have anticipated at the hands of her lover save that she had

received? He married her--it was much; he forsook her--it was natural.

The truth of which she had caught troublous glimpses in the heyday of

her folly now stood revealed as pitiless condemnation. Tarrant never

respected her, never thought of her as a woman whom he could seriously

woo and wed. She had a certain power over his emotions, and not the

sensual alone; but his love would not endure the test of absence. From

the other side of the Atlantic he saw her as he had seen her at first,

and shrank from returning to the bondage which in a weak moment he had

accepted.

One night about this time she said to herself:

‘I was his mistress, never his wife.’

And all her desperate endeavours to obscure the history of their love,

to assert herself as worthy to be called wife, mother, had fallen

fruitless. Those long imploring letters, despatched to America from her

solitude by the Cornish sea, elicited nothing but a word or two which

sounded more like pity than affection. Pity does not suffice to recall

the wandering steps of a man wedded against his will.

In her heart, she absolved him of all baseness. The man of ignoble

thought would have been influenced by her market value as a wife.

Tarrant, all the more because he was reduced to poverty, would

resolutely forget the crude advantage of remaining faithful to her.

Herein Nancy proved herself more akin to her father than she had ever

seemed when Stephen Lord sought eagerly in her character for hopeful

traits.

The severity of her self-judgment, and the indulgence tempering her

attitude towards Tarrant, declared a love which had survived its phase

of youthful passion. But Nancy did not recognise this symptom of moral

growth. She believed herself to have become indifferent to her husband,

and only wondered that she did not hate him. Her heart seemed to spend

all its emotion on the little being to whom she had given life--a

healthy boy, who already, so she fancied, knew a difference between his

mother and his nurse, and gurgled a peculiar note of contentment when

lying in her arms. Whether wife or not, she claimed every privilege of

motherhood. Had the child been a weakling, she could not have known this

abounding solace: the defect would have reproached her. But from the day

of his birth he manifested so vigorous a will to live, clung so hungrily

to the fountain-breast, kicked and clamoured with such irresistible

self-assertion, that the mother’s pride equalled her tenderness. ‘My own

brave boy! My son!’ Wonderful new words: honey upon the lips and rapture

to the ear. She murmured them as though inspired with speech never

uttered by mortal.

The interval of a day between her journeys to see the child taxed her

patience; but each visit brought a growth of confidence. No harm would

befall him: Mary had chosen wisely.

Horace kept aloof and sent no message. When at length she wrote to him

a letter all of sisterly kindness, there came a stinted reply. He

said that he was going away for a holiday, and might be absent until

September. ‘Don’t bother about me. You shall hear again before long.

There’s just a chance that I may go in for business again, with prospect

of making money. Particulars when I see you.’

Nancy found this note awaiting her after a day’s absence from home, and

with it another. To her surprise, Mrs. Damerel had written. ‘I called

early this afternoon, wishing particularly to see you. Will you please

let me know when I should find you at home? It is about Horace that

I want to speak.’ It began with ‘My dear Nancy,’ and ended, ‘Yours

affectionately.’ Glad of the opportunity thus offered, she answered at

once, making an appointment for the next day.

When Mrs. Damerel came, Nancy was even more struck than at their former

meeting with her resemblance to Horace. Eyes and lips recalled Horace at

every moment. This time, the conversation began more smoothly. On both

sides appeared a disposition to friendliness, though Nancy only marked

her distrust in the hope of learning more about this mysterious relative

and of being useful to her brother.

‘You have a prejudice against me,’ said the visitor, when she had

inquired concerning Nancy’s health. ‘It’s only natural. I hardly seem

to you a real relative, I’m afraid--you know so little about me; and now

Horace has been laying dreadful things to my charge.’

‘He thinks you responsible for what has happened to Fanny French,’ Nancy

replied, in an impartial voice.

‘Yes, and I assure you he is mistaken. Miss. French deceived him and her

own people, leading them to think that she was spending her time with

me, when really she was--who knows where? To you I am quite ready to

confess that I hoped something might come between her and Horace; but as

for plotting--really lam not so melodramatic a person. All I did in the

way of design was to give Horace an opportunity of seeing the girl in

a new light. You can imagine very well, no doubt, how she conducted

herself. I quite believe that Horace was getting tired and ashamed of

her, but then came her disappearance, and that made him angry with me.’

Even the voice suggested Horace’s tones, especially when softened in

familiar dialogue. Nancy paid closer attention to the speaker’s looks

and movements than to the matter of what she said. Mrs. Damerel might

possibly be a well-meaning woman--her peculiarities might result from

social habits, and not from insincerity; yet Nancy could not like her.

Everything about her prompted a question and a doubt. How old was

she? Probably much older than she looked. What was her breeding, her

education? Probably far less thorough than she would have one believe.

Was she in good circumstances? Nancy suspected that her fashionable and

expensive dress signified extravagance and vanity rather than wealth.

‘I have brought a letter to show you which she has sent me from abroad.

Read it, and form your own conclusion. Is it the letter of an injured

innocent?’

A scrawl on foreign note-paper, which ran thus:

DEAR MRS DAMEREL,--Just a word to console you for the loss of my

society. I have gone to a better world, so dry your tears. If you see my

masher, tell him I’ve met with somebody a bit more like a man. I should

advise him to go to school again and finish his education. I won’t

trouble you to write. Many thanks for the kindness you _didn’t_ mean to

do me.--Yours in the best of spirits (I don’t mean Cognac),

FANNY (_nee_) FRENCH.

Nancy returned the paper with a look of disgust, saying, ‘I didn’t think

she was as bad as that.’

‘No more did I. It really gave me a little shock of surprise.’

‘Do you think it likely she is married?’

Mrs. Damerel pursed her lips and arched her eyebrows with so unpleasant

an effect on Nancy that she looked away.

‘I have no means whatever of forming an opinion.’

‘But there’s no more fear for Horace,’ said Nancy.

‘I hope not--I think not. But my purpose in coming was to consult with

you about the poor boy. He has renounced me; he won’t answer my

letters; and I am so dreadfully afraid that a sort of despair--it sounds

ridiculous, but he is so very young--may drive him into reckless living.

You have taken part with him against me, I fear--’

‘No, I haven’t. I told him I was quite sure the girl had only herself to

blame, whatever happened.’

‘How kind of you!’ Mrs. Damerel sank her voice to a sort of cooing,

not unmelodious, but to Nancy’s ear a hollow affectation. ‘If we

could understand each other! I am so anxious for your dear brother’s

happiness--and for yours, believe me. I have suffered greatly since he

told me I was his enemy, and cast me off.’

Here sounded a note of pathos which impressed the critical listener.

There was a look, too, in Mrs. Damerel’s eyes quite unlike any that

Nancy had yet detected.

‘What do you wish him to do?’ she asked. ‘If I must tell you the truth,

I don’t think he’ll get any good in the life of society.’

Society’s representative answered in a tone of affectionate frankness:

‘He won’t; I can see that. I don’t wish him to live idly. The

question is, What ought he to do? I think you know a gentleman of his

acquaintance, Mr. Crewe?’

The question was added rather abruptly, and with a watchful gaze.

‘I know him a little.’

‘Something has been said, I believe, about Horace investing money in Mr.

Crewe’s business. Do you think it would be advisable?’

Surprise kept Nancy silent.

‘Is Mr. Crewe trustworthy? I understand he has been in business for

himself only a short time.’

Nancy declared herself unable to judge Mr. Crewe, whether in private

or in commercial life. And here she paused, but could not refrain from

adding the question whether Mrs. Damerel had personal knowledge of him.

‘I have met him once.’

Immediately, all Nancy’s suspicions were revived. She had felt a desire

to talk of intimate things, with mention of her mother’s name; but the

repulsion excited in her by this woman’s air of subtlety, by looks,

movements, tones which she did not understand, forbade it. She could

not speak with satisfaction even of Horace, feeling that Mrs. Damerel’s

affection, however genuine, must needs be baleful. From this point her

part in the dialogue was slight.

‘If any of Miss. French’s relatives,’ said the visitor presently,

‘should accuse me to you, you will be able to contradict them. I am sure

I can depend upon you for that service?’

‘I am not likely to see them; and I should have thought you would care

very little what was said about you by people of that kind.’

‘I care little enough,’ rejoined Mrs. Damerel, with a curl of the lips.

‘It’s Horace I am thinking of. These people will embitter him against

me, so long as they have any ground to go upon.’

‘But haven’t you let him know of that letter?’

Mrs. Damerel seemed to fall into abstraction, answered with a vague

‘Yes,’ and after surveying the room, said softly:

‘So you must live here alone for another two or three years?’

‘It isn’t compulsory: it’s only a condition.’

Another vague ‘Yes.’ Then:

‘I do so wish Horace would come back and make his home here.’

‘I’m afraid you have spoilt him for that,’ said Nancy, with relief in

this piece of plain speaking.

Mrs. Damerel did not openly resent it. She looked a mild surprise, and

answered blandly:

‘Then I must undo the mischief. You shall help me. When he has got over

this little trouble, he will see who are his true friends. Let us work

together for his good.’

Nancy was inclined, once more, to reproach herself, and listened with

patience whilst her relative continued talking in grave kindly tones.

Lest she should spoil the effect of these impressive remarks, Mrs.

Damerel then took leave. In shaking hands, she bent upon the girl a gaze

of affection, and, as she turned away, softly sighed.

Of what had passed in the recent interview with Beatrice French, Nancy

said nothing to her faithful companion. This burden of shame must be

borne by herself alone. It affected profoundly the courageous mood

which had promised to make her life tolerable; henceforth, she all but

abandoned the hope of gaining that end for which she had submitted to

so deep a humiliation. Through Beatrice, would not her secret, coloured

shamefully, become known to Luckworth Crewe, and to others? Already,

perchance, a growing scandal attached to her name. Fear had enabled

her to endure dishonour in the eyes of one woman, but at any moment the

disgrace might front her in an intolerable shape; then, regardless of

the cost, she would proclaim her marriage, and have, in return for all

she had suffered, nothing but the reproach of an attempted fraud.

To find employment, means of honourable support, was an urgent

necessity.

She had written in reply to sundry advertisements, but without result.

She tried to draw up an advertisement on her own account, but found the

difficulty insuperable. What was there she could do? Teach children,

perhaps; but as a visiting governess, the only position of the kind

which circumstances left open to her, she could hope for nothing more

than the paltriest remuneration. Be somebody’s ‘secretary’? That sounded

pleasant, but very ambitious: a sense of incompetency chilled her. In an

office, in a shop, who would dream of giving her an engagement?

Walking about the streets of London in search of suggestions, she gained

only an understanding of her insignificance. In the battle of life every

girl who could work a sewing-machine or make a matchbox was of more

account than she. If she entered a shop to make purchases, the young

women at the counter seemed to smile superiority. Of what avail her

‘education,’ her ‘culture’? The roar of myriad industries made mocking

laughter at such futile pretensions. She shrank back into her suburban

home.

A little book on ‘employments for women,’ which she saw advertised and

bought, merely heightened her discouragement. Here, doubtless, were

occupations she might learn; but, when it came to choosing, and

contemplating the practical steps that must be taken, her heart sank.

She was a coward; she dreaded the world; she saw as never yet the

blessedness of having money and a secure home.

The word ‘home’ grew very sweet to her ears. A man, she said to herself,

may go forth and find his work, his pleasure, in the highways; but is

not a woman’s place under the sheltering roof? What right had a mother

to be searching abroad for tasks and duties? Task enough, duty obvious,

in the tending of her child. Had she but a little country cottage with

needs assured, and her baby cradled beside her, she would ask no more.

How idle all the thoughts of her girlhood! How little she knew of life

as it would reveal itself to her mature eyes!

Fatigued into listlessness, she went to the lending-library, and chose a

novel for an hour’s amusement. It happened that this story was concerned

with the fortunes of a young woman who, after many an affliction sore,

discovered with notable suddenness the path to fame, lucre, and the

husband of her heart: she became at a bound a successful novelist.

Nancy’s cheek flushed with a splendid thought. Why should not _she_

do likewise? At all events--for modesty was now her ruling

characteristic--why should she not earn a little money by writing

Stories? Numbers of women took to it; not a few succeeded. It was a

pursuit that demanded no apprenticeship, that could be followed in the

privacy of home, a pursuit wherein her education would be of service.

With imagination already fired by the optimistic author, she began to

walk about the room and devise romantic incidents. A love story, of

course--and why not one very like her own? The characters were ready to

her hands. She would begin this very evening.

Mary saw the glow upon her face, the delightful frenzy in her eyes, and

wondered.

‘I have an idea,’ said Nancy. ‘Don’t ask me about it. Just leave me

alone. I think I see my way.’

Daily she secluded herself for several hours; and, whatever the literary

value of her labour, it plainly kept her in good spirits, and benefited

her health. Save for the visits to her baby, regular as before, she

hardly left home.

Jessica Morgan came very often, much oftener than Nancy desired; not

only was her talk wearisome, but it consumed valuable time. She much

desired to see the baby, and Nancy found it difficult to invent excuses

for her unwillingness. When importunity could not be otherwise defeated,

she pretended a conscientious scruple.

‘I have deceived my husband in telling him that no one knows of our

marriage but Mary. If I let you see the child, I should feel that I was

deceiving him again. Don’t ask me; I can’t.’

Not unnaturally this struck Jessica as far-fetched. She argued against

it, and became petulant. Nancy lost patience, but remembered in time

that she was at Jessica’s mercy, and, to her mortification, had to adopt

a coaxing, almost a suppliant, tone, with the result that Miss. Morgan’s

overweening conceit was flattered into arrogance. Her sentimental

protestations became strangely mixed with a self-assertiveness very

galling to Nancy’s pride. Without the slightest apparent cause for

ill-humour, she said one day:

‘I do feel sorry for you; it must be a dreadful thing to have married a

man who has no sense of honour.’

Nancy fired up.

‘What do you mean?’

‘How can he have, when he makes you deceive people in this way for the

sake of the money he’ll get?’

‘He doesn’t! It’s my own choice.’

‘Then he oughtn’t let you do it. No honourable man would.’

‘That has nothing to do with you,’ Nancy exclaimed, anger blanching her

cheek. ‘Please don’t talk about my husband. You say things you ought to

be ashamed of.’

‘Oh, don’t be angry!’ The facile tears started in Jessica’s eyes. ‘It’s

because I feel indignant on your account, dear.’

‘I don’t want your indignation. Never mention this subject again, or I

shall feel sure you do it on purpose to annoy me.’

Jessica melted into mawkishness; none the less, Nancy felt a slave

to her former friend, who, for whatever reason, seemed to have grown

hypocritical and spiteful. When next the girl called, she was told that

Miss. Lord had left home for the day, a fiction which spared Nancy an

hour’s torment. Miss. Morgan made up for it by coming very early on the

next Sunday afternoon, and preparing herself avowedly for a stay until

late in the evening. Resolute to avoid a long _tete-a-tete_, which was

sure to exasperate her temper, Nancy kept Mary in the room, and listened

to no hint from Jessica that they should retire for the accustomed

privacy.

At four o’clock they were joined by Samuel Barmby, whom, for once, Nancy

welcomed with pleasure. Samuel, who had come in the hope of finding

Miss. Lord alone, gave but the coldest attention to Jessica; Mary,

however, he greeted with grave courtesy, addressing to her several

remarks which were meant as a recognition of social equality in the

quondam servant. He was dressed with elaborate care. Snowy cuffs

concealed half his hands; his moustache, of late in training, sketched

the graceful curl it would presently achieve; a faint perfume attended

the drawing forth of his silk handkerchief.

Samuel never lacked a subject for the display of eloquence. Today it was

one that called for indignant fervour.

‘A most disgraceful fact has come under my notice, and I am sorry

to say, Miss. Lord, that it concerns some one with whom you are

acquainted.’

‘Indeed?’ said Nancy, not without tremor. ‘Who is that?’

‘Mr. Peachey, of De Crespigny Park. I believe you are on terms of

friendship with the family.’

‘Oh, you can hardly call it friendship. I know them.’

‘Then I may speak without fear of paining you. You are aware that Mr

Peachey is a member of the firm of Ducker, Blunt & Co., who manufacture

disinfectants. Now, if any manufacture should be carried on in a

conscientious spirit--as of course _all_ manufactures should--surely it

is that of disinfectants. Only think what depends upon it! People who

make disinfectants ought to regard themselves as invested with a sacred

trust. The whole community looks to them for protection against disease.

The abuse of such confidence cannot be too severely condemned, all

the more so, that there is absolutely no legal remedy against the

adulteration of disinfectants. Did you know that, Miss. Lord? The law

guards against adulteration of food, but it seems--I have been making

inquiry into the matter--that no thought has ever been given by the

legislature to the subject of disinfectants!’

Nancy saw that Jessica was watching the speaker with jealous eyes, and,

in spite of prudence, she could not help behaving to Mr. Barmby more

graciously than usual; a small revenge for the treatment she had

suffered at the hands of Miss. Morgan.

‘I could point out a great number of such anomalies,’ pursued Samuel.

‘But this matter of disinfectants is really one of the gravest. My

father has written to _The Times_ about it, and his letter will probably

be inserted to-morrow. I am thinking of bringing it before the attention

of our Society.’

‘Do Mr. Peachey’s people adulterate their disinfectants?’ inquired

Nancy.

‘I was going to tell you. Some acquaintances of ours have had a severe

illness in their house, and have been using disinfectants made by

Ducker, Blunt & Co. Fortunately they have a very good medical man, and

through him it has been discovered that these pretended safeguards are

all but absolutely worthless. He had the stuff analysed. Now, isn’t

this shameful? Isn’t this abominable? For my own part, I should call it

constructive murder.’

The phrase came by haphazard to Samuel’s tongue, and he uttered it with

gusto, repeating it twice or thrice.

‘Constructive murder--nothing short of that. And to think that these

people enjoy a positive immunity--impunity.’ He corrected himself

quickly; then, uncertain whether he had really made a mistake, reddened

and twisted his gloves. ‘To think’--he raised his voice--‘that they are

capable of making money out of disease and death! It is one of the worst

illustrations of a corrupt spirit in the commercial life of our times

that has yet come under my observation.’

He remained for a couple of hours, talking ceaselessly. A glance which

he now and then cast at Miss. Morgan betrayed his hope that she would

take her leave before the necessary time of his own departure. Jessica,

perfectly aware of this desire, sat as though no less at home than

Nancy. Every remark she made was a stroke of malice at her friend, and

in her drawn features appeared the passions by which she was tormented.

As soon as Mr. Barmby had regretfully withdrawn, Nancy turned upon the

girl with flashing eyes.

‘I want to speak to you. Come downstairs.’

She led the way to the dining-room. Jessica followed without a word.

‘Why are you behaving like this? What has come to you?’

The feeble anaemic creature fell back before this outbreak of wholesome

wrath; her eyes stared in alarm.

‘I won’t put up with it,’ cried Nancy. ‘If you think you can insult me

because I trusted you when you were my only friend, you’ll find your

mistake. A little more, and you shall see how little your power over me

is worth. Am I to live at _your_ mercy! I’d starve rather. What do you

mean by it?’

‘Oh--Nancy--to think you should speak to me like this.’

‘You are to be allowed to spit poison at me--are you? And I must bear

it? No, that I won’t! Of course I know what’s the matter with you. You

have fallen in love with Samuel Barmby.--You have! Any one can see

it. You have no more command of yourself than a child. And because he

prefers me to you, you rage against me. Idiot! What is Samuel Barmby to

me? Can I do more to keep him off? Can I say to him, “Do have pity on

poor Miss. Morgan, who--“’

She was interrupted by a scream, on which followed a torrent of frenzied

words from Jessica.

‘You’re a bad-hearted woman! You’ve behaved disgracefully yourself--oh!

I know more than you think; and now you accuse me of being as bad. Why

did you get married in such a hurry? Do you think I didn’t understand

it? It’s you who have no command over yourself. If the truth were known,

no decent woman would ever speak to You again. And you’ve got your

reward. Pretend as you like, I know your husband has deserted you. What

else could you expect? That’s what makes you hate every one that hasn’t

fallen into the mud. I wouldn’t have such a character as yours! All this

afternoon you’ve been looking at that man as no married woman could who

respected herself. You encourage him; he comes here often--’

Hysterical passion strangled her voice, and before she could recover

breath, Nancy, terrible in ire, advanced upon her.

‘Leave this house, and never dare to show yourself here again! Do what

you like, I’ll endure you no longer--be off!’

Jessica retreated, her bloodless lips apart, her eyes starting as in

suffocation. She stumbled against a chair, fell to the ground, and, with

a cry of anguish, threw herself upon her knees before Nancy.

‘What did I say? I didn’t mean it--I don’t know what I have been

saying--it was all madness. Oh, do forgive me! That isn’t how I really

think of you--you know it isn’t--I’m not so wicked as that. We have been

friends so long--I must have gone mad to speak such words. Don’t drive

me away from you, dear, dear Nancy! I implore you to forgive me! Look, I

pray to you on my knees to forget it. Despise me for being such a weak,

wicked creature, but don’t drive me away like that! I didn’t mean one

word I said.’

‘Rubbish! Of course you meant it. You have thought it every day, and

you’ll say it again, behind my back, if not to my face. Stand up, and

don’t make yourself sillier than you are.’

‘You can’t call me anything too bad--but don’t drive me away. I can’t

bear it. You are the only friend I have in the world--the only, only

friend. No one was ever kind and good to me but you, and this is how

I have repaid you. Oh, I hate myself! I could tear my tongue out

for saying such things. Only say that you’ll try to forgive me--dear

Nancy--dear--’

She fell with face upon the carpet, and grovelled there in anguish of

conflicting passions, a lamentable object. Unable to bear the sight of

her, Nancy moved away, and stood with back turned, perforce hearing the

moans and sobs and half-articulate words which lasted until the fit

of hysteria left its victim in mute exhaustion. Then, contemptuously

pitiful, she drew near again to the prostrate figure.

‘Stand up at once, and let us have an end of this vulgar folly. Stand

up, or I’ll leave you here, and never speak to you again.’

‘Nancy--can you forgive me?’

‘I believe you have never got over your illness. If I were you, I should

see the doctor again, and try to be cured. You’ll end in an asylum, if

you don’t mind.’

‘I often feel almost mad--I do really. Will you forget those dreadful

words I spoke? I know you can’t forgive me at once--’

‘Only stand up, and try to behave like a reasonable being. What do I

care for your words?’

The girl raised herself, threw her arms over a chair, and wept

miserably.

CHAPTER 2

On an afternoon at the end of October, Samuel Barmby, returned from

business, found Miss. Morgan having tea with his sisters. For a month

or two after Midsummer the Barmbys had scarcely seen her; now their

friendly intercourse was renewed, and Jessica came at least once a week.

She had an engagement at a girls’ school in this neighbourhood, and,

though her health threatened another collapse, she talked of resuming

study for the Matriculation of next year.

Samuel, perfectly aware of the slavish homage which Miss. Morgan paid

him, took pleasure in posing before her. It never entered his mind to

make any return beyond genial patronage, but the incense of a female

devotee was always grateful to him, and he had come to look upon Jessica

as a young person peculiarly appreciative of intellectual distinction. A

week ago, walking with her to the omnibus after an evening she had spent

in Dagmar Road, he had indulged a spirit of confidence, and led her

to speak of Nancy Lord. The upshot of five minutes’ conversation was a

frank inquiry, which he could hardly have permitted himself but for the

shadow of night and the isolating noises around them. As an intimate

friend, did she feel able to tell him whether or not Miss. Lord was

engaged to be married? Jessica, after a brief silence, answered that she

did _not_ feel at liberty to disclose what she knew on the subject; but

the words she used, and her voice in uttering them, left no doubt as to

her meaning. Samuel said no more. At parting, he pressed the girl’s hand

warmly.

This afternoon, they began by avoiding each other’s look. Samuel

seemed indisposed for conversation; he sipped at a cup of tea with an

abstracted and somewhat weary air, until Miss. Morgan addressed him.

‘To-morrow is the evening of your lecture, isn’t it, Mr. Barmby?’

‘To-morrow.’

By the agency of a friend who belonged to a society of mutual

improvement at Pentonville, Samuel had been invited to go over and

illumine with his wisdom the seekers after culture in that remote

district, a proposal that flattered him immensely, and inspired him with

a hope of more than suburban fame. For some months he had spoken of

the engagement. He was to discourse upon ‘National Greatness: its

Obligations and its Dangers.’

‘Of course it will be printed afterwards?’ pursued the devotee.

‘Oh, I don’t know. It’s hardly worth that.’

‘Oh, I’m sure it will be!’

And Jessica appealed to the sisters, who declared that certain passages

they had been privileged to hear seemed to them very remarkable.

Ladies were to be admitted, but the Miss. Barmbys felt afraid to

undertake so long a journey after dark.

‘I know some one who would very much like to go,’ said Jessica,

steadying her voice. ‘Could you spare me a ticket to give away, Mr

Barmby?’

Samuel smiled graciously, and promised the ticket.

Of course it was for Jessica’s own use. On the following evening,

long before the hour which would have allowed her ample time to reach

Pentonville by eight o’clock, she set forth excitedly. Unless Samuel

Barmby were accompanied by some friend from Camberwell,--only too

probable,--she might hope to make the return journey under his

protection. Perhaps he would speak again of Nancy Lord, and this time he

should be answered with less reserve. What harm if she even told him the

name of the man whom Nancy was ‘engaged’ to marry?

Nancy was no longer her friend. A show of reconciliation had followed

that scene on the Sunday afternoon three months ago; but Jessica well

knew that she had put herself beyond forgiveness, nor did she desire it.

Even without the memory of her offence, by this time she must needs have

regarded Nancy with steadfast dislike. Weeks had gone by since their

last meeting, which was rendered so unpleasant by mutual coldness that a

renewal of intercourse seemed out of the question.

She would not be guilty of treachery. But, in justice to herself, she

might give Samuel Barmby to understand how hopeless was his wooing.

To her disappointment, the lecture-room was small and undignified; she

had imagined a capacious hall, with Samuel Bennett Barmby standing up

before an audience of several hundred people. The cane-bottomed chairs

numbered not more than fifty, and at eight o’clock some of them were

still unoccupied. Nor did the assembly answer to her expectation. It

seemed to consist of young shopmen, with a few females of their kind

interspersed. She chose a place in the middle of the room, where the

lecturer could hardly fail to observe her presence.

With Barmby’s entrance disillusion gave way before the ardours of flesh

and spirit. The whole hour through she never took her eyes from him.

His smooth, pink face, with its shining moustache, embodied her ideal of

manly beauty; his tall figure inflamed her senses; the words that fell

from his lips sounded to her with oracular impressiveness, conveying

a wisdom before which she bowed, and a noble enthusiasm to which she

responded in fervent exaltation. And she had been wont to ridicule this

man, to join in mockery of his eloquence with a conceited wanton such

as Nancy Lord! No, it never came from her heart; it was moral cowardice;

from the first she had recognised Samuel Barmby’s infinite superiority

to the ignoble, the impure girl who dared to deride him.

He saw her; their eyes met once, and again, and yet again. He knew that

she alone in the audience could comprehend his noble morality, grasp the

extent of his far-sighted speculations. To her he spoke. And in his deep

glowing heart he could not but thank her for such evidence of sympathy.

There followed a tedious debate, a muddy flow of gabble and balderdash.

It was over by ten o’clock. With jealous eyes she watched her hero

surrounded by people who thought, poor creatures, that they were worthy

of offering him congratulations. At a distance she lingered. And behold,

his eye once more fell upon her! He came out from among the silly

chatterers, and walked towards her.

‘You played me a trick, Miss. Morgan. I should never have allowed you to

come all this way to hear me.’

‘If I had come ten times the distance, I should have been repaid!’

His round eyes gloated upon the flattery.

‘Well, well, I mustn’t pretend that I think the lecture worthless. But

you might have had the manuscript to read. Are you quite alone? Then I

must take care of you. It’s a wretched night; we’ll have a cab to King’s

Cross.’

He said it with a consciousness of large-handed generosity. Jessica’s

heart leapt and throbbed.

She was by his side in the vehicle. Her body touched his. She felt

his warm breath as he talked. In all too short a time they reached the

railway station.

‘Did you come this way? Have you a ticket? Leave that to me.’

Again largely generous, he strode to the booking-office.

They descended and stood together upon the platform, among hurrying

crowds, in black fumes that poisoned the palate with sulphur. This

way and that sped the demon engines, whirling lighted waggons full of

people. Shrill whistles, the hiss and roar of steam, the bang, clap,

bang of carriage-doors, the clatter of feet on wood and stone--all

echoed and reverberated from a huge cloudy vault above them. High and

low, on every available yard of wall, advertisements clamoured to the

eye: theatres, journals, soaps, medicines, concerts, furniture, wines,

prayer-meetings--all the produce and refuse of civilisation announced

in staring letters, in daubed effigies, base, paltry, grotesque. A

battle-ground of advertisements, fitly chosen amid subterranean din and

reek; a symbol to the gaze of that relentless warfare which ceases not,

night and day, in the world above.

For the southward train they had to wait ten minutes. Jessica, keeping

as close as possible to her companion’s side, tried to converse, but her

thoughts were in a tumult like to that about her. She felt a faintness,

a quivering in her limbs.

‘May I sit down for a moment?’ she said, looking at Barmby with a

childlike appeal.

‘To be sure.’

She pointed in a direction away from the crowd.

‘I have something to say--it’s quieter--’

Samuel evinced surprise, but allowed himself to be led towards the black

mouth of the tunnel, whence at that moment rushed an engine with glaring

lights upon its breast.

‘We may not be alone in the train,’ continued Jessica. ‘There’s

something you ought to know I must tell you to-night. You were asking me

about Nancy Lord.’

She spoke with panting breath, and looked fixedly at him. The eagerness

with which he lent ear gave her strength to proceed.

‘You asked me if she was engaged.’

‘Yes--well?’

He had even forgotten his politeness; he saw in her a mere source of

information. Jessica moved closer to him on the bench.

‘Had you any reason for thinking she was?’

‘No particular reason, except something strange in her behaviour.’

‘Would you like to know the whole truth?’

It was a very cold night, and a keen wind swept the platform; but

Jessica, though indifferently clad, felt no discomfort from this cause.

Yet she pressed closer to her companion, so that her cheek all but

touched his shoulder.

‘Of course I should,’ Barmby answered. ‘Is there any mystery?’

‘I oughtn’t to tell.’

‘Then you had better not. But why did you begin?’

‘You ought to know.’

‘Why ought I to know?’

‘Because you--.’ She broke off. A sudden chill made her teeth chatter.

‘Well--why?’ asked Samuel, with impatience.

‘Are you--are you in love with her?’

Voice and look embarrassed him. So did the girl’s proximity; she was

now all but leaning on his shoulder. Respectable Mr. Barmby could not be

aware that Jessica’s state of mind rendered her scarcely responsible for

what she said or did.

‘That’s a very plain question,’ he began; but she interrupted him.

‘I oughtn’t to ask it. There’s no need for you to answer. I know you

have wanted to marry her for a long time. But you never will.’

‘Perhaps not--if she has promised somebody else.’

‘If I tell you--will you be kind to me?’

‘Kind?’

‘I didn’t mean that,’ she added hurriedly. ‘I mean--will you understand

that I felt it a duty? I oughtn’t to tell a secret; but it’s a secret

that oughtn’t to be kept. Will you understand that I did it out of--out

of friendship for you, and because I thought it right?’

‘Oh, certainly. After going so far, you had better tell me and have done

with it.’

Jessica approached her lips to his ear, and whispered:

‘She is married.’

‘What? Impossible!’

‘She was married at Teignmouth, just before she came back from her

holiday, last year.’

‘Well! Upon my word! And that’s why she has been away in Cornwall?’

Again Jessica whispered, her body quivering the while:

‘She has a child. It was born last May.’

‘Well! Upon my word! Now I understand. Who could have imagined!’

‘You see what she is. She hides it for the sake of the money.’

‘But who is her husband?’ asked Samuel, staring at the bloodless face.

‘A man called Tarrant, a relative of Mr. Vawdrey, of Champion Hill. She

thought he was rich. I don’t know whether he is or not, but I believe he

doesn’t mean to come back to her. He’s in America now.’

Barmby questioned, and Jessica answered, until there was nothing left

to ask or to tell,--save the one thing which rose suddenly to Jessica’s

lips.

‘You won’t let her know that I have told you?’

Samuel gravely, but coldly, assured her that she need not fear betrayal.

CHAPTER 3

It was to be in three volumes. She saw her way pretty clearly to the end

of the first; she had ideas for the second; the third must take care

of itself--until she reached it. Hero and heroine ready to her hand;

subordinate characters vaguely floating in the background. After an hour

or two of meditation, she sat down and dashed at Chapter One.

Long before the end of the year it ought to be finished.

But in August came her baby’s first illness; for nearly a fortnight she

was away from home, and on her return, though no anxiety remained, she

found it difficult to resume work. The few chapters completed had a

sorry look; they did not read well, not at all like writing destined

to be read in print. After a week’s disheartenment she made a new

beginning.

At the end of September baby again alarmed her. A trivial ailment as

before, but she could not leave the child until all was well. Again

she reviewed her work, and with more repugnance than after the previous

interruption. But go on with it she must and would. The distasteful

labour, slow, wearisome, often performed without pretence of hope, went

on until October. Then she broke down. Mary Woodruff found her crying by

the fireside, feverish and unnerved.

‘I can’t sleep,’ she said. ‘I hear the clock strike every hour, night

after night.’

But she would not confess the cause. In writing her poor novel she

had lived again through the story enacted at Teignmouth, and her heart

failed beneath its burden of hopeless longing. Her husband had forsaken

her. Even if she saw him again, what solace could be found in the mere

proximity of a man who did not love her, who had never loved her? The

child was not enough; its fatherless estate enhanced the misery of her

own solitude. When the leaves fell, and the sky darkened, and the long

London winter gloomed before her, she sank with a moan of despair.

Mary’s strength and tenderness were now invaluable. By sheer force of

will she overcame the malady in its physical effects, and did wonders in

the assailing of its moral source. Her appeal now, as formerly, was to

the nobler pride always struggling for control in Nancy’s character.

A few days of combat with the besieging melancholy that threatened

disaster, and Nancy could meet her friend’s look with a smile. She put

away and turned the key upon her futile scribbling; no more of that.

Novel-writing was not her vocation; she must seek again.

Early in the afternoon she made ready to go forth on the only business

which now took her from home. It was nearly a week since she had seen

her boy.

Opening the front door, she came unexpectedly under two pairs of eyes.

Face to face with her stood Samuel Barmby, his hand raised to signal at

the knocker, just withdrawn from him. And behind Barmby was a postman,

holding a letter, which in another moment would have dropped into the

box.

Samuel performed the civil salute.

‘Ha!--How do you do, Miss. Lord?--You are going out, I’m afraid.’

‘Yes, I am going out.’

She replied mechanically, and in speaking took the letter held out to

her. A glance at it sent all her blood rushing upon the heart.

‘I want to see you particularly,’ said Samuel. ‘Could I call again, this

afternoon?’

Nancy gazed at him, but did not hear. He saw the sudden pallor of her

cheeks, and thought he understood it. As she stood like a statue, he

spoke again.

‘It is very particular business. If you could give me an appointment--’

‘Business?--Oh, come in, if you like.’

She drew back to admit him, but in the passage stood looking at her

letter. Barmby was perplexed and embarrassed.

‘You had rather I called again?’

‘Called again? Just as you like.’

‘Oh, then I will stay,’ said Samuel bluntly. For he had things in mind

which disposed him to resent this flagrant discourtesy.

His voice awakened Nancy. She opened the door of the dining-room.

‘Will you sit down, Mr. Barmby, and excuse me for a few minutes?’

‘Certainly. Don’t let me inconvenience you, Miss. Lord.’

At another time Nancy would have remarked something very unusual in his

way of speaking, especially in the utterance of her name. But for the

letter in her hand she must have noticed with uneasiness a certain

severity of countenance, which had taken the place of Barmby’s wonted

smile. As it was, she scarcely realised his presence; and, on closing

the door of the room he had entered, she forthwith forgot that such a

man existed.

Her letter! His handwriting at last. And he was in England.

She flew up to her bedroom, and tore open the envelope. He was in

London; ‘Great College Street, S. W.’ A short letter, soon read.

DEAREST NANCY,--I am ashamed to write, yet write I must. All your

letters reached me; there was no reason for my silence but the

unwillingness to keep sending bad news. I have still nothing good to

tell you, but here I am in London again, and you must know of it.

When I posted my last letter to you from New York, I meant to come back

as soon as I could get money enough to pay my passage. Since then I have

gone through a miserable time, idle for the most part, ill for a few

weeks, and occasionally trying to write something that editors would pay

for. But after all I had to borrow. It has brought me home (steerage, if

you know what that means), and now I must earn more.

If we were to meet, I might be able to say something else. I can’t write

it. Let me hear from you, if you think me worth a letter.--Yours ever,

dear girl,

L.

For a quarter of an hour she stood with this sheet open, as though still

reading. Her face was void of emotion; she had a vacant look, cheerless,

but with no more decided significance.

Then she remembered that Samuel Barmby was waiting for her downstairs.

He might have something to say which really concerned her. Better see

him at once and get rid of him. With slow step she descended to the

dining-room. The letter, folded and rolled, she carried in her hand.

‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr. Barmby.’

‘Don’t mention it. Will you sit down?’

‘Yes, of course.’ She spoke abstractedly, and took a seat not far from

him. ‘I was just going out, but--there’s no hurry.’

‘I hardly know how to begin. Perhaps I had better prepare you by saying

that I have received very strange information.’

His air was magisterial; he subdued his voice to a note of profound

solemnity.

‘What sort of information?’ asked Nancy vaguely, her brows knitted in a

look rather of annoyance than apprehension.

‘Very strange indeed.’

‘You have said that already.’

Her temper was failing. She felt a nervous impulse to behave rudely, to

declare the contempt it was always difficult to disguise when talking

with Barmby.

‘I repeat it, because you seem to have no idea what I am going to speak

of. I am the last person to find pleasure in such a disagreeable duty as

is now laid upon me. In that respect, I believe you will do me justice.’

‘Will you speak plainly? This roundabout talk is intolerable.’

Samuel drew himself up, and regarded her with offended dignity. He had

promised himself no small satisfaction from this interview, had foreseen

its salient points. His mere aspect would be enough to subdue Nancy, and

when he began to speak she would tremble before him. Such a moment would

repay him for the enforced humility of years. Perhaps she would weep;

she might even implore him to be merciful. How to act in that event he

had quite made up his mind. But all such anticipations were confused by

Nancy’s singular behaviour. She seemed, in truth, not to understand the

hints which should have overwhelmed her.

More magisterial than ever, he began to speak with slow emphasis.

‘Miss. Lord,--I will still address you by that name,--though for a very

long time I have regarded you as a person worthy of all admiration, and

have sincerely humbled myself before you, I cannot help thinking that a

certain respect is due to me. Even though I find that you have deceived

me as to your position, the old feelings are still so strong in me that

I could not bear to give you needless pain. Instead of announcing to my

father, and to other people, the strange facts which I have learnt, I

come here as a friend,--I speak with all possible forbearance,--I do my

utmost to spare you. Am I not justified in expecting at least courteous

treatment?’

A pause of awful impressiveness. The listener, fully conscious at length

of the situation she had to face, fell into a calmer mood. All was over.

Suspense and the burden of falsehood had no longer to be endured. Her

part now, for this hour at all events, was merely to stand by whilst

Fate unfolded itself.

‘Please say whatever you have to say, Mr. Barmby,’ she replied with

quiet civility. ‘I believe your intention was good. You made me nervous,

that was all.’

‘Pray forgive me. Perhaps it will be best if I ask you a simple

question. You will see that the position I hold under your father’s will

leaves me no choice but to ask it. Is it true that you are married?’

‘I will answer if you tell me how you came to think that I was married.’

‘I have been credibly informed.’

‘By whom?’

‘You must forgive me. I can’t tell you the name.’

‘Then I can’t answer your question.’

Samuel mused. He was unwilling to break a distinct promise.

‘No doubt,’ said Nancy, ‘you have undertaken not to mention the person.’

‘I have.’

‘If it is some one who used to be a friend of mine, you needn’t have any

scruples. She as good as told me what she meant to do. Of course it is

Miss. Morgan?’

‘As you have yourself spoken the name--’

‘Very well. She isn’t in her senses, and I wonder she has kept the

secret so long.’

‘You admit the truth of what she has told me?’

‘Yes. I am married.’

She made the avowal in a tone very like that in which, to Beatrice

French, she had affirmed the contrary.

‘And your true name is Mrs. Tarrant?’

‘That is my name.’

The crudely masculine in Barmby prompted one more question, but some

other motive checked him. He let his eyes wander slowly about the room.

Even yet there was a chance of playing off certain effects which he had

rehearsed with gusto.

‘Can you imagine,’--his voice shook a little,--‘how much I suffer in

hearing you say this?’

‘If you mean that you still had the hopes expressed in your letter

some time ago, I can only say, in my defence, that I gave you an honest

answer.’

‘Yes. You said you could never marry me. But of course I couldn’t

understand it in this sense. It is a blow. I find it very hard to bear.’

He rose and went to the window, as if ashamed of the emotion he could

not command. Nancy, too much occupied with her own troubles to ask or

care whether his distress was genuine, laid Tarrant’s letter upon a

side-table, and began to draw off her gloves. Then she unbuttoned her

jacket. These out-of-door garments oppressed her. Samuel turned his head

and came slowly back.

‘There are things that might be said, but I will not say them. Most men

in my position would yield to the temptation of revenge. But for many

years I have kept in view a moral ideal, and now I have the satisfaction

of conquering my lower self. You shall not hear one word of reproach

from my lips.’

He waited for the reply, the expected murmur of gratitude. Nancy said

nothing.

‘Mrs. Tarrant,’--he stood before her,--‘what do you suppose must be the

result of this?’

‘There can only be one.’

‘You mean the ruin of your prospects. But do you forget that all the

money you have received since Mr. Lord’s death has been obtained by

false pretences? Are you not aware that this is a criminal offence?’

Nancy raised her eyes and looked steadily at him.

‘Then I must bear the punishment.’

For a minute Barmby enjoyed her suffering. Of his foreseen effects, this

one had come nearest to succeeding. But he was not satisfied; he hoped

she would beseech his clemency.

‘The punishment might be very serious. I really can’t say what view my

father may take of this deception.’

‘Is there any use in talking about it? I am penniless--that’s all you

have to tell me. What else I have to bear, I shall know soon enough.’

‘One thing I must ask. Isn’t your husband in a position to support you?’

‘I can’t answer that. Please to say nothing about my husband.’

Barmby caught at hope. It might be true, as Jessica Morgan believed,

that Nancy was forsaken. The man Tarrant might be wealthy enough to

disregard her prospects. In that case an assiduous lover, one who, by

the exercise of a prudent generosity, had obtained power over the girl,

could yet hope for reward. Samuel had as little of the villain in his

composition as any Camberwell householder. He cherished no dark designs.

But, after the manner of his kind, he was in love with Nancy, and even

the long pursuit of a lofty ideal does not render a man proof against

the elementary forces of human nature.

‘We will suppose then,’ he said, with a certain cheerfulness, ‘that you

have nothing whatever to depend upon but your father’s will. What is

before you? How can you live?’

‘That is my own affair.’

It was not said offensively, but in a tone of bitter resignation. Barmby

sat down opposite to her, and leaned forward.

‘Do you think for one moment,’--his voice was softly melodious,--‘that

I--I who have loved you for years--could let you suffer for want of

money?’

He had not skill to read her countenance. Trouble he discerned, and

shame; but the half-veiled eyes, the quivering nostril, the hard, cold

lips, spoke a language beyond Samuel’s interpretation. Even had he known

of the outrages previously inflicted upon her pride, and that this new

attack came at a moment when her courage was baffled, her heart cruelly

wounded, he would just as little have comprehended the spirit which now

kept her mute.

He imagined her overcome by his generosity. Another of his great effects

had come off with tolerable success.

‘Put your mind at rest,’ he pursued mellifluously. ‘You shall suffer no

hardships. I answer for it.’

Still mute, and her head bowed low. Such is the power of nobility

displayed before an erring soul!

‘You have never done me justice. Confess that you haven’t!’

To this remarkable appeal Nancy perforce replied:

‘I never thought ill of you.’