When she had spoken, colour came into her cheeks. Observing it, Samuel

was strangely moved. Had he impressed her even more profoundly than he

hoped to do? Jessica Morgan’s undisguised subjugation had flattered him

into credulity respecting his influence over the female mind.

‘But you didn’t think me capable of--of anything extraordinary?’ Even in

her torment, Nancy marvelled at this revelation of fatuity. She did not

understand the pranks of such a mind as Barmby’s when its balance is

disturbed by exciting circumstance.

‘What are you offering me?’ she asked, in a low voice. ‘How could I take

money from you?’

‘I didn’t mean that you should. Your secret has been betrayed to me.

Suppose I refuse to know anything about it, and leave things as they

were?’

Nancy kept her eyes down.

‘Suppose I say: Duty bids me injure this woman who has injured _me_; but

no, I will not! Suppose I say: I can make her regret bitterly that she

married that other man; but no, I will not! Suppose, instead of making

your secret known, I do my utmost to guard it! What would be your

opinion of this behaviour?’

‘I should think it was kindly meant, but useless.’

‘Useless? Why?’

‘Because it isn’t in your power to guard the secret. Jessica Morgan

won’t leave her work half done.’

‘If that’s all, I say again that you can put your mind at rest. I answer

for Miss. Morgan. With her my will is law.’

Samuel smiled. A smile ineffable. The smile of a suburban deity.

‘Why should you take any trouble about me?’ said Nancy. ‘I can do

nothing for you in return.’

‘You can.’

She looked anxiously at him, for his voice sounded ominous.

‘What?’

‘You can acknowledge that you never did me justice.’

‘It’s true that I didn’t,’ she answered languidly; speaking as though

the concession mattered little.

Barmby brightened. His hands were upon his knees; he raised his chin,

and smiled at vacancy.

‘You thought me unworthy of you. You can confess to me that you were

mistaken.’

‘I didn’t know you as I do now,’ fell from the expressionless lips.

‘Thank you for saying that! Well, then, your anxiety is at an end. You

are not in the hands of a mercenary enemy, but of a man whose principles

forbid him to do anything ignoble, who has an ideal of life, the result

of much study and thought. You have never heard me speak about religion,

but you would be gravely mistaken if you thought I had no religious

convictions. Some day I shall treat that subject before our Society,

and it is probable that my views will give rise to a good deal of

discussion. I have formed a religion for myself; when I write my essay,

I think I shall call it “The Religion of a Man of Business.” One of

the great evils of the day is the vulgar supposition that commerce has

nothing to do with religious faith. I shall show how utterly wrong

that is. It would take too long to explain to you my mature views of

Christianity. I am not sure that I recognise any of the ordinary dogmas;

I think I have progressed beyond them. However, we shall have many

opportunities of talking about these things.’

Nancy uttered a mere ‘Yes.’ She was looking at Tarrant’s letter on the

side-table, and wishing to be alone that she might read it again.

‘In the meantime,’ Samuel pursued, ‘whatever difficulty arises, confide

it to me. Probably you will wish to tell me more before long; you know

that I am not unworthy to be your adviser. And so let us shake hands, in

sign of genuine friendship.’

Nancy gave her fingers, which felt very cold upon Barmby’s warm, moist

palm.

‘This conversation has been trying to you,’ he said, ‘but relief of mind

will soon follow. If anything occurs to me that may help to soothe you,

I will write.’

‘Thank you.’

‘At the beginning of our interview you didn’t think it would end like

this?’

There was something of the boy in Samuel, perhaps the wholesomest

part of him. Having manifested his admirable qualities, he felt a

light-hearted pleasure in asking for renewed assurance of the good

opinion he had earned.

‘I hardly cared,’ said Nancy, as she rose with a sigh of weariness.

‘But you have got over that. You will be quite cheerful now?’

‘In time, no doubt.’

‘I shall call again--let us say on Wednesday evening. By that time I

shall be able to put you entirely at ease with regard to Miss Morgan.’

Nancy made no reply. In shaking hands, she regarded the radiant Samuel

with a dreamy interest; and when he had left her, she still gazed for a

few moments at the door.

CHAPTER 4

The habit of confidence prompted Nancy to seek Mary Woodruff, and show

her the long-expected letter. But for Barmby’s visit she would have done

so. As it was, her mind sullenly resisted the natural impulse. Forlorn

misery, intensified by successive humiliations, whereof the latest

was the bitterest, hardened her even against the one, the indubitable

friend, to whom she had never looked in vain for help and solace. Of

course it was not necessary to let Mary know with what heart-breaking

coldness Tarrant had communicated the fact of his return; but she

preferred to keep silence altogether. Having sunk so low as to accept,

with semblance of gratitude, pompous favours, dishonouring connivance,

at the hands of Samuel Barmby, she would now stand alone in her

uttermost degradation. Happen what might, she would act and suffer in

solitude.

Something she had in mind to do which Mary, if told of it, would regard

with disapproval. Mary was not a deserted and insulted wife; she could

reason and counsel with the calmness of one who sympathised, but had

nothing worse to endure. Even Mary’s sympathy was necessarily imperfect,

since she knew not, and should never know, what had passed in the

crucial interviews with Beatrice French, with Jessica Morgan, and

with Samuel Barmby. Bent on indulging her passionate sense of injury,

hungering for a taste of revenge, however poor, Nancy executed with

brief delay a project which had come into her head during the hour of

torture just elapsed.

She took a sheet of notepaper, and upon it wrote half-a-dozen lines,

thus:

‘As your reward for marrying me is still a long way off, and as you tell

me that you are in want, I send you as much as I can spare at present.

Next month you shall hear from me again.’

Within the paper she folded a five-pound note, and placed both in an

envelope, which she addressed to Lionel Tarrant, Esq., at his lodgings

in Westminster. Having posted this at the first pillar-box she walked

on.

Her only object was to combat mental anguish by bodily exercise, to

distract, if possible, the thoughts which hammered upon her brain by

moving amid the life of the streets. In Camberwell Road she passed the

place of business inscribed with the names ‘Lord and Barmby’; it made

her think, not of the man who, from being an object of her good-natured

contempt, was now become a hated enemy, but of her father, and she

mourned for him with profounder feeling than when her tears flowed

over his new-made grave. But for headstrong folly, incredible in the

retrospect, that father would have been her dear and honoured companion,

her friend in every best sense of the word, her guide and protector.

Many and many a time had he invited her affection, her trust. For long

years it was in her power to make him happy, and, in doing so, to enrich

her own life, to discipline her mind as no study of books, even had it

been genuine, ever could. Oh, to have the time back again--the despised

privilege--the thwarted embittered love! She was beginning to understand

her father, to surmise with mature intelligence the causes of his

seeming harshness. To her own boy, when he was old enough, she would

talk of him and praise him. Perhaps, even thus late, his spirit of stern

truthfulness might bear fruit in her life and in her son’s.

The tender memory and pure resolve did not long possess her. They soon

yielded before the potency of present evil, and for an hour or more she

walked along the sordid highway, nursing passions which struck their

venom into her heart.

It was one of those cold, dry, clouded evenings of autumn, when London

streets affect the imagination with a peculiar suggestiveness. New-lit

lamps, sickly yellow under the dying day, stretch in immense vistas,

unobscured by fog, but exhibit no detail of the track they will

presently illumine; one by one the shop-fronts grow radiant on deepening

gloom, and show in silhouette the figures numberless that are hurrying

past. By accentuating a pause between the life of daytime and that which

will begin after dark, this grey hour excites to an unwonted perception

of the city’s vastness and of its multifarious labour; melancholy, yet

not dismal, the brooding twilight seems to betoken Nature’s compassion

for myriad mortals exiled from her beauty and her solace. Noises far and

near blend into a muffled murmur, sound’s equivalent of the impression

received by the eye; it seems to utter the weariness of unending

ineffectual toil.

Nancy had now walked as far as Newington, a district unfamiliar to

her, and repulsive. By the Elephant and Castle she stood watching the

tumultuous traffic which whirls and roars at this confluence of six

highways; she had neither a mind to go on, nor yet to return. The

conductor of an omnibus close at hand kept bellowing ‘London Bridge!’

and her thoughts wandered to that day of meeting with Luckworth Crewe,

when he took her up the Monument. She had never felt more than an idle

interest in Crewe, and whenever she remembered him nowadays, it was

only to reflect with bitterness that he doubtless knew a part of her

secret,--the part that was known to Beatrice French,--and on that

account had ceased to urge his suit; yet at this moment she wished that

she had pledged herself to him in good faith. His behaviour argued the

steadfast devotion of an honest man, however lacking in refinement.

Their long engagement would have been brightened with many hopes; in the

end she might have learned to love him, and prosperity would have opened

to her a world of satisfactions, for which she could no longer hope.

It grew cold. She allowed the movements of a group of people to direct

her steps, and went eastward along New Kent Road. But when the shops

were past, and only a dreary prospect of featureless dwellings

lay before her, she felt her heart sink, and paused in vacillating

wretchedness.

From a house near by sounded a piano; a foolish jingle, but it smote her

with a longing for companionship, for friendly, cheerful talk. And

then of a sudden she determined that this life of intolerable isolation

should come to an end. Her efforts to find employment that would bring

her among people had failed simply because she applied to strangers, who

knew nothing of her capabilities, and cared nothing for her needs. But a

way offered itself if she could overcome the poor lingering vestiges of

pride and shame which hitherto had seemed to render it impossible. In

this hour her desolate spirit rejected everything but the thought of

relief to be found in new occupation, fresh society. She had endured to

the limit of strength. Under the falling night, before the grey vision

of a city which, by its alien business and pleasure, made her a mere

outcast, she all at once found hope in a resource which till now had

signified despair.

Summoning the first empty cab, she gave an address known to her only by

hearsay, that of the South London Fashionable Dress Supply Association,

and was driven thither in about a quarter of an hour. The shop, with its

windows cunningly laid out to allure the female eye, spread a brilliant

frontage between two much duller places of business; at the doorway

stood a commissionaire, distributing some newly printed advertisements

to the persons who entered, or who paused in passing. Nancy accepted a

paper without thinking about it, and went through the swing doors held

open for her by a stripling in buttons; she approached a young woman at

the nearest counter, and in a low voice asked whether Miss. French was

on the premises.

‘I’m not sure, madam. I will inquire at once.’

‘She calls me “madam,”’ said Nancy to herself whilst waiting. ‘So do

shopkeepers generally. I suppose I look old.’

The young person (she honeyed a Cockney twang) speedily came back to

report that Miss. French had left about half-an-hour ago, and was not

likely to return.

‘Can you give me her private address?’

Not having seen Miss. French since the latter’s unwelcome call in Grove

Lane, she only knew that Beatrice had left De Crespigny Park to inhabit

a flat somewhere or other.

‘I wish to see her particularly, on business.’

‘Excuse me a moment, madam.’

On returning, the young person requested Nancy to follow her up the

shop, and led into a glass-partitioned office, where, at a table covered

with fashion-plates, sat a middle-aged man, with a bald head of peculiar

lustre. He rose and bowed; Nancy repeated her request.

‘Could I despatch a message for you, madam?’

‘My business is private.’

The bald-headed man coughed urbanely, and begged to know her name.

‘Miss. Lord--of Grove Lane.’

Immediately his countenance changed from deprecating solemnity to a

broad smile of recognition.

‘Miss. Lord! Oh, to be sure; I will give you the address at once. Pray

pardon my questions; we have to be so very careful. So many people

desire private interviews with Miss. French. I will jot down the

address.’

He did so on the back of an advertisement, and added verbal directions.

Nancy hurried away.

Another cab conveyed her to Brixton, and set her down before a block

of recently built flats. She ascended to the second floor, pressed the

button of a bell, and was speedily confronted by a girl of the natty

parlour-maid species. This time she began by giving her name, and had

only a moment to wait before she was admitted to a small drawing-room,

furnished with semblance of luxury. A glowing fire and the light of an

amber-shaded lamp showed as much fashionable upholstery and bric-a-brac

as could be squeezed into the narrow space. Something else was

perceptible which might perhaps have been dispensed with; to wit,

the odour of a very savoury meal, a meal in which fried onions had no

insignificant part. But before the visitor could comment to herself upon

this disadvantage attaching to flats, Beatrice joined her.

‘I could hardly believe it! So you have really looked me up? Awfully

jolly of you! I’m quite alone; we’ll have a bit of dinner together.’

Miss. French was in her most expansive mood. She understood the call as

one of simple friendliness.

‘I wasn’t sure that you knew the address. Got it at the shop? They don’t

go telling everybody, I hope--’

‘Some one there seemed to know my name,’ said Nancy, whom the warmth and

light and cheery welcome encouraged in the step she had taken. And she

explained.

‘Ah, Mr. Clatworthy--rum old cove, when you get to know him. Yes, yes;

no doubt he has heard me speak of you--in a general way, you know. Come

into my snooze-corner, and take your things off.’

The snooze-corner, commonly called a bedroom, lacked one detail of

comfort--pure air. The odour of dinner blending with toilet perfumes

made an atmosphere decidedly oppressive. Beatrice remarked on the

smallness of the chamber, adding archly, ‘But I sleep single.’

‘What’s your brother doing?’ she asked, while helping to remove Nancy’s

jacket. ‘I passed him in Oxford Street the other day, and he either

didn’t see me, or didn’t want to. Thought he looked rather dissipated.’

‘I know very little about him,’ answered the visitor, who spoke and

acted without reflection, conscious chiefly at this moment of faintness

induced by fatigue and hunger.

‘Fanny’s in Paris,’ pursued Miss. French. ‘Writes as if she was amusing

herself. I think I shall run over and have a look at her. Seen Ada?

She’s been playing the fool as usual. Found out that Arthur had taken

the kid to his sister’s at Canterbury; went down and made a deuce of a

kick-up; they had to chuck her out of the house. Of course she cares no

more about the child than I do; it’s only to spite her husband. She’s

going to law with him, she says. She won’t leave the house in De

Crespigny Park, and she’s running up bills--you bet!’

Nancy tried to laugh. The effort, and its semi-success, indicated

surrender to her companion’s spirit rather than any attention to the

subject spoken of.

They returned to the drawing-room, but had not time to begin a

conversation before the servant summoned them to dinner. A very

satisfying meal it proved; not badly cooked, as cooking is understood in

Brixton, and served with more of ceremony than the guest had expected.

Fried scallops, rump steak smothered in onions, an apple tart, and very

sound Stilton cheese. Such fare testified to the virile qualities of

Beatrice’s mind; she was above the feminine folly of neglecting honest

victuals. Moreover, there appeared two wines, sherry and claret.

‘Did you ever try this kind of thing?’ said the hostess finally,

reaching a box of cigarettes.

‘I?--Of course not,’ Nancy replied, with a laugh.

‘It’s expected of a sensible woman now-a-days. I’ve got to like it.

Better try; no need to make yourself uncomfortable. Just keep the smoke

in your mouth for half-a-minute, and blow it out prettily. I buy these

in the Haymarket; special brand for women.’

‘And you dine like this, by yourself, every day?’

‘Like this, but not always alone. Some one or other drops in. Luckworth

Crewe was here yesterday.’

Speaking, she watched Nancy, who bore the regard with carelessness, and

replied lightly:

‘It’s an independent sort of life, at all events.’

‘Just the kind of life that suits me. I’m my own mistress.’

There was a suggested allusion in the sly tone of the last phrase; but

Nancy, thinking her own thoughts, did not perceive it. As the servant

had left them alone, they could now talk freely. Beatrice, by her

frequent glance of curiosity, seemed to await some explanation of a

visit so unlooked-for.

‘How are things going with you?’ she asked at length, tapping the ash of

her cigarette over a plate.

‘I want something to do,’ was the blunt reply.

‘Too much alone--isn’t that it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Just what I thought. You don’t see him often?’

Nancy had ceased her pretence of smoking, and leaned back. A flush

on her face, and something unwonted in the expression of her

eyes,--something like a smile, yet touched with apathy,--told of

physical influences which assisted her resolve to have done with scruple

and delicacy. She handled her wine-glass, which was half full, and,

before answering, raised it to her lips.

‘No, I don’t see him often.’

‘Well, I told you to come to me if I could be any use. What’s your

idea?’

‘Do you know of anything I could do? It isn’t so much to earn money,

as to--to be occupied, and escape from loneliness. But I must have two

afternoons in the week to myself.’

Beatrice nodded and smiled.

‘No,--not for that,’ Nancy added hastily. ‘To see my boy.’

The other appeared to accept this correction.

‘All right. I think I can find you something. We’re opening a

branch.’ She mentioned the locality. ‘There’ll be a club-room, like

at headquarters, and we shall want some one ladylike to sit there and

answer questions. You wouldn’t be likely to see any one that knows you,

and you’d get a good deal of fun out of it. Hours from ten to five, but

Saturday afternoon off, and Wednesday after three, if that would do?’

‘Yes, that would do very well. Any payment, at first?’

‘Oh, we wouldn’t be so mean as all that. Say ten shillings a week till

Christmas, and afterwards we could see’--she laughed--‘whether you’re

worth more.’

‘I know nothing about fashions.’

‘You can learn all you need to know in an hour. It’s the ladylike

appearance and talk more than anything else.’

Nancy sipped again from her wine-glass.

‘When could I begin?’

‘The place ‘ll be ready on Monday week. Next week you might put in a

few hours with us. Just sit and watch and listen, that’s all; to get the

hang of the thing.’

‘Thank you for being so ready to help me.’

‘Not a bit of it. I haven’t done yet. There’s a condition. If I fix up

this job for you, will you tell me something I want to know?’

Nancy turned her eyes apprehensively.

‘You can guess what it is. I quite believe what you told me some time

ago, but I shan’t feel quite easy until I know--’

She finished the sentence with a look. Nancy’s eyes fell.

‘Curiosity, nothing else,’ added the other. ‘Just to make quite sure it

isn’t anybody I’ve thought of.’

There was a long silence. Leaning forward upon the table, Nancy turned

her wine-glass about and about. She now had a very high colour, and

breathed quickly.

‘Is it off, then?’ said Beatrice, in an indifferent tone.

Thereupon Nancy disclosed the name of her husband--her lover, as Miss.

French thought him. Plied with further questions, she told where he

was living, but gave no account of the circumstances that had estranged

them. Abundantly satisfied, Beatrice grew almost affectionate, and

talked merrily.

Nancy wished to ask whether Luckworth Crewe had any knowledge of her

position. It was long before her lips could utter the words, but at

length they were spoken. And Beatrice assured her that Crewe, good silly

fellow, did not even suspect the truth.

CHAPTER 5

‘For a man,’ said Tarrant, ‘who can pay no more than twelve and sixpence

a week, it’s the best accommodation to be found in London. There’s

an air of civilisation about the house. Look; a bath, and a little

book-case, and an easy-chair such as can be used by a man who respects

himself. You feel you are among people who tub o’ mornings and know the

meaning of leisure. Then the view!’

He was talking to his friend Harvey Munden, the journalist. The room

in which they stood might with advantage have been larger, but as a

bed-chamber it served well enough, and only the poverty of its occupant,

who put it to the additional use of sitting-room and study, made the

lack of space particularly noticeable. The window afforded a prospect

pleasant enough to eyes such as theirs. Above the lower houses on the

opposite side of the way appeared tall trees, in the sere garb of later

autumn, growing by old Westminster School; and beyond them, grey in

twilight, rose the towers of the Abbey. From this point of view no

vicinage of modern brickwork spoilt their charm; the time-worn monitors

stood alone against a sky of ruddy smoke-drift and purple cloud.

‘The old Adam is stronger than ever in me,’ he pursued. ‘If I were

condemned for life to the United States, I should go mad, and perish in

an attempt to swim the Atlantic.’

‘Then why did you stay so long?’

‘I could have stayed with advantage even longer. It’s something to have

studied with tolerable thoroughness the most hateful form of society yet

developed. I saw it at first as a man does who is living at his ease;

at last, as a poor devil who is thankful for the institution of free

lunches. I went first-class, and I came back as a steerage passenger. It

has been a year well spent.’

It had made him, in aspect, more than a twelve-month older. His lounging

attitude, the spirit of his talk, showed that he was unchanged in bodily

and mental habits; but certain lines new-graven upon his visage, and

an austerity that had taken the place of youthful self-consciousness,

signified a more than normal progress in experience.

‘Do you know,’ said Munden slyly, ‘that you have brought back a

trans-Atlantic accent?’

‘Accent? The devil! I don’t believe it.’

‘Intonation, at all events.’

Tarrant professed a serious annoyance.

‘If that’s true, I’ll go and live for a month in Limerick.’

‘It would be cheaper to join a Socialist club in the East End. But just

tell me how you stand. How long can you hold out in these aristocratic

lodgings?’

‘Till Christmas. I’m ashamed to say how I’ve got the money, so don’t

ask. I reached London with empty pockets. And I’ll tell you one thing I

have learnt, Munden. There’s no villainy, no scoundrelism, no baseness

conceivable, that isn’t excused by want of money. I understand the whole

“social question.” The man who has never felt the perspiration come out

on his forehead in asking himself how he is going to keep body and soul

together, has no right to an opinion on the greatest question of the

day.’

‘What particular scoundrelism or baseness have you committed?’ asked the

other.

Tarrant averted his eyes.

‘I said I could understand such things.’

‘One sees that you have been breathed upon by democracy.’

‘I loathe the word and the thing even more than I did, which is saying a

good deal.’

‘Be it so. You say you are going to work?’

‘Yes, I have come back to work. Even now, it’s difficult to realise that

I must work or starve. I understand how fellows who have unexpectedly

lost their income go through life sponging on relatives and friends.

I understand how an educated man goes sinking through all the social

grades, down to the common lodging-house and the infirmary. And I

honestly believe there’s only one thing that saves me from doing

likewise.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘I can’t tell you--not yet, at all events.’

‘I always thought you a very fine specimen of the man born to do

nothing,’ said Munden, with that smile which permitted him a surprising

candour in conversation.

‘And you were quite right,’ returned Tarrant, with a laugh. ‘I am a born

artist in indolence. It’s the pity of pities that circumstances will

frustrate Nature’s purpose.’

‘You think you can support yourself by journalism?’

‘I must try.--Run your eye over that.’

He took from the table a slip of manuscript, headed, ‘A Reverie in Wall

Street.’ Munden read it, sat thoughtful for a moment, and laughed.

‘Devilish savage. Did you write it after a free lunch?’

‘Wrote it this morning. Shall I try one of the evening papers with

it,--or one of the weeklies?’

Munden suggested a few alterations, and mentioned the journal which he

thought might possibly find room for such a bit of satire.

‘Done anything else?’

‘Here’s a half-finished paper--“The Commercial Prospects of the

Bahamas.”’

‘Let me look.’

After reading a page or two with critically wrinkled forehead, Munden

laid it down.

‘Seems pretty solid,--libellous, too, I should say. You’ve more stuff

in you than I thought. All right: go ahead.--Come and dine with me

to-morrow, to meet a man who may be useful.’

‘To-morrow I can’t. I dine at Lady Pollard’s.’

‘Who is she?’

‘Didn’t you know Pollard of Trinity?--the only son of his mother, and

she a widow.’

‘Next day, then.’

‘Can’t. I dine with some people at Bedford Park.’

Munden lifted his eyebrows.

‘At this rate, you may live pretty well on a dress suit. Any more

engagements?’

‘None that I know of. But I shall accept all that offer. I’m hungry

for the society of decent English people. I used to neglect my

acquaintances; I know better now. Go and live for a month in a cheap

New York boarding-house, and you’ll come out with a wholesome taste for

English refinement.’

To enable his friend to read, Tarrant had already lit a lamp. Munden,

glancing about the room, said carelessly:

‘Do you still possess the furniture of the old place?’

‘No,’ was the answer, given with annoyance. ‘Vawdrey had it sold for

me.’

‘Pictures, books, and all the nick-nacks?’

‘Everything.--Of course I’m sorry for it; but I thought at the time that

I shouldn’t return to England for some years.’

‘You never said anything of that kind to me.’

‘No, I didn’t,’ the other replied gloomily. And all at once he fell into

so taciturn a mood, that his companion, after a few more remarks and

inquiries, rose from his chair to leave.

From seven to nine Tarrant sat resolutely at his table, and covered a

few pages with the kind of composition which now came most easily to

him,--a somewhat virulent sarcasm. He found pleasure in the work; but

after nine o’clock his thoughts strayed to matters of personal interest,

and got beyond control. Would the last post of the evening bring him

an answer to a letter he had despatched this morning? At length he laid

down his pen, and listened nervously for that knock which, at one time

or another, is to all men a heart-shaking sound.

It came at the street door, and was quickly followed by a tap at his

own. Nancy had lost no time in replying. What her letter might contain

he found it impossible to conjecture. Reproaches? Joyous welcome? Wrath?

Forgiveness? He knew her so imperfectly, that he could not feel

sure even as to the probabilities of the case. And his suspense was

abundantly justified. Her answer came upon him with the force of a shock

totally unexpected.

He read the lines again and again; he stared at the bank-note. His

first sensation was one of painful surprise; thereupon succeeded fiery

resentment. Reason put in a modest word, hinting that he had deserved

no better; but he refused to listen. Nothing could excuse so gross an

insult. He had not thought Nancy capable of this behaviour. Tested, she

betrayed the vice of birth. Her imputation upon his motive in marrying

her was sheer vulgar abuse, possible only on vulgar lips. Well and

good; now he knew her; all the torment of conscience he had suffered was

needless. And for the moment he experienced a great relief.

In less than ten minutes letter and bank-note were enclosed in a new

envelope, and addressed back again to the sender. With no word of

comment; she must interpret him as she could, and would. He went out,

and threw the offensive packet into the nearest receptacle for such

things.

Work was over for to-night. After pacing in the obscurity of Dean’s Yard

until his pulse had recovered a normal beat, he issued into the peopled

ways, and turned towards Westminster Bridge.

Despite his neglect of Nancy, he had never ceased to think of her with a

tenderness which, in his own judgment, signified something more than the

simple fidelity of a married man. Faithful in the technical sense he

had not been, but the casual amours of a young man caused him no

self-reproach; Nancy’s image remained without rival in his mind; he had

continued to acknowledge her claims upon him, and, from time to time, to

think of her with a lover’s longing. As he only wrote when prompted by

such a mood, his letters, however unsatisfying, were sincere. Various

influences conflicted with this amiable and honourable sentiment. The

desire of independence which had speeded him away from England still

accompanied him on his return; he had never ceased to regret his

marriage, and it seemed to him that, without this legal bondage, it

would have been much easier to play a manly part at the time of Nancy’s

becoming a mother. Were she frankly his mistress, he would not be

keeping thus far away when most she needed the consolation of his

presence. The secret marriage condemned him to a course of shame, and

the more he thought of it, the more he marvelled at his deliberate

complicity in such a fraud. When poverty began to make itself felt, when

he was actually hampered in his movements by want of money, this form

of indignity, more than any galling to his pride, intensified the

impatience with which he remembered that he could no longer roam the

world as an adventurer. Any day some trivial accident might oppress him

with the burden of a wife and child who looked to him for their support.

Tarrant the married man, unless he were content to turn simple rogue and

vagabond, must make for himself a place in the money-earning world. His

indolence had no small part in his revolt against the stress of such

a consideration. The climate of the Bahamas by no means tended

to invigorate him, and in the United States he found so much to

observe,--even to enjoy,--that the necessity of effort was kept out

of sight as long as, by one expedient and another, he succeeded in

procuring means to live upon without working.

During the homeward voyage--a trial such as he had never known, amid

squalid discomforts which enraged even more than they disgusted him--his

heart softened in anticipation of a meeting with Nancy, and of the

sight of his child. Apart from his fellow-travellers,--in whom he could

perceive nothing but coarseness and vileness,--he spent the hours in

longing for England and for the home he would make there, in castigating

the flagrant faults of his character, moderating his ambitions, and

endeavouring to find a way out of the numerous grave difficulties with

which his future was beset.

Landed, he rather forgot than discarded these wholesome meditations.

What he had first to do was so very unpleasant, and taxed so rudely his

self-respect, that he insensibly fell back again into the rebellious

temper. Choice there was none; reaching London with a few shillings in

his pocket, of necessity he repaired forthwith to Mr Vawdrey’s office in

the City, and made known the straits into which he had fallen.

‘Now, my dear fellow,’ said Mr. Vawdrey, with his usual good-humour,

‘how much have you had of me since you started for the Bahamas?’

‘That is hardly a fair question,’ Tarrant replied, endeavouring not to

hang his head like an everyday beggar. ‘I went out on a commission--’

‘True. But after you ceased to be a commissioner?’

‘You have lent me seventy pounds. Living in the States is expensive.

What I got for my furniture has gone as well, yet I certainly haven’t

been extravagant; and for the last month or two I lived like a tramp.

Will you make my debt to you a round hundred? It shall be repaid, though

I may be a year or two about it.’

The loan was granted, but together with a great deal of unpalatable

counsel. Having found his lodging, Tarrant at once invested ten pounds

in providing himself with a dress suit, and improving his ordinary

attire,--he had sold every garment he could spare in New York. For

the dress suit he had an immediate use; on the very platform of Euston

Station, at his arrival, a chance meeting with one of his old college

friends resulted in an invitation to dine, and, even had not policy

urged him to make the most of such acquaintances, he was in no mood for

rejecting a summons back into the world of civilisation. Postponing the

purposed letter to Nancy (which, had he written it sooner, would have

been very unlike the letter he subsequently sent), he equipped himself

once more as a gentleman, and spent several very enjoyable hours in

looking up the members of his former circle--Hodiernals and others. Only

to Harvey Munden did he confide something of the anxieties which lay

beneath his assumed lightheartedness. Munden was almost the only man he

knew for whom he had a genuine respect.

Renewal of intercourse with people of good social standing made him

more than ever fretful in the thought that he had clogged himself with

marriage. Whatever Nancy’s reply to his announcement that he was home

again, he would have read it with discontent. To have the fact forced

upon him (a fact he seriously believed it) that his wife could not be

depended upon even for elementary generosity of thought, was at this

moment especially disastrous; it weighed the balance against his

feelings of justice and humanity, hitherto, no matter how he acted,

always preponderant over the baser issues of character and circumstance.

He stood leaning upon the parapet of Westminster Bridge, his eyes

scanning the dark facade of the Houses of Parliament.

How would the strong, unscrupulous, really ambitious man act in such

a case? What was to prevent him from ignoring the fact that he was

married, and directing his course precisely as he would have done

if poverty had come upon him before his act of supreme foolishness?

Journalism must have been his refuge then, as now; but Society would

have held out to him the hope of every adventurer--a marriage with

some woman whose wealth and connections would clear an upward path

in whatever line he chose to follow. Why not abandon to Nancy the

inheritance it would degrade him to share, and so purchase back his

freedom? The bargain might be made; a strong man would carry it through,

and ultimately triumph by daring all risks.

Having wrought himself to this point of insensate revolt, he quitted his

musing-station on the bridge, and walked away.

Nancy did not write again. There passed four or five days, and Tarrant,

working hard as well as enjoying the pleasures of Society, made up

his mind not to see her. He would leave events to take their course.

A heaviness of heart often troubled him, but he resisted it, and told

himself that he was becoming stronger.

After a long day of writing, he addressed a packet to a certain

periodical, and went out to post it. No sooner had he left the house

than a woman, who had been about to pass him on the pavement, abruptly

turned round and hurriedly walked away. But for this action, he would

not have noticed her; as it was, he recognised the figure, and an

impulse which allowed of no reflection brought him in a moment to

her side. In the ill-lighted street a face could with difficulty be

observed, but Nancy’s features were unmistakable to the eye that now

fell upon them.

‘Stop, and let me speak to you,’ he exclaimed.

She walked only the more quickly, and he was obliged to take her by the

arm.

‘What do you want?’

She spoke as if to an insolent stranger, and shook off his grasp.

‘If you have nothing to say to me, why are you here?’

‘Here? I suppose the streets are free to me?’

‘Nothing would bring you to Great College Street if you didn’t know that

I was living here. Now that we have met, we must talk.’

‘I have nothing at all to say to you.’

‘Well, then _I_ will talk.--Come this way; there’s a quiet place where

no one will notice us.’

Nancy kept her eyes resolutely averted from him; he, the while, searched

her face with eagerness, as well as the faint rays of the nearest lamp

allowed it.

‘If you have anything to say, you must say it here.’

‘It’s no use, then. Go your way, and I’ll go mine.’

He turned, and walked slowly in the direction of Dean’s Yard. There

was the sound of a step behind him, and when he had come into the dark,

quiet square, Nancy was there too.

‘Better to be reasonable,’ said Tarrant, approaching her again. ‘I want

to ask you why you answered a well-meant letter with vulgar insult?’

‘The insult came from you,’ she answered, in a shaking voice.

‘What did I say that gave you offence?’

‘How can you ask such a question? To write in that way after never

answering my letter for months, leaving me without a word at such a

time, making me think either that you were dead or that you would never

let me hear of you again--’

‘I told you it was a mere note, just to let you know I was back. I said

you should hear more when we met.’

‘Very well, we have met. What have you to say for yourself?’

‘First of all, this. That you are mistaken in supposing I should ever

consent to share your money. The thought was natural to you, no doubt;

but I see things from a different point of view.’

His cold anger completely disguised the emotion stirred in him by

Nancy’s presence. Had he not spoken thus, he must have given way to joy

and tenderness. For Nancy seemed more beautiful than the memory he had

retained of her, and even at such a juncture she was far from

exhibiting the gross characteristics attributed to her by his rebellious

imagination.

‘Then I don’t understand,’ were her next words, ‘why you wrote to me

again at all.’

‘There are many things in me that you don’t understand, and can’t

understand.’

‘Yes, I think so. That’s why I see no use in our talking.’

Tarrant was ashamed of what he had said--a meaningless retort, which

covered his inability to speak as his heart prompted.

‘At all events I wanted to see you, and it’s fortunate you passed just

as I was coming out.’

Nancy would not accept the conciliatory phrase.

‘I hadn’t the least intention of seeing you,’ she replied. ‘It was a

curiosity to know where you lived, nothing else. I shall never forgive

you for the way in which you have behaved to me, so you needn’t try to

explain yourself.’

‘Here and now, I should certainly not try. The only thing I will say

about myself is, that I very much regret not having made known that you

were married to me when plain honesty required it. Now, I look upon it

as something over and done with, as far as I am concerned. I shall never

benefit by the deception--’

She interrupted him.

‘How do you know that _I_ shall benefit by it? How can you tell what has

been happening since you last heard from me in America?’

‘I have taken it for granted that things are the same.’

‘Then you didn’t even take measures to have news of me from any one

else?’

‘What need? I should always have received any letter you sent.’

‘You thought it likely that I should appeal to you if I were in

difficulties.’

He stood silent, glad of the obscurity which made it needless for him to

command his features. At length:

‘What is the simple fact? Has your secret been discovered, or not?’

‘How does it concern you?’

‘Only in this way: that if you are to be dependent upon any one, it must

be upon me.’

Nancy gave a scornful laugh.

‘That’s very generous, considering your position. But happily you can’t

force me to accept your generosity, any more than I can compel you to

take a share of my money.’

‘Without the jibe at my poverty,’ Tarrant said, ‘that is a sufficient

answer. As we can’t even pretend to be friendly with each other, I

am very glad there need be no talk of our future relations. You are

provided for, and no doubt will take care not to lose the provision.

If ever you prefer to forget that we are legally bound, I shall be no

obstacle.’

‘I have thought of that,’ replied Nancy, after a pause, her voice

expressing satisfaction. ‘Perhaps we should do better to make the

understanding at once. You are quite free; I should never acknowledge

you as my husband.’

‘You seriously mean it?’

‘Do I seem to be joking?’

‘Very well. I won’t say that I should never acknowledge you as my wife;

so far from that, I hold myself responsible whenever you choose to make

any kind of claim upon me. But I shall not dream of interfering with

your liberty. If ever you wish to write to me, you may safely address

to the house at Champion Hill.--And remember always,’ he added sternly,

‘that it was not I who made such a parting necessary.’

Nancy returned his look through the gloom, and said in like tone:

‘I shall do my best never to think of it at all. Fortunately, my time

and my thoughts are occupied.’

‘How?’ Tarrant could not help asking, as she turned away; for her tone

implied some special significance in the words.

‘You have no right to ask anything whatever about me,’ came from Nancy,

who was already moving away.

He allowed her to go.

‘So it is to be as I wished,’ he said to himself, with mock courage. ‘So

much the better.’

And he went home to a night of misery.

CHAPTER 6

Not long after the disappearance of Fanny French, Mrs. Damerel called

one day upon Luckworth Crewe at his office in Farringdon Street. Crewe

seldom had business with ladies, and few things could have surprised him

more than a visit from this lady in particular, whom he knew so well by

name, and regarded with such special interest. She introduced herself as

a person wishing to find a good investment for a small capital; but

the half-hour’s conversation which followed became in the end almost a

confidential chat. Mrs. Damerel spoke of her nephew Horace Lord, with

whom, she understood, Mr. Crewe was on terms of intimacy; she professed

a grave solicitude on his account, related frankly the unhappy

circumstances which had estranged the young man from her, and ultimately

asked whether Crewe could not make it worth his own while to save Horace

from the shoals of idleness, and pilot him into some safe commercial

haven. This meeting was the first of many between the fashionable lady

and the keen man of affairs. Without a suspicion of how it had come

about, Horace Lord presently found himself an informal partner in

Crewe’s business; he invested only a nominal sum, which might be looked

upon as a premium of apprenticeship; but there was an understanding that

at the close of the term of tutelage imposed by his father’s will, he

should have the offer of a genuine partnership on very inviting terms.

Horace was not sorry to enter again upon regular occupation. He had

considerably damaged his health in the effort to live up to his ideal

of thwarted passion, and could no longer entertain a hope that Fanny’s

escapade was consistent with innocence. Having learnt how money slips

through the fingers of a gentleman with fastidious tastes, he welcomed a

prospect of increased resources, and applied himself with some energy to

learning his new business. But with Mrs. Damerel he utterly refused to

be reconciled, and of his sister he saw very little. Nancy, however,

approved the step he had taken, and said she would be content to know

that all was well with him.

Upon a Sunday morning, when the church bells had ceased to clang,

Luckworth Crewe, not altogether at his ease in garb of flagrant

respectability, sat by the fireside of a pleasant little room conversing

with Mrs. Damerel. Their subject, as usual at the beginning of talk, was

Horace Lord.

‘He won’t speak of you at all,’ said Crewe, in a voice singularly

subdued, sympathetic, respectful. ‘I have done all I could, short of

telling him that I know you. He’s very touchy still on that old affair.’

‘How would he like it,’ asked the lady, ‘if you told him that we are

acquaintances?’

‘Impossible to say. Perhaps it would make no difference one way or

another.’

Mrs. Damerel was strikingly, yet becomingly, arrayed. The past year had

dealt no less gently with her than its predecessors; if anything,

her complexion had gained in brilliancy, perhaps a consequence of the

hygienic precautions due to her fear of becoming stout. A stranger, even

a specialist in the matter, might have doubted whether the fourth decade

lay more than a month or two behind her. So far from seeking to impress

her visitor with a pose of social superiority, she behaved to him as

though his presence honoured as much as it delighted her; look,

tone, bearing, each was a flattery which no obtuseness could fail

to apprehend, and Crewe’s countenance proved him anything but

inappreciative. Hitherto she had spoken and listened with her head

drooping in gentle melancholy; now, with a sudden change intended to

signify the native buoyancy of her disposition, she uttered a rippling

laugh, which showed her excellent teeth, and said prettily:

‘Poor boy! I must suffer the penalty of having tried to save him from

one of my own sex.--Not,’ she added, ‘that I foresaw how that poor silly

girl would justify my worst fears of her. Perhaps,’ her head drooping

again, ‘I ought to reproach myself with what happened.’

‘I don’t see that at all,’ replied Crewe, whose eyes lost nothing of

the exhibition addressed to them. ‘Even if you had been the cause of it,

which of course you weren’t, I should have said you had done the right

thing. Every one knew what Fanny French must come to.’

‘Isn’t it sad? A pretty girl--but so ill brought up, I fear. Can you

give me any news of her sister, the one who came here and frightened me

so?’

‘Oh, she’s going on as usual.’

Crewe checked himself, and showed hesitation.

‘She almost threatened me,’ Mrs. Damerel pursued, with timid sweetness.

‘Do you think she is the kind of person to plot any harm against one?’

‘She had better not try it on,’ said Crewe, in his natural voice. Then,

as if recollecting himself, he pursued more softly: ‘But I was going to

speak of her. You haven’t heard that Miss. Lord has taken a position in

the new branch of that Dress Supply Association?’

Mrs. Damerel kept an astonished silence.

‘There can’t be any doubt of it; I have been told on the best authority.

She is in what they call the “club-room,” a superintendent. It’s a queer

thing; what can have led her to it?’

‘I must make inquiries,’ said Mrs. Damerel, with an air of concern. ‘How

sad it is, Mr. Crewe, that these young relatives of mine,--almost the

only relatives I have,--should refuse me their confidence and their

affection. Pray, does Horace know of what his sister is doing?’

‘I thought I wouldn’t speak to him about it until I had seen you.’

‘How very kind! How grateful I am to you for your constant

thoughtfulness!’

Why Crewe should have practised such reticence, why it signified

kindness and thoughtfulness to Mrs. Damerel, neither he nor she could

easily have explained. But their eyes met, with diffident admiration on

the one side, and touching amiability on the other. Then they discussed

Nancy’s inexplicable behaviour from every point of view; or rather, Mrs.

Damerel discussed it, and her companion made a pretence of doing so.

Crewe’s manner had become patently artificial; he either expressed

himself in trivial phrases, which merely avoided silence, or betrayed an

embarrassment, an abstraction, which caused the lady to observe him with

all the acuteness at her command.

You haven’t seen her lately?’ she asked, when Crewe had been staring at

the window for a minute or two.

‘Seen her?--No; not for a long time.’

‘I think you told me you haven’t called there since Mr. Lord’s death?’

‘I never was there at all,’ he answered abruptly.

‘Oh, I remember your saying so. Of course there is no reason why she

shouldn’t go into business, if time is heavy on her hands, as I dare

say it may be. So many ladies prefer to have an occupation of that

kind now-a-days. It’s a sign of progress; we are getting more

sensible; Society used to have such silly prejudices. Even within my

recollection--how quickly things change!--no lady would have dreamt

of permitting her daughter to take an engagement in a shop or any such

place. Now we have women of title starting as milliners and modistes,

and soon it will be quite a common thing to see one’s friends behind the

counter.’

She gave a gay little laugh, in which Crewe joined unmelodiously,--for

he durst not be merry in the note natural to him,--then raised her eyes

in playful appeal.

‘If ever I should fall into misfortune, Mr. Crewe, would you put me in

the way of earning my living.’

‘You couldn’t. You’re above all that kind of thing. It’s for the rough

and ready sort of women, and I can’t say I have much opinion of them.’

‘That’s a very nice little compliment; but at the same time, it’s rather

severe on the women who are practical.--Tell me frankly: Is my--my niece

one of the people you haven’t much opinion of?’

Crewe shuffled his feet.

‘I wasn’t thinking of Miss. Lord.’

‘But what is really your opinion of her?’ Mrs. Damerel urged softly.

Crewe looked up and down, smiled in a vacant way, and appeared very

uncomfortable.

‘May I guess the truth?’ said his playful companion.

‘No, I’ll tell you. I wanted to marry her, and did my best to get her to

promise.’

‘I thought so!’ She paused on the note of arch satisfaction, and mused.

‘How nice of you to confess!--And that’s all past and forgotten, is it?’

Never man more unlike himself than the bold advertising-agent in this

colloquy. He was subdued and shy; his usual racy and virile talk had

given place to an insipid mildness. He seemed bent on showing that

the graces of polite society were not so strange to him as one might

suppose. But under Mrs. Damerel’s interrogation a restiveness began to

appear in him, and at length he answered in his natural blunt voice:

‘Yes, it’s all over--and for a good reason.’

The lady’s curiosity was still more provoked.

‘No,’ she exclaimed laughingly, ‘I am _not_ going to ask the reason.

That would be presuming too far on friendship.’

Crewe fixed his eyes on a corner of the room, and seemed to look there

for a solution of some difficulty. When the silence had lasted more than

a minute, he began to speak slowly and awkwardly.

‘I’ve half a mind to--in fact, I’ve been thinking that you ought to

know.’

‘The good reason?’

‘Yes. You’re the only one that could stand in the place of a mother to

her. And I don’t think she ought to be living alone, like she is, with

no one to advise and help her.’

‘I have felt that very strongly,’ said Mrs. Damerel. ‘The old servant

who is with her can’t be at all a suitable companion--that is, to be

treated on equal terms. A very strange arrangement, indeed. But you

don’t mean that you thought less well of her because she is living in

that way?’

‘Of course not. It’s something a good deal more serious than that.’

Mrs. Damerel became suddenly grave.

‘Then I certainly ought to know.’

‘You ought. I think it very likely she would have been glad enough to

make a friend of you, if it hadn’t been for this--this affair, which

stood in the way. There can’t be any harm in telling you, as you

couldn’t wish anything but her good.’

‘That surely you may take for granted.’

‘Well then, I have an idea that she’s trying to earn money because

some one is getting all he can out of her--leaving her very little for

herself; and if so, it’s time you interfered.’

The listener was so startled that she changed colour.

‘You mean that some man has her in his power?’

‘If I’m not mistaken, it comes to that. But for her father’s will, she

would have been married long ago, and--she ought to be.’

Having blurted out these words, Crewe felt much more at ease. As Mrs.

Damerel’s eyes fell, the sense of sexual predominance awoke in him, and

he was no longer so prostrate before the lady’s natural and artificial

graces.

‘How do you know this?’ she asked, in an undertone.

‘From some one who had it from Miss. Lord herself.’

‘Are you quite sure that it isn’t a malicious falsehood?’

‘As sure as I am that I sit here. I know the man’s name, and where he

lives, and all about him. And I know where the child is at nurse.

‘The child?--Oh--surely--never!’

A genuine agitation possessed her; she had a frightened, pain-stricken

look, and moved as if she must act without delay.

‘It’s nearly six months old,’ Crewe continued. ‘Of course that’s why she

was away so long.’

‘But why haven’t you told me this before? It was your duty to tell

me--your plain duty. How long have you known?’

‘I heard of it first of all about three months ago, but it was only the

other day that I was told the man’s name, and other things about him.’

‘Is it known to many people? Is the poor girl talked about?’

‘No, no,’ Crewe replied, with confidence. ‘The person who told me is the

only one who has found it out; you may depend upon that.’

‘It must be a woman,’ said Mrs. Damerel sharply.

‘Yes, it’s a woman. Some one _I_ know very well. She told me just

because she thought I was still hoping to marry Miss. Lord, and--well,

the truth is, though we’re good friends, she has a little spite against

me, and I suppose it amused her to tell me something disagreeable.’

‘I have no doubt,’ said Mrs. Damerel, ‘that the secret has been betrayed

to a dozen people.’

‘I’ll go bail it hasn’t!’ returned Crewe, falling into his vernacular.

‘I can hardly believe it at all. I should never have dreamt that such a

thing was possible. What is the man’s name? what is his position?’

‘Tarrant is his name, and he’s related somehow to a Mr. Vawdrey, well

known in the City, who has a big house over at Champion Hill. I have no

notion how they came together, or how long it was going on. But this Mr.

Tarrant has been in America for a year, I understand; has only just come

back; and now he’s living In poorish lodgings,--Great College Street,

Westminster. I’ve made a few inquiries about him, but I can’t get at

very much. A man who knows Vawdrey tells me that Tarrant has no means,

and that he’s a loafing, affected sort of chap. If that’s true,--and

it seems likely from the way he’s living,--of course he will be ready

enough to marry Miss. Lord when the proper time has come; I’m only

afraid that’s all he had in view from the first. And I can’t help

suspecting, as I said, that she’s supporting him now. If not, why should

she go and work in a shop? At all events, a decent man wouldn’t allow

her to do it.’

‘A decent man,’ said the listener, ‘would never have allowed her to fall

into disgrace.’

‘Certainly not,’ Crewe assented with energy. ‘And as for my keeping

quiet about it, Mrs. Damerel, you’ve only to think what an awkward

affair it was to mention. I’m quite sure you’ll have a little feeling

against me, because I knew of it--’

‘I beg you not to think that!’ She returned to her manner of suave

friendliness. ‘I shall owe you gratitude for telling me, and nothing but

gratitude. You have behaved with very great delicacy; I cannot say how

highly I appreciate your feeling on the poor girl’s behalf.’

‘If I can be of any use, I am always at your service.’

‘Thank you, dear Mr. Crewe, thank you! In you I have found a real

friend,--and how rarely they are met with! Of course I shall make

inquiries at once. My niece must be protected. A helpless girl in that

dreadful position may commit unheard-of follies. I fear you are right.

He is making her his victim. With such a secret, she is absolutely at

his mercy. And it explains why she has shunned me. Oh, do you think her

brother knows it?’

‘I’m quite sure he doesn’t; hasn’t the least suspicion.’

‘Of course not. But it’s wonderful how she has escaped. Your

informant--how did she find it out? You say she had the story from the

girl’s own lips. But why? She must have shown that she knew something.’

Crewe imparted such details as had come to his knowledge; they were

meagre, and left many obscurities, but Mrs. Damerel rewarded him with

effusive gratitude, and strengthened the spell which she had cast upon

this knight of Farringdon Street.

CHAPTER 7

Every day Tarrant said to himself: ‘I am a free man; I was only married

in a dream.’ Every night he thought of Nancy, and suffered heartache.

He thought, too, of Nancy’s child, his own son. That Nancy was a tender

mother, he knew from the letter she had written him after the baby’s

birth,--a letter he would have liked to read again, but forbore. Must

not the separation from her child be hard? If he saw the poor little

mortal, how would the sight affect him? At moments he felt a longing

perhaps definable as the instinct of paternity; but he was not the man

to grow sentimental over babies, his own or other people’s. Irony and

sarcasm--very agreeable to a certain class of newspaper readers--were

just now his stock-in-trade, and he could not afford to indulge any

softer mode of meditation.

His acquaintances agreed that the year of absence had not improved him.

He was alarmingly clever; he talked well; but his amiability, the poetry

of his mind, seemed to have been lost in America. He could no longer

admire or praise.

For his own part, he did not clearly perceive this change. It struck

him only that the old friends were less interesting than he had thought

them; and he looked for reception in circles better able to appreciate

his epigrams and paradoxes.

A few weeks of such life broke him so completely to harness, that he

forgot the seasonable miseries which had been wont to drive him from

London at the approach of November. When the first fog blackened against

his windows, he merely lit the lamp and wrote on, indifferent. Two years

ago he had declared that a London November would fatally blight his

soul; that he must flee to a land of sunshine, or perish. There was

little time, now, to think about his soul.

One Monday morning arrived a letter which surprised and disturbed him.

It ran thus:

‘Mrs. Eustace Damerel presents her compliments to Mr. Tarrant, and would

take it as a great favour if he could call upon her, either to-morrow or

Tuesday, at any hour between three and seven. She particularly desires

to see Mr. Tarrant on a private matter of mutual interest.’

Now this could have but one meaning. Mrs. Eustace Damerel was, of

course, Nancy’s relative; from Nancy herself, or in some other way, she

must have learnt the fact of his marriage. Probably from Nancy, since

she knew where he lived. He was summoned to a judicial interview.

Happily, attendance was not compulsory.

Second thoughts advised him that he had better accept the invitation.

He must know what measures were in progress against him. If Nancy had

already broken her word, she might be disposed to revenge herself in

every way that would occur to an angry woman of small refinement; she

might make life in London impossible for him.

He sat down and penned a reply, saying that he would call upon Mrs.

Damerel at five to-morrow. But he did not post this. After all, a day’s

delay would only irritate him; better to go this afternoon, in which

case it was not worth while sending an answer.

It seemed to him very probable that Nancy would be with her aunt, to

confront him. If so,--if indeed she were going to act like any coarse

woman, with no regard but for her own passions and Interests,--he would

at least have the consolation of expelling from his mind, at once and

for ever, her haunting image.

Mrs. Damerel, who during the past twelve months had changed her abode

half-a-dozen times, now occupied private lodgings in Tyburnia. On his

admittance, Tarrant sat alone for nearly five minutes in a pretentiously

furnished room--just the room in which he had expected to find Nancy’s

relative; the delay and the surroundings exasperated his nervous mood,

so that, when the lady entered, he behaved with slighter courtesy than

became his breeding. Nothing in her appearance surprised or interested

him. There was a distant facial resemblance to Nancy, natural in her

mother’s sister; there was expensive, though not particularly tasteful

dress, and a gait, a manner, distinguishable readily enough from what

they aimed at displaying--the grace of a woman born to social privilege.

It would be a humiliating conversation; Tarrant braced himself to go

through with it. He stood stiffly while his hostess regarded him with

shrewd eyes. She had merely bent her head.

‘Will you sit down, Mr. Tarrant?’

He took a chair without speaking.

‘I think you know me by name?’

‘I have heard of a Mrs. Damerel.’

‘Some time ago, I suppose? And in that you have the advantage of me. I

heard your name yesterday for the first time.’

It was the sharp rejoinder of a woman of the world. Tarrant began to

perceive that he had to do with intelligence, and would not be allowed

to perform his share of the talking _de haut en bas._

‘In what can I be of service to you?’ he asked with constrained

civility.

‘You can tell me, please, what sort of connection there is between you

and my niece, Miss. Lord.’

Mrs. Damerel was obviously annoyed by his demeanour, and made little

effort to disguise her feeling. She gave him the look of one who does

not mean to be trifled with.

‘Really,’ answered the young man with a smile, ‘I don’t know what

authority you have to make such inquiries. You are not, I believe, Miss.

Lord’s guardian.’

‘No, but I am her only relative who can act on her behalf where

knowledge of the world is required. As a gentleman, you will bear this

in mind. It’s quite true that I can’t oblige you to tell me anything;

but when I say that I haven’t spoken even to my niece of what I have

heard, and haven’t communicated with the gentlemen who _are_ her

guardians, I think you will see that I am not acting in a way you ought

to resent.’

‘You mean, Mrs. Damerel, that what passes between us is in confidence?’

‘I only mean, Mr. Tarrant, that I am giving you an opportunity of

explaining yourself--so that I can keep the matter private if your

explanation is satisfactory.’

‘You have a charge of some kind to bring against me,’ said Tarrant

composedly. ‘I must first of all hear what it is. The prisoner at the

bar can’t be prosecuting counsel at the same time.’

‘Do you acknowledge that you are on intimate terms with Miss. Lord?’

‘I have known her for a year or two.’

Tarrant began to exercise caution. Nancy had no hand in this matter;

some one had told tales about her, that was all. He must learn, without

committing himself, exactly how much had been discovered.

‘Are you engaged to her?’

‘Engaged to marry her? No.’

He saw in Mrs. Damerel’s clear eye that she convicted him of

ambiguities.

‘You have not even made her a promise of marriage?’

‘How much simpler, if you would advance a clear charge. I will answer it

honestly.’

Mrs. Damerel seemed to weigh the value of this undertaking. Tarrant met

her gaze with steady indifference.

‘It may only be a piece of scandal,--a mistake, or a malicious

invention. I have been told that--that you are in everything but law my

niece’s husband.’

They regarded each other during a moment’s silence. Tarrant’s look

indicated rapid and anxious thought.

‘It seems,’ he said at length, ‘that you have no great faith in the

person who told you this.’

‘It is the easiest matter in the world to find out whether the story

is true or not. Inquiries at Falmouth would be quite sufficient, I dare

say. I give you the opportunity of keeping it quiet, that’s all.’

‘You won’t care to let me know who told you?’

‘There’s no reason why I shouldn’t,’ said Mrs. Damerel, after

reflection. ‘Do you know Mr. Luckworth Crewe?’

‘I don’t think I ever heard the name.’

‘Indeed? He is well acquainted with Miss. Lord. Some one he wouldn’t

mention gave him all the particulars, having learnt them from Miss Lord

herself, and he thought it his duty to inform me of my niece’s very

painful position.’

‘Who is this man?’ Tarrant asked abruptly.

‘I am rather surprised you have never heard of him. He’s a man of

business. My nephew, Mr. Horace Lord, is shortly to be in partnership

with him.’

‘Crewe? No, the name is quite strange to me.’

Tarrant’s countenance darkened; he paused for an instant, then added

impatiently:

‘You say he had “all the particulars.” What were they, these

particulars?’

‘Will one be enough? A child was born at Falmouth, and is now at a place

just outside London, in the care of some stranger.’

The source of this information might, or might not, be Nancy herself. In

either case, there was no further hope of secrecy. Tarrant abandoned his

reserve, and spoke quietly, civilly.

‘So far, you have heard the truth. What have you to ask of me, now?’

‘You have been abroad for a long time, I think?’

‘For about a year.’

‘Does that mean that you wished to see no more of her?’

‘That I deserted her, in plain words? It meant nothing of the kind.’

‘You are aware, then, that she has taken a place in a house of business,

just as if she thought it necessary to earn her own living?’

Tarrant displayed astonishment.

‘I am aware of no such thing. How long has that been going on?’

‘Then you don’t see her?’

‘I have seen her, but she told me nothing of that.’

‘There’s something very strange in this, Mr. Tarrant. You seem to me to

be speaking the truth. No, please don’t take offence. Before I saw you,

you were a total stranger to me, and after what I had heard, I couldn’t

think very well of you. I may as well confess that you seem a different

kind of man from what I expected. I don’t wish to offend you, far from

it. If we can talk over this distressing affair in a friendly way,

so much the better. I have nothing whatever in view but to protect my

niece--to do the best that can be done for her.’

‘That I have taken for granted,’ Tarrant replied. ‘I understand that you

expected to meet a scoundrel of a very recognisable type. Well, I am

not exactly that. But what particular act of rascality have you in mind?

Something worse than mere seduction, of course.’

‘Will you answer a disagreeable question? Are you well-to-do?’

‘Anything but that.’

‘Indeed? And you can form no idea why Nancy has gone to work in a shop?’

Tarrant raised his eyebrows.

‘I see,’ he said deliberately. ‘You suspect that I have been taking

money from her?’

‘I _did_ suspect it; now it seems to me more unlikely.’

‘Many thanks,’ he answered, with cold irony. ‘So the situation was this:

Miss. Lord had been led astray by a rascally fellow, who not only left

her to get on as best she could, but lived on her income, so that she

had at length to earn money for her own needs. There’s something very

clear and rounded, very dramatic, about that. What I should like to know

is, whether Miss. Lord tells the story in this way.’

‘I can’t say that she does. I think it was Mr. Crewe who explained

things like that.’

‘I am obliged to Mr. Crewe. But he may, after all, only repeat what he

has heard. It’s a pity we don’t know Miss. Lord’s actual confidante.’

‘Of course you have _not_ received assistance from her?’

Tarrant stared for a moment, then laughed unpleasantly.

‘I have no recollection of it.’

‘Another disagreeable question. Did you really go away and leave her to

get on as best she could?’

He looked darkly at her.

‘And if I did?’

‘Wasn’t it rather unaccountable behaviour--in a gentleman?’

‘Possibly.’

‘I can’t believe it. There is something unexplained.’

‘Yes, there _is_ something unexplained.--Mrs. Damerel, I should have

thought you would naturally speak first to your niece. Why did you send

for me before doing so?’

‘To find out what sort of man you were, so that I should be able to form

my own opinion of what Nancy chose to tell me. Perhaps she may refuse to

tell me anything at all--we are not like ordinary relatives, I am sorry

to say. But I dare say you know better than I do how she thinks of me.’

‘I have heard her speak of you only once or twice. At all events, now

that you are prepared, you will go and see her?’

‘I must. It would be wrong to stand by and do nothing.’

‘And you will see her guardians?’

‘That must depend. I certainly shall if she seems to be suffering

hardships. I must know why she goes out to work, as if she were pinched

for money. There is her child to support, of course, but that wouldn’t

make any difference to her; she is well provided for.’

‘Yes. There’s no choice but to fall back upon the villain theory.’

He rose, and took up his hat.

‘You mustn’t go yet, Mr. Tarrant,’ said his hostess firmly. ‘I have said

that I can’t believe such things of you. If you would only explain--’

‘That’s just what I can’t do. It’s as much a mystery to me as to

you--her wishing to earn money.’

‘I was going to say--if you would only explain your intentions as to the

future--’

‘My intentions will depend entirely on what I hear from your niece. I

shall see her as soon as possible. Perhaps you can tell me at what hour

she returns from business?’

‘No, I can’t. I wish you would talk a little longer.’

His eyes flashed angrily.

‘Mrs. Damerel, I have said all that I am willing to say. What you have

heard is partly true; you probably won’t have to wait very long for the

rest of the story, but I have no time and no inclination to tell it.

Go and see your niece to-morrow by all means,--or her guardians, if it

seems necessary.

‘I am very sorry we are parting in this way.’

‘You must remember how difficult it is to keep one’s temper under

certain kinds of accusation.’

‘I don’t accuse you.’

‘Well, then, to explain calmly that one couldn’t commit this or that

sordid rascality;--it comes to the same thing. However, I am obliged to

you for opening my eyes. I have got into a very foolish position, and I

promise you I will get out of it as quickly as may be.’

Whereupon he bowed his leave-taking, and withdrew.

CHAPTER 8

It was not yet dark, but street-lamps had begun to flare and flicker in

the gust of a cold, damp evening. A thin and slippery mud smeared the

pavement. Tarrant had walked mechanically as far as to the top of Park

Lane before he began to consider his immediate course. Among the people

who stood waiting for omnibuses, he meditated thus:

‘She may not get home until seven or half-past; then she will have a

meal. I had better put it off till about half-past eight. That leaves me

some four hours to dispose of. First of all I’ll walk home, and--yes, by

all the devils! I’ll finish that bit of writing. A year ago I could

no more have done it, under such circumstances, than have built a

suspension bridge. To-day I will--just to show that I’ve some grit in

me.’

Down Park Lane, and by Buckingham Palace across to Westminster, he kept

his thoughts for the most part on that bit of writing. Only thus could

he save himself from an access of fury which would only have injured

him--the ire of shame in which a man is tempted to beat his head against

stone walls. He composed aloud, balancing many a pretty antithesis, and

polishing more than one lively paradox.

In his bedroom-study the fire had gone out. No matter; he would write in

the cold. It was mere amanuensis work, penning at the dictation of his

sarcastic demon. Was he a sybarite? Many a poor scribbler has earned bed

and breakfast with numb fingers. The fire in his body would serve him

for an hour or two.

So he sat down, and achieved his task to the last syllable. He read it

through, corrected it, made it up for post, and rose with the plaudits

of conscience. ‘Who shall say now that I am a fop and a weakling?’

Half-past seven. Good; just time enough to appease his hunger and reach

Grove Lane by the suitable hour. He went out to the little coffee-shop

which was his resort in Spartan moods, ate with considerable appetite,

and walked over Westminster Bridge to the Camberwell tram. To kill time

on the journey he bought a halfpenny paper.

As he ascended Grove Lane his heart throbbed more than the exercise

warranted. At the door of the house, which he had never yet entered,

and which he had not looked upon for more than a year, he stood to calm

himself, with lips set and cheek pale in the darkness. Then a confident

peal at the knocker.

It was Mary who opened. He had never seen her, but knew that this grave,

hard-featured person, not totally unlike a born gentlewoman, must be

Mary Woodruff. And in her eyes he read a suspicion of his own identity.

‘Is Miss. Lord at home?’ he asked, in a matter-of-fact way.

‘Yes.--What name shall I mention?’

‘Mr. Tarrant.’

Her eyes fell, and she requested him to enter, to wait in the hall for

a moment; then went upstairs. She was absent for a few minutes, and on

returning asked him to follow her. She led to the drawing-room: on the

way, Tarrant felt a surprise that in so small a house the drawing-room

should be correctly situated on the upper floor.

Here he had again to wait. A comfortable room, he thought, and with a

true air of home about it. He knew how significant is this impression

first received on entering a strange abode; home or encampment,

attraction or repulsion, according to the mind of the woman who rules

there. Was it Nancy, or Mary, who made the atmosphere of the house?

The door opened, and he faced towards it.

Nancy’s dress had an emphasis of fashion formerly unknown to it;

appropriate enough considering her new occupation. The flush upon her

cheeks, the light of doubtful meaning in her eyes, gave splendour to

a beauty matured by motherhood. In the dark street, a fortnight ago,

Tarrant could hardly be said to have seen her; he gazed in wonder and

admiration.

‘What has brought you here?’

‘A cause quite sufficient.--This is a little house; can we talk without

being overheard?’

‘You can shout if you wish to,’ she answered flippantly. ‘The servant is

Out, and Mary is downstairs.’

Nancy did not seat herself, and offered no seat to the visitor.

‘Why have you made yourself a shop-girl?’

‘I didn’t know that I had.’

‘I am told you go daily to some shop or other.’

‘I am engaged at a place of business, but I don’t.--However, that

doesn’t matter. What business is it of yours?’

‘Who is Mr. Luckworth Crewe?’

Nancy kept her eyes still more resolutely fronting his severe look.

‘A man I used to know.’

‘You don’t see him now-a-days?’

‘It’s many months since I saw him.’

‘Who, then, is the woman who has told him your whole story--with

embellishments, and who says she has had it from you yourself?’

Nancy was speechless.

‘I don’t say there is any such person,’ Tarrant continued. ‘The man may

have lied in that particular. But he has somehow got to know a good deal

about you,--where and when your child was born, where it is now, where

I live, and so on. And all this he has reported to your aunt, Mrs.

Damerel.’

‘To her?--How do you know?’

For answer he held out Mrs. Damerel’s note of invitation, then added:

‘I have been with her this afternoon. She is coming to offer you her

protection against the scoundrel who has ruined you, and who is now

living upon you.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘That’s the form the story has taken, either in Mr. Crewe’s mind, or in

that of the woman who told it to him.’

‘Don’t they know that I am married?’

‘Evidently not.’

‘And they think you--are having money from me?’

‘That’s how they explain your taking a place in a shop.’

Nancy laughed, and laughed again.

‘How ridiculous!’

‘I’m glad you can get amusement out of it. Perhaps you can suggest how

the joke began?’

She moved a few steps, then turned again to him.

‘Yes, I know who the woman must be. It’s Beatrice French.’

‘A bosom friend of yours, of course.’

‘Nothing of the kind.’

‘But you have taken her into your confidence--up to a certain point?’

‘Yes, I have told her. And she told Mr. Crewe? I understand that. Well,

what does it matter?’

Tarrant was at a loss to interpret this singular levity. He had never

truly believed that reading of Nancy’s character by means of which he

tried to persuade himself that his marriage was an unmitigated calamity,

and a final parting between them the best thing that could happen.

His memories of her, and the letters she had written him, coloured her

personality far otherwise. Yet was not the harsh judgment after all the

true one?

‘It doesn’t matter to you,’ he said, ‘that people think you an unmarried

mother,--that people are talking about you with grins and sneers?’

Nancy reddened in angry shame.

‘Let them talk!’ she exclaimed violently. ‘What does it matter, so long

as they don’t know I’m married?’

‘So long as they don’t know?--How came you to tell this woman?’

‘Do you suppose I told her for amusement? She found out what had

happened at Falmouth,--found out simply by going down there and making

inquiries; because she suspected me of some secret affair with a man she

wants to marry herself--this Mr. Crewe. The wonder of wonders is that

no one else got to know of it in that way. Any one who cared much what

happened to me would have seen the all but impossibility of keeping such

a secret.’

It is a notable instance of evolutionary process that the female mind,

in wrath, flies to just those logical ineptitudes which most surely

exasperate the male intelligence. Tarrant gave a laugh of irate scorn.

‘Why, you told me the other day that I cared particularly whether your

secret was discovered or not--that I only married you in the hope of

profiting by it?’

‘Wouldn’t any woman think so?’

‘I hope not. I believe there are some women who don’t rush naturally to

a base supposition.’

‘Did I?’ Nancy exclaimed, with a vehement passion that made her breast

heave. ‘Didn’t I give you time enough--believe in you until I could

believe no longer?’

The note of her thrilling voice went to Tarrant’s heart, and his head

drooped.

‘That may be true,’ he said gravely. ‘But go on with your explanation.

This woman came to you, and told you what she had discovered?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you allowed her to think you unmarried?’

‘What choice had I? How was my child to be brought up if I lost

everything?’

‘Good God, Nancy! Did you imagine I should leave you to starve?’

His emotion, his utterance of her name, caused her to examine him with a

kind of wonder.

‘How did I know?--How could I tell, at that time, whether you were alive

or dead?--I had to think of myself and the child.’

‘My poor girl!’

The words fell from him involuntarily. Nancy’s look became as scornful

and defiant as before.

‘Oh, that was nothing. I’ve gone through a good deal more than that.’

‘Stop. Tell me this. Have you in your anger--anger natural

enough--allowed yourself to speak to any one about me in the way I

should never forgive? In the spirit of your letter, I mean. Did you give

this Beatrice French any ground for thinking that I made a speculation

of you?’

‘I said nothing of that kind.’

‘Nor to any one else?’

‘To no one.’

‘Yet you told this woman where I was living, and that I had been abroad

for a long time. Why?’

‘Yes, I told her so much about you,’ Nancy replied. ‘Not when she first

came to me, but afterwards--only the other day. I wanted employment, and

didn’t know how to get it, except through her. She promised me a place

if I would disclose your name; not that she knew or cared anything

about _you_, but because she still had suspicions about Mr. Crewe. I was

desperate, and I told her.’

‘Desperate? Why?’

‘How can I make you understand what I have gone through? What do you

care? And what do _I_ care whether you understand or not? It wasn’t for

money, and Beatrice French knew it wasn’t.’

‘Then it must have been that you could not bear the monotony of your

life.’

Her answer was a short, careless laugh.

‘Where is this shop? What do you do?’

‘It’s a dress-supply association. I advise fools about the fashions,

and exhibit myself as a walking fashion-plate. I can’t see how it should

interest you.’

‘Whatever concerns you, Nancy, interests me more than anything else in

the world.’

Again she laughed.

‘What more do you want to know?’

She was half turned from him, leaning at the mantelpiece, a foot on the

fender.

‘You said just now that you have gone through worse things than the

shame of being thought unmarried. Tell me about it all.’

‘Not I, indeed. When I was willing to tell you everything, you didn’t

care to hear it. It’s too late now.’

‘It’s not too late, happily, to drag you out of this wretched slough

into which you are sinking. Whatever the cost, _that_ shall be done!’

‘Thank you, I am not disposed to let any one drag me anywhere. I want

no help; and if I did, you would be the last person I should accept it

from. I don’t know why you came here after the agreement we made the

other night.’

Tarrant stepped towards her.

‘I came to find out whether you were telling lies about me, and I should

never have thought it possible but for my bad conscience. I know you had

every excuse for being embittered and for acting revengefully. It seems

you have only told lies about yourself. As, after all, you are my wife,

I shan’t allow that.’

Once more she turned upon him passionately.

‘I am _not_ your wife! You married me against your will, and shook me

off as soon as possible. I won’t be bound to you; I shall act as a free

woman.’

‘Bound to me you are, and shall be--as I to you.’

‘You may say it fifty times, and it will mean nothing.--How bound to

you? Bound to share my money?’

‘I forgive you that, because I have treated you ill. You don’t mean it

either. You know I am incapable of such a thought. But that shall very

soon be put right. Your marriage shall be made known at once.’

‘Known to whom?’

‘To the people concerned--to your guardians.’

‘Don’t trouble yourself,’ she answered, with a smile. ‘They know it

already.’

Tarrant half closed his eyes as he looked at her.

‘What’s the use of such a silly falsehood?’

‘I told you I had gone through a good deal more than you imagined. I

have struggled to keep my money, in spite of shames and miseries, and I

will have it for myself--and my child! If you want to know the truth,

go to Samuel Barmby, and ask him what he has had to do with me. I owe no

explanation to _you_.’

Tarrant could see her face only in profile. Marvelling at the

complications she gradually revealed, he felt his blood grow warm with

desire of her beauty. She was his wife, yet guarded as by maidenhood.

A familiar touch would bring the colour to her cheeks, the light of

resentment to her eyes. Passion made him glad of the estrangement which

compelled a new wooing, and promised, on her part, a new surrender.

‘You don’t owe it me, Nancy; but if I beg you to tell me all--because

I have come to my senses again--because I know how foolish and cruel I

have been--’

‘Remember what we agreed. Go your way, and let me go mine.’

‘I had no idea of what I was agreeing to. I took it for granted that

your marriage was strictly a secret, and that you might be free in the

real sense if you chose.’

‘Yes, and you were quite willing, because it gave you your freedom as

well. I am as free as I wish to be. I have made a life for myself

that satisfies me--and now you come to undo everything. I won’t be

tormented--I have endured enough.’

‘Then only one course is open to me. I shall publish your marriage

everywhere. I shall make a home for you, and have the child brought to

it; then come or not, as you please.’

At mention of the child Nancy regarded him with cold curiosity.

‘How are you to make a home for me? I thought you had difficulty enough

in supporting yourself.’

‘That is no concern of yours. It shall be done, and in a day or two.

Then make your choice.’

‘You think I can be forced to live with a man I don’t love?’

‘I shouldn’t dream of living with a woman who didn’t love me. But you

are married, and a mother, and the secrecy that is degrading you shall

come to an end. Acknowledge me or not, I shall acknowledge _you_, and

make it known that I am to blame for all that has happened.’

‘And what good will you do?’

‘I shall do good to myself, at all events. I’m a selfish fellow, and

shall be so to the end, no doubt.’

Nancy glanced at him to interpret the speech by his expression. He was

smiling.

‘What good will it do you to have to support me? The selfishness I see

in it is your wishing to take me from a comfortable home and make me

poor.’

‘That can’t be helped. And, what’s more, you won’t think it a hardship.’

‘How do you know that? I have borne dreadful degradations rather than

lose my money.’

‘That was for the child’s sake, not for your own.’

He said it softly and kindly, and for the first time Nancy met his eyes

without defiance.

‘It was; I could always have earned my own living, somehow.’

Tarrant paused a moment, then spoke with look averted.

‘Is he well, and properly cared for?’

‘If he were not well and safe, I shouldn’t be away from him.’

‘When will you let me see him, Nancy?’

She did not smile, but there was a brightening of her countenance, which

she concealed. Tarrant stepped to her side.

‘Dear--my own love--will you try to forgive me? It was all my cursed

laziness. It would never have happened if I hadn’t fallen into poverty.

Poverty is the devil, and it overcame me.’

‘How can you think that _I_ shall be strong enough to face it?’ she

asked, moving half a step away. ‘Leave me to myself; I am contented; I

have made up my mind about what is before me, and I won’t go through all

that again.’

Tired of standing, she dropped upon the nearest chair, and lay back.

‘You can’t be contented, Nancy, in a position that dishonours you. From

what you tell me, it seems that your secret is no secret at all. Will

you compel me to go to that man Barmby and seek information from him

about my own wife?’

‘I have had to do worse things than that.’

‘Don’t torture me by such vague hints. I entreat you to tell me at once

the worst that you have suffered. How did Barmby get to know of your

marriage? And why has he kept silent about it? There can’t be anything

that you are ashamed to say.’

‘No. The shame is all yours.’

‘I take it upon myself, all of it; I ought never to have left you; but

that baseness followed only too naturally on the cowardice which kept

me from declaring our marriage when honour demanded it. I have played a

contemptible part in this story; don’t refuse to help me now that I am

ready to behave more like a man. Put your hand in mine, and let us be

friends, if we mayn’t be more.’

She sat irresponsive.

‘You were a brave girl. You consented to my going away because it seemed

best, and I took advantage of your sincerity. Often enough that last

look of yours has reproached me. I wonder how I had the heart to leave

you alone.’

Nancy raised herself, and said coldly:

‘It was what I might have expected. I had only my own folly to thank.

You behaved as most men would.’

This was a harder reproach than any yet. Tarrant winced under it. He

would much rather have been accused of abnormal villainy.

‘And I was foolish,’ continued Nancy, ‘in more ways than you knew. You

feared I had told Jessica Morgan of our marriage, and you were right; of

course I denied it. She has been the cause of my worst trouble.’

In rapid sentences she told the story of her successive humiliations,

recounted her sufferings at the hands of Jessica and Beatrice and Samuel

Barmby. When she ceased, there were tears in her eyes.

‘Has Barmby been here again?’ Tarrant asked sternly.

‘Yes. He has been twice, and talked in just the same way, and I had to

sit still before him--’

‘Has he said one word that--?’

‘No, no,’ she interrupted hastily. ‘He’s only a fool--not man enough

to--’

‘That saves me trouble,’ said Tarrant; ‘I have only to treat him like

a fool. My poor darling, what vile torments you have endured! And

you pretend that you would rather live on this fellow’s interested

generosity--for, of course, he hopes to be rewarded--than throw the

whole squalid entanglement behind you and be a free, honest woman, even

if a poor one?’

‘I see no freedom.’

‘You have lost all your love for me. Well, I can’t complain of that. But

bear my name you shall, and be supported by me. I tell you that it was

never _possible_ for me actually to desert you and the little one--never

possible. I shirked a duty as long as I could; that’s all it comes to.

I loafed and paltered until the want of a dinner drove me into honesty.

Try to forget it, dear Nancy. Try to forgive me, my dearest!’

She was dry-eyed again, and his appeal seemed to have no power over her

emotions.

‘You are forgetting,’ she said practically, ‘that I have lived on money

to which I had no right, and that I--or you--can be forced to repay it.’

‘Repaid it must be, whether demanded or not. Where does Barmby live?

Perhaps I could see him to-night.’

‘What means have you of keeping us all alive?’

‘Some of my work has been accepted here and there; but there’s something

else I have in mind. I don’t ask you to become a poverty-stricken wife

in the ordinary way. I can’t afford to take a house. I must put you,

with the child, into as good lodgings as I can hope to pay for, and work

on by myself, just seeing you as often as you will let me. Even if you

were willing, it would be a mistake for us to live together. For one

thing, I couldn’t work under such conditions; for another, it would

make you a slave. Tell me: are you willing to undertake the care of the

child, if nothing else is asked of you?’

Nancy gave him a disdainful smile, a smile like those of her girlhood.

‘I’m not quite so feeble a creature as you think me.’

‘You would rather have the child to yourself, than be living away from

him?’

‘If you have made up your mind, why trouble to ask such questions?’

‘Because I have no wish to force burdens upon you. You said just now

that you could see little prospect of freedom in such a life as I have

to offer you. I thought you perhaps meant that the care of the child

would--’

‘I meant nothing,’ Nancy broke in, with fretful impatience.

‘Where is he--our boy?’

‘At Dulwich. I told you that in my last letter.’

‘Yes--yes. I thought you might have changed.’

‘I couldn’t have found a better, kinder woman. Can you guess how many

answers I had to the advertisement? Thirty-two.’

‘Of course five-and-twenty of them took it for granted you would pay so

much a week and ask no questions. They would just not have starved the

baby,--unless you had hinted to them that you were willing to pay a lump

sum for a death-certificate, in which case the affair would have been

more or less skilfully managed.’

‘Mary knew all about that. She came from Falmouth, and spent two days

in visiting people. I knew I could rely on her judgment. There were only

four or five people she cared to see at all, and of these only one that

seemed trustworthy.’

‘To be sure. One out of two-and-thirty. A higher percentage than would

apply to mankind at large, I dare say. By-the-bye, I was afraid you

might have found a difficulty in registering the birth.’

‘No. I went to the office myself, the morning that I was leaving

Falmouth, and the registrar evidently knew nothing about me. It isn’t

such a small place that everybody living there is noticed and talked

of.’

‘And Mary took the child straight to Dulwich?’

‘Two days before I came,--so as to have the house ready for me.

‘Perhaps it was unfortunate, Nancy, that you had so good a friend. But

for that, I should have suffered more uneasiness about you.’

She answered with energy:

‘There is no husband in the world worth such a friend as Mary.’

At this Tarrant first smiled, then laughed. Nancy kept her lips rigid.

It happened that he again saw her face in exact profile, and again it

warmed the current of his blood.

‘Some day you shall think better of that.’

She paid no attention. Watching her, he asked:

‘What are you thinking of so earnestly?’

Her answer was delayed a little, but she said at length, with an absent

manner:

‘Horace might lend me the money to pay back what I owe.’

‘Your brother?--If he can afford it, there would be less objection to

that than to any other plan I can think of. But I must ask it myself;

you shall beg no more favours. I will ask it in your presence.’

‘You will do nothing of the kind,’ Nancy replied drily. ‘If you think to

please me by humiliating yourself, you are very much mistaken. And you

mustn’t imagine that I put myself into your hands to be looked after

as though I had no will of my own. With the past you have nothing to

do,--with _my_ past, at all events. Care for the future as you like.’

‘But I must see your guardians.’

‘No. I won’t have that.’

She stood up to emphasise her words.

‘I must. It’s the only way in which I can satisfy myself--’

‘Then I refuse to take a step,’ said Nancy. ‘Leave all that to me, and I

will go to live where you please, and never grumble, however poor I

am. Interfere, and I will go on living as now, on Samuel Barmby’s

generosity.’

There was no mistaking her resolution. Tarrant hesitated, and bit his

lip.

‘How long, then, before you act?’ he inquired abruptly.

‘When my new home is found, I am ready to go there.’

‘You will deal honestly with me? You will tell every one, and give up

everything not strictly yours?’

‘I have done with lies,’ said Nancy.

‘Thank heaven, so have I!’

Part VI: A Virtue of Necessity

CHAPTER 1

Upon the final tempest in De Crespigny Park there followed, for Arthur

Peachey, a calmer and happier season than he had ever known. To have

acted with stern resolve is always a satisfaction, especially to the man

conscious of weak good-nature, and condemned for the most part to yield.

In his cheap lodging at Clapham, Peachey awoke each morning with a

vague sense of joy, which became delight as soon as he had collected his

senses. He was a free man. No snarl greeted him as he turned his head

upon the pillow; he could lie and meditate, could rise quietly when the

moment sounded, could go downstairs to a leisurely meal, cheered perhaps

by a letter reporting that all was well with his dear little son.

Simple, elementary pleasures, but how he savoured them after his years

of sordid bondage!

It was the blessedness of divorce, without squalid publicity. It was the

vast relief of widowerhood, without dreary memories of death and burial.

In releasing himself from such companionship, the man felt as though he

had washed and become clean.

Innocent of scientific speculation, he had the misfortune about this

time to read in paper or magazine something on the subject of heredity,

the idle verbiage of some half-informed scribbler. It set him anxiously

thinking whether his son would develop the vices of the mother’s mind,

and from that day he read all the printed chatter regarding natural

inheritance that he could lay his hands on. The benefit he derived from

this course of study was neither more nor less than might have been

expected; it supplied him with a new trouble, which sometimes kept

him wakeful. He could only resolve that his boy should have the best

education procurable for money, if he starved himself in providing it.

He had begun to live with the utmost economy, and for a twofold reason:

the business of Messrs Ducker, Blunt & Co. threatened a decline, and,

this apart, he desired to get out of it, to obtain an interest in some

more honourable concern. For a long time it had been known to him that

the disinfectants manufactured by his firm were far from trustworthy,

and of late the complaints of purchasers had become frequent. With the

manufacturing department he had nothing to do; he tried to think himself

free from responsibility; for, in spite of amiable qualities, he was

a man of business, and saw a great part of life through the commercial

spectacles commonly worn now-a-days. Nevertheless conscience unsettled

him. One day he heard his partners joking over the legislative omission

by virtue of which they were able to adulterate their disinfectants to

any extent without fear of penalty; their laughter grated upon him, and

he got out of the way. If he could lay aside a few thousands of pounds,

assuredly his connection with the affair should be terminated. So he

lived, for his own part, on a pound a week, and informed Ada through

his solicitor that she must be satisfied with a certain very moderate

allowance.