“That was in vile bad taste, Val. I beg your pardon for saying it.
But, deuce take it, man! you can’t have come to me, a worldling and an
older one, for sympathy in this midsummer madness?”
I was off the table again, going to and fro and apostrophizing him at
odd turns.
“Let’s drop parables—and answer plainly, if it’s in you. You don’t
exhale sentiment as a rule. Did or did not that touch about ‘poor
Nanny’ imply a hint of some confidence put in me?”
“I’ve always considered you my closest friend.”
“Flattered, I’m sure; though I didn’t guess it. You put such
conundrums—excuse me—beyond the time of a plain man to guess. Well,
I say, I’m flattered, and I’ll take the full privilege. It’s natural
you should feel an interest in——by the way, I regret to say I only
know her as the Brompton Sleeping Girl.”
“She’s Nanny Nolan.”
“In Miss Nolan, then. A propos, I’ve never yet asked, and mustn’t
know, I suppose, the secret of your ‘open sesame’?”
“No, I can’t tell you.”
“O, it doesn’t matter! Only, as a question of this confiding
friendship——”
“It isn’t my secret alone.”
“Then I’ve no more to say. But I presume she’s the—the flower in
question?”
“O, yes! And I’m the stick.”
He said it with a quiet laugh.
“I shouldn’t have supposed it, on my honour,” I assured him. “You can
have stuck at very little in a week.”
I took a few turns, and faced him, or his motionless shadow, very
solemnly.
“Now,” I demanded, “for the plain speaking. Will you answer me the
truth? I brought away an impression, as I said. It might have been,
after all, an impertinent one. A man’s a man for a’ that—though I
confess I can’t quite apply the moral to a woman. Still, I’ll ask you
frankly: How is she socially?”
“Nothing at all. Her father was a colour-sergeant, a red-headed Celt
from over the border of dreams. He’s gone to join the Duke of Argyll’s
cloud army at Inverary. Her aunt’s an ex-coryphée living on a
mysterious pension.”
“Of course; only rather worse than I supposed.”
“Verender, I must tell you the girl is without reproach. Socially, it
is true, they are in a very limited way. They eke out existence in a
number of small directions, even, as you know, hop-picking.”
“I’ve nothing but respect for Miss Nolan’s virtues. I can even
appreciate the appeal of her prettiness to a susceptible nature, which
I don’t think mine is. Anyhow, I’m no Pharisee to pelt my poor sister
of the gutter because she’s fallen in it. That’s beside the question.
But it isn’t, to ask what in the name of tragedy induces you, with
your wealth, your refinement, your mental and social amiability, to
sink all in this investment of a—of a fancy bespoke—there, I can put
it no differently.”
“Call it my amiability, Verender. She’s like the centurion’s daughter.
There’s something awfully strange, awfully fascinating, after all, in
getting into her confidence—in entering behind that broken seal of
death.”
“You’re not an impressionable Johnny—at least, you shouldn’t be.
You’ve passed the Rubicon. This child with a child—with Aunt Mim,
good Lord! Have you thought of the consequences?”
“Yes; all of them.”
“Of the—pardon me. Do you know who _he_ was?”
“Yes.”
I stared aghast at him—at the deeper blot of gloom from which his
voice proceeded.
“And you aren’t afraid—for her; for yourself?”
“You mean, of her relapsing?” he said clearly. “Not when she knows the
truth—knows what a poor thing he is.”
“Are you sure _you_ know woman? She is apt to have a curious
tenderness for the blackguard who distinguishes her with his most
especial brand of villainy. Then she hasn’t learned it—the
truth—yet?”
“No. Aunt Mim has been loyal.”
“Well, well she may be, so long as you offer yourself the prize to
such a self-denying ordinance. She sees which side her bread’s
buttered, no doubt. And how does she account for the little stranger?”
“By adoption. It’s an odd thing, Verender—Verender, it’s a very odd
thing, and very pitiful, to see how _she_—little Nanny—distrusts the
child—looks on it sort of askance—almost hates it, I think. I’ve a
very difficult part to play.”