In the Year of Jubilee
‘Oh, I don’t mean that for a moment. It isn’t really dishonourable. My father could never have objected to you for my husband. He only wanted to guard me—Mary says so, and he told her everything. He thought me a silly, flighty girl, and was afraid I should be trapped for the sake of my money. I wish—oh how I wish I had had the courage to tell him! He would have seen you, and liked and trusted you—how could he help?’
‘It might have been better—but who knows whether he would have seen me with your eyes, Nancy?’
‘Yes, yes. But I was going to say–’
She hesitated.
‘Say on.’
‘There are so many difficulties before us, dear.’
‘Not if we continue to think of each other as we do now. Do you mean it might be discovered?’
‘Yes, through no fault of ours.’
She hesitated again.
‘Quite sure you haven’t told anybody?’
‘No one.’
Tarrant had a doubt on this point. He strongly suspected that Jessica Morgan knew the truth, but he shrank from pressing Nancy to an avowal of repeated falsehood.
‘Then it’s very unlikely we should be found out. Who would dream of tracking you here, for instance? And suppose we were seen together in the street or in the country, who would suspect anything more than love-making? and that is not forbidden you.’
‘No. But—’
‘But?’
‘But suppose I—’
She rose, crossed to him, seated herself on his knee and put an arm about his neck. Before she had spoken another word, Tarrant understood; the smile on his face lost its spontaneity; a bitter taste seemed to distort his lips.
‘You think—you are afraid—’
He heard a monosyllable, and sat silent. This indeed had not entered into his calculations; but why not? He could hardly say; he had ignored the not unimportant detail, as it lurked among possibilities. Perhaps had willingly ignored it, as introducing a complication oppressive to his indolence, to his hodiernal philosophy. And now he arraigned mother-nature, the very divinity whom hitherto he had called upon to justify him. All at once he grew cold to Nancy. The lulled objections to matrimony awoke in him again; again he felt that he had made a fool of himself. Nancy was better than he had thought; he either loved her, or felt something towards her, not easily distinguishable from love. His inferior she remained, but not in the sense he had formerly attributed to the word. Her mind and heart excelled the idle conception he had formed of them. But Nancy was not his wife, as the world understands that relation; merely his mistress, and as a mistress he found her charming, lovable. What she now hinted at, would shatter the situation. Tarrant thought not of the peril to her material prospects; on that score he was indifferent, save in so far as Mr Lord’s will helped to maintain their mutual independence. But he feared for his liberty, in the first place, and in the second, abhorred the change that must come over Nancy herself. Nancy a mother—he repelled the image, as though it degraded her.
Delicacy, however, constrained him to a disguise of these emotions. He recognised the human sentiments that should have weighed with him; like a man of cultivated intelligence, he admitted their force, their beauty. None the less, a syllable on Nancy’s lips had arrested the current of his feelings, and made him wish again that he had been either more or less a man of honour down at Teignmouth.
‘And yet,’ he said to himself, ‘could I have resisted an appeal for marriage now? That comes of being so confoundedly humane. It’s a marvel that I didn’t find myself married to some sheer demirep long ago.’
Nancy was speaking.
‘Will it make you love me less?’
‘I have always refused to prophesy about love,’ he answered, with forced playfulness.
‘But you wouldn’t—you wouldn’t?’
‘We should find ourselves in a very awkward position.’
‘I know,’ said Nancy hurriedly. ‘I can’t see what would be done. But you seem colder to me all at once, Lionel. Surely it oughtn’t to—to turn you away from me. Perhaps I am mistaken.’
This referred to the alarming possibility, and Tarrant caught at hope. Yes, she might be mistaken; they wouldn’t talk about it; he shook it away.
‘Let me fill my pipe again. Yes, you can do it for me. That reminds me of a story Harvey Munden tells. A man he knew, a doctor, got married, and there was nothing his wife wouldn’t do for him. As he sat with her one evening, smoking, a patient called him into the consulting-room. He had only just lighted a fresh pipe, and laid it down regretfully. ‘I’ll keep it in for you,’ said his wife. And she did so, with dainty and fearful puffs, at long intervals. But the doctor was detained, and when he came back—well, the poor wife had succumbed to her devotion. She never kept in his pipe again.
Nancy tried to laugh. She was in her own chair again, and sat resting her cheek upon her hand, gazing at the fire.
‘How is it, Lionel, that no one ever knocks at your door when I’m here.’
‘Oh, very simple. I sport the oak—as you know.’
‘But don’t you think some friend of yours might see a light in your window, and come up?’
‘If so, il respecte la consigne.’
‘No, no; I don’t like you when you begin to use French words. I think it reminds me of once when you did it a long time ago,—and I thought you—never mind.’
Tarrant laughed.
‘Weren’t they strange—those meetings of ours at Champion Hill? What did you think me? Arrogant? Insolent? That is my tendency with strangers, I admit.’
‘But I was asking you a question,’ said Nancy. ‘You mean that no one would knock, if he saw your outer door closed. But what would they think?’
‘No doubt—that I was working. I am supposed to be secretly engaged on some immortal composition.’
Nancy pondered.
‘I do hope no one that knows you will ever see me coming or going.’
‘What could it matter? They wouldn’t know who you were.’
‘But to have such things thought. I should feel it just as if they knew me. I believe I could never come again.’
‘Why, what’s the matter with you?’ Tarrant asked. ‘You have tears in your eyes. You’re not well to-day.’ He checked himself on an unwelcome thought, and proceeded more carelessly. ‘Do you suppose for a moment that any friend of mine is ass enough to think with condemnation of a girl who should come to my rooms—whatever the circumstances? You must get rid of that provincialism—let us call it Camberwellism.’
‘They wouldn’t think it any harm—even if—?’
‘My dear girl, we have outgrown those ancestral prejudices.’ Tarrant’s humour never quite deserted him, least of all when he echoed the talk of his world; but his listener kept a grave face. ‘We have nothing to do with Mrs. Grundy’s morals.’
‘But you believe in a morality of some kind?’ she pursued with diffidence. ‘You used the word “immoral” just now.’
Nancy felt no consciousness of the gulf that yawned between herself as she spoke now and the old self which had claimed ‘superiority.’ Her mind was so completely unsettled that she never tried to connect its present state with its earlier phases. For the most part, her sensations and her reflections were concerned with the crude elements of life; the exceptional moments she spent in a world of vague joys and fears, wherein thought, properly speaking, had no share. Before she could outlive the shock of passion which seemed at once to destroy and to re-create her, she was confronted with the second supreme crisis of woman’s existence,—its natural effects complicated with the trials of her peculiar position. Tarrant’s reception of her disclosure came as a new disturbance—she felt bewildered and helpless.
He, preoccupied with the anxiety he affected to dismiss, had no inclination to debate ethical problems. For a while he talked jestingly, and at length fell into a mood of silence. Nancy did not stay much longer; they parted without mention of the subject uppermost in their thoughts.
They had no stated times of meeting. Tarrant sent an invitation whenever it pleased him. When the next arrived, in about a week, Nancy made reply that she did not feel well enough to leave home. It was the briefest letter Tarrant had yet received from her, and the least affectionate. He kept silence for a few days, and wrote again. This time Nancy responded as usual, and came.
To the involuntary question in his eyes, hers answered unmistakably. For the first few minutes they said very little to each other. Tarrant was struggling with repulsions and solicitudes of which he felt more than half ashamed; Nancy, reticent for many reasons, not the least of them a resentful pride, which for the moment overcame her fondness, endeavoured to speak of trivial things. They kept apart, and at length the embarrassment of the situation held them both mute.
With a nervous movement, the young man pushed forward the chair on which Nancy usually sat.
‘I see that you don’t look well.’
Nancy turned to the window. She had unbuttoned her jacket, and taken off her gloves, but went no further in the process of preparing herself for the ordinary stay of some hours.
‘Did something in my letter displease you?’ inquired her husband.
‘You mean—because I didn’t come? No; I really didn’t feel well enough.’
Tarrant hesitated, but the softer feeling prevailed with him. He helped to remove her jacket, seated her by the fire, and led her to talk.
‘So there’s no doubt of it?’
Her silence made answer.
‘Then of course there’s just as little doubt as to what we must do.’
His voice had not a convincing sincerity; he waited for the reply.
‘You mean that we can’t keep the secret?’
‘How is it possible?’
‘But you are vexed about it. You don’t speak to me as you used to. I don’t think you ever will again.’
‘It will make no change in me,’ said Tarrant, with resolute good humour. ‘All I want to be sure of is that you are quite prepared for the change in your prospects.’
‘Are you, dear?’
Her tone and look deprived the inquiry of unpleasant implication. He answered her with a laugh.
‘You know exactly how I regard it. In one way I should feel relief. Of course I don’t like the thought that I shall have caused you to suffer such a loss.’
‘I should never have that thought. But are you quite sure about the result to yourself? You remember saying that you couldn’t be certain how—’
‘How it will be taken at Champion Hill? I was going to tell you the latest report from there. It is very doubtful whether I should ever have to break the news.’
They did not look at each other.
‘Everything, in that quarter, must be long since settled. Pray remember that I have no vast expectations. Quite certainly, it won’t be a large fortune; very likely not more than your own. But enough to live on, no doubt. I know the value of money—no man better. It would be pleasant enough to play with thousands a year. But I don’t grumble so long as I have a competency.’
Nancy meditated, and sighed.
‘Oh, it’s a pity. Father never meant me to be penniless if I married wisely.’
‘I suppose not.’
‘Of course not!’
They both meditated.
‘It wouldn’t be possible—would it?’
‘Why,’ he answered with a laugh, ‘last time you were here you spoke in quite the other way. You were utterly miserable at the thought of living through it alone.’
‘Yes—I don’t know whether I could—even if—’
‘What are you thinking of?’
‘I’ve been talking with Mary,’ she replied, after an uneasy pause. ‘She has lived with us so long; and since father’s death it seems quite natural to make a friend of her. No one could be more devoted to me than she is. I believe there’s nothing she wouldn’t do. I believe I might trust her with any secret.’
The obvious suggestion demanded thought.
‘By-the-bye,’ said Tarrant, looking up, ‘have you seen your aunt again?’
Nancy’s face changed to a cold expression.
‘No. And I don’t think I shall.’
‘Probably you were as little sympathetic to her as she to you.’
‘I don’t like her,’ was the brief reply.
‘I’ve had curious thoughts about that lady,’ said Tarrant, smiling. ‘The mystery, it seems to me, is by no means solved. You think she really is your aunt?’
‘Impossible to doubt it. Any one could see her likeness to Horace at once.’
‘Ah, you didn’t mention that. I had a fear that she might be simply an adventuress, with an eye to your brother’s money.’
‘She is what she says, I’m sure. But I shall never ask her to come and see me again, and I don’t think she’ll want to. That would be fortunate if—if we wished—’
Tarrant nodded. At the same moment they heard a sound that startled them.
‘That’s a knock at the door,’ said Nancy, rising as if to escape.
‘So it is. Banging with a stick. Let him bang. It must be a stranger, or he’d respect the oak.’
They sat listening. The knock sounded again, loud and prolonged. Tarrant joked about it; but a third time came the summons.
‘I may as well go and see who it is.’
‘Oh—you won’t let any one—’
‘Of course not. Sit quietly.’
He went out, closing the room-door behind him, and opened the heavy door which should have ensured his privacy. For five minutes he was absent, then returned with a face portending news.
‘It was Vawdrey. He knew my habit of sporting the oak, and wouldn’t go away till he had made sure. My grandmother is dying. They telegraphed to Vawdrey in the City, and he came here at once to tell me. I must go. Perhaps I shall be too late.’
‘What did he think of your keeping him outside?’
‘I made some sort of excuse. He’s a good-natured fellow; it didn’t matter. Stay a little after I’m gone; stay as long as you like, In fact. You can pull to the inner door when you go.’
‘What did the telegram say?’
‘Mrs. Tarrant sinking. Come immediately.’ Of course we expected it. It’s raining hard: wait and see if it stops; you must take care of yourself.’
For this, Nancy was not slow in exhibiting her gratitude, which served as mask of the pleasure she could not decently betray. When her husband had hastened off, she sat for a few minutes in thought; then, alone here for the first time, she began to walk about the rooms, and to make herself more intimately acquainted with their contents.
CHAPTER 7
Whilst she was thus occupied, darkness came on. She did not care to light the lamp, so made herself ready, and stole forth.
The rain had ceased. Walking alone at night was a pleasure in which she now indulged herself pretty frequently; at such times Mary Woodruff believed her in the company of Miss. Morgan. The marked sobriety of her demeanour since Mr. Lord’s death, and the friendliness, even the affection, she evinced in their common life at home, had set Mary’s mind at ease concerning her. No murmur at her father’s will had escaped Nancy, in this respect very unlike her brother, who, when grief was forgotten, declared himself ill-used; she seemed perfectly content with the conditions laid upon her, and the sincerity of her mourning could not be doubted. Anxious to conciliate the girl in every honest way, Mary behaved to her with the same external respect as ever, and without a hint of express guardianship. The two were on excellent terms. It seemed likely that before long they would have the house to themselves; already Horace had spoken of taking lodgings in a part of London more congruous with the social aspirations encouraged by his aunt, Mrs. Damerel.
From Chancery Lane she passed into Fleet Street, and sauntered along with observation of shop-windows. She was unspeakably relieved by the events of the afternoon; it would now depend upon her own choice whether she preserved her secret, or declared herself a married woman. Her husband had proved himself generous as well as loving; yes, she repeated to herself, generous and loving; her fears and suspicions had been baseless. Mrs. Tarrant’s death freed them from all sordid considerations. A short time, perhaps a day or two, might put an end to irregularities, and enable her to hold up her head once more.
Feeling hungry, she entered a restaurant, and dined. Not carelessly, but with fastidious choice of viands. This was enjoyable; she began to look more like herself of a few months ago.
She would return to Camberwell by train from Ludgate Hill. At the circus, crowding traffic held her back for a minute or two; just as she ran forward, a familiar voice caused her to stop again. She became flurried, lost her head, stood still amid a tumult of omnibuses, cabs and carts; but a hand grasped her by the arm, and led her safely to the opposite pavement.
‘What do you mean by shouting at me in the street?’ were her first words.
The person addressed was Luckworth Crewe; he had by no means anticipated such wrathful greeting, and stood in confusion.
‘I beg your pardon, Miss. Lord. I didn’t think I shouted. I only meant to call your attention.’
‘Why should you call my attention?’ Her cheeks were flushed with anger; she regarded him as though he were a stranger guilty of mere insolence. ‘I don’t wish to speak to you.’
With astonishment, Crewe found himself alone. But a rebuff such as this, so irrational as he thought it, so entirely out of keeping with Miss. Lord’s behaviour, he could by no means accept. Nancy was walking towards the railway-station; he followed. He watched her as she took a ticket, then put himself in her way, with all the humility of countenance he could command.
‘I’m so sorry I offended you. It wasn’t the right thing to do; I ought to have waited till you were across. I’m a blundering sort of fellow in those things. Do let me beg your pardon, and forgive me.’
She was calmer now, though still tremulous. But for the attack of nervousness, she would have met Crewe with nothing worse than a slight reserve, to mark a change in their relations. Very soon after her father’s death he had written a becoming letter, though it smacked of commercial phraseology. To the hope expressed in it, that he might be allowed to call upon her in a few weeks’ time, Nancy made no reply. A fortnight later he wrote again, this time reminding her, with modest propriety, of what had occurred between them before she left town in August. Nancy responded, and in grave, friendly language, begged him to think of her no more; he must not base the slightest hope upon anything she might have said. To her surprise, Crewe held his peace, and she saw him now for the first time since their ascent of the Monument.
‘I’m ashamed that I lost my temper, Mr. Crewe. I am in a hurry to get home.’
In the booking-office at Ludgate Hill it is not easy to detain, by chivalrous discourse, a lady bent on escaping; but Crewe attempted it. He subdued his voice, spoke rapidly and with emotion, implored that he might be heard for a moment. Would she not permit him to call upon her? He had waited, respecting her seclusion. He asked for nothing whatever but permission to call, as any acquaintance might.
‘Have you heard I have opened an office in Farringdon Street? I should so like to tell you all about it—what I’m doing—’
‘No one calls to see me,’ said Nancy, with firmness. ‘I wish to live quite alone. I’m very sorry to seem unfriendly.’
‘Is it anything I’ve done?’
‘No—nothing whatever. I assure you, nothing. Let us say good-bye; I can’t stop another moment.’
They shook hands and so parted.
‘You’re back early,’ said Mary, when Nancy entered the drawing-room.
‘Yes. I left Jessica to her books sooner than usual. The examination draws near.’
Quiet, sad, diligent ever, Mary kept unchanged the old domestic routine. There was the same perfect order, the same wholesome economy, as when she worked under the master’s eyes. Nancy had nothing to do but enjoy the admirable care with which she was surrounded; she took it all as a matter of course, never having considered the difference between her own home and those of her acquaintances.
Horace had dined, and was gone out again. They talked of him; Mary said that he had spoken of moving into lodgings very soon.
‘Of course he doesn’t tell us everything,’ said Nancy. ‘I feel pretty sure that he’s going to leave the office, but how he means to live I don’t understand. Perhaps Mrs. Damerel will give him money, or lend it him. I only hope she may break it off between him and Fanny.’
‘Hasn’t he told you that Fanny is often with Mrs. Damerel?’
‘With her?’ Nancy exclaimed. ‘He never said a word of it to me.’
‘He said so to me this evening, and laughed when I looked surprised.’
‘Well then, I don’t pretend to understand what’s going on. We can’t do anything.’
About nine o’clock the servant entered the room, bringing Miss. Lord a note, which had just been left by a cab-driver. Nancy, seeing that the address was in Tarrant’s hand, opened it with a flutter of joy; such a proceeding as this, openly sending a note by a messenger, could only mean that her husband no longer cared to preserve secrecy. To her astonishment, the envelope contained but a hurried line.
‘Not a word yet to any one. Without fail, come to-morrow afternoon, at four.’
With what show of calmness she could command, she looked up at her companion.
‘The idea of his sending in this way! It’s that Mr. Crewe I’ve told you of. I met him as I was coming home, and had to speak to him rather sharply to get rid of him. Here comes his apology, foolish man!’
Living in perpetual falsehood, Nancy felt no shame at a fiction such as this. Mere truth-telling had never seemed to her a weighty matter of the law. And she was now grown expert in lies. But Tarrant’s message disturbed her gravely. Something unforeseen must have happened—something, perhaps, calamitous. She passed a miserable night.
When she ascended the stairs at Staple Inn, next afternoon, it wanted ten minutes to four. As usual at her coming, the outer door stood open, exposing the door with the knocker. She had just raised her hand, when, with a sound of voices from inside, the door opened, and Tarrant appeared in company with a stranger. Terror-stricken, she stepped back. Tarrant, after a glance, paid no attention to her.
‘All right,’ he was saying to his friend, ‘I shall see you in a day or two. Good-bye, old man.’
The stranger had observed Nancy, but withheld his eyes from her, and quickly vanished down the stairs.
‘Who was that?’ she whispered.
‘I told you four o’clock.’
‘It is four.’
‘No—ten minutes to at least. It doesn’t matter, but if you had been punctual you wouldn’t have had a fright.’
Nancy had dropped into a chair, white and shaking. Tarrant’s voice, abruptly reproachful, affected her scarcely less than the preceding shock. In the struggle to recover herself she sobbed and choked, and at length burst into tears. Tarrant spoke impatiently.
‘What’s the matter? Surely you are not so childish’—
She stood up, and went into the bedroom, where she remained for several minutes, returning at length without her jacket, but with her hat still on.
‘I couldn’t help it; and you shouldn’t speak to me in that way. I have felt ill all the morning.’
Looking at her, the young man said to himself, that love was one thing, wedded life another. He could make allowance for Nancy’s weakness—but it was beyond his power to summon the old warmth and tenderness. If henceforth he loved her, it must be with husband’s love—a phrase which signified to him something as distinct as possible from the ardour he had known; a moral attachment instead of a passionate desire.
And there was another reason for his intolerant mood.
‘You hadn’t spoken to any one before you got my note?’
‘No.—Why are you treating me like this? Are you ashamed that your friend saw me?’
‘Ashamed? not at all.’
‘Who did he think I was?’
‘I don’t know. He doesn’t know anything about you, at all events. As you may guess, I have something not very pleasant to tell. I didn’t mean to be unkind; it was only the surprise at seeing you when I opened the door. I had calculated the exact time. But never mind. You look cold; warm yourself at the fire. You shall drink a glass of wine; it will put your nerves right again.’
‘No, I want nothing. Tell me at once what it is.’
But Tarrant quietly brought a bottle and glass from his cupboard. Nancy again refused, pettishly.
‘Until you have drunk,’ he said, with a smile of self-will, ‘I shall tell you nothing.’
‘I don’t know what I’ve done to make you like this.’
