'Good-night, dear.'
They kissed each other; and Madge turned off the gas and left. Presently, however, Madge returned, opened the door, and came in on tiptoe.
'Nan, you are not asleep yet?'
'Of course not.'
'I wanted to ask you, Nan; do you think he would like me to work a pair of slippers for him?'
'No doubt he would,' was the quiet answer.
'For I was thinking it would be so nice if you would come with me to-morrow and help me to choose the materials; and then, you see, Nan, you might sketch me some design, out of your own head, for you are so clever at those things, and that would be better than a shop pattern. And then,' added Madge, 'I should tell him it was your design.'
Nan paused for a second.
'I will do whatever you want, Madge—but you must not say that I made the design for you. It won't be worth much at the best. I would rather have nothing said about it, dear.'
'Very well, Nan; that's just like you.'
Next morning it still snowed and blew hard; no one could go out; it was clearly a day to be devoted to indoor amusements. And then Frank King, despite the state of the streets and the absence of cabs, made his way along, and was eagerly welcomed. As Mr. Tom's companion he was to spend the whole day there. Billiards, music, lunch, painting—they would pass the time somehow. And meanwhile the gusts of wind rattled the windows; and the whirling snow blurred out the sea; and Mr. Tom kept on big fires.
Nan remained in her own room. When Madge went up to bring her down she found her reading Thomas à Kempis.
'Frank has asked twice where you were,' Madge remonstrated.
'But that is not a command,' said Nan, with a smile. 'I should have thought, judging by the sound, that you were being very well amused below.'
Madge went away, and in about an hour after came back. She found that her sister had put awayDe Imitatione Christi, and was at her desk.
'Writing! To whom?'
'To the Editor of theTimes', said Nan, laughing at her sister's instantaneous dismay.
'TheTimes? Are you going to turn a blue-stocking, Nan?'
'Oh no; it's only about blankets. You can read the letter; do you think he will print it?'
This was the letter which Madge read, and which was written in a sort of handwriting that some editors would be glad to see oftener:—
'Dear Sir—The Government interfere to punish a milkman who adulterates milk with water; and I wish to put the question in your columns why they should not also punish the manufacturers who dress blankets with arsenic? Surely it is a matter of equal importance. Poor people can get along without milk, unless there are very small children in the house; but when they have insufficient food, and insufficient fire, and scant clothes, and perhaps also a leaky roof, a good warm pair of blankets is almost a necessity. You cannot imagine what a compensation it is, especially in weather like the present; but how are the charitably disposed to take such a gift to a poor household when it may become the instrument of death or serious illness? Dear Sir, I hope you will call upon the Government to put down this wicked practice; and I am, yours respectfully, AN ENGLISH GIRL.'
'Oh, that's all right,' said Madge, who had feared that her sister had taken to literature; 'that's quite the right thing for you. Of course, a clergyman's wife must know all about blankets, and soup-kitchens, and things.'
Nan flushed a little, and said quickly and with an embarrassed smile—
'I thought of putting in something about his "eloquent pen" or his "generous advocacy," but I suppose he gets a great deal of that kind of flattery, and isn't to be taken in. I think I will leave it as it is. It is really most shameful that such things should be allowed.'
'When are you coming down to see Frank?'
'By and by, dear. I am going now to get mamma her egg and port wine.'
'I know Frank wants to see you.'
'Oh, indeed,' she said, quietly, as she folded up the letter.
That memorable snowstorm raged all day; the shops fronting the sea were shut; the whole place looked like some vast deserted white City of the Dead. But towards evening the squalls moderated; that fine, penetrating, crystalline snow ceased to come in whirls and gusts; and people began to get about, the black figures making their way over or through the heavy drifts, or striking for such places as the force of the wind had driven bare. Here and there shovels were in requisition to open a pathway; it was clearly thought that the gale was over; the Beresfords and their guest began to speak of an excursion next day to Stanmer Park, lest peradventure it might be possible to have a lane or two swept on the ice for a little skating.
The next morning proved to be brilliantly beautiful; and they were all up and away betimes on their somewhat hopeless quest. All, that is to say, except Nan: for she had sundry pensioners to look after, who were likely to have fared ill during the inclement weather. Nan put on her thickest boots and her ulster, and went out into the world of snow. The skies were blue and clear; the air was fresh and keen; it was a relief to be out after that monotonous confinement in the house.
Nan went her rounds, and wished she was a millionaire, for the fine snow had penetrated everywhere, and there was great distress. Perhaps she was really trying to imagine herself a cleryman's wife; at all events, when she had grown tired, and perhaps a little heart-sick, it was no wonder that she should think of going into that church, which was always open, for a little rest, and solace, and soothing quiet.
This was what she honestly meant to do—and, moreover, it was with no expectation of meeting Mr. Jacomb there, for it was almost certain that he also would be off on a round of visitations. She had a craving for quiet; perhaps some slow, grateful music would be filling the air; there would be silence in the vast, hushed place.
Well, it was by the merest accident that her eyes happened to light on a vessel that was scudding up channel under double-reefed topsails, and she stood for a minute to watch it. Then she, also inadvertently, perceived that the coastguardsman over the way had come out of his little box, and was similarly watching the vessel—through his telescope. Nan hesitated for a second. The snow was deep, though a kind of path had been trodden a few yards farther along. Then she walked quickly on till she came to that path, crossed, went back to the coastguardsman, and addressed him, with a roseate glow on her cheek.
'Oh, I beg your pardon—but—but—I suppose you know Singing Sal?'
'Yes, Miss,' said the little Celtic-looking man with the brown beard.He was evidently surprised.
'Do you know where she is? I hope she wasn't in the storm yesterday?She hasn't been along this way lately?'
'No, Miss; not that I knows of.'
'Thank you, I am very much obliged.'
'Wait a minute, Miss—Wednesday—yes, it was last night, I believe, as Sal was to sing at a concert at Updene. Yes, it was. Some o' my mates at Cuckmere got leave to go.'
'Updene farm?'
'Yes, Miss,' said the wiry little sailor with a grin. 'That's promotion for Sal—to sing at a concert.'
'I don't see why she should not sing at a concert,' said Nan, regarding him with her clear gray eyes, so that the grin instantly vanished from his face. 'I've heard much worse singing at many a concert. Then, if she was at Updene last night, she would most likely come along here to-day.'
'I don't know, Miss,' said the man, who knew much less about Singing Sal's ways than did Miss Anne Beresford. 'Mayhap the concert didn't come off, along of the snow.'
Nan again thanked him, and continued on her way—eastward. She was thinking. Somehow she had quite forgotten about the church. The air around her was wonderfully keen and exhilarating; the skies overhead were intensely blue; out there on the downs the soft, white snow would be beautiful. Nan walked on at a brisker pace, and her spirits rose. The sunlight seemed to get into her veins. And then her footing required a great deal of attention, and she had plenty of active exercise; for though here and there the force of the wind had left the roads almost bare, elsewhere the snow had formed long drifts of three to five feet in depth, and these had either to be got round or plunged through. Then, up Kemp-Town way, where there is less traffic, her difficulties increased. The keen air seemed to make her easily breathless. But at all events she felt comfortably warm, and the sun felt hot on her cheek.
She had at length persuaded herself that she was anxious about Singing Sal's safety. Many people must have perished in that snowstorm—caught unawares on the lonely downs. At all events, she could ask at one or two of the coastguard stations if anything had been heard of Sal. It was just possible she might meet her, if the entertainment at Updene farm had come off.
At Black Rock station they had heard nothing; but she went on all the same. For now this was a wonderful and beautiful landscape all around her, up on these high cliffs; and the novelty of it delighted her, though the bewildering white somewhat dazzled her eyes. Towards the edge of the cliffs, where the wind had swept across, there was generally not more than an inch or two of snow—hard and crisp, with traceries of birds' feet on it, like long strings of lace; but a few yards on her left the snow had got banked up in the most peculiar drifts, resembling in a curious manner the higher ranges of the Alps. Sometimes, however, the snow became deep here also; so that she had to betake herself to the road, where the farmers' men around had already cut a way through the deeper stoppages; and there she found herself going along a white gallery—yellow-white on the left, where the sunlight fell on the snow, but an intense blue on the right, where the crystalline snow, in shadow, reflected the blue of the sky overhead. And still she ploughed on her way, with all her pulses tingling with life and gladness; for this wonder of yellow whiteness and blue whiteness, and the sunlight, and the keen air, all lent themselves to a kind of fascination; and she scarcely perceived that her usual landmarks were gone: it was enough for her to keep walking, stumbling, sinking, avoiding the deeper drifts, and farther and farther losing herself in the solitariness of this white, hushed world.
Then, far away, and showing very black against the white, she perceived the figure of a woman, and instantly jumped to the conclusion that that must be Singing Sal. But what was Sal—if it were she—about? That dark figure was wildly swaying one arm like an orator declaiming to an excited assemblage. Had the dramatic stimulus of the previous night's entertainment—Nan asked herself—got into the woman's brain? Was she reciting poetry to that extravagant gesturing? Nan walked more slowly now, and took breath; while the woman, whoever she was, evidently was coming along at a swinging pace.
No; that was no dramatic gesture. It was too monotonous. It looked more as if she were sowing—to imperceptible furrows. Nan's eyes were very long-sighted, but this thing puzzled her altogether. She now certainly looked like a farmer's man scattering seed-corn.
Singing Sal saw and recognised her young-lady friend at some distance, and seemed to moderate her gestures, though these did not quite cease. When she came up, Nan said to her,
'What are you doing?'
'Well, Miss,' she said, with a bright smile—her face was quite red with the cold air, and her hair not so smooth as she generally kept it—'my arm does ache, to tell the truth. And my barley's nearly done. I have tried to scatter it wide, so as the finches and larks may have a chance, even when the jackdaws and rooks are at it.'
'Are you scattering food for the birds, then?'
'They're starved out in this weather, Miss; and then the boys come out wi' their guns; and the dicky-laggers are after them too——'
'The what?'
'The bird-catchers, Miss. If I was a farmer now, I'd take a horsewhip, I would, and I'd send those gentry double quick back to Whitechapel. And the gentle-folks, Miss, it isn't right of them to encourage the trapping of larks when there's plenty of other food to be got. Well, my three-penn'orth o' barley that I bought in Newhaven is near done now.'
She looked into the little wallet that she had twisted round in front of her.
'Oh, if you don't mind,' said Nan, eagerly, 'I will give you a shilling—or two or three shillings—to get some more.'
'You could do better than that, Miss,' said Sal. 'Maybe you know some one that lives in Lewes Crescent?'
'Yes, I do.'
'Well, ye see, Miss, there's such a lot o' birds as won't eat grain at all; and if you was to get the key of the garden in Lewes Crescent, and get a man to sweep the snow off a bit of the grass, and your friends might throw down some mutton bones and scraps from the kitchen, and the birds from far and near would find it out—being easily seen, as it might be. Half the thrushes and blackbirds along this countryside 'll be dead before this snow gives out.'
'Oh, I will go back at once and do that,' said Nan, readily.
'Look how they've been running about all the morning,' said this fresh-coloured, dark-eyed woman, regarding the traceries on the snow at her feet. 'Most of them larks—you can see the spur. And that's a rook with his big heavy claws. And there's a hare, Miss—I should say he was trotting as light as could be—and there's nothing uglier than a trotting hare—he's like a race-horse walking—all stiff and jolting, because of the high aunches—haunches, Miss. They're all bewildered-like, birds and beasts the same. I saw the pad of a fox close by Rottingdean; he must have come a long way to try for a poultry-yard. And, what's rarer, I saw a covey of partridges, Miss, settle down on the sea as I was coming along by Saltdean Gap. They was tired out, poor things, and not driven before the wind either, but fighting against it, and going out to sea blind-like; and then I saw them sink down on to the water, and then the waves knocked them about anyway. I hear there was a wonderful sight of brent geese up by Berling Gap yesterday—but I'm keeping you standing in the cold, Miss——'
'I will walk back with you,' said Nan, turning.
'No, Miss. No, thank you, Miss,' said Sal, sturdily.
'But only as far as Lewes Crescent,' said Nan, with a gentle laugh. 'You know I am going to stop there for the mutton bones. I want to know what has happened to you since the last time I saw you—that's a good while ago now.'
'Two things, Miss, has happened that I'm proud of;' said Sal, as the two set out to face the brisk westerly wind. 'I was taking a turn through Surrey, and when I was at ——, they told me that a great poet lived close by there—Mr. ——'
'Of course every one knows Mr. ——,' said Nan.
'I didn't,' said Sal, rather shamefacedly. 'You see, Miss, the two I showed you are enough company for me; and I haven't got money to buy books wi'. Well, I was passing near the old gentleman's house, and he came out, and he spoke to me as we went along the road. He said he had seen me reading the afternoon before, on the common; and he began to speak about poetry; and then he asked me if I had read any of Mr. ——'s, without saying he was himself. I was sorry to say no, Miss, for he was such a kind old gentleman; but he said he would send me them; and most like they're waiting for me now at Goring, where I gave him an address. Lor', the questions he asked me!—about Shakespeare and Burns—you know, Miss, I had them in my bag; and then about myself. I shouldn't wonder if he wrote a poem about me.'
'Well, that's modest,' said Nan, with another quiet laugh.
Sal did not at all like that gentle reproof.
'It isn't my pride, Miss; it's what he said to me that I go by,' she retorted. 'I didn't ask him.'
'If he does, all England will hear about you then,' said Nan. 'And now, what was the other thing?'
Sal again grew shamefaced a little. She opened the inner side of her wallet, took out a soiled, weather-beaten copy of theGlobeShakespeare, and from it extracted a letter.
'Perhaps you would like to read it yourself, Miss,' she suggested.
Nan took it, and had little difficulty in deciphering its contents, though the language was occasionally a trifle hyperbolical. It contained nothing less than an offer of marriage addressed to Sal by a sailor in one of Her Majesty's ironclads, who said that he was tired of the sea, and that, if Sal would give up her wandering life, so would he, and he would retire into the coastguard. He pointed out the sacrifices he was ready to make for her; for it appeared that he was a petty officer. No matter; he was willing to become simple A.B. again; for he had his 'feelin's;' and if so be as she would become his wife, then they would have a good weather-proof cottage, a bit of garden, and three-and-fourpence a day. It was a most business-like, sensible offer.
'And I'm sure I could do something for him,' Nan eagerly said. 'I think I could get him promotion. The Senior Naval Lord of the Admiralty is a friend of mine. And wouldn't it be better for you?'
'No, Miss,' said Sal, with an odd kind of smile. 'I was glad to get the letter, for it shows I'm respected. But I'm not going to be caged yet. I never saw or heard of the man I would marry—except it might have been Robbie Burns, if he was still alive. Sometimes when I've been reading a bit, coming along the downs all by myself like, I've seen somebody in the distance; and I've said to myself, "Well, now, if that was only to turn out to be that black-a-vised Ayrshire ploughman, it would be all over with me; it would be 'Whistle and I'll come to ye, my lad.'" And then some shambling fellow of a labourer has come along, straw-haired, bent-backed, twisted-kneed, and scarcely enough spirit in him to say, "Marnin t' ye—good marnin t' ye, wench!"'
'You are very independent,' said the sage Nan. 'And that's all very well, as long as your health lasts. But you might become ill. You would want relatives and friends, and a home. And in the coastguard houses you would have a very comfortable home, and a garden to look after; and your husband might get promotion.'
'If ever I marry,' said Sal, shaking her head, 'it won't be one of the man-of-war's men. They've just as little spirit or independence as the day labourers. They've had it all crushed out of them by the hard usage of the officers.'
'Oh, how can you say so!' said Nan, warmly. 'The officers are English gentlemen. In former days there may have been cruelty, but I am certain that exists no longer. I know several officers: kinder-hearted men don't exist. Why, there is a captain in the navy——'
She stopped in great embarrassment. But Singing Sal, not heeding, said, laconically—
'It ain't the captain, Miss. He's too great a gentleman to interfere. It's the first lieutenant, who can make the ship a hell upon earth if he has a mind to. Ah! Miss, it's little you know of the discipline that goes on on board a man-o'-war. There's no human being could stand it who wasn't brought up to it. The merchantmen can't stand it, and won't stand it; that's where the officers find a difficulty when the Reserves are called out. You wouldn't find a man-o'-war's man marching up to the First Lord of the Admiralty with a lump of salt beef in his hand and asking him if it was fit to eat. And this Lord, Miss, being a civilian like, he never thought of having the man clapped in irons: "Throw it overboard," says he. "I will see that no more o' that kind of stuff is issued to Her Majesty's fleet." That was the story I heard, Miss; the men were laughing about it at Beachy Head. And then, in the merchantmen Jack has a better chance, if he is a smart fellow——'
And so forth. They had once more got on to the subject of sailors and officers, regarded from their different points of view; and it was not until they had reached Brighton that the sight of Lewes Crescent reminded Nan that she had now to part from her companion and go in search of mutton bones for the thrushes and blackbirds.
Not only was she successful in this work of charity, but she must needs also institute a similar system of outdoor relief at her own end of the town; so that it was nearly dusk when she re-entered the house in Brunswick Terrace. She did not think of asking if there were any visitors; she went upstairs; perceived that the drawing-room door was an inch or two open, and was just about to enter when she heard voices. Inadvertently she paused.
It was Mr. Jacomb's voice. Then her mother said—
'I married happily myself, and I have never tried to influence my daughters——'
Nan shrank back, like a guilty thing. She had only listened to discover whether it was some one she knew who had called; but these few words of her mother's made her heart jump. She stole away noiselessly to her own room. She sat down, anxious and agitated, fearing she scarcely knew what.
She was not long left in suspense. Her mother came into the room and shut the door.
'I thought I heard you come in, Nan,' she said; 'and it's lucky you have, for Mr. Jacomb is here.'
'But I don't want to see Mr. Jacomb, mamma,' she said, breathlessly.
'He wants to see you,' her mother said, quietly; 'and I suppose you know what it is about.'
'I—I suppose so—yes, I can guess——. Oh, mother, dear!' cried Nan, going and clinging to her mother. 'Do me this great kindness! I can't see him. I don't want to see him. Mother, you will go and speak to him for me!'
'Well, that is extraordinary,' said Lady Beresford, who, however, had far too great a respect for her nerves to become excited over this matter or anything else. 'That's a strange request. I have just told him I would not interfere. Of course I don't consider it a good match; you might do a great deal better from a worldly point of view. But you have always been peculiar, Nan. If you think it would be for your happiness to become a poor clergyman's wife, I will not oppose it. At the same time, I have always thought you might do better——'
'Oh, mother, don't you understand?' Nan broke in. 'It's to ask him to go away! I'm so sorry. If he had spoken before, I would have told him before——'
'You mean you refuse him, and I am to take the message,' said her mother, staring at her. 'That is all?'
The girl was silent.
'I must say, Nan, you have been acting very strangely. You have lead us all to believe that you were going to marry him. Why did you let the man come about the house?'
'Don't speak like that to me, mother,' said Nan, with her under lip beginning to quiver. 'I—I tried to think of it. I knew he wanted me to be his wife; I thought it might be right; I thought I could do something that way; and—and I tried to persuade myself. But I can't marry him, mother—I can't—I don't wish to marry any one—I never will marry——'
'Don't talk nonsense, child!' said her mother, severely, for there was a sort of tendency towards excitement in the atmosphere. 'Let me understand clearly. I suppose you know your own mind. I am to go and tell this man definitely that you won't marry him?'
'Mother, don't put it in that harsh way. Tell him I am very sorry. Tell him I tried hard to think of it. Tell him I am sorry he has waited so long; but if he had asked sooner——'
'He would have had the same answer?'
The girl's faced flushed red, and she said in a strange sort of a way—
'Yes—perhaps so—I think it must have been the same answer at any time. Oh, I never, never could have brought myself to marry him! Mother, does it look cruel—does it look as if I had treated him badly?' she added, in the same anxious way.
'No, I would not say that,' answered her mother, calmly. 'A man must take his chance; and until he speaks he can't have an answer. I do not think Mr. Jacomb has any reason to complain—except, perhaps, that you don't go yourself and hear what he has to say——'
'Oh, mother, I couldn't do that. It would only be pain for both of us.And then I don't refuse him, you see, mother; that's something——'
Lady Beresford was uncertain. The truth was, she was not at all sorry to be the bearer of this message—even at the cost of a little trouble—for she did think that her daughter ought to marry into a better position in life. But she had just been listening to what Mr. Jacomb had to say for himself; and he had said a good deal, not only about himself but about Nan, and her disposition, and what would best secure her happiness, and so forth. Lady Beresford had been just a little bit impressed, and the question was whether Nan ought not to be invited to a fair consideration of the matter as represented by Mr. Jacomb himself.
'Well, Nan, if your mind is quite clear about it——'
'Oh it is, mother,' she answered eagerly, 'quite—quite——'
That was an end. Her mother left the room, slowly; Nan listened for her footsteps until she heard her go into the drawing-room and close the door. Her first thought was to lock herself in, so that there should be no appeal. Her next was that it was excessively mean and cruel of her to experience this wonderful sense of relief, now that the die was irrevocably cast.
'If there was anything I could do for him,' she was thinking—'anything—anything but that;' and then she listened again to the stillness until she heard a bell ring, and the drawing-room door open again, and some one descend the stairs into the hall. She felt guilty and sorry at the same time. She wished she could do something by way of compensation. He would not think it was mere heartlessness? For indeed she had tried. And would she not have done him a far greater wrong if she had married him without being able to give him her whole heart?
Nan went to the window; but it was too dark for her to see anything. She took it for granted he had gone away. She was glad, and ashamed of herself for being glad. She reproved herself. And then she had a vague sort of feeling that she would wear sackcloth and ashes—or try to be ten times kinder to everybody—or do something, anything, no matter what—to atone for this very unmistakable sense of gladness that seemed to pervade her whole being. She couldn't help it, because it was there; but she would do something by way of compensation. And the first thing she could think of was to go and brush the billiard-table with such thoroughness that Mr. Tom, when he came home should say he had never seen it in such good condition before.
That was a roaring party that somewhat later came in—all flushed faces and high spirits and delight; for they had walked all the way from Falmer over the downs, under the guidance of the Canadian experience of Frank King; and they had had wonderful adventures with the snow-drifts; and the night was beautiful—a crescent moon in the south, and high up in the south-east the gleaming belt of Orion. And Nan greatly entered into the joy of these adventurers, and wished to hear more of their futile efforts at skating; and was asking this one and the other about everything—until she found Mr. Tom's eyes fixed on her.
'Nan,' said he, with scrutiny and decision, 'you've been in the country to-day, walking.'
She admitted she had.
'And you had for your luncheon a bit of bread and an apple.'
'I generally take that as a precaution,' Nan said, simply.
'I thought so,' said Mr. Tom, with great satisfaction at his own shrewdness. 'I can tell in a minute. For you always come back looking highly pleased with yourself and inclined to be cheeky. I don't like the look of you when you're too set up. Your tongue gets too sharp. I'd advise you people to look out.'
Nan's conscience smote her. Was she so glad, then, that even outsiders saw it in her face? She became graver; and she vowed that she would be most reticent at dinner. Had she not promised to herself to try to be ten times kinder to everybody?
And she very soon, at dinner, had an opportunity of displaying her generosity. They were busy making havoc of the manner of a distinguished person who was much talked of at that time, and whom they had all chanced to meet. Now Nan ordinarily was very intolerant of affectation; but had she not promised to be ten times kinder to everybody? So she struck in in defence of this lady.
'But it is her nature to be affected,' said Nan. 'She is quite true to herself. That is her disposition. It wouldn't be natural for her to try not to be affected. She was born with that disposition. Look at the idiotic grimaces that infants make when they try to show they are pleased. And Mrs. —— wouldn't be herself at all if she wasn't affected. She might as well try to leave off her affectations as her clothes. She couldn't go about without any.'
'She goes about with precious little,' said Mr. Tom, who strongly disapproved of scanty ball-dresses. And then he added, 'But that's Nan all over. She's always for making the best of everything and everybody. It's always the best possible world with her.'
'And isn't that wise,' said Frank King, with a laugh, 'considering it's the only one we've got to live in at present?'
Nan was very bright and cheerful during this dinner, and Captain Frank King was most markedly attentive to her, and interested in her talking. When Nan began to speak, he seemed to consider that the whole table ought to listen; and his was the first look that approved, and the first laugh that followed. Then he discovered that she knew all sorts of out-of-the-way things that an ordinary young lady could by no possibility have been expected to know. It was more than ever clear to him that these solitary wanderings had taught her something. Where had she acquired all this familiarity, for example, with details about his own profession—or what had been his profession?
They went on to talk of the jeers of cabmen at each other, and how sharp some of them were. Then again they began to talk about other common sayings—the very origin of which had been forgotten; and Frank King spoke of a taunt which was an infallible recipe for driving a bargee mad—'Who choked the boy with duff?'—though nobody, not the bargees themselves, now knew anything whatever about the tragic incident that must have happened sometime and somewhere.
'Yes,' said Nan at once, 'and there is another like that that the collier-boats can't stand. If you call out to a collier, "There's a rat in your chains" he'd drive his schooner ashore to get after you.'
'I suppose you have tried,' said her mother, with calm dignity.
'I believe Nan spends most of her time,' said the Beauty, 'in making mud-pies with the boys in Shoreham Harbour.'
'Never you mind, Nan,' her brother said to encourage her. 'Next time we go to Newhaven, you'll call out to the colliers, "There's a rat in your chains," and I'll stop behind a wall and watch them beating you.'
All during that dinner Nan was both amused and amusing, until a trifling little incident occurred. She and Frank King on the other side of the table had almost monopolised the conversation, although quite unwittingly; and everybody seemed to regard this as a matter of course. Now it happened that Madge, who sat next her betrothed, made some slight remark to him. Perhaps he did not hear. At all events, he did not answer, but addressed Nan instead, with reference to something she had just been saying about lifeboats. Instantly, a hurt expression came over Madge's face, and as instantly Nan saw it. From that moment she grew more reserved. She avoided addressing herself directly to Captain Frank King. She devoted herself chiefly to her mother; and when, at the end of dinner, they adjourned in a body to the billiard-room (with the happy indifference of youth) she followed Lady Beresford up to the drawing-room and would herself make tea for her.
'Do you know, Nan,' she said, quite plainly, 'that whenever you are in the room Frank pays no attention to any one else?'
'I thought he was doing his best to amuse everybody at dinner,' Nan said—though she did not raise her eyes. 'He told some very good stories.'
'Yes, to you,' Madge insisted. Then she added, 'You know I like it. I hope he will always be good friends with all the family: for you see, Nan, it will be lonely for me at Kingscourt for a while, and of course I should like to have somebody from Brighton always in the house. And I know he admires you very much. He's always talking about your character, and your disposition, and your temperament, as if he had been studying you like a doctor. I suppose I've got no character, or he would talk about that sometimes. I don't understand it—that talking about something inside you, as if it was something separate from yourself; and calling it all kinds of sentiments and virtues, as if it was clockwork you couldn't see. I don't see anything like that in you, Nan—except that you are very kind, you know—but not so different from other people—as he seems to think.'
'It doesn't much matter what he thinks, does it?' suggested Nan, gently.
'Oh no, of course not,' Madge said, promptly. 'He said I was a very good skater, considering the horrid condition of the ice. They have a large lake at Kingscourt.' Then after a pause, 'Nan, where did you learn all that about the lighthouses and the birds at night?'
'Oh, that? I really don't know. What about it?—it is of no consequence.'
'But it interests people.'
'It ought not to interest you, or Captain King either. You will have to think of very different things at Kingscourt.'
'When you and Mr. Jacomb come to Kings——'
'Madge,' said Nan, quickly, 'you must not say anything like that. I do not mean to marry Mr. Jacomb, if that is what you mean.'
'No? Honour bright?'
'I shall not marry Mr. Jacomb; and I am not likely to marry any one,' she said, calmly. 'There are other things one can give one's life to, I suppose. It would be strange if there were not.'
Madge thought for a second or two.
'Oh, Nan,' she said cheerfully, 'it would be so nice to have an old-maid sister at Kingscourt. She could do such a lot of things, and be so nice and helpful, without the fuss and pretension of a married woman. It would be really delightful to have you at Kingscourt!'
'I hope, dear, you will be happy at Kingscourt,' said Nan, in a somewhat lower voice.
'I shall never be quite happy until you come to stay there,' saidMadge, with decision.
'You will have plenty of occupation,' said Nan, absently. 'I have been thinking if a war broke out I should like to go as one of the nurses; and of course that wants training beforehand. There must be an institution of some kind, I suppose. Now, good-night, dear.'
'Good-night, Mother Nan. But we are not going to let you go away into wars. You are coming to Kingscourt. I know Frank will insist on it. And it would just be the very place for you; you see you would be in nobody's way; and you always were so fond of giving help. Oh, Nan,' her sister suddenly said, 'what is the matter? You are crying! What is it, Nan?'
Nan rose quickly.
'Crying? No—no—never mind, Madge—I am tired rather—there—good-night.'
She got her sister out of the room only in time. Her overstrained calmness had at length given way. She threw herself on the bed, and burst into a passion of weeping; and thus she lay far into the night, stifling her sobs so that no one should hear.
The process of disenchantment is one of the saddest and one of the commonest things in life; whether the cause of it be the golden youth who, apparently a very Bayard before marriage, after marriage gradually reveals himself to be hopelessly selfish, or develops a craving for brandy, or becomes merely brutal and ill-tempered; or whether it is the creature of all angelic gifts and graces who, after her marriage, destroys the romance of domestic life by her slatternly ways, or sinks into the condition of a confirmed sigher, or in time discovers to her husband that he has married a woman comprising in herself, to use the American phrase, nine distinct sorts of a born fool. These discoveries are common in life; but they generally follow marriage, which gives ample opportunities for study. Before marriage man and maid meet but at intervals; and then both are alike on their best behaviour. The slattern is no slattern now; she is always dainty and nice and neat; the golden youth is generous to a fault, and noble in all his ways; and if either or both should be somewhat foolish, or even downright stupid, the lack of wisdom is concealed by a tender smile or a soft touch of the hand. It is the dream-time of life; and it is not usual for one to awake until it is over.
But it was different with Frank King. The conditions in which he was placed were altogether peculiar. He had made two gigantic mistakes—the first in imagining that any two human beings could be alike: the second in imagining that, even if they were alike, he could transfer his affection from the one to the other—and he was now engaged in a hopeless and terrible struggle to convince himself that these were not mistakes. He would not see that Madge Beresford was very different from Nan. He was determined to find in her all he had hoped to find. He argued with himself that she was just like Nan, as Nan had been at her age. Madge was so kind, and good, and nice; of course it would all come right in the end.
At the same time, he never wished to be alone with Madge, as is the habit of lovers. Nor if he was suddenly interested in anything did he naturally turn to her, and call her attention. On the other hand, the little social circle did not seem complete when Nan, with her grave humour, and her quiet smile, and her gentle, kindly ways, was absent. When she came into the room, then satisfaction and rest were in the very air. If there was a brighter green on the sea, where a gleam of wintry sunshine struck the roughened waters, whose eyes but Nan's could see that properly? It was she whom he addressed on all occasions; perhaps unwittingly. It seemed so easy to talk to Nan. For the rest, he shut his eyes to other considerations. From the strange fascination and delight that house in Brunswick Terrace always had for him, he knew he must be in love with somebody there; and who could that be but Madge Beresford, seeing that he was engaged to her?
Unhappily for poor Madge, Frank King was now called home by the old people at Kingscourt; and for a time, at least, all correspondence between him and his betrothed would obviously have to be by letter. Madge was in great straits. A look, a smile, a touch of the fingers may make up for lack of ideas; but letter-writing peremptorily demands them, of some kind or another. As usual, Madge came to her elder sister.
'Oh, Nan, I do so hate letter-writing. I promised to write every morning. I don't know what in the world to say. It is such a nuisance.'
Nan was silent; of late she had tried to withdraw as much as possible from these confidences of her sister's; but not very successfully. Madge clung to her. Lady Beresford would not be bothered. Edith was busy with her own affairs. But Nan—old Mother Nan—who had nothing to think of but other people, might as well begin and play the old maid at once, and give counsel in these distressing affairs.
'I wish you would tell me what to say,' continued Madge, quite coolly.
'I? Oh, I cannot,' said Nan, almost shuddering, and turning away.
'But you know what interests him; for he's always talking to you,' persisted Madge, good-naturedly. 'Anybody but me would be jealous; but I'm not. The day before yesterday Mrs. —— went by; and I asked him to look at her hair, that every one is raving about; and he plainly told me your hair was the prettiest he had ever seen. Now, I don't call that polite. He might have said "except yours," if only for the look of the thing. But I don't mind—not a bit I'm very glad he likes you, Nan——'
'Madge! Madge!'
It was almost a cry wrung from the heart. But in an instant she had controlled herself again. She turned to her sister, and said with great apparent calmness,
'Surely, dear, you ought to know what to write. These are things that cannot be advised about. Letters of that kind are secret——'
'Oh, I don't care about that. I think it is stupid,' said Madge at once. 'There is no use having any pretence about it. And I don't know in the world what to write about. Look,—I have begun about the Kenyons' invitation, and asked him whether he'd mind my going. I like those little dances better than the big balls——'
She held out the letter she had begun. But Nan would not even look at it.
'It isn't usual, is it, Madge,' she said, hurriedly, 'for a girl who is engaged to go out to a dance by herself?'
'But we are all going!'
'You know what I mean. It is a compliment you should pay him not to go.'
'Well,' said Madge somewhat defiantly, 'I don't know about that. One does as one is done by. And I don't think he'd care if I went and danced the whole night through—even with Jack Hanbury.'
'Oh, how can you say such a thing!' said her sister, staring at her; for this was a new development altogether.
But Madge was not to be put down.
'Oh, I am not such a fool. I can see well enough. There isn't much romance about the whole affair; and that's the short and the long of it. Of course it's a very good arrangement for both of us, I believe; and that's what they say now-a-days—marriages are "arranged."'
'I don't know what you mean Madge! You never spoke like that before.'
'Perhaps I was afraid of frightening you; for you have high and mighty notions of things, dear Nan, for all your mouse-like ways. But don't I see very well that he is marrying to please his parents; and to settle down and be the good boy of the family? That's the meaning of the whole thing——'
'You don't mean to say, Madge,' said the elder sister, though she hesitated, and seemed to have to force herself to ask the question, 'You don't mean to say you think he does not—love you?'
At this Madge flushed up a little, and said—
'Oh, well, I suppose he does, in a kind of way, though he doesn't take much trouble about saying it. It isn't of much consequence; we shall have plenty of time afterwards. Mind, if only Jack Hanbury could get invited by the Kenyons, and I were to dance two or three times with him, and Frank get to hear of it, I suppose there would be a noble rampage:thenhe might speak out a little more.'
'Have you been dreaming Madge?' said Nan, again staring at her sister. 'What has put such monstrous things into your head? Mr. Hanbury—at the Kenyons'—and you would dance with him!'
'Well, why not?' said Madge, with a frown; for this difficulty about the letter-writing had clearly operated on her temper and made her impatient. 'All the world isn't supposed to know about the Vice-Chancellor's warning. Why shouldn't he be invited by the Kenyons? And why should he know that I am going? And why, if we both happen to be there, shouldn't we dance together? Human beings are human beings, in spite of Vice-Chancellors. They can't lock up a man for dancing with you? At all events, they can't lock me up, even if Jack is there.'
'Madge, put these things out of your head. You won't go to theKenyons', for Captain King would not like it——'
'I don't think he'd take the trouble to object,' Madge interjected.
'And Mr. Hanbury won't be there; and there will be no dancing, and no quarrel. If you wish to write to Captain King about what will interest him, write about what interests yourself. That he is sure to be interested in——'
'Well, but that is exactly what I can't write to him about. I know what I am interested in well enough. Edith has just told me Mr. Roberts has been pressing her to fix a time for their marriage. She thinks the end of April; so that they could be back in London for the latter end of the season. Now I think that would do very well for us too—and it is always nice for two sisters to get married on the same day—only Frank has never asked me a word about it, and how am I to write to him about it? So you see, wise Mother Nan, I can't write to him about what interests me.'
Nan had started somewhat when she heard this proposal; it seemed strange to her.
'April?' she said. 'You've known Captain King a very short time,Madge. You were not thinking of getting married in April next?'
'Perhaps I'd better wait until I'm asked,' said Madge, with a laugh, as she turned to go away. 'Well, if you won't tell me what to write about, I must go and get this bothered letter done somehow. I do believe the best way will be to write about you; that will interest him anyway.'
Frank King remained away for a few weeks, and during this time the first symptoms appeared of the coming spring. The days began to lengthen, there were crocuses in the gardens, there were reports of primroses and sweet violets in the woods about Horsham; in London Parliament was sitting, and in Brighton well-known faces were recognisable amongst the promenaders on the Saturday afternoons. Then Mr. Roberts, as Edith's accepted suitor, received many invitations to the house in Brunswick Terrace; and in return was most indefatigable in arranging riding-parties, driving-parties, walking-parties, with in each case a good hotel for luncheon as his objective point. Madge joined in these diversions with great good-will; and made them the excuse for the shortness of the letters addressed to Kingscourt. Nan went also; she was glad to get into the country on any pretence; and she seemed merry enough. When Mr. Roberts drove along the King's Road with these three comely damsels under his escort, he was a proud man; and he may have comforted himself with the question, that as beer sometimes led to a baronetcy, why shouldn't soda-water?
Strangely enough, Nan had entirely ceased making inquiries about sisterhoods and institutions for the training of nurses. She seemed quite reconciled to the situation of things as they were. She did not cease her long absences from the house; but every one knew that on these occasions she was off on one of her solitary wanderings; and she came home in the evening apparently more contented than ever. She had even brought herself to speak of Madge's married life, which at first she would not do.
'You see,' she said to her sister on one occasion, 'if you and Edith get married on the same day, I must remain and take care of mamma; she must not be left quite alone.'
'Oh, as for that,' said Madge, 'Mrs. Arthurs does better than the whole of us; and I'm not going to have you made a prisoner of. I'm going to have a room at Kingscourt called "Nan's room," and it shall have no other name as long as I am there. Then we shall have a proper house in London by and by; and of course you'll come up for the season, and see all the gaieties. I think we ought to have one of the red houses just by Prince's; that would be handy for everything; and you might come up, Nan, and help me to buy things for it. And you shall have a room there too, you shall; and you may decorate it and furnish it just as you like. I know quite well what you would like—the room small; the woodwork all bluey-white; plenty of Venetian embroidery flung about; all the fire-place brass; some of those green Persian plates over the mantelpiece; about thirteen thousand Chinese fans arranged like fireworks on the walls; a fearful quantity of books and a low easy-chair; red candles; and in the middle of the whole thing a nasty, dirty, little beggar-girl to feed and pet——'
'I think, Madge,' her sister said, gravely, 'that you should not set your heart on a town-house at all. Remember, old Mr. King is giving his son Kingscourt at a great sacrifice. As I understand it, it will be a long time before the family estate is what it has been; and you would be very ungrateful if you were extravagant——'
'Oh, I don't see that,' said Madge. 'They are conferring no favour on me. I don't see why I should economise. I am marrying for fun, not for love.'
She blurted out this inadvertently—to Nan's amazement and horror—but instantly retracted it, with the blood rushing to her temples.
'Of course I don't mean that, Nan—how could I have been so stupid! I don't meanthat—exactly. What I mean is that it doesn't seem to me as if it was supposed to be a very fearfully romantic match, and all that kind of thing. It's a very good arrangement; but it isn't I who ought to be expected to make sacrifices——'
'But surely your husband's interests will be yours!' exclaimed Nan.
'Oh yes, certainly,' her sister said, somewhat indifferently. 'No doubt that's true, in a way. Quite true, in a kind of way. Still, there are limits; and I should not like to be buried alive for ever in the country.'
Then she sighed.
'Poor Jack!' she said.
She went to the window.
'When I marry, I know at least one who will be sorry. I can fancy him walking up and down there—looking at the house as he used to do; and, oh! so grateful if only you went to the window for a moment. He will see it in the papers, I suppose.'
She turned to her sister, and said, triumphantly—
'Well, the Vice-Chancellor was done that time!'
'What time?'
'Valentine's morning. You can send flowers without any kind of writing to be traced. Do you think I don't know who sent me the flowers?'
'At all events, you should not be proud of it. You should be sorry.It is a very great pity——'
'Yes, that's what I think,' said Madge. 'How can I help pitying him?It wouldn't be natural not to pity him, Vice-chancellor or noVice-chancellor. I hate that man.'
'I say it is a great pity that Mr. Hanbury does not accept his dismissal as inevitable; and as for you, Madge, you ought not even to think of him. Captain King sent you that beautiful card-case on Valentine's morning; that is what you should remember.'
'Captain King could send me a white elephant if he chose,' said Madge, spitefully. 'There's no danger to him in anything he does. It's different with poor Jack.'
'Madge,' said her sister, seriously, 'do you know that you are talking as if you looked forward to this marriage with regret?'
'Oh no, I don't—I'm not such a fool,' said Madge, plainly. 'I know it's stupid to think about Jack Hanbury; but still, one has got a little feeling.'
Then she laughed.
'I will tell you another secret, Nan. If he daren't write to me he can send me things. He sent me a book—a novel—and I know he meant me to think the hero himself. For he was disappointed in love, too, and wrote beautifully about his sufferings, and at last the poor fellow blew his brains out.'
'Well, Mr. Hanbury couldn't do that, at all events—for reasons,' Nan said.
'Now that is a very bad joke,' said Madge, in a sudden outburst of temper; 'an old, stupid, bad joke, that has been made a hundred times. I'm ashamed of you, Nan. They say you have a great sense of humour; that's when you say things they can't understand; and they pretend to have a great sense of humour too. But where's the humour in that?'
'But Madge, dear,' said Nan, gently, 'I didn't mean to say anything against Mr. Hanbury——'
'In any case, there is one in this house who does not despise Mr. Hanbury for being poor,' said Madge, hotly. 'It isn't his fault that his papa and mamma haven't given him money and sent him out into the world to buy a wife!'
And therewith she quickly went to the door and opened it, and went out and shut it again with something very closely resembling a slam.
Nan waited the return of Frank King with the deepest anxiety. She would see nothing in these wild words of Madge's but an ebullition of temper. She could not bring herself to believe that her own sister—a girl with everything around her she could desire in the world—would deliberately enter upon one of those hateful marriages of convenience. It was true, Nan had to confess to herself, that Madge was not very impressionable. There was no great depth in her nature. Then she was a trifle vain, and liked admiration; and she was evidently pleased to have a handsome and certainly eligible suitor. But no—it was impossible that she had really meant what she said. When Captain King came back, then the true state of affairs would be seen. Madge was not going to marry for money or position—or even out of spite.
And when Frank King did come back, matters looked very well at first. Madge received him in a very nice, friendly fashion, and was pleased by certain messages from the old folks at Kingscourt. Nan's fears began to fade away. Nothing more was heard of Jack Hanbury. So far as Madge was concerned everything seemed right.
But Nan, who was very anxious, and on that account unusually sensitive, seemed to detect something strange in Frank King's manner. He had nothing of the gay audacity of an accepted suitor. When he paid Madge any little attention, it appeared almost an effort. He was preoccupied and thoughtful; sometimes, after regarding Madge in silence, he would apparently wake up to the consciousness that he ought to be more attentive to her; but there did not seem to be much joyousness in their relationship. When these two happened to be together—during the morning stroll down the pier, or on the way home from church, or seated at a concert—they did not seem to have many things to speak about Frank King grew more and more grave; and Nan saw it, and wondered, and quite failed to guess at the reason.
The fact was that he had now discovered what terrible mistake he had made. He could blind himself no longer. Madge was not Nan; nor anything approaching to Nan; they were as different as day and night. Face to face with this discovery, he asked himself what he ought to do. Clearly, if he had made a mistake, it was his first duty that no one else should suffer by it. Because he was disappointed in not finding in Madge certain qualities and characteristics he had expected to find, he was not going to withdraw from an engagement he had voluntarily entered into. It was not Madge's fault. If the prospect of this marriage pleased her, he was bound to fulfil his promise. After all, Madge had her own qualities. Might they not wear as well through the rough work of the world, even if they had not for him the fascination he had hoped for? In any case, the disappointment should be his, not hers. She should not suffer any slight. And then he would make another desperate resolve to be very affectionate and attentive to her; resolves which usually ended in his carrying to her some little present of flowers, or something like that, having presented which, he would turn and talk to Nan.
'I say, Beresford,' he suddenly observed, one night at dinner, 'I have an invitation to go salmon-fishing in Ireland. Will you come?'
'Well, but——' Madge interposed with an injured air, as if she ought to have been consulted first.
'I should like it tremendously!' said Mr. Tom, with a rush.
'I am told the scenery in the neighbourhood is very fine,' continued Captain King; 'at all events we are sure to think so half a dozen years hence. That is one of the grand points about one's memory; you forget all the trivial details and discomforts, and only remember the best.'
He quite naturally turned to Nan.
'I am sure, Miss Nan,' he said, 'you have quite a series of beautiful little pictures in your mind about that Splügen excursion. Don't you remember the drive along the Via Mala, in the shut-up carriage—the darkness outside—and the swish of the rain——'
'Well,' said Madge, somewhat spitefully, 'considering you were in a closed carriage and driving through darkness, I don't see much of a beautiful picture to remember!'
He did not seem to heed. It was Nan he was addressing; and there was a pleased light in her eyes. Reminiscences are to some people very delightful things.
'And you recollect the crowded saloon in the Splügen inn, and the snug little corner we got near the stove, and the little table. That's where you discovered the use of stupid people at dinner-parties——'
'What's that?' Mr. Tom demanded to know.
'It's a secret,' Captain King answered, with a laugh. 'And I think you were rather down-hearted next morning—until we began to get up through the clouds. That is a picture to remember at all events—a Christmas picture in summer time. Do you remember how green the pines looked above the snow? And how blue the sky was when the mist got driven over? And how business-like you looked in your ulster—buttoned up to the chin for resolute Alpine work. I fancy I can hear now the very chirp of your boots on the wet snow—it was very silent away up there.'
'I know,' said Nan, somewhat shamefacedly, 'that when I saw "Ristoratore" stuck up on the house near the top, I thought it was a place for restoring people found in the snow, until I heard the driver call out "Du, hole Schnapps."'
'Wasn't that a wild whirl down the other side!' he continued, delightedly. 'But you should have come into the Customs-house with me when I went to declare my cigars. You see it wouldn't do for me, who might one day get a coastguard appointment, to try on any smuggling. But I did remonstrate. I said I had already paid at Paris and at Basel; and that it was hard to have to pay three import dues on my cigars. Well, they were very civil. They said they couldn't help it. "Why not buy your cigars in the country where you smoke them?" asked an old gentleman in spectacles. "Because, Monsieur," I answered him, with the usual cheek of the English, "I prefer to smoke cigars made of tobacco." But he was quite polite. After charging me eighteen francs, he bowed me out, and said "a rivederla;" to which I responded "Oh no, thank you;" and then I found you and your sisters all laughing at me, as if I had been before a police-magistrate to be admonished.'
'You don't forget all the disagreeable details, then?' said Nan, with a smile.
But the smile vanished from her face when he began to talk about Bellagio. He did so without any covert intention. It was always a joy to him to think or talk about the time that he and the three sisters spent together far away there in the south. And it was only about the Serenata and the procession of illuminated boats that he was thinking at this moment.
'I suppose they will sooner or later have all our ships and steamers lit with the electric light; and everything will be ghastly white and ghastly black. But do you remember how soft and beautiful the masses of yellow stars were when the boats came along the lake in the darkness? It was indeed a lovely night. And I think we had the best of it—sitting there in the garden. I know I for one didn't miss the music a bit. And then it was still more lovely when the moon rose; and you could see the water, and the mountains on the other side, and even the houses by the shore. I remember there was a bush somewhere near us that scented all the air——'
Madge had been regarding her sister closely.
'It must have been a magical night,' she said quickly, 'for Nan's face has got quite white just thinking of it.'
He started. A quick glance at the girl beside him showed him that she was indeed pale; her eyes cast down; her hand trembling. Instantly he said, in a confused hurry,—
'You see, Miss Anne, there was some delay about the concert. One steamer did really come back to Bellagio. We had our serenade all the same—that is to say, any who were awake. You see, they did not intend to swindle you——'
'Oh, no! oh, no!' said Nan; and then, conscious that Madge was still regarding her, she added with a desperate effort at composure,—
'We heard some pretty music on the water at Venice. Edith picked up some of the airs. She will play them to you after dinner.'
That same night, as usual, Madge came into Nan's room, just before going off.
'Nan,' she said, looking straight at her, 'what was it upset you aboutFrank's reminding you of Bellagio?'
'Bellagio?' repeated Nan, with an effort to appear unconscious, but with her eyes turned away.
'Yes; you know very well.'
'I know that I was thinking of something quite different from anything that Captain King was saying,' Nan said, at length. 'And—and it is of no consequence to you, Madge, believe me.'
Madge regarded her suspiciously for a second, and then said, with an air of triumph,
'At all events, he isn't going to Ireland.'
'Oh, indeed,' Nan answered, gently. 'Well I'm glad; I suppose you prefer his not going?'
'It nearly came to a quarrel, I know,' said Madge, frankly. 'I thought it just a bit too cool. At all events, he ought to pretend to care a little for me.'
'Oh, Madge, how can you say such things? Care for you—and he has asked you to be his wife? Could he care for you more than that?'
'He has never even thanked me for not going to the Kenyons' ball,' saidMadge, who appeared to imagine that Nan was responsible for everythingCaptain King did or did not do.
'Surely he would take it for granted you would not go!' remonstrated the elder sister.
'But he takes everything for granted. And he scarcely ever thinks it worth while to speak to me. And I know it will be a regular bore when we go to Kingscourt, with the old people still there, and me not mistress at all; and what am I to do?'
She poured out this string of wild complaints rapidly and angrily.
'Good-night, Madge,' said Nan; 'I am rather tired to-night.'
'Good-night. But I can tell you if he hadn't given up Ireland, there would have been a row.'
It was altogether a strange condition of affairs; and next day it was apparently made worse. There had been a stiffish gale blowing all night from the south; and in the morning, though the sky was cloudless, there was a heavy sea running, so that from the windows they saw white masses of foam springing into the air—hurled back by the sea-wall at the end of Medina Terrace. When Captain King came along Mr. Tom at once proposed they should all of them take a stroll as far as the Terrace; for now the tide was full up and the foam was springing into the blue sky to a most unusual height. And, indeed, when they arrived they found a pretty big crowd collected; a good many of whom had obviously been caught unawares by the shifting and swirling masses of spray. It was a curious sight. First the great wave came rolling on with but little beyond an ominous hissing noise; then there was a heavy shock that made the earth tremble, and at the same moment a roar as of thunder; then into the clear sky rose a huge wall of gray, illuminated by the sunlight, and showing clearly and blackly the big stones and smaller shingle that had been caught and whirled up in the seething mass. Occasionally a plank of drift timber was similarly whirled up—some thirty or forty feet; disappearing altogether again as it fell crashing into the roar of the retreating wave. It was a spectacle, moreover, that changed every few seconds, as the heavy volumes of the sea hit the breakwater at different angles. The air was thick with the salt spray; and hot with the sunlight—even on this March morning.
Then it became time for Mr. Tom and Captain Frank to go and witness a challenge game of rackets that had been much talked of; and the girls walked back with them as far as Brunswick Terrace, Madge being with Frank King.
'Why is it one never sees Mr. Jacomb now?' he asked of his companion.
'I saw him only the other day,' she said evasively.
'But he does not come to the house, does he?'
'N—no,' said Madge.
'Has he left Brighton?'
'Oh no,' answered Madge, and she drew his attention to a brig that was making up Channel under very scant sail indeed.
'I daresay he has a good deal of work to do,' said Frank King absently.'When are they going to be married?'
Madge saw that the revelation could be put off no longer.
'Oh, but they are not going to be married. Nan isn't going to be married at all.'
He stared at her, as if he had scarcely heard her aright; and then he said slowly—
'Nan isn't going to be married? Why have you never told me before?'
'Oh, it is a private family matter,' said Madge, petulantly. 'It is not to be talked about. Besides, how could I know it would interest you?'
He remained perfectly silent and thoughtful. They walked along. Madge began to think she had been too ungracious.
'I suppose she tried to bring herself to it for a time,' she said, more gently. 'She has wonderful ideas, Nan has; and I suppose she thought she could do a deal of good as a clergyman's wife. For my part, I don't see what she could do more than she does at present. It's just what she's fit for. Poor people don't resent her going into their houses as they would if it was you or I. She manages it somehow. That's how she gets to know all about out-of-the-way sort of things; she's practical; and people think it strange that a young lady like her should know the ways and habits of common people; and that's why she interests them when she talks. There's nothing wonderful in it. Anybody can find out what the profit is on selling oranges, if you like to go and talk to a hideous old wretch who is smelling of gin. But I don't say anything against Nan. It's her way. It's what she was intended for by Providence, I do believe. But she was sold that time she wanted to get up a little committee to send a constant supply of books and magazines to the lighthouses—circulating you know. She wrote to Sir George about it; and found the Admiralty did that already.'