In the Year of Jubilee

Which epistle Nancy cruelly read aloud to Mary, with a sprightliness and sarcastic humour not excelled by her criticisms of ‘the Prophet’ in days gone by. Mary did not quite understand, but she saw in this behaviour a proof of the wonderful courage with which Nancy faced her troubles.

A week had passed, and no news from America.

‘I don’t care,’ said Nancy. ‘Really and truly, I don’t care. Yesterday I never once thought of it—never once looked for the postman. The worst is over now, and he may write or not, as he likes.’

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

‘Only illness or death would explain it so as to make me forgive him. But he isn’t ill. He is alive, and enjoying himself.’

There was no bitterness in her voice. She seemed to have outlived all sorrows and anxieties relative to her husband.

Mary suggested that it was always possible to call at Mr. Vawdrey’s house and make inquiries of Mrs. Baker.

‘No, I won’t do that. Other women would do it, but I won’t. So long as I mayn’t tell the truth, I should only set them talking about me; you know how. I see the use, now, of having a good deal of pride. I’m only sorry for those letters I wrote when I wasn’t in my senses. If he writes now, I shall not answer. He shall know that I am as independent as he is. What a blessed thing it is for a woman to have money of her own! It’s because most women haven’t, that they’re such poor, wretched slaves.’

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

‘Who can say?—No, I won’t pretend to think worse of him than I do. You’re quite right. He wouldn’t leave his wife to starve. It’s certain that he hears about me from some one. If I were found out, and lost everything, some one would let him know. But I wouldn’t accept support from him, now. He might provide for his child, but he shall never provide for me, come what may—never!’

It was in the evening, after dinner. Nancy had a newspaper, and was reading the advertisements that offered miscellaneous employment.

‘What do you think this can be?’ she asked, looking up after a long silence. ‘“To ladies with leisure. Ladies desiring to add to their income by easy and pleasant work should write”’—&c. &c.

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

‘No; of course it’s rubbish. There’s no easy and pleasant way of earning money; only silly people expect it. And I don’t want anything easy or pleasant. I want honest hard work. Not work with my hands—I’m not suited for that, but real work, such as lots of educated girls are doing. I’m quite willing to pay for learning it; most likely I shall have to. Who could I write to for advice?’

They were sitting upstairs, and so did not hear a visitor’s knock that sounded at the front door. The servant came and announced that Miss. French wished to see Miss. Lord.

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

The girl could not say; she had repeated the name given to her. Nancy spoke to her friend in a low voice.

‘It may be Fanny. I don’t think Beatrice would call, unless it’s to say something about her sister. She had better come up here, I suppose?’

Mary retired, and in a few moments there entered, not Fanny, but Beatrice. She was civilly, not cordially, welcomed. Her eye, as she spoke the words natural at such a meeting, dwelt with singular persistency on Nancy’s face.

‘You are quite well again?’

‘Quite, thank you.’

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

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

‘I had a sort of low fever—was altogether out of sorts—“below par,” the doctor said. Are you all well?’

Settling herself comfortably, as if for a long chat, Beatrice sketched with some humour the course of recent events in De Crespigny Park.

‘I’m out of it all, thank goodness. I prefer a quiet life. Then there’s Fanny. You know all about her, I dare say?’

‘Nothing at all,’ Nancy replied distantly.

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

Nancy was in no mood to submit to examination.

‘Whatever I may have heard, I know nothing about Fanny’s, affairs, and, really, they don’t concern me.

‘I should have thought they might,’ rejoined the other, smiling absently. ‘She has run away from her friends’—a pause—‘and is living somewhere rather mysteriously’—another pause—‘and I think it more than likely that she’s married.’

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

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

‘If it’s true,’ was the blunt reply.

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

‘Yes, I am glad of that.’

Beatrice mused, with wrinkles at the corner of her eye. Then, fixing Nancy with a very keen look, she said quietly:

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

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

‘I have an idea who the man is,’ Miss. French pursued; ‘but I can’t be quite certain. One has heard of similar cases. Even you have, no doubt?’

‘I don’t care to talk about it,’ fell mechanically from Nancy’s lips, which had lost their colour.

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

The eyes of mocking scrutiny would not be resisted. They drew a gaze from Nancy, and then a haughty exclamation.

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

‘Don’t be angry with me. You were always too ready at taking offence. I mean it in quite a friendly way; you can trust me; I’m not one of the women that chatter. Don’t you think you ought to sympathise a little with Fanny? She has gone to Brussels, or somewhere about there. But she might have gone down into Cornwall—to a place like Falmouth. It was quite far enough off—don’t you think?’

Nancy was stricken mute, and her countenance would no longer disguise what she suffered.

‘No need to upset yourself,’ pursued the other in smiling confidence. ‘I mean no harm. I’m curious, that’s all; just want to know one or two things. We’re old friends, and whatever you tell me will go no further, depend upon that.’

‘What do you mean?’

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

‘Is it any one that I know?’

‘Any one—? Who—?’

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

Nancy heaved a sigh, the result of holding her breath too long. She half rose, and sat down again. In a torture of flashing thoughts, she tried to determine whether Beatrice had any information, or spoke conjecturally. Yet she was able to discern that either case meant disaster; to have excited the suspicions of such a person, was the same as being unmasked; an inquiry at Falmouth, and all would at once be known.

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

Driven to bay by such an opponent, she assumed an air wholly unnatural to her—one of cynical effrontery.

‘You had better say what you know.’

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

‘That’s asking a question.’

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

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

‘That’s more like it,’ said Miss. French cheerfully. ‘Now we shall get on together. It’s very shocking, my dear. A person of my strict morality hardly knows how to look you in the face. Perhaps you had rather I didn’t try. Very well. Now tell me all about it, comfortably. I have a guess, you know.’

‘What is it?’

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

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

Beatrice stared incredulously.

‘I wouldn’t tell fibs, Nancy.’

‘I’m telling the truth.’

‘It’s very queer, then.’

‘Who did you think—?’

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

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

Nancy’s defiant gaze, shame in anguish shielding itself with the front of audacity, changed to utter astonishment. The blood rushed back into her cheeks; she voiced a smothered exclamation of scorn.

‘The father of my child? Luckworth Crewe?’

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

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

Surprised both at the denial, so obviously true, and at the unexpected tone with which Nancy was meeting her attack, Miss. French sat meditative.

‘It’s no use guessing,’ she said at length, with complete good-humour. ‘I don’t know of any one else.’

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

‘As you please. It’s a queer thing; I felt pretty sure. But if you’re telling the truth, I don’t care a rap who the man is.’

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

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

‘Yes. Wait here a moment.’

She left the room, and returned with the note which Crewe had addressed to her from the hotel at Falmouth.

‘Read that, and look at the date.’

Beatrice studied the document, and in silence canvassed the possibilities of trickery. No; it was genuine evidence. She remembered the date of Crewe’s journey to Falmouth, and, in this new light, could interpret his quarrelsome behaviour after he had returned. Only the discovery she had since made inflamed her with a suspicion which till then had never entered her mind.

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

‘Of course not.’.

‘All right. Don’t suppose I wanted to insult you. I took it for granted you were married. Of course it happened before your father’s death, and his awkward will obliged you to keep it dark?’

Again Nancy was smitten with fear. Deeming Miss. French an unscrupulous enemy, she felt that to confess marriage was to abandon every hope. Pride appealed to her courage, bade her, here and now, have done with the ignoble fraud; but fear proved stronger. She could not face exposure, and all that must follow.

She spoke coldly, but with down-dropt eyes.

‘I am not married.’

The words cost her little effort. Practically, she had uttered them before; her overbold replies were an admission of what, from the first, she supposed Beatrice to charge her with—not secret wedlock, but secret shame. Beatrice, however, had adopted that line of suggestion merely from policy, hoping to sting the proud girl into avowal of a legitimate union; she heard the contrary declaration with fresh surprise.

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

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

‘Don’t distress yourself,’ continued the other. ‘Not a soul will hear of it from me. If you like to tell me more, you can do it quite safely; I’m no blabber, and I’m not a rascal. I should never have troubled to make inquiries about you, down yonder, if it hadn’t been that I suspected Crewe. That’s a confession, you know; take it in return for yours.’

Nancy was tongue-tied. A full sense of her humiliation had burst upon her. She, who always condescended to Miss. French, now lay smirched before her feet, an object of vulgar contempt.

‘What does it matter?’ went on Beatrice genially. ‘You’ve got over the worst, and very cleverly. Are you going to marry him when you come in for your money?’

‘Perhaps—I don’t know—’

She faltered, no longer able to mask in impudence, and hardly restraining tears. Beatrice ceased to doubt, and could only wonder with amusement.

‘Why shouldn’t we be good friends, Nancy? I tell you, I am no rascal. I never thought of making anything out of your secret—not I. If it had been Crewe, marriage or no marriage—well, I might have shown my temper. I believe I have a pretty rough side to my tongue; but I’m a good enough sort if you take me in the right way. Of course I shall never rest for wondering who it can be—’

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

‘Perhaps you’ll tell me some other time. But there’s one thing I should like to ask about, and it’s for your own good that I should know it. When Crewe was down there, don’t you think he tumbled to anything?’

Perplexed by unfamiliar slang, Nancy raised her eyes.

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

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

‘I gave it very little thought,’ replied Nancy, able now to command a steady voice, and retiring behind a manner of frigid indifference.

‘No? Well, of course I understand that better now I know that you can’t lose anything. Still, it is to be hoped he didn’t go asking questions. By-the-bye, you may as well just tell me: he has asked you to marry him, hasn’t he?’

‘Yes.’

Beatrice nodded.

‘Doesn’t matter. You needn’t be afraid, even if he got hold of anything. He isn’t the kind of man to injure you out of spite.’

‘I fear him as little as I fear you.’

‘Well, as I’ve told you, you needn’t fear me at all. I like you better for this—a good deal better than I used to. If you want any help, you know where to turn; I’ll do whatever I can for you; and I’m in the way of being useful to my friends. You’re cut up just now; it’s natural. I won’t bother you any longer. But just remember what I’ve said. If I can be of any service, don’t be above making use of me.’

Nancy heard without heeding; for an anguish of shame and misery once more fell upon her, and seemed to lay waste her soul.

Part V: Compassed Round

CHAPTER 1

There needed not Mary Woodruff’s suggestion to remind Nancy that no further away than Champion Hill were people of whom, in extremity, she might inquire concerning her husband. At present, even could she have entertained the thought, it seemed doubtful whether the Vawdrey household knew more of Tarrant’s position and purposes than she herself; for, only a month ago, Jessica Morgan had called upon the girls and had ventured a question about their cousin, whereupon they answered that he was in America, but that he had not written for a long time. To Mrs. Baker, Jessica did not like to speak on the subject, but probably that lady could have answered only as the children did.

Once, indeed, a few days after her return, Nancy took the familiar walk along Champion Hill, and glanced, in passing, at Mr. Vawdrey’s house; afterwards, she shunned that region. The memories it revived were infinitely painful. She saw herself an immature and foolish girl, behaving in a way which, for all its affectation of reserve and dignity, no doubt offered to such a man as Lionel Tarrant a hint that here, if he chose, he might make a facile conquest. Had he not acted upon the hint? It wrung her heart with shame to remember how, in those days, she followed the lure of a crude imagination. A year ago? Oh, a lifetime!

Unwilling, now, to justify herself with the plea of love; doubtful, in very truth, whether her passion merited that name; she looked back in the stern spirit of a woman judging another’s frailty. What treatment could she have anticipated at the hands of her lover save that she had received? He married her—it was much; he forsook her—it was natural. The truth of which she had caught troublous glimpses in the heyday of her folly now stood revealed as pitiless condemnation. Tarrant never respected her, never thought of her as a woman whom he could seriously woo and wed. She had a certain power over his emotions, and not the sensual alone; but his love would not endure the test of absence. From the other side of the Atlantic he saw her as he had seen her at first, and shrank from returning to the bondage which in a weak moment he had accepted.

One night about this time she said to herself:

‘I was his mistress, never his wife.’

And all her desperate endeavours to obscure the history of their love, to assert herself as worthy to be called wife, mother, had fallen fruitless. Those long imploring letters, despatched to America from her solitude by the Cornish sea, elicited nothing but a word or two which sounded more like pity than affection. Pity does not suffice to recall the wandering steps of a man wedded against his will.

In her heart, she absolved him of all baseness. The man of ignoble thought would have been influenced by her market value as a wife. Tarrant, all the more because he was reduced to poverty, would resolutely forget the crude advantage of remaining faithful to her.

Herein Nancy proved herself more akin to her father than she had ever seemed when Stephen Lord sought eagerly in her character for hopeful traits.

The severity of her self-judgment, and the indulgence tempering her attitude towards Tarrant, declared a love which had survived its phase of youthful passion. But Nancy did not recognise this symptom of moral growth. She believed herself to have become indifferent to her husband, and only wondered that she did not hate him. Her heart seemed to spend all its emotion on the little being to whom she had given life—a healthy boy, who already, so she fancied, knew a difference between his mother and his nurse, and gurgled a peculiar note of contentment when lying in her arms. Whether wife or not, she claimed every privilege of motherhood. Had the child been a weakling, she could not have known this abounding solace: the defect would have reproached her. But from the day of his birth he manifested so vigorous a will to live, clung so hungrily to the fountain-breast, kicked and clamoured with such irresistible self-assertion, that the mother’s pride equalled her tenderness. ‘My own brave boy! My son!’ Wonderful new words: honey upon the lips and rapture to the ear. She murmured them as though inspired with speech never uttered by mortal.

The interval of a day between her journeys to see the child taxed her patience; but each visit brought a growth of confidence. No harm would befall him: Mary had chosen wisely.

Horace kept aloof and sent no message. When at length she wrote to him a letter all of sisterly kindness, there came a stinted reply. He said that he was going away for a holiday, and might be absent until September. ‘Don’t bother about me. You shall hear again before long. There’s just a chance that I may go in for business again, with prospect of making money. Particulars when I see you.’

Nancy found this note awaiting her after a day’s absence from home, and with it another. To her surprise, Mrs. Damerel had written. ‘I called early this afternoon, wishing particularly to see you. Will you please let me know when I should find you at home? It is about Horace that I want to speak.’ It began with ‘My dear Nancy,’ and ended, ‘Yours affectionately.’ Glad of the opportunity thus offered, she answered at once, making an appointment for the next day.

When Mrs. Damerel came, Nancy was even more struck than at their former meeting with her resemblance to Horace. Eyes and lips recalled Horace at every moment. This time, the conversation began more smoothly. On both sides appeared a disposition to friendliness, though Nancy only marked her distrust in the hope of learning more about this mysterious relative and of being useful to her brother.

‘You have a prejudice against me,’ said the visitor, when she had inquired concerning Nancy’s health. ‘It’s only natural. I hardly seem to you a real relative, I’m afraid—you know so little about me; and now Horace has been laying dreadful things to my charge.’

‘He thinks you responsible for what has happened to Fanny French,’ Nancy replied, in an impartial voice.

‘Yes, and I assure you he is mistaken. Miss. French deceived him and her own people, leading them to think that she was spending her time with me, when really she was—who knows where? To you I am quite ready to confess that I hoped something might come between her and Horace; but as for plotting—really lam not so melodramatic a person. All I did in the way of design was to give Horace an opportunity of seeing the girl in a new light. You can imagine very well, no doubt, how she conducted herself. I quite believe that Horace was getting tired and ashamed of her, but then came her disappearance, and that made him angry with me.’

Even the voice suggested Horace’s tones, especially when softened in familiar dialogue. Nancy paid closer attention to the speaker’s looks and movements than to the matter of what she said. Mrs. Damerel might possibly be a well-meaning woman—her peculiarities might result from social habits, and not from insincerity; yet Nancy could not like her. Everything about her prompted a question and a doubt. How old was she? Probably much older than she looked. What was her breeding, her education? Probably far less thorough than she would have one believe. Was she in good circumstances? Nancy suspected that her fashionable and expensive dress signified extravagance and vanity rather than wealth.

‘I have brought a letter to show you which she has sent me from abroad. Read it, and form your own conclusion. Is it the letter of an injured innocent?’

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

DEAR MRS DAMEREL,—Just a word to console you for the loss of my society. I have gone to a better world, so dry your tears. If you see my masher, tell him I’ve met with somebody a bit more like a man. I should advise him to go to school again and finish his education. I won’t trouble you to write. Many thanks for the kindness you didn’t mean to do me.—Yours in the best of spirits (I don’t mean Cognac),

FANNY (nee) FRENCH.

Nancy returned the paper with a look of disgust, saying, ‘I didn’t think she was as bad as that.’

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

‘Do you think it likely she is married?’

Mrs. Damerel pursed her lips and arched her eyebrows with so unpleasant an effect on Nancy that she looked away.

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

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

‘I hope not—I think not. But my purpose in coming was to consult with you about the poor boy. He has renounced me; he won’t answer my letters; and I am so dreadfully afraid that a sort of despair—it sounds ridiculous, but he is so very young—may drive him into reckless living. You have taken part with him against me, I fear—’

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

‘How kind of you!’ Mrs. Damerel sank her voice to a sort of cooing, not unmelodious, but to Nancy’s ear a hollow affectation. ‘If we could understand each other! I am so anxious for your dear brother’s happiness—and for yours, believe me. I have suffered greatly since he told me I was his enemy, and cast me off.’

Here sounded a note of pathos which impressed the critical listener. There was a look, too, in Mrs. Damerel’s eyes quite unlike any that Nancy had yet detected.

‘What do you wish him to do?’ she asked. ‘If I must tell you the truth, I don’t think he’ll get any good in the life of society.’

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

‘He won’t; I can see that. I don’t wish him to live idly. The question is, What ought he to do? I think you know a gentleman of his acquaintance, Mr. Crewe?’

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

‘I know him a little.’

‘Something has been said, I believe, about Horace investing money in Mr. Crewe’s business. Do you think it would be advisable?’

Surprise kept Nancy silent.

‘Is Mr. Crewe trustworthy? I understand he has been in business for himself only a short time.’

Nancy declared herself unable to judge Mr. Crewe, whether in private or in commercial life. And here she paused, but could not refrain from adding the question whether Mrs. Damerel had personal knowledge of him.

‘I have met him once.’

Immediately, all Nancy’s suspicions were revived. She had felt a desire to talk of intimate things, with mention of her mother’s name; but the repulsion excited in her by this woman’s air of subtlety, by looks, movements, tones which she did not understand, forbade it. She could not speak with satisfaction even of Horace, feeling that Mrs. Damerel’s affection, however genuine, must needs be baleful. From this point her part in the dialogue was slight.