In the Year of Jubilee Part 49

'Can't you think of any man, in the society you introduced her to, who may be trying to lead her astray?'

'Really, Miss. French! The society in which I move is not what you seem to suppose. If your sister is in any danger of _that_ kind, you must make your inquiries elsewhere--in an inferior rank of life.'

Beatrice no longer contained herself.

'Perhaps I know rather more than you think about your kind of society.

There's not much to choose between the men and the women.'

'Miss. French, I believe you reside in a part of London called Camberwell. And I believe you are engaged in some kind of millinery business. This excuses you for ill-manners. All the same, I must beg you to relieve me of your presence.' She rang the bell. 'Good evening.'

'I dare say we shall see each other again,' replied Beatrice, with an insulting laugh. 'I heard some one say to-day that it might be as well to find out _who you really are_. And if any harm comes to f.a.n.n.y, I shall take a little trouble about that inquiry myself.'

Mrs. Damerel changed colour, but no movement betrayed anxiety. In the att.i.tude of dignified disdain, she kept her eyes on a point above Miss.

French's head, and stood so until the plebeian adversary had withdrawn.

Then she sat down, and for a few minutes communed with herself. In the end, instead of going to dinner, she rang her bell again. A servant appeared.

'Is Mr. Mankelow in the dining-room?'

'Yes, ma'am.'

'Ask him to be kind enough to come here for a moment.'

With little delay, Mr. Mankelow answered the summons which called him from his soup. He wore evening dress; his thin hair was parted down the middle; his smooth-shaven and rather florid face expressed the annoyance of a hungry man at so unseasonable an interruption.

'Do forgive me,' began Mrs. Damerel, in a pathetic falsetto. 'I have been so upset, I felt obliged to seek advice immediately, and no one seemed so likely to be of help to me as you--a man of the world. Would you believe that a sister of that silly little Miss. French has just been here--a downright virago--declaring that the girl has been led astray, and that I am responsible for it? Can you imagine such impertinence? She has fibbed shockingly to the people at home--told them she was constantly here with me in the evenings, when she must have been--who knows where. It will teach me to meddle again with girls of that cla.s.s.'

Mankelow stood with his hands behind him, and legs apart, regarding the speaker with a comically puzzled air.

'My dear Mrs. Damerel,'--he had a thick, military sort of voice,--'why in the world should this interpose between us and dinner? Afterwards, we might--'

'But I am really anxious about the silly little creature. It would be extremely disagreeable if my name got mixed up in a scandal of any kind. You remember my telling you that she didn't belong exactly to the working-cla.s.s. She has even a little property of her own; and I shouldn't wonder if she has friends who might make a disturbance if her--her vagaries could be in any way connected with me and my circle.

Something was mentioned about Brussels. She has been chattering about some one who wanted to take her to Brussels--'

The listener arched his eyebrows more and more.

'What _can_ it matter to you?'

'To be sure, I have no acquaintance with any one who could do such things--'

'Why, of course not. And even if you had, I understand that the girl is long out of her teens--'

'Long since.'

'Then it's her own affair--and that of the man who cares to purchase such amus.e.m.e.nt. By-the-bye, it happens rather oddly that I myself have to run over to Brussels on business; but I trust'--he laughed--'that my years and my character--'

'Oh, Mr. Mankelow, absurd! It's probably some commercial traveller, or man of that sort, don't you think? The one thing I _do_ hope is, that, if anything like this happens, the girl will somehow make it clear to her friends that _I_ had no knowledge whatever of what was going on. But that can hardly be hoped, I fear!--'

Their eyes crossed; they stood for a moment perusing vacancy.

'Yes, I think it might be hoped,' said Mankelow airily. 'She seemed to me a rather reckless sort of young person. It's highly probable she will write letters which release every one but herself from responsibility.

In fact'--he gazed at her with a cynical smile--'my knowledge of human nature disposes me to a.s.sure you that she certainly will. She might even, I should say, write a letter to _you_--perhaps a cheeky sort of letter, which would at once set your mind at ease.'

'Oh, if you really take that view--'

'I do indeed. Don't you think we might dismiss the matter, and dine?'

They did so.

Until noon of to-day, Mrs. Peachey had kept her bed, lying amid the wreck wrought by last night's madness. She then felt well enough to rise, and after refreshment betook herself by cab to the offices of Messrs Ducker, Blunt & Co., manufacturers of disinfectants, where she conversed with one of the partners, and learnt that her husband had telegraphed his intention to be absent for a day or two. Having, with the self-respect which distinguished her, related her story from the most calumnious point of view, she went home again to nurse her headache and quarrel with f.a.n.n.y. But f.a.n.n.y had in the meantime left home, and, unaccountable fact, had taken with her a large tin box and a dress-basket; heavily packed, said the servants. Her direction to the cabman was merely Westminster Bridge, which conveyed to Mrs. Peachey no sort of suggestion.

When Beatrice came back, and learnt this event, she went apart in wrathful gloom. Ada could not engage her in a quarrel. It was a wretchedly dull evening.

They talked next morning, and Beatrice announced her purpose of going to live by herself as soon as possible. But she would not quarrel. Left alone, Ada prepared to visit certain of their relatives in different parts of London, to spread among them the news of her husband's infamy.

CHAPTER 6

When Mary Woodruff unlocked the house-door and entered the little hall, it smelt and felt as though the damp and sooty fogs of winter still lingered here, untouched by the July warmth. She came alone, and straightway spent several hours in characteristic activity--airing, cleaning, brightening. For a few days there would be no servant; Mary, after her long leisure down in Cornwall, enjoyed the prospect of doing all the work herself. They had reached London last evening, and had slept at a family hotel, where Nancy remained until the house was in order for her.

Unhappily, their arrival timed with a change of weather, which brought clouds and rain. The glories of an unshadowed sky would have little more than availed to support Nancy's courage as she pa.s.sed the creaking little gate and touched the threshold of a home to which she returned only on compulsion; gloom overhead, and puddles underfoot, tried her spirit sorely. She had a pale face, and thin cheeks, and moved with languid step.

Her first glance was at the letter-box.

'Nothing?'

Mary shook her head. During their absence letters had been re-addressed by the post-office, and since the notice of return nothing had come.

'I'm quite sure a letter has been lost.'

'Yes, it may have been. But there'll be an answer to your last very soon.'

'I don't think so. Most likely I shall never hear again.'

And Nancy sat by the window of the front room, looking, as she had looked so many a time, at the lime tree opposite and the house visible through wet branches. A view unchanged since she could remember; recalling all her old ambitions, revolts, pretences, and ignorances; recalling her father, who from his grave still oppressed her living heart.

Somewhere near sounded the wailing shout of a dustman. It was like the voice of a soul condemned to purge itself in filth.

'Mary!' She rose up and went to the kitchen. 'I can't live here! It will kill me if I have to live in this dreadful place. Why, even you have been crying; I can see you have. If _you_ give way, think what it must be to me!'

'It's only for a day or two, dear,' answered Mary. 'We shall feel at home again very soon. Miss. Morgan will come this evening, and perhaps your brother.'

'I must do something. Give me some work.'

Mary could not but regard this as a healthy symptom, and she suggested tasks that called for moderate effort. Sick of reading--she had read through a whole circulating library in the past six months--Nancy bestirred herself about the house; but she avoided her father's room.