Nancy Part 33

In two minutes the butler enters and announces "Mrs. Huntley," and the "plain woman--not very young--about thirty--who cannot be very strong, as she sat down through the Psalms," enters.

At first she seems uncertain _which_ to greet as bride and hostess; indeed, I can see that her earliest impulse is to turn from the small insignificance in silk, to the tall little loveliness in cotton, and as I perceive it, a little arrow--not of jealousy, for, thank G.o.d, I never was jealous of our Barbara--never--but of pain at my so palpable inferiority, shoots through all my being. But Barbara draws back, and our visitor perceives her error. We sit down, but the brunt of the talk falls on Barbara. I am never glib with strangers, and I throw in a word only now and then, all my attention and observation having pa.s.sed into my eyes. A plain woman, indeed! I have always been convinced of the unbecomingness of church, but _now_ more than ever am I fully persuaded of it. And yet she is not pretty! Her mouth is very wide, that is perhaps why she so rarely laughs; her nose cannot say much for itself; her cheeks are thin, and I _think_--nay, let me tell truth--I _hope_ that in a low gown she would be _scraggy_, so slight even to meagreness is she! But how thoroughly made the most of! What a shapeless pin-cus.h.i.+on fit my gown seems beside the admirable French sit of hers!

How hard, how metallic its tint beside the indefinite softness of that sweep of smoke-color! What a stiff British erection my hair feels beside the careless looseness of these s.h.i.+ning twists! What a fine, slight hand, as if cut in faint gray stone!

At each fresh detail that I note, Musgrave's anecdote gains ever more and more probability; and my heart sinks ever lower and more low.

_One_ hope remains to me. Perhaps she may be stupid! Certainly she is not _affording_.

How heavily poor Barbara is driving through the fine weather and the _Times_! and how little more than "yes" and "no" does she get! I take heart. Roger loves people who talk--people who are merry and make jests.

It was my most worthless gabble that first drew him toward me. Cheered and emboldened by this thought, I swoop down like a sudden eagle to the rescue.

"You know Rog--, my husband, do not you?" I say, with an abrupt bluntness that contrasts finely with the languid gentleness with which her little remarks steal out like mice. _Mine_ rushes forth like a desolating bomb-sh.e.l.l.

"A little--yes."

"You knew him in India, did not you?" say I, unable to resist the temptation of seizing this opportunity to gratify my curiosity, drawing my chair a little nearer hers, and speaking with an eagerness which I, in vain, try to stifle.

"Yes," smiling sweetly, "in India."

"He was there a long time," continue I, communicatively.

"Yes."

(Well, she _is_ baffling! when she does not say "yes" affirmatively, she says it interrogatively.)

"All the same he did not like it," I go on, with amicable volubility; "but I dare say you know that. They say--" (reddening as I feel, perceptibly, and nervously twisting my pocket-handkerchief round my fingers)--"that people are so sociable in India: now, I dare say you saw a good deal of him."

"Yes; we met several times."

She is smiling again. There is not a shade of hesitation or unreadiness in her low voice, nor does the faintest tinge of color stain the fine pallor of her cheeks.

(It _must_ have been a lie!)

"_Your_ husband, too, is out--" I pause; not sure of the locality, but she does not help me, so I add lamely, "_somewhere_, is not he?"

"He is in the West Indies."

"In the West Indies!" cry I, with animation, drawing my chair yet a little nearer hers, and feeling positively friendly; "why, that is where _mine_ is too!"

"Yes?"

"We are companions in misfortune," cry I, heartily; "we must keep up each other's spirits, must not we?"

Another smile, but no verbal answer.

A noise of feet coming across the hall--of manly whistling makes itself heard. The door opens and Algy enters. It is clear that he is unaware of there being any stranger present, for his hat is on his head, his hands are in his pockets, and he only stops whistling to observe:

"Well, Nancy! any more aborigines?" then he breaks suddenly off, and we all grow red--he himself beaming of as lively a scarlet as the new tunic that he tried on last night. I make a hurried and confused presentation, in which I manage to slur over into unintelligibility and utter doubtfulness the names of the two people made known to one another.

"One more aborigine, you see!" says Mrs. Huntley, to my surprise--after the experience I have had of her fine taste in monosyllables--beginning the conversation. I look at her with a little wonder. Her voice is quite as low as ever, but there is an accent of playfulness in it; and on her face a sparkle of _esprit_, whose possible existence I had not conjectured. Certainly, she showed no symptom of playfulness or _esprit_ during our late talk. I have yet to learn that to some women, the presence of a man--not _the_ man, but _a_ man--any man--is what warm rain is to flowers athirst. I am still marveling at this metamorphosis, when the door again opens, and another guest is announced--an old man, as great a stranger to us as is the rest of the neighborhood, but of whom we quickly discover that he is deadly, deadly deaf. For five minutes, I bawl at him a series of remarks, each and all of which he misunderstands. He does it so invariably, that I come at length to the conclusion that he is doing it on purpose, and stop talking in a huff.

Then Barbara takes her turn--Barbara can always make deaf people hear better than I do, though she does not speak to them nearly so loud, and I rest on my oars. Owing to my position between the two couples, I can hear what is pa.s.sing between Algy and Mrs. Huntley.

To tell the truth, I do not take much pains to avoid hearing it, for surely they can have no secrets. They are sitting rather close together, and speaking in a low key, but I am so used to _his_ voice, and her articulation is so distinct, that I do not miss a word.

"I think I had the pleasure of seeing you in church, last Sunday," Algy says, rather diffidently; not having yet quite recovered from the humiliation engendered by his unfortunate remark.

She nods.

"And I you," with a gently rea.s.suring smile.

"Did you, really? did you see me--I mean us?"

"Yes, I saw you," with a delicate inflection of voice, which somehow confines the application of the remark to him. "I made up my mind--one takes ideas into one's head, you know--I made up my mind that you were a _soldier_; one can mostly tell."

He laughs the flattered, fluttered laugh, that _my_ rough speech was never known to provoke in living man.

"Yes, I am; at least, I am going to be; I join this week."

"Yes?" with a pretty air of attention and interest.

"We--we--found out who _you_ were," he says, laughing again, with a little embarra.s.sment, and edging his chair nearer hers; "we asked Musgrave!"

"Mr. Musgrave!" (with a little tone of alert curiosity)--"oh! you know _him_?"

"I know him! I should think so: he is quite a tame cat here."

"Yes?"

"Have you any _children_?" cry I, suddenly, bundling with my usual fine tact head-foremost into the conversation (where I am clearly not wanted, and altogether forgetting Barbara's warning injunction) with my unnecessary and malapropos query. For a moment she looks only astonished; then an expression of pain crosses her face, and a slight contraction pa.s.ses over her features. Evidently, she _had_ a child, and it is _dead_. She is going to _cry_! At this awful thought, I grow scarlet, and Algy darts a furious look at me. What _have_ I said? I have outdone myself. How far worse a case than the fugitive wife whose destiny I was so resolute to learn from her injured husband!

"I am so sorry," I stammer--"I never thought--I did not know--"

"It is of no consequence," she answers, speaking with some difficulty, and with a slight but quite musical tremor in her voice--very different from the ugly gulpings and catchings of the breath which always set off _my_ tears--"but the fact is, that I _have_ one little one--and--and--she no longer lives with me; my husband's people have taken her; I am sure that they meant it for the best; only--only--I am afraid I cannot quite manage to talk of her yet" (turning away from me, and looking up into Algy's face with a showery smile). Then, as if unable to run the risk of any other further shock to her feelings, she rises and takes her leave; Algy eagerly attending her to the door.

The old deaf gentleman departs at the same time, loading Barbara with polite parting messages to her husband, and bowing distantly to _me_.

Algy reenters presently, looking cross and ruffled.

"You really are _too_ bad, Nancy!" he says, harshly, throwing himself into the chair lately occupied by Mrs. Huntley. "You grow worse every day--one would think you did it on purpose--riding rough-shod over people's feelings."

I stand aghast. Formerly, I used not to mind rough words; but I think Roger must have spoilt me; they make me wince now.

"But--but--it was not _dead_!" I say, whimpering; "it had only gone to visit its grandmother."

"Never you mind, my Nancy!" says Barbara, in a whisper, drawing me away to the window, and pressing her soft, cool lips, to the flushed misery of my cheeks; "she was not hurt a bit! her eyes were as dry as a bone!"