‘Where are your friends?’
‘That’s more than I can tell you.’
They laughed together.
‘It’s a miracle we’ve been able to meet,’ said Crewe. ‘I had to thrash a fellow five minutes ago, and was precious near getting run in. Shall we go the Tottenham Court Road way? Look out! You’d better hold on to my arm. These big crossings are like whirlpools; you might go round and round, and never get anywhere. Don’t be afraid; if any one runs up against you, I’ll knock him down.’
‘There wouldn’t be room for him to fall,’ said Nancy, wild with merriment, as they swayed amid the uproar. For the first time she understood how perilous such a crowd might be. A band of roisterers, linked arm in arm, were trying to break up the orderly march of thousands into a chaotic fight. The point for which Crewe made was unattainable; just in front of him a woman began shrieking hysterically; another fainted, and dropped into her neighbour’s arms.
‘Don’t get frightened!’
‘Not I! I like it. It’s good fun.’
‘You’re the right sort, you are. But we must get out of this. It’s worse than the pit-door on the first night of a pantomime. I must hold you up; don’t mind.’
His arm encircled her body, and for a moment now and then he carried rather than led her. They were safe at length, in the right part of Oxford Street, and moving with the stream.
‘I couldn’t find your brother,’ Crewe had leisure to say; ‘and I didn’t see Fanny French. There weren’t many people about just then, either. They must have gone off before I came.’
‘Yes, they must. It doesn’t matter.’
‘You have some life in you.’ He gazed at her admiringly. ‘You’re worth half a million of the girls that squeak and wobble when there’s a bit of rough play going on.’
‘I hope so. Did you set me down as one of that kind?’
Nancy found that her tongue had achieved a liberty suitable to the occasion. She spoke without forethought, and found pleasure in her boldness.
‘Not I,’ Crewe answered. ‘But I never had a chance before now of telling you what I thought.’
Some one in front of them ignited a Bengal light and threw it into the air; the flame flashed across Nancy’s features, and fell upon the hat of a man near her.
‘How do you mean to get home?’ asked Crewe presently. Nancy explained that all her party were to meet on the other side of the river.
‘Oh, then, there’s plenty of time. When you’ve had enough of this kind of thing we can strike off into the quiet streets. If you were a man, which I’m glad you’re not, I should say I was choking for a glass of beer.’
‘Say it, and look for a place where you can quench your thirst.’
‘It must be a place, then, where you can come in as well. You don’t drink beer, of course, but we can get lemonade and that kind of thing. No wonder we get thirsty; look up there.’
Following the direction of his eyes, Nancy saw above the heads of the multitude a waving dust-canopy, sent up by myriad tramplings on the sun-scorched streets. Glare of gas illumined it in the foreground; beyond, it dimmed all radiance like a thin fog.
‘We might cut across through Soho,’ he pursued, ‘and get among the restaurants. Take my arm again. Only a bit of cross-fighting, and we shall be in the crowd going the other way. Did you do physics at school? Remember about the resultant of forces? Now we’re a force tending to the right, and the crowd is a force making for straight on; to find the—’
His hat was knocked over his eyes, and the statement of the problem ended in laughter.
With a good deal of difficulty they reached one of the southward byways; and thenceforth walking was unimpeded.
‘You know that I call myself Luckworth Crewe,’ resumed Nancy’s companion after a short silence.
‘Of course I do.’
‘Well, the fact is, I’ve no right to either of the names. I thought I’d just tell you, for the fun of the thing; I shouldn’t talk about it to any one else that I know. They tell me I was picked up on a doorstep in Leeds, and the wife of a mill-hand adopted me. Their name was Crewe. They called me Tom, but somehow it isn’t a name I care for, and when I was grown up I met a man called Luckworth, who was as kind as a father to me, and so I took his name in place of Tom. That’s the long and short of it.’
Nancy looked a trifle disconcerted.
‘You won’t think any worse of me, because I haven’t a name of my own?’
‘Why should I? It isn’t your fault.’
‘No. But I’m not the kind of man to knuckle under. I think myself just as good as anybody else I’ll knock the man down that sneers at me; and I won’t thank anybody for pitying me; that’s the sort of chap I am. And I’m going to have a big fortune one of these days. It’s down in the books. I know I shall live to be a rich man, just as well as I know that I’m walking down Dean Street with Miss. Lord.’
‘I should think it very possible,’ his companion remarked.
‘It hasn’t begun yet. I can only lay my hand on a few hundred pounds, one way and another. And I’m turned thirty. But the next ten years are going to do it. Do you know what I did last Saturday? I got fifteen hundred pounds’ worth of advertising for our people, from a chap that’s never yet put a penny into the hands of an agent. I went down and talked to him like a father. He was the hardest nut I ever had to crack, but in thirty-five minutes I’d got him—like a roach on a hook. And it’ll be to his advantage, mind you. That fifteen hundred ‘ll bring him in more business than he’s had for ten years past. I got him to confess he was going down the hill. “Of course,” I said, “because you don’t know how to advertise, and won’t let anybody else know for you?” In a few minutes he was telling me he’d dropped more than a thousand on a patent that was out of date before it got fairly going. “All right,” said I. “Here’s your new cooking-stove. You’ve dropped a thousand on the other thing; give your advertising to us, and I’ll guarantee you shall come home on the cooking-stove.”’
‘Come home on it?’ Nancy inquired, in astonishment.
‘Oh, it’s our way of talking,’ said the other, with his hearty laugh. ‘It means to make up one’s loss. And he’ll do it. And when he has, he’ll think no end of me.’
‘I daresay.’
‘Not long ago, I boxed a chap for his advertising. A fair turn-up with the gloves. Do you suppose I licked him? Not I; though I could have done it with one hand. I just let him knock me out of time, and two minutes after he put all his business into my hands.’
‘Oh, you’ll get rich,’ declared Nancy, laughing. ‘No doubt about it.’
‘There was a spot down the South Western Railway where we wanted to stick up a board, a great big board, as ugly as they make ‘em. It was in a man’s garden; a certain particular place, where the trains slow, and folks have time to read the advertisement and meditate on it. That chap wouldn’t listen. What! spoil his garden with our da——with our confounded board! not for five hundred a year! Well, I went down, and I talked to him—’
‘Like a father,’ put in Nancy.
‘Just so, like a father. “Look here,” said I, “my dear sir, you’re impeding the progress of civilisation. How could we have become what we are without the modern science and art of advertising? Till advertising sprang up, the world was barbarous. Do you suppose people kept themselves clean before they were reminded at every corner of the benefits of soap? Do you suppose they were healthy before every wall and hoarding told them what medicine to take for their ailments? Not they indeed! Why, a man like you—an enlightened man, I see it in your face (he was as ugly as Ben’s bull-dog), ought to be proud of helping on the age.” And I made him downright ashamed of himself. He asked me to have a bit of dinner, and we came to terms over the cheese.’
In this strain did Luckworth Crewe continue to talk across the gloomy solitudes of Soho. And Nancy would on no account have had him cease. She was fascinated by his rough vigour and by his visions of golden prosperity. It seemed to her that they reached very quickly the restaurant he had in view. With keen enjoyment of the novelty, she followed him between tables where people were eating, drinking, smoking, and took a place beside him on a cushioned seat at the end of the room.
‘I know you’re tired,’ he said. ‘There’s nearly half-an-hour before you need move.’
Nancy hesitated in her choice of a refreshment. She wished to have something unusual, something that fitted an occasion so remarkable, yet, as Crewe would of course pay, she did not like to propose anything expensive.
‘Now let me choose for you,’ her companion requested. ‘After all that rough work, you want something more than a drop of lemonade. I’m going to order a nice little bottle of champagne out of the ice, and a pretty little sandwich made of whatever you like.’
‘Champagne—?’
It had been in her thoughts, a sparkling audacity. Good; champagne let it be. And she leaned back in defiant satisfaction.
‘I didn’t expect much from Jubilee Day,’ observed the man of business, ‘but that only shows how things turn out—always better or worse than you think for. I’m not likely to forget it; it’s the best day I’ve had in my life yet, and I leave you to guess who I owe that to.’
‘I think this is good wine,’ remarked Nancy, as if she had not heard him.
‘Not bad. You wouldn’t suppose a fellow of my sort would know anything about it. But I do. I’ve drunk plenty of good champagne, and I shall drink better.’
Nancy ate her sandwich and smiled. The one glass sufficed her; Crewe drank three. Presently, looking at her with his head propped on his hand, he said gravely:
‘I wonder whether this is the last walk we shall have together?’
‘Who can say?’ she answered in a light tone.
‘Some one ought to be able to say.’
‘I never make prophecies, and never believe other people’s.’
‘Shows your good sense. But I make wishes, and plenty of them.’
‘So do I,’ said Nancy.
‘Then let us both make a wish to ourselves,’ proposed Crewe, regarding her with eyes that had an uncommon light in them.
His companion laughed, then both were quiet for a moment.
They allowed themselves plenty of time to battle their way as far as Westminster Bridge. At one point police and crowd were in brief conflict; the burly guardians of order dealt thwacking blows, right and left, sound fisticuffs, backed with hearty oaths. The night was young; by magisterial providence, hours of steady drinking lay before the hardier jubilants. Thwacks and curses would be no rarity in another hour or two.
At the foot of Parliament Street, Nancy came face to face with Samuel Barmby, on whose arm hung the wearied Jessica. Without heeding their exclamations, she turned to her protector and bade him a hearty good-night. Crewe accepted his dismissal. He made survey of Barmby, and moved off singing to himself, ‘Do not forget me—do not forget me—’
The disorder which Stephen Lord masked as a ‘touch of gout’ had in truth a much more disagreeable name. It was now twelve months since his doctor’s first warning, directed against the savoury meats and ardent beverages which constituted his diet; Stephen resolved upon a change of habits, but the flesh held him in bondage, and medical prophecy was justified by the event. All through Jubilee Day he suffered acutely; for the rest of the week he remained at home, sometimes sitting in the garden, but generally keeping his room, where he lay on a couch.
A man of method and routine, sedentary, with a strong dislike of unfamiliar surroundings, he could not be persuaded to try change of air. The disease intensified his native stubbornness, made him by turns fretful and furious, disposed him to a sullen solitude. He would accept no tendance but that of Mary Woodruff; to her, as to his children, he kept up the pretence of gout. He was visited only by Samuel Barmby, with whom he discussed details of business, and by Mr. Barmby, senior, his friend of thirty years, the one man to whom he unbosomed himself.
His effort to follow the regimen medically prescribed to him was even now futile. At the end of a week’s time, imagining himself somewhat better, he resumed his daily walk to Camberwell Road, but remained at the warehouse only till two or three o’clock, then returned and sat alone in his room. On one of the first days of July, when the weather was oppressively hot, he entered the house about noon, and in a few minutes rang his bell. Mary Woodruff came to him. He was sitting on the couch, pale, wet with perspiration, and exhausted.
‘I want something to drink,’ he said wearily, without raising his eyes.
‘Will you have the lime-water, sir?’
‘Yes—what you like.’
Mary brought it to him, and he drank two large glasses, with no pause.
‘Where is Nancy?’
‘In town, sir. She said she would be back about four.’
He made an angry movement.
‘What’s she doing in town? She said nothing to me. Why doesn’t she come back to lunch? Where does she go to for all these hours?’
‘I don’t know, sir.’
The servant spoke in a low, respectful voice, looking at her master with eyes that seemed to compassionate him.
‘Well, it doesn’t matter.’ He waved a hand, as if in dismissal. ‘Wait—if I’m to be alone, I might as well have lunch now. I feel hungry, as if I hadn’t eaten anything for twenty-four hours. Get me something, Mary.’
Later in the afternoon his bell again sounded, and Mary answered it. As he did not speak at once,—he was standing by the window with his hands behind him,—she asked him his pleasure.
‘Bring me some water, Mary, plain drinking-water.’
She returned with a jug and glass, and he took a long draught.
‘No, don’t go yet. I want to—to talk to you about things. Sit down there for a minute.’
He pointed to the couch, and Mary, with an anxious look, obeyed him.
‘I’m thinking of leaving this house, and going to live in the country. There’s no reason why I shouldn’t. My partner can look after the business well enough.’
‘It might be the best thing you could do, sir. The best for your health.’
‘Yes, it might. I’m not satisfied with things. I want to make a decided change, in every way.’
His face had grown more haggard during the last few days, and his eyes wandered, expressing fretfulness or fear; he spoke with effort, and seemed unable to find the words that would convey his meaning.
‘Now I want you to tell me plainly, what do you think of Nancy?’
‘Think of her, sir?’
‘No, no—don’t speak in that way. I don’t want you to call me ‘sir’; it isn’t necessary; we’ve known each other so long, and I think of you as a friend, a very good friend. Think of me in the same way, and speak naturally. I want to know your opinion of Nancy.’
The listener had a face of grave attention: it signified no surprise, no vulgar self-consciousness, but perhaps a just perceptible pleasure. And in replying she looked steadily at her master for a moment.
‘I really don’t feel I can judge her, Mr. Lord. It’s true, in a way, I ought to know her very well, as I’ve seen her day by day since she was a little thing. But now she’s a well-educated and clever young lady, and she has got far beyond me—’
‘Ay, there it is, there it is!’ Stephen interrupted with bitterness. ‘She’s got beyond us—beyond me as well as you. And she isn’t what I meant her to be, very far from it. I haven’t brought them up as I wished. I don’t know—I’m sure I don’t know why. It was in own hands. When they were little children, I said to myself: hey shall grow up plain, good, honest girl and boy. I said that I wouldn’t educate them very much; I saw little good that came of it, in our rank of life. I meant them to be simple-minded. I hoped Nancy would marry a plain countryman, like the men I used to know when I was a boy; a farmer, or something of that kind. But see how it’s come about. It wasn’t that I altered my mind about what was best. But I seemed to have no choice. For one thing, I made more money at business than I had expected, and so—and so it seemed that they ought to be educated above me and mine. There was my mother, did a better woman ever live? She had no education but that of home. She could have brought up Nancy in the good, old-fashioned way, if I had let her. I wish I had, yes, I wish I had.’
‘I don’t think you could have felt satisfied,’ said the listener, with intelligent sympathy.
‘Why not? If she had been as good and useful a woman as you are—’
‘Ah, you mustn’t think in that way, Mr. Lord. I was born and bred to service. Your daughter had a mind given her at her birth, that would never have been content with humble things. She was meant for education and a higher place.’
‘What higher place is there for her? She thinks herself too good for the life she leads here, and yet I don’t believe she’ll ever find a place among people of a higher class. She has told me herself it’s my fault. She says I ought to have had a big house for her, so that she might make friends among the rich. Perhaps she’s right. I have made her neither one thing nor another. Mary, if I had never come to London, I might have lived happily. My place was away there, in the old home. I’ve known that for many a year. I’ve thought: wait till I’ve made a little more money, and I’ll go back. But it was never done; and now it looks to me as if I had spoilt the lives of my children, as well as my own. I can’t trust Nancy, that’s the worst of it. You don’t know what she did on Jubilee night. She wasn’t with Mr. Barmby and the others—Barmby told me about it; she pretended to lose them, and went off somewhere to meet a man she’s never spoken to me about. Is that how a good girl would act? I didn’t speak to her about it; what use? Very likely she wouldn’t tell me the truth. She takes it for granted I can’t understand her. She thinks her education puts her above all plain folk and their ways—that’s it.’
Mary’s eyes had fallen, and she kept silence.
‘Suppose anything happened to me, and they were left to themselves. I have money to leave between them, and of course they know it. How could it do them anything but harm? Do you know that Horace wants to marry that girl Fanny French—a grinning, chattering fool—if not worse. He has told me he shall do as he likes. Whether or no it was right to educate Nancy, I am very sure that I ought to have done with him as I meant at first. He hasn’t the brains to take a good position. When his schooling went on year after year, I thought at last to make of him something better than his father—a doctor, or a lawyer. But he hadn’t the brains: he disappointed me bitterly. And what use can he make of my money, when I’m in my grave? If I die soon he’ll marry, and ruin his life. And won’t it be the same with Nancy? Some plotting, greedy fellow—the kind of man you see everywhere now-a-days, will fool her for the money’s sake.’
‘We must hope they’ll be much older and wiser before they have to act for themselves,’ said Mary, looking into her master’s troubled face.
‘Yes!’ He came nearer to her, with a sudden hopefulness. ‘And whether I live much longer or not, I can do something to guard them against their folly. They needn’t have the money as soon as I am gone.’
He seated himself in front of his companion.
‘I want to ask you something, Mary. If they were left alone, would you be willing to live here still, as you do now, for a few more years?’
‘I shall do whatever you wish—whatever you bid me, Mr. Lord,’ answered the woman, in a voice of heartfelt loyalty.
‘You would stay on, and keep house for them?’
‘But would they go on living here?’
‘I could make them do so. I could put it down as a condition, in my will. At all events, I would make Nancy stay. Horace might live where he liked—though not with money to throw about. They have no relatives that could be of any use to them. I should wish Nancy to go on living here, and you with her; and she would only have just a sufficient income, paid by my old friend Barmby, or by his son. And that till she was—what? I have thought of six-and-twenty. By that time she would either have learnt wisdom, or she never would. She must be free sooner or later.’
‘But she couldn’t live by herself, Mr. Lord.’
‘You tell me you would stay,’ he exclaimed impulsively.
‘Oh, but I am only her servant. That wouldn’t be enough.’
‘It would be. Your position shall be changed. There’s no one living to whom I could trust her as I could to you. There’s no woman I respect so much. For twenty years you have proved yourself worthy of respect—and it shall be paid to you.’
His vehemence would brook no opposition.
‘You said you would do as I wished. I wish you to have a new position in this house. You shall no longer be called a servant; you shall be our housekeeper, and our friend. I will have it, I tell you!’ he cried angrily. ‘You shall sit at table with us, and live with us. Nancy still has sense enough to acknowledge that this is only your just reward; from her, I know, there won’t be a word of objection. What can you have to say against it?’
The woman was pale with emotion. Her reserve and sensibility shrank from what seemed to her an invidious honour, yet she durst not irritate the sick man by opposition.
‘It will make Nancy think,’ he pursued, with emphasis. ‘It will help her, perhaps, to see the difference between worthless women who put themselves forward, and the women of real value who make no pretences. Perhaps it isn’t too late to set good examples before her. I’ve never found her ill-natured, though she’s wilful; it isn’t her heart that’s wrong—I hope and think not—only her mind, that’s got stuffed with foolish ideas. Since her grandmother’s death she’s had no guidance. You shall talk to her as a woman can; not all at once, but when she’s used to thinking of you in this new way.’
‘You are forgetting her friends,’ Mary said at length, with eyes of earnest appeal.
‘Her friends? She’s better without such friends. There’s one thing I used to hope, but I’ve given it up. I thought once that she might have come to a liking for Samuel Barmby, but now I don’t think she ever will, and I believe it’s her friends that are to blame for it. One thing I know, that she’ll never meet with any one who will make her so good a husband as he would. We don’t think alike in every way; he’s a young man, and has the new ideas; but I’ve known him since he was a boy, and I respect his character. He has a conscience, which is no common thing now-a-days. He lives a clean, homely life—and you won’t find many of his age who do. Nancy thinks herself a thousand times too good for him; I only hope he mayn’t prove a great deal too good for her. But I’ve given up that thought. I’ve never spoken to her about it, and I never shall; no good comes of forcing a girl’s inclination. I only tell you of it, Mary, because I want you to understand what has been going on.’
They heard a bell ring; that of the front door.
‘It’ll be Miss. Nancy,’ said Mary, rising.
‘Go to the door then. If it’s Nancy, tell her I want to speak to her, and come back yourself.’
‘Mr. Lord—’
‘Do as I tell you—at once!’
All the latent force of Stephen’s character now declared itself. He stood upright, his face stern and dignified. In a few moments, Nancy entered the room, and Mary followed her at a distance.
‘Nancy,’ said the father, ‘I want to tell you of a change in the house. You know that Mary has been with us for twenty years. You know that for a long time we haven’t thought of her as a servant, but as a friend, and one of the best possible. It’s time now to show our gratitude. Mary will continue to help us as before, but henceforth she is one of our family. She will eat with us and sit with us; and I look to you, my girl, to make the change an easy and pleasant one for her.’
As soon as she understood the drift of her father’s speech, Nancy experienced a shock, and could not conceal it. But when silence came, she had commanded herself. An instant’s pause; then, with her brightest smile, she turned to Mary and spoke in a voice of kindness.
‘Father is quite right. Your place is with us. I am glad, very glad.’
Mary looked from Mr. Lord to his daughter, tried vainly to speak, and left the room.
His father’s contemptuous wrath had an ill effect upon Horace. Of an amiable disposition, and without independence of character, he might have been guided by a judicious parent through all the perils of his calf-love for Fanny French; thrown upon his own feeble resources, he regarded himself as a victim of the traditional struggle between prosaic age and nobly passionate youth, and resolved at all hazards to follow the heroic course—which meant, first of all, a cold taciturnity towards his father, and, as to his future conduct, a total disregard of the domestic restraints which he had hitherto accepted. In a day or two he sat down and wrote his father a long letter, of small merit as a composition, and otherwise illustrating the profitless nature of the education for which Stephen Lord had hopefully paid. It began with a declaration of rights. He was a man; he could no longer submit to childish trammels. A man must not be put to inconvenience by the necessity of coming home at early hours. A man could not brook cross-examination on the subject of his intimacies, his expenditure, and so forth. Above all, a man was answerable to no one but himself for his relations with the other sex, for the sacred hopes he cherished, for his emotions and aspirations which transcended even a man’s vocabulary.—With much more of like tenor.
To this epistle, delivered by post, Mr. Lord made no answer.
Horace flattered himself that he had gained a victory. There was nothing like ‘firmness,’ and that evening, about nine, he went to De Crespigny Park. As usual, he had to ring the bell two or three times before any one came; the lively notes of a piano sounded from the drawing-room, intimating, no doubt, that Mrs. Peachey had guests. The door at length opened, and he bade the servant let Miss. Fanny know that he was here; he would wait in the dining-room.
It was not yet dark, but objects could only just be distinguished; the gloom supplied Horace with a suggestion at which he laughed to himself. He had laid down his hat and cane, when a voice surprised him.
‘Who’s that?’ asked some one from the back of the room.
‘Oh, are you there, Mr. Peachey?—I’ve come to see Fanny. I didn’t care to go among the people.’
‘All right. We’d better light the gas.’
With annoyance, Horace saw the master of the house come forward, and strike a match. Remains of dinner were still on the table. The two exchanged glances.
‘How is your father?’ Peachey inquired. He had a dull, depressed look, and moved languidly to draw down the blind.
‘Oh, he isn’t quite up to the mark. But it’s nothing serious, I think.’
‘Miss. Lord quite well?—We haven’t seen much of her lately.’
‘I don’t know why, I’m sure.—Nobody can depend upon her very much.’
‘Well, I’ll leave you,’ said the other, with a dreary look about the room. ‘The table ought to have been cleared by now—but that’s nothing new.’
‘Confounded servants,’ muttered Horace.
‘Oh yes, the servants,’ was Peachey’s ironical reply.
As soon as he was left alone, Horace turned out the gas. Then he stood near the door, trembling with amorous anticipation. But minutes went by; his impatience grew intolerable; he stamped, and twisted his fingers together. Then of a sudden the door opened.
‘Why, it’s dark, there’s nobody here.’
Fanny discovered her mistake. She was seized and lifted off her feet.
‘Oh! Do you want to eat me? I’ll hit you as hard as I can, I will! You’re spoiling my dress?’
The last remonstrance was in a note that Horace did not venture to disregard.
‘Strike a light, silly! I know you’ve done something to my dress.’
Horace pleaded abjectly to be forgiven, and that the room might remain shadowed; but Fanny was disturbed in temper.
‘If you don’t light the gas, I’ll go at once.’
‘I haven’t any matches, darling.’
‘Oh, just like you! You never have anything. I thought every man carried matches.’
She broke from him, and ran out. Wretched in the fear that she might not return, Horace waited on the threshold. In the drawing-room some one was singing ‘The Maid of the Mill.’ It came to an end, and there sounded voices, which the tormented listener strove to recognise. For at least ten minutes he waited, and was all but frantic, when the girl made her appearance, coming downstairs.
‘Never do that again,’ she said viciously. ‘I’ve had to unfasten my things, and put them straight. What a nuisance you are!’
He stood cowed before her, limp and tremulous.
‘There, light the gas. Why couldn’t you come into the drawing-room, like other people do?’
‘Who is there?’ asked the young man, when he had obeyed her.
‘Go and see for yourself.’
‘Don’t be angry, Fanny.’ He followed her, like a dog, as she walked round the table to look at herself in the mirror over the fireplace. ‘It was only because I’m so fond of you.’
‘Oh, what a silly you are!’ she laughed, seating herself on the arm of an easy-chair. ‘Go ahead! What’s the latest?’
‘Well, for one thing, I’ve had a very clear understanding with the gov’nor about my independence. I showed him that I meant having my own way, and he might bully as much as he liked.’
It was not thus that Horace would naturally have spoken, not thus that he thought of his father. Fanny had subdued him to her own level, poisoned him with the desires excited by her presence. And he knew his baseness; he was not ignorant of the girl’s ignoble nature. Only the fury of a virgin passion enabled him to talk, and sometimes think, as though he were in love with ideal purity.
‘I didn’t think you had the pluck,’ said Fanny, swinging one of her feet as she tittered.
‘That shows you haven’t done me justice.’
‘And you’re going to stay out late at night?’
‘As late as I like,’ Horace answered, crossing his arms.
‘Then where will you take me to-morrow?’
It happened that Horace was in funds just now; he had received his quarter’s salary. Board and lodging were no expense to him; he provided his own clothing, but, with this exception, had to meet no serious claim. So, in reply to Fanny’s characteristic question, he jingled coins.
‘Wherever you like.—“Dorothy,” “Ruddigore—“’
Delighted with his assent, she became more gracious, permitted a modest caress, and presently allowed herself to be drawn on to her lover’s knee. She was passive, unconcerned; no second year graduate of the pavement could have preserved a completer equanimity; it did not appear that her pulse quickened ever so slightly, nor had her eyelid the suspicion of a droop. She hummed ‘Queen of my Heart,’ and grew absent in speculative thought, whilst Horace burned and panted at the proximity of her white flesh.
‘Oh, how I do love you, Fanny!’
She trod playfully on his toe.
‘You haven’t told the old gentleman yet?’
‘I—I’m thinking about it. But, Fanny, suppose he was to—to refuse to do anything for us. Would it make any difference? There are lots of people who marry on a hundred and fifty a year—oh lots!’
The maiden arched her brows, and puckered her lips. Hitherto it had been taken for granted that Mr. Lord would be ready with subsidy; Horace, in a large, vague way, had hinted that assurance long ago. Fanny’s disinclination to plight her troth—she still deemed herself absolutely free—had alone interfered between the young man and a definite project of marriage.
‘What kind of people?’ she asked coldly.
‘Oh—respectable, educated people, like ourselves.’
‘And live in apartments? Thank you; I don’t quite see myself. There isn’t a bit of hurry, dear boy. Wait a bit.’ She began to sing ‘Wait till the clouds roll by.’
‘If you thought as much of me as I do of you—’
Tired of her position, Fanny jumped up and took a spoonful of sweet jelly from a dish on the table.
‘Have some?’
‘Come here again. I’ve something more to tell you. Something very important.’
She could only be prevailed upon to take a seat near him. Horace, beset with doubts as to his prudence, but unable to keep the secret, began to recount the story of his meeting with Mrs. Damerel, whom he had now seen for the second time. Fanny’s curiosity, instantly awakened, grew eager as he proceeded. She questioned with skill and pertinacity, and elicited many more details than Nancy Lord had been able to gather.
‘You’ll promise me not to say a word to any one?’ pleaded Horace.
‘I won’t open my lips. But you’re quite sure she’s as old as you say?’
‘Old enough to be my mother, I assure you.’
The girl’s suspicions were not wholly set at rest, but she made no further display of them.
‘Now just think what an advantage it might be to you, to know her,’ Horace pursued. ‘She’d introduce you at once to fashionable society, really tip-top people. How would you like that?’
‘Not bad,’ was the judicial reply.
‘She must have no end of money, and who knows what she might do for me!’
‘It’s a jolly queer thing,’ mused the maiden.
‘There’s no denying that. We must keep it close, whatever we do.’
‘You haven’t told anybody else?’
‘Not a soul!’ Horace lied stoutly.
They were surprised by the sudden opening of the door; a servant appeared to clear the table. Fanny reprimanded her for neglecting to knock.
‘We may as well go into the drawing-room. There’s nobody particular. Only Mrs. Middlemist, and Mr. Crewe, and—’
In the hall they encountered Crewe himself, who stood there conversing with Beatrice. A few words were exchanged by the two men, and Horace followed his enchantress into the drawing-room, where he found, seated in conversation with Mrs. Peachey, two persons whom he had occasionally met here. One of them, Mrs. Middlemist, was a stout, coarse, high-coloured woman, with fingers much bejewelled. Until a year or two ago she had adorned the private bar of a public-house kept by her husband; retired from this honourable post, she now devoted herself to society and the domestic virtues. The other guest, Mrs. Murch by name, proclaimed herself, at a glance, of less prosperous condition, though no less sumptuously arrayed. Her face had a hungry, spiteful, leering expression; she spoke in a shrill, peevish tone, and wriggled nervously on her chair. In eleven years of married life, Mrs. Murch had borne six children, all of whom died before they were six months old. She lived apart from her husband, who had something to do with the manufacture of an Infants’ Food.
Fanny was requested to sing. She sat down at the piano, rattled a prelude, and gave forth an echo of the music-halls:
‘It’s all up with poor Tommy now. I shall never more be happy, I vow. It’s just a week to-day Since my Sairey went away, And it’s all up with poor Tommy now.’
Mrs. Middlemist, who prided herself upon serious vocal powers, remarked that comic singing should be confined to men.
‘You haven’t a bad voice, my dear, if you would only take pains with it. Now sing us “For Ever and for Ever.”’
This song being the speaker’s peculiar glory, she was of course requested to sing it herself, and, after entreaty, consented. Her eyes turned upward, her fat figure rolling from side to side, her mouth very wide open, Mrs. Middlemist did full justice to the erotic passion of this great lyric:
‘Perchawnce if we ‘ad never met, We ‘ad been spared this mad regret, This hendless striving to forget—For hever—hand—for he-e-e-ver!’
Mrs. Murch let her head droop sentimentally. Horace glanced at Fanny, who, however, seemed absorbed in reflections as unsentimental as could be.
In the meanwhile, on a garden seat under the calm but misty sky, sat Luckworth Crewe and Beatrice French. Crewe smoked a cigar placidly; Beatrice was laying before him the suggestion of her great commercial scheme, already confided to Fanny.
‘How does it strike you?’ she asked at length.
‘Not bad, old chap. There’s something in it, if you’re clever enough to carry it through. And I shouldn’t wonder if you are.’ ‘Will you help to set it going?’
‘Can’t help with money,’ Crewe replied.
‘Very well; will you help in other ways? Practical hints, and so on?’
‘Of course I will. Always ready to encourage merit in the money-making line. What capital are you prepared to put into it?’
‘Not much. The public must supply the capital.’
‘A sound principle,’ Crewe laughed. ‘But I shouldn’t go on the old lines. You didn’t think of starting a limited company? You’d find difficulties. Now what you want to start is a—let us call it the South London Dress Supply Association, or something of that kind. But you won’t get to that all at once. You ought to have premises to begin with.’
‘I’m aware of it.’
‘Can you raise a thousand or so?’
‘Yes, I could—if I chose.’
‘Now, look here. Your notion of the Fashion Club is a deuced good one, and I don’t see why it shouldn’t be pretty easily started. Out of every five hundred women, you can reckon on four hundred and ninety-nine being fools; and there isn’t a female fool who wouldn’t read and think about a circular which promised her fashionable dresses for an unfashionable price. That’s a great and sound basis to start on. What I advise is, that you should first of all advertise for a dress-making concern that would admit a partner with a small capital. You’ll have between ten and twelve hundred replies, but don’t be staggered; go through them carefully, and select a shop that’s well situated, and doing a respectable trade. Get hold of these people, and induce them to make changes in their business to suit your idea. Then blaze away with circulars, headed “South London Fashion Club;” send them round the whole district, addressed to women. Every idiot of them will, at all events, come and look at the shop; that can be depended upon; in itself no bad advertisement. Arrange to have a special department—special entrance, if possible—with “The Club” painted up. Yes, by jingo! Have a big room, with comfortable chairs, and the women’s weekly papers lying about, and smart dresses displayed on what-d’ye-call-’ems, like they have in windows. Make the subscription very low at first, and give rattling good value; never mind if you lose by it. Then, when you’ve got hold of a lot of likely people, try them with the share project. By-the-bye, if you lose no time, you can bring in the Jubilee somehow. Yes, start with the “Jubilee Fashion Club.” I wonder nobody’s done it already.’
Beatrice was growing elated.
‘The public has to wait for its benefactors,’ she replied.
‘I’ll tell you what, would you like me to sketch you out a prospectus of the Club?’
‘Yes, you might do that if you like. You won’t expect to be paid?’
‘Hang it! what do you take me for?’
‘Business is business,’ Miss. French remarked coldly.
‘So it is. And friendship is friendship. Got a match?’ He laughed. ‘No, I suppose you haven’t.’
‘I’ll go and get you one if you like.’
‘There’s a good fellow. I’ll think in the meantime.’
Beatrice rose lazily, and was absent for several minutes. When she returned, Crewe re-lit his cigar.
‘Why shouldn’t I start the shop on my own account?’ Beatrice asked.
‘You haven’t capital enough. A little place wouldn’t do.’
‘I think I can get Fanny to join me.’
‘Can you? What will young Lord have to say to that?’
‘Psh! That’s all fooling. It’ll never come to anything. Unless, of course, the old man turned up his toes, and left the boy a tidy sum. But he won’t just yet. I’ve told Fanny that if she’ll raise something on her houses, I’ll guarantee her the same income she has now.’
‘Take my advice,’ said Crewe weightily, ‘and hook on to an established business. Of course, you can change the name if you like; and there’d have to be alterations, and painting up, to give a new look.’
‘It’s risky, dealing with strangers. How if they got hold of my idea, and then refused to take me in?’
‘Well now, look here. After all, I’ll make a bargain with you, old chap. If I can introduce you to the right people, and get you safely started, will you give me all your advertising, on the usual commission?’
‘You mean, give it to Bullock and Freeman?’
‘No, I don’t. It’s a secret just yet, but I’m going to start for myself.’
Beatrice was silent. They exchanged a look in the gloom, and Crewe nodded, in confirmation of his announcement.
‘How much have you got?’ Miss. French inquired carelessly.
‘Not much. Most of the capital is here.’ He touched his forehead. ‘Same as with you.’
The young woman glanced at him again, and said in a lower voice:
‘You’d have had more by now, if—’
Crewe waited, puffing his cigar, but she did not finish.
‘Maybe,’ he replied impartially. ‘Maybe not.’
‘Don’t think I’m sorry,’ Beatrice hastened to add. ‘It was an idea, like any other.’
‘Not half a bad idea. But there were obstacles.’
After a pause, Beatrice inquired:
‘Do you still think the same about women with money?’
‘Just the same,’ Crewe replied at once, though with less than his usual directness; the question seemed to make him meditative. ‘Just the same. Every man looks at it in his own way, of course. I’m not the sort of chap to knuckle under to my wife; and there isn’t one woman in a thousand, if she gave her husband a start, could help reminding him of it. It’s the wrong way about. Let women be as independent as they like as long as they’re not married. I never think the worse of them, whatever they do that’s honest. But a wife must play second fiddle, and think her husband a small god almighty—that’s my way of looking at the question.’
Beatrice laughed scornfully.
‘All right. We shall see.—When do you start business?’
‘This side Christmas. End of September, perhaps.’
‘You think to snatch a good deal from B. & F., I daresay?’
Crewe nodded and smiled.
‘Then you’ll look after this affair for me?’ said Beatrice, with a return to the tone of strict business.
‘Without loss of time. You shall be advised of progress. Of course I must debit you with exes.’
‘All right. Mind you charge for all the penny stamps.’
‘Every one—don’t you forget it.’
He stood up, tilted forward on his toes, and stretched himself.
‘I’ll be trotting homewards. It’ll be time for by-by when I get to Kennington.’