The winter had been long and dreary, and held no bright gleams for Nancy, who was sensible of a continuous atmosphere of suppression and oppression! It was now the capricious month of April, and in sympathy with its showers, she secretly shed many tears. Mrs. Jenkins had arrived at the definite decision, that her niece was "unsatisfactory"! This expression had been specially coined by Mrs. Taylor, who put it into daily currency. It was true that now and then the girl had absented herself for an hour or two in the afternoon, taking prolonged walks round the Park, or Kensington Gardens,—attended exclusively by the Pom.—She wasted time in the Victoria and Albert Museum, the Natural History Museum, and had even penetrated to the National Gallery!
Also, she had found her tongue, and ventured to talk to and make acquaintance with the elderly crowd assembled every Tuesday. More than all, she had become careless! She had broken a pet vase, value three francs, and—incredible enormity!—lost a library book—dropped it into the street from the top of a motor-'bus. Her last misdeed was of such gravity, that she had been formally summoned to the drawing-room, there to appear before her judges, and be sharply reprimanded. As Mrs. Jenkins, Miss Dolling, and Mrs. Taylor awaited the culprit, the latter said:
"My dear, you can see for yourself, how that girl is growing worse and worse, and becoming more unsatisfactory every day."
(It should be here explained, that Miss Dolling took a lenient view of Nancy's delinquencies, and was on occasion her ineffectual champion. She had even offered to take her to places of amusement—these invitations never came to Nancy's ears—for Miss Dolling cherished a mild, sentimental regard, for the daughter of her one and only love,—whose photograph, enshrined in silver, she treasured as a sacred relic).
Nancy's latest misdeed was of far-reaching consequence. Detailed to fetch her aunt's best transformation from the hairdressers' (where recently it had been renovated), she had left it in the Tube; abandoned it to the heartless jeers of railway officials, and the publicity of the Lost Property Office! The truth was, that Nancy had that morning heard of the death of Mr. Fletcher, and her thoughts were sad, and far away, as she travelled to South Kensington.—This valuable work of hair art, had cost no less than twelve guineas,—and what was poor Mrs. Jenkins to wear that evening at dinner?
The scolding had been so bitter, and impassioned, that Nancy's humility had at last given way, and as, with heightened colour and shining eyes, she seemed inclined to protest and expostulate, the enemy brought heavier guns to bear.
"Is it true?" demanded Mrs. Jenkins, sitting Buddha-like, with folded arms, "that you write to young men?"
"Yes," replied Nancy, "I do."
"She couldn't deny it!" broke in Mrs. Taylor; "I've seen the letters myself, lying upon the hall table."
"And you smoke cigarettes up in your own room," she added.
"Yes, occasionally," admitted the sinner.
"And waste the electric light, reading in bed," resumed Mrs. Jenkins, raising her voice with each accusation. "Mrs. Taylor saw the light under your door after eleven o'clock at night!"
"I do read in bed,—I've no time to read in the day," answered the girl defiantly.
"Keep your temper, miss!—that is not the way to speak to me," shouted her aunt, in an angry voice.
"No indeed, darling," chimed in Mrs. Taylor, "and after all you have done for her—taken her in, when she was a penniless orphan, and——"
"Yes," interrupted Mrs. Jenkins, "and I hear you have gone behind my back, and complained to Mrs. Devine,—oh, you abominable, ungrateful, double-faced minx!"
"To Mrs. Devine?" repeated Nancy. "I have never spoken to her in my life!"
"I don't believe you!" declared the accuser, her face alarmingly aflame; at this sharp crisis, the door was pushed open, and Galpin announced:
"Mrs. De Wolfe."
Mrs. De Wolfe, handsomely dressed, and completely self-possessed, walked forward to where Nancy stood before her accusers, and said in her masculine bass:
"Oh, my dear Nancy, I'm delighted to find you in at last! Pray introduce me to your aunt?" and she glanced at Mrs. Taylor,—who was still heaving with virtuous indignation.
The atmosphere was heavily charged with electricity, and for a moment Nancy was speechless. Then, hastily recovering herself:
"This is my aunt, Mrs. Jenkins. Aunt Arabella, here is Mrs. De Wolfe, with whom I travelled home in the Patna."
The shock of such an unexpected interruption had suddenly sobered Mrs. Jenkins: for a moment, she had been threatened with palpitation,—but thrust the temptation aside. Recently, she had heard Mrs. De Wolfe referred to as a woman of wealth and social importance; she therefore made an effort to recover her poise, and accord her a gracious reception. After a somewhat breathless and incoherent conversation with her hostess, Mrs. De Wolfe turned to Nancy.
"Have you been here ever since you came home?"
"Yes," she replied, and then boldly added: "I have not taken a situation yet; but I intend to see about one immediately," and she looked straight at her aunt, who encountered her gaze with sullen hostility.
This unexpected reinforcement by Mrs. De Wolfe had given Nancy a species of ephemeral, or "Dutch" courage.
"Oh, are you, my dear? But before you arrange anything definite, I hope you will come and pay me a little visit. I am staying for a couple of weeks at Brown's Hotel, in Dover Street, and shall be glad to have your company at once."
The eyes of Mrs. Jenkins and Mrs. Taylor met; their expression was significant.
"You are very kind," replied the former, now addressing her visitor, "but my niece is not leaving me—as far as I am aware—but I shall be pleased to spare her to you, for a few days."
"Thank you very much," replied Mrs. De Wolfe. "Then if you will allow me, I will call for her to-morrow."
At this moment other visitors were announced, and Nancy's ally rose and took leave. As she pressed the girl's hand she murmured:
"Had you not better come down with me to the hall,—and see that I don't carry off the umbrellas?"
On the landing, she halted opposite the stuffed dog, and said:
"My poor dear child! The door was ajar, and I heard every word about the cigarettes, the electric light, the reading in bed, the penniless orphan, and Mrs. Devine. What people! As for the big, dark woman, with the red face, positively she frightened me!—she is like a Gorgon!"
"I was getting on all right until just before Christmas when Mrs. Taylor arrived," replied Nancy; "she is dreadfully poor; she hates me, and thinks I am an interloper, and a fortune-hunter. Ever since she came into the house, Aunt Arabella is completely changed."
"I intend that you shall be completely changed," declared Mrs. De Wolfe. "Oh, I must go! I see the man is waiting at the door. I'll call for you to-morrow before twelve o'clock,—and I think you had better bring most of your luggage."
A visit to Mrs. De Wolfe proved a change indeed. Nancy felt another creature, living in another atmosphere, and another city. Oh, the blessed relief, from hearing the ponderous tread of Mrs. Taylor, Galpin's pompous announcements, and the Pom's maddening bark!
She and her hostess shopped in the mornings, motored in the afternoons, and at night, went to concerts, lectures, and the theatre. Within a few days, it had been decided, that Nancy was to be Mrs. De Wolfe's companion for the present,—and to receive sixty pounds a year, on which to dress. Already the girl had felt the stimulating effects of a new and fashionable outfit!
"Without flattering myself, I think I may say, that you will be happier with me, than with Mrs. Jenkins," observed her benefactress; "though I am by no means an angel! Every character has its odd corners, its limits, and its secrets. You are too young to harbour any secrets yet—whilst I have dozens!"
She also added, that later, should anything more satisfactory turn up, Nancy was not to consider herself bound in any way; and so the arrangement, or engagement, was concluded—an engagement which existed for little more than a week.
One afternoon, Nancy, who had just returned from the Park, was informed, that someone who had brought a message, particularly wanted to see her, and she was a good deal surprised, when the door of the sitting-room was opened, and no less a person than Galpin emerged from the passage. He was surprised, too,—as he subsequently confessed, when he imparted particulars of his visit to the lady's maid.
"There was Miss Travers, looking like another girl! her hair all fluffed out, wearing a great big hat covered with feathers—quite the fashionable young lady. I declare to you, Miss Baker, I hardly knew her!"
Galpin, who carried a packet of letters in his hand, peered cautiously round the room, made a stiff little bow, coughed, and said:
"Mrs. Jenkins sent me over special with these letters for you, Miss. She said, there was one that looked like a business matter, and is anxious to know what it is all about? She thinks, as you have been doing secretary work for her—that maybe there's a mistake in the name—as it's from a firm of lawyers. I was to bring back the letter, Miss, and to give Mrs. Jenkins' love, and to tell you how the Pom misses you."
Nancy received and hastily examined the letters. The Indian Mail was in. There was a thick one from Finchie, a thin one from Nellie Meach, and a postcard from Francis, on which was inscribed, "The dog Togo is too well." Besides these, one was in a blue envelope, on the flap of which was printed, the name of a legal firm. She sat down to open this,—in order to at once satisfy her aunt; whilst Galpin waited, hat in hand, with an air of respectful curiosity.
As Nancy glanced over the neatly-written lines, she faintly grasped an almost incredible fact. Mr. Fletcher's will had recently been read; he had endowed her with Fairplains, and an income of two thousand a year! This was the substance of what she gathered, through a maze of legal expressions. For a moment, she imagined that she must be dreaming. Then she slowly went over the pages, and noted, that the firm requested an immediate interview, and that one of their clerks would wait upon her at an hour, and date, to be hereafter fixed.
For a moment or two she sat motionless, endeavouring to collect her faculties; then, with considerably heightened colour, she raised her head, and looked up at Galpin,—who almost conveyed the impression that he was in attendance at table, and waiting to remove her plate!
"Please tell Aunt Arabella, that the letter was really for me, and contains good news. I will write to her to-night."
"Very well, Miss. Is that all—ahem—no particulars?" Galpin's tone expressed extreme disappointment.
"No particulars," rising as she spoke; "good afternoon, Galpin, I think you can find your way down," and she indicated the door.
As soon as this had closed behind Galpin's broad back, Nancy, letter in hand, rushed into Mrs. De Wolfe's bedroom. The old lady, who had only recently come in, was changing her boots, assisted by the invaluable Haynes.
"I've just had this," announced the girl breathlessly. "Aunt Arabella sent it over by Galpin; she wanted so much to know what it was all about? Do look at it—and tell me if you think it's real?"
Mrs. De Wolfe hastily dismissed her maid, and with one boot on, and one boot off, assumed her glasses and deliberately studied the letter; then she looked up at Nancy, and said:
"An heiress, I declare! My dear, I congratulate you. I am glad."
"Do you think it's true? I can hardly believe it! Oh, I feel I'd like to run about, and tell the whole hotel of my wonderful good fortune. It's not the money so much,—but Fairplains—how splendid of Mr. Fletcher, and oh, if father were only alive!"
"Fairplains. Yes, it was your father's once, now it is yours; you were born there, and love it; but a solid income is a satisfactory fact. Well, now you are independent, and can engage a companion—or a chaperone."
"I want to stay with you!"
"But what will Mrs. Jenkins say?" and Mrs. De Wolfe laughed. "How I should like to see her face, when she hears that you are no longer 'a penniless orphan!'"
When Mrs. Jenkins received the news, she was so startled, and upset, that she felt compelled to ring for Baker to bring her some special heart drops; and yet she was gratified in a way. To have a niece who was an heiress, increased—if that were possible—her sense of her own importance. Mrs. Taylor was also gratified. There would now be no question of the return of Nancy to Queen's Gate; no fear of her inheriting Mrs. Jenkins' substantial fortune; she would without further exertions, have the house, and the, so to speak, "field" to herself.
When the heiress arrived to pay her formal visit to Queen's Gate, she found her aunt in her most agreeable temper. Nancy might almost have been a titled acquaintance, so effusive was her welcome! After a few preliminaries, she said:
"Well, Nancy, so you've come in for a coffee estate, and a large sum of money! That is nice for you."
"I suppose there's no fear of the will being disputed?" said Mrs. Taylor—ever ready with disagreeable suggestions.
"I think not," replied the heiress. "I remember Mr. Fletcher telling us, that he was the last of his family."
"You won't know what to do with all your money," declared Mrs. Jenkins with a complacent smile. "Of course you will return here."
"Return!" repeated the girl blankly.
"Why, certainly, you must live with me; it is your natural home. It would be most extraordinary if you did not! What would people say? I am your only near relative. You will be putting off your mourning, and I shall take you out this season,—and perhaps give a dance for you. You shall have a room on the next floor,—and I daresay you can keep a maid."
Mrs. Taylor's face clouded over as she listened to these luxurious arrangements. How close Arabella had been; the sly old thing had never dropped a word of these plans, during their nightly conferences.
"Thank you, Aunt Arabella," replied Nancy, "but I am going to travel with Mrs. De Wolfe. We shall probably be abroad for a year. I have never been on the Continent; and I think we shall start as soon as the lawyers have finished with my affairs."
"That is a monstrous idea; I shall not give my consent," declared her aunt with a very pink face. "Mrs. De Wolfe is a complete stranger. Ten days, or a fortnight, is all very well, but you cannot go about the world with a woman who is nothing to you beyond being a fellow passenger. It would be most unseemly. Remember that you are not of age yet,—and have no right to do just as you please."
"I see no objection," murmured Nancy.
"You see me," announced Mrs. Jenkins with emphasis, "I am the objection. You cannot deny, that I stand to you in the place of a parent—that I have received you,—and adopted you"—here she paused to sneeze.
"I was not aware that you had adopted me, Aunt Arabella; and I think I had better say at once, that I should be sorry to have any disagreement with you, but I cannot admit that you have any right to control me. Mrs. De Wolfe and I, are starting for Italy in a few days, and this visit is not merely to tell you about my plans,—but to say good-bye."
"My dear, I think Nancy is very wise," proclaimed Mrs. Taylor, advancing unexpectedly to her rescue. "You know, that she has seen nothing of the world as yet; and she is so young; the tour will complete her education. Mrs. De Wolfe is a friend of the dear Foresters, and the aunt of Lady Bincaster, quite all that she ought to be! Judging by my own feelings, I am sure that Nancy would not care to go into company yet; and anyway, the state of your health could never stand the strain of playing chaperone, and keeping late hours. Now could it?" laying her heavy hand upon her friend's fat arm. "Of course we all know, that you are always only too ready to sacrifice yourself for others; but your friends could never permit you to undertake, what would be practically, a sort of prolonged suicide!"
"Well, I suppose there is something in what you say," admitted Mrs. Jenkins, after a moment's reflection, reluctantly releasing the vision of a wealthy niece on show—and so to speak, bearing her own train.
Indeed, such was the effect of Mrs. Taylor's soothing, and cooling remarks, that by degrees, her old school-fellow recovered her temper and complacency. She talked about the Continent, of her triumphal progress through various cities, and related the tale of a tragic experience in the Tyrol, where it had been whispered "that a gallant young Austrian officer had precipitated himself from a mountain peak, solely on her account!"
After half an hour's discourse,—chiefly reminiscent,—Mrs. Jenkins had talked herself into a condition of the utmost good humour, and with the promises of letters, and many picture postcards, the visitor was permitted to take leave.
As Nancy departed, she noticed Baker peering at her over the banisters, and nodded to her affably, as she descended the stairs,—on which she had made many weary journeys—also it seemed to her, that Galpin the pompous, held the hall door extra wide, and was impressively benignant, as she passed forth.
More than two years had elapsed since Derek Mayne left Fairplains. Almost immediately afterwards, his regiment had been removed from Cananore, to the distant cantonment of Bareilly,—a station which instead of lying on the damp seaboard of the Malabar Coast, was situated in the heart of a sugar cane district, with the white Himalayas glimmering on its horizon. Here, in hard work, and strenuous play, parades, manœuvres, inspections, cricket, polo, and fishing in the Sardar, time passed only too rapidly; thanks to new surroundings, new friends, and incessant occupation, the memory of Nancy became a little blurred.
Mayne recalled her existence, when he dispatched his half-yearly cheque to Teddy Dawson; for although his friend had assured him, that the money would lie untouched, nevertheless he persisted in lodging the amount at Grindlays. Teddy had volunteered the news, that Nancy was now living in London, with her father's sister; but of this information, Mayne vouchsafed no notice, and correspondence, save for the bi-annual cheque, had completely lapsed. The yearly sum of two hundred and fifty pounds,—which was half of his private income,—left Mayne somewhat pinched in his finances. To keep a couple of ponies, to go on fishing, and shooting trips, required a certain number of rupees; and occasionally Captain Mayne found considerable difficulty in making both ends meet! His brother officers wondered why the deuce Mayne was now so economical? and what he had done with his money?
An incredible story had leaked out through Mayne's Madras servant—who had accompanied him to the Hills; it whispered, that when there, he had got into some sort of entanglement with a girl! This tale was frankly discussed, and believed, in the Gorrah bazaar at Cananore, but had never risen in any substantial form to higher circles,—such as the club or mess; and yet all the time, though nothing was said, there was a vague uneasy feeling, that Mayne was keeping back some incident or experience, connected with his six week's leave on that coffee plantation. It was noticed, how, although he had apparently enjoyed extraordinarily good sport, he was strangely reserved with regard to his hill friends; rarely referred to his expedition, and sat dumb when other fellows less successful, loudly bragged of their "shikar."
Also it had been remarked, that when he returned from the Neilgherries, he had appeared to be extraordinarily depressed, and that Mayne always such a cheery fellow, with lots to say for himself, hadn't a word to throw to the traditional dog. Former enthusiastic letters received by his friends, describing his delightful quarters, his first-class sport, were subsequently discounted, by a mysterious, and significant silence. One surprising fact, had been much discussed; Mayne was just the ordinary young man, and not in the least eccentric, and yet when his trophies were unpacked, displayed and praised (two magnificent tiger and three panther skins, all in first-class condition), as the largest panther skin was unrolled, he seemed strangely put out, and gave a hasty order to his bearer. Later, but four skins were exhibited, and when the fifth was inquired for, the bearer promptly answered that "the Sahib had given orders, that it was to be taken away and burnt!"
In a small Mofussil station such as Cananore, topics of conversation are but scanty. There was a good deal of talk and conjecture, respecting this same panther. Why had Mayne ordered such a prize to be destroyed? Why could he not have given it to someone—if he had a particular down upon the animal?—the Colonel's wife would have been proud to accept its skin.
No satisfactory answer to this was obtained at the time, but later, it became known that Mayne's friend, the coffee planter, had died, as the result of an encounter with a panther; it was conceded that possibly that was the reason of Mayne's agitation, and the order for the destruction of an unusually fine trophy.
Skin or no skin, there was some mystery connected with Mayne's visit to the Neilgherries. Since then, he had been obviously short of money, and given to unwonted economy. He drank cheap claret, refused himself a new rifle, and another polo pony. A hard player like Mayne, found it difficult to manage with less than three. Whatever the trouble was, he did not avoid society; he was popular with women; his good looks and good manners, made him a general favourite. He went to dances and picnics, was conspicuous in gymkhanas, and every afternoon, when nothing was "on," he played rackets or tennis at the club. Once or twice, when a particularly active girl happened to be his tennis partner, he recalled Nancy,—not one of the lot could approach her as far as play was concerned. Who would have believed that her thin brown arm and wrist, was capable of such smashing strokes, and disastrous service?
Mayne had now been three years in India, and never exhibited any intention of taking leave home. Apparently he preferred an excursion into Thibet, or Cashmere. At the back of his mind, he had a conviction, that as long as he remained in the country, he was safe from any awkward developments that might result from the ceremony which had taken place in the drawing-room at Fairplains.
Yet at the same time, he had an impression that some day, like murder, it would all come out,—and there would be a holy row! Meantime he thrust the hateful prospect into the lumber room of his brain; the poignant memories of the last week of Travers' life had now become a little dim. Supposing he had held back, and not suffered himself to be moved by an exceptionally tragic situation: by Mrs. Hicks' observations, and carried away by an almost irresistible impulse? he could have guaranteed an acceptable income to Nancy, which would have left them both free!
Now, they were bound together by that deadly certificate in his despatch box, on which were inscribed the names of Eleanora Nancy Travers, spinster, and Derek Danvers Mayne, bachelor. Nothing but death could release them. Occasionally plunged in contemplation, he would let his mind work; endeavouring to trace some way out of this desperate situation. His thoughts would travel to and fro, as in a maze,—vainly seeking some safe, and honourable exit. Sometimes, during these moods of reflection, his companion for the moment, would wonder at Mayne's abstraction? Once or twice, he had been offered "a penny for his thoughts," but had invariably dismissed the offer with a laugh.
Finally summing up the affair, he assured himself that some day or other—perhaps in twenty years—the whole business must be disclosed. Supposing Nancy wanted to marry someone?—supposing he were to meet the girl, and fall in love with her? what a complication that would be! After all, the present was calm and peaceful, he could discern no clouds on the horizon, and soothed his uneasiness, with the well-worn sedative,—"Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof."
Such were Mayne's sentiments, when he received a cable from home, informing him that his uncle had met with a serious accident, and begging him to return at once. As there could be but one answer to such an appeal, Mayne instead of taking his intended sixty days' shooting leave into Garwalb, immediately applied for three months to England—on "urgent private affairs."
Nancy and her chaperone spent a year on the Continent, visiting several capitals, and various scenes familiar to Mrs. De Wolfe. Not a few foreign hostelries knew and respected the dominating personality, and heavy purse, of this hawk-eyed "bird of passage."
Nancy was now twenty. Like a flower she had expanded in the sun of happiness, and developed into a strikingly beautiful girl. The mahogany tint had given place to a matchless complexion: her figure no longer boyish and angular, was slender and graceful, her dress was dainty, and she carried herself admirably. After a long and complete eclipse, Nancy's vitality and vivacity had returned with undiminished vigour: the girl was never tired, idle, bored, or—silent; the mere fact of her presence, seemed to neutralize weariness and depression. Yet the death of her father was a never forgotten grief; he stood apart, as the one impressive, and beloved figure connected with her life in India. Memories of Finchie, the "Corner boys," and the Hicks', had become a little faint; as for the acquaintance of a mere six weeks, she had thrust him entirely out of her mind. At first, like some pernicious and persistent insect, he had returned again and again; but for many months she had been free from this hateful visitation.
Possibly when a young woman determines to evict from her thoughts a disagreeable lodger—such banishment is complete. Nancy had assured a quaking heart, that the ceremony of her marriage might be dismissed to the limbo of a bad dream. It had been carried out solely to comfort and relieve the anxiety of her dying father; but as a binding contract, Finchie had positively declared, that it could be easily annulled.
It was more than two years since Nancy had heard of Captain Mayne, "out of sight, is out of mind," especially as her mind was full to overflowing of new scenes, new interests, and new friends.
During their wanderings, Mrs. De Wolfe had encountered various neighbours, acquaintances, and connections. Her circle was world wide. At the Hôtel National, Lucerne, she came across the Miller family,—who lived within a motor drive of her home in Moonshire.
Truly, it was a strange and startling tale that Lady Miller poured into the ear of her neighbour, when she had carried her off to her own apartment, and could there talk without restraint! It appeared that the four Miss Millers, had combined to break loose, had cast off all obedience, and so to speak, flung the fourth commandment to the winds! Headed by Wilhelmina—the eldest—they revolted against home life, and clamoured to be taken abroad, in order to see something of what they called, "the world." "Wilhelmina," continued Lady Miller, "has an iron will and enormous influence over her father. It took her a whole fortnight to gain her point, at the end Lucas yielded, and, my dear old friend, I know you will pity us, for 'here we are!'"
Yes, Wilhelmina's triumph had been remorseless, and complete!
Glancing round the luxurious bedroom, whose windows commanded a fine view of the lake, Mrs. De Wolfe was not disposed to offer much sympathy to the lachrymose lady.
"Of course I don't approve of the present ordinance," she said: "Parents obey your children, but possibly a little change may be no harm for any of you. Your girls are grown up. Why! Billy must be six and twenty! The twins are a charming couple, and so far, have been born to blush unseen! Millfield Place is rather isolated, and surely you would not wish to have four old maids on your hands,—now would you?"
"I'm no husband-hunter," declared Lady Miller with considerable warmth, "and if girls are to be married, they'll be married."
"Well, that depends on circumstances! I remember an Irish servant who gave, as her reason for leaving an excellent, but dull situation, that 'she was out of the way of Providence.' I think there is the same drawback to Millfield."
Millfield Place was situated in a remote part of Moonshire, and in the days of Charles II., it had been the nucleus of many a robust and rollicking festivity: but time works changes, the Place was now generally referred to, as the "Back of Beyond." It was six miles from the nearest railway station: on the mere outer fringe of County Society, and to many of the rustics in Millfield village, the word "pictures" or "telephone" carried no meaning! Here years had passed swiftly—as they generally do, when spent in an uneventful, and monotonous round.
The four Miss Millers were endowed with an unusual amount of good looks, and intelligence; Wilhelmina, the eldest and heiress, was small, active, clever and outspoken: with a heart that knew no fear, and full of devotion to her sisters. Minna and Brenda (twins) were tall, vivacious and very fair to see. Amy, the youngest, aged twenty, had a wonderful mop of dark red hair, a pair of twinkling sea-green eyes, and uncontrollable spirits; she was still addressed as "Baby!"
For some years, the sisters had contented themselves with tennis, the sewing club, village entertainments, and the rearing of prize poultry; and then Wilhelmina, when her twenty-sixth birthday struck, began seriously to consider the situation. As alone she paced the long terrace, she held a solemn debate with herself, and this was the burden of her meditations: "Here we are embedded in the country, and growing into fossils. We haven't even a motor—because mother loathes them! We never see a soul, except the same old set, the Rector and Mrs. Puddock, Doctor and Mrs. Frost, father's elderly shooting friends; and once in a blue moon, the Hillsides, or Mrs. De Wolfe. Other girls go about, and visit new places, make new acquaintances, and have a good time; and we are young but once! I shall urge the Pater to transport us all to the Continent, for one whole year. If he resists, and won't listen to reason, I shall just tell him, we will leave home; the twins to go on the Stage,—front row,—Baby, to an A B C shop, and I to be a stewardess; I know I should love the sea,—which by the way, I have never seen!"
When Wilhelmina cautiously opened the subject to her mother, that lethargic matron was almost as startled as if a bomb had exploded on the hearth-rug! When she had recovered her senses (momentarily paralysed), with unusual animation, she expressed indignant horror at the mere suggestion of such a move. She pointed out to Billy that she and her sisters were extraordinarily fortunate; they had carriages, maids, saddle-horses; and every possible indulgence; the newest library books, a handsome dress allowance; what more did they want? Besides, how could such a pack of girls go dragging about the Continent! Certainly she would be no party to the crazy undertaking. Of course if they had been boys, it might have been different!
"Yes!" retorted Billy, "boys always get everything they want, and girls go to the wall."
"Well, boys or girls, nothing will induce me to leave my comfortable home," declared Lady Miller. "Paris, Switzerland, Egypt!" slightly raising her voice, "why, Wilhelmina, you must be mad! You know perfectly well, that I've not been even to London, for more than two years."
Lady Miller, a pretty, plaintive, fragile-looking woman, had been a celebrated beauty in her day,—but was now disposed to rest on such laurels, as remained. She relinquished visiting, and entertaining—beyond a small tennis party, or a few neighbours to tea,—pleading the state of her health; which, as it happened, was excellent; but the poor woman suffered from the dire and mortal malady of inertia; which is known to attack victims who live remote, and idle. The disease had grown from bad to worse, and Lady Miller had now abandoned herself to an existence of self-indulgent indolence. She was contented with her comfortable sofa, her embroidery, novels, patience cards, visits from newsmongering matrons,—and on fine days, an inspection of her celebrated rock garden! Wilhelmina had relieved her mother of all housekeeping worries: she managed the school, the village,—and her father.
The younger girls were amusing, chattering creatures: fond of racing through the rooms, banging doors, and bringing in dogs, but remarkably pretty—especially Brenda, who at times, was almost startlingly lovely! Once or twice, Lady Miller had murmured to her husband "that she wished Brenda's rich godmother would invite her to pay her a visit in London,"—and her husband had accorded an indifferent assent—he did not wish to part with any of his girls.
Sir Lucas Miller was an active, fussy, little gentleman of fifty-five, whose time was absorbed by tenants, shooting, the county club, and the Bench! Little did he suspect, how soon the pleasant current of his days was to be diverted. One evening after dinner,—a particularly good dinner,—the bold, adventurous, and cunning Wilhelmina, accompanied him to the smoking-room, and as he enjoyed a Havana, calmly proceeded to lay her plans before him.
Everything had been most carefully considered: the whole itinerary minutely sketched; reasons for the expedition were confidently advanced, and dilated on, and when at last, Wilhelmina had ceased to speak, she discovered that her communication had left her father speechless! For quite a surprising interval, he remained silent,—Sir Lucas was thinking things over! He liked to see his pretty, lively girls flitting about the house and tennis courts, but it had never once dawned on him, that they craved either change, or other diversions. "Why, they had the Hunt Ball in January,—weather permitting,—the cricket week in July,—also weather permitting!"
In his opinion, they were remarkably well off; and as Billy, his favourite, had carefully unfolded her schemes, he could scarcely believe his own ears.
"Close the house for twelve months! take you all abroad!" he cried at last. "What a monstrous idea. How about the estate, and the shooting?"
"You have an excellent agent, Dad, I've often heard you say so,—and now you may as well give him something to do. You know you're one of the people who keep a dog,—and bark yourself!"
"Rubbish! rubbish! preposterous nonsense!"
"I know you won't mind, dear, if I speak a little plainly. Looking at it from our point of view, do you think you are quite playing the game? You and the Mater have had your good times! You talk of Ascot, Scotland, and Paris; of dances and balls, operas, and races. Now we should like to be in a position, to enjoy the same experiences. We are very ready to be amused: or even employed; but there is not enough work here for the four of us. Are we always to content ourselves with visiting old women, rearing Buff Orpingtons, and finding our chief excitement in scraps of village news! Why, it was only yesterday, that Baby ran the whole way home, to tell us that the Postman's parrot was dead! I can jog along all right, I'm not in my first youth, and I never was pretty; and being the eldest, I can find plenty of occupation, and interest of sorts; but, dear Daddy, do consider the three girls; please think of what I've said," and Wilhelmina patted her parent encouragingly on the shoulder, and walked out of the room.
In the end, after some remarkably stormy scenes, Billy prevailed; for Billy, as her mother complained, "could twist her father round her little finger." Then what Brenda termed, the "great Exodus of the Millers" actually took place, and poor Lady Miller found herself with her husband, four daughters, two maids and a mountain of luggage, carried off to Paris; and from Paris they journeyed to Lucerne.
At Lucerne, to his audible consternation, Sir Lucas was thrust into the too prominent post of chaperon—his wife having declared that her health was not equal to society. Nevertheless, she took a certain amount of comfort in a sofa, her lace work, and patience cards,—although the rock-garden, was far, far away!
At first, Sir Lucas instinctively shrank from following five grown-up women into a dining-room, or restaurant; but most of his party were so handsome as to draw all eyes, and in this fact, he found considerable compensation; also, when he beheld other men doing similar duty, he became more resigned; and by and by actually began to enjoy this amazing, and absolute change! He and his girls played golf on the Sonnenberg, and made excursions, whilst her ladyship and maid, sat in the shade, listening to the band, or ventured on a little shopping, purchasing Swiss embroidery, and Italian tortoise-shell.
In spite of their already large party, the Miller girls good-naturedly invited Nancy to join them. She and Billy became immediate allies, and on the Sonnenberg links, laid the foundation of a lasting friendship.
"We are such a squad of women," she said to Nancy, "but it had to be all, or none; people get used to us, and find we are quite rural, and harmless. I think Mr. Holford, and Major Berners are becoming accustomed to Minna and Brenda, and I'm not the least surprised. At home, we thought little of their good looks! They were just nice, cheery, accomplished, girls. Minna has a lovely voice; but here, they stand out as beauties, and the Pater looks as proud as a peacock with two tails! They are the prettiest girls in Lucerne, bar yourself!"
"Oh, what nonsense!" Nancy protested, but Billy signed to her that she was about to make a drive, and thereby closed the argument!
At the Grand Hotel, Locarno, Mrs. De Wolfe again encountered neighbours; Lord and Lady Hillside, their son, and daughter; these were not merely neighbours, but connections,—and not only connections, but friends! It turned out, that Lord Hillside and Mrs. Ffinch were brother and sister, and on the strength of her intimacy with a relative, Nancy was welcomed by the family.
Lady Hillside had been an heiress: her fortune had paid off heavy mortgages on the estate, and repaired the dilapidated castle. So flourishing now were the Hillside concerns, that Theodore Lamerton, the heir, a young man in the Guards, was looked upon as a desirable parti. His mother, was a little woman with a yellow, haggard face, in which burned a pair of jet black eyes,—eyes of the reformer and fanatic.
Lady Hillside was feverishly energetic, and full of philanthropic plans: her name was well known on Boards, and Committees, and she cherished a secret passion for being, what is called "Chair." Her interests abroad, were so wide, and so various, that she could spare but little time for her own family;—in fact, she was something of an aristocratic Mrs. Jellaby. Her correspondence was enormous; she kept two secretaries, but rarely looked into her housekeeper's accounts—or answered what might be termed "a domestic letter."
Recently her health had broken down from overwork, and a specialist had ordered her abroad, with strict injunctions, as to absolute rest. Rest was impossible to a woman of her temperament! It was true that she now left correspondence in abeyance, but she was actively engaged in making a wonderful collection of seals and rings,—which enterprise carried her far, and wide.
Lord Hillside, a handsome, bearded individual, a great authority on Egyptology, lived much to himself, and took his walks apart. With his chiselled aquiline features and well-trimmed beard, he might almost have passed for an Egyptian Tetrarch himself. Next to Egyptology—and Rameses the Second, his chief interest in life was his daughter Josephine Speyde, a widow of eight and twenty. "Josie," as she was called, had not inherited the family good looks, but had been endowed with some of her father's brains, and more of her mother's inexhaustible energy,—which in her case, took the form of a tireless pursuit of amusement. In appearance she was thin, and hipless; her complexion was sallow; a pair of magnificent black eyes illuminated a long, but expressive countenance. Such was her art in dress, and deportment, that she actually persuaded her world, that she was as handsome as she was amusing, and otherwise attractive. Married at twenty to a distant cousin, the alliance had proved unfortunate, and as Josie herself confessed, "they had found one another out too soon." She was restless, capricious, and extravagant: Victor Speyde was dissipated, ill-tempered, and jealous.
The relatives put their heads together, and predicted "trouble," but the death of Captain Speyde in a motor accident, relieved their apprehensions, and liberated his wife. As a widow, with an independent income, she returned to live with her parents,—a changed young woman, who had seen the seamy side of life; she rode hard, smoked incessantly, and had the reputation for a keen appetite for adventure, and stories, more or less risky! Mrs. Speyde belonged to a smart Bridge Club, possessed a car, and a latch-key—and claimed all the prerogatives of a self-chaperoning widow,—whilst enjoying as she described, "a really topping time."
Possibly because they were such a complete contrast in appearance and character, Mrs. Speyde took a violent fancy to Nancy Travers, called her by her christian name the second time they met, graciously instructed her in a new style of hairdressing, offered her the name of a very private dressmaker, and imparted amusing information respecting the affairs,—love and otherwise,—of her very dearest friends.
Not the least among Josie's accomplishments, was her art of story-telling; she drew little word-pictures with audacious and dramatic effect, and her voice, if slightly guttural, immediately claimed an audience. Nancy wept and screamed with laughter, as she found herself unexpectedly in the company of Lady Miller,—and all her invalid airs; not to speak of several of the inmates of the Grand Hotel; and Josie's own aunt, Julia Ffinch, was also taken off to the life!
Nancy was dazzled, flattered, and enslaved. Josie Speyde was so clever, so gay, and entertaining: she read aloud scraps of delightful letters,—chiefly from men in foreign parts,—related stirring little episodes in her own past, and more or less opened the girl's grey-blue eyes, to their very widest extent.
Mrs. De Wolfe rarely remained long in one place; she assured her friends that she must have gipsy blood in her veins, and offered this idea as a sufficient excuse for her unexpected, and erratic movements. Weary of Locarno, she adjourned to familiar quarters at Cadenabbia, and as soon as she was comfortably installed in her favourite sitting-room, proceeded as usual, to scan the lists of visitors at the various hotels in the neighbourhood.
"I see the Gordons are over at Bellaggio," she remarked. "The Mackenzies are back at the Villa d'Este, the Wynnes are in this very hotel; and oh! what a piece of luck!—Dudley Villars is here too," and as she made this announcement, Mrs. De Wolfe turned an unusually beaming face upon her companion.
In answer to Nancy's glance of interrogation, she explained: "He is the son of my greatest friend; I held him at the font, tied his sashes, heard his prayers, and if I am not greatly mistaken, smacked him soundly.—I am very fond of Dudley."
"Do you think the smackings give him a certain claim?"
"No, indeed, poor fellow; he makes a stronger appeal than that!"
"And is he really a poor fellow?"
"On the contrary, he is rich; but his life has been spoiled, he has no fixed home; Shandmere is let. Years ago he made an unfortunate marriage: after a few months of cat-and-dog life, he and his wife parted, he has no near relatives, or ties, and spends his time rambling about the world."
"One of the idle rich?"
"Idle rich yourself! Dudley is always intensely occupied; in pursuit of new schemes, the development of a voice, or some literary undertaking. He is a charming fellow, so popular, and remarkably handsome!"
"I'm simply dying to see him," exclaimed Nancy.
"Do not die just yet; I'll send him a little note, and ask him to look me up as soon as he returns. I thought he was in Greece, but Italy always draws him. His grandmother was an Italian, one of an ancient Roman family, and from her, he has inherited his graceful manners, and taste for art. She has also bequeathed him her olive skin, and matchless dark eyes."
"I don't believe I can possibly wait until he calls," said Nancy. "I think I shall go down, and hang about the hall."
"Oh, you may laugh, my dear, but you won't make such an acquaintance as Dudley, in a month of Sundays. He is one of my boys—although he is getting on for forty—and a particular favourite."
"So I see."
"And not without good reason; Dudley is so attentive and thoughtful, to an old woman. His tender solicitude is quite touching! For instance, he never forgets my birthday; he knows my tastes in flowers, and books, and people; remembers my likes and dislikes, the little remedies I use,—and how I hate sugar, and adore asparagus. Besides all this, I am his godmother, and since his dear mother is gone, I think he is a little inclined to look to me."
"I hope he will not be furiously jealous, and insist on turning me adrift," said Nancy.
"On the contrary, my dear, you will become friends,—great friends, and in one way, he will complete your education. He knows Italy, 'au bout des ongles,' and every yard of these lakes. He will widen your literary horizon, take you out sketching—he really is an artist. It is marvellous how, in a few strokes, he can place a scene or a face before you. And not only does he sketch, but write; his books are praised in the Press, his poems, called masterpieces. Strictly between ourselves, I buy his books,—but I cannot read them. His poetry is rather, rather ..." she paused, momentarily at a loss for a word.
"Improper!" suggested Nancy, raising her brows.
"No, you evil-minded girl! or if there is anything of the sort, it is too deeply hidden for me. His writing is vague, and—er, what I may call nebulous! There are rhapsodies about colour, sunset, perfume, and eyes. It all seems to me a sort of hotch-potch, but I keep my opinion to myself, and when anyone asks me what I think of Dudley Villars' last? I throw up my hands and say 'it's amazing.'"
"Does he do nothing but write amazing poems, paint, and travel?"
"Oh, yes, he goes into society. You will see him in London next season. He is what I may call in 'fierce demand' for balls. Women intrigue and squabble, to get him to their houses. He knows all the right people, and dances like.... Give me a simile."
"A moonbeam."
"Thank you. It is considered a very high distinction to be his partner. I've been told that girls, whom he has overlooked, have actually been seen with tears streaming down their faces."
"Poor idiots!" and Nancy laughed heartily, and heartlessly. "So much for Dudley Villars. Now please tell me something about his wife?" "I've never seen her; she lives in Florida, I believe, and it is an old, old story,—they parted many years ago, and possibly people over here do not suppose that she exists! I happen to know, because I sent her a wedding present. It is a most unsatisfactory state of affairs, I must say."
"I wonder they don't get a divorce? Isn't there some place in America, where it can be managed,—just while you wait at the railway station?"
"You mean in Dakota? Well, it's not quite so rapid as all that, and my dear child how gliby you talk of divorce! What can you possibly know about it?"
"I have seen and known divorced people. Don't you remember the pretty American at Locarno? She had been divorced twice, and was going to marry that Swedish baron! I believe one of her former husbands happened to be passing through, and left a card, and a bouquet!"
"Pray who told you all this?"
"Josie Speyde!"
"Oh, Josie," and Mrs. De Wolfe made a gesture of angry impatience.
"Well, she said the lady was really charming: they made great friends, and played poker together,—she gave Josie lessons."
"That reminds me," said Mrs. De Wolfe, looking round, "I see Hardy has brought down the card box; we shall just have time for a game of piquet, before we dress for dinner."
The two ladies had scarcely settled down to piquet, when the door was flung wide, and a sonorous voice, announced, "Sir Dudley Villars!"
The meeting between Sir Dudley, and his godmother, was warmly affectionate. Nancy gazed in amazement, as she beheld him kiss the old lady foreign fashion, on either wrinkled cheek. After one or two ejaculations, and explanations, he was presented to her, and wonderful to relate, neither fell short of her lofty expectations, nor her chaperon's glowing description. Sir Dudley was slightly built; admirably turned out; he had clear-cut features, wavy dark hair,—the front locks picturesquely powdered with white;—his smile was almost an embrace; whilst his eyes, which were dark, were the very saddest, and most arresting, that Nancy had ever encountered.
But these tragic, heart-broken eyes, had no connection, with their owner's real disposition, and feelings; they were merely a notable family endowment, and had been for generations, a valuable asset in the fortunes of the noble Casserini. It was whispered, that these same eyes, had won vast estates, a ducal palace, and even,—but this is in your ear,—a cardinal's hat! In the present instance, the eyes were allied to an agreeable voice, a cultivated taste, and a captivating personality. Indeed one enthusiastic friend, had been heard to speak of Villars, as "a delicious fellow!" Delicious or otherwise, he was not to the taste of various married men, and one or two nervous chaperons. These, viewed him with no favour; but rather, as a shepherd beholds a strange, and suspicious dog!
The visitor and Mrs. De Wolfe immediately embarked on an animated conversation, an eager exchange of plans, and news, and Nancy, after listening for some time to the sayings and doings of complete strangers, made an excuse about dressing in good time, and left the friends to enjoy a tête-à-tête. No sooner had the door closed upon her, than Sir Dudley said:
"My dear Auntie Wolfe, where did you get hold of such a beautiful young lamb? Is she the new companion you mentioned?"
The old lady nodded a complacent assent.
"You never were much given to companions, were you? I only recollect two; unprepossessing elderly females. What an amazing change!"
"Yes, I couldn't stand either of those elderly females; one had such decided views, and argued every question,—from the proper way to boil an egg, to the age of the world. The other, had a maddening sniff, and read all my letters. Still, an old woman cannot live entirely alone. There are wet days, and long evenings! I want someone to read to me, and play piquet. Nancy is pretty good for a beginner, but not like you,—a foeman worthy of my steel!"
"Nancy! What a nice simple name," said Sir Dudley. "Miss Nancy has lovely eyes; I admire their clear, crystal gaze of childlike innocence. Do tell me all about her?"
In a few short but pithy sentences, Sir Dudley was made acquainted with the history of Miss Travers,—that is to say, as known to her chaperon.
"An orphan with tons of money, no undesirable relations, and a truthful, affectionate, nature; dear Auntie Wolfe, allow me to offer you my warmest congratulations! And how long do you suppose this delightful alliance will last?"
"To the end of my days, if I could have my wish," was the prompt reply. "The child is my right hand, and simply radiates happiness; however, some odious man is sure to snatch her from me, and carry her off as his companion for life!"
"Yes," he assented, nodding his head, "I'm afraid your partnership is doomed! A beauty, an heiress, and launched by Mrs. De Wolfe—your chance of keeping her, is not worth the traditional button! But how you will enjoy yourself in the meanwhile! You who are always so interested in love affairs, and happy marriages."
"Well I give you my solemn promise, that I shall be in no hurry to marry off Nancy."
"Has she had any love affairs, do you think?"
"No, indeed. Why, my dear Dudley, you've only to look at the girl's face, to see that she has yet to experience the heart's awakening."
"Dio mio, and what a delightful task for some too lucky fellow!"
"Now look here, Dudley," and Mrs. De Wolfe suddenly sat erect, and tapped his sleeve with her pince-nez. "No experiments if you please,—no philandering. I'm not in the way of seeing the gay, and gallant aspect of your character; you turn the good and steady side to my old eyes,—but I have ears, and I have heard tales."
"No doubt you have, dearest Auntie Wolfe, but you know you should never believe anything you hear, and only the half of what you see. I grant you, I have amused myself, pour passer le temps, but only with hardened, and accomplished flirts, who know how to play the game; never with girls,—and I thought you barred girls yourself?"
"Yes, I do, the usual run, who giggle, and whisper, and have silly secrets, and make faces at me behind my back. Now Nancy hasn't a secret in the whole world; if she had, she couldn't keep it! Her life is an open book, 'who runs may read.' A coffee plantation, an English school, once more a coffee plantation; her father's death, a year's slavery to an abominably selfish aunt; from this aunt she came to me—and there's her history!"
"How old is she?"
"Past twenty, and in some ways, absurdly young for her age."
"And I am thirty-eight, and absurdly old for my years, so I think you had better appoint me deputy-chaperon. Well now, I must be off to dress! May I look in again after dinner?"
"To be sure," assented Mrs. De Wolfe, "come in and out, whenever you please, just as you always do, and arrange to sit with us in the restaurant. Don't let Nancy make any difference!"
"All right, then, I won't! I've got a capital motor-boat; I'll take you both on the lake, all day, and every day, and anywhere you like."
Sir Dudley Villars promptly installed himself as one of Mrs. De Wolfe's party, whilst Antonio, his valet, enacted the part of cavaliere-servente, to the two lady's-maids. He sat with them at meals, entered their sitting-room, when so disposed—which was often; played piquet, sang tender and emotional love songs in a melting tenor, to Nancy's accompaniment, and was even suffered to smoke! He was evidently attached to his godmother, and full of petits soins on her behalf. His manner to her was charming; that of a cheery, sometimes teasing, and yet always devoted son! He went her errands, carried her wraps, brought her flowers, books, and papers; also occasionally, his letters from mutual friends; made a capital sketch of her for Nancy, a sketch of Nancy for his godmother, and altogether lived up to his reputation.
Mrs. Wynne, her daughter Flora, her fiancé—a young diplomatist on leave from Rome—joined forces with Mrs. De Wolfe. A party of six, just filled the motor-boat, and were admirably paired—two matrons, two lovers, Nancy and her new friend. Sometimes the younger people, went up and spent a long afternoon on the links above Menaggio; but as a rule the days were devoted to picnics and excursions, about the lake. Mrs. De Wolfe was anxious that Nancy should see all her old favourite "beauty spots," and proved an active, and indefatigable chaperon, but a long tiring day at Grave-dona, was too much for her seventy-four years. Returning amid the late mists, she caught a severe chill, and was confined to her room for one whole week; and as the Wynnes had betaken themselves to Bellaggio, Nancy and Sir Dudley were abandoned to a tête-à-tête!
The invalid would not suffer her young companion to sit what she called "stuffing,—in a sick-room," and drove her forth to enjoy the exquisite autumn weather; to walk, to boat, and to sketch,—and so it came to pass, that Nancy and Sir Dudley—a rather striking pair—went about together, to play golf, to visit old villas and lovely gardens, or to climb the hills to well-known holy shrines,—also to flit around the lake in the motor-boat; now to Como, now to Varenna,—in short, wherever their fancy carried them!
Nancy had found old friends in Menaggio; the two Clovers (her schoolfellows), and their belongings,—which included their parents and an elder brother. They were eager for her company; she played golf with them on several occasions, but somehow most of the shining hours were claimed by Dudley Villars,—who pronounced the Clover family to be "bourgeois," and the son,—who exhibited a fervid interest in Miss Travers, "as a blundering lout, with a calf-like smile, and dull to the verge of idiocy."
Dudley, to do him justice, was a delightful companion; so entertaining, so thoughtful, always ready to fall in with the slightest whim; and he did things so well! To Nancy his painting was a revelation and a delight, his voice was sympathetic, and he told her many entrancing tales, of his wanderings in the far-away East, and then his good looks,—what a haunting face!
Sir Dudley's manner to his charming companion, had been partly that of a kindly teacher, and comrade; tinged with an infusion of chivalrous reverence.
Oh, how different to Teddy and Nicky, who never hurried to open a door, or stand up, when she entered the room. Once or twice Nancy had asked herself, if she was not growing to like this charming friend, too well? After all; he was no relation. Simple Nancy! And she could not forget, that when he had gone to Milan for two or three days, she had missed him even more than his godmother; and once or twice, when, looking up suddenly, she had met his eyes, she found herself blushing to her hair.
That he liked and admired her,—Nancy felt instinctively, and a chilly little inward voice asked, if she was going to what is called "fall in love?" She dismissed the idea with horror. Sir Dudley was married, and had a wife living; she too was married, and had a husband, somewhere—incredible as it seemed, even to her own thoughts. One night, she took herself solemnly to task—sitting at her bedroom window, looking down at the stars, reflected in the lake, she held an inquiry. Dudley had often given her flowers; he had lately assumed an attitude of exclusive protection and possession; once it had seemed to her,—though it might have been imagination,—that he had pressed her hand, as she alighted from the motor-boat. There must be no more of that. What would her father have thought of his Nancy, if she gave her heart to a married man?
Mrs. De Wolfe had recovered from her chill, and resumed her responsibilities, but she no longer went on expeditions and picnics,—contenting herself with going across to Bellaggio, to call on friends, or to prowl about among the antiquity shops; whilst her companion sketched in the villa gardens, or endeavoured to immortalize the tall cypresses, above San Giovanni.
With the exception of one or two eloquent glances, and an involuntary hand-pressure, Dudley's manner to his godmother's beautiful companion, was admirably guarded. With the fear of his old friend's displeasure before his eyes, it had been a case of what he mentally termed "paws off," but how could any man under eighty years of age, withstand such an exquisite creature? So simple and transparently innocent; so warm-hearted and intelligent, and beyond and above all, what a lovely vision of glorious youth! It was this, that enthralled the blasé dilettante.
He had played the part of genial comrade,—for he knew instinctively the sort of girl he had to deal with; how easy to alienate, and scare! She had been informed that he was married, and her Irish spirit and Irish chastity, were inscribed upon her exquisite lips. He and Nancy had many talks, and interesting discussions, as they took their daily stroll along the romantic thoroughfare, which leads from Cadenabbia through and beyond Tremezzo. Mrs. De Wolfe frequently accompanied them, and then, when half way, a half-hearted chaperon, sat down on a low wall to rest, and there await their return.
Nancy, who always enjoyed the sound of her own voice, and an appreciative listener, was neither shy, nor self-conscious; at a very early period of their acquaintance, and with consummate ease, the subtle man of the world, had made himself master of her simple history. He enjoyed listening to her vivid descriptions of the Indian hills, and to confidences as fresh, and pure as the dew of the dawn. He heard all about her school-days, her father's money troubles, and his splendid character. She spoke of the Corner boys, and Sir Dudley's old friend, Mrs. Ffinch. Once and once only had she touched on the tragedy of her bereavement,—when with averted face, and broken voice, she related particulars of Travers' death.
"And what became of the fellow who missed the panther?" inquired Villars, after a pause.
"I don't know; he is somewhere in India," she replied, almost under her breath.
"Well, I suppose, he was ashamed to show his face." But to this remark there was no reply.
Late one afternoon, Sir Dudley and his pupil,—having finished a sketch of the Baptistery, at Lenno, crossed over in the boat to the Villa Arconati,—which stands on its promontory half surrounded by water, and embowered in shade. Here the pair sat on the edge of a low wall, overlooking the lake, and carried on a lively discussion,—of which Mrs. Ffinch was the subject. Nancy did gallant battle for her friend, and patroness, and spoke with enthusiasm of her generosity and kindness of heart.
"Of course I am not denying old Julia a few good qualities; I've known her since I was a kid,"—and Sir Dudley unkindly added—"she's four or five years older than I am.—I remember her in the nursery, a big, overbearing girl, very stingy with jam. In those days the Hillsides were terribly hard up, and had a large family. Ju Lamerton was a sensible young woman, with no romantic nonsense about her, and she made room for her sisters, by marrying the biggest bore in the whole of India."
"Well, at any rate, they seem quite happy."
"Seem," repeated Sir Dudley; "that's her cleverness; she manages him. She manages everyone! She married off Emma and Mabel, and last time she came home, got a lout of a brother, into a capital sinecure." Then turning to look at Nancy, he added—"I wonder she didn't try her hand on you,—but I suppose you were too young?"
Nancy felt herself colouring up to the roots of her hair, and carried off the suggestion with a rather embarrassed laugh.
"I expect you had all the young planters on their knees, young as you were? Come now, own up, strictly between ourselves! How many scalps did you bring home?"
"Not one," she answered, with decision, "we were just good friends, like you and I,—nothing more."
"I am delighted we are good friends," murmured Villars; and after this sentence, there fell a strange and dreamy silence. The surrounding scene was exquisite, the beauty of Italy's lake land, tinged with a kind of roseate romance. Above them to the left, towered hills, clothed with olive and chestnut woods; at their feet gently lapped the jade-green water of the lake. The glow of a wonderful sunset touched the quiet landscape, and the only sound that recalled one to a workaday world, was the chime of the Angelus, stealing across from San Giovanni.
The stillness and solitude, had a compelling effect upon Villars; turning to Nancy, he said abruptly, "I must speak! Here is the hour, and the place! I want to tell you, that I have not had such a happy time, as this last five weeks—for many a long, long year. Nancy, may I call you Nancy?—everyone does, and Miss Travers sounds so formal! I may, may I not?"—as Nancy made no reply, but nervously twisted a rose between her fingers. He moved an inch or two nearer, and in a low, seductive voice continued: "There is no one to object,—is there?"
"No one," she answered, raising her head, and meeting his burning dark eyes, with a flash of pride. He gazed at her critically and in silence. What a darling she was! From the very first he had been enthralled by her high spirits, entrain, and beauty; here, he assured himself, was the perfect treasure for which he had vainly sought; and in many and far lands. He had made this discovery on former occasions,—but the prize had eluded him, or proved a bitter disappointment. Close beside him, twirling a red rose in her taper fingers, sat his one, and only love.
If that devil Cassandra, would but divorce him, here was her successor,—the future Lady Villars! But Cassandra, the most obstinate and malignant of her sex, was adamant; hitherto, his appeals, prayers, threats, and flagrant indiscretions had failed to move her. This was her revenge; she refused to release him!
Something in this long and unusual silence, filled the girl with a sense of vague uneasiness: and this uneasiness was not dispelled, when her companion broke the long pause, with the startling question: "May I kiss you, darling?" His voice was very humble and pleading, but there was a smouldering fire, in his melancholy dark eyes.
"Certainly not," she answered sharply.
"But why?" urged Villars, moving still nearer, "since we are such friends?"
"Because I should hate it," she declared decisively.
"Une jeunesse sans amour, est comme un matin sans soleil," he quoted. "I suppose no man has ever touched those perfect lips?"
Nancy tossed the rose away, but made no reply: she was feeling excessively uncomfortable.
"So you know nothing about it, darling little girl?" he went on. "No one has ever yet drawn your soul through in one long kiss! Listen to me, Nancy," and he made an effort to take her hand. "Won't you make room for a very lonely fellow in your heart? You would, if you only knew how miserable his life has been."
Nancy slipped down off the low wall, and stood erect, surveying her companion with a heightened colour, and irrepressible tears glistening in her eyes. She had received a tremendous shock, and felt a horrible impression of degradation, and insecurity.
"Sir Dudley, please don't talk to me in this way. I," and she gulped down an inclination to burst into tears, "I—I don't like it!"
Then with a desperate snatch at her ebbing self-possession, she added: "Will you be so kind as to signal for the boat?"
"Horrified! frightened! affronted! easy to see she's new to the situation," he said to himself. "I must go slow, chi va sano—va lontano. I've been a bit of an ass, but the sunset and the Angelus were too much for me."
"You know I wouldn't offend you for the whole world," he murmured, as in strained self-consciousness they awaited the boat. "Only forgive me for this once! One never can tell. Most girls like admiration, and kisses—I see you are different."
Nancy made no reply, but picked up her red Lugano umbrella, and got into the boat, without a word.
"She has taken the little scene seriously," he said to himself, as he looked at her set profile, and it was now his turn to be uneasy, and alarmed! Supposing she were to go and lodge a long complaint with Aunty De Wolfe? He must make his peace before they returned to the hotel. Accordingly on their way there, with all the eloquence, cleverness, and guile of a well-experienced diplomatist in emotion, he pleaded with his companion, for forgiveness; his misery and regrets appeared to be so acute, that they touched her sensitive feelings, and cooled her indignation. How could she withstand, the tears that stood in his wonderful eyes?
Notwithstanding this patched up peace, Mrs. De Wolfe might have noticed a certain constraint, between her young companions that evening, and there was no singing,—but as it happened, the mind of their chaperon was occupied with a recent interview, and the old lady was happily unconscious of any cloud.