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—’
Part II: Nature’s Graduate
CHAPTER 1
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
