style="font-size:15px;"> ‘I promised to say nothing about it, but there’s no harm in telling you, you know. You remember I was away last Saturday afternoon? Well, just when it was time to leave the office, that day, the porter came to say that a lady wished to see me—a lady in a carriage outside. Of course I couldn’t make it out at all, but I went down as quickly as possible, and saw the carriage waiting there,—a brougham,—and marched up to the door. Inside there was a lady—a great swell, smiling at me as if we were friends. I took off my hat, and said that I was Mr. Lord. “Yes,” she said, “I see you are;” and she asked if I could spare her an hour or two, as she wished to speak to me of something important. Well, of course I could only say that I had nothing particular to do,—that I was just going home. “Then will you do me the pleasure,” she said, “to come and have lunch with me? I live in Weymouth Street, Portland Place.”
The young man paused to watch the effect of his narrative, especially of the last words. Nancy returned his gaze with frank astonishment.
‘What sort of lady was it?’ she asked.
‘Oh, a great swell. Somebody in the best society—you could see that at once.’
‘But how old?’
‘Well, I couldn’t tell exactly; about forty, I should think.’
‘Oh!—Go on.’
‘One couldn’t refuse, you know; I was only too glad to go to a house in the West End. She opened the carriage-door from the inside, and I got in, and off we drove. I felt awkward, of course, but after all I was decently dressed, and I suppose I can behave like a gentleman, and—well, she sat looking at me and smiling, and I could only smile back. Then she said she must apologise for behaving so strangely, but I was very young, and she was an old woman,—one couldn’t call her that, though,—and she had taken this way of renewing her acquaintance with me. Renewing? But I didn’t remember to have ever met her before, I said. “Oh, yes, we have met before, but you were a little child, a baby in fact, and there’s no wonder you don’t remember me?” And then she said, “I knew your mother very well.”
Nancy leaned forward, her lips apart.
‘Queer, wasn’t it? Then she went on to say that her name was Mrs. Damerel; had I ever heard it? No, I couldn’t remember the name at all. She was a widow, she said, and had lived mostly abroad for a great many years; now she was come back to settle in England. She hadn’t a house of her own yet, but lived at a boarding-house; she didn’t know whether to take a house in London, or somewhere just out in the country. Then she began to ask about father, and about you; and it seemed to amuse her when I looked puzzled. She’s a jolly sort of person, always laughing.’
‘Did she say anything more about our mother?’
‘I’ll tell you about that presently. We got to the house, and went in, and she took me upstairs to her own private sitting-room, where the table was laid for two. She said that she usually had her meals with the other people, but it would be better for us to be alone, so that we could talk.’
‘How did she know where to find you?’ Nancy inquired.
‘Of course I wondered about that, but I didn’t like to ask. Well, she went away for a few minutes, and then we had lunch. Everything was A-1 of course; first-rate wines to choose from, and a rattling good cigar afterwards—for me, I mean. She brought out a box; said they were her husband’s, and had a laugh about it.’
‘How long has she been a widow?’ asked Nancy.
‘I don’t know. She didn’t wear colours, I noticed; perhaps it was a fashionable sort of mourning. We talked about all sorts of things; I soon made myself quite at home. And at last she began to explain. She was a friend of mother’s, years and years ago, and father was the cause of their parting, a quarrel about something, she didn’t say exactly what. And it had suddenly struck her that she would like to know how we were getting on. Then she asked me to promise that I would tell no one.’
‘She knew about mother’s death, I suppose?’
‘Oh yes, she knew about that. It happened not very long after the affair that parted them. She asked a good many questions about you. And she wanted to know how father had got on in his business.’
‘What did you say?’
‘Oh, I told her I really didn’t know much about it, and she laughed at that.’
‘How long did you stay there?’
‘Till about four. But there’s something else. Before I went away she gave me an invitation for next Saturday. She wants me to meet her at Portland Road Station, and go out to Richmond, and have dinner there.’
‘Shall you go?’
‘Well, it’s very awkward. I want to go somewhere else on Saturday, with Fanny. But I didn’t see how to refuse.’
Nancy wore a look of grave reflection, and kept silence.
‘It isn’t a bad thing, you know,’ pursued her brother, ‘to have a friend of that sort. There’s no knowing what use she might be, especially just now.’
His tone caused Nancy to look up.
‘Why just now?’
‘I’ll tell you after I’ve had a talk with father to-night,’ Horace replied, setting his countenance to a show of energetic resolve.
‘Shall I guess what you’re going to talk about?’
‘If you like.’
She gazed at him.
‘You’re surely not so silly as to tell father about all that nonsense?’
‘What nonsense?’ exclaimed the other indignantly.
‘Why, with Fanny French.’
‘You’ll find that it’s anything but nonsense,’ Horace replied, raising his brows, and gazing straight before him, with expanded nostrils.
‘All right. Let me know the result. It’s time to go in.’
Horace sat alone for a minute or two, his legs at full length, his feet crossed, and the upper part of his body bent forward. He smiled to himself, a smile of singular fatuity, and began to hum a popular tune.
CHAPTER 5
When they assembled at table, Mr. Lord had recovered his moderate cheerfulness. Essentially, he was anything but ill-tempered; Horace and Nancy were far from regarding him with that resentful bitterness which is produced in the victims of a really harsh parent. Ten years ago, as they well remembered, anger was a rare thing in his behaviour to them, and kindness the rule. Affectionate he had never shown himself; reserve and austerity had always distinguished him. Even now-a-days, it was generally safe to anticipate mildness from him at the evening meal. In the matter of eating and drinking his prudence notably contradicted his precepts. He loved strong meats, dishes highly flavoured, and partook of them without moderation. At table his beverage was ale; for wine—unless it were very sweet port—he cared little; but in the privacy of his own room, whilst smoking numberless pipes of rank tobacco, he indulged freely in spirits. The habit was unknown to his children, but for some years he had seldom gone to bed in a condition that merited the name of sobriety.
When the
