style="font-size:15px;"> She was right, after all. He wished to convict her of ignorance. Her cheeks were now burning, beyond a doubt, and she felt revengeful.
‘I advise you to make inquiries at a shipping-office,’ was her distant reply.
‘It seems’—he was smiling at Nancy—‘I shall have to go to New York, and then take the Cuba mail.’
‘Are you going to join your friend in business?’
‘Business, I fear, is hardly my vocation.’
There was a tremor on Nancy’s lips, and about her eyelids. She said abruptly:
‘I thought you were perhaps in business?’
‘Did you? What suggested it?’
Tarrant looked fixedly at her; in his expression, as in his voice, she detected a slight disdain, and that decided her to the utterance of the next words.
‘Oh’—she had assumed an ingenuous air—‘there’s the Black Lead that bears your name. Haven’t you something to do with it?’
She durst not watch him, but a change of his countenance was distinctly perceptible, and for the moment caused her a keen gratification. His eyes had widened, his lips had set themselves; he looked at once startled and mortified.
‘Black lead?’ The words fell slowly, in a voice unlike that she had been hearing. ‘No. I have nothing to do with it.’
The silence was dreadful. Nancy endeavoured to rise, but her limbs would not do their office. Then, her eyes fixed on the grass, she became aware that Tarrant himself had stood up.
‘Where are the children?’ he was saying absently.
He descried them afar off with Miss. Morgan, and began to saunter in that direction. As soon as his back was turned, Nancy rose and began to walk towards the house. In a few moments Jessica and the girls were with her.
‘I think we must go,’ she said.
They entered, and took leave of Mrs. Baker, who sat alone in the drawing-room.
‘Did you say good-bye to Mr. Tarrant?’ Jessica asked, as they came forth again.
‘Yes.’
‘I didn’t. But I suppose it doesn’t matter.’
Nancy had thought of telling her friend what she had done, of boasting that she had asked the impossible question. But now she felt ashamed of herself, and something more than ashamed. Never again could she enter this garden. And it seemed to her that, by a piece of outrageous, of wanton, folly, she had for ever excluded herself from the society of all ‘superior’ people.
CHAPTER 7
‘Now, I look at it in this way. It’s to celebrate the fiftieth year of the reign of Queen Victoria—yes: but at the same time, and far more, it’s to celebrate the completion of fifty years of Progress. National Progress, without precedent in the history of mankind! One may say, indeed, Progress of the Human Race. Only think what has been done in this half-century: only think of it! Compare England now, compare the world, with what it was in 1837. It takes away one’s breath!’
Thus Mr. Samuel Bennett Barmby, as he stood swaying forward upon his toes, his boots creaking. Nancy and Jessica listened to him. They were ready to start on the evening’s expedition, but Horace had not yet come home, and on the chance of his arrival they would wait a few minutes longer.
‘I shall make this the subject of a paper for our Society next winter—the Age of Progress. And with special reference to one particular—the Press. Only think now, of the difference between our newspapers, all our periodicals of to-day, and those fifty years ago. Did you ever really consider, Miss. Morgan, what a marvellous thing one of our great newspapers really is? Printed in another way it would make a volume—absolutely; a positive volume; packed with thought and information. And all for the ridiculous price of one penny!’
He laughed; a high, chuckling, crowing laugh; the laugh of triumphant optimism. Of the man’s sincerity there could be no question; it beamed from his shining forehead, his pointed nose; glistened in his prominent eyes. He had a tall, lank figure, irreproachably clad in a suit of grey: frock coat, and waistcoat revealing an expanse of white shirt. His cuffs were magnificent, and the hands worthy of them. A stand-up collar, of remarkable stiffness, kept his head at the proper level of self-respect.
‘By the bye, Miss. Lord, are you aware that the Chinese Empire, with four hundred MILLION inhabitants, has only ten daily papers? Positively; only ten.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Nancy.
‘I saw it stated in a paper. That helps one to grasp the difference between civilisation and barbarism. One doesn’t think clearly enough of common things. Now that’s one of the benefits one gets from Carlyle. Carlyle teaches one to see the marvellous in everyday life. Of course in many things I don’t agree with him, but I shall never lose an opportunity of expressing my gratitude to Carlyle. Carlyle and Gurty! Yes, Carlyle and Gurty; those two authors are an education in themselves.’
He uttered a long ‘Ah!’ and moved his lips as if savouring a delicious morsel.
‘Now here’s an interesting thing. If all the cabs in London were put end to end,’—he paused between the words, gravely—‘what do you think, Miss. Morgan, would be the total length?’
‘Oh, I have no idea, Mr. Barmby.’
‘Forty miles—positively! Forty miles of cabs!’
‘How do you know?’ asked Nancy.
‘I saw it stated in a paper.’
The girls glanced at each other, and smiled. Barmby beamed upon them with the benevolence of a man who knew his advantages, personal and social.
And at this moment Horace Lord came in. He had not the fresh appearance which usually distinguished him; his face was stained with perspiration, his collar had become limp, the flower at his buttonhole hung faded.
‘Well, here I am. Are you going?’
‘I suppose you know you have kept us waiting,’ said his sister.
‘Awf’ly sorry. Couldn’t get here before.’
He spoke as if he had not altogether the command of his tongue, and with a fixed meaningless smile.
‘We had better not delay,’ said Barmby, taking up his hat. ‘Seven o’clock. We ought to be at Charing Cross before eight; that will allow us about three hours.’
They set forth at once. By private agreement between the girls, Jessica Morgan attached herself to Mr. Barmby, allowing Nancy to follow with her brother, as they walked rapidly towards Camberwell Green. Horace kept humming popular airs; his hat had fallen a
