LITMIR.BIZ

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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.

      CHAPTER 2

      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

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