Nell, of Shorne Mills Part 60

"Like Zulus into a zareba--if that's what they call it. Yes; no denizen of the Buildings would feel strange in Africa, for, whatever the weather may be, the blacks are always with us. Should you say that this is done on this side?"

He held up the slice on the toasting fork for her inspection.

"Beautifully! Turn it, please."

"I hope to Heaven I shan't drop it! There you are! I knew I should."

"Well, you can keep that one for yourself," said Nell, laughing.

He listened to the laugh, with his head a little on one side.

"I like to hear that," he said, almost to himself, "though, sometimes, I wonder how you can do it--you, who must always be longing for the fresh air--for the country."

Nell winced.

"What is the use of longing for that which one cannot have?" she said lightly, but checking a sigh.

He looked at her quickly, strangely, and a faint dash of color rose to his pale face.

"That's true philosophy, at any rate," he said, in a low voice; "but, all the same, one can't help longing sometimes."

As he spoke, he stole a glance at the beautiful face; and, in looking, forgot the toast, which promptly showed its resentment of his neglect by "catching," and filling the apartment with the smell of scorched bread.

"I think that's burning," said Nell.

"And I'm sure of it," he said penitently. "If ever you are in doubt as to the statement that man is a useless animal, set me to some simple task, Miss Lorton, and I'll prove it beyond question. Never mind, it's my slice, and charcoal is extremely wholesome."

"There's another; and do be careful! And how are you getting on?"

He jerked his head toward the sitting room above, where the piano was.

"The cantata? Slowly, slowly," he said thoughtfully. "Sometimes it goes, like a two-year-old; at others it drags and creeps along, and more often it stops altogether. You haven't heard it lately; perhaps that's the reason I'm sticking. I notice that I always get on better and faster after you--and Lorton--have been up to mark progress. Perhaps you'll come up this evening? It's cruel to ask you, I know, for you must hate the sound of my piano and fiddle, just as much as I hate the sound of Mrs. Jones spanking Tommy, or the whizzing of the sewing machine of that poor girl in the next room. And you must hear them, too--you, who have been so used to the quiet of the country, the music of the sea, and the humming of bees! Yes, it is harder for you, Miss Lorton, than for any of the rest of us; and I often stop in the middle of the cantata and think how you must suffer."

"Then don't think of it again," said Nell cheerfully, "for, indeed, there is no cause to pity me. At first----" She stopped, and her brows knit with the memory of the first few weeks of Beaumont Buildings.

"Well, at first it was rather--trying; but after a while one gets used----"

"Used to the infernal--I beg your pardon--the incessant bangings on a piano, and the wailings of Tommy Jones. But you wouldn't complain even if you still suffered as keenly as you did when you first came. I know.

Sometimes I feel that I would give ten years of my life if I could hear you say 'Good-by, Mr. Falconer; we are going!' though G.o.d knows I--we--should all miss you badly enough."

There came a knock at the door--a soft, dull knock, followed by a rattle of the handle--and a mite of a boy stood in the opening, inhaling the scent of the tea and toast, and gazing wide-eyed at the two occupants of the room.

"Please, mother ses will 'oo lend her free lumps o' sugar, Miss 'Orton; 'cos she've run out."

"Of course I will! And come in, Tommy!" said Nell. "There you are!"

She wrapped half the contents of the sugar basin in a piece of paper and gave it him; then, seeing his eyes fixed wistfully on the pile of b.u.t.tered toast, she took a couple of slices, arranged them in sandwich fashion, b.u.t.ter side inward, and put them into his chubby and grimy fist. "There you are. And, Tommy, you'll be a good boy, and won't eat any of the sugar, will you?"

"No; I'll be dood, Miss 'Orton. I'll promise I'll be dood."

"Then there's one lump all to yourself!" she said, sticking it into the other fist. "Open the door for him, Mr. Falconer; and don't watch him up the stairs; he'll keep his promise," she added, in a low voice, as she searched for a comparatively clean spot on Tommy's face on which to kiss him.

"Go on--you lucky young beggar!" said Falconer, under his breath, and eying Tommy enviously.

"If you've any pity to waste, spend it on the children," said Nell, with a sigh. "Oh, what would I give to be a fairy, just for one day, and whisk them off to the seaside, into the open fields, anywhere out of Beaumont Buildings. Sometimes, when I see the women drive by in their carriages, with a lap dog on their knees or stuck up beside them, it makes me feel wicked! I want to stick my head out of the window and call put: 'Come up here and fetch some of the children for a drive; I'll take care of the dog while you're gone!' d.i.c.k's late!" she broke off; "we'd better begin. Help me wheel the table down to the window."

He attempted to do it by himself, but the color rose to his face and his breath came fast, and Nell insisted on bearing a hand.

"That's better!" she said cheerfully, and ignoring the signs of his weakness. "You can reach the toast----"

He stood by the window, looking down absently and regaining his breath which the effort, slight as it was, had tried.

"There's a brougham stopped at the door," he said. "Doctor, I suppose.

No, it's a lady--a fashionable lady. Perhaps she's come to take one of the children for a drive?"

Nell looked out and uttered an exclamation.

"I--I know her," she said, with some agitation. "I'm afraid she's coming here--to see me!"

He moved to the door at once.

"Oh, but stay! Why do you run away?" she exclaimed.

He glanced at his seedy coat with a grave shyness.

"I'll come back if you're mistaken," he said. "Your swell visitor would be rather astonished at my appearance; and I'm afraid there isn't time to get my frock coat out of p.a.w.n."

"Don't go!" begged Nell; but he shook his head and left her; and as she heard his step going slowly up the stone stairs, she glanced at the tea, and thought pitifully of the meal he was losing; then she stood by the table and waited, trying to steady the beating of her heart, to a.s.sure herself that she had been mistaken; but presently some one knocked, and, opening the door, she saw Lady Wolfer standing before her.

Lady Wolfer drew the slight figure to her and kissed her again and again.

"You wicked girl!" she said, gazing at her with tender reproach. "Aren't you going to let me come in? Why do you stand and look at me with those grave eyes of yours, as if you were sorry to see me? Oh, my dear, my dear!"

"Yes, come in," said Nell, with something like the sigh of resignation.

Lady Wolfer still held her by the arm, and turned her face to the light.

There had been a dash of color in it a moment ago, but it had faded, and Lady Wolfer's eyes filled with tears as she noticed the thinness and pallor of the face.

"Nell, Nell! it is wicked of you! I only knew it last night, when we came back. I thought you were at Shorne Mills still! You wrote from there--you said nothing about coming to London."

"That was more than two months ago," said Nell, with a grave smile.

"And--and I said nothing because I knew that you--that Lord Wolfer--would want to--to help us. And there was no need--is none."

"No need!" Lady Wolfer looked round the room, listened for a moment to the strains of the piano mingling with the squeals of the children in the house, the yells of those playing in the street, and scented the various odors floating in at the window. "No need! Oh, Nell! isn't it wicked to be so stubborn and so proud? And we knew nothing! We thought that you had enough----"

"So we have," said Nell. "They have been very good to d.i.c.k at the works, and he is earning wages, and there--there was some money left--a little--but enough."

"Only enough to permit you to live here! In this prison! Nell, you must let me take you away----"

Nell shook her head, smiling still, but with that "stubborn" expression in her eyes which the other woman remembered.