The Beautiful Wretch; The Pupil of Aurelius; and The Four Macnicols Part 18

'Well, I've seen a good deal about women and their goings on, don't you know?' said Mr. Tom, with a sort of shrug. 'They're always changing and chopping and twisting about. The best way is to marry them offhand, and take the nonsense out of them.'

Captain Frank laughed. This was not at all alarming. And when it became secretly known that Captain Frank was immediately going to Brighton to secure his promised bride, there was a great, though discreet rejoicing at Kingscourt; and even pretty Mary Coventry came with her demure and laughing congratulations; and Mr. Tom was made more of than ever during the few hours longer that he remained in the house.

Frank King had not time to think about Nan now; it was Madge Beresford who had sent him that bit of forget-me-not.

CHAPTER XVI.

REVERIES.

No sooner had Nan come back to Brighton again, and been installed once more in her former position, than the whole house seemed to be pervaded by a quite new sense of satisfaction, the cause of which was not even guessed at. The wheels of the domestic machinery worked far more smoothly; even the servants seemed to partake of the general brightness and cheerfulness. Edith, the stupid sister, put it down to the Christmas-time, and congratulated herself on her evergreens on the walls. Mr. Tom observed that the house was far better managed when Nan was at home: that meant that he found his slippers when he wanted them, and that there was always a taper on the chimneypiece in the billiard-room. Lady Beresford had all her little whims attended to; and as for Madge, that young lady was greatly delighted to have a safe and sure confidante. For she was much exercised at this time both with her fears about Mr. Hanbury, who followed her about like a ghost, kept silent by the dread of Vice-Chancellors and tipstaffs, and her vain little hopes about Captain Frank King, whose intentions were scarcely a matter of doubt. Nan listened in her grave, sweet way that had earned for her, from Madge, the name of 'Old Mother Nan;' and then would say some nice thing to her sister; and then would carry her away on some charitable enterprise.

For this was the Christmas time; and what with continual choral services, and evergreens, and unearthly music in the still cold nights, there was a sort of exaltation in the air; and Nan wished to be practical. In consequence, Lady Beresford was gravely oppressed.

'I do believe, Nan,' she said, vexedly, one morning as she was writing out a cheque--'I do believe your only notion of Christianity is the giving away coals.'

'And a very good notion too,' said Tom, who would allow no one to say anything against Nan.

But then came that fateful letter from Frank King. It arrived on a January morning--on a clear and brilliant forenoon, just as Nan and her younger sister were going out for a walk, tempted by the sunlight and the colours of the sea. Madge herself took it from the postman at the door; glanced at the address, hastily opened the envelope, and guessed at, rather than read, the contents.

'Oh, Nan,' she said hurriedly, 'wait a moment. There is something--something I want to speak to you about--come into the dining-room--oh, do you know what this is, Nan?--Captain King has written.'

'Yes, dear,' said Nan, calmly and kindly, as she followed her into the empty dining-room.

'I must not show you the letter, must I?' said the younger sister, eagerly, though she was herself still reading and re-reading it. 'But you know what it is, Nan. And I must send an answer--oh, dear, what shall I do?'

'You ought to know, Madge,' her sister said. 'You were not unprepared, surely. I thought you expected it. I thought you would have had your mind made up.'

'But it is so dreadful--so sudden--so terrible! Look at my hands--I am all shaking. Oh, Nan, what would you do--what would you do if you were me?'

Nan seemed to be thinking of something far away; it was after a second that she recalled herself to this question, and then she answered with some astonishment--

'Don't you know your own mind, Madge?'

'Well, I do in a way,' said the younger sister, still staring at the letter. 'I like him well enough. I think it would do very well; and there would be no trouble with any one. I am sorry for that poor fellow Hanbury; but what _is_ the use of his hanging about, and keeping one nervous? There is no use in it all--nothing but bother. And I know Captain King is very fond of me, and I think he would be very kind; and you know he is not going to sea again. And mamma would be pleased. Do you think I should go to her now?'

'What is the use of going to any one until you know what your mind is?'

If the unhappy Hanbury could only have seen his sweetheart at this moment--staring blankly at the open letter, with a doubt on her face which was most probably inspired by some vague and tender recollection of himself! What might not have happened if only he could have intervened at this crisis, and appealed to her with eyes and speech, and implored her to defy these terrible authorities in London? But Madge kept looking at the letter; and then she shut it together; and then she said with decision--

'I think it's the best thing I can do. Wait a minute, Nan; I'll go and tell mamma.'

When she came downstairs again she was quite radiant and eager in her joy.

'Oh, I'm so glad it's all settled and over. I'm so glad there'll be no more worry and bother. And really Captain King is one of the nicest-looking men we know--Edith has always said so--and he is so quiet and pleasant in his manner, and very amusing too: that is because he has no pretence. And grateful for small kindnesses; I suppose being so long at sea, and not seeing so many people, he hasn't got blase. Then he never pretends to be bored--but why are you so solemn, Nan; doesn't it please you?'

Nan kissed her sister.

'I hope you will be very happy, dear,' she said, in her grave, kind way.

'Then I suppose I must answer his letter at once,' continued Madge, in her excited way. 'But how am I to do it, Nan? See how my fingers are all shaking; I couldn't write. And it would take me a month to find out what to say--and here you are being kept in, when you are always wanting to be out in the open air----'

'Oh, don't mind me, Madge. I will stay in with pleasure, if you want me.'

'But you shan't stay in on my account, dear Mother Nan--not a bit of it--not for all the men in the world. And yet I ought to send him a message. I ought to write.'

'I think, Madge,' the elder sister said, slowly, 'if that is any trouble to you, you might send him a message he would understand, without your writing much--a flower, perhaps----'

'But what sort of flower?' said the younger sister, eagerly.

Nan's face flushed somewhat, and she seemed embarra.s.sed and slow to answer.

'You--you should know yourself,' she said, turning her eyes aside. 'Any flower, perhaps--a bit of--of forget-me-not----'

'Of course that would do very well; but where could you get forget-me-nots just now?'

Nan again hesitated; she seemed to be forcing herself to speak.

'There's a little bit in a b.u.t.ton-hole in ----'s window,' she said, at last; 'I saw it there yesterday at least.'

'Dear Mother Nan,' said Madge, enthusiastically, 'you are as clever as twenty Vice-Chancellors! We will walk along at once, and see if it is still there. And in the meantime I will write a word on a sheet of paper--I can manage that anyway--and you might address an envelope----'

'Oh no, I couldn't do that,' said Nan, inadvertently shrinking back.

'Very well, I will struggle through it,' said Madge, blithely; and she went and got writing-materials, and scrawled the few words necessary.

They went out into the beautiful clear cold morning, and walked along through the crowd of promenaders with their fresh-coloured faces and furs telling of the wintry weather. And in due course of time they arrived at the florist's window, and found the bit of forget-me-not still in the little nosegay. Madge made no secret of her intention.

She opened up the nosegay on the counter of the shop; took out the piece of forget-me-not; put it in the folded sheet of paper; and then carefully--but with fingers no longer trembling--closed the envelope.

When they had come out again, and gone and posted the letter, they found themselves at a standstill.

'Now I know you would like a longer walk, Nan,' said the younger sister, 'and I am sure you won't mind if I go back at once. I do so want to write a long letter to Mary. And I haven't told Edith yet, you know.'

To this also Nan consented; and so Madge departed. Nan, left to herself, looked for a moment or two, somewhat wistfully, at the far breadths of the shining water; and then turned and walked slowly and thoughtfully along one of the wider thoroughfares leading up from the sea. The world seemed too bright and eager and busy out here; she wished to be alone, and in the dusk; and in this thoroughfare there was a church, s.p.a.cious and gloomy, that was kept open all the week round.

Half unconsciously to herself she walked in that direction. So absorbed was she that, when she reached the entrance, she scarcely perceived that there were some persons standing about. From the clear light of the sun she pa.s.sed into a long covered way that was almost dark; there was a low sound of music issuing from the building; it was a refuge she was seeking; and she vaguely hoped that there would be few people within.

But just as she gained the entrance proper, and was about to enter the dark and dusky place before her, behold! here was a great smiling throng coming along the aisle, headed by a bridegroom and a white-clothed bride. The music that was gaily pealing through the building was the 'Wedding March' that no familiarity robs of its majestic swing and melody. Nan had suddenly a sort of guilty self-consciousness. She felt she had no business even to look on at bridal processions. She pa.s.sed in by another door into that s.p.a.ce of dark and empty pews; and very soon the bridal people were all gone from the place, and apparently no one was left but the white-surpliced performers at the organ in the choir.

That choir was a beautiful thing away beyond the dusk. The sunlight entering by the stained-gla.s.s windows filled it with a softly golden glory; so that the splendours of the altar, and the tall bra.s.s candlesticks, and the seven swinging lamps, and the organ itself, were all suffused with it, and seemed to belong to some other world far away.

And then, after the 'Wedding March' was over, there was a pause of silence, and a slight sound of feet in the echoing building behind; and then the music began again--something distant, and sad, and yearning, like the cry of a soul seeking for light in the dark, for comfort in despair. Nan, in her solitary pew, bowed her head and covered her face with her hands. This music was less picturesque, perhaps, than that she had heard in the cathedral at Lucerne, but it had more of a human cry in it; it was an appeal for guidance--for light--for light in the darkness of the world. The tears were running down Nan's face. And then there came into a neighbouring pew a woman dressed in a peculiar costume, all in black; and she, too, knelt down, and covered her face with her hands.

And Nan would fain have gone to her and said--

'Oh, sister, take me with you and teach me. You have chosen your path in the world--the path of charity and good-will and peace; let me help you; let me give myself to the poor and the sick. There must be something somewhere for me to do in the world. Take me into your sisterhood; I am not afraid of hardship; let me be of some little use to those who are wretched and weary in heart.'

By and by that lady in black rose, went into the open s.p.a.ce fronting the altar, knelt one knee slightly, and then left. Presently Nan followed her, her head bent down somewhat, and her heart not very light.

Just as she was leaving the interior of the church, some one stepped out of the vestry, followed her for a second, and then addressed her. She turned and recognised Mr. Jacomb. He had not been officiating; he was in ordinary clerical costume; and there was something in the primness of that costume that suited his appearance. For he was a singularly clean-looking man; his face smooth shaven; his complexion of the fairest white and pink; his hair yellow almost to whiteness; his eyes gray, clear, and kindly. For the rest, he was about six-and-thirty; of stoutish build; and he generally wore a pleasant and complacent smile, as if the world had treated him kindly, despite his experiences in that poor parish in the south-east of London, and as if, whatever might happen to him, anxiety was not likely to put a premature end to his existence.

'Dear me,' said he, 'what a coincidence! I saw your sister Madge about twenty minutes ago. She seemed very happy about something or other.'