I knew how the times were changing, and I was weak
enough to be afraid I might do you an injustice.
I did give you the chance of making friends among better
people than your father. Didn’t I use to
talk to you about your school friends, and encourage
you when they seemed of the right kind? And now
you tell me that they don’t care for your society
because you live in a decent, unpretending way.
I should think you’re better without such friends.’
Nancy reflected, seemed about to prolong the argument,
but spoke at length in another voice.
‘Well, I will say good-night, father.’
It was not usual for them to see each other after
dinner, so that a good-night could seldom be exchanged.
The girl, drawing away, expected a response; she saw
her father nod, but he said nothing.
‘Good-night, father,’ she repeated from
a distance.
‘Good-night, Nancy, good-night,’ came
in impatient reply.
On Tuesday afternoon, when, beneath a cloudless sky,
the great London highways reeked and roared in celebration
of Jubilee, Nancy and her friend Miss. Morgan
walked up Grove Lane to Champion Hill. Here and
there a house had decked itself with colours of loyalty;
otherwise the Lane was as quiet as usual.
Champion Hill is a gravel byway, overhung with trees;
large houses and spacious gardens on either hand.
Here the heat of the sun was tempered. A carriage
rolled softly along; a nurse with well-dressed children
loitered in the shade. One might have imagined
it a country road, so profound the stillness and so
leafy the prospect.
A year ago, Jessica Morgan had obtained a three months’
engagement as governess to two little girls, who were
sent under her care to the house of their grandmother
at Teignmouth. Their father, Mr Vawdrey of Champion
Hill, had recently lost his wife through an illness
contracted at a horse-race, where the lady sat in wind
and rain for some hours. The children knew little
of what is learnt from books, but were surprisingly
well informed on matters of which they ought to have
known nothing; they talked of theatres and race-courses,
of ‘the new murderer’ at Tussaud’s,
of police-news, of notorious spendthrifts and demi-reps;
discussed their grown-up acquaintances with precocious
understanding, and repeated scandalous insinuations
which could have no meaning for them. Jessica
was supposed to teach them for two hours daily; she
found it an impossibility. Nevertheless a liking
grew up between her and her charges, and, save by
their refusal to study, the children gave her no trouble;
they were abundantly good-natured, they laughed and
sported all day long, and did their best to put life
into the pale, overworked governess.
