‘Come into my room,’ she said curtly.
Arrived there, she did not strike a light. She
closed the door, and took hold of her friend’s
arm.
’We can’t go back the day after to-morrow,
Jessica. We must wait a day longer, till the
afternoon of Friday.’
‘Why? What’s the matter, Nancy?’
’Nothing serious. Don’t be frightened,
I’m tired, and I shall go to bed.’
‘But why must we wait?’
’Listen: will you promise me faithfully—as
friend to friend, faith fully—not to tell
the reason even to your mother?’
‘I will, faithfully.’
’Then, it’s this. On Friday morning
I shall be married to Mr Tarrant.’
‘Gracious!’
’I may tell you more, before then; but perhaps
not. We shall be married by licence, and it needs
one day between getting the licence and the marriage.
You may tell your mother, if you like, that I want
to stay longer on his account. I don’t
care; of course she suspects something. But not
a syllable to hint at the truth. I have been
your best friend for a long time, and I trust you.’
She spoke in a passionate whisper, and Jessica felt
her trembling.
‘You needn’t have the least fear of me,
dear.’
‘I believe it. Kiss me, and good-night!’
During his daughter’s absence, Stephen Lord
led a miserable life. The wasting disease had
firm hold upon him; day by day it consumed his flesh,
darkened his mind. The more need he had of nursing
and restraint, the less could he tolerate interference
with his habits, invasion of his gloomy solitude.
The doctor’s visits availed nothing; he listened
to advice, or seemed to listen, but with a smile of
obstinate suspicion on his furrowed face which conveyed
too plain a meaning to the adviser.
On one point Mary had prevailed with him. After
some days’ resistance, he allowed her to transform
the cabin-like arrangements of his room, and give
it the appearance of a comfortable bed-chamber.
But he would not take to his bed, and the suggestion
of professional nursing excited his wrath.
‘Do you write to Nancy?’ he asked one
morning of his faithful attendant, with scowling suspicion.
‘No.’
‘You are telling me the truth?’
‘I never write to any one.’
‘Understand plainly that I won’t have
a word said to her about me.’
This was when Horace had gone away to Scarborough,
believing, on his father’s assurance, that there
was no ground whatever for anxiety. Sometimes
Mr. Lord sat hour after hour in an unchanging position,
his dull eyes scarcely moving from one point.
At others he paced his room, or wandered about the
house, or made an attempt at gardening —which
soon ended in pain and exhaustion. Towards night
he became feverish, his hollow cheeks glowing with
an ominous tint. In the morning he occasionally
prepared himself as if to start for his place of business;
he left the house, and walked for perhaps a couple
of hundred yards, then slackened his pace, stopped,
looked about him in an agony of indecision, and at
length returned. After this futile endeavour,
he had recourse to the bottles in his cupboard, and
presently fell into a troubled sleep.
