Nancy by Rhoda Broughton - CHAPTER XXIV
A day�two days pass.
"More callers," say I, hearing the sound of wheels, and running to the window; "I thought we must have exhausted the neighborhood yesterday and the day before!" I add, sighing.
"Whoever they are," says Barbara, anxiously, lifting her head from the work over which it is bent, "mind you do not ask after their relations! Think of the man whose wife you inquired after, and found that she had run away with his groom not a month before!"
"That certainly was one of my unlucky things," answer I, gravely; then, beginning to laugh�"and I was so determined to know what had become of her, too."
I am still looking out. It is a soft, smoke-colored day; half an hour ago, there was a shower�each drop a separate loud patter on the sycamore-leaves�but now it is fair again. A victoria is coming briskly up the drive; servants in dark liveries; a smoke-colored parasol that matches the day.
"Shall I ring, and say 'not at home?'" asks Barbara, stretching out her hand toward the bell.
"No, no!" cry I, hurriedly, in an altered voice, for the parasol has moved a little aside, and I have seen the face beneath.
In two minutes the butler enters and announces "Mrs. Huntley," and the "plain woman�not very young�about thirty�who cannot be very strong, as she sat down through the Psalms," enters.
At first she seems uncertain which to greet as bride and hostess; indeed, I can see that her earliest impulse is to turn from the small insignificance in silk, to the tall little loveliness in cotton, and as I perceive it, a little arrow�not of jealousy, for, thank God, I never was jealous of our Barbara�never�but of pain at my so palpable inferiority, shoots through all my being. But Barbara draws back, and our visitor perceives her error. We sit down, but the brunt of the talk falls on Barbara. I am never glib with strangers, and I throw in a word only now and then, all my attention and observation having passed into my eyes. A plain woman, indeed! I have always been convinced of the unbecomingness of church, but now more than ever am I fully persuaded of it. And yet she is not pretty! Her mouth is very wide, that is perhaps why she so rarely laughs; her nose cannot say much for itself; her cheeks are thin, and I think�nay, let me tell truth�I hope that in a low gown she would be scraggy, so slight even to meagreness is she! But how thoroughly made the most of! What a shapeless pin-cushion fit my gown seems beside the admirable French sit of hers! How hard, how metallic its tint beside the indefinite softness of that sweep of smoke-color! What a stiff British erection my hair feels beside the careless looseness of these shining twists! What a fine, slight hand, as if cut in faint gray stone!
At each fresh detail that I note, Musgrave's anecdote gains ever more and more probability; and my heart sinks ever lower and more low.
One hope remains to me. Perhaps she may be stupid! Certainly she is not affording.
How heavily poor Barbara is driving through the fine weather and the Times! and how little more than "yes" and "no" does she get! I take heart. Roger loves people who talk�people who are merry and make jests. It was my most worthless gabble that first drew him toward me. Cheered and emboldened by this thought, I swoop down like a sudden eagle to the rescue.
"You know Rog�, my husband, do not you?" I say, with an abrupt bluntness that contrasts finely with the languid gentleness with which her little remarks steal out like mice. Mine rushes forth like a desolating bomb-shell.
"A little�yes."
"You knew him in India, did not you?" say I, unable to resist the temptation of seizing this opportunity to gratify my curiosity, drawing my chair a little nearer hers, and speaking with an eagerness which I, in vain, try to stifle.
"Yes," smiling sweetly, "in India."
"He was there a long time," continue I, communicatively.
"Yes."
(Well, she is baffling! when she does not say "yes" affirmatively, she says it interrogatively.)
"All the same he did not like it," I go on, with amicable volubility; "but I dare say you know that. They say�" (reddening as I feel, perceptibly, and nervously twisting my pocket-handkerchief round my fingers)�"that people are so sociable in India: now, I dare say you saw a good deal of him."
"Yes; we met several times."
She is smiling again. There is not a shade of hesitation or unreadiness in her low voice, nor does the faintest tinge of color stain the fine pallor of her cheeks.
(It must have been a lie!)
"Your husband, too, is out�" I pause; not sure of the locality, but she does not help me, so I add lamely, "somewhere, is not he?"
"He is in the West Indies."
"In the West Indies!" cry I, with animation, drawing my chair yet a little nearer hers, and feeling positively friendly; "why, that is where mine is too!"
"Yes?"
"We are companions in misfortune," cry I, heartily; "we must keep up each other's spirits, must not we?"
Another smile, but no verbal answer.
A noise of feet coming across the hall�of manly whistling makes itself heard. The door opens and Algy enters. It is clear that he is unaware of there being any stranger present, for his hat is on his head, his hands are in his pockets, and he only stops whistling to observe:
"Well, Nancy! any more aborigines?" then he breaks suddenly off, and we all grow red�he himself beaming of as lively a scarlet as the new tunic that he tried on last night. I make a hurried and confused presentation, in which I manage to slur over into unintelligibility and utter doubtfulness the names of the two people made known to one another.
"One more aborigine, you see!" says Mrs. Huntley, to my surprise�after the experience I have had of her fine taste in monosyllables�beginning the conversation. I look at her with a little wonder. Her voice is quite as low as ever, but there is an accent of playfulness in it; and on her face a sparkle of esprit, whose possible existence I had not conjectured. Certainly, she showed no symptom of playfulness or esprit during our late talk. I have yet to learn that to some women, the presence of a man�not the man, but a man�any man�is what warm rain is to flowers athirst. I am still marveling at this metamorphosis, when the door again opens, and another guest is announced�an old man, as great a stranger to us as is the rest of the neighborhood, but of whom we quickly discover that he is deadly, deadly deaf. For five minutes, I bawl at him a series of remarks, each and all of which he misunderstands. He does it so invariably, that I come at length to the conclusion that he is doing it on purpose, and stop talking in a huff. Then Barbara takes her turn�Barbara can always make deaf people hear better than I do, though she does not speak to them nearly so loud, and I rest on my oars. Owing to my position between the two couples, I can hear what is passing between Algy and Mrs. Huntley.
To tell the truth, I do not take much pains to avoid hearing it, for surely they can have no secrets. They are sitting rather close together, and speaking in a low key, but I am so used to his voice, and her articulation is so distinct, that I do not miss a word.
"I think I had the pleasure of seeing you in church, last Sunday," Algy says, rather diffidently; not having yet quite recovered from the humiliation engendered by his unfortunate remark.
She nods.
"And I you," with a gently reassuring smile.
"Did you, really? did you see me�I mean us?"
"Yes, I saw you," with a delicate inflection of voice, which somehow confines the application of the remark to him. "I made up my mind�one takes ideas into one's head, you know�I made up my mind that you were a soldier; one can mostly tell."
He laughs the flattered, fluttered laugh, that my rough speech was never known to provoke in living man.
"Yes, I am; at least, I am going to be; I join this week."
"Yes?" with a pretty air of attention and interest.
"We�we�found out who you were," he says, laughing again, with a little embarrassment, and edging his chair nearer hers; "we asked Musgrave!"
"Mr. Musgrave!" (with a little tone of alert curiosity)�"oh! you know him?"
"I know him! I should think so: he is quite a tame cat here."
"Yes?"
"Have you any children?" cry I, suddenly, bundling with my usual fine tact head-foremost into the conversation (where I am clearly not wanted, and altogether forgetting Barbara's warning injunction) with my unnecessary and malapropos query. For a moment she looks only astonished; then an expression of pain crosses her face, and a slight contraction passes over her features. Evidently, she had a child, and it is dead. She is going to cry! At this awful thought, I grow scarlet, and Algy darts a furious look at me. What have I said? I have outdone myself. How far worse a case than the fugitive wife whose destiny I was so resolute to learn from her injured husband!
"I am so sorry," I stammer�"I never thought�I did not know�"
"It is of no consequence," she answers, speaking with some difficulty, and with a slight but quite musical tremor in her voice�very different from the ugly gulpings and catchings of the breath which always set off my tears�"but the fact is, that I have one little one�and�and�she no longer lives with me; my husband's people have taken her; I am sure that they meant it for the best; only�only�I am afraid I cannot quite manage to talk of her yet" (turning away from me, and looking up into Algy's face with a showery smile). Then, as if unable to run the risk of any other further shock to her feelings, she rises and takes her leave; Algy eagerly attending her to the door.
The old deaf gentleman departs at the same time, loading Barbara with polite parting messages to her husband, and bowing distantly to me. Algy re�nters presently, looking cross and ruffled.
"You really are too bad, Nancy!" he says, harshly, throwing himself into the chair lately occupied by Mrs. Huntley. "You grow worse every day�one would think you did it on purpose�riding rough-shod over people's feelings."
I stand aghast. Formerly, I used not to mind rough words; but I think Roger must have spoilt me; they make me wince now.
"But�but�it was not dead!" I say, whimpering; "it had only gone to visit its grandmother."
"Never you mind, my Nancy!" says Barbara, in a whisper, drawing me away to the window, and pressing her soft, cool lips, to the flushed misery of my cheeks; "she was not hurt a bit! her eyes were as dry as a bone!" |
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