George Gissing
In the Year of Jubilee
‘Talk of something else,’ Nancy commanded.
‘Certainly. There’s the sun coming out. You see, I was afraid it would keep on raining, and you would have an excuse for staying at home.’
‘I needed no excuse,’ said Nancy. ‘If I hadn’t wished to come, you may be sure I should have said so.’
Crewe flashed a look at her.
‘Ah, that’s how I like to hear you speak! That does one good. Well, here we are. People used to be fond of going up, they say, just to pitch themselves down. A good deal of needless trouble, it seems to me. Perhaps they gave themselves the off-chance of changing their minds before they got to the top.’
‘Or wanted to see if life looked any better from up there,’ suggested Nancy.
‘Or hoped somebody would catch them by the coat-tails, and settle a pension on them out of pity.’
Thus jesting, they began the ascent. Crewe, whose spirits were at high pressure, talked all the way up the winding stairs; on issuing into daylight, he became silent, and they stood side by side, mute before the vision of London’s immensity. Nancy began to move round the platform. The strong west wind lashed her cheeks to a glowing colour; excitement added brilliancy to her eyes. As soon as she had recovered from the first impression, this spectacle of a world’s wonder served only to exhilarate her; she was not awed by what she looked upon. In her conceit of self-importance, she stood there, above the battling millions of men, proof against mystery and dread, untouched by the voices of the past, and in the present seeing only common things, though from an odd point of view. Here her senses seemed to make literal the assumption by which her mind had always been directed: that she—Nancy Lord—was the mid point of the universe. No humility awoke in her; she felt the stirring of envies, avidities, unavowable passions, and let them flourish unrebuked.
Crewe had his eyes fixed upon her; his lips parted hungrily.
‘Now that’s how I should like to see you painted,’ he said all at once. ‘Just like that! I never saw you looking so well. I believe you’re the most beautiful girl to be found anywhere in this London!’
There was genuine emotion in his voice, and his sweeping gesture suited the mood of vehemence. Nancy, having seen that the two or three other people on the platform were not within hearing, gave an answer of which the frankness surprised even herself.
‘Portraits for the Academy cost a great deal, you know.’
‘I know. But that’s what I’m working for. There are not many men down yonder,’ he pointed over the City, ‘have a better head for money-making than I have.’
‘Well, prove it,’ replied Nancy, and laughed as the wind caught her breath.
‘How long will you give me?’
She made no answer, but walked to the side whence she could look westward. Crewe followed close, his features still set in the hungry look, his eyes never moving from her warm cheek and full lips.
‘What it must be,’ she said, ‘to have about twenty thousand a year!’
The man of business gave a gasp. In the same moment he had to clutch at his hat, lest it should be blown away.
‘Twenty thousand a year?’ he echoed. ‘Well, it isn’t impossible. Men get beyond that, and a good deal beyond it. But it’s a large order.’
‘Of course it is. But what was it you said? The most beautiful girl in all London? That’s a large order, too, isn’t it? How much is she worth?’
‘You’re talking for the joke now,’ said Crewe. ‘I don’t like to hear that kind of thing, either. You never think in that way.’
‘My thoughts are my own. I may think as I choose.’
‘Yes. But you have thoughts above money.’
‘Have I? How kind of you to say so.—I’ve had enough of this wind; we’ll go down.’
She led the way, and neither of them spoke till they were in the street again. Nancy felt her hair.
‘Am I blown to pieces?’ she asked.
‘No, no; you’re all right. Now, will you walk through the City?’
‘Where’s the place you spoke of?’
‘Farringdon Street. That’ll bring you round to Blackfriars Bridge, when you want to go home. But there’s plenty of time yet.’
So they rambled aimlessly by the great thoroughfares, and by hidden streets of which Nancy had never heard, talking or silent as the mood dictated. Crewe had stories to tell of this and that thriving firm, of others struggling in obscurity or falling from high estate; to him the streets of London were so many chapters of romance, but a romance always of to-day, for he neither knew nor cared about historic associations. Vast sums sounded perpetually on his lips; he glowed with envious delight in telling of speculations that had built up great fortunes. He knew the fabulous rents that were paid for sites that looked insignificant; he repeated anecdotes of calls made from Somerset House upon men of business, who had been too modest in returning the statement of their income; he revived legends of dire financial disaster, and of catastrophe barely averted by strange expedients. To all this Nancy listened with only moderate interest; as often as not, she failed to understand the details which should have excited her wonder. None the less, she received an impression of knowledge, acuteness, power, in the speaker; and this was decidedly pleasant.
‘Here’s the place where I think of starting for myself,’ said Crewe, as he paused at length before a huge building in Farringdon Street.
‘This?—Can you afford such a rent?’
Her companion burst into laughter.
‘I don’t mean the whole building. Two or three rooms, that’s all, somewhere upstairs.’
Nancy made a jest of her mistake.
‘An advertising agent doesn’t want much space,’ said Crewe. ‘I know a chap who’s doing a pretty big business in one room, not far from here.—Well, we’ve had a long walk; now you must rest a bit, and have a cup of tea.’
‘I thought you were going to propose champagne.’
‘Oh—if you like—’
They went to a restaurant in Fleet Street, and sat for half an hour over the milder beverage. Crewe talked of his projects, his prospects; and Nancy, whom the afternoon had in truth fatigued a little, though her mind was still excited, listened without remark.
‘Well,’ he said at length, leaning towards her, ‘how long do you give me?’
She looked away, and kept silence.
‘Two years:—just to make a solid start; to show that something worth talking ‘about is to come?’
‘I’ll think about it.’
He kept his position, and gazed at her.
‘I know it isn’t money that would tempt you.’ He spoke in a very low voice, though no one was within earshot. ‘Don’t think I make any mistake about that! But I have to show you that there’s something in me. I wouldn’t marry any woman that thought I made love to her out of interest.’
Nancy began to draw on her gloves, and smiled, just biting her lower lip.
‘Will you give me a couple of years, from to-day? I won’t bother you. It’s honour bright!’
‘I’ll think about it,’ Nancy repeated.
‘Whilst you’re away?’
‘Yes, whilst I’m away at Teignmouth.’
‘And tell me when you come back?’
‘Tell you—how long. Yes.’
And she rose.
CHAPTER 4
From the mouth of Exe to the mouth of Teign the coast is uninteresting. Such beauty as it once possessed has been destroyed by the railway. Cliffs of red sandstone drop to the narrow beach, warm between the blue of sky and sea, but without grandeur, and robbed of their native grace by navvy-hewing, which for the most part makes of them a mere embankment: their verdure stripped away, their juttings tunnelled, along their base the steel parallels of smoky traffic. Dawlish and Teignmouth have in themselves no charm; hotel and lodging-house, shamed by the soft pure light that falls about them, look blankly seaward, hiding what remains of farm or cottage in the older parts. Ebb-tide uncovers no fair stretch of sand, and at flood the breakers are thwarted on a bulwark of piled stone, which supports the railway, or protects a promenade.
But inland these discontents are soon forgotten; there amid tilth and pasture, gentle hills and leafy hollows of rural Devon, the eye rests and the mind is soothed. By lanes innumerable, deep between banks of fern and flower; by paths along the bramble-edge of scented meadows; by the secret windings of copse and brake and stream-worn valley—a way lies upward to the long ridge of Haldon, where breezes sing among the pines, or sweep rustling through gorse and bracken. Mile after mile of rustic loveliness, ever and anon the sea-limits blue beyond grassy slopes. White farms dozing beneath their thatch in harvest sunshine; hamlets forsaken save by women and children, by dogs and cats and poultry, the labourers afield. Here grow the tall foxgloves, bending a purple head in the heat of noon; here the great bells of the convolvulus hang thick from lofty hedges, massing their pink and white against dark green leafage; here amid shadowed undergrowth trail the long fronds of lustrous hartstongue; wherever the eye falls, profusion of summer’s glory. Here, in many a nook carpeted with softest turf, canopied with tangle of leaf and bloom, solitude is safe from all intrusion—unless it be that of flitting bird, or of some timid wild thing that rustles for a moment and is gone. From dawn to midnight, as from midnight to dawn, one who would be alone with nature might count upon the security of these bosks and dells.
By Nancy Lord and her companions such pleasures were unregarded. For the first few days after their arrival at Teignmouth, they sat or walked on the promenade, walked or sat on the pier, sat or walked on the Den—a long, wide lawn, decked about with shrubs and flower-beds, between sea-fronting houses and the beach. Nancy had no wish to exert herself, for the weather was hot; after her morning bathe with Jessica, she found amusement enough in watching the people—most of whom were here simply to look at each other, or in listening to the band, which played selections from Sullivan varied with dance music, or in reading a novel from the book-lender’s,—that is to say, gazing idly at the page, and letting such significance as it possessed float upon her thoughts.
She was pleasantly conscious that the loungers who passed by, male and female, gave something of attention to her face and costume. Without attempting to rival the masterpieces of fashion which invited envy or wonder from all observers, she thought herself nicely dressed, and had in fact, as always, made good use of her father’s liberality. Her taste in garments had a certain timidity that served her well; by avoiding the extremes of mode, and in virtue of her admirable figure, she took the eye of those who looked for refinement rather than for extravagance. The unconsidered grace of her bearing might be recognised by all whom such things concerned; it by no means suggested that she came from a small house in Camberwell. In her companions, to be sure, she was unfortunate; but the over-modest attire and unimpressive persons of Mrs. Morgan and Jessica at least did her the office of relief by contrast.
Nancy had made this reflection; she was not above it. Yet her actual goodness of heart saved her from ever feeling ashamed of the Morgans. It gratified her to think that she was doing them a substantial kindness; but for her, they would have dragged through a wretched summer in their unwholesome, jimcrack house, without a breath of pure air, without a sight of the free heaven. And to both of them that would probably have meant a grave illness.
Mrs. Morgan was a thin, tremulous woman, with watery eyes and a singular redness about the prominent part of her face, which seemed to indicate a determination of blood to the nose. All her married life had been spent in a cheerless struggle to maintain the externals of gentility. Not that she was vain or frivolous—indeed her natural tendencies made for homeliness in everything—but, by birth and by marriage connected with genteel people, she felt it impossible to abandon that mode of living which is supposed to distinguish the educated class from all beneath it. She had brought into the world three sons and three daughters; of the former, two were dead, and of the latter, one,—in each case, poverty of diet having proved fatal to a weak constitution. For close upon thirty years the family had lived in houses of which the rent was out of all reasonable proportion to their means; at present, with a total income of one hundred and sixty pounds (Mr. Morgan called himself a commission agent, and seldom had anything to do), they paid in rent and rates a matter of fifty-five, and bemoaned the fate which neighboured them with people only by courtesy to be called gentlefolk. Of course they kept a servant,—her wages nine pounds a year. Whilst the mother and elder daughter were at Teignmouth, Mr Morgan, his son, and the younger girl felt themselves justified in making up for lack of holiday by an extra supply of butcher’s meat.
Well-meaning, but with as little discretion in this as in other things, Mrs. Morgan allowed scarce an hour of the day to pass without uttering her gratitude to Nancy Lord for the benefit she was enjoying. To escape these oppressive thanks, Nancy did her best never to be alone with the poor lady; but a tete-a-tete was occasionally unavoidable, as, for instance, on the third or fourth day after their arrival, when Mrs. Morgan had begged Nancy’s company for a walk on the Den, whilst Jessica wrote letters. At the end of a tedious hour Jessica joined them, and her face had an unwonted expression. She beckoned her friend apart.
‘You’ll be surprised. Who do you think is here?’
‘No one that will bore us, I hope.’
‘Mr. Tarrant. I met him near the post-office, and he stopped me.’
Nancy frowned.
‘Are they all here again?’
‘No; he says he’s alone.—One minute, mamma; please excuse us.’
‘He was surprised to see you?’ said Nancy, after reflecting.
‘He said so. But—I forgot to tell you—in a letter to Mrs. Baker I spoke of our plans. She had written to me to propose a pupil for after the holidays.—Perhaps she didn’t mention it to Mr. Tarrant.’
‘Evidently not!’ Nancy exclaimed, with some impatience. ‘Why should you doubt his word?’
‘I can’t help thinking’—Jessica smiled archly—‘that he has come just to meet—somebody.’
‘Somebody? Who do you mean?’ asked her friend, with a look of sincere astonishment.
‘I may be mistaken’—a glance completed the suggestion.
‘Rubbish!’
For the rest of that day the subject was unmentioned. Nancy kept rather to herself, and seemed meditative. Next morning she was in the same mood. The tide served for a bathe at eleven o’clock; afterwards, as the girls walked briskly to and fro near the seat where Mrs. Morgan had established herself with a volume of Browning,—Jessica insisted on her reading Browning, though the poor mother protested that she scarcely understood a word,—they came full upon the unmistakable presence of Mr. Lionel Tarrant. Miss. Morgan, in acknowledging his salute, offered her hand; it was by her that the young man had stopped. Miss. Lord only bent her head, and that slightly. Tarrant expected more, but his half-raised hand dropped in time, and he directed his speech to Jessica. He had nothing to say but what seemed natural and civil; the dialogue—Nancy remained mute—occupied but a few minutes, and Tarrant went his way, sauntering landwards.
As Mrs. Morgan had observed the meeting, it was necessary to offer her an explanation. But Jessica gave only the barest facts concerning their acquaintance, and Nancy spoke as though she hardly knew him.
The weather was oppressively hot; in doors or out, little could be done but sit or lie in enervated attitudes, a state of things accordant with Nancy’s mood. Till late at night she watched the blue starry sky from her open window, seeming to reflect, but in reality wafted on a stream of fancies and emotions. Jessica’s explanation of the arrival of Lionel Tarrant had strangely startled her; no such suggestion would have occurred to her own mind. Yet now, she only feared that it might not be true. A debilitating climate and absolute indolence favoured that impulse of lawless imagination which had first possessed her on the evening of Jubilee Day. With luxurious heedlessness she cast aside every thought that might have sobered her; even as she at length cast off all her garments, and lay in the warm midnight naked upon her bed.
The physical attraction of which she had always been conscious in Tarrant’s presence seemed to have grown stronger since she had dismissed him from her mind. Comparing him with Luckworth Crewe, she felt only a contemptuous distaste for the coarse vitality and vigour, whereto she had half surrendered herself, when hopeless of the more ambitious desire.
Rising early, she went out before breakfast, and found that a little rain had fallen. Grass and flowers were freshened; the air had an exquisite clearness, and a coolness which struck delightfully on the face, after the close atmosphere within doors. She had paused to watch a fishing-boat off shore, when a cheery voice bade her ‘good-morning,’ and Tarrant stepped to her side.
‘You are fond of this place,’ he said.
‘Not particularly.’
‘Then why do you choose it?’
‘It does for a holiday as well as any other.’
He was gazing at her, and with the look which Nancy resented, the look which made her feel his social superiority. He seemed to observe her features with a condescending gratification. Though totally ignorant of his life and habits, she felt a conviction that he had often bestowed this look upon girls of a class below his own.
‘How do you like those advertisements of soaps and pills along the pier?’ he asked carelessly.
‘I see no harm in them.’
Perversity prompted her answer, but at once she remembered Crewe, and turned away in annoyance. Tarrant was only the more good-humoured.
‘You like the world as it is? There’s wisdom in that. Better be in harmony with one’s time, advertisements and all.’ He added, ‘Are you reading for an exam?’
‘I? You are confusing me with Miss. Morgan.’
‘Oh, not for a moment! I couldn’t possibly confuse you with any one else. I know Miss. Morgan is studying professionally; but I thought you were reading for your own satisfaction, as so many women do now-a-days.’
The distinction was flattering. Nancy yielded to the charm of his voice and conversed freely. It began to seem not impossible that he found some pleasure in her society. Now and then he dropped a word that made her pulses flutter; his eyes were constantly upon her face.
‘Don’t you go off into the country sometimes?’ he inquired, when she had turned homewards.
‘We are thinking of having a drive to-day.’
‘And I shall most likely have a ride; we may meet.’
Nancy ordered a carriage for the afternoon, and with her friends drove up the Teign valley; but they did not meet Tarrant. But next morning he joined them on the pier, and this time Jessica had no choice but to present him to her mother. Nancy felt annoyed that this should have come about; Tarrant, she supposed, would regard poor Mrs. Morgan with secret ridicule. Yet, if that were his disposition, he concealed it perfectly; no one could have behaved with more finished courtesy. He seated himself by Mrs. Morgan, and talked with her of the simplest things in a pleasant, kindly humour. Yesterday, so he made known, he had ridden to Torquay and back, returning after sunset. This afternoon he was going by train to Exeter, to buy some books.
Again he strolled about with Nancy, and talked of idle things with an almost excessive amiability. As the girl listened, a languor crept upon her, a soft and delicious subdual of the will to dreamy luxury. Her eyes were fixed on the shadows cast by her own figure and that of her companion. The black patches by chance touched. She moved so as to part them, and then changed her position so that they touched again—so that they blended.
CHAPTER 5
Nancy had written to her father, a short letter but affectionate, begging him to let her know whether the improvement in his health, of which he had spoken before she left home, still continued. The answer came without delay. On the whole, said Mr. Lord, he was doing well enough; no need whatever to trouble about him. He wrote only a few lines, but closed with ‘love to you, my dear child,’ an unwonted effusiveness.
At the same time there came a letter from Horace.
‘You will be surprised,’ it began, ‘at the address I write from. As you know, I had planned to go to Brighton; but on the day before my holiday commenced I heard from F. F., saying that she and Mrs. Peachey had had a quarrel, and she was tired of Brighton, and was coming home. So I waited a day or two, and then, as I had half promised, I went to see Mrs. D. We had a long talk, and it ended in my telling her about F., and all the row there’s been. Perhaps you will think I had better have kept it to myself, but Mrs. D. and I are on first-rate terms, and she seems to understand me better than any one I ever met. We talked about my holiday, and she persuaded me to come to Scarborough, where she herself was going for a week or two. It’s rather an expensive affair, but worth the money. Of course I have lodgings of my own. Mrs. D. is at a big hotel, where friends of hers are staying. I have been introduced to two or three people, great swells, and I’ve had lunch with Mrs. D. at the hotel twice. This kind of life suits me exactly. I don’t think I get on badly with the swells. Of course I say not a word about my position, and of course nobody would think of asking questions. You would like this place; I rather wish you were here. Of course father thinks I have come on my own hook. It’s very awkward having to keep a secret of this kind; I must try and persuade Mrs. D. to have a talk with father. But one thing I can tell you,—I feel pretty sure that she will get me, somehow or other, out of that beastly City life; she’s always talking of things I might do. But not a word to any one about all this—be sure.’
This news caused Nancy to ponder for a long time. The greater part of the morning she spent at home, and in her own room; after lunch, she sat idly on the promenade, little disposed for conversation.
It was the second day since Tarrant had told her that he was going to Exeter, and they had not again met; the Morgans had not seen him either. The next morning, however, as all three were sitting in one of their favourite places, Tarrant approached them. Mrs. Morgan, who was fluttered by the natural supposition of a love affair between Miss. Lord and the interesting young man, made it easy for them to talk together.
‘Did you get your books?’ Nancy asked, when silence followed on trivialities.
‘Yes, and spent half a day with them in a favourite retreat of mine, inland. It’s a very beautiful spot. I should like you to see it. Indeed, you ought to.’
Nancy turned her eyes to the sea.
‘We might walk over there one afternoon,’ he added.
‘Mrs. Morgan can’t walk far.’
‘Why should we trouble her? Are you obliged to remain under Mrs. Morgan’s wing?’
It was said jestingly, but Nancy felt piqued.
‘Certainly not. I am quite independent.’
‘So I should have supposed. Then why not come?’
He seemed perfectly self-possessed, but the voice was not quite his own. To Nancy, her eyes still looking straight forward, it sounded as though from a distance; it had an effect upon her nerves similar to that she had experienced three days ago, when they were walking about the pier. Her hands fell idly; she leaned back more heavily on the seat; a weight was on her tongue.
‘A country ramble of an hour or two,’ pursued the voice, which itself had become languorous. ‘Surely you are sometimes alone? It isn’t necessary to give a detailed account of your time?’
She answered impatiently. ‘Of course not.’ In this moment her thoughts had turned to Luckworth Crewe, and she was asking herself why this invitation of Tarrant’s affected her so very differently from anything she had felt when Crewe begged her to meet him in London. With him she could go anywhere, enjoying a genuine independence, a complete self-confidence, thinking her unconventional behaviour merely good fun. Tarrant’s proposal startled her. She was not mistress of the situation, as when trifling with Crewe. A sense of peril caused her heart to beat quickly.
‘This afternoon, then,’ the voice was murmuring.
She answered mechanically. ‘It’s going to rain, I think.’
‘I think not. But, if so, to-morrow.’
‘To-morrow is Sunday.’
‘Yes. Monday, then.’
Nancy heard him smother a laugh. She wished to look at him, but could not.
‘It won’t rain,’ he continued, still with the ease of one who speaks of everyday matters. ‘We shall see, at all events. Perhaps you will want to change your book at the library.’ A novel lay on her lap. ‘We’ll leave it an open possibility—to meet there about three o’clock.’
Nancy pointed out to sea, and asked where the steamer just passing might be bound for. Her companion readily turned to this subject.
The rain—she half hoped for it—did not come. By luncheon-time every doubtful cloud had vanished. Before sitting down to table, she observed the sky at the open window.
‘Lovely weather!’ sighed Mrs. Morgan behind her. ‘But for you, dear Nancy, I should have been dreaming and wishing—oh, how vainly!—in the stifling town.’
‘We’ll have another drive this afternoon,’ Nancy declared.
‘Oh, how delightful! But pray, pray, not on our account—’
‘Jessica,’—Nancy turned to her friend, who had just entered the room,—‘we’ll have the carriage at three. And a better horse than last time; I’ll take good care of that. Pen, ink, and paper!’ she cried joyously. ‘The note shall go round at once.’
‘You’re a magnificent sort of person,’ said Jessica. ‘Some day, no doubt, you’ll keep a carriage and pair of your own.’
‘Shan’t I, just! And drive you down to Burlington House, for your exams. By-the-bye, does a female Bachelor of Arts lose her degree if she gets married?’
Nancy was sprightlier than of late. Her mood maintained itself throughout the first half of the drive, then she seemed to be overcome by a sudden weariness, ceased to talk, and gave only a listless look at things which interested her companions. By when they reached home again, she had a pale troubled countenance. Until dinner nothing more was seen of her, and after the meal she soon excused herself on the plea of a headache.
Again there passed two days, Sunday and Monday, without Tarrant’s appearing. Mrs. Morgan and Jessica privately talked much of the circumstance. Sentimental souls, they found this topic inexhaustible; Jessica, having her mind thus drawn away from Burlington House, benefited not a little by the mystery of her friend’s position; she thought, however, that Nancy might have practised a less severe reticence. To Mrs. Morgan it never occurred that so self-reliant a young woman as Miss. Lord stood in need of matronly counsel, of strict chaperonage; she would have deemed it an impertinence to allow herself the most innocent remark implying such a supposition.
On Wednesday afternoon, about three o’clock, Nancy walked alone to the library. There, looking at books and photographs in the window, stood Lionel Tarrant. He greeted her as usual, seemed not to remark the hot colour in her cheeks, and stepped with her into the shop. She had meant to choose a novel, but, with Tarrant looking on, felt constrained to exhibit her capacity for severe reading. The choice of grave works was not large, and she found it difficult to command her thoughts even for the perusal of titles; however, she ultimately discovered a book that promised anything but frivolity, Helmholtz’s ‘Lectures on Scientific Subjects,’ and at this she clutched.
Two loudly-dressed women were at the same time searching the shelves.
‘I wonder whether this is a pretty book?’ said one to the other, taking down a trio of volumes.
‘Oh, it looks as if it might be pretty,’ returned her friend, examining the cover.
They faced to the person behind the counter.
‘Is this a pretty book?’ one of them inquired loftily.
‘Oh yes, madam, that’s a very pretty book—very pretty.’
Nancy exchanged a glance with her companion and smiled. When they were outside again Tarrant asked:
‘Have you found a pretty book?’
She showed the title of her choice.
‘Merciful heavens! You mean to read that? The girls of to-day! What mere man is worthy of them? But—I must rise to the occasion. We’ll have a chapter as we rest.’
Insensibly, Nancy had followed the direction he chose. His words took for granted that she was going into the country with him.
‘My friends are on the pier,’ she said, abruptly stopping.
‘Where doubtless they will enjoy themselves. Let me carry your book, please. Helmholtz is rather heavy.’
‘Thanks, I can carry it very well. I shall turn this way.’
‘No, no. My way this afternoon.’
Nancy stood still, looking up the street that led towards the sea. She was still bright-coloured; her lips had a pathetic expression, a child-like pouting.
‘There was an understanding,’ said Tarrant, with playful firmness.
‘Not for to-day.’
‘No. For the day when you disappointed me. The day after, I didn’t think it worth while to come here; yesterday I came, but felt no surprise that I didn’t meet you. To-day I had a sort of hope. This way.’
She followed, and they walked for several minutes in silence.
‘Will you let me look at Helmholtz?’ said the young man at length. ‘Most excellent book, of course. “Physiological Causes of Harmony in Music,” “Interaction of Natural Forces,” “Conservation of Force.”—You enjoy this kind of thing?’
‘One must know something about it.’
‘I suppose so. I used to grind at science because everybody talked science. In reality I loathed it, and now I read only what I like. Life’s too short for intellectual make-believe. It is too short for anything but enjoyment. Tell me what you read for pure pleasure. Poetry?’
They had left the streets, and were pursuing a road bordered with gardens, gardens of glowing colour, sheltered amid great laurels, shadowed by stately trees; the air was laden with warm scents of flower and leaf. On an instinct of resistance, Nancy pretended that the exact sciences were her favourite study. She said it in the tone of superiority which habit had made natural to her in speaking of intellectual things. And Tarrant appeared to accept her declaration without scepticism; but, a moment after, he turned the talk upon novels.
