“I don’t think it really makes any difference, until they can come home and be married.”
“I suppose she must marry him now—if they won’t hide—and will be proud of what they’ve done; she seems quite proud of it!—everyone will hear, so that they will have to marry. Oh—I don’t know what to hope or what to fear! How can you expect me to have tea, Nancy!” she wept, as Nancy entered carrying the little tray. “It’s so good of you, my dear, but how can I eat?—I can hardly face the servants, Roger. They will all hear. And Meg was always such a pet of Johnson’s; his favourite of all my children. He used to give her very rich, unwholesome things in the pantry and once, when her father punished her for disobeying him and put her in the corner, in the drawing-room, one day, after lunch, Johnson nearly dropped the coffee, when he came in. It upset him dreadfully and he would hardly speak to Francis for a week afterwards. I know he will think it all our fault, when he hears, now. And so it is, for having trusted to a stranger. I can’t drink tea, Nancy.”
“Yes, you can, for Meg’s sake, Aunt Eleanor, and eat some tea-cake, too,” said Nancy. “If you aren’t brave for her, who will be. And you can’t be brave unless you eat. I remember so well, when I was little, Uncle Francis saying that when it came to the pinch you were the bravest woman he knew. You’ll see, darling; it will all come out better than you fear. Johnson and all of us will help you to make it come out better.”
“She is such a comfort to me, Roger,” said Mrs. Chadwick with a summoned smile. “Somehow, when I see her, I feel that things will come out better. You will have to go to court, dear, next spring. We can’t have none of our girls going. And you shall wear my pearls.” Mrs. Chadwick’s tears fell, but she took up the tea-cup.
Nancy more and more was striking Oldmeadow as the wisest person in the house. He walked with her on the terrace after tea; it was an old custom of his and Nancy’s to step outside then, whatever the weather, and have a few turns. This was a clear, chill evening and Nancy had wrapped a woollen scarf closely round her neck and shoulders. Her chin was sunken in its folds as she held it together on her breast, and with her dropped profile, her sad, meditative eyes, it was as if she saw a clue and, far more clearly than he did, knew where they all stood.
“Adrienne was bitterly opposed to Barney’s going,” he said. “She seemed unable to grasp the fact that she herself had been in error.”
Nancy turned her eyes on him. “Did Barney tell you she was bitterly opposed?”
“He didn’t tell me. I was with them. It was most unfortunate. She insisted on my coming up.”
“Oh, dear,” said Nancy. She even stopped for a moment to face him with her dismay. “Yes, I see,” she then said, walking on, “she would.”
“Why would she? Unless she was sure of getting her own way? The only point in having me up was to show me that she could always get her own way with Barney.”