"To marry, to look out for a nice girl with money," was the "motive," which, like the ever recurring air in an opera, ran through all Mr. Mayne's jokes, reminiscences, and solemn exhortations to his nephew; the subject became intolerable; his good nature and patience were wearing a little thin, and it was an immense relief to escape into the park of an afternoon, whilst the invalid dozed, there to wander about, accompanied by two happy brown spaniels.
To find himself thrown entirely upon his own society, was a rare experience for Derek Mayne; opportunities to meditate, and hold counsel with his subconscious self, were invariably passed over and neglected; his impulse was for action, to be up and doing, not thinking, or mooning; but for once he found his thoughts arrested, and intensely occupied, by his uncle's "idea," for once, he approached a subject, with which he had hitherto refused to grapple,—and a swarm of thoughts, not hitherto entertained, suddenly invaded his brain.
It was his nature to face things—but there was one stern fact, he had always thrust aside. "Nancy!—their marriage! What was to be the end of that coil?" Was he to go through life alone?—to live in that place in the hollow, with no companionship, and no affection,—save what was offered by the dogs? He might, he believed,—though he had never looked into the subject,—obtain a divorce for desertion; but the idea was repugnant,—such an action impossible!
He thought of Travers, who had given his life for him,—his anxiety about the future of his little girl; the subsequent relief, and gratitude he had read in those dying eyes; how could he drag "the little girl" into the blaze and publicity of "a case in the courts"; oh, it was altogether a deadly business, and yet, where had he gone wrong? Possibly, when he had suffered a mere chit of eighteen, to take command of the situation; on the other hand, he recalled with a guilty qualm, his sense of profound relief, and satisfaction, when he discovered that she had cut the knot, severed their bonds, and fled!
The haunting vision of a miserable, white-faced, blighted, flapper, accompanying him back to Cannanore, had undoubtedly had its terrors; his colonel did not encourage matrimony,—it spoiled the mess,—and all his little world would marvel at his choice! He wondered what Nancy was like now? and what were her surroundings? Possibly she lived in some third rate suburban circle, was prominent in the local tennis club, wore home-made frocks, adored (platonically) some preacher or actor, and led her old aunt by the nose. Only for the secret tie, which held him, he might have been married long ere this. There was that lively little girl up at Murree. What marvellous red hair, how she danced and chattered; and she had liked him too,—but he had never gone beyond the flirting stage, or dropped into serious love-making; the memory of Fairplains constrained him.
A pretty face, had always appealed to Mayne, and certainly Nancy was no beauty,—possibly by now, she had improved in appearance,—when her complexion was no longer exposed to the sun, and her hair was properly dressed, she might pass in a crowd; she would always be quick witted, quick footed, and quick tempered. After much serious reflection, and many pipes, he came to the conclusion, that now he was at home, it was his business to find out something about Mrs. Mayne. The name made him pause, and laugh aloud,—to the great bewilderment of the two spaniels.—He need not necessarily seek an interview, no, far from it; but he might as well make cautious inquiries, and discover where she lived? and what she was doing?
Mrs. Ffinch was the right woman to lend him a helping hand, and as she was expected home within the next few weeks, he would ask her to look up Nancy, without bringing him into the question. Here was a field for her particular activities; it was just the sort of commission she would eagerly undertake, and thoroughly enjoy.
At the end of a fortnight, Mayne prepared to take his departure for London; not without a half expected, and feared, opposition on the part of his uncle; but to his surprise and joy, the old gentleman received his hint of a move, without demur,—for he assured himself, that Derek was about to act on his advice, and "look about him," and the sooner he commenced his quest, the better. It was true that he had given no definite promise; he had said but little; just lounged, and smoked, and stared at the carpet, or out of the window; however, it was a well known, and well proved adage, that "silence gives consent."
It was with a blissful sense of escape, that Mayne found himself seated in the car, and once more bound for Campfield station. The sensation was unusual,—for it was the first time, that he had ever felt glad to leave Maynesfort, and he was secretly ashamed of his joyful relief. The old man, accustomed to a life of constant outdoor activity, was putting in a dull time,—and it had enlivened his empty hours, to build castles in the air,—instead of model cottages,—and reckon upon the future of his successor's wife, yes—and children! The nurseries had not been occupied for nearly fifty years; but as the car skimmed round the last bend in the avenue, and the tall chimney stacks sank out of sight, Mayne, as he lighted his cigar, sternly assured himself, that as far as he was concerned,—Maynesfort would never have a mistress.