In a few short and telling sentences, she described Nancy's adoration of her father, their ideally happy life,—the terrible scene with the panther, Mayne's bad shot, his rescue by Travers, and how when Travers was dying, Mayne had come forward, and undertaken the charge of Nancy. How immediately after the funeral Nancy, in a condition of frenzied grief, had written a letter of farewell and repudiation to Mayne,—and taken refuge with her old nurse at Coimbatore.
"Aye, it really was a terrible letter," chimed in Mrs. Hicks, "I was there, when he read it, and he looked knocked all of a 'eap.—First he showed it to Teddy Dawson, and then to me. She said as how she blamed him, and how she hated him,—and so he let her go,—what else could he do?"—throwing herself back in her chair, and folding her arms with an air of finality—then added as an afterthought, "but he made her a good allowance!"
"Which she never touched," supplemented Mrs. Ffinch, "the money has lain all this time in Grindlay's Bank; they held no communication with one another, each went their own way: he as a bachelor, she, as an unmarried girl, until they came to London,—where Fate threw them together, in spite of themselves."
"So all the time, there was a girl in the background!—a girl to whom he sent money," said Mrs. Horne,—who had a wonderful faculty for remembering—but not disseminating—scraps of gossip. "There's never smoke without a fire, and to think, that all the time it should be Nancy."
"It was a case of a foolish, hasty, wedding," declared Mrs. Ffinch judicially; "had I been at home, I would never have allowed it to take place. Unfortunately I happened to be absent for a few days, and in those few days, occurred Nancy's marriage, and her father's death. I think that Derek Mayne,—though he meant well,—behaved like a lunatic!"
"No," corrected his uncle, thumping on the table, "he behaved like a man of honour! I was always fond of Derek, and now I'm proud of him! I'll just go and see what that girl is doing?" and taking his stick, he hobbled out of the room.
When Nancy found Mrs. De Wolfe alone, she said, "Hundreds of times I've wanted to speak, and to tell you,—but I dared not; for I felt, that if I opened my lips, the secret would spread; if I told one, I might tell another; and when I saw Derek, I realized that we were to be strangers,—in fact he said so in the plainest terms. There was nothing for it but silence,—at first."
"And now?" inquired her friend, with grave significance.
"Now,—only for my money,—I believe he would have made it up! Money, or no money, I'm going out on Friday; I have already secured my berth, by telephone,—but oh, dear, dear Auntie, supposing I am too late!"—and as she sank on her knees and buried her face on the old lady's lap,—her sobs were heartbreaking.
"Don't meet trouble half way, my child," said Mrs. De Wolfe, "though crying will relieve your poor heart. It is only the young, the lucky young, who can weep. Remember that the Maynes are as tough as leather; why, look at that old man downstairs; four months ago, a horse rolled upon him, and broke his leg, and three ribs; to-day, he was out shooting pheasants! Oh, Nancy my dear, how often I've wished that you, and Derek would take to one another,—and only to think, that you were married all the time! Well, in my long, and not uneventful life, you have given me the most stunning surprise, I have ever experienced! Now I can understand why Derek never came to the house, and went out of his way to avoid me."