"None that would come forward, anyhow. Her mother was an orphan, and Travers' people broke with him; first of all, because he married a governess, and lastly, because he lost his money. However, if Nancy has no belongings, she has lots of friends up here; we will all do what we can. Well now, I see Francis—he wants me," and she hastily abandoned her companion, leaving him to meditate upon her information.
Mayne went slowly down to the tennis ground; the tennis ground, entirely secluded, was a refuge, and here he could hold a long and uninterrupted conference with himself. Considering the affair from every point of view, he soon arrived at the conclusion, that he was solely responsible for Nancy's future. Why should these good, kind-hearted people offer her a shelter, when he, who was accountable for a tragedy, that cost her a parent and a home, made no effort to provide for her?
During one whole hour, he did a sort of meditative "sentry go" up and down the kunkur courts. Mrs. Hicks' illuminating remarks, had presented Nancy's situation, in its true light: the girl had no relations, no income, and would be entirely dependent on the charity of her kind-hearted neighbours; and he was answerable for the fact, that she would be left homeless, and penniless. If her father had not interfered when the panther attacked him, in another second, the brute would have torn his throat out—the blow, transferred her fury to Travers. But for Travers, he would now be lying in a new grave in the garden. The least he could do, was to provide a home for Travers' daughter—though nothing could make up to her, for the one she was about to lose. Had his mother been like the usual run of mothers, Nancy could have lived with her; unfortunately there were half a dozen "buts," and Lady Torquilstone abhorred girls.
There was one alternative;—vainly he thrust this from him; but it returned again, and yet again, to confront him inflexibly. Yes, he was powerless against the malignity of events, powerless to evade the inevitable. He must marry Nancy. It was the only thing to do! He would thankfully have given her half his income; but, it was not to be supposed, that she would accept his money; she might look upon it as the price of blood!
He liked Nancy, she was a really good sporting sort; straight as a die, a capital pal; but as a wife—he would not know what to make of her? She would be such an unlikely and unaccountable Mrs. Mayne. She looked a mere flapper too, in spite of her eighteen years, and was occasionally capable of the most startling behaviour. He recalled the kiss she had offered him on her birthday, and her various tomboy tricks. What would the regiment think of Nancy? and what would Nancy think of the regiment?
After many pacings to and fro, his mind became definitely resolved. There are moments in the lives of individuals, when their conduct has to be decided, not by material profit, but by instinctive loyalty to what is best in their nature; and although marriage was the last step Mayne had intended to take, nevertheless he determined to adventure the great plunge! Yes, his decision was unalterably fixed, there was actual relief in the sensation. He was turning about for the fiftieth time when he noticed a figure in the moonlight beckoning to him violently from the top of the steps. It was Mrs. Hicks, who screamed out:
"So you're down there, are you? I could not find you! Been looking for you all over the place. He has been asking for you, and the doctors say you may go in, and stay a quarter of an hour."
As Mayne entered the sick-room, he noticed even within the last few hours, a grave change in Travers: a change that was the unmistakable forerunner of the last change of all. The sick man's face looked drawn, his sunken eyes extraordinarily bright and restless,—with a sort of watching expression. There was also some strange element in the room: something that seemed to be waiting—the silence was pregnant, with significance.
"My dear fellow, I'm very glad to see you," Travers began, in a thin weak voice; "come and sit down. They are making out that I am in a bad way, and won't allow anyone near me, but Nancy, poor girl. I may pull through, and I hope I shall, for her sake; she's such a child to be left all alone to battle with the world."
"Not alone," said Mayne gravely, "as long as I am to the fore. By rights I should be lying there instead of you, and if the worst——" He could not go on.