CHAPTER 7
Whilst she was thus occupied, darkness came on. She did not care to light the lamp, so made herself ready, and stole forth.
The rain had ceased. Walking alone at night was a pleasure in which she now indulged herself pretty frequently; at such times Mary Woodruff believed her in the company of Miss. Morgan. The marked sobriety of her demeanour since Mr. Lord’s death, and the friendliness, even the affection, she evinced in their common life at home, had set Mary’s mind at ease concerning her. No murmur at her father’s will had escaped Nancy, in this respect very unlike her brother, who, when grief was forgotten, declared himself ill-used; she seemed perfectly content with the conditions laid upon her, and the sincerity of her mourning could not be doubted. Anxious to conciliate the girl in every honest way, Mary behaved to her with the same external respect as ever, and without a hint of express guardianship. The two were on excellent terms. It seemed likely that before long they would have the house to themselves; already Horace had spoken of taking lodgings in a part of London more congruous with the social aspirations encouraged by his aunt, Mrs. Damerel.
From Chancery Lane she passed into Fleet Street, and sauntered along with observation of shop-windows. She was unspeakably relieved by the events of the afternoon; it would now depend upon her own choice whether she preserved her secret, or declared herself a married woman. Her husband had proved himself generous as well as loving; yes, she repeated to herself, generous and loving; her fears and suspicions had been baseless. Mrs. Tarrant’s death freed them from all sordid considerations. A short time, perhaps a day or two, might put an end to irregularities, and enable her to hold up her head once more.
Feeling hungry, she entered a restaurant, and dined. Not carelessly, but with fastidious choice of viands. This was enjoyable; she began to look more like herself of a few months ago.
She would return to Camberwell by train from Ludgate Hill. At the circus, crowding traffic held her back for a minute or two; just as she ran forward, a familiar voice caused her to stop again. She became flurried, lost her head, stood still amid a tumult of omnibuses, cabs and carts; but a hand grasped her by the arm, and led her safely to the opposite pavement.
‘What do you mean by shouting at me in the street?’ were her first words.
The person addressed was Luckworth Crewe; he had by no means anticipated such wrathful greeting, and stood in confusion.
‘I beg your pardon, Miss. Lord. I didn’t think I shouted. I only meant to call your attention.’
‘Why should you call my attention?’ Her cheeks were flushed with anger; she regarded him as though he were a stranger guilty of mere insolence. ‘I don’t wish to speak to you.’