Mary’s strength and tenderness were now invaluable. By sheer force of will she overcame the malady in its physical effects, and did wonders in the assailing of its moral source. Her appeal now, as formerly, was to the nobler pride always struggling for control in Nancy’s character. A few days of combat with the besieging melancholy that threatened disaster, and Nancy could meet her friend’s look with a smile. She put away and turned the key upon her futile scribbling; no more of that. Novel-writing was not her vocation; she must seek again.
Early in the afternoon she made ready to go forth on the only business which now took her from home. It was nearly a week since she had seen her boy.
Opening the front door, she came unexpectedly under two pairs of eyes. Face to face with her stood Samuel Barmby, his hand raised to signal at the knocker, just withdrawn from him. And behind Barmby was a postman, holding a letter, which in another moment would have dropped into the box.
Samuel performed the civil salute.
‘Ha!—How do you do, Miss. Lord?—You are going out, I’m afraid.’
‘Yes, I am going out.’
She replied mechanically, and in speaking took the letter held out to her. A glance at it sent all her blood rushing upon the heart.
‘I want to see you particularly,’ said Samuel. ‘Could I call again, this afternoon?’
Nancy gazed at him, but did not hear. He saw the sudden pallor of her cheeks, and thought he understood it. As she stood like a statue, he spoke again.
‘It is very particular business. If you could give me an appointment—’