Pamela had been standing plucking a bit of mignonnette to pieces, listening with tingling ears. It was not in human nature not to listen; but she roused herself when Betty’s voice ceased, and went softly on, withdrawing herself from the midst of them. Her poor little heart was swelling and throbbing, and every new touch seemed to add to its excitement; but pride, and a sense of delicacy and dignity, came to her aid. Jack’s betrothed, even if neglected or forsaken, was not in her fit place amid this gossip. She went on quietly, saying nothing about it, leaving her companion behind. And the three women gave each other significant glances as soon as she had turned her back on them. “I told ’em how it would be,” said Mrs. Swayne, under her breath, “it’s allays the way when a girl is that mad to go and listen to a gentleman.” And Betty, though she sneered at her employers with goodwill, had an idea of keeping up their importance so far as other people were concerned. “Poor lass!” said Betty, “she’s been took in. She thought Mr. John was one as would give up every thing for the like of her; but he has her betters to choose from. He’s affable like, but he’s a deal too much pride for that.”
“Pride goes afore a fall,” said Nancy, with meaning; “and the Brownlows ain’t such grand folks after all. Nothing but attorneys, and an old woman’s money to set them up as wasn’t a drop’s blood to them. I don’t see no call for pride.”
“The old squires was different, I don’t deny,” said Betty, with candor; “but when folks is bred gentlefolks, and has all as heart can desire—”
“There’s gentlefolks as might do worse,” said Nancy, fiercely; “but it ain’t nothing to you nor me—”
“It ought to be a deal to both of you,” said Mrs. Swayne, coming in as moderator, “eating their bread as it were, and going on like that. And both of you with black silks to put on of a Sunday, and sure of your doctor and your burial if you was to fall ill. I wouldn’t be that ungrateful if it was me.”
“It’s no use quarreling,” said Nancy; “and I’ll say good-night, for I’ve a long way to go. If ever you should want any thing in Masterton, I’d do my best to serve you. Miss Pamela’s a long way on, and walking fast ain’t for this weather; so I’ll bid you both good-night. We’ll have time for more talk,” she added significantly, “next time I come back; and I’d like a good look at that nice lodge you’ve got.” Old Betty did not know what the woman meant, but those black eyes “went through and through her,” she said; and so Nancy’s visit came to an end.
CHAPTER XXX.
WHAT FOLLOWED.
Pamela could make nothing of her companion. Nancy was very willing to talk, and indeed ran on in an unceasing strain; but what she said only confused the more the girl’s bewildered faculties; and she saw her mount at last into the carrier’s cart, and left her with less perception than ever of what had happened. Then she went straying home in the early dusk, for already the days had begun to grow short, and that night in especial a thunder-storm was brewing, and the clouds were rolling down darkly after the sultry day. Pamela crossed over to the shade of the thick hedge and fence which shut in the park, that nobody might see her, and her thoughts as she went along were not sweet. She thought of Jack and the ladies at Brownlows, and then she thought of the wish her mother had uttered—Had she but known this a month ago! and between the terrible suspicion of a previous love, and the gnawing possibility of present temptation, made herself very miserable, poor child. Either he had deceived her, and was no true man; or if he had not yet deceived her, he was in hourly peril of doing so, and at any moment the blow might come. While she was thus lingering along in the twilight, something happened which gave Pamela a terrible fright. She was passing a little stile when suddenly a man sprang out upon her and caught hold of her hands. She was so sure that Jack was dining at Brownlows, and yielding to temptation then, that she did not recognize him, and screamed when he sprang out; and it was dark, so dark that she could scarcely see his face. Jack, for his part, had been so conscience-stricken when Mrs. Preston refused him entrance that he had done what few men of this century would be likely to do. He had gone in with the other men, and gulped down some sherry at the sideboard, and instead of proceeding to his dressing-room as they all did after, had told a very shocking fib to Willis the butler, for the benefit of his father and friends, and rushed out again. He might have been proof against upbraiding, but compunction seized him when Mrs. Preston closed the door. He had deserved it, but he had not expected such summary measures; and “that woman,” as he called her in his dismay, was capable of taking his little love away and leaving him no sign. He saw it in her eye; for he, too, saw the change in her. Thus Jack was alarmed, and in his fright his conscience spoke. And he had seen Pamela go out, and waylaid her; and was very angry and startled to see she did not recognize him. “Good heavens, do you mean to say you don’t know me?” he cried, almost shaking her as he held her by the hands. To scream and start as if the sight of him was not the most natural thing in the world, and the most to be looked for! Jack felt it necessary to begin the warfare, to combat his own sense of guilt.
“I thought you were at dinner,” said Pamela, faintly. “I never thought it could be you.”