And what about Nan? Well, things were going on in their usual jog-trot course at Lochenbreck. The winter was their dull season, and she had plenty of time at her disposal, which she employed in sewing, reading, practising her music, and occasionally taking part in the quiet social gatherings of her country neighbours. She was, of course, delighted to hear of her lover’s success in London. ‘Well, after all,’ she thought, ‘he seems to have known best.’ Then she thought smilingly of the time when he would be coming to claim the fulfilment of her promise; and she hoped she could induce him to spend part of the year at least at Lochenbreck. The parting with her father was the only drawback in her fair future; and she hoped this might be partially at least averted. She sometimes thought of her old and trusted friend the editor, and a shadow would come over her countenance for a moment. It passed quickly away, however, for she never thought but that he had long since forgotten her, amid the gaieties of the continent and his literary pursuits; for though far from London, he still held the editorial reins and wrote his usual articles for the Olympic.
This pleasant, tranquil state of matters lasted for some weeks. Her lover still corresponded regularly with her; but his letters began to get shorter, and were, perhaps, not quite so profuse and warm in their amatory expressions. Then after a bit they came more irregularly and seldomer. Still Nan paid no heed to what another maiden might have taken as indications of their lover’s failing allegiance. Hers was a happy, contented disposition, with no morbid desire to conjure up possible future evils. She loved Alfred sincerely, and with all the warmth and fervour of a girl’s first love. That he had failings, her strong, keen sense showed her plainly enough; but then he was only a fallible mortal like herself and other people. She was not blind to the vanity he displayed in writing to her about his social triumphs. If there was anything that troubled her, it was the frequent references he made to Mrs Judson. She resented the control which this woman seemed to have acquired over her lover’s doings. True, the widow was almost old enough to be his mother, and had been very kind to him; but a man should have a mind of his own, and hold his future in his own hands; if he did consult with any one, it should be with her who was soon to be his wife.
Things went on in this fashion for some time longer, and Nan began to feel a vague, chilling feeling in her heart that all was not as it should be between Alfred and herself. She was scarcely prepared, however, for a letter she received from him one morning after a longer silence than usual. It was dated from a Sir Hew Crayton’s shooting-lodge down in Essex. The high-born though impecunious—and, if the truth must be told, rather disreputable—baronet had been a client of the late Mr Judson, and was heavily indebted to his widow. He was a constant attender at her house, and it was there Alfred had formed his acquaintance. Nan smiled when she saw the ostentatious way he dated the blazoned note-paper from Crayton Lodge. Before she finished reading, however, her eyebrows became knit, and an angry frown settled on her whilom smiling visage. The letter commenced by saying that as he felt rather out of sorts with his protracted course of social enjoyments, he had accepted his friend Sir Hew Crayton’s kind invitation to spend a few days’ pheasant-shooting with him down in Essex. Then he gave a general account of what he had been doing since he last wrote—the dinner-parties, balls, routs, conversaziones, and what not he had been at; the compliments that had been paid him, and the pleasing prophecies of the grand future before him which flattering tongues had whispered in his ears. All this she read with an amused smile. But near the end she came to a paragraph which ran as follows: ‘Do you know, Nan, I have got a splendid chance of making my fortune just now? A young lady with twenty thousand pounds in her own right has fallen in love with me! I was introduced to her at an afternoon tea at Mrs Judson’s. Of course, I made myself agreeable enough, but I never thought she would have taken my little civilities so seriously. Yet she did so. Mrs Judson gave me a plain hint to that effect, and I then had to tell her about our engagement, and that such a thing was impossible. She was surprised, and advised me strongly to keep the thing secret, as, if it were known, it would damage my prospects greatly in society, and even in my profession. She has an excellent knowledge of the world, Mrs Judson, and has been very kind to me; her idea is, that we should not think of getting married for two or three years yet. By that time I will be in an assured position, able to marry any one I like, and not care a pin what the world says.’
Nan could scarce believe her eyes. Who was this Mrs Judson who had thrust herself between them? And did the prospective ‘not caring a pin what the world said about marrying her,’ mean that he was afraid and ashamed to marry her now? The very thought brought the hot blood tumultuously to her cheeks. Her impulse was to write breaking off the engagement at once; however, when the first burst of natural indignation was past, her practical good sense asserted itself, and she wrote a short note, requesting him to hasten down to Lochenbreck, as something of the most vital importance to them both had to be at once decided. This she posted, and awaited her lover’s arrival—with impatience certainly—but not of a pleasing kind.
When Alfred got the letter, he was a little startled. Justly enough, he attributed it to something he had said in his last epistle to her; and in going over its contents in his mind, he had no difficulty in fixing on the paragraph just quoted as being the cause of offence. ‘Poor Nan!’ he thought. ‘A case of jealousy, I suppose—the twenty-thousand-pounds young lady. How ridiculous of her! Didn’t I say the thing was impossible! However, I must run down and see her. A kiss, a caress, and a few soft words, will put her all right. Really, now, I do like Nan; and I’ll make things all right for her one of these days. But she must have patience: she forgets what a sacrifice I am making, all for her sake. To marry an innkeeper’s daughter! when, I may say, I have the pick and choice of the eligibles of London society, seems like lunacy. Oh, but I’ll be true to her, all the same! But she must learn her position; give up any selfish ideas of an early foolish marriage, and learn to wait patiently till it suits my convenience and interest.’
He arrived at Lochenbreck railway station by the morning express. The wagonette was there to meet him, but no Nan. He jumped in; and whirling through the keen frosty air, cracking jokes with the driver the while, he arrived in excellent spirits at the little old-fashioned inn. To Nan’s great relief, her father had gone to Castle Douglas market; she hated ‘scenes’ of any kind and under any circumstances; but she thought she could bear the one before her better, if her father was not present and was never to hear of it afterwards. After having dinned the praises of his prospective son-in-law in his ears for months, how could she now turn round and say she had discovered him to be a vain, conceited, selfish coxcomb? She had little hope of this interview putting matters right between them, and, to be prepared for the worst, had collected all his letters—all the little nicknacks he had given her—and parcelled them up ready to hand to him.
She submitted gravely and coldly to the customary salute with which he greeted her, and led the way to the coffee-room, where breakfast lay ready for him. In the occasional presence of the waiting-girl, private conversation was impossible; so he rattled on in an agreeable manner about his experiences in London, giving brilliant sketches of the varied private and public entertainments in which he had participated. Nan listened with lady-like composure, putting in an occasional word; and when the meal was over they retired to the private parlour. They sat down opposite to each other, and then Anne commenced her invective. She pointed out that he had deliberately chosen literature as a profession, and having gained a slight success, was now idling away his time in London, among a set of people who could do him no good, and who were, she thought, but of very doubtful reputation.
‘Wrong there, Nan!’ he interrupted. ‘I admit I don’t quite move in the inner circle. Still the people I know seem to have plenty of money, and are respectable enough; and I find them useful. I meet with journalists among them, and have been able to dispose of a good many of my manuscripts. And you would notice I was staying for a few days with Sir Hew Crayton. Now, you know it does a literary man a deal of good—in public estimation—to be taken notice of by a baronet.’
‘I am sorry to hear you talking in that way,’ she replied sadly, ‘for it shows me your vanity has got the better of your good sense. Do you not see it was entirely through your article appearing in the Olympic that you got your rejected manuscripts disposed of? As for your baronet, I don’t think you need boast of him. He stayed with us for a month, four years ago, and left without paying his bill. Papa made inquiry about him, and found he made a swindling living by lending his name as director to bogus Limited Companies. Likely he would borrow money from you?’
Alfred was forced to admit that he had obliged him with a loan.