“Never, Nestorius,” Meredith would say gravely, “in the course of a long and varied experience, have I seen a Worcester-sauce stopper of such transcendent beauty.”
Sometimes Nestorius clambered on to the bed, when the mosquito-curtains were up, and rested from his labours—a small curled-up form, looking very comfortable. And then, when his mother’s soft voice called him, he was wont to gather up his belongings and take his departure. On the threshold he always paused, finger in mouth, to utter a valedictory “Bad case” before making his way downstairs with a shadowy, mystic smile.
Kind neighbours called, and well-meaning but mistaken dissenting missionaries left religious works of a morbid nature, eminently suitable to the sickbed; but Joseph, Marie, and Nestorius were the only three who had free access to the quiet room.
And all the while the rain fell—night and day, morning, noon, and evening—as if the floodgates had been left open by mistake.
“Sloobrious, no doubt,” said Joseph, “but blamed depressing.”
And he shook his head at the lowering sky with a tolerant smile, which was his way of taking Providence to task.
“Do y’ know what I would like, missis?” he asked briskly of Marie one evening.
“No.”
“Well, I’d like to clap my eyes on Miss Gordon, just a stepping in at that open door—that’s what we want. That sawbones feller is right when he says the progress will be slow. Slow! Slow ain’t quite the word. No more ain’t progress the word—that’s my opinion. He just lies on that bed, and the most he can do is to skylark a bit with Nestorius. He don’t take no interest in nothin’, least of all in his victuals—and a man’s in a bad way when he takes no interest in his victuals. Yes, I’ll take another pancake, thankin’ you kindly. You’ve got a rare light hand for pancakes. Rare—rare ain’t quite the word.”
“But what could Miss Gordon do?” asked Marie.
“Well, she could kinder interest him in things—don’t you see? Him and I we ain’t got much in common—except his clothes and that confounded beef-tea and slushin’s. And then there’s Mr. Gordon. He’s a good hearty sort, he is. Comes galamphin’ into the room, kickin’ a couple of footstools and upsettin’ things promiscuous. It cheers a invalid up, that sort o’ thing.”
Marie laughed in an awkward, unwonted way.
“But it do, missis,” pursued Joseph, “wonderful; and I can’t do it myself. I tried the other day, and master only thought I’d been drinkin’.”
“You are impatient,” said Marie. “He is better, I know. I can see it. You see it yourself—yes?”
“A bit—just a bit. But he wants someone of his own station in life, without offence, Mistress Marie. Someone as will talk with him about books and evenin’ parties and things. And—” he paused reflectively, “and Miss Gordon would do that.”
There was a little silence, during which another pancake met its fate.
“You know,” said Joseph, with sudden confidence, “he’s goin’ to marry a young lady at home, in London; a young lady of fashion, as they say—one of them that’s got one smile for men and another for women. Not his sort, as I should have thought myself, knowin’ him as I do.”
“Then why does he marry her?” asked Marie.
“Ah!” Joseph rose, and stretched out his arms with a freedom from restraint learnt in the barrack-room. “There you’re asking me more than I can tell you. I suppose—it’s the old story—I suppose he thinks that she is his sort.”
XXIX
A Chance Acquaintance
The pride that prompts the bitter jest.
A space had with some difficulty been cleared at the upper end of an aristocratic London drawing-room, and with considerable enthusiasm Miss Fitzmannering pranced into the middle of it. Miss Fitzmannering had kindly allowed herself to be persuaded to do “only a few steps” of her celebrated skirt-dance. Miss Eline Fitzmannering officiated at the piano, and later on, while they were brushing their hair, they quarrelled because she took the time too quickly.
The aristocratic assembly looked on with mixed feelings, and faces suitable to the same. The girls who could not skirt-dance yawned behind their fans—gauze preferred, because the Fitzmannerings could see through gauze if they could not see through anything else. The gifted products of fashionable Brighton schools, who could in their own way make exhibitions of themselves also, wondered who on earth had taught Miss Fitzmannering; and the servants at the door felt ashamed of themselves without knowing why.
Miss Fitzmannering had practised that skirt-dance—those few steps—religiously for the last month. She had been taught those same contortions by a young lady in the profession, whom even Billy Fitzmannering raised his eyebrows at. And everyone knows that Billy is not particular. The performance was not graceful, and the gentlemen present, who knew more about dancing—skirt or otherwise—than they cared to admit, pursed up the corners of their mouths and looked straight in front of them—afraid to meet the eye of some person or persons undefined.
But the best face there was that of Sir John Meredith. He was not bored, as were many of his juniors—at least, he did not look it. He was neither shocked nor disgusted, as apparently were some of his contemporaries—at least, his face betrayed neither of those emotions. He was keenly interested—suavely attentive. He followed each spasmodic movement with imperturbably pleasant
