The Beautiful Wretch - William Black (freda ebook reader .TXT) 📗

a soiled, weather-beaten copy of the _Globe_ Shakespeare, and from it extracted a letter.

'Perhaps you would like to read it yourself, Miss,' she suggested.

Nan took it, and had little difficulty in deciphering its contents, though the language was occasionally a trifle hyperbolical. It contained nothing less than an offer of marriage addressed to Sal by a sailor in one of Her Majesty's ironclads, who said that he was tired of the sea, and that, if Sal would give up her wandering life, so would he, and he would retire into the coastguard. He pointed out the sacrifices he was ready to make for her; for it appeared that he was a petty officer. No matter; he was willing to become simple A.B. again; for he had his 'feelin's;' and if so be as she would become his wife, then they would have a good weather-proof cottage, a bit of garden, and three-and-fourpence a day. It was a most business-like, sensible offer.

'And I'm sure I could do something for him,' Nan eagerly said. 'I think I could get him promotion. The Senior Naval Lord of the Admiralty is a friend of mine. And wouldn't it be better for you?'

'No, Miss,' said Sal, with an odd kind of smile. 'I was glad to get the letter, for it shows I'm respected. But I'm not going to be caged yet. I never saw or heard of the man I would marry--except it might have been Robbie Burns, if he was still alive. Sometimes when I've been reading a bit, coming along the downs all by myself like, I've seen somebody in the distance; and I've said to myself, "Well, now, if that was only to turn out to be that black-a-vised Ayrshire ploughman, it would be all over with me; it would be 'Whistle and I'll come to ye, my lad.'" And then some shambling fellow of a labourer has come along, straw-haired, bent-backed, twisted-kneed, and scarcely enough spirit in him to say, "Marnin t' ye--good marnin t' ye, wench!"'

'You are very independent,' said the sage Nan. 'And that's all very well, as long as your health lasts. But you might become ill. You would want relatives and friends, and a home. And in the coastguard houses you would have a very comfortable home, and a garden to look after; and your husband might get promotion.'

'If ever I marry,' said Sal, shaking her head, 'it won't be one of the man-of-war's men. They've just as little spirit or independence as the day labourers. They've had it all crushed out of them by the hard usage of the officers.'

'Oh, how can you say so!' said Nan, warmly. 'The officers are English gentlemen. In former days there may have been cruelty, but I am certain that exists no longer. I know several officers: kinder-hearted men don't exist. Why, there is a captain in the navy----'

She stopped in great embarrassment. But Singing Sal, not heeding, said, laconically--

'It ain't the captain, Miss. He's too great a gentleman to interfere. It's the first lieutenant, who can make the ship a hell upon earth if he has a mind to. Ah! Miss, it's little you know of the discipline that goes on on board a man-o'-war. There's no human being could stand it who wasn't brought up to it. The merchantmen can't stand it, and won't stand it; that's where the officers find a difficulty when the Reserves are called out. You wouldn't find a man-o'-war's man marching up to the First Lord of the Admiralty with a lump of salt beef in his hand and asking him if it was fit to eat. And this Lord, Miss, being a civilian like, he never thought of having the man clapped in irons: "Throw it overboard," says he. "I will see that no more o' that kind of stuff is issued to Her Majesty's fleet." That was the story I heard, Miss; the men were laughing about it at Beachy Head. And then, in the merchantmen Jack has a better chance, if he is a smart fellow----'

And so forth. They had once more got on to the subject of sailors and officers, regarded from their different points of view; and it was not until they had reached Brighton that the sight of Lewes Crescent reminded Nan that she had now to part from her companion and go in search of mutton bones for the thrushes and blackbirds.


CHAPTER XIX.


BREAKING DOWN.

Not only was she successful in this work of charity, but she must needs also institute a similar system of outdoor relief at her own end of the town; so that it was nearly dusk when she re-entered the house in Brunswick Terrace. She did not think of asking if there were any visitors; she went upstairs; perceived that the drawing-room door was an inch or two open, and was just about to enter when she heard voices. Inadvertently she paused.

It was Mr. Jacomb's voice. Then her mother said--

'I married happily myself, and I have never tried to influence my daughters----'

Nan shrank back, like a guilty thing. She had only listened to discover whether it was some one she knew who had called; but these few words of her mother's made her heart jump. She stole away noiselessly to her own room. She sat down, anxious and agitated, fearing she scarcely knew what.

She was not long left in suspense. Her mother came into the room and shut the door.

'I thought I heard you come in, Nan,' she said; 'and it's lucky you have, for Mr. Jacomb is here.'

'But I don't want to see Mr. Jacomb, mamma,' she said, breathlessly.

'He wants to see you,' her mother said, quietly; 'and I suppose you know what it is about.'

'I--I suppose so--yes, I can guess----. Oh, mother, dear!' cried Nan, going and clinging to her mother. 'Do me this great kindness! I can't see him. I don't want to see him. Mother, you will go and speak to him for me!'

'Well, that is extraordinary,' said Lady Beresford, who, however, had far too great a respect for her nerves to become excited over this matter or anything else. 'That's a strange request. I have just told him I would not interfere. Of course I don't consider it a good match; you might do a great deal better from a worldly point of view. But you have always been peculiar, Nan. If you think it would be for your happiness to become a poor clergyman's wife, I will not oppose it. At the same time, I have always thought you might do better----'

'Oh, mother, don't you understand?' Nan broke in. 'It's to ask him to go away! I'm so sorry. If he had spoken before, I would have told him before----'

'You mean you refuse him, and I am to take the message,' said her mother, staring at her. 'That is all?'

The girl was silent.

'I must say, Nan, you have been acting very strangely. You have lead us all to believe that you were going to marry him. Why did you let the man come about the house?'

'Don't speak like that to me, mother,' said Nan, with her under lip beginning to quiver. 'I--I tried to think of it. I knew he wanted me to be his wife; I thought it might be right; I thought I could do something that way; and--and I tried to persuade myself. But I can't marry him, mother--I can't--I don't wish to marry any one--I never will marry----'

'Don't talk nonsense, child!' said her mother, severely, for there was a sort of tendency towards excitement in the atmosphere. 'Let me understand clearly. I suppose you know your own mind. I am to go and tell this man definitely that you won't marry him?'

'Mother, don't put it in that harsh way. Tell him I am very sorry. Tell him I tried hard to think of it. Tell him I am sorry he has waited so long; but if he had asked sooner----'

'He would have had the same answer?'

The girl's faced flushed red, and she said in a strange sort of a way--

'Yes--perhaps so--I think it must have been the same answer at any time. Oh, I never, never could have brought myself to marry him! Mother, does it look cruel--does it look as if I had treated him badly?' she added, in the same anxious way.

'No, I would not say that,' answered her mother, calmly. 'A man must take his chance; and until he speaks he can't have an answer. I do not think Mr. Jacomb has any reason to complain--except, perhaps, that you don't go yourself and hear what he has to say----'

'Oh, mother, I couldn't do that. It would only be pain for both of us. And then I don't refuse him, you see, mother; that's something----'

Lady Beresford was uncertain. The truth was, she was not at all sorry to be the bearer of this message--even at the cost of a little trouble--for she did think that her daughter ought to marry into a better position in life. But she had just been listening to what Mr. Jacomb had to say for himself; and he had said a good deal, not only about himself but about Nan, and her disposition, and what would best secure her happiness, and so forth. Lady Beresford had been just a little bit impressed, and the question was whether Nan ought not to be invited to a fair consideration of the matter as represented by Mr. Jacomb himself.

'Well, Nan, if your mind is quite clear about it----'

'Oh it is, mother,' she answered eagerly, 'quite--quite----'

That was an end. Her mother left the room, slowly; Nan listened for her footsteps until she heard her go into the drawing-room and close the door. Her first thought was to lock herself in, so that there should be no appeal. Her next was that it was excessively mean and cruel of her to experience this wonderful sense of relief, now that the die was irrevocably cast.

'If there was anything I could do for him,' she was thinking--'anything--anything but that;' and then she listened again to the stillness until she heard a bell ring, and the drawing-room door open again, and some one descend the stairs into the hall. She felt guilty and sorry at the same time. She wished she could do something by way of compensation. He would not think it was mere heartlessness? For indeed she had tried. And would she not have done him a far greater wrong if she had married him without being able to give him her whole heart?

Nan went to the window; but it was too dark for her to see anything. She took it for granted he had gone away. She was glad, and ashamed of herself for being glad. She reproved herself. And then she had a vague sort of feeling that she would wear sackcloth and ashes--or try to be ten times kinder to everybody--or do something, anything, no matter what--to atone for this very unmistakable sense of