Success
she arrived, did not dispel the feeling. At least, she did not for
Nan, though she was unaware of it herself, and was as agreeable as she
always was, talking pleasantly till the others came in just as lunch
was announced.
The dining-room was a nice-sized room too; it, like the drawing-room
and the three good-looking, well-dressed sisters, looked its largest
and best kept when Nan was there. She had a way of slipping quietly
into a place, of keeping so still when she was there, and, whether she
talked or was silent, of being so inconspicuous that everything in
the Annarlys’ house stood out in contrast with her; one found oneself
wondering how much it cost at Warings’ or Shoolbreds’, and how many
years ago it was bought.
Mrs. Annarly said afterwards that Nan was not so shy that day as she
sometimes was. There is a degree in shyness, as there is in fear,
which gets beyond itself and produces something which, in its outward
results, is akin to courage. Some such thing, aroused on behalf of
another, had helped Nan to invite herself to the house of these
overwhelming connections—whose house, persons, and invitations she
avoided and looked upon with dread as a rule—and helped her through
with the much worse ordeal of being there. It did not prevent her
from perceiving, as other of their friends and relatives would not,
that they rather wondered why she had come, and rather looked upon
her coming as a nuisance; but then nothing could have prevented that;
like many of the shy, she had abnormal powers of perception. It did,
however, help her to behave as though she did not perceive it, and to
talk and answer questions with a greater fluency and readiness than she
had ever before developed in their company. There was not a great deal
of opportunity given her; the sisters, and Mrs. Annarly too, found it
easier to talk about their affairs than hers, and to each other than
her. A few kind questions about her father and her health exhausted
what there was to ask her. A few cultivated comments on pictures now
on view, which as a dweller in town she might have, though had not,
seen, and on concerts recently given which similarly she might have,
though had not, heard, exhausted what there was of general interest
to say to her. After that they spoke of their own concerns—to her
principally, though with divergencies to each other. They told her of
lectures on Renaissance art now being given locally; and she did not
tell them that the man who gave them had also written a book in which
he made mistakes about the date of Flemish weapons. They told her of
a Spode dessert-service promised to Rosalind for a wedding-present;
and she did not tell them that, if their description was correct, the
designation was not. She did not think of mentioning those things,
so they naturally could not know that she knew them, and knew with
an accuracy with which they knew nothing. Rosalind spoke a good deal
about her trousseau, she did on most occasions just now, and Nan
listened with interest; when Rosalind said she must promise to come
to the wedding, she answered that she hoped she should, probably with
less sincerity than Rosalind said what she did. Rosalind always meant
pleasant things at the moment she said them; Nan did not, unless she
also meant them before and afterwards too.
Michael had small share in the conversation at lunch. In Hurstbury it
was essentially the woman’s meal on weekdays, a man had little part
in what was discussed, he was there—as a permanent adjunct—rather
by courtesy only. Nan, a listener, and, occasionally, answerer of
questions, did nothing to alter the usual conditions. But after lunch
Michael did not attempt a retreat, as the sisters half expected he
would—as they would have wished had the guest been one of their own
choosing. He followed them into the drawing-room, and so saved Mabel
the trouble, she certainly would otherwise have taken, of going to
fetch him to do his share in entertaining his cousin when she and the
others left for their different engagements.
She glanced behind her at the clock; she was standing on the sheepskin
rug before the fire, her large well-shaped feet planted far apart.
“I shall have to be off in a minute,” she said. “We are playing away
to-day. You don’t play hockey, do you, Nan? You should; rippin’ game.
It’d be awfully good for you, take you out a bit. You must have rather
a mouldy time, I should think.” She looked round at the clock again.
“I must go; only twelve minutes for the train. Don’t bother about tea
for me, mother; I’ll get a drink somewhere. Good-bye, Nan, I’m afraid
I shan’t see you when I get back. Take my tip about the hockey; I dare
say I could get you into some club that plays near town.”
And she swung across the room and went out, rather noisily.
“What energy!” Rosalind said. “Isn’t it wonderful? And it’s really
quite warm to-day, you know.”
“Yes,” Nan answered, she was sitting by the back window, “it is a nice
day. May I go into the garden?”
Michael rose, though neither Constance nor Rosalind thought he was the
person addressed; they knew of no other methods of address than speech,
or the direct and obvious glance.
“Oh, yes, of course, if you care to,” Constance said. “I am afraid it’s
rather damp.” She moved towards the window as she spoke. “There are
some quite nice chrysanthemums left; you must have some to take home.”
She led the way to the garden door, as if she were going out too; but
if that was her intention the sight of the wet grass, or the voluntary
presence of Michael, remitted her sense of duty; she contented herself
with telling him which were the best chrysanthemums. Having done that
and having stood a minute on the top of the steps to say a few words,
she went in, feeling free to attend her committee meeting without any
discourtesy to the guest, undue taxing of her mother, or asking a
favour of Michael. Things often befell thus with her, and she usually
deserved it. So she went to her engagement and Rosalind to hers, and
Mrs. Annarly dropped asleep over a book, until the coming of a visitor
aroused her and also put Nan out of her head.
But in spite of Constance’s thoughtful orders, Nan did not get many
chrysanthemums. Michael began cutting at the first group of plants,
while his half-sister still stood on the steps.
“I didn’t know you were coming,” he said. “I had no idea you were here
till lunch time.”
“No,” Nan answered, “I know.”
“There are some better ones lower down,” Constance called; “those have
been frost-bitten.”
Michael moved obediently. “It’s awfully decent of you to come,” he
said. “You must hate it so.”
“Be sure he cuts you nice ones,” Constance’s pleasant voice cried, “and
plenty; as many as ever you can carry.”
“Yes,” Nan answered, “yes; thank you.”
The face she turned in the direction of the speaker, who could not see
her now by reason of screening shrubs, was grateful. “It’s kind of
her,” she said to Michael, as if explaining.
“Is it?” he answered harshly; though afterwards he said, “I suppose
that is what she is; what they all are—kind.”
Nan ignored the words, and turned to the subject which was really
uppermost. “Did you write to Sir Joseph Harte?” she asked.
“About that statement we sent to the directors from town? Yes, I wrote
and asked him if he had received it.”
“What did he say?”
Michael felt in his pockets, and found a letter which he handed to her.
It was in the crabbed handwriting of Sir Joseph himself, and it was
marked _confidential_.
DEAR MR. ANNARLY (it ran),
_I have carefully considered your letters of the 2nd and 20th,
and the statement enclosed in the former. I find nothing in them
to alter the conclusion I had come to in this deplorable matter;
nor do I find anything which would warrant me in asking my
co-directors to reopen, or reconsider, your case. I am, however,
able to tell you that we have now decided to take no further steps.
Out of consideration for the work you did while with us, and
the temptations to which you appear to have been subjected, the
other members of the Board have consented to abandon any idea of
prosecution._
_Speaking personally, I much regret the unhappy termination of your
connection with Galhardy’s—a connection which promised to be useful
to us and brilliant for you. But I still hope that, warned by this
lesson, and saved by the generosity of the directors from the full
penalty of publicity, you may yet use your gifts to do valuable
work in some other branch of your profession._
_I am,_
_Yours sincerely,_
_JOSEPH P. HARTE._
So she read, Michael mechanically cutting chrysanthemums the while.
“I suppose it is as much as one could expect,” he said when she had
finished; “at least, he writes himself, and he writes kindly, one could
hardly look for more if he believes the tale—as he certainly does.”
“Yes,” Nan said, although she did not herself quite like the letter;
she did not know why, unless, perhaps, it was that she had a feeling it
did not ring true. But it was only a feeling, and possibly groundless;
certainly not a thing to mention to Michael, whose present attitude of
spiritless acquiescence was the best in the circumstances.
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” he answered indifferently.
They moved on slowly, stopping by a few of the chrysanthemums as they
went. Nan noticed how tired and ill he looked, and with what patient
inattention he cut the flowers, obeying Constance’s orders, but
automatically, and without observing what he did.
“I don’t want any more,” she said, and led the way down a damp path
away from the plants.
“I suppose,” she said, “since the directors have decided not to
prosecute, you will be able to get some similar work in time?”
He shook his head. “As easily get back to Galhardy’s as get into any
similar work. There are only a few of those firms in existence, and
they’re a close ring in some respects: the word has gone round about me
long before this; not one of them would have me at any price.”
“But surely it would be to their interest to do so?” she protested.
“They would never act against their own interests to please Galhardy’s?
They must know that you can do work which no one else can, and which
they want.”
“And,” he said, “when it was done, have Galhardy’s claim it, and say it
was what I had already done for them, or based on it, or near enough to
be reckoned the same!”
“But it would not be; you surely have not done for them all there is to
do?”
“All?” he laughed. “No! nor a tithe, nor a hundredth! But that would
not make any difference. If it was worth having, Galhardy’s would claim
it, and the other people would have to fight them for it, and there’s
few who could afford to fight Galhardy’s like that.”
“What an iniquitous thing!”
“There’s plenty of it in the world,” he said indifferently. “There are
some big firms that have a fund on purpose for that sort of thing and
for fighting patents—not defending their own patents, but defending
themselves when they are had up for infringing other people’s.
Galhardy’s can knock most others out, if it comes to law, they are so
rich; no one could afford to fight them—or to employ me to any purpose.”
They had come to the end of the path now, and reached the old workshop.
The door stood ajar, so that one saw the neglected interior and a
single garden-chair drawn up to the burnt-out stove; Nan half stopped.
“Will you come in?” Michael asked. “It’s rather damp inside, I’m
afraid, though drier than out.”
They went in. The place smelt mouldy and smoky too, and struck chilly
with the chill of disuse. There were a lathe and a certain number