She took her
meals at such odd times; she did not seem to mind, hardly to know, what
she ate and drank! Of the many strange things Coxeter had known her to do, by far the
strangest, and one which he could scarcely think of without an inward
tremor, had happened only a few months ago. Nan had been with an ailing friend, and the ailing friend's only son, in
the Highlands, and this friend, a foolish woman,--when recalling the
matter Coxeter never omitted to call this lady a foolish woman--on
sending her boy back to school, had given him what she had thought to be
a dose of medicine out of the wrong bottle, a bottle marked "Poison." Nothing could be done, for the boy had started on his long railway
journey south before the mistake had been discovered, and even Coxeter,
when hearing the story told, had realized that had he been there he
would have been sorry, really sorry, for the foolish mother. But Nan's sympathy--and on this point Coxeter always dwelt with a
special sense of injury--had taken a practical shape. She had poured out
a similar dose from the bottle marked "Poison" and had calmly drunk it,
observing as she did so, "I don't believe it _is_ poison in the real
sense of the word, but at any rate we shall soon be able to find out
exactly what is happening to Dick." Nothing, or at least nothing but a bad headache, had followed, and so
far had Nan been justified of her folly. But to Coxeter it was terrible
to think of what might have happened, and he had not shared in any
degree the mingled amusement and admiration which the story, as told
afterwards by the culpable mother, had drawn forth. In fact, so deeply
had he felt about it that he had not trusted himself to speak of the
matter to Mrs. Archdale. But Mrs. Archdale was not only reckless of her health; she was also
reckless--perhaps uncaring would be the truer word--of something which
John Coxeter supposed every nice woman to value even more than her
health or appearance, that is the curiously intangible, and yet so
easily frayed, human vesture termed reputation. To John Coxeter the women of his own class, if worthy, that is, of
consideration and respect, went clad in a delicate robe of ermine, and
the thought that this ermine should have even a shade cast on its
fairness was most repugnant to him. Now Nan Archdale was not as careful
in this matter of keeping her ermine unspoiled and delicately white as
she ought to have been, and this was the stranger inasmuch as even
Coxeter realized that there was about his friend a Una-like quality
which made her unafraid, because unsuspecting, of evil. Another of the cardinal points of Coxeter's carefully thought-out
philosophy of life was that in this world no woman can touch pitch
without being defiled. And yet on one occasion, at least, the woman who
now sat opposite to him had proved the falsity of this view. Nan
Archdale, apparently indifferent to the opinion of those who wished her
well, had allowed herself to be closely associated with one of those
unfortunate members of her own sex who, at certain intervals in the
history of the civilized world, become heroines of a drama of which each
act takes place in the Law Courts. Of these dramas every whispered word,
every piece of "business"--to pursue the analogy to its logical end--is
overheard and visualized not by thousands but by millions,--in fact by
all those of an age to read a newspaper. Had the woman in the case been Mrs. Archdale's sister, Coxeter with a
groan would have admitted that she owed her a duty, though a duty which
he would fain have had her shirk or rather delegate to another. But this
woman was no sister, not even a friend, simply an old acquaintance
known to Nan, 'tis true, over many years. Nan had done what she had
done, had taken her in and sheltered her, going to the Court with her
every day, simply because there seemed absolutely no one else willing to
do it. When he had first heard of what Mrs. Archdale was undertaking to do,
Coxeter had been so dismayed that he had felt called upon to expostulate
with her. Very few words had passed between them. "Is it possible," he had asked,
"that you think her innocent? That you believe her own story?" To this Mrs. Archdale had answered with some distress, "I don't know, I
haven't thought about it---- As she says she is--I hope she is. If she's
not, I'd rather not know it." It had been a confused utterance, and somehow she had made him feel
sorry that he had said anything. Afterwards, to his surprise and
unwilling relief, he discovered that Mrs. Archdale had not suffered in
reputation as he had expected her to do. But it made him feel, more than
ever, that she needed a strong, wise man to take care of her, and to
keep her out of the mischief into which her unfortunate
good-nature--that was the way Coxeter phrased it to himself--was so apt
to lead her. It was just after this incident that he had again asked her to marry
him, and that she had again refused him. But it was since then that he
had become really her friend. *       *       *       *       *

At last Mrs. Archdale turned away, or else the French boy had come to an
end of his eloquence. Perhaps she would now lean a little forward and
speak to him--the friend whom she had not seen for some weeks and whom
she had seemed so sincerely glad to see half an hour ago? But no; she
remained silent, her face full of thought. Coxeter leant back; as a rule he never read in a train, for he was aware
that it is injurious to the eyesight to do so. But to-night he suddenly
told himself that after all he might just as well look at the English
paper he had bought at the station. He might at least see what sort of
crossing they were going to have to-night. Not that he minded for
himself. He was a good sailor and always stayed on deck whatever the
weather, but he hoped it would be smooth for Mrs. Archdale's sake. It
was so unpleasant for a lady to have a rough passage. Again, before opening the paper, he glanced across at her. She did not
look strong; that air of delicacy, combined as it was with perfect
health--for Mrs. Archdale was never ill--was one of the things that made
her attractive to John Coxeter. When he was with a woman, he liked to
feel that he was taking care of her, and that she was more or less
dependent on his good offices. Somehow or other he always felt this
concerning Nan Archdale, and that even when she was doing something of
which he disapproved and which he would fain have prevented her doing. Coxeter turned round so that the light should fall on the page at which
he had opened his newspaper, which, it need hardly be said, was the
_Morning Post_. Presently there came to him the murmuring of two voices,
Mrs. Archdale's clear, low utterances, and another's, guttural and full. Ah! then he had been right; the fellow sitting there, on Nan's other
side, was a Jew: probably something financial, connected with the Stock
Exchange.