In the Year of Jubilee | Page 8

afternoon--it was Monday--she could not occupy or amuse herself
in any of the familiar ways. Perhaps the atmosphere of national Jubilee
had a disturbing effect upon her,--in spite of her professed disregard for
the gathering tumult of popular enthusiasm. She had not left home
to-day, and the brilliant weather did not tempt her forth. On the table
lay a new volume from the circulating library,--something about
Evolution--but she had no mind to read it; it would have made her too
conscious of the insincerity with which she approached such profound
subjects. For a quarter of an hour and more she had stood at the
window, regarding a prospect, now as always, utterly wearisome and
depressing to her.

Grove Lane is a long acclivity, which starts from Camberwell suburban
dwellings. The houses vary considerably in size and Green, and, after
passing a few mean shops, becomes a road of aspect, also in date,--with
the result of a certain picturesqueness, enhanced by the growth of fine
trees on either side. Architectural grace can nowhere be discovered, but
the contract-builder of today has not yet been permitted to work his will;
age and irregularity, even though the edifices be but so many
illustrations of the ungainly, the insipid, and the frankly hideous, have a
pleasanter effect than that of new streets built to one pattern by the mile.
There are small cottages overgrown with creepers, relics of
Camberwell's rusticity; rows of tall and of squat dwellings that lie
behind grassy plots, railed from the road; larger houses that stand in
their own gardens, hidden by walls. Narrow passages connect the Lane
with its more formal neighbour Camberwell Grove; on the other side
are ways leading towards Denmark Hill, quiet, leafy. From the top of
the Lane, where Champion Hill enjoys an aristocratic seclusion, is
obtainable a glimpse of open fields and of a wooded horizon
southward.
It is a neighbourhood in decay, a bit of London which does not keep
pace with the times. And Nancy hated it. She would have preferred to
live even in a poor and grimy street which neighboured the main track
of business and pleasure.
Here she had spent as much of her life as she remembered, from the
end of her third year. Mr. Lord never willingly talked of days gone by,
but by questioning him she had learnt that her birthplace was a vaguely
indicated part of northern London; there, it seemed, her mother had
died, a year or so after the birth of her brother Horace. The relatives of
whom she knew were all on her father's side, and lived scattered about
England. When she sought information concerning her mother, Mr.
Lord became evasive and presently silent; she had seen no portrait of
the dead parent. Of late years this obscure point of the family history
had often occupied her thoughts.
Nancy deemed herself a highly educated young woman,--'cultured' was
the word she would have used. Her studies at a day-school which was
reputed 'modern' terminated only when she herself chose to withdraw in
her eighteenth year; and since then she had pursued 'courses' of
independent reading, had attended lectures, had thought of preparing

for examinations--only thought of it. Her father never suggested that
she should use these acquirements for the earning of money; little as
she knew of his affairs, it was obviously to be taken for granted that he
could ensure her life-long independence. Satisfactory, this; but latterly
it had become a question with her how the independence was to be used,
and no intelligible aim as yet presented itself to her roving mind. All
she knew was, that she wished to live, and not merely to vegetate. Now
there are so many ways of living, and Nancy felt no distinct vocation
for any one of them.
She was haunted by an uneasy sense of doubtfulness as to her social
position. Mr. Lord followed the calling of a dealer in pianos; a
respectable business, to be sure, but, it appeared, not lucrative enough
to put her above caring how his money was made. She knew that one's
father may be anything whatever, yet suffer no social disability,
provided he reap profit enough from the pursuit. But Stephen Lord,
whilst resorting daily to his warehouse in Camberwell Road--not a
locality that one would care to talk about in 'cultured' circles--continued,
after twenty years, to occupy this small and ugly dwelling in Grove
Lane. Possibly, owing to an imperfect education, he failed to appreciate
his daughter's needs, and saw no reason why she should not be happy in
the old surroundings.
On the other hand, perhaps he cared very little about her. Undoubtedly
his favourite was Horace, and in Horace he had suffered a
disappointment. The boy, in spite of good schooling, had proved
unequal to his