Nothing Venture Read Online Free PDF Page B

I shall lose my job, and I’ve got someone depending on me.”
    She felt better when she had said that. But Jervis was staring at her.
    â€œDepending?”
    â€œYes—my sister. I couldn’t just take this on and leave her.”
    He threw himself back in his chair.
    â€œWell, how much?”
    â€œTwo thousand pounds,” said Nan, and set her teeth.
    Jervis Weare regarded her with frank admiration.
    â€œYou certainly have a nerve!” he said.
    It was heartening to be told so. At the moment Nan felt exactly like a sawdust doll from which the last grain of sawdust has leaked away, leaving it quite flat, quite empty. She said, in what she was surprised to find was a steady voice,
    â€œIt’s because of Cynthia. I can always get a job.”
    â€œAnd she can’t?”
    Nan shook her head. She looked young, mournful, and serious. The contrast between her appearance and what Jervis Weare had just described as her nerve was so extreme as to be ludicrous.
    Jervis pushed back his chair and got up.
    â€œSo you propose to turn two thousand pounds over to Cynthia? And how much do you want for yourself?”
    â€œI don’t want anything—I can get a job.”
    â€œAnd why should I give Cynthia two thousand pounds?”
    Nan looked up at him with a perfectly steady gaze.
    â€œYou won’t give it to Cynthia—you’ll give it to me. Mr. Weare left you a hundred thousand pounds. I’m helping you to keep it. The two thousand pounds will be my commission.”
    â€œWhat a business head!”
    â€œI’ve had a business training.”
    She looked away at last, not in embarrassment, but because she had said what she had come to say. She relaxed a little, let go of the chair, folded her hands in her lap, and waited.
    Jervis Weare walked across the room and back again.
    â€œAll right,” he said, “you can have your commission.”

VI
    At nine o’clock on the morning of August 16th Jervis Weare was married to Nan Forsyth in the church of St. Justus, Carrington Square. It is a peculiarly ugly church. The heavy old-fashioned gallery which runs round three sides of it induces a perpetual dusk. Nan came out of the bright morning sunshine into the dusk, which smelt of pews and varnish and old age. It was a very depressing smell.
    Mr Page gave her away disapprovingly, and he and the verger were the only witnesses. She looked once at Jervis, and saw him as a tall, aloof shadow. She could guess at the frown she could not see. When he took her hand and put the ring on it, his was hot and dry. He rammed the ring down, and there it was.
    They got up from their knees and went into the vestry. She wrote herself for the last time Nan Forsyth.
    â€œAnd now your father’s name here, Mrs Weare.”
    It was the two things coming together that took her off her balance. Mrs Weare—and her father dead in a far country, not knowing. There wasn’t anyone to know or care. She had not told Cynthia, because there would have been too much to tell. Tears stung in her eyes; the register disappeared in a mist.
    â€œYour father’s name—just here, please. Full Christian names.”
    She closed her eyes for a moment hard, then, opening them, bent and wrote, “Nigel Forsyth,” and stood aside whilst Mr Page and the verger signed.
    They came out into the sunlight again. Mr Page shook hands with them both and walked away. They watched him go. Then, as he turned the corner, Jervis Weare became aware that his wife was addressing him. Her voice had reached him, not her words. He saw her standing there in her grey dress and black hat, and said,
    â€œI beg your pardon—I didn’t hear what you said.”
    â€œI said good-bye,” said Nan.
    He looked a little startled. Since their first interview they had not met till now. He said,
    â€œWhere are you going?”
    â€œBack to Cynthia,” said Nan. “I haven’t told her