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diff --git a/old/65328-0.txt b/old/65328-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 7f39620..0000000 --- a/old/65328-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,5301 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Mrs. Arthur; vol. 1 of 3, by Mrs. Margaret -Oliphant - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Mrs. Arthur; vol. 1 of 3 - -Author: Mrs. Margaret Oliphant - -Release Date: May 13, 2021 [eBook #65328] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at - http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images - available at The Internet Archive) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MRS. ARTHUR; VOL. 1 OF 3 *** - - - - - MRS. ARTHUR. - - BY - - MRS. OLIPHANT, - - AUTHOR OF - - “The Chronicles of Carlingford,” - - &c. &c. - - - “Fie, fie! unknit that threat’ning, unkind brow, - And dart not scornful glances from those eyes. - - * * * * * - - A woman mov’d is like a fountain troubled.” - TAMING OF THE SHREW. - - “He breathed a sigh, and toasted Nancy!” - DIBDIN. - - IN THREE VOLUMES. - - VOL. I. - - LONDON: - HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, - 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. - - 1877. - - _All rights reserved._ - - - - - MRS. ARTHUR. - - - - -CHAPTER I. - - -“Is Mr. Curtis here?” said a voice at the door. - -The door was so near the sitting-room that every demand made there was -easily heard, and even answered from within; and, indeed, Mrs. Bates was -in the habit of calling out an answer when it happened to be beyond the -powers of the daughter or small servant who opened. But this question -was one about which there was no difficulty. It was followed by a hearty -laugh from the assembled family. - -“I should think he was--rather!” said Charley Bates, the son; and “Ask -Nancy,” said Matilda, the eldest daughter. - -There was a considerable number of people in the little parlour--to wit, -Mr. Bates in his big chair on one side of the fire, sipping -rum-and-water, and reading a newspaper which was soft and crumpled with -the usage of the day at the nearest public-house; and Mrs. Bates on the -other, seated between the fireplace and the table, mending the stockings -of the family. Charley was reading an old yellow novel behind his -mother, and Matilda was making her winter bonnet with a quantity of -materials in a large piece of paper on the table, which was covered with -a red and green cloth. It was October, and not cold, but there was a -fire, and a branched gas pendant with two lights, shed heat as well as -light into the close little room. There was another daughter, Sarah -Jane, who was coming and going about the table, now and then making -incursions into the kitchen; and behind backs in the corner, on a black -haircloth sofa against the wall, were seated the pair of lovers. No one -threw any veil of doubt on the fact that they were a pair of lovers--nor -did their present aspect make this at all uncertain. They were seated -close together, talking in whispers; one of her hands clasped in his, -his arm, to all appearance, round her waist. Matilda screened them a -little, having her back turned towards them, which gave, or might have -given, a sense of remoteness to the pair, and justified their too -evident courtship. Otherwise they were in full light, the gas blazing -upon them; and it was scarcely possible to whisper an endearment which -was not audible. _She_ was a pretty girl, with brown hair, brown eyes, -and a pretty complexion, in a somewhat showy dress, cut very much in -“the fashion,” yet looking not at all out of place in the warm, crowded, -stuffy parlour, full of hot air and gas, and the fumes of rum-and-water. -She was Mrs. Bates’ second daughter, called Nancy, but preferring to be -called Anna, and engaged to a young gentleman who was a pupil of Mr. -Eagle the well-known “coach,” and had been for a year at Underhayes. He -had been coming after Nancy Bates all that time, and at present they -were engaged, and made love in the family parlour now that it was too -cold to take long walks. Mr. Curtis preferred the walk, but Nancy liked -the haircloth sofa. She was a good girl, and fond of her family, and she -liked them to share her happiness. The family party were all moderately -like each other, harmonious and happy, suiting their surroundings. There -seemed nothing out of place among them, the bonnet-making, or the old -yellow novel, or even the rum-and-water. But there was one great -incongruity in the room, and that was the hero, the young lover, who -certainly had no business there. He was dressed in an English -gentleman’s easy morning suit, a dress in which there is less apparent -pretension than any in the world perhaps, but which shows very -distinctly the condition of the wearer. His presence in the room put -the whole place out of harmony; it made the stuffy comfort look squalid -and mean; it rebuked the family ease and cheerfulness, the absence of -all disguise, the frank family union. In his person another element came -in, a something higher, which made all the rest more low. He was not the -sort of person to sit with his arm round his _fiancée_ in public, within -reach of papa’s rum, and mamma’s joke. All the rest went perfectly well -together; but he put everything in the wrong. - -And the effect which he himself produced to every beholder, or would -have produced had there been any beholders, was wrought upon himself by -the sound of this voice at the door. It was a voice of modulation and -tone different from anything here. Even his Nancy, though he was so much -in love with her, young Curtis felt suddenly jarred and put out of tune -by it; he dropped her hand instinctively, and got up confused, a sudden -flush coming over his face. - -“It is some one for me,” he said, in sudden embarrassment. And again the -family laughed more loudly than before. - -“Any child could tell that, seeing as he’s just asked for you,” said -Mrs. Bates; “and I’m sure any friend of yours is welcome. Find a chair -for him, girls, if there is any chair free of your falals--and show him -in, Sarah Jane.” - -“I think not; if you will excuse me I’ll go to him,” said the young man, -hastily. “I might bring him--if you are so kind--another time.” - -“There’s no time so good as now,” said Mrs. Bates. “Don’t be shy, don’t -be shy, my dear. You don’t like him to find you with Nancy; but, bless -my soul, the time won’t be long that anyone will see you without -Nancy--” - -“Oh,” said Nancy herself, saucily, “if he’s ashamed of _me_--” - -“Ashamed of you, darling! as if that was possible,” said the young man, -stooping to whisper to her; “but it is a man, a college friend--I must -go.” - -While he stood thus explaining, with an anxious face, and his Nancy -pouted and tossed her pretty head, the stranger suddenly appeared at the -open door. - -“This way, this way!” Sarah Jane had cried, delighted by the advent of -another gentleman, and already wondering why Nancy should have all the -luck, and whether one wedding might not bring another. - -The new-comer was tall; he was short-sighted, with a pucker on his -forehead, and a glass in his eye. He stood in the door, and hazily -regarded the scene, not penetrating it, nor finding out his friend for -the moment; but gazing somewhat vaguely, dazzled besides by the sudden -light, into the small crowded space and the group of strange faces. - -“Ah, there you are, Curtis,” he said at last, with a gleam of -recognition; then turned to Mrs. Bates with an apology. “I hope you -will forgive such an intrusion. I had a commission to Curtis, and I did -not understand--I did not know--” - -“Come in, Sir, come in,” said Mrs. Bates; “don’t think of -apologies--we’re very glad to see you. Sit you down, Sir, and if you’ve -just come off a journey, say what you would like, and it shall be got -for you--a drop of beer, or a cup of tea, or a glass with my good -gentleman. You see he’s making himself comfortable. And supper’s coming -in about an hour. You can hurry it up a bit, Sarah Jane,” cried the -hospitable mother, “if the gentleman has just come by the train.” - -“Thank you,” said the stranger, sitting down on the chair that had been -cleared for him; “nothing to eat or to drink, thanks--you are too kind; -but I may wait till Curtis is ready. I have got something for you, -Arthur,” he said, turning again to his friend. - -“Oh, have you?” said Curtis, dropping back upon the sofa, beside his -Nancy, as there was nothing else to be done; but he did not take her -hand again, or resume his former position. He sat very stiff and bolt -upright, withdrawn from her a little; but young men and young women do -not sit together behind backs for nothing, notwithstanding the gaslight; -and his air of withdrawal took an aspect ridiculously prudish, and -called attention. The family Bates looked curiously at the stranger, and -he looked curiously at them. Neither was much acquainted with the -_genre_ of the other, and on both sides there was a half-hostile -interest which quickened curiosity. But Matilda and Sarah Jane were not -hostile. Their curiosity was warm with benevolence. If Nancy had done so -well for herself, why not they too? He had dropped into their hands like -a new prey. Their eyes brightened, the energy of enterprise came into -their faces. A gentleman is a fine thing to girls of their condition, -far finer in promise than in reality. The appearance of a second quarry -of this kind turned their heads. Why should it not fall to one of them? - -“You must have found it cold travelling, Sir,” said Matilda, wrapping up -her bonnet in the paper. “October nights get chilly, don’t they? and -Underhayes is a miserable little place if you have come from town.” - -“I have come from the country,” said the stranger, with his -short-sighted stare. He was slightly annoyed, to tell the truth, to hear -it so clearly set down that he must have come from town. Did he look -like a man to come from town in October?--not thinking that town meant -everything that was splendid in Matilda’s eyes. - -“Chilly!” cried Sarah Jane, eager to recommend herself. “I’m sure the -gentleman thinks this room a deal too hot. Shouldn’t you say so, Sir? I -can’t abide it; it gives me such a headache.” - -“Come, girls, you needn’t quarrel,” said Mrs. Bates, in her round, -good-humoured voice. “We’ll allow you your different ways of thinking. -Your papa likes a warm fireside, don’t you, Bates? But I suppose the -gentleman comes straight from the beauty and fashion, as it says in the -newspapers.” - -“Talking of the newspapers, Sir,” said Mr. Bates, putting down his, -“what do you think of the present crisis? What’s things coming to? -There’s Rooshia threatening in the East, and as for your Khedivys and -that sort, I don’t believe in them. We’ll all be in a precious hobble if -we don’t look out, as far as I can see.” - -“There, there, Bates, none of your politics,” cried his wife; “once -begin that, and nobody can get in a word--and the gentleman is just off -a journey.” - -Young Curtis sat uneasily while all this went on, like a dog in leash, -watching his opportunity to start. The sudden insight which had come to -him with the entrance of his friend upon this scene was strange, and -very painful. He was very much in love, poor young fellow, and when a -man is in love, it is curious how easily he can accept the circumstances -of his beloved and find them natural. Matilda and Sarah Jane had only -amused him before, as, indeed, they amused the new-comer now; but the -family changed its aspect entirely as the young man, who was almost a -member of it, realized to himself how it must appear to his friend, and -saw the whole scene, as it were, through Durant’s eyes. Durant’s eyes, -however, staring vaguely upon this slowly comprehended new world, did -not see half so clearly or so sharply as Arthur’s saw through them. He -gave double force and meaning to the other’s observations, and beheld -through him many things which the other did not see. Fortunately--and -how fortunate that was Arthur did not venture to say to himself--Nancy, -who was affronted, did not open her mouth. He adored her, and yet he was -glad she was affronted, notwithstanding the pain it gave him. He could -not bear to vex or alienate her for a moment, and yet he was thankful -not to be obliged to see her too with his friend’s eyes. But he saw all -the rest, and the _ensemble_ of the room, the village flirt Sarah Jane, -and the lout Charley, and Mr. Bates with his slippers, and felt how -stuffy it was, and the smell of the rum. His endurance had come to a -climax when Mr. Bates began to talk a little thickly of politics. Once -more he sprang to his feet. - -“I know Durant has something to say to me,” he cried. “I think I must -ask you to excuse me to-night, Mrs. Bates. Everything must give way to -business.” - -“Lord bless you, my dear, not of an evening,” said the genial woman. -“Don’t ye go. Supper’s coming. You know all our ways, and I daresay your -friend--Mr. Durant is it? and how do you do, Mr. Durant, now I know -you?--I daresay he’ll put up with us for your sake. Go you and hurry -the supper, Sarah Jane.” - -“We’ll have to go, really,” said poor Arthur; and he stooped to his -sullen love and whispered, “Don’t be angry. He comes from my father. -Though I can’t bear to leave you, darling, I must hear what my father -says.” - -“Oh, indeed, your father!” said Nancy. “I see what it is; it is just -what I have always told you. You’re ashamed of me and my folks, as soon -as you get hold of one of your fine friends.” - -“Durant is not a fine friend, he is like my brother--he will be your -friend too,” whispered the young man in an agony. - -But Nancy only pouted the more. - -“I don’t want such friends. I have got my father and my brother to see -to me. You needn’t bring any of your fine gentlemen here.” - -Notwithstanding, however, the blandishments of Sarah Jane and Matilda, -the stranger had risen too. He was much taller, and had a much finer -figure than Arthur, the sisters thought, and he smiled, though his look -was rather vague, staring as if he did not see them. - -“You are very kind,” he said, holding out his hand to Mrs. Bates, who -hastened up to her feet too, to shake it with great cordiality. “I hope -you will kindly repeat your invitation for another day, and that Arthur -will bring me back, when I can take advantage of your hospitality; but I -must not come among you under false pretences,” he added, laughing, “for -I know nothing about the rank and fashion--that is in Arthur’s way -rather than mine.” - -“Oh, Sir,” said Mrs. Bates, bowing, “we know what gentlemen means when -they speak in that high-minded way.” - -This speech was such a triumph of genial mystification and confidence -that Durant stared still more, and hurried forth reduced to silence, -feeling himself unable in his present puzzled condition to cope with -such an intellect. Poor Arthur, trying to seize the hand of his beloved, -trying by piteous looks to move her from her sullen offence, lingered a -moment, but in vain. - -“Never mind her,” said Mrs. Bates, “she will come to when you are gone. -It’ll all come right to-morrow. Good night, and God bless you! I’ll see -to Nancy; and you needn’t keep the door open and me in a draught,” she -added querulously, “if you won’t stay.” - -This quickened the steps of the lover, but though he was glad to get -outside, and to leave the glare and odors of that room--so long his -bower of bliss, so suddenly revealed to him in its real aspect--blown -away, it is impossible to say how miserable he was at such a parting -from the object of his love. It was she who opened the door for him on -other occasions, lingered with him in the fresh evening air, and said -“Good-night” a thousand times over, each time more sweetly than the -time before. So at least the foolish young fellow thought. But she had -not lifted her head even to give him a last glance; she had not said -“Good-night!” at all; she had dismissed him with a cloud upon her face. -How was he to bear it till to-morrow? and yet how glad he was that when -all of them had talked and betrayed themselves, she had never brought -herself under those painful disenchanting reflections from his friend’s -eyes. - -“Good-night, Arthur,” said saucy Sarah Jane; “and good-night, Mr. -Durant. Be sure you bring him back to-morrow. You have promised mamma to -come back morrow and have supper with us. Good-night, Mr. Durant.” - -Durant replied to the “Good-night” with a suppressed laugh, and walked -away into the darkness with Arthur following. Though the freshness of -the night was so great a relief after the heat indoors, it was not -genial, but penetrating and dull, with a shrewish touch, such as -October often has; and the skies were dull with no moon, nothing but -drifting clouds, and the street of the little town was not attractive. -They walked on in silence together for some time, the stranger being -occupied longer than was necessary in lighting his cigar; but he had no -sooner managed this successfully than he threw it away again. - -“Come to the inn, Arthur,” he cried; “it’s comfortless work talking -here.” - - - - -CHAPTER II. - - -The inn at Underhayes was not much to speak of, but the parlour in which -the two friends talked was larger than Mrs. Bates’s parlour, where all -the family assembled and all their existence was past. Durant sat down -at the table to consume a simple dinner, a hastily-cooked chicken, which -he had ordered after his journey, and which was not so savoury as the -supper which Mrs. Bates would have given him; nor was it so cheerful a -meal. While he ate, Arthur Curtis paced back and forward at the other -end of the room, which, with its bare carpet and scant furniture, was -still less objectionable than the room they had left, the place where -all his happiness had lain so long. Perhaps if the shock had come sooner -some deliverance would have been possible, though at the cost of a -heartbreak; but nothing was possible now except to carry out his -engagement. Lewis Durant was both honourable and high-minded, yet he had -come with no better intention than to prevent his friend from keeping -his word, with very little regard for the word and none at all for the -happiness of the other person who was chiefly concerned. Happiness of a -girl who had entangled a young man so much above herself! what was that -to anybody? If she should be robbed of her happiness, why, was it not -all her own fault? But he had not been so injudicious yet as to broach -this idea; he was approaching it gradually, “acquiring information” on -the subject. Of course it was natural that any one so interested in -Arthur’s affairs as he was, should like to know all about it, and he had -seen Lady Curtis herself he did not conceal from his friend, and the -anxious mother was “in a great way.” - -“I’d like to take up satisfactory news, old fellow,” he said; “both for -their sake and my own.” - -“What do you call satisfactory news?” said Arthur. His mind was in an -unexampled commotion. His old life and his new had come into active -conflict, and he himself seemed to be the puppet between them. But in -the midst of the excitement caused by this bringing back of all the -habits of his former existence, the poor young fellow was miserable at -the thought of having come away from his love without a kind word, -without a look even, which could stand in the place of their usual -Good-night. - -“Well--it is difficult to speak in plain words between you and them. Of -course you know that this can’t be expected to give them satisfaction, -Arthur. They have not been led on step by step as you have--” - -“What do you mean?” he said hastily. “Do you mean the vulgar sort of -thing that every fool says, that _she_ has been leading me on?” - -“I certainly did not say so,” said Durant. “I mean they have not been -used to all the circumstances like you. Your mind has become familiar by -degrees with this family--with everything about them.” - -“Say it out plainly; don’t mind my feelings,” said the other bitterly, -“with the difference between Bates, the tax-collector’s daughter and Sir -John Curtis’s son. Well! and what is the difference? All on her side; -all in her favour. She getting nothing but additional beauty from all -her surroundings, I--doing not much honour to mine.” - -“I was not making any personal comparison, Arthur,” said Durant, -cautiously; “I was saying only--what you will fully allow--that taken -just by themselves, without that knowledge of personal excellence which -I suppose you have;--that the difference of the circumstances--the -difference of manners--well! cannot but startle--shock perhaps--your -immediate friends.” - -“That means that you are shocked and startled. Mr. Bates’s rum-and-water -was too much for your delicate nerves,” said Arthur, with a sneer; “and -yet you and I have seen worse things that we were not shocked at.” - -“Arthur, do you want to quarrel with me? or can you suppose I should -have come here, if I had felt the slightest desire or intention to -quarrel with you?” - -The young man did not answer for some minutes, then he threw himself -into a chair by the table and concealed his face from the other’s gaze, -supporting his head on his hands. “Don’t you think I know everything you -can say?” he cried; “it is plain enough. They are not like us--there are -things in them which even I don’t relish. Their ways are more homely, -their manners more simple than we have been used to.” - -“If it was only simplicity,” said Durant, shrugging his shoulders, and -thinking of the blandishments of the Misses Matilda and Sarah Jane. - -“Well,” said Arthur, with a sudden outbreak, “call it what you like, -what disagreeable name you please, and then I ask you what have you got -to say to _her_? It is she I am going to marry, not her family. What -have you got to say to HER? She is the person to be thought of. Old -Bates is an old tax-collector, and the mother a good-natured old woman, -and the sisters flirts if you please; I don’t say anything to the -contrary; but what have you to say against the girl herself? What of -HER?” - -“Arthur! I have nothing to say; how could I? She sat behind backs, with -you to screen her. I saw that she was pretty--” - -“You saw that she was like a lily growing among weeds; that she was like -a princess among the common people; that she behaved like the best-bred -of ladies. That is what you would say, if you allowed yourself to speak -the truth.” - -“If I speak at all I shall certainly speak the truth,” said Durant, with -a sigh of impatience. To him as to everyone else, Nancy Bates had seemed -only an ordinary pretty girl; nothing more. - -“Then speak!” said Arthur, “for if there is one assumption more -intolerable than another, it is that of saying nothing with the aim of -sparing your friend, as one who has nothing but what is disagreeable to -say.” - -“You press me too hard,” said Durant, smiling. “What can I say after -what you have said? Arthur, this girl may be a Una for anything I can -tell--as you wish me to believe she is; but how can I know? I can see -she is pretty; but I don’t know her; how can I divine what her character -is? She may be everything you think; but all that _I_ can possibly make -out is that she is a pretty girl, with sense enough to hold her -tongue.” - -Arthur grew red and grew pale as his friend spoke; his lip curled over -his teeth with a furious sneer, almost like the snarl of a dog. - -“Don’t you think,” he said, with an enraged semblance of extreme -civility, “that when you are speaking of a lady who is about to become -my wife, you might speak of her by another name than that of ‘the -girl.’” - -“By Jove you are too good!” said Durant, half angry, half amused, “what -should I say? You called her a girl yourself, and so she is; so are the -Princesses for that matter.” - -“I call her many things which it would not become strangers to call -her,” said Arthur, “and I think, perhaps, on the whole, it would be -better taste not to favour me with your opinion on this subject. You -would not, I suppose, give me your frank estimate of my mother, for -instance, whatever it might be--and it is equally unnecessary of my -wife.” - -“As you please,” said Durant, offended; and then there ensued a -temporary pause, during which the stranger, driven back upon that -occupation, munched a crust with indignant fervour, and Arthur sat -moodily by, holding his head in his hands. It was Durant who was the -first to recover himself. The man who stands in the suspicious position -of adviser and reprover, naturally does regain his temper sooner than -the person who is advised and reproved. He said in a conciliating tone, -“Why should we quarrel? I can have no right to disapprove of your -choice. I am not here as the agent of your family, Arthur, who might -have a right to interfere, but only as your friend. I can wish nothing -but what is for your good.” - -“For my good!” the young man said through his teeth; then he, too, -smoothed himself down. “I don’t want to quarrel, Durant; but if my -mother thinks I am to be dictated to--or any friend of mine supposes he -can come to look surprise and criticism, even if he does not say -anything----” - -“This is too much,” said Durant, laughing; “if you are going to put -meaning in my eyes which nature has denied to them, what can I say to -you? I who scarcely see anything, to look criticism is rather too strong -for a blind old mole like me!” - -“Short-sighted people see a great deal more than they own,” said Arthur, -oracularly, “but I don’t want to quarrel.” And then again there was a -pause. - -“Answer me one thing,” said Durant, re-opening the question after an -interval; “have you really made up your mind to marry this--lady? Is it -all settled? Is there room, or is there no room for anything I might -find to say?” - -“What could you find to say?” - -“That is not the question,” said Durant; “whatever it might be it is -unnecessary to say it if everything is settled. But, Arthur, if there -is still time--if I may still once, before it is too late, speak plainly -to you?” - -“It is too late,” said Arthur hotly. “I am to be married in a fortnight; -I should be married to-morrow if I could. Supposing you had the finest -arguments in the world, and the best reasons against it, do you think I -would break her heart and my own for your reasonings? Yes, it _is_ all -settled, and nothing on earth can change it.” - -He got up as he spoke, and marched about the room with an air of -defiance. Then he came back to where his friend was sitting, and sat -down on a corner of the table, swinging his legs. - -“All the same,” he said, with a laugh of affectation and bravado, “I’d -like to hear what you have to say against it. It might be novel and -amusing, perhaps.” - -“I have not the slightest desire to be amusing.” - -“Oh, impressive then--that is as good or better; impressive, eloquent! -let us hear, Durant. I should like a specimen of the grand style you -keep for your most serious cases.” - -“Yours is not one of them,” said Durant calmly; “yours is simple enough. -Don’t let us go farther, Arthur; we should come to blows again, and that -would not answer my purpose, nor yours either.” - -“Then you refuse to tell me what of course you came here to say. Your -plea cannot be very powerful this time, nor your brief worth much,” said -Arthur, with a pretence at scorn which was full of aggravation. This -stirred his friend more than anything yet had done. - -“My brief,” he said, “was not prepared as most briefs are. It seems to -me that you are not worthy even to hear of it. ‘Prove the culprit -guilty’ is what most briefs enjoin, but this one was ‘Prove him -innocent; let his very judges see him to be right, and not wrong.’ These -were my instructions; they do not much resemble your notion of them; -nor do they deserve to be received in this way.” - -Arthur rose again from his seat, and walked about the room restless and -uncertain. - -“Say what you have to say,” he said; “I will not interrupt you. Let me -hear it all.” - -“I have already told you that, if everything is settled and your mind -made up, it would be foolish to go on at all. If there is any hope I -will speak. Arthur,” said Durant suddenly, “you are very -fastidious--very difficult to please in ordinary cases. Do you think you -will be able to live with the good people we have seen to-night?” - -“Why should I live with them? they have nothing to do with it. A wife -comes with her husband. _They_, whatever they may be, are quite outside -the question. She is to be thought of, and she alone.” - -“Have you ever reflected, Arthur, that if _she_--the lady--is as noble a -character as you think, she will not give up her own people for you or -anyone? I should not care to have a woman do that for me. I think she -would have good reason to judge me severely after, if I failed in -threefold duty to her. You should be father and mother in such a -case--and husband too.” - -“And so I mean to be, so I am! What are father and mother to me now? I -have formed a tie which is beyond all these mechanical, understood ties, -in which there is no choice on the child’s part; and she will feel as I -do.” - -“Women don’t always do that,” said Durant; “and I, for one, don’t like -them when they do. Suppose, for the sake of the argument, that she did -not, what should you do then? It is worth taking into consideration.” - -“She would be sure to do what was best; and if that is all, we can -easily baffle your cross-examination, Durant. You are not good at -bullying witnesses,” said Arthur, his heart rising in spite of him. -“Ask me something more difficult than this.” - -“You would have to live,” said the other. “I don’t think that is more -difficult, but you may not be of my opinion. How are you to live? upon -your allowance, which has never been too much for you alone?” - -“Two spend no more than one,” said the catechumen, recovering his -spirits; “and she is not a spendthrift like me. She has been trained to -make a little go a great way. She will reduce my expenses instead of -increasing them.” - -“Yet two eat more than one, to put it on the simplest ground.” - -“Eat! that is like you, Durant. How little you know about it! Is it on -eating one spends one’s money? So far as that goes, you may say what you -please. There is nothing in _you_, old fellow, to frighten anyone. Come, -I forgive your objections to my happiness when I see how little you -have got to say.” - -“You are sure then, entirely sure, that it is your happiness, Arthur?” -Durant rose, and put his hands on his friend’s shoulders, looking down -upon him with a face full of emotion. “You have been the nearest a -brother of anything I ever knew--brother, or sister, or both together. -Are you sure, boy, are you sure? Happiness is a sacred thing. I would -not touch it, I would not harm it. Are you sure?” - -“As sure as that I love her, Durant.” - -The elder man dropped his hands from the other’s shoulder, and turned -away with a sigh. Whether it was the half-inspired look which at that -moment came into Arthur’s face, or the resemblance of that face to -another, or the superiority over himself of this boy whom he had been -lecturing, and whom he had lectured so often--whatever it was, he turned -away, with something that made his sight more uncertain than ever, -rising in his eyes. - -“Then I can’t say anything to you,” he said, in a voice tremulous with -feeling. “I can say nothing to you! I would not meddle with that, right -or wrong, were it to cost me mine.” - -“Yours, old fellow?” cried Arthur, in the effusiveness of victory. -“Hurrah for love! It’s the thing worth living for. Are you in Arcadia -too?” - -Durant did not make any answer. He went to the window, and looked out -upon the dark night and the lamps flaring; and then returned to his -chair. Whatever commotion there had been in his countenance, he had got -rid of it. Neither blush nor smile was on his serious face, nor any -further manifestation of sympathy. Arthur looked at him, and burst into -excited laughter. - -“You don’t look much like a fortunate shepherd,” he said. “Love! that -was a bad guess; it was law I should have said--briefs and fees, and a -silk gown at the end; that’s what moves you.” - -“Ay, ay,” said the other, vaguely; “that’s what it is. Mine is not a -corresponding case. You were always luckier, brighter than I, and I -don’t grudge it you, Arthur. Your happiness (if you are happy) will be -almost as good for me as my own. But I don’t think either of them very -probable just now,” he went on, suddenly changing his tone; “that is the -fact. I am not in a good way, and, my boy, you are in a bad way. I’ll -say it once for all. You are deceiving yourself. You are the last man in -the world to do this sort of thing. You will repent it, sooner or later. -Don’t look at me as if you thought me a fool, with that supercilious -face. It is you who are the fool. You are going to do what you will wish -undone all the days of your life.” - -“Durant!” cried Arthur, furious, springing from his seat, and lifting -his arm as if for a blow. - -His friend stood up facing him, folding his arms. His face had flushed -with a momentary gleam of passion while he spoke. Now it stilled and -paled again, and he stood in his superior strength, looking calmly at -the slighter being whom he had roused to momentary fury. The young man’s -clenched fist fell by his side. He turned away angry, but subdued. - -“No man in the world but you dare speak so,” he said, “and even from you -I will never bear it again.” - -“You shall not be required,” said Durant, sadly. “I have said, once for -all, what was in my mind. Now--I know you well enough--you’ll go and do -what you want to do, Arthur, and with all the more zest. And when you -have paid for your happiness, and got to the bottom of it, you will come -to me again.” - -“I think you presume a little too much on our long friendship,” said -Arthur, seizing his hat. “Good night; there has been enough of this. -Things will be bad indeed with me, I promise you, if, after this speech -of yours, I ever come to you again.” - -He rushed out of the room before the other could reply. Durant went to -the window and looked after him with a wistful subdued light of pity and -tenderness in his face. - -“I wonder how long it will be first?” he said to himself. - - - - -CHAPTER III. - - -Lewis Durant was the _ami de l’enfance_ of Arthur Curtis. He had always -been a little bigger, a little stronger, a little steadier, as he was a -little older than his friend. He was not a young man of family like -Arthur; and Lady Curtis, who was philosophical in her tendencies, had -pointed many a social criticism by the fact, laughingly commented upon, -that her son’s fagmaster at Eton, and Mentor in life, was the grandson -of the great saddler with whom Sir John and his predecessors had dealt -for ages. The Durants, who were French by origin, had made a great deal -of money in that business, and one of the sons had been made a -clergyman. This was the father of Lewis, who had been brought up -accordingly in as much luxury as his friend; but unfortunate -speculations on his father’s part had changed all that by this time, and -the young man was now fighting his way at the Bar, with very little to -keep up the warfare on, and none of those supports of good connection -which help the aristocratic poor to keep their heads above water. He had -a home in the depths of one of the Midland counties, where the -Rector--once able to hold his own with the best of his country -neighbours, and considered a very good sort of man--had fallen to the -ordinary parsonic level, without any standing ground beyond it, and not -much right to high consideration on that ground. For the Rev. Mr. Durant -was not a very good clergyman. It had not been the object of his life to -become so; but rather to obliterate from all minds by his luxurious -living, his carriages, his conservatories, his expenditure in every -way, that he was the son of the well-known saddler; as it has been that -saddler’s object to advance his son in life and make him a member of the -upper class by making him a clergyman. Everybody was quite conscious of -this while he was rich; but, naturally, everybody became still more -conscious of it when he became poor; and as his wealth had been his -chief standing ground, and he had not much worth or goodness, and no -activity, to gain him credit in his parish, the downfall was pretty -nearly complete. And the woman whom he had married had been no more than -a fit partner for such a man; so that when Lewis, their only child, -became old enough to think of home as anything more than a jolly place -to spend holidays in, the boy’s refined and delicate mind had suffered a -severe shock. How it was that he happened to possess a refined and -delicate mind is a totally different question, and one into which we -need not inquire; but the effect upon him of the ostentatious, showy, -lavish, and lazy wealth in the first instance, and of the useless, -slovenly, languid poverty which followed, was remarkable enough. A great -many things go by contraries in this perverse world, and nothing more -commonly than the habits of parents and children. In Scotland, it has -passed into a proverb that an active mother has an indolent daughter. -The insinuating and bland courtier has to struggle against the -abruptness or loutishness of his son, and even virtue has very often -moral weakness, if not worse, for its next descendant. In Lewis Durant’s -case the contradiction was a happy one. Disgusted by the aimless leisure -and nothingness of the paternal life, the young man flung himself into -work with a zeal and passion seldom to be found. He had no family -friends in the class he had been brought up in, and his personal friends -were of his own standing, themselves too young and inexperienced to help -others; but he had not cared for this; he had flung himself into the -work of his profession--the Bar--for which he had been trained as his -father had been trained for the Church, as the profession of a -gentleman, a trade not incompatible with the possession of a great deal -of money, and not requiring to be kept up by the happy man who was not -obliged to work for his bread. Perhaps the energy of the old saddler had -got into the veins of Lewis, transmuted into some kind of potable gold, -some elixir of force and life. If so, it had clearly “suffered a -sea-change into something rich and strange,” for there was no greed of -gold, no thirst for wealth in the young man’s mind. On the contrary, if -he had not known forcibly the many good things that money can do, and -which the absence of money prevents from getting done, Lewis would have -hated money, so associated was it with everything that had most galled -and humbled him. But money is not a thing to be scorned, and he had too -much sense and too much honesty to feign. He worked with a -concentration of force and steady effort which was intensified every -time he visited the aimlessness of his home. He had come from that home -now, and had left it, as he always did, impatient of rest, eager to -plunge again into the active warfare of life, to strain muscle and -sinew, and all the powers of mind and frame. - -This was the man, who since they were boys, had been Arthur Curtis’s -chief friend. He himself was the only son of Sir John, a true rural -potentate, a man whose life was full of stolid dignity and duty, made -steady, and in a dull matter of fact manner, noble, by the proud sense -of obligation to his country, his son, and his dependents, such as long -descent and elevated position sometimes give. Sir John Curtis might -sometimes be ridiculous, but he was always respectable, making an aim at -his duty in a large, conscientious, stupid way, in which there was a -certain obtuse grandeur. He carried this into the smallest detail of -his life, and the result was, that he was held by most people to be -pompous, and admired by some as the chief source of serious comedy in -his neighbourhood. But his life was a blurred version, surrounded by all -kinds of imperfections of a noble ideal--a thing not always perceived by -his wife and his son, to whom however Sir John’s deficiencies, on the -other hand, were very plain. And Arthur, for the time at least, was -almost as contradictory of his father as Lewis was. He was light-minded -and heedless, idle, foolish yet clever, generous yet selfish; the kind -of young man who is always in scrapes, often in the wrong, yet rarely, -or never, unbeloved. He had been idle at the University, and had not -taken his degree--then had gone home for a time and had done nothing. -And now this last and most serious scrape of all had been brought on, as -it were, by the most virtuous resolution of his life. It was his -mother’s earnest desire that he should enter public life, in one way or -other; and Arthur himself had been dazzled by the chances of diplomacy, -an opening into which seemed before him, and had come now, in a sudden -fit of industry and virtue, to see if, by the help of a noted “coach,” -he could “pull through” his examinations, and get the University stamp, -though late, impressed upon him. There had been no particular reason why -he had not achieved that University stamp before. He was a tolerable -scholar, and had meant honours--but had not been industrious enough to -attain them, and had thrown up the milder standard in disgust. Thus he -had come to Underhayes, intending better than, perhaps, he had ever -steadfastly intended in his life; and lo! Nancy Bates was the result. - -All this was in Durant’s mind, as, after a troubled night, he looked out -of his inn window in the morning upon a mellow sunshiny morning of true -October weather, a warm yellow haze in the air, which melted into the -ripe foliage below, and the mottled clouds above. The little town was -embosomed in trees. It was a little more than a village, a little less -than a town; and, perhaps, had become more of a suburb than either, -being within the radius of London, and coming nearer to that increasing -centre every day. The metropolis and the village had been long putting -forth arms of approach towards each other, and Underhayes had grown -gradually larger, and nearer year by year. There was still a village -green in the centre of the place; but the old houses had put on new -fronts, and got enlargements of various kinds, and had become the homes -of London people who went to town every morning, instead of the poorish, -but very genteel persons who used to inhabit them. This was a great gain -to the place, and made it swell and grow bigger and bigger; but at the -same time it was a loss and forfeiture of all the originality, and much -of the quiet beauty, and no little of the genial and graceful comfort -that had once dwelt around the green. Everybody was richer, larger, -vainer; and gorgeous entertainments were given, at which there was much -more expenditure but less friendliness than of old. The city men -considered themselves a great deal more intelligent, as they certainly -were more knowing, than the older inhabitants, the retired captains and -colonels, the widows and old maids, and solitary couples, who were now -dying out in the too active air of the place. But these relics of olden -days, at least, returned their scorn with interest, if they could not -compete with them in other ways. Half way between these two sections of -the community stood Mr. Eagles, the great “coach,” whose fame was in all -the schools and all the services. He lived in an old-fashioned house -with an old gate, the posts of which were surmounted by two great stone -balls, and which opened upon a bit of real avenue, and enclosed real -grounds, something more than a garden. It was a genuine old house, in -which a retired Cabinet Minister had once lived. It was true he had -built additions to it, but they were done in good taste, and strict -submission to the original style of the house, which was taken as a kind -of homage to the antique and Conservative class, by that class itself. -He had a large house, and he took pupils; but yet it was nothing like a -school, for the young men did not live with him--no one but young Mr. -Curtis, who was not to call a pupil, who was “reading” for his degree, -and who was a young man of excellent family and an acquisition to any -society. Arthur indeed, in his own person, was one of the chief -conciliatory circumstances which made the old inhabitants on the Green -tolerate and receive Mr. Eagles, whom the new inhabitants looked upon -with respect as a man who had made his way. - -The little inn in which Durant had passed the night was opposite the -gateway with the stone balls. Underhayes was not enough of a place to -have a good inn. People who frequented inns had no object in going -there. It was not far enough from London, nor near enough; and there -were no exceptional attractions as in Kew or Richmond. Therefore, amid -all the changes and improvements, the Red Lion was just what it had -always been, a homely place with a sign-board standing out upon the edge -of the Green, and a bench, shaded by trees, where its homely customers -could sit and drink their beer. And on the other side of the Green stood -Mr. Eagle’s gate, breaking the high wall in which his house and its -grounds were enclosed, and from whence there burst, in autumn richness -of colour, over the wall, a rich border of trees. - -Durant got up in much doubt and discomfort of mind after a restless -night. He went out into the soft breezy air, which was warm, yet not -quite free of the crispness of a first threatening of frost. Spruce men -were passing on all sides, well brushed and neat, with daintily rolled -umbrellas, with light great-coats, sometimes with a book, or a bundle of -letters to read in the train, going to business--all walking with air -alert that spoke of a definite aim, and the pre-occupation of something -to do--which did not interfere, however, with a genial readiness to -hear, or report the last piece of gossip. Many of them had choice -flowers in their coats, a touch of the poetry which means luxury rather -than taste, with which to sweeten the office and show the skill of their -respective gardeners. All this was new to Durant, who knew nothing about -the ways of the city, though he acknowledged with respect the air of -work and serious occupation, which called forth his sympathy, though it -did not take the form with which he was acquainted. He watched them -passing, going to the train; and then was conscious of the lull and -desertion of the Green:--the momentary pause, half of regret, half of -relief, at the departure of all this activity, and then the rising of -the second more tranquil wave of movement, the tradespeople’s carts and -messengers, the butcher and baker setting out on their rounds. How many -little worlds like this, each complete in its own conceit, were rushing -on and on, unconscious each of its neighbour! But he certainly had no -time for those _banales_ reflections, occupied as he was with painful -considerations as to whether he could still do anything, or say anything -to justify his mission here. What could he do or say? Arthur had left -him in high dudgeon--offended apparently beyond redemption. He was not -so much disturbed by this as he might have been; for he knew Arthur, and -that it was not in his nature to quarrel permanently, however angry he -might be for the moment. But the question was, whether he could do -anything independent of Arthur, upon whom he did not feel that his -influence for the present would be very weighty? He thought, with a -smile, of the recorded proceedings in a similar case, the steps taken by -the protectors of another Arthur--for where but in fiction can such -difficulties find their readiest parallel? But Durant had no standing -ground on which to emulate the masterly tactics of Major Pendennis, -though the example occurred to him seriously. No--the position of Arthur -Curtis had not been exaggerated, nor was there any glamour of false -light about the subject which he could dispel. He was very much puzzled, -very doubtful and anxious. He could not leave the place without -attempting something more--but what was he to do? - -His thoughts were thus occupied when he saw the gates opposite to him -open hastily and some one come out--a small resolute man, with -peremptory short steps and a dogmatical bearing. Durant felt at once -that this was Mr. Eagles, and that he was coming towards him; and there -was an air of vexation still more decided than his own on the brow of -the famous tamer and trainer of “men.” He came across the Green at a -rapid pace. - -“Mr. Durant, I presume? My name is Eagles,” he said. “I hope you have -brought some light with you on a most difficult subject. What is to be -done with this boy?” - -“You mean Curtis?” - -“Yes, I mean Curtis. Nothing in the least like it has ever happened -among my pupils before. I feel my establishment disgraced by -it--_disgraced_, Mr. Durant. So utterly abominable an example! I don’t -as a rule take charge of men’s morals or conduct, and I heartily repent -having received this one into my house. It was a silly thing for me to -do; but a fellow who had been at a public school and at the university, -who would have supposed he could have turned out such a fool?” - -“Pardon me,” said Durant, reddening, “he may have been foolish, but he -is not a fool.” - -“Oh, if you stand up for him! I thought you had come here, as is the -part of a friend, to endeavour to convince him of his folly.” - -“It is not so easy. Is it not the very essence of folly to think itself -wiser than all its advisers?” said Durant with a sigh. “May I ask you -how you knew I was here.” - -“Oh, he told me; there is a certain frankness about him. And I saw you -perambulating the Green, which is a thing unusual at this hour, and -guessed it must be you. I wish him to go.” - -“To go! Curtis?” - -“Yes, Curtis. I wish him to go. He is (of course) doing no good here, -and the story has oozed out, equally of course. How can I tell that some -other idiot may not be moved by his example, and put himself at the feet -of a sister? I shall get a bad name. I!--because your friend is a -sentimental idiot.” - -“Patience!” said Durant, laughing in spite of himself. “I don’t see how -any one can blame you.” - -“Nor I; but they will,” said Mr. Eagles. “Of all foolish and -unreasonable persons on the face of the earth, parents are the most -unreasonable. You must take your man away.” - -“But he is not my man. I have no authority over him.” - -“You are his friend, and you seem to have some sense, and you know his -father. This is my ultimatum--you must take your man away. I have no -time to say any more. Good morning, Mr. Durant. I like promptitude, and -I expect you to act at once upon what I say.” - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - - -Durant felt that after this shock he needed a little quiet, to -re-establish him in his former thoughts. Mr. Eagles had assailed him -like a charge of cavalry. He laughed, yet he was shaken. It was not in -his power to take away his man; indeed he was in the most uncomfortable -position possible, supposed to hold an official position in respect to -Arthur, and, indeed, endowed with powers of remonstrance and reproof, -but with no authority--the most difficult of all circumstances. He could -neither take away his man, nor even oblige that man to hear reason, and -yet he was more or less responsible for him; and to crown all, his man -had quarrelled with him, and shaken off even the ties of affection which -had hitherto bound them. This, it is true, did not affect him so much as -it might have done had he been less familiar with Arthur, who he knew -could never stand out or maintain the separation. To be sure, Arthur, -backed up by a new family, and with the possible evil animus of “a set -of women” added to his personal offence, was a person as yet unknown to -his friend; and though Durant was kind, and did not think evil of -others, yet he was not able to divest himself of the natural -prepossession against the “set of women” whose ideas henceforward must, -more or less, inspire Arthur. It is a compliment at least to the mental -power of women that this is the first thought that springs into anyone’s -head when a man makes, or is understood to be about to make, an -unsuitable marriage. The man may be wiser, cleverer, infinitely of more -importance than the woman as a moral being; but the whole inspiration -of his conduct is instantly believed to be _hers_. Durant had not a -notion what was the mental calibre of Nancy Bates. On the surface, of -course, it could only be taken for granted that a member of the educated -classes, a University man, would count for more than an untaught girl, -the daughter of ignorant people. But nobody thinks so, and Durant was -like everyone else. He began to wonder what sort of people the Bates’ -were, and finally determined to go and see them according to the -invitation of last night. He might as well feign a little even, with -this admirable motive, and show himself friendly by way of being as -unfriendly as possible. He was not quite sure of the moral grandeur of -the proceeding. Take it all in all, indeed, the effort to seduce Arthur -from his allegiance before their very eyes, so to speak; to beguile him -into breaking his word and renouncing his plighted faith, was not, on -the surface, a highly moral proceeding. But yet Durant, when he came, -had been unable to conceive anything more desirable than this. If he -could only have succeeded in persuading Arthur to do it, it would not -only have left no weight on his conscience, but he would have felt that -he had done well. The girl herself! What of the girl herself? She was a -gambler, playing for high stakes. As for feeling on her part, who was at -all likely to take that into consideration? Certainly when Lewis Durant -did not (and it never occurred to him), it was extremely unlikely that -any one else would. - -This thought, however, having got into his mind, he resolved on carrying -it out. He would go and see these people, and find out whether anything -could be done with them, and again (with a smile) he thought of Major -Pendennis and his most successful negotiations. These were the tactics -the Major adopted, and they had proved excellently adapted for the -purpose. The circumstances, however, were evidently different. Nothing -could be said of Arthur Curtis, unless his friend was prepared to lie in -his behalf, which would shake the confidence of the girl’s family in the -advantages of the marriage. He was Sir John’s only son, the estates were -entailed, there was but one sister to share even the personal property -of the family, and Lady Curtis was very well off in her own right. -Anything that could be said, would only make the Bates family more -certain that Nancy had done an admirable thing for herself, so admirable -that nothing should be allowed to stand in her way. Howsoever the -lover’s friends might object, nothing could be done to do away -altogether with the advantages of the marriage, and Durant felt that the -family would be fools indeed to allow any meddler like himself to affect -their action in the matter. Still people are fools now and then, -notwithstanding the strong hold of self-interest, and might be beguiled -into a false step, notwithstanding that every inducement was on the -other side. All this passed through Durant’s mind, and he did not blush -at the thought. It seemed to him quite justifiable, nay, laudable. It -was to save Arthur; if he could save Arthur by deceiving others, what -then? And as for the girl! Talk of hearts, if you please, in other -conditions of life, but the heart of a village girl who beguiles a -gentleman into falling in love with her! Honest, honourable, and true as -he was, Durant, strangely enough, had still no compunction there. Could -he have broken Arthur’s troth-plight like a wand, he would have been -delighted with himself. - -He did not know his way very well, having threaded a number of small -dark streets, in the rain, the night before, led by the vague directions -of various officious guides; but he had a notion in which direction it -was, and he had abundance of time before him. He had not gone very far, -indeed, before he met an individual who might easily have guided him, -and whom he passed with a curious consciousness that here would be the -most vulnerable member of the family--no less a person than Mr. Bates -himself; a little stout man in a large white neckcloth, with a book in -his hand, and an appearance of ink spots about him, which betrayed the -existence of what is euphemistically called writing materials somewhere -about his person. The expression of his face was not less characteristic -of his profession. No softening atmosphere of rum was about him now. His -face was red, probably from those long continued, though moderate -evening indulgences, and his lips were pursed up and tight. He looked -the kind of man whose proceedings would be summary, who would take no -excuses, who would be rigid as fate in the punctuality of his -applications. Durant watched him furtively from the other side of the -street; and the conclusion to which he came was that Mr. Bates, though -obdurate with his district, would be incapable of standing an assault -from anyone of superior condition; and however arbitrary he might be to -a defaulter in rates, would not venture to withstand a Sir John, should -he demand the sacrifice of his Iphigenia. Should he approach him at -once, thus unprotected, in the middle of his duties, and frighten him -into a promise to shut his doors upon Arthur? For a moment Durant -hesitated; for, in the first place, he was not Sir John, and in the -second place, he distrusted the power of the tax-gatherer to contend -with “those women.” To subdue the women themselves was a more desperate -piece of work, but it would be more effectual were it done. With this -conclusion, he went on making his way in the direction which he supposed -the right one. He would not awaken curiosity by inquiring, and he had -abundant time, as it was still early. The forenoon was bright and -genial, but the place was very quiet. The men had been swept out of it -by the morning train. Except Mr. Bates, and the butchers and bakers, -and a stray parson of the High Church sect, who blocked out a large -piece of sunshine with his cassock and cloak, there was no one visible, -for it was too early for the female population to leave the business of -their houses. He was sure to find all the females of the Bates’ family, -he thought, in the stuffy little parlour, with probably some -preparations for dinner going on side by side with the bonnet making. -And the heroine, what might she be doing?--not seated on the sofa, nor -love-making he hoped; the bonnet was better than that. He made several -little pictures of her in his imagination, now standing upon her dignity -as engaged to a gentleman, putting on a multitude of little airs, -lording it over her sisters. No doubt this was how she would show her -success. He knew nothing whatever about Nancy, but as his object was to -destroy her hopes, he represented her to himself, unconsciously, as -affected by the very poorest version possible of these hopes. It was -natural. While, however, he was pursuing these thoughts and his way -together, he suddenly encountered, coming round a corner, one of the -sisters, whom he had met on the previous night. They came so suddenly -upon each other, that both paused, with the slight shock of almost -personal contact. - -“Oh, Mr. Durant!” cried Sarah Jane. - -She blushed “to be caught” in her cotton frock and shabby hat, running -out in the morning--not such was the apparel in which she would have -chosen to be seen by a gentleman--but Sarah Jane was a born flirt, and -even her frock did not subdue her. She would not lose the opportunity. -And to tell the truth, the cotton frock was much more becoming, had she -known it, than the cheap travesties of “the fashion” which she generally -wore. - -“I am very glad to have met you, Miss Bates,” he said. “I was trying to -find the way to your house.” - -“Oh, la!” said Sarah Jane, her eyes dancing. This was something to the -purpose, for why should he come to the house so soon but for _some -reason_? And it could not be Matilda. “But I ain’t Miss Bates, I’m the -youngest,” she said. “If you’ll just come two or three steps down this -street first, I’ll show you the way. I’ve got some ribbon to match--look -here, Matty’s new Sunday bonnet--but I shan’t be a moment, and I’ll show -you the way.” - -Durant consented; it seemed to him the best chance he could have had of -acquiring information. He turned and walked down the street by the side -of the girl, who was half-wild with pride and pleasure. She could see -one or two faces glance out through shop-windows with surprise and envy. -To be seen walking along the street with such a gentleman-like-looking -man! There was nobody in Underhayes, except Arthur, who looked so -distinguished, not even Colonel Hooker, who was supposed by everybody -to be the glass of fashion. This was a delusion of fancy on Sarah Jane’s -part, for Durant’s appearance was nowise remarkable; but as life is but -thought, the idea was quite as good to her as if it had been true. - -“I go all the messages,” said Sarah Jane. “I think it is very hard, -especially as the girl is there, doing next to nothing; but they say -they can’t trust the girl. Girls _are_ very queer; they are not to be -depended upon. I am sure, the trouble mamma has with ours!” - -They had not kept a girl very long, and Sarah Jane was still a little -proud of it as of a sign of social distinction. She turned to her new -friend for sympathy, though reflecting, as she did so, that probably he -was living in lodgings, and had not in his own person either the pride -or the difficulty of managing a servant of any kind. - -“Yes,” said Durant; “I agree with you, Miss Bates. Girls, so far as I -have seen them, are very queer.” - -“Ain’t they?” cried Sarah Jane, relieved as to his circumstances, of -which a momentary doubt had crossed her mind; “never to be relied on, -and eating, ma says, as much as any two of us. So I go to the shops. I -don’t mind it, generally; and then if I didn’t go, who would? Matilda -has no eyes. She never sees when a thing doesn’t match; and Nancy, you -know, she’s always either with Arthur, or doing something for him. I -daresay he’s there now.” - -“Is he there all day? That must be rather a bore for you.” - -“That’s what I always say, Mr. Durant. I daresay Nancy may like it, for, -of course, he is her young man; but we can’t do a thing like we used, -with him always there. I wish to goodness gracious they were married. -Our parlour is a very nice room, but it’s too small to have these two -continually there. Mamma always will call it a parlour, though -drawing-room is so much better.” - -“I prefer parlour.” - -“Do you now? how funny! All our friends say drawing-room, though I -think, after all, they oughtn’t to, as we take our meals there. It is -such a trouble running in and out from one room to another, and keeping -up two fires. At least, I should not think it a trouble, but mamma does. -She likes her old-fashioned ways. Will Arthur be very rich, Mr. Durant, -and will he be a baronet when his father dies?” - -“He will certainly be a baronet when his father dies.” - -“What luck for Nancy!” cried Sarah Jane; “and she met him just by -chance, you know, as I might meet--anyone in the street.” She had -intended to say “you,” but paused in time. “When old Aunt Anna died, it -was her she left everything to, all her funny old dresses, and her -money. Perhaps you did not know that she was the rich one? People say -it is a shame, and that Matilda should have got it, as she is the -eldest; but Matilda isn’t so kind as Nancy. I should not have got any -good of it if Matilda had been the heiress. But fancy! when Nancy gets a -dress for herself, she always gets one for me too, so I am just as well -off as though the money were mine.” - -“That is very kind of Miss Bates,” said Durant, not seeing how to find -his way through all this prattle, and a little impatient of the long -detour. - -“She is not Miss Bates; she’s the second, next to me; and I think--if -you will not tell anyone--that when she marries Arthur, who is rich, she -will give up her legacy. I don’t know if it will be to me; I wish it -might be to me--not that I should keep it all to myself; but it is so -nice to have it all in one’s hands, and make the rest feel under -obligations to you. Don’t you think it is very nice? Especially Matilda. -I should like to say to her, ‘Matilda, dear, shouldn’t you like a new -bonnet?’ Oh, what fun it would be! and her looks between wanting the -bonnet and not wanting to have it from me.” - -“It would be amusing, no doubt,” said Durant; “but do you think it is -quite sure that Mr. Curtis will be so rich? I should think it would be -better for your sister to keep her money, for she will have a great many -expenses.” - -“Oh, you nasty, unkind, mean--that’s not what I was going to say,” cried -Sarah Jane; “but, dear me, you told me yourself Arthur was rich! Ain’t -he a baronet’s son? What does he want with her little bit of money? I -should be ashamed, myself, of taking money with my wife when I didn’t -want it, if I was a rich gentleman. I call that mean.” - -“But perhaps Mr. Curtis is not so rich as you think,” said Durant. “His -father is not an old man; there is no reason why Sir John should not -live for twenty years or more.” - -“Twenty years or more!” cried Sarah Jane, turning upon him eyes that -were full of dismay. She stopped short in the street to turn round and -fix upon him her alarmed gaze. “Do you mean to say that Nancy--do you -mean to tell me that Arthur?--But that would be no better than marrying -anyone else. Just Missis, like everybody! Why Nancy!--Nancy will never -give in to that.” - -“I thought that probably you were deceiving yourselves,” said Durant, -with some complacency, wondering at this depth of ignorance indeed, but -extremely pleased with himself for having divined it, and thus finding a -means of working. “Miss Nancy, if she marries Mr. Curtis, will be plain -Missis, as you say, for all the world as if she had married the grocer -at the corner.” - -“Oh, the grocer! that is what she is never likely to do,” cried Miss -Sarah Jane, with a conscious look towards the corner. The grocer was -standing at the door in his apron--a good-looking young man, whose eyes -were fixed, as Durant saw with some amusement, on himself, and with a -decidedly hostile look. Miss Sarah Jane gave him a nod of airy -fascination across the street. Perhaps but for this conversation she -would not have been so gracious. Durant perceived that he himself was -being presented in the light of a possible rival to the young tradesman, -of whom he had spoken so lightly, and it was all he could do to keep his -gravity in this very novel and unexpected conjuncture. He made an -effort, however, and went on. - -“You must know,” he said, “that an independent poor man like that very -good-looking grocer--” - -“Oh, poor! none so poor! he is better off than many folks that make a -deal more show,” said Sarah Jane. - -“That is precisely what I was going to say. An independent man in his -position, may be really in much better circumstances than the son of a -more important person. Sir John Curtis is not a man to be trifled with,” -Durant went on, with a momentary half-amused compunction for this cruel -slander upon poor Sir John. “He is stern in his own views; he is capable -of withdrawing his son’s allowance altogether if he is dissatisfied with -his marriage. I am very sorry to alarm you, but I feared you might be -under some delusion, and this was what I wanted to say.” - -Sarah Jane’s eyes had been growing wider and wider with alarm and -wonder. She turned round upon her heel as upon a pivot. - -“Now I think of it,” she said, “Matilda had better come and match her -ribbon herself. It is only for the strings, and the bonnet is not more -than half done--and, please, come and tell all this to mother yourself. -Nancy’s a dear,” said the girl, with a look which entirely changed her -aspect to her sympathetic companion. “She may have her faults, but she’s -always been kind, and I can’t bear that she should be deceived. Come and -tell it to them at home. Mother knows a deal--she’s cleverer than any of -us; _she’ll_ know if you’re right or wrong; but I won’t have Nancy put -upon, not--” cried the girl, with a vehemence of regard which only the -strongest asseveration could justify--“not if I was never to have -another new dress for years and years!” - - - - -CHAPTER V. - - -The unlikely pair retraced their steps rapidly, turning towards the -house of the Bates’; but the effect of Durant’s revelation soon died off -from the mind of Sarah Jane. She had done what duty required in taking -him at once to her mother. Once told to that supreme authority, Sarah -Jane felt that her mind was clear of all responsibility, and, indeed, as -a matter of fact, she dismissed the burden of this new revelation long -before her companion ceased his efforts to impress it upon her. She -tried what she could to beguile him into lighter talk; she broke in upon -him with lively observations, and little essays of friendly -familiarity. The momentary agitation of sympathy which had almost -interested Durant in her died away. She began to pout as he went on. - -“Oh, please don’t talk for ever about Arthur; I ain’t in love with -Arthur, though Nancy is. I think you might find another subject,” she -said. “They make a deal too much of him at home; I think, and so does -Matilda, that there are nicer-looking and as gentlemanlike-looking in -Underhayes as he is. What do you think of Underhayes, Mr. Durant? Is not -it a pretty little place? If I had my choice I would live in London, and -every night of my life I’d go to a dance or to the play. I don’t pretend -to be good, as some girls are. I shouldn’t go about among the poor, or -sing in church. What I’d like, would be to go to a party every night, or -else to the play.” - -“I should think you would soon be tired of that,” said Durant; -“fashionable people get quite worn out. They get pale and colourless, -not fresh and blooming, like you.” - -“Oh,” cried Sarah Jane, feeling that this was the kind of talk in which -she shone, “tell me about fashionable people, Mr. Durant! Are they a -great deal prettier than we are? I suppose they look so with all their -grand dresses; but I should not care to catch people by dress, and make -them think me good-looking when I wasn’t; I would much rather look what -I am, and then nobody would be deceived.” - -“You could have no inducement to look anything but what you are,” said -Durant amused, giving this young savage, since she asked for it so -plainly, the gewgaw of compliment which she wanted. Sarah Jane -brightened, and coloured, and bridled with pleasure. Let Nancy fare as -she might, here was an immediate advantage her sister could have, -without any evil effect on Nancy’s future. - -“Oh, you are just like all the gentlemen,” she said, “always paying -compliments; if the girls were not a deal more sensible than you think, -you would turn our heads. But if there is one thing I despise, it is the -silly girls that believe everything that is said to them. A little -experience teaches you better than that,” said Sarah Jane. - -“And what does experience teach Miss Bates,” said Durant, suppressing -his laugh. - -“I told you before I was not Miss Bates; I am Miss Sarah Jane. Some -people don’t think it very pretty, but I will never be ashamed of my -name. Is it true that they go to five or six parties in a night, one -after the other? I should not like that; where I am enjoying myself I -like to stay. If it was dull, perhaps it would be a good thing to try -another, but fancy a ball being dull! it is, I suppose, for the old -wallflowers that don’t dance, but I think a ball heavenly. Don’t you -think so, Mr. Durant? I have been at three--the volunteers’ ball, and -the--two others that you wouldn’t know about; and I nearly danced my -shoes to pieces at all the three.” - -“It was natural then that you should enjoy them,” said Durant. - -“Yes, wasn’t it? I never would miss one if I could help it. Now Nancy -was so foolish she never went at all, but started out for a long walk -with Arthur, just as we were going. Wasn’t it silly? I think she was -sorry though next day, when she heard us talking of it and counting our -partners, Matilda and me. A girl may be going to be married, without -giving up all her pleasures. But Nancy is a deal too good; I believe she -would not mind giving up a ball even, if Arthur was not there, to let me -go.” - -“I am glad to hear she is so kind.” - -“Oh yes, she is very kind. But she wanted me to wear an old dress of -aunt’s, and that I would not put up with. She does not mind looking a -guy herself. I danced seven waltzes straight off, without ever sitting -down, but I was not tired--not a bit tired. Oh, what fun it was! I wish -there was one to-night--I wish there was one every night. I could dance -till six o’clock in the morning, and never tire.” - -“I hope then for your sake,” said Durant, “that there are a great many -balls at Underhayes.” - -“No, indeed. It requires to be some public thing, like the Volunteers. I -have seen dances in the houses on the Green; but then we were not asked, -and it was dreadful to stand and look in at the windows, and hear the -music. I am sure there were plenty of people there that were not a bit -better than we were. That girl that teaches the little Smithards--a bit -of a governess. Mamma said it was ridiculous having her, and not us--a -little bit of a governess! Now _we_ have never been required to do -anything for our living. We have always been kept at home, and have had -everything we wanted. That makes a deal of difference; don’t you think -it does, Mr. Durant?” - -“I am not very clever in such subjects. I have to work very hard for my -living, Miss Sarah Jane.” - -“Have you now? I should not have thought it, you look so like a -gentleman. I suppose it is the clothes,” said Sarah Jane thoughtfully. -“But even then,” she added with magnanimous indulgence, “that is quite -different; men may work without losing caste, mamma says, but not women. -And we have always been kept at home. I would not be a governess for the -world.” - -“I do not suppose it can be a pleasant occupation,” said Durant. - -“No, indeed. What are you, Mr. Durant? You don’t teach, do you? I wish -you had been in the army; I do so like officers, their manners are so -nice. Here we are at home already, I declare. What a pity, we have had -such a nice walk. Mamma, here’s Mr. Durant,” she said, rushing into the -little parlour; “and oh! look here, he is come to say that Arthur ain’t -at all rich--and that Nancy won’t be my lady--and that it’s all a -mistake.” - -“What are you saying, Sarah Jane? Shut the door, can’t you, and not -shriek like that in the passage; should you like the girl to hear? I -wonder at you, child. Good evening, Mr. Durant,” said the mother, -stiffly. She did not hold out her hand to him, or ask him to sit down, -with the effusive hospitality of last night, but her daughters were more -kind; Matilda lifted the paper with all her materials off the sofa to -make room for him, and Sarah Jane dragged forth the most comfortable -chair. - -“This is the coolest place, Mr. Durant,” she said. “Oh, isn’t it warm -here, with such a big fire? and it is quite a lovely morning, though -there is a breeze; and Mr. Durant and I have had the most delightful -walk!” - -The former speech made the mother cold and Matilda kind; this had the -reverse effect--Matilda froze and Mrs. Bates began to thaw. The -gentleman who had taken a delightful walk with her youngest daughter, -was not a man to be frowned upon. Who could tell what might come out of -such a beginning? Mrs. Bates was governed by a different code of laws -from those which move the careful mothers of other spheres. She was not -afraid of delightful walks, or those meetings which are not always -accidental; besides, was not the stranger Arthur’s friend, and -consequently no stranger at all? - -“I am sure it is very good of Mr. Durant to take the trouble of talking -to a little scatterbrain like you,” she said; “but girls will be girls; -we can’t put old heads on young shoulders; and indeed, poor things, why -shouldn’t they be light-hearted? We haven’t got much more than good -spirits and good constitutions to give them, Mr. Durant.” - -“La, mamma! a great deal Mr. Durant must care for our spirits and our -constitutions!” cried Matilda; “I daresay he has come about business, as -Sarah Jane says. Was it something about Arthur, Sir? But you can’t tell -us anything that will hurt Arthur. We are so fond of him. We would not -believe any harm of him, whatever you might say.” - -“I have no wish to say any harm of him,” said Durant; “I may claim, -indeed, to have more affection for him than a stranger can have. He has -been like a brother to me.” - -“And I am sure he is very fond of you,” said Mrs. Bates, “a gentleman -couldn’t be fonder of another gentleman than he is of you. But, of -course, you know, Mr. Durant, when people are in love, they think of -nothing else.” - -“Poor Curtis!” said Durant unawares. It was true enough that he “was -fond of” his friend; and yet, for the sake of this girl, Arthur had -quarrelled even with his old companion. He felt a profound pity for him -in his heart. What was he doing here, the foolish fellow--in this place, -so unlike everything he had ever known? - -“Well!” said Mrs. Bates, “I wouldn’t say poor Curtis. So far as I have -seen, ’tis a happy time. After, when the cares of the world come on, and -there’s not means enough, or so forth, I might call ’em poor; but not -just now when everything is colour de rose. And, thank Heaven! there -cannot be any trouble about means with dear Arthur. Sarah Jane says, you -say he isn’t rich? that may be, Mr. Durant. I don’t look for wealth when -young folks are happy together, and fond of each other. Money ain’t -everything, as I always tell my girls.” - -“No,” said Durant, taken aback. “I only thought, from what Miss Bates -said, that you might be deceived in respect to Curtis’s true position, -that was all. Of course, he has excellent prospects; but his father, -Sir John, is comparatively a young man. He will flourish for the next -twenty years, I hope. And as for the title, that of course--” - -“Of course,” said Mrs. Bates with dignity. “And I do hope Sir John will -long be spared to his family. You must not take all that a silly girl -says for Gospel. I think we are quite aware of Mr. Curtis’s position, -Mr. Bates and me. Naturally, we made inquiries. He is not rich, but he -will have enough, I hope, to make a start--and my daughter has a little -of her own.” - -“Oh, mamma! what’s two hundred and fifty pounds?” said Matilda, “that’s -Nancy’s fortune. It won’t last long, will it, Mr. Durant? And Arthur -hasn’t got a business, or anything to help him to a living. I think it’s -very kind of Mr. Durant to come and tell us all this about Sir John.” - -“And”--said Durant pursuing his advantage, “I must speak plainly, -though it may not be pleasant. Sir John is not a man to take a lenient -view of anything that appears like disobedience. I do not think it -likely, pardon me for saying so, that the family will like the marriage. -They do not know, for one thing, the excellence of Miss Nancy.” - -“Oh, Nancy!” said Matilda, under her breath, with a little toss of her -head, and Sarah Jane laughed. Nancy was only Nancy after all, and as for -excellence! Mrs. Bates took the matter differently, as may be supposed. - -“I am not going to hear anyone talk disrespectful of my girl,” she said. -“She is as good a girl as ever breathed. I wish Sir John, or the Queen -herself, may have as good, and that ain’t a bad wish, Mr. Durant. She is -one that would do credit to any family, though I say it that shouldn’t. -She’s pretty and she’s good, and knows her duty a deal better than most. -Them that find fault with my Nancy, it’s because they don’t know what -she is. Me and her father could tell them a different story. She never -was one to go after pleasure like the other two.” - -“Mamma!” said Matilda and Sarah Jane in a breath. - -“Oh yes! I know what I am saying. You are good girls enough, but you’re -not like your sister. You were always the troublesome ones. You’d talk -and laugh with anybody. You have got no proper pride. But Nancy has -always kept herself to herself. However she got to be so fond of Arthur, -I never could make out, for she was not one to take up with strangers; -and never had any affair of the sort, nor so much as kept company with a -gentleman in all her days, till she met with Arthur. Oh! my Nancy is a -very uncommon girl, Mr. Durant. There are very few like her.” - -“I am quite ready to believe it,” said Durant, proceeding on his -remorseless career, though compunctions pricked him for what he was -doing. “But Sir John does not know Miss Nancy. And there is Lady Curtis -to be taken into consideration.” - -“Ah,” said Mrs. Bates, subdued for the moment, “I don’t deny a lady may -have prejudices. I know by myself--that time when Charley was supposed -to be paying attention to--you remember, girls?--oh yes! a mother is to -be considered. But still--we have no reason to think Lady Curtis is -disagreeable, Mr. Durant, or will not hear reason. The time I am talking -of, about Charley--I took my measures. I got a friend of mine to speak -to the girl; and I met her myself--by accident like; and, I am glad to -say, it all came to nothing,” Mrs. Bates added with a sigh of relief. - -“Then you perceive,” said Durant, “that you felt exactly as Lady Curtis -may be expected to feel.” - -“Yes--mothers is the same everywhere, I suppose,” said Mrs. Bates, not -without complacence. “A little more money don’t make much difference, -Mr. Durant. If it was the Queen, a mother can’t be more than a mother. -And we’re all alike, never out of anxiety one way or other--thinking of -our children--a deal more than our children ever think of us,” she -added, shaking her head at her daughters with a sigh. “But I suppose -that’s the way of the world.” - -“Let us return to Lady Curtis,” said the Devil’s advocate. “She, you -acknowledge, is likely to be prejudiced. You understand that, judging -from the feelings with which you heard of Mr. Charley’s entanglement--” - -“It never went so far as an entanglement. Dear, no! you must not think -it was so serious.” - -“But this is very serious, Mrs. Bates. Curtis has settled everything to -marry your daughter--so he tells me--and what will Lady Curtis think? -She does not know Miss Nancy, nor you. She will think these are some -designing people who have caught my son--” - -At this there was a universal outcry, through which, however, Durant -threaded his way with composure, notwithstanding the threatening and -angry glances which surrounded him on every side. - -“Designing people,” he repeated, “who have caught my son. You don’t -suppose I think so, who know you? But Lady Curtis does not know you--and -there is a certain difference between your rank and theirs. It is, -vulgarly speaking, a good match for Miss Nancy. I am speaking from their -point of view--this is how they _must_ think of it, you know. In their -rank of life, people generally meet and consult over a marriage. One -man’s son does not marry another man’s daughter on the same level of -society, without a great many consultations over it, and advances from -one to the other. The young lady has to be introduced to her future -husband’s family, and all the steps towards the marriage are taken -jointly. But there has been nothing of the kind in this case. The -Curtises have not even been informed of it. They found it out by chance. -Fancy then, Mrs. Bates, what their feelings must be? They find -themselves deceived and defied by their son; and they find that you are -quite willing to allow him to marry your daughter without the slightest -communication with his family--” - -“Mr. Durant,” said Mrs. Bates, whimpering, “who gave you any right to -come like this and insult us? What have we done to you that you dare to -speak so? Oh! it is well seen that my husband is out, and we have no one -to protect us, girls. But I say it is mean to come here in the morning, -when there’s no one to stand up for us, and trample upon women. I say -it’s a poor sort of thing to do. You daren’t do it--no, he daren’t do -it--if your papa was here.” - -“Oh, don’t talk nonsense, mother,” said Matilda, “what could father do? -Is he the one to take care of anybody? Mr. Durant, look here, I don’t -think you’re any way against us, are you? It’s in kindness that you’re -talking, ain’t it? I can’t think that a gentleman would come into a -house, if it was the house of poor folks, like this might be, and put on -a show of being friendly--and mean different. Folks learn a deal in this -world,” said the young woman, pushing away her bonnet-making, and -looking at him more and more keenly with rising suspicion; “but without -you owned to it, I wouldn’t believe that.” - -“Miss Bates!” faltered Durant, rising to his feet. He grew crimson under -her honest straightforward look. It was honest and straightforward, -notwithstanding that there must, he felt, have been a certain -double-dealing, more or less, about Arthur; but he was in no position -now to find fault with the double-dealing of others--had he not acted -equivocally himself? - -“I did not mean to deceive you,” he said, faltering. “I did not mean to -conceal from you that I was the friend of the Curtis family. I have -never said I approved of the marriage. I have naturally looked upon it -from their point of view.” - -“He never said anything different,” said Sarah Jane, crying in sympathy -with her mother. “He never said he was our friend. This is what he has -been saying to me since ever I met him. As if nobody was ladies but -those that are rich! and as if the rest of the world was dirt--as if we -cared for his Curtises and his fine folks!” - -“If it is on account of the family you care, Mr. Durant,” said Matilda, -more moderate, “it would be better if you said it straight out.” - -“I beg your pardon,” he said, recovering himself, “it was not necessary. -I am not the agent of that family--nor am I the enemy of this family. -But the marriage is very unsuitable, as any man may see; it ought to be -opposed. What happiness can come of it? Judge for yourselves. Curtis -can’t do anything for his living, as Miss Bates says; and your -daughter’s little money, what is it? And if they marry, they will be -altogether dependent on Sir John, who does not like it--who goes further -than that--hates it, and is furious with his son. He would cut him off -with a shilling, if he could. But anyhow, he can stop his allowance; he -would throw them on their own resources--and then what would they do? -You have always kept her at home your daughter tells me; so that she -could do nothing to help. And he could do nothing--what could he do? He -has always been used to live expensively. Mrs. Bates, if you let it go -on, I am very sorry for you. The most likely thing that can happen is, -that they will be dependent on you.” - -“Dependent on us!” this was such a dreadful suggestion, that all lesser -impulses of offence were forgotten. They gathered round him in tremulous -anxiety. “You don’t mean to say, Mr. Durant, that they would leave him -without a penny? I am speaking to you like a friend,” said Mrs. Bates, -“I am not particular to ask if you meant it or not. Would they leave him -without a penny?--a young man with all his extravagant ways.” - -“Would not you do it yourself, if you thought it would stop such a -marriage?” said Durant. - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - - -Durant felt that he had done a good morning’s work. He had succeeded in -frightening Mrs. Bates, and striking with alarm the sensible mind of -Matilda, and the frivolous one of Sarah Jane. He left them in different -stages of perplexity and distress when he came away. They were not more -selfish than other people; but the idea of Nancy’s marriage, which they -had been so proud of in anticipation, coming to nothing, or coming to so -much worse than nothing as to throw the “young couple” on their hands, -naturally appalled them. Arthur had, which, perhaps, was also natural, -told them as little as possible about his family; he had slurred -vaguely over all details of how he and his bride were to live. He had -plenty for both, he said; there would be quite enough to give his Nancy -everything her heart could desire. What could they wish for more? The -daughter of a tax-collector is not usually burdened with very elaborate -marriage settlements. - -“I hope your papa and mamma will be pleased,” Mrs. Bates had said, when -she had received the intimation of the betrothal, bestowing on her -future son-in-law a tearful kiss, which he bore like a hero. - -“Oh, no fear of them; they will be pleased when they see Nancy,” he had -replied; and with this assurance she had been content. - -As the time fixed for the marriage approached, no doubt there had been -searchings of heart on the subject; but these were rather directed to -the question, whether or not he would have any of his family asked to -the wedding than to anything more important. Arthur was four-and-twenty, -surely old enough to choose for himself, and the idea of consulting the -father and mother (it being evident that they were not very likely to be -satisfied with the marriage) did not occur to these good folks. A young -tax-collector would not think of consulting his family, though he might -like them to be pleased; and why should a baronet’s son, a young -gentleman, much more his own master than any tax-collector, be bound to -what his father and mother wished? Mr. Bates, who had a great respect -for the powers that be, had, indeed, grumbled a fear that “they mightn’t -like it;” but “Who cares?” had been the answer of his bolder spouse. She -remembered this now with a little horror. - -“Your father is slow,” she said to her girls; “and sometimes we’re all -impatient, as we didn’t ought to be; but it’s wonderful how often he’s -right, is papa.” - -The girls scouted the idea in words, but in their hearts they too were -somewhat impressed, and the little parlour was full of agitation all the -morning. Nancy was out, as the day was so fine, with her lover. They had -so nearly quarrelled on the previous night, that their morning meeting -was more interesting than usual, and they had gone out to make it up. -There was a common not far off, with stretches of gorse and little -thickets of half-grown trees, which was the resort of all lovers in the -neighbourhood; and there they had been spending the morning in the midst -of the autumnal sunshine, declaring to each other that nothing should -ever come between them again, neither enemies nor friends. - -Durant went home to his inn, very well pleased with himself, though with -a qualm of compunction which he had not expected to feel. On the whole, -these people were not designing people. They were not the harpies of the -social imagination, who pounce upon the hapless _fils de famille_, and -crunch his bones. That did not make them in the smallest degree more -suitable to be connected with Arthur, but it made his friend a little -ashamed of the part he was playing. And at the same time he was -satisfied; for he did not want Arthur to make this foolish marriage, and -he wanted very much to please Lady Curtis, for reasons which will be -disclosed hereafter. He felt he had done a good day’s work, though, -perhaps, it was not work of a very noble kind. He did not believe in the -least that the Curtis family would sentence their son to starvation, or -to be dependent on the house of Bates, though he made use of that idea -to subjugate the latter; but Nature revenged herself upon him for this -lie by permitting him to believe another, which was that these -proceedings of his could have some influence in retarding Arthur’s -marriage. Though he ought to have known that the obstacles thus set up -would, on the contrary, make Arthur doubly eager, and lead him to force -on everything, a little mist of complacent delusion was over his eyes in -respect to his own adroitness, and he really believed that it might be -in his power to save Arthur. And then if he saved Arthur, what might not -Lady Curtis be disposed to do? Not, poor Durant, the same thing over -again, by bestowing her daughter, of whom she was much more proud than -she had ever been of Arthur, upon a poor, if rising barrister. No, that -was not likely, and he knew it was not likely; but yet he had a certain -vague faith in it which impelled him to do anything to please her; and -he thought what he had done would please her. He thought he had produced -some effect. There was a glow of comfortable sensation in his mind. If, -perhaps, he had been not quite kind, not quite just to the poor people -he had just quitted, what claim had they upon his kindness? None -whatever; and it was all perfectly legitimate, perfectly fair. Were they -not coming out of their natural sphere, clutching at the Baronet’s son -for their daughter, publicly boasting the time when Nancy should be my -lady? And was not any way of putting an end to this fair and defensible? -He had done nothing that it was not quite allowable to do. - -In this frame of mind he ate his luncheon, and decided to stay another -night at Underhayes. It was rather hard, indeed, to know what to do with -himself in the afternoon; but he hoped that perhaps Arthur might change -his mind, might think it worth while to come to him and argue the point; -and in any arguing of the point, Durant felt that he must be successful. -Then he had a bundle of correspondence to get through. A busy man is -often entirely thrown out of his mental gear by finding himself shut up -in a bare parlour in an inn, without any of his habitual tools, without -books or papers. But he had letters to write, which was always an -occupation; and one of his letters was to Lady Curtis. Before he could -do this, however, it was necessary that he should get paper; and the day -was so mild, and the air so sweet, and the appearance of the little -place so pleasant, that he went out with an agreeable sense that his -business was not pressing, and that he might linger before coming in. - -As Durant went out of the inn, however, he was run against by some one -coming in, in hot haste, and with every appearance of impatience and -impetuosity. - -“I want to speak to a Mr. Durant that is staying here,” she said to the -waiter; then, stopping short with a start, turned her attention to -himself. “I think you are Mr. Durant,” she said. - -It was Nancy Bates in person. Though he had seen her but vaguely on the -previous night, he recognised her now. Her hat looked as if it had been -put on hurriedly, and a long lock of brown hair had dropped upon her -shoulder. Durant could not but notice how long it was, and how soft and -shining it looked--not golden or red, but shining, glossy brown. It -caught his eye, even in the midst of the shock he experienced on hearing -her ask for him. What did she want with him? He felt himself shrink in -spirit, if not in outward appearance. Arthur he had been striving to -save, his conscience was clear in that respect; but this young woman, -what had his intention been so far as she was concerned? It was not to -save her he had been trying, but to break her heart, if she happened to -have one, and anyhow, heart or none, destroy her prospects, and steal -away her supposed good fortune. Therefore, he could not help it, he -shrank a little from Nancy; and there was a haste and hostile energy in -her looks which added to this feeling. He answered, almost in a tone of -deprecation, - -“Yes, that is my name; and I think it is Miss Bates?” - -“Anna Bates,” she said, with a little elevation of her head, as if the -name she pronounced had been one of imposing importance. “I want to -speak to you, please.” - -Durant was entirely taken back. He looked at her with an air of helpless -bewilderment. What was he to do? Ask her to go back to his sitting-room -with him? ask her to go with him outside? He did not know what was -etiquette in such regions. No young woman with whom he was acquainted -had ever called upon him before, and the young man was utterly puzzled -and discomfited, and did not know what to do. - -“Surely,” he said, hesitating between the stair and the door, with a -helpless look at the waiter, who might, he thought, have made some -suggestion. - -That it was wrong to come to Mr. Durant “on business,” and business so -urgent, had never crossed Nancy’s mind before; but she saw that he -thought so, and this discovery, instead of abashing her, fired her with -new vehemence. The very wonder in his face was as a flag of aristocratic -superiority to Nancy, and made her wild. - -“You are surprised,” she said, with a look of scorn, “that I should come -to you; but I am not one of your fine ladies that send for people to -come to them; and there is no room in our house for private talks. You -can speak to me in the street, I suppose.” - -And with this she turned her back upon him and hurried out. Here she -paused a moment, seeing, perhaps, for the first time, the difficulties -of an indignant demand for explanations upon Underhayes Green, in the -face of all the people who were coming out on their afternoon walks, and -calls and business. None of these difficulties had ever troubled Nancy -before. The inconvenient splendour of being a person whose proceedings -were watched, had never attended her before. But now it all flashed -upon her in a moment. Already it was known in the place that she was -going to marry, or rather to be married by Mr. Curtis, and if she was -seen at three o’clock in the afternoon walking about the Green in close -conversation with another “gentleman,” what would everybody say? Very -different had been Sarah Jane’s feelings, who only hoped everybody she -knew might see her walking with the “gentleman.” Already the shadow of -her new position had come over Nancy, and the sense that observation now -would be degrading rather than flattering. She had not thought about it -at all in the fervour of her feelings, when she rushed out impetuously -to confront her adversary, but she perceived it through her adversary’s -eyes. She turned half-round to him, and waving her hand towards the -other side of the Green, where there was a little bit of shade with -trees, went on before him, rapidly crossing the grass. Durant followed. -He was nervous about what was going to happen to him; to take him thus -under the damp trees, from which a shower of leaves fell at every puff -of air, was very much like dragging him to some den where he could be -devoured at leisure. Could Arthur be there? but on reflection he felt -sure that Arthur, had he known, would have found some means of subduing -this impetuosity, and preventing an encounter. It could not be for -Arthur’s interest in any way. Before however they had got across the -Green, Durant’s fright had subsided; he began to be interested; the -situation was piquant, if no more; and that lock of brown hair was very -pretty. He would have thought it untidy in Sarah Jane, but here somehow -it looked well. He thought of the “sweet neglect” of Herrick’s -description; the tempestuous petticoat occurred to him in spite of -himself, and he began to be half pleased, half excited by this odd -adventure. What would Arthur say if he saw him being thus carried off -for a private interview? and the direct course which the impetuous -young woman was taking, brought them immediately in front of Mr. Eagle’s -gate. The little line of trees which looked like a Mall in the distance, -lay under his garden walls, and it turned out to be of much less -importance than he thought--a sweep of some old avenue, a hundred yards -or so of path between two fine ranges of elms. It led nowhere, and was -quite deserted. A better place for a mysterious interview could scarcely -be. - -When they had got under the shade of the trees, she turned upon him -suddenly. - -“You were at our house to-day,” she said; “you were saying a great many -things about--Mr. Curtis’s family. Did they send you, or what right have -you to speak for them? I want to know.” - -“Miss Bates, you are very hasty--very peremptory.” - -“I am no different from what I have a right to be,” she said, and he -could hear that her voice trembled with passion, and see that the lines -of her face were moving, and that there were tears which looked more -like fire than water in her eyes. - -“What do you mean by coming and setting my folks against--Mr. Curtis? -You pretend to be a friend of his. What do you do it for? And what right -have you to interfere with me?” - -“None in the world,” said Durant, hastily; “none in the world! nor do I. -I told your mother the truth about the Curtises, as I thought I was -bound to do.” - -“Why were you bound to do it? _I_ did not ask you to give us any -information. You might have consulted me first, or--Mr. Curtis. If we -were willing to have nothing said about them, to have nothing to do with -them, was that your business? Don’t you think it’s like a busy-body--a -meddler, Mr. Durant? I wonder you are not ashamed of yourself!” she -said, the passion getting vent, and the tears falling hot and sudden in -spite of herself out of her eyes. “You, a gentleman! if it had been a -silly gossip of a woman, I should not have been surprised.” - -This, as may be supposed, galled Durant immensely, for what can be -harder upon a man than to be called like a gossip and a woman? But he -had command of himself. - -“I am distressed,” he said, “to have caused any annoyance; I had no -intention of doing so.” - -“Then what was your intention?” she said; “I suppose you had one. It -will be honester to tell me directly what you mean.” - -“I have no objection to tell you what I mean,” he said, “as I told your -mother. The Curtises are my friends. I know them thoroughly, and I know -that your marriage will grieve them to the heart. Pardon me if I must -speak plainly. It is no offence to you personally, for they don’t know -you. Arthur has told them the step he is going to take only at the last -moment; only, in fact, after they had been told of it from another -source. They are deeply offended, as may be easily supposed. He has not -behaved to them as he ought.” - -“You will say nothing against Mr. Curtis, please.” - -“But I must say something about him--Arthur! Have you any idea, Miss -Bates, what Arthur has been to me? My companion since he was _that_ -height; my younger brother, my charge; nay, almost my child. And you -tell me I am not to speak of him! Is it possible, do you think? My -affection for Arthur gives me a right to say anything to him--or of -him.” - -“There is no one in the world,” she said, with her lips quivering, “who -has so much right to him as me.” - -Durant threw up his shoulders and his hands in the excitement of the -moment. “So it appears,” he said, “so I suppose--though how it should be -so, God knows, is the last of mysteries. Well! let us say he belongs to -you, and that not his oldest friend, not his nearest relation, has a -right to discuss him if you forbid. It is the wildest madness, but I -suppose, as you say, it is true. And what then, Miss Bates? he will have -_you_, but he will have nothing besides. Everyone else will be separated -from him; his parents not only offended, but wounded to the heart; his -friends alienated, his position lost. What will he be then, and what -will he do? A man cannot be a lover and nothing else all his life. He -would tire of that, and you would tire of it; but he will have nothing -to fall back upon; and after all, if a man defies his parents and throws -off their influence, why should they exert themselves to secure to him -the means of defying them? They will not do it--why should they? and you -will find that you have married poverty--helplessness--discontent.” - -“And if I do,” she said, “will that show I am marrying for money? You -bad man! You cruel friend! You go and tell everybody that it is because -he will be rich--because I shall be my lady--that I am going to marry -Arthur. How dare you! how dare you! But if this is how it is going to -be, you will all find out different; you will find it is not for his -money or for his rank. Go away!” she cried, clenching a hand which was -small but strong, and full of impassioned energy; “go away! and don’t -tell lies of me.” - -Durant was impressed in spite of himself; he tried to smile, but could -not, and he tried to be angry, but could not refrain from a certain -half-respect, half-admiration. - -“I tell no lies of you or anyone,” he said; “I warn you--” - -“Warn me! of what? that I shall have a way of showing whether I’m true -or not,” she said, “whether I’m good or not; and you think that will -frighten _me_! Mr. Durant, if his mother sent you, you may go back and -tell her what I say. You’ve dared me to give him up, and I won’t give -him up; and if I were to give him up a hundred times it would make no -difference, for he would not give up me. You can tell her all that. He -can do without her, but he can’t do without me.” - -“Do you think that is a kind thing to tell a mother?” - -“I don’t care,” said Nancy, “you have said worse to me; and it’s -true--and so it’s always true. I’d tell my own mother the same. What’s a -mother? they didn’t choose to have us; they didn’t pick us out of the -world; and now that we’re here we’ve got to do the best we can for -ourselves. You may go where you like upon your missions, Mr. Durant, but -not here--you shan’t come here; and if you come till doomsday you -wouldn’t do any good, for they put more trust in me--and so they -ought--than in a cunning lawyer like you. We know what lawyer means,” -said the excited girl, once more shaking her small clenched fist in his -face, “liar! and that’s seen in you.” - -With this she turned and walked suddenly away, turning the corner of the -high garden wall, and disappearing in a whirlwind of excitement and -emotion, while he stood thunderstruck, staring after her. Durant stood -still and stared, with his mouth open in the extremity of his surprise. -He was too much startled even to be angry; but he was discomfited, there -was no mistaking that sensation. As he stood looking after the excited -girl, a sense of smallness, almost of baseness, came over him. He had -wanted to save Arthur, but he had not taken the other human creature -into consideration, who was just as important as Arthur to the world; -and he had not realized the kind of being he had to deal with, when he -had drawn up his own brief, as it were, and instructed himself in the -line of argument to be pursued. Lawyer, liar! that was a sharp thorn. He -was able to smile feebly at it, as he picked himself up and went slowly -back to his inn; but he could not shake off the sense of failure--the -sense of smallness and meanness that had come over him. Not only had he -found a foeman worthy of his steel, but she had baffled him and put him -to shame even in his own eyes. - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - - -Nor were Durant’s troubles over for that day. In the evening another -tempest came upon him. He had finished his solitary dinner, and written -his letter to Lady Curtis, which was considerably changed from what it -was intended to be. He had meant to say that he was in great hopes of -having succeeded in his attempt to convince the Bates’ that it was not -for their interest to allow Arthur to marry their daughter; but after -his interview with Nancy, he could not say this. On the contrary, he -gave a description of her future daughter-in-law, which was very much -more favourable to that young woman than anyone could have expected. - -“She has a great deal of character,” he wrote. “She is not vulgar by -nature, nor devoid of intelligence. If things come to the worst, -something may be made of her.” - -This was not very satisfactory to Lady Curtis, who would almost rather -have heard that her son was about to marry a demon incarnate, who would -disgust him sooner or later, and from whom even yet he might be driven. -So that poor Durant had doubly lost his work. - -He was finishing this letter when his door was opened suddenly, and -Arthur Curtis came in unannounced. He was quite pale, with eyes which -gleamed red and angry, and an air of furious calm--passion at the white -stage to which no utterance would suffice. He came in, closed the door -behind him, and then coming forward, dashed his clenched hand upon the -table. - -“Look here,” he said, “I’ll have none of your interference, Durant. -Friend you may be, if you like, but dictator to me never--no, I cannot -put up with it, and I won’t. What has come to you that you can steal -into people’s houses and try to deceive a lot of silly women? That is -not the sort of thing that used to suit you.” - -“I have deceived nobody,” said Durant, getting red in spite of himself. -“It is you who have deceived them.” - -“Yes, that’s it, isn’t it?--the argument suits the conduct,” said -Arthur, with a sneer. “‘It is not me, it is you,’--the very thing I -should have expected to be said; but look here, Durant, if you come -between her and me again, if you try to make mischief with her family, -if you get me into further trouble, I’ll--by Jove, I’ll--” - -“What will you do?” said Durant, rising, restored to his -self-possession, and looking the other steadily in the face. - -They stood within a few paces of each other, the one aggressive and -furious, the other calm, but excited. They had never had a break before -since childhood, and had stood by each other in all kinds of -difficulties. This was in Durant’s mind, and made the crisis more bitter -to him; but Arthur was too much excited to think of it, or of anything -else but his grievance. Notwithstanding this, however, the calm look of -the familiar face confronting him stilled the young man. He turned away -after a moment, and took to angry pacing about the room. - -“You!” he cried, “You! If anyone had told me that you would not stand by -me in a difficulty, would not be my help in any trouble, I should not -have believed it. It would have seemed impossible; and that you should -take up arms _against_ me--against _me_!--_you_, Durant!” - -“Arthur,” said his friend, with great emotion, “let us speak plainly. -You must always be to me, when you are in difficulty, the first person -to be thought of. I cannot believe, any more than you can, in -circumstances where I should not stand by you; but listen! you are not -in difficulty now--you are on the verge, as I think, of a great mistake. -Nothing can be more different. As your friend is bound to help you in -trouble, so is he bound by every rule to do his best to extricate you -now.” - -“To extricate me!” cried Arthur, with scorn. “From what? From love, -happiness, and honour? Are these things from which to extricate a man? -And not only so, but to work by underhand means to force me out of the -position I have chosen, and which, whatever you may think of it, is -Heaven to me.” - -“I have been working by no underhand means.” - -“What else can you call it? You might have said what you would to me. -You were free to say what you liked; but to attack them--behind my -back--” - -“Arthur,” said Durant, “it is useless to evade the matter; this is -exactly one of those moments which are often fatal to friendship. You -think you are on the eve of happiness. I think you are securing your own -misery. Am I to help you to destroy yourself? do you think that is a -duty of friendship? or is it not rather my part, by every possible -means, to stop you before you go over the precipice?” - -“Your very words are an insult,” said Arthur; “to me, and to one who is -more precious to me than myself.” - -“Yet I suppose I may have my opinion,” said Durant. “You cannot forbid -me that. I say nothing against anybody. I only say this will be fatal to -you, and it seems to me, if I could hinder it--” - -“You can no more hinder it than you can keep the sun from rising -to-morrow.” - -“I am very sorry to hear it, Arthur. I would give a great deal if I -could. Think what a change it will make in your life. You will not take -your degree now. As for diplomacy, you are shut out from that--it would -be impossible. So will Parliament be and the public life you once -thought of. Your own business of a country gentleman you are kept from -while your father lives. You have no time for anything else. Where will -be your shooting, your fishing, your hunting in the season, your -society? You will have to live on your allowance, sparely, economically, -without a horse, without a margin. Everything given up for--what?” - -“For _her_--for happiness--for everything that makes life worth having.” - -“For happiness? I don’t know much about it, Arthur; it has not come my -way. Is it object enough for a man’s life? When you live for happiness, -are you happy? I ask for information. Myself, I get on well enough, but -I have never made any great exertion for such an object. Will it answer -the purpose? will it repay the cost?” - -“You are trying to cheat me out of my just indignation,” said Arthur, -“are we on such a footing at this moment as to discuss the position in -your cool way? Oh, I confess it is cleverly done! you resume the old -tone, you go back to the habit of many a discussion. But at present this -will not do. There is something more urgent in hand.” - -“Why should it not do? You are vexed that I have spoken to the Bates -family; but after all, as I have been routed horse and foot by the young -lady herself, and ordered off the field of battle--” - -“You acknowledge that!” said Arthur subdued, “ah, I thought you were -more sensible than you give yourself credit for being. She is grand when -she is excited. Well, Durant, I suppose it is of no use grumbling with -you. You know me, when we have quarrelled I always want to make it up -to-morrow. I can’t do without you, old fellow; that is not what I came -to say; but it is too strong for me. I want you, Durant; you have always -stood by me. It does not feel natural that you should be on the other -side.” - -“I am not on the other side,” said Durant with compunction. There were -some things in his letter to Lady Curtis which recurred to him, and gave -him a choking sensation. His intentions had been friendly, but his -acts--Well! as they had been altogether unsuccessful they did not matter -much; and he too felt it difficult to resist the familiar face and tone. -If he could have done any good;--but as this was impossible, why make a -painful breach? He held out his hand to his friend. “Look here, Arthur,” -he said with a smile, “what is the good of fighting? If I could stop -your marriage I would do it; but apparently I can’t; I don’t conceal -from you that I am very sorry; but if you do this very foolish thing, -it seems a pity that you should lose a friend too.” - -Arthur did not take the hand held out to him; but he sat down somewhat -sullenly on the opposite side of the table, and then there ensued a -pause, for neither knew what to say. - -“I am going back to town to-morrow,” said Durant, “I will not undertake -to further your prospects; but if you wish any communication made--to -take off the edge of the unkindness, Arthur--” - -“Unkindness! I have done no unkindness.” - -“What--to settle all this without any reference to them, without -explanation, without trying to secure their sympathy, their approval--” - -“Approval! that was a likely thing; what was the use of making appeals -or giving explanations? Here is an example; the moment they do hear, -they send you primed and prepossessed against it. I answered their -questions; but I knew it was useless, and why should I humiliate -myself--and _her_? When it is irrevocable and can’t be altered, I always -intended to let them know the whole, and throw myself upon their mercy.” - -“It is clear you expect more magnanimity from them than they have found -in you.” - -“Well,” said Arthur coolly, “a man must have queer parents if he does -not take that for granted. They do put up with things when they can’t -help themselves. What is the good of worrying them with opposition -(which it was clear they must make) and which could only irritate both -parties? No, it was not done by inadvertence, it was done advisedly. If -you never learned, old fellow, the advantage of doing a thing without -permission rather than in the face of a prohibition--it makes all the -difference,” said Arthur with a sudden hoarse laugh, which ended as -suddenly as it began, and had anything but humour in the sound of it. -“No, I have no instructions to give you, I will write as soon as--well, -after we are married; why should I do anything before?” - -“Arthur, for God’s sake!” cried his friend, “pause still, think what you -are doing.” - -“That is enough, that is enough! don’t risk our friendship once again, -just after it has been renewed; and as you say, if I am going to do -anything so very imprudent, at least don’t let me lose my friend too,” -he said, looking at Durant, with eyes which laughed, yet were not far -off from tears, and grasping his hand hurriedly. “I’m glad we are not -parting for ever, old boy, as I almost feared: though I should not -wonder if the next morning after we had parted for ever, I had knocked -you up to tell you what folly it was. A dozen years are not done away -with so easily, are they? after all.” - -They stood grasping each other’s hands for a moment, both too much -affected for words. Was there a softening, a yielding in Arthur’s -breast? were the ties of the familiar life he knew of old, the faithful -and tried affections, family, friends, home, coming back upon him, -surging over the hot passion of the new? Durant held him fast for a -moment longer than his friend’s grasp held, then with a sigh let his -hand drop. He would not venture to raise all the question again. It must -be left to reason, to his own heart, to--well, at the last, to that -guidance of God which when everything fails we can trust or mistrust as -the case may be. Evidently there was nothing more for friendship to do -or say. And what could with justice have been done or said, Durant asked -himself as he dropped wearily into his seat again after Arthur had gone? -Could any one hope or expect that the guidance of God would lead him to -break the most sacred pledge a man could give? If he did so his family -might rejoice, but what could anyone, even those most relieved by it, -think of Arthur? He might escape ruin, but by what? falsehood. And which -was worst? Could any man dare to go to him and say--Throw off those vows -you have repeated so often, cast aside this other creature as dear to -heaven as yourself, whom you have persuaded of your love, break her -heart, spoil her life, and then return spotless, an honourable man, to -your own? If such an adviser could be, Durant felt that he was incapable -of the effort: he felt even that with his respect his very love for -Arthur would evaporate were he to know him capable of such treachery and -baseness. And yet this was what he had been urging on him! No wonder -that the young lover, being a true man, was indignant. Yet, -notwithstanding, it was ruin for Arthur, of that there could be as -little doubt. This girl, so high-spirited, so pretty, so young, so -attractive in a hundred ways, would be his destruction, separating him -from his own original and natural place, cutting short his career, -neutralizing all his advantages. Alas for love, the love of the poets! -At what a sacrifice was this young man purchasing that crown of life! at -the cost of his home, his future, the very use that was in him as a man. -Yet not all these considerations would justify the betrayal of the -creature who loved him, or the breaking of his faith. In this dilemma -his friend could but keep silent even from thought, with a certain shame -of himself and horror of his own efforts, notwithstanding that he had -been right in making them, which is one of the most wonderful of human -paradoxes. His heart was heavy for Arthur going gaily to his -destruction. Yet had he saved himself at this eleventh hour, what could -anyone have thought of Arthur? Durant could not but feel a sensation of -relief that he was not so brave and so wise. - -Next morning he left Underhayes, without seeing anything more either of -the lovers, or the little group which surrounded them; but not without -another amusing reminder of the responsibilities he had incurred by -interfering. He had no object in going to London by that expeditious -morning train which carried off all the business men. He watched them -once more, streaming along, neat and cheerful, with cherished rosebuds -in their button-holes--rosebuds beyond the reach of the rest of the -world; and when the place was clear and the express gone, started -leisurely for a less crowded train. It did not occur to him to notice a -quick decisive step coming up behind him, as he went to the station. It -was not Arthur’s springy rapid step, which might have roused him; but -one heavier and more decided. Durant however was much startled by -finding himself struck lightly but sharply upon the shoulder, as the -owner of this footstep came up to him. “Mr. Durant,” said Mr. Eagles, -“why is not Curtis with you? I told you that I expected you to take -away your man. Why do you let him slip through your fingers? I can’t -have him here.” - -“I told you, Mr. Eagles, that I had no authority over Curtis.” - -“No one has any authority; there is no such thing nowadays: call it -influence if you like, I don’t mind names--but take him away. He is -doing no good with me. Never did after the first week. Dilettante -fellow, fond of classical reading; that’s not the sort of thing I care -for, Mr. Durant. When a man comes to me he comes to work, whether he -likes it or not. I am not half sure that I don’t prefer them when they -dislike it, triumph of principle then. Curtis is worse than doing no -good, as I told you, he is doing himself harm. What do you mean to do -about this business? Is he to be allowed to make a fool of himself and -destroy all his prospects?” - -“I must repeat that I have no authority over Arthur Curtis,” said -Durant, “I am only his friend and school-fellow. You know how little a -man will allow his friend to interfere in such a matter.” - -“On the contrary, I know they are the only people who can interfere. -Parents might as well--whistle. I scarcely wonder at that: if one may -say so broadly of so large a class, there is not a greater nuisance than -parents; and in this sort of business they’re hopeless. But a man like -himself, knowing all the consequences--why, no one could speak with so -much authority.” - -“What would you advise me to say to him?” said Durant, with a kind of -half hope that this sharp and energetic intelligence might strike out -some new suggestion, tempered by an inclination to laugh and flout at -any solution he might offer of the difficulty. “For myself I am at my -wits’ end.” - -“Say to him!” said the little pedagogue with a snort and puff of fiery -resolution. “I’d take him away, I should not waste words. I’d have him -out of the place before the day was over. There’s nothing like isolation -in any bad disease.” - -“There are difficulties,” said Durant, “to make him go in the first -place is not easy; and there is perhaps a claim of honour--I don’t know -how to advise him to cancel his word.” - -“Honour! word!” said Mr. Eagles, in successive snorts, “I can see how -well qualified you are for the business. Fiddlesticks! a little money -afterwards would salve all that. Is he to ruin himself for the sake of -his word--to Bates the tax-collector’s daughter!” The force of ridicule -seemed incapable of going further. “I will not resort to your advice, -Mr. Durant, no offence, when any of my men are in trouble.” - -“Thanks, I hope you will not,” said Durant, nettled; and so rushed to -his train in considerable indignation and excitement. His word to -Bates’s daughter! was not that as good as his word to a Duchess? the -young man asked himself. He was near becoming Arthur’s advocate instead -of his adversary. And if Lady Curtis assailed him as Mr. Eagles had -done, what should he say to her? Must he lose all hopes of pleasing the -family in consequence of this moral dilemma? Durant had no hope that any -pleasure he could do to the family would ever really influence them -towards the granting of his own private wishes which had never been -breathed in any ear. He knew, in short, as well as a man can know by -conviction of the understanding, that these wishes were absolutely -hopeless, and that nothing he could do to propitiate the family would -really tell upon them. But nevertheless he clung to the hope of proving -himself useful, of doing something which would conciliate and dispose -them towards him. Foolish young man! and what if Nancy Bates with her -impetuous indignation, her self-confidence, her strong satisfaction in -Arthur’s poverty, which would prove her disinterestedness, should spoil -it all? - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - - -“He has gone; he will never trouble you any more, and I hope you will -forgive him, dear, for my sake. Poor old Durant, he has always looked -after me, and bullied me. When I was at Eton first, I was his fag. I -don’t think he can forget that.” - -“I daresay not,” said Nancy, “he thinks he should always have the upper -hand. He thinks you should never have any friends but of his choosing. -And then he will go and tell stories about us all to your father and -mother.” - -“I don’t think, perhaps, you do him quite justice,” said Arthur, musing, -with a flush on his face. “Old Durant is not like that. The worst he -has to say, he will say to yourself, not behind your back; and he will -not gossip about you.” - -“He is free to gossip as much as ever he likes, so far as I am -concerned; but I don’t like those sort of people--and give into them I -would not--not for the world!” - -“Mr. Durant is gone, is he?” said Sarah Jane, in a voice of dismay. “You -are so selfish you two! What harm was he doing? I am sure he was very -nice. What did you send him away for? It is so like you, Nancy, blazing -up into one of your fits, and never thinking of spoiling other people’s -fun--what you always do.” - -“Hillo!” said Arthur, half amused, half angry, “what has Durant to do -with other people’s fun? He is not at all a funny person so far as I can -see.” - -“Oh! he may not show it to you, but Mr. Durant is very good company,” -said Sarah Jane with a toss of her head. “He is not so dreadfully -ancient that you should call him Old Durant; and I am sure if he likes -to come back here, I shall be very glad for one. And I think he will -too,” said the girl, elevating her foolish but not unpretty nose. It was -of the tip-tilted order, and could express a great deal of half-saucy -piquant self-confidence. Arthur stared at her blankly with a painful -sort of offence coming over him. It made him quite unreasonably angry -that this foolish girl should suppose that Durant--_Durant_, of all -people in the world! was interested in her pink prettiness--the idea -quite shocked him. He whispered to Nancy, in the corner, a little -admonition. - -“You should not let that girl talk so,” he said. “To hear her chatter of -Durant! It is like a magpie and an eagle. You, who have so much more -sense, you should not let her do so. It makes one angry in spite of -oneself.” - -This was a whisper in the confidence of their closeness and oneness; but -Nancy replied aloud, “Why shouldn’t she chatter about Durant if she -pleases. He is no better than she is. Magpie, indeed! you are very -uncivil, Arthur. I think my sister is quite as good as your friend--even -if it was a nicer friend than Durant.” - -“Did he say I was a magpie?” said Sarah Jane. “Oh, Nancy! and me always -standing up for him. I did to Durant himself. I said we are all very -fond of Arthur, we’ll none of us believe any harm of Arthur. Oh! and to -call me a magpie! I could not have believed it of him,” and the girl -shed a shower of facile tears. - -“You see this is how it acts,” said Nancy. “Durant comes here and tries -to make mischief, and you tell me no, he has done nothing wrong; it is -only his mistaken ideas; he will say nothing to other people half so bad -as he says to ourselves. That is all very well, Arthur; but when I see -to the contrary, you yourself insulting my family for the sake of -Durant!”-- - -“My darling,” said Arthur, humbly, “don’t, I beseech you!--don’t if you -care for me, say Durant!” - -“What should I say?” cried Nancy, more and more roused. “Mr. Durant, my -Lord Durant, perhaps? Oh let’s be respectful, Sarah Jane! We didn’t know -that it was royalty that was coming. Arthur is humble enough himself, -but the moment we set up to be as good as his friend, then it shows. And -I should like to know why we are to be on our knees to _Mister_ Durant? -Why shouldn’t Sally have her fun out of him if she likes? Oh, let me -alone, mother! don’t go on winking and nodding at me. Arthur may take -offence if he pleases, he may take himself off altogether if he -pleases--what do I care? Do you think I am going to lie down for his -family to tread over and spit upon, and all his friends? Not I! If he -expects that, he has reckoned without Nancy--and that he’ll soon see.” - -“Oh, Arthur, don’t mind her,” cried Mrs. Bates, “she’s just in one of -her tantrums. Most times Nancy is as gentle as a lamb, but when she’s -roused, she’s roused; and you’ll allow it’s aggravating. Not but Mr. -Durant was very civil spoken, I haven’t a word to say against him. -Indeed, I rather liked him, what I saw of him. You’re both too touchy, -that’s what it is; Nancy can’t bear her sister to be set down as if she -was nobody, and Arthur don’t like any joking about his friend. But -there, there now, kiss and be friends, children! If you quarrel you only -make each other miserable, and get miserable yourself. The night before -last and last night were both spoiled with it. Don’t you go on, now he’s -gone.” - -“I have no wish to go on,” said Arthur, rather gloomily. He had risen -from the side of his betrothed, and was walking up and down, biting his -nails, which was a way he had. Certainly there was no reason in the -world why he should be so sensitive about Durant. Durant’s social -pretensions were much beneath his own and he had found his fate in this -humble place; why should every vein tingle with the idea that Durant, -who was only the Bond Street saddler’s grandson after all, should flirt -with Sarah Jane? But nature is unreasonable. Right or wrong, the -suggestion filled him with ridiculous annoyance and disgust. - -“Well, mother,” said Nancy, “if my sister is not to be allowed to joke -about his friend, why should he pretend to be in love with me? Sarah -Jane is as good as I am. She’s just the same as I am. She’s younger, and -most folks think she’s prettier. If Durant is too good for her, it -stands to reason that _he_ is too good for me.” - -“For Heaven’s sake let there be an end of this!” cried Arthur. “You -don’t know the effect your words have upon me. They make me ill, they -make me wretched. I say nothing against Sarah Jane. I never have been -the least negligent, the least disrespectful of your sister.” - -“No, indeed,” said Sarah Jane, who was good-nature itself, “Arthur has -never got on the high-horse to me. He’s always been kind. It’s nothing -worth talking about. A deal of folks are touchy about their friends, -more touchy than about themselves.” - -“But,” said Arthur, sitting down on the sofa again, and relapsing into -his lover’s whisper, “they are not you; you are yourself, my own Nancy, -my flower among weeds--there is nobody like you; don’t you know that I -think so? Then don’t expect me to put them, or anyone, on the same level -with you.” - -Nancy held back and grumbled still, shutting her ear against these -sweet words. But Sarah Jane had retired from the field, and her mother -made secret signs to her, deprecating her folly. Why should she “go on” -like that, and worry Arthur? Thus after awhile the commotion subsided. -Durant was gone safely out of the place, and it was within about ten -days only of the wedding. This must certainly be the last of the storms, -though it was by no means the first. The house was too small to overflow -with millinery, as most houses do at such a moment, and the Bates’ were -not rich enough to fit out the bride extensively; but yet they were -doing what they could for her. Though she had only white muslin for her -wedding-dress, her mother had gone up to Shoolbred’s to buy Nancy a -“silk” for best, which, except her aunt’s old ones, was the first “silk” -she had ever had. And everything was progressing. Arthur, if he could -have managed it, would have had a kind of runaway wedding, but the -Bates’ were respectable, and would not hear of such a thing. All was to -be done decently and in order, however he might feel. It was the first -wedding in the family, and they meant to do justice to it. But when -Arthur went back to his room in Mr. Eagles’ commodious house that -evening, his heart was heavier than it became the heart of a bridegroom -to be. Up to this time he had been able to turn off with a laugh the -incongruities of his position; even they seemed to give piquancy to his -happiness, and to the perfections of the beautiful bride whom he had -found in so humble a place. Who could think of the place when they saw -her? And Nancy in reality was full of variety and charm, and the -courtship had been amusing as well as entrancing, devoid of all that -monotony which is the usual curse of successful love. But Durant’s visit -had given a great shock to the young man, and oddly enough the whole -force of that shock only came upon him when Sarah Jane made her little -speech implying an interest on her part in Durant. Sarah Jane! the idea -was so preposterous, so unnatural, that he laughed in spite of himself, -and then grew hot, and red, and angry. - -This attempt to repeat his own love-history, with Durant for the hero -and Sarah Jane for the heroine, seemed to throw ridicule and debasement -upon the little romance of which, up to this moment, he had been almost -proud. It seemed to place Sarah Jane on the same level with her sister, -a suggestion which fired him to fury. For there was just so much truth -in it as made the suggestion intolerable. To the eyes of the world, -perhaps, even to his mother and sister, there might seem no difference -between Nancy and Sarah Jane; and he himself might seem to others to -make as ridiculous a figure as he would feel Durant to make had he -fallen a victim to the other girl’s attractions. The feeling that this -was so, though he would not allow it in words, haunted him, as it were, -underground, in the bottom of his heart, and made him more angry than -anything had yet done. He would not allow it to be put into words even -within his mind, but it had flashed across him, and could not now be -annihilated; he himself must appear to others as contemptible, as -idiotical as he would have felt Durant to be had he wanted to marry -Sarah Jane. And this idea brought all his native world before him, his -mother and sister, who, no doubt, by this time had heard Durant’s -account, and were talking it over, as women do, going over and over it, -and coming back to it again and again. He could see them in the large -rooms of the house in town, where they had come hastily from the country -on hearing all this, and where he had been summoned to meet them, though -he had refused to go. How different those rooms were from Mrs. Bates’ -parlour! It would have been strange indeed if the contrast had not -struck him. He saw in imagination the two anxious faces close to each -other in the wider horizon of their life and surroundings, the spacious -quiet, the order and refinement which he had grown almost out of -acquaintance with. What story would Durant tell, what account would he -give? Would he place Nancy on a level with the others of her family, or -was he sufficiently clever to perceive the vast difference between them? -Arthur could not tell. If Durant had, indeed, walked and talked -voluntarily with Sarah Jane, was it possible that he could perceive the -infinite superiority of Nancy? His lip curled with the true stage sneer. -He was ready to have laughed the “Ha, ha!” the bitter laugh of -conventional ridicule and despair. It was long now since he had paid any -attention to the reading which was his supposed object, and he rushed -hastily upstairs to his room when he entered the house of Mr. Eagles. It -was a large, handsome, old-fashioned house. He went upstairs, glad that -all the doors were closed, and that there was nobody to meet him on the -stairs to ask him unpleasant questions. Mr. Eagles had said something to -him on the day before which had offended Arthur, but which he had been -half inclined to laugh at; but he did not laugh now. Out of his own -half-amusement with the circumstances of his wooing, he had come -suddenly, through Durant, to have an angry and wounded consciousness of -how it would appear to the world. Even the Eagles’, what must they -think? Arthur resolved hastily not to continue here, to separate himself -at least from criticism. Certainly Durant, thus far, had done him -nothing but harm. He had opened his eyes, as the eyes of Adam were -opened in the garden, and a hot, resentful shame, not of his Nancy or -his projected marriage, but of the wrong and ridiculous ideas people -might entertain about them, had risen up in his mind. Nothing could have -been a worse preparation for the visit which Mr. Eagles himself was -coming upstairs to make him. Mr. Eagles felt that he had already -delayed much too long, and put himself in the wrong by his -non-interference; but Durant’s visit had broken the ice for him, and he -had made up his mind to delay no longer. Arthur had scarcely lighted his -candles and thrown himself into his easy-chair by the fire, when the -master of the house knocked at his door. - -“Mr. Eagles!” he cried, with angry consternation, as he saw him. - -Of course, he knew what was coming. He cast a quick, instinctive glance -at a portmanteau which was in a corner. He would pack it up at once, and -be gone. - -“I have seen nothing of you, Curtis, for some weeks,” said Mr. Eagles, -abruptly. “I have been remiss in seeing you on the subject. Men come -here, you are aware, to read, not for other pursuits; but you have not -been reading.” - -“No; you have reason to find fault,” said Arthur, with candour. “I -acknowledge it. And the fact is, I am on the eve of going away. I, too, -ought to have seen you about it before, but I have been occupied.” - -“Evidently--and how occupied?” said the little man, sternly. “I have -nothing to do with your morals, Mr. Curtis. I didn’t undertake to look -after your conduct.” - -“Conduct--morals!” cried the young man. - -“Yes, Sir!” said the “coach,” in a voice of thunder, “conduct and -morals. Do you think it shows either morals or conduct to shirk entirely -the object for which you were received under my roof, and to give all -your attention to a love affair--an intrigue?” - -“How dare you use such a word?” cried Arthur; but the effect of his -indignation was spoiled by the fact that his opponent was too voluble -and energetic to give him his turn in speaking, or anything more than -just a momentary opportunity to insert, edgeways, half a word. - -“This is not what you came here for,” said Mr. Eagles. “Your father has -a right to turn upon me, and ask me what I mean by it; and all the -fathers of all the men have a right to drag me over the coals for -countenancing such misconduct. Parents are intolerable, but here they -might have some reason. I have done wrong in letting you remain under my -roof.” - -“That is easily managed,” cried Arthur, with a rush, seizing upon the -portmanteau. “You shall very soon be relieved of my presence.” - -“I mean to be,” said Mr. Eagles. “You ought to have gone long since. You -ought never to have been here at all. Oh,” he said, with provoking -composure, as Arthur began in fury to empty his drawers bodily into the -portmanteau, “it is not necessary to clear out to-night. Nothing can -happen before to-morrow. I don’t want to be unreasonable. You can stay -for to-night.” - -“Not another hour!” cried Arthur in his excitement, and he violently -pulled out one drawer after another. - -Mr. Eagles stood for a moment and watched him with a saturnine smile. At -last he resumed. - -“You had better go in comfort when you go; there is no such hurry all at -once. To-morrow will do. Does your father, may I ask, know how your time -has been occupied here?” - -“Perhaps you have told him,” said Arthur, looking up from his hurried -packing. - -“No, Sir; I have not told him. I have nothing to do with it. I expressly -said that I was not responsible for conduct; but he ought to have been -informed all the same. I hope somebody has done it. If it were my -business, if I had ever gone in for that sort of thing, I should have -done it. I take no credit for being silent. It was no business of mine -that you were making a fool of yourself. But on second thoughts, I think -I have made a mistake. It was my business, more or less. The men ought -not to have been subjected to such an example.” - -“Mr. Eagles,” cried Arthur, furious, “do you mean me to toss you out of -window, or throw you downstairs?” - -“You are welcome to try,” said the little man, standing firm as a rock, -with his legs wide apart; “perfectly welcome to try. I am out of -training, it is true, but I am not afraid of you, and I mean that you -should hear the truth for once before you leave my house. Your conduct, -Sir, has been that of a fool--not a wicked fool, I am glad to say. If -you had been deceiving that girl, it is I who would have kicked you -downstairs, training or not; but though you’re honourable, you’re a -fool, Sir; you’re sacrificing your life; for what?--for a delusion. No -man of your position ever got on comfortably with a girl of hers, -uneducated, uncultivated--” - -“Have you nearly done?” asked Arthur, white with rage, and scarcely able -to restrain himself. - -“I have done altogether,” said Mr. Eagles. “You have my opinion, and -that is all that is necessary. The house is shut up for the night. Don’t -show yourself twice a fool by rushing out at this hour. Go to bed and -quiet your heated brains, and go to-morrow. You are a fool, as I say, -but you are not dishonourable, and I hope your idiocy may turn out -better than it deserves to do. Good night.” - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - - -On the evening of the same day Durant told his tale to Lady Curtis. She -and her daughter had come to London on hearing the news of Arthur’s -“entanglement,” as many an alarmed mother and sister have done before -them. Sir John either could not, or would not join them. He had less -faith than women have in the efficacy of personal remonstrances, and -indeed he had no great faith in the delinquency to start with, and gave -his son credit for “more sense,” if less virtue, than they believed him -capable of. To hear that Arthur was on the eve of marriage had stunned -Sir John. He had written with indignant vehemence, and he had -commissioned his “man of business” to go and see the “young fool;” and -he had forbidden his wife to go to her son as she desired. “Get him to -come to you if you can,” he had said; but he was afraid for the results -of a visit from his wife with the possibility of an introduction of the -girl, and a melting of my lady’s heart over her son’s love. Sir John -gave his wife credit for much more sentiment than she possessed; and as -for Lucy, she of course was sentimental enough to be sympathetic at once -without any preliminaries. “You had better leave him to the lawyers,” -Sir John said, having a strong confidence in people who could make -themselves disagreeable; but he consented that the ladies should go to -town to be near the spot, if the other functionaries managed to -“unearth” the culprit. Once away from that temptation, once delivered -from the syren who had “entangled” him, no doubt Arthur would be safer -with his mother and sister than anywhere else. And Lady Curtis had -acquiesced, though with reluctance, in this prohibition. She had felt -that to go and see him might bring her into painful collision with the -other people about him, and at the best would expose Arthur to what a -young man likes least, the shame of being interfered with, and worried -by his family in full sight of the world. Sir John, however, had nothing -to do with the mission of Durant; _he_ was the emissary of the ladies -called by them to their aid in the emergency. No other messenger had -seemed to them so suitable. His dearest friend, his _ami de l’enfance_, -what more natural than that they should have recourse to his aid? And in -these circumstances it may be supposed how hard it was for Durant to -tell the story of his own defeat. He did it in the library in Berkeley -Square in the waning afternoon, just before the evening fell. The room -itself which seemed to him half as big as the whole town of Underhayes, -was full of ghostly books, showing here and there in a streak of -gilding, in a bit of white vellum, which caught the remains of the red -October sunshine. The thinned trees waved slowly across the windows, and -when a gust of wind came, a shower of falling leaves swept over the -firmament outside. Lady Curtis sat between the fire and the nearest -window, listening intently with her eyes fixed on his face. Lucy was in -one of the window-seats, almost behind their visitor. She could not -watch his face openly as her mother did; but she was not less anxious -than her mother. When he turned round to her, as he did often, she -shrank a little further back, preferring to watch him unobserved; for to -Lucy, as to many other women, it seemed that half the story was told by -the countenance of the teller. Lady Curtis had been a beautiful woman in -her day, and had the beauty of her age now, as perfect an example of -forty-five as could be desired. She was ample in form, but her head and -face had retained all their delicacy and refinement; and if there was a -slight hollow in the cheek, and a slight fulness about the throat, -neither was sufficient to tell against her; and modified by youth, and -by a somewhat softer disposition, Lucy’s face was as her mother’s. They -were neither of them brilliant in colour. Lady Curtis had acquired -something in this way with the matronly increase of her figure; but Lucy -had no more than the rose tint which health gives, and her hair was soft -light brown, a shade or two lighter than her eyes, hair which in her -mother’s case was so daintily sprinkled with grey as to appear only -lighter in tint than it had once been. Whoever desired to see Lady -Curtis as she was at twenty had but to look at her daughter, and whoever -wanted to make sure what Lucy would look like a quarter of a century -hence could see it in Lady Curtis’s face. It gives an additional charm -to both when this resemblance is carried out as it was in these two. It -makes both youth and age more fair, bringing them together in a tender -half mist of illusion, one face in two representations; the mother and -the child both profited by it; Lady Curtis showing at her best in her -darling’s brown eyes, and disclosing in her own how little there was to -alarm the warmest admirer in that darling’s future. And they were proud -of their resemblance, a little for the beauty’s sake, perhaps, but a -great deal more for the love’s. Durant felt all around him a subtle air -of witchery between the mother and the daughter. The very atmosphere was -Lucy, sweet, soft, yet penetrating. And the two ladies seemed to look at -each other through him as if he had been made of glass, and knew his -inmost heart. - -At present they were much cast down by what he said. He had described to -them the Bates household, the little stuffy parlour, the rum and water, -and Sarah Jane; and worst of all Arthur’s determined adherence to his -love, and his promise. It seemed incredible to them that their son and -brother should be satisfied in such a place. Some occult influence, -something uncanny, seemed to be in the “infatuation” altogether. “And, -Mr. Durant, do you really think nothing, _nothing_ will make him give it -up?” - -“Indeed I do think so,” said Durant, “I cannot say otherwise, and I am -sure you would not wish to hear anything less than the truth. He -is--very much attached--to her.” - -“And she--is just like the others,” said Lady Curtis faintly, “a little -better you said, not so vulgar? Heaven help us! that I should speak so -of my son’s--no, Mr. Durant, not yet, I _cannot_ call her my son’s -bride. Something may come in the way, something must be thought of--” - -“I don’t think you will find anything. I have used every argument;--and -to tell the truth I do not know that I am quite sure, in my own -mind--of course I did not say this to Arthur--I am not quite convinced -in my own thoughts--” - -“Of what, Mr. Durant?” Lady Curtis said this anxiously in front of him, -and Lucy breathed it half under her breath behind. He looked at the -mother, but turned his chair a little so as to come nearer the daughter, -who eluded him, gliding still a little further back. - -“Well,” he said, “you may not be pleased, but I must speak according to -my conscience. I would give a year of my life to get Arthur free, you -know that--” - -“What are you going to tell us?” cried Lady Curtis, clasping her white -hands. Lucy did not say anything, but leant forward, so intent that when -he again turned to her, she did not as usual withdraw. - -“It is just this,” he said, sinking his voice; and the evening air -seemed to make a visible droop towards the darkening to increase the -alarming effect: “that I dare not on my honour say any more to Arthur on -the subject. He is a gentleman; I cannot even to save him from misery -bid him break his word.” - -“Good God!” cried Lady Curtis, starting to her feet, and her excitement -was so strong that the exclamation may be forgiven her. “His word! when -his whole career and happiness are at stake--to a creature like that!” - -“I knew that was what you were going to say,” came to him, in a sigh, -from the dim light in the window, against which, herself a shadow, Lucy -was. And this, though there was no word of encouragement in it, gave -Durant strength. - -“I understand your feeling,” he said, addressing her mother, “I thought -the same when I went there; but Lady Curtis--” - -“Don’t speak to me, don’t speak to me!” she cried, “they have entrapped -you too; you have encouraged him in his folly;--his word!” - -She walked up and down the room in a fit of impatience, her hands -clasped, and inarticulate moans came from her unawares. The firelight -seemed to get stronger and warmer as the daylight waned, and it was -against this glow that they saw her figure in her excitement. They--for -Lucy kept still in the window putting up her hand furtively to dry her -eyes, not joining herself to her mother. She had put herself silently, -he felt it, on his side. In another minute Lady Curtis sat down again, -dropping impatiently into her chair. “Well!” she said almost harshly, -“how about his word?” - -“Do not be angry with me,” said Durant quite humbly. He could afford to -be humble with Lucy backing him up. “I have not betrayed to him this -feeling, which--if it is fantastic I cannot help it.” Here Lucy made a -slight movement which seemed to him to imply a “no, no,” “I have acted -against it. It was not in my mind at first. But if you will consider -the circumstances--There is nothing which can be called entrapping. -Nothing has been done to deceive him, all the reverse; and he has -engaged himself to this girl voluntarily, made every kind of promise to -her. Can I bid him withdraw now, perjure himself, deceive her?” - -“Tut! tut!” said Lady Curtis, “don’t deceive yourself with big words; -all this solemnity is unnecessary. They are not accustomed to it in that -class of society; a little arrangement with the family, an offer of so -much--Do you really think more would be wanted? Mr. Durant, you are too -romantic. How I wish I had gone myself!” - -“You would have done no good had you gone yourself. Even if you could -have persuaded the family, there is Arthur to deal with--and her--He -loves her, Lady Curtis, there is no sham on Arthur’s part.” - -“Fiddlesticks!” she cried, rising again in restless excitement. “Arthur, -a boy, a light-hearted creature that would mend of any heartbreak in a -week; and she--of course I don’t know her--but there is nothing so good -for wounded feelings, or so healing, as banknotes.” - -“Mamma!” said Lucy, holding out her hands with a mute entreaty; and then -she added, “If you offered them money, what would Arthur say?” - -“Oh, what would Arthur say? and what would Arthur do? and is he not -bound to keep his word?” cried Lady Curtis. “How you worry me with your -sentimentalizing! What should have been done was to bring him away, to -hush it up. And it might have been done; but Mr. Durant has spoiled it -all; he might have done it. Nobody has so much power with Arthur. If he -had only brought him away for a single day all might have been well.” - -“He would not have come,” said Durant, more to himself than to her, for -he was vexed and angry, though he was most anxious not to show it. -“I--power with him! He quarrelled with me outright, would not speak to -me. I tried what I could. The family might have yielded, but she would -not yield--not an inch. She told me--when I threatened that Sir John and -you would withdraw or diminish his allowance, and that he might become -poor--that there was all the more reason why she should hold by him--it -would prove her sincerity.” - -“I should have said the same thing,” said Lucy, holding her breath. - -“You! you have been brought up very differently. So, she was -disinterested, was she? Ah!” said Lady Curtis, calming a little, “that -is more dangerous than I thought.” - -“Yes,” said Durant, pleased to have produced some effect, and carried -beyond the bounds of prudence, “that is exactly what she said. It was -her only chance to show that it was of himself she was thinking, not any -wish to be rich or to become my lady.” - -“To become my lady!” My Lady faltered as if a blow had been struck at -her. Yes, to be sure, her son would be Sir Arthur in his turn, and his -wife Lady Curtis, everybody knew that; but to feel that your end is -anticipated, and your very name appropriated, this gives even to the -old, much more to the middle-aged, a curious thrill of sensation. It was -a shock to her. She felt as if she had been struck; then she recovered -herself and laughed a little, short, hard laugh. “So,” she said, rubbing -her hands feebly together, “she is looking forward to that. I did not -think of that.” - -Durant saw his mistake, but he did not see how to mend it. Lucy, darting -upon him in the darkness what he felt to be a glance of reproach, rushed -hastily past him to her mother. But by this time Lady Curtis had -recovered herself. - -“Never mind,” she said, “never mind, my dear. It was quite natural. But -that was not Arthur. No, we know him better than to believe that.” - -“And she does not know you--did not know what she was saying.” - -“Oh, as for that! Ring the bell, Lucy. Let us have the lamp at least, if -we can have no other light on the subject. It was just the thing, of -course, that an ignorant under-bred girl would think of.” - -“But, mamma! Yes, it was her ignorance; and she said--that was what you -were telling us, Mr. Durant? that she would be glad to think there was -no chance of this now?” - -“Lucy,” said her mother, taking no notice of Durant, “the one thing that -could vex me most in this would be that you, out of perverse youthful -generosity, should take up the part of champion to this girl. Yes, you -are beginning, I have noticed it. But I cannot bear this, it is the only -thing wanting to fill up my cup.” - -“I will not, mother dear. I will do nothing to vex you. You shall not -have to struggle with me too. Has there ever been a time when we have -not been in sympathy? But still we must be just,” said Lucy, with her -arm round her mother’s waist. She said the last words almost in a -whisper. They stood clinging together, relieved against the warm light -from the fire. All the rest of the room had fallen into darkness, the -windows but so many stripes of a pale glimmer, no real light coming from -them, all gloom about, only this glow of warmth showing the two who held -together. Durant had nothing to do with that warmth and union. He sat -behind in the dark, neither taking any notice of him. And in his heart -there was a certain bitterness. He had left his own concerns at their -appeal. He had taken a great deal of trouble, and this was all the -acknowledgment. He felt very sore and wounded in his heart. - -Then lights were brought into the room, lamps which made two partial -circles of illumination; and the presence of the servant who brought -them, necessitated a few words on ordinary subjects. Lady Curtis resumed -her seat with that anxious hypocrisy by which we show our respect for -the curious world below stairs, and asked Mr. Durant if he meant to -remain in town, or if he was going back to the country. And he told her, -not without meaning, that having come to town, though a little earlier -than he intended, he meant to stay. There was a pause when they were -alone again, and then Durant rose to go away. - -“I am afraid I have not succeeded in doing what you expected of me,” he -said, somewhat drearily. “I did the best I could, and if you like I will -go again, though I shall get but a poor reception. I am unfortunate,” he -added, with a faint smile, which had its meaning too. - -“Mamma,” said Lucy, “you are not going to let Mr. Durant go, thinking we -are ungrateful to him! That can never be--when he has taken so much -trouble.” - -“Trouble when one has failed does not count for much,” he said, smiling. -“It is unkind to talk to me of being grateful or ungrateful; am I not as -much, I mean almost as much, very nearly as much, interested in Arthur -as yourselves? as if he were my brother,” he said with vehemence. “He -has been so; I can never think of him otherwise whatever happens.” - -“And whatever happens you will always think of him so?” cried Lucy, for -the moment forgetting her reserve. “Oh promise me, Mr. Durant! Even if -this makes a difference to us, it will make none to you? If he is so -wrong, if he is so foolish that we have to turn from him, you will not? -It will make no change to you?” - -“None!” he said, fervently. “None! I will stand by him whatever happens. -You may trust me--especially now.” - -Lucy knew that he meant especially since she had asked him, and got a -sudden soft suffusion of colour which tinted her to her very hair; but -Lady Curtis thought he meant, and how justly! especially now when there -was need of every friendship to stand by her son. She answered him with -a struggle between the gratitude which she ought to feel, and the -annoyed disappointment and distress that filled her heart. - -“We have no right to ask such a pledge from you, Mr. Durant. Yes, you -have always been very kind, very kind. Forgive me,” she said, softening, -“if I am too unhappy to say what I ought. I thought something might have -been done. But to think that we must stand by calmly and see him -accomplish his own destruction! Oh, think again!” she cried, with sudden -tears, “can we do nothing, nothing more, to save my boy from this -miserable fate?” - -Durant put down his hat. He did not go till late, nearly midnight. They -sat and talked of Arthur, nothing but Arthur, the whole evening -through. - - - - -CHAPTER X. - - -That which Lady Curtis had reproached Durant for not doing was done by -the lawyers so successfully that Arthur Curtis was driven almost -frantic, and swore wild oaths of vengeance upon his family. Sir John’s -ambassador was not held back by any delicacy. He offered a sum which -made Mrs. Bates tremble, and moved her husband to declare, with -emphasis, that they had never thought of going against Sir John--that, -of course, they wouldn’t go against Sir John. Mr. Bates had a reverence -for the upper classes which was almost sublime. He made no radical -revolutionary demand of excellence from them--he did not even require -that they should benefit, or be especially civil to himself. Anyhow, and -under any circumstances, he was willing to give himself up to be trodden -under the feet of any Sir John, if need was; and that he should oppose -one, after his will was fully known, seemed impossible. Especially a Sir -John with a bag of money in his hand. - -“Let him marry our Nancy after Sir John Curtis, his excellent father, -has spoke against it! You couldn’t do such a thing, Sarah,” he said, -“and when there is a nice bit of money coming in for doing what is only -our dooty--” - -“Our duty is first to Nancy,” said Mrs. Bates doubtfully, “and if we -were to say it shouldn’t be, who can tell if she’d obey us? Nancy has a -spirit of her own.” - -That this was true they both had good occasion to know. But it was a -great temptation. The lawyer gave them to understand that if Nancy -could be withdrawn from the field, and Arthur allowed to go free--(this -was how they all put it, making believe that Arthur was a kind of caged -bird, to be let loose, or kept in a cage at will)--a thousand pounds -might be forthcoming. A thousand pounds! never before in all their lives -had such a sum been dangled before the eyes of this pair. There seemed -so many things that they could do with it. It would portion off, they -thought, all the children. With two hundred a piece, Matilda and Sarah -Jane would be heiresses, and Charley might have a little more to start -him in business; and a sum left in the bank for a rainy day. What a -heavenly prospect it was! “Was there any sweetheart in the world,” the -tax-collector asked, “that was worth it?” and Mrs. Bates shook her head -emphatically and said, “No--certainly not!” But then would Nancy see -that? Girls had their own ways of thinking; and on the other side was -her sweetheart, and the marriage that was all settled, that everybody -knew of--Mrs. Bates felt that even to herself this would be a bitter -pill--to countermand all the preparations for the wedding, and give all -the neighbours a right to say that the Bates’ had overreached -themselves, and pride was having a fall. This, no doubt, would be a -tremendous price to pay; but, a thousand pounds! They talked it over -until it seemed to them both that not to have this thousand pounds would -be at once a deception and a wrong. The Lord knew it was not for -themselves they wanted it. But Mr. Bates was more and more strongly of -opinion that to prefer a sweetheart to this sum of money, that would be -the making of the family, was something beyond mortal perversity. He was -for sending her away at once to a brother of his who lived in Wapping, -without leaving her time to communicate with Arthur. - -“But you must lock her up when she gets to Wapping,” said Mrs. Bates -regretfully, “or she’d write to him straight off to let him know where -she was--and where would be the gain?” - -“Well, Sally, we’d have had nothing to do with it, you know,” said Mr. -Bates, not liking to put the suggestion into words--but yet feeling that -if the thousand pounds was paid, and circumstances happened after, over -which they had no control--why, they could have no control over -circumstances--and nobody would ask them to give back the money. Mr. -Bates’ wits had been sharpened by his tax-collecting, but his wife was -not so clever. - -“If we take the money, we’ll have to do the work,” she said, “and it’s -all very well to talk, but who’ll manage Nancy? That girl do scare me.” - -“Fudge! you can manage her if you like. What girl can stand out again -her mother?” said Bates. - -“It is a deal you know,” said his wife with mingled grandeur and scorn; -“but I’ll sound Nancy. I think sometimes that she’s a bit tired of him. -He’s a gentleman, and has nice ways; but he’s not so desperate in -earnest like as John Raisins is after Sarah Jane.” - -“Ah! that’s the kind of husband to get for your girls. A steady young -fellow doing a good business, with a nice shop and a nice house. That’s -the man for my money,” said Mr. Bates. - -“That shows again just what a deal you know,” said she, “Sarah Jane -would rather have had Mr. Durant, that lawyer fellow, if he had offered, -than half a dozen of Johnny Raisins. That’s how it is with girls. A -gentleman! that’s all their cry. And I won’t say but I like ’em best -myself,” Mrs. Bates said after a pause. “They have a different way with -them; but these are things that women take more notice of than men.” - -“Stuff and nonsense!” said the tax-collector, piqued by the suggestion. - -“You know, William,” said Mrs. Bates solemnly, “that if it hadn’t been -for your genteel ways, and what you may call a genteel business, not -like a shop, or that sort of thing, that I’d never have married you.” - -“Oh, I like that!” he said. But he was on the whole pleased to think his -occupation still struck his wife as a genteel business. “I’ve got to -give an answer to the gentleman to-morrow, Sally. There’s not much time -to lose.” - -“I’ll sound Nancy,” said Mrs. Bates, but she shook her head. - -“Sound her! I’d pack her off to Sam,” said the father; but that only -showed how little he knew. - -And Nancy, as Mrs. Bates divined, on being sounded, was furious. She had -no words to express her indignation. She rushed out in hot haste to find -Arthur, and denounce his family to him. He had left Mr. Eagles, and was -living in lodgings on the Green, and there Nancy flew in hot haste, -tapping at his window, which was on the ground floor, and calling him -forth. She would have gone in, but it had been evident to her that this -was not the kind of thing that pleased Arthur. She burst forth into a -furious assault upon his family the moment he joined her. - -“If it was not just giving in to them, I’d never see you more,” she -said, “that is what you call gentlefolks--to come undermining, offering -money, insulting folks that are a deal better than themselves!” - -“Trying to ruin my happiness,” said Arthur, with flashing eyes; “that is -not the thing you seem to think of.” - -“How can I, when it’s me that’s insulted?” cried the girl. “Oh! I’d like -to give them a bit of my mind. I’d just like to tell my lady what a girl -like me thinks of her. I’d like to tell her that, just to spite her. -Just to show how I despise her, I’d marry you if you hadn’t a penny.” - -“Nancy, my mother has nothing to do with this,” said Arthur, to whom, as -was natural enough, this form of moral obligation was not the most -delightful. “I don’t mean to say that you have not a perfect right to be -indignant. But it is not my mother that is to blame.” - -“Oh, yes, so you think,” cried the girl; “but it’s always women that do -the worst things. I’m not afraid of men. They may stab you bold to your -face, but they don’t do this sort of sneaking, cruel thing. I’d give -anything I’ve got in the world just for one half-hour with my lady, her -and me.” - -“My mother has nothing to do with it,” repeated Arthur; but though he -was convinced on this point, his mother, who had nothing to do with it, -suddenly appeared to him as an enemy; and he, too, felt a hot resentment -against her in his heart. And when he had taken Nancy home, which he -did somewhat against her will, for she did not think his escort at all -necessary; he rushed to Mr. Rolt, the lawyer, and poured such floods of -wrath upon him that the veteran almost quailed. He wrote to Sir John -that evening that Arthur was quite impracticable, and that “affairs must -take their course.” “If I had known earlier, something might have been -done, for the parents did not seem unwilling to compromise,” he wrote, -which made Sir John, in his turn, curse the old formalist. - -“If I had but gone myself!” he said. - -Lady Curtis was completely innocent of this mission; perhaps she would -not have disapproved of it, but certainly she herself would have gone -more delicately to work. She was informed of it by a furious letter from -Arthur, which cost her many tears. - -“If it is your doing, mother, if you have thus insulted the girl who -ought to be like your own daughter, then I can only say that you have -lost your son,” he wrote; and the two ladies in Berkeley Square shed -tears of anguish and indignation over this cruel letter. - -“This is likely to endear the girl to me, is it not?” said Lady Curtis, -when she could speak. - -“Oh, he does not mean it, he cannot mean it!” cried Lucy, with sobs in -her voice. - -“No,” said the mother, unconsciously taking up Nancy’s argument, with -that curious contempt of the men involved in such a quarrel which is so -strangely characteristic of women; “no, it is not him, it is her; and -this is the influence my boy, my only boy, is to be under all his life!” - -What could Lucy say? There was nothing further to be said or done. - -And it may be supposed that as the day approached, and they knew that he -who had been the object of deepest concern and affection to both, the -son who had been his mother’s favourite, the brother whom his sister had -looked up to and regarded with a semi-worship so long as he would let -her, was about to go through the most important act of his life without -their presence or sympathy--excitement ran very high in the veins of the -two ladies. Sir John called them home by every post, having in his mind -a secret dread that they might do something or say something to -compromise him, or at least themselves, in respect to Arthur; and Lady -Curtis, without ever saying why, made excuses to remain, now a week, now -a day longer. She did not even tell herself why; she would not allow the -thought to form itself, that, perhaps, even at the last moment, Arthur -might appear, at least to ask her forgiveness and blessing, if not to -tell her that he had repented and abandoned this evil way. She stayed in -Berkeley Square, trembling every time there was a knock at the door, -gazing wistfully from the window at passing cabs and carriages. When -Durant came in a Hansom, one wintry evening, he was received with open -arms at the door; and the disappointment and impatience in Lady Curtis’s -face at the sight of him, was very far from flattering. - -“Oh!” she cried, “I thought it was--” and burst into tears. - -When Lucy tried to say that he could not come now, that to desert his -bride now would be unmanly and treacherous, her mother turned upon her -with a dumb rage which was terrible to see. She hoped till the very eve -of the marriage--the time fixed for which Durant had informed them of. -And that evening Lucy made a prayer, which her mother was deeply angered -by at first, but finally yielded to. Lucy begged, with tears, to be -allowed to go and witness her brother’s marriage, from a distance, at -least. She promised to do nothing and say nothing which would betray -her; to keep her veil down, not to speak to him, not to give him any -token of her presence. All this Lucy promised, and at last she carried -her point. They spent a miserable evening together, Durant coming in -late to bring them the last news. He had found out the hour, and all -about the wedding arrangements, and he was too happy to put himself at -Lucy’s service to escort her to Underhayes. Lady Curtis’ old maid, who -had known Arthur all his life, and who could not be kept from knowing -all the family affairs, was to go with them; and Durant pledged himself -to meet them at the railway, and take care of them, and see that they -were protected from any contact with the family of Arthur’s bride. In -the prospect of this, Durant was, perhaps, not so downcast about -Arthur’s unhappy marriage as he ought to have been, and Lady Curtis -surprised sundry signs of unseemly satisfaction in him. - -“I do not think Mr. Durant is nearly so true a friend to my poor boy as -I should have expected,” she said, with a suspicious cloud on her face, -when he went away. - -“Oh, mamma, I am sure he is very fond of Arthur,” said Lucy. She too had -seen, perhaps, the glimpses of satisfaction which burst through his -gravity; but then Lucy, better informed than her mother, set them down -to the right cause. - -“He may be fond of Arthur, but he does not see as we do that this is -destruction to him,” said Lady Curtis, putting her handkerchief to her -wet eyes. - -“I am sure he will be his warm friend in any trouble.” - -“Well, my dear, let us hope so; for he will want all his friends. I -think so myself,” said Lady Curtis. “In any trouble! What do you call -this but trouble? If he had lost everything he had in the world, it -would not be half so bad; but men have such strange ways of looking at -things. If he were to break his leg or get a bad illness, which would -not be half so serious----” - -“Oh, mamma!” cried Lucy, putting out two fingers of her pretty hand to -avert the evil omen. - -“Well, well, you know that is not what I mean. God forbid my boy should -be ill, away from home, among strangers!” cried Lady Curtis. “It would -be strange if you had to _faire les cornes_ for anything his mother -said; but what would illness be in comparison with this? In that case, -Mr. Durant would be perfect, I feel sure of it; but now----” - -“I think he was pleased to see how your heart melted to poor Arthur, and -to know of this,” said Lucy, pointing to a letter which lay on the -table. Was it for her to say that there was still something else which -made Durant still more glad? - -“Oh, Lucy! as if my heart required to be melted towards my son, my only -boy!” - -And then you may be sure Lucy cried; what could a girl do? - -It can scarcely be said that these preparatory days were much more -cheerful to Arthur. Everybody had dropped away from him. He had the -prospect in a few days of what people are pleased to call happiness. He -was to marry the bride of his choice, and to take her away with him, the -two by themselves, the Elysium of the primitive imagination; and Arthur -was very much in love. He believed that as soon as they got away, when -he had once separated this rose of his from all the domestic thorns -surrounding her, he would be perfectly happy. It was the one redeeming -point in the difficulties of the moment that he entirely believed this. -Then, at least, he thought he was sure of blessedness; and that prospect -made much possible that would not have been possible otherwise. But to -be cut off from all companionship of his own class, even from Mr. -Eagles, and the “men” who frequented Mr. Eagles’ intellectual -workshops; to be separated from his family whom he loved, though he was -angry with them, to have nothing to do, though on ordinary occasions he -was not disposed to do very much--this isolation was very hard upon -Arthur. He had no society but that of the Bates’ household, and was -often left to amuse himself as he could in the stuffy parlour, without -even Nancy, who had naturally a great many things to do on the eve of -her wedding, which brides in rich households are not called upon to -think of. Arthur winced when he had to endure the companionship of the -tax-collector or his son Charley, unsweetened by Nancy’s presence; and -it must be allowed that as the time approached which was to bind him for -ever to the family, his toleration of them, which during his courtship -had been unbounded, began to give way. It began to be very hard to put -up with Mr. Bates’ rum-and-water, and the railleries of Sarah Jane; and -Matilda and Mrs. Bates, both of whom were “sensible,” began to perceive -this--the mother with resentment, the daughter with a certain sympathy. -Matilda intimated to her mother that “it was touch and go with Arthur,” -and that she “wasn’t surprised;” but the father and son and Sarah Jane -remained happily unaware that they were not the best of company for -Nancy’s future husband, whom they called freely by his Christian name, -making him “quite at home.” This gave him an eagerness to push on the -wedding, which was quite the proper thing in the circumstances. He would -have had it a week earlier if he could have persuaded them to depart -from any of the grandeur they intended, and as it was, he chafed and -grumbled at the delay in a way, which as Mrs. Bates remarked, was “most -flattering” for them all. But poor Arthur had no intention of -flattering. He could do nothing but sit in his lodgings, or in the -Bates’ parlour, and watch the progress of the hours. After the wedding -he vowed to himself he would change all that; there would be an entire -revolution in his life; he would escape with his Nancy into a better and -fresher air, and when they asked about the return of the pair, he did -his best to evade the question. - -“I don’t think we must bind ourselves to anything, Mrs. Bates. If Nancy -likes Paris we may stay there--or if we can get as far as Italy----” - -“Oh, I shan’t stay very long, mamma,” said Nancy, “I daresay I shall -soon get tired among foreigners.” - -“Shouldn’t I like to see you,” cried Mrs. Bates, “you that know the -language! What a good thing it is you that is going, and not Matilda or -Sarah Jane.” - -“Oh I should soon have got on,” said the latter personage. “I should -soon have picked it up, _commeng vous portez vous_; I know a little -already.” - -“But not like Nancy, who had French for five quarters at Miss -Woodroof’s, when your poor dear aunt was alive. My sister was one that -thought a great deal of education--” - -“I wish you would not all talk together,” said Nancy, whose temper was -not improved by her important position. “I hated it. I never learned a -word I could help. I’ll let Arthur do all the talking; and as soon as -ever we can, you’ll see us home.” - -“On the contrary,” said Arthur, with secret uneasiness, “you will like -Paris so well that you will never wish to leave it. It is so gay and -bright; and if we can go on as far as Italy--that is what I should like -most.” - -“Anyhow, you will be back before Christmas?” - -“Oh, Christmas! long before that!” said Nancy. - -Arthur said nothing; but he recorded a vow in the depths of his heart. - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - - -Durant met Lucy at the station on the morning of Arthur’s wedding day. -She was under the charge of old Mrs. Davies, the confidential woman who -had nursed Lady Curtis’s children through their sicknesses, and petted -them at all times and seasons since ever they were born. Lucy was very -pale, but her distress was nothing to that of old Davies, who seemed to -think it her duty to cry all the way, and heaved from time to time the -bitterest sighs. “Oh, my dear young gentleman,” she said at intervals, -“Oh, Master Arthur! to think as I should have lived to see such a day!” -This did not improve Lucy’s spirits, who sat very pale in a corner, -sometimes piteously lifting her eyes to Durant for sympathy. The day -chosen for Arthur’s marriage was the 1st of November, as inappropriate a -moment for a wedding as could well be imagined, All Saints’ day, the -anniversary of death, not of bridal, and a gloomy morning, with a soft -persistent drizzle of rain, and skies that looked like lead. “I hope the -sun will shine a little,” said Lucy. - -“Oh, Miss Lucy,” said old Davies, “why should the sun shine? They can’t -expect no happiness, flying in the face of their parents like this.” - -Durant who was not by a long way so melancholy as he ought to have been, -did what he could to make the party more cheerful. How could he be -otherwise than happy with Lucy seated opposite to him, travelling with -him, with an air of belonging to him, which filled the young man’s veins -as with wine? Sometimes he almost could have believed that it was his -own wedding day, not Arthur’s, and that something more than his most -foolish hopes had been realized. Alas, on the contrary, did not Arthur’s -wedding make his own more hopeless than ever? Would the parents ever -consent to a second unsatisfactory alliance; and what could a poor young -barrister, grandson of a fortunate saddler, with the saddler’s blood in -his veins but none of his money in his pockets, be but a very -unsatisfactory match for Sir John Curtis’s daughter? This thought did -more than friendship to restore him to the state of mind becoming the -occasion, and in harmony with his companions’ mood; but yet by moments -he forgot it, and half believed himself to be carrying Lucy off to -Italy, as Arthur was about to carry his wife away from these dreary -skies. How much happier he would have been than Arthur! as much happier -as Lucy Curtis was more lovely, more beautiful, more desirable than the -young virago Nancy Bates. If Lucy only had been more humbly born, less -well endowed! how could he wish her less fair and sweet? - -He had to hold an umbrella over her as he took her to the church in -which the ceremony was to take place, and he liked the rain. Old Davies, -who came stumping and crying after them in a waterproof, thought it the -most miserable day she ever had seen; but the young pair under the -umbrella, though they were very sad (or thought they were) did not so -much dislike the day. Lucy was much afraid lest she should meet the -party, and yet had a yearning to be recognised by accident by her -brother as well as a terror of it. She talked to Durant about this all -the way, raising her pale face and those eyes which had the clearness of -the skies after rain, and confiding all her feelings to him. - -“If it was by accident there would be no harm; could there be any harm? -I would not put myself in the way; but if it happened--” - -“You could not see him to-day, could you, without also seeing _her_?” - -A tear dropped hastily upon his arm, and Lucy turned her head a little -away to hide that her eyes were again full. “That is the worst of all,” -she said, “my only brother! and I shall never again be able to see him -without _her_--that is the worst of all. Oh, Mr. Durant, I don’t mean -anything against marriage, for I suppose people are--often--happy; but -it is not happy for other people, is it? It tears one away from all that -belong to one--” - -How hard it was for him to answer her! “This is an exceptional case,” he -said, his voice trembling a little, “but we must not be infidels to the -highest happiness--and love.” - -“Oh, love!” cried Lucy, who was thinking of her brother with all the -faculties of her being, although her heart was vaguely warmed and -stilled unawares by the close neighbourhood of this other who was not -her brother. “Love! as if there was but one kind. I did not think _you_ -would have spoken so. Do not we love him, Mr. Durant? and yet he casts -us off for some one he scarcely knows.” - -“He will come back to you; it cannot be that the separation is for long. -Arthur is not the man--” - -“Oh, Mr. Durant, you mean that he will not be happy? I don’t want him to -be unhappy. Oh, God forbid! and why should not he be happy,” said Lucy -with tearful inconsistency, “if he loves her?” What could Durant say? He -could think of nothing but the foolishest, most traitorous, -dishonourable things, dishonourable to the trust put in him, treacherous -to the confidence with which she held his arm. The very tightening of -her hold, when they met other passers by on the narrow pavement, made -him feel himself the basest of men, when he felt those unsayable words -flutter to his lips--yet made them only flutter the more. He was glad to -be able to put his companion into a deep pew in the old fashioned -church, underneath the gallery, where it would be doubly impossible for -anyone to see her. Lucy pulled her cloak closely round her, and drew her -veil over her face. Mrs. Davies was short, and was almost lost in the -depth of the pew--and they were all very glad that the church was still -encumbered with this old-fashioned lumber, and that no restorations as -yet had been commenced. Durant seated himself still further back. It was -a gloomy place--an old church, low-roofed and partly whitewashed. The -East window looked out into a great oak, which, with its yellow leaves, -was the only thing that seemed to give a little light. The dreary lines -of pews seemed to add to the dismal character of the scene, the -half-daylight, the rain drizzling, the old pew-opener going about in -pattens--no carpet laid down for the bridal feet, or any “fuss” made. -Why should any “fuss” be made about Bates the tax-collector’s daughter? -And no one was disposed to do honour to Arthur, but rather the reverse, -as a young man forsaking his caste, and setting the worst of examples to -all other young men. - -Now and then somebody would come in with a sound of closing umbrellas, -and swinging of the doors, and come noisily up the aisle and drop into a -pew. Girls, like Sarah Jane, in cheap hats with cheaper feathers, who -sat and whispered, and laughed, and looked about them, and women of Mrs. -Bates’ own type, with big shawls and nondescript bonnets, came to see -the Bates’ triumph with no very friendly sympathy. The dreariest scene! -Durant sat behind and looked at it all with his heart beating. In the -general commotion in which his mind was, he too could have cried as Lucy -was doing over Arthur. How different was all this from the circumstances -that ought to have attended the “happiest day of his life;” would it be -the happiest day of his life;--or perhaps the most miserable? And yet, -if the spectator could have taken the hand of that pale girl in front of -him, and led her up to that dingy altar, how soon would he have -forgotten all the circumstances! The damp-breathing place, the clammy -pews, the squalor of the rain, the absence of all beauty and tokens of -delight, what would they have done but make his happiness show all the -brighter? Would the effect be the same with Arthur too? They had very -soon an opportunity of judging; for Arthur came in suddenly by himself, -looking anything but ecstatic. Fortunately, Durant thought, Lucy did not -see him, her head being bent and covered with her hands. But Durant -himself watched the bridegroom with feelings which he could not have -described, a mixture of pity, and envy, and fellow-feeling, and -contempt. That a man who was the brother of Lucy Curtis should throw -away everything for Nancy Bates! and yet to have it in your power to -throw away everything for love, to give the woman you had chosen, if -she were only Nancy Bates, such a proof of affection, absolute and -unmixed! But Arthur scarcely seemed conscious himself of that fine -position. He was very pale, with an excited look about the eyes which -gave him a worn and exhausted aspect. He was feeling to the bottom of -his soul the squalor, the dinginess, the damp, and the gloom. What a day -it was to be married on! What a place to be married in! What dismal -surroundings? old Bates and Charley, and the uncle from Wapping, and not -one familiar face to look kindly at him, to wish him happiness in a -voice that was dear. He sat down in the front, gazing blankly, like -Durant, at the oaktree that shed a little colour from its autumn leaves. -It reminded him, by some fantastic trick of association, of the trees at -home. Would he ever see that home again? The disjunction from everything -he had cared for, from all he knew, came over him with a forlorn sense -of desolation and solitude--on his wedding-day! Arthur felt he was -doing wrong to his bride, but how could he help it? He, too, covered his -face with his hands. Durant felt that if Lucy saw him she would rush to -him in indifference to all appearances, but she did not know he had -passed her so quietly, all alone. - -And then the few spectators began to whisper and stir, and turn their -heads to the door; and a carriage was heard to stop. Lucy raised her -head and put back her veil a little. She gazed breathless at the bride, -who came up the aisle on her father’s arm. Nancy was dressed in simple -white muslin, the resources of the family having been concentrated on -the “silk” in which she was to take her departure from home. But she had -a veil like the most fashionable of brides, and a crown of -orange-blossoms, such as would have put most brides to shame. Lucy gazed -at her, more and more forgetting that she herself ought not to be seen, -and her heart swelled with a mixture of attraction and repulsion. That -dress and that moment equalizes conditions. A woman cannot be more than -a bride if she should be a queen. Nancy had a right to be considered as -the type of all youth and womanhood, as much as if she had been the most -exalted of women. Arthur was but a poor type of the other side, but for -her there was no drawback, except the rain, and she had not been -conscious of the rain. With her head a little drooped, but her pretty -figure erect, she walked up the aisle, leaning on her shabby old -father’s arm, like a lily, notwithstanding the meanness of the prop. She -was happy; she was serious; full of awe, which gave delicacy to her -looks and movements, uncertain yet serene upon the threshold of her -life. Durant, who had no prejudice, became an instant convert to her as -she passed him, virginal, abstracted, a vision of whiteness and serious -tender mystery. And Lucy, who was moved against her will, could do -nothing but gaze, forgetting herself, till old Davies sighed so loud and -shook her head so persistently that her young mistress took fright. It -was not a wedding that occupied much time. There was no music, no -nuptial hymn or wedding march for Nancy Bates, and the two spectators -who were most interested had scarcely recovered from their thrill of -excitement when the stir about the altar told that it was all over, and -the party going to the vestry to sign the register. This was the signal -for the other people present to open their pew-doors, and pull up their -shawls, and lift their damp umbrellas; and Sarah Jane, who was full of -excitement and satisfaction, proud of her white bonnet and her new -frock, came tripping down the aisle to speak to some of those companions -of her own, whose dingy dresses made such a wonderful contrast to her -own bright and gay garb. “Didn’t she behave beautiful? hasn’t it gone -off well?” said Sarah Jane, triumphing over everyone who was not in -pink muslin. And while she stood giving information of the future -movements of the bridal pair, describing fully where “Arthur” was about -to take Nancy, Durant bent forward to endeavour to induce Lucy to leave. -He had forgotten all about Sarah Jane, but she had not forgotten him. -She gave a little scream of surprise, and looked eagerly at the -half-veiled young lady. Then she rushed off, forgetting even her pink -muslin, and calling audibly on Arthur as she approached the door of the -vestry, which the rest of the party had entered. - -“Arthur! Arthur!” she called, rushing in among them, “there’s one of -your people there----” - -“Hold your tongue,” said her mother in alarm. “Sarah Jane! recollect -you’re in church.” - -“I’m speaking to Arthur, mamma; there’s one of your people there, as -sure as--as sure as anything, and Mr. Durant with her. He did not see -me,” cried Sarah Jane, with an angry blush, “but I know him; and there’s -a young lady and an old lady.” - -“And quite natural too, and I’m very glad of it,” said Mrs. Bates. -“Fancy my staying away if it was Charley’s wedding! I’ll go and ask my -lady to come and have a bit of dinner.” - -“It must be a mistake,” said Arthur, paler than ever; “it cannot be my -mother.” - -He put out his hand to stop Mrs. Bates; then he stood aghast, gazing -after her. He could not leave his newly-made bride, and how could he -meet his mother’s eyes? - -“Oh, go--go,” said Nancy; “you needn’t mind me.” Then she herself -melted, touched by the situation. “Yes, go, Arthur. I will wait for -you,” she said, with something that looked almost like dignity. - -He dared not take her with him. He went with mingled eagerness and -reluctance, wondering, affected, ready to bless his mother, or to cast -off all duty to her for ever. - -He found Mrs. Bates haranguing old Davies, his mother’s maid, calling -her “my lady,” and begging that she would do them the honour to come to -the wedding breakfast. - -“I don’t pretend to call it breakfast, it’s more like what your ladyship -would call a lunch; but the young folks must have something substantial -before they start on their journey--and we’ll take it so friendly, and -such an honour. It is just what we were wanting, and not daring to hope -for, my lady,” said Mrs. Bates, beaming. “Arthur, you can tell her -ladyship--” - -“Why, Davies, you!” cried Arthur, sharply, stung by sudden rage. “What -are you doing here?” - -“Davies! Ain’t she my lady after all?” cried Mrs. Bates. - -Lucy had been almost crouching in a corner of the pew; but when she saw -her brother’s troubled and worn face, she could not restrain herself. - -“Oh, Arthur, how could you think mamma would come?” she said. “How could -she come after the letter you sent her? But we could not let it be -without one near you that loved you; and I am here,” said Lucy, coming -forward, putting back her veil, the tears rushing to her eyes. - -Arthur was overcome by the sight of her, by the voice, by the incident -altogether. He was so much excited and overcome that he could have cried -too. He took his sister’s outstretched hands, and kissed her cheek. - -“Lucy, I will never forget this. Come and speak to Nancy, and then they -can take you away.” - -Here Durant came forward, with a feeling that he would be condemned on -all sides. - -“I don’t think Lady Curtis meant that your sister should see anyone,” he -said. - -“Lucy, I suppose you are old enough to choose for yourself--is he the -keeper of your conscience?” cried Arthur. - -Lucy looked at her guardian, with a faint, deprecatory smile quivering -on her lip. - -“I must,” she said; “I must! How can I help it?” - -She seemed to ask his permission; and what was he that he should give or -withhold permission? He stood aside, and with reluctant hands opened the -pew-door. - -Just then Nancy, tired of waiting, and drawn by potent curiosity, came -forward alone. She had thrown back her bridal veil. It was natural that -there should be a certain defiant expression on her face. She strolled -towards them with an appearance of carelessness, a cavalier air. Nancy’s -heart was beating loudly enough. She was afraid of the ladies whom she -might be about to face, but that only made her put on a bolder and more -saucy aspect. She was half-wounded that he should have left her for a -moment, half-anxious for the result, and really eager and wistful, -wishing to please if she could, had anyone been able to see into her -heart. But an image of more complete defiance and saucy freedom than -this girl, with her veil put up in a crumpled mass, approaching with a -bold swing of her person and a loud-sounding step, could not have been -found. All her virginal grace, her tender bridehood and womanhood, -seemed to have suddenly flown. - -Lucy looked up at her and quailed; her lip quivered more and more; she -looked at Durant with an appeal, she looked at Arthur with a pitiful -glance. Finally, she stepped forward, and said, softly, - -“I must not stay. I wish you may be very, very happy, you and my -brother. Oh, Arthur, you know I wish you happy!” Then she made a pause, -for Nancy gave no response. “I am sorry,” she went on, faltering, “that -it has all been so unhappy--that we have not known you--that Arthur has -been so unkind; but it is not our fault.” - -“Oh, it does not matter,” said Nancy. She was touched by the look of the -girl who stood before her, but to give in was impossible. “It doesn’t -matter a bit. I don’t suppose we should have got on, had we known each -other. It is better it should be as it is.” - -And with this she turned and walked slowly back towards the vestry, -turning her back upon them. Lucy stood still for a moment in dismay. -Then she said, breathless, - -“Good-bye, Arthur, good-bye! Davies will give you a letter, but don’t -open it now. Good-bye, and God bless you. Take me away, Mr. Durant, take -me away! Come, come,” she said, hastening him as they got to the door. -“I shall be crying again if we don’t go, I am so silly. I don’t care for -the rain, only come, come away!” - -Then they were out of doors again, in the wet street, at a distance even -from old Davies, who came hobbling after them, the rain blowing in their -faces, everything over. Lucy clung to his arm and hurried him on, -choking the sobs that would come into her throat. - -“How can I forgive myself?” he cried. “I have allowed you to be -insulted--I, who would not let the wind blow on you if I had my will.” - -She remembered this after, and his agitated look, but did not see them -then. - -“Oh, it is not that,” she said. “It does not matter, as she told me. But -oh, Arthur! he does not belong to us any longer, he cares nothing about -us!” cried Lucy, with the shock of discovery which no previous -preparation in the mind can lessen. - -She had said, as she came, that her brother was severed from his family; -but now she saw it with her eyes, and felt the sharpness of the fact, so -different from anticipation. Durant was full of a hundred compunctions, -as if he had been the cause. He would have said philosophically enough -to his own sister that it was the course of nature; but it seemed -horrible, unnatural, that such a thing should happen to Lucy. The little -suppressed sobs that came from her at intervals as they went back to the -train, seemed to rend his own heart. - - - - -CHAPTER XII. - - -Though it was his wedding-day, and though he was an impassioned lover, -it would be impossible to describe the sensation of despair with which -Arthur saw his sister and his friend hurry out of the church. His bride -had left him on the other side, turning her back upon him. He was left -there, with Mrs. Bates and old Davies! There was a tragical-ludicrous -air about the group which seemed the very culmination of that squalor of -the weather and the surroundings, which not even Nancy’s bridal-wreath, -and Sarah Jane’s pink muslin could counteract. Mrs. Bates and Mrs. -Davies were fitly matched. They were ready to fly at each other’s -throats, metaphorically, as they stood there, confronting each other: -Mrs. Bates red with confusion and wrath to think that she should have -called this _person_ my lady, and Davies dissolved in tears and -speechless with indignation. What had young Arthur to do between them? -They seemed like symbolical emblems of his fate. No longer to have to do -with the beautiful things of this earth, grace, cultivation, loveliness; -but with the meaner conditions, the bare, unattractive prose of -existence. Everything that was shabby and rusty and poor had taken the -place of all that was lovely and pleasant and of good report. Beauty and -youth were evanescent qualities; they would flit away even from his -bride; and what had he to look forward to but another Mrs. Bates as his -final companion? This horrible idea did not communicate itself in so -many words, but it flitted vaguely upon the air, giving Arthur a sudden -horror of Mrs. Bates, who had taken the place of his mother, as it -seemed. He turned away to follow Nancy, but was stopped by old Davies, -who called out a despairing “Oh, Master Arthur!” and put a letter, wet -with unnecessary tears, into his hand. - -“Is it from my mother, Davies?” he said. - -“I don’t know, Sir, if it’s my lady or Miss Lucy. I was to have took it; -I wasn’t to have seen you; but now as I have seen you--oh, Master -Arthur, Master Arthur, how could you, Sir?” cried Davies, with streaming -eyes and uplifted hands. - -He turned away with rage in his heart, clenching his hand involuntarily; -but at that moment Mrs. Bates interfered, and changed the current of -Arthur’s feelings. - -“You are a most impertinent person,” said Mrs. Bates. “How dare you -speak to my son-in-law so? And in church, too! Though you are only a -servant, you ought to know better.” - -“Davies!” cried Arthur, rushing back and taking the old woman’s hands, -“go after Lucy--quick! She is alone. But first say, ‘God bless you!’ -dear old Davies. There never was a time that you did not say ‘God bless -you’ before!” - -“And I will say it!” cried the old woman. “I will say it, never mind who -hears. Oh, Master Arthur, dear, God bless you! But you’ve broke my -lady’s heart, and Miss Lucy’s too.” - -“Run after her--go, Davies, go! my sister is alone,” cried Arthur, -giving her such a grasp of his young hands, and turning her round -towards the door with such impetuosity, that poor old Davies all but -tripped upon the matting in the aisle. - -He thrust the letter into his pocket, and went back to Nancy, who stood -at the vestry door, looking round for him, with nothing but disdain in -her face, and little but dismay in her heart. - -“If he leaves me like this now, what will he do after?” Nancy was saying -to herself; and though she loved him dearly, and though it was a great -marriage for Nancy Bates, her heart quailed for the moment at the -difficulties before her, and she repented of the step she had just -taken. She stood up against the vestry-door, defying her bridegroom and -all his belongings, as it seemed, with dilated nostrils and curled lips, -and insolent gaze. But in her heart, what a darkness of despair was -quivering about poor Nancy! What had she done? Plunged into a new world, -which was all against her, which was superior to her, in which she had -nothing but Arthur, who already, ten minutes after he had pledged her -his faith, had deserted her--for _them_! Oh, how much better to have -stayed by the old mother, the shabby father who loved her! Her whole -inner being was quivering with this pang of sudden desolation and -enlightenment. But with what a look of disdain and defiance she regarded -her bridegroom as he came back to her! no softening in her eyes, however -much there might be in her heart. - -“Forgive me, Nancy,” he said, gently. “You have a right to be vexed; but -don’t turn from me, my darling, as if I were unworthy a look.” - -“It is you who think me unworthy a look!” she cried, “you and your -fine-lady sister, and all your grand friends. Oh, I am sure you would -much rather go to them. If they had only come yesterday instead of -to-day!” - -“Hush, hush!” he said, taking her unwilling hand. She was everything he -had in the world now, and any stirrings of anger that might rise in his -mind were speedily suppressed by the emergency. People have more -dominion even over their feelings than they think. He got rid of the -resentment which springs so quickly when the nerves are overstrung and -the mind excited, by simple force of the position; for if he allowed -himself to quarrel with Nancy, what remained to him? The situation was -impossible. He drew her hand within his arm. “Is everybody ready?” he -said. “We have not much time to lose. Come!” he added, lower. “Darling, -we are going to leave all the trouble behind, both on your side and my -side.” - -“There is no trouble on my side!” - -“Well, then, on mine; we are leaving it all behind. Is not everything -happiness, everything delight beyond this church door?” - -She could not continue the controversy: for Arthur’s face had regained -the lover-look which Nancy had felt the absence of all that strange -morning. She had to walk by his side, with her arm in his, and his soft -words and glowing looks, and the way in which he held her hand upon his -arm, gradually stole at once the misery and the defiance out of her -heart. She began to forget the untoward details, and to feel only the -thrill of this mysterious thing which had happened. That she was no -longer Nancy Bates but Mrs. Arthur Curtis, to be my Lady Curtis -sometime--no longer a poor girl, the tax-collector’s daughter, but a -lady! All in a moment, this mystic change had been made. And she _was_ -changed; she felt it, with a sudden revulsion of sentiment. The laugh of -Sarah Jane behind her filled her with a half impatient shame. She was -annoyed to hear her mother telling over the just concluded incident. She -herself had a right to be angry, but what had they to do with Miss -Curtis’ visit? Lucy’s visit! that was what her brother’s wife had a -right to call her; but “the Bateses” had no right to interfere at all. -Had Arthur said this, she would have blazed into high resentment and -declared her family to be as good, if not better, than his; but in the -seclusion of her private soul, a seclusion not yet in any way impaired -by the fact that she was married, this was how she was thinking. It gave -her a sense of importance that Lucy had come. She had taken no notice of -Arthur’s family, but they had been compelled to take notice of her. And -in time to come when she might have many battles to fight with them, it -would be well to have this fact in hand. Accordingly, when the party -arrived at home, it was Nancy who silenced her mother, whose indignation -against Arthur for allowing her to address old Nurse Davies as my lady -was great. - -“Mamma, you will just stop that,” said Nancy. “You went out of the room -in a hurry before Arthur knew. Was it his fault?” - -Mrs. Bates was thunderstruck. She had thought of a great many things -that might happen, sooner than that Nancy should take up the cudgels for -her new family. - -“Bless us all!” she said, “is it a reason that no one should dare to -speak, because you are Mrs. Arthur Curtis?” - -But it was not a moment to quarrel. And when after the meal which Mrs. -Bates had thought Lady Curtis would call a luncheon, the mother and -sisters left the table with the bride, in a body, to change her dress, -according to the well-understood formula of marriages, there was nothing -but affection and tears, as is becoming at such a moment. There were no -strangers present at the meal. It had been the strong desire of Sarah -Jane that Mr. Raisins should be invited, he who it was understood was -likely to cause another “wedding in the family” before long. But this -had not been permitted, partly on account of Arthur, partly because -there was no room. - -“We must have your Uncle Sam, and how are we to squeeze in another?” -Mrs. Bates had asked; and all Sarah Jane’s indignant protestations about -the impossibility of a wedding “without one young man,” were silenced -by the physical impossibility. The limited number of the party thus took -away much of the supposed festive character from the repast. But for the -wedding cake on the table, it might have been a very ordinary domestic -dinner; and even Sarah Jane’s pink muslin was of little use to her, and -had no effect to speak of upon her spirits. To be sure there were a few -people coming to tea, whatever consolation might be got from that. The -little parlour was hot and stuffy with eight people seated round the -table; and no effort that Arthur could make could keep from his mind a -sense of the grotesque incongruity of the scene. People who were passing -peered in at the window to see the wedding party, and get a glimpse of -the bride. Arthur had found the parlour an earthly paradise at almost -every other hour; but he had not been in the habit of coming at this -hour. He had never even seen the family at their early dinner; and to -have his health drank by Uncle Sam from Wapping was a new experience to -him. - -“I hope as you’ll both be happy, Mr. Curtis, and that you’ll have every -satisfaction in Nancy,” said Mr. Sam Bates, solemnly drinking a glass of -the brown and filmy port which they all pledged the bride and bridegroom -in. He looked at her as if she had been an article just sold, with a -calculation of all the uses she might be put to, as he hoped she would -give satisfaction. “I have heard a deal of my niece Nancy, and I know -she’s had a many advantages,” he said. “I hope she’ll act up to them, -Mr. Curtis, and give you every satisfaction in the married state.” - -This was the toast of the day, and they all hoped that Arthur would have -got up and made a speech; and when he only said, “I am much obliged to -you, Mr. Bates,” they were all a trifle disappointed, especially on -account of Uncle Sam, who they felt required some practical proof that -Nancy’s husband was, in reality, the very fine gentleman and member of -the upper classes which they had represented him to be--not perceiving -that Sam’s speech of itself proved his perception of the fact. And it -was very strange that all these details, which would have amused Arthur -greatly, with a kindly amusement without any gall in it, when he first -began to come to the house, and which, even up to a very recent period, -he would have regarded with amiable toleration, should have become -unendurable to him now, at the very moment when he had become legally a -member of the household party, and had more reason than ever before to -judge them charitably, and look upon their doings and sayings with -indulgent eyes; but so it was. How this should be, it is hard to -explain, but it was quite natural to feel; and it is scarcely possible -to exaggerate the impatience that was in his mind to get away, and to -carry Nancy away. She was his now--“there was no longer any occasion for -him,” he said, unconsciously to himself, “to put up with this.” He was -enfranchised. Soon there would be land and sea, miles and leagues of it, -of English soil, and foreign ground between them; and it would be his -own fault if he exposed himself to another dinner in that parlour. When -Nancy went away to change her dress, attended by her mother and sisters, -Mr. Bates got out the rum, and called to “the girl” for hot water. - -“You’ll take a drop before you start for luck,” he said; and though -Arthur would not take any, Sam Bates was very willing to do so. The -smell of it sickened the young man, for the first time fastidious and -critical. He got up and went to the window to look for the carriage -which was coming to take his bride and himself away. They were going to -Dover direct, to cross in a day or two. How he counted the moments till -he could get out into the fresh air, however damp and gloomy, never, -with his will, to come back here any more. - -But another shock awaited poor Arthur when Nancy came downstairs attired -in the “silk” which was the crown of her little trousseau. It was light -and thin, and rustled much, and was of a kind of salmon colour, between -pink and brown, largely trimmed with flounces and fringes and bits of -lace--every kind of florid ornamentation. The women were so proud of the -effect, that Nancy was brought downstairs with the little brown jacket -on her arm, which she was to wear over this resplendent garb, which, it -seemed to Arthur’s eyes, might have been worn at a flower-show on a -brilliant day of summer; for he was not sufficiently trained in details -to be aware how the cheap elaboration of Nancy’s gown would have showed -among the costlier productions of fashion. - -“My! what a swell!” cried Charley Bates, while the two elders looked up -complaisant from their rum and water. It was indeed a proud moment for -the family. - -“The thought I’ve had over this dress!” said the proud mother, with a -pull here, and a pinch there to the cracking folds, “for you see there -were so many things to think of; the present moment isn’t everything; -and if she takes care of it, it will be quite good for next summer, and -always a handsome dress for an occasion. And then if they meet friends, -and are asked out of an evening, there she is! what could be better? You -may say she’s a swell--but lasting was in my mind.” - -“It’s a splendid costoom,” said Uncle Sam. “I hope there’s a something -in the pocket for luck. And very pretty you look in it, Nancy, and I -wish you health to wear it, my dear, and plenty more when that’s done.” - -“She must not look for many like this,” said Mrs. Bates; “not just at -present, till Sir John comes round. Parents may stretch a point, but I -would never have a young woman be hard upon her husband. Turn round, -dear, and show the basques. I never saw a dress that did Miss Snips more -credit. But Arthur don’t give his opinion. A shawl! Oh, if that isn’t -like a man! Cover her up in a shawl on her wedding-day!” - -“But what if she catches cold on her wedding-day?” said poor Arthur. - -He put his hand caressingly on the pinkness of the shoulder, and looked -at his bride with all the show of admiration which he could put on to -hide his secret horror. He was worn out with excitement and emotion, -which, no doubt, was the reason why this final accident gave him such a -shiver of horror. - -Nancy, who had grown suspicious as he grew fastidious, took fire -instantly. She flung away from his caressing touch. - -“I’d better go upstairs again, and put on my old merino!” she cried, -with a flush of passion, wheeling round with indignant impetuosity, and -a fury of disappointment in her heart. They all caught and held her, -while she struggled to get free. - -“She was always like that,” cried her mother. “She never could bear a -word about her things. Nancy, dear, it ain’t that he doesn’t like it. -It’s all his anxiety for you.” - -“My dear Nancy, the carriage is here,” cried Arthur, half frantic. “We -shall lose the train. The dress is beautiful, but the day is cold and -wet--” - -“Don’t you see, dear, he don’t want you to spoil your lovely dress--” - -“And be as hoarse as an old crow all the honeymoon,” said the amiable -Matilda. “That’s what Arthur is thinking of, and right too! And here’s -my new shawl, that I brought down on purpose. Look at the coachman, off -of his box, looking in.” - -This reduced them all to calm. The coachman sat serenely overhead, -contemplating the scene in the parlour with much satisfaction. His -attention, however, was chiefly centred in the steaming rum-and-water, -which, though it disgusted Arthur, looked very comfortable to the damp -cabman in the drizzle, who was elderly, and had no particular interest -in the bride. “Lord, how some folks does enjoy themselves!” he was -saying in his secret soul. And, fortunately, there was no more time to -think of the dress. Matilda wrapped her sister in her big shawl, and -they all pressed round with kisses and farewells, of which Arthur had -his share. He did not like them to kiss him, but how could he help it? -He was on his good behaviour, ready to accept and forgive everything so -long as he could get away. - -And when they at last drove from the door, what a relief it was! The -Bates’ all stood in a circle outside, waving good-byes and yet more -kisses, not heeding either the rain or the draggled spectators who stood -by. Nor were the other missiles wanting which are common on such -occasions. An old white shoe, one of those which Sarah Jane had danced -to pieces on the night of the Volunteers’ ball, thrown violently after -them, glanced in at the window, and fell on the opposite seat as they -set out. Never was there a more squalid spell discharged at the shy and -doubtful happiness for which Arthur Curtis had paid so great a price. He -took it between his finger and thumb, and pitched it out of the window. -Perhaps that, too, was an injudicious step to take. - -“I think you might have gone a little further off before you showed my -folks how you despise them, Arthur,” cried Nancy, with flaming cheeks. - -Poor Arthur! there was not much laughter in his mood. But he made an -effort to be light-hearted and gay. - -“It was too dirty for anything,” he said, laughing; and then he drew her -within his arm, and said, “At last, Nancy! only you and I!” - -“Yes; you have got rid of them all at last,” said Nancy, making an -effort to resist. - -But, after all, they were in love with each other, and had been married -that morning. The incipient hostility dropped, and he forgave her dress, -and she forgave his criticism. Her manners were as imperfect as her -gown; but now she was free from all influences that were perverse, and -she was his Nancy--his bride, the girl he loved, the object of his -choice. He had paid dearly for the prize he was carrying away. It was -not the time, certainly, to look out for flaws in that prize now. - -Thus they set off on their honeymoon, poor inexperienced young souls! He -persuaded her, with no great difficulty, to stay in London first for a -few days--hoping to be able to correct the dress--for how could he take -her to France, where dress means something, to travel in November in a -salmon-coloured silk gown? This may seem a poor sort of thing to occupy -a bridegroom’s thoughts. But then the vehemence of a reformer and -missionary was added in Arthur’s case to the new sense of responsibility -that was upon him. He must make her perfect--if he could. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII. - - -The long avenue at Oakley was as dreary as the damp street of -Underhayes. The rain drizzling, a constant soft downfall, half of the -chilly shower, half of the yellow leaves, going on without intermission. -Here and there one of the great oaks from which the place had its name, -stood up all russet and solid, with the dry leaves clinging to its -branches; here were feeble flutters of denuded sycamore and lime, there -elms standing up in a forlorn faded greenness, all rusty, shabby, -ragged, their year’s clothing worn out. The house itself appeared in -glimpses as they drove along, grey and cold with its broad low front -stretching along the damp terraces, which were so green with the wet as -to put everything out of harmony. The neighbourhood was proud of Oakley -Hall, which was said to be pure Italian, Palladian, or something finer -still if there is any finer word. It had an imposing front with -pediments and pillars, supposed to be white, but at present the very -colour of cold, damp and mournful. Lady Curtis shivered as they drove -along, sighting it by glimpses, now more, now less distinctly through -the trees. It was her home, but there was not much sympathy between the -lively quick-feeling woman and the blank splendour of the cold -long-drawn-out house. She was never fond of it at any time. What she -would have given for red brick! but Palladio was very much more -dignified if not so kindly. “How dismal we shall be without Arthur,” she -said as they approached. They had not talked very much to each other on -the journey. All that could be said about Arthur had been said on the -night of Lucy’s return from Underhayes, but it was not possible to keep -absolute silence about him now. The house was so full of Arthur; they -seemed to see him upon the steps, in the avenue, appearing across the -park with his gun. And now he had disappeared from the place. Their own -sudden departure, when they first heard of his folly, had broken up the -lingering remnant of a shooting party which had assembled at Oakley, -chiefly for Arthur’s pleasure, but which no persuasions had induced -Arthur to join. Now the men and their guns were all gone, and there was -an interval of quiet before them till Christmas, when Sir John’s -habitual party of parliamentary friends would assemble. Nothing but -mourning could interfere with that; and, “we can’t put on mourning for -Arthur, though God knows we might, if separation was all that was meant -by it,” said Lady Curtis. - -“Oh, mamma!” said Lucy with her usual tone of gentle remonstrance. - -Lady Curtis was very quick and outspoken. She said a great many things -with her lips which people in general say only in the seclusion of their -mind. Lucy _faisait les cornes_ again when her mother spoke of mourning -for Arthur. The suggestion was intolerable to her. It threw an -additional cloud upon the dreary streaming avenue and the grey blank of -the eyeless house. - -Sir John, who was in reality expecting them anxiously, did not come to -the door to meet them, being a little too late in moving from his chair -in the library, which was his way. There were often advantages in it; -and perhaps to-day, as on other occasions, it was just as well that it -was in his library he received his wife and daughter, instead of meeting -them in the full sight of the servants. Sir John was a tall grey-haired -man with a sort of homely dignity about him. He was not clever, and -often enough the ladies felt it was difficult to get an idea into his -head--and when the idea was in his head, he was in the way of treating -it somewhat hardly, as if it was a thing rather than an idea. He could -not play with plans and intentions as his wife’s quick mind loved to -do--and when he received a blow, it crushed him with a sort of solid -monotony to which there was no relief. He had not believed it possible -that Arthur would persevere with a marriage which was so seriously -against his interests, and had thought it only “some of my lady’s -nonsense,” to think that this very fact would make Arthur more decided -in throwing himself away. But now that the thing was done, he would -allow no hope in it. His son was lost--the prey probably of a bad, -certainly of a designing woman, seeking her own interests alone. He -might as well die at once for any good that was likely to come of him -now. And in consequence of this determination, on the part of Sir John -that such a thing could not happen, the final act in the drama having -taken him entirely by surprise, notwithstanding all warnings, had shaken -him enormously in his health as well as in his immediate comfort. “He -might as well be dead,” he had said, after he knew that there was no -more hope; and those were the words which he repeated by way of greeting -to his wife and daughter. - -“He might as well be dead at once--why did you let him do it?” he cried. -“If I had ever thought he could have been such a fool, I should have -taken care to be on the spot myself,” said Sir John. - -He had no curiosity about his son, where he was going--what he was -doing. He might as well have been dead. To be sure when he himself was -dead, Arthur must come back and reign in his state; but then Sir John -felt no necessity within himself that he should ever die. It was so far -off, that it was unnecessary to calculate upon that remote contingency, -and in the meantime it was his son who had departed out of this life, -left it altogether without possibility of return. He had spent these -last few days very mournfully in the solitude of his vast house. One or -two intimate friends had come to see him, but he had not cared to -receive their visits. The Rector had been there for a long time that -very day preaching strange doctrines: that a thing being done could not -be undone, and that it would be wise now to make the best of everything -that happened. The Rector was a Curtis too, Sir John’s own nephew, and -though he was shocked by this domestic incident, he was aware that it -would be best not to allow it to come to anything scandalous. He had -ventured to suggest that, perhaps, things might turn out better than -they appeared. “Better!” said Sir John, “he might as well have been -dead.” He had been able to think of nothing else since he had heard of -it; and his thoughts of Arthur were all of the kind which come into the -minds of those who have lost their children. All the old forgotten -nursery stories came back to him. What a boy he was--so active, so -strong, such a good shot for his years, ready to ride at any thing, and -with an opinion of his own on politics and all that. While he sat in his -library pretending to read and write (and what is it that elderly -gentlemen find to do when they are shut up for day after day, pretending -to read and write in their libraries?) these fancies came surging up -about him exactly as if Arthur had been dead. He would put down his -paper suddenly to think out a little joke of his when he was five, or a -school-boy prank at fifteen. What promise, what ability, a hundred times -cleverer than ever I was! and all to end in this. The dull surprise in -his mind was inexhaustible; how could he be such a fool--how could he -commit moral suicide in this way? And why had not his mother put a stop -to it? This dull misery which he was suffering did not affect Sir -John’s ordinary habits; he went on, to all outward appearance, just as -usual. He fulfilled every duty he had been accustomed to; ate at the -usual times, took all the usual courses at dinner, and presented an -imperturbable countenance to the butler and the footman who waited upon -him; but his heart was heavy with the thought of his son who was lost. -Though he was so glad to have his wife and daughter back again, he met -them almost with reproaches. - -“You went away, but you have not done any good,” he said. “I expected -little, but still you might have been of some use--and you have been of -no use. It is exactly as if he were dead.” - -“Oh, papa, not that,” cried Lucy; but Lady Curtis only cried as she -dropped into the big chair by the fire to get a little warmth. She felt -at first as if her husband had a right to reproach her, notwithstanding -that she had done everything she could; for she had left him with -perhaps a boast of her own influence, and with very high hopes. It had -seemed to her that Arthur must yield; and not only had Arthur not -yielded, but all the harm that had been threatened was accomplished, and -their only son was lost to them. She could not contradict what Sir John -said. She was humbled, she who had been so confident; she had gone away -almost promising to bring him back with her, confident in her power over -her boy. Never before had her husband gained such an advantage. He had a -kind of right to jibe at her henceforward, if he chose to exercise it. -She had nothing to answer to him. It was quite true what he had said. -What difference would it have made had the boy died. - -“I never thought it would come to this,” said Sir John, “not that I -believed in your remonstrances; but I could not have believed that the -fellow was such a fool. What does he suppose he will make by it? He had -everything that heart could desire, a good allowance, a good home; and -to go and cut his own throat as it were, to make an end of himself! He -might just as well have done it at once. He will never be of any good -again.” - -“It is quite true, it is quite true,” said Lady Curtis, “all that your -papa says is true.” Her heart was so wrung that she scarcely knew whom -she was addressing, Arthur, who had gone away in his disobedience, or -Lucy, in whom there were faint appearances of standing up for her -brother. The mother would not divest herself of the sense of a domestic -audience to be convinced, whom perhaps their papa might be effectual -with, though she had failed herself. - -“What he could think he was to gain by it!” Sir John resumed, encouraged -by this support, which he did not always receive from his wife. “Debt -and that sort of thing is bad enough, and we know how young men are -drawn into it; but what could anybody suppose this was going to be but -ruin and destruction; what could he think there was to gain?” - -“Oh, papa!” Lucy could not keep silence any longer. It was not the habit -of the house to allow papa to have everything his own way. When Arthur’s -youthful peccadilloes had been discussed hitherto, Lady Curtis, however -she might object to his conduct, had always been his champion with his -father, and one of the greatest marvels and most confusing circumstances -of all was this silence on her part, and surrender as it were of Arthur -to be crushed as Sir John pleased. Lucy could not be still and hear it -all. “Oh, papa!” she cried, “you speak as if poor Arthur thought of -nothing but his own interest; was he so selfish? you know that he never -thought of what was for his interest at all. Cannot you believe that he -loved her, and that this was his motive?” - -“My dear,” said Sir John, “I was not speaking to you. You stand up for -one another as is natural. But see, even your mother has not a word to -say.” - -This roused Lady Curtis from her depression. “I disapprove of it all as -much as you can do, John; I am as unhappy; but still I do not think -there was any calculation in Arthur’s mind; how should there have been? -It was the height of foolishness and wicked hastiness, but he knew he -could get nothing by it--he knew it was ruin, as you say.” - -“Why did he do it then?” cried Sir John with outspread hands, appealing -to heaven and earth, his eyebrows raised, shaking his head and looking -about as if for an answer. Perhaps he felt his son’s defection the most -of all of them, although when all was well with Arthur he was not one of -the fathers who cultivate their sons unduly, but on the contrary was -often impatient of Lady Curtis’s interest in anything connected with the -boy, and her anxiety about him. “What could happen to him?” Sir John was -in the habit of saying, when, as sometimes happened, there would be a -commotion in the house because Arthur did not write often enough. -“Depend upon it he is all right.” This had been his mood before; but now -he seemed to miss Arthur wherever he turned. A thousand questions seemed -to arise on which he would have liked to consult him; he wanted him to -shoot a too-well preserved preserve, he wanted him to say what he -thought about those new cottages which had to be built. Sir John did not -see the need of new cottages; _he_ did not want a new house, he was -contented with his old one; and why should not other people be content? -but in case the cottages should be forced upon him he should have liked -to know what Arthur thought. Now that he was gone, there seemed to arise -some special reason for appealing to him almost every day. It was as if -he had died. - -And there was a long silence in the big still room where the family had -met together after their misfortune. How few families are there which -have not known such sorrowful silences: when there is one absent to be -bitterly blamed, and some one in fretful anguish cries out, and the -others heartbroken, try for excuses and find nothing to say. This was -how it was. The mother and daughter had talked it over till there seemed -no more to add, but Sir John had not had this relief. All his pain and -anger had been locked up in his own bosom, and now they burst forth. -“What did he do it for? What did he suppose he could make by it?” Sir -John did not believe that his son thought anything could be made by it, -but how was he to repress the intolerable pang in his own heart for -Arthur’s loss and ruin? And yet he was angry that nobody defended Arthur -when he stopped speaking. He was angry also when the women attempted to -defend him. It did not much matter which it was. He was silent for a -moment; and the dull sky outside, and the dull air with its double rain -from the clouds and the trees filled up the great windows with -dreariness, adding another element of depression, and Lady Curtis gazed -drearily into the fire stooping over it, to get a little warmth, and -Lucy stood by the table motionless with tears upon her cheek. Then Sir -John burst forth again. - -“If there had been anything to justify it, you know! One has heard of a -man losing his head for a great beauty, something out of the way--a -syren, you know. But a village girl, and, from all I hear, a virago, a -temper--” - -“Don’t let us speak of her,” said Lady Curtis, with a movement of -disgust. “It’s enough that he has done it. Oh, the foolish, foolish boy! -Separated himself entirely from his own sphere, and his natural life, -and us.” - -“Mamma,” said Lucy, breathless, “I don’t want to excuse Arthur; but -what could you say worse of him, both papa and you, if he had done -something _wrong_?” - -They both turned upon her, furious: yet so thankful to her for standing -up for him with whom both were wroth beyond words. - -“Wrong!” they both cried in one breath. “Are you mad, child? Do you -think he has not done wrong?” - -“He has been very, very foolish,” cried Lucy, growing pale. “Yes, he is -wrong; oh, yes, I know he is wrong. But if he had done something -shameful, _wicked_, mother--people’s sons have done so--sin--crime--you -could not take it more seriously, you could not say worse of him.” - -“Sin!” said Sir John. “Lucy, you are a girl, you don’t understand -things. A man might be sinful enough, and not cut himself off like this. -It is worse, ever so much worse, both for him and us, than what girls -like you call sin.” - -“No, papa!” cried Lucy, with flashing eyes. “I will not hear you speak -so of Arthur. He has been disobedient to you; but he is a man. God does -not mean us always to be obedient like little children. And he has done -nothing that is wrong. I will not hear anyone say so.” - -“Wrong!” cried Lady Curtis, rising in her indignation and pain. “Do you -call it right to bring misery and disgrace into a family, to break off -all his old ties for a new one, to throw off father and mother, and duty -and honour, for the sake of a fancy, for the sake of a pretty face? What -does he know more of her than a pretty face? Love! is that what can be -called love?--for the sake of his own will and self-indulgence, the -unkind, selfish boy!” - -And then she sat down again and cried bitterly, which was a relief to -her. Sir John could not cry, but he got angry, which was a relief to -him. - -“Let me never hear you excuse him again,” he cried, “or you will make -me fear that you are not to be trusted either. What, Lucy! you think -children are not to be expected to obey their parents--you, a girl! -Then, God help us, what have we to expect, your mother and I?--our only -boy lost to us in a disgraceful connection, and our only girl ready to -follow his example.” - -“Papa!” cried Lucy, indignant, yet trembling. - -“Is that the prospect before us? It is kind of you to give us warning: -and to take such a moment for doing it, when we are crushed -sufficiently, I should think.” Then he changed from this pathetic, -sarcastic tone, and turned upon her with fierce and threatening looks. -“But mind you, Lucy, I’ll shut you up, as fathers had a right to do -once. I’ll keep you on bread and water--by Heaven, I will--before you -disgrace yourself like Arthur, right or wrong!” - -“Hush, hush!” cried Lady Curtis, roused. “Oh, John, you forget -yourself. Lucy, Lucy, your papa does not mean it. We don’t distrust you. -Fancy distrusting Lucy, our Lucy, John! Oh, we are not come to that!” -and she went to her daughter, and kissed her, and held her close in her -arms. - -Lucy had not said a word, but she had raised her head as her father -vituperated, and fixed her eyes upon him steadily. She was not a girl to -be frightened; but her mother grew frightened looking at her, and seeing -the pale indignation and firmness in her face. - -“Of course, I never meant that,” said Sir John, fretfully, sitting down -in his chair with an angry _thud_ which seemed but an echo of his sigh. -“Why do you put your fantastic meanings into a man’s plain words? Hadn’t -you better go and get your things off, and make yourselves comfortable? -And you can send me a cup of tea. It is all this wretched, depressing -day.” - - - - -CHAPTER XIV. - - -The Rector came up next morning to see his aunt and his cousin, and hear -their story. Nothing for a long time had interested him so much; and -though he was very sorry for Arthur, and sorry for those who had so much -to suffer on Arthur’s account, there was a latent feeling in Hubert -Curtis’s mind that some advantage, more or less, though he could not -exactly tell what, was likely to come to himself from Arthur’s -misconduct. He did not wish to profit by his cousin’s loss, but the -impression was strong on his mind that this was likely to be the case -whether he wished it or not, and, naturally, it moved him to a certain -excitement. Hubert Curtis was not specially adapted to be a clergyman; -in fact, it might, perhaps, be said that, of all professions for which -he was unadapted, the Church was the chief. It had not been thought of -for him till he was eighteen, just leaving Eton, and with thoughts of a -crack regiment and all the pleasure of life in his mind. By that time -Arthur was fifteen, and it had become quite apparent that there was no -likelihood of a second son at the Hall to hold the living of Oakley, as -was the tradition in the family; and Sir John’s uncle, who was the then -incumbent, was old and growing infirm. This being the case, there was a -hurried consultation on the subject in the family; in consequence of -which General Curtis paid a short visit to his brother at Oakley. It was -because of that uncle, who was still a young man, in possession of -Oakley Rectory when Anthony Curtis, Sir John’s younger brother, grew up, -that he himself had been made a soldier instead of a clergyman. He was -now a General in the Indian Army, with a tolerable fortune, and sons -enough to reinforce all the professions. Hubert was his second boy; he -was a lively fellow, full of fun, as his family said, and in those days -rather apt to get into scrapes--the very boy for the Army. And when the -General came home and announced the result of the family conclave, which -was that Hubert, instead of putting on a red coat, was to go to the -University and study for the Church, there was much tribulation in the -old house at Kensington, where the General lived with all his children. -The sisters wept with Bertie, who was in despair, and Mrs. Curtis went -about the house with a mournful countenance, saying to everybody, “It is -so much for his interest, it is a thousand a year.” After a while, it is -true, this consideration healed and bound up even the broken heart of -Bertie. A man does not come easily into possession of a thousand a year -as a soldier, and it was not pretended that he was clever to push his -way to the front of his profession; whereas here his income would be -certain and immediate, and nothing would depend on his cleverness. The -parish was small; there was a capital house, very good society, good -shooting, fishing, everything a man could desire; and as for the duty, -there was not very much of that, and by means of a curate it would -always be possible to diminish what little there was. - -Thus matters were smoothed down, and Bertie went to the University; and -in due time, on his uncle’s death, became the Rector of Oakley, like all -his grand-uncles before him. He was so far conscientious that he did not -keep a curate, the parish being one which contained about two hundred of -a population only--that is, he did not keep a permanent curate, though -he indulged freely in occasional aid. But it may be supposed that in -these circumstances Bertie Curtis was not, perhaps, so adapted for his -work, or so devoted to it as most of the other clergymen of whom we are -so proud in England. He liked his ease, which they are not supposed to -do, and that liberty of going where he liked, and doing what he liked, -which only the richer members of his profession can indulge in. He went -to all the races all over the country, and betted a good deal in a quiet -way; but, to be sure, the village people did not know where he was when -he was absent from home, and he might just as well have been at a -meeting of the Church Union as at the Doncaster meeting. And Sir John -and the other magnates did not care. Some of them said Bertie Curtis was -thrown away where he was, such a good fellow! He “got on” just as well -as if he had been the most devoted parish priest under the sun. In -externals he was good-looking enough, with the good features and high -nose which belonged to the family; of good height, rather over than -under middle size, but not tall; well-made, well-dressed, active, and -not stupid--on the whole, an attractive, agreeable Squire-parson, quite -benevolent enough, and not disposed to be uncivil or disagreeable to any -man. Poachers he hated by nature, dissenters he disliked professionally, -though he was too much of a gentleman even to notice them; but otherwise -he was friendly enough to everybody who did not interfere with him. - -This was the man who came up to the Hall, concerned and interested, to -inquire about Arthur--feeling very sorry for Arthur, yet with an -indistinct but not unpleasant consciousness that one way or another -Arthur’s mistake and failure in life must be good for himself. There was -one little weakness which Hubert had: an inclination towards his cousin -Lucy, who did not at all incline towards him. Up to the present moment -it cannot be said to have gone the length of love, but he felt that it -would be in every respect very suitable if Lucy and he could “hit it -off together.” Sir John would like to have his daughter settled so near -him, and Lucy’s fortune would be a very comfortable addition to Bertie’s -thousand a year; and then he liked her better than any of the girls -about, better than all the young ladies whom, he modestly felt, he might -have for the asking. There are indeed, it must be avowed, a great many -young ladies in the world to whom a thousand a year is as attractive as -it proved to Bertie Curtis, and who, being unable to get it as Bertie -Curtis did, have to “go in for” the clergyman, instead of going in -legitimately for the living, as it is the man’s proud privilege to do. -But none of these aspirants pleased him as Lucy did, who was not an -aspirant at all. In this the contradictoriness of human nature showed -itself. He liked Lucy; but Lucy did not care for him. She did not go so -far as to dislike her cousin, but she perceived as girls of fantastic -notions have a way of doing that Bertie’s aims were not very high; and -he was not old enough to be looked up to, and to have his faults -condoned like the kind old uncle whose place he occupied, who was not an -ideal parish priest any more than Bertie, but whom Lucy would not permit -anyone to criticize. - -When the Rector was seen coming up the avenue next morning, neither Lady -Curtis nor Lucy was delighted by the sight. “He is coming to ask after -Arthur, that pink of propriety who never did anything imprudent or -compromised himself for other people,” said Lady Curtis; which perhaps -was not quite just; for Hubert had “compromised himself,” if that was -any credit to him, often enough when he was at the University, before it -became his profession to be good. But there are many mothers and sisters -who will understand Lady Curtis’s feelings. To be sympathized with when -your scapegrace is out of favour by some respectable contemporary who -never was in anybody’s black books in all his virtuous life, is not that -more than feminine flesh and blood can bear? Does not one hate the -virtuous youth who has always so wisely shunned the broad path and the -green? And Bertie was especially obnoxious to this hatred. Bertie who -frequented all the race-courses in a black tie, and had a book on every -great “event,” and yet was always so decorous, keeping within the bounds -of clergymanly correctness, though he never professed to be devoted to -his profession. Had he been an open humbug and hypocrite, he would have -offended these ladies less. They knew how sympathetic he would be about -Arthur, how he would “understand his feelings,” and yet show in his -faultless manly demeanour how weak it was of Arthur to throw himself -away. Lucy’s first impulse had been to leave the room when she saw -Bertie appearing, but she was convinced of the futility of this when -Lady Curtis sprang to her feet impatiently. “There is Bertie,” she -cried, “Lucy, you always get on with Bertie, I really cannot put up with -him to-day.” - -“But you would not leave me alone--not alone--to entertain Bertie -to-day.” - -“My dear, what does it matter, he is your cousin,” said Lady Curtis; and -then she changed her mind and took her seat again. “Of course he is sure -to speak to me about it some time or other--as well to-day as any day,” -she said; “but oh, Lucy, to see him sitting there so correct and proper, -and my Arthur--!” cried the vexed mother. - -“Arthur has done nothing wicked,” said Lucy, elevating her head, with -again that look of resolution in her eyes. Lady Curtis did not -understand this look. She was afraid of it. She asked herself could Lucy -have anything on her mind? Lucy would not and could not emulate Arthur. -No chance that she would distress her parents with a lover of low -degree, or any man who was not a gentleman. But then if Lucy “took -anything into her head,” that would be worse than anything Arthur could -do. A trembling came over Lady Curtis. It was hard enough to lose her -son, but Lucy seemed now everything she had in the world. While these -thoughts were passing through her mind, Bertie was shown into the room. -There were some clerical tricks which he had learned, though he did not -assume a clerical deportment generally. He would take the hand of a -sufferer and press it with silent meaning, with eyes full of sympathy, -and if anything in the world could have exasperated Lady Curtis more -than the mere fact of his coming, it would have been this deeply-meaning -look from Bertie’s eyes. - -This however was got over, and so was the close pressure of the hand -which seemed to say so much, and Bertie sat down. The ladies were in a -small morning-room which they were fond of, which opened out upon the -green terrace in summer; and there they lived half out of doors in a -kind of stony bower formed by two of the pillars which adorned the front -of the house. The windows were very long and straight, the room was -furnished luxuriously, in a taste which is scarcely approved by the -art-standards of the present day. But they liked it for very different -reasons: Lady Curtis because she had herself furnished it, arranged -every festoon of the drapery, and chosen every scrap of the Louis Quinze -furniture: and Lucy because she had always known it like this and could -not bear any change. Lady Curtis sat with her back to the light, that at -least Bertie might not see the effect of his condolences. His face was -so serious, so sympathetic, so full of feeling, that few people could -have withstood it. He did not say much as he pressed their hands, and -after he sat down there was a pause. Lady Curtis had grasped at her -work when he appeared. It is a great safeguard to a woman to have a -piece of work which she can bend her head over, and thus avoid the -inspection of such serious eyes. “I heard you had got home yesterday,” -he said, “I am sure my uncle will mend now that you are here.” - -“Was papa ill,” said Lucy, “while we were away?” - -“Ill is not the word, perhaps: but one could not help seeing that he was -very unhappy. He will be better now. I came up to the Hall to see if I -could be of any use in amusing him a little, but it was not me he -wanted. And how is Arthur? I hope you saw him before--” - -“Yes, thanks, I saw him,” said Lucy, “he is very well. There has never -been anything the matter with him that I know of.” - -“No, not with his health of course; and I hope, aunt, you were more -satisfied about--the lady--than we hoped;--or I should say feared--” - -“If you mean Mrs. Arthur,” said Lady Curtis, forcing herself to speak -the words steadily, “I did not see her, Bertie. I did not wish to see -her; therefore I cannot give you any opinion on the subject.” - -“Nay,” he said gently, “I did not want any opinion. I only trusted that -you had been--pleased, or, at least, less displeased--than we fancied. I -suppose they have gone abroad?” - -“I suppose so,” said Lucy rather drearily. This cross-questioning was -insupportable to her also; but she was not of an impatient temper like -her mother; accordingly while Lady Curtis fumed, it was Lucy who had to -speak. - -“That will be a good thing,” said the Reverend Bertie, “so much can be -done abroad. It is really the place to go to when a little polish is -wanted. The very fact of living among foreigners is good for one in the -way of culture, and Arthur himself has such good manners. I hope you -will not think it an impertinent question--but I hope, my dear aunt, -there is no open breach?” - -“What do you mean by an open breach?” she said indignantly. “You talk as -if Arthur had murdered some one. If you will tell me plainly what you -want to know, I will endeavour to give all the necessary information.” - -“My dear aunt! is it not natural I should like to know? Arthur and I -have always been good friends. In happier circumstances, I should have -married him, or helped to have married him--surely you don’t think it is -mere vulgar curiosity. I don’t conceal that I should like to know.” - -Lady Curtis threw her work aside. She could not keep up the appearance -of calm. “I am sure you mean very well, Bertie,” she said, (though, -indeed, she was by no means so very sure). “And, perhaps, I am not so -patient as I ought to be. I can’t talk my boy over as if he were a -stranger. Arthur has been very foolish--” - -“You think I don’t understand,” said the Rector, “do you think I am so -unfeeling? I know how hard it must be, and Sir John is very severe. But -after all, what is done cannot be undone. Things of this kind so often -turn out better than anyone expected. This is why I wanted to know if -you had seen the lady. If she has sense, it may all come right, indeed -it may--women are so quick, they pick up things so fast. I wish you -would let me persuade you to take a little comfort. Things may not be -nearly so bad as they seem.” - -All this was so well said that even the suspicious mother could not make -any objections. After all, the chief thing against him was that _he_ was -not under a cloud, that he had not made an imprudent marriage; and it -was hard to refuse his kindness, and treat him as an enemy on that -account. Lady Curtis, who was changeable by right of her quick temper -and feelings, melted all at once, and opened her mind to him--her mind -at least, if not her heart. - -“If she had been a girl with any feeling how could she have married so?” -she cried. “Not one friend with him--his father and mother holding -aloof. No, Bertie, it is very good of you to say so, but I have not any -hope. Our boy is lost to us. Of course, when we are out of the way, he -will come and take his place here, and she will take my place, which is -no pleasant thing to think of; but in the meantime we have lost our -boy.” - -“Indeed, you must not think so,” said the Rector, “when the first -infatuation is over, Arthur will come back. He will not be happy in so -different a sphere. He will miss you--he will miss Lucy--and all his old -ways. In--how long shall I say? in a month, six weeks--he will come back -and beg your pardon.” - -“I hope he will not have so little perception,” said Lady Curtis, the -colour rising in her face. “You speak as if it were a case in which -such a conclusion was possible; and no doubt there are such cases; but -this girl--this girl is--Don’t ask me--how can I tell you all the -impossibilities of it? I see them, and I know that Arthur is lost to us. -As his poor father says, ‘he might as well be dead!’” - -Lucy had not said anything, but Lady Curtis saw without looking that her -daughter was not on her side. Lucy’s head was very erect--her mouth was -closed firmly, as if she was holding herself in; there was a certain -resistance in the poise of that head, and displeasure in the mouth. Lady -Curtis stopped short after she had answered her nephew, and turning -suddenly round to her daughter burst forth: “Say what you mean, -Lucy--say what you mean! I would rather have anything said to me than -see you keep it in and despise what your mother says.” - -“How could I despise what you say, mamma,” said Lucy, “or what you -think either? But I should like Bertie to know that I cannot blame -Arthur as other people do. He is dreadfully wrong in some things; but we -can’t tell he is wrong at all in the great thing. Mamma, I cannot help -it--I don’t want to vex you. For anything we know, she may be the one -wife in the world for Arthur; and when he was promised to her, pledged -to her, and had got her love, and given her his--I should have hated my -brother if he had forsaken her. Yes, I know you will be angry--but I -can’t help it. I might have been glad in a way--it might have been -better for the family; but I should have hated and despised him. He -could never have been Arthur to me any more--that, indeed, would have -been as bad as dying,” said Lucy emphatically with fire in her eyes. - -Lady Curtis was so moved with displeasure that she could scarcely find -words to reply. “You, Lucy, you! to go and put yourself on the side of -such a creature.” - -“I don’t put myself on her side, but Arthur has done nothing -irremediable--I cannot, I cannot allow it to be said! Oh, foolish, -foolish! unwise, unkind, ill-judged, whatever you please,” she said, -“but he has done nothing against his honour, or against nature. He may -repent it bitterly; but what he has done is not irremediable, I cannot -have it said.” - -“All for love,” said the Rector musing, with a half smile, “and the -world well lost!” - -“I do not mean anything nonsensical,” said Lucy, blushing hotly with the -shame of youth for being supposed capable of high-flown sentiment. “I am -speaking of mere truth and honour. What is a man who is false to his -word? who can be shaken off by other people’s interference from the most -solemn engagements a man can make? I had not thought of it when we left -home. It seemed just like going to get Arthur out of any foolish -scrape--as you did when he was saucy at Eton--and when he got into -trouble about his work. But this is different--a man must keep his -word.” - -“When he has made mad promises that will ruin him--when he is cheated -into vows he does not mean--when he makes engagements that will be the -torment and destruction of his life?” - -“I--I--suppose so--when he has given his word,” said Lucy, overwhelmed -by her mother’s vehemence, and by the sudden sense that even to this -subject, which seemed so distinct, there was a second side. - - - - -CHAPTER XV. - - -“I hope you are not vexed by the interest I take in it,” said the -Rector. “I fear my aunt is, though why, I cannot imagine; but, Lucy, I -wish you would trust me, and tell me what you can. Who has a better -right to be interested than I have? Not to say that I have been fond of -Arthur all his life, and that he is one of my nearest relations, next -thing to a brother, already.” - -There was something in the way in which he pronounced this “already” -which roused Lucy, she did not quite know why. It seemed to convey an -insinuation that there were still closer connections possible. She -interrupted him hastily. - -“I never knew that Arthur and you were such very good friends. Oh, yes, -cousins, of course. But cousin means almost anything, much or little, as -people like.” - -“That is not a very kind speech,” he said. “I always thought I had a -certain right both to Arthur and you; but when you say this--” - -“I do not mean anything unkind, but it is so. When people have been -brought up together it is different. Arthur’s great friend,” said Lucy, -firmly, and with decision, though with a slight, additional colour, “who -is like a brother to him, is Mr. Durant.” - -The Rector smiled. - -“You snub me very unmercifully,” he said, “and I don’t know why either. -I suppose you mean that Arthur does not care for me. Well, of course, if -it is so, one must put up with that. Durant? yes, Durant, I know, was -his great ally; but since they have lost all their money, I thought -Durant could not afford to keep up idle friendship; so, at least, it was -said.” - -“He has been very kind to Arthur. I don’t know if you call that an idle -friendship.” - -“My dear cousin Lucy, I don’t want to say a word that is disagreeable to -you. If you think Durant a better friend for Arthur than I am--” - -“I was not saying what I thought, or giving any opinion about best or -better. I was only speaking of the fact.” - -“Well, so be it,” he said with a sigh; “but, at all events, you will not -deny that there are few people to whom Arthur and his wife can be more -important in the future. We are likely to live our lives out side by -side.” - -“You mean after papa--” - -“Now you are angry with me again! It may be years and years hence, and I -hope it will; but in the course of nature, and my uncle would be the -first to wish it, Arthur will succeed him. We are both a great deal -younger than Sir John; and I suppose I am here for life--unless you are -unkind to me, Lucy, and make me indifferent to everything,” he said, -lowering his voice. - -She took no notice of this, unless by quickening her pace, and -insensibly withdrawing a little further from his side. They were walking -down together to the village, where Lucy had her favourite old women to -see after her return home. She had no excuse for refusing her cousin’s -escort, and why should she refuse it? He was very nice; there was -nothing in him that any lady could object to. He was her own near -relative, and their way was the same as far as the village, and she -liked him well enough. Why had everybody at the Hall this unexpressed, -incipient distrust of Hubert Curtis? Lucy could not tell; and perhaps it -was not necessary to have such a feeling to explain her little proud -movement aside, her slight withdrawal when he spoke in this tone of -subdued tenderness. She did not choose that her cousin should be tender -to her, and therefore it was quite natural that she should withdraw. - -“I suppose you are right,” she said. “Of course, you are a great deal -younger than papa; but it gives one a shock to think what may happen -when he--I prefer, for my part, not to think of it. Yes,” Lucy -continued, with that sudden inconsistency which she had from her mother; -“of course, Arthur and his wife will be of importance to you when we are -all away from the Hall; and you have a right to hear all I can tell you. -Well, Cousin Bertie--” - -“May I not protest against this?” he said. “You are not kind to me, -Lucy. What an air of selfish, interested, business-like curiosity you -put upon the simple sentiment I expressed!” - -At this Lucy blushed once more; for to be thought capable of imputing -base motives, was not that as bad as to be base one’s self? - -“I beg your pardon,” she said; “perhaps I am twisted a little--the wrong -way. How can one help that, when everything has gone so contrary? Well, -I will tell you all I know, and you must forgive me if I was -disagreeable.” - -“You are never disagreeable,” he said, in again that objectionable tone, -and with a world of objectionable meaning, “to _me_.” - -Lucy veered a little further off from him, as if she had been forced by -the wind, but went on taking no notice of the interruption. - -“I saw her, for a moment. Yes, I thought you would be surprised. She is -very handsome; and I was prejudiced--of course I was prejudiced. I -thought, as women, I suppose, always do, that she looked bold, not as a -girl should. I have no doubt,” said Lucy, with a sigh, “that she thought -the same of me.” - -“No one could think that of you.” - -“Oh, perhaps not that, but something equally disagreeable. She thought -most probably that I was proud. She did not speak to me. I said I hoped -she would be happy,” said Lucy, dropping her voice, “and I hope I meant -it, but I am not quite sure. Of course, I wish Arthur to be happy, and -he cannot be happy unless his wife is. So that, at least, makes my wish -quite sincere.” - -“And she did not speak to you! She did not think it an honour, the -greatest honour that could have been done her--” - -“Why should she think it an honour? It was her wedding-day. She was the -first person to be thought of. And I did not mean to see her, at least, -to speak to her. I did not mean that Arthur should find me out. Oh!” -cried Lucy, with sudden compunction, “I retract all I said just now. -When she came into the church, before she knew that I was there, she did -not look bold. She looked beautiful, yes, beautiful! happy and serious, -and not thinking who was there. Just, I should think, as a girl who is -going to be married ought to look,” said Lucy, with a soft mantling of -colour, less than a blush, impersonal, meaning the soft thrill of -fellow-feeling, nothing more. - -“But afterwards--you thought her bold?--who is she? Did you see her -people? Has she any people?” said Bertie, “that is almost as important -as herself.” - -Lucy gave a slight shudder, which was not thrown away upon her -companion. She had scarcely seen the rest of the Bates’ at the time, but -now the peculiarities of the other members of the group seemed to come -back to her with the retrospective memory which excitement possesses. -She could see them now--the shabby father upon whom that beautiful girl -leant, the mother in her Paisley shawl, and the flippant Sarah Jane. -These were the “people” of her brother’s wife. She made no reply, and -her cousin went on. - -“What a blessing that so much of the estate is entailed! Radicals may -speak as they please about the law of entail, but how many old families -would be kept up without? Fortunately, however angry my uncle might be, -he has no power to punish Arthur; at least it cannot but be a moderate -punishment. So long as he has Oakley--” - -“He has not Oakley, Cousin Bertie. I wish you would not always talk of -the time when papa will be gone. We may all be gone before him for -anything we know;” and once more she put out her two fingers under the -folds of her warm jacket to avert the omen. The Rector caught the -movement and laughed. - -“You are superstitious, Lucy. Why do you make that mystic sign at me?” - -“I am not superstitious--it is to avert superstition;” she said quickly, -with an idea that she was giving a reason. “But I don’t like a -conversation that is all occupied with what will happen when papa -is----, or that discusses my brother as if--You may think me fanciful if -you please, but I do not like it. I should not talk about Uncle -Anthony’s--to you.” - -She would not say the words death or dying, but left them to the -imagination. - -“You may say whatever you please to me,” said the Rector softly, with a -smile, and so far as concerned _his_ father’s death anyone might have -discussed it. General Curtis had not much to leave, it was not his end -that would work any great change one way or other in the world. His sons -would receive their pittance, and there would be no more about it. She -might talk of it as long as she pleased, and the Rector’s feelings would -not be much affected. But this was not the impression that Hubert Curtis -wished to produce upon his cousin. He meant to say _you_ may say what -you please--_you_ are privileged, there is nothing that I would not -accept from _you_. - -But by this time they had reached the end of the avenue. The Rectory was -the nearest house. It was a very handsome red-brick house, not older -than the days of Queen Anne, standing only a little way off the road, -half concealed in its shrubberies, well-kept, graceful, and comfortable. -The pediment of the front showed over the lower growth of trees, and was -sheltered and embosomed in the loftier ones. A noble old cedar -stretching its long level arms across the road stood close by the gate. -All kinds of fine flowering shrubs were in clumps in front of the house: -some shining in dark evergreen, and some rapidly dropping their -many-coloured leaves. There was something in the shape of sculpture -adorning the pediment, and the Oakley tigers ramped on the posts of the -gate; while behind stretched a large enclosure, full, apparently, of -fine trees. It was as good as many a squire’s house in the country, one -of the very finest specimens extant of an English Rectory. At a distance -of about a quarter of a mile lay the village, such a spruce and trim -place as villages are which live in kindly neighbourship with a rich -Lord of the Manor and a fastidious Rector--their gardens, their windows, -everything was in good order. There were flowers even now, -chrysanthemums and dahlias, and some pale monthly roses. The end nearest -the Hall and the Rectory was a sort of square built on three sides. The -houses were old, with high-pitched roofs, covered with those soft -brown-red tiles upon which lichens grow, and nothing could be more -picturesque. A row of little old almshouses, older than either Rectory -or Hall, was on one side, on the other was the Exchange, the Regent -Street of Oakley. Here stood the inn, a rustic country inn with a sign -on a post in front of it, and the post-office, with Berlin wool patterns -in its little projecting window, and the shop in which you could buy -everything. It was so civilized a place that in the post-office there -was a little circulating library, chiefly of novels; and scarcely less -innocent was the inn parlour where two papers were taken, and where the -village men dropped in as into a club, to see if there was any news. The -remains of an old cross stood in the centre of this little square. It -was reduced to a mere stone post, with half illegible carvings, and in -more modern days somebody had built a drinking-fountain close to it, -taking advantage of the old well which had been there from time -immemorial. The drinking-fountain was shabby, as drinking-fountains have -a way of being, but when horses stopped to drink out of the trough, and -a few people came with jugs of an afternoon for the water, which was -quite famous for making tea, with the broken old stone of the cross -standing up into the blue skies beyond them, it was a pleasant sight -enough. Everything, however, was grey with the November chill. Few -people were out of doors, but the afternoon had begun to brighten -through the haze, promising better weather. - -“I am going to the almshouses,” said Lucy, making a decided stop, in -order to take leave of her companion. - -“I will walk to the cross with you,” he said. And as they came within -reach of the village windows more than one good woman within, glad even -of this mild incident to pass the afternoon, came and looked at them -across the muslin blind, and decided that something would come o’ that. -“And I shouldn’t wonder if it was soon,” said the village dressmaker, -getting up to look at the call of her assistant, “for one wedding brings -another.” - -“Oh, is it true as it’s nobody but a poor girl that young Squire has -married?” asked the assistant, under her breath, who was young too, and -pretty, and remembered that the young Squire had looked in at the -window more than once as he had passed. “It might have been _me_!” She -said to herself. - -“There’s that overskirt to finish, Miss Cording,” said the dressmaker -peremptorily. She prided herself in allowing no nonsense to be talked -among her young ladies. Lucy did not know of the eyes that were upon -her, or of the guess in everybody’s mind. She walked very sedately to -the cross, and then turned round and bid her cousin good-bye. - -“I have people to see in the almshouses, too,” he said. “I will go on -with you.” - -“I did not know you went there,” said Lucy. She was better acquainted -with the poor people than he was, and indeed did a curate’s work, and -saved (though without intending it) a great deal of trouble to the -Rector. - -“You make me out to be worse than I am,” he said, with an uneasy flush -upon his face. “I may not perhaps take to the poor people as you do--I -have not been brought up to it; but I am not such a stranger in the -parish as you think.” - -“I did not think anything about it,” said Lucy, calmly; and this perhaps -he felt the hardest of all. - -Sir John came strolling into his wife’s sitting-room after these two -young people had gone down the avenue. He was restless, and came in -there three or four times a day for no reason at all, except the -restlessness of a troubled mind. He went up to the window, near which -she was sitting, to get the light on her work, for Lady Curtis was not -so young as she had once been, and her eyes, as she said, were going. -She had not had courage to go out and face the damp air and the long -dreary avenue with Lucy. She sat there mournfully enough by herself, -trying to think she was interested in her crewels. Sir John did not say -anything when he first came in, but went up to the window, and stared -out with eyes that did not seem to see anything. But they did see -something, for he said after a moment, - -“Is that Bertie that has gone down the avenue with Lucy? What does she -want with him?” - -“Nothing,” said Lady Curtis. “She was going to the village, and he was -returning to the Rectory.” - -“What does he want with her then?” said Sir John, “you should not let -her walk about the country with any stray man that may turn up.” - -“It is her cousin, John--surely she may walk down the avenue with her -cousin--when they are both going the same way.” - -“Oh yes,” he said; “surely she may, what harm can there be in it? Until -you find out suddenly perhaps that another marriage has been concocted -under your nose, and another of your children thrown herself away.” - -“Have you seen any signs of it? Should you dislike it, John? I am so -glad! I almost feared you were--favourable to him--thinking of something -of the kind.” - -“I!” he went from the window to the fire, and propped himself up against -the mantelpiece with his back to it. From thence he talked slowly, -perorating at his ease, and it was so pleasant to him to have an -audience, and to have attention, that a sense of relief and comfort, not -to speak of warmth, stole into his whole being. “I don’t like parsons,” -he said, “I never trust them--you can’t tell what they’re after. It may -be your money for charities, or it may be your daughter; and you never -know which it is. And Bertie’s so much worse than an ordinary parson -that he doesn’t even pretend to like his trade. He wasn’t brought up to -it, not young enough. So he has his own vices to start with, and the -parson vices plastered over them. I don’t like your wolf in sheep’s -clothing.” - -“Perhaps we are hard upon him, John. Poor fellow, it was not his fault -he was put into the Church; it is not his congenial sphere.” - -“He should have been on the turf,” said Sir John. “If I had known the -kind of fellow he was, notwithstanding the traditions of the family, he -shouldn’t have had the living; and if we don’t mind he’ll have our girl -too.” - -“Oh, no!” said Lady Curtis. “I was half afraid you _wished_ for it, and -was grieved for your disappointment.” - -“Disappointment!” he echoed again, and then after a pause he said, -earnestly, “My lady, there must be no nonsense about Lucy. There must be -no second _fiasco_ of a marriage. You are not a duenna, and I don’t want -you to behave as if she was not to be trusted; but, after all, what is -Lucy but a girl, like others? She must be taken care of; there must be -no nonsense about her. If Arthur had behaved as he ought, it might have -been different; but Arthur has been a fool, and there’s an end of it, -and that changes her position.” - -“John,” said Lady Curtis, hastily, “you will do nothing without -consideration? I am not defending Arthur, but you will not do anything -without serious thought?” - -“What do you suppose I can do?” he asked, with some bitterness. -“Nothing, or next to nothing. Oh, no, he will have everything his own -way. But Lucy’s position is changed all the same. She is, as it were, -the only one we have. If it were not that celibacy never answers, I -would tie her up not to marry, at least, in our lifetime.” - -“Oh, John!” cried Lady Curtis, in the extremity of her surprise. - -“Well, why not? It would be a great deal pleasanter for you and me. I -hate a girl marrying, losing her head, as they all do, and forgetting -herself for some poor creature of a man. Lord, if they knew just what -the men are that they take for something above the common! I don’t think -I could bear to see my Lucy philandering and going on with a fellow, -probably not worth a word from her. But celibacy, I suppose, does not -answer; at least, it is supposed not to answer, especially for women. A -man may get on well enough.” - -“A great many women get on well enough; but you cannot wish it, John, -surely you cannot wish it. Is it to secure a companion for us that you -would have Lucy, poor child, give up her own life?” - -“That is nonsense,” said Sir John. “Life is something more than -marriage. That is the folly of women. Nothing makes up to them for this -one thing. They have got it into their heads that love--love and -marrying--is all life is good for. Fiddlesticks! Look at all the men in -the clubs. They are chiefly unmarried men, and they lead a pleasant -life enough. A married man, with all his cares, can’t come up to them. -They have a much jollier time of it than I have, for example.” - -“But Lucy--our Lucy! You would not like her to be like one of your old -_roués_ at the club!” cried Lady Curtis, half horrified, half laughing. - -“They are not _roués_; that’s another of your fancies. They are worthy -old fellows, many of them with a great stake in the country. Now why, I -say, mightn’t a woman do just as well unmarried? There would be plenty -for her to enjoy. If she hadn’t her club, she would have society as much -as she could set her face to; and she could travel, if she liked that, -as much as any man, and see life; and she could do no end of good, if -that was her turn. Look at Miss Coutts.” - -“And this is the life you would choose for Lucy!” cried her mother. “Are -you out of your senses, John? No kind husband for her, like what you -have been to me; no children to climb about her--” - -“Pshaw!” said Sir John. “As for the kind husband, that’s one of your -pretty speeches, my lady, and you may be laughing at me, for anything I -know; and children--to treat her as Arthur has treated you and me! Did -we ever refuse the fellow anything in reason? No, I don’t say it would -do, I only said I would tie her up if I could, if it had been -practicable; and I believe it would have been a great blessing for all -of us--for her too, if she could have thought so; but then I don’t -suppose she would have thought so,” and, with a sigh, he walked away. - - - END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. - - London: Printed by A. Schulze, 13, Poland Street. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MRS. 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