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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e0d3328 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #65329 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/65329) diff --git a/old/65329-0.txt b/old/65329-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index bf37f25..0000000 --- a/old/65329-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6004 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Mrs. Arthur; vol. 2 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. 2 of 3 - -Author: Mrs. Margaret Oliphant - -Release Date: May 13, 2021 [eBook #65329] - -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. 2 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. II. - - - LONDON: - HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, - 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. - 1877. - - _All rights reserved._ - - - - - MRS. ARTHUR. - - - - -CHAPTER I. - - -Arthur Curtis did not think of the letter which old Davies had given him -till days after. It had been crushed up in the pocket of his coat, the -sight of his sister, and all the contending emotions of the time having -put it out of his head; and what could there be agreeable in such a -communication at such a time? A final sermon to him upon his folly, a -final admonition as to all the terrible consequences of his fault--he -had, he thought, enough of these, and he had not cared to make himself -miserable on his wedding-day with such a communication. It was not -unmixed delight, even without that, though this was not a confession he -made to himself, in words, at least. But the sight of his sister’s -writing half sickened him when he saw it eventually. To be told that the -course you are pursuing is ruinous, when you are entirely delighted with -that course, is bad enough; but to be told so when the first shock of -doubt, the first sharp suspicion of a mistake, has come into your mind, -is unendurable. Arthur had not, it may be supposed, allowed to himself -that this was already the state of affairs within a few days after his -marriage. He was the “happiest of men;” the society of his bride was -sweet to him, and her tenderness gave him an exquisite, indescribable, -all-penetrating delight, notwithstanding everything. Is the sudden shock -of that absolute identification of two different people, the one with -the other, ever for the first moment, a happiness unmingled? It was not, -at least, to Arthur. And Nancy was not one of those compliant, -sweet-tempered women who swamp their own habits and ways in those of -their husbands. Arthur had known these habits intimately enough; but the -changed relationship brought such an entire change of aspect as was -astonishing to himself. Heretofore he had been able to admire as -piquant, or to laugh at as amusing, the roughnesses or simplicities of a -breeding so different from his own; but suddenly an entire difference -had come upon his feelings. Now that he was responsible for these -peculiarities, they became alarming to him; he saw them with the eyes of -other people, of his mother, his sister, of Durant even, who would -wonder and be horrified to see Arthur’s wife so conducting herself. She -was no longer Nancy Bates, the girl for whom he was willing to risk the -world--but a part of himself, in whom his own character, his own very -being, was involved. This made the strangest difference in everything. -He had already felt it beginning for some time, but it was in full force -from the moment which changed the tax-collector’s daughter into his -wife. Thus he had felt, not amused, but irritated, when she made her -appearance in that salmon-coloured “silk.” That Mrs. Bates’s daughter -should wear the one fine and glistening garment she possessed to do -honour to her bridegroom, and to dazzle the eyes of all beholders on her -wedding-day, would there not have been in this a certain appropriateness -in the midst of the inappropriateness, a _sancta simplicitas_ which -would have charmed him? But it became all at once much more apparent to -Arthur that his wife ought to know better than to set out on a journey -in a pink silk gown; though when he tried by all manner of deceptive -arguments to beguile her into the choice of a more suitable dress, -representing that the dark blue serge or dark brown merino in the shops -would be warmer, more easy and comfortable, less liable to be spoiled, -and every other false yet true reason for preferring it that he could -think of, Nancy remained unconvinced. - -“You shan’t make a dowdy of me, Arthur, I can tell you,” she said. “I -didn’t get married to go about the world in these poor sort of clothes, -like a dressmaker’s girl; and to France, where everybody dresses so -well!” - -This was during the two or three days they stayed in London on purpose, -if the truth had been told, to get a suitable outfit for her; but only -Arthur, not Nancy, was aware of this true motive for the delay. - -“My dear girl, if they dress well it is by having suitable dresses for -everything, not by being fine,” said Arthur, driven to his wit’s end. - -“Fine! you mean that I am dressed up,” cried Nancy, her colour rising, -“and that is hard, for it was all done to please you; I thought you -would like to see me fine. I never used to mind what clothes I wore; -but I--and mamma too--tried to make as good a show as ever we could, for -your sake!” - -What could Arthur do but protest that he loved her more, if that were -possible, for the pains she had taken to please him, and thought the -salmon-coloured dress lovely; but after a while he returned to the -charge. “In France,” he said with the air of an authority, “they are -great on having a dress for every different occasion. Their dresses for -the morning they never wear in the evening, and their travelling -dresses--” - -“But goodness me!” cried Nancy, “what an extravagant way of going on! It -may be all very well for duchesses and grand ladies; but that would -never do for a poor girl like me.” - -“You forget you are not a girl at all, much less a poor one,” he said, -pursuing his wiles, “but a married lady, my Nancy.” Goodness me is not a -pretty oath; he swallowed it however, not daring to attempt correction, -with a secret grimace. - -“Yes, that is all very well,” she repeated, “but all the same we are -poor enough. I shan’t be a bit richer than I was. I may be grander, I -don’t know; for your folks have cast you off, Arthur, you mustn’t forget -that.” - -“Oh! my _folks_!” cried the unhappy one under his breath; the word hurt -him, in spite of himself. He had not been so delicate once; but this was -like a dig in the ribs to Arthur. It made him cry out, though he stifled -the cry. - -“No, I don’t think much of what you say if that is French fashion,” said -Nancy, “English fashion is far better. Instead of fussing and changing -all day long, and wasting one’s time, it is so convenient just to pin in -a bit of lace and double back the fronts, and there you have a lovely -dress for the evening; that’s what I like. No need to go and unpack -one’s boxes and get out another dress, it’s done in a moment. You must -allow, Arthur, that English fashion is best for that.” - -Poor Arthur! he thought of his sister’s little simple toilettes, so -fresh, so crisp, so plain! and he did not know--what foolish young man -ever does know? that whereas the finery is an easy matter, these dainty -sobrieties of garb are the highest quintessence of art. In novels, which -are the chief exponents of young women to young men, and of young men to -young women, has not the captivating humble bride always a spotless -collar and cuffs ready for every emergency, which make her exquisite on -all occasions? Why had not Nancy the secret of that little collar and -snowy cuff? - -All this, however, is a digression from the letter which he found in his -pocket, having thrust it away there on his wedding morning. He tore it -open impatiently after this talk. Did not he know very well what must be -in it? But it was better to glance at it and be done with it at once. -He found it, however, something so very unlike what he supposed, that -the little letter completely unmanned him and took his strength away. He -read it first with so much surprise that he could scarcely comprehend -its meaning, and when he had fully mastered it, burst out into an abrupt -break of sound of the most unintelligible description. - -“What is the matter?” cried Nancy; she was half frightened. She came to -the door of the inner room in which she was, and looked out upon him, -half dressed, wrapped in the shawl Matilda had lent her. “Are you -laughing or crying?” Perhaps it had been a little of both; but at all -events it had left the tears in his eyes. - -“Look here,” he said, with an unsteady voice, “this is the letter old -Davies gave me on Tuesday;” and then he added in a lower tone, “God -forgive me, I don’t deserve it,” with a half sob. - -Very coldly Nancy took the letter. She knew by instinct what it must -be. It was written in a rather illegible but pretty handwriting, not at -all like, but somehow superior she felt to the pointed precision of her -own. - - “I am going to your wedding to-morrow, Arthur dear; not to see you, - but to be there, that there may be some one that loves you all the - same. That always goes without saying. We think that you may not - have money enough to do all you want, so we have just been to the - bank to get this. Dear, dear Arthur, God bless you! Mamma shakes - her head, but she says it all the same. - - “LUCY.” - - And then there was added in another hand: - - “Surely I say it, surely I must say it always. And God forgive you, - oh, my cruel boy.” - -Nancy puzzled over this for some time. She began to read it aloud and -read it wrong, so that it took a ridiculous sound; then laughed; while -Arthur made a furious step towards her to seize it out of her hand. She -grew serious then, which quickened her wits and made her finish her -reading in silence. When she had done so she flung it to him, letting -the two notes enclosed flutter to the ground, and without a word turned -round and shut the door violently in his face. He caught the letter; but -the two fifty pound notes lay between him and the door, crumpled by -Nancy’s angry fingers. He stood petrified for the moment, too much -surprised to be either hurt or angry. Was this the way in which his wife -received his first appeal to her sympathy? the first mention of those -who, Arthur suddenly remembered, were next to herself the dearest to him -in the world? Somehow he had forgotten this until now; but it suddenly -gleamed upon him; a kind of revelation. Certainly it was so; his mother -and sister, were they not his dearest friends, the most generous and -kind? Was it possible that his wife could read this letter and not be -touched? and yet she had tossed it at him, had crumpled up the notes -like waste paper. Was this the attitude she meant to adopt towards his -family? and he had been so tolerant of hers! - -Nancy did not say a word on the subject when they met again. She looked -as if she had been crying; but said nothing, plunging into some -indifferent subject with unusual interest. But it was not reasonable -that the husband of three days could bear the matter like this. He said -something about “my sister’s letter,” as soon as he had a chance. “We -shall have a little more money to spend now, thanks to my mother’s -thoughtfulness,” he said. - -“Oh, your mother!” she flung away from him, flushing crimson--a colour -that meant anger as he already knew. - -“Yes, my mother,” he said, “why should not I speak of my mother? I -never think it strange, Nancy, that you should think of yours.” - -“Mine!” she cried, turning back upon him with flashing eyes, “her -thoughts have been as much for you as for me. She has been as kind to -you as to me,” (this set Arthur thinking; but what could he answer to -it?) “but there is not a word of me in all that letter, not a word, -though they knew I should be your wife when you got it.” - -“What could they say? They did not know you, darling, and I had been -silly, I had not written to conciliate as I ought to have done; but to -defy them. What could they say?” - -“Say! it is just as good as if they had said, ‘She is no more to us than -the dirt under our feet.’ They could not do anything against me or say -anything against me, so they treat me as if I was not worthy to be -noticed; oh, that is what they mean! they think if they keep that up -they will bring you back to them again, and persuade you that I am not -worth thinking of. Oh, I know women’s ways!” - -“You are mistaken, Nancy, I am sure you are entirely mistaken.” - -“A great deal you can tell! they will not show you what they are after. -They will smooth you down and keep you not suspicious. Oh! I tell you I -know women’s ways.” - -“You don’t know my mother and Lucy,” he said, making an effort to stand -against her, “they are not like the women you--” - -“Not like the women I know? I knew you would come to that,” she said -violently. “Oh, I knew it the very moment I set eyes upon her; but not -yet, not so soon as this.” And Nancy, really wounded in her blaze of -unnecessary wrath, burst into fiery tears. They were tears that might -have been red hot, and scalded as they poured down in a very thunder -shower. He had never seen such a torrent, and he stood thunderstruck; -not melted as he had been before, when Nancy was moved in this way. Here -too was a change. He stood still, he did not rush to her, and use all -the blandishments he could think of to put a stop to the intolerable -spectacle of her distress. He let her cry. He was confounded by the -sudden outburst; and a sharp twinge of shame for her mingled with the -pain she gave him. He was ashamed that _his wife_ should be so unjust, -so hasty in her judgment, so violent in her mistaken ideas. When he did -go to her it was slowly, with a hesitation very different from the -lover’s rush. That she should be so foolish _now_, was not that -something derogatory to him? - -“Nancy,” he said, “I cannot think how you can be so--unkind. Do you -think I mean any offence to you, or that _they_ mean any offence? Of -course you know they wanted me to marry some one--better off; some one -they knew.” - -“Oh, let me go,” she cried, choking with pain and rage together, “I will -go back to my mother; and you can go to yours, of whom you think so -much. What does it matter about a common girl like me!” - -“I think you are trying to drive me mad,” he said, “have I ever wavered -between you and my mother? but I see now where I did wrong; I should -have gone to her and made a friend of her, instead of defying her. I -should have taken you to her--” - -“Taken me!” she jumped up and faced him, trembling with agitation and -fury, “taken _me_! am _I_ to be dragged about to people that don’t want -me, to people that dare to despise me?” - -“Nancy!” - -“Nancy! that’s all you can call me now. I used to be your love and your -darling; now we’re married, and I’m bound and can’t get free, and you -call me Nancy! Oh! if it was all to do again, and I knew what I know -now!” - -“What on earth do you know now that you did not know a week ago?” he -cried with an impatience beyond words; and yet he felt half inclined to -laugh. That the impassioned creature who stood defying him, blazing in -impulsive wrath, should resent the absence of those loves and darlings -and tender words with which he had hitherto caressed her ears, so hotly -as to desire to break every bond between them, struck him with a sudden -sense of the absurdity of their quarrel. He went suddenly up to her and -took her into his arms. “But you _are_ my darling,” he said, “all the -same; though you are the most unreasonable, the most quick-tempered, the -most provoking. Sweet! what is everybody in the world to me compared -with you?” - -Thus the first quarrel terminated, though not without considerably more -trouble. Nancy perhaps saw too the foolishness of this impossible -struggle, and yielded after a certain amount of flattery, coaxing, and -caresses. And the cloud blew over so completely that, much to his -surprise he found himself able to persuade this despairing bride next -morning to get the travelling dress he wished her to have, and to tone -herself down generally, and make herself warm and comfortable and less -fine. They crossed the Channel two days after, more lovers than ever; -but no longer publishing their recent nuptials in their appearance, with -Nancy’s “silk” carefully packed at the bottom of her box, and herself in -a dark blue gown and little plumed hat, looking more like Mrs. Arthur -Curtis than Nancy Bates had ever done before. Arthur’s heart beat high -with pride and pleasure as they watched the white cliffs disappearing. -Nancy not without a little natural sentiment, for she had never been out -of England before, and it seemed a great thing to her to be out of her -own country, and on the verge of a “foreign land.” But fortunately the -passage was a very good one, so that no less elevated feeling mingled -with these tender regrets. He had her in his own hands now, the -bridegroom said to himself; all her antecedents left behind, the home -and relations happily got rid of, and all the influences of her new life -around her to wean her from the past. And how tractable she had shown -herself already, how willing to be convinced! a tender creature, who -accepted his dictation sweetly two minutes after she had burst forth in -rebellion against him; who had been indignant at his sister’s letter -(and it was, Arthur allowed to himself, nasty of Lucy, rather like a -spiteful girl after all as Nancy said, not to mention her in that little -note which was intended to be so gentle and peace-making), and then had -forgiven it so frankly as to use part of the money that Lucy sent. This -unreasonable, inconsistent, foolish, generous, hot-headed, soft-hearted -darling, could any man desire better than to have her wholly to himself -to guide her wayward feet into the print of wifely, womanly ways? The -mean little house, the poor form of existence at Underhayes (ungrateful -young man! it had seemed an idyllic life, full of noble simplicity and -poetry, when he knew her first) lay far behind, and while the probation -lasted it would seem so natural that England itself should fade out of -sight, and all that was past be forgotten; until by and by he should -take his bride home a lady in every outward sign, as she was, he assured -himself in heart. It is so easy in a young man’s glowing fancy to work -this change. Likewise it is very quickly done in many novels, and with -wonderful facility and completeness; and, as has been said, where but -from novels was Arthur to have acquired any experience in the treatment -of cases like his own? All went well during that journey. It was a -beautiful day of the early winter; warmly soft as November can -sometimes be, by way of contrast to its ordinary miseries, the sea and -the sky alike blue; and if the wind was cold, what there was of it, the -sun shining so warmly as to neutralize the wind. And Nancy now at least -was well defended and need fear no chill. Her cheeks glowed with the -fresh breeze, her little outcries, half of alarm half of exhilaration, -when the steamboat gave a small pitch which hurt nobody, delighted -Arthur. She clung to him and steadied herself by him with both hands -clasped on his arm, and had no thought, now that her moment of sentiment -was over, of anything but the excitement of this novel world into which -she was hastening. All the clouds that had been upon their horizon -seemed to float away. - -“I have been thinking,” she said, when they got into the -railway-carriage on the other side, and Nancy had got over her first -amused wonder and bewilderment, “to hear everybody talking and not to -understand a word.” They had a carriage to themselves, though that is -not so easy to manage on the other side, and Arthur, delighted with his -task, had begun to teach her little phrases in the tongue, which -notwithstanding her much-talked-of previous studies was quite an unknown -tongue to Nancy. “I have been thinking--” - -“What is it? Something very grave indeed, judging from that serious -face.” - -“Yes; something very important. I have always wished it, but they would -never give in to me. Not that mamma did not think me quite right, but it -is very difficult to break a habit in a family. But you must do it, -Arthur; it is not such a very old habit with you.” - -“What is this great thing I am to do--give up smoking--take off my -moustache?” - -“Oh! no!” cried Nancy, horrified. “The nicest thing about you!” which -pleased Arthur much, for it was still new enough to give him unfeigned -and honest pride. “But I will tell you what it is. Nancy is so vulgar, -so common, not a name for a lady; and it will not sound well here, -abroad, where people have such pretty names. Call me Anna--I have always -wished it. I was christened Anna Frances, you know.” - -“And I could not think who she was when they married me to her,” cried -Arthur. “I will call you what you like, my darling; but I like Nancy -best.” - -Did ever young people start on a honeymoon expedition with a better -understanding? He planned a hundred places to take her to, and things to -do. The theatre every night!--How Nancy’s eyes sparkled! and the Louvre, -of which she was quite willing to admit that it must be very fine, -without knowing what it was; and the Tuileries gardens with the band -playing, and the beautiful shops in the Boulevards. Even to hear of -these delights was enough to charm any bride. They were to go -everywhere, to see everything, to walk about and drive about always -these two together--nobody to interfere with them; and the play every -night! What could any bride desire more? - - - - -CHAPTER II. - - -Paris, with all its lamps and shop-windows, dazzled Nancy. It was before -the days in which ruins were visible from that brilliant Rue de Rivoli, -through which they drove to their hotel. She thought it was an -illumination as she saw the sweeping circles of light in the Place de la -Concorde, and the long line of lamps under the archways, and could not -be persuaded that this was how the brightest of cities adorned herself -every night. And when she opened her eyes next morning to the brilliancy -of the winter sunshine, and saw the brightness and gaiety of everything -around, Nancy was fairly transported out of herself. She had never even -been in a great hotel before, for Arthur had taken her to London -lodgings he had been in the habit of using, in Jermyn Street, which were -not dazzling. But here everything was lovely, Nancy thought. They had a -little _appartement_ in one of the great hotels over-looking the garden -of the Tuileries, with a little balcony; and from the white carpet with -its bouquet, and the sparkling wood-fire which was so bright and clean, -and supplemented the sunshine so delightfully, to the mirrors and -gilding, and white panels of the walls, everything she looked upon -filled Nancy with a bewildering delicious sense of having arrived at the -summit of fineness and splendour, and being a lady indeed, a princess -almost, enshrined in a bower of bliss. Nothing she had ever seen in all -her limited experience was half so splendid; and the noiseless waiters -who ran up and down with every luxury that Arthur could think of, and -the dainty food, and the perpetual service bewildered her unaccustomed -brain. This then was how great people lived! with carpets like velvet, -sofas covered with satin, a host of eager servants to find out what they -wanted, and bring them everything that could be thought of; mirrors to -reflect them on every side (Nancy had never been so sure about the _sit_ -of her dress, or knew so well what her figure was like before--and it -was a very pretty figure). No wonder they were happy! When they had -breakfasted, a pretty Victoria, with a fur rug to cover their knees, -came to the door, and in this they drove all about, taking what Arthur -called a general view of Paris, its pretty streets, its river and quays, -its boulevards, the Champs Elysées, brilliant in the sunshine, with the -great arch at the end. When Arthur stopped to let her see Notre Dame, -Nancy was respectful but failed a little in interest. It chilled her to -go into a church in the middle of a week day so soon after she was -married. Church was for Sundays, she felt, not a place to go into in the -midst of laughing and talk. She felt it like a _memento mori_, a sudden -chill upon her exhilaration, and supposed that Arthur took her there -with the intention of making her remember her duty and her “latter end,” -which was a suggestion she did not like. - -“Now you shall see something quite different in the ecclesiastical way,” -he said, stopping at another church before they went back to their -hotel; for he felt that somehow, though he did not quite know how, Notre -Dame had not been successful with Nancy. But she altogether refused to -go into the Madeleine. - -“I don’t know why you are so anxious that I should see the churches,” -she said, pouting. “I never knew you were so religious.” Arthur made -haste to disavow the imputation, as may be supposed, which all the same -he did not like her to make. He was not “so religious,” but he did not -like to hear women speak of the matter so--it was “bad taste.” - -“It is because the building is supposed to be fine,” he said, standing -at the door of the little carriage to hand her out; but Nancy declined -firmly. If she could not think of her duty without being taken into a -lot of churches to be reminded of religion and of dying, and all that -sort of thing, she did not feel at all disposed to be instructed so--and -they came in from their drive a little silent, and not so delighted with -each other, and with everything about them as they had been when they -went out, though Arthur, for his part, had not the slightest idea why. - -Luncheon, however, obliterated all recollection of the churches, and -made her again feel that everything was delightful in her present lot. -Not that Nancy was _gourmande_, or given to dwell upon what she ate. One -of those horrible luxuries, known in England as a Bath bun, would have -contented her, so far as eatables went, quite as well as the daintiest -little _fricandeau_. It was the accessories of the meal which told upon -her, the obsequious attendants, the perpetual service, the silver -dishes, the beautiful fruit on the table, and the sparkling wine, which -she had heard the name of all her life, as the crown of luxury, but had -never tasted it even in its cheapest form. They must be spending heaps -of money, Nancy felt, to live like this. But she was not bold enough to -interfere just then, and there was an unexpressed and subtle flattery in -Arthur’s care to treat her as, she thought, only princesses, who were -not brides, would be treated. As a bride, Nancy knew she had a -prescriptive right to everything that was fine. Even in her own -knowledge, sacrifices were made to secure everything that was better -than usual, for the brief but exquisite moment in which a girl held this -official position. A bride had a right to a drive in a cab if she -wished it--to a glass of wine if she liked it--to cakes and dainties, -and a great deal of coaxing and admiration. And to wear her best dress -when she went out, even though it should be on a week-day. Arthur gave -to his bride a glorified version of all these delights, except the last, -the pretty Victoria instead of a Hansom, and this expedition to France -and other unknown regions, instead of the day at the Crystal Palace, -which Mr. Raisins would most likely suggest to Sarah Jane; though it was -strange that he should object to her “silk,” the only thing of which she -had been perfectly sure that it was right. It was in this point of view -that she liked the dainty luncheon; and when they went out again -arm-in-arm in the afternoon for a walk, the shops on the Boulevards -threw her into an ecstasy. Arthur was complaisance itself to all her -wishes here. He was willing to stand at the windows and look in as long -as she pleased, and he took her here and there to glove-shops and -milliners, and bought her a hundred pretty trifles. In every shop they -entered, both men and women were so eager to know what pleased _Madame_, -so anxious to prove triumphantly that this thing and the other was -becoming to Madame, so openly admiring, so caressingly urgent, that -Nancy’s head was turned. It seemed impossible not to believe in the -sudden enthusiasm she called forth. Could it be only the ribbons, or -collars, or gloves they bought that stimulated these delightful people -into such warm and apparent admiration. No! Nancy could not entertain -such an unworthy thought. It was their kindness, she said to herself, -and something still more agreeable whispered in her heart that it was -her own attractions that made these people so kind. Had they not a real -pleasure in seeing a young bride like herself, so fair, so happy, making -everything look well that was put upon her? Nancy did not flatter -herself in this open way, but she had a pleased and delightful -conviction that this was the feeling in their minds. She believed in -their sincerity, and that she had made a real impression upon them. Was -not this how all the _nice_ people in books, small and great, showed -their appreciation of the lovely young heroine? Nancy had not as yet any -experience of the great--and indeed it was an effort on her part to keep -up in her mind a certainty that she herself was in a superior position -to the masters and mistresses, the “young ladies” and “young gentlemen” -in these very fine shops; a little while ago she would have looked up to -_them_; now this consciousness made her head turn round, and gave the -most curious piquancy to their admiration and enthusiasm for Madame. - -“How funny it is,” she said, as they came out into the crowded -Boulevard, where the lamps were beginning to be lit, “to be called -Madamm!” - -Arthur looked a little strange at this pronunciation; but he did not -venture to criticise. It was necessary to go very quietly with this -touchy young woman. He told her some pretty things that Monsieur in the -shop had said to him while his wife had been fitting on her wares upon -Nancy. - -“If you make as much sensation at the theatre,” he said, “what shall I -do? I am nobody now. I am Madame’s attendant, her obsequious husband.” - -“Don’t talk nonsense,” said Nancy, radiant. “What funny people the -French are! Are they always paying compliments?” - -“To people who have any right to them, yes; to pretty people, and those -who pay well, and those who will be likely to believe them.” - -“Arthur, how unkind of you! I don’t believe that people are so -barefaced, saying things they do not mean. One must have a very bad -opinion of other people if one thinks that.” - -But for her own part, Nancy was not tempted to think so. She conceived a -very high opinion of the French nation. If she could have got Arthur out -of the way, she thought she would have liked to try a little -conversation on her own account, for it would be delightful to be able -to chatter as Arthur did, and talk to anyone; but in his presence she -did not like to venture. Once more they went back to their hotel in the -most delightful state of content with each other and all the world. They -were to dine early, and then go to the “Français” to see the _Bourgeois -Gentilhomme_. Arthur had told her the story of the play, and how she -would be sure to like it, and that there was not a better French actor -living, and not such a good English one; all which had impressed Nancy. -And she was to be allowed to wear her pink dress, with a pretty wrap -which he had bought, an Algerian mantle, softly white, with threads of -gold, and a flower in her hair. Nancy’s heart beat with the thought of -all this gaiety and grandeur. He had bought her also a pretty fan; and -they were to have a box, which was a thing which conveyed very -magnificent ideas to her mind. To sit there throned like a young -princess, and allow herself to be admired while the best of actors did -his best to amuse her, in the midst of that which imagination had always -painted to her as, after a ball, the most seductive of pleasures, a -gaily lighted and brilliant theatre, what could be more delightful? And -at first Nancy was quite as happy as she expected to be. When she looked -out from the corner of the box with its silken curtains upon the bright, -many-coloured crowd, it seemed to her as if she could understand a -little how the Queen must feel when she came forward to thank her loyal -subjects for their kind reception of her. Half of the people seemed to -be looking up admiringly, wonderingly. She had never felt so truly -great before. How well she remembered, in the days of her humility, when -the highest she could hope for was the upper boxes, watching beautiful -ladies come into their box, and giving a careless, splendid look over -the rustling company below before they sat down. And now it was she who -was the beautiful lady in the box. Was there, perhaps, some poor girl -somewhere like Nancy Bates, looking at the lovely new-comer, surveying -and envying her with a wistful gaze in all her finery, watching her look -down upon the crowd, then sink gracefully into her chair as Nancy did, -half retired behind the curtain? It seemed to her that she was two -people, herself in the box--Mrs. Arthur Curtis--and Nancy Bates watching -from her inferior place; and this doubled the enjoyment in the most -wonderful way. How she would have noticed everything, the beautiful -white mantle with its gold threads, the flower in the lady’s hair, her -dress, and everything about her! and with great, yet less absorbing -interest, the handsome young husband who completed her belongings, and -was so “devoted” to her. Nancy would scarcely have had eyes for the play -in her admiration of the beautiful lady; and now she was the beautiful -lady herself, in full possession of all the greatness a box at the play -could bestow! How wonderful it was, and delightful; but yet, perhaps, -not altogether so delightful and wonderful as it had seemed to Nancy in -the pit. - -But when the curtain rose, Nancy was not so sure that it was delightful. -She was not sufficiently at her ease to enter into even the frank fun of -the _Bourgeois Gentilhomme_. She stared at M. Got with wondering -curiosity and doubt. No doubt it must be very amusing, for everybody -laughed, and so did Arthur; but Nancy could not laugh. What did that -queer man on the stage mean by all those strange antics of his?--trying -on his clothes in public, fencing with his maid-servant, making his -mouth into round O’s, when the still funnier man in the witch-like black -hat directed him to do so. It was all strange to her. She puzzled over -him, and could not make him out. “What is he saying?” she whispered to -Arthur when there was a wilder laugh than usual; but before she could -understand what Arthur whispered back, laughing, there was another burst -of amusement, and she was thrown out again. At first the sensation was -only disappointment, but by and by it became irritation. She could not -bear to feel herself the only one who did not know. High up in the -gallery above her, she could see a little French girl in a cap, who was -enjoying it with all her heart. And Arthur, though he tried to explain -all the jokes, forgot now and then, and gave himself up to the fun too, -and never thought of her sitting there who did not know what it meant, -and could not possibly enjoy it. The doubtful smile which she kept on -her face for the first scene or two, gave way to a fixed and somewhat -sullen stare. She fixed her eyes obstinately on the stage, and gazed at -the fun with unsympathising face, blank and immovable. If M. Got had -seen her, she would have been like a beautiful nightmare to him; and as -a matter of fact, that inimitable actor played all his pranks before -Nancy without conveying a single humorous idea to her mind, or one smile -to her face. How weary, how angry, how dull and miserable she grew while -the house rang with laughter, and all that fun went on under her eyes, -now sore with staring! All this time the little French girl in the cap, -up above, a poor little girl, not at all equal even to Nancy Bates, -laughed till the tears came to her eyes; and Arthur laughed, untiring, -too, though sometimes wondering a little why Nancy should be so quiet, -and stealing anxious looks at her, which she would not respond to, but -kept her eyes riveted on the stage. When the curtain fell, she gave a -sigh of relief, but turned her back upon Arthur, and would not answer -his questions as to how she had enjoyed it. Enjoyed it! How could he ask -her, he who had done nothing but laugh, and never cared for her. When he -rose, she rose too, but repulsed his attempts to wrap her cloak more -closely round her. - -“It will do very well as it is,” she said, twitching it out of his hand. - -“What is the matter?” he asked, wistfully, drawing her arm through his, -not without a little resistance on her part. - -“The matter? What should be the matter? I am only tired, and I shall be -glad to get home,” said Nancy. - -“I have made you do too much. I have dragged you about and worn you out, -my poor darling!” cried Arthur, and he was full of compunctions, half -carrying her downstairs. But when they got into the little _coupé_ which -waited for them, she burst forth. - -“I can’t see what there was so very amusing. I don’t think it could be -good French,” cried Nancy. “I don’t pretend that I can talk like you, -but I learned French at school, and I am sure I could understand if it -was good. You call that acting! I did not think he was clever at all.” - -“My love,” said poor Arthur, “it was the great Got, the best comic actor -in the world, I think. I never saw anyone like him.” - -“I have seen a dozen better,” cried Nancy. “What did he do? nothing but -make a fool of himself, putting on those ridiculous clothes, and dancing -and singing, and learning lessons, an old man! The great Go! I wished he -would go, I am sure, long before he did go,” she said, recovering her -spirits a little by means of her pun. But the process was not so -successful in respect to Arthur. He did not say anything, but shrugged -his shoulders, which fortunately she did not perceive. - -“I see,” he said, at last. “That is not the kind of acting you care for; -the higher walks perhaps would please you better. We will try something -quite different to-morrow.” - -“Oh, to-morrow!” she said, with a little shiver. This delight of the -play had already exploded for Nancy; and she recollected with dismay -that they had agreed to go to a play _every night_! Was this how her -life was to be spent? She thought regretfully of her mother and sisters -sitting round the table, chatting about everything that had happened, -and everything that was going to happen. The parlour was dingy, and she -had thought of it with a wondering recoil of half disgust in comparison -with her _appartement_, and all its coquetries, its white carpets and -curtains; but she had never been so tired, so worn with trying to be -happy at home. The little wood fire, however, was burning brightly, and -the wax-candles lighted, and the pretty sitting-room looked very -comfortable when they got back to the hotel, which they began to call -“home,” with easy desecration of that word upon which the English pride -themselves. Arthur put her into a comfortable chair, and made her take -some wine, and petted and consoled her. Poor Arthur, he was disappointed -too, but he concealed it manfully. His character was developing in this -unexpected probation, he was growing patient, forbearing, ready to make -all sorts of compromises and sacrifices, to ensure that his young wife -should be happy. He had not been so good or so forbearing in his former -relationships, when everything had been done to please him; but in -marriage, if one will not be accommodating, why the other must, there is -no changing that necessity of nature. This union which had cost so much -must not turn out a failure. If she would not exert herself, he must. -Therefore he swallowed his disappointment in respect to the immediate -evening, and in respect to the narrowing of future resources, which, if -Nancy could not be made to like the theatre, would be very serious, and -also the deeper disappointment, which he scarcely allowed himself to -look at, of finding in Nancy less understanding than he thought. He sat -over the fire a little when she had gone to bed and pondered it all. -After all, perhaps, it was not unnatural that a young girl who had no -experience, and did not understand French, should not all at once -appreciate Molière, even when interpreted by Got. Was it to be expected, -was it likely? Arthur began to say to himself that his disappointment -was the fault of his exaggerated expectations, and that he had been very -foolish; poor Nancy, what an ordeal he had subjected her to! But he -would not be discouraged, he would try again. Something romantic and -sensational at the Porte St. Martin, or a sentimental comedy, such as -was running at the Gymnase would do better. He would try that, -something that would interest her. Arthur knew a good deal about the -theatres, and he felt sure that one or the other would supply what was -wanted. But there was a vague depression in his mind, notwithstanding -the bright fire and the white carpets which were so warm and soft. This -first effort had not been a success. Nancy had not responded to his -call; it was, he supposed, his fault, but it was depressing. There was -nothing injurious to Nancy in the comparison that suggested itself. He -thought involuntarily of Lucy, how she would have laughed at Got’s -acting, how lightly she would have come in and sat with him over the -fire, and talked it all over, and enjoyed it a second time. All that -this proved was the advantages of education--it proved nothing more--and -he did not want to change Nancy for Lucy, or to abandon the ventures of -this strange and alarming double existence, which, having once begun for -him, could never end except by death. The little failures, the -continual perils of opposition and resistance, excited at least, if they -did not delight him. Life was no longer tame and monotonous whatever -else might be said. - - - - -CHAPTER III. - - -Next day Arthur made a further experiment with his bride. It was one of -the things he had promised her when they talked of Paris, and it had not -occurred to him that the very name of the Louvre conveyed no idea to -Nancy’s mind. She had been quite willing to accept it as something -vaguely splendid which she was to see, but that was all. He took her -across the broad sunshiny courts with a little thrill of expectation, -chiefly pleasurable, yet with a touch of doubt in it which perhaps made -it more exciting. Arthur was not himself very learned in art, nor an -enthusiast about it. He knew what a young man of his breeding could -scarcely escape knowing--he knew which were the pictures that everybody -admires; he had all his life been accustomed to believe that he admired -them, and what with association, what with faith, what with some natural -sense of beauty, such as few minds are quite destitute of, he had liked -to go and look at them from time to time when he was in the way of it, -and had a certain acquaintance with the great galleries in all the -places he had visited. He knew the Louvre well enough to know his way -about, to be able to lead a neophyte from one great picture to another, -and even to have his favourites in the Salon Carré. This does not -necessitate a very high appreciation of art, or much real acquaintance -with its productions; but yet it was as the highest knowledge and the -wildest furore in comparison with the absolute ignorance and -indifference which exists in the class from which Nancy was taken. A -less intelligent girl than Nancy, proceeding from the slightly elevated -social position at which it has become known that pictures are things to -be admired, and that admiration of them is a proof of superiority both -in rank and intellect, would have known how to acquit herself in such an -emergency. She would have gone through these galleries with a gush of -indiscriminate delight, finding everything beautiful, or at the worst -would have taken her cue from her husband, and admired what he admired. -But Nancy had not been educated even up to this point. She knew nothing -about them, had never heard of Raffaelle or Murillo, and when Arthur -said, “This is the famous Assumption,” stared blankly, never having -heard of it before; then turned her eyes up and down, gazing about her -with that idea that one thing is as good as another, which is the very -essence of ignorance. She had not even knowledge enough to be aware -that it was becoming to feign an interest. - -“What nice rooms to dance in--are they all kept up for nothing but -pictures?” she said, in deference to his apparent interest. Nancy did -not say stupid pictures, as she had intended; and it is impossible to -describe the disappointed feeling, the eager instructiveness of poor -Arthur, who felt his own hitherto superficial conviction that every -ordinarily well-endowed mind must care for pictures, at once confounded -and intensified by the absolute blankness of his bride. - -“My dear Nancy, France is more proud of these than of anything she -possesses. It is one of the finest collections in the world.” - -“I suppose they are worth a great deal of money,” she said, looking at -them calmly, yet with a certain respect founded on this consideration. -She was looking up at that divine wall upon which hangs the great -Murillo, the Virgin of the Garden, and Her of the Veil, the sidelong -penetrating fascination of the Gioconda, and many a wonder more; and her -calm of incomprehension was almost sublime. Some were “pretty” she -thought; but she pulled Arthur’s arm a little to go on, not knowing why -he should wish to stay so long, and keep looking when she had seen -everything. To be sure it was natural enough to respect things which -were worth a great deal of money--the big vases, for instance, in the -vestibules, of which she had felt that they must be worth a great deal, -though they were not pretty. It was difficult to associate the same idea -of value with the pictures, yet Nancy supposed nobody would make so much -fuss about them but for this. - -“Money!” Arthur said, with a little groan, then making the best of it as -he was learning to do: “Yes, dear, a great deal of money--and more than -money. Any one of them, almost, is worth more, even in money, than all -you and I have in the world.” - -“What a shame!” cried Nancy, “nasty old things,” and she pulled him on a -little. Then she stopped for a second before the Leonardo in the corner, -and laughed out. “What funny women! what are they sitting in each -other’s laps for? That is the funniest I have seen yet,” she said. - -“Hush, Nancy! this is by a very famous painter; but I cannot say I am -fond of it,” said Arthur, in his didactic vein. “That on the other side -is his, too--the Gioconda it is called--I like it better.” - -“Not I,” said Nancy; “isn’t she _deep_! I can’t bear people with that -look in their eyes. She is exactly like Lizzie Brown at home in -Underhayes--you remember Lizzie Brown, Arthur? Come on, I am sure we -have stayed long enough here.” - -“As you like,” he said, with a sigh; “but there are some more I should -have liked to point out to you--” - -“That is pretty,” said Nancy, pointing to a bright-coloured copy which -one of the many workers in the Salon Carré was making. “Mayn’t one look -what they are doing? they would paint at home if they didn’t want to be -seen. Oh, they are _copying_, are they? I am sure that is a great deal -prettier than the old thing on the wall. What do they copy for?” - -“To sell chiefly,” said Arthur, with a certain sullenness in his -despair. - -“Oh, to sell! I suppose people like to have them to hang in their rooms? -how curious! I would much rather have a picture of you.” - -Now Arthur had been falling into lower and lower depths of despondency -up to this moment. He had said to himself that all his efforts were mere -failures--that he could do nothing, and must give up the attempt; but -now he cheered up quite unaccountably, quite unreasonably. There was -nothing in what she had said to throw a new light upon Nancy’s capacity -and rehabilitate her in his eyes, yet somehow it did so. A sudden tender -compunction for the harsh judgment he had been forming came into his -mind, softening and melting him. He felt disposed to beg her pardon on -his knees. - -“You silly girl,” he said, “what do you want with my picture? If it was -of you, it might be worth something; but tell me, Nancy, if I were to -buy you some of those copies, which would you choose?” - -“I don’t want one; you are buying too many things already. Well, perhaps -_that_,” said Nancy at random, pointing at the picture which French -taste entitles _La Belle Jardinière_. It was a lucky guess enough. - -“You shall have it, my darling,” cried Arthur delighted, “I knew you had -real taste at the bottom of your heart.” - -“Oh no, not I,” cried Nancy, shrugging her shoulders and dragging him -on, “I don’t care about it. It was only the first that caught my eye. -Let us go on quickly through the other rooms; we have been such a long -time here. You must not buy that thing, what should I do with it? I -don’t really care for pictures. To be sure they make a room rather nice -when they have nice frames; but we have not even a room to hang them in. -But I will tell you what I should like to do,” she continued, leading -him out and in of the smaller rooms. “Let us go and get photographed, -Arthur, _together_, in a nice large size. It will be a much nicer -memorial of Paris. And then mamma would like it so much to hang up in -the parlour and show to everybody. We must take her a present of some -sort, and that would please ourselves too. She would like it a great -deal better than that pink lady with the little boy.” - -“For heaven’s sake don’t describe the picture like that! Do you know it -is a famous Raffaelle,” said Arthur, all the more horrified that some -one had heard her young confident voice and had turned round to admire. - -“What is a famous Raffaelle? I don’t pretend to know anything about it; -and I’d much rather have a picture of you; but what would be really -delightful would be to be photographed together. I wonder I never -thought of it before. Let us go and find some one as soon as we get out -of this stupid place. Oh yes, I have seen everything I want to see.” - -Poor Arthur! he was pleased that she should want a portrait of himself. -This flattering touch mended his wounds a little, and as she hurried him -out again into the bright wintry streets (breathing, herself, a sigh of -relief when they got fairly clear of the galleries), he said to himself -with the new philosophy which had come to his aid: Well! how was it to -be expected she should care for pictures, she who had never seen any? Of -course the anticipation was quite absurd on his part. Art demands a -special education. To plunge an unsophisticated mind without any -training, without any preface, straight into the profundities of -Leonardo, of Raffaelle, of Perugino, was ever anything so unreasonable? -and then to expect her to understand at once! The poor young fellow felt -that he had been hard upon his Nancy, though heaven knows, without -meaning it. And then what a pretty idea that was of hers about the -photograph! He had winced a little at the idea of having it hung up in -Mrs. Bates’s parlour, and exhibited to all her friends; but that was a -paltry feeling--and what could be more natural and delightful than that -she should wish for such a memento of their honeymoon? That she should -be so eager about it, was not that a proof that she was happy, -notwithstanding all the little frets of her new position, and those -ill-advised efforts of his to force her into his own conventional code -of the right things to be admired? That was all a matter of education, -he felt sure. He had not thought it to be so before. He had supposed in -his ignorance that a fine picture was like a fine landscape, -comprehensible to everybody; but then Arthur recollected what he had -read somewhere that it was very long even before people began to admire -nature, that a generation or two back the Alps were only horrible snowy -deserts, and mountains generally were looked upon as obstructions and -eyesores by the common mind. This showed clearly (he said to himself) -that education was everything. It not only _trained_ the eye but might -be said to create it, giving perceptions of beauty that actually had not -existed before. This thread of thought kept him occupied as he went on -through the bright streets, drawn by Nancy’s eagerness to one of the -shops where they had made their previous purchases, to ask about a -photographer. She was in such spirits over the idea that she kept up the -conversation and covered his silence; and he had conducted his -cogitation to a most satisfactory end, the conclusion that Nancy had -really shown originality in her remarks and that it was a mere absurdity -on his part to look for art knowledge from her--by the time they reached -the shop, where they were received with the most cordial satisfaction, -and where there were a great many new things to see which Nancy admired -greatly. The shopkeeper had no difficulty in indicating an artist of his -own acquaintance who, he had no doubt, would do justice to Madame, and -would be too proud and happy to have such a subject. Arthur, however, -came to himself when they had got this length, whether by the touch of -the practical involved in buying some more pretty things for Nancy, or -by the fact that he had proved her to his entire satisfaction to be -quite justified in her indifference to the pictures in the Louvre; and -he had sufficient good sense left to avoid the recommendation of the -_modiste_, and take Nancy to a really good photographer who gave them -an appointment for the next day. They were both quite exhilarated by -this engagement. It was something to do! They went back to their hotel -in the afternoon, consoled and happy, talking about it. And while Nancy -reposed herself and took out her dress for the evening, Arthur went to -look at the newspapers as in duty bound. He took up the latest “Times,” -and hid himself behind its ample sheet; but he did not get much good of -his reading. However distinctly you may make out that it is unreasonable -to expect your bride to be interested in the interesting things of the -place in which you are living, it is impossible to deny that it is very -embarrassing when she is not. A girl who was frightened and chilled by -Notre Dame, wearied at the Français, uninterested in the Louvre, what -was her poor young husband to do with her? The weather was not -favourable for those excursions which are so easy in summer. And besides -what interest could there be in Versailles, for example, to one who -knew nothing about the Grand Monarque, and probably had never heard of -Marie Antoinette? People do not marry their wives or their husbands -because they understand Molière, and love the Great Masters, and know -Continental history; but it is bewildering to be in Paris, or anywhere -else for that matter, with a new companion who has no associations with -anything, and is at once indifferent and ignorant of all that is in the -past. What was he to do with her? Where was he to take her? Poor Arthur -puzzled behind his “Times,” and did not know. - -That evening he took her to the Gymnase, and at first the spell seemed -to tell. Nancy for the first act gave her attention to the stage, and -certainly it was not such a failure as the Français. There was a good -deal of love-making, and that interested her. But it ended as before, in -disgust and weariness. - -“I wish you would not take me to such places,” she cried, “is it because -you are afraid of an evening at home? When we are settled at home at -Underhayes you will be obliged to put up with me, there will be no play -there.” - -This speech was particularly galling to Arthur, because he had not the -slightest intention of settling at Underhayes, and to have it taken for -granted gave him a pang which was chiefly terror. Should he be able to -resist the foregone conclusion which thus had established itself in -Nancy’s mind? - -“Indeed,” he said, “I should be glad to stay at home. Indeed I don’t -mind where I am, so long as you are there too. I do not care for the -play.” - -“Then what do you go for? Ah! I know, to polish me up, to teach me how -to behave, to remedy my defective education.” This was once more said in -the carriage as they were driving home. - -“Nancy, you are unkind,” said Arthur, “why should you speak to me so? I -know nothing about defective education. I took you to amuse you. You -thought you would like it.” - -“I did not know they were such poor sticks,” said Nancy, “I did not -suppose they would gabble their French so. The people in the shops talk -a great deal better. I never mistake them; and it worries me to look so -stupid,” she added relenting. “I should not mind for myself; but it -looks so bad for you having a wife that does not understand.” - -“For me, my darling!” cried Arthur delighted. “Do I care? An evening at -home will be a great deal more pleasant; but my wife never looks stupid, -cannot look stupid,” said the foolish young man. And again all was well. - -Thus the course of their honey-days went on not without fluctuations. -What he said in his foolishness, was true so far, that Nancy did not -look stupid. She looked careless, defiant, indifferent, scornful of -what she saw, as of something which was not worth the trouble even of an -effort to understand; but there was nothing stupid in her aspect at any -time, and in spite of herself, stray gleams of understanding came in to -the girl’s mind. Gleams which did not enlighten her then; but which -worked in the chaos, apart from any will of hers. Her will was all set -steadfastly the other way, to reject all possibilities of improvement, -and the idea of being educated up to her husband’s level. Was not she as -good as he to start with, was not her family as good as his family, if -not better? Not so rich, but nicer, kinder people, to be upheld in their -plainness above any attempt to pull them down. Nancy’s native energy of -mind all ran into vigorous scorn of any attempt to separate her from her -own race and identify her with his. To think of her old self in the pit, -admiring her new self triumphant in a private box was a sensation which, -all delicious as it was, originated in herself and was not betrayed to -anyone. Had Arthur seemed to think of this difference, Nancy would have -proposed at once to descend to the pit as the preferable plan. She had -made an immense ascent in the social scale by her marriage; but she -never meant to acknowledge, not if she should die for it, that the -ascent was of any consequence to her, or that it was expedient to change -her manners or her smallest actions because of it; was she not “good -enough” for Arthur? Then why did Arthur choose to marry her? It was he -who had asked her, she would have said, not she who had asked him. He -had pledged himself to take her for better for worse; but she had not -pledged herself to change anything in her life or habits on his account. -And she did not mean to do it. She was not a fine lady; she did not wish -to look like a fine lady. It was far better that everybody should know -what she was and who she was from the beginning. The idea that Arthur -had begun a process of education struck her suddenly after that visit -to the Louvre; why had he been so anxious that she should admire -everything? Why should he take her to the theatre? He wanted her to -learn French; but she would not learn French. She had not asked Arthur -to marry her; he it was who had asked her, and he must take the -consequences. She had no wish to be here in Paris. It would be far -better to have a little house in Underhayes, where she could show her -advancement to those who knew her, and distinguish herself in the only -circle where as yet she wished to be distinguished. Such was the course -of thought in Nancy’s mind. This was curiously interfered with by the -new thoughts which arose in her in spite of herself; but she clung to it -all the same. She would go back upon the first grievance of her dress, -the pink silk which he would not let her travel in, long after she had -been convinced that the blue serge was better and more comfortable, and -even looked better, which was the most difficult doctrine of all. She -was quite aware that if she had known then as much even as she knew now, -she would never have dreamed of setting out upon her journey in her -salmon-coloured “silk,” yet still resented the fact that Arthur had -objected to her “silk.” She would not yield. She would not try to adapt -herself to the “ways” he had been accustomed to. The Bateses were as -good as the Curtises, and so she would prove. But every day, in spite of -herself, Nancy became more and more aware how far different her habits -were from her husband’s, how unlike his were all her ways of thinking. -But she would never, never give in, she said to herself. It was he who -had asked her, not she who had asked him. - -This was very different from Arthur’s eager desire to make out, after -every new demonstration of the difference between them, that Nancy could -not act in any other way, that it was absurd to expect other things -from her. He was by far the humblest of the two, the most tolerant and -forbearing. Indeed Nancy was not forbearing at all. She took offence at -a look, and blazed into sudden wrath at the merest possibility of a -suggestion of anything derogatory; whereas he bore numberless little -shafts launched at his family, at fine people who thought themselves -superior, at dainty ways and prejudices about dress and modes of living. -Whenever she showed her ignorance more conspicuously than usual, or was -more painfully unequal to some claim upon her, poor Arthur plunged once -again into thought proving to himself that this was what he ought to -have looked for, that nothing else would have been natural. He justified -her in this way for everything she did, and everything she proved unable -to do. But still it was rather a trying process, and the conclusion he -came to at the end of a week was that Paris had not been a successful -place to think of for the honeymoon. Honeymooning is more difficult in -winter than in summer. There is so much more to be done in the latter -season, and the open air harmonizes a great many things. Whereas two -people not used to each other’s society, not interested in the same -pursuits, brought up in perfectly different ways, and with no resources, -shut up together even in a beautiful little apartment in a fine hotel on -the Rue de Rivoli, what are they to do? The photograph was a charming -occupation for one day, and it was tolerably successful, as successful -as photographs ever are, and was the object of great admiration in -Underhayes, when done up in a velvet frame. Nancy sent it home. - -“I hope you are soon going to follow,” Mrs. Bates wrote, and Nancy gave -the letter to her husband to read. Certainly Paris had not been very -successful. They had contented themselves with drives and walks after -that mournful day at the Louvre, had gone to the Bois, which was rather -naked at this time of the year, and walked about and got tired. And in -the evening they had sat “at home” in the hotel. But Nancy had nothing -to do, not even a scrap of fancy work, and when Arthur read to her, fell -asleep; and they went to bed very early, which both of them felt was -always a virtuous thing to do, if rather dull. And thus a fortnight of -the honeymoon came not very cheerfully to an end. - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - - -“I don’t think you care for Paris,” said Arthur to his wife. They were -driving out to the Bois, and the rain was drizzling, and it was not gay. -There were fewer quarrels in this dull interval, but perhaps the fact -scarcely improved the liveliness, if it slightly added to the happiness -of their life. - -“No,” she said, with some vivacity; “not at all. It was very nice for a -day or two. But now we seem to have got all we wanted, don’t we, Arthur? -Another afternoon in the Roo, or in the Palay Royal, just to pick up a -few little presents, and I should be quite content to go as soon as you -please.” - -“You have seen very little, Nancy.” - -“Oh, little! I have seen the whole place, all the best shops, and the -best streets. I don’t know what more there is to see.” - -“People will not talk about the shops and streets,” said Arthur, in his -most didactic way; “but about the pictures in the Louvre, and about -Notre Dame; and what music you have heard, and what plays you have -seen.” - -“I am sure mamma will never ask me any such questions,” said Nancy, “and -I don’t suppose you are going to take me to see your great friends.” - -“That reminds me,” said Arthur, nervously clearing his throat, “of a -favour I was going to ask of you. Will you do something--that will be -very disagreeable--for me, Nancy, for my sake?” - -She looked at him very keenly, examining his face, conscious that this -seeming simple prayer meant something more than appeared. “What is it?” -she said, with a gleam of suspicion in her eyes. - -“You will not promise then? you are cautious, Nancy. I should have -pledged myself to do anything and everything for your sake.” - -“What is it?” she repeated. “It is so easy to say what it is at once.” - -“It is this then--do not reply in a hurry--I am very anxious about it, -Nancy; don’t you think you might write a few lines--to my mother.” - -“To your mother!” the audacity of the proposal took away her breath. - -“Yes, I am going to write--to say what I truly feel: that I am sorry to -have offended her--” - -“Sorry to have married me!” she cried, almost jumping out of the -carriage in her vehemence. She looked at him, trembling with rage and -wonder. How could he face her and ask such a thing? How could he frame -the words? did he think she was going to give in, to yield now, without -rhyme or reason, she who was certainly determined never to yield? - -“You know that is not the case,” he said; “you know that I have not -repented marrying you--and never will. But, Nancy, it is not for our -happiness or--well, I will say interest, though it is an ugly word--to -be estranged from my mother. I want to write to her to tell her that I -am grieved, hush! to have offended her. I should have known better. I -should have managed so as that she might have seen you--known you, -before she condemned me--” - -“That is that you are sorry you did not send me on approval, as the -shopkeepers say--_me_! Do you suppose I would have done it? Do you think -I could have endured for a moment--” - -“Can I not ask you a favour--acknowledging it to be a favour, without a -quarrel?” said Arthur. “We have been married a fortnight, and how often -have we quarrelled already? Nancy, is it worth the while? Could we not -discuss a matter that concerns us both, calmly, without anger? If it -seems to you impossible, say so. Am I unreasonable to torment you about -a thing you refuse? But why quarrel--I hate it--and you cannot--like -it.” - -“How do you know I don’t like it?” she cried; then stopped herself, with -some dim perception of her folly. “I will not do it,” she said, -doggedly, “that is enough. My lady has never taken any notice of me--no, -nor even your sister, that you are always holding up as a model. I will -not lay myself down at their feet to be trampled upon; you may do it -yourself, if you please.” - -“I shall certainly write,” he said. “There will be no treading upon; but -I shall write. If you will not do it, of course I cannot help it; but if -you will be persuaded--out of your love for me--then I will be grateful -to you, very grateful, Nancy. I will not say any more.” - -“I shall not do it,” she said; and then there ensued a silence, which -was so long that it alarmed her. Generally Arthur had been but too -obsequious, anxious to make up, to clear away any lingering cloud; but -this time he said nothing. The fact was that his mind was too full of a -multitude of thoughts to leave him any time to speak. He was wondering, -in a kind of desolate way, what to do. He had ceased to be an -independent agent, he could not go there and come here at his own -pleasure. To be sure he was supposed to be the authority, to decide -everything, to regulate every step they took; but how different this was -in reality from the sound of it! A man has a right to take his wife -where he pleases--yes, when she will go; but if the man is a -tender-hearted, generous, foolish, impulsive young fellow in love, what -becomes of this sublime authority of his? just about as much as comes of -all the defences the law can place around a woman to save her from -cruelty and oppression, when she happens to be of a like nature and -loves her tyrant. Law is one thing, and love is another. Arthur did not -know how to oppose Nancy, how to make any move without her agreement and -sympathy, and he had already had many indications which way her mind was -fixed. She wanted to go home to England, to Underhayes: and he wanted -her to stay away, to remove further off from England. His whole mind -was occupied by the discussion of expedients how to manage this, how to -persuade her from her desire. And he was not even aware of the silence -into which he sank, and which she thought so deliberate, and done with -so distinct an intention of punishing her. They drove along in the -Victoria, which had carried them about so often, side by side neither -saying a word. Already Nancy’s appearance had changed. She had put aside -her traveling-dress for another “silk” which Arthur had given her, and -which was also dark blue in colour; over this she wore a warm mantle -trimmed with soft fur about the throat and wrists, a delicate little -bonnet, all corresponding, with that graceful Parisian taste, which is -not to be picked up in the Paris streets any more than in the London -shops, but dwells in its own costly shrine apart. All this changed -Nancy’s appearance wonderfully. There was still, perhaps, something in -her bearing when she was on foot, that showed the tax-collector’s -daughter, the pretty girl of a country town, a little swing and -loudness, a careless step and defiant pose; but in the carriage by her -husband’s side, wrapped up in those furs, reclining in absolute ease and -well-being, Nancy might have been a duke’s daughter for anything anyone -could say. There were many of the people about who noticed them as they -drove along, the handsome young English couple, usually so lively, -to-day so taciturn. A man cannot belong to “Society,” cannot be brought -up at Eton and Oxford, even if he is not in Society, without being -known, and there were plenty of people who recognised Arthur Curtis, and -wondered over his companion--who was she? They had not believed at first -that she was his wife. One of these men, more curious than the rest, -came to the edge of the pathway now as the Victoria got into the line, -and was obliged to go slowly. - -“Curtis! is it really you, old fellow? I had been told you were here, -but I could not believe my eyes.” - -“Was there anything so strange in my being here?” said Arthur, rousing -himself up. This was one of the men who know everything and everybody, -who have it in their power to convey a bad or good impression to more -important persons than themselves. This put Arthur at once on his -mettle. “You must let me introduce you to my wife,” he said, “My friend, -Denham, Nancy. We have not been very long here.” - -Nancy was excited by this sudden encounter with one of Arthur’s friends, -one of those, perhaps, who knew his “folks,” and belonged to that -unknown sphere of which she felt at once curious and defiant. She did -not know very well what to do, whether to shake hands with him, or to -refrain. Happily the instinct of comfortableness which suggested no -change of position made her bow only, and as this little gesture was -accompanied by a blush, very natural to the bridal condition and -sentiment, the new-comer swore to himself, by Jove! that, were she as -good as she looked, Curtis had got a prize. - -“Beg pardon for intruding on your domestic happiness,” he said; “but the -truth was I had not heard--Not much going on is there? But Paris is as -good a place as another for this dreary time of the year.” - -“No, I don’t suppose there is much going on, we have been nowhere; and -we are off again directly, for Rome, I think,” said Arthur. “Paris is -empty like other places. We have not seen a soul we know.” - -“I don’t suppose you were likely to look for them,” said Denham. “Would -Mrs. Curtis care to see the bear-fight in the Assembly? sometimes it is -fun. I will see after it, if you like, on the first good day?” - -“Should you, Nancy?” said Arthur, turning to her. Nancy had not a notion -what the Assembly or the bear-fight was. She positively trembled in -terror of saying something wrong. She who had never hesitated before. - -“I--don’t know,” she said; “I don’t care for any--fighting.” - -“Oh, they are all muzzled,” said Denham, laughing. “Meurice’s? I will -call and let you know.” - -“Thanks, but it is not worth the trouble; we shall be off in a few -days.” - -“If you go to Rome, Neville is there,” cried the stranger after them, as -the line moved on more quickly; and he took off his hat to Nancy with a -respectful politeness that enchanted her; she was pleased with the -novelty of talking to a stranger even for a moment. It made the air a -little less still and self-absorbed. - -“Who is he?” she asked, with momentary awe. - -“Denham, he’s one of the attachés here, not a bad fellow; but talks like -half-a-dozen old women.” - -“We need not mind how Mr. Denham talks,” said Nancy, with a little -elevation of her head. “We have nothing to be afraid of. He can talk as -much as he likes for what I care.” - -“Isn’t there? But he is Sir John, not Mr. Denham,” said Arthur, -carelessly. - -Nancy sat a little more upright, shaking herself free of the wraps, and -her eyes glistened. “Was that a baronet?” she said, with a little -awe--then added, “And so will you be, Arthur. I don’t understand saying -anything but Mr. to a gentleman. But you will be a baronet, too.” - -“Not for a long time, I hope,” said Arthur, with a sigh. It brought him -back to all the tangled course of his own affairs. He was not by nature -the kind of son who calculates on the time that must elapse before he -comes to his kingdom, and it was very strange to him to see his wife’s -eyes brighten at the idea of that “rise in life,” which meant his -father’s death. “Poor old governor, I hope he may live to be a hundred,” -he said, with a half-laugh, which was a half-sigh. Nancy did not join in -this wish. She stared a little with consternation at the thought. - -“What did--the gentleman--mean about bear-fighting? Is it a Zoological -garden? Assembly in some places means a ball,” said Nancy, “it was -rather a jumble; what did he mean?” - -“He meant the French Parliament, in which they make the laws, as the -House of Commons does in England--or at least, we may say so for the -sake of description,” said Arthur; to which Nancy replied with a little -startled “Oh!” of disappointment and suspicion. - -“Do ladies go to such places? I thought ladies had never anything to do -with politics.” - -“My dear Nancy,” said Arthur, seizing the opportunity to be instructive, -“when you go into society, you will find that people talk a great deal -about such things, whether they care for them or not; they _are_ the -things that people talk about. And it is reasonable to think,” he went -on, more and more improving the occasion, “that, when you are in a -foreign country, you should like to see what is most important in it. -That is always taken for granted. You see Denham thought that was one of -the things you would like to see.” - -This silenced Nancy more than could have been supposed possible. She -had never seen this stranger before, and probably never would see him -again; but the fact that he had expected her to know what he meant, and -to be interested in the French Parliament, impressed her infinitely more -than all Arthur’s anxious efforts for her improvement. Were ladies like -that, she could not help asking herself? What a bother it would be to be -a lady, if that was the sort of thing they were expected to care for--a -lot of old men making speeches, which she could not understand one word -of! but that of course nobody could be supposed to know. She was -overawed, and received Arthur’s sermon more meekly than she had received -any of his didactic addresses before. She supposed now that sister of -his, that Lucy, would have gone and understood every word, that she -would have liked the playacting, and talked about it, and laughed as -Arthur did, that she would have seen a great deal in those stupid old -pictures. Nancy was silent and dismayed. To be a lady seemed to her a -hard trade. How different from the case of Underhayes, the talk about -Lizzie Brown and Raisins, the grocer, in the snug parlour where -everybody was so comfortable! Her mother and Sarah Jane never would ask -her about the bear-fighting in the Assembly, nor how she liked M. Got. A -longing for home seized the girl, and a terror of what seemed before -her. To be sure, if she had known it, the talk about Lizzie Brown was -quite as much in Sir John Denham’s way as in that of Mrs. Bates; but -then his Lizzie Brown was perhaps an Empress, which makes a difference -more or less. The two young people had never been so silent in each -other’s company. They drove back so full of many thoughts that neither -perceived the pre-occupation of the other, and oddly enough they were -both thinking of their homes; Arthur, with a pang, but without any -desire to find himself there--Nancy with the strongest determination to -get back. There was a half-smile in Arthur’s eyes, but a smile which was -strangely associated with that pain behind the eyeballs and slight -constriction of the throat, which means unsheddable tears, as his home -seemed to rise up before him among its woods. He saw his father in his -library, his mother in that gilded and satin-hung morning-room, which -was _à la Louis Quinze_, but which nobody thought in bad taste, as we -see people in a dream. They did not look at him, nor welcome him, and he -did not wish to be there. How could he take Nancy there? He was -separated from them, perhaps for ever, and he could scarcely wish it to -be otherwise. But Nancy on her side thought of home with much livelier -feelings. Oh, only to be there! free to show all her pretty things, her -new “silks,” her trinkets and furs: to let everybody see how fine she -was: to talk just as she liked, not to be made to admire anything she -did not understand--not to be burdened with bonds beyond her -comprehension, limits of speech, and word, and action, beyond which it -was not “becoming,” not “appropriate,” not “right” perhaps, that she -should go. At home she had done what she liked, run out of doors when -she pleased, laughed as loudly as she pleased, been as ignorant as she -pleased. It did not occur to Nancy that at home it had been her -inclination to stand on her superiority, as one who had been five -quarters at school, and was altogether “a cut above” Matilda and Sarah -Jane. - -They were sitting after dinner that evening, yawning a little, when Sir -John Denham’s card was brought to Arthur. He looked at Nancy half -doubtfully, an expression which she caught at once. - -“Shall he come up, or shall I go down to him?” he said. - -“Oh just as you like,” said Nancy, with the quick thought passing -through her mind that Arthur did not choose that his fine friends should -see her. He looked at her again; in reality to see what she wished; but -to Nancy it seemed an inquisitorial glance, criticising her all over, if -perhaps she was “fit to be seen.” - -“I will go down and bring him up,” he said. When he was gone, Nancy too -looked at herself in one of the many mirrors. She still wore the dark -blue silk dress which had been made for her since she came to Paris, -with ruffles of lace at the throat and wrists. It was very plain. Should -she run and put on the salmon-coloured one, which was a great deal -finer, before Arthur returned with the stranger? She hesitated a moment; -but her good angel interfered and kept her still. Sir John Denham -thought her on the whole a lady-like young woman when he came into the -room. Evidently there must be something queer about the business -altogether, Denham thought; but she was very pretty, and looked _comme -il faut_, so far as he could see. - -“I have to make a thousand apologies,” he said, “but I thought it better -to run up and tell my story myself, hoping that Curtis would intercede -for me as an old friend. May I be allowed to open my mouth at all, at -such an inappropriate moment? A thousand thanks; I came to say that if -you would be at the Palais de Justice at twelve to-morrow, I could meet -you there with La Pic, who is a friend of mine, and would take you in. -There is to be an _interpellation_ which probably may be amusing--and if -you are going on so soon--” - -“It is very kind of you, Denham, I am sure my wife will like it.” - -“Mrs. Curtis looks a little doubtful, I think,” said Denham, “but of -course you must not mind me. It is only if it will amuse you.” - -Nancy vacillated between two courses; she was tempted to a little -bravado, to avow boldly her ignorance, and shame the pretensions which -her husband made on her behalf; and on the other hand she was also -tempted to commend herself to this stranger, who was a real baronet, and -finer than anyone she had ever talked with before. Why should she let -him see how little she knew? And in this wavering she took a long time -to make up her reply. - -“I do not understand much about--politics,” she said. - -“Especially French politics, I suppose,” said Sir John, smiling and -showing large white teeth. “So I should think, Mrs. Curtis; _I_ don’t -understand them though it is my business; but it is fine to see how -they fly at each other, and will not keep still for all the Presidents -in the world. I hope Curtis has been letting you see a little of Paris. -We must excuse him, I suppose, for keeping you so entirely to himself.” - -“We have been at a theatre or two,” said Arthur carelessly, “that is -all; we are just passing through.” - -“And I am sorry there is nothing going on yet; after Christmas, if you -were staying, I might be of some use. Some of the balls are worth going -to in the Carnival. But why should I tell this to you who, probably know -a great deal better than I do--” - -“Oh no,” said Nancy, “I have never been in Paris before.” - -“Ah, that accounts--” said Sir John. “The fact is I have been wondering -that I had not seen you anywhere; what luck for Curtis to have so many -new things to show you. But there is not much going on. I suppose you -are going to Oakley for Christmas, Curtis. Lucky fellow, with nothing to -do but amuse yourself. Put me at the feet of the ladies there; I have -not seen Lady Curtis or your sister for ages. A poor beggar like me -would not know what to do with such a place, otherwise I should envy -you, Oakley. What a place! what woods! what a park! it is only in -England that one sees anything like it.” - -“You were always a romancer, Denham, Oakley is nothing particular. Being -home it is very pleasant; but as a model of an English house--” - -“I maintain it is, and Mrs. Curtis shall judge between us. It is not a -feudal castle--I allow you might find finer things in that line; it has -neither moat nor dungeon, I suppose; but for a gentleman’s house--why, -we have nothing in the least like it here. Don’t you agree with me, Mrs. -Curtis? You have not been long enough in the family to depreciate their -good things as they do. I am sure you will give your vote for Oakley -against anything you see between this and Rome, of its kind--I wait for -your support.” - -It was a strange situation enough. Denham did not understand; but he -divined, and liked to play with the unknown danger in Nancy’s doubtful -looks, and Curtis’s evident anxiety. As for Nancy, she looked at her -husband with a perceptible tremor. She wanted him to instruct her, to -indicate what she was to say: though, had it been possible that he could -have dictated to her, that very fact would have made her perverse. At -last she said hesitating, “I have seen--so little--I could not judge--I -have never been out of England before.” - -“Ah, that accounts--” said Denham vaguely; and he was very much puzzled -by this subdued bride, who had no enthusiasm either for the new world -she was visiting or the old world which she had left so lately. He tried -to draw her out on a variety of subjects; but Nancy, though at intervals -an impulse of self-revelation would come upon her, and it was on her -lips to tell him that she knew nothing of Oakley, and cared nothing, and -should never be there, nor go to Rome, nor do any one of these things he -was talking of, was on the other hand so afraid of betraying herself -that she held back, looking stiff and silent, and scarcely could be got -to say a word. As for Arthur, his anxiety made him somewhat excited and -restless, it took away all ease from his manner. He wanted her to join -in the conversation, to come out of the shell of reserve in which she -had shut herself up; and yet he was afraid of what she might say if once -roused. She was a clever girl, with much natural energy and force; but -yet it was annoying how entirely the daughter of Bates the tax-collector -was at a loss listening to the conversation of the two men who were not -clever, yet who knew by nature many things of which she had not a -notion. This Assembly they wanted her to go to, what was it? Why should -she go? What was an inter--inter--what? Their world and hers were -totally different, though one of them was her husband. She was relieved -when they veered into gossip and began to talk of people, though she did -not know the people. There she could follow them even in her ignorance; -for had not she too a Lizzie Brown? - - - - -CHAPTER V. - - -“Why cannot we go home?” said Nancy. “I don’t want to stay here. I don’t -want to go to your Rome, and places. What is the good of taking me away -to make a show of me? I can speak English, but I don’t know any of those -jargons. I am sure it is not good French here; and as for Italian, I -never heard a word of it. It is only to make me look ridiculous. Denham -thinks so, Arthur. He comes and looks at me, and asks me about old Lady -So-and-So. I tell him I don’t know her, and I don’t want to know her. I -shall tell him some day I never knew Lady Anybody in my life, and that -_I_ am a nobody. I will, if you do not take me away!” - -“Do tell him so,” said Arthur, “if you please. I don’t mind what you -tell him. You don’t think I want you to make believe? You are all I wish -for, Nancy, yourself--better than if you had known a dozen Lady -So-and-So’s.” - -“Oh, but I am sure you watch me,” she cried. “I always feel that your -eye is upon me, Arthur. You are afraid I will say something wrong; and I -am afraid too, except when I want to do it: and if I should do it some -time, as I am sure I will if we go on, you will not like it. Arthur, -don’t let us go further off; let us go home.” - -“Home? where is home?” he said. “I don’t know if I should have any -welcome.” - -“But I should,” cried Nancy. “Mother and all of them would dance for -joy. And think how much better we should be. We must be spending a mint -of money here. You talk of going further, but I don’t believe you will -be able to go further when you look into it. And I don’t know what we -have to spend: you don’t tell me anything.” - -“I scarcely know myself,” said Arthur, with rather a bewildered look -upon his face. “I don’t know what my father--things should be different -now.” - -“And you are going away travelling without knowing? You will find,” said -Nancy, becoming practical all at once, “that we have spent a great deal -of money; always having carriages and going to the play--” - -“Not to many plays.” - -“Two; and that music Denham gave us tickets for--” - -“My darling, don’t be angry--but would you mind saying Sir John?” - -“Why should I say Sir John? You always call him Denham. And when we went -to that Assembly there was another carriage. I suppose it would always -be the same if we were going to other places; but at Underhayes it would -not be like that. We could take a little house and furnish it, and you -have such good taste, Arthur. We would make it so pretty, and everybody -would be delighted to see us. I should manage everything, and keep the -expenses right, and you--you--” - -“Yes!” said Arthur, taking her hands into his as she stood by him, “What -for me? I should have nothing to do.” - -“Well! when one has plenty to live on, what does it matter? It will -always be delightful. We shall take walks. Don’t you remember the -common, how beautiful it was? And now and then we will go to London; and -in the evening we can--you can read out loud to me,” said Nancy, -stopping, with a little confusion. “We can go and see mother,” was what -she was about to say; but she stopped instinctively, and kept that in -the background. She was standing by his chair, putting her fingers -through his hair, arranging and re-arranging it with soft touches, each -one of which was a caress. It was seldom that she was in this tender -mood, and he felt himself melting under it. Sometimes she would stoop -down and put her cheek against his. “You would teach me all sorts of -things,” said Nancy. “Sometimes I know I am not good-tempered, Arthur. I -give you a great deal of trouble. It makes me wild to think that I am -not like you, that I don’t do you credit; and then my temper gets the -better of me, and I say I am as good as they are, why should I trouble?” - -As she made this confession, tears came trembling into Nancy’s eyes and -stole into her voice. She had never before revealed to her husband the -state of mind which made her so capricious, and as she told it, all -those vagaries of temper which had tormented Arthur, became sacred -things to him, and beautiful in the light of love and penitence. He took -into his arms this tender culprit, whose avowal made all her faults into -virtues. - -“Don’t, my darling!” he cried; “don’t! Not like me? You are far better -than I am. Not do me credit? Nancy! don’t you know I am as proud of you -as I am fond of you--and can anything be more than that? Teach you! What -could I teach you? It is you who teach me.” - -And he meant what he said, and she meant it, to the bottom of their -foolish young hearts, and it was all true and all false, as only human -things can be. Nancy, though her heart was melting and running over -with the tenderness of her confession, was as ready to be defiant as -ever at half a moment’s notice, and Arthur as sure soon to be doubtful -of her, alarmed and anxious, uncertain as to what she might do or say. -But neither of them was at all aware of this as they clung together and -mutually repented, and declared that never again, never again should -anything disturb their harmony and full understanding of each other. - -“There are so many things you could teach me,” Nancy said, smiling -through her tears, “in our own little house at home! You could make a -lady of me. Oh, yes, we all thought you had done that when we were -married, but now I know better. But you can make a lady of me, Arthur, -if you will try.” - -“You are a lady already, my darling,” he said; but how sweet was this -consciousness of what was wanting in herself, and the confidence that he -could communicate all she wanted! It was like an inspiration direct from -Heaven. - -“I will study whatever you wish,” said Nancy. “We could give ourselves -up to it if we were only in a little house of our own. Whatever you -please, Arthur; French if you like, for I am ashamed not to understand -it when you talk it so well, and I don’t think it can have been much -good what I learned at school; and about pictures and buildings, and -everything. I don’t know _anything_, Arthur. I could not understand the -things you were talking about, Denham and you; and I know you were vexed -about the pictures, and the theatre.” - -“No, my sweetest, I was not vexed--perhaps a little disappointed; but I -knew it was because you had not seen any before.” - -“That was all. I know a little better already; and, Arthur, if you were -to give this winter to it, and help me, in our own little house! So near -London as Underhayes is, we could go up and see things; and you could -read books to me. I think I can see it all,” said Nancy, smiling upon -him with her wet eyes; “a little drawing-room with lace curtains and -windows that opened to the garden, and another nice little room with -your pipes in it, where I could come and sit by your side while you -smoked your cigar!” - -“But, Nancy, might not all this beautiful picture come to pass, just as -well in Italy? You don’t know what Italy is. None of your dull wet days, -but always soft, bright, sunshiny weather, and the bluest sky, and such -moonlight nights. We need not go to Rome at all. I know a little village -up amongst the woods with a view of the sea. Nancy! you can’t think how -beautiful it is!” - -“I don’t care,” she said, with a little pout. “I don’t want to go to -Italy. It is so far, so far away; and I cannot speak the language; and -it is so dreary to live among people, and hear them chattering, and not -understand.” - -“But you would very soon learn Italian. It is the easiest -language--everybody says so,” said Arthur. “You could pick it up in a -few weeks. You would so soon feel at home there. The good people are -fond of everything that is beautiful. Oh, they are not all good people, -I suppose. Sometimes they will ask too much from you; they will, -perhaps, cheat you a little, in quite a friendly way--” - -“I could not endure that!” cried Nancy. “That is the one thing I could -not put up with; and foreigners are all like that, Arthur; they pretend -kindness so long as they have something to gain; but they don’t really -care. Oh! there is nothing like England,” she cried, clasping her hands, -“and a little house of our own! And in the summer, when, perhaps, your -people may have changed their mind, Arthur, _then_ I should not be -afraid to meet with them. I should know a great many things that I don’t -know now. And we should be so happy, both together, and no one to -interfere with us.” - -Arthur was moved to the bottom of his heart. It did not occur to him to -think of her own description of “foreigners,” who pretend kindness as -long as they have something to gain. Nay, more than that, _she_ did not -think of it either. Nancy was quite sincere. By talking about it, she -had made a certainty in her own mind that this was really all she -wanted, that in such circumstances happiness would come of itself, -without frets or interruption; and in what other way could that be -secured? She was so earnest in carrying her point, that she really felt -all she expressed. Whereas, if he took her away, if he insisted on _his_ -plan, Nancy felt that she could not answer for herself. It was for his -sake as well as hers; it was for their good as well as for their -happiness. And what could Arthur answer to all this? The fact that she -wanted anything, was not that the most powerful argument for having it? -His own inclinations were strongly in favour of absence, and he believed -that this teaching of which she spoke, and which he had fully intended, -could get itself accomplished far better on the Riviera, or in the villa -among the chestnut woods at Castellamare than anywhere near the house of -the Bates’. But what could he do or say against her? He tried to -beguile her into talk of what might happen after, when they would go -into society, and when, perhaps, he should be able to take her to Oakley -to see all its beauties. But this was a subject of which Nancy was very -shy. She would not speak of Arthur’s “people,” whom she no longer called -“folks.” When she did make their acquaintance, she wanted to do so in a -way which would dazzle them. She could not tolerate the idea of any -condescension on their part to Arthur’s wife. No, she must have -surmounted all difficulties, and feel able to consider herself as much a -lady as any of them, before she met those ladies who were her natural -enemies and rivals. For Arthur’s sake she would avoid them until she -could burst upon them in full glory of new instruction and knowledge. - -“Don’t speak to me about Oakley,” she said. “It was all I could do to -make sure Oakley was its name when Denham talked of it. It makes me -angry to hear of it. I, your wife, not to know it, not to know anything -about it or them! when every poor creature of an ambassador’s flunkey -goes there.” - -“Don’t be too hard upon old Denham,” said Arthur, laughing. “How he -would be pleased to hear you! But not Denham, Nancy, if you love me. -Your mouth was not made to drop words in that careless way.” - -“Oh, nonsense, Arthur! What should I say? Sir John is so formal. _You_ -would not say Denham if it was wrong,” said Nancy, recovering a little -from the too great amiability of this episode; and then she added, “You -have asked me to do something for you. I will do it. I will not bargain -with you, but I will do it; only you must not see my letter, or school -me. I will write out of my own head.” - -“Will you, Nancy? You are always a darling, always kinder than I -deserve; but at least you will let me see it--send it with mine?” - -“No,” she said; “no, no, no; but I will write. Now, will that please -you? And you will yield to me, like a dear good Arthur, and take me -home. I do so wish to go home.” - -“That looks as if you were tired of me, Nancy.” - -“Does it?” she said with a smile, putting her arm softly about his neck. - -She was not addicted to caresses. There was a kind of rude delicacy and -reserve in her, which a little more gentleness of manner would have made -into that exquisite bloom of modesty which is the crown of all graces. -That soft touch said more from her than the utmost _abandon_ of -lovingness from another. Poor Arthur was all subdued; he could not -resist her; her tenderness filled him with happiness beyond expression. -If she would but be always thus, in spite of all he might have to pay -for it, what man was there in the world so blessed as he? That even at -this exquisite moment he had the strength of mind not to commit himself -finally to the carrying out of her wish, was more than could have been -expected. It was, perhaps, because “Denham” arrived at that moment to -accompany them to a morning performance at the “Conservatoire,” for -which his zeal had with difficulty got them tickets. They had not wanted -to go, but “Denham” had insisted upon it. Nancy went away to put on her -bonnet as he came upstairs. How near she had been to success! Her heart -was full of confidence and pleasure in the thought, and this gave a -brightness to her countenance which was all it wanted. - -“What have you been doing to your wife? She is radiant. She will have a -great _succès_, and you and I will shine in her lustre,” said their -companion to Arthur, as they arrived at the concert-rooms. - -How proudly Arthur looked at her, exhilarated yet subdued as she was by -that delightful sense of having got, or nearly got, her own way! This -happiness had taken from Nancy the look of defiant watchfulness which -generally gave a sense of unrest and discomfort to her beauty. For the -first time since their marriage she looked at her ease and unafraid. He -was so absorbed in her that he did not see a well-known face close to -him, nor dream of any interruption of his felicity until, at the first -interval in the music, some one reached a fan across from another bench -and tapped him on the shoulder. - -“Why, Arthur, Arthur! don’t you know us?” a voice said. It seemed to -curdle the blood in his veins. He turned round with a sense of absolute -dismay. - -Behind him--how could he have missed the grey head of the old Indian, -the overwhelming bonnet of his aunt, the demure correctness of the -English young lady, all three in a row?--sat General Curtis, his uncle, -father of the Rev. Hubert, who was Rector of Oakley, with the two ladies -who ministered to him. What so natural as that these excellent people -should be in Paris? They were on their way home from the German baths -where the General went for his gout. And the wife and daughter, worn to -death by the process which screwed the General up for the rest of the -year, had need of a little taste of Paris to refresh their jaded souls. -It was Mrs. Curtis who called “Arthur, Arthur!” A discussion had gone -on between the three from the moment that Arthur appeared with the young -woman, whose advent filled these ladies with a thrill of curiosity. -“Don’t you meddle with what don’t concern you,” growled the General. -Arthur was known to have made a dreadful connection, to have married -somebody who was nobody, and generally to be in a bad way; and the sight -of Nancy had startled this group beyond expression, as she came in -looking happy and beautiful in her dainty Parisian bonnet. - -“She looks a perfect lady, mamma; why shouldn’t we?” said Mary Curtis, -who was charitable and disposed to be “gushing.” - -“It concerns us as much as it concerns anyone, except his father and -mother,” Mrs. Curtis said. Both wife and daughter were disposed to be -rebellious to the dictum of the head of the house. They had gone through -so much for him. Now they were on ground which they felt to be their -own, and on which he was no longer supreme, and his opposition -quickened their desire to penetrate Arthur’s mystery. No one in the -family had seen her, they would be the first, and even that thought was -pleasant. “That is Sir John Denham on the other side; if she was very -bad would he show himself with them _in public_,” said Mrs. Curtis. - -“What does a fellow like that care?” the General growled back, “the -_demimonde_ is what he likes best.” - -“Oh, hush, Anthony, think of Mary,” said his wife, “he may like the -_demimonde_, as you say; but I don’t think he’d like to show himself -with them _in public_. And really she looks very nice. What a pretty -bonnet! Anthony, you cannot pass by your own nephew.” - -“I won’t have anything to say to him; if you do, you must take the -consequence,” said the General. - -“Oh do, mamma, do!” cried Mary at her other side. And the result was -that Mrs. Curtis put her fan over somebody’s shoulder and called -“Arthur, Arthur!” and filled the young man’s mind with unutterable -dismay. - -“Aunt Curtis!” said Arthur, rising to his feet. He grew crimson with the -sudden emergency, with the surprise, “Who would have thought of seeing -you here?” - -“Indeed if you had thought at all on the subject, you might have made -sure we should be here,” said Mrs. Curtis, and then she stooped forward -and raised her head to whisper: “She is very pretty, Arthur, and of -course you think her as nice as she is pretty. Would she like to be -introduced to me?” - -“She must be now that you are here,” said Arthur, not with any great -eagerness. He took her offer a great deal too easily as a matter of -course, not as the distinguished kindness she intended it to be. But her -curiosity had reached to a very high point, and there was a touch of -kindness as well as of self-importance in the idea of being able to -mediate in the family affairs. Besides Sir John Denham was chatting -familiarly on the other side of the bride, whose looks in her Paris -bonnet were unexceptionable; and Sir John Denham was a very useful man -to know in Paris, and one before whom many doors opened. And though her -husband grumbled and held back, her daughter was still more anxious than -she was. - -“Oh, Arthur, how pretty she is!” Mary Curtis murmured to her cousin, -while her mother made up her mind. It was Mary or some one like her who -ought to have been elected to fill the post Nancy had secured, to become -the future Lady Curtis. If that post had been filled up by competitive -examination, as men’s situations are nowadays, no doubt Mary would have -got it; and looking at it entirely as a public position without -reference to Arthur (who after all was but a necessary adjunct, and not -everything) Mary felt a lively interest, touched with doubt of her -qualifications, in the successful candidate. She was anxious to inspect -her, to have the satisfaction of feeling, which is a very general -sentiment, that she herself could have done it better. Would this girl -have the least idea how to behave in so important a post? Mary gave her -mother little pushes and pinches to urge her on. - -“I hope you have taken her to see your mother, Arthur,” said Mrs. -Curtis, “she is of course the first person to be thought of. Ah, you -have not, you naughty boy! well, if you wish it I will go and speak to -her before the music begins again. No, Mary, not you, you had better -stay where you are. Papa will be vexed if we both go.” - -“Oh, papa! it is always papa,” said Mary, as her mother swept past her, -almost sweeping her out of her seat. Mrs. Curtis was large and ample -both in figure and drapery, and looked like Society impersonated as she -swept round in front into the vacant space before Nancy, with a -solemnity becoming the occasion. Nancy looked up alarmed at the coming -of this large lady, and if it was partly defiance and resistance, it was -also partly shyness, and fright, and ignorance as to what it was right -to do, that kept her from rising to receive this imposing introduction. -Mrs. Curtis made her a curtsey, which the girl blushing hotly, and -confused between pride and shame and helpless ignorance, returned only -with a little tremulous inclination of her head. Oh, if she only knew -what was the most polite yet the most disdainful thing to do! - -“I am afraid you scarcely know who I am,” said the large lady, “Arthur -has not had much time yet to tell you about his relations. I am your -husband’s aunt, Mrs. Arthur; we are all very fond of him. But you have -not seen any of the family yet, I am sorry to hear.” - -“No,” said Nancy, feeling waves of hot blood come up to her temples. She -confronted her new acquaintance without looking at her, with eyes half -concealed by her eyelids, dumbly defiant. Arthur’s relations might come -and stare at her, and talk to her as they pleased, but she would make no -advances. And they could not make much, she thought, out of yes and no. - -“Arthur shall tell me where you are, and I will come to see you -to-morrow,” said Mrs. Curtis. “I think it is only right for his sake, -and I hope you will not be frightened of me. I will do anything I can to -be of use to you, for Arthur’s sake, that is, of course, if you wish -it. Sir John Denham, I think,” she added, turning to him. Denham had -withdrawn a few steps from the family meeting, as courtesy demanded. “I -met you, I think, years and years ago at the Carringtons’, though I see -you have forgotten me.” - -“As if that were possible!” said Denham, in a tone which half offended -Nancy. He had pretended to be her friend and Arthur’s; yet here he was -just as friendly with the enemy. “But they are going to begin again, I -am afraid. Will you take this place,” he said, offering her his vacant -chair. Mrs. Curtis paused to reflect that to place herself beside -Arthur’s wife _in public_, was more than was required of her; more, -indeed, than was perfectly discreet in the circumstances. So she made -her doubtful niece-in-law a bow, and took Arthur’s arm again. - -“I must return to my own party I fear,” she said, “but I shall hope to -see you to-morrow.” Nancy found herself for a moment left entirely -alone, while this unexpected intruder upon her happiness squeezed back -again into her place, for Denham too had deserted her, as she saw by a -backward glance, to renew acquaintance with the fine young lady behind, -with whom Arthur too lingered, leaving her seated there in front alone. -The din of the orchestra recommenced, which Nancy was not sufficiently -instructed to admire, and her head began to ache with jealous pain and -misery. The heat of the place, the languor of the afternoon, the crash -of the music, made an atmosphere of confusion and sickening incongruity -all around her. Oh, to be in the little parlour at home again! oh, to be -Nancy Bates, with no fine ladies to question, or fine gentlemen to -thrust the village girl to the front of this alien assembly, where all -the people knew each other, and understood what was going on, except -only she. These women! she had never expected any inquisition of this -kind. She would have liked to jump up and rush away, no matter where, -only to be free of it all. She said to herself she could not bear it. -She would go home whatever happened; with Arthur or without Arthur, it -did not seem to matter now. - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - - -Nancy had plenty of time to calm herself down before she received the -promised visit of Mrs. Curtis. And Arthur, who had always been so -anxiously compliant with all her wishes, and so ready to excuse all her -shortcomings, looked so serious when she burst out into vituperation of -the “big fat woman,” and declared her determination not to be spied -upon, that even her impetuosity owned a check. - -“If you insist upon going away, and not receiving her, it will be a -great vexation and pain to me,” he said, “and your own good sense will -show you, Nancy--” - -“I have no good sense,” said the excited creature. “I never pretended to -be sensible; you knew what I was when you married me, Arthur; and to be -spied upon, and examined all over by a set of women--I can’t bear it, -and I won’t, not for anybody in the world; not even for you!” - -Poor Arthur did not make any immediate reply. He walked about the little -room with agitated steps; then went and stood at the window, looking out -with a blank and hopeless face. Perhaps silence was, of all others, the -thing which Nancy could least encounter. She sat gazing at him, ready to -make off in a moment to her room, to snatch her hat, and fly out, she -knew not where; anywhere to escape from those shackles of her new life -which were so intolerable. That he would rush after her, entreat her to -return, promise everything that she wished seemed certain to Nancy. She -did not calculate upon this, but was sure of it without thinking. But -his silence chilled her, and when he spoke it was in a voice she did not -recognise, a voice out of which all the music and sweetness seemed to -have gone. - -“I don’t know if this will have any influence upon you,” he said, “but -it is worth thinking of: that we cannot live utterly estranged from my -family. Some time or other we must seek a renewal of intercourse. _I_ -must seek it, not they; and if my Aunt Curtis could in the meantime -convey a pleasant impression of you--if she was herself won to be on our -side--I don’t say it would be of great consequence, but yet it would be -a beginning. I don’t know what you think of my family, Nancy; if you -think they are some kind of wild beasts to be avoided; but they can’t be -avoided. We shall have to live by them, and it is for our good--it is -indispensable--that we should be friends.” - -“Friends!” cried Nancy, breathless with the effort of listening to him -and keeping silence. “Then you may as well throw me over once for all, -Arthur. Friends! with those that would take no notice of me--that never -so much as named me in their letter.” - -“That was my fault--that was my fault,” he said, turning round upon her. -“I had no right to keep them in the dark. I ought to have gone to my -mother and told her, not kept everything in holes and corners.” - -“You were not a baby!” cried Nancy. “Why, you are four and twenty! Men -don’t go and ask their mamma’s leave like girls.” - -“That may be--but neither do men throw all their relatives over; tear -themselves apart from their family. And I will not do it,” said Arthur -with sudden self-assertion. “I will do anything in the world to please -you but this. I will not quarrel with all who belong to me. As soon as I -get an opportunity we must be reconciled to them--_must_, Nancy, there -is no alternative. And why should you reject this easy way? My aunt is a -kind woman. She will do us a good turn if she can. Try to please her, -dear; won’t you try to please her for my sake?” - -Nancy had started to her feet, when he said with such energy that he -would not do it: but something arrested her. Whether the reasonableness -of it, which was not likely, or the new force and vigour with which he -spoke, or the pathos of the entreaty at the end, it would be difficult -to say. But she was arrested, her attention caught, and the rush of her -hasty blood restrained. After all, perhaps, there was something in what -he said. It was not worth her while to fly from them--to avoid them as -if she was afraid. But rather to show them her own superiority--to -convince them that she was as good as they were, and had no occasion to -fear them. This, perhaps, was scarcely the sentiment inculcated by -Arthur’s speech; but rather the turn it took in the alembic of her own -mind, in which a hundred crude ideas were fermenting and getting fused -daily. She sat down again after a moment, when he had ceased speaking. -Arthur, notwithstanding his appeal, had excited himself too much to care -precisely what she was thinking, and even this gave a wholesome stimulus -to the turn in the tide of her thoughts. He did not care, but he should -be made to care--he should be proud of her--he should feel that those -people who slighted her were slighting something above themselves. She -would not yield so far as to say anything, to give her promise that she -would endeavour to conciliate Mrs. Curtis. Not for her life; but what -she said did not need to be any criterion of what she would do. She took -up a book which happened to be on the table, and pretended to read it -with an absolute absorption of interest which justified her silence; -while he, on the other hand, having no certainty that he had moved her, -but rather fearing the worst, kept pacing up and down between the window -and the door, excited beyond the immediate question, having, for the -first time, opened up the ultimate matter with himself. And when he once -began to think of it, he could not shake off the idea. It was no -question of expediency or possibility--a thing which ought to be done -perhaps, yet might not. It seemed to him, thinking of it, that he must -at once explain everything, and claim his forgiveness, and the reception -of his bride. “I have done wrong--but it cannot be undone; nor is the -wrong half so serious as you think.” This was what he must say. He had -intended to write ever since he got to Paris, but had deferred it as an -unpleasant business which might stand off from day to day. But now it -appeared to him, all at once, that nothing was so important. Whatever -else he did, he must reconcile himself with his father and mother, his -own flesh and blood. If they would not, he must bear it; but nothing -must be left undone on his part. This sudden conviction was brought upon -him--was it by the sight of his relations--was it by Nancy’s -unreasonable and absurd antipathy to them? He could not tell--but the -fact that he could think of any sentiment on Nancy’s part as absurd and -unreasonable showed what a leap he had suddenly made. - -It was not till several hours later that Mrs. Curtis and her daughter -appeared--for this time Mary had insisted upon coming, defying papa. - -“We have done nothing but think of papa for the last three months,” she -said. “I think we may be allowed a little of our own way now.” - -Mary was very exact and particular, the essence of English duty and -exact young-ladyhood. But there is a point at which duty and -self-abnegation stop; and certainly, after spending three months at a -German bath, a handmaiden to gout, it is not to be expected that the -fortnight in Paris was to be spent in absolute devotion at the same -gloomy shrine, especially as the General was better, and wound up for -the year by all the sulphur he had imbibed. The young lady came -accordingly with her mother, curious, and, indeed, eager to see how the -successful competitor acquitted herself. - -“Is she a lady?” Mary had said on the previous evening, -cross-questioning her mother; but Mrs. Curtis had declined to commit -herself. - -“She said nothing but no, that I heard. How could I tell from a No?” - -“I could have told if she had only coughed,” Miss Curtis replied; and it -may be supposed with what keen eyes she was prepared to investigate her -new cousin. They were so late of coming that Arthur had gone out, and -Nancy, in her blue gown, sat by the fire alone just as the afternoon -sank into twilight. They could not even see each other very clearly, and -Nancy did not give them a very warm welcome. She stood up against the -light, so that they could not make out a feature of her, and made them a -stiff little bow, which was very awkward and self-conscious, yet not -ungraceful. And then they seated themselves, not by Nancy’s invitation. -The log blazed up compassionately now and then on the hearth, and threw -a gleam upon the three half-perceptible faces. It was a strange little -scene in that genteel comedy which we call real life. - -“I am sorry we are so late,” said Mrs. Curtis. “We have been seeing our -friends and making a few necessary purchases; and it is astonishing how -trifles take up a winter’s day; it is soon over at this time of the -year. We have stayed longer than we meant to do in Germany, the weather -has been so mild. I hope the General may be able to come to see you -before we leave; but he has to take care of himself just now, after his -baths.” As all this elicited no response, Mrs. Curtis continued. “Is -Arthur out?” - -“Yes.” Nancy had intended to keep to her monosyllables, but it was -difficult, and she added, in spite of herself, “I expect him back very -soon; he thought it was too late for you to-day.” - -“I am so sorry; if he had been here he would have made us acquainted.” - -“On the contrary,” said Mary, striking in, “I think, if Mrs. Arthur will -not mind, it is better my cousin should not be here. Women understand -each other better alone. Don’t you think so? I feel sure of it, for my -part.” - -“I don’t know,” said Nancy out of the partial gloom; and then there was -a pause. - -Mrs. Curtis made a fresh start, and the aspect of affairs was so -strange, and the absolute passiveness of Nancy so apparent, that all -polite feints were impossible, and the visitor plunged into the heart of -the one subject, the only subject on which they could approach each -other, feeling herself forced into it, whether she would or not. - -“I hope you will not think what I am going to say intrusive; but may I -ask if it is true that you have not seen anything of your husband’s -family, Mrs. Arthur--his immediate family, Lady Curtis, or Lucy, or any -of them? Is it so indeed? But I hope you will do all you can to -reconcile your husband with them. It cannot be good for you to be -estranged.” - -“I know nothing about them,” said Nancy, with a toss of her head. - -“Indeed, I am very sorry for it. I think Arthur might have managed -better. If he had played his cards rightly, when they saw it could not -be helped they would certainly have yielded, and taken some notice of -you.” - -“I wanted none of their notice,” cried Nancy, crimson with anger; and -then Mary interfered. - -“Mamma, I don’t think you are treating it in the right way,” she said. -“Mrs. Arthur does not know Aunt Curtis. Oh, what a pity that your people -did not insist on seeing my aunt and uncle! that would have made -everything easy. But I suppose you did not know.” - -“We did not care,” said Nancy, growing hotter and hotter. She would make -no other reply. - -“But your people might have cared,” said Mrs. Curtis, “as my daughter -says. I hope you will not take it amiss if I say that there has been -very great negligence somewhere; and you ought to do all you can to set -things to rights. It is all settled now, and past changing. Don’t you -think that you should try to mend matters? Arthur may be very fond of -you; I daresay he is. I am sure he has given good proof of it; but he -cannot be happy separated from his family.” - -“Then he can go back to his family,” cried Nancy, with flashing eyes, -rising suddenly to her feet. “If you are specimens of his family, coming -and abusing me like this, when you don’t even know me--” - -“I do not think, Mrs. Arthur, that you are taking what we say in a very -friendly way. What object could we have in coming but to assist you--or -rather Arthur--in the circumstances? For, of course, we think most of -him, it is only natural; and surely it is your duty to do what you can, -as it is you who have brought him into trouble. It cannot be any offence -to you to say as much as that.” - -“I wish you would go away,” cried Nancy, hotly. “What have you to do -coming here? only to tell me that I am in Arthur’s way? How have I got -him into trouble? Did I go and ask him to marry me? Did I make love to -him? You think I am only a common girl, and you are ladies. Ladies! Do -ladies behave so?--to bully a girl when she is by herself, when no one -is by--a girl who has never done any harm to them, who is as good as -they are?” - -“Oh, this is too much,” cried Mrs. Curtis. “I came to give you advice -for your good--for Arthur’s sake; and this is how you receive it! I -wanted to help you if I could.” - -“I did not ask anyone’s help,” said Nancy, defiant, facing them, always -with her back to the light, invisible except as a shadow. Her heart beat -so that every vein felt bursting. She had but one desire in her mind, -and that was to rush off without stopping to see Arthur, without giving -anyone the opportunity of insulting her further, and fly home as fast as -the fastest train would carry her. What were the Curtises to Nancy? How -could she bear this from anyone, to be schooled and dictated to, she who -had never been scolded even at home, who had never been found fault -with, whose whole being rose up in arms against anyone who ventured to -criticise? There are people in all classes who are thus intolerant of a -word, not to be interfered with, whom it is mortal offence to think less -than perfect. She felt as if the blood in her veins had turned to fire. - -“Mamma,” said Mary, “Mrs. Arthur is quite right. We have no business to -come here into her own rooms, and tell her what she ought to do. She -knows better what to do than we can tell her. Why should you interfere?” - -“Because Mrs. Arthur is young, and does not know, Mary, and it is her -duty to listen when one speaks for her good,” said Mrs. Curtis, furious -in her turn. “But you need not be afraid, I will not say any more. I -will only bid you good morning, Mrs. Arthur. It is no object to me what -you do, or don’t do. If I could have smoothed matters I would; but I -will not force my good offices upon you. I hope you will make your -husband very happy, for otherwise I am sure he will be very miserable. -He was always on such good terms with his family, and now you have made -a complete breach.” - -“Will you go away?” cried Nancy, wild with anger. - -She made a step forward with her arm lifted. It is not likely that any -provocation would have made her strike; but if the two ladies, alarmed, -thought she was about to do so, no one could blame them. This appearance -of violence appalled them. Such a threatening aspect in a woman was so -foreign to the customs of society, so tremendous a breach of all -decorum, that actual blows would have had no greater effect upon them. -They both retreated before her, with alarm in their startled movements. -Nancy could not see their faces, nor could they see hers. - -“Indeed, we will go,” cried Mrs. Curtis, with tones which were tremulous -with wonder and anger, and the kind of moral fright which has been -indicated. - -Mary had got her hand upon the door to open it, when some one suddenly -pushed in from outside, and Arthur came into the room. - -“What is the matter?” he cried. - -All he could see was his wife against the light of the window, -threatening, with her arm raised as if in the act to strike. - -“Oh, Arthur, stand between us and her!” cried Mrs. Curtis. “But I will -not stay here another moment. Your wife has ordered us out. You poor -boy, you can come to me if you like. Good-bye. I am very sorry for you; -but I cannot stay another moment here.” - -“What is the matter?” he repeated, with a voice which was sharp and keen -as a sword, as the two ladies disappeared hurriedly, and he stood alone -opposite to his wife, gazing at her with eyes that blazed through the -gloom. Her hand had dropped by her side at his entrance, but at the -sound of his voice Nancy, who was beside herself with passion, raised it -again and shook it at him in speechless excitement, then turned and fled -into her own room, clashing the door behind her. He heard her lock it in -her rage, panting for breath as she dashed away. Poor Arthur! he had no -mind to follow her. She might have spared herself that precaution. He -stood upon the hearth, looking mournfully into the big mirror, in which -he could see himself a shadow in the surrounding gloom. Had not all life -turned into a vision of shadows, everything that was lovely and fair -disappearing from about him? There seemed no power in him to do -anything. To go after his aunt and endeavour to make up for his wife’s -incivility, was as impossible as to go after that wife and demand the -meaning of her strange conduct. He had no heart for anything. He stood, -as it were, amid the ruins of his bridal happiness, everything -crumbling about him. Only to-day, only a few hours ago, she had stood by -him, beguiling him with sweet smiles and caresses, she who this minute -had confronted him like a fury, with her hand clenched, threatening -violence. He had borne a good many shocks in this eventful fortnight; -the bloom had been taken off his fond fancy of perfection in his bride. -But this was the climax of all. It seemed to take at once his strength -and his hope away. - -Meanwhile Nancy, her blood boiling, her countenance flushed, her eyes -fiery with passion, had rushed out of the darkness into the soft light -of her room, where the candles had been lighted, and where she saw -herself entering like a fury in the great glass which was opposite to -her as she rushed in. This sight made her pause in spite of herself; it -sobered her all at once. Was that the aspect she had borne to these -strangers? to her husband? The sudden shock of her own appearance had -more effect upon her than any amount of moral reprobation. She calmed -down in a moment. They had insulted her, she tried to say to herself; -but what would they think of her, was what conscience said in her. What -would they think of her?--and Arthur? The colour went out of the foolish -creature’s face; a chill came over her. Oh, what was she to do, what was -she to do? She had meant to impose upon them, to be more lady-like, more -calm, more chilly in her politeness than anyone could be; and this was -what it had come to. She threw herself down by her bedside in a passion -of tears and penitence. Had Arthur come to her then, she would have -thrown herself at his feet and asked his pardon; but Arthur was kept -from her by the bolt she had herself drawn in her fury, and by--though -this she was unaware of--the despair and dismay in his heart. She threw -herself on the carpet, and found relief in a torrent of tears. Such -tears! hot as her passion, overwhelming as the impulses that surged -after one another through her heart. He must hear her sob, she felt, in -the _abandon_ of her misery; and though Nancy did not sob to be heard, -it gave her a flutter of hope to think that he must hear her, and must -come to know what it was, to comfort her, even to scold her, it did not -matter, so long as he came. But not a sound except those sobs of hers -broke the silence. The candles burned softly, and glimmered in the -mirror, which reflected her lying there upon the flowery whiteness of -the carpet, a dark miserable figure; but there was no tap at the door, -no voice asking for admission. After a little time, her passion being -spent, she raised herself up, and without drying the tears from her -woebegone countenance, or arranging her disordered hair, opened the door -softly, and looked into the sitting-room where she had left him. All was -changed there; the candles were lighted, the fire re-made, the room full -of warmth and light; but no Arthur. It was vacant, put in good order by -the servants, who knew nothing about what had been happening there. And -Arthur was gone. Where had he gone? Had he followed those women, who -were his relations, though they were her enemies? Was he hearing their -story, who doubtless would paint her as a very devil of ill-temper and -pride? Had he gone over to the other side, he who was the cause of it -all? Her eyes began to flash again, and her veins to refill with that -fire which had all but died out of them. She went back to her room, and -dipped her burning forehead into water, and smoothed her hair, which she -had pulled out of place with her passionate hands. When she had done -this she stood for a moment between the two rooms in the silence, alone, -asking herself what she should do. Had Arthur gone from her? Would he -not come back again? A speechless dismay took possession of her soul, -followed by flashes of passion, and still deeper and deeper despondency. -There was but one thing that it seemed possible to do, except flight, -which she was not equal to at this dreadful moment, when she was not -sure whether he had flown from her. If he had been in the next room she -might have had strength to flee; but not with this uncertainty and dread -in her mind whether he had abandoned her. There was but one thing in -this tremendous emergency which she could do. Had she not promised to -him to write to his mother? She would do this now. - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - - -This period of early winter was a dull one at Oakley at all times. From -October to Christmas it was not the custom of the family to invite the -usual country-house array of defence against dullness. For some weeks -after the partridge-shooting began there would be visitors -about--luncheons at the coverside, dinners more or less sleepy, evenings -more or less gay. And again at Christmas there was always a large party -assembled; but between whiles the family were left to their own -resources. How Sir John himself filled up his time was a profound and -solemn mystery, which no one could entirely unravel. He spent it mostly -in his library--in the perusal of Blue books, in the writing of -letters, and in something which was called business, and supposed to be -the management of his estate; but everybody who knew Sir John knew that -there was not very much beyond the most ceremonial portion of a -sovereign’s duty in his easy lot. The estate had been carefully managed -all his life, by the most careful and sensible of functionaries, Mr. -Rolt, who was the son of the last agent, and the brother of the -solicitor at Oakenden who had the money matters of the family in his -hands. And the family had been unexceptionable in its conduct for the -last five-and-thirty years; there had been no extravagant heir, no heavy -jointure diminishing its resources. General Anthony, who had done very -well for himself, was Sir John’s only brother, the only other member of -the family; and there had been nothing but unbroken respectability and -discretion in the management of the finances of the house. The estate -ran upon wheels, or upon velvet, and all but managed itself. Then as for -Parliamentary business and the Blue books, Sir John was a sound -reliable Conservative, who never dreamed of opening his mouth in the -House. He voted as his leaders voted, who were the best able to judge, -and the study of public affairs, to which he thus devoted himself, had -all the merit of disinterestedness. It cannot even be said that it told -greatly when he sat upon a Parliamentary committee, for he was apt to -get confused on the points he knew best, and his knowledge did not stand -him in stead at the moment it was wanted, as knowledge ought to do; but -still what with the Blue books and the estate, he thought himself very -fully occupied, and what could be desired more than this? Two or three -times in the day, especially when it rained, he would come into his -wife’s morning room, and stand up with his back to the fire and talk, -sometimes relevantly, sometimes irrelevantly, like most other people. -But he was always serious, whether relevant or not. He had a long face, -with grey whiskers and grey hair, and a long upper lip shutting close -upon the under, which was feeble, though the chin too was rather long. -His face in these wintry days, when there was no news of Arthur, was as -serious as a countenance well could be. Whether he was talking of his -son or not, Arthur was always more or less in Sir John’s mind, and never -smile, or glimmering of a smile, approached within a hundred miles of -the serious lines of that long upper lip. - -Lady Curtis was of a different disposition altogether. The last -extremity of grief even could not produce in her the monotony of -melancholy which was possible to her husband. She would weep as he never -wept; but then she would laugh also in sheer impatience of the weight of -tedium and sameness. Her suffering was far more acute than his steady -dullness; but it was broken by gleams of activity, by sudden impulses, -by perpetual changes. She flung herself into her housekeeping, stirring -up all the quiet corners, and making a commotion in the servants’ hall, -such as for some time threatened the family peace--and into the parish, -where Lucy did not always want her mother’s assistance. She wrote -letters to her friends, half cynical, half sorrowful, and more than half -amusing, in which Arthur indeed was never referred to; but where many a -cutting sentence, sharp jest, or mocking reflection betrayed that sting -of personal suffering which those who knew her best could read between -the lines. Lady Curtis was clever. She wrote articles now and then in -literary papers, even sometimes in magazines; but this was an indulgence -of which she was not proud, and she prudently kept silence about it, -being wise enough to know that any such crown of wild olive sits badly -upon the matronly brow of a country lady, alarming some people, and -giving to others occasion for ill-natured jibes and pleasantry. Not her -husband certainly, and even not Lucy knew always when she took upon -herself the office of critic; and the able editor who printed her -reviews was not aware what had made his contributor more industrious -than usual and more bitter. It was Arthur that pointed the clear steel -of those polished little arrows which she discharged at the world. She -did it as a relief to herself; but not that anyone might know. And it -must be added that there was a certain satisfaction in this safety -valve. Then there was crewel work, and the patterns of the Art -Needlework Society, of which, however, she soon got tired. Altogether -Lady Curtis’s activity was stimulated to its utmost. She had the -happiness of discovering a source of waste in the house, and an abuse in -the parish; and she fell upon a nest of foolish books to criticize, and -began a series of papers upon “The Minor Morals of Society;” and she set -vigorously to work upon a set of curtains in a bold and effective -pattern of her own invention. And thus she beguiled away the weary days. - -Lucy was less difficult perhaps than either her father or her mother. -She was young, and it still seemed to her that in the course of nature -everything that was amiss must come right, and every breach be mended. -Sir John’s opinion was that nothing would ever mend, and his wife’s -that the only thing to be done was to keep yourself busy, and persuade -yourself that there was no hope nor expectation of any change within -you. But Lucy waited with as much patience as she could, crying -sometimes over the estrangement of her brother, but with no despair in -her; things would come right, nay, must come right some time or other. -To suppose that you could be separated for ever from anyone who belonged -to you, anyone you loved! could there be folly in earth so great as -that? It was a question of time, and the time was long and dreary and -hard to support; but yet by and by _of course_, who could doubt it? -everything would be well. November and December are dreary months, let -us make the best of them, and very dreary in the country when the day is -over by four o’clock or little after, and there are hours upon hours to -be got through in-doors, in a big empty house, pervaded everywhere by -that sense of the absent which is so much more urgent and all-prevailing -than any presence. When Arthur had been at home his being there was a -matter of course, and no one thought much about it; but when Arthur was -away! and away in this dismal manner, absorbed into another life, -disjointed from theirs. Such an argument as this might make the dullest -feel the superiority of an idea to all that is solid and practical. In -her own room, which Arthur rarely entered, Lucy missed her brother, and -she missed him going about the parish, where he never went with her. And -Sir John missed him in the midst of those Blue Books at which the boy -had made grimaces from a distance, but which he never approached; and -Lady Curtis felt his absence when she wrote for her Review, though -Arthur was the last person in the world to know anything of Reviews. -This is at once the desolation and the power of death which fills our -very atmosphere and daily breath with those whom it removes out of our -sight for ever; and this it was that gave force to the words which both -father and mother said of Arthur when he forsook them. It was as if he -had died. - -The ladies of the family spent most of their time, as has been said, in -the morning room, with its two tall windows looking out from between the -pillars of the façade. The drawing-room, which was large and splendid, -too fine and too big to be cosy in, suffered in consequence, and except -when the house was very full, had much the air of an uninhabited place. -The morning room was fine enough, too fine most people thought -now-a-days. Lady Curtis was one of the people who most feel the -influence of those successive waves of taste which sweep across the mind -of the most cultivated portion of society from time to time. Had it been -necessary to re-furnish this favourite room, she would have done it in -the style of Queen Anne, with neutral tints and “flatted” colour, tiled -fireplaces and high manteltops. And she was by times a little -uncomfortable about the florid effect of her _Louis Quinze_ decoration; -but there was no excuse for remodelling the pretty room which the -children loved. It was florid, there could be no doubt. The cornice was -rich with stucco wreaths, and there were Cupids about, and lyres and -knots of ribbon, and glowing garlands of flowers. The carpet was white -Aubusson with a great bouquet in the centre, as flowery and brilliant as -that which had made Nancy happy in Paris. Lady Curtis’s writing table -was a _bonheur de jour_ of the finest workmanship, and various articles -of precious marqueterie stood about, flowery and dainty. Two robust gilt -Cupids supported the white marble of the mantel-piece, and the satin -curtains were looped and fringed, and festooned with the most elaborate -art. Lucy sat and knitted stockings for the village children upon a -satin sofa, with her warm wool in the drawer of an inlaid table with -curved legs, which was worth half as much as the village. Everything in -the room was framed on the principle of being beautiful, not for -convenience or comfort, which is supposed to be the inspiration of -various other styles of household decoration, but for beauty alone. And -perhaps it was more suitable for the home of a bride, such as Lady -Curtis had been when she collected all those pretty things about her, -than for the centre of household life which it had become; though indeed -it was very doubtful whether Lady Curtis, a clever, impatient-minded -woman, had ever attained any ecstacy of happiness as the bride of good -Sir John. She loved her dainty surroundings better now than she did when -they were in all their freshness. She was aware of her husband’s -steadfast goodness and truth, though he was not lively and amusing, and -had more respect for him, and, at the same time, a tenderer sentiment -for the father of her children than, perhaps, she had entertained for -the good, dull bridegroom to whom she had been bound, not entirely, -report said, with her own freewill. Therefore, perhaps, the beautiful -room had never enshrined that impersonation of happiness, luxury, and -splendour to whom all these decorations belonged by nature. Now-a-days, -certainly, it was not any luxurious leisure and blessedness that dwelt -there; but care and doubt, such as would have been consistent with very -sombre surroundings. Lucy sat and knitted, her mind wandering after -Arthur, trying to imagine the brightest winter weather in Paris, and her -brother enjoying himself, instead of the rainy skies here, the muddy -roads and grey miserable day. Lady Curtis was in her chair by the window -for the sake of the light, busy with her crewels. - -“They may say what they like about the higher art of these subdued -tints,” she said, “but nature is not subdued in her tints. How am I to -do the autumn leaves in those tones of colour? They are high and bright -in nature.” She said this, but she was thinking of Arthur all the time; -and by and by Sir John came in from the library, and strolled up to the -fire. - -“Have not you had tea yet?” he said, putting himself in front, between -the Cupids. “I thought you must be having tea. What a dreary afternoon -it is! and the hounds are out. They must be having a disagreeable run.” -Thus he discoursed with his lips; but in his heart his thoughts were of -Arthur too. - -“Lucy has been in the village, though it has been so wet. She says there -is a very sad commotion going on. Young Jack Hodge, the blacksmith’s -son--tell your papa, Lucy,” said Lady Curtis with a sigh. - -“I don’t think it is so very bad,” said Lucy, getting up to make the tea -which had just been brought in. “And I am sure papa will not think so; -but his mother is making a great fuss. She has got the Dissenting -minister over from Oakenden to comfort her; and to hear him speak, you -would think it was very bad indeed.” - -“What has happened,” said Sir John, “and why did not Bertie go?” - -“Oh, Bertie, papa! what is the good of Bertie? There is a look in his -nose as if he smelt something disagreeable whenever he goes into one of -the cottages. The people cannot put up with it, and why should they? I -think the Dissenter was better on the whole. Jack has gone for a -soldier, that is all. I tried to say there was nothing so very dreadful -in that; but they would not listen to me.” - -“That is all the fault of your Dissenters,” said Sir John, “why -shouldn’t the lad go for a soldier? They would do away with poor people -altogether, these Dissenters if they could--and soldiers too I suppose. -They would leave us all defenceless, at the mercy of anybody that -chooses to make a run at us. They never have anything themselves. I -suppose that is the reason why.” - -“Well, that is not bad logic,” said Lady Curtis, “I suppose they think -those who have something to lose should defend themselves;” and she -sighed again, thinking, where was the son of her own house, who was its -natural defender? He was worse than Jack Hodge, who, at least, might be -of use to his country even if he did break his mother’s heart. - -“You mean the Volunteers?” said Sir John, “but I never believed in the -Volunteers. It is all very well to let them amuse themselves, -soldiering. And, perhaps, in the country where they would be officered -by the gentlemen they know,” he continued after a moment’s pause, with -again Arthur, and not the Volunteers, in his thoughts, and echoing his -wife’s sigh, “they might be of some use; but I don’t put any faith in -them for the defence of the country. Thank you, my dear; on a wet -afternoon like this one is glad of a cup of tea.” - -Sir John was generally glad of his cup of tea, if not for one reason, -then for another, because it was wet, or because it was cold, or because -it was sultry and stifling, or else for no reason at all. It formed a -break in the long afternoon when there was nothing more interesting to -do. For as he stood with his back to the fire, and his cup in his hand, -he went on dully talking, as was his way. - -“It is the very essence of democracy you know--when you substitute what -they call the citizen soldier, the man that is supposed to fight in his -own defence, for the soldier that is paid for defending us: the very -essence of democracy--it makes out that one man is just as good as -another and that the Hodges want as much taking care of as you and I.” - -“So they do surely, papa,” said Lucy, “their lives are as precious to -them as ours are--to us.” - -“You don’t know anything about it, Lucy; they are not half so important -to the country, and it’s the country we ought to think of first,” said -Sir John. “Without an army where should we be? The throne would have no -authority--Volunteers mean democracy, my dear.” - -“And Jack Hodge is your true patriot,” said his wife. - -“Exactly so. I will tell his mother that is my opinion the next time I -am in the village. A foolish woman with her Dissenters to put nonsense -into her head. What could the boy do better. But Bertie ought to have -been there? Bertie ought to have gone,” said the Baronet. “I allow there -are bad smells in the cottages, Lucy; but surely, if I can bear it, he -ought to bear it; and you, you never say anything about the smells--I -don’t think Bertie can be doing his duty as a clergyman ought. The -young men of the present day are beyond me,” Sir John added with another -sigh; and he put down his cup with a dreary shrug of his shoulders, and -shook his grey head as he went slowly away. - -How glad they all were when the long November day was over, and they -could shut out the ceaseless drip-dripping of the rain, the sweep of the -dead leaves across the windows! The autumn had been mild, and the -foliage had lasted longer than usual. Now it came tumbling down with -every breath, with every drop of rain, choking up the paths, and filling -the air with the mournfullest downpouring of yellow. On such a day no -one came up the avenue, unless it was a draggled villager bound for the -servants’ door, or the Rector, or the Doctor, neither of whom -contributed much to the gratification of the house; and to look out upon -the misty vista of the spectral trees, the damp rising from the ground -and falling from the skies, both of which were about the same colour, -for even a short November day is not cheerful to the spirits. It was a -relief when the house began to be dotted with lamps, when the shutters -were closed and the curtains drawn. Lady Curtis, for some time, had not -cared to have the shutters of her favourite room closed till bed-time. -She did not give any reason for this fancy, but Sir John had found fault -with it, and she had yielded. “It was not safe,” he said, “to leave the -lower windows open. Some one might get in and frighten the house, if no -more.” Lady Curtis had not stood out. She watched the servant close them -with again a lingering sigh. She had meant nothing by having them open. -No, nothing. Only if such a thing might happen as that--any one--moved -by some impulse of the heart, should suddenly come home--why, then there -would be a little light visible from the very end of the avenue to -encourage him. Nothing was more unlikely than that such a thing should -happen. But still granting that the impossible did sometimes come when -no one expected it, then there might be use in the light. But as nobody -could explain this, or say anything in defence of so painful a notion, -of course it was done away when Sir John objected. My Lady sat in the -gilded chair, cushioned with satin, that stood by the fire, and took a -last look of the dull twilight with the trees looming through it like -ghosts, as the footman began to shut up. It had been a dreary day; it -was more agreeable to turn to the clear light of the lamp within, the -subdued glimmer of the satin hangings, the sparkle of the fire. The day -was done at last. - -And yet it was a little dreary, also, to think of the hours that -remained unaccomplished--the long still evening in which there would be -a little talk, very little, and the routine of dinner to go through, and -the still evening after, which Lucy and she would spend together. -Perhaps she would work, and Lucy read aloud; or Lucy would take to one -of her many undertakings, which were of a homelier kind than Lady -Curtis’s crewels, while her mother wrote. The house was very still, as -it became a great house to be, lying folded in the darkness, in the -great park, in the humid lawn and clouds of watery trees, without one -gleam from all the windows in front to welcome anyone who, unexpected, -might come out of the busy world to explore the stillness--the most -unlikely thing in the world to happen; yet such things had been and, who -could tell? might be. There was one event still possible, and that was -the coming in of the post, which arrived after dinner, a most -inappropriate moment, everybody said. Indeed, Sir John had often -proposed not to send for the letters, but to leave them, when there were -any, till next morning, rather than spoil the digestion of the family at -such a moment. But Lady Curtis had a woman’s liking for letters, and -never would hear of this. She had no experience of the letters which -spoil digestion. Her milliners’ bills were no trouble to her. She had -never been in debt, it is to be supposed, in her life, neither were -there mysteries in her existence which she was afraid of; her letters -were pleasant breaks upon the monotony, enriching the quiet of her -country life; therefore she would have the post-bag brought up, whatever -Sir John might say. - -And that night there were two letters that seemed to wake up even in the -house itself something like the heart-beating that flutters in an -individual bosom at sight of a long-expected communication--two letters -which bore the Paris postmark, one to my lady, one to Sir John. The -butler saw them at the first glance, recognising the writing of one, -guessing at the other. He whispered to the housekeeper, before he went -to my lady’s room with her share of the budget. - -“Summat from Mr. Arthur,” he whispered in her ear. - -“Oh, let me look,” she said. - -It was something to see, even the outside of the letters; and they -looked at each other across that other one, and agreed in their guess as -to what it was. Daly, the butler, was a man of discrimination. He knew, -as well as she did, that, whereas Sir John was equally dull at all -times, my lady expected the post with a thrill of nervous anxiety every -night. He knew it by her eyes, by the clutch of her hand at the letters, -by the inspection, quick as lightning, which she gave them, always -curbing her disappointment. This was why Daly carried my lady’s letters -the first especially to-night. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - - -“Lucy, Lucy!” said Lady Curtis in a stifled voice. - -It was the postmark, the thin paper of the foreign letter, the stamp of -the hotel which had caught her eye; and it had not occurred to her as -she opened the envelope that it was not Arthur’s handwriting. Indeed, -Nancy had been copying Arthur’s handwriting, and had partially succeeded -in making her own like his, at least for the length of the address. When -she called to Lucy, it was that she had perceived the different writing, -the unexpected form of address within, and had jumped at the conclusion -that something had happened to Arthur, and that it was his servant who -was writing. Lucy rushed to her, seeing her agitation, and coming -behind her, read over her shoulder the letter which Lady Curtis threw an -alarmed glance over, trembling in every limb. They trembled, both of -them, with excitement as they went on. It was not what they expected; it -was neither a letter from Arthur, nor yet an announcement of his -illness, but something else, which they had not anticipated or thought -of. It was the letter Nancy had written in hot haste and desperation, -after the visit of Mrs. Curtis had come to so violent and sudden an end. -My lady read it, the paper trembling in her hand, and Lucy read it over -her shoulder, with painful, suppressed exclamations. This is what Nancy -had said:-- - - “My Lady, - - “Arthur says I am to write to you, though I do not know why; and I - have told him I will, if I may say what I like and not show it to - him. So you will know, if you are offended, that he has no hand in - this. I am to say, I suppose, that I am sorry, though why I cannot - tell. I did not think about you when I consented to marry Arthur? - Why should I? In our class of life we don’t think that a young - man’s mother has any right to interfere. I never thought of you, - therefore I maintain I have nothing to be sorry for about you. I - have enough to do to please my own father and mother; why should - not he manage his as I did mine? - - “And since we were married, what did I owe to you? You never did - anything for me. You wrote to him, or you made Miss Lucy write to - him on our wedding-day, and never once named me. You knew I would - be his wife before he got it, but you never named me. Was that a - way to make me wish to please you? And the best I could do was - never to think of you at all. Was not that as good as putting him - against me, never to mention my name on my wedding day? And why - should I write to you now? You are old, and I am young. You ought - to be the one to come and to say you are sorry. I am your son’s - wife; therefore, I am as good as you are, whatever I may have been - before; and I was an honest girl before, and as good as anybody. - Why didn’t you come then, and make up to _me_? It is old people who - ought to show an example to the young, not young people to the old. - - “Now that I have said this, I will just warn you that if you try to - make Arthur think badly of me, to separate him from me (which you - can’t do, however you may try), that I will keep him separate from - you. If you are fond of him, you will have to be civil to me, you - and Miss Lucy, grand ladies though you are. You think me no better - than the dirt below your feet; but if you do not treat me as I - ought to be treated, I will keep Arthur from you, so that you shall - never see him again. I have the power to do it, not like you, who - have no power. He can do without his mother, but he can’t do - without me. I think it is honest to tell you this, because he - insisted I was to write to you--I shouldn’t have written to you of - myself--and because I mean to come back home to England and settle - at Underhayes, to be near my people, who have always been (not - like you) kind to him as well as to me. So that now, my lady, you - know exactly what I mean, you and Miss Lucy, and what I will do. - - “ANNA FRANCES CURTIS.” - -Lady Curtis was flushed and agitated; her eyes blazed hotly over her -crimson cheeks. - -“Was ever anyone so insolent?” she said, and bit her lip to keep from -crying, altogether overwhelmed by the unexpected insult. - -“Oh, mamma, the girl does not mean it!” cried Lucy, distressed, trying -to take the letter. It was bad enough to read it once, but to read it as -she knew her mother would do, over and over again, feeling the enormity -ever greater, would be terrible. Lucy put out her hand for it, to take -it away. - -“I will not give it you, Lucy. I know what you mean to do; to put it in -the fire that I may forget it, and think it is not half so bad.” - -“No, mamma; but why should you dwell upon it? She wrote it hastily. -See, there is haste in every line; but we will read it at leisure, and -go over it again and again. She is so uninstructed, so inexperienced; -and there is a kind of savage justice in it, if you will but think, -mamma.” - -“How dare you say so?” cried Lady Curtis, in whose mind the immediate -pain and hurt received were too violent to be thus smoothed away, and -who was as little able for the moment to inquire into the absolute -justice of the matter as Nancy herself. The tears began to glisten in -her eyes, tears of genuine suffering. “This is what our children bring -us,” she said; “they for whom we are ready to make any -sacrifice--insult, the flaunting in our face of some poor creature, -surely, surely not worth as much as his mother was to him, Lucy; not -worth you--_you_, my child; of that I may be sure at least; and his -home, and all that was worth having in life--” - -And some scalding drops fell on her hands in a hot and sudden shower. -Tears do not last at Lady Curtis’ age; they cost too much; only a sharp -stab like this could bring them, hasty and unwilling, from her eyes. - -“I know it is hard, very hard; but, mamma--” - -Lucy was interrupted by the sound of her father’s heavy step approaching -the room. He threw the door open and came in hastily. He, too, had a -letter in his hand, and held it out to his wife as he came forward. - -“He has written at last,” he said. “It is a fine thing to have waited so -long for. Look, Elizabeth, if you can read it, what your boy says.” - -Lady Curtis took the letter, looking anxiously at her husband’s face to -read its effect. And then Lucy and she read it as they had read the -other, the girl over her mother’s shoulder. The very sight of Arthur’s -handwriting moved them. He had written a few words to Lucy to thank her -for the money and the blessing conveyed to him on his wedding day; but -except these few warm words they had not heard from him since that -painful violent letter which Lady Curtis had received after the visit -of Mr. Rolt, the family lawyer, to Underhayes. And that had given the -ladies so much pain that the very sight of the dear and familiar -handwriting brought it back. Sir John went to the fire as was his way, -and set himself up against the mantel-piece, turning towards them the -dullness of his long melancholy countenance, which showed little change -of expression one way or another. His heavy repose, not unclouded with -trouble, contrasted sharply with the eager and anxious looks of his wife -and daughter already disturbed and excited. They read, breathless with -anxiety and haste, flying over the paper, taking in its meaning almost -at a glance in a way which was wonderful to him. He shook his head -slightly as he saw this rapid process; it was impossible they could -understand it, he said to himself; even Arthur’s letter! skimmed over -with feminine want of thoroughness in anything, as if it had been a -book. - -Arthur’s letter, so far as external forms went, was dutiful enough. - - “My dear father, - - “You may think that I ought to say something about the long break - in my letters, and I am aware that it would not be without reason; - but what am I to say? My marriage was really a thing which - concerned me most. I would have been ready to make any apologies - for the indiscretions with which it was accompanied, and for the - fundamental mistake of not having explained my wishes and - intentions to you from the first. But that is too late now, and you - must permit me to say that the strange step you yourself took in - sending Rolt to Underhayes to interfere in my business, justifies - the silence in which I have taken refuge since, as being more - respectful to you than anything I can say. I trust and desire to - believe that the extraordinary proposals made by him did not - emanate from you; nothing indeed but the mind of a pettifogging - attorney could have suggested such means of endeavouring to outwit - and frustrate an honourable attachment. I can never meet with - civility the originator of these proposals, and it is a desire to - say nothing on the subject which has kept me silent even to you. - - “I now write about a serious matter which it is necessary to call - your attention to. The allowance which was ample for me at Oxford, - or when I was in another condition of life, is naturally quite - inadequate to the expenses of a married man. My wife and I are - about to return to England, and at her desire we will proceed at - first to Underhayes, where her family reside. Our plans are not yet - decided; but the first requisite for any arrangement is to know - exactly by what degree you may be disposed to increase my income, - in order that I may be able to provide for the increased expense to - which I am now subject. We have been in Paris some weeks, and had - it not been for the succour which my mother’s generosity provided - me, I do not see how I could have afforded to my wife all that it - was indispensable my wife and Sir John Curtis’s daughter-in-law - should have. These of course are extraneous expenses; but I must - request that you will kindly come to a decision about my present - income with as little delay as possible. This is doubly important, - as we shall thus only be able to make up our minds on what scale of - living it will be proper for us to make our start. - - “My wife desires her respects to my mother, Lucy, and yourself. - -“Affectionately, -“ARTHUR CURTIS.” - -“And this is all!” said Lady Curtis, throwing it on the table with a -mixture of scorn and grief; “in so short a time how well she has tutored -him. Oh don’t say anything, Lucy! I can see that girl’s hand in every -word; and this is all!” - -“Surely it is all,” said Sir John, “you don’t think I would keep back -anything, why should I? It’s all, and enough too, I think. A fellow like -that whom we’ve all petted and spoiled, thinking of nothing but his -allowance! It’s disappointing, that it certainly is. When one thinks -that’s Arthur!” said his father, his lower lip quivering with unusual -emotion, yet something that was intended for a smile. - -“Oh don’t make him out any worse than he is,” said Lady Curtis, “I can -see that girl’s hand through all.” - -Now a more gratuitous assertion than this could not be. Arthur had -written when away from Nancy altogether in the writing room of the -English Club. She had known nothing about what he was doing, and still -less did she know that he had made up his mind not to struggle with his -fate any longer, but to let her go back to her congenial soil, which -would secure at least no further encounters with people of his own -class, even when met in the recent accidental way. He could not, he -felt, risk anything like this again. He had not strength for it. It was -better to yield to her than to wear himself out with such paltry -miseries; but up to this moment even Nancy herself did not know of his -decision. Lady Curtis however did not know this, nor did the despair in -Arthur’s mind ever occur to her, or the state of severance between him -and his wife which had really existed when these two letters were -written. It seemed to her that they were full of one spirit, and that -Nancy had got the entire command and put her own unregulated soul into -her husband. Dear as he was to his mother, the bold figure of this girl -whom she had never seen, seem to rise up and obliterate her son before -Lady Curtis’s eyes--obliterate him intellectually and morally--so that -all she saw was a shadow of Nancy, not the reality of Arthur. Sir John -did not take this figurative view. He took what he saw for granted, -exercising no spirit of divination. He was wounded not to sharp pain -like his wife, but with a heavy sense of evil. This was all Arthur -wanted, not to be his father’s right hand man, to help him (for, -privately, Sir John was of opinion that he had a great deal to do) to -become the real head of the estate, understanding everything as his -father had wished; but only to have his allowance increased! that was -all. It did not give Sir John a less pang in his matter of fact way than -it did his wife, but this was the low level of interpretation by which -he explained to himself the boy who had been his pride. - -As for Lucy, she read the two letters with a double distress, as seeming -to see something in both of them which escaped her parents. She thought -it was because she was young, and in sympathy with these two foolish, -erring, unkind, young people, that she was able to read between the -lines and see that they were not so unkind as they seemed. There was, as -she had said, a kind of savage justice in Nancy’s letter from Nancy’s -point of view, and insolent though it was, Lucy felt that she could -understand it, and could excuse it though it was inexcusable. And as for -Arthur’s cold interestedness and apparent indifference to everything, -was not this only a sign of mortal pain, a proof that he felt himself in -a position from which he could not recede, which he dared not discuss or -enter into? “Oh,” she cried in the tumult of feeling which rose within -her, “do not take it all for granted like this. Arthur is not what you -think him, papa. He feels it, oh, I know he feels it to the bottom of -his heart; but how can he discuss it, how can he open such a subject -with us? She is his wife, and she knows what we think of her.” - -“Oh, Lucy, hold your peace,” cried Lady Curtis, whose heart was wrung to -breaking, “what is the use of this casuistry, as if you knew him better -than we do. No, I cannot shut my eyes to the truth whatever you may do; -this boy for whom we have done so much, whom we have brought up so -carefully, finds something more congenial in low society than in ours. -It is unworthy of us to groan over such a preference. See, he avows it. -He is going back to that wretched place, to the society of his wife’s -relations. We ought to be proud,” said Lady Curtis with her eyes -flashing, with a miserable make believe of a smile on her lips, “that is -what he likes best, _my_ boy!” - -“Oh, mamma, don’t be so hard upon him.” - -“So hard, am I hard? upon Arthur! God help me! I wish I could be a -little harder; I wish I could think as little of him as he does of me -or of what I feel,” cried Lady Curtis with a moan in her broken voice. -Sir John did not show so much emotion. He stood gazing dully before him, -not even looking at them, his eyes fixed upon vacancy; but many thoughts -were revolving dully in his oppressed spirit too. - -“Now that he has written to me like this, he shall be attended to,” said -Sir John, “since he wants nothing but money, he shall have his money, -and I will wash my hands of him. People do not spend a great deal in -that rank of life do they? If that is how he is going to live, he must -be provided for accordingly. I will speak to Rolt about it to-morrow. -You see how he speaks of poor Rolt, a most meritorious man, that has no -thought except our interest. And if it had not been that Arthur got hold -of it before he ought to have known, Rolt would have bought the girl off -and freed us. Ah, yes--Rolt is the best man of business, and the most -considerate family friend I know.” - -“But it was a dreadful thing to do; to buy her off! If you will think of -it, papa, and think who she was, the girl whom Arthur _loved_. It does -not matter,” cried Lucy with generous heat, “that we do not like her or -approve of her. Arthur loved her; and this girl whom he loved so much, -whom he thought more of than any one in the world, to be bought off!” - -“Ay, that’s it,” said Sir John, “it would have all gone on smoothly if -he had not broke in with his high flown ideas just like you; the thing -would have been done but for that; and he would have been clear of her. -But now that it’s come to this he shall have what he wants, and he shall -have what he’s entitled to. I will see Rolt to-morrow,” said Sir John, -never changing the dull fixedness of his eyes. - -And it may be supposed that the remainder of the evening was not very -cheerful. Lady Curtis locked both the letters up in a drawer of her -writing-table. “It is a pity they should be separated, these two,” she -said with that quivering smile of scorn which is so bitter, more -painful than weeping. Yes, this was what all their hopes had come to. -Arthur her boy, had chosen his own path, and this was what it was, -nothing in which his father or mother had any share. What he liked -better was the coarse girl who had married him for all the advantages he -brought in his hand, and who had infatuated him, and made him such a one -as herself. The sense of failure was in Lady Curtis’s mind, the pang of -feeling that something inferior had been preferred to her, and to all -that was worthy, by her boy. Can anything be more terrible than when -father or mother is driven to despise the child of their bosoms? It -happens often enough, and there is no such pang on earth. With trembling -hands and this miserable quiver of a smile on her lip, she locked them -away. Now surely it was time that they should rouse themselves, shake -off the dull misery for Arthur’s loss which had paralysed the house, and -brood no more over the desertion of one so unworthy their love. - -“We have enough of this,” she said, “come, Lucy! I do not mean that your -life should be spent in sackcloth because Arthur is unworthy. Because he -is hobnobbing with the tax-collector, are there to be no cakes and ale -in Oakley? We will send our invitations to-morrow,” she said with a -mocking little laugh of pain. Sir John opened his eyes a little at the -levity of this unintelligible phrase about cakes and ale. But he had -long ceased to criticise my lady whatever she might do or say. She had -odd ways of expressing herself sometimes, but she was always to be -trusted in the main points. - -“I shall speak to Rolt to-morrow,” he said for his part, which was more -reasonable, as he went back to his room and resumed his Blue book. And -he read till his usual hour, and lighted his candle exactly at the same -moment as every other night, though his heart was heavy in his bosom -like a lump of lead, not warming his blood as it ought to do. The ladies -were not so reasonable, I need not say. They sat over the fire till it -died out between them, neither of them remarking the blackness, or -being aware that the cold they felt had anything to do with the external -circumstances--talking it over and over, arguing, fighting even: Lucy -taking the side of defense, while her mother darted arrows of bitter -words at Arthur and the girl who had got such empire over him. Men do -not make their miseries subjects of endless discussion like this, -perhaps because two men are scarcely ever so much like the two halves of -one soul as mother and daughter are; nor could any brother and father -throw themselves wholly into such a question as the sister could do with -the mother. Lucy fought for him, condemned him, justified him, all in a -breath; and cried and struggled and held up Arthur’s standard even while -she threw herself with passionate sympathy into the proud and sore -disappointment of the mother whose hopes had been thus deceived. They -were still there over the dead fire in full tide when the solemn little -stroke of one startled them, and drove them to their rooms, chilled and -miserable. How dark it was outside, the rain falling, the last leaves -dropping, in the middle of the December night! It added a shivering of -physical sympathy to eyes exhausted with crying and voices exhausted -with talking over this ever expanding subject. Every thought and plan of -the house had borne reference to Arthur for how many years; and this was -how he dropped them, turned from them, threw himself upon the lower and -baser elements of life. - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - - -According to Lady Curtis’s hasty resolution, the invitations, to some at -least, of the ordinary Christmas party were for an earlier date than -usual. The climax of the distress produced by Arthur had come, and -though the struggle was hard to pick up the ordinary occupations of life -again, and go on as if nothing had happened, at a time when Arthur’s -absence was so doubly felt and apparent, the impatient soul of his -mother was better able to bear this variety of pain than the monotonous -heaviness of the other, the dull presence of one thought that had been -upon the house like bonds of iron. One of the first visitors who arrived -was Durant, who had always been the first in Arthur’s time, next to the -son of the house in familiarity and knowledge of everything and -everybody about. Even during the miserable interval now passed, Durant’s -letters had given a certain solace to Lady Curtis, as furnishing her -always with something to talk of, something to discuss with Lucy, to -whom she would point out freely the weakness of his arguments which were -always in Arthur’s favour, and for which Arthur’s mother loved him, even -while she took a delight in demonstrating their futility. Lucy had a -long round to make among her poor people on the afternoon on which -Durant was expected. She could not have told why it was that she chose -that special day; perhaps because it was fine, a simple reason, quite -satisfactory to the ordinary intelligence; perhaps because the -association of ideas with him, whom she had not seen since he took her -to Arthur’s wedding, was so painful that she was willing to postpone the -meeting as long as possible; or perhaps she was desirous in Arthur’s -interest that Lady Curtis should have her first conversation with his -faithful friend undisturbed by any third person; or, perhaps, again Lucy -had reasons of her own, into which none of us have any right to pry. She -was for a long time at the almshouses, having started early to take -advantage of the brightest part of the short winter day, and took her -luncheon with Mrs. Rolt, the wife of the good agent, to whom the -children at Oakley had been as her own since ever they were born. Mrs. -Rolt had no children of her own, and she had as great a desire to talk -about Arthur as his mother herself had. She plunged into the subject as -soon as Lucy appeared, and there was nothing but sympathy and tenderness -in the bosom of this simple-hearted retainer of the family, who was at -the same time a far away cousin, and therefore on more familiar terms -than are usually permitted to an agent’s wife. This visit detained Lucy -also, so that it was four o’clock, and the red winter sunset just over -when she started to walk up the long avenue. Durant had been expected by -an earlier train at the station which was a mile or two off, so that -Lucy felt herself safe. She set out upon her walk very full of a new -incident which she had not previously heard of, the meeting between her -aunt and her brother at Paris of which Mrs. Rolt had been informed by -the Rector. “Why did not he tell us, or why did not Aunt Anthony write?” -Lucy had said. - -“Oh, my pet, what could she write? I don’t suppose it was pleasant,” -Mrs. Rolt said, “however angry you, may be with your own, you don’t like -to hear them blamed by others; and Mrs. Anthony has sense enough to know -that.” - -“Then why did she mention it at all?” said Lucy. - -“Oh, my love, that would have been more than flesh and blood is equal -to. To have had an adventure like that, and not to have mentioned it at -all! She said Mrs. Arthur behaved _dreadfully_ to her, abused her, -turned her out of her rooms. But we must take all that with a great many -grains of salt, for you know your Aunt Anthony, my dear.” - -“Yes, I know Aunt Anthony; but how dreadful it is that Arthur’s -wife--fancy, _Arthur’s wife_!--should give anyone occasion to say that -she behaved badly. You will not tell mamma?” - -“No, indeed, I promise you; and I daresay, if we could know it all, the -half isn’t true. You mustn’t worry about it, my darling,” said Mrs. -Rolt, kissing Lucy as she went away. - -The girl shook her head. Why should they tell her such things if they -meant her not to worry? and yet she was feverishly glad that she had -been told, as people are in respect to every such family misery. She -went in at the great gates, with her cheek still flushed by the -agitation of the news. To hear that a friend, a member of the family, -had actually met and spoken with Nancy, seemed to bring her nearer, to -make her more real. And perhaps there was a personal advantage in this -thrill of renewed agitation about Arthur, which replaced for the moment -some of her own thoughts. For lo! it so occurred that all Lucy’s -precautions had been futile. She had not walked half-a-dozen yards when -she heard behind her the rattle of the dogcart swinging round the corner -to the gate, that had been sent for Durant to the station; and before -she had time to collect her thoughts, it drew up suddenly just behind -her, and Durant himself sprung out of it, and in a moment was at her -side. The dogcart went on with his portmanteau, and she felt herself -exactly in the circumstances she had so elaborately avoided, bound, -without chance of escape, to a long solitary walk through the still -avenue, and a long confidential talk before he had seen anyone else, -with her brother’s friend. - -“Yes, the train was late; there was some slight accident on the line, at -which I have been fuming and fretting. But, as it happens, it has been a -lucky detention,” said Durant. - -Lucy took no notice, not even so much as by a smile. - -“You said you were very busy.” - -“Yes, I am getting plenty of work to do; not very distinguished work as -yet, but I hope better may come.” - -“Your leading counsel will fall ill some day, and it will be a very -interesting, romantic case, and you will be inspired to make the most -eloquent speech, and your fortune will be made.” - -“I see you know how such things happen,” he said with a laugh. - -“Oh, yes, I have read a great many novels,” said Lucy. “That is always -how young barristers get on; and between that and the woolsack is but a -step.” - -“A very long stride, I fear; but I do not insist on the woolsack,” said -Durant; and then there was a pause, and he said lower, “I saw Arthur a -few days ago.” - -“Did you see him? Oh, Mr. Durant, you must not mind what mamma says. She -has begun to jeer at him, and that is the worst of all. How was he -looking? Poor Arthur, poor boy! And his wife--did you see her? Oh, I -have been hearing such a story of her!” - -“What story?” he asked anxiously. - -_He_ had heard many; but on the whole he was no enemy to Nancy. He saw -the glimmer of tears in Lucy’s eyes, and this did much to steel his -heart against Arthur’s wife; but still he had no feeling against Nancy. -He was ready even, more or less, to stand up in her defence. - -“My aunt, it appears, saw her in Paris, Mr. Durant.” - -“Oh, it is Mrs. Curtis’s story then?” he said. - -“You speak as if there were a great many stories about her,” said Lucy, -with sudden heat. - -“No; but one hears everything, you know, in town--especially, I think, -at this time of the year, when there are few men about, and they talk of -everything.” - -“Yes,” said Lucy, “I have heard often of the gossip in your clubs, that -it is worse and more unkind than any other gossip.” - -“Do not be too hard upon us! It is as petty and miserable as gossip is -everywhere. But I have seen Mrs. Curtis, and heard it from herself. It -is nothing, a misunderstanding between women--” - -“Which, of course, you consider the merest trifle,” cried Lucy, much -more piqued by this countershot than he had been by the assault on the -clubs. Women are certainly on this point more ready to take offence than -men, who have the calm confidence of their own superiority to fall back -upon. - -“I do not, indeed; but the women in question are not of the highest -order. Mrs. Curtis most likely was fussy and interfering; and Nancy--” - -“Do you call her Nancy?” cried Lucy, opening wide eyes. - -“I beg your pardon. I got used to the name before she was Mrs. Arthur; -and there is such a wonderful incongruity in the idea that she is Mrs. -Arthur,” he said, doing his best to conciliate by this remark; but this -slip of the name had evidently had a bad effect, he could not tell why. -He thought that Lucy (in whom he had never before seen any indication of -such foolish family pride) was offended by such a familiarity; and yet -what could he say to excuse it? “Mrs. Curtis was intrusive, probably,” -he went on, “and Mrs. Arthur resented it.” - -“Oh, do not change the name you are accustomed to for me, Mr. Durant!” - -“I am not accustomed to it,” he answered meekly, feeling that something -was wrong, but not knowing what it was. “She resented it, I suppose. I -do not wish to be disagreeable, but you know that a lady like Mrs. -Curtis can be very officious and interfering; and _she_ resented it, I -suppose.” - -Poor Durant! if he thought he was mending matters by calling Arthur’s -wife _she_, with that little emphasis, how mistaken he was! Lucy’s heart -was conscious of a thrill and jar, such as one’s foot or hand might -experience if suddenly striking against some sharp angle in the dark. -She had no right to feel so unreasonably offended with Durant, so -unreasonably disdainful of Arthur’s wife. Lucy was angry with herself -for the force of her sentiments, which seemed so utterly out of -proportion with the matter on hand. She thought it more dignified and -befitting to retire from any further question of it. But her aspect -changed unawares, her very form grew stiffer and more erect, and she -said, icily, “You said you saw Arthur. Is he looking better than when -we saw him last?” - -“No,” said Durant, hesitating; “I am not able to say that he is. I hope -Lady Curtis will not ask me that question.” - -“Oh!” said Lucy, the tears springing to her eyes, “do you think I am not -as anxious about my only brother--as concerned as mamma?” - -“Indeed I do not mean anything of the kind; but I can speak to you more -freely. _You_ understand; you always did understand, Miss Curtis,” he -said, looking at her with a tender admiration which stole the hardness -from Lucy’s heart in spite of herself. “I do not know how it was. It is -so natural that Lady Curtis--that all his family should see the folly -and the unkindness of it most. But you always saw the whole--and -understood.” - -“I never excused Arthur, Mr. Durant. No one could know the evil of what -he has done--the pain it has produced so well as I.” - -“I know,” he said softly, “all the more honour to your delicate heart -that understood. I beg your pardon--I was only speaking by way of -explanation. I can speak to you as I cannot speak--to any one else. -Arthur is not looking well, poor fellow--he is harassed and worried to -death. All the glamour has gone out of his eyes, and he sees his wife’s -family now as other people see them, as very common-place, sordid, -uneducated people, with whom, or with their like, he has no affinity. I -would not say even that he did not see this more deeply than--I do, for -instance, who am quite indifferent. To me they seem good sort of people -enough--in their way. But Arthur has the horror of feeling that they -belong to him more or less--and that he is called upon to associate with -them.” - -“Poor boy! oh, poor boy! and he was always so fastidious! But that is -nothing, Mr. Durant--they do _not_ belong to him. He can shake them off -whenever he likes; but her--what of her? She is the chief person to be -thought of,” said Lucy, with a sigh that it should be so. - -“This is precisely the thing which I can say to you, and to no other,” -said Durant. “She is not the same as they are. If you could fancy one of -the stories of a stolen child--that was always different, always -superior to the children of the people who brought it up--” - -“Superior--Aunt Anthony’s story does not sound much like superiority! I -think you are influenced, as they say gentlemen always are, by her good -looks, and that is why you make an exception in favour of--my -sister-in-law,” said Lucy, with a sound in those words such as Durant -had never heard before from her lips. He looked at her in the growing -twilight with wonder and pain. Was his certainty of _her_ superiority to -every other person concerned, about to turn out vain? It was almost -dark, and he could not make out the expression of Lucy’s face; and of -all things in the world the last that could have occurred to the young -man was any thing to account for this, which should have been flattering -to himself. - -When he spoke again, there was some distress in his voice, and a half -tone of complaint, “I thought I might venture on saying this to -_you_--I thought you would understand; the facts are all against her. I -believe she has managed very badly; and allowed everybody to see her -want of cultivation--her strange--ignorance. Nevertheless,” he said -earnestly, “I do not despair of Nancy. As for her good looks, they count -for very little with me. What effect they may have on idle and -unoccupied minds, I cannot pretend to say; but for a man like myself -with a busy life and a pre-occupied imagination--” - -“Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr. Durant,” cried Lucy, “I did not wish to pry -into your secrets.” - -She would not have said it had she taken time to think. What folly to -let him know that she understood that enigmatical phrase about the -pre-occupied imagination! Lucy went on, quickening her pace, feeling the -glow of a sudden blush run all over her in the gathering dark. And the -silence seemed to thrill about them with all manner of possibilities of -what might be said next. They were as much alone as if they had been in -a desert island--bare trees standing closely about, the twilight all -grey among the branches, the whole world still and listening. The thrill -came to Lucy too, a kind of visionary tremor. - -“Mamma will be looking out for you,” she said, hurriedly. “She will -scold me for keeping you so long walking, when you might have been there -in the dogcart half an hour ago;” and she sensibly quickened her own -pace. - -But Durant did not share in that thrill. It affected him only with a -contrary touch of despondency. Lucy’s fright lest he should go on to -tell her who it was who had pre-occupied his imagination (could she -entertain any doubt who it was?) reflected itself in his melancholy -sense that he dared not tell her any more. He dared not because he was -poor, he who, even if he had been rich, would not have been thought her -equal by anyone belonging to her; and because he was her father’s guest, -and incapable of betraying his hospitality by a word to his daughter -which Sir John would not have permitted. Thus that suggestion of -self-disclosure ended in a blank silence which neither would break. He, -too, quickened his steps to keep up with her, and in a few minutes they -reached the house, which rayed out light into the darkness from the open -door and windows. It seemed all bright, all open, full of hospitable -warmth and radiance. When Durant had come here before, he had come with -Arthur, and there had been a rush of mother and sister to the door to -meet the heir of everything, the first thought and hope of all within -these walls. Durant had been half-saddened many a time by that warm and -exuberant welcome which Arthur always received. He himself had been -received kindly too, but with what a difference! and as there was no -particular enthusiasm about him in his own home, notwithstanding the -fact that his family were indebted to him for everything, he had never -been able to divest himself of a certain envy for Arthur. But he was a -thousand times more saddened now to go up the great steps into the hall, -and see no mother hurrying out to receive her son, no Arthur coming -with cheerful outcry, nothing but himself stealing in softly, half -ashamed of being there without Arthur, half afraid to look at Lucy, who -must feel it too, he felt. He did not know how to go on and meet Lady -Curtis’s eyes. He felt sure they must meet him with a reproach. “Where -is Arthur?” he felt the very house say to him; and almost wished that he -had been guilty, that he could have taken their reproaches to himself, -and answered for his friend’s sake, “It is my fault.” He paused in the -hall, and looked round wistfully at Lucy. Her eyes were wet, her lips -faltering. She held out that hand to him. - -“I know,” she said; “but when we have got over the first, it will be -almost as if he had come too.” - -“Almost!” he said shaking his head. He felt his eyes grow wet, and held -her hand almost without knowing that he held it. Lady Curtis had heard -the movement in the hall, though she had been trying not to hear it, and -the shock had been broken to her by the arrival of the dogcart which -she thought was bringing him. She came out now hiding her agitation with -a smile, and held out her hands. Neither of them could speak. But when -they got into that room which had seen so many happy meetings, it was -too much for Arthur’s mother. She took hold of his arm convulsively with -both her hands, and leaned her weight upon his shoulder and cried, “Oh, -my boy!” through the sobs which she could not suppress. Durant was -overcome at once by the emotion and the confidence. He stooped down with -tender reverence and kissed her cheek. - -“He is all the brother I have ever known,” he said. - -“Yes, Lewis, yes, I know; God bless you! you have always been on -Arthur’s side.” - -Lucy stood by with strange currents of thought going through her mind, -dimly understanding the man who was not her lover, but whose imagination -was pre-occupied past being touched by any one else--yet tempted -grievously to misunderstand him, and wondering with a latent pain just -ready to come into being, whether this was one of the common mockeries -of fate which made her mother receive him thus almost as a son, at the -very time when he had ceased to entertain that sentiment which might -have made a true son of him? Strange are the vagaries of young minds at -this doubtful period, when everything is undisclosed and uncertain. She -had entertained no doubt as to who it was who occupied his imagination -when he had said those words. Did she really entertain a doubt now? or -was she fostering such a thing into being--trying to make herself -believe it? it would be hard to say. She stood by wondering, feeling in -herself all the germs of doubt, and that inclination to nurse and -develope them, and make herself unhappy which most of us have felt; all -this, however, tempered by a curious thrill of pleasure to hear what -Lady Curtis said. Lewis! they had called him Lewis Durant among themself -for years, as (she felt no doubt) he had called her Lucy; but the name -had never been employed before by anyone but Arthur. This was a leap -unspeakable in intimacy. Lady Curtis had adopted him, so to speak, by -thus involuntary casting herself upon him, and the sudden use of his -name. But what did _he_ think? was it Arthur only that was in his mind? - -Lucy drew her mother’s chair to the fire, and pulled off her own thick -outdoor jacket. There was tea on the table ready to be poured out, and -the soft lamplight and warm glow of the fire brought out all the -prettiness of the room, with its gay tints and gleams of gold. What had -trouble to do in that cheerful place, amid those artificial graces which -had become natural and kindly by use and wont? The stir of her -daughter’s movements brought Lady Curtis to herself. They sat down round -the fire as if the new comer had been another son, and talked of Arthur. -It was almost as endless, almost as engrossing a talk as when the mother -and sister sat alone together, and felt as if they could never cease. -But by and by Sir John came in for his cup of tea, and asked how it was -the train was so late, and all the particulars of the journey. Sir John -himself had delayed half an hour beyond his usual time in coming for his -tea. He had felt Durant’s arrival too. - - - - -CHAPTER X. - - -The next day the ordinary guests began to arrive at Oakley. They were -not of a very lively character. With an instinctive sense of the -difference, which the family were scarcely conscious of, changes had -been made in the list of visitors which would have been got together in -Arthur’s time. Scarcely any young men were of the party. When there is -not a young man in the house what use in asking young men? unless it had -been in a matrimonial point of view for Lucy’s sake, an idea which not -only Lucy but her mother regarded (in the latter case injudiciously, it -ought to be said) with scorn. Sir John had given up hunting long ago, -and if he made a serious shot once or twice in a season, it was more -upon the principle which makes an old king open a ball than any more -active personal liking for the sport. The party accordingly consisted in -great part of his contemporaries, some in Parliament, some in the law, -chiefly belonging to the learned professions. There was a judge, and -there was the head of a college, and for a few days there was a bishop; -but as this latter functionary was the most sportive member of the -party, he could not be counted as adding to its solemnity; and these -magnates of course did not stay long. And then there was the Master of -the Hounds who was more solemn; and there were the wives of these -gentlemen, and in some cases their daughters, and a stray man or two of -the order of those who know everybody and have been everywhere, and have -done a little of everything, without getting more than a general -reputation for themselves, and without giving any very clear indications -to the world where they sprang from or to whom they belonged. There were -also a few ladies of the same species, but whose families and -antecedents were unimpeachable. It was Lady Curtis who abhored dullness, -who had added these. Sir John liked the dullness, and did not object to -having a lady next to him who dined well and said little. In spite of -Lady Curtis’s efforts, however, the party was dull. It was perhaps too -elderly and too serious. Well conducted married people are dull in -society. They are not sufficiently interested in each other to exert -themselves for each other’s amusement, and there can be little doubt -that as a source of diversion and interest to their fellow creatures, a -couple of naughty persons bent on flirtation and ill-behaviour make a -better recompense to their entertainers. This element was sadly wanting -at Oakley; there was no little drama to watch, legitimate genteel comedy -ripening towards marriage and all the domestic joys, or more -reprehensible episode tending the other way, such as often proves more -exciting still to the jaded appetite of society. And it can scarcely be -wondered at, if in the absence of other fun this respectable assembly -threw itself on the affairs of the family. There was a great deal of -conversation in corners about Arthur’s marriage. The Bates family were -too low down in the world to have even reached the level of gossip, and -except that he had made a very foolish marriage, a _mésalliance_ in -every sense of the word, no one knew anything further, except one lady -was acquainted with Mrs. Anthony Curtis, and had received from her a -vague account of her meeting with Nancy. This lady had formed an idea, -quite erroneous as it happened, yet an idea, of Arthur’s wife, which was -a point not attained to by anybody else in the house. She thought (as -seemed so natural) that Nancy must have been an actress in a minor -theatre, a nameless _figurante_, one of the class who are supposed to -enthral well-born young men, and who, wonder of wonders, do so, to the -everlasting astonishment of the world, notwithstanding all its theories -on the subject. But it did not enter into anybody’s mind to suppose that -the girl whom Arthur had married had not the advantage of being wicked -and shameless. The lady who knew the story whispered it to others when -none of the family were present. “Turned her out of her rooms, I assure -you, my dear,” she said; “they were in the best rooms of a most -expensive hotel, I need not say. Such people never spare any expense.” - -“A girl from a theatre!--but what theatre? There are such differences; -that means anything, from a lady to a dressing-girl.” - -“She was not a lady, at least; that is the only one thing that is -certain. She was a--” Here the teller of the tale stopped abruptly, -adding in a louder tone, “I know only one lady on the stage, but she is -enough to justify any amount of raving. Mrs. Kenworthy--don’t you -know--you must have seen her.” - -It need not be added that it was one of Lady Curtis’s friends, a -middle-aged person who knew everybody, who spoke, and that the sudden -break was owing to the entrance of Lucy, who came in unsuspicious, and -caught them in the middle of their talk. - -“Oh, yes, I have seen her,” said another, faltering, while the other -members of the party broke up suspiciously, and began to talk to each -other with great earnestness. Lucy had thought no evil when she came in, -to see all the heads together, but this breaking up and evident desire -to conceal the subject of discussion roused her. These were the sort of -conversations that went on through the hospitable house. When Sir John -was alone for a few minutes with the Judge, who had been the friend of -his youth, that learned functionary took him by the buttonhole, and -said, “What’s this, what’s this, Curtis, I hear about your son?” They -talked of it under Lady Curtis’s eye in the drawing-room as they sipped -their tea. Poor Arthur had been cast off by his family, they said; he -must have been living a bad life before, or he could never have been -thrown in the way of such a person, and never could have married her. -Had he married her? that was the next question. Or was it not -altogether disreputable, the connection itself and everything about it? -So they talked; and Lucy for once got to feel it in the air, and to lose -her temper sometimes at the sense of this strange mass of secret -criticism of which her family was the object. She made an assault upon -her cousin, the Rector, in the midst of it with nervous vehemence. He -had been talking to Miss Wilton, the lady who had rushed into a -description of Mrs. Kenworthy, when Lucy came into the room that morning -and interrupted more important talk. Lucy, watching, had perceived that -Bertie had held back while the other had been pressing questions upon -him, and that after the interview Miss Wilton had hurried to a pair of -expecting friends, and communicated to them the information which she -had acquired. Miss Curtis called her cousin to her with a somewhat -imperious gesture, a gesture, however, which he was very willing to -obey. - -Hubert Curtis had not found himself, so far, any the better for the -misfortune which had happened to Arthur. He was not taken more into -favour at the Hall, nor did Lucy incline more to his society than when -her brother was at Oakley. He had not gained any ground. However likely -it might be that she would have a larger portion of the family goods, -Bertie saw no probability that the advantage would in any way come to -himself; he had almost, he thought, lost instead of gaining by Arthur’s -absence. When Arthur was at home, he, as the nearest neighbour, the only -man of anything near his own age close at hand, had a natural place at -Oakley besides that derived from his relationship. But now what had he -to do at the Hall? Lucy did not encourage him, certainly, in any -devotion to her. Lady Curtis had an instinctive, half-jealous dislike to -him, as she would have had probably to any young man whose sensible and -correct behaviour was a standing reproach to Arthur. And Sir John could -not be troubled by Bertie’s peace-making and desire to persuade him that -all would eventually be well. Therefore he had suffered with Arthur, -which was a thing he did not calculate upon; and it would be impossible -to deny that his mother’s story about Arthur’s wife had given him a kind -of grim satisfaction. If he were not bettered, at least others were the -worse; he said, “poor Arthur!” with contemptuous content. If a man chose -to make a fool of himself like that, it was only right that he should -pay the penalty, and he had been unable to refrain from repeating his -mother’s story to Mrs. Rolt, who was shocked and grieved, as Bertie, -too, assumed to be. But he had not been guilty of the treachery of -discussing it at the Hall. When Miss Wilton spoke to him, he had no -desire to give her any further information, but answered as sparingly as -possible. Of course it was now, when he really had been exercising a -certain amount of virtue, that his punishment came. - -“Bertie,” said Lucy, as he came up to her, “I want to know why my aunt -goes on spreading that story, and why you talk it over with everybody -except mamma and me?” - -“What story?” But he did not attempt to deceive her further by -pretending that he did not know. - -“We were the most interested,” said Lucy. “If you had told us it would -have been natural, and perhaps kind; but why do you tell it to other -people? What good could that do?” - -“What other people have I told it to?” he said. “I was questioned over -there, but I made no reply, or at least as little as I could. I told -Mrs. Rolt, and I beg your pardon for that. She was so anxious to know -something, and I knew she was to be trusted. Don’t blame me, Lucy; I -have not intended to be hard upon Arthur.” - -“Hard upon Arthur! I did not suppose so; he can fight his own battles,” -said Lucy, raising her head with a look which was almost haughty. “But -you are unkind to us. You are my cousin, our nearest relation, Bertie. -You should not go about telling disagreeable stories. And then you are -a--” - -“Go on,” he said; “recall me to my duties. I am a clergyman--was not -that what you were about to say? and I ought not to be a gossip, going -from house to house. I will not attempt to defend myself, Lucy. If that -is my character, it is better I should say nothing; and certainly, if -you think so, I cannot undertake to undeceive you. It is you who are -unkind to me.” - -“I don’t think so. I did not mean to say so much as that,” said Lucy, -abashed. “But oh, Bertie, why should you treat us so? Are not we, is not -Arthur, your own flesh and blood.” - -“I am but too ready to acknowledge it, too glad to think of it,” he said -with a sudden smile. - -And as Lucy had no difficulty in looking at him, no shyness about -meeting his eyes, she could not help seeing the eagerness in them, and -softening of unmistakeable sentiment. Altogether, apart from the fact -that she would be very well off and an excellent match, he liked her as -sincerely as was in him. Love, perhaps, is too strong a word; but he -liked her, well enough to have wanted to marry her if she had only -possessed a competence and nothing more, if she had not been in any -exceptional position as the only obedient and dutiful child of the -house. Whether his sentiment was of a robust enough kind to have made -him seek Lucy had she been poor, is a different question; but it might -even have been strong enough for this, perhaps, for all anyone could -say. - -She was softened too. Lucy was not one of those _farouche_ young women -who resent being loved. She was sorry that any such mistaken feeling -should be in his mind, if it was in his mind; but all the same she was -rather softened than hardened by the look of eager conciliatoriness and -desire to please her, which was in his face. - -“Aunt Anthony might have told us herself. She need not have let other -people know,” she said, shifting her ground, and in a gentler tone. - -But here he had a very good answer provided. - -“My mother is not here,” he said, quite gently, without a tinge of -reproach. “She cannot either explain or defend herself.” - -What could Lucy say? She blushed crimson, deeply moved by the sting of -this retort courteous. - -“I wished her to be here,” she said. - -“You always wish what is kind. I did not think it was you; but, Lucy, -don’t you see--” - -At this moment Sir John came up, placing himself so that the -conversation was interrupted. As the mantel-piece was not near enough to -be leant upon, he leaned upon one of the marble consoles behind which a -big glass rose to the ceiling, reflecting his figure and the faces of -the two in front of him. - -“I have often noticed,” he said, “that when we have a mild rainy -November, the cold is bitter in spring. Have you remarked that, Bertie? -But, to be sure, you are not a country bird, you don’t know much about -the weather; but you will learn, you will learn before you are my age.” - -“It seems a simple enough conclusion, and I don’t mind accepting it as -part of my creed,” said the Rector with a laugh, in which, however, -there was some surprise mixed, for he did not understand what motive -his uncle could have in placing himself there to make this very -unimportant remark. - -“They tell me the meet is to be here to-morrow,” said Sir John; “and -some of the ladies are going to ride. I am very glad Lucy doesn’t hunt. -You had better come up and make yourself useful, Bertie, now that -there’s nobody in the house. I suppose you don’t ride now to speak of? -Of course, there’s Durant; I don’t know what his fancy is. I never was a -cross-country man myself. I was always fond of more serious pursuits. -Your father now, my brother Tony, he was always fond of it--a sort of -practical fellow. As for me, I always took a pleasure in more serious -things.” - -“You were born for Parliament, Sir,” said the Rector, half with veiled -satire, half with a disposition to please his uncle, who had been kind -enough, and from whom more kindness yet might come. - -“Well, yes, perhaps you are right,” said Sir John; “that was more in my -way; I always took an interest in public business. When I was a boy at -Eton I used to read the debates as regularly as I do now--and I have -never changed my principles or turned my coat, Bertie. That is something -to say after thirty years of public life. I have never seen reason to -modify my opinions as so many people do. One set of principles has been -enough to guide me through life, and I cannot believe that any man wants -more.” - -“It is a very happy state of mind, Sir,” said the Rector, wondering more -and more why his uncle had elected him to hear the characteristics of -his wisdom. Lucy had cleverly stolen away to do her duty by the other -guests, and only Lady Curtis was aware of her husband’s real meaning. -She smiled within herself at his simple device to separate Lucy from a -man who might put in the pretensions of a lover. But when Lucy, after -stealing away from her cousin’s side, was to be seen a little while -after at Durant’s, then it was Lady Curtis’s turn to look serious, and -she herself moved from her own chair when she saw them talking, with a -lively sense of the same need for interference which had moved her -husband. When Lady Curtis joined them their conversation was simple -enough, nothing to alarm any parent; but yet she remained there talking -with something of her old brightness, until Lucy had left that end of -the room, too, in turn, and had gone to carry consolation to old Mrs. -Nuttenden in the corner, who was slightly deaf, and not amusing--with -her efforts to amuse whom, nobody interfered. - -Durant did not notice the gentle interference in the Rector’s case, but -he felt it very distinctly in his own, and with a little pang said to -himself, that he would give no occasion for this watchfulness, but would -shorten his proposed stay as he had already intended to do. This was not -because there was any failure of the kindness, even the affection with -which he had been first received. Lady Curtis talked to him as she did -to nobody else but Lucy, confided in him--called him Lewis, as she had -done when he arrived, and discussed her son with him, with family -freedom and trust, in a manner indeed which would have filled many young -men with fond imaginations and made them feel themselves almost wooed. -And Sir John was quite kind, though in a different way. He had always -been slightly suspicious of Durant as one of those clever men who are -never quite safe, and of whom you cannot be too sure what levelling and -atheistical sentiments may accompany their intellectual gifts. One of my -Lady’s sort of people, Sir John had always considered him, not a -retainer of his own, but on the other side; yet because he was so -associated with Arthur, Sir John’s heart had melted to him also. So that -it was no failure of the most cordial welcome which made Durant feel it -better to hasten away. He went to his room that night quite decided by -the manner of the woman who called him by his Christian name, and looked -at him with such motherly affection in her eyes. Was it Lady Curtis’s -fault? He did not blame her. He said to himself, that had Lucy been his -own sister, he would not have given her to a poor barrister without -family, without connections, with burdens of his own upon his shoulders, -and no honours to bestow. Why should he linger there? Now that Arthur -was so far off from Oakley--now, above all, that Arthur was _married_, -the most complete of severing influences, it was inevitable (he said) -that his connection with Oakley must gradually drop off. They would not -mean it--they would not wish it--yet it would come to pass; and why -should he seek to prevent it? Was there not between them a great gulf -fixed--that gulf which wealth might fill up, perhaps, which his old -grandfather’s money might have thrown a golden bridge across, had it -still existed; but which now gaped like the bottomless pit, and could -never be crossed by any skill or effort of his. Should he stay only to -impress this more and more upon himself? He made up his mind that very -night. - -But that did not hinder him on the next day after these events, which -was Sunday, from finding himself by Lucy’s side in one of the quiet -moments of that quiet day. He was going off the next morning, and it -chanced to him, unawares, to come into the Louis Quinze room in the -interval between church and luncheon, which is a moment of general -dispersion in which no one knows where any one is. Lucy was in the -morning-room writing a letter, when Durant came in. He was very -self-denying, yet when she stopped and laid down her pen, and said, -“Come in, don’t go away!” he could not resist the invitation. He came in -and stood near her, leaning upon the corner of the mantel-shelf close to -one of those big rococo Cupids between whom Sir John was so fond of -placing himself. And Lucy was a little eager, almost agitated, more -resolute to talk to him than he was to talk to her. She said without any -preface, “Are you really going away to-morrow? I was surprised--and I -don’t seem to have seen you at all, or to have said half I had to say.” - -“I must go,” he said with a sigh, “for many reasons; and chiefly -because--” - -“Because what? You do not think there is any change, Mr. Durant? You -must not think there is any change: there is no one mamma trusts in so -entirely as in you.” - -“I am very glad to think so,” he said, “and to believe that she would -trust me if any thing occurred--if I was wanted.” Here he made a pause, -and added in a low tone, “and you too?” - -“And I too! can you doubt it? I know,” said Lucy faltering, “that Arthur -has no such true friend.” - -He made a little unconscious gesture with his hand. She knew exactly -what it meant. It meant Arthur, always Arthur! never anything on his own -account; always for the use that might be made of him. But this would -have been very unreasonable had he put it into words, for it was -precisely on this reason that he had claimed to be trusted, “if anything -occurred--if he was wanted.” Very unreasonable and inconsistent; but -then men are so. - -And what could she say? She could not take the initiative, and tell him -that her interest in him, at least, was not all on account of Arthur. -She made a tremulous pause, and then said, “Everything is so different -this year. We have done nothing but talk to you of Arthur. The time -seems gone in which we used to talk so freely--of, us all.” - -“Yes,” he said, “it is kind, very kind of you to use such words. What -talks we have had here of--us all! before we had began to feel the -differences between us.” - -“What differences?” she said eagerly. “Mr. Durant, I hope you are too -generous to think that any outside differences--” Poor Lucy coloured and -grew so eager, that her earnestness defeated its object, and she could -not get the words out. - -“Not that,” he said, “not the loss of our money. I know no one here -would think the less of me for that--perhaps the better,” he added with -a smile, “as being just a poor man now, without any pretence of equality -on account of wealth. I did not mean that; but rather the enlightenment -that comes with years, and that shows to me how little I, being what I -am, ever could be on the same footing with you.” - -“Mr. Durant, you are unkind--you _are_ ungenerous!” - -“Not so--not so; but I am older and a little wiser. And according to the -custom of mortal things, this enlightenment comes just when it is most -painful to me--most bitter to realise.” - -“I cannot hear you say so,” Lucy said, getting up trembling from her -chair. “Difference--what difference? I know none. I never have been told -of any.” - -And he looked at her all quivering with the desire to say more--to set -open the doors of his heart, and show her herself in it, and all that -was there. He looked at her, and shook his head sadly. - -“I have no right to say any more. I would be a poor creature if I said -any more; but still it is so--and it is better for me to go away. You -will not misunderstand me? That would be the cruellest of all.” - -“I think there is one thing more cruel,” said Lucy with an impulse which -carried her away, and for which she could not forgive herself -afterwards, “and that is to speak mysteries to your friends, and expect -them to understand you, yet never tell them what you mean--that is the -thing that is most cruel.” - -“Should I speak then, though it is hopeless--though it is almost -dishonourable?” he cried excited and breathless. Lucy trembling, turned -half, yet but half away. - -“Ah! you are here then! I have been looking for you,” said the voice of -Lady Curtis at the door. “You are talking to Lucy who has a letter to -write, and I have something to say to you, Lewis--come to me here.” - -Lucy had gone back to her writing before her mother stopped speaking; -she did not even look at him again; but she said very low, “I think I -understand,” as he passed her slowly to obey that call. - -And next morning he went away. - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - - -After the crisis of that conversation with Mrs. Curtis, which was at the -bottom of so much harm and mischief, Arthur and Nancy stopped -quarrelling with each other. They had each done and said things which -they were disposed to repent of--and felt the existence generally of a -state of things which was alarming, which at their worst they could not -see without feeling that it might be possible to go too far. The fact -that Arthur had gone away without seeing her after her rudeness to his -aunt, his absence for hours, his absolute silence on the subject when -they met at dinner had produced a great effect upon Nancy. It had been -on her lips all the evening through to introduce the subject, to excuse -herself or defend herself according as might be most suitable at the -moment. But Arthur gave her no occasion. He had the advantage of -education over her, the habit of self-restraint, at least the sense that -it was necessary on occasion to restrain himself, an elementary lesson -which Nancy had not as yet arrived at. And the effect upon her was -great. She, too, kept silent, though against her will. She shut up in -her breast this subject which, if she had talked about it, would, no -doubt, have inflamed her to double wrath. And she grew a little -frightened of the husband whom hitherto she had played with as she -would, but who now in his newborn reserve and stillness was more than -she could manage. She was afraid of him for the moment. He was no longer -in her power. A tremendous menace seemed to lurk in his silence; and the -consequence was that they lived in much greater harmony for the next -week, both a little alarmed and penitent, and afraid of taking another -step in the wrong direction. At the end of that time Arthur made the -discovery which Nancy had already suggested to him, that howsoever great -might be his desire to go to Italy, his means would not permit it. They -had been living in their charming little apartment for three weeks, they -had used a carriage constantly, and all that a Paris hotel can furnish -that was most agreeable to eye and palate, and there was nothing, or -next to nothing left. Arthur had not realised this fact when he had -written his letter to his father. He had written indeed more out of the -painful determination within him to uphold his wife, even in the face of -what she had done to his relatives, by yielding to her will about their -future, than from any more reasonable motive. He knew very well how that -story would fly, how it would get to the ears of his mother and Lucy, -and how everybody who knew him would pity poor Arthur. This it was which -made him suddenly abandon his opposition, and determine to do as she -wished. At all hazards he would maintain her credit, whatever might be -her treatment of him. They might make her out to be what they pleased, -they might tell what stories they would--he could not he knew contest -them, but at all events everybody should see that he at least upheld her -in her way of acting, gave her his support through all. This generous, -if perhaps foolish, resolution, which was full of that grieved and -suffering love which can no longer deny the justice of the accusations -against its beloved, had been come to before he knew the necessity of -returning home; but that necessity made it less forced and unnatural. -For the last week of their stay there was little attempt at amusement. -Denham, who had found great satisfaction in watching the proceedings of -the bride, and who had already made many circles merry by his -descriptions of her husband’s anxious endeavours to interest her in what -she saw and heard, and her own absolute ignorance and unconcealed -_ennui_, was ever at hand to suggest something, and had indeed two or -three plans of his own for sharing this charming spectacle with some of -his friends, with a trust in Arthur’s simplicity, which might not have -been justified by the event. There were two in particular to whom he had -promised an introduction to his “delicious Englishwoman,” had the young -pair accepted the box at the Odéon which he had offered them, and the -mischievous attaché was much disappointed by the failure of his plans. -They declined it, however, with one accord. Nancy had quite convinced -herself that it was “no fun” going to plays when you did not understand -a word, and Arthur, on his side, had become disgusted with everything -public. How did he know that they might not meet some one else whom he -should be obliged to introduce to his wife, and whom his wife would -receive with the same amiability which she had shown to Mrs. Curtis? The -Curtises were still in Paris, and he had himself held an agitating -conference with his aunt and Mary; but they came no more to the Rue -Rivoli. This opportunity of making friends had been turned into the -easiest way of making enemies. He would make no more such essays. -Accordingly they sat “at home,” in the pretty little room with the -white walls and white curtains. Arthur could always write his -letters--it was not many he had to write now, as his family -correspondence was cut off, and he had dropped most of his friends, but -still he kept up the phrase; he wrote his letters, while she sat by the -fire, sometimes taking out and putting in frills or trimmings to her -dresses, sometimes yawning over a newspaper; they talked to each other a -little now and then, and yawned in the intervals; they had no books -except a few Tauchnitz volumes, which saved them from a complete -breakdown, and they went early to bed which seemed always a virtuous -thing to do. Thus the days went by. They did not talk any longer about -going “home,” but it was tacitly understood between them that they were -going _back_. This was what they had got to call it. And the day was -fixed, and the boxes packed, and all settled, with scarcely any further -consultation. Life, however, had become very sober prose after the -triumphant exultation of the beginning, when three weeks after their -marriage they crossed the Channel again on an early morning, Nancy very -ill, and Arthur dignified but pale, and arrived at London on a rainy -December night, wet and miserable as anything could well be. - -Next day they went _back_. Arthur had taken rooms at the little inn -which stood opposite Mr. Eagles’ house, looking on the green, where -Durant had been lodged. But before they reached that place there was a -greeting to be got through at the station, the whole Bates family, no -less, having assembled to welcome their daughter. Nancy’s spirits had -risen from the moment she had touched English soil. She had talked to -everybody, guards, porters, the servants at the hotel, with exuberant -satisfaction, notwithstanding the bad passage and its natural -consequences. - -“Oh, what a blessing to be at home!” she said. “Oh, Arthur, isn’t it -nice to be back? I feel as if I should like to hug everybody. How much -nicer everything looks in England! One can have some tea or some beer, -instead of always that sour wine; and sausage-rolls and Bath buns!” -cried Nancy, looking at these appalling luxuries in the Dover -refreshment-room with unfeigned delight. It had been on Arthur’s lips to -cry out, “For heaven’s sake speak a little lower!” but he said to -himself, what was the use? One or two people turned round and smiled. -And she bought a Bath-bun notwithstanding her recent sufferings. It -seemed to Nancy better than all the delicate _plats_ in the world. It -was English, it was adapted to her native tastes and her usually fine -digestion. Arthur hurried her away with the objectionable dainty in a -little paper-bag in her hand. - -“We must give in to prejudices a little,” he said. “You know most people -think there is nothing like French cookery.” - -“I would not give a nice plain English dinner--mother will have one for -us to-morrow, I know--for all the little oddments they have in France,” -said Nancy. - -When she was Nancy Bates she did not talk like this, nor eat Bath-buns -out of paper bags. The fact of being Mrs. Arthur Curtis, with a fine -gentleman, an unmistakeable “swell” for a husband, became again an -exhilarating consciousness, and turned Nancy’s head a little as soon as -she had got to England again; and how could she show her satisfaction so -well as by that demonstrative indulgence of personal tastes, and -ostentation of personal satisfaction which is the essence of vulgarity, -yet may be the mere froth of ignorance and light-hearted confidence? All -this was sufficiently trying to Arthur, especially when strangers heard -these patriotic outbursts, and showed by their smiles, as they passed, -their appreciation of her simplicity. But when they got to Underhayes -station, where Mrs. Bates, Matilda, and Sarah Jane stood on the platform -waiting, Arthur’s heart sank in his bosom. Why? If Nancy’s mother had -been a duchess, she could not have done anything different. But Mrs. -Bates, with her brown front, and the flowers in her bonnet, and Sarah -Jane in the latest fashion, were too much for poor Arthur. He busied -himself about the luggage, and wondered how it was, for all so many -times as he had seen them before, that he had never seen them until now? -And this was how he was to be surrounded for the rest of his life! -Visions of his mother and Lucy came gliding before him as he saw Nancy’s -boxes, so much larger and heavier now than when they went away, lifted -out--his own people! with their light steps, their soft voices, the -tender delight in their eyes. Mrs. Bates was probably as fond of her -child as Lady Curtis was of Arthur; that she should show that fondness -so differently was not her fault, but that of Providence which had -settled her lot in life. He tried to say to himself that this was so, -but it was hard. On the whole, the best thing was to look after the -boxes until those welcomes and embraces were over, which all the town -seemed to have come out to see. Some of Mr. Eagles’ “men” were among the -passengers by the train. Arthur shrank among the luggage altogether to -escape from their eyes. - -“Where is Arthur?” said Mrs. Bates. “I hope Arthur knows that you’re not -going to be allowed to go off to an inn the first day you come back. To -be sure, it’s tea, not dinner, as I suppose you’ve been accustomed to; -but tea, with a nice roast chicken and sausages, which is as good as a -dinner every day; and it’s all ready and waiting. Arthur! How long he is -about the boxes to be sure. Shall we leave him to send them down to the -‘Dragon,’ and you come along, my Nancy, with me?” - -“Arthur! Arthur!” cried Sarah Jane at the top of her voice, rushing -towards him, “mother’s gone on with Nancy, and I’m to wait for you. You -needn’t be so particular about the boxes, the porter will take them safe -enough. And come along, do come along! Nancy’s gone on before with -mother, and I’m quite hungry for my tea.” - -One of the “men” at Mr. Eagles’ turned round, hearing every word of this -speech, and grinned, Arthur thought, in derision. - -“Don’t wait for me,” he said, faintly. “Go on, please, and I will -follow. There are a great many things to be looked after, and I must see -what sort of rooms they have given us. Go on, and never mind me.” - -“Oh, if you’re too fine to walk down Underhayes with your own -sister-in-law!” cried Sarah Jane; and to Arthur’s great relief she took -offence, and rushed after her mother and sisters, calling this time, -“Nancy! Nancy! stop a bit, I’m coming.” - -The “man” lingered till she was gone, perhaps with a little pity for the -bridegroom. He was a happy boy of twenty, working his eyes out for the -Indian Civil examination, who had always been accustomed to think that -his was rather a hard case, and that Curtis was a great “swell.” - -“How d’ye do, Curtis? Can I look after these things for you?” he said, -coming up shyly. Arthur made haste to clear every sign of cloudy weather -from his downcast face. - -“It is a bother looking after them,” he said; “my first try, you -know--and one loses one’s temper. Still grinding hard, I suppose?” - -“Harder and harder! Eagles gets more mad every day. What lucky fellows -some people are!” said the young man with a little sigh, as he nodded -and turned away. - -Arthur felt himself echo the sigh. Was it he that was the lucky fellow? -He had thought so too when he left Underhayes, carrying with him the -bride for whom he had felt willing to relinquish all the world. This is -an easy thing enough to say. To relinquish all the world, and carry -one’s Nancy off into some flowery Eden where nobody could intermeddle -with one’s bliss--ah, yes; but the Bates family! They, it was evident -would not permit themselves to be relinquished like all the world. -Arthur walked at his leisure, glad to defer the moment of reunion, down -to the inn, and saw his rooms and deposited his luggage. Perhaps Nancy -had a right to be angry when at last he followed her. They had waited -till the chicken and sausages were nearly cold; but by this time they -were in the middle of their meal, Mr. Bates already in his slippers at -the foot of the table when Arthur arrived. The little parlour was hot -and close, full of mingled odours; they were all a little flushed, what -with the unusual warmth, what with the meal. Nancy herself had been -placed next to the fire, as the traveller to whom the best place was -necessarily given, and she was crimson with excitement, pleasure, anger, -and the stifling atmosphere all combined. The voices all ceased when -Arthur came in. - -“I think you might have paid my mother the respect of coming directly,” -said Nancy in high tones. - -“Oh, hush, dear, hush! I am sure Arthur didn’t mean any rudeness,” said -Mrs. Bates. - -But there was an interval of silence, marking general disapproval, and -they all turned to look at him as at a culprit. He sat down in the -vacant place much against his will, amid unfriendly or indignant looks. -Even to the Bates’ family he was no longer welcome as an angel from -Heaven. - -“I am sorry everything is cold,” said Mrs. Bates; “we waited as long as -we could. But Nancy wanted her tea very badly after her journey. Here is -a leg of chicken I saved for you.” - -“I am not hungry,” said Arthur, feeling his new alienation and -separation amid all the silent party. “I will take a cup of tea, -please. I had the boxes to look after.” - -“You might have left the boxes to take care of themselves,” said his -wife; “you are not always so careful. You might have come with me when I -first came home after being married. And all the people about staring; -but you don’t mind. It used to be different when we were here before; -but I ain’t of so much consequence now,” cried Nancy. “Wives are -different from sweethearts; I see that all now.” - -Arthur felt a sensation of chill despair come over him in the midst of -this domestic heat. He restrained himself by a strange effort and would -say nothing; and, indeed, he did not feel the impulse of passion to -speak. A dreary despondency took possession of him. How often he had sat -there on the sofa in the corner, and felt himself happy! What was it -that made the change? for Nancy had shown “tempers,” fits of caprice, -uncertainty of mood before their marriage. But it had not affected him -as it did now. Succour came to him, however, in an unexpected way. - -“I don’t approve of nagging at a man, whatever he’s done,” said Mr. -Bates. “If you’ve had any tiffs honeymooning, you should have the sense -to stop ’em now. If you like to quarrel in your own place, I’ll not -interfere, I haven’t got the right; but don’t do it here. Your father’s -house is no more than a friend’s house so far as that goes. It ain’t -your place, Nancy, to expose your husband here.” - -“I hope I know what’s my place, as well as you or anyone,” said Nancy, -growing red, and accepting the challenge. She had never been fond of -restraint, and she liked it now less than ever. She gave her head a toss -of defiance, entrenched as she was behind the walls of support and -shelter which her mother and sisters gave, who unconditionally took her -side. She flashed defiance at the other end of the table, where Arthur -sat with a flush of shame on his face, and poor Mr. Bates in his -crumpled white tie for his sole partisan. - -“I think Mr. Bates is right,” said Arthur, “and that it would be better -to postpone this question till we are alone.” - -“And I hope you found Paris pleasant, Sir,” said the well-intentioned -father. “I have often heard that it was a very fine city. It must have -been a great advantage for Nancy, seeing it with one that knew it well. -In my young days going to France was more of a business than going to -America is now. Me and Mrs. Bates never had the benefit of foreign -travel; but there are a many things you young people enjoy now that your -fathers and your mothers didn’t have.” - -“You may speak for yourself, Mr. Bates,” said his wife. “I cannot say -that I ever had any desire to go to foreign parts. There is plenty to -learn in England if one would make a good use of what one knows; and -Nancy, poor child, don’t seem to have enjoyed it. Look how thin she is, -and so pale. She quite frightened me when I saw her first. ‘Is that my -blooming Nancy?’ I said to myself--not meaning to throw any reflection -upon Arthur. What does man know of such things? She’s been doing too -much. I feel sure that’s what it is, rattling about here and there and -everywhere, and engagements in the evening--” - -“We didn’t have many engagements in the evening,” said Nancy. “We used -to go to the theatres at first; but we soon got tired. The acting was so -bad, not like English acting; and such queer French, not a bit like -anything I ever learnt. For one thing, they talk so fast. But I could -not understand a bit, and what was the good of going to a play and not -understanding a word? And we never saw anybody, except an aunt of -Arthur’s, a person--but I won’t speak of her, for she was rude to -me--and Sir John Denham, who used to come and sit of an evening, and who -brought us tickets for places. It was very kind of him; and there was a -lot of places to see, and a whole lot of old pictures and things that -Arthur thought I was to go crazy over; but I never did. One place was -where some prison was knocked down (I never remembered the names) and, -another was where the Queen had her head cut off.” - -“Oh, la!” cried Sarah Jane. - -“Yes, that was a pleasant thing to be interested in, wasn’t it? Oh, the -lots and lots of people that had their heads cut off, if you could put -any faith in it! As if that was what one wanted to see! I never believed -one quarter of what they said.” - -“And quite right,” said her mother; “they do make up stories; but didn’t -you go to see something a little livelier, Nancy? I thought there was -everything that was gay in Paris. But if that was all, my poor child, I -don’t wonder if you felt low, away from everybody you knew. But things -will be quite different now,” she said, encouragingly. “You will settle -down, you and Arthur, in a nice snug little English ’ome. There is no -place like ’ome, as the song says. And you’ll fall into each other’s -ways; and you’ll have us close at hand if anything’s wrong. Oh, you’ll -see everything will go as smooth as velvet! and me, or Sarah Jane, or -Matty always to help you to put things straight.” - -At this prospect Nancy brightened up, and the conversation went on in a -livelier strain. But Nancy’s brows lowered when Arthur, feeling it all -grow more and more intolerable, got up just before the rum-and-water -stage, under pretence of business. - -“I have some letters which I must write,” he said. Nancy’s countenance -grew dark again, and Mr. Bates lamented audibly. - -“I thought you’d have joined me and been comfortable, now you’re a -married man and got your courting over,” said the tax-collector. Poor -Arthur! was this expected of him, that he should share the rum-and-water -too? He scarcely knew how he managed to get away at last, promising to -return for his wife when his letters were written. But he had in reality -no letters to write. He walked about through the darkness very sadly, -wondering what he was to do. It was weak perhaps to have yielded to her, -to have suffered her to lead him back here; it was all intolerable, the -house, the family, the talk. They had been well enough once, how did it -happen that they were beyond all patience now? - - - - -CHAPTER XVI. - - -Next day, restored to perfect good-humour by the occupation, Nancy went -out with her mother to look at some houses which they had already -selected for her choice. She came into the little sitting-room, in which -Arthur had talked to Durant about his marriage, and where the young pair -were established now--glowing and beaming from her early walk, to tell -him all about these desirable residences. Rose Villas, Glenfield Road, -was the name of the row, in which there were two houses, one empty, and -one furnished, to be let. - -“You must come with me and see them the moment you have had your -lunch--I don’t want any lunch,” cried Nancy. “I am so delighted! The -dearest little houses, Arthur! just big enough for us, and so bright, -with gardens back and front, and everything that heart could desire.” - -“But we don’t want two houses, do we?” he said. - -“No, you silly boy; but if we take the one that is furnished, don’t you -see, for little while, and the one that is not furnished for a -permanency, then we can be comfortable in the one house while we furnish -the other; ain’t that clever?” said Nancy, laughing. “I can’t fancy -anything more delightful. Make haste with your luncheon, Arthur. Oh, -yes, I will sit down with you, I will take a morsel; but I am in such a -hurry. I do hope you will like them as much as I do. It is so nice to -think of having a ’ome, as mother says.” - -Arthur did not make any reply; after so much stormy weather as there had -been, it grieved him to destroy all this sunshine by any remonstrances. -He was glad to bask in it a little and put off the next difficulty. It -was a bright winter afternoon when they sallied forth together, the red -sun descending towards the west, and throwing up all the leafless trees -beyond Mr. Eagles’ great house as on a crimson background, against which -every branch and twig stood out--the Green more brilliantly green than -usual from the many rains and from the afternoon redness which enhanced -its colour--the red-brick houses all ruddy and warm in the light. Even -to Arthur, whose heart was heavy, it was a pleasant walk to Glenfield -Road. They were alone, and Nancy was in the gayest humour, full of -satisfaction with herself. Though she had lost her confidence in the -Paris dresses, which had much disappointed her mother and sisters, and -was afraid that her travelling costume looked dreadfully dowdy (which -was Sarah Jane’s opinion)--yet the sense of being at home, able to -dazzle all her old companions with her good fortune, and to feel that -her house and husband, and all her possessions, would be admired and to -envied by the right people, had calmed all Nancy’s susceptibilities and -raised her spirits to the highest point. She all but danced along the -street, holding Arthur’s arm in a way which may be old-fashioned, but -still comes natural to a bride. She was about to have a house of her -own, a house fit for a lady, where obsequious tradesmen, once her -equals, or better than she, would come for orders. She was about to have -servants of her own--not a “girl,” as in the Bates’ establishment, but a -cook and housemaid, as good as the Vicar or any of the fine people on -the Green. And all these fine people would call upon her, Nancy thought; -who was there among them equal to Mrs. Arthur Curtis, a baronet’s -daughter-in-law, some time or other to be Lady Curtis--a baronet’s -wife?--and who could speak familiarly of other baronets, Denham, for -instance, as an intimate friend. And then there was Durant. - -“Who is Durant,” she said, “Arthur? Is he anybody, is his father -anybody? I had a long talk with him here once. I was angry--But on the -whole I liked Durant.” - -“He is--my oldest friend; and the man in all the world who knows most -about me,” said Arthur, laughing in spite of himself; “but further -information would not enlighten you, Nancy--” - -“You mean that I don’t know your peerages, and that sort of thing,” said -Nancy, piqued a little. - -This time Arthur laughed with good will. “I don’t think the peerages -would help you much,” he said. “Lewis Durant is a clergyman’s son, -Nancy.” - -“_Only_ a clergyman?” She was disappointed. “But they must have been -very rich or something, Arthur, or such proud folks as your people would -not have let Durant be so intimate with you.” - -“My people,” said Arthur with some haste, “would not have thought of -interfering with my school friends to ask whose sons they were; and -Lewis’s family, _were_ rich--but they are not rich now. Call him Lewis, -if you please, when you speak of him, Nancy; but don’t say Durant. It -sounds _fast_; and you never will be fast, I hope.” - -“Oh, it sounds fast, do you think?” Nancy was mollified. When he had -made the same request before, she had thought it a stigma upon her as -not knowing how a lady should talk, but this was a lesser offence. “Well -then, Mr. Durant--if I must say Mr. Durant--isn’t he rich now?” - -“No, not at all rich.” - -“Oh, then I suppose he has to work for his living like--any common man? -I am so glad you are not like that, Arthur. What a difference it must -make! To have one’s husband away all day at his work--or to have one’s -husband always at one’s side, ready to take a walk, or to answer a -question, or anything. I am so glad you are a gentleman, Arthur. I never -should have been happy had I married a man in any other rank of life.” - -“Durant is just as much a gentleman as I am, Nancy.” - -“What! when he has to work for his living? Oh, yes, I know. Whoever -wears good clothes, and knows how to behave himself in society, is -called a gentleman for the name of the thing, Arthur. The assistants in -Shoolbred’s are all gentlemen, of course; but that is not what I -mean--you know what I mean. Now supposing that Durant--I mean Mr. -Durant--had known us longer, and got to coming to our house as you did, -and Sarah Jane and he had fancied each other, she would not have been -nearly so happy as I am.” - -“Was _that_ thought of?” said Arthur, with a smile which did not -evidence any real amusement. “I did not know that had been seriously -thought of.” - -“Oh, yes, it was thought of. Why shouldn’t it have happened? He was your -friend; and they say one wedding brings on another. I don’t think Sarah -Jane would have minded,” said Nancy in perfect good faith. “She would -have thrown Raisins over in a moment; and indeed I think she treats -Raisins very badly with all her flirtations. I tell her it is he who -will throw her over one of these days.” - -“So Durant might have been preferred to Mr. Raisins,” said Arthur. “What -a chance for Lewis!” - -Nancy did not feel quite comfortable about the meaning of this laugh. -Perhaps it was not entirely regret for what Durant had lost; but as at -this moment they came in sight of Rose Villas, her whole attention was -drawn to the more exciting subject. “There is the empty one, Arthur,” -she said, “look, how pretty! But I see the door of No. 6 is open, so let -us go there first. There is such a pretty garden behind, and the windows -open into it. There is not much in the garden now, but it will be -delicious in summer. Oh, yes, here we are; this is Mr. Curtis, Mrs. -Smith. We have come again, if you please, to go over the house.” - -“If you please, ma’am,” said the prim little landlady, whose lodgings -had not let so well as usual, and who was not unwilling to get rid of -her house. Nancy ran through it delighted, taking her husband from one -room to another. “This you could have to write your letters in, Arthur, -and this would be my drawing-room,” cried Nancy, glowing with not -unlovely pride; “and look what a dear little Davenport, and an inlaid -table, and that funny little three-cornered thing in the corner, and a -nice white cloth over the carpet--so clean-looking--almost like our -white carpets in Paris.” - -Arthur allowed himself to be dragged all over the house. It was like a -hundred, nay a million other semi-detached suburban villakins. The -little rooms were neat enough, if not beautiful; and Arthur, though he -had been brought up in Oakley, amid his mother’s favourite splendours, -was not sufficiently fastidious to be annoyed by the common-place -surroundings. It was not the want of beauty that moved him; but the -sensation of “settling down,” which was so delightful to Nancy, affected -his imagination like a nightmare. She was so satisfied herself, so -anxious to know every particular about the maids whom Mrs. Smith “could -recommend,” so eager about everything, that his gloomy looks passed -without remark. And Arthur did not check her delight until, having -settled matters with Mrs. Smith, she insisted upon carrying him next to -No. 9, which was to let unfurnished. “This is the most interesting,” she -said. “Come along, Arthur; for you know this will be our real -’ome--this we will furnish ourselves;” and she dragged him to the door. -Nancy did not usually drop her h’s, but she was too familiar with this -form of the word to call it anything but ’ome. - -Here, however, Arthur had strength of mind to resist. “That is enough -for to-day. You must not ask me to do more to-day. After dinner we will -talk it all over, all about it, over the fire.” - -“After dinner?” said Nancy. “Oh! I said we would go and see mother, and -tell her what we had settled. Why, what is the matter, Arthur--may not I -go and see mother? We have only been one day back, and you begin to make -faces already! You cannot say I am bringing my people on _you_.” - -“I think you might be content with me sometimes,” said Arthur, with an -attempt at a smile. - -“I have been content with you for three weeks,” said Nancy. “I have -never seen a soul but you. I should think you would like to see another -face now and again as well as I do--and my own folks!” Arthur did not -say any more. He diverted the conversation into other channels, and led -her back to the subject of the villa, which on the whole was safer -ground; and when the evening came and their dinner was over, and Nancy -went off with a certain gay temerity, yet not without alarm, to get her -wrap, Arthur took his hat to accompany her without saying a word. She -was in a state of the greatest exultation, scarcely able to restrain -little songs of triumph as they walked along the half-lighted street, -and clasping his arm close, with a show of affection which went to -Arthur’s heart. - -“At what time shall I come for you?” he said, as they drew near the -door. - -“Come for me! are you not coming with me, Arthur?” - -“I have not finished my letters,” he said; “as _you_ say, we have had -three weeks of holiday; and then I was out with you all this afternoon. -I must finish my letters for the post to-night.” - -She unclasped her hands from his arm without a word, and went in; and -the glimpse Arthur had of the parlour did not tempt him to follow. Young -Raisins was one of the company. He was seated on the sofa where Arthur -had been in the habit of sitting, presumably behind backs, and out of -the observation of the others, with Nancy. Young Raisins was now the -lover on hand, and the sight of him in that place sent the blood to -Arthur’s head as he walked away. Could it be possible that he himself -had been unspeakably happy there a few weeks ago, finding nothing but -pleasantness in the four straight walls, and beauty in the family -affection that made all these people hang so closely together. Raisins -now occupied the foreground of the picture as he had done before, with -infinitely greater suitability. And this was the home which his wife -loved. There was the sting of it! had she been indifferent, -undutiful--even careless, as he thought he remembered that she once was; -but Nancy’s matrimonial experience, which was not entirely successful, -perhaps, had thrown her back upon her earlier affections in a way which -is not unusual, though Arthur was not aware of that. Her husband and -she had only their love to hold them together; their habits were not -like, their manner of thought was different. Even when she was at her -boldest and most confident point, Nancy was never quite at home with the -“gentleman” she had married; but with her own people, she was entirely -at her ease. Arthur did not take this into consideration; but he was -candid enough to feel a compunction as he walked away, and to -acknowledge that from Nancy’s point of view, it might seem hard that he -could not spend an hour or two without complaining in the society of the -family who had been everything to her all her life. It was hard, that so -soon, before a month of her married life was over, she should have to -choose between the old home and the new, between her parents and her -husband. Arthur had a generous mind, and this perception kept him from -feeling himself the aggrieved person, as he had been half disposed to -do. It forced him, also, instead of wandering about as he had done on -the previous night, and brooding over the difficulties of his new -position, to go back to his hotel and really write the half imaginary -letters which were his only business, and the reason which he had again -given for his abandonment of that family circle. His letters were not -all imaginary: there was one from Mr. Rolt, the agent, in answer to -Arthur’s letter to his father. Sir John had been too indignant, as well -as perhaps (but this he was not conscious of) too little disposed for -exertion to answer it himself. He had handed over the note, not to the -lawyer brother, against whom Arthur had vowed vengeance, but to the -agent, who had always been a favourite, the friend of their youth, with -the young Curtises, both boy and girl. Mr. Rolt’s letter was very kind -and reasonable, and to answer it without proving himself to be in the -wrong was difficult. Sir John did not object to raising his -allowance--he did not refuse anything Arthur asked him. There was -nothing hard in the stipulations, nothing forbidding in what his -father’s deputy wrote. - -“Your family do not wish you to suffer, how could you think it?--they -do not wish to reduce you from your natural position. Had you treated -them as they might have expected to be treated, my dear Arthur,” wrote -the good man who had known him all his life, “you might, I think, have -reckoned on Sir John’s indulgence to any extent; but you have not put -that trust in your father and mother, though they certainly deserved it -at your hands; and can you wonder if Sir John is angry? He will not -write to you himself, feeling that your letter is not the kind of letter -he ought to have had from you in the circumstances; but he has -instructed me to tell you that your wishes shall be complied with to any -reasonable amount. He does not wish you to suffer in personal comfort in -consequence of the step you have taken.” - -This was the letter which Arthur had to answer. He paused, reflecting on -it, repeating to himself, “does not wish you to suffer in personal -comfort.” Were there other ways which they suspected and calculated upon -in which he might suffer for his disobedience? He paused to go over all -that had happened within the last three months. Could he have acted -otherwise than he had done? If he had given his confidence to his -parents from the beginning, as they reproached him for not doing, what -would have been the issue? With what eyes would Lady Curtis and Lucy -have looked upon his Nancy, who, for her part, would have defied them? -He shook his head as he sat pondering over the sheet of paper before -him. No! no! had he confided in them things would have been worse, not -better--for anyhow he would have married Nancy, if without their -consent, if against their deliberate judgment, what did it matter? -except that the last would have been the worst. He could fancy how she -would have met their inspection--how she would have repulsed and scorned -them. No--no, he repeated to himself. Better to leave them in ignorance -than to hazard the open quarrels, the inevitable rending asunder that -must have followed. They could not have withdrawn his heart from Nancy. -No, again no! And the breach would have been more bitter, not less. With -a sigh he decided that, on the whole, he had not chosen the worst way. -He did not say to himself that both were bad enough, but he sighed. -Nancy had left him to go to her family, to be happy in the stuffy little -parlour, where her father drank his rum and water; and he--he sighed, -going no further--for _his_ belongings, for his home, for the natural -occupations of his life. They did not regret their choice either of -them; but yet within the first month of their marriage, this curious -return upon themselves had happened to both. Perhaps this is not so -wonderful even among the happiest as we pretend; for is not the -beginning the hardest, in marriage as in so many other things? Arthur -wrote and posted his letter, feeling himself bound to do so after what -he had said; then went on to fetch his wife from her father’s house. -They were very merry there, he could hear as he passed the lighted -window; and it was more and more curious to him when he went in to find -young Raisins the master of the situation, amusing them all with his -jokes. Arthur, in his time, had never had so much _succès_. He was -rather glad to see that Nancy was not enjoying the fun like the rest, -but sat a little apart and with a somewhat moody countenance until he -entered, when she flung off her gravity, plunged into the riot that was -going on round the table, where Mr. Raisins was doing tricks with cards, -and laughed and talked with the best. Arthur could not make out whether -this was to show him her superior gaiety and light-heartedness at home, -or whether it was his own presence which brought back her -light-heartedness. And he himself, touched by compunction, did his best -to make himself agreeable, to show that he wished for a good -intelligence between them. He was more successful in this than he had -hoped. Young Raisins’ fine qualities had so charmed and delighted the -house that Arthur too shared the good feeling he had called forth. Mrs. -Bates melted altogether, and spreading out her hands declared that -“this _was_ a happy meeting,” and that “parents” had reason to be -satisfied, indeed, when their girls were thus happily settled. “When you -all rally round the ‘old house,’” were the words the gratified mother -used; but unfortunately in the general impulse of emotion that followed, -Arthur could scarcely restrain a slight laugh, which Nancy, who seemed -to be all ear, remarked, though no one else noticed it. Why should he -laugh? He would not have laughed had it been the old house of Oakley, -amid its trees and parks, that was to be rallied round; and why not the -small tenement in East Street, Underhayes? Was it possible that -materialism could go so far as to measure sentiment by the size of the -house? He said this to himself, yet still laughed in his mind, and could -not tell why. - -“I hope you have written your letters,” Nancy said, coldly, as they -walked home. - -“Yes; the one I specially wanted to write is gone. It was an answer to -Mr. Rolt’s which I told you about.” - -“Then you will have no excuse about writing letters to-mor--I mean -another night. You will not have that reason to give for staying away.” - -“You do not want me to spend every evening at your mother’s, Nancy?” - -“Ah, now it comes out,” she said. “I knew it all along. It was not -letters, but because you wanted to escape from us, from my family, whom -you look down upon. If you despise them, you should never have married -me; for I will stick to them as long as I live.” - -“I am not in the habit of making lying excuses,” said Arthur, as calmly -as he could; “and it is not necessary,” he added after a pause, -controlling the sentiment in his voice, “to despise a family because you -do not wish to be with them every night.” - -“Every night! this is the second night,” cried Nancy in high disdain. - -“Nancy,” said Arthur, “do not let us quarrel. I don’t want to interfere -with your natural affection, but you cannot expect me to feel exactly as -you do. It is not possible! And don’t you think it would be wise to -agree that there are great differences between your family and me? that -we are likely to agree better apart, and that a meeting now and then -would be best, not too often? I don’t want to dictate to you--” - -“No; it would be more wise, as you say, not to try,” said Nancy. “I see -now. This is why you wouldn’t condescend to look at the other house. Ah, -I see! you mean to go away, to leave this place, which is the only place -I can be happy in. This is your plan? Oh, I allow it is a fine plan! but -it will not be so easy to carry out.” - -“I don’t want, I say, to dictate to you. I don’t want you to give up -anything that is important for your happiness. But I have given up my -people for you, Nancy--” - -“Then go back to your people, and have done with it!” cried Nancy, -throwing herself free from his arm, to which she had been clinging, and -pushing him from her. Arthur was so startled to find himself driven to -the edge of the pavement by this energetic impulse, that even the power -of speech seemed taken from him. And what was there to say? - - - - -CHAPTER XIII. - - -Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Curtis settled down in a day or two into No. 6, Rose -Villas, where Nancy had her two maids to manage, and all that had seemed -to her most delightful and desirable in life. The little drawing-room -was not a particularly genial place in winter weather; the carpet was -covered with a white linen cloth tightly strained, there were white -muslin curtains at the windows, the walls were white and gold, after the -approved fashion of little drawing-rooms in little villas. All this, if -it was very clean-looking, as Nancy said, was chilly in December, and -the little fireplace was so near the long French window, and both were -so near the door, that the room was draughty, and scarcely so cosy as -might have been desired. There was a piano in it, upon which Nancy could -not play, though she had received lessons on the piano during those five -quarters in which she had been at school; and a work-table, which she -did not employ much for work; but no books, nor any pictures on the -white-and-gold walls. When Arthur had exerted himself in the -re-arrangement of the furniture, which Nancy did not go into with any -enthusiasm--for she was still of opinion that a row of chairs set -against the wall were “in their proper place,” and that to disturb them -was almost an immorality--the discovery that he had nothing to do -pressed with more and more force upon him. What did he want with -anything to do? Nancy thought. Was it not the best thing in the world -not to require to do anything, the true sign of being a gentleman? A -certain scorn of people who worked for their living had taken possession -of Mrs. Arthur Curtis. Why should they give themselves airs when they -were all as one as a bricklayer, working for their bread? But anyone -could see that Arthur was a gentleman. It is to be hoped that gentlemen -in general were more at their ease under the burden of their gentility -than Arthur. It was not--let no one be deceived--that he wanted to work. -Work when he had read with Mr. Eagles had been extremely irksome to the -young man. It was true he had not remained very long to try it, but he -had not loved his studies, especially under the spur of the sharp and -urgent “coach.” There are other things, however, which young men think -of when they talk of having “something to do,” which do not tell very -much in an industrial point of view. In his natural condition and at -home, Arthur had many occupations. He shot, he hunted, he rode about the -country, he paid visits; he was appealed to by people in trouble; he was -consulted about the affairs of the estate. Sometimes he had to appear on -the hustings in support of his father’s election; he had speeches to -make now and then, and that interest in public business which is -indispensable to one who may sometimes have to take part in it. All this -was at an end now. The calm, not to stay stagnation of his present -existence dropped over him as the curtain drops in a theatre upon the -animated and busy scene. After the drama is over, or in the moment of -repose between its acts, it is some immoveable representation of life or -scenery, an unchangeable incident or landscape, that closes for us the -brilliant stage upon which human life in all its changeableness and -variety of emotion has been represented. Arthur’s domestic bliss was -like this drop scene. His life was gone from him, with all its hopes and -occupations; he was no longer the young Squire, as potent within his -small territory as any Prince of Wales, no longer the budding magnate of -the county, with responsibilities rising round him, with the covers to -think of (if nothing more), and poachers to take in hand, and public -life to look forward to. All that fuller existence had departed. The -drop scene, representing a white-and-gold bower of bliss, with two -figures seated (before the fire, but that was a matter of detail), all -in all to each other, as romantic people say, had fallen with a -remorseless completeness, hiding everything. He took a long walk with -his wife every afternoon. Often he went out in the evening to fetch her -from her father’s, or else he had the pleasure of entertaining her -father and mother at home; and he would stroll out on his own account -here and there, in the mornings, while Nancy was pretending to do her -housekeeping, or read the _Times_ languidly in the room appropriated to -him, feeling as if all the busy commotion of the world indicated in it -had gone away to such a distance from him that he could but faintly -apprehend or understand it. The drop scene! To what innocent bosom would -not that picture have commended itself? Two figures, young and fair to -behold, the world forgetting, by the world forgot; living for each -other, all for love, and the world well lost. - -This went on for what was really a long time without disturbance. The -establishment of the Arthur Curtises in Rose Villas gave the little -world of Underhayes many causes of deliberation. Should they call? was a -question hotly discussed. Call? on Bates the tax-collector’s daughter! -Could anything be more absurd? the elder ladies said. But the younger -ones were interested; who would not be interested in such a romantic -business? and the gentlemen were either sorry for or curious about the -young husband who had thus sacrificed everything to “a pretty face.” For -the girl was just an uneducated girl like any other in her position, -everybody said. There was no innate superiority in Nancy to justify her -elevation, neither had her husband taken pains as even a romantic young -fool, now and then, did, to educate her before making her his wife. Even -now, so far as anyone knew, no attempt was being made to qualify Mrs. -Arthur for her husband’s position in society. They had settled at Rose -Villas, avowedly that she might be near her mother--with whom she was -said to spend half her time; and no judicious governess or master able -to impart instruction in those accomplishments which must have been -wanting in her, was ever seen to enter her gates. Not even trying to -improve her mind! She got the pick of the novels which came in Mudie’s -box to the local library, in right of an unusually liberal subscription; -but what could novels do for her? Under these circumstances, it became a -doubly difficult question to know what to do. When she came home at -first she had been very well dressed, which had made an impression in -her favour. Her dark blue “silk” had filled the Green with admiration -and envy. “Paris, of course!” the ladies said, who, notwithstanding -their disapproval of such a marriage, were very curious indeed about the -bride; and some added a joke or a sigh at the idea of putting delicate -garments from Paris, not upon such as themselves, who could appreciate -them, but upon Nancy Bates! However, this mingled approbation and -disdain soon came to an end, for it was not long before the dark blue -silk was thrown aside in favour of more showy garments. “If that is all -they can do in Paris!” Sarah Jane had said, at the sight of it, and she -had spent some time at a milliner’s in town and ought to know. Her own -family all thought Nancy’s dresses dowdy, and ridiculously quiet for a -bride; and the original “silk” which her parents had given her had been -brought to the front again, with others of a similar character. - -“I made myself a dowdy to please Arthur. He likes it,” said Nancy; “but -one can’t go on humouring one’s husband for ever, can one, mamma? One -must think for one’s self sooner or later, and ladies surely know best -about their own dress.” - -Arthur had not attempted any remonstrance, what was the use? And Nancy -had reappeared with a brightness of colour and breadth of ornament, -which pleased her family a great deal better. - -“Now you look something like a newly-married lady, with a husband that -grudges you nothing,” Mrs. Bates said proudly, on that day when the -Green shuddered at Mrs. Arthur’s new costume, and resolved with one -mind, now at least, that nobody could be expected to call. But such -resolutions did not always overcome the stronger inducements of -curiosity, or of that pity and interest which moved some bosoms. Mrs. -Eagles was the first to break the reserve. Her husband insisted upon it, -she said. And she not only called, but asked “the Arthur Curtises” to -dinner. Mrs. Eagles was a mild little woman, as soft-voiced as her -husband was peremptory. She avowed frankly that she had been “very fond” -of Arthur while he lived in her house. “He was so nice, he never would -give any trouble that he could help, so unlike your _parvenus_; he was -always so ready to do anything for you. Yes, I was very fond of him. The -pupils are not attractive as a rule, but young Mr. Curtis was charming.” -This was what she said to her neighbours when it was known that she had -asked the bride to dinner, the boldest thing that had been done on the -Green for many a day. - -“I hope you found _her_ charming, too,” said the Vicar’s wife, who was -not disposed to compromise her dignity in such a way. Mrs. Eagles took a -little time to answer the question, and cleared her throat. - -“She is--quite unformed--I almost wonder that associating with a -well-bred man should have had so little effect upon her manners. But -then, she is natural--she has no affectations; that is always -something,” said Mrs. Eagles, which was not the case with the Vicar’s -wife. She did not, however, ask the dignified couple from the vicarage, -but only a humbler newly married curate to meet the young pair, who, for -their part, were thrown into considerable excitement by the invitation. -How Nancy might have taken it on her own account is doubtful; but the -delight of her family had driven all thoughts from her mind but those of -delightful elevation in the world and entrance into society. - -“It’s only a schoolmaster, it is true,” said Mrs. Bates; “no better, -indeed not so good as ourselves, for I never was brought to such a pass -that I had to take in lodgers to interfere with the family. I always was -able to keep ourselves to ourselves, and of course the pupils are all -the same as lodgers; but still you’ll meet the real gentry there, my -pet, and it will be a beginning, and you needn’t be shy with people -like them.” Thus encouraged, Nancy allowed herself to feel that to go -out to a party was pleasant. For she too, though she had the -distractions of her family and her housekeeping, was growing a little -tired perhaps of the drop scene. - -They were all very indignant, however, when Arthur suggested that she -should wear a simple white dress for this first appearance. White, like -an unmarried girl! and as if her husband was not well enough off to -afford her a “silk!” Finally, with great hurry and strain of all their -efforts to get it ready in time, Nancy appeared in light blue, which was -becoming enough, though rather incomplete in those finishing touches -which mark the difference between a home-made garment and one which has -come from the hands of the initiated. As for Arthur he laughed at -himself, not without a little bitterness, as he made his simple toilet. -He was pleased to be asked out to dinner by his former “coach.” It -excited him vaguely, partly with pleasure, partly with anxiety. It was -“revisiting the glimpses of the moon,” for the first time for all these -months; for the slow winter had crept round to March again, and all the -world was stirring into life. To describe the kind of Christmas this -poor young fellow had spent would be too much for ordinary -powers--exiled as he was from everything belonging to himself, and -driven into close, too close encounter with all the jollities of so -different a sphere. He had borne them, and kept them at arm’s length, as -far as he could, and thank heaven, they were over. But the impatience in -his heart grew stronger as the days grew longer, and the world turned to -spring. He was as glad of Mr. Eagles’ invitation as if the “coach” had -been Prime Minister with all manner of advantages to bestow. That -impetuous little personage could not, had he gained first places for all -his pupils in all the examinations under the sun, have put himself in -the same position with the son of such a rural magnate as Sir John -Curtis; but Arthur was as glad of his notice and his wife’s notice, as -if the level of the Bates family had been his own original level. -Nevertheless, there were difficulties in launching Nancy even into this -mild little scholastic world. Arthur did not feel that he could venture -to give her those hints about the manners of ordinary society, which -might have steered her safely through the not appalling dangers of a -dinner party. He did what he could by way of suggestion and supposition, -taking it for granted that she would know; but even that simple mode of -communicating instruction aroused her suspicions. “Oh, you needn’t be -afraid, I know how to behave myself,” she said, with a toss of her head. -How did she know--was it by instinct? instinct is a doubtful guide -through the usages of society; but anyhow, Arthur did not venture to say -any more. When she came downstairs, however, ready to start, with her -blue dress all decorated and looped up with orange-blossoms, Arthur made -a determined stand. He said, “You must take those things off, they are -ridiculous,” with a peremptoriness which she could not resist, saucy as -she was. Arthur at this moment did not seem a person to be trifled with. -“Do you want to make a laughing-stock of your sister?” the young man -said, confounding them all; and the obnoxious decorations were taken off -with a silent speed that was wonderful. It was wonderful, as being -inspired by a mysterious sense of having made a mistake. They had no -idea what the mistake was; and their pride would not permit them to ask -enlightenment; but they felt it the more from its mysterious and unknown -character. When Nancy was ready, and wrapped in the warm white _sortie -du bal_ which they had bought in Paris, the effect of this error was -sufficiently obliterated; and the young husband’s heart swelled with a -little pride when he presented her to the man who had sent him out of -his house because of Nancy. That practical protestation had not done -much more good than all the other efforts which had been made to sever -Arthur from his love; and here she was now, fair and blooming, an -unquestionable fact, which they were all compelled to recognize. But as -he left her in charge of Mrs. Eagles, and dropped off behind, what -anxiety was in Arthur’s thoughts! It was her first essay in society; -would she take the trouble to please? He stood furtively watching her as -he talked to the Curate, whose wife was also on her trial, but caused -him no such tremour. The Curate’s wife was a small young lady of -ordinary breeding and appearance, not to be compared with Nancy in any -possible respect. But she had been born a clergyman’s, not a -tax-collector’s daughter. She knew the outside of social ways, and how -not to commit herself, which was exactly what Nancy did not know. - -And it must be allowed that, when Arthur saw that only this Curate and -his wife had been invited to meet them, he was wroth with a savage sort -of anger and scornful humiliation. He gave no sign of his feelings; but -he had been accustomed to be somebody wherever he went, and the sense -that he had now dropped into a doubtful position, in which only the -Curate could be supposed likely to countenance him, gave him a sense of -what had befallen him more sharp and sudden than anything else that had -happened, even than the familiarities of the Bates family. To say that -Nancy was angry too, would be little. Her whole soul rose up in a blaze -of wrath. She had expected to see everything that was fine and famous on -the Green, and to receive, in a way, the homage of the assembled -aristocracy. Nobody with a title lived at Underhayes, and Nancy -considered that she herself had all but a title, and was to be admired -in proportion; yet there was no one here but the little Curate’s wife. -She talked largely to Mr. Eagles during dinner, giving him her opinion -of Society in England. - -“Of course being brought up in a place like this, I have seen but -little; and here not much to speak of,” she said, with a frankness that -prepossessed her host--himself so trenchant and decided at all times. - -“You are right, very right, Mrs. Curtis. The people about here are not -much to speak of. We have to put up with it, for we can get no better. -Retired people are mostly a set of nuisances; having done all the -mischief they can in the world in their own persons, they revile -everybody who is beginning, and put mischief into their heads.” - -“Yes, Dr. Eagles.” He was called Doctor by the common people about, and -he did not like it. “Yes; there never was such a gossiping place, I’ve -heard many people say. They have nothing to do themselves, and they pull -everybody to pieces. I have never gone into it, but I can’t abide that -sort of thing. They are so stuck up; don’t you think they are dreadfully -stuck up? and what is there in them to make them better than their -neighbours? Don’t you think so, Dr. Eagles? I do hate everything like -that,” said Nancy, energetically. “I suppose you did not like to ask -them to meet Arthur and me?” - -“I--I don’t ask anyone,” said Mr. Eagles, taken aback for the moment. -“It is my wife that asks the people.” Then he began to realize that -getting out of a difficulty by putting it upon his wife, was not a noble -proceeding. “The fact is, I don’t think anyone was asked. We thought, I -suppose, that you didn’t care for it. I don’t myself; I hope Curtis is -not giving up work altogether. He may be tempted to do so, having no -immediate object, but he ought never to interrupt his course of study. -He was getting on very well with me.” - -“What should he go on with his studies for?” said Nancy; “he does not -require it to make a living. He may please himself what he does. Oh, I -shouldn’t like my husband to have to work! When a man is born a -gentleman, Dr. Eagles--” - -“You have been good enough to bestow a degree upon me to which I have no -right,” said Mr. Eagles. “I am simple Mr., like all the rest, though I -am obliged to work for my living, and it would be of use to me. A man -ought to work, however, when he’s young like Curtis. If he doesn’t now, -he will miss it after. I’ve always told him so.” - -“I am sure I don’t think so at all,” said Nancy. “Why should he work? -or anyone in the position of a gentleman? You know what I mean by a -gentleman. Father is as good as Arthur, or anyone, and he has to work.” - -This mollified Mr. Eagles. - -“I hope we are all gentlemen,” he said, as lightly as was possible for -him, “whether we work or not.” - -“Oh yes, in a kind of a way,” said Nancy, with careless scorn, “in your -manners, and so forth. And clergymen, and teachers, and those sort of -people are called so out of civility; but I never think anybody is a -gentleman that has his own living to make.” - -“I think you are a little hard upon us, Mrs. Curtis,” said the Curate, -with a smile. - -“Oh, I didn’t mean to be hard,” said Nancy. “You are just as good as -anyone else. Those that have plenty to live on are the best off, but I -don’t say that I despise those that have to work. They are good enough -in their way. It isn’t their fault they were born as they are, nor was -it any virtue in my husband to be born Arthur Curtis. He couldn’t help -it, neither can you.” - -Thus Nancy vanquished the adversary at the dinner-table. When the ladies -went back to the drawing-room, which was not till a late hour, for it -took a long time to make Nancy understand Mrs. Eagles’ little nods and -signs from the other end of the table--but when they got upstairs at -last, the Curate’s wife benevolently interfered to set Nancy at her ease -after this mistake. - -“I daresay you have been used to the French way of the men coming -upstairs along with the ladies; and a far better plan it is, I think.” - -Nancy looked coolly at the questioner. She was more comfortable when -Arthur’s eyes were not upon her, watching everything she said and did. - -“I didn’t make any mistake,” she said, “but gentlemen’s conversation is -the best, isn’t it? I wanted to have as much as I could of that. I -didn’t want to be left to women’s society--three petticoats together,” -and she laughed with insolent meaning. Nancy had read a great many -novels, and she knew that these were the sentiments generally attributed -to a heroine, and she was determined that there should be nothing in -her mind which she would not have the courage to say. - -“I hope we shall not be so very tiresome to you,” said Mrs. Eagles, with -an involuntary glance at the other. “We hear you have been in Paris, -Mrs. Curtis. You must have enjoyed that. It is always so bright and -gay.” - -“I did not think it was gay at all,” said Nancy, “a very stupid place. -Everybody talked so queerly, not at all like the French one learns at -school; and they have such queer dishes, and altogether they are so -queer. Have you been in Paris? I did not find it at all gay.” - -“There are so many things to see,” Mrs. Eagles suggested. - -“Oh, what sort of things to see! Places where things have happened that -nobody knows anything about, or if one ever heard of them one has -forgotten. I don’t call that amusing,” said Nancy. “There are very -handsome shops, but I did not care much for French taste, do you? they -are so fond of dingy colours; nothing clean-looking nor bright. I was so -glad to get back to England.” - -“So was I,” said the Curate’s wife, “when we were abroad; but I thought -it all so interesting. I did enjoy it when we were there. The very names -of the places that one had read about in history!” - -“I never read history,” said Nancy, carelessly. “I like to see things -happening now; and nothing seemed to happen, but just hearing about old -dusty rubbish. Oh, yes, the streets were nice. Arthur says that in -summer there are races, and amusements, and concerts out of doors, and -all that sort of thing, but it was too cold when we were there. I went -to hear the men speaking in Parliament, but it was dull; what is the -good of listening to long speeches? One of Arthur’s friends took us--Sir -John Denham--you may have heard of him. He was always offering us boxes -for the theatre, but that was dull too.” - -“I am afraid you were difficult to please,” said Mrs. Eagles; but the -Curate’s wife began to listen with a certain interest. It is always -pleasant to hear familiarly about the Sir Johns of this world. - -“Yes, they all said I was difficult to please,” said Nancy, sweeping -out of the chair she had just chosen, and nearly knocking down a small -table on which stood a lamp. “Did you get your furniture from town, Mrs -Eagles? Did you have one of the tip-top upholsterers to do it, or did -you pick up things cheap?” - -“I am afraid we tried as much as we could to pick up things cheap,” said -Mrs. Eagles, restraining the inclination to laugh which was gaining upon -her. The other young woman was listening anxiously, seeing no fun in it, -and their entertainer thought she liked Mrs. Arthur best. - -“I thought so,” said Nancy, calmly, fixing her eyes upon an Italian -cabinet which was the pride of the house, “but I should just put my -house into the hands of some tip-top man. I don’t like making up with -part old and part new. I shall have everything of the best and the -newest fashion,” she said, looking round with a delightful glow of -complaisant superiority. But then she was Sir John Curtis’s -daughter-in-law, and Mrs. Eagles was but a schoolmaster’s wife. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV. - - -“Party! it was no party at all!” said Nancy, “I have just been giving -Arthur a piece of my mind. If he thinks I am going to take the trouble -to have a dress made, and go out among folks I don’t know, to meet the -Curate and his wife! why, we are just as good as they are! or rather, I -should say, a deal better.” She was sitting over the fire next morning, -by no means pleased with her entertainment. Now, indeed, was the time -when she felt it most--for it had been sweet to think of dazzling her -mother and sisters with an account of the grand ladies of the Green; and -there was nothing now to comment upon, save poor little Mrs. Curate in -her muslin frock! Arthur was in the room behind, shut off with folding -doors from this; and she spoke loud that he might have the benefit of -her remarks. - -“The Curate!” said Mrs. Bates, “my dear, it’s no compliment, it’s an -insult to ask you; as if you are not good enough to meet the best.” - -“That is just what I said. I tell Arthur, if he were to stick up for me -as he ought, nobody would dare to treat me like that. I consider,” said -Nancy, “that we paid those Eagles a great compliment going; and to meet -the Curate! as if we were not good enough to sit down with the finest -folks in this wretched little hole of a place.” - -“The Curate is a very nice young man,” said Sarah Jane. “I should not -mind him a bit. _I_ call him handsome; but then he’s married,” she added -with lessened satisfaction. “And so are you married, so it comes to the -same thing. I dare say they thought as you were both young couples--” - -“I wish you would think a little what you’re saying,” said Nancy. “Me! -and her! a bit of a girl in white muslin! with a hundred and fifty a -year, at the outside, to live on; and obliged to work hard among the -poor, as hard as if she was a curate too--and me!” - -“Yes, indeed, there is no comparison,” said Mrs. Bates. “For shame, -Sarah Jane! But, Nancy, you mustn’t forget that your sister has chosen -her lot very different. John Raisins is an excellent young man; but he -can’t open the doors of high life to her, as Arthur can open them to -you. And it’s best that she should make up her mind to what she can -have--not hanker after what she can’t. It’s very different, my darling -child, with you.” - -“I am sure I don’t know if it’s different,” said Nancy. “He hasn’t -opened many doors to me yet, and I think he’d shut your door if he -could, which is the only one that’s left. Oh, why do girls marry? they -are a deal better, if they could only think it, at home.” And with this -Nancy began to cry. - -Arthur heard everything in the next room. He had himself felt the -change in his position sorely on the previous night; and Mr. Eagles’ -sharp, yet somewhat mournful adjurations to him not to lose his time, to -go on with his work, to do something, had intensified the effect. He had -come upstairs early enough to hear the style of Nancy’s conversation -with the two ladies, and this also had touched him deeply. What is more -painful than to see those whom we love giving what, to our eyes, is a -false representation of themselves to the outside world, which does not -know them? Arthur felt this tingle to his very finger-points--a painful -shame; her foolish rudeness, and the wrong which she did herself by this -misrepresentation had made him miserable. If they could but see her as -he knew her--as she was on other occasions? This, he said to himself, -was not Nancy; it was a foolish braggart of the village, the type of the -Bates family, not his wife, who was as much above the Bates in fine -taste and perception as she was in beauty. To be sure, her taste had not -lately told for very much. But that had been the influence of the -uncomfortable position in which she had felt herself, or of her -connections, whom she had so unfortunately insisted on coming back to. -The pain had been exquisite with which Arthur watched his bride through -this first appearance in society. It brought back to him the feelings -which he had tried to forget, with which he had come in upon the violent -termination of her interview with Mrs. Anthony Curtis. Was there nothing -he could do, or say, which would persuade her that this was not the way -to meet strangers who might turn out to be friends? He was sitting -unhappy enough over his fire, having taken out a book or two, which lay -on the table beside the “Times,” the usual occupation of his aimless -morning. He had been trying to “read” as Mr. Eagles understood reading; -but what were Demosthenes and Cicero to him? He could not go back now, -and toil over the intricacies of language and argument which wanted all -his attention ceaselessly, with happy ease of mind, not with painful -pre-occupation of it, as he had pursued those studies in their earlier -stages. He had never been a hard student, and why should he read now? -What good would it do him? Would all the reading in the world, or his -degree, when he had taken it, restore him to the world in which his wife -could not accompany him, and would not try to accompany him, and where -he could not go without her? He had been sitting dreamily over the fire, -thinking it all over. The vague plan in his mind had been when Nancy was -a little better prepared for it, a little more likely to incline in her -own mind towards it, and willing to try to make the experiment -successful, to take her home and present her to his father and mother, -hoping that the surprise and the pleasure of his own return might -procure them a welcome; this is what he had thought of even when he had -written formal letters to Sir John, and those brief notes to Lucy or his -mother, in which there was no reference to Nancy. When he could get her -guided to that point--when he could feel that she could bear the trial, -then to go. It had been his hope all through, a something vaguely looked -forward to, though never brought down to any settled moment of time. -But, alas! it had receded before him point by point. Nancy was not -willing to do anything to please. She was of opinion that by herself, -without any effort, she ought to rule easily over a subject world. She -felt herself--not as he did, to be upon the painful threshold of an -unexplored country, full of perils, in which all her efforts were needed -to find herself a place--but rather to have conquered all that could be -put in her way and attained every object--with the exception of the -homage of those “stuck up” and disagreeable people, who were envious of -her, and therefore would not pay her the attention to which she had a -right, and whom Nancy would scorn to do anything to conciliate. What a -difference between their points of view! And he who ought to have been -the strongest, who was infinitely better educated, and more reasonable -than Nancy, he was powerless to convey any other conviction to her -mind; although she succeeded in agitating his with all sorts of tumults, -with shame that she should show her worse qualities, and earn the -disapproval she incurred--yet with hot resentment towards those who -disapproved of her. Such sentiments are not unusual in human bosoms. -Husbands feel so for their wives, and wives for their husbands, and -parents for their children. Why will they show themselves at their worst -to make strangers laugh, or wonder, or despise; and at the same time, -how do they dare, these strangers, to despise, or laugh, or wonder? A -more painful conflict of feeling cannot be. - -This was what Arthur was thinking, sitting drearily, not among the ruins -of his domestic happiness, but before the sunny, common-place, too -trimly new and flimsy altar of those capricious deities who rule the -hearth. He had not yet been six months married: but how the bloom had -gone off all his hopes, and with how little confidence he regarded the -future, which once had seemed to him so bright! And as he sat there, -with his books thrown down at his elbow, and the “Times” thrust away -from him upon the table, with a sort of loathing in his mind both of the -studies which could now, he thought, do him no good if he returned to -them, and of the public life, once certain, which now seemed to have -become impossible and undesirable, he heard Mrs. Bates and Sarah Jane -come in and the conversation that followed. Even now Arthur had sense -enough (and it was creditable to him) to throw himself into no vulgar -vituperation of his mother-in-law. The woman was well enough; she was -kind, and almost fierce in independence, taking nothing from him, giving -not receiving hospitality, and in no way disposed to encourage his wife -in anything disagreeable to him. It was not Mrs. Bates that was in -fault, but Nancy herself--she who had seemed to him such a lily of grace -and sweetness among all these common-place people. She was so still, he -believed; she was not like them, who were natural to their sphere, and -suggested nothing better. He was faithful notwithstanding all -imperfections to his first ideal of her; but her words thrilled through -and through him, scarring him as with burning arrows. “He had not opened -any doors to her. Oh, why did girls marry!” was this what his wife asked -after five months of marriage with him? Arthur’s veins seemed to fill -full as if some essence of pain had been poured into them. He darted up -overcome by sharp misery and shame, and a passionate resentment which he -could not restrain. It took him but a moment to throw open the folding -doors. If one minute more had elapsed, it would have brought a second -thought, but there was no interval in which this was possible. He threw -open the door and stood looking at her, for the moment too tremulous and -agitated to speak. She had put shame upon him before those women who -were the only visitors she cared for. When she saw him, Nancy jumped up -too and confronted him. - -“Well?” she said, loudly, with a sharp and tremulous voice of -interrogation. What had he to say for himself? She had said nothing -which she was not ready to stand to, which she would not defend with all -her powers. No one had ever known Nancy to flinch. However hot and hasty -had been her assertions, however lightly said, she had always stood up -for them; and to such a palpable challenge and trumpet call to conflict, -it was not likely she would give in now. - -He stood and looked at her for a moment almost wavering. It was not the -first time she had said such things, why should he resent it so much -more than usual? - -“Did you mean that?” he said. “Do you really think that I have closed -doors but opened none, and that girls would not marry if they knew--” - -“I said it, therefore I must have meant it,” cried Nancy, with a flush -of angry red. “If you sit and listen to what women are saying! But I -never say anything I will not stand to. Yes: what door have you opened -to me, Arthur? it was mother’s words first. Not your father and -mother’s, which was the first to be thought of, nor any of your -friends’; but mother’s has always been open to you.” - -“Oh, hush, hush!” cried Mrs. Bates. “Oh, children, you don’t know what -you’re doing. Why should you quarrel? Nancy, hold your tongue--you’ll be -sorry after that you ever said a word.” - -“Not I!” cried Nancy. “I am not one to bottle things up. I’ll say it out -plain before you both, and you can be my witness, mother. When I knew -Arthur first, I never thought what he was. Gentleman or poor man it was -all one to me. He was my fancy, and that was all I thought of. When that -man came, that Durant, then I began to see what I was bringing on me; -but it was too late to draw back. And I said to myself, I’d let him see -it wasn’t his money I wanted, and that I’d never kootoo to one of his -grand friends. And I never have,” she cried, with angry energy, “and I -never will. You’ve opened no doors to me--nor I don’t want you to; but -you shan’t think that it’s been a grand thing for me to marry you, -neither you nor anyone belonging to you. It hasn’t. You’d separate me -from my own people if you could, and you don’t give me any other; and I -say again, if girls only knew--” - -“Mrs. Bates,” said Arthur, with trembling lips. “I do not think I have -tried to separate your daughter from you. I may defend myself so far as -this; and I had hoped that some time or other she would have gone with -me to knock at that door which you upbraid me with not having opened. -But what am I to do if, as she tells you, she never will? she never has -shown the slightest inclination to do so, that is the truth indeed.” - -“It was them that should have come to her--that’s what she thinks,” said -Mrs. Bates, “and she’s hot-tempered. You know she’s hot-tempered. She -don’t mean half of what she says. Oh, don’t now, don’t quarrel, -children!” cried the mother. In the _mêlée_ Sarah Jane thought she might -as well take a part too. - -“I don’t wonder that Nancy was affronted. That stuck up Miss Curtis -coming with her ‘dear Arthur’s,’ and her ‘dear brother’s,’ and taking no -notice, no more than if we were cabbages, of us; but as for Nancy not -thinking of who he was, and that it was a grand marriage, oh, didn’t she -just! You may tell that to those that will believe it, you had better -not tell it to me.” - -“You nasty, spiteful, tale-telling disagreeable thing!” cried Nancy, -furious, turning upon her sister, who laughed in her face, and ran round -in fright, which was half real, half pretended, to the other side of the -round table. Arthur stood aghast while this playful episode, so much out -of keeping with his feelings, went on. It was out of keeping to Nancy -too. No smile came upon her face. “I thought it was a great marriage I -was making, if you please,” she said, after she too had paused with the -sense of a crisis, and stared at her sister’s pretended sportiveness. No -smile relaxed the lips of either of the contending pair. “I thought so, -you may say it. I thought I should be a lady, and mix with the best in -the land; what’s come of it? Have I ever set foot among the folks you -belong to, or their kind? No, I said the truth, there’s no door been -open to me--the other way! You would shut mother’s door upon me if you -could, you would keep me away from my own folks--the only friends I -have. But you’ll never do it, Arthur, you may as well give it up at -once. I’ll stick to them that’s good to me, and I won’t stir a step to -court your people, nor to curry favour--no, not if you would ask me on -your knees. I wrote to my lady, because I promised, but my lady wouldn’t -make much of my letter; and never will I make myself so cheap again, -never if I should live hundreds of years.” - -“Nancy, Nancy, my child!” cried her mother, “you must not make rash -vows. You don’t know what you’ll do till the time comes. She’s -hot-tempered. That’s all about. And if Arthur will say he is sorry--” - -“What shall I say I am sorry for, Mrs. Bates?” - -“Oh, now this is too bad. Don’t you see it will please her? She always -was a bit unreasonable and high-tempered. You can’t help your temper, -it’s a thing that’s born with you. Say you’re sorry, and smooth her down -a little, and she’ll soon come round and promise anything you like. I -know my Nancy. She is hot-headed, and she’s contrairy, but her heart’s -in the right place,” said the mother. Mrs. Bates was frightened by the -contraction in Arthur’s face. - -“I have nothing to be sorry for,” he said. “I have made no accusations -against anyone; but I cannot always give in. I have come here to please -her, and she is not pleased. Let us go away. Let Nancy second me in my -attempt to get back into a natural life. It is not natural that I should -be cooped up here, doing nothing, wasting my time. I must get out of it -somehow. Either you will go with me, Nancy, or I must go alone. I cannot -go on in this way any longer.” - -“You shan’t then!” she cried, with redoubled heat. “Go--wherever you -like for me. Oh, yes, go back to your family that you’re so fond of. You -and your friends do nothing but despise me, even a bit of a -schoolmaster’s wife! Don’t hold me, don’t keep me back, mamma. I’ll not -be left, whatever happens; it’s me that will go, and he can do what he -pleases. Don’t I tell you! Nobody shall hold me, nobody shall keep me in -one place rather than another against my will. But I shan’t stay to be -forsaken. Oh, don’t think it, Arthur! It’s me that will go.” - -“I have said nothing about forsaking you,” he said; but he was wearied -out with such struggles, and he made no appeal to her to stay. This -decided Nancy. She rushed impetuously from the room, leaving them all -staring at each other, without giving a word of explanation. Mrs. Bates, -whose face was somewhat blank, called to Sarah Jane to follow her -sister, and herself turned to Arthur with an attempt at a smile. - -“It will soon be over now,” she said. “You mustn’t be hard upon her, -Arthur. For all we know, there may be something working with her that -she can’t resist. Young women have queer ways, and you can’t tell what’s -the cause of it till after. Don’t you mind; go back to your books, -there’s a dear, and take no notice. She’ll have a good cry, and she’ll -come to herself, and you mustn’t mind.” - -It was not this address that quieted him; but what could he do? The -position was so impossible that he was glad to withdraw from it. It was -worse than ever, now that one of these altercations had taken place -before witnesses; he went back sadly to his fire and sat down again, -blaming himself for the exasperation which had made him speak. Probably -Mrs. Bates was right, and it was all over. She might come downstairs, -looking as if nothing had happened, or she might come down penitent, as -she sometimes did; and this got the better of him at once. But anyhow, -he would not insist upon continuing the altercation, he was too glad -that it was over. He sat down, sighing, and drearily drew towards him -the Demosthenes that lay on the table. How unimportant all that dead -eloquence was, side by side with living passion! The petty stir of -domestic dissensions was too near to let him hear the ring of the old -disputations, the flow and flood of the old eloquence. Nancy’s voice, in -all the warmth of passion, rang more clear on the ear than the greatest -of orators. He sat with his nerves all thrilling, and his mind vainly -striving to get a little instruction through his eyes. Those eyes read -easily enough, hot though they were with the strain they had been -subjected to, but the mind received no impression. It was more busy in -his ears, listening to what was going on. He heard the hasty sound of -Nancy’s footstep upstairs; then he heard her come down, and there were -voices in the little hall, confused and undertoned, one voice mingling -with another; and then there was the sound of the hall-door closing. He -sat after this with a strange sensation, as if that sound of the door -had jarred him in every limb. He did not seem able to move to see what -it was. But the stillness that fell upon the little house was ominous. -Instead of the excited voices which had been audible a little while ago, -filling the place with contention, what a strange deadly sort of quiet! -Arthur was wearied out. So many vicissitudes of feeling had not occurred -in all his previous life as had come to him within these five months -past. Happiness, delight, disappointment, vexation, irritated nerves, -wounded affection, mortified pride, and that combination of impassioned -love and disenchanted vision which is of all things in the world the -hardest to bear. How different, how different from his anticipations! -How lightly the lovers’ quarrels had gone off, quenched in tears and -smiles, and mutual confessions and warmer fondness. “The falling out of -faithful friends renewing is of love.” But then that must not go too -far, or continue too long, and the shiver of hot shame which she had -brought over him so often, the uncertainty as to how she would acquit -herself which was always present, the passionate mortification with -which he had seen other people’s smiles, or heard other people’s -comments, all these were very different from the lovers’ quarrels. He -held his Demosthenes steadily in his hand, and attempted to read. How -far off it was! and the other so near; and of all the things that can -occupy a man’s ear, what is so absorbing as the dead silence of vacancy -after a struggle which has threatened everything, and had ended -in--what? Nothing, silence, vacancy, probably bringing no consequence at -all. - -Nancy did not come in at the hour of luncheon. He waited for her, -refusing that refreshment until it was clear she did not mean to come -back. Then he swallowed a glass of wine hastily, and prepared in his -turn to go out--not to seek her. He was resolved that this time, at -least, she should be left in tranquillity, left to do what pleased her -best. He had just gone into the hall to get his hat when some one came -to the door. How his heart jumped! and how sick it grew again when it -turned out to be only Mr. Eagles, who had come to make a serious -remonstrance. - -“You oughtn’t to lose your time,” the “coach” said, bending his brows. -“If you can’t do anything better, you should come back to me. The old -set are still hard at work, and there are two or three new men that -will make their mark. It can’t be lively here, doing nothing. Why, -you’ve nothing to do, not even fishing or football, eh? I never hear of -you playing football. What do you do?” - -“Nothing,” said Arthur; “and I can’t say I like it; but what’s the good? -I am too old for football and that sort of thing.” - -“Ah, four-and-twenty, that’s a great age; but I know what you mean. -Married! there’s the rub--feel yourself too grand for it. But look here, -Curtis. A man can’t live with nothing to do.” - -“The wonder to me is how long a man can live with nothing to do,” said -Arthur. “But as I say, what’s the good? I’m too old now to care about my -degree. What does it matter, one way or the other? I have got beyond -that stage.” - -“Married, again!” said Mr. Eagles; “that is what drives me wild--not the -fact, which is harmless enough; but Lord, how grand you all think -yourselves! However, it don’t last. You can’t feed upon strawberries and -cream all your lives, my dear fellow. You must buckle to at something, -or you will be nobody. I don’t like anyone who has passed through my -hands, to be nobody. You had better read, Curtis, you had better read.” - -“Yes,” said Arthur, vaguely. - -He was quite willing to pledge himself to anything so long as Mr. Eagles -would but go away, and leave him to listen and make sure if anyone came: -or get out into the air and distract his mind from listening. One or the -other, he felt, he must do. - -“The best thing will be to come back to me,” said Mr. Eagles; “at least -you won’t lose your time completely, and you’ll find it a relief. Too -many sweets will pall upon you; take them in measure and they are -delightful enough. Come, Curtis, I make you an offer I needn’t say, for -you know, that I don’t require to go hunting for pupils; but, my good -fellow, for your own sake you had better come back.” - -“Yes,” said Arthur, with a sudden lightening and ease which diffused -itself all over him. There was another sound at the door; and this time -it must, there could be no doubt, be Nancy. This relief made it -possible for him to listen. His countenance cleared. He had not really -known what his fears were, but he felt the vague greatness of them in -this sense of immediate ease and relief. - -But all the blood rushed to his head again, and the pulses began to beat -in his brow when the door opened, and not Nancy appeared, but the maid, -showing in the unexpected, and in the circumstances, alarming figure of -Durant. - - - - -CHAPTER XV. - - -“There is something wrong at home!” - -This most natural of all the ideas with which foreboding human nature -sees a sudden arrival, sprang to Arthur’s lips almost in spite of -himself. He was already so torn by anxiety and alarm that it seemed -perfectly appropriate that other griefs should come to distract him, and -he scarcely understood the eager “No” with which Durant replied. It was -not till they were seated together, one at each side of the fire--Mr. -Eagles having taken his departure--that Arthur realized that the burning -confusion and pain in his head arose from the fact that his wife had -gone out in a fit of passion a few hours ago and had not yet come back, -not so very serious a matter--and was not owing to any suddenly heard -of calamity, at home. - -“No, things are all well, but I have something to say to you, Arthur,” -said Durant. And he began a long commission, which Arthur heard vaguely -and did not understand. It was to the effect that the post of attaché to -a foreign embassy which the young man had wished for, was open to him, -and this was coupled with overtures from the parents whose hearts were -yearning over Arthur. Probably there is after all nothing so well -calculated as long silence to wear out the indignation and resentment of -fathers and mothers. However hot these may be at first, the blank misery -of knowing nothing about a child beloved, damps and quenches the ardour -of offence, and in a great many cases the cruel son or daughter has his -or her will out of the sheer intolerableness of this break, and anxiety -of the tender hearts on whom this unfeeling passiveness tells more -severely than any more actively offensive treatment. This had been -working for all these months at Oakley. Hearing nothing! it was almost -worse than death, of which this miserable certainty that we shall hear -no more of those we have lost, is the greatest bitterness--tempered, -however, with the counterbalancing certainty which alone makes us -capable of bearing it, that human events are over to them, and that none -of the calamities with which we are familiar can happen to those who are -beyond the veil. But the Curtises knew that anything or everything might -be happening to Arthur, while they had no news of him, and were as -ignorant of all his ways as if he had been dead. And when the -information came of this vacancy which he had desired so much, the -opportunity was not to be resisted. They had said nothing about it to -each other for twenty-four hours, and then had burst forth the universal -feeling. Let him accept this, and let him come home and bring his wife, -if no better might be. She had been insolent, what did it matter? She -was the price that must be paid for Arthur; and the moment it became -possible to have Arthur, they all felt that they were too ready to pay -any price. Lady Curtis had telegraphed for Durant when the general -conviction burst forth, and the household at Oakley were now full of -excitement, already beginning to prepare rooms for Arthur and his wife, -and forgetting all other feelings in the pleasure of seeing their boy -again. Durant had lost no time. He was too faithful a friend to consider -that Arthur had all but repulsed his friendly offices after the -marriage, and that not a word of recollection had reached him from -Underhayes during the entire winter. He went down to Oakley at once to -receive his commission, and here he was with full credentials. The -father and mother made no conditions. If Arthur accepted this -appointment, which was the best thing he could do, let him come home and -bring his wife. That was all. And it may be supposed that Durant, -feeling himself the bearer of proposals both generous and tender, was -startled and affronted by the confused and pre-occupied way in which -Arthur seemed to listen, not understanding him, starting at every sound -outside, continually disturbed, and with a look of nervous agitation -which had evidently nothing to do with the question in hand. - -“Do you not understand me?” he cried at last, indignant: and then the -rising excitement in Arthur’s mind burst forth. - -“Durant, my wife has gone away to her mother’s. I--I can’t answer all at -once.” - -“What do you mean, Arthur? How disturbed you look! Has anything -happened?” cried Durant. Arthur made an effort to recover himself. He -laughed tremulously. - -“You know me, Lewis,” he said, “I am a--nervous sort of fellow, though I -don’t look it perhaps.” - -“I know. There _is_ something the matter, Arthur. What is it? Is your -wife ill? What has happened?” - -“Well--nothing has happened. I have been living rather a solitary life, -and one gets irritable--and easily put out.” - -“You have had a--difficulty, as the Americans call it--a lover’s -quarrel,” said Durant, with a laugh, which was far from according with -his feelings. - -“That is just it. No, not a lover’s quarrel, but a difficulty. We see -things from different points of view; and I don’t know how she will like -this, I must wait. I cannot decide until I know.” - -“Arthur, it is all very well, all very right to consult your wife; but -you can’t think of neglecting such an opportunity. It is altogether -unconditional. They will receive her, as if she were a Duke’s daughter; -you know, when once they have made up their minds to it, there will be -no stint, she will have no reason to complain of her reception.” - -Arthur’s head was turned to the door. - -“You will think me silly,” he said; “a fool! but I cannot help it. One -thing I will tell you, Durant; I will go to Vienna. I don’t think it’s -too late; five months is not long enough at my age to put a man out -altogether, is it? But as for Nancy, I can’t answer. If she will go with -me home, if she will go with me to Vienna, I can’t tell you. We must see -her first. She is at her mother’s--” - -“You don’t mean to say that she has left you, Arthur?” - -“Oh no, no,” he said; “that is rather too absurd, the most ridiculous -idea. Come along, Durant, let us get out and stretch our legs. I have -not had a real walk for ages. Of course, as it’s Saturday you are going -to stay till Monday? That is right, that is a true pleasure. She is -at--her mother’s,” he added, changing the subject abruptly, and dropping -his voice. - -What did it mean? Durant could not tell. He had not disliked Nancy; -though she had defied him too, it had been done in a way which did not -offend the young man. He had admired her, even when she attacked himself -personally; and he had been inclined to think as Arthur did, that she -was a lily among those weeds. He had not been surprised at his friend’s -infatuation. He had thought her a beautiful high-spirited girl, full of -a generous if over vehement disdain for the conventional judgment that -made her appear an unfit wife for a man of worldly position superior to -her own. Her threat to give up her lover, and her counter decision to -marry him disinherited, in order to show his friends how little she -cared about his money, were fresh in his mind. And he had liked Nancy; -though he had been formally on the other side as Lady Curtis’s agent, he -had never really been unfriendly; he remembered well his old -difficulties when he had tried to persuade Arthur to relinquish his -faith to this girl who trusted in him, and with what a sense of relief -he had found that all his arguments were vain, and Arthur’s honour and -love invulnerable. He was mystified and perplexed, as well as grieved, -by Arthur’s painful pre-occupation now, not knowing what could have -happened. They went out in the teeth of the March wind, which blew sharp -and keen along the suburban roads. - -“I have not had anything to call a walk for weeks,” Arthur said, with a -feverish look of eagerness, as they reached the fresh breadth of the -common, with the green fields and country paths beyond. The hedgerows -were bristling with buds, the skies softly blue, where they could be -seen through the masses of cloud that swept across the great vault -overhead. The young man sped along like a loosened greyhound, and his -friend, fresh from the confinement of town, had hard ado to follow him. -He talked little as he went along. Was he walking so fast to escape some -care that weighed upon him? If it was not for that there was no other -motive, for the walk was without any object. Now and then he would break -forth for a moment about this prospect which Durant had come to offer -him. “It would be the best thing,” he would say, “far the best thing. I -must get rid of this one way or other.” Then he would be silent, and -after a mile or so say to himself again, “Yes, _this_ will not do--I -must go, it is plain. Going may be salvation.” Durant did not know what -irrepressible cares were plucking at his friend’s skirts and compelling -him to these resolutions; and he himself talked calmly of Oakley, of the -desires of the family there, and the haste they were in to send him off -upon his mission, and all the anticipations of Arthur’s return which -they had already begun to entertain. At this Arthur did nothing but -shake his head, “Will _she_ consent?” he said once. Would Nancy consent? -was that what he meant? Consent! what excuse could she have not to -consent? They walked far, at a great pace, and Durant was almost worn -out. He lagged behind his friend as he approached the house. It was -still all dark, one faint gleam of firelight in the drawing-room -contending feebly with the grey of the twilight, no one at the window -looking out for them, no lamp lighted. “Has Mrs. Curtis returned?” -Arthur asked of the maid, as they went on, and was answered No. They -went into her part of the house, the white little drawing-room, where -indeed there were no pretty signs of Nancy’s presence, no work or books -to mar the trimness of the place, but all the chairs set against the -wall, and the fire flickering dimly in the grate. And the dinner hour -came without any appearance of Nancy. Arthur got more and more agitated -as the time went on--and Durant more and more surprised. - -“Is your wife dining out?” he said, when he found they were about to sit -down at the table without her. Arthur made no distinct answer; he said -after a while, as if he had then heard the question for the first -time--“She is at her mother’s.” He did not change his dress before -dinner, or show any recollection of the need of such preliminaries, but -sat over the fire, vaguely replying now and then when his friend spoke -to him, and starting at every sound. - -“Shall you not wait for Mrs. Curtis?” Durant said, as Arthur took him -into the little dining-room. - -“She is at her mother’s,” was all Arthur replied. Altogether it was very -mysterious, and Durant could not but feel that there was mischief in the -air. - -At last when the clock had struck ten, and there was no appearance of -Nancy, Arthur sprang to his feet. “I must go and fetch her,” he said, -“this will never do--this will never do!” Durant took his hat -mechanically also, and they walked out without another word into the -windy night. The sky looked widened and enlarged by the boisterous -breeze which drove mass after mass of clouds across the blue, and across -the face of the waning moon, which shone out at intervals only to be -swallowed up again by those floating vapours. There was a certain hurry, -and coldness, and agitation in the night. The way from Rose Villas into -the lighted street of Underhayes was dark, and the alternations of gloom -and light in the sky made the vision uncertain. Durant could see how -anxiously his friend peered at all the figures they met on the darkling -road; but Nancy was not on her way home. They went on in silence to the -street which Durant remembered perfectly, and to the door, at which -Arthur left him standing as he went in. He had stood there before, and -heard the voices in the parlour when he came here first in search of -Arthur; how strange to come here now in search of Arthur’s runaway wife! -for this was what it seemed to be now. He could hear the silence which -followed Arthur’s entrance--a pause which was impressive from the -confusion of voices that had been audible before. “I have come for -Nancy,” he heard him say. - -Arthur had gone in without any question. He had left his friend at the -door, neither thinking nor caring that some revelation might be made -which it was better Durant should not hear. He steadied his own -countenance not to look angry or anxious. “Are you ready?” he said, -addressing his wife, “I did not think you meant to stay so long.” - -“You have not given yourself much trouble to look after me,” said Nancy. -“No, I am not ready. I don’t mean to go.” - -“What does she mean?” he said with a tremble in his voice, turning to -Mrs. Bates. - -“Oh, Arthur, I don’t know what she means. She is as hot-tempered and as -contrary as possible. She takes up things quite wrong. You never meant -to drive her away, did you? You had not thought of leaving her--tell her -for heaven’s sake! She will not listen to me.” - -There was no one in the parlour but Mrs. Bates and Sarah Jane. It was a -night when the tax-collector was busy adding up one of his lists of -defaulters, and it was the same party which had witnessed the dispute of -the morning which was assembled now. That was one reason of the sudden -quiet; the other was, the awe and horror that had come over the family -at Nancy’s obstinate resolution to stay at home, and return to her -husband no more--a resolution which he had divined, and which had -weighed on him for the whole day. - -“I--leave her!” said Arthur, “what did I say that looked like leaving -her? Nancy, come home. I have been very unhappy, not knowing why you -stayed away from me, and now I have something to consult you about. Come -home.” - -“I am at home,” said Nancy, sullenly. “It is no use talking. I have -taken my resolution. Go away, Arthur, as you said, I mean to stay here.” - -“What does she mean?” he cried in dismay. - -“Oh! I mean what I say. You told me you were going. You said I might -come if I pleased. I--who hate strangers--I, after all the slights -you’ve brought upon me! but that any how you were going. I’ve left for -good and all. Mother can go and pack up the things, and dismiss the -servants, and leave you free; but one word’s enough to me, Arthur, you -shall never have occasion to say another. I don’t budge from here unless -mother turns me out. And as soon as you please, you can go.” - -They all looked at each other--the others pale, Nancy red with -excitement and passion. - -“You don’t mean this, Nancy,” Arthur said. “You cannot mean, for a hasty -word, to forsake me; it is not possible. A hasty word! how many have you -said to me. Come--come, you are angry; but how little there is to be -angry about! We have had more serious discussions before,” he added with -a faint smile, “and you have said much worse things to me.” - -“It does not matter what I said, but what you said. No, Arthur, you may -put up with whatever you like; but I won’t put up with it,” she said, -in all the unreasonableness of passion. “You might think it didn’t -matter what I say; but I think it does matter what you say. No, I am not -going back. You may talk till you’re sick--it won’t make any difference -to me.” - -“Nancy! don’t be such a fool,” said Sarah Jane. “Why, only think how -people will talk. Not six months married, and coming back home! And -after all the fuss that was made about your marrying, and the grand -catch we fancied it was. When you come to think of it you can’t be such -a fool.” - -“Nancy--Nancy, my dear, you’re unreasonable! indeed you’re -unreasonable--when Arthur says he did not mean it.” - -“Nancy!” cried the young man, “why do you torment me like this--what -have I done to you? You make my life a constant contention. We never -have a quiet moment. Have I failed in love to you--have I not thought of -you in everything? You will drive me mad, I think. Have I ever -neglected you, or injured you?” - -“You said you would leave me,” said Nancy, “that’s enough, I told you at -the time. Oh! never a man in this world shall say that he has forsaken -_me_! I am not one that will be forsaken. Go, Arthur, go where you -please. I shall stay here.” - -“Nancy, Lewis Durant is at the door. He has brought a message of the -greatest importance from Oakley.” - -“Lewis Durant!” she started to her feet with fresh impetuosity, “that -was all that was wanted. Do you think I will stay behind to see Lewis -Durant--to let him spy and tell my Lady. No, mamma, no! That’s decided -me. Good night to you all. You may do what you please--but here I’ll -stay.” - -And Nancy darted out of the midst of them, quick as thought, while they -all stood stupefied, and rushed out of the room and upstairs, where, as -they listened they heard her quick steps overhead thrilling through the -little house, and the quick closing and locking of the door. - -The shock affected the three in different ways. Sarah Jane began to cry. -Mrs. Bates, trembling, went up to Arthur and caught him by the arm. This -strange, terrible incident changed him from her son-in-law, with whom -she was familiar, into her daughter’s judge, before whom she trembled. - -“Oh, Mr. Curtis, Mr. Curtis!” she said. “The girl’s wild and out of her -senses. Don’t think too badly of her. It’s like a madness. Oh, forgive -her!” The mother was in too deadly earnest to be able for tears. - -“What am I to do?” said Arthur, overcome, with a gasp as if for breath. - -“Oh, my dear, my dear! Leave her; she is out of her senses, she is out -of her senses, she is out of her mind! Leave her to me, and I’ll bring -her to you to-morrow to beg your pardon. I will, Arthur, if anything in -this world can do it,” Mrs. Bates said, clasping her hands. - -“There is nothing else to be done,” said Arthur. He was as pale as -death. He seemed to get his breath with difficulty as he stood there, -struck with wonder, paralyzed with the sense of impotence in his mind, -and the dire injury that had been done him. A friend may leave a friend, -or even a child a parent; but when a wife, a six months’ bride, leaves -her husband even for a day, even in the house of her father, it is as if -some horrible convulsion had happened which turns the world upside down. -He said nothing more to anyone, but went out, and caught at Durant’s arm -to support him, and walked home under the flying clouds, through the -stormy, agitated night. The night was like his mind, swept by wild -thoughts, overclouded by profound glooms. He scarcely said anything to -Durant, who seemed to divine all that happened, though nothing was said -to him. It was well he was there. When they went back to the villa, the -poor little villa, which was at once so desolate and so meaningless -without Nancy, the young man gave a heavy groan, which seemed to echo -through the mean little rooms. Could anything change this fact, any -coming back again, any penitence? His wife had forsaken him. Nancy had -gone back to her mother’s. It might be only for a night, but could -anything change the fact? His life had come to a stop; no making up -could alter that. As he had been even this morning, he could never be -again any more. - -It was Durant who told that little falsehood to the servants about why -their mistress stayed away. She was not well, he said, and they need not -wait up, as it was doubtful whether she would come home. And he stayed -by Arthur through the long dull hours, hearing in breaks and snatches -something of the story which poor Arthur felt was now over: how they had -lived together, and how, according to all he could tell, they had -parted. When the flood-tides were opened, it relieved Arthur to speak. -He showed his friend in his despair all that was in his heart, his love -for Nancy, which was ready to forgive everything, and yet the wounds -which she had given to him. - -“It is not her fault,” he said. “It is the want of training. She has -never realised it, what she married for. She thinks it was only to be -happy, to be loved and flattered, to have everything happy round her.” -This the poor young fellow said as if it was the best excuse in the -world. “That is how she has been brought up. It is not her fault. She -has not considered me, nor that there is a duty; and was I to be the one -to remind her of her duty, Durant? I did not want her to love me because -it was her duty. I wanted her to do her duty because of her love,” said -Arthur, unconsciously antithetical. Durant listened to everything, and -made few comments. If he said anything in sympathy for his friend which -meant condemnation of Nancy, Arthur rose up and stopped him. “How can -you tell how she was aggravated?” he said. It was not till the middle of -the night that Durant could persuade him to go to bed; and by that time -the desolateness of the dreary little house without Nancy, which had no -soul or meaning but Nancy, struck Lewis almost as much as it did Arthur. -Poor little miserable shell of a place, which had outgrown its sense and -its use! - -Next day was a busy but a miserable day. Durant was at the Bates’ little -house as soon as it was opened in the morning, hoping that his eloquence -might be more effectual than that of the poor young husband, and that he -might be able, through her mother, to induce Nancy to come back. He -found Mrs. Bates very anxious and tearful, very well disposed, but -powerless. He gave her a hint of the proposal he had brought from -Oakley, and of the unconditional surrender of the Curtises, which the -mother carried to her daughter upstairs, but without any favourable -issue. Later he came back with Arthur. Nancy kept upstairs, she would -not show--and all the household was against her. - -“I never held with it,” said the tax-collector. “I told my wife so from -the first. I never hold with a young woman complaining of her husband. -Mrs. Bates is too kind a mother, that’s what it is.” - -These things penetrated into Arthur’s heart almost unawares; that his -wife had complained of him all through; that there had been talk of the -advantages of the marriage, and that Nancy had hoped to be well off, and -to make a great match, and had married him with that view. All these -things sank into his heart. Was this true, or was it all the truth? It -cannot be said that he believed it, yet it acted upon him as if he had -believed, bringing a mingled pain and bitterness, against which at this -moment he was incapable of struggling. All that day long they kept -coming and going, pleading with her to return; but when another night -came, and the slow hours dragged through with the same excitements as -before--without her, or hope of her--all sense of possible renewal died -out of these hasty young hearts, and the severance seemed complete. - - - END OF SECOND VOLUME. - - London: Printed by A. Schulze, 13, Poland Street. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MRS. 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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 <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. 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. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Mrs. Arthur; vol. 2 of 3</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Mrs. Margaret Oliphant</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: May 13, 2021 [eBook #65329]</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>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)</div> - -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MRS. ARTHUR; VOL. 2 OF 3 ***</div> -<hr class="full" /> - -<div class="c"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" height="500" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p class="c" style="border:2px solid gray; -padding:.2em;margin:1em auto;max-width:50%;"> -<a href="#CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_II"> II., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_III"> III., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_IV"> IV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_V"> V., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VI"> VI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VII"> VII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VIII"> VIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_IX"> IX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_X"> X., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XI"> XI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XVI"> XVI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XIII"> XIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XIV"> XIV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XV"> XV.</a> -</p> - -<h1>MRS. ARTHUR.</h1> - -<p class="c"><small>BY</small><br /><br /> - -MRS. OLIPHANT,<br /><br /> - -<small>AUTHOR OF</small><br /><br /><span class="eng"> -“The Chronicles of Carlingford,”<br /><br /> -&c. &c.</span></p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Fie, fie! unknit that threat’ning, unkind brow,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">And dart not scornful glances from those eyes.<br /></span> -<span class="i4e"> . . . . . . .<br /></span> -<span class="i0">A woman mov’d is like a fountain troubled.”<br /></span> -<span class="i12">TAMING OF THE SHREW.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“He breathed a sigh, and toasted Nancy!”<br /></span> -<span class="i12">DIBDIN.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="c"> -IN THREE VOLUMES.<br /> -<br /> -VOL. II.<br /> -<br /> -LONDON:<br /> -HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS,<br /> -13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.<br /> -<br /> -1877.<br /> -<br /> -<i>All rights reserved.</i><br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_1" id="page_1">{1}</a></span></p> - -<h1>MRS. ARTHUR.</h1> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I"></a>CHAPTER I.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">A</span>RTHUR CURTIS did not think of the letter which old Davies had given him -till days after. It had been crushed up in the pocket of his coat, the -sight of his sister, and all the contending emotions of the time having -put it out of his head; and what could there be agreeable in such a -communication at such a time? A final sermon to him upon his folly, a -final admonition as to all the terrible consequences of his fault—he -had, he thought, enough of these, and he had not cared to make himself -miserable on his wedding-<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_2" id="page_2">{2}</a></span>day with such a communication. It was not -unmixed delight, even without that, though this was not a confession he -made to himself, in words, at least. But the sight of his sister’s -writing half sickened him when he saw it eventually. To be told that the -course you are pursuing is ruinous, when you are entirely delighted with -that course, is bad enough; but to be told so when the first shock of -doubt, the first sharp suspicion of a mistake, has come into your mind, -is unendurable. Arthur had not, it may be supposed, allowed to himself -that this was already the state of affairs within a few days after his -marriage. He was the “happiest of men;” the society of his bride was -sweet to him, and her tenderness gave him an exquisite, indescribable, -all-penetrating delight, notwithstanding everything. Is the sudden shock -of that absolute identification of two different people, the one with -the other, ever for the first moment, a happiness unmingled? It was not, -at least,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_3" id="page_3">{3}</a></span> to Arthur. And Nancy was not one of those compliant, -sweet-tempered women who swamp their own habits and ways in those of -their husbands. Arthur had known these habits intimately enough; but the -changed relationship brought such an entire change of aspect as was -astonishing to himself. Heretofore he had been able to admire as -piquant, or to laugh at as amusing, the roughnesses or simplicities of a -breeding so different from his own; but suddenly an entire difference -had come upon his feelings. Now that he was responsible for these -peculiarities, they became alarming to him; he saw them with the eyes of -other people, of his mother, his sister, of Durant even, who would -wonder and be horrified to see Arthur’s wife so conducting herself. She -was no longer Nancy Bates, the girl for whom he was willing to risk the -world—but a part of himself, in whom his own character, his own very -being, was involved. This made the strangest differ<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_4" id="page_4">{4}</a></span>ence in everything. -He had already felt it beginning for some time, but it was in full force -from the moment which changed the tax-collector’s daughter into his -wife. Thus he had felt, not amused, but irritated, when she made her -appearance in that salmon-coloured “silk.” That Mrs. Bates’s daughter -should wear the one fine and glistening garment she possessed to do -honour to her bridegroom, and to dazzle the eyes of all beholders on her -wedding-day, would there not have been in this a certain appropriateness -in the midst of the inappropriateness, a <i>sancta simplicitas</i> which -would have charmed him? But it became all at once much more apparent to -Arthur that his wife ought to know better than to set out on a journey -in a pink silk gown; though when he tried by all manner of deceptive -arguments to beguile her into the choice of a more suitable dress, -representing that the dark blue serge or dark brown merino in the shops -would be warmer, more easy and comfortable, less<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5" id="page_5">{5}</a></span> liable to be spoiled, -and every other false yet true reason for preferring it that he could -think of, Nancy remained unconvinced.</p> - -<p>“You shan’t make a dowdy of me, Arthur, I can tell you,” she said. “I -didn’t get married to go about the world in these poor sort of clothes, -like a dressmaker’s girl; and to France, where everybody dresses so -well!”</p> - -<p>This was during the two or three days they stayed in London on purpose, -if the truth had been told, to get a suitable outfit for her; but only -Arthur, not Nancy, was aware of this true motive for the delay.</p> - -<p>“My dear girl, if they dress well it is by having suitable dresses for -everything, not by being fine,” said Arthur, driven to his wit’s end.</p> - -<p>“Fine! you mean that I am dressed up,” cried Nancy, her colour rising, -“and that is hard, for it was all done to please you; I thought you -would like to see me fine. I never used to mind<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6" id="page_6">{6}</a></span> what clothes I wore; -but I—and mamma too—tried to make as good a show as ever we could, for -your sake!”</p> - -<p>What could Arthur do but protest that he loved her more, if that were -possible, for the pains she had taken to please him, and thought the -salmon-coloured dress lovely; but after a while he returned to the -charge. “In France,” he said with the air of an authority, “they are -great on having a dress for every different occasion. Their dresses for -the morning they never wear in the evening, and their travelling -dresses—”</p> - -<p>“But goodness me!” cried Nancy, “what an extravagant way of going on! It -may be all very well for duchesses and grand ladies; but that would -never do for a poor girl like me.”</p> - -<p>“You forget you are not a girl at all, much less a poor one,” he said, -pursuing his wiles, “but a married lady, my Nancy.” Goodness me is not a -pretty oath; he swallowed it however, not daring<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_7" id="page_7">{7}</a></span> to attempt correction, -with a secret grimace.</p> - -<p>“Yes, that is all very well,” she repeated, “but all the same we are -poor enough. I shan’t be a bit richer than I was. I may be grander, I -don’t know; for your folks have cast you off, Arthur, you mustn’t forget -that.”</p> - -<p>“Oh! my <i>folks</i>!” cried the unhappy one under his breath; the word hurt -him, in spite of himself. He had not been so delicate once; but this was -like a dig in the ribs to Arthur. It made him cry out, though he stifled -the cry.</p> - -<p>“No, I don’t think much of what you say if that is French fashion,” said -Nancy, “English fashion is far better. Instead of fussing and changing -all day long, and wasting one’s time, it is so convenient just to pin in -a bit of lace and double back the fronts, and there you have a lovely -dress for the evening; that’s what I like. No need to go and unpack -one’s boxes and get out another dress, it’s done<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_8" id="page_8">{8}</a></span> in a moment. You must -allow, Arthur, that English fashion is best for that.”</p> - -<p>Poor Arthur! he thought of his sister’s little simple toilettes, so -fresh, so crisp, so plain! and he did not know—what foolish young man -ever does know? that whereas the finery is an easy matter, these dainty -sobrieties of garb are the highest quintessence of art. In novels, which -are the chief exponents of young women to young men, and of young men to -young women, has not the captivating humble bride always a spotless -collar and cuffs ready for every emergency, which make her exquisite on -all occasions? Why had not Nancy the secret of that little collar and -snowy cuff?</p> - -<p>All this, however, is a digression from the letter which he found in his -pocket, having thrust it away there on his wedding morning. He tore it -open impatiently after this talk. Did not he know very well what must be -in it? But it was better to glance at it and be done<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_9" id="page_9">{9}</a></span> with it at once. -He found it, however, something so very unlike what he supposed, that -the little letter completely unmanned him and took his strength away. He -read it first with so much surprise that he could scarcely comprehend -its meaning, and when he had fully mastered it, burst out into an abrupt -break of sound of the most unintelligible description.</p> - -<p>“What is the matter?” cried Nancy; she was half frightened. She came to -the door of the inner room in which she was, and looked out upon him, -half dressed, wrapped in the shawl Matilda had lent her. “Are you -laughing or crying?” Perhaps it had been a little of both; but at all -events it had left the tears in his eyes.</p> - -<p>“Look here,” he said, with an unsteady voice, “this is the letter old -Davies gave me on Tuesday;” and then he added in a lower tone, “God -forgive me, I don’t deserve it,” with a half sob.</p> - -<p>Very coldly Nancy took the letter. She<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_10" id="page_10">{10}</a></span> knew by instinct what it must -be. It was written in a rather illegible but pretty handwriting, not at -all like, but somehow superior she felt to the pointed precision of her -own.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>“I am going to your wedding to-morrow, Arthur dear; not to see you, -but to be there, that there may be some one that loves you all the -same. That always goes without saying. We think that you may not -have money enough to do all you want, so we have just been to the -bank to get this. Dear, dear Arthur, God bless you! Mamma shakes -her head, but she says it all the same.</p> - -<p class="r"> -“<span class="smcap">Lucy.</span>”<br /> -</p> - -<p>And then there was added in another hand:</p> - -<p>“Surely I say it, surely I must say it always. And God forgive you, -oh, my cruel boy.”</p></div> - -<p>Nancy puzzled over this for some time.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_11" id="page_11">{11}</a></span> She began to read it aloud and -read it wrong, so that it took a ridiculous sound; then laughed; while -Arthur made a furious step towards her to seize it out of her hand. She -grew serious then, which quickened her wits and made her finish her -reading in silence. When she had done so she flung it to him, letting -the two notes enclosed flutter to the ground, and without a word turned -round and shut the door violently in his face. He caught the letter; but -the two fifty pound notes lay between him and the door, crumpled by -Nancy’s angry fingers. He stood petrified for the moment, too much -surprised to be either hurt or angry. Was this the way in which his wife -received his first appeal to her sympathy? the first mention of those -who, Arthur suddenly remembered, were next to herself the dearest to him -in the world? Somehow he had forgotten this until now; but it suddenly -gleamed upon him; a kind of revelation. Certainly it was so; his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_12" id="page_12">{12}</a></span> mother -and sister, were they not his dearest friends, the most generous and -kind? Was it possible that his wife could read this letter and not be -touched? and yet she had tossed it at him, had crumpled up the notes -like waste paper. Was this the attitude she meant to adopt towards his -family? and he had been so tolerant of hers!</p> - -<p>Nancy did not say a word on the subject when they met again. She looked -as if she had been crying; but said nothing, plunging into some -indifferent subject with unusual interest. But it was not reasonable -that the husband of three days could bear the matter like this. He said -something about “my sister’s letter,” as soon as he had a chance. “We -shall have a little more money to spend now, thanks to my mother’s -thoughtfulness,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, your mother!” she flung away from him, flushing crimson—a colour -that meant anger as he already knew.</p> - -<p>“Yes, my mother,” he said, “why<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_13" id="page_13">{13}</a></span> should not I speak of my mother? I -never think it strange, Nancy, that you should think of yours.”</p> - -<p>“Mine!” she cried, turning back upon him with flashing eyes, “her -thoughts have been as much for you as for me. She has been as kind to -you as to me,” (this set Arthur thinking; but what could he answer to -it?) “but there is not a word of me in all that letter, not a word, -though they knew I should be your wife when you got it.”</p> - -<p>“What could they say? They did not know you, darling, and I had been -silly, I had not written to conciliate as I ought to have done; but to -defy them. What could they say?”</p> - -<p>“Say! it is just as good as if they had said, ‘She is no more to us than -the dirt under our feet.’ They could not do anything against me or say -anything against me, so they treat me as if I was not worthy to be -noticed; oh, that is what they mean! they think if they keep<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_14" id="page_14">{14}</a></span> that up -they will bring you back to them again, and persuade you that I am not -worth thinking of. Oh, I know women’s ways!”</p> - -<p>“You are mistaken, Nancy, I am sure you are entirely mistaken.”</p> - -<p>“A great deal you can tell! they will not show you what they are after. -They will smooth you down and keep you not suspicious. Oh! I tell you I -know women’s ways.”</p> - -<p>“You don’t know my mother and Lucy,” he said, making an effort to stand -against her, “they are not like the women you—”</p> - -<p>“Not like the women I know? I knew you would come to that,” she said -violently. “Oh, I knew it the very moment I set eyes upon her; but not -yet, not so soon as this.” And Nancy, really wounded in her blaze of -unnecessary wrath, burst into fiery tears. They were tears that might -have been red hot, and scalded as they poured down in a very<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_15" id="page_15">{15}</a></span> thunder -shower. He had never seen such a torrent, and he stood thunderstruck; -not melted as he had been before, when Nancy was moved in this way. Here -too was a change. He stood still, he did not rush to her, and use all -the blandishments he could think of to put a stop to the intolerable -spectacle of her distress. He let her cry. He was confounded by the -sudden outburst; and a sharp twinge of shame for her mingled with the -pain she gave him. He was ashamed that <i>his wife</i> should be so unjust, -so hasty in her judgment, so violent in her mistaken ideas. When he did -go to her it was slowly, with a hesitation very different from the -lover’s rush. That she should be so foolish <i>now</i>, was not that -something derogatory to him?</p> - -<p>“Nancy,” he said, “I cannot think how you can be so—unkind. Do you -think I mean any offence to you, or that <i>they</i> mean any offence? Of -course you know they wanted me to marry some<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_16" id="page_16">{16}</a></span> one—better off; some one -they knew.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, let me go,” she cried, choking with pain and rage together, “I will -go back to my mother; and you can go to yours, of whom you think so -much. What does it matter about a common girl like me!”</p> - -<p>“I think you are trying to drive me mad,” he said, “have I ever wavered -between you and my mother? but I see now where I did wrong; I should -have gone to her and made a friend of her, instead of defying her. I -should have taken you to her—”</p> - -<p>“Taken me!” she jumped up and faced him, trembling with agitation and -fury, “taken <i>me</i>! am <i>I</i> to be dragged about to people that don’t want -me, to people that dare to despise me?”</p> - -<p>“Nancy!”</p> - -<p>“Nancy! that’s all you can call me now. I used to be your love and your -darling; now we’re married, and I’m bound and can’t get free, and you -call me Nancy!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_17" id="page_17">{17}</a></span> Oh! if it was all to do again, and I knew what I know -now!”</p> - -<p>“What on earth do you know now that you did not know a week ago?” he -cried with an impatience beyond words; and yet he felt half inclined to -laugh. That the impassioned creature who stood defying him, blazing in -impulsive wrath, should resent the absence of those loves and darlings -and tender words with which he had hitherto caressed her ears, so hotly -as to desire to break every bond between them, struck him with a sudden -sense of the absurdity of their quarrel. He went suddenly up to her and -took her into his arms. “But you <i>are</i> my darling,” he said, “all the -same; though you are the most unreasonable, the most quick-tempered, the -most provoking. Sweet! what is everybody in the world to me compared -with you?”</p> - -<p>Thus the first quarrel terminated, though not without considerably more -trouble. Nancy perhaps saw too the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_18" id="page_18">{18}</a></span> foolishness of this impossible -struggle, and yielded after a certain amount of flattery, coaxing, and -caresses. And the cloud blew over so completely that, much to his -surprise he found himself able to persuade this despairing bride next -morning to get the travelling dress he wished her to have, and to tone -herself down generally, and make herself warm and comfortable and less -fine. They crossed the Channel two days after, more lovers than ever; -but no longer publishing their recent nuptials in their appearance, with -Nancy’s “silk” carefully packed at the bottom of her box, and herself in -a dark blue gown and little plumed hat, looking more like Mrs. Arthur -Curtis than Nancy Bates had ever done before. Arthur’s heart beat high -with pride and pleasure as they watched the white cliffs disappearing. -Nancy not without a little natural sentiment, for she had never been out -of England before, and it seemed a great thing to her to be out of her -own country,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_19" id="page_19">{19}</a></span> and on the verge of a “foreign land.” But fortunately the -passage was a very good one, so that no less elevated feeling mingled -with these tender regrets. He had her in his own hands now, the -bridegroom said to himself; all her antecedents left behind, the home -and relations happily got rid of, and all the influences of her new life -around her to wean her from the past. And how tractable she had shown -herself already, how willing to be convinced! a tender creature, who -accepted his dictation sweetly two minutes after she had burst forth in -rebellion against him; who had been indignant at his sister’s letter -(and it was, Arthur allowed to himself, nasty of Lucy, rather like a -spiteful girl after all as Nancy said, not to mention her in that little -note which was intended to be so gentle and peace-making), and then had -forgiven it so frankly as to use part of the money that Lucy sent. This -unreasonable, inconsistent, foolish, generous,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_20" id="page_20">{20}</a></span> hot-headed, soft-hearted -darling, could any man desire better than to have her wholly to himself -to guide her wayward feet into the print of wifely, womanly ways? The -mean little house, the poor form of existence at Underhayes (ungrateful -young man! it had seemed an idyllic life, full of noble simplicity and -poetry, when he knew her first) lay far behind, and while the probation -lasted it would seem so natural that England itself should fade out of -sight, and all that was past be forgotten; until by and by he should -take his bride home a lady in every outward sign, as she was, he assured -himself in heart. It is so easy in a young man’s glowing fancy to work -this change. Likewise it is very quickly done in many novels, and with -wonderful facility and completeness; and, as has been said, where but -from novels was Arthur to have acquired any experience in the treatment -of cases like his own? All went well during that journey. It was a -beautiful<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_21" id="page_21">{21}</a></span> day of the early winter; warmly soft as November can -sometimes be, by way of contrast to its ordinary miseries, the sea and -the sky alike blue; and if the wind was cold, what there was of it, the -sun shining so warmly as to neutralize the wind. And Nancy now at least -was well defended and need fear no chill. Her cheeks glowed with the -fresh breeze, her little outcries, half of alarm half of exhilaration, -when the steamboat gave a small pitch which hurt nobody, delighted -Arthur. She clung to him and steadied herself by him with both hands -clasped on his arm, and had no thought, now that her moment of sentiment -was over, of anything but the excitement of this novel world into which -she was hastening. All the clouds that had been upon their horizon -seemed to float away.</p> - -<p>“I have been thinking,” she said, when they got into the -railway-carriage on the other side, and Nancy had got over her first -amused wonder and bewilderment,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_22" id="page_22">{22}</a></span> “to hear everybody talking and not to -understand a word.” They had a carriage to themselves, though that is -not so easy to manage on the other side, and Arthur, delighted with his -task, had begun to teach her little phrases in the tongue, which -notwithstanding her much-talked-of previous studies was quite an unknown -tongue to Nancy. “I have been thinking—”</p> - -<p>“What is it? Something very grave indeed, judging from that serious -face.”</p> - -<p>“Yes; something very important. I have always wished it, but they would -never give in to me. Not that mamma did not think me quite right, but it -is very difficult to break a habit in a family. But you must do it, -Arthur; it is not such a very old habit with you.”</p> - -<p>“What is this great thing I am to do—give up smoking—take off my -moustache?”</p> - -<p>“Oh! no!” cried Nancy, horrified. “The nicest thing about you!” which -pleased Arthur much, for it was still new<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_23" id="page_23">{23}</a></span> enough to give him unfeigned -and honest pride. “But I will tell you what it is. Nancy is so vulgar, -so common, not a name for a lady; and it will not sound well here, -abroad, where people have such pretty names. Call me Anna—I have always -wished it. I was christened Anna Frances, you know.”</p> - -<p>“And I could not think who she was when they married me to her,” cried -Arthur. “I will call you what you like, my darling; but I like Nancy -best.”</p> - -<p>Did ever young people start on a honeymoon expedition with a better -understanding? He planned a hundred places to take her to, and things to -do. The theatre every night!—How Nancy’s eyes sparkled! and the Louvre, -of which she was quite willing to admit that it must be very fine, -without knowing what it was; and the Tuileries gardens with the band -playing, and the beautiful shops in the Boulevards. Even to hear of -these delights was enough to charm any bride.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_24" id="page_24">{24}</a></span> They were to go -everywhere, to see everything, to walk about and drive about always -these two together—nobody to interfere with them; and the play every -night! What could any bride desire more?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_25" id="page_25">{25}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II"></a>CHAPTER II.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">P</span>ARIS, with all its lamps and shop-windows, dazzled Nancy. It was before -the days in which ruins were visible from that brilliant Rue de Rivoli, -through which they drove to their hotel. She thought it was an -illumination as she saw the sweeping circles of light in the Place de la -Concorde, and the long line of lamps under the archways, and could not -be persuaded that this was how the brightest of cities adorned herself -every night. And when she opened her eyes next morning to the brilliancy -of the winter sunshine, and saw the brightness and gaiety of everything -around, Nancy<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_26" id="page_26">{26}</a></span> was fairly transported out of herself. She had never even -been in a great hotel before, for Arthur had taken her to London -lodgings he had been in the habit of using, in Jermyn Street, which were -not dazzling. But here everything was lovely, Nancy thought. They had a -little <i>appartement</i> in one of the great hotels over-looking the garden -of the Tuileries, with a little balcony; and from the white carpet with -its bouquet, and the sparkling wood-fire which was so bright and clean, -and supplemented the sunshine so delightfully, to the mirrors and -gilding, and white panels of the walls, everything she looked upon -filled Nancy with a bewildering delicious sense of having arrived at the -summit of fineness and splendour, and being a lady indeed, a princess -almost, enshrined in a bower of bliss. Nothing she had ever seen in all -her limited experience was half so splendid; and the noiseless waiters -who ran up and down with every luxury that Arthur could<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_27" id="page_27">{27}</a></span> think of, and -the dainty food, and the perpetual service bewildered her unaccustomed -brain. This then was how great people lived! with carpets like velvet, -sofas covered with satin, a host of eager servants to find out what they -wanted, and bring them everything that could be thought of; mirrors to -reflect them on every side (Nancy had never been so sure about the <i>sit</i> -of her dress, or knew so well what her figure was like before—and it -was a very pretty figure). No wonder they were happy! When they had -breakfasted, a pretty Victoria, with a fur rug to cover their knees, -came to the door, and in this they drove all about, taking what Arthur -called a general view of Paris, its pretty streets, its river and quays, -its boulevards, the Champs Elysées, brilliant in the sunshine, with the -great arch at the end. When Arthur stopped to let her see Notre Dame, -Nancy was respectful but failed a little in interest. It chilled her to -go into a church in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_28" id="page_28">{28}</a></span> middle of a week day so soon after she was -married. Church was for Sundays, she felt, not a place to go into in the -midst of laughing and talk. She felt it like a <i>memento mori</i>, a sudden -chill upon her exhilaration, and supposed that Arthur took her there -with the intention of making her remember her duty and her “latter end,” -which was a suggestion she did not like.</p> - -<p>“Now you shall see something quite different in the ecclesiastical way,” -he said, stopping at another church before they went back to their -hotel; for he felt that somehow, though he did not quite know how, Notre -Dame had not been successful with Nancy. But she altogether refused to -go into the Madeleine.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know why you are so anxious that I should see the churches,” -she said, pouting. “I never knew you were so religious.” Arthur made -haste to disavow the imputation, as may be supposed, which all the same -he did not like her to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_29" id="page_29">{29}</a></span> make. He was not “so religious,” but he did not -like to hear women speak of the matter so—it was “bad taste.”</p> - -<p>“It is because the building is supposed to be fine,” he said, standing -at the door of the little carriage to hand her out; but Nancy declined -firmly. If she could not think of her duty without being taken into a -lot of churches to be reminded of religion and of dying, and all that -sort of thing, she did not feel at all disposed to be instructed so—and -they came in from their drive a little silent, and not so delighted with -each other, and with everything about them as they had been when they -went out, though Arthur, for his part, had not the slightest idea why.</p> - -<p>Luncheon, however, obliterated all recollection of the churches, and -made her again feel that everything was delightful in her present lot. -Not that Nancy was <i>gourmande</i>, or given to dwell upon what she ate. One -of those horrible luxuries, known in England as a Bath bun, would<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_30" id="page_30">{30}</a></span> have -contented her, so far as eatables went, quite as well as the daintiest -little <i>fricandeau</i>. It was the accessories of the meal which told upon -her, the obsequious attendants, the perpetual service, the silver -dishes, the beautiful fruit on the table, and the sparkling wine, which -she had heard the name of all her life, as the crown of luxury, but had -never tasted it even in its cheapest form. They must be spending heaps -of money, Nancy felt, to live like this. But she was not bold enough to -interfere just then, and there was an unexpressed and subtle flattery in -Arthur’s care to treat her as, she thought, only princesses, who were -not brides, would be treated. As a bride, Nancy knew she had a -prescriptive right to everything that was fine. Even in her own -knowledge, sacrifices were made to secure everything that was better -than usual, for the brief but exquisite moment in which a girl held this -official position. A bride had a right to a drive in a cab if<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_31" id="page_31">{31}</a></span> she -wished it—to a glass of wine if she liked it—to cakes and dainties, -and a great deal of coaxing and admiration. And to wear her best dress -when she went out, even though it should be on a week-day. Arthur gave -to his bride a glorified version of all these delights, except the last, -the pretty Victoria instead of a Hansom, and this expedition to France -and other unknown regions, instead of the day at the Crystal Palace, -which Mr. Raisins would most likely suggest to Sarah Jane; though it was -strange that he should object to her “silk,” the only thing of which she -had been perfectly sure that it was right. It was in this point of view -that she liked the dainty luncheon; and when they went out again -arm-in-arm in the afternoon for a walk, the shops on the Boulevards -threw her into an ecstasy. Arthur was complaisance itself to all her -wishes here. He was willing to stand at the windows and look in as long -as she pleased, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_32" id="page_32">{32}</a></span> he took her here and there to glove-shops and -milliners, and bought her a hundred pretty trifles. In every shop they -entered, both men and women were so eager to know what pleased <i>Madame</i>, -so anxious to prove triumphantly that this thing and the other was -becoming to Madame, so openly admiring, so caressingly urgent, that -Nancy’s head was turned. It seemed impossible not to believe in the -sudden enthusiasm she called forth. Could it be only the ribbons, or -collars, or gloves they bought that stimulated these delightful people -into such warm and apparent admiration. No! Nancy could not entertain -such an unworthy thought. It was their kindness, she said to herself, -and something still more agreeable whispered in her heart that it was -her own attractions that made these people so kind. Had they not a real -pleasure in seeing a young bride like herself, so fair, so happy, making -everything look well that was put upon her? Nancy did not flatter -herself in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_33" id="page_33">{33}</a></span> this open way, but she had a pleased and delightful -conviction that this was the feeling in their minds. She believed in -their sincerity, and that she had made a real impression upon them. Was -not this how all the <i>nice</i> people in books, small and great, showed -their appreciation of the lovely young heroine? Nancy had not as yet any -experience of the great—and indeed it was an effort on her part to keep -up in her mind a certainty that she herself was in a superior position -to the masters and mistresses, the “young ladies” and “young gentlemen” -in these very fine shops; a little while ago she would have looked up to -<i>them</i>; now this consciousness made her head turn round, and gave the -most curious piquancy to their admiration and enthusiasm for Madame.</p> - -<p>“How funny it is,” she said, as they came out into the crowded -Boulevard, where the lamps were beginning to be lit, “to be called -Madamm!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_34" id="page_34">{34}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>Arthur looked a little strange at this pronunciation; but he did not -venture to criticise. It was necessary to go very quietly with this -touchy young woman. He told her some pretty things that Monsieur in the -shop had said to him while his wife had been fitting on her wares upon -Nancy.</p> - -<p>“If you make as much sensation at the theatre,” he said, “what shall I -do? I am nobody now. I am Madame’s attendant, her obsequious husband.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t talk nonsense,” said Nancy, radiant. “What funny people the -French are! Are they always paying compliments?”</p> - -<p>“To people who have any right to them, yes; to pretty people, and those -who pay well, and those who will be likely to believe them.”</p> - -<p>“Arthur, how unkind of you! I don’t believe that people are so -barefaced, saying things they do not mean. One must<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_35" id="page_35">{35}</a></span> have a very bad -opinion of other people if one thinks that.”</p> - -<p>But for her own part, Nancy was not tempted to think so. She conceived a -very high opinion of the French nation. If she could have got Arthur out -of the way, she thought she would have liked to try a little -conversation on her own account, for it would be delightful to be able -to chatter as Arthur did, and talk to anyone; but in his presence she -did not like to venture. Once more they went back to their hotel in the -most delightful state of content with each other and all the world. They -were to dine early, and then go to the “Français” to see the <i>Bourgeois -Gentilhomme</i>. Arthur had told her the story of the play, and how she -would be sure to like it, and that there was not a better French actor -living, and not such a good English one; all which had impressed Nancy. -And she was to be allowed to wear her pink dress, with a pretty wrap -which he had bought, an<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_36" id="page_36">{36}</a></span> Algerian mantle, softly white, with threads of -gold, and a flower in her hair. Nancy’s heart beat with the thought of -all this gaiety and grandeur. He had bought her also a pretty fan; and -they were to have a box, which was a thing which conveyed very -magnificent ideas to her mind. To sit there throned like a young -princess, and allow herself to be admired while the best of actors did -his best to amuse her, in the midst of that which imagination had always -painted to her as, after a ball, the most seductive of pleasures, a -gaily lighted and brilliant theatre, what could be more delightful? And -at first Nancy was quite as happy as she expected to be. When she looked -out from the corner of the box with its silken curtains upon the bright, -many-coloured crowd, it seemed to her as if she could understand a -little how the Queen must feel when she came forward to thank her loyal -subjects for their kind reception of her. Half of the people seemed to -be looking up admiringly,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_37" id="page_37">{37}</a></span> wonderingly. She had never felt so truly -great before. How well she remembered, in the days of her humility, when -the highest she could hope for was the upper boxes, watching beautiful -ladies come into their box, and giving a careless, splendid look over -the rustling company below before they sat down. And now it was she who -was the beautiful lady in the box. Was there, perhaps, some poor girl -somewhere like Nancy Bates, looking at the lovely new-comer, surveying -and envying her with a wistful gaze in all her finery, watching her look -down upon the crowd, then sink gracefully into her chair as Nancy did, -half retired behind the curtain? It seemed to her that she was two -people, herself in the box—Mrs. Arthur Curtis—and Nancy Bates watching -from her inferior place; and this doubled the enjoyment in the most -wonderful way. How she would have noticed everything, the beautiful -white mantle with its gold threads, the flower in the lady’s hair, her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_38" id="page_38">{38}</a></span> -dress, and everything about her! and with great, yet less absorbing -interest, the handsome young husband who completed her belongings, and -was so “devoted” to her. Nancy would scarcely have had eyes for the play -in her admiration of the beautiful lady; and now she was the beautiful -lady herself, in full possession of all the greatness a box at the play -could bestow! How wonderful it was, and delightful; but yet, perhaps, -not altogether so delightful and wonderful as it had seemed to Nancy in -the pit.</p> - -<p>But when the curtain rose, Nancy was not so sure that it was delightful. -She was not sufficiently at her ease to enter into even the frank fun of -the <i>Bourgeois Gentilhomme</i>. She stared at M. Got with wondering -curiosity and doubt. No doubt it must be very amusing, for everybody -laughed, and so did Arthur; but Nancy could not laugh. What did that -queer man on the stage mean by all those strange antics of his?—trying -on his clothes<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_39" id="page_39">{39}</a></span> in public, fencing with his maid-servant, making his -mouth into round O’s, when the still funnier man in the witch-like black -hat directed him to do so. It was all strange to her. She puzzled over -him, and could not make him out. “What is he saying?” she whispered to -Arthur when there was a wilder laugh than usual; but before she could -understand what Arthur whispered back, laughing, there was another burst -of amusement, and she was thrown out again. At first the sensation was -only disappointment, but by and by it became irritation. She could not -bear to feel herself the only one who did not know. High up in the -gallery above her, she could see a little French girl in a cap, who was -enjoying it with all her heart. And Arthur, though he tried to explain -all the jokes, forgot now and then, and gave himself up to the fun too, -and never thought of her sitting there who did not know what it meant, -and could not possibly enjoy it. The doubtful smile which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_40" id="page_40">{40}</a></span> she kept on -her face for the first scene or two, gave way to a fixed and somewhat -sullen stare. She fixed her eyes obstinately on the stage, and gazed at -the fun with unsympathising face, blank and immovable. If M. Got had -seen her, she would have been like a beautiful nightmare to him; and as -a matter of fact, that inimitable actor played all his pranks before -Nancy without conveying a single humorous idea to her mind, or one smile -to her face. How weary, how angry, how dull and miserable she grew while -the house rang with laughter, and all that fun went on under her eyes, -now sore with staring! All this time the little French girl in the cap, -up above, a poor little girl, not at all equal even to Nancy Bates, -laughed till the tears came to her eyes; and Arthur laughed, untiring, -too, though sometimes wondering a little why Nancy should be so quiet, -and stealing anxious looks at her, which she would not respond to, but -kept her eyes riveted on the stage. When the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_41" id="page_41">{41}</a></span> curtain fell, she gave a -sigh of relief, but turned her back upon Arthur, and would not answer -his questions as to how she had enjoyed it. Enjoyed it! How could he ask -her, he who had done nothing but laugh, and never cared for her. When he -rose, she rose too, but repulsed his attempts to wrap her cloak more -closely round her.</p> - -<p>“It will do very well as it is,” she said, twitching it out of his hand.</p> - -<p>“What is the matter?” he asked, wistfully, drawing her arm through his, -not without a little resistance on her part.</p> - -<p>“The matter? What should be the matter? I am only tired, and I shall be -glad to get home,” said Nancy.</p> - -<p>“I have made you do too much. I have dragged you about and worn you out, -my poor darling!” cried Arthur, and he was full of compunctions, half -carrying her downstairs. But when they got into the little <i>coupé</i> which -waited for them, she burst forth.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_42" id="page_42">{42}</a></span></p> - -<p>“I can’t see what there was so very amusing. I don’t think it could be -good French,” cried Nancy. “I don’t pretend that I can talk like you, -but I learned French at school, and I am sure I could understand if it -was good. You call that acting! I did not think he was clever at all.”</p> - -<p>“My love,” said poor Arthur, “it was the great Got, the best comic actor -in the world, I think. I never saw anyone like him.”</p> - -<p>“I have seen a dozen better,” cried Nancy. “What did he do? nothing but -make a fool of himself, putting on those ridiculous clothes, and dancing -and singing, and learning lessons, an old man! The great Go! I wished he -would go, I am sure, long before he did go,” she said, recovering her -spirits a little by means of her pun. But the process was not so -successful in respect to Arthur. He did not say anything, but shrugged -his shoulders, which fortunately she did not perceive.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_43" id="page_43">{43}</a></span></p> - -<p>“I see,” he said, at last. “That is not the kind of acting you care for; -the higher walks perhaps would please you better. We will try something -quite different to-morrow.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, to-morrow!” she said, with a little shiver. This delight of the -play had already exploded for Nancy; and she recollected with dismay -that they had agreed to go to a play <i>every night</i>! Was this how her -life was to be spent? She thought regretfully of her mother and sisters -sitting round the table, chatting about everything that had happened, -and everything that was going to happen. The parlour was dingy, and she -had thought of it with a wondering recoil of half disgust in comparison -with her <i>appartement</i>, and all its coquetries, its white carpets and -curtains; but she had never been so tired, so worn with trying to be -happy at home. The little wood fire, however, was burning brightly, and -the wax-candles lighted, and the pretty<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_44" id="page_44">{44}</a></span> sitting-room looked very -comfortable when they got back to the hotel, which they began to call -“home,” with easy desecration of that word upon which the English pride -themselves. Arthur put her into a comfortable chair, and made her take -some wine, and petted and consoled her. Poor Arthur, he was disappointed -too, but he concealed it manfully. His character was developing in this -unexpected probation, he was growing patient, forbearing, ready to make -all sorts of compromises and sacrifices, to ensure that his young wife -should be happy. He had not been so good or so forbearing in his former -relationships, when everything had been done to please him; but in -marriage, if one will not be accommodating, why the other must, there is -no changing that necessity of nature. This union which had cost so much -must not turn out a failure. If she would not exert herself, he must. -Therefore he swallowed his disappointment in respect<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_45" id="page_45">{45}</a></span> to the immediate -evening, and in respect to the narrowing of future resources, which, if -Nancy could not be made to like the theatre, would be very serious, and -also the deeper disappointment, which he scarcely allowed himself to -look at, of finding in Nancy less understanding than he thought. He sat -over the fire a little when she had gone to bed and pondered it all. -After all, perhaps, it was not unnatural that a young girl who had no -experience, and did not understand French, should not all at once -appreciate Molière, even when interpreted by Got. Was it to be expected, -was it likely? Arthur began to say to himself that his disappointment -was the fault of his exaggerated expectations, and that he had been very -foolish; poor Nancy, what an ordeal he had subjected her to! But he -would not be discouraged, he would try again. Something romantic and -sensational at the Porte St. Martin, or a sentimental comedy, such as -was running at the Gymnase would do better. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_46" id="page_46">{46}</a></span> would try that, -something that would interest her. Arthur knew a good deal about the -theatres, and he felt sure that one or the other would supply what was -wanted. But there was a vague depression in his mind, notwithstanding -the bright fire and the white carpets which were so warm and soft. This -first effort had not been a success. Nancy had not responded to his -call; it was, he supposed, his fault, but it was depressing. There was -nothing injurious to Nancy in the comparison that suggested itself. He -thought involuntarily of Lucy, how she would have laughed at Got’s -acting, how lightly she would have come in and sat with him over the -fire, and talked it all over, and enjoyed it a second time. All that -this proved was the advantages of education—it proved nothing more—and -he did not want to change Nancy for Lucy, or to abandon the ventures of -this strange and alarming double existence, which, having once begun for -him,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_47" id="page_47">{47}</a></span> could never end except by death. The little failures, the -continual perils of opposition and resistance, excited at least, if they -did not delight him. Life was no longer tame and monotonous whatever -else might be said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_48" id="page_48">{48}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III"></a>CHAPTER III.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">N</span>EXT day Arthur made a further experiment with his bride. It was one of -the things he had promised her when they talked of Paris, and it had not -occurred to him that the very name of the Louvre conveyed no idea to -Nancy’s mind. She had been quite willing to accept it as something -vaguely splendid which she was to see, but that was all. He took her -across the broad sunshiny courts with a little thrill of expectation, -chiefly pleasurable, yet with a touch of doubt in it which perhaps made -it more exciting. Arthur was not himself very learned in art, nor an -en<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_49" id="page_49">{49}</a></span>thusiast about it. He knew what a young man of his breeding could -scarcely escape knowing—he knew which were the pictures that everybody -admires; he had all his life been accustomed to believe that he admired -them, and what with association, what with faith, what with some natural -sense of beauty, such as few minds are quite destitute of, he had liked -to go and look at them from time to time when he was in the way of it, -and had a certain acquaintance with the great galleries in all the -places he had visited. He knew the Louvre well enough to know his way -about, to be able to lead a neophyte from one great picture to another, -and even to have his favourites in the Salon Carré. This does not -necessitate a very high appreciation of art, or much real acquaintance -with its productions; but yet it was as the highest knowledge and the -wildest furore in comparison with the absolute ignorance and -indifference which exists in the class from<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_50" id="page_50">{50}</a></span> which Nancy was taken. A -less intelligent girl than Nancy, proceeding from the slightly elevated -social position at which it has become known that pictures are things to -be admired, and that admiration of them is a proof of superiority both -in rank and intellect, would have known how to acquit herself in such an -emergency. She would have gone through these galleries with a gush of -indiscriminate delight, finding everything beautiful, or at the worst -would have taken her cue from her husband, and admired what he admired. -But Nancy had not been educated even up to this point. She knew nothing -about them, had never heard of Raffaelle or Murillo, and when Arthur -said, “This is the famous Assumption,” stared blankly, never having -heard of it before; then turned her eyes up and down, gazing about her -with that idea that one thing is as good as another, which is the very -essence of ignorance. She had not even knowledge enough to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_51" id="page_51">{51}</a></span> be aware -that it was becoming to feign an interest.</p> - -<p>“What nice rooms to dance in—are they all kept up for nothing but -pictures?” she said, in deference to his apparent interest. Nancy did -not say stupid pictures, as she had intended; and it is impossible to -describe the disappointed feeling, the eager instructiveness of poor -Arthur, who felt his own hitherto superficial conviction that every -ordinarily well-endowed mind must care for pictures, at once confounded -and intensified by the absolute blankness of his bride.</p> - -<p>“My dear Nancy, France is more proud of these than of anything she -possesses. It is one of the finest collections in the world.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose they are worth a great deal of money,” she said, looking at -them calmly, yet with a certain respect founded on this consideration. -She was looking up at that divine wall upon which hangs the great -Murillo, the Virgin of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_52" id="page_52">{52}</a></span> Garden, and Her of the Veil, the sidelong -penetrating fascination of the Gioconda, and many a wonder more; and her -calm of incomprehension was almost sublime. Some were “pretty” she -thought; but she pulled Arthur’s arm a little to go on, not knowing why -he should wish to stay so long, and keep looking when she had seen -everything. To be sure it was natural enough to respect things which -were worth a great deal of money—the big vases, for instance, in the -vestibules, of which she had felt that they must be worth a great deal, -though they were not pretty. It was difficult to associate the same idea -of value with the pictures, yet Nancy supposed nobody would make so much -fuss about them but for this.</p> - -<p>“Money!” Arthur said, with a little groan, then making the best of it as -he was learning to do: “Yes, dear, a great deal of money—and more than -money. Any one of them, almost, is worth<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_53" id="page_53">{53}</a></span> more, even in money, than all -you and I have in the world.”</p> - -<p>“What a shame!” cried Nancy, “nasty old things,” and she pulled him on a -little. Then she stopped for a second before the Leonardo in the corner, -and laughed out. “What funny women! what are they sitting in each -other’s laps for? That is the funniest I have seen yet,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Hush, Nancy! this is by a very famous painter; but I cannot say I am -fond of it,” said Arthur, in his didactic vein. “That on the other side -is his, too—the Gioconda it is called—I like it better.”</p> - -<p>“Not I,” said Nancy; “isn’t she <i>deep</i>! I can’t bear people with that -look in their eyes. She is exactly like Lizzie Brown at home in -Underhayes—you remember Lizzie Brown, Arthur? Come on, I am sure we -have stayed long enough here.”</p> - -<p>“As you like,” he said, with a sigh;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_54" id="page_54">{54}</a></span> “but there are some more I should -have liked to point out to you—”</p> - -<p>“That is pretty,” said Nancy, pointing to a bright-coloured copy which -one of the many workers in the Salon Carré was making. “Mayn’t one look -what they are doing? they would paint at home if they didn’t want to be -seen. Oh, they are <i>copying</i>, are they? I am sure that is a great deal -prettier than the old thing on the wall. What do they copy for?”</p> - -<p>“To sell chiefly,” said Arthur, with a certain sullenness in his -despair.</p> - -<p>“Oh, to sell! I suppose people like to have them to hang in their rooms? -how curious! I would much rather have a picture of you.”</p> - -<p>Now Arthur had been falling into lower and lower depths of despondency -up to this moment. He had said to himself that all his efforts were mere -failures—that he could do nothing, and must give up the attempt; but -now he cheered up quite unaccountably, quite unreasonably.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_55" id="page_55">{55}</a></span> There was -nothing in what she had said to throw a new light upon Nancy’s capacity -and rehabilitate her in his eyes, yet somehow it did so. A sudden tender -compunction for the harsh judgment he had been forming came into his -mind, softening and melting him. He felt disposed to beg her pardon on -his knees.</p> - -<p>“You silly girl,” he said, “what do you want with my picture? If it was -of you, it might be worth something; but tell me, Nancy, if I were to -buy you some of those copies, which would you choose?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t want one; you are buying too many things already. Well, perhaps -<i>that</i>,” said Nancy at random, pointing at the picture which French -taste entitles <i>La Belle Jardinière</i>. It was a lucky guess enough.</p> - -<p>“You shall have it, my darling,” cried Arthur delighted, “I knew you had -real taste at the bottom of your heart.”</p> - -<p>“Oh no, not I,” cried Nancy, shrug<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_56" id="page_56">{56}</a></span>ging her shoulders and dragging him -on, “I don’t care about it. It was only the first that caught my eye. -Let us go on quickly through the other rooms; we have been such a long -time here. You must not buy that thing, what should I do with it? I -don’t really care for pictures. To be sure they make a room rather nice -when they have nice frames; but we have not even a room to hang them in. -But I will tell you what I should like to do,” she continued, leading -him out and in of the smaller rooms. “Let us go and get photographed, -Arthur, <i>together</i>, in a nice large size. It will be a much nicer -memorial of Paris. And then mamma would like it so much to hang up in -the parlour and show to everybody. We must take her a present of some -sort, and that would please ourselves too. She would like it a great -deal better than that pink lady with the little boy.”</p> - -<p>“For heaven’s sake don’t describe the picture like that! Do you know it -is a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_57" id="page_57">{57}</a></span> famous Raffaelle,” said Arthur, all the more horrified that some -one had heard her young confident voice and had turned round to admire.</p> - -<p>“What is a famous Raffaelle? I don’t pretend to know anything about it; -and I’d much rather have a picture of you; but what would be really -delightful would be to be photographed together. I wonder I never -thought of it before. Let us go and find some one as soon as we get out -of this stupid place. Oh yes, I have seen everything I want to see.”</p> - -<p>Poor Arthur! he was pleased that she should want a portrait of himself. -This flattering touch mended his wounds a little, and as she hurried him -out again into the bright wintry streets (breathing, herself, a sigh of -relief when they got fairly clear of the galleries), he said to himself -with the new philosophy which had come to his aid: Well! how was it to -be expected she should care for pictures, she who had never seen any? Of -course the anticipa<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_58" id="page_58">{58}</a></span>tion was quite absurd on his part. Art demands a -special education. To plunge an unsophisticated mind without any -training, without any preface, straight into the profundities of -Leonardo, of Raffaelle, of Perugino, was ever anything so unreasonable? -and then to expect her to understand at once! The poor young fellow felt -that he had been hard upon his Nancy, though heaven knows, without -meaning it. And then what a pretty idea that was of hers about the -photograph! He had winced a little at the idea of having it hung up in -Mrs. Bates’s parlour, and exhibited to all her friends; but that was a -paltry feeling—and what could be more natural and delightful than that -she should wish for such a memento of their honeymoon? That she should -be so eager about it, was not that a proof that she was happy, -notwithstanding all the little frets of her new position, and those -ill-advised efforts of his to force her into his own conventional code -of the right things to be admired?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_59" id="page_59">{59}</a></span> That was all a matter of education, -he felt sure. He had not thought it to be so before. He had supposed in -his ignorance that a fine picture was like a fine landscape, -comprehensible to everybody; but then Arthur recollected what he had -read somewhere that it was very long even before people began to admire -nature, that a generation or two back the Alps were only horrible snowy -deserts, and mountains generally were looked upon as obstructions and -eyesores by the common mind. This showed clearly (he said to himself) -that education was everything. It not only <i>trained</i> the eye but might -be said to create it, giving perceptions of beauty that actually had not -existed before. This thread of thought kept him occupied as he went on -through the bright streets, drawn by Nancy’s eagerness to one of the -shops where they had made their previous purchases, to ask about a -photographer. She was in such spirits over the idea that she kept up the -conversation and covered his silence; and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_60" id="page_60">{60}</a></span> he had conducted his -cogitation to a most satisfactory end, the conclusion that Nancy had -really shown originality in her remarks and that it was a mere absurdity -on his part to look for art knowledge from her—by the time they reached -the shop, where they were received with the most cordial satisfaction, -and where there were a great many new things to see which Nancy admired -greatly. The shopkeeper had no difficulty in indicating an artist of his -own acquaintance who, he had no doubt, would do justice to Madame, and -would be too proud and happy to have such a subject. Arthur, however, -came to himself when they had got this length, whether by the touch of -the practical involved in buying some more pretty things for Nancy, or -by the fact that he had proved her to his entire satisfaction to be -quite justified in her indifference to the pictures in the Louvre; and -he had sufficient good sense left to avoid the recommendation of the -<i>modiste</i>, and take Nancy to a really good<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_61" id="page_61">{61}</a></span> photographer who gave them -an appointment for the next day. They were both quite exhilarated by -this engagement. It was something to do! They went back to their hotel -in the afternoon, consoled and happy, talking about it. And while Nancy -reposed herself and took out her dress for the evening, Arthur went to -look at the newspapers as in duty bound. He took up the latest “Times,” -and hid himself behind its ample sheet; but he did not get much good of -his reading. However distinctly you may make out that it is unreasonable -to expect your bride to be interested in the interesting things of the -place in which you are living, it is impossible to deny that it is very -embarrassing when she is not. A girl who was frightened and chilled by -Notre Dame, wearied at the Français, uninterested in the Louvre, what -was her poor young husband to do with her? The weather was not -favourable for those excursions which are so easy in summer. And besides -what in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_62" id="page_62">{62}</a></span>terest could there be in Versailles, for example, to one who -knew nothing about the Grand Monarque, and probably had never heard of -Marie Antoinette? People do not marry their wives or their husbands -because they understand Molière, and love the Great Masters, and know -Continental history; but it is bewildering to be in Paris, or anywhere -else for that matter, with a new companion who has no associations with -anything, and is at once indifferent and ignorant of all that is in the -past. What was he to do with her? Where was he to take her? Poor Arthur -puzzled behind his “Times,” and did not know.</p> - -<p>That evening he took her to the Gymnase, and at first the spell seemed -to tell. Nancy for the first act gave her attention to the stage, and -certainly it was not such a failure as the Français. There was a good -deal of love-making, and that interested her. But it ended as before, in -disgust and weariness.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_63" id="page_63">{63}</a></span></p> - -<p>“I wish you would not take me to such places,” she cried, “is it because -you are afraid of an evening at home? When we are settled at home at -Underhayes you will be obliged to put up with me, there will be no play -there.”</p> - -<p>This speech was particularly galling to Arthur, because he had not the -slightest intention of settling at Underhayes, and to have it taken for -granted gave him a pang which was chiefly terror. Should he be able to -resist the foregone conclusion which thus had established itself in -Nancy’s mind?</p> - -<p>“Indeed,” he said, “I should be glad to stay at home. Indeed I don’t -mind where I am, so long as you are there too. I do not care for the -play.”</p> - -<p>“Then what do you go for? Ah! I know, to polish me up, to teach me how -to behave, to remedy my defective education.” This was once more said in -the carriage as they were driving home.</p> - -<p>“Nancy, you are unkind,” said Arthur,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_64" id="page_64">{64}</a></span> “why should you speak to me so? I -know nothing about defective education. I took you to amuse you. You -thought you would like it.”</p> - -<p>“I did not know they were such poor sticks,” said Nancy, “I did not -suppose they would gabble their French so. The people in the shops talk -a great deal better. I never mistake them; and it worries me to look so -stupid,” she added relenting. “I should not mind for myself; but it -looks so bad for you having a wife that does not understand.”</p> - -<p>“For me, my darling!” cried Arthur delighted. “Do I care? An evening at -home will be a great deal more pleasant; but my wife never looks stupid, -cannot look stupid,” said the foolish young man. And again all was well.</p> - -<p>Thus the course of their honey-days went on not without fluctuations. -What he said in his foolishness, was true so far, that Nancy did not -look stupid. She looked careless, defiant, indifferent,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_65" id="page_65">{65}</a></span> scornful of -what she saw, as of something which was not worth the trouble even of an -effort to understand; but there was nothing stupid in her aspect at any -time, and in spite of herself, stray gleams of understanding came in to -the girl’s mind. Gleams which did not enlighten her then; but which -worked in the chaos, apart from any will of hers. Her will was all set -steadfastly the other way, to reject all possibilities of improvement, -and the idea of being educated up to her husband’s level. Was not she as -good as he to start with, was not her family as good as his family, if -not better? Not so rich, but nicer, kinder people, to be upheld in their -plainness above any attempt to pull them down. Nancy’s native energy of -mind all ran into vigorous scorn of any attempt to separate her from her -own race and identify her with his. To think of her old self in the pit, -admiring her new self triumphant in a private box was a sensation which, -all delicious as it was, originated in herself<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_66" id="page_66">{66}</a></span> and was not betrayed to -anyone. Had Arthur seemed to think of this difference, Nancy would have -proposed at once to descend to the pit as the preferable plan. She had -made an immense ascent in the social scale by her marriage; but she -never meant to acknowledge, not if she should die for it, that the -ascent was of any consequence to her, or that it was expedient to change -her manners or her smallest actions because of it; was she not “good -enough” for Arthur? Then why did Arthur choose to marry her? It was he -who had asked her, she would have said, not she who had asked him. He -had pledged himself to take her for better for worse; but she had not -pledged herself to change anything in her life or habits on his account. -And she did not mean to do it. She was not a fine lady; she did not wish -to look like a fine lady. It was far better that everybody should know -what she was and who she was from the beginning. The idea that Arthur -had begun a process<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_67" id="page_67">{67}</a></span> of education struck her suddenly after that visit -to the Louvre; why had he been so anxious that she should admire -everything? Why should he take her to the theatre? He wanted her to -learn French; but she would not learn French. She had not asked Arthur -to marry her; he it was who had asked her, and he must take the -consequences. She had no wish to be here in Paris. It would be far -better to have a little house in Underhayes, where she could show her -advancement to those who knew her, and distinguish herself in the only -circle where as yet she wished to be distinguished. Such was the course -of thought in Nancy’s mind. This was curiously interfered with by the -new thoughts which arose in her in spite of herself; but she clung to it -all the same. She would go back upon the first grievance of her dress, -the pink silk which he would not let her travel in, long after she had -been convinced that the blue serge was better and more comfortable,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_68" id="page_68">{68}</a></span> and -even looked better, which was the most difficult doctrine of all. She -was quite aware that if she had known then as much even as she knew now, -she would never have dreamed of setting out upon her journey in her -salmon-coloured “silk,” yet still resented the fact that Arthur had -objected to her “silk.” She would not yield. She would not try to adapt -herself to the “ways” he had been accustomed to. The Bateses were as -good as the Curtises, and so she would prove. But every day, in spite of -herself, Nancy became more and more aware how far different her habits -were from her husband’s, how unlike his were all her ways of thinking. -But she would never, never give in, she said to herself. It was he who -had asked her, not she who had asked him.</p> - -<p>This was very different from Arthur’s eager desire to make out, after -every new demonstration of the difference between them, that Nancy could -not act in any<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_69" id="page_69">{69}</a></span> other way, that it was absurd to expect other things -from her. He was by far the humblest of the two, the most tolerant and -forbearing. Indeed Nancy was not forbearing at all. She took offence at -a look, and blazed into sudden wrath at the merest possibility of a -suggestion of anything derogatory; whereas he bore numberless little -shafts launched at his family, at fine people who thought themselves -superior, at dainty ways and prejudices about dress and modes of living. -Whenever she showed her ignorance more conspicuously than usual, or was -more painfully unequal to some claim upon her, poor Arthur plunged once -again into thought proving to himself that this was what he ought to -have looked for, that nothing else would have been natural. He justified -her in this way for everything she did, and everything she proved unable -to do. But still it was rather a trying process, and the conclusion he -came to at the end of a week was that Paris had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_70" id="page_70">{70}</a></span> not been a successful -place to think of for the honeymoon. Honeymooning is more difficult in -winter than in summer. There is so much more to be done in the latter -season, and the open air harmonizes a great many things. Whereas two -people not used to each other’s society, not interested in the same -pursuits, brought up in perfectly different ways, and with no resources, -shut up together even in a beautiful little apartment in a fine hotel on -the Rue de Rivoli, what are they to do? The photograph was a charming -occupation for one day, and it was tolerably successful, as successful -as photographs ever are, and was the object of great admiration in -Underhayes, when done up in a velvet frame. Nancy sent it home.</p> - -<p>“I hope you are soon going to follow,” Mrs. Bates wrote, and Nancy gave -the letter to her husband to read. Certainly Paris had not been very -successful. They had contented themselves with drives and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_71" id="page_71">{71}</a></span> walks after -that mournful day at the Louvre, had gone to the Bois, which was rather -naked at this time of the year, and walked about and got tired. And in -the evening they had sat “at home” in the hotel. But Nancy had nothing -to do, not even a scrap of fancy work, and when Arthur read to her, fell -asleep; and they went to bed very early, which both of them felt was -always a virtuous thing to do, if rather dull. And thus a fortnight of -the honeymoon came not very cheerfully to an end.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_72" id="page_72">{72}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></a>CHAPTER IV.</h2> - -<p>“I don’t think you care for Paris,” said Arthur to his wife. They were -driving out to the Bois, and the rain was drizzling, and it was not gay. -There were fewer quarrels in this dull interval, but perhaps the fact -scarcely improved the liveliness, if it slightly added to the happiness -of their life.</p> - -<p>“No,” she said, with some vivacity; “not at all. It was very nice for a -day or two. But now we seem to have got all we wanted, don’t we, Arthur? -Another afternoon in the Roo, or in the Palay Royal, just to pick up a -few little presents, and I should be quite content to go as soon as you -please.”</p> - -<p>“You have seen very little, Nancy.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_73" id="page_73">{73}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Oh, little! I have seen the whole place, all the best shops, and the -best streets. I don’t know what more there is to see.”</p> - -<p>“People will not talk about the shops and streets,” said Arthur, in his -most didactic way; “but about the pictures in the Louvre, and about -Notre Dame; and what music you have heard, and what plays you have -seen.”</p> - -<p>“I am sure mamma will never ask me any such questions,” said Nancy, “and -I don’t suppose you are going to take me to see your great friends.”</p> - -<p>“That reminds me,” said Arthur, nervously clearing his throat, “of a -favour I was going to ask of you. Will you do something—that will be -very disagreeable—for me, Nancy, for my sake?”</p> - -<p>She looked at him very keenly, examining his face, conscious that this -seeming simple prayer meant something more than appeared. “What is it?” -she said, with a gleam of suspicion in her eyes.</p> - -<p>“You will not promise then? you are cautious, Nancy. I should have -pledged<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_74" id="page_74">{74}</a></span> myself to do anything and everything for your sake.”</p> - -<p>“What is it?” she repeated. “It is so easy to say what it is at once.”</p> - -<p>“It is this then—do not reply in a hurry—I am very anxious about it, -Nancy; don’t you think you might write a few lines—to my mother.”</p> - -<p>“To your mother!” the audacity of the proposal took away her breath.</p> - -<p>“Yes, I am going to write—to say what I truly feel: that I am sorry to -have offended her—”</p> - -<p>“Sorry to have married me!” she cried, almost jumping out of the -carriage in her vehemence. She looked at him, trembling with rage and -wonder. How could he face her and ask such a thing? How could he frame -the words? did he think she was going to give in, to yield now, without -rhyme or reason, she who was certainly determined never to yield?</p> - -<p>“You know that is not the case,” he said; “you know that I have not -repented marrying you—and never will.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_75" id="page_75">{75}</a></span> But, Nancy, it is not for our -happiness or—well, I will say interest, though it is an ugly word—to -be estranged from my mother. I want to write to her to tell her that I -am grieved, hush! to have offended her. I should have known better. I -should have managed so as that she might have seen you—known you, -before she condemned me—”</p> - -<p>“That is that you are sorry you did not send me on approval, as the -shopkeepers say—<i>me</i>! Do you suppose I would have done it? Do you think -I could have endured for a moment—”</p> - -<p>“Can I not ask you a favour—acknowledging it to be a favour, without a -quarrel?” said Arthur. “We have been married a fortnight, and how often -have we quarrelled already? Nancy, is it worth the while? Could we not -discuss a matter that concerns us both, calmly, without anger? If it -seems to you impossible, say so. Am I unreasonable to torment you about -a thing you refuse? But why quarrel—I hate it—and you cannot—like -it.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_76" id="page_76">{76}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“How do you know I don’t like it?” she cried; then stopped herself, with -some dim perception of her folly. “I will not do it,” she said, -doggedly, “that is enough. My lady has never taken any notice of me—no, -nor even your sister, that you are always holding up as a model. I will -not lay myself down at their feet to be trampled upon; you may do it -yourself, if you please.”</p> - -<p>“I shall certainly write,” he said. “There will be no treading upon; but -I shall write. If you will not do it, of course I cannot help it; but if -you will be persuaded—out of your love for me—then I will be grateful -to you, very grateful, Nancy. I will not say any more.”</p> - -<p>“I shall not do it,” she said; and then there ensued a silence, which -was so long that it alarmed her. Generally Arthur had been but too -obsequious, anxious to make up, to clear away any lingering cloud; but -this time he said nothing. The fact was that his mind was too full of a -multitude of thoughts to leave him any time to speak. He was wondering,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_77" id="page_77">{77}</a></span> -in a kind of desolate way, what to do. He had ceased to be an -independent agent, he could not go there and come here at his own -pleasure. To be sure he was supposed to be the authority, to decide -everything, to regulate every step they took; but how different this was -in reality from the sound of it! A man has a right to take his wife -where he pleases—yes, when she will go; but if the man is a -tender-hearted, generous, foolish, impulsive young fellow in love, what -becomes of this sublime authority of his? just about as much as comes of -all the defences the law can place around a woman to save her from -cruelty and oppression, when she happens to be of a like nature and -loves her tyrant. Law is one thing, and love is another. Arthur did not -know how to oppose Nancy, how to make any move without her agreement and -sympathy, and he had already had many indications which way her mind was -fixed. She wanted to go home to England, to Underhayes: and he wanted -her to stay away, to remove further off from Eng<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_78" id="page_78">{78}</a></span>land. His whole mind -was occupied by the discussion of expedients how to manage this, how to -persuade her from her desire. And he was not even aware of the silence -into which he sank, and which she thought so deliberate, and done with -so distinct an intention of punishing her. They drove along in the -Victoria, which had carried them about so often, side by side neither -saying a word. Already Nancy’s appearance had changed. She had put aside -her traveling-dress for another “silk” which Arthur had given her, and -which was also dark blue in colour; over this she wore a warm mantle -trimmed with soft fur about the throat and wrists, a delicate little -bonnet, all corresponding, with that graceful Parisian taste, which is -not to be picked up in the Paris streets any more than in the London -shops, but dwells in its own costly shrine apart. All this changed -Nancy’s appearance wonderfully. There was still, perhaps, something in -her bearing when she was on foot, that showed the tax-collector’s -daughter, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_79" id="page_79">{79}</a></span> pretty girl of a country town, a little swing and -loudness, a careless step and defiant pose; but in the carriage by her -husband’s side, wrapped up in those furs, reclining in absolute ease and -well-being, Nancy might have been a duke’s daughter for anything anyone -could say. There were many of the people about who noticed them as they -drove along, the handsome young English couple, usually so lively, -to-day so taciturn. A man cannot belong to “Society,” cannot be brought -up at Eton and Oxford, even if he is not in Society, without being -known, and there were plenty of people who recognised Arthur Curtis, and -wondered over his companion—who was she? They had not believed at first -that she was his wife. One of these men, more curious than the rest, -came to the edge of the pathway now as the Victoria got into the line, -and was obliged to go slowly.</p> - -<p>“Curtis! is it really you, old fellow? I had been told you were here, -but I could not believe my eyes.”</p> - -<p>“Was there anything so strange in my<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_80" id="page_80">{80}</a></span> being here?” said Arthur, rousing -himself up. This was one of the men who know everything and everybody, -who have it in their power to convey a bad or good impression to more -important persons than themselves. This put Arthur at once on his -mettle. “You must let me introduce you to my wife,” he said, “My friend, -Denham, Nancy. We have not been very long here.”</p> - -<p>Nancy was excited by this sudden encounter with one of Arthur’s friends, -one of those, perhaps, who knew his “folks,” and belonged to that -unknown sphere of which she felt at once curious and defiant. She did -not know very well what to do, whether to shake hands with him, or to -refrain. Happily the instinct of comfortableness which suggested no -change of position made her bow only, and as this little gesture was -accompanied by a blush, very natural to the bridal condition and -sentiment, the new-comer swore to himself, by Jove! that, were she as -good as she looked, Curtis had got a prize.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_81" id="page_81">{81}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Beg pardon for intruding on your domestic happiness,” he said; “but the -truth was I had not heard—Not much going on is there? But Paris is as -good a place as another for this dreary time of the year.”</p> - -<p>“No, I don’t suppose there is much going on, we have been nowhere; and -we are off again directly, for Rome, I think,” said Arthur. “Paris is -empty like other places. We have not seen a soul we know.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t suppose you were likely to look for them,” said Denham. “Would -Mrs. Curtis care to see the bear-fight in the Assembly? sometimes it is -fun. I will see after it, if you like, on the first good day?”</p> - -<p>“Should you, Nancy?” said Arthur, turning to her. Nancy had not a notion -what the Assembly or the bear-fight was. She positively trembled in -terror of saying something wrong. She who had never hesitated before.</p> - -<p>“I—don’t know,” she said; “I don’t care for any—fighting.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_82" id="page_82">{82}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Oh, they are all muzzled,” said Denham, laughing. “Meurice’s? I will -call and let you know.”</p> - -<p>“Thanks, but it is not worth the trouble; we shall be off in a few -days.”</p> - -<p>“If you go to Rome, Neville is there,” cried the stranger after them, as -the line moved on more quickly; and he took off his hat to Nancy with a -respectful politeness that enchanted her; she was pleased with the -novelty of talking to a stranger even for a moment. It made the air a -little less still and self-absorbed.</p> - -<p>“Who is he?” she asked, with momentary awe.</p> - -<p>“Denham, he’s one of the attachés here, not a bad fellow; but talks like -half-a-dozen old women.”</p> - -<p>“We need not mind how Mr. Denham talks,” said Nancy, with a little -elevation of her head. “We have nothing to be afraid of. He can talk as -much as he likes for what I care.”</p> - -<p>“Isn’t there? But he is Sir John, not Mr. Denham,” said Arthur, -carelessly.</p> - -<p>Nancy sat a little more upright, shak<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_83" id="page_83">{83}</a></span>ing herself free of the wraps, and -her eyes glistened. “Was that a baronet?” she said, with a little -awe—then added, “And so will you be, Arthur. I don’t understand saying -anything but Mr. to a gentleman. But you will be a baronet, too.”</p> - -<p>“Not for a long time, I hope,” said Arthur, with a sigh. It brought him -back to all the tangled course of his own affairs. He was not by nature -the kind of son who calculates on the time that must elapse before he -comes to his kingdom, and it was very strange to him to see his wife’s -eyes brighten at the idea of that “rise in life,” which meant his -father’s death. “Poor old governor, I hope he may live to be a hundred,” -he said, with a half-laugh, which was a half-sigh. Nancy did not join in -this wish. She stared a little with consternation at the thought.</p> - -<p>“What did—the gentleman—mean about bear-fighting? Is it a Zoological -garden? Assembly in some places means a ball,” said Nancy, “it was -rather a jumble; what did he mean?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_84" id="page_84">{84}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“He meant the French Parliament, in which they make the laws, as the -House of Commons does in England—or at least, we may say so for the -sake of description,” said Arthur; to which Nancy replied with a little -startled “Oh!” of disappointment and suspicion.</p> - -<p>“Do ladies go to such places? I thought ladies had never anything to do -with politics.”</p> - -<p>“My dear Nancy,” said Arthur, seizing the opportunity to be instructive, -“when you go into society, you will find that people talk a great deal -about such things, whether they care for them or not; they <i>are</i> the -things that people talk about. And it is reasonable to think,” he went -on, more and more improving the occasion, “that, when you are in a -foreign country, you should like to see what is most important in it. -That is always taken for granted. You see Denham thought that was one of -the things you would like to see.”</p> - -<p>This silenced Nancy more than could have been supposed possible. She -had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_85" id="page_85">{85}</a></span> never seen this stranger before, and probably never would see him -again; but the fact that he had expected her to know what he meant, and -to be interested in the French Parliament, impressed her infinitely more -than all Arthur’s anxious efforts for her improvement. Were ladies like -that, she could not help asking herself? What a bother it would be to be -a lady, if that was the sort of thing they were expected to care for—a -lot of old men making speeches, which she could not understand one word -of! but that of course nobody could be supposed to know. She was -overawed, and received Arthur’s sermon more meekly than she had received -any of his didactic addresses before. She supposed now that sister of -his, that Lucy, would have gone and understood every word, that she -would have liked the playacting, and talked about it, and laughed as -Arthur did, that she would have seen a great deal in those stupid old -pictures. Nancy was silent and dismayed. To be a lady seemed to her a -hard trade. How different from the case of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_86" id="page_86">{86}</a></span> Underhayes, the talk about -Lizzie Brown and Raisins, the grocer, in the snug parlour where -everybody was so comfortable! Her mother and Sarah Jane never would ask -her about the bear-fighting in the Assembly, nor how she liked M. Got. A -longing for home seized the girl, and a terror of what seemed before -her. To be sure, if she had known it, the talk about Lizzie Brown was -quite as much in Sir John Denham’s way as in that of Mrs. Bates; but -then his Lizzie Brown was perhaps an Empress, which makes a difference -more or less. The two young people had never been so silent in each -other’s company. They drove back so full of many thoughts that neither -perceived the pre-occupation of the other, and oddly enough they were -both thinking of their homes; Arthur, with a pang, but without any -desire to find himself there—Nancy with the strongest determination to -get back. There was a half-smile in Arthur’s eyes, but a smile which was -strangely associated with that pain behind the eyeballs and slight -constriction of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_87" id="page_87">{87}</a></span> throat, which means unsheddable tears, as his home -seemed to rise up before him among its woods. He saw his father in his -library, his mother in that gilded and satin-hung morning-room, which -was <i>à la Louis Quinze</i>, but which nobody thought in bad taste, as we -see people in a dream. They did not look at him, nor welcome him, and he -did not wish to be there. How could he take Nancy there? He was -separated from them, perhaps for ever, and he could scarcely wish it to -be otherwise. But Nancy on her side thought of home with much livelier -feelings. Oh, only to be there! free to show all her pretty things, her -new “silks,” her trinkets and furs: to let everybody see how fine she -was: to talk just as she liked, not to be made to admire anything she -did not understand—not to be burdened with bonds beyond her -comprehension, limits of speech, and word, and action, beyond which it -was not “becoming,” not “appropriate,” not “right” perhaps, that she -should go. At home she had done what she liked, run out of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_88" id="page_88">{88}</a></span> doors when -she pleased, laughed as loudly as she pleased, been as ignorant as she -pleased. It did not occur to Nancy that at home it had been her -inclination to stand on her superiority, as one who had been five -quarters at school, and was altogether “a cut above” Matilda and Sarah -Jane.</p> - -<p>They were sitting after dinner that evening, yawning a little, when Sir -John Denham’s card was brought to Arthur. He looked at Nancy half -doubtfully, an expression which she caught at once.</p> - -<p>“Shall he come up, or shall I go down to him?” he said.</p> - -<p>“Oh just as you like,” said Nancy, with the quick thought passing -through her mind that Arthur did not choose that his fine friends should -see her. He looked at her again; in reality to see what she wished; but -to Nancy it seemed an inquisitorial glance, criticising her all over, if -perhaps she was “fit to be seen.”</p> - -<p>“I will go down and bring him up,” he said. When he was gone, Nancy too -looked at herself in one of the many mirrors. She still wore the dark -blue silk<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_89" id="page_89">{89}</a></span> dress which had been made for her since she came to Paris, -with ruffles of lace at the throat and wrists. It was very plain. Should -she run and put on the salmon-coloured one, which was a great deal -finer, before Arthur returned with the stranger? She hesitated a moment; -but her good angel interfered and kept her still. Sir John Denham -thought her on the whole a lady-like young woman when he came into the -room. Evidently there must be something queer about the business -altogether, Denham thought; but she was very pretty, and looked <i>comme -il faut</i>, so far as he could see.</p> - -<p>“I have to make a thousand apologies,” he said, “but I thought it better -to run up and tell my story myself, hoping that Curtis would intercede -for me as an old friend. May I be allowed to open my mouth at all, at -such an inappropriate moment? A thousand thanks; I came to say that if -you would be at the Palais de Justice at twelve to-morrow, I could meet -you there with La Pic, who is a friend of mine, and would take you in.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_90" id="page_90">{90}</a></span> -There is to be an <i>interpellation</i> which probably may be amusing—and if -you are going on so soon—”</p> - -<p>“It is very kind of you, Denham, I am sure my wife will like it.”</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Curtis looks a little doubtful, I think,” said Denham, “but of -course you must not mind me. It is only if it will amuse you.”</p> - -<p>Nancy vacillated between two courses; she was tempted to a little -bravado, to avow boldly her ignorance, and shame the pretensions which -her husband made on her behalf; and on the other hand she was also -tempted to commend herself to this stranger, who was a real baronet, and -finer than anyone she had ever talked with before. Why should she let -him see how little she knew? And in this wavering she took a long time -to make up her reply.</p> - -<p>“I do not understand much about—politics,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Especially French politics, I suppose,” said Sir John, smiling and -showing large white teeth. “So I should think, Mrs. Curtis; <i>I</i> don’t -understand them though<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_91" id="page_91">{91}</a></span> it is my business; but it is fine to see how -they fly at each other, and will not keep still for all the Presidents -in the world. I hope Curtis has been letting you see a little of Paris. -We must excuse him, I suppose, for keeping you so entirely to himself.”</p> - -<p>“We have been at a theatre or two,” said Arthur carelessly, “that is -all; we are just passing through.”</p> - -<p>“And I am sorry there is nothing going on yet; after Christmas, if you -were staying, I might be of some use. Some of the balls are worth going -to in the Carnival. But why should I tell this to you who, probably know -a great deal better than I do—”</p> - -<p>“Oh no,” said Nancy, “I have never been in Paris before.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, that accounts—” said Sir John. “The fact is I have been wondering -that I had not seen you anywhere; what luck for Curtis to have so many -new things to show you. But there is not much going on. I suppose you -are going to Oakley for Christmas, Curtis. Lucky fellow, with nothing to -do but amuse yourself. Put<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_92" id="page_92">{92}</a></span> me at the feet of the ladies there; I have -not seen Lady Curtis or your sister for ages. A poor beggar like me -would not know what to do with such a place, otherwise I should envy -you, Oakley. What a place! what woods! what a park! it is only in -England that one sees anything like it.”</p> - -<p>“You were always a romancer, Denham, Oakley is nothing particular. Being -home it is very pleasant; but as a model of an English house—”</p> - -<p>“I maintain it is, and Mrs. Curtis shall judge between us. It is not a -feudal castle—I allow you might find finer things in that line; it has -neither moat nor dungeon, I suppose; but for a gentleman’s house—why, -we have nothing in the least like it here. Don’t you agree with me, Mrs. -Curtis? You have not been long enough in the family to depreciate their -good things as they do. I am sure you will give your vote for Oakley -against anything you see between this and Rome, of its kind—I wait for -your support.”</p> - -<p>It was a strange situation enough. Denham did not understand; but he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_93" id="page_93">{93}</a></span> -divined, and liked to play with the unknown danger in Nancy’s doubtful -looks, and Curtis’s evident anxiety. As for Nancy, she looked at her -husband with a perceptible tremor. She wanted him to instruct her, to -indicate what she was to say: though, had it been possible that he could -have dictated to her, that very fact would have made her perverse. At -last she said hesitating, “I have seen—so little—I could not judge—I -have never been out of England before.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, that accounts—” said Denham vaguely; and he was very much puzzled -by this subdued bride, who had no enthusiasm either for the new world -she was visiting or the old world which she had left so lately. He tried -to draw her out on a variety of subjects; but Nancy, though at intervals -an impulse of self-revelation would come upon her, and it was on her -lips to tell him that she knew nothing of Oakley, and cared nothing, and -should never be there, nor go to Rome, nor do any one of these things he -was talking of, was on the other hand so<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_94" id="page_94">{94}</a></span> afraid of betraying herself -that she held back, looking stiff and silent, and scarcely could be got -to say a word. As for Arthur, his anxiety made him somewhat excited and -restless, it took away all ease from his manner. He wanted her to join -in the conversation, to come out of the shell of reserve in which she -had shut herself up; and yet he was afraid of what she might say if once -roused. She was a clever girl, with much natural energy and force; but -yet it was annoying how entirely the daughter of Bates the tax-collector -was at a loss listening to the conversation of the two men who were not -clever, yet who knew by nature many things of which she had not a -notion. This Assembly they wanted her to go to, what was it? Why should -she go? What was an inter—inter—what? Their world and hers were -totally different, though one of them was her husband. She was relieved -when they veered into gossip and began to talk of people, though she did -not know the people. There she could follow them even in her ignorance; -for had not she too a Lizzie Brown?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_95" id="page_95">{95}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V"></a>CHAPTER V.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">“W</span>HY cannot we go home?” said Nancy. “I don’t want to stay here. I don’t -want to go to your Rome, and places. What is the good of taking me away -to make a show of me? I can speak English, but I don’t know any of those -jargons. I am sure it is not good French here; and as for Italian, I -never heard a word of it. It is only to make me look ridiculous. Denham -thinks so, Arthur. He comes and looks at me, and asks me about old Lady -So-and-So. I tell him I don’t know her, and I don’t want to know her. I -shall tell him some day I never knew Lady Anybody in my life, and that -<i>I</i> am a nobody. I will, if you do not take me away!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_96" id="page_96">{96}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Do tell him so,” said Arthur, “if you please. I don’t mind what you -tell him. You don’t think I want you to make believe? You are all I wish -for, Nancy, yourself—better than if you had known a dozen Lady -So-and-So’s.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, but I am sure you watch me,” she cried. “I always feel that your -eye is upon me, Arthur. You are afraid I will say something wrong; and I -am afraid too, except when I want to do it: and if I should do it some -time, as I am sure I will if we go on, you will not like it. Arthur, -don’t let us go further off; let us go home.”</p> - -<p>“Home? where is home?” he said. “I don’t know if I should have any -welcome.”</p> - -<p>“But I should,” cried Nancy. “Mother and all of them would dance for -joy. And think how much better we should be. We must be spending a mint -of money here. You talk of going further, but I don’t believe you will -be able to go further when you look into it. And I don’t know what we -have to spend: you don’t tell me anything.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_97" id="page_97">{97}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“I scarcely know myself,” said Arthur, with rather a bewildered look -upon his face. “I don’t know what my father—things should be different -now.”</p> - -<p>“And you are going away travelling without knowing? You will find,” said -Nancy, becoming practical all at once, “that we have spent a great deal -of money; always having carriages and going to the play—”</p> - -<p>“Not to many plays.”</p> - -<p>“Two; and that music Denham gave us tickets for—”</p> - -<p>“My darling, don’t be angry—but would you mind saying Sir John?”</p> - -<p>“Why should I say Sir John? You always call him Denham. And when we went -to that Assembly there was another carriage. I suppose it would always -be the same if we were going to other places; but at Underhayes it would -not be like that. We could take a little house and furnish it, and you -have such good taste, Arthur. We would make it so pretty, and everybody -would be delighted to see us. I should manage everything, and keep the -expenses right, and you—you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_98" id="page_98">{98}</a></span>—”</p> - -<p>“Yes!” said Arthur, taking her hands into his as she stood by him, “What -for me? I should have nothing to do.”</p> - -<p>“Well! when one has plenty to live on, what does it matter? It will -always be delightful. We shall take walks. Don’t you remember the -common, how beautiful it was? And now and then we will go to London; and -in the evening we can—you can read out loud to me,” said Nancy, -stopping, with a little confusion. “We can go and see mother,” was what -she was about to say; but she stopped instinctively, and kept that in -the background. She was standing by his chair, putting her fingers -through his hair, arranging and re-arranging it with soft touches, each -one of which was a caress. It was seldom that she was in this tender -mood, and he felt himself melting under it. Sometimes she would stoop -down and put her cheek against his. “You would teach me all sorts of -things,” said Nancy. “Sometimes I know I am not good-tempered, Arthur. I -give you a great deal of trouble. It makes me wild to think that I am -not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_99" id="page_99">{99}</a></span> like you, that I don’t do you credit; and then my temper gets the -better of me, and I say I am as good as they are, why should I trouble?”</p> - -<p>As she made this confession, tears came trembling into Nancy’s eyes and -stole into her voice. She had never before revealed to her husband the -state of mind which made her so capricious, and as she told it, all -those vagaries of temper which had tormented Arthur, became sacred -things to him, and beautiful in the light of love and penitence. He took -into his arms this tender culprit, whose avowal made all her faults into -virtues.</p> - -<p>“Don’t, my darling!” he cried; “don’t! Not like me? You are far better -than I am. Not do me credit? Nancy! don’t you know I am as proud of you -as I am fond of you—and can anything be more than that? Teach you! What -could I teach you? It is you who teach me.”</p> - -<p>And he meant what he said, and she meant it, to the bottom of their -foolish young hearts, and it was all true and all false, as only human -things can be.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_100" id="page_100">{100}</a></span> Nancy, though her heart was melting and running over -with the tenderness of her confession, was as ready to be defiant as -ever at half a moment’s notice, and Arthur as sure soon to be doubtful -of her, alarmed and anxious, uncertain as to what she might do or say. -But neither of them was at all aware of this as they clung together and -mutually repented, and declared that never again, never again should -anything disturb their harmony and full understanding of each other.</p> - -<p>“There are so many things you could teach me,” Nancy said, smiling -through her tears, “in our own little house at home! You could make a -lady of me. Oh, yes, we all thought you had done that when we were -married, but now I know better. But you can make a lady of me, Arthur, -if you will try.”</p> - -<p>“You are a lady already, my darling,” he said; but how sweet was this -consciousness of what was wanting in herself, and the confidence that he -could communicate all she wanted! It was like an inspiration direct from -Heaven.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_101" id="page_101">{101}</a></span></p> - -<p>“I will study whatever you wish,” said Nancy. “We could give ourselves -up to it if we were only in a little house of our own. Whatever you -please, Arthur; French if you like, for I am ashamed not to understand -it when you talk it so well, and I don’t think it can have been much -good what I learned at school; and about pictures and buildings, and -everything. I don’t know <i>anything</i>, Arthur. I could not understand the -things you were talking about, Denham and you; and I know you were vexed -about the pictures, and the theatre.”</p> - -<p>“No, my sweetest, I was not vexed—perhaps a little disappointed; but I -knew it was because you had not seen any before.”</p> - -<p>“That was all. I know a little better already; and, Arthur, if you were -to give this winter to it, and help me, in our own little house! So near -London as Underhayes is, we could go up and see things; and you could -read books to me. I think I can see it all,” said Nancy, smiling upon -him with her wet eyes; “a little drawing-<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_102" id="page_102">{102}</a></span>room with lace curtains and -windows that opened to the garden, and another nice little room with -your pipes in it, where I could come and sit by your side while you -smoked your cigar!”</p> - -<p>“But, Nancy, might not all this beautiful picture come to pass, just as -well in Italy? You don’t know what Italy is. None of your dull wet days, -but always soft, bright, sunshiny weather, and the bluest sky, and such -moonlight nights. We need not go to Rome at all. I know a little village -up amongst the woods with a view of the sea. Nancy! you can’t think how -beautiful it is!”</p> - -<p>“I don’t care,” she said, with a little pout. “I don’t want to go to -Italy. It is so far, so far away; and I cannot speak the language; and -it is so dreary to live among people, and hear them chattering, and not -understand.”</p> - -<p>“But you would very soon learn Italian. It is the easiest -language—everybody says so,” said Arthur. “You could pick it up in a -few weeks. You would so soon feel<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_103" id="page_103">{103}</a></span> at home there. The good people are -fond of everything that is beautiful. Oh, they are not all good people, -I suppose. Sometimes they will ask too much from you; they will, -perhaps, cheat you a little, in quite a friendly way—”</p> - -<p>“I could not endure that!” cried Nancy. “That is the one thing I could -not put up with; and foreigners are all like that, Arthur; they pretend -kindness so long as they have something to gain; but they don’t really -care. Oh! there is nothing like England,” she cried, clasping her hands, -“and a little house of our own! And in the summer, when, perhaps, your -people may have changed their mind, Arthur, <i>then</i> I should not be -afraid to meet with them. I should know a great many things that I don’t -know now. And we should be so happy, both together, and no one to -interfere with us.”</p> - -<p>Arthur was moved to the bottom of his heart. It did not occur to him to -think of her own description of “foreigners,” who pretend kindness as -long as they have something to gain. Nay, more than that,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_104" id="page_104">{104}</a></span> <i>she</i> did not -think of it either. Nancy was quite sincere. By talking about it, she -had made a certainty in her own mind that this was really all she -wanted, that in such circumstances happiness would come of itself, -without frets or interruption; and in what other way could that be -secured? She was so earnest in carrying her point, that she really felt -all she expressed. Whereas, if he took her away, if he insisted on <i>his</i> -plan, Nancy felt that she could not answer for herself. It was for his -sake as well as hers; it was for their good as well as for their -happiness. And what could Arthur answer to all this? The fact that she -wanted anything, was not that the most powerful argument for having it? -His own inclinations were strongly in favour of absence, and he believed -that this teaching of which she spoke, and which he had fully intended, -could get itself accomplished far better on the Riviera, or in the villa -among the chestnut woods at Castellamare than anywhere near the house of -the Bates’. But what could he do or say against her? He<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_105" id="page_105">{105}</a></span> tried to -beguile her into talk of what might happen after, when they would go -into society, and when, perhaps, he should be able to take her to Oakley -to see all its beauties. But this was a subject of which Nancy was very -shy. She would not speak of Arthur’s “people,” whom she no longer called -“folks.” When she did make their acquaintance, she wanted to do so in a -way which would dazzle them. She could not tolerate the idea of any -condescension on their part to Arthur’s wife. No, she must have -surmounted all difficulties, and feel able to consider herself as much a -lady as any of them, before she met those ladies who were her natural -enemies and rivals. For Arthur’s sake she would avoid them until she -could burst upon them in full glory of new instruction and knowledge.</p> - -<p>“Don’t speak to me about Oakley,” she said. “It was all I could do to -make sure Oakley was its name when Denham talked of it. It makes me -angry to hear of it. I, your wife, not to know it, not to know anything -about it or them! when<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_106" id="page_106">{106}</a></span> every poor creature of an ambassador’s flunkey -goes there.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t be too hard upon old Denham,” said Arthur, laughing. “How he -would be pleased to hear you! But not Denham, Nancy, if you love me. -Your mouth was not made to drop words in that careless way.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, nonsense, Arthur! What should I say? Sir John is so formal. <i>You</i> -would not say Denham if it was wrong,” said Nancy, recovering a little -from the too great amiability of this episode; and then she added, “You -have asked me to do something for you. I will do it. I will not bargain -with you, but I will do it; only you must not see my letter, or school -me. I will write out of my own head.”</p> - -<p>“Will you, Nancy? You are always a darling, always kinder than I -deserve; but at least you will let me see it—send it with mine?”</p> - -<p>“No,” she said; “no, no, no; but I will write. Now, will that please -you? And you will yield to me, like a dear good<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_107" id="page_107">{107}</a></span> Arthur, and take me -home. I do so wish to go home.”</p> - -<p>“That looks as if you were tired of me, Nancy.”</p> - -<p>“Does it?” she said with a smile, putting her arm softly about his neck.</p> - -<p>She was not addicted to caresses. There was a kind of rude delicacy and -reserve in her, which a little more gentleness of manner would have made -into that exquisite bloom of modesty which is the crown of all graces. -That soft touch said more from her than the utmost <i>abandon</i> of -lovingness from another. Poor Arthur was all subdued; he could not -resist her; her tenderness filled him with happiness beyond expression. -If she would but be always thus, in spite of all he might have to pay -for it, what man was there in the world so blessed as he? That even at -this exquisite moment he had the strength of mind not to commit himself -finally to the carrying out of her wish, was more than could have been -expected. It was, perhaps, because “Denham” arrived at that moment to -accompany them to a morning<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_108" id="page_108">{108}</a></span> performance at the “Conservatoire,” for -which his zeal had with difficulty got them tickets. They had not wanted -to go, but “Denham” had insisted upon it. Nancy went away to put on her -bonnet as he came upstairs. How near she had been to success! Her heart -was full of confidence and pleasure in the thought, and this gave a -brightness to her countenance which was all it wanted.</p> - -<p>“What have you been doing to your wife? She is radiant. She will have a -great <i>succès</i>, and you and I will shine in her lustre,” said their -companion to Arthur, as they arrived at the concert-rooms.</p> - -<p>How proudly Arthur looked at her, exhilarated yet subdued as she was by -that delightful sense of having got, or nearly got, her own way! This -happiness had taken from Nancy the look of defiant watchfulness which -generally gave a sense of unrest and discomfort to her beauty. For the -first time since their marriage she looked at her ease and unafraid. He -was so absorbed in her that he did not see a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_109" id="page_109">{109}</a></span> well-known face close to -him, nor dream of any interruption of his felicity until, at the first -interval in the music, some one reached a fan across from another bench -and tapped him on the shoulder.</p> - -<p>“Why, Arthur, Arthur! don’t you know us?” a voice said. It seemed to -curdle the blood in his veins. He turned round with a sense of absolute -dismay.</p> - -<p>Behind him—how could he have missed the grey head of the old Indian, -the overwhelming bonnet of his aunt, the demure correctness of the -English young lady, all three in a row?—sat General Curtis, his uncle, -father of the Rev. Hubert, who was Rector of Oakley, with the two ladies -who ministered to him. What so natural as that these excellent people -should be in Paris? They were on their way home from the German baths -where the General went for his gout. And the wife and daughter, worn to -death by the process which screwed the General up for the rest of the -year, had need of a little taste of Paris to refresh their jaded souls. -It was Mrs. Curtis who called “Arthur, Arthur!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_110" id="page_110">{110}</a></span>” A discussion had gone -on between the three from the moment that Arthur appeared with the young -woman, whose advent filled these ladies with a thrill of curiosity. -“Don’t you meddle with what don’t concern you,” growled the General. -Arthur was known to have made a dreadful connection, to have married -somebody who was nobody, and generally to be in a bad way; and the sight -of Nancy had startled this group beyond expression, as she came in -looking happy and beautiful in her dainty Parisian bonnet.</p> - -<p>“She looks a perfect lady, mamma; why shouldn’t we?” said Mary Curtis, -who was charitable and disposed to be “gushing.”</p> - -<p>“It concerns us as much as it concerns anyone, except his father and -mother,” Mrs. Curtis said. Both wife and daughter were disposed to be -rebellious to the dictum of the head of the house. They had gone through -so much for him. Now they were on ground which they felt to be their -own, and on which he was no longer supreme, and his opposition -quickened<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_111" id="page_111">{111}</a></span> their desire to penetrate Arthur’s mystery. No one in the -family had seen her, they would be the first, and even that thought was -pleasant. “That is Sir John Denham on the other side; if she was very -bad would he show himself with them <i>in public</i>,” said Mrs. Curtis.</p> - -<p>“What does a fellow like that care?” the General growled back, “the -<i>demimonde</i> is what he likes best.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, hush, Anthony, think of Mary,” said his wife, “he may like the -<i>demimonde</i>, as you say; but I don’t think he’d like to show himself -with them <i>in public</i>. And really she looks very nice. What a pretty -bonnet! Anthony, you cannot pass by your own nephew.”</p> - -<p>“I won’t have anything to say to him; if you do, you must take the -consequence,” said the General.</p> - -<p>“Oh do, mamma, do!” cried Mary at her other side. And the result was -that Mrs. Curtis put her fan over somebody’s shoulder and called -“Arthur, Arthur!” and filled the young man’s mind with unutterable -dismay.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_112" id="page_112">{112}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Aunt Curtis!” said Arthur, rising to his feet. He grew crimson with the -sudden emergency, with the surprise, “Who would have thought of seeing -you here?”</p> - -<p>“Indeed if you had thought at all on the subject, you might have made -sure we should be here,” said Mrs. Curtis, and then she stooped forward -and raised her head to whisper: “She is very pretty, Arthur, and of -course you think her as nice as she is pretty. Would she like to be -introduced to me?”</p> - -<p>“She must be now that you are here,” said Arthur, not with any great -eagerness. He took her offer a great deal too easily as a matter of -course, not as the distinguished kindness she intended it to be. But her -curiosity had reached to a very high point, and there was a touch of -kindness as well as of self-importance in the idea of being able to -mediate in the family affairs. Besides Sir John Denham was chatting -familiarly on the other side of the bride, whose looks in her Paris -bonnet were unexceptionable; and Sir John Denham was a very useful man -to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_113" id="page_113">{113}</a></span> know in Paris, and one before whom many doors opened. And though her -husband grumbled and held back, her daughter was still more anxious than -she was.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Arthur, how pretty she is!” Mary Curtis murmured to her cousin, -while her mother made up her mind. It was Mary or some one like her who -ought to have been elected to fill the post Nancy had secured, to become -the future Lady Curtis. If that post had been filled up by competitive -examination, as men’s situations are nowadays, no doubt Mary would have -got it; and looking at it entirely as a public position without -reference to Arthur (who after all was but a necessary adjunct, and not -everything) Mary felt a lively interest, touched with doubt of her -qualifications, in the successful candidate. She was anxious to inspect -her, to have the satisfaction of feeling, which is a very general -sentiment, that she herself could have done it better. Would this girl -have the least idea how to behave in so important a post? Mary gave her -mother little pushes and pinches to urge her on.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_114" id="page_114">{114}</a></span></p> - -<p>“I hope you have taken her to see your mother, Arthur,” said Mrs. -Curtis, “she is of course the first person to be thought of. Ah, you -have not, you naughty boy! well, if you wish it I will go and speak to -her before the music begins again. No, Mary, not you, you had better -stay where you are. Papa will be vexed if we both go.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, papa! it is always papa,” said Mary, as her mother swept past her, -almost sweeping her out of her seat. Mrs. Curtis was large and ample -both in figure and drapery, and looked like Society impersonated as she -swept round in front into the vacant space before Nancy, with a -solemnity becoming the occasion. Nancy looked up alarmed at the coming -of this large lady, and if it was partly defiance and resistance, it was -also partly shyness, and fright, and ignorance as to what it was right -to do, that kept her from rising to receive this imposing introduction. -Mrs. Curtis made her a curtsey, which the girl blushing hotly, and -confused between pride and shame and helpless ignorance, returned<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_115" id="page_115">{115}</a></span> only -with a little tremulous inclination of her head. Oh, if she only knew -what was the most polite yet the most disdainful thing to do!</p> - -<p>“I am afraid you scarcely know who I am,” said the large lady, “Arthur -has not had much time yet to tell you about his relations. I am your -husband’s aunt, Mrs. Arthur; we are all very fond of him. But you have -not seen any of the family yet, I am sorry to hear.”</p> - -<p>“No,” said Nancy, feeling waves of hot blood come up to her temples. She -confronted her new acquaintance without looking at her, with eyes half -concealed by her eyelids, dumbly defiant. Arthur’s relations might come -and stare at her, and talk to her as they pleased, but she would make no -advances. And they could not make much, she thought, out of yes and no.</p> - -<p>“Arthur shall tell me where you are, and I will come to see you -to-morrow,” said Mrs. Curtis. “I think it is only right for his sake, -and I hope you will not be frightened of me. I will do anything I can to -be of use to you, for Arthur’s sake,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_116" id="page_116">{116}</a></span> that is, of course, if you wish -it. Sir John Denham, I think,” she added, turning to him. Denham had -withdrawn a few steps from the family meeting, as courtesy demanded. “I -met you, I think, years and years ago at the Carringtons’, though I see -you have forgotten me.”</p> - -<p>“As if that were possible!” said Denham, in a tone which half offended -Nancy. He had pretended to be her friend and Arthur’s; yet here he was -just as friendly with the enemy. “But they are going to begin again, I -am afraid. Will you take this place,” he said, offering her his vacant -chair. Mrs. Curtis paused to reflect that to place herself beside -Arthur’s wife <i>in public</i>, was more than was required of her; more, -indeed, than was perfectly discreet in the circumstances. So she made -her doubtful niece-in-law a bow, and took Arthur’s arm again.</p> - -<p>“I must return to my own party I fear,” she said, “but I shall hope to -see you to-morrow.” Nancy found herself for a moment left entirely -alone, while this unexpected intruder upon her happiness squeezed back -again into her place,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_117" id="page_117">{117}</a></span> for Denham too had deserted her, as she saw by a -backward glance, to renew acquaintance with the fine young lady behind, -with whom Arthur too lingered, leaving her seated there in front alone. -The din of the orchestra recommenced, which Nancy was not sufficiently -instructed to admire, and her head began to ache with jealous pain and -misery. The heat of the place, the languor of the afternoon, the crash -of the music, made an atmosphere of confusion and sickening incongruity -all around her. Oh, to be in the little parlour at home again! oh, to be -Nancy Bates, with no fine ladies to question, or fine gentlemen to -thrust the village girl to the front of this alien assembly, where all -the people knew each other, and understood what was going on, except -only she. These women! she had never expected any inquisition of this -kind. She would have liked to jump up and rush away, no matter where, -only to be free of it all. She said to herself she could not bear it. -She would go home whatever happened; with Arthur or without Arthur, it -did not seem to matter now.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_118" id="page_118">{118}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI"></a>CHAPTER VI.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">N</span>ANCY had plenty of time to calm herself down before she received the -promised visit of Mrs. Curtis. And Arthur, who had always been so -anxiously compliant with all her wishes, and so ready to excuse all her -shortcomings, looked so serious when she burst out into vituperation of -the “big fat woman,” and declared her determination not to be spied -upon, that even her impetuosity owned a check.</p> - -<p>“If you insist upon going away, and not receiving her, it will be a -great vexation and pain to me,” he said, “and your own good sense will -show you, Nancy—”</p> - -<p>“I have no good sense,” said the excited creature. “I never pretended to -be sensible; you knew what I was when<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_119" id="page_119">{119}</a></span> you married me, Arthur; and to be -spied upon, and examined all over by a set of women—I can’t bear it, -and I won’t, not for anybody in the world; not even for you!”</p> - -<p>Poor Arthur did not make any immediate reply. He walked about the little -room with agitated steps; then went and stood at the window, looking out -with a blank and hopeless face. Perhaps silence was, of all others, the -thing which Nancy could least encounter. She sat gazing at him, ready to -make off in a moment to her room, to snatch her hat, and fly out, she -knew not where; anywhere to escape from those shackles of her new life -which were so intolerable. That he would rush after her, entreat her to -return, promise everything that she wished seemed certain to Nancy. She -did not calculate upon this, but was sure of it without thinking. But -his silence chilled her, and when he spoke it was in a voice she did not -recognise, a voice out of which all the music and sweetness seemed to -have gone.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know if this will have any in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_120" id="page_120">{120}</a></span>fluence upon you,” he said, “but -it is worth thinking of: that we cannot live utterly estranged from my -family. Some time or other we must seek a renewal of intercourse. <i>I</i> -must seek it, not they; and if my Aunt Curtis could in the meantime -convey a pleasant impression of you—if she was herself won to be on our -side—I don’t say it would be of great consequence, but yet it would be -a beginning. I don’t know what you think of my family, Nancy; if you -think they are some kind of wild beasts to be avoided; but they can’t be -avoided. We shall have to live by them, and it is for our good—it is -indispensable—that we should be friends.”</p> - -<p>“Friends!” cried Nancy, breathless with the effort of listening to him -and keeping silence. “Then you may as well throw me over once for all, -Arthur. Friends! with those that would take no notice of me—that never -so much as named me in their letter.”</p> - -<p>“That was my fault—that was my fault,” he said, turning round upon her. -“I had no right to keep them in the dark.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_121" id="page_121">{121}</a></span> I ought to have gone to my -mother and told her, not kept everything in holes and corners.”</p> - -<p>“You were not a baby!” cried Nancy. “Why, you are four and twenty! Men -don’t go and ask their mamma’s leave like girls.”</p> - -<p>“That may be—but neither do men throw all their relatives over; tear -themselves apart from their family. And I will not do it,” said Arthur -with sudden self-assertion. “I will do anything in the world to please -you but this. I will not quarrel with all who belong to me. As soon as I -get an opportunity we must be reconciled to them—<i>must</i>, Nancy, there -is no alternative. And why should you reject this easy way? My aunt is a -kind woman. She will do us a good turn if she can. Try to please her, -dear; won’t you try to please her for my sake?”</p> - -<p>Nancy had started to her feet, when he said with such energy that he -would not do it: but something arrested her. Whether the reasonableness -of it, which was not likely, or the new force and vigour with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_122" id="page_122">{122}</a></span> which he -spoke, or the pathos of the entreaty at the end, it would be difficult -to say. But she was arrested, her attention caught, and the rush of her -hasty blood restrained. After all, perhaps, there was something in what -he said. It was not worth her while to fly from them—to avoid them as -if she was afraid. But rather to show them her own superiority—to -convince them that she was as good as they were, and had no occasion to -fear them. This, perhaps, was scarcely the sentiment inculcated by -Arthur’s speech; but rather the turn it took in the alembic of her own -mind, in which a hundred crude ideas were fermenting and getting fused -daily. She sat down again after a moment, when he had ceased speaking. -Arthur, notwithstanding his appeal, had excited himself too much to care -precisely what she was thinking, and even this gave a wholesome stimulus -to the turn in the tide of her thoughts. He did not care, but he should -be made to care—he should be proud of her—he should feel that those -people who slighted her were slighting something<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_123" id="page_123">{123}</a></span> above themselves. She -would not yield so far as to say anything, to give her promise that she -would endeavour to conciliate Mrs. Curtis. Not for her life; but what -she said did not need to be any criterion of what she would do. She took -up a book which happened to be on the table, and pretended to read it -with an absolute absorption of interest which justified her silence; -while he, on the other hand, having no certainty that he had moved her, -but rather fearing the worst, kept pacing up and down between the window -and the door, excited beyond the immediate question, having, for the -first time, opened up the ultimate matter with himself. And when he once -began to think of it, he could not shake off the idea. It was no -question of expediency or possibility—a thing which ought to be done -perhaps, yet might not. It seemed to him, thinking of it, that he must -at once explain everything, and claim his forgiveness, and the reception -of his bride. “I have done wrong—but it cannot be undone; nor is the -wrong half so serious as you think.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_124" id="page_124">{124}</a></span>” This was what he must say. He had -intended to write ever since he got to Paris, but had deferred it as an -unpleasant business which might stand off from day to day. But now it -appeared to him, all at once, that nothing was so important. Whatever -else he did, he must reconcile himself with his father and mother, his -own flesh and blood. If they would not, he must bear it; but nothing -must be left undone on his part. This sudden conviction was brought upon -him—was it by the sight of his relations—was it by Nancy’s -unreasonable and absurd antipathy to them? He could not tell—but the -fact that he could think of any sentiment on Nancy’s part as absurd and -unreasonable showed what a leap he had suddenly made.</p> - -<p>It was not till several hours later that Mrs. Curtis and her daughter -appeared—for this time Mary had insisted upon coming, defying papa.</p> - -<p>“We have done nothing but think of papa for the last three months,” she -said. “I think we may be allowed a little of our own way now.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_125" id="page_125">{125}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>Mary was very exact and particular, the essence of English duty and -exact young-ladyhood. But there is a point at which duty and -self-abnegation stop; and certainly, after spending three months at a -German bath, a handmaiden to gout, it is not to be expected that the -fortnight in Paris was to be spent in absolute devotion at the same -gloomy shrine, especially as the General was better, and wound up for -the year by all the sulphur he had imbibed. The young lady came -accordingly with her mother, curious, and, indeed, eager to see how the -successful competitor acquitted herself.</p> - -<p>“Is she a lady?” Mary had said on the previous evening, -cross-questioning her mother; but Mrs. Curtis had declined to commit -herself.</p> - -<p>“She said nothing but no, that I heard. How could I tell from a No?”</p> - -<p>“I could have told if she had only coughed,” Miss Curtis replied; and it -may be supposed with what keen eyes she was prepared to investigate her -new cousin. They were so late of coming that Arthur<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_126" id="page_126">{126}</a></span> had gone out, and -Nancy, in her blue gown, sat by the fire alone just as the afternoon -sank into twilight. They could not even see each other very clearly, and -Nancy did not give them a very warm welcome. She stood up against the -light, so that they could not make out a feature of her, and made them a -stiff little bow, which was very awkward and self-conscious, yet not -ungraceful. And then they seated themselves, not by Nancy’s invitation. -The log blazed up compassionately now and then on the hearth, and threw -a gleam upon the three half-perceptible faces. It was a strange little -scene in that genteel comedy which we call real life.</p> - -<p>“I am sorry we are so late,” said Mrs. Curtis. “We have been seeing our -friends and making a few necessary purchases; and it is astonishing how -trifles take up a winter’s day; it is soon over at this time of the -year. We have stayed longer than we meant to do in Germany, the weather -has been so mild. I hope the General may be able to come to see you -before we leave; but he has to take care<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_127" id="page_127">{127}</a></span> of himself just now, after his -baths.” As all this elicited no response, Mrs. Curtis continued. “Is -Arthur out?”</p> - -<p>“Yes.” Nancy had intended to keep to her monosyllables, but it was -difficult, and she added, in spite of herself, “I expect him back very -soon; he thought it was too late for you to-day.”</p> - -<p>“I am so sorry; if he had been here he would have made us acquainted.”</p> - -<p>“On the contrary,” said Mary, striking in, “I think, if Mrs. Arthur will -not mind, it is better my cousin should not be here. Women understand -each other better alone. Don’t you think so? I feel sure of it, for my -part.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know,” said Nancy out of the partial gloom; and then there was -a pause.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Curtis made a fresh start, and the aspect of affairs was so -strange, and the absolute passiveness of Nancy so apparent, that all -polite feints were impossible, and the visitor plunged into the heart of -the one subject, the only subject on which they could approach each -other, feeling herself forced into it, whether she would or not.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_128" id="page_128">{128}</a></span></p> - -<p>“I hope you will not think what I am going to say intrusive; but may I -ask if it is true that you have not seen anything of your husband’s -family, Mrs. Arthur—his immediate family, Lady Curtis, or Lucy, or any -of them? Is it so indeed? But I hope you will do all you can to -reconcile your husband with them. It cannot be good for you to be -estranged.”</p> - -<p>“I know nothing about them,” said Nancy, with a toss of her head.</p> - -<p>“Indeed, I am very sorry for it. I think Arthur might have managed -better. If he had played his cards rightly, when they saw it could not -be helped they would certainly have yielded, and taken some notice of -you.”</p> - -<p>“I wanted none of their notice,” cried Nancy, crimson with anger; and -then Mary interfered.</p> - -<p>“Mamma, I don’t think you are treating it in the right way,” she said. -“Mrs. Arthur does not know Aunt Curtis. Oh, what a pity that your people -did not insist on seeing my aunt and uncle! that would have made -everything easy. But I suppose you did not know.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_129" id="page_129">{129}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“We did not care,” said Nancy, growing hotter and hotter. She would make -no other reply.</p> - -<p>“But your people might have cared,” said Mrs. Curtis, “as my daughter -says. I hope you will not take it amiss if I say that there has been -very great negligence somewhere; and you ought to do all you can to set -things to rights. It is all settled now, and past changing. Don’t you -think that you should try to mend matters? Arthur may be very fond of -you; I daresay he is. I am sure he has given good proof of it; but he -cannot be happy separated from his family.”</p> - -<p>“Then he can go back to his family,” cried Nancy, with flashing eyes, -rising suddenly to her feet. “If you are specimens of his family, coming -and abusing me like this, when you don’t even know me—”</p> - -<p>“I do not think, Mrs. Arthur, that you are taking what we say in a very -friendly way. What object could we have in coming but to assist you—or -rather Arthur—in the circumstances? For, of course, we<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_130" id="page_130">{130}</a></span> think most of -him, it is only natural; and surely it is your duty to do what you can, -as it is you who have brought him into trouble. It cannot be any offence -to you to say as much as that.”</p> - -<p>“I wish you would go away,” cried Nancy, hotly. “What have you to do -coming here? only to tell me that I am in Arthur’s way? How have I got -him into trouble? Did I go and ask him to marry me? Did I make love to -him? You think I am only a common girl, and you are ladies. Ladies! Do -ladies behave so?—to bully a girl when she is by herself, when no one -is by—a girl who has never done any harm to them, who is as good as -they are?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, this is too much,” cried Mrs. Curtis. “I came to give you advice -for your good—for Arthur’s sake; and this is how you receive it! I -wanted to help you if I could.”</p> - -<p>“I did not ask anyone’s help,” said Nancy, defiant, facing them, always -with her back to the light, invisible except as a shadow. Her heart beat -so that every<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_131" id="page_131">{131}</a></span> vein felt bursting. She had but one desire in her mind, -and that was to rush off without stopping to see Arthur, without giving -anyone the opportunity of insulting her further, and fly home as fast as -the fastest train would carry her. What were the Curtises to Nancy? How -could she bear this from anyone, to be schooled and dictated to, she who -had never been scolded even at home, who had never been found fault -with, whose whole being rose up in arms against anyone who ventured to -criticise? There are people in all classes who are thus intolerant of a -word, not to be interfered with, whom it is mortal offence to think less -than perfect. She felt as if the blood in her veins had turned to fire.</p> - -<p>“Mamma,” said Mary, “Mrs. Arthur is quite right. We have no business to -come here into her own rooms, and tell her what she ought to do. She -knows better what to do than we can tell her. Why should you interfere?”</p> - -<p>“Because Mrs. Arthur is young, and does not know, Mary, and it is her -duty<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_132" id="page_132">{132}</a></span> to listen when one speaks for her good,” said Mrs. Curtis, furious -in her turn. “But you need not be afraid, I will not say any more. I -will only bid you good morning, Mrs. Arthur. It is no object to me what -you do, or don’t do. If I could have smoothed matters I would; but I -will not force my good offices upon you. I hope you will make your -husband very happy, for otherwise I am sure he will be very miserable. -He was always on such good terms with his family, and now you have made -a complete breach.”</p> - -<p>“Will you go away?” cried Nancy, wild with anger.</p> - -<p>She made a step forward with her arm lifted. It is not likely that any -provocation would have made her strike; but if the two ladies, alarmed, -thought she was about to do so, no one could blame them. This appearance -of violence appalled them. Such a threatening aspect in a woman was so -foreign to the customs of society, so tremendous a breach of all -decorum, that actual blows would have had no greater effect upon them. -They both retreated<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_133" id="page_133">{133}</a></span> before her, with alarm in their startled movements. -Nancy could not see their faces, nor could they see hers.</p> - -<p>“Indeed, we will go,” cried Mrs. Curtis, with tones which were tremulous -with wonder and anger, and the kind of moral fright which has been -indicated.</p> - -<p>Mary had got her hand upon the door to open it, when some one suddenly -pushed in from outside, and Arthur came into the room.</p> - -<p>“What is the matter?” he cried.</p> - -<p>All he could see was his wife against the light of the window, -threatening, with her arm raised as if in the act to strike.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Arthur, stand between us and her!” cried Mrs. Curtis. “But I will -not stay here another moment. Your wife has ordered us out. You poor -boy, you can come to me if you like. Good-bye. I am very sorry for you; -but I cannot stay another moment here.”</p> - -<p>“What is the matter?” he repeated, with a voice which was sharp and keen -as a sword, as the two ladies disappeared hurriedly, and he stood alone -opposite to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_134" id="page_134">{134}</a></span> his wife, gazing at her with eyes that blazed through the -gloom. Her hand had dropped by her side at his entrance, but at the -sound of his voice Nancy, who was beside herself with passion, raised it -again and shook it at him in speechless excitement, then turned and fled -into her own room, clashing the door behind her. He heard her lock it in -her rage, panting for breath as she dashed away. Poor Arthur! he had no -mind to follow her. She might have spared herself that precaution. He -stood upon the hearth, looking mournfully into the big mirror, in which -he could see himself a shadow in the surrounding gloom. Had not all life -turned into a vision of shadows, everything that was lovely and fair -disappearing from about him? There seemed no power in him to do -anything. To go after his aunt and endeavour to make up for his wife’s -incivility, was as impossible as to go after that wife and demand the -meaning of her strange conduct. He had no heart for anything. He stood, -as it were, amid the ruins of his bridal happiness, everything<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_135" id="page_135">{135}</a></span> -crumbling about him. Only to-day, only a few hours ago, she had stood by -him, beguiling him with sweet smiles and caresses, she who this minute -had confronted him like a fury, with her hand clenched, threatening -violence. He had borne a good many shocks in this eventful fortnight; -the bloom had been taken off his fond fancy of perfection in his bride. -But this was the climax of all. It seemed to take at once his strength -and his hope away.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile Nancy, her blood boiling, her countenance flushed, her eyes -fiery with passion, had rushed out of the darkness into the soft light -of her room, where the candles had been lighted, and where she saw -herself entering like a fury in the great glass which was opposite to -her as she rushed in. This sight made her pause in spite of herself; it -sobered her all at once. Was that the aspect she had borne to these -strangers? to her husband? The sudden shock of her own appearance had -more effect upon her than any amount of moral reprobation. She calmed -down in a moment. They had insulted her, she tried to say to herself; -but what would<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_136" id="page_136">{136}</a></span> they think of her, was what conscience said in her. What -would they think of her?—and Arthur? The colour went out of the foolish -creature’s face; a chill came over her. Oh, what was she to do, what was -she to do? She had meant to impose upon them, to be more lady-like, more -calm, more chilly in her politeness than anyone could be; and this was -what it had come to. She threw herself down by her bedside in a passion -of tears and penitence. Had Arthur come to her then, she would have -thrown herself at his feet and asked his pardon; but Arthur was kept -from her by the bolt she had herself drawn in her fury, and by—though -this she was unaware of—the despair and dismay in his heart. She threw -herself on the carpet, and found relief in a torrent of tears. Such -tears! hot as her passion, overwhelming as the impulses that surged -after one another through her heart. He must hear her sob, she felt, in -the <i>abandon</i> of her misery; and though Nancy did not sob to be heard, -it gave her a flutter of hope to think that he must hear her, and must -come to know what it was, to com<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_137" id="page_137">{137}</a></span>fort her, even to scold her, it did not -matter, so long as he came. But not a sound except those sobs of hers -broke the silence. The candles burned softly, and glimmered in the -mirror, which reflected her lying there upon the flowery whiteness of -the carpet, a dark miserable figure; but there was no tap at the door, -no voice asking for admission. After a little time, her passion being -spent, she raised herself up, and without drying the tears from her -woebegone countenance, or arranging her disordered hair, opened the door -softly, and looked into the sitting-room where she had left him. All was -changed there; the candles were lighted, the fire re-made, the room full -of warmth and light; but no Arthur. It was vacant, put in good order by -the servants, who knew nothing about what had been happening there. And -Arthur was gone. Where had he gone? Had he followed those women, who -were his relations, though they were her enemies? Was he hearing their -story, who doubtless would paint her as a very devil of ill-temper and -pride? Had he gone over to the other side, he who was the cause of it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_138" id="page_138">{138}</a></span> -all? Her eyes began to flash again, and her veins to refill with that -fire which had all but died out of them. She went back to her room, and -dipped her burning forehead into water, and smoothed her hair, which she -had pulled out of place with her passionate hands. When she had done -this she stood for a moment between the two rooms in the silence, alone, -asking herself what she should do. Had Arthur gone from her? Would he -not come back again? A speechless dismay took possession of her soul, -followed by flashes of passion, and still deeper and deeper despondency. -There was but one thing that it seemed possible to do, except flight, -which she was not equal to at this dreadful moment, when she was not -sure whether he had flown from her. If he had been in the next room she -might have had strength to flee; but not with this uncertainty and dread -in her mind whether he had abandoned her. There was but one thing in -this tremendous emergency which she could do. Had she not promised to -him to write to his mother? She would do this now.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_139" id="page_139">{139}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII"></a>CHAPTER VII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span>HIS period of early winter was a dull one at Oakley at all times. From -October to Christmas it was not the custom of the family to invite the -usual country-house array of defence against dullness. For some weeks -after the partridge-shooting began there would be visitors -about—luncheons at the coverside, dinners more or less sleepy, evenings -more or less gay. And again at Christmas there was always a large party -assembled; but between whiles the family were left to their own -resources. How Sir John himself filled up his time was a profound and -solemn mystery, which no one could entirely unravel. He spent it mostly -in his library—in the perusal of Blue books, in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_140" id="page_140">{140}</a></span> the writing of -letters, and in something which was called business, and supposed to be -the management of his estate; but everybody who knew Sir John knew that -there was not very much beyond the most ceremonial portion of a -sovereign’s duty in his easy lot. The estate had been carefully managed -all his life, by the most careful and sensible of functionaries, Mr. -Rolt, who was the son of the last agent, and the brother of the -solicitor at Oakenden who had the money matters of the family in his -hands. And the family had been unexceptionable in its conduct for the -last five-and-thirty years; there had been no extravagant heir, no heavy -jointure diminishing its resources. General Anthony, who had done very -well for himself, was Sir John’s only brother, the only other member of -the family; and there had been nothing but unbroken respectability and -discretion in the management of the finances of the house. The estate -ran upon wheels, or upon velvet, and all but managed itself. Then as for -Parliamentary business and the Blue books, Sir<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_141" id="page_141">{141}</a></span> John was a sound -reliable Conservative, who never dreamed of opening his mouth in the -House. He voted as his leaders voted, who were the best able to judge, -and the study of public affairs, to which he thus devoted himself, had -all the merit of disinterestedness. It cannot even be said that it told -greatly when he sat upon a Parliamentary committee, for he was apt to -get confused on the points he knew best, and his knowledge did not stand -him in stead at the moment it was wanted, as knowledge ought to do; but -still what with the Blue books and the estate, he thought himself very -fully occupied, and what could be desired more than this? Two or three -times in the day, especially when it rained, he would come into his -wife’s morning room, and stand up with his back to the fire and talk, -sometimes relevantly, sometimes irrelevantly, like most other people. -But he was always serious, whether relevant or not. He had a long face, -with grey whiskers and grey hair, and a long upper lip shutting close -upon the under, which was feeble, though the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_142" id="page_142">{142}</a></span> chin too was rather long. -His face in these wintry days, when there was no news of Arthur, was as -serious as a countenance well could be. Whether he was talking of his -son or not, Arthur was always more or less in Sir John’s mind, and never -smile, or glimmering of a smile, approached within a hundred miles of -the serious lines of that long upper lip.</p> - -<p>Lady Curtis was of a different disposition altogether. The last -extremity of grief even could not produce in her the monotony of -melancholy which was possible to her husband. She would weep as he never -wept; but then she would laugh also in sheer impatience of the weight of -tedium and sameness. Her suffering was far more acute than his steady -dullness; but it was broken by gleams of activity, by sudden impulses, -by perpetual changes. She flung herself into her housekeeping, stirring -up all the quiet corners, and making a commotion in the servants’ hall, -such as for some time threatened the family peace—and into the parish, -where Lucy did not always want her mothe<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_143" id="page_143">{143}</a></span>r’s assistance. She wrote -letters to her friends, half cynical, half sorrowful, and more than half -amusing, in which Arthur indeed was never referred to; but where many a -cutting sentence, sharp jest, or mocking reflection betrayed that sting -of personal suffering which those who knew her best could read between -the lines. Lady Curtis was clever. She wrote articles now and then in -literary papers, even sometimes in magazines; but this was an indulgence -of which she was not proud, and she prudently kept silence about it, -being wise enough to know that any such crown of wild olive sits badly -upon the matronly brow of a country lady, alarming some people, and -giving to others occasion for ill-natured jibes and pleasantry. Not her -husband certainly, and even not Lucy knew always when she took upon -herself the office of critic; and the able editor who printed her -reviews was not aware what had made his contributor more industrious -than usual and more bitter. It was Arthur that pointed the clear steel -of those polished little arrows which she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_144" id="page_144">{144}</a></span> discharged at the world. She -did it as a relief to herself; but not that anyone might know. And it -must be added that there was a certain satisfaction in this safety -valve. Then there was crewel work, and the patterns of the Art -Needlework Society, of which, however, she soon got tired. Altogether -Lady Curtis’s activity was stimulated to its utmost. She had the -happiness of discovering a source of waste in the house, and an abuse in -the parish; and she fell upon a nest of foolish books to criticize, and -began a series of papers upon “The Minor Morals of Society;” and she set -vigorously to work upon a set of curtains in a bold and effective -pattern of her own invention. And thus she beguiled away the weary days.</p> - -<p>Lucy was less difficult perhaps than either her father or her mother. -She was young, and it still seemed to her that in the course of nature -everything that was amiss must come right, and every breach be mended. -Sir John’s opinion was that nothing would ever mend, and his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_145" id="page_145">{145}</a></span> wife’s -that the only thing to be done was to keep yourself busy, and persuade -yourself that there was no hope nor expectation of any change within -you. But Lucy waited with as much patience as she could, crying -sometimes over the estrangement of her brother, but with no despair in -her; things would come right, nay, must come right some time or other. -To suppose that you could be separated for ever from anyone who belonged -to you, anyone you loved! could there be folly in earth so great as -that? It was a question of time, and the time was long and dreary and -hard to support; but yet by and by <i>of course</i>, who could doubt it? -everything would be well. November and December are dreary months, let -us make the best of them, and very dreary in the country when the day is -over by four o’clock or little after, and there are hours upon hours to -be got through in-doors, in a big empty house, pervaded everywhere by -that sense of the absent which is so much more urgent and all-prevailing -than any presence. When Arthur had been at home<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_146" id="page_146">{146}</a></span> his being there was a -matter of course, and no one thought much about it; but when Arthur was -away! and away in this dismal manner, absorbed into another life, -disjointed from theirs. Such an argument as this might make the dullest -feel the superiority of an idea to all that is solid and practical. In -her own room, which Arthur rarely entered, Lucy missed her brother, and -she missed him going about the parish, where he never went with her. And -Sir John missed him in the midst of those Blue Books at which the boy -had made grimaces from a distance, but which he never approached; and -Lady Curtis felt his absence when she wrote for her Review, though -Arthur was the last person in the world to know anything of Reviews. -This is at once the desolation and the power of death which fills our -very atmosphere and daily breath with those whom it removes out of our -sight for ever; and this it was that gave force to the words which both -father and mother said of Arthur when he forsook them. It was as if he -had died.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_147" id="page_147">{147}</a></span></p> - -<p>The ladies of the family spent most of their time, as has been said, in -the morning room, with its two tall windows looking out from between the -pillars of the façade. The drawing-room, which was large and splendid, -too fine and too big to be cosy in, suffered in consequence, and except -when the house was very full, had much the air of an uninhabited place. -The morning room was fine enough, too fine most people thought -now-a-days. Lady Curtis was one of the people who most feel the -influence of those successive waves of taste which sweep across the mind -of the most cultivated portion of society from time to time. Had it been -necessary to re-furnish this favourite room, she would have done it in -the style of Queen Anne, with neutral tints and “flatted” colour, tiled -fireplaces and high manteltops. And she was by times a little -uncomfortable about the florid effect of her <i>Louis Quinze</i> decoration; -but there was no excuse for remodelling the pretty room which the -children loved. It was florid, there could be no doubt. The cornice<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_148" id="page_148">{148}</a></span> was -rich with stucco wreaths, and there were Cupids about, and lyres and -knots of ribbon, and glowing garlands of flowers. The carpet was white -Aubusson with a great bouquet in the centre, as flowery and brilliant as -that which had made Nancy happy in Paris. Lady Curtis’s writing table -was a <i>bonheur de jour</i> of the finest workmanship, and various articles -of precious marqueterie stood about, flowery and dainty. Two robust gilt -Cupids supported the white marble of the mantel-piece, and the satin -curtains were looped and fringed, and festooned with the most elaborate -art. Lucy sat and knitted stockings for the village children upon a -satin sofa, with her warm wool in the drawer of an inlaid table with -curved legs, which was worth half as much as the village. Everything in -the room was framed on the principle of being beautiful, not for -convenience or comfort, which is supposed to be the inspiration of -various other styles of household decoration, but for beauty alone. And -perhaps it was more suitable for the home of a bride, such as Lady<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_149" id="page_149">{149}</a></span> -Curtis had been when she collected all those pretty things about her, -than for the centre of household life which it had become; though indeed -it was very doubtful whether Lady Curtis, a clever, impatient-minded -woman, had ever attained any ecstacy of happiness as the bride of good -Sir John. She loved her dainty surroundings better now than she did when -they were in all their freshness. She was aware of her husband’s -steadfast goodness and truth, though he was not lively and amusing, and -had more respect for him, and, at the same time, a tenderer sentiment -for the father of her children than, perhaps, she had entertained for -the good, dull bridegroom to whom she had been bound, not entirely, -report said, with her own freewill. Therefore, perhaps, the beautiful -room had never enshrined that impersonation of happiness, luxury, and -splendour to whom all these decorations belonged by nature. Now-a-days, -certainly, it was not any luxurious leisure and blessedness that dwelt -there; but care and doubt, such<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_150" id="page_150">{150}</a></span> as would have been consistent with very -sombre surroundings. Lucy sat and knitted, her mind wandering after -Arthur, trying to imagine the brightest winter weather in Paris, and her -brother enjoying himself, instead of the rainy skies here, the muddy -roads and grey miserable day. Lady Curtis was in her chair by the window -for the sake of the light, busy with her crewels.</p> - -<p>“They may say what they like about the higher art of these subdued -tints,” she said, “but nature is not subdued in her tints. How am I to -do the autumn leaves in those tones of colour? They are high and bright -in nature.” She said this, but she was thinking of Arthur all the time; -and by and by Sir John came in from the library, and strolled up to the -fire.</p> - -<p>“Have not you had tea yet?” he said, putting himself in front, between -the Cupids. “I thought you must be having tea. What a dreary afternoon -it is! and the hounds are out. They must be having a disagreeable run.” -Thus he discoursed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_151" id="page_151">{151}</a></span> with his lips; but in his heart his thoughts were of -Arthur too.</p> - -<p>“Lucy has been in the village, though it has been so wet. She says there -is a very sad commotion going on. Young Jack Hodge, the blacksmith’s -son—tell your papa, Lucy,” said Lady Curtis with a sigh.</p> - -<p>“I don’t think it is so very bad,” said Lucy, getting up to make the tea -which had just been brought in. “And I am sure papa will not think so; -but his mother is making a great fuss. She has got the Dissenting -minister over from Oakenden to comfort her; and to hear him speak, you -would think it was very bad indeed.”</p> - -<p>“What has happened,” said Sir John, “and why did not Bertie go?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Bertie, papa! what is the good of Bertie? There is a look in his -nose as if he smelt something disagreeable whenever he goes into one of -the cottages. The people cannot put up with it, and why should they? I -think the Dissenter was better on the whole. Jack has gone for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_152" id="page_152">{152}</a></span> a -soldier, that is all. I tried to say there was nothing so very dreadful -in that; but they would not listen to me.”</p> - -<p>“That is all the fault of your Dissenters,” said Sir John, “why -shouldn’t the lad go for a soldier? They would do away with poor people -altogether, these Dissenters if they could—and soldiers too I suppose. -They would leave us all defenceless, at the mercy of anybody that -chooses to make a run at us. They never have anything themselves. I -suppose that is the reason why.”</p> - -<p>“Well, that is not bad logic,” said Lady Curtis, “I suppose they think -those who have something to lose should defend themselves;” and she -sighed again, thinking, where was the son of her own house, who was its -natural defender? He was worse than Jack Hodge, who, at least, might be -of use to his country even if he did break his mother’s heart.</p> - -<p>“You mean the Volunteers?” said Sir John, “but I never believed in the -Volunteers. It is all very well to let them amuse themselves, -soldiering. And, perhaps,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_153" id="page_153">{153}</a></span> in the country where they would be officered -by the gentlemen they know,” he continued after a moment’s pause, with -again Arthur, and not the Volunteers, in his thoughts, and echoing his -wife’s sigh, “they might be of some use; but I don’t put any faith in -them for the defence of the country. Thank you, my dear; on a wet -afternoon like this one is glad of a cup of tea.”</p> - -<p>Sir John was generally glad of his cup of tea, if not for one reason, -then for another, because it was wet, or because it was cold, or because -it was sultry and stifling, or else for no reason at all. It formed a -break in the long afternoon when there was nothing more interesting to -do. For as he stood with his back to the fire, and his cup in his hand, -he went on dully talking, as was his way.</p> - -<p>“It is the very essence of democracy you know—when you substitute what -they call the citizen soldier, the man that is supposed to fight in his -own defence, for the soldier that is paid for defending us: the very -essence of democracy—it makes<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_154" id="page_154">{154}</a></span> out that one man is just as good as -another and that the Hodges want as much taking care of as you and I.”</p> - -<p>“So they do surely, papa,” said Lucy, “their lives are as precious to -them as ours are—to us.”</p> - -<p>“You don’t know anything about it, Lucy; they are not half so important -to the country, and it’s the country we ought to think of first,” said -Sir John. “Without an army where should we be? The throne would have no -authority—Volunteers mean democracy, my dear.”</p> - -<p>“And Jack Hodge is your true patriot,” said his wife.</p> - -<p>“Exactly so. I will tell his mother that is my opinion the next time I -am in the village. A foolish woman with her Dissenters to put nonsense -into her head. What could the boy do better. But Bertie ought to have -been there? Bertie ought to have gone,” said the Baronet. “I allow there -are bad smells in the cottages, Lucy; but surely, if I can bear it, he -ought to bear it; and you, you never say anything about the smells—I -don’t think<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_155" id="page_155">{155}</a></span> Bertie can be doing his duty as a clergyman ought. The -young men of the present day are beyond me,” Sir John added with another -sigh; and he put down his cup with a dreary shrug of his shoulders, and -shook his grey head as he went slowly away.</p> - -<p>How glad they all were when the long November day was over, and they -could shut out the ceaseless drip-dripping of the rain, the sweep of the -dead leaves across the windows! The autumn had been mild, and the -foliage had lasted longer than usual. Now it came tumbling down with -every breath, with every drop of rain, choking up the paths, and filling -the air with the mournfullest downpouring of yellow. On such a day no -one came up the avenue, unless it was a draggled villager bound for the -servants’ door, or the Rector, or the Doctor, neither of whom -contributed much to the gratification of the house; and to look out upon -the misty vista of the spectral trees, the damp rising from the ground -and falling from the skies, both of which were about the same<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_156" id="page_156">{156}</a></span> colour, -for even a short November day is not cheerful to the spirits. It was a -relief when the house began to be dotted with lamps, when the shutters -were closed and the curtains drawn. Lady Curtis, for some time, had not -cared to have the shutters of her favourite room closed till bed-time. -She did not give any reason for this fancy, but Sir John had found fault -with it, and she had yielded. “It was not safe,” he said, “to leave the -lower windows open. Some one might get in and frighten the house, if no -more.” Lady Curtis had not stood out. She watched the servant close them -with again a lingering sigh. She had meant nothing by having them open. -No, nothing. Only if such a thing might happen as that—any one—moved -by some impulse of the heart, should suddenly come home—why, then there -would be a little light visible from the very end of the avenue to -encourage him. Nothing was more unlikely than that such a thing should -happen. But still granting that the impossible did sometimes come when -no<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_157" id="page_157">{157}</a></span> one expected it, then there might be use in the light. But as nobody -could explain this, or say anything in defence of so painful a notion, -of course it was done away when Sir John objected. My Lady sat in the -gilded chair, cushioned with satin, that stood by the fire, and took a -last look of the dull twilight with the trees looming through it like -ghosts, as the footman began to shut up. It had been a dreary day; it -was more agreeable to turn to the clear light of the lamp within, the -subdued glimmer of the satin hangings, the sparkle of the fire. The day -was done at last.</p> - -<p>And yet it was a little dreary, also, to think of the hours that -remained unaccomplished—the long still evening in which there would be -a little talk, very little, and the routine of dinner to go through, and -the still evening after, which Lucy and she would spend together. -Perhaps she would work, and Lucy read aloud; or Lucy would take to one -of her many undertakings, which were of a homelier kind than Lady -Curtis’s crewels, while her mother wrote. The house was very still, as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_158" id="page_158">{158}</a></span> -it became a great house to be, lying folded in the darkness, in the -great park, in the humid lawn and clouds of watery trees, without one -gleam from all the windows in front to welcome anyone who, unexpected, -might come out of the busy world to explore the stillness—the most -unlikely thing in the world to happen; yet such things had been and, who -could tell? might be. There was one event still possible, and that was -the coming in of the post, which arrived after dinner, a most -inappropriate moment, everybody said. Indeed, Sir John had often -proposed not to send for the letters, but to leave them, when there were -any, till next morning, rather than spoil the digestion of the family at -such a moment. But Lady Curtis had a woman’s liking for letters, and -never would hear of this. She had no experience of the letters which -spoil digestion. Her milliners’ bills were no trouble to her. She had -never been in debt, it is to be supposed, in her life, neither were -there mysteries in her existence which she was afraid of; her letters<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_159" id="page_159">{159}</a></span> -were pleasant breaks upon the monotony, enriching the quiet of her -country life; therefore she would have the post-bag brought up, whatever -Sir John might say.</p> - -<p>And that night there were two letters that seemed to wake up even in the -house itself something like the heart-beating that flutters in an -individual bosom at sight of a long-expected communication—two letters -which bore the Paris postmark, one to my lady, one to Sir John. The -butler saw them at the first glance, recognising the writing of one, -guessing at the other. He whispered to the housekeeper, before he went -to my lady’s room with her share of the budget.</p> - -<p>“Summat from Mr. Arthur,” he whispered in her ear.</p> - -<p>“Oh, let me look,” she said.</p> - -<p>It was something to see, even the outside of the letters; and they -looked at each other across that other one, and agreed in their guess as -to what it was. Daly, the butler, was a man of discrimination. He knew, -as well as she did, that, whereas Sir John was equally dull at all -times, my<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_160" id="page_160">{160}</a></span> lady expected the post with a thrill of nervous anxiety every -night. He knew it by her eyes, by the clutch of her hand at the letters, -by the inspection, quick as lightning, which she gave them, always -curbing her disappointment. This was why Daly carried my lady’s letters -the first especially to-night.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_161" id="page_161">{161}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></a>CHAPTER VIII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">“L</span>UCY, Lucy!” said Lady Curtis in a stifled voice.</p> - -<p>It was the postmark, the thin paper of the foreign letter, the stamp of -the hotel which had caught her eye; and it had not occurred to her as -she opened the envelope that it was not Arthur’s handwriting. Indeed, -Nancy had been copying Arthur’s handwriting, and had partially succeeded -in making her own like his, at least for the length of the address. When -she called to Lucy, it was that she had perceived the different writing, -the unexpected form of address within, and had jumped at the conclusion -that something had happened to Arthur, and that it was his servant who -was writing. Lucy rushed to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_162" id="page_162">{162}</a></span> her, seeing her agitation, and coming -behind her, read over her shoulder the letter which Lady Curtis threw an -alarmed glance over, trembling in every limb. They trembled, both of -them, with excitement as they went on. It was not what they expected; it -was neither a letter from Arthur, nor yet an announcement of his -illness, but something else, which they had not anticipated or thought -of. It was the letter Nancy had written in hot haste and desperation, -after the visit of Mrs. Curtis had come to so violent and sudden an end. -My lady read it, the paper trembling in her hand, and Lucy read it over -her shoulder, with painful, suppressed exclamations. This is what Nancy -had said:—</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p> “My Lady,</p> - -<p>“Arthur says I am to write to you, though I do not know why; and I -have told him I will, if I may say what I like and not show it to -him. So you will know, if you are offended, that he has no hand in -this. I am to say, I suppose, that I am sorry, though why I cannot -tell. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_163" id="page_163">{163}</a></span> did not think about you when I consented to marry Arthur? -Why should I? In our class of life we don’t think that a young -man’s mother has any right to interfere. I never thought of you, -therefore I maintain I have nothing to be sorry for about you. I -have enough to do to please my own father and mother; why should -not he manage his as I did mine?</p> - -<p>“And since we were married, what did I owe to you? You never did -anything for me. You wrote to him, or you made Miss Lucy write to -him on our wedding-day, and never once named me. You knew I would -be his wife before he got it, but you never named me. Was that a -way to make me wish to please you? And the best I could do was -never to think of you at all. Was not that as good as putting him -against me, never to mention my name on my wedding day? And why -should I write to you now? You are old, and I am young. You ought -to be the one to come and to say you are sorry. I am your son’s -wife; therefore, I am as good as you are, whatever I may have been<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_164" id="page_164">{164}</a></span> -before; and I was an honest girl before, and as good as anybody. -Why didn’t you come then, and make up to <i>me</i>? It is old people who -ought to show an example to the young, not young people to the old.</p> - -<p>“Now that I have said this, I will just warn you that if you try to -make Arthur think badly of me, to separate him from me (which you -can’t do, however you may try), that I will keep him separate from -you. If you are fond of him, you will have to be civil to me, you -and Miss Lucy, grand ladies though you are. You think me no better -than the dirt below your feet; but if you do not treat me as I -ought to be treated, I will keep Arthur from you, so that you shall -never see him again. I have the power to do it, not like you, who -have no power. He can do without his mother, but he can’t do -without me. I think it is honest to tell you this, because he -insisted I was to write to you—I shouldn’t have written to you of -myself—and because I mean to come back home to England and settle -at Underhayes, to be near my people, who have always been<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_165" id="page_165">{165}</a></span> (not -like you) kind to him as well as to me. So that now, my lady, you -know exactly what I mean, you and Miss Lucy, and what I will do.</p> - -<p class="r"> -“<span class="smcap">Anna Frances Curtis.</span>”<br /> -</p></div> - -<p>Lady Curtis was flushed and agitated; her eyes blazed hotly over her -crimson cheeks.</p> - -<p>“Was ever anyone so insolent?” she said, and bit her lip to keep from -crying, altogether overwhelmed by the unexpected insult.</p> - -<p>“Oh, mamma, the girl does not mean it!” cried Lucy, distressed, trying -to take the letter. It was bad enough to read it once, but to read it as -she knew her mother would do, over and over again, feeling the enormity -ever greater, would be terrible. Lucy put out her hand for it, to take -it away.</p> - -<p>“I will not give it you, Lucy. I know what you mean to do; to put it in -the fire that I may forget it, and think it is not half so bad.”</p> - -<p>“No, mamma; but why should you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_166" id="page_166">{166}</a></span> dwell upon it? She wrote it hastily. -See, there is haste in every line; but we will read it at leisure, and -go over it again and again. She is so uninstructed, so inexperienced; -and there is a kind of savage justice in it, if you will but think, -mamma.”</p> - -<p>“How dare you say so?” cried Lady Curtis, in whose mind the immediate -pain and hurt received were too violent to be thus smoothed away, and -who was as little able for the moment to inquire into the absolute -justice of the matter as Nancy herself. The tears began to glisten in -her eyes, tears of genuine suffering. “This is what our children bring -us,” she said; “they for whom we are ready to make any -sacrifice—insult, the flaunting in our face of some poor creature, -surely, surely not worth as much as his mother was to him, Lucy; not -worth you—<i>you</i>, my child; of that I may be sure at least; and his -home, and all that was worth having in life—”</p> - -<p>And some scalding drops fell on her hands in a hot and sudden shower. -Tears do not last at Lady Curtis’ age; they cost too much; only a sharp -stab like this<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_167" id="page_167">{167}</a></span> could bring them, hasty and unwilling, from her eyes.</p> - -<p>“I know it is hard, very hard; but, mamma—”</p> - -<p>Lucy was interrupted by the sound of her father’s heavy step approaching -the room. He threw the door open and came in hastily. He, too, had a -letter in his hand, and held it out to his wife as he came forward.</p> - -<p>“He has written at last,” he said. “It is a fine thing to have waited so -long for. Look, Elizabeth, if you can read it, what your boy says.”</p> - -<p>Lady Curtis took the letter, looking anxiously at her husband’s face to -read its effect. And then Lucy and she read it as they had read the -other, the girl over her mother’s shoulder. The very sight of Arthur’s -handwriting moved them. He had written a few words to Lucy to thank her -for the money and the blessing conveyed to him on his wedding day; but -except these few warm words they had not heard from him since that -painful violent letter which Lady Curtis had re<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_168" id="page_168">{168}</a></span>ceived after the visit -of Mr. Rolt, the family lawyer, to Underhayes. And that had given the -ladies so much pain that the very sight of the dear and familiar -handwriting brought it back. Sir John went to the fire as was his way, -and set himself up against the mantel-piece, turning towards them the -dullness of his long melancholy countenance, which showed little change -of expression one way or another. His heavy repose, not unclouded with -trouble, contrasted sharply with the eager and anxious looks of his wife -and daughter already disturbed and excited. They read, breathless with -anxiety and haste, flying over the paper, taking in its meaning almost -at a glance in a way which was wonderful to him. He shook his head -slightly as he saw this rapid process; it was impossible they could -understand it, he said to himself; even Arthur’s letter! skimmed over -with feminine want of thoroughness in anything, as if it had been a -book.</p> - -<p>Arthur’s letter, so far as external forms went, was dutiful enough.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_169" id="page_169">{169}</a></span></p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p> “My dear father,</p> - -<p>“You may think that I ought to say something about the long break -in my letters, and I am aware that it would not be without reason; -but what am I to say? My marriage was really a thing which -concerned me most. I would have been ready to make any apologies -for the indiscretions with which it was accompanied, and for the -fundamental mistake of not having explained my wishes and -intentions to you from the first. But that is too late now, and you -must permit me to say that the strange step you yourself took in -sending Rolt to Underhayes to interfere in my business, justifies -the silence in which I have taken refuge since, as being more -respectful to you than anything I can say. I trust and desire to -believe that the extraordinary proposals made by him did not -emanate from you; nothing indeed but the mind of a pettifogging -attorney could have suggested such means of endeavouring to outwit -and frustrate an honourable attachment. I can never meet with -civility the originator<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_170" id="page_170">{170}</a></span> of these proposals, and it is a desire to -say nothing on the subject which has kept me silent even to you.</p> - -<p>“I now write about a serious matter which it is necessary to call -your attention to. The allowance which was ample for me at Oxford, -or when I was in another condition of life, is naturally quite -inadequate to the expenses of a married man. My wife and I are -about to return to England, and at her desire we will proceed at -first to Underhayes, where her family reside. Our plans are not yet -decided; but the first requisite for any arrangement is to know -exactly by what degree you may be disposed to increase my income, -in order that I may be able to provide for the increased expense to -which I am now subject. We have been in Paris some weeks, and had -it not been for the succour which my mother’s generosity provided -me, I do not see how I could have afforded to my wife all that it -was indispensable my wife and Sir John Curtis’s daughter-in-law -should have. These of course are extraneous expenses; but I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_171" id="page_171">{171}</a></span> must -request that you will kindly come to a decision about my present -income with as little delay as possible. This is doubly important, -as we shall thus only be able to make up our minds on what scale of -living it will be proper for us to make our start.</p> - -<p>“My wife desires her respects to my mother, Lucy, and yourself.</p> - -<p class="rt"> -<span style="margin-right: 10%;">“Affectionately,</span><br /> -“<span class="smcap">Arthur Curtis</span>.”<br /> -</p></div> - -<p>“And this is all!” said Lady Curtis, throwing it on the table with a -mixture of scorn and grief; “in so short a time how well she has tutored -him. Oh don’t say anything, Lucy! I can see that girl’s hand in every -word; and this is all!”</p> - -<p>“Surely it is all,” said Sir John, “you don’t think I would keep back -anything, why should I? It’s all, and enough too, I think. A fellow like -that whom we’ve all petted and spoiled, thinking of nothing but his -allowance! It’s disappointing, that it certainly is. When one thinks -that’s Arthur!” said his father, his lower<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_172" id="page_172">{172}</a></span> lip quivering with unusual -emotion, yet something that was intended for a smile.</p> - -<p>“Oh don’t make him out any worse than he is,” said Lady Curtis, “I can -see that girl’s hand through all.”</p> - -<p>Now a more gratuitous assertion than this could not be. Arthur had -written when away from Nancy altogether in the writing room of the -English Club. She had known nothing about what he was doing, and still -less did she know that he had made up his mind not to struggle with his -fate any longer, but to let her go back to her congenial soil, which -would secure at least no further encounters with people of his own -class, even when met in the recent accidental way. He could not, he -felt, risk anything like this again. He had not strength for it. It was -better to yield to her than to wear himself out with such paltry -miseries; but up to this moment even Nancy herself did not know of his -decision. Lady Curtis however did not know this, nor did the despair in -Arthur’s mind ever occur to her, or the state of severance between him -and his wife<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_173" id="page_173">{173}</a></span> which had really existed when these two letters were -written. It seemed to her that they were full of one spirit, and that -Nancy had got the entire command and put her own unregulated soul into -her husband. Dear as he was to his mother, the bold figure of this girl -whom she had never seen, seem to rise up and obliterate her son before -Lady Curtis’s eyes—obliterate him intellectually and morally—so that -all she saw was a shadow of Nancy, not the reality of Arthur. Sir John -did not take this figurative view. He took what he saw for granted, -exercising no spirit of divination. He was wounded not to sharp pain -like his wife, but with a heavy sense of evil. This was all Arthur -wanted, not to be his father’s right hand man, to help him (for, -privately, Sir John was of opinion that he had a great deal to do) to -become the real head of the estate, understanding everything as his -father had wished; but only to have his allowance increased! that was -all. It did not give Sir John a less pang in his matter of fact way than -it did his wife, but this was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_174" id="page_174">{174}</a></span> the low level of interpretation by which -he explained to himself the boy who had been his pride.</p> - -<p>As for Lucy, she read the two letters with a double distress, as seeming -to see something in both of them which escaped her parents. She thought -it was because she was young, and in sympathy with these two foolish, -erring, unkind, young people, that she was able to read between the -lines and see that they were not so unkind as they seemed. There was, as -she had said, a kind of savage justice in Nancy’s letter from Nancy’s -point of view, and insolent though it was, Lucy felt that she could -understand it, and could excuse it though it was inexcusable. And as for -Arthur’s cold interestedness and apparent indifference to everything, -was not this only a sign of mortal pain, a proof that he felt himself in -a position from which he could not recede, which he dared not discuss or -enter into? “Oh,” she cried in the tumult of feeling which rose within -her, “do not take it all for granted like this. Arthur is not what you -think him,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_175" id="page_175">{175}</a></span> papa. He feels it, oh, I know he feels it to the bottom of -his heart; but how can he discuss it, how can he open such a subject -with us? She is his wife, and she knows what we think of her.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Lucy, hold your peace,” cried Lady Curtis, whose heart was wrung to -breaking, “what is the use of this casuistry, as if you knew him better -than we do. No, I cannot shut my eyes to the truth whatever you may do; -this boy for whom we have done so much, whom we have brought up so -carefully, finds something more congenial in low society than in ours. -It is unworthy of us to groan over such a preference. See, he avows it. -He is going back to that wretched place, to the society of his wife’s -relations. We ought to be proud,” said Lady Curtis with her eyes -flashing, with a miserable make believe of a smile on her lips, “that is -what he likes best, <i>my</i> boy!”</p> - -<p>“Oh, mamma, don’t be so hard upon him.”</p> - -<p>“So hard, am I hard? upon Arthur! God help me! I wish I could be a -little<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_176" id="page_176">{176}</a></span> harder; I wish I could think as little of him as he does of me -or of what I feel,” cried Lady Curtis with a moan in her broken voice. -Sir John did not show so much emotion. He stood gazing dully before him, -not even looking at them, his eyes fixed upon vacancy; but many thoughts -were revolving dully in his oppressed spirit too.</p> - -<p>“Now that he has written to me like this, he shall be attended to,” said -Sir John, “since he wants nothing but money, he shall have his money, -and I will wash my hands of him. People do not spend a great deal in -that rank of life do they? If that is how he is going to live, he must -be provided for accordingly. I will speak to Rolt about it to-morrow. -You see how he speaks of poor Rolt, a most meritorious man, that has no -thought except our interest. And if it had not been that Arthur got hold -of it before he ought to have known, Rolt would have bought the girl off -and freed us. Ah, yes—Rolt is the best man of business, and the most -considerate family friend I know.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_177" id="page_177">{177}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“But it was a dreadful thing to do; to buy her off! If you will think of -it, papa, and think who she was, the girl whom Arthur <i>loved</i>. It does -not matter,” cried Lucy with generous heat, “that we do not like her or -approve of her. Arthur loved her; and this girl whom he loved so much, -whom he thought more of than any one in the world, to be bought off!”</p> - -<p>“Ay, that’s it,” said Sir John, “it would have all gone on smoothly if -he had not broke in with his high flown ideas just like you; the thing -would have been done but for that; and he would have been clear of her. -But now that it’s come to this he shall have what he wants, and he shall -have what he’s entitled to. I will see Rolt to-morrow,” said Sir John, -never changing the dull fixedness of his eyes.</p> - -<p>And it may be supposed that the remainder of the evening was not very -cheerful. Lady Curtis locked both the letters up in a drawer of her -writing-table. “It is a pity they should be separated, these two,” she -said with that quivering<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_178" id="page_178">{178}</a></span> smile of scorn which is so bitter, more -painful than weeping. Yes, this was what all their hopes had come to. -Arthur her boy, had chosen his own path, and this was what it was, -nothing in which his father or mother had any share. What he liked -better was the coarse girl who had married him for all the advantages he -brought in his hand, and who had infatuated him, and made him such a one -as herself. The sense of failure was in Lady Curtis’s mind, the pang of -feeling that something inferior had been preferred to her, and to all -that was worthy, by her boy. Can anything be more terrible than when -father or mother is driven to despise the child of their bosoms? It -happens often enough, and there is no such pang on earth. With trembling -hands and this miserable quiver of a smile on her lip, she locked them -away. Now surely it was time that they should rouse themselves, shake -off the dull misery for Arthur’s loss which had paralysed the house, and -brood no more over the desertion of one so unworthy their love.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_179" id="page_179">{179}</a></span></p> - -<p>“We have enough of this,” she said, “come, Lucy! I do not mean that your -life should be spent in sackcloth because Arthur is unworthy. Because he -is hobnobbing with the tax-collector, are there to be no cakes and ale -in Oakley? We will send our invitations to-morrow,” she said with a -mocking little laugh of pain. Sir John opened his eyes a little at the -levity of this unintelligible phrase about cakes and ale. But he had -long ceased to criticise my lady whatever she might do or say. She had -odd ways of expressing herself sometimes, but she was always to be -trusted in the main points.</p> - -<p>“I shall speak to Rolt to-morrow,” he said for his part, which was more -reasonable, as he went back to his room and resumed his Blue book. And -he read till his usual hour, and lighted his candle exactly at the same -moment as every other night, though his heart was heavy in his bosom -like a lump of lead, not warming his blood as it ought to do. The ladies -were not so reasonable, I need not say. They sat over the fire till it -died out be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_180" id="page_180">{180}</a></span>tween them, neither of them remarking the blackness, or -being aware that the cold they felt had anything to do with the external -circumstances—talking it over and over, arguing, fighting even: Lucy -taking the side of defense, while her mother darted arrows of bitter -words at Arthur and the girl who had got such empire over him. Men do -not make their miseries subjects of endless discussion like this, -perhaps because two men are scarcely ever so much like the two halves of -one soul as mother and daughter are; nor could any brother and father -throw themselves wholly into such a question as the sister could do with -the mother. Lucy fought for him, condemned him, justified him, all in a -breath; and cried and struggled and held up Arthur’s standard even while -she threw herself with passionate sympathy into the proud and sore -disappointment of the mother whose hopes had been thus deceived. They -were still there over the dead fire in full tide when the solemn little -stroke of one startled them, and drove them to their rooms,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_181" id="page_181">{181}</a></span> chilled and -miserable. How dark it was outside, the rain falling, the last leaves -dropping, in the middle of the December night! It added a shivering of -physical sympathy to eyes exhausted with crying and voices exhausted -with talking over this ever expanding subject. Every thought and plan of -the house had borne reference to Arthur for how many years; and this was -how he dropped them, turned from them, threw himself upon the lower and -baser elements of life.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_182" id="page_182">{182}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX"></a>CHAPTER IX.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">A</span>CCORDING to Lady Curtis’s hasty resolution, the invitations, to some at -least, of the ordinary Christmas party were for an earlier date than -usual. The climax of the distress produced by Arthur had come, and -though the struggle was hard to pick up the ordinary occupations of life -again, and go on as if nothing had happened, at a time when Arthur’s -absence was so doubly felt and apparent, the impatient soul of his -mother was better able to bear this variety of pain than the monotonous -heaviness of the other, the dull presence of one thought that had been -upon the house like bonds of iron. One of the first visitors who arrived -was Durant, who had always been the first in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_183" id="page_183">{183}</a></span> Arthur’s time, next to the -son of the house in familiarity and knowledge of everything and -everybody about. Even during the miserable interval now passed, Durant’s -letters had given a certain solace to Lady Curtis, as furnishing her -always with something to talk of, something to discuss with Lucy, to -whom she would point out freely the weakness of his arguments which were -always in Arthur’s favour, and for which Arthur’s mother loved him, even -while she took a delight in demonstrating their futility. Lucy had a -long round to make among her poor people on the afternoon on which -Durant was expected. She could not have told why it was that she chose -that special day; perhaps because it was fine, a simple reason, quite -satisfactory to the ordinary intelligence; perhaps because the -association of ideas with him, whom she had not seen since he took her -to Arthur’s wedding, was so painful that she was willing to postpone the -meeting as long as possible; or perhaps she was desirous in Arthur’s -interest that Lady Curtis should<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_184" id="page_184">{184}</a></span> have her first conversation with his -faithful friend undisturbed by any third person; or, perhaps, again Lucy -had reasons of her own, into which none of us have any right to pry. She -was for a long time at the almshouses, having started early to take -advantage of the brightest part of the short winter day, and took her -luncheon with Mrs. Rolt, the wife of the good agent, to whom the -children at Oakley had been as her own since ever they were born. Mrs. -Rolt had no children of her own, and she had as great a desire to talk -about Arthur as his mother herself had. She plunged into the subject as -soon as Lucy appeared, and there was nothing but sympathy and tenderness -in the bosom of this simple-hearted retainer of the family, who was at -the same time a far away cousin, and therefore on more familiar terms -than are usually permitted to an agent’s wife. This visit detained Lucy -also, so that it was four o’clock, and the red winter sunset just over -when she started to walk up the long avenue. Durant had been expected by -an earlier<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_185" id="page_185">{185}</a></span> train at the station which was a mile or two off, so that -Lucy felt herself safe. She set out upon her walk very full of a new -incident which she had not previously heard of, the meeting between her -aunt and her brother at Paris of which Mrs. Rolt had been informed by -the Rector. “Why did not he tell us, or why did not Aunt Anthony write?” -Lucy had said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, my pet, what could she write? I don’t suppose it was pleasant,” -Mrs. Rolt said, “however angry you, may be with your own, you don’t like -to hear them blamed by others; and Mrs. Anthony has sense enough to know -that.”</p> - -<p>“Then why did she mention it at all?” said Lucy.</p> - -<p>“Oh, my love, that would have been more than flesh and blood is equal -to. To have had an adventure like that, and not to have mentioned it at -all! She said Mrs. Arthur behaved <i>dreadfully</i> to her, abused her, -turned her out of her rooms. But we must take all that with a great many -grains of salt, for you know your Aunt Anthony, my dear.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_186" id="page_186">{186}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I know Aunt Anthony; but how dreadful it is that Arthur’s -wife—fancy, <i>Arthur’s wife</i>!—should give anyone occasion to say that -she behaved badly. You will not tell mamma?”</p> - -<p>“No, indeed, I promise you; and I daresay, if we could know it all, the -half isn’t true. You mustn’t worry about it, my darling,” said Mrs. -Rolt, kissing Lucy as she went away.</p> - -<p>The girl shook her head. Why should they tell her such things if they -meant her not to worry? and yet she was feverishly glad that she had -been told, as people are in respect to every such family misery. She -went in at the great gates, with her cheek still flushed by the -agitation of the news. To hear that a friend, a member of the family, -had actually met and spoken with Nancy, seemed to bring her nearer, to -make her more real. And perhaps there was a personal advantage in this -thrill of renewed agitation about Arthur, which replaced for the moment -some of her own thoughts. For lo! it so occurred that all Lucy’s -precautions had been futile.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_187" id="page_187">{187}</a></span> She had not walked half-a-dozen yards when -she heard behind her the rattle of the dogcart swinging round the corner -to the gate, that had been sent for Durant to the station; and before -she had time to collect her thoughts, it drew up suddenly just behind -her, and Durant himself sprung out of it, and in a moment was at her -side. The dogcart went on with his portmanteau, and she felt herself -exactly in the circumstances she had so elaborately avoided, bound, -without chance of escape, to a long solitary walk through the still -avenue, and a long confidential talk before he had seen anyone else, -with her brother’s friend.</p> - -<p>“Yes, the train was late; there was some slight accident on the line, at -which I have been fuming and fretting. But, as it happens, it has been a -lucky detention,” said Durant.</p> - -<p>Lucy took no notice, not even so much as by a smile.</p> - -<p>“You said you were very busy.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I am getting plenty of work to do; not very distinguished work as -yet, but I hope better may come.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_188" id="page_188">{188}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Your leading counsel will fall ill some day, and it will be a very -interesting, romantic case, and you will be inspired to make the most -eloquent speech, and your fortune will be made.”</p> - -<p>“I see you know how such things happen,” he said with a laugh.</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, I have read a great many novels,” said Lucy. “That is always -how young barristers get on; and between that and the woolsack is but a -step.”</p> - -<p>“A very long stride, I fear; but I do not insist on the woolsack,” said -Durant; and then there was a pause, and he said lower, “I saw Arthur a -few days ago.”</p> - -<p>“Did you see him? Oh, Mr. Durant, you must not mind what mamma says. She -has begun to jeer at him, and that is the worst of all. How was he -looking? Poor Arthur, poor boy! And his wife—did you see her? Oh, I -have been hearing such a story of her!”</p> - -<p>“What story?” he asked anxiously.</p> - -<p><i>He</i> had heard many; but on the whole he was no enemy to Nancy. He saw -the glimmer of tears in Lucy’s eyes, and this<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_189" id="page_189">{189}</a></span> did much to steel his -heart against Arthur’s wife; but still he had no feeling against Nancy. -He was ready even, more or less, to stand up in her defence.</p> - -<p>“My aunt, it appears, saw her in Paris, Mr. Durant.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, it is Mrs. Curtis’s story then?” he said.</p> - -<p>“You speak as if there were a great many stories about her,” said Lucy, -with sudden heat.</p> - -<p>“No; but one hears everything, you know, in town—especially, I think, -at this time of the year, when there are few men about, and they talk of -everything.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Lucy, “I have heard often of the gossip in your clubs, that -it is worse and more unkind than any other gossip.”</p> - -<p>“Do not be too hard upon us! It is as petty and miserable as gossip is -everywhere. But I have seen Mrs. Curtis, and heard it from herself. It -is nothing, a misunderstanding between women—”</p> - -<p>“Which, of course, you consider the merest trifle,” cried Lucy, much -more piqued by this countershot than he had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_190" id="page_190">{190}</a></span> been by the assault on the -clubs. Women are certainly on this point more ready to take offence than -men, who have the calm confidence of their own superiority to fall back -upon.</p> - -<p>“I do not, indeed; but the women in question are not of the highest -order. Mrs. Curtis most likely was fussy and interfering; and Nancy—”</p> - -<p>“Do you call her Nancy?” cried Lucy, opening wide eyes.</p> - -<p>“I beg your pardon. I got used to the name before she was Mrs. Arthur; -and there is such a wonderful incongruity in the idea that she is Mrs. -Arthur,” he said, doing his best to conciliate by this remark; but this -slip of the name had evidently had a bad effect, he could not tell why. -He thought that Lucy (in whom he had never before seen any indication of -such foolish family pride) was offended by such a familiarity; and yet -what could he say to excuse it? “Mrs. Curtis was intrusive, probably,” -he went on, “and Mrs. Arthur resented it.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, do not change the name you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_191" id="page_191">{191}</a></span> are accustomed to for me, Mr. Durant!”</p> - -<p>“I am not accustomed to it,” he answered meekly, feeling that something -was wrong, but not knowing what it was. “She resented it, I suppose. I -do not wish to be disagreeable, but you know that a lady like Mrs. -Curtis can be very officious and interfering; and <i>she</i> resented it, I -suppose.”</p> - -<p>Poor Durant! if he thought he was mending matters by calling Arthur’s -wife <i>she</i>, with that little emphasis, how mistaken he was! Lucy’s heart -was conscious of a thrill and jar, such as one’s foot or hand might -experience if suddenly striking against some sharp angle in the dark. -She had no right to feel so unreasonably offended with Durant, so -unreasonably disdainful of Arthur’s wife. Lucy was angry with herself -for the force of her sentiments, which seemed so utterly out of -proportion with the matter on hand. She thought it more dignified and -befitting to retire from any further question of it. But her aspect -changed unawares, her very form grew stiffer and more erect, and she -said, icily,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_192" id="page_192">{192}</a></span> “You said you saw Arthur. Is he looking better than when -we saw him last?”</p> - -<p>“No,” said Durant, hesitating; “I am not able to say that he is. I hope -Lady Curtis will not ask me that question.”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” said Lucy, the tears springing to her eyes, “do you think I am not -as anxious about my only brother—as concerned as mamma?”</p> - -<p>“Indeed I do not mean anything of the kind; but I can speak to you more -freely. <i>You</i> understand; you always did understand, Miss Curtis,” he -said, looking at her with a tender admiration which stole the hardness -from Lucy’s heart in spite of herself. “I do not know how it was. It is -so natural that Lady Curtis—that all his family should see the folly -and the unkindness of it most. But you always saw the whole—and -understood.”</p> - -<p>“I never excused Arthur, Mr. Durant. No one could know the evil of what -he has done—the pain it has produced so well as I.”</p> - -<p>“I know,” he said softly, “all the more honour to your delicate heart -that under<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_193" id="page_193">{193}</a></span>stood. I beg your pardon—I was only speaking by way of -explanation. I can speak to you as I cannot speak—to any one else. -Arthur is not looking well, poor fellow—he is harassed and worried to -death. All the glamour has gone out of his eyes, and he sees his wife’s -family now as other people see them, as very common-place, sordid, -uneducated people, with whom, or with their like, he has no affinity. I -would not say even that he did not see this more deeply than—I do, for -instance, who am quite indifferent. To me they seem good sort of people -enough—in their way. But Arthur has the horror of feeling that they -belong to him more or less—and that he is called upon to associate with -them.”</p> - -<p>“Poor boy! oh, poor boy! and he was always so fastidious! But that is -nothing, Mr. Durant—they do <i>not</i> belong to him. He can shake them off -whenever he likes; but her—what of her? She is the chief person to be -thought of,” said Lucy, with a sigh that it should be so.</p> - -<p>“This is precisely the thing which I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_194" id="page_194">{194}</a></span> can say to you, and to no other,” -said Durant. “She is not the same as they are. If you could fancy one of -the stories of a stolen child—that was always different, always -superior to the children of the people who brought it up—”</p> - -<p>“Superior—Aunt Anthony’s story does not sound much like superiority! I -think you are influenced, as they say gentlemen always are, by her good -looks, and that is why you make an exception in favour of—my -sister-in-law,” said Lucy, with a sound in those words such as Durant -had never heard before from her lips. He looked at her in the growing -twilight with wonder and pain. Was his certainty of <i>her</i> superiority to -every other person concerned, about to turn out vain? It was almost -dark, and he could not make out the expression of Lucy’s face; and of -all things in the world the last that could have occurred to the young -man was any thing to account for this, which should have been flattering -to himself.</p> - -<p>When he spoke again, there was some distress in his voice, and a half -tone of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_195" id="page_195">{195}</a></span> complaint, “I thought I might venture on saying this to -<i>you</i>—I thought you would understand; the facts are all against her. I -believe she has managed very badly; and allowed everybody to see her -want of cultivation—her strange—ignorance. Nevertheless,” he said -earnestly, “I do not despair of Nancy. As for her good looks, they count -for very little with me. What effect they may have on idle and -unoccupied minds, I cannot pretend to say; but for a man like myself -with a busy life and a pre-occupied imagination—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr. Durant,” cried Lucy, “I did not wish to pry -into your secrets.”</p> - -<p>She would not have said it had she taken time to think. What folly to -let him know that she understood that enigmatical phrase about the -pre-occupied imagination! Lucy went on, quickening her pace, feeling the -glow of a sudden blush run all over her in the gathering dark. And the -silence seemed to thrill about them with all manner of possibilities of -what might be said next. They were as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_196" id="page_196">{196}</a></span> much alone as if they had been in -a desert island—bare trees standing closely about, the twilight all -grey among the branches, the whole world still and listening. The thrill -came to Lucy too, a kind of visionary tremor.</p> - -<p>“Mamma will be looking out for you,” she said, hurriedly. “She will -scold me for keeping you so long walking, when you might have been there -in the dogcart half an hour ago;” and she sensibly quickened her own -pace.</p> - -<p>But Durant did not share in that thrill. It affected him only with a -contrary touch of despondency. Lucy’s fright lest he should go on to -tell her who it was who had pre-occupied his imagination (could she -entertain any doubt who it was?) reflected itself in his melancholy -sense that he dared not tell her any more. He dared not because he was -poor, he who, even if he had been rich, would not have been thought her -equal by anyone belonging to her; and because he was her father’s guest, -and incapable of betraying his hospitality by a word to his daughter -which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_197" id="page_197">{197}</a></span> Sir John would not have permitted. Thus that suggestion of -self-disclosure ended in a blank silence which neither would break. He, -too, quickened his steps to keep up with her, and in a few minutes they -reached the house, which rayed out light into the darkness from the open -door and windows. It seemed all bright, all open, full of hospitable -warmth and radiance. When Durant had come here before, he had come with -Arthur, and there had been a rush of mother and sister to the door to -meet the heir of everything, the first thought and hope of all within -these walls. Durant had been half-saddened many a time by that warm and -exuberant welcome which Arthur always received. He himself had been -received kindly too, but with what a difference! and as there was no -particular enthusiasm about him in his own home, notwithstanding the -fact that his family were indebted to him for everything, he had never -been able to divest himself of a certain envy for Arthur. But he was a -thousand times more saddened now to go up the great steps into the hall, -and see<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_198" id="page_198">{198}</a></span> no mother hurrying out to receive her son, no Arthur coming -with cheerful outcry, nothing but himself stealing in softly, half -ashamed of being there without Arthur, half afraid to look at Lucy, who -must feel it too, he felt. He did not know how to go on and meet Lady -Curtis’s eyes. He felt sure they must meet him with a reproach. “Where -is Arthur?” he felt the very house say to him; and almost wished that he -had been guilty, that he could have taken their reproaches to himself, -and answered for his friend’s sake, “It is my fault.” He paused in the -hall, and looked round wistfully at Lucy. Her eyes were wet, her lips -faltering. She held out that hand to him.</p> - -<p>“I know,” she said; “but when we have got over the first, it will be -almost as if he had come too.”</p> - -<p>“Almost!” he said shaking his head. He felt his eyes grow wet, and held -her hand almost without knowing that he held it. Lady Curtis had heard -the movement in the hall, though she had been trying not to hear it, and -the shock had been broken to her by the arrival of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_199" id="page_199">{199}</a></span> dogcart which -she thought was bringing him. She came out now hiding her agitation with -a smile, and held out her hands. Neither of them could speak. But when -they got into that room which had seen so many happy meetings, it was -too much for Arthur’s mother. She took hold of his arm convulsively with -both her hands, and leaned her weight upon his shoulder and cried, “Oh, -my boy!” through the sobs which she could not suppress. Durant was -overcome at once by the emotion and the confidence. He stooped down with -tender reverence and kissed her cheek.</p> - -<p>“He is all the brother I have ever known,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Yes, Lewis, yes, I know; God bless you! you have always been on -Arthur’s side.”</p> - -<p>Lucy stood by with strange currents of thought going through her mind, -dimly understanding the man who was not her lover, but whose imagination -was pre-occupied past being touched by any one else—yet tempted -grievously to misunderstand him,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_200" id="page_200">{200}</a></span> and wondering with a latent pain just -ready to come into being, whether this was one of the common mockeries -of fate which made her mother receive him thus almost as a son, at the -very time when he had ceased to entertain that sentiment which might -have made a true son of him? Strange are the vagaries of young minds at -this doubtful period, when everything is undisclosed and uncertain. She -had entertained no doubt as to who it was who occupied his imagination -when he had said those words. Did she really entertain a doubt now? or -was she fostering such a thing into being—trying to make herself -believe it? it would be hard to say. She stood by wondering, feeling in -herself all the germs of doubt, and that inclination to nurse and -develope them, and make herself unhappy which most of us have felt; all -this, however, tempered by a curious thrill of pleasure to hear what -Lady Curtis said. Lewis! they had called him Lewis Durant among themself -for years, as (she felt no doubt) he had called her Lucy; but the name -had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_201" id="page_201">{201}</a></span> never been employed before by anyone but Arthur. This was a leap -unspeakable in intimacy. Lady Curtis had adopted him, so to speak, by -thus involuntary casting herself upon him, and the sudden use of his -name. But what did <i>he</i> think? was it Arthur only that was in his mind?</p> - -<p>Lucy drew her mother’s chair to the fire, and pulled off her own thick -outdoor jacket. There was tea on the table ready to be poured out, and -the soft lamplight and warm glow of the fire brought out all the -prettiness of the room, with its gay tints and gleams of gold. What had -trouble to do in that cheerful place, amid those artificial graces which -had become natural and kindly by use and wont? The stir of her -daughter’s movements brought Lady Curtis to herself. They sat down round -the fire as if the new comer had been another son, and talked of Arthur. -It was almost as endless, almost as engrossing a talk as when the mother -and sister sat alone together, and felt as if they could never cease. -But by and by Sir John came in for his cup of tea, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_202" id="page_202">{202}</a></span> asked how it was -the train was so late, and all the particulars of the journey. Sir John -himself had delayed half an hour beyond his usual time in coming for his -tea. He had felt Durant’s arrival too.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_203" id="page_203">{203}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_X" id="CHAPTER_X"></a>CHAPTER X.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span>HE next day the ordinary guests began to arrive at Oakley. They were -not of a very lively character. With an instinctive sense of the -difference, which the family were scarcely conscious of, changes had -been made in the list of visitors which would have been got together in -Arthur’s time. Scarcely any young men were of the party. When there is -not a young man in the house what use in asking young men? unless it had -been in a matrimonial point of view for Lucy’s sake, an idea which not -only Lucy but her mother regarded (in the latter case injudiciously, it -ought to be said) with scorn. Sir John had given up hunting long ago, -and if he made a serious shot once or<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_204" id="page_204">{204}</a></span> twice in a season, it was more -upon the principle which makes an old king open a ball than any more -active personal liking for the sport. The party accordingly consisted in -great part of his contemporaries, some in Parliament, some in the law, -chiefly belonging to the learned professions. There was a judge, and -there was the head of a college, and for a few days there was a bishop; -but as this latter functionary was the most sportive member of the -party, he could not be counted as adding to its solemnity; and these -magnates of course did not stay long. And then there was the Master of -the Hounds who was more solemn; and there were the wives of these -gentlemen, and in some cases their daughters, and a stray man or two of -the order of those who know everybody and have been everywhere, and have -done a little of everything, without getting more than a general -reputation for themselves, and without giving any very clear indications -to the world where they sprang from or to whom they belonged. There were -also a few ladies of the same species,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_205" id="page_205">{205}</a></span> but whose families and -antecedents were unimpeachable. It was Lady Curtis who abhored dullness, -who had added these. Sir John liked the dullness, and did not object to -having a lady next to him who dined well and said little. In spite of -Lady Curtis’s efforts, however, the party was dull. It was perhaps too -elderly and too serious. Well conducted married people are dull in -society. They are not sufficiently interested in each other to exert -themselves for each other’s amusement, and there can be little doubt -that as a source of diversion and interest to their fellow creatures, a -couple of naughty persons bent on flirtation and ill-behaviour make a -better recompense to their entertainers. This element was sadly wanting -at Oakley; there was no little drama to watch, legitimate genteel comedy -ripening towards marriage and all the domestic joys, or more -reprehensible episode tending the other way, such as often proves more -exciting still to the jaded appetite of society. And it can scarcely be -wondered at, if in the absence of other fun this res<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_206" id="page_206">{206}</a></span>pectable assembly -threw itself on the affairs of the family. There was a great deal of -conversation in corners about Arthur’s marriage. The Bates family were -too low down in the world to have even reached the level of gossip, and -except that he had made a very foolish marriage, a <i>mésalliance</i> in -every sense of the word, no one knew anything further, except one lady -was acquainted with Mrs. Anthony Curtis, and had received from her a -vague account of her meeting with Nancy. This lady had formed an idea, -quite erroneous as it happened, yet an idea, of Arthur’s wife, which was -a point not attained to by anybody else in the house. She thought (as -seemed so natural) that Nancy must have been an actress in a minor -theatre, a nameless <i>figurante</i>, one of the class who are supposed to -enthral well-born young men, and who, wonder of wonders, do so, to the -everlasting astonishment of the world, notwithstanding all its theories -on the subject. But it did not enter into anybody’s mind to suppose that -the girl whom Arthur had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_207" id="page_207">{207}</a></span> married had not the advantage of being wicked -and shameless. The lady who knew the story whispered it to others when -none of the family were present. “Turned her out of her rooms, I assure -you, my dear,” she said; “they were in the best rooms of a most -expensive hotel, I need not say. Such people never spare any expense.”</p> - -<p>“A girl from a theatre!—but what theatre? There are such differences; -that means anything, from a lady to a dressing-girl.”</p> - -<p>“She was not a lady, at least; that is the only one thing that is -certain. She was a—” Here the teller of the tale stopped abruptly, -adding in a louder tone, “I know only one lady on the stage, but she is -enough to justify any amount of raving. Mrs. Kenworthy—don’t you -know—you must have seen her.”</p> - -<p>It need not be added that it was one of Lady Curtis’s friends, a -middle-aged person who knew everybody, who spoke, and that the sudden -break was owing to the entrance of Lucy, who came in unsuspi<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_208" id="page_208">{208}</a></span>cious, and -caught them in the middle of their talk.</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, I have seen her,” said another, faltering, while the other -members of the party broke up suspiciously, and began to talk to each -other with great earnestness. Lucy had thought no evil when she came in, -to see all the heads together, but this breaking up and evident desire -to conceal the subject of discussion roused her. These were the sort of -conversations that went on through the hospitable house. When Sir John -was alone for a few minutes with the Judge, who had been the friend of -his youth, that learned functionary took him by the buttonhole, and -said, “What’s this, what’s this, Curtis, I hear about your son?” They -talked of it under Lady Curtis’s eye in the drawing-room as they sipped -their tea. Poor Arthur had been cast off by his family, they said; he -must have been living a bad life before, or he could never have been -thrown in the way of such a person, and never could have married her. -Had he married her? that was the next<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_209" id="page_209">{209}</a></span> question. Or was it not -altogether disreputable, the connection itself and everything about it? -So they talked; and Lucy for once got to feel it in the air, and to lose -her temper sometimes at the sense of this strange mass of secret -criticism of which her family was the object. She made an assault upon -her cousin, the Rector, in the midst of it with nervous vehemence. He -had been talking to Miss Wilton, the lady who had rushed into a -description of Mrs. Kenworthy, when Lucy came into the room that morning -and interrupted more important talk. Lucy, watching, had perceived that -Bertie had held back while the other had been pressing questions upon -him, and that after the interview Miss Wilton had hurried to a pair of -expecting friends, and communicated to them the information which she -had acquired. Miss Curtis called her cousin to her with a somewhat -imperious gesture, a gesture, however, which he was very willing to -obey.</p> - -<p>Hubert Curtis had not found himself, so far, any the better for the -misfortune which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_210" id="page_210">{210}</a></span> had happened to Arthur. He was not taken more into -favour at the Hall, nor did Lucy incline more to his society than when -her brother was at Oakley. He had not gained any ground. However likely -it might be that she would have a larger portion of the family goods, -Bertie saw no probability that the advantage would in any way come to -himself; he had almost, he thought, lost instead of gaining by Arthur’s -absence. When Arthur was at home, he, as the nearest neighbour, the only -man of anything near his own age close at hand, had a natural place at -Oakley besides that derived from his relationship. But now what had he -to do at the Hall? Lucy did not encourage him, certainly, in any -devotion to her. Lady Curtis had an instinctive, half-jealous dislike to -him, as she would have had probably to any young man whose sensible and -correct behaviour was a standing reproach to Arthur. And Sir John could -not be troubled by Bertie’s peace-making and desire to persuade him that -all would eventually be well. Therefore he had suffered with Arthur, -which was a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_211" id="page_211">{211}</a></span> thing he did not calculate upon; and it would be impossible -to deny that his mother’s story about Arthur’s wife had given him a kind -of grim satisfaction. If he were not bettered, at least others were the -worse; he said, “poor Arthur!” with contemptuous content. If a man chose -to make a fool of himself like that, it was only right that he should -pay the penalty, and he had been unable to refrain from repeating his -mother’s story to Mrs. Rolt, who was shocked and grieved, as Bertie, -too, assumed to be. But he had not been guilty of the treachery of -discussing it at the Hall. When Miss Wilton spoke to him, he had no -desire to give her any further information, but answered as sparingly as -possible. Of course it was now, when he really had been exercising a -certain amount of virtue, that his punishment came.</p> - -<p>“Bertie,” said Lucy, as he came up to her, “I want to know why my aunt -goes on spreading that story, and why you talk it over with everybody -except mamma and me?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_212" id="page_212">{212}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“What story?” But he did not attempt to deceive her further by -pretending that he did not know.</p> - -<p>“We were the most interested,” said Lucy. “If you had told us it would -have been natural, and perhaps kind; but why do you tell it to other -people? What good could that do?”</p> - -<p>“What other people have I told it to?” he said. “I was questioned over -there, but I made no reply, or at least as little as I could. I told -Mrs. Rolt, and I beg your pardon for that. She was so anxious to know -something, and I knew she was to be trusted. Don’t blame me, Lucy; I -have not intended to be hard upon Arthur.”</p> - -<p>“Hard upon Arthur! I did not suppose so; he can fight his own battles,” -said Lucy, raising her head with a look which was almost haughty. “But -you are unkind to us. You are my cousin, our nearest relation, Bertie. -You should not go about telling disagreeable stories. And then you are -a—”</p> - -<p>“Go on,” he said; “recall me to my duties. I am a clergyman—was not -that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_213" id="page_213">{213}</a></span> what you were about to say? and I ought not to be a gossip, going -from house to house. I will not attempt to defend myself, Lucy. If that -is my character, it is better I should say nothing; and certainly, if -you think so, I cannot undertake to undeceive you. It is you who are -unkind to me.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think so. I did not mean to say so much as that,” said Lucy, -abashed. “But oh, Bertie, why should you treat us so? Are not we, is not -Arthur, your own flesh and blood.”</p> - -<p>“I am but too ready to acknowledge it, too glad to think of it,” he said -with a sudden smile.</p> - -<p>And as Lucy had no difficulty in looking at him, no shyness about -meeting his eyes, she could not help seeing the eagerness in them, and -softening of unmistakeable sentiment. Altogether, apart from the fact -that she would be very well off and an excellent match, he liked her as -sincerely as was in him. Love, perhaps, is too strong a word; but he -liked her, well enough to have wanted to marry her if she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_214" id="page_214">{214}</a></span> had only -possessed a competence and nothing more, if she had not been in any -exceptional position as the only obedient and dutiful child of the -house. Whether his sentiment was of a robust enough kind to have made -him seek Lucy had she been poor, is a different question; but it might -even have been strong enough for this, perhaps, for all anyone could -say.</p> - -<p>She was softened too. Lucy was not one of those <i>farouche</i> young women -who resent being loved. She was sorry that any such mistaken feeling -should be in his mind, if it was in his mind; but all the same she was -rather softened than hardened by the look of eager conciliatoriness and -desire to please her, which was in his face.</p> - -<p>“Aunt Anthony might have told us herself. She need not have let other -people know,” she said, shifting her ground, and in a gentler tone.</p> - -<p>But here he had a very good answer provided.</p> - -<p>“My mother is not here,” he said, quite gently, without a tinge of -reproach. “She cannot either explain or defend herself.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_215" id="page_215">{215}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>What could Lucy say? She blushed crimson, deeply moved by the sting of -this retort courteous.</p> - -<p>“I wished her to be here,” she said.</p> - -<p>“You always wish what is kind. I did not think it was you; but, Lucy, -don’t you see—”</p> - -<p>At this moment Sir John came up, placing himself so that the -conversation was interrupted. As the mantel-piece was not near enough to -be leant upon, he leaned upon one of the marble consoles behind which a -big glass rose to the ceiling, reflecting his figure and the faces of -the two in front of him.</p> - -<p>“I have often noticed,” he said, “that when we have a mild rainy -November, the cold is bitter in spring. Have you remarked that, Bertie? -But, to be sure, you are not a country bird, you don’t know much about -the weather; but you will learn, you will learn before you are my age.”</p> - -<p>“It seems a simple enough conclusion, and I don’t mind accepting it as -part of my creed,” said the Rector with a laugh, in which, however, -there was some surprise<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_216" id="page_216">{216}</a></span> mixed, for he did not understand what motive -his uncle could have in placing himself there to make this very -unimportant remark.</p> - -<p>“They tell me the meet is to be here to-morrow,” said Sir John; “and -some of the ladies are going to ride. I am very glad Lucy doesn’t hunt. -You had better come up and make yourself useful, Bertie, now that -there’s nobody in the house. I suppose you don’t ride now to speak of? -Of course, there’s Durant; I don’t know what his fancy is. I never was a -cross-country man myself. I was always fond of more serious pursuits. -Your father now, my brother Tony, he was always fond of it—a sort of -practical fellow. As for me, I always took a pleasure in more serious -things.”</p> - -<p>“You were born for Parliament, Sir,” said the Rector, half with veiled -satire, half with a disposition to please his uncle, who had been kind -enough, and from whom more kindness yet might come.</p> - -<p>“Well, yes, perhaps you are right,” said Sir John; “that was more in my -way; I always took an interest in public busi<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_217" id="page_217">{217}</a></span>ness. When I was a boy at -Eton I used to read the debates as regularly as I do now—and I have -never changed my principles or turned my coat, Bertie. That is something -to say after thirty years of public life. I have never seen reason to -modify my opinions as so many people do. One set of principles has been -enough to guide me through life, and I cannot believe that any man wants -more.”</p> - -<p>“It is a very happy state of mind, Sir,” said the Rector, wondering more -and more why his uncle had elected him to hear the characteristics of -his wisdom. Lucy had cleverly stolen away to do her duty by the other -guests, and only Lady Curtis was aware of her husband’s real meaning. -She smiled within herself at his simple device to separate Lucy from a -man who might put in the pretensions of a lover. But when Lucy, after -stealing away from her cousin’s side, was to be seen a little while -after at Durant’s, then it was Lady Curtis’s turn to look serious, and -she herself moved from her own chair when she saw them talking,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_218" id="page_218">{218}</a></span> with a -lively sense of the same need for interference which had moved her -husband. When Lady Curtis joined them their conversation was simple -enough, nothing to alarm any parent; but yet she remained there talking -with something of her old brightness, until Lucy had left that end of -the room, too, in turn, and had gone to carry consolation to old Mrs. -Nuttenden in the corner, who was slightly deaf, and not amusing—with -her efforts to amuse whom, nobody interfered.</p> - -<p>Durant did not notice the gentle interference in the Rector’s case, but -he felt it very distinctly in his own, and with a little pang said to -himself, that he would give no occasion for this watchfulness, but would -shorten his proposed stay as he had already intended to do. This was not -because there was any failure of the kindness, even the affection with -which he had been first received. Lady Curtis talked to him as she did -to nobody else but Lucy, confided in him—called him Lewis, as she had -done when he arrived, and dis<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_219" id="page_219">{219}</a></span>cussed her son with him, with family -freedom and trust, in a manner indeed which would have filled many young -men with fond imaginations and made them feel themselves almost wooed. -And Sir John was quite kind, though in a different way. He had always -been slightly suspicious of Durant as one of those clever men who are -never quite safe, and of whom you cannot be too sure what levelling and -atheistical sentiments may accompany their intellectual gifts. One of my -Lady’s sort of people, Sir John had always considered him, not a -retainer of his own, but on the other side; yet because he was so -associated with Arthur, Sir John’s heart had melted to him also. So that -it was no failure of the most cordial welcome which made Durant feel it -better to hasten away. He went to his room that night quite decided by -the manner of the woman who called him by his Christian name, and looked -at him with such motherly affection in her eyes. Was it Lady Curtis’s -fault? He did not blame her. He said to himself, that had Lucy<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_220" id="page_220">{220}</a></span> been his -own sister, he would not have given her to a poor barrister without -family, without connections, with burdens of his own upon his shoulders, -and no honours to bestow. Why should he linger there? Now that Arthur -was so far off from Oakley—now, above all, that Arthur was <i>married</i>, -the most complete of severing influences, it was inevitable (he said) -that his connection with Oakley must gradually drop off. They would not -mean it—they would not wish it—yet it would come to pass; and why -should he seek to prevent it? Was there not between them a great gulf -fixed—that gulf which wealth might fill up, perhaps, which his old -grandfather’s money might have thrown a golden bridge across, had it -still existed; but which now gaped like the bottomless pit, and could -never be crossed by any skill or effort of his. Should he stay only to -impress this more and more upon himself? He made up his mind that very -night.</p> - -<p>But that did not hinder him on the next day after these events, which -was Sunday,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_221" id="page_221">{221}</a></span> from finding himself by Lucy’s side in one of the quiet -moments of that quiet day. He was going off the next morning, and it -chanced to him, unawares, to come into the Louis Quinze room in the -interval between church and luncheon, which is a moment of general -dispersion in which no one knows where any one is. Lucy was in the -morning-room writing a letter, when Durant came in. He was very -self-denying, yet when she stopped and laid down her pen, and said, -“Come in, don’t go away!” he could not resist the invitation. He came in -and stood near her, leaning upon the corner of the mantel-shelf close to -one of those big rococo Cupids between whom Sir John was so fond of -placing himself. And Lucy was a little eager, almost agitated, more -resolute to talk to him than he was to talk to her. She said without any -preface, “Are you really going away to-morrow? I was surprised—and I -don’t seem to have seen you at all, or to have said half I had to say.”</p> - -<p>“I must go,” he said with a sigh, “for many reasons; and chiefly -because<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_222" id="page_222">{222}</a></span>—”</p> - -<p>“Because what? You do not think there is any change, Mr. Durant? You -must not think there is any change: there is no one mamma trusts in so -entirely as in you.”</p> - -<p>“I am very glad to think so,” he said, “and to believe that she would -trust me if any thing occurred—if I was wanted.” Here he made a pause, -and added in a low tone, “and you too?”</p> - -<p>“And I too! can you doubt it? I know,” said Lucy faltering, “that Arthur -has no such true friend.”</p> - -<p>He made a little unconscious gesture with his hand. She knew exactly -what it meant. It meant Arthur, always Arthur! never anything on his own -account; always for the use that might be made of him. But this would -have been very unreasonable had he put it into words, for it was -precisely on this reason that he had claimed to be trusted, “if anything -occurred—if he was wanted.” Very unreasonable and inconsistent; but -then men are so.</p> - -<p>And what could she say? She could<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_223" id="page_223">{223}</a></span> not take the initiative, and tell him -that her interest in him, at least, was not all on account of Arthur. -She made a tremulous pause, and then said, “Everything is so different -this year. We have done nothing but talk to you of Arthur. The time -seems gone in which we used to talk so freely—of, us all.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” he said, “it is kind, very kind of you to use such words. What -talks we have had here of—us all! before we had began to feel the -differences between us.”</p> - -<p>“What differences?” she said eagerly. “Mr. Durant, I hope you are too -generous to think that any outside differences—” Poor Lucy coloured and -grew so eager, that her earnestness defeated its object, and she could -not get the words out.</p> - -<p>“Not that,” he said, “not the loss of our money. I know no one here -would think the less of me for that—perhaps the better,” he added with -a smile, “as being just a poor man now, without any pretence of equality -on account of wealth.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_224" id="page_224">{224}</a></span> I did not mean that; but rather the enlightenment -that comes with years, and that shows to me how little I, being what I -am, ever could be on the same footing with you.”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Durant, you are unkind—you <i>are</i> ungenerous!”</p> - -<p>“Not so—not so; but I am older and a little wiser. And according to the -custom of mortal things, this enlightenment comes just when it is most -painful to me—most bitter to realise.”</p> - -<p>“I cannot hear you say so,” Lucy said, getting up trembling from her -chair. “Difference—what difference? I know none. I never have been told -of any.”</p> - -<p>And he looked at her all quivering with the desire to say more—to set -open the doors of his heart, and show her herself in it, and all that -was there. He looked at her, and shook his head sadly.</p> - -<p>“I have no right to say any more. I would be a poor creature if I said -any more; but still it is so—and it is better for me to go away. You -will not misunderstand me? That would be the cruellest of all.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_225" id="page_225">{225}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“I think there is one thing more cruel,” said Lucy with an impulse which -carried her away, and for which she could not forgive herself -afterwards, “and that is to speak mysteries to your friends, and expect -them to understand you, yet never tell them what you mean—that is the -thing that is most cruel.”</p> - -<p>“Should I speak then, though it is hopeless—though it is almost -dishonourable?” he cried excited and breathless. Lucy trembling, turned -half, yet but half away.</p> - -<p>“Ah! you are here then! I have been looking for you,” said the voice of -Lady Curtis at the door. “You are talking to Lucy who has a letter to -write, and I have something to say to you, Lewis—come to me here.”</p> - -<p>Lucy had gone back to her writing before her mother stopped speaking; -she did not even look at him again; but she said very low, “I think I -understand,” as he passed her slowly to obey that call.</p> - -<p>And next morning he went away.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_226" id="page_226">{226}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XI" id="CHAPTER_XI"></a>CHAPTER XI.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">A</span>FTER the crisis of that conversation with Mrs. Curtis, which was at the -bottom of so much harm and mischief, Arthur and Nancy stopped -quarrelling with each other. They had each done and said things which -they were disposed to repent of—and felt the existence generally of a -state of things which was alarming, which at their worst they could not -see without feeling that it might be possible to go too far. The fact -that Arthur had gone away without seeing her after her rudeness to his -aunt, his absence for hours, his absolute silence on the subject when -they met at dinner had produced a great effect upon Nancy. It had been -on her lips all the evening through to intro<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_227" id="page_227">{227}</a></span>duce the subject, to excuse -herself or defend herself according as might be most suitable at the -moment. But Arthur gave her no occasion. He had the advantage of -education over her, the habit of self-restraint, at least the sense that -it was necessary on occasion to restrain himself, an elementary lesson -which Nancy had not as yet arrived at. And the effect upon her was -great. She, too, kept silent, though against her will. She shut up in -her breast this subject which, if she had talked about it, would, no -doubt, have inflamed her to double wrath. And she grew a little -frightened of the husband whom hitherto she had played with as she -would, but who now in his newborn reserve and stillness was more than -she could manage. She was afraid of him for the moment. He was no longer -in her power. A tremendous menace seemed to lurk in his silence; and the -consequence was that they lived in much greater harmony for the next -week, both a little alarmed and penitent, and afraid of taking another -step in the wrong direction. At<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_228" id="page_228">{228}</a></span> the end of that time Arthur made the -discovery which Nancy had already suggested to him, that howsoever great -might be his desire to go to Italy, his means would not permit it. They -had been living in their charming little apartment for three weeks, they -had used a carriage constantly, and all that a Paris hotel can furnish -that was most agreeable to eye and palate, and there was nothing, or -next to nothing left. Arthur had not realised this fact when he had -written his letter to his father. He had written indeed more out of the -painful determination within him to uphold his wife, even in the face of -what she had done to his relatives, by yielding to her will about their -future, than from any more reasonable motive. He knew very well how that -story would fly, how it would get to the ears of his mother and Lucy, -and how everybody who knew him would pity poor Arthur. This it was which -made him suddenly abandon his opposition, and determine to do as she -wished. At all hazards he would maintain her credit, whatever might be -her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_229" id="page_229">{229}</a></span> treatment of him. They might make her out to be what they pleased, -they might tell what stories they would—he could not he knew contest -them, but at all events everybody should see that he at least upheld her -in her way of acting, gave her his support through all. This generous, -if perhaps foolish, resolution, which was full of that grieved and -suffering love which can no longer deny the justice of the accusations -against its beloved, had been come to before he knew the necessity of -returning home; but that necessity made it less forced and unnatural. -For the last week of their stay there was little attempt at amusement. -Denham, who had found great satisfaction in watching the proceedings of -the bride, and who had already made many circles merry by his -descriptions of her husband’s anxious endeavours to interest her in what -she saw and heard, and her own absolute ignorance and unconcealed -<i>ennui</i>, was ever at hand to suggest something, and had indeed two or -three plans of his own for sharing this charming spectacle with some of -his friends, with a trust in Arthur’s sim<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_230" id="page_230">{230}</a></span>plicity, which might not have -been justified by the event. There were two in particular to whom he had -promised an introduction to his “delicious Englishwoman,” had the young -pair accepted the box at the Odéon which he had offered them, and the -mischievous attaché was much disappointed by the failure of his plans. -They declined it, however, with one accord. Nancy had quite convinced -herself that it was “no fun” going to plays when you did not understand -a word, and Arthur, on his side, had become disgusted with everything -public. How did he know that they might not meet some one else whom he -should be obliged to introduce to his wife, and whom his wife would -receive with the same amiability which she had shown to Mrs. Curtis? The -Curtises were still in Paris, and he had himself held an agitating -conference with his aunt and Mary; but they came no more to the Rue -Rivoli. This opportunity of making friends had been turned into the -easiest way of making enemies. He would make no more such essays. -Ac<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_231" id="page_231">{231}</a></span>cordingly they sat “at home,” in the pretty little room with the -white walls and white curtains. Arthur could always write his -letters—it was not many he had to write now, as his family -correspondence was cut off, and he had dropped most of his friends, but -still he kept up the phrase; he wrote his letters, while she sat by the -fire, sometimes taking out and putting in frills or trimmings to her -dresses, sometimes yawning over a newspaper; they talked to each other a -little now and then, and yawned in the intervals; they had no books -except a few Tauchnitz volumes, which saved them from a complete -breakdown, and they went early to bed which seemed always a virtuous -thing to do. Thus the days went by. They did not talk any longer about -going “home,” but it was tacitly understood between them that they were -going <i>back</i>. This was what they had got to call it. And the day was -fixed, and the boxes packed, and all settled, with scarcely any further -consultation. Life, however, had become very sober prose after the -triumphant exultation<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_232" id="page_232">{232}</a></span> of the beginning, when three weeks after their -marriage they crossed the Channel again on an early morning, Nancy very -ill, and Arthur dignified but pale, and arrived at London on a rainy -December night, wet and miserable as anything could well be.</p> - -<p>Next day they went <i>back</i>. Arthur had taken rooms at the little inn -which stood opposite Mr. Eagles’ house, looking on the green, where -Durant had been lodged. But before they reached that place there was a -greeting to be got through at the station, the whole Bates family, no -less, having assembled to welcome their daughter. Nancy’s spirits had -risen from the moment she had touched English soil. She had talked to -everybody, guards, porters, the servants at the hotel, with exuberant -satisfaction, notwithstanding the bad passage and its natural -consequences.</p> - -<p>“Oh, what a blessing to be at home!” she said. “Oh, Arthur, isn’t it -nice to be back? I feel as if I should like to hug everybody. How much -nicer everything looks in England! One can have some tea or some beer, -instead of always that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_233" id="page_233">{233}</a></span> sour wine; and sausage-rolls and Bath buns!” -cried Nancy, looking at these appalling luxuries in the Dover -refreshment-room with unfeigned delight. It had been on Arthur’s lips to -cry out, “For heaven’s sake speak a little lower!” but he said to -himself, what was the use? One or two people turned round and smiled. -And she bought a Bath-bun notwithstanding her recent sufferings. It -seemed to Nancy better than all the delicate <i>plats</i> in the world. It -was English, it was adapted to her native tastes and her usually fine -digestion. Arthur hurried her away with the objectionable dainty in a -little paper-bag in her hand.</p> - -<p>“We must give in to prejudices a little,” he said. “You know most people -think there is nothing like French cookery.”</p> - -<p>“I would not give a nice plain English dinner—mother will have one for -us to-morrow, I know—for all the little oddments they have in France,” -said Nancy.</p> - -<p>When she was Nancy Bates she did not talk like this, nor eat Bath-buns -out of paper bags. The fact of being Mrs. Arthur<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_234" id="page_234">{234}</a></span> Curtis, with a fine -gentleman, an unmistakeable “swell” for a husband, became again an -exhilarating consciousness, and turned Nancy’s head a little as soon as -she had got to England again; and how could she show her satisfaction so -well as by that demonstrative indulgence of personal tastes, and -ostentation of personal satisfaction which is the essence of vulgarity, -yet may be the mere froth of ignorance and light-hearted confidence? All -this was sufficiently trying to Arthur, especially when strangers heard -these patriotic outbursts, and showed by their smiles, as they passed, -their appreciation of her simplicity. But when they got to Underhayes -station, where Mrs. Bates, Matilda, and Sarah Jane stood on the platform -waiting, Arthur’s heart sank in his bosom. Why? If Nancy’s mother had -been a duchess, she could not have done anything different. But Mrs. -Bates, with her brown front, and the flowers in her bonnet, and Sarah -Jane in the latest fashion, were too much for poor Arthur. He busied -himself about the luggage, and wondered how it was, for all<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_235" id="page_235">{235}</a></span> so many -times as he had seen them before, that he had never seen them until now? -And this was how he was to be surrounded for the rest of his life! -Visions of his mother and Lucy came gliding before him as he saw Nancy’s -boxes, so much larger and heavier now than when they went away, lifted -out—his own people! with their light steps, their soft voices, the -tender delight in their eyes. Mrs. Bates was probably as fond of her -child as Lady Curtis was of Arthur; that she should show that fondness -so differently was not her fault, but that of Providence which had -settled her lot in life. He tried to say to himself that this was so, -but it was hard. On the whole, the best thing was to look after the -boxes until those welcomes and embraces were over, which all the town -seemed to have come out to see. Some of Mr. Eagles’ “men” were among the -passengers by the train. Arthur shrank among the luggage altogether to -escape from their eyes.</p> - -<p>“Where is Arthur?” said Mrs. Bates. “I hope Arthur knows that you’re not -going to be allowed to go off to an inn the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_236" id="page_236">{236}</a></span> first day you come back. To -be sure, it’s tea, not dinner, as I suppose you’ve been accustomed to; -but tea, with a nice roast chicken and sausages, which is as good as a -dinner every day; and it’s all ready and waiting. Arthur! How long he is -about the boxes to be sure. Shall we leave him to send them down to the -‘Dragon,’ and you come along, my Nancy, with me?”</p> - -<p>“Arthur! Arthur!” cried Sarah Jane at the top of her voice, rushing -towards him, “mother’s gone on with Nancy, and I’m to wait for you. You -needn’t be so particular about the boxes, the porter will take them safe -enough. And come along, do come along! Nancy’s gone on before with -mother, and I’m quite hungry for my tea.”</p> - -<p>One of the “men” at Mr. Eagles’ turned round, hearing every word of this -speech, and grinned, Arthur thought, in derision.</p> - -<p>“Don’t wait for me,” he said, faintly. “Go on, please, and I will -follow. There are a great many things to be looked after, and I must see -what sort of rooms they have given us. Go on, and never mind me.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, if you’re too fine to walk down<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_237" id="page_237">{237}</a></span> Underhayes with your own -sister-in-law!” cried Sarah Jane; and to Arthur’s great relief she took -offence, and rushed after her mother and sisters, calling this time, -“Nancy! Nancy! stop a bit, I’m coming.”</p> - -<p>The “man” lingered till she was gone, perhaps with a little pity for the -bridegroom. He was a happy boy of twenty, working his eyes out for the -Indian Civil examination, who had always been accustomed to think that -his was rather a hard case, and that Curtis was a great “swell.”</p> - -<p>“How d’ye do, Curtis? Can I look after these things for you?” he said, -coming up shyly. Arthur made haste to clear every sign of cloudy weather -from his downcast face.</p> - -<p>“It is a bother looking after them,” he said; “my first try, you -know—and one loses one’s temper. Still grinding hard, I suppose?”</p> - -<p>“Harder and harder! Eagles gets more mad every day. What lucky fellows -some people are!” said the young man with a little sigh, as he nodded -and turned away.</p> - -<p>Arthur felt himself echo the sigh. Was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_238" id="page_238">{238}</a></span> it he that was the lucky fellow? -He had thought so too when he left Underhayes, carrying with him the -bride for whom he had felt willing to relinquish all the world. This is -an easy thing enough to say. To relinquish all the world, and carry -one’s Nancy off into some flowery Eden where nobody could intermeddle -with one’s bliss—ah, yes; but the Bates family! They, it was evident -would not permit themselves to be relinquished like all the world. -Arthur walked at his leisure, glad to defer the moment of reunion, down -to the inn, and saw his rooms and deposited his luggage. Perhaps Nancy -had a right to be angry when at last he followed her. They had waited -till the chicken and sausages were nearly cold; but by this time they -were in the middle of their meal, Mr. Bates already in his slippers at -the foot of the table when Arthur arrived. The little parlour was hot -and close, full of mingled odours; they were all a little flushed, what -with the unusual warmth, what with the meal. Nancy herself had been -placed next to the fire, as the tra<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_239" id="page_239">{239}</a></span>veller to whom the best place was -necessarily given, and she was crimson with excitement, pleasure, anger, -and the stifling atmosphere all combined. The voices all ceased when -Arthur came in.</p> - -<p>“I think you might have paid my mother the respect of coming directly,” -said Nancy in high tones.</p> - -<p>“Oh, hush, dear, hush! I am sure Arthur didn’t mean any rudeness,” said -Mrs. Bates.</p> - -<p>But there was an interval of silence, marking general disapproval, and -they all turned to look at him as at a culprit. He sat down in the -vacant place much against his will, amid unfriendly or indignant looks. -Even to the Bates’ family he was no longer welcome as an angel from -Heaven.</p> - -<p>“I am sorry everything is cold,” said Mrs. Bates; “we waited as long as -we could. But Nancy wanted her tea very badly after her journey. Here is -a leg of chicken I saved for you.”</p> - -<p>“I am not hungry,” said Arthur, feeling his new alienation and -separation amid all the silent party. “I will take a cup of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_240" id="page_240">{240}</a></span> tea, -please. I had the boxes to look after.”</p> - -<p>“You might have left the boxes to take care of themselves,” said his -wife; “you are not always so careful. You might have come with me when I -first came home after being married. And all the people about staring; -but you don’t mind. It used to be different when we were here before; -but I ain’t of so much consequence now,” cried Nancy. “Wives are -different from sweethearts; I see that all now.”</p> - -<p>Arthur felt a sensation of chill despair come over him in the midst of -this domestic heat. He restrained himself by a strange effort and would -say nothing; and, indeed, he did not feel the impulse of passion to -speak. A dreary despondency took possession of him. How often he had sat -there on the sofa in the corner, and felt himself happy! What was it -that made the change? for Nancy had shown “tempers,” fits of caprice, -uncertainty of mood before their marriage. But it had not affected him -as it did now. Succour came to him, however, in an unexpected way.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_241" id="page_241">{241}</a></span></p> - -<p>“I don’t approve of nagging at a man, whatever he’s done,” said Mr. -Bates. “If you’ve had any tiffs honeymooning, you should have the sense -to stop ’em now. If you like to quarrel in your own place, I’ll not -interfere, I haven’t got the right; but don’t do it here. Your father’s -house is no more than a friend’s house so far as that goes. It ain’t -your place, Nancy, to expose your husband here.”</p> - -<p>“I hope I know what’s my place, as well as you or anyone,” said Nancy, -growing red, and accepting the challenge. She had never been fond of -restraint, and she liked it now less than ever. She gave her head a toss -of defiance, entrenched as she was behind the walls of support and -shelter which her mother and sisters gave, who unconditionally took her -side. She flashed defiance at the other end of the table, where Arthur -sat with a flush of shame on his face, and poor Mr. Bates in his -crumpled white tie for his sole partisan.</p> - -<p>“I think Mr. Bates is right,” said Arthur, “and that it would be better -to postpone this question till we are alone.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_242" id="page_242">{242}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“And I hope you found Paris pleasant, Sir,” said the well-intentioned -father. “I have often heard that it was a very fine city. It must have -been a great advantage for Nancy, seeing it with one that knew it well. -In my young days going to France was more of a business than going to -America is now. Me and Mrs. Bates never had the benefit of foreign -travel; but there are a many things you young people enjoy now that your -fathers and your mothers didn’t have.”</p> - -<p>“You may speak for yourself, Mr. Bates,” said his wife. “I cannot say -that I ever had any desire to go to foreign parts. There is plenty to -learn in England if one would make a good use of what one knows; and -Nancy, poor child, don’t seem to have enjoyed it. Look how thin she is, -and so pale. She quite frightened me when I saw her first. ‘Is that my -blooming Nancy?’ I said to myself—not meaning to throw any reflection -upon Arthur. What does man know of such things? She’s been doing too -much. I feel sure that’s what it is, rattling about<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_243" id="page_243">{243}</a></span> here and there and -everywhere, and engagements in the evening—”</p> - -<p>“We didn’t have many engagements in the evening,” said Nancy. “We used -to go to the theatres at first; but we soon got tired. The acting was so -bad, not like English acting; and such queer French, not a bit like -anything I ever learnt. For one thing, they talk so fast. But I could -not understand a bit, and what was the good of going to a play and not -understanding a word? And we never saw anybody, except an aunt of -Arthur’s, a person—but I won’t speak of her, for she was rude to -me—and Sir John Denham, who used to come and sit of an evening, and who -brought us tickets for places. It was very kind of him; and there was a -lot of places to see, and a whole lot of old pictures and things that -Arthur thought I was to go crazy over; but I never did. One place was -where some prison was knocked down (I never remembered the names) and, -another was where the Queen had her head cut off.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_244" id="page_244">{244}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Oh, la!” cried Sarah Jane.</p> - -<p>“Yes, that was a pleasant thing to be interested in, wasn’t it? Oh, the -lots and lots of people that had their heads cut off, if you could put -any faith in it! As if that was what one wanted to see! I never believed -one quarter of what they said.”</p> - -<p>“And quite right,” said her mother; “they do make up stories; but didn’t -you go to see something a little livelier, Nancy? I thought there was -everything that was gay in Paris. But if that was all, my poor child, I -don’t wonder if you felt low, away from everybody you knew. But things -will be quite different now,” she said, encouragingly. “You will settle -down, you and Arthur, in a nice snug little English ’ome. There is no -place like ’ome, as the song says. And you’ll fall into each other’s -ways; and you’ll have us close at hand if anything’s wrong. Oh, you’ll -see everything will go as smooth as velvet! and me, or Sarah Jane, or -Matty always to help you to put things straight.”</p> - -<p>At this prospect Nancy brightened up, and the conversation went on in a -livelier<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_245" id="page_245">{245}</a></span> strain. But Nancy’s brows lowered when Arthur, feeling it all -grow more and more intolerable, got up just before the rum-and-water -stage, under pretence of business.</p> - -<p>“I have some letters which I must write,” he said. Nancy’s countenance -grew dark again, and Mr. Bates lamented audibly.</p> - -<p>“I thought you’d have joined me and been comfortable, now you’re a -married man and got your courting over,” said the tax-collector. Poor -Arthur! was this expected of him, that he should share the rum-and-water -too? He scarcely knew how he managed to get away at last, promising to -return for his wife when his letters were written. But he had in reality -no letters to write. He walked about through the darkness very sadly, -wondering what he was to do. It was weak perhaps to have yielded to her, -to have suffered her to lead him back here; it was all intolerable, the -house, the family, the talk. They had been well enough once, how did it -happen that they were beyond all patience now?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_246" id="page_246">{246}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVI" id="CHAPTER_XVI"></a>CHAPTER XVI.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">N</span>EXT day, restored to perfect good-humour by the occupation, Nancy went -out with her mother to look at some houses which they had already -selected for her choice. She came into the little sitting-room, in which -Arthur had talked to Durant about his marriage, and where the young pair -were established now—glowing and beaming from her early walk, to tell -him all about these desirable residences. Rose Villas, Glenfield Road, -was the name of the row, in which there were two houses, one empty, and -one furnished, to be let.</p> - -<p>“You must come with me and see them the moment you have had your -lunch—I don’t want any lunch,” cried Nancy. “I am so delighted! The -dearest little houses,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_247" id="page_247">{247}</a></span> Arthur! just big enough for us, and so bright, -with gardens back and front, and everything that heart could desire.”</p> - -<p>“But we don’t want two houses, do we?” he said.</p> - -<p>“No, you silly boy; but if we take the one that is furnished, don’t you -see, for little while, and the one that is not furnished for a -permanency, then we can be comfortable in the one house while we furnish -the other; ain’t that clever?” said Nancy, laughing. “I can’t fancy -anything more delightful. Make haste with your luncheon, Arthur. Oh, -yes, I will sit down with you, I will take a morsel; but I am in such a -hurry. I do hope you will like them as much as I do. It is so nice to -think of having a ’ome, as mother says.”</p> - -<p>Arthur did not make any reply; after so much stormy weather as there had -been, it grieved him to destroy all this sunshine by any remonstrances. -He was glad to bask in it a little and put off the next difficulty. It -was a bright winter afternoon when they sallied forth together,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_248" id="page_248">{248}</a></span> the red -sun descending towards the west, and throwing up all the leafless trees -beyond Mr. Eagles’ great house as on a crimson background, against which -every branch and twig stood out—the Green more brilliantly green than -usual from the many rains and from the afternoon redness which enhanced -its colour—the red-brick houses all ruddy and warm in the light. Even -to Arthur, whose heart was heavy, it was a pleasant walk to Glenfield -Road. They were alone, and Nancy was in the gayest humour, full of -satisfaction with herself. Though she had lost her confidence in the -Paris dresses, which had much disappointed her mother and sisters, and -was afraid that her travelling costume looked dreadfully dowdy (which -was Sarah Jane’s opinion)—yet the sense of being at home, able to -dazzle all her old companions with her good fortune, and to feel that -her house and husband, and all her possessions, would be admired and to -envied by the right people, had calmed all Nancy’s susceptibilities and -raised her spirits to the highest point. She all but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_249" id="page_249">{249}</a></span> danced along the -street, holding Arthur’s arm in a way which may be old-fashioned, but -still comes natural to a bride. She was about to have a house of her -own, a house fit for a lady, where obsequious tradesmen, once her -equals, or better than she, would come for orders. She was about to have -servants of her own—not a “girl,” as in the Bates’ establishment, but a -cook and housemaid, as good as the Vicar or any of the fine people on -the Green. And all these fine people would call upon her, Nancy thought; -who was there among them equal to Mrs. Arthur Curtis, a baronet’s -daughter-in-law, some time or other to be Lady Curtis—a baronet’s -wife?—and who could speak familiarly of other baronets, Denham, for -instance, as an intimate friend. And then there was Durant.</p> - -<p>“Who is Durant,” she said, “Arthur? Is he anybody, is his father -anybody? I had a long talk with him here once. I was angry—But on the -whole I liked Durant.”</p> - -<p>“He is—my oldest friend; and the man in all the world who knows most -about<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_250" id="page_250">{250}</a></span> me,” said Arthur, laughing in spite of himself; “but further -information would not enlighten you, Nancy—”</p> - -<p>“You mean that I don’t know your peerages, and that sort of thing,” said -Nancy, piqued a little.</p> - -<p>This time Arthur laughed with good will. “I don’t think the peerages -would help you much,” he said. “Lewis Durant is a clergyman’s son, -Nancy.”</p> - -<p>“<i>Only</i> a clergyman?” She was disappointed. “But they must have been -very rich or something, Arthur, or such proud folks as your people would -not have let Durant be so intimate with you.”</p> - -<p>“My people,” said Arthur with some haste, “would not have thought of -interfering with my school friends to ask whose sons they were; and -Lewis’s family, <i>were</i> rich—but they are not rich now. Call him Lewis, -if you please, when you speak of him, Nancy; but don’t say Durant. It -sounds <i>fast</i>; and you never will be fast, I hope.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, it sounds fast, do you think?” Nancy was mollified. When he had -made<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_251" id="page_251">{251}</a></span> the same request before, she had thought it a stigma upon her as -not knowing how a lady should talk, but this was a lesser offence. “Well -then, Mr. Durant—if I must say Mr. Durant—isn’t he rich now?”</p> - -<p>“No, not at all rich.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, then I suppose he has to work for his living like—any common man? -I am so glad you are not like that, Arthur. What a difference it must -make! To have one’s husband away all day at his work—or to have one’s -husband always at one’s side, ready to take a walk, or to answer a -question, or anything. I am so glad you are a gentleman, Arthur. I never -should have been happy had I married a man in any other rank of life.”</p> - -<p>“Durant is just as much a gentleman as I am, Nancy.”</p> - -<p>“What! when he has to work for his living? Oh, yes, I know. Whoever -wears good clothes, and knows how to behave himself in society, is -called a gentleman for the name of the thing, Arthur. The assistants in -Shoolbred’s are all gentlemen, of course; but that is not what I -mean<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_252" id="page_252">{252}</a></span>—you know what I mean. Now supposing that Durant—I mean Mr. -Durant—had known us longer, and got to coming to our house as you did, -and Sarah Jane and he had fancied each other, she would not have been -nearly so happy as I am.”</p> - -<p>“Was <i>that</i> thought of?” said Arthur, with a smile which did not -evidence any real amusement. “I did not know that had been seriously -thought of.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, it was thought of. Why shouldn’t it have happened? He was your -friend; and they say one wedding brings on another. I don’t think Sarah -Jane would have minded,” said Nancy in perfect good faith. “She would -have thrown Raisins over in a moment; and indeed I think she treats -Raisins very badly with all her flirtations. I tell her it is he who -will throw her over one of these days.”</p> - -<p>“So Durant might have been preferred to Mr. Raisins,” said Arthur. “What -a chance for Lewis!”</p> - -<p>Nancy did not feel quite comfortable about the meaning of this laugh. -Perhaps it was not entirely regret for what Durant<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_253" id="page_253">{253}</a></span> had lost; but as at -this moment they came in sight of Rose Villas, her whole attention was -drawn to the more exciting subject. “There is the empty one, Arthur,” -she said, “look, how pretty! But I see the door of No. 6 is open, so let -us go there first. There is such a pretty garden behind, and the windows -open into it. There is not much in the garden now, but it will be -delicious in summer. Oh, yes, here we are; this is Mr. Curtis, Mrs. -Smith. We have come again, if you please, to go over the house.”</p> - -<p>“If you please, ma’am,” said the prim little landlady, whose lodgings -had not let so well as usual, and who was not unwilling to get rid of -her house. Nancy ran through it delighted, taking her husband from one -room to another. “This you could have to write your letters in, Arthur, -and this would be my drawing-room,” cried Nancy, glowing with not -unlovely pride; “and look what a dear little Davenport, and an inlaid -table, and that funny little three-cornered thing in the corner, and a -nice white cloth over the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_254" id="page_254">{254}</a></span> carpet—so clean-looking—almost like our -white carpets in Paris.”</p> - -<p>Arthur allowed himself to be dragged all over the house. It was like a -hundred, nay a million other semi-detached suburban villakins. The -little rooms were neat enough, if not beautiful; and Arthur, though he -had been brought up in Oakley, amid his mother’s favourite splendours, -was not sufficiently fastidious to be annoyed by the common-place -surroundings. It was not the want of beauty that moved him; but the -sensation of “settling down,” which was so delightful to Nancy, affected -his imagination like a nightmare. She was so satisfied herself, so -anxious to know every particular about the maids whom Mrs. Smith “could -recommend,” so eager about everything, that his gloomy looks passed -without remark. And Arthur did not check her delight until, having -settled matters with Mrs. Smith, she insisted upon carrying him next to -No. 9, which was to let unfurnished. “This is the most interesting,” she -said. “Come along, Arthur; for you know this<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_255" id="page_255">{255}</a></span> will be our real -’ome—this we will furnish ourselves;” and she dragged him to the door. -Nancy did not usually drop her h’s, but she was too familiar with this -form of the word to call it anything but ’ome.</p> - -<p>Here, however, Arthur had strength of mind to resist. “That is enough -for to-day. You must not ask me to do more to-day. After dinner we will -talk it all over, all about it, over the fire.”</p> - -<p>“After dinner?” said Nancy. “Oh! I said we would go and see mother, and -tell her what we had settled. Why, what is the matter, Arthur—may not I -go and see mother? We have only been one day back, and you begin to make -faces already! You cannot say I am bringing my people on <i>you</i>.”</p> - -<p>“I think you might be content with me sometimes,” said Arthur, with an -attempt at a smile.</p> - -<p>“I have been content with you for three weeks,” said Nancy. “I have -never seen a soul but you. I should think you would like to see another -face now and again as well as I do—and my own folks!” Arthur did not -say any more. He diverted the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_256" id="page_256">{256}</a></span> conversation into other channels, and led -her back to the subject of the villa, which on the whole was safer -ground; and when the evening came and their dinner was over, and Nancy -went off with a certain gay temerity, yet not without alarm, to get her -wrap, Arthur took his hat to accompany her without saying a word. She -was in a state of the greatest exultation, scarcely able to restrain -little songs of triumph as they walked along the half-lighted street, -and clasping his arm close, with a show of affection which went to -Arthur’s heart.</p> - -<p>“At what time shall I come for you?” he said, as they drew near the -door.</p> - -<p>“Come for me! are you not coming with me, Arthur?”</p> - -<p>“I have not finished my letters,” he said; “as <i>you</i> say, we have had -three weeks of holiday; and then I was out with you all this afternoon. -I must finish my letters for the post to-night.”</p> - -<p>She unclasped her hands from his arm without a word, and went in; and -the glimpse Arthur had of the parlour did not tempt him to follow. Young -Raisins was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_257" id="page_257">{257}</a></span> one of the company. He was seated on the sofa where Arthur -had been in the habit of sitting, presumably behind backs, and out of -the observation of the others, with Nancy. Young Raisins was now the -lover on hand, and the sight of him in that place sent the blood to -Arthur’s head as he walked away. Could it be possible that he himself -had been unspeakably happy there a few weeks ago, finding nothing but -pleasantness in the four straight walls, and beauty in the family -affection that made all these people hang so closely together. Raisins -now occupied the foreground of the picture as he had done before, with -infinitely greater suitability. And this was the home which his wife -loved. There was the sting of it! had she been indifferent, -undutiful—even careless, as he thought he remembered that she once was; -but Nancy’s matrimonial experience, which was not entirely successful, -perhaps, had thrown her back upon her earlier affections in a way which -is not unusual, though Arthur was not aware of that. Her husband and -she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_258" id="page_258">{258}</a></span> had only their love to hold them together; their habits were not -like, their manner of thought was different. Even when she was at her -boldest and most confident point, Nancy was never quite at home with the -“gentleman” she had married; but with her own people, she was entirely -at her ease. Arthur did not take this into consideration; but he was -candid enough to feel a compunction as he walked away, and to -acknowledge that from Nancy’s point of view, it might seem hard that he -could not spend an hour or two without complaining in the society of the -family who had been everything to her all her life. It was hard, that so -soon, before a month of her married life was over, she should have to -choose between the old home and the new, between her parents and her -husband. Arthur had a generous mind, and this perception kept him from -feeling himself the aggrieved person, as he had been half disposed to -do. It forced him, also, instead of wandering about as he had done on -the previous night, and brooding over the difficulties of his new<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_259" id="page_259">{259}</a></span> -position, to go back to his hotel and really write the half imaginary -letters which were his only business, and the reason which he had again -given for his abandonment of that family circle. His letters were not -all imaginary: there was one from Mr. Rolt, the agent, in answer to -Arthur’s letter to his father. Sir John had been too indignant, as well -as perhaps (but this he was not conscious of) too little disposed for -exertion to answer it himself. He had handed over the note, not to the -lawyer brother, against whom Arthur had vowed vengeance, but to the -agent, who had always been a favourite, the friend of their youth, with -the young Curtises, both boy and girl. Mr. Rolt’s letter was very kind -and reasonable, and to answer it without proving himself to be in the -wrong was difficult. Sir John did not object to raising his -allowance—he did not refuse anything Arthur asked him. There was -nothing hard in the stipulations, nothing forbidding in what his -father’s deputy wrote.</p> - -<p>“Your family do not wish you to suffer,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_260" id="page_260">{260}</a></span> how could you think it?—they -do not wish to reduce you from your natural position. Had you treated -them as they might have expected to be treated, my dear Arthur,” wrote -the good man who had known him all his life, “you might, I think, have -reckoned on Sir John’s indulgence to any extent; but you have not put -that trust in your father and mother, though they certainly deserved it -at your hands; and can you wonder if Sir John is angry? He will not -write to you himself, feeling that your letter is not the kind of letter -he ought to have had from you in the circumstances; but he has -instructed me to tell you that your wishes shall be complied with to any -reasonable amount. He does not wish you to suffer in personal comfort in -consequence of the step you have taken.”</p> - -<p>This was the letter which Arthur had to answer. He paused, reflecting on -it, repeating to himself, “does not wish you to suffer in personal -comfort.” Were there other ways which they suspected and calculated upon -in which he might<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_261" id="page_261">{261}</a></span> suffer for his disobedience? He paused to go over all -that had happened within the last three months. Could he have acted -otherwise than he had done? If he had given his confidence to his -parents from the beginning, as they reproached him for not doing, what -would have been the issue? With what eyes would Lady Curtis and Lucy -have looked upon his Nancy, who, for her part, would have defied them? -He shook his head as he sat pondering over the sheet of paper before -him. No! no! had he confided in them things would have been worse, not -better—for anyhow he would have married Nancy, if without their -consent, if against their deliberate judgment, what did it matter? -except that the last would have been the worst. He could fancy how she -would have met their inspection—how she would have repulsed and scorned -them. No—no, he repeated to himself. Better to leave them in ignorance -than to hazard the open quarrels, the inevitable rending asunder that -must have followed. They could not have withdrawn his heart from<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_262" id="page_262">{262}</a></span> Nancy. -No, again no! And the breach would have been more bitter, not less. With -a sigh he decided that, on the whole, he had not chosen the worst way. -He did not say to himself that both were bad enough, but he sighed. -Nancy had left him to go to her family, to be happy in the stuffy little -parlour, where her father drank his rum and water; and he—he sighed, -going no further—for <i>his</i> belongings, for his home, for the natural -occupations of his life. They did not regret their choice either of -them; but yet within the first month of their marriage, this curious -return upon themselves had happened to both. Perhaps this is not so -wonderful even among the happiest as we pretend; for is not the -beginning the hardest, in marriage as in so many other things? Arthur -wrote and posted his letter, feeling himself bound to do so after what -he had said; then went on to fetch his wife from her father’s house. -They were very merry there, he could hear as he passed the lighted -window; and it was more and more curious to him when he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_263" id="page_263">{263}</a></span> went in to find -young Raisins the master of the situation, amusing them all with his -jokes. Arthur, in his time, had never had so much <i>succès</i>. He was -rather glad to see that Nancy was not enjoying the fun like the rest, -but sat a little apart and with a somewhat moody countenance until he -entered, when she flung off her gravity, plunged into the riot that was -going on round the table, where Mr. Raisins was doing tricks with cards, -and laughed and talked with the best. Arthur could not make out whether -this was to show him her superior gaiety and light-heartedness at home, -or whether it was his own presence which brought back her -light-heartedness. And he himself, touched by compunction, did his best -to make himself agreeable, to show that he wished for a good -intelligence between them. He was more successful in this than he had -hoped. Young Raisins’ fine qualities had so charmed and delighted the -house that Arthur too shared the good feeling he had called forth. Mrs. -Bates melted altogether, and spreading out her hands de<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_264" id="page_264">{264}</a></span>clared that -“this <i>was</i> a happy meeting,” and that “parents” had reason to be -satisfied, indeed, when their girls were thus happily settled. “When you -all rally round the ‘old house,’<span class="lftspc">”</span> were the words the gratified mother -used; but unfortunately in the general impulse of emotion that followed, -Arthur could scarcely restrain a slight laugh, which Nancy, who seemed -to be all ear, remarked, though no one else noticed it. Why should he -laugh? He would not have laughed had it been the old house of Oakley, -amid its trees and parks, that was to be rallied round; and why not the -small tenement in East Street, Underhayes? Was it possible that -materialism could go so far as to measure sentiment by the size of the -house? He said this to himself, yet still laughed in his mind, and could -not tell why.</p> - -<p>“I hope you have written your letters,” Nancy said, coldly, as they -walked home.</p> - -<p>“Yes; the one I specially wanted to write is gone. It was an answer to -Mr. Rolt’s which I told you about.”</p> - -<p>“Then you will have no excuse about<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_265" id="page_265">{265}</a></span> writing letters to-mor—I mean -another night. You will not have that reason to give for staying away.”</p> - -<p>“You do not want me to spend every evening at your mother’s, Nancy?”</p> - -<p>“Ah, now it comes out,” she said. “I knew it all along. It was not -letters, but because you wanted to escape from us, from my family, whom -you look down upon. If you despise them, you should never have married -me; for I will stick to them as long as I live.”</p> - -<p>“I am not in the habit of making lying excuses,” said Arthur, as calmly -as he could; “and it is not necessary,” he added after a pause, -controlling the sentiment in his voice, “to despise a family because you -do not wish to be with them every night.”</p> - -<p>“Every night! this is the second night,” cried Nancy in high disdain.</p> - -<p>“Nancy,” said Arthur, “do not let us quarrel. I don’t want to interfere -with your natural affection, but you cannot expect me to feel exactly as -you do. It is not possible! And don’t you think it would be wise to -agree that there are great differ<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_266" id="page_266">{266}</a></span>ences between your family and me? that -we are likely to agree better apart, and that a meeting now and then -would be best, not too often? I don’t want to dictate to you—”</p> - -<p>“No; it would be more wise, as you say, not to try,” said Nancy. “I see -now. This is why you wouldn’t condescend to look at the other house. Ah, -I see! you mean to go away, to leave this place, which is the only place -I can be happy in. This is your plan? Oh, I allow it is a fine plan! but -it will not be so easy to carry out.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t want, I say, to dictate to you. I don’t want you to give up -anything that is important for your happiness. But I have given up my -people for you, Nancy—”</p> - -<p>“Then go back to your people, and have done with it!” cried Nancy, -throwing herself free from his arm, to which she had been clinging, and -pushing him from her. Arthur was so startled to find himself driven to -the edge of the pavement by this energetic impulse, that even the power -of speech seemed taken from him. And what was there to say?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_267" id="page_267">{267}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIII" id="CHAPTER_XIII"></a>CHAPTER XIII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">M</span>R. and Mrs. Arthur Curtis settled down in a day or two into No. 6, Rose -Villas, where Nancy had her two maids to manage, and all that had seemed -to her most delightful and desirable in life. The little drawing-room -was not a particularly genial place in winter weather; the carpet was -covered with a white linen cloth tightly strained, there were white -muslin curtains at the windows, the walls were white and gold, after the -approved fashion of little drawing-rooms in little villas. All this, if -it was very clean-looking, as Nancy said, was chilly in December, and -the little fireplace was so near the long French window, and both were -so near the door, that the room was draughty, and scarcely so<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_268" id="page_268">{268}</a></span> cosy as -might have been desired. There was a piano in it, upon which Nancy could -not play, though she had received lessons on the piano during those five -quarters in which she had been at school; and a work-table, which she -did not employ much for work; but no books, nor any pictures on the -white-and-gold walls. When Arthur had exerted himself in the -re-arrangement of the furniture, which Nancy did not go into with any -enthusiasm—for she was still of opinion that a row of chairs set -against the wall were “in their proper place,” and that to disturb them -was almost an immorality—the discovery that he had nothing to do -pressed with more and more force upon him. What did he want with -anything to do? Nancy thought. Was it not the best thing in the world -not to require to do anything, the true sign of being a gentleman? A -certain scorn of people who worked for their living had taken possession -of Mrs. Arthur Curtis. Why should they give themselves airs when they -were all as one as a bricklayer, working for their bread? But anyone -could<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_269" id="page_269">{269}</a></span> see that Arthur was a gentleman. It is to be hoped that gentlemen -in general were more at their ease under the burden of their gentility -than Arthur. It was not—let no one be deceived—that he wanted to work. -Work when he had read with Mr. Eagles had been extremely irksome to the -young man. It was true he had not remained very long to try it, but he -had not loved his studies, especially under the spur of the sharp and -urgent “coach.” There are other things, however, which young men think -of when they talk of having “something to do,” which do not tell very -much in an industrial point of view. In his natural condition and at -home, Arthur had many occupations. He shot, he hunted, he rode about the -country, he paid visits; he was appealed to by people in trouble; he was -consulted about the affairs of the estate. Sometimes he had to appear on -the hustings in support of his father’s election; he had speeches to -make now and then, and that interest in public business which is -indispensable to one who may sometimes have to take part in it. All this -was at an end now. The calm, not to stay stagnation<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_270" id="page_270">{270}</a></span> of his present -existence dropped over him as the curtain drops in a theatre upon the -animated and busy scene. After the drama is over, or in the moment of -repose between its acts, it is some immoveable representation of life or -scenery, an unchangeable incident or landscape, that closes for us the -brilliant stage upon which human life in all its changeableness and -variety of emotion has been represented. Arthur’s domestic bliss was -like this drop scene. His life was gone from him, with all its hopes and -occupations; he was no longer the young Squire, as potent within his -small territory as any Prince of Wales, no longer the budding magnate of -the county, with responsibilities rising round him, with the covers to -think of (if nothing more), and poachers to take in hand, and public -life to look forward to. All that fuller existence had departed. The -drop scene, representing a white-and-gold bower of bliss, with two -figures seated (before the fire, but that was a matter of detail), all -in all to each other, as romantic people say, had fallen with a -remorseless completeness, hiding everything. He took a long walk<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_271" id="page_271">{271}</a></span> with -his wife every afternoon. Often he went out in the evening to fetch her -from her father’s, or else he had the pleasure of entertaining her -father and mother at home; and he would stroll out on his own account -here and there, in the mornings, while Nancy was pretending to do her -housekeeping, or read the <i>Times</i> languidly in the room appropriated to -him, feeling as if all the busy commotion of the world indicated in it -had gone away to such a distance from him that he could but faintly -apprehend or understand it. The drop scene! To what innocent bosom would -not that picture have commended itself? Two figures, young and fair to -behold, the world forgetting, by the world forgot; living for each -other, all for love, and the world well lost.</p> - -<p>This went on for what was really a long time without disturbance. The -establishment of the Arthur Curtises in Rose Villas gave the little -world of Underhayes many causes of deliberation. Should they call? was a -question hotly discussed. Call? on Bates the tax-collector’s daughter! -Could<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_272" id="page_272">{272}</a></span> anything be more absurd? the elder ladies said. But the younger -ones were interested; who would not be interested in such a romantic -business? and the gentlemen were either sorry for or curious about the -young husband who had thus sacrificed everything to “a pretty face.” For -the girl was just an uneducated girl like any other in her position, -everybody said. There was no innate superiority in Nancy to justify her -elevation, neither had her husband taken pains as even a romantic young -fool, now and then, did, to educate her before making her his wife. Even -now, so far as anyone knew, no attempt was being made to qualify Mrs. -Arthur for her husband’s position in society. They had settled at Rose -Villas, avowedly that she might be near her mother—with whom she was -said to spend half her time; and no judicious governess or master able -to impart instruction in those accomplishments which must have been -wanting in her, was ever seen to enter her gates. Not even trying to -improve her mind! She got the pick of the novels which came<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_273" id="page_273">{273}</a></span> in Mudie’s -box to the local library, in right of an unusually liberal subscription; -but what could novels do for her? Under these circumstances, it became a -doubly difficult question to know what to do. When she came home at -first she had been very well dressed, which had made an impression in -her favour. Her dark blue “silk” had filled the Green with admiration -and envy. “Paris, of course!” the ladies said, who, notwithstanding -their disapproval of such a marriage, were very curious indeed about the -bride; and some added a joke or a sigh at the idea of putting delicate -garments from Paris, not upon such as themselves, who could appreciate -them, but upon Nancy Bates! However, this mingled approbation and -disdain soon came to an end, for it was not long before the dark blue -silk was thrown aside in favour of more showy garments. “If that is all -they can do in Paris!” Sarah Jane had said, at the sight of it, and she -had spent some time at a milliner’s in town and ought to know. Her own -family all thought Nancy’s dresses<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_274" id="page_274">{274}</a></span> dowdy, and ridiculously quiet for a -bride; and the original “silk” which her parents had given her had been -brought to the front again, with others of a similar character.</p> - -<p>“I made myself a dowdy to please Arthur. He likes it,” said Nancy; “but -one can’t go on humouring one’s husband for ever, can one, mamma? One -must think for one’s self sooner or later, and ladies surely know best -about their own dress.”</p> - -<p>Arthur had not attempted any remonstrance, what was the use? And Nancy -had reappeared with a brightness of colour and breadth of ornament, -which pleased her family a great deal better.</p> - -<p>“Now you look something like a newly-married lady, with a husband that -grudges you nothing,” Mrs. Bates said proudly, on that day when the -Green shuddered at Mrs. Arthur’s new costume, and resolved with one -mind, now at least, that nobody could be expected to call. But such -resolutions did not always overcome the stronger inducements of -curiosity, or of that pity and interest which moved some bosoms. Mrs.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_275" id="page_275">{275}</a></span> -Eagles was the first to break the reserve. Her husband insisted upon it, -she said. And she not only called, but asked “the Arthur Curtises” to -dinner. Mrs. Eagles was a mild little woman, as soft-voiced as her -husband was peremptory. She avowed frankly that she had been “very fond” -of Arthur while he lived in her house. “He was so nice, he never would -give any trouble that he could help, so unlike your <i>parvenus</i>; he was -always so ready to do anything for you. Yes, I was very fond of him. The -pupils are not attractive as a rule, but young Mr. Curtis was charming.” -This was what she said to her neighbours when it was known that she had -asked the bride to dinner, the boldest thing that had been done on the -Green for many a day.</p> - -<p>“I hope you found <i>her</i> charming, too,” said the Vicar’s wife, who was -not disposed to compromise her dignity in such a way. Mrs. Eagles took a -little time to answer the question, and cleared her throat.</p> - -<p>“She is—quite unformed—I almost<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_276" id="page_276">{276}</a></span> wonder that associating with a -well-bred man should have had so little effect upon her manners. But -then, she is natural—she has no affectations; that is always -something,” said Mrs. Eagles, which was not the case with the Vicar’s -wife. She did not, however, ask the dignified couple from the vicarage, -but only a humbler newly married curate to meet the young pair, who, for -their part, were thrown into considerable excitement by the invitation. -How Nancy might have taken it on her own account is doubtful; but the -delight of her family had driven all thoughts from her mind but those of -delightful elevation in the world and entrance into society.</p> - -<p>“It’s only a schoolmaster, it is true,” said Mrs. Bates; “no better, -indeed not so good as ourselves, for I never was brought to such a pass -that I had to take in lodgers to interfere with the family. I always was -able to keep ourselves to ourselves, and of course the pupils are all -the same as lodgers; but still you’ll meet the real gentry there, my -pet, and it will be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_277" id="page_277">{277}</a></span> a beginning, and you needn’t be shy with people -like them.” Thus encouraged, Nancy allowed herself to feel that to go -out to a party was pleasant. For she too, though she had the -distractions of her family and her housekeeping, was growing a little -tired perhaps of the drop scene.</p> - -<p>They were all very indignant, however, when Arthur suggested that she -should wear a simple white dress for this first appearance. White, like -an unmarried girl! and as if her husband was not well enough off to -afford her a “silk!” Finally, with great hurry and strain of all their -efforts to get it ready in time, Nancy appeared in light blue, which was -becoming enough, though rather incomplete in those finishing touches -which mark the difference between a home-made garment and one which has -come from the hands of the initiated. As for Arthur he laughed at -himself, not without a little bitterness, as he made his simple toilet. -He was pleased to be asked out to dinner by his former “coach.” It -excited him vaguely, partly with pleasure, partly with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_278" id="page_278">{278}</a></span> anxiety. It was -“revisiting the glimpses of the moon,” for the first time for all these -months; for the slow winter had crept round to March again, and all the -world was stirring into life. To describe the kind of Christmas this -poor young fellow had spent would be too much for ordinary -powers—exiled as he was from everything belonging to himself, and -driven into close, too close encounter with all the jollities of so -different a sphere. He had borne them, and kept them at arm’s length, as -far as he could, and thank heaven, they were over. But the impatience in -his heart grew stronger as the days grew longer, and the world turned to -spring. He was as glad of Mr. Eagles’ invitation as if the “coach” had -been Prime Minister with all manner of advantages to bestow. That -impetuous little personage could not, had he gained first places for all -his pupils in all the examinations under the sun, have put himself in -the same position with the son of such a rural magnate as Sir John -Curtis; but Arthur was as glad of his notice and his wife’s notice, as -if the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_279" id="page_279">{279}</a></span> level of the Bates family had been his own original level. -Nevertheless, there were difficulties in launching Nancy even into this -mild little scholastic world. Arthur did not feel that he could venture -to give her those hints about the manners of ordinary society, which -might have steered her safely through the not appalling dangers of a -dinner party. He did what he could by way of suggestion and supposition, -taking it for granted that she would know; but even that simple mode of -communicating instruction aroused her suspicions. “Oh, you needn’t be -afraid, I know how to behave myself,” she said, with a toss of her head. -How did she know—was it by instinct? instinct is a doubtful guide -through the usages of society; but anyhow, Arthur did not venture to say -any more. When she came downstairs, however, ready to start, with her -blue dress all decorated and looped up with orange-blossoms, Arthur made -a determined stand. He said, “You must take those things off, they are -ridiculous,” with a peremptoriness which she could not resist,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_280" id="page_280">{280}</a></span> saucy as -she was. Arthur at this moment did not seem a person to be trifled with. -“Do you want to make a laughing-stock of your sister?” the young man -said, confounding them all; and the obnoxious decorations were taken off -with a silent speed that was wonderful. It was wonderful, as being -inspired by a mysterious sense of having made a mistake. They had no -idea what the mistake was; and their pride would not permit them to ask -enlightenment; but they felt it the more from its mysterious and unknown -character. When Nancy was ready, and wrapped in the warm white <i>sortie -du bal</i> which they had bought in Paris, the effect of this error was -sufficiently obliterated; and the young husband’s heart swelled with a -little pride when he presented her to the man who had sent him out of -his house because of Nancy. That practical protestation had not done -much more good than all the other efforts which had been made to sever -Arthur from his love; and here she was now, fair and blooming, an -unquestionable fact, which they were<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_281" id="page_281">{281}</a></span> all compelled to recognize. But as -he left her in charge of Mrs. Eagles, and dropped off behind, what -anxiety was in Arthur’s thoughts! It was her first essay in society; -would she take the trouble to please? He stood furtively watching her as -he talked to the Curate, whose wife was also on her trial, but caused -him no such tremour. The Curate’s wife was a small young lady of -ordinary breeding and appearance, not to be compared with Nancy in any -possible respect. But she had been born a clergyman’s, not a -tax-collector’s daughter. She knew the outside of social ways, and how -not to commit herself, which was exactly what Nancy did not know.</p> - -<p>And it must be allowed that, when Arthur saw that only this Curate and -his wife had been invited to meet them, he was wroth with a savage sort -of anger and scornful humiliation. He gave no sign of his feelings; but -he had been accustomed to be somebody wherever he went, and the sense -that he had now dropped into a doubtful position, in which only<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_282" id="page_282">{282}</a></span> the -Curate could be supposed likely to countenance him, gave him a sense of -what had befallen him more sharp and sudden than anything else that had -happened, even than the familiarities of the Bates family. To say that -Nancy was angry too, would be little. Her whole soul rose up in a blaze -of wrath. She had expected to see everything that was fine and famous on -the Green, and to receive, in a way, the homage of the assembled -aristocracy. Nobody with a title lived at Underhayes, and Nancy -considered that she herself had all but a title, and was to be admired -in proportion; yet there was no one here but the little Curate’s wife. -She talked largely to Mr. Eagles during dinner, giving him her opinion -of Society in England.</p> - -<p>“Of course being brought up in a place like this, I have seen but -little; and here not much to speak of,” she said, with a frankness that -prepossessed her host—himself so trenchant and decided at all times.</p> - -<p>“You are right, very right, Mrs. Curtis.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_283" id="page_283">{283}</a></span> The people about here are not -much to speak of. We have to put up with it, for we can get no better. -Retired people are mostly a set of nuisances; having done all the -mischief they can in the world in their own persons, they revile -everybody who is beginning, and put mischief into their heads.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, Dr. Eagles.” He was called Doctor by the common people about, and -he did not like it. “Yes; there never was such a gossiping place, I’ve -heard many people say. They have nothing to do themselves, and they pull -everybody to pieces. I have never gone into it, but I can’t abide that -sort of thing. They are so stuck up; don’t you think they are dreadfully -stuck up? and what is there in them to make them better than their -neighbours? Don’t you think so, Dr. Eagles? I do hate everything like -that,” said Nancy, energetically. “I suppose you did not like to ask -them to meet Arthur and me?”</p> - -<p>“I—I don’t ask anyone,” said Mr. Eagles, taken aback for the moment. -“It is my wife that asks the people.” Then<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_284" id="page_284">{284}</a></span> he began to realize that -getting out of a difficulty by putting it upon his wife, was not a noble -proceeding. “The fact is, I don’t think anyone was asked. We thought, I -suppose, that you didn’t care for it. I don’t myself; I hope Curtis is -not giving up work altogether. He may be tempted to do so, having no -immediate object, but he ought never to interrupt his course of study. -He was getting on very well with me.”</p> - -<p>“What should he go on with his studies for?” said Nancy; “he does not -require it to make a living. He may please himself what he does. Oh, I -shouldn’t like my husband to have to work! When a man is born a -gentleman, Dr. Eagles—”</p> - -<p>“You have been good enough to bestow a degree upon me to which I have no -right,” said Mr. Eagles. “I am simple Mr., like all the rest, though I -am obliged to work for my living, and it would be of use to me. A man -ought to work, however, when he’s young like Curtis. If he doesn’t now, -he will miss it after. I’ve always told him so.”</p> - -<p>“I am sure I don’t think so at all,” said Nancy. “Why should he work? -or<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_285" id="page_285">{285}</a></span> anyone in the position of a gentleman? You know what I mean by a -gentleman. Father is as good as Arthur, or anyone, and he has to work.”</p> - -<p>This mollified Mr. Eagles.</p> - -<p>“I hope we are all gentlemen,” he said, as lightly as was possible for -him, “whether we work or not.”</p> - -<p>“Oh yes, in a kind of a way,” said Nancy, with careless scorn, “in your -manners, and so forth. And clergymen, and teachers, and those sort of -people are called so out of civility; but I never think anybody is a -gentleman that has his own living to make.”</p> - -<p>“I think you are a little hard upon us, Mrs. Curtis,” said the Curate, -with a smile.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I didn’t mean to be hard,” said Nancy. “You are just as good as -anyone else. Those that have plenty to live on are the best off, but I -don’t say that I despise those that have to work. They are good enough -in their way. It isn’t their fault they were born as they are, nor was -it any virtue in my husband to be born Arthur Curtis. He couldn’t help -it, neither can you.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_286" id="page_286">{286}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>Thus Nancy vanquished the adversary at the dinner-table. When the ladies -went back to the drawing-room, which was not till a late hour, for it -took a long time to make Nancy understand Mrs. Eagles’ little nods and -signs from the other end of the table—but when they got upstairs at -last, the Curate’s wife benevolently interfered to set Nancy at her ease -after this mistake.</p> - -<p>“I daresay you have been used to the French way of the men coming -upstairs along with the ladies; and a far better plan it is, I think.”</p> - -<p>Nancy looked coolly at the questioner. She was more comfortable when -Arthur’s eyes were not upon her, watching everything she said and did.</p> - -<p>“I didn’t make any mistake,” she said, “but gentlemen’s conversation is -the best, isn’t it? I wanted to have as much as I could of that. I -didn’t want to be left to women’s society—three petticoats together,” -and she laughed with insolent meaning. Nancy had read a great many -novels, and she knew that these were the sentiments generally attributed -to a heroine, and she was determined that there<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_287" id="page_287">{287}</a></span> should be nothing in -her mind which she would not have the courage to say.</p> - -<p>“I hope we shall not be so very tiresome to you,” said Mrs. Eagles, with -an involuntary glance at the other. “We hear you have been in Paris, -Mrs. Curtis. You must have enjoyed that. It is always so bright and -gay.”</p> - -<p>“I did not think it was gay at all,” said Nancy, “a very stupid place. -Everybody talked so queerly, not at all like the French one learns at -school; and they have such queer dishes, and altogether they are so -queer. Have you been in Paris? I did not find it at all gay.”</p> - -<p>“There are so many things to see,” Mrs. Eagles suggested.</p> - -<p>“Oh, what sort of things to see! Places where things have happened that -nobody knows anything about, or if one ever heard of them one has -forgotten. I don’t call that amusing,” said Nancy. “There are very -handsome shops, but I did not care much for French taste, do you? they -are so fond of dingy colours; nothing clean-looking nor bright. I was so -glad to get back to England.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_288" id="page_288">{288}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“So was I,” said the Curate’s wife, “when we were abroad; but I thought -it all so interesting. I did enjoy it when we were there. The very names -of the places that one had read about in history!”</p> - -<p>“I never read history,” said Nancy, carelessly. “I like to see things -happening now; and nothing seemed to happen, but just hearing about old -dusty rubbish. Oh, yes, the streets were nice. Arthur says that in -summer there are races, and amusements, and concerts out of doors, and -all that sort of thing, but it was too cold when we were there. I went -to hear the men speaking in Parliament, but it was dull; what is the -good of listening to long speeches? One of Arthur’s friends took us—Sir -John Denham—you may have heard of him. He was always offering us boxes -for the theatre, but that was dull too.”</p> - -<p>“I am afraid you were difficult to please,” said Mrs. Eagles; but the -Curate’s wife began to listen with a certain interest. It is always -pleasant to hear familiarly about the Sir Johns of this world.</p> - -<p>“Yes, they all said I was difficult to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_289" id="page_289">{289}</a></span> please,” said Nancy, sweeping -out of the chair she had just chosen, and nearly knocking down a small -table on which stood a lamp. “Did you get your furniture from town, Mrs -Eagles? Did you have one of the tip-top upholsterers to do it, or did -you pick up things cheap?”</p> - -<p>“I am afraid we tried as much as we could to pick up things cheap,” said -Mrs. Eagles, restraining the inclination to laugh which was gaining upon -her. The other young woman was listening anxiously, seeing no fun in it, -and their entertainer thought she liked Mrs. Arthur best.</p> - -<p>“I thought so,” said Nancy, calmly, fixing her eyes upon an Italian -cabinet which was the pride of the house, “but I should just put my -house into the hands of some tip-top man. I don’t like making up with -part old and part new. I shall have everything of the best and the -newest fashion,” she said, looking round with a delightful glow of -complaisant superiority. But then she was Sir John Curtis’s -daughter-in-law, and Mrs. Eagles was but a schoolmaster’s wife.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_290" id="page_290">{290}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIV" id="CHAPTER_XIV"></a>CHAPTER XIV.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">“P</span>ARTY! it was no party at all!” said Nancy, “I have just been giving -Arthur a piece of my mind. If he thinks I am going to take the trouble -to have a dress made, and go out among folks I don’t know, to meet the -Curate and his wife! why, we are just as good as they are! or rather, I -should say, a deal better.” She was sitting over the fire next morning, -by no means pleased with her entertainment. Now, indeed, was the time -when she felt it most—for it had been sweet to think of dazzling her -mother and sisters with an account of the grand ladies of the Green; and -there was nothing now to comment upon, save poor little Mrs. Curate in -her muslin frock! Arthur was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_291" id="page_291">{291}</a></span> in the room behind, shut off with folding -doors from this; and she spoke loud that he might have the benefit of -her remarks.</p> - -<p>“The Curate!” said Mrs. Bates, “my dear, it’s no compliment, it’s an -insult to ask you; as if you are not good enough to meet the best.”</p> - -<p>“That is just what I said. I tell Arthur, if he were to stick up for me -as he ought, nobody would dare to treat me like that. I consider,” said -Nancy, “that we paid those Eagles a great compliment going; and to meet -the Curate! as if we were not good enough to sit down with the finest -folks in this wretched little hole of a place.”</p> - -<p>“The Curate is a very nice young man,” said Sarah Jane. “I should not -mind him a bit. <i>I</i> call him handsome; but then he’s married,” she added -with lessened satisfaction. “And so are you married, so it comes to the -same thing. I dare say they thought as you were both young couples—”</p> - -<p>“I wish you would think a little what you’re saying,” said Nancy. “Me! -and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_292" id="page_292">{292}</a></span> her! a bit of a girl in white muslin! with a hundred and fifty a -year, at the outside, to live on; and obliged to work hard among the -poor, as hard as if she was a curate too—and me!”</p> - -<p>“Yes, indeed, there is no comparison,” said Mrs. Bates. “For shame, -Sarah Jane! But, Nancy, you mustn’t forget that your sister has chosen -her lot very different. John Raisins is an excellent young man; but he -can’t open the doors of high life to her, as Arthur can open them to -you. And it’s best that she should make up her mind to what she can -have—not hanker after what she can’t. It’s very different, my darling -child, with you.”</p> - -<p>“I am sure I don’t know if it’s different,” said Nancy. “He hasn’t -opened many doors to me yet, and I think he’d shut your door if he -could, which is the only one that’s left. Oh, why do girls marry? they -are a deal better, if they could only think it, at home.” And with this -Nancy began to cry.</p> - -<p>Arthur heard everything in the next<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_293" id="page_293">{293}</a></span> room. He had himself felt the -change in his position sorely on the previous night; and Mr. Eagles’ -sharp, yet somewhat mournful adjurations to him not to lose his time, to -go on with his work, to do something, had intensified the effect. He had -come upstairs early enough to hear the style of Nancy’s conversation -with the two ladies, and this also had touched him deeply. What is more -painful than to see those whom we love giving what, to our eyes, is a -false representation of themselves to the outside world, which does not -know them? Arthur felt this tingle to his very finger-points—a painful -shame; her foolish rudeness, and the wrong which she did herself by this -misrepresentation had made him miserable. If they could but see her as -he knew her—as she was on other occasions? This, he said to himself, -was not Nancy; it was a foolish braggart of the village, the type of the -Bates family, not his wife, who was as much above the Bates in fine -taste and perception as she was in beauty. To be sure, her taste had not -lately told<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_294" id="page_294">{294}</a></span> for very much. But that had been the influence of the -uncomfortable position in which she had felt herself, or of her -connections, whom she had so unfortunately insisted on coming back to. -The pain had been exquisite with which Arthur watched his bride through -this first appearance in society. It brought back to him the feelings -which he had tried to forget, with which he had come in upon the violent -termination of her interview with Mrs. Anthony Curtis. Was there nothing -he could do, or say, which would persuade her that this was not the way -to meet strangers who might turn out to be friends? He was sitting -unhappy enough over his fire, having taken out a book or two, which lay -on the table beside the “Times,” the usual occupation of his aimless -morning. He had been trying to “read” as Mr. Eagles understood reading; -but what were Demosthenes and Cicero to him? He could not go back now, -and toil over the intricacies of language and argument which wanted all -his attention ceaselessly, with happy<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_295" id="page_295">{295}</a></span> ease of mind, not with painful -pre-occupation of it, as he had pursued those studies in their earlier -stages. He had never been a hard student, and why should he read now? -What good would it do him? Would all the reading in the world, or his -degree, when he had taken it, restore him to the world in which his wife -could not accompany him, and would not try to accompany him, and where -he could not go without her? He had been sitting dreamily over the fire, -thinking it all over. The vague plan in his mind had been when Nancy was -a little better prepared for it, a little more likely to incline in her -own mind towards it, and willing to try to make the experiment -successful, to take her home and present her to his father and mother, -hoping that the surprise and the pleasure of his own return might -procure them a welcome; this is what he had thought of even when he had -written formal letters to Sir John, and those brief notes to Lucy or his -mother, in which there was no reference to Nancy. When he could get her -guided to that point<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_296" id="page_296">{296}</a></span>—when he could feel that she could bear the trial, -then to go. It had been his hope all through, a something vaguely looked -forward to, though never brought down to any settled moment of time. -But, alas! it had receded before him point by point. Nancy was not -willing to do anything to please. She was of opinion that by herself, -without any effort, she ought to rule easily over a subject world. She -felt herself—not as he did, to be upon the painful threshold of an -unexplored country, full of perils, in which all her efforts were needed -to find herself a place—but rather to have conquered all that could be -put in her way and attained every object—with the exception of the -homage of those “stuck up” and disagreeable people, who were envious of -her, and therefore would not pay her the attention to which she had a -right, and whom Nancy would scorn to do anything to conciliate. What a -difference between their points of view! And he who ought to have been -the strongest, who was infinitely better educated, and more reasonable -than Nancy, he was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_297" id="page_297">{297}</a></span> powerless to convey any other conviction to her -mind; although she succeeded in agitating his with all sorts of tumults, -with shame that she should show her worse qualities, and earn the -disapproval she incurred—yet with hot resentment towards those who -disapproved of her. Such sentiments are not unusual in human bosoms. -Husbands feel so for their wives, and wives for their husbands, and -parents for their children. Why will they show themselves at their worst -to make strangers laugh, or wonder, or despise; and at the same time, -how do they dare, these strangers, to despise, or laugh, or wonder? A -more painful conflict of feeling cannot be.</p> - -<p>This was what Arthur was thinking, sitting drearily, not among the ruins -of his domestic happiness, but before the sunny, common-place, too -trimly new and flimsy altar of those capricious deities who rule the -hearth. He had not yet been six months married: but how the bloom had -gone off all his hopes, and with how little confidence he regarded the -future, which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_298" id="page_298">{298}</a></span> once had seemed to him so bright! And as he sat there, -with his books thrown down at his elbow, and the “Times” thrust away -from him upon the table, with a sort of loathing in his mind both of the -studies which could now, he thought, do him no good if he returned to -them, and of the public life, once certain, which now seemed to have -become impossible and undesirable, he heard Mrs. Bates and Sarah Jane -come in and the conversation that followed. Even now Arthur had sense -enough (and it was creditable to him) to throw himself into no vulgar -vituperation of his mother-in-law. The woman was well enough; she was -kind, and almost fierce in independence, taking nothing from him, giving -not receiving hospitality, and in no way disposed to encourage his wife -in anything disagreeable to him. It was not Mrs. Bates that was in -fault, but Nancy herself—she who had seemed to him such a lily of grace -and sweetness among all these common-place people. She was so still, he -believed; she was not like them, who were natural to their sphere, and -suggested<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_299" id="page_299">{299}</a></span> nothing better. He was faithful notwithstanding all -imperfections to his first ideal of her; but her words thrilled through -and through him, scarring him as with burning arrows. “He had not opened -any doors to her. Oh, why did girls marry!” was this what his wife asked -after five months of marriage with him? Arthur’s veins seemed to fill -full as if some essence of pain had been poured into them. He darted up -overcome by sharp misery and shame, and a passionate resentment which he -could not restrain. It took him but a moment to throw open the folding -doors. If one minute more had elapsed, it would have brought a second -thought, but there was no interval in which this was possible. He threw -open the door and stood looking at her, for the moment too tremulous and -agitated to speak. She had put shame upon him before those women who -were the only visitors she cared for. When she saw him, Nancy jumped up -too and confronted him.</p> - -<p>“Well?” she said, loudly, with a sharp and tremulous voice of -interrogation. What had he to say for himself? She had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_300" id="page_300">{300}</a></span> said nothing -which she was not ready to stand to, which she would not defend with all -her powers. No one had ever known Nancy to flinch. However hot and hasty -had been her assertions, however lightly said, she had always stood up -for them; and to such a palpable challenge and trumpet call to conflict, -it was not likely she would give in now.</p> - -<p>He stood and looked at her for a moment almost wavering. It was not the -first time she had said such things, why should he resent it so much -more than usual?</p> - -<p>“Did you mean that?” he said. “Do you really think that I have closed -doors but opened none, and that girls would not marry if they knew—”</p> - -<p>“I said it, therefore I must have meant it,” cried Nancy, with a flush -of angry red. “If you sit and listen to what women are saying! But I -never say anything I will not stand to. Yes: what door have you opened -to me, Arthur? it was mother’s words first. Not your father and -mother’s, which was the first to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_301" id="page_301">{301}</a></span> be thought of, nor any of your -friends’; but mother’s has always been open to you.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, hush, hush!” cried Mrs. Bates. “Oh, children, you don’t know what -you’re doing. Why should you quarrel? Nancy, hold your tongue—you’ll be -sorry after that you ever said a word.”</p> - -<p>“Not I!” cried Nancy. “I am not one to bottle things up. I’ll say it out -plain before you both, and you can be my witness, mother. When I knew -Arthur first, I never thought what he was. Gentleman or poor man it was -all one to me. He was my fancy, and that was all I thought of. When that -man came, that Durant, then I began to see what I was bringing on me; -but it was too late to draw back. And I said to myself, I’d let him see -it wasn’t his money I wanted, and that I’d never kootoo to one of his -grand friends. And I never have,” she cried, with angry energy, “and I -never will. You’ve opened no doors to me—nor I don’t want you to; but -you shan’t think that it’s been a grand thing for me to marry you, -neither you nor anyone belong<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_302" id="page_302">{302}</a></span>ing to you. It hasn’t. You’d separate me -from my own people if you could, and you don’t give me any other; and I -say again, if girls only knew—”</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Bates,” said Arthur, with trembling lips. “I do not think I have -tried to separate your daughter from you. I may defend myself so far as -this; and I had hoped that some time or other she would have gone with -me to knock at that door which you upbraid me with not having opened. -But what am I to do if, as she tells you, she never will? she never has -shown the slightest inclination to do so, that is the truth indeed.”</p> - -<p>“It was them that should have come to her—that’s what she thinks,” said -Mrs. Bates, “and she’s hot-tempered. You know she’s hot-tempered. She -don’t mean half of what she says. Oh, don’t now, don’t quarrel, -children!” cried the mother. In the <i>mêlée</i> Sarah Jane thought she might -as well take a part too.</p> - -<p>“I don’t wonder that Nancy was affronted. That stuck up Miss Curtis -coming with her ‘dear Arthur’s,’ and her ‘dear brother’s,’ and taking no -notice, no more<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_303" id="page_303">{303}</a></span> than if we were cabbages, of us; but as for Nancy not -thinking of who he was, and that it was a grand marriage, oh, didn’t she -just! You may tell that to those that will believe it, you had better -not tell it to me.”</p> - -<p>“You nasty, spiteful, tale-telling disagreeable thing!” cried Nancy, -furious, turning upon her sister, who laughed in her face, and ran round -in fright, which was half real, half pretended, to the other side of the -round table. Arthur stood aghast while this playful episode, so much out -of keeping with his feelings, went on. It was out of keeping to Nancy -too. No smile came upon her face. “I thought it was a great marriage I -was making, if you please,” she said, after she too had paused with the -sense of a crisis, and stared at her sister’s pretended sportiveness. No -smile relaxed the lips of either of the contending pair. “I thought so, -you may say it. I thought I should be a lady, and mix with the best in -the land; what’s come of it? Have I ever set foot among the folks you -belong to, or their<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_304" id="page_304">{304}</a></span> kind? No, I said the truth, there’s no door been -open to me—the other way! You would shut mother’s door upon me if you -could, you would keep me away from my own folks—the only friends I -have. But you’ll never do it, Arthur, you may as well give it up at -once. I’ll stick to them that’s good to me, and I won’t stir a step to -court your people, nor to curry favour—no, not if you would ask me on -your knees. I wrote to my lady, because I promised, but my lady wouldn’t -make much of my letter; and never will I make myself so cheap again, -never if I should live hundreds of years.”</p> - -<p>“Nancy, Nancy, my child!” cried her mother, “you must not make rash -vows. You don’t know what you’ll do till the time comes. She’s -hot-tempered. That’s all about. And if Arthur will say he is sorry—”</p> - -<p>“What shall I say I am sorry for, Mrs. Bates?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, now this is too bad. Don’t you see it will please her? She always -was a bit unreasonable and high-tempered. You<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_305" id="page_305">{305}</a></span> can’t help your temper, -it’s a thing that’s born with you. Say you’re sorry, and smooth her down -a little, and she’ll soon come round and promise anything you like. I -know my Nancy. She is hot-headed, and she’s contrairy, but her heart’s -in the right place,” said the mother. Mrs. Bates was frightened by the -contraction in Arthur’s face.</p> - -<p>“I have nothing to be sorry for,” he said. “I have made no accusations -against anyone; but I cannot always give in. I have come here to please -her, and she is not pleased. Let us go away. Let Nancy second me in my -attempt to get back into a natural life. It is not natural that I should -be cooped up here, doing nothing, wasting my time. I must get out of it -somehow. Either you will go with me, Nancy, or I must go alone. I cannot -go on in this way any longer.”</p> - -<p>“You shan’t then!” she cried, with redoubled heat. “Go—wherever you -like for me. Oh, yes, go back to your family that you’re so fond of. You -and your friends do nothing but despise me, even a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_306" id="page_306">{306}</a></span> bit of a -schoolmaster’s wife! Don’t hold me, don’t keep me back, mamma. I’ll not -be left, whatever happens; it’s me that will go, and he can do what he -pleases. Don’t I tell you! Nobody shall hold me, nobody shall keep me in -one place rather than another against my will. But I shan’t stay to be -forsaken. Oh, don’t think it, Arthur! It’s me that will go.”</p> - -<p>“I have said nothing about forsaking you,” he said; but he was wearied -out with such struggles, and he made no appeal to her to stay. This -decided Nancy. She rushed impetuously from the room, leaving them all -staring at each other, without giving a word of explanation. Mrs. Bates, -whose face was somewhat blank, called to Sarah Jane to follow her -sister, and herself turned to Arthur with an attempt at a smile.</p> - -<p>“It will soon be over now,” she said. “You mustn’t be hard upon her, -Arthur. For all we know, there may be something working with her that -she can’t resist. Young women have queer ways, and you can’t tell what’s -the cause of it till after.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_307" id="page_307">{307}</a></span> Don’t you mind; go back to your books, -there’s a dear, and take no notice. She’ll have a good cry, and she’ll -come to herself, and you mustn’t mind.”</p> - -<p>It was not this address that quieted him; but what could he do? The -position was so impossible that he was glad to withdraw from it. It was -worse than ever, now that one of these altercations had taken place -before witnesses; he went back sadly to his fire and sat down again, -blaming himself for the exasperation which had made him speak. Probably -Mrs. Bates was right, and it was all over. She might come downstairs, -looking as if nothing had happened, or she might come down penitent, as -she sometimes did; and this got the better of him at once. But anyhow, -he would not insist upon continuing the altercation, he was too glad -that it was over. He sat down, sighing, and drearily drew towards him -the Demosthenes that lay on the table. How unimportant all that dead -eloquence was, side by side with living passion! The petty stir of -domestic dissensions was too near to let him hear<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_308" id="page_308">{308}</a></span> the ring of the old -disputations, the flow and flood of the old eloquence. Nancy’s voice, in -all the warmth of passion, rang more clear on the ear than the greatest -of orators. He sat with his nerves all thrilling, and his mind vainly -striving to get a little instruction through his eyes. Those eyes read -easily enough, hot though they were with the strain they had been -subjected to, but the mind received no impression. It was more busy in -his ears, listening to what was going on. He heard the hasty sound of -Nancy’s footstep upstairs; then he heard her come down, and there were -voices in the little hall, confused and undertoned, one voice mingling -with another; and then there was the sound of the hall-door closing. He -sat after this with a strange sensation, as if that sound of the door -had jarred him in every limb. He did not seem able to move to see what -it was. But the stillness that fell upon the little house was ominous. -Instead of the excited voices which had been audible a little while ago, -filling the place with contention, what a strange deadly<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_309" id="page_309">{309}</a></span> sort of quiet! -Arthur was wearied out. So many vicissitudes of feeling had not occurred -in all his previous life as had come to him within these five months -past. Happiness, delight, disappointment, vexation, irritated nerves, -wounded affection, mortified pride, and that combination of impassioned -love and disenchanted vision which is of all things in the world the -hardest to bear. How different, how different from his anticipations! -How lightly the lovers’ quarrels had gone off, quenched in tears and -smiles, and mutual confessions and warmer fondness. “The falling out of -faithful friends renewing is of love.” But then that must not go too -far, or continue too long, and the shiver of hot shame which she had -brought over him so often, the uncertainty as to how she would acquit -herself which was always present, the passionate mortification with -which he had seen other people’s smiles, or heard other people’s -comments, all these were very different from the lovers’ quarrels. He -held his Demosthenes steadily in his hand, and attempted to read. How -far off it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_310" id="page_310">{310}</a></span> was! and the other so near; and of all the things that can -occupy a man’s ear, what is so absorbing as the dead silence of vacancy -after a struggle which has threatened everything, and had ended -in—what? Nothing, silence, vacancy, probably bringing no consequence at -all.</p> - -<p>Nancy did not come in at the hour of luncheon. He waited for her, -refusing that refreshment until it was clear she did not mean to come -back. Then he swallowed a glass of wine hastily, and prepared in his -turn to go out—not to seek her. He was resolved that this time, at -least, she should be left in tranquillity, left to do what pleased her -best. He had just gone into the hall to get his hat when some one came -to the door. How his heart jumped! and how sick it grew again when it -turned out to be only Mr. Eagles, who had come to make a serious -remonstrance.</p> - -<p>“You oughtn’t to lose your time,” the “coach” said, bending his brows. -“If you can’t do anything better, you should come back to me. The old -set are still hard at work, and there are two or three new men<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_311" id="page_311">{311}</a></span> that -will make their mark. It can’t be lively here, doing nothing. Why, -you’ve nothing to do, not even fishing or football, eh? I never hear of -you playing football. What do you do?”</p> - -<p>“Nothing,” said Arthur; “and I can’t say I like it; but what’s the good? -I am too old for football and that sort of thing.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, four-and-twenty, that’s a great age; but I know what you mean. -Married! there’s the rub—feel yourself too grand for it. But look here, -Curtis. A man can’t live with nothing to do.”</p> - -<p>“The wonder to me is how long a man can live with nothing to do,” said -Arthur. “But as I say, what’s the good? I’m too old now to care about my -degree. What does it matter, one way or the other? I have got beyond -that stage.”</p> - -<p>“Married, again!” said Mr. Eagles; “that is what drives me wild—not the -fact, which is harmless enough; but Lord, how grand you all think -yourselves! However, it don’t last. You can’t feed upon strawberries and -cream all your lives, my dear fellow. You must buckle to at some<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_312" id="page_312">{312}</a></span>thing, -or you will be nobody. I don’t like anyone who has passed through my -hands, to be nobody. You had better read, Curtis, you had better read.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Arthur, vaguely.</p> - -<p>He was quite willing to pledge himself to anything so long as Mr. Eagles -would but go away, and leave him to listen and make sure if anyone came: -or get out into the air and distract his mind from listening. One or the -other, he felt, he must do.</p> - -<p>“The best thing will be to come back to me,” said Mr. Eagles; “at least -you won’t lose your time completely, and you’ll find it a relief. Too -many sweets will pall upon you; take them in measure and they are -delightful enough. Come, Curtis, I make you an offer I needn’t say, for -you know, that I don’t require to go hunting for pupils; but, my good -fellow, for your own sake you had better come back.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Arthur, with a sudden lightening and ease which diffused -itself all over him. There was another sound at the door; and this time -it must, there<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_313" id="page_313">{313}</a></span> could be no doubt, be Nancy. This relief made it -possible for him to listen. His countenance cleared. He had not really -known what his fears were, but he felt the vague greatness of them in -this sense of immediate ease and relief.</p> - -<p>But all the blood rushed to his head again, and the pulses began to beat -in his brow when the door opened, and not Nancy appeared, but the maid, -showing in the unexpected, and in the circumstances, alarming figure of -Durant.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_314" id="page_314">{314}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XV" id="CHAPTER_XV"></a>CHAPTER XV.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">“T</span>HERE is something wrong at home!”</p> - -<p>This most natural of all the ideas with which foreboding human nature -sees a sudden arrival, sprang to Arthur’s lips almost in spite of -himself. He was already so torn by anxiety and alarm that it seemed -perfectly appropriate that other griefs should come to distract him, and -he scarcely understood the eager “No” with which Durant replied. It was -not till they were seated together, one at each side of the fire—Mr. -Eagles having taken his departure—that Arthur realized that the burning -confusion and pain in his head arose from the fact that his wife had -gone out in a fit of passion a few hours ago and had not yet come back, -not so very serious a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_315" id="page_315">{315}</a></span> matter—and was not owing to any suddenly heard -of calamity, at home.</p> - -<p>“No, things are all well, but I have something to say to you, Arthur,” -said Durant. And he began a long commission, which Arthur heard vaguely -and did not understand. It was to the effect that the post of attaché to -a foreign embassy which the young man had wished for, was open to him, -and this was coupled with overtures from the parents whose hearts were -yearning over Arthur. Probably there is after all nothing so well -calculated as long silence to wear out the indignation and resentment of -fathers and mothers. However hot these may be at first, the blank misery -of knowing nothing about a child beloved, damps and quenches the ardour -of offence, and in a great many cases the cruel son or daughter has his -or her will out of the sheer intolerableness of this break, and anxiety -of the tender hearts on whom this unfeeling passiveness tells more -severely than any more actively offensive treatment. This had been -working for all these months at Oakley. Hearing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_316" id="page_316">{316}</a></span> nothing! it was almost -worse than death, of which this miserable certainty that we shall hear -no more of those we have lost, is the greatest bitterness—tempered, -however, with the counterbalancing certainty which alone makes us -capable of bearing it, that human events are over to them, and that none -of the calamities with which we are familiar can happen to those who are -beyond the veil. But the Curtises knew that anything or everything might -be happening to Arthur, while they had no news of him, and were as -ignorant of all his ways as if he had been dead. And when the -information came of this vacancy which he had desired so much, the -opportunity was not to be resisted. They had said nothing about it to -each other for twenty-four hours, and then had burst forth the universal -feeling. Let him accept this, and let him come home and bring his wife, -if no better might be. She had been insolent, what did it matter? She -was the price that must be paid for Arthur; and the moment it became -possible to have Arthur, they all felt that they were too<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_317" id="page_317">{317}</a></span> ready to pay -any price. Lady Curtis had telegraphed for Durant when the general -conviction burst forth, and the household at Oakley were now full of -excitement, already beginning to prepare rooms for Arthur and his wife, -and forgetting all other feelings in the pleasure of seeing their boy -again. Durant had lost no time. He was too faithful a friend to consider -that Arthur had all but repulsed his friendly offices after the -marriage, and that not a word of recollection had reached him from -Underhayes during the entire winter. He went down to Oakley at once to -receive his commission, and here he was with full credentials. The -father and mother made no conditions. If Arthur accepted this -appointment, which was the best thing he could do, let him come home and -bring his wife. That was all. And it may be supposed that Durant, -feeling himself the bearer of proposals both generous and tender, was -startled and affronted by the confused and pre-occupied way in which -Arthur seemed to listen, not understanding him, starting at every sound<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_318" id="page_318">{318}</a></span> -outside, continually disturbed, and with a look of nervous agitation -which had evidently nothing to do with the question in hand.</p> - -<p>“Do you not understand me?” he cried at last, indignant: and then the -rising excitement in Arthur’s mind burst forth.</p> - -<p>“Durant, my wife has gone away to her mother’s. I—I can’t answer all at -once.”</p> - -<p>“What do you mean, Arthur? How disturbed you look! Has anything -happened?” cried Durant. Arthur made an effort to recover himself. He -laughed tremulously.</p> - -<p>“You know me, Lewis,” he said, “I am a—nervous sort of fellow, though I -don’t look it perhaps.”</p> - -<p>“I know. There <i>is</i> something the matter, Arthur. What is it? Is your -wife ill? What has happened?”</p> - -<p>“Well—nothing has happened. I have been living rather a solitary life, -and one gets irritable—and easily put out.”</p> - -<p>“You have had a—difficulty, as the Americans call it—a lover’s -quarrel,” said<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_319" id="page_319">{319}</a></span> Durant, with a laugh, which was far from according with -his feelings.</p> - -<p>“That is just it. No, not a lover’s quarrel, but a difficulty. We see -things from different points of view; and I don’t know how she will like -this, I must wait. I cannot decide until I know.”</p> - -<p>“Arthur, it is all very well, all very right to consult your wife; but -you can’t think of neglecting such an opportunity. It is altogether -unconditional. They will receive her, as if she were a Duke’s daughter; -you know, when once they have made up their minds to it, there will be -no stint, she will have no reason to complain of her reception.”</p> - -<p>Arthur’s head was turned to the door.</p> - -<p>“You will think me silly,” he said; “a fool! but I cannot help it. One -thing I will tell you, Durant; I will go to Vienna. I don’t think it’s -too late; five months is not long enough at my age to put a man out -altogether, is it? But as for Nancy, I can’t answer. If she will go with -me home, if she will go with me to Vienna, I can’t tell you. We must see -her first. She is at her mother’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_320" id="page_320">{320}</a></span>—”</p> - -<p>“You don’t mean to say that she has left you, Arthur?”</p> - -<p>“Oh no, no,” he said; “that is rather too absurd, the most ridiculous -idea. Come along, Durant, let us get out and stretch our legs. I have -not had a real walk for ages. Of course, as it’s Saturday you are going -to stay till Monday? That is right, that is a true pleasure. She is -at—her mother’s,” he added, changing the subject abruptly, and dropping -his voice.</p> - -<p>What did it mean? Durant could not tell. He had not disliked Nancy; -though she had defied him too, it had been done in a way which did not -offend the young man. He had admired her, even when she attacked himself -personally; and he had been inclined to think as Arthur did, that she -was a lily among those weeds. He had not been surprised at his friend’s -infatuation. He had thought her a beautiful high-spirited girl, full of -a generous if over vehement disdain for the conventional judgment that -made her appear an unfit wife for a man of worldly position superior to -her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_321" id="page_321">{321}</a></span> own. Her threat to give up her lover, and her counter decision to -marry him disinherited, in order to show his friends how little she -cared about his money, were fresh in his mind. And he had liked Nancy; -though he had been formally on the other side as Lady Curtis’s agent, he -had never really been unfriendly; he remembered well his old -difficulties when he had tried to persuade Arthur to relinquish his -faith to this girl who trusted in him, and with what a sense of relief -he had found that all his arguments were vain, and Arthur’s honour and -love invulnerable. He was mystified and perplexed, as well as grieved, -by Arthur’s painful pre-occupation now, not knowing what could have -happened. They went out in the teeth of the March wind, which blew sharp -and keen along the suburban roads.</p> - -<p>“I have not had anything to call a walk for weeks,” Arthur said, with a -feverish look of eagerness, as they reached the fresh breadth of the -common, with the green fields and country paths beyond. The hedgerows -were bristling with buds,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_322" id="page_322">{322}</a></span> the skies softly blue, where they could be -seen through the masses of cloud that swept across the great vault -overhead. The young man sped along like a loosened greyhound, and his -friend, fresh from the confinement of town, had hard ado to follow him. -He talked little as he went along. Was he walking so fast to escape some -care that weighed upon him? If it was not for that there was no other -motive, for the walk was without any object. Now and then he would break -forth for a moment about this prospect which Durant had come to offer -him. “It would be the best thing,” he would say, “far the best thing. I -must get rid of this one way or other.” Then he would be silent, and -after a mile or so say to himself again, “Yes, <i>this</i> will not do—I -must go, it is plain. Going may be salvation.” Durant did not know what -irrepressible cares were plucking at his friend’s skirts and compelling -him to these resolutions; and he himself talked calmly of Oakley, of the -desires of the family there, and the haste they were in to send him off -upon his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_323" id="page_323">{323}</a></span> mission, and all the anticipations of Arthur’s return which -they had already begun to entertain. At this Arthur did nothing but -shake his head, “Will <i>she</i> consent?” he said once. Would Nancy consent? -was that what he meant? Consent! what excuse could she have not to -consent? They walked far, at a great pace, and Durant was almost worn -out. He lagged behind his friend as he approached the house. It was -still all dark, one faint gleam of firelight in the drawing-room -contending feebly with the grey of the twilight, no one at the window -looking out for them, no lamp lighted. “Has Mrs. Curtis returned?” -Arthur asked of the maid, as they went on, and was answered No. They -went into her part of the house, the white little drawing-room, where -indeed there were no pretty signs of Nancy’s presence, no work or books -to mar the trimness of the place, but all the chairs set against the -wall, and the fire flickering dimly in the grate. And the dinner hour -came without any appearance of Nancy. Arthur got more and more agitated -as the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_324" id="page_324">{324}</a></span> time went on—and Durant more and more surprised.</p> - -<p>“Is your wife dining out?” he said, when he found they were about to sit -down at the table without her. Arthur made no distinct answer; he said -after a while, as if he had then heard the question for the first -time—“She is at her mother’s.” He did not change his dress before -dinner, or show any recollection of the need of such preliminaries, but -sat over the fire, vaguely replying now and then when his friend spoke -to him, and starting at every sound.</p> - -<p>“Shall you not wait for Mrs. Curtis?” Durant said, as Arthur took him -into the little dining-room.</p> - -<p>“She is at her mother’s,” was all Arthur replied. Altogether it was very -mysterious, and Durant could not but feel that there was mischief in the -air.</p> - -<p>At last when the clock had struck ten, and there was no appearance of -Nancy, Arthur sprang to his feet. “I must go and fetch her,” he said, -“this will never do—this will never do!” Durant took his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_325" id="page_325">{325}</a></span> hat -mechanically also, and they walked out without another word into the -windy night. The sky looked widened and enlarged by the boisterous -breeze which drove mass after mass of clouds across the blue, and across -the face of the waning moon, which shone out at intervals only to be -swallowed up again by those floating vapours. There was a certain hurry, -and coldness, and agitation in the night. The way from Rose Villas into -the lighted street of Underhayes was dark, and the alternations of gloom -and light in the sky made the vision uncertain. Durant could see how -anxiously his friend peered at all the figures they met on the darkling -road; but Nancy was not on her way home. They went on in silence to the -street which Durant remembered perfectly, and to the door, at which -Arthur left him standing as he went in. He had stood there before, and -heard the voices in the parlour when he came here first in search of -Arthur; how strange to come here now in search of Arthur’s runaway wife! -for this was what it seemed to be now. He could<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_326" id="page_326">{326}</a></span> hear the silence which -followed Arthur’s entrance—a pause which was impressive from the -confusion of voices that had been audible before. “I have come for -Nancy,” he heard him say.</p> - -<p>Arthur had gone in without any question. He had left his friend at the -door, neither thinking nor caring that some revelation might be made -which it was better Durant should not hear. He steadied his own -countenance not to look angry or anxious. “Are you ready?” he said, -addressing his wife, “I did not think you meant to stay so long.”</p> - -<p>“You have not given yourself much trouble to look after me,” said Nancy. -“No, I am not ready. I don’t mean to go.”</p> - -<p>“What does she mean?” he said with a tremble in his voice, turning to -Mrs. Bates.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Arthur, I don’t know what she means. She is as hot-tempered and as -contrary as possible. She takes up things quite wrong. You never meant -to drive her away, did you? You had not thought of leaving her—tell her -for heaven’s sake! She will not listen to me.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_327" id="page_327">{327}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>There was no one in the parlour but Mrs. Bates and Sarah Jane. It was a -night when the tax-collector was busy adding up one of his lists of -defaulters, and it was the same party which had witnessed the dispute of -the morning which was assembled now. That was one reason of the sudden -quiet; the other was, the awe and horror that had come over the family -at Nancy’s obstinate resolution to stay at home, and return to her -husband no more—a resolution which he had divined, and which had -weighed on him for the whole day.</p> - -<p>“I—leave her!” said Arthur, “what did I say that looked like leaving -her? Nancy, come home. I have been very unhappy, not knowing why you -stayed away from me, and now I have something to consult you about. Come -home.”</p> - -<p>“I am at home,” said Nancy, sullenly. “It is no use talking. I have -taken my resolution. Go away, Arthur, as you said, I mean to stay here.”</p> - -<p>“What does she mean?” he cried in dismay.</p> - -<p>“Oh! I mean what I say. You told<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_328" id="page_328">{328}</a></span> me you were going. You said I might -come if I pleased. I—who hate strangers—I, after all the slights -you’ve brought upon me! but that any how you were going. I’ve left for -good and all. Mother can go and pack up the things, and dismiss the -servants, and leave you free; but one word’s enough to me, Arthur, you -shall never have occasion to say another. I don’t budge from here unless -mother turns me out. And as soon as you please, you can go.”</p> - -<p>They all looked at each other—the others pale, Nancy red with -excitement and passion.</p> - -<p>“You don’t mean this, Nancy,” Arthur said. “You cannot mean, for a hasty -word, to forsake me; it is not possible. A hasty word! how many have you -said to me. Come—come, you are angry; but how little there is to be -angry about! We have had more serious discussions before,” he added with -a faint smile, “and you have said much worse things to me.”</p> - -<p>“It does not matter what I said, but what you said. No, Arthur, you may -put<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_329" id="page_329">{329}</a></span> up with whatever you like; but I won’t put up with it,” she said, -in all the unreasonableness of passion. “You might think it didn’t -matter what I say; but I think it does matter what you say. No, I am not -going back. You may talk till you’re sick—it won’t make any difference -to me.”</p> - -<p>“Nancy! don’t be such a fool,” said Sarah Jane. “Why, only think how -people will talk. Not six months married, and coming back home! And -after all the fuss that was made about your marrying, and the grand -catch we fancied it was. When you come to think of it you can’t be such -a fool.”</p> - -<p>“Nancy—Nancy, my dear, you’re unreasonable! indeed you’re -unreasonable—when Arthur says he did not mean it.”</p> - -<p>“Nancy!” cried the young man, “why do you torment me like this—what -have I done to you? You make my life a constant contention. We never -have a quiet moment. Have I failed in love to you—have I not thought of -you in everything?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_330" id="page_330">{330}</a></span> You will drive me mad, I think. Have I ever -neglected you, or injured you?”</p> - -<p>“You said you would leave me,” said Nancy, “that’s enough, I told you at -the time. Oh! never a man in this world shall say that he has forsaken -<i>me</i>! I am not one that will be forsaken. Go, Arthur, go where you -please. I shall stay here.”</p> - -<p>“Nancy, Lewis Durant is at the door. He has brought a message of the -greatest importance from Oakley.”</p> - -<p>“Lewis Durant!” she started to her feet with fresh impetuosity, “that -was all that was wanted. Do you think I will stay behind to see Lewis -Durant—to let him spy and tell my Lady. No, mamma, no! That’s decided -me. Good night to you all. You may do what you please—but here I’ll -stay.”</p> - -<p>And Nancy darted out of the midst of them, quick as thought, while they -all stood stupefied, and rushed out of the room and upstairs, where, as -they listened they heard her quick steps overhead thrilling through the -little house, and the quick closing and locking of the door.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_331" id="page_331">{331}</a></span></p> - -<p>The shock affected the three in different ways. Sarah Jane began to cry. -Mrs. Bates, trembling, went up to Arthur and caught him by the arm. This -strange, terrible incident changed him from her son-in-law, with whom -she was familiar, into her daughter’s judge, before whom she trembled.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Mr. Curtis, Mr. Curtis!” she said. “The girl’s wild and out of her -senses. Don’t think too badly of her. It’s like a madness. Oh, forgive -her!” The mother was in too deadly earnest to be able for tears.</p> - -<p>“What am I to do?” said Arthur, overcome, with a gasp as if for breath.</p> - -<p>“Oh, my dear, my dear! Leave her; she is out of her senses, she is out -of her senses, she is out of her mind! Leave her to me, and I’ll bring -her to you to-morrow to beg your pardon. I will, Arthur, if anything in -this world can do it,” Mrs. Bates said, clasping her hands.</p> - -<p>“There is nothing else to be done,” said Arthur. He was as pale as -death. He seemed to get his breath with difficulty as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_332" id="page_332">{332}</a></span> he stood there, -struck with wonder, paralyzed with the sense of impotence in his mind, -and the dire injury that had been done him. A friend may leave a friend, -or even a child a parent; but when a wife, a six months’ bride, leaves -her husband even for a day, even in the house of her father, it is as if -some horrible convulsion had happened which turns the world upside down. -He said nothing more to anyone, but went out, and caught at Durant’s arm -to support him, and walked home under the flying clouds, through the -stormy, agitated night. The night was like his mind, swept by wild -thoughts, overclouded by profound glooms. He scarcely said anything to -Durant, who seemed to divine all that happened, though nothing was said -to him. It was well he was there. When they went back to the villa, the -poor little villa, which was at once so desolate and so meaningless -without Nancy, the young man gave a heavy groan, which seemed to echo -through the mean little rooms. Could anything change this fact, any -coming back again, any penitence?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_333" id="page_333">{333}</a></span> His wife had forsaken him. Nancy had -gone back to her mother’s. It might be only for a night, but could -anything change the fact? His life had come to a stop; no making up -could alter that. As he had been even this morning, he could never be -again any more.</p> - -<p>It was Durant who told that little falsehood to the servants about why -their mistress stayed away. She was not well, he said, and they need not -wait up, as it was doubtful whether she would come home. And he stayed -by Arthur through the long dull hours, hearing in breaks and snatches -something of the story which poor Arthur felt was now over: how they had -lived together, and how, according to all he could tell, they had -parted. When the flood-tides were opened, it relieved Arthur to speak. -He showed his friend in his despair all that was in his heart, his love -for Nancy, which was ready to forgive everything, and yet the wounds -which she had given to him.</p> - -<p>“It is not her fault,” he said. “It is the want of training. She has -never<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_334" id="page_334">{334}</a></span> realised it, what she married for. She thinks it was only to be -happy, to be loved and flattered, to have everything happy round her.” -This the poor young fellow said as if it was the best excuse in the -world. “That is how she has been brought up. It is not her fault. She -has not considered me, nor that there is a duty; and was I to be the one -to remind her of her duty, Durant? I did not want her to love me because -it was her duty. I wanted her to do her duty because of her love,” said -Arthur, unconsciously antithetical. Durant listened to everything, and -made few comments. If he said anything in sympathy for his friend which -meant condemnation of Nancy, Arthur rose up and stopped him. “How can -you tell how she was aggravated?” he said. It was not till the middle of -the night that Durant could persuade him to go to bed; and by that time -the desolateness of the dreary little house without Nancy, which had no -soul or meaning but Nancy, struck Lewis almost as much as it did Arthur. -Poor little miserable shell of a place, which had outgrown its sense and -its use!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_335" id="page_335">{335}</a></span></p> - -<p>Next day was a busy but a miserable day. Durant was at the Bates’ little -house as soon as it was opened in the morning, hoping that his eloquence -might be more effectual than that of the poor young husband, and that he -might be able, through her mother, to induce Nancy to come back. He -found Mrs. Bates very anxious and tearful, very well disposed, but -powerless. He gave her a hint of the proposal he had brought from -Oakley, and of the unconditional surrender of the Curtises, which the -mother carried to her daughter upstairs, but without any favourable -issue. Later he came back with Arthur. Nancy kept upstairs, she would -not show—and all the household was against her.</p> - -<p>“I never held with it,” said the tax-collector. “I told my wife so from -the first. I never hold with a young woman complaining of her husband. -Mrs. Bates is too kind a mother, that’s what it is.”</p> - -<p>These things penetrated into Arthur’s heart almost unawares; that his -wife had complained of him all through; that there<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_336" id="page_336">{336}</a></span> had been talk of the -advantages of the marriage, and that Nancy had hoped to be well off, and -to make a great match, and had married him with that view. All these -things sank into his heart. Was this true, or was it all the truth? It -cannot be said that he believed it, yet it acted upon him as if he had -believed, bringing a mingled pain and bitterness, against which at this -moment he was incapable of struggling. All that day long they kept -coming and going, pleading with her to return; but when another night -came, and the slow hours dragged through with the same excitements as -before—without her, or hope of her—all sense of possible renewal died -out of these hasty young hearts, and the severance seemed complete.</p> - -<p class="fint">END OF THE SECOND VOLUME.<br /><br /><br /> -<small> -London: Printed by A. Schulze, 13, Poland Street.</small> -</p> - -<hr class="full" /> -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MRS. 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