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diff --git a/old/65330-0.txt b/old/65330-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index aaab540..0000000 --- a/old/65330-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,5888 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Mrs. Arthur; vol. 3 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. 3 of 3 - -Author: Mrs. Margaret Oliphant - -Release Date: May 13, 2021 [eBook #65330] - -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. 3 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. III. - - - LONDON: - HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, - 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. - 1877. - - _All rights reserved._ - - - - - MRS. ARTHUR. - - - - -CHAPTER I. - - -It was like a dream when it was all over, so huddled up at the end, so -seemingly causeless; the sudden outburst of accumulated dissatisfaction -and failure breaking out in a moment, a storm out of a clear sky, as it -were. There was no adequate reason for the catastrophe; greater troubles -had been between them before, more violent disputes; perhaps it was that -never before had there been any witnesses, nor had the menace ever -before come from Arthur’s side. When he left Underhayes, almost carried -off by Durant, yet with many stings in his heart, which in time, at -least, might slay the love that was still warm within him, Arthur could -think of his married life only as a dream. Nancy had refused to see him. -She would make no arrangement, listen to no terms, make no promises; -indeed, she would not communicate with her husband or his friend except -through her parents, and refused to say anything except that all was -over, that she never wanted to hear Arthur’s name again. The father and -mother were without any question deeply distressed. Mrs. Bates was, on -the whole, a sensible woman, who, though she might be disposed to back -up her married daughter in a certain amount of folly and hot-headedness -as to the honours and privileges which were “no more than what she had a -right to,” was yet horrified at the notion of practical divorce and -disjunction such as this; and her husband not only shared this moral -horror, but was profoundly excited by the idea of having his daughter, -whom he had believed to be provided for, once more on his hands. All -through that long Sunday, and for some days after, Durant did nothing -but come and go between the two houses with proposals of all kinds. If -Nancy would not return, would she join Arthur in London and go to Oakley -with him? If she would not go to Oakley, would she go to Vienna, where -they could make a fresh start, having both, it was to be hoped, learned -a tremendous lesson? To all these suggestions Nancy answered No. She -kept upstairs, locking her door, when her husband himself came. No, she -would do nothing. She would not go to his friends to be despised. She -would not go abroad with him to be miserable. He knew how she hated -foreign countries. She would not go home to him, or see him to discuss -these questions. He could go where he pleased, she would not put herself -in his way. She would not shame him among his fine friends. Nobody -should say she was a burden on her husband. It is impossible to imagine -anything more confused, more agitated, more feverish than the course of -these painful days; but at last it became apparent even to Arthur that -this could go on no longer. Many little indications of a state of things -which he had never dreamt of, and which was fatal to the self-esteem -which is in every man’s bosom, worked on the poor young fellow’s mind as -much as the actual grievance of the moment. That he had been thought of -as a good match was, perhaps, inevitable in the circumstances; but even -that is not agreeable; and to know that your wife has gone to her -father’s house to complain of you, is an offence which few men could -easily forgive. All this produced in Arthur’s mind an impression of -painful unreality in the past than which there is nothing more wounding, -more bitter on earth. That love should fail and hearts change is bad -enough; but that the love which you have believed in implicitly should -never have existed at all, that your affection should have been regarded -as a matter of worldly advantage, and your conduct discussed with -others, what thought can sting more deeply? It destroyed not only -Arthur’s faith in his wife, but his faith in the life they had lived -together. Hitherto it had been her too great sincerity, her incapacity -for feigning, he thought, poor fellow, which had been their rock ahead. -And now was all insincere, was all feigned from beginning to end? His -head seemed to turn, and the giddy world to go round with him, and that -wrath “which works like madness in the brain,” the wrath which is half -love, and which feels every injury with twofold aggravation of -resentment, yet yearning, took possession of his mind. It was in this -condition that he left Underhayes. Durant had made on Arthur’s behalf -the most careful arrangements for Nancy with her father. She was to -retain the villa if she chose, and the half of the allowance Sir John -gave to his son. Arthur would have given the whole, had that been -possible. As it was she would be well off, able to do as she pleased, -according to her breeding, to help her family, to occupy an important -position among them. The poor young fellow thought with bitterness that -this would be more congenial to her than any elevation which could have -reached her with him; and perhaps, indeed, there was some reason in -this, for the elevations which could reach her as Arthur’s wife were, in -a sense, humiliations. Everybody in his rank looked upon her with -wonder, with curiosity and suspicion, as on a creature of a different -race. Her actions were scrutinized, her little imperfections noted as -they never would have been otherwise. Whereas as the richest member of -the family, the one standing above them all at once by nature and by -position, the family goddess and beauty, and most successful member, -Nancy was looked up to and adored. Perhaps it was not wonderful that a -young creature with no sense of duty in her, who had expected merely, as -Arthur said, to be made happy, flattered, courted, and caressed in her -marriage, and to whom such disappointment had come, should prefer the -position in which she could regain a little of the self-pride and -complacency which was natural to her. The first blow which assails that -complacency, how terrible it is! And Nancy had been beaten down, though -she would not own it, by the sense of universal disapproval, by the -failure even of her own confidence in herself. - -And it would be impossible to describe the strange desolation and sense -that all was over and ended, with which this self-willed and hot-headed -girl woke to her misery on the morning after Arthur went away. The -probation of the last few months had been very bad for Nancy. She was -not altogether unworthy, as poor Arthur was inclined to think, of the -higher opinion which had been formed of her; indeed it was the finer -element in her nature which had led her astray in the final strain and -trial. She who had been the superior of her family, who had been raised -to the poetic heaven of a young lover’s adoration, had after her -marriage plunged at once into a bottomless abyss of inferiority and -humiliation. It had begun upon her wedding-day with the vision of Lucy, -in whom her jealous, suddenly enlightened eyes had seen at a glance so -many differences, so many refinements unknown to herself--and with -Arthur’s objection to her salmon-coloured dress. Then her ignorance, her -want even of the most elementary acquaintance with the world he was -familiar with, was brought home to the alarmed, resentful girl on every -side of her. The more she found herself wanting, the hotter had risen -that suppressed fury in her heart against herself, her belongings, her -breeding, and the new circumstances which brought out all their -deficiencies. Pride first, and the vanity of flattered and self-admiring -youth had risen wildly against the apparent need of improvement, of -education and culture, which alone would have fitted her to be Arthur’s -wife; and if she rejected with proud disgust and self-assertion the idea -of improvement in herself, what was there for it but to turn her back -upon Arthur’s world and drag him into her own, where she was at her -ease, where she was still the first, whatever happened? This, however, -had not contented Nancy’s mind. She had been no more satisfied here than -elsewhere. The mere fact of withdrawing her husband into this village -atmosphere, which he supported patiently or impatiently, according to -the mood of the moment, but always with an effort, was in itself a -confession of failure. She was unfit for the society of his equals; and -he, was not he unfit for hers? None of these things had Nancy said to -herself, but they were all surging within, pushing her on by their very -tumult and unrest to ever more and more entire committal of herself to -this foolish and wrong way. - -Nobody knew better than she how foolish it was and wrong; but the more -the conviction grew, the more ungovernable was her determination to be -stopped by no one, to yield to no one, to assert herself as everybody’s -equal or superior, claiming in her own right all the consideration that -a princess could command. She had never put these feelings into words, -passionate and vehement though they were, nor had she anyone in the -world to whom she could confide them. Poor girl! the conflict in her -mind had often been beyond utterance; but she had clung desperately all -through to that most variable and poorest of supports her personal -pride. And this had driven her into all manner of follies, as has been -seen, and into this culminating folly at last. She lay sleepless all the -night through, and wept, thinking of Arthur. It would be better for -him. No more would that anxious look come over his face, the look which -had driven her wild and made her ruder and more self-assertive than -ever, that anxiety as to her behaviour and her appearance which made her -tingle with the consciousness that she was still Nancy Bates, and would -still be judged as such, whatever might happen. He would not be troubled -with Nancy Bates now. He would go back untrammeled among his fine -friends, where nobody made mistakes in dress, and where everybody knew -as their A B C those things which were mysteries to her. He would be -free; Nancy jumped up in her bed clenching her hands, her eyes heavy, -her head hot, her brain almost mad with passion--he would be free! and -she left here to be sneered at, and smiled at, and pointed at--a wife, a -woman who had been forsaken. Then this furious sense of humiliation -would melt, and burst forth into a sense of something better which she -had concealed, which no one had ever known. She had been a failure; but -who would love him so well as she did among all the fine people he might -meet with? who would think of him so much? She, thinking of him, had -brought little happiness to Arthur; her love had been as a fire which -scorched and charred rather than one which warmed and gladdened--but -still, if anything happened to him, if trouble came in his way, who -would be faithful like his wife, faithful to death, ready to confront -every danger for him; but that he would never know. The convulsions of -feeling which she thus went through fortunately made Nancy ill. For a -day or two she was feverish, and kept her bed, where she was waited on -with sedulous care by her mother and sisters. They had never failed in -kindness or affection, but they were now more anxious, more concerned -than ever, for Nancy was still the great person of the family. She was -rich in comparison with them. She had a house of her own--she was a -lady. Numberless benefits might flow to them from her hands. This was -not necessary to make these good people kind to their own flesh and -blood; but still such considerations warm and quicken human feeling. -They were not fond of Nancy for what she had to bestow, but the fact -that she had something to bestow did not diminish their fondness. They -hushed the house and kept it still, making Charley’s life miserable, and -the father’s a burden to him, for Nancy’s sake. It was her nerves, poor -thing, they said, and everything had to give way to Nancy’s -nerves--things hitherto unknown in the house. - -When, however, Nancy came downstairs at last, after her bout of illness, -she experienced not only the horrible sense of re-beginning which wrings -the soul after any great calamity, but a sudden and fantastic increase -of misery in the disgust which seized upon her for all her surroundings. -Not only had she a new life to begin without Arthur, without hope, -without any future widening of her horizon possible; but the home which -she had sought so anxiously, and to which she had clung in opposition to -Arthur and defiance of him, suddenly changed its aspect to her. She -felt it the first afternoon when she came downstairs supported, though -it was unnecessary, by her anxious mother, and was placed in the old -easy-chair by the fire, which was burning brightly, though it was not -necessary either, on this soft spring afternoon. She had scarcely sat -down in the chair, which was her father’s chair, close to the fire and -to the little mahogany bracket on which he placed his rum-and-water, -when this sudden loathing seized her. The afternoon sun was shining into -the room, betraying dust where dust was not expected, showing the -imperfections of everything--the old haircloth sofa in the corner, the -not very clean carpet, the table covered with painted oil-cloth. -Meanness, smallness, poverty seemed to have come into every detail. The -air was too warm, and it was not fresh, but retained odours of the -dinner, of the beer and cheese with which it had been concluded; for -Mrs. Bates had not liked to open the window to chill the air for the -invalid. What spell had fallen upon this room, which she had so longed -for, and which she had returned to with such content? How mean it -looked, what a contracted, paltry place, unlovely, unsweet! And it was -to this that she had dragged Arthur! this was the thought that flew like -an arrow through Nancy’s mind. They brought a little tray with tea, and -hot muffins to tempt her invalid appetite, and Mrs. Bates was at once -alarmed and vexed when she pushed it peevishly away and declined to eat. - -“You all know I can’t bear muffins!” cried Nancy, pushing it away -rudely; and her own action made her sick with self-disgust as she noted -unconsciously how rude, how ungracious and ungrateful it was. Yes, she -was like the place, rude, ill-bred, not a lady! She could have cried, -but she was too proud to cry, and instead of this innocent relief to her -mind, became cross in her wretchedness and found fault with everything. -“Oh, how hot it is!” she cried, “how can you live in this stifling -atmosphere? One would think you were always having dinner, it is so -stuffy--open the window for pity sake!” But when the window was open -she began to shiver. “There is not a corner that is out of the draught,” -she said. Nothing that they did pleased her. Sarah Jane’s noisy ways, as -she went sweeping about, knocking down a chair here and a footstool -there, sweeping against the table, were insupportable, and Matilda’s -demure quietness not much better. Everything grated on Nancy. And this -was where she had brought Arthur! and had been angry that he was not -delighted; and now Arthur was gone never to be found any more. Oh, how -her heart sank in her miserable bosom! Then came tea, the tray placed -upon the oilcloth, and hot toast this time brought to her instead of the -muffins. The room was full now, her father and Charley added to the -group of women. Mr. Bates looked at her when he came in, sitting in his -chair, with a “humph!” of disapproval. Was she not only to be a failure -as far as all their hopes were concerned, but to occupy his place also -and put everybody out? Nancy saw the look, and jumped up in hot -resentment. - -“Oh, you shall have your chair!” she cried, and retreated to the sofa, -where her mother feared she would take cold, so far from the fire. -“Cold!” cried Nancy, “I think I shall never be cool again. You don’t -know how stuffy it is in this close little room.” - -“Upon my word!” said Sarah Jane. “Nobody’s obliged to stay here. It is -good enough for us, and so it might be for Nancy. I don’t see that she’s -any better than the rest.” - -“Oh, hold your tongue, Sarah Jane,” cried Mrs. Bates; “can’t you see -that your poor sister is poorly and out of sorts?” But neither did she -like to hear the parlour called stuffy. If it was good enough for the -others, why was it not good enough for Nancy? And then the family -settled to their evening occupations, and the lamp was brought in, which -added the smell of paraffin to that of the tea. And then Mr. Bates had -his rum-and-water; and Mr. Raisins came to visit Sarah Jane. He came in -with a witty greeting to the family, which made them all laugh. - -“Here we are again! and how was you all?” he said, with refined -jocosity; and was making his way to the sofa, which was the lover’s -corner, when he saw Nancy there, and drew up with a significant look of -dismay and a prolonged whistle of surprise. Nancy could bear it no -longer. She started up with a cry of anger, and flew up-stairs to her -room, sick with disgust and misery. - -“Do you like to see me insulted, mamma?” she said, when Mrs. Bates -followed. “How can you endure that vulgar fellow? and how dares he show -his insolence to me?” - -“My dear,” said Mrs. Bates, “you must not be unreasonable. He did not -mean to be insolent. If we have not the refinements you have been used -to, Nancy, still you mustn’t forget the advantages of your old home--” - -“Advantages!” Nancy murmured under her breath, but pride kept down the -cry. Had not she sacrificed her life for these advantages, cast her own -existence to the winds? She went to bed miserable, and cried herself to -sleep. - -This was but a melancholy beginning to the new life. When she heard -afterwards the arrangements that Arthur had made for her comfort, her -first impulse was to accept nothing. - -“I am no wife to him,” she cried, “and why should I take his money? I -will not take his money. What am I to Arthur now that he should maintain -me? It is like taking charity.” - -But here Mr. Bates came in, who had a certain authority in such matters, -if not a great deal of influence in other ways. Mr. Bates would stand no -nonsense. It was bad enough that the responsibility of his daughter, and -her behaviour as a married woman separated from her husband, should fall -upon her parents; but her support certainly should not, of that he was -clear. And Nancy, fresh from all these conflicts and miseries, was cowed -before her father, and dared not resist him, notwithstanding all her -efforts to hold her own. She who had not yielded to Arthur’s love and -generosity, yielded to the tax-collector’s practical decidedness. She -could not help herself. And after a few days’ growing wretchedness in -this “home,” for which she had sacrificed so much, Nancy was glad to -retire to the villa with the sensible Matilda for her companion, and -begin again as she best could in such changed and fallen circumstances -the career so perversely cut short. At least it was a relief to get away -from the stuffy parlour, and the rum-and-water, and the grocer’s wit and -courtship--all of which, heaven forgive her, she had called upon her -husband to endure. - - * * * * * - -In two years from this time, strangely enough, the Bates family and -almost all trace of them disappeared from Underhayes. Nothing had -happened to them for all Nancy’s lifetime till her marriage--nothing of -an exciting kind. There had been neither misfortune nor great success in -the house; but all had gone on with humdrum regularity, unexciting, -unalarming. Mr. Bates had got a little mild promotion, and they had -saved a very little money, and for the rest had eaten and drunk, and -slept and woke, and all had been as if it might thus go on for ever. So -flows the tranquil current of life, in many cases, for years and years, -until at length the cycle of change commences, and all that has been -done is undone. Nancy’s marriage was the first family event, but it was -followed in close succession by others. Charley went to New Zealand -shortly after the separation between Arthur Curtis and his wife. Then a -little after Sarah Jane married. Then Mr. Bates, in the midst of his -tax-collecting, had an accident, and after lingering for a time died; -and Mrs. Bates, a person of apparently robust constitution, both bodily -and mental, developed all at once, to the amazement of her family and -friends, an incapacity to live without the man whom she had not been -very enthusiastic about, or devoted to, during his lifetime, and died in -her turn, leaving her house desolate. Matilda, the only representative -of the name, would have joined Charley in New Zealand but for her -sister, to whom she had proved a discreet and faithful companion. After, -however, the little house was cleared, and all the old furniture -dispersed, sold, or laid up in the house of the Raisins’ for their -future use, the two elder sisters disappeared, no one, except, perhaps, -Sarah Jane, who said nothing about it, knowing whither. The little -parlour passed away, like all the teas and dinners that had been -consumed there, and the family existence ended. Notwithstanding the -moving events that had been transacted in it, and the temporary link -which had been woven between it and the upper classes of society, its -history was all over like a bubble, like the snow on the mountain and -the foam on the river. The same fate befalls small and great; but in the -case of a tax-collector the conclusion is more complete than that which -comes upon the higher classes, which Mr. Bates respected so much. Death, -emigration, marriage, disappearance, thus followed each other in swift -succession. Young Mrs. Raisins, blooming in her shop--where, however, -her bridegroom did not permit her to appear to minister to the wants of -a vulgar public, keeping her, on the contrary, in high happiness and -splendour, and without requiring her to do anything, in her drawing-room -above the shop--alone remained of the family in Underhayes. And as for -Nancy, no one knew anything about her, nor where she had gone. - - - - -CHAPTER II. - - -Everything went on very quietly at Oakley during these two years. -Arthur’s visit at home was very brief, and not very lively. And if there -was a temporary sense of relief in Lady Curtis’s mind to know that he -had escaped from the influence of “those people” and “that young woman,” -it soon disappeared in presence of Arthur’s melancholy looks, and in -contemplation of the painful position of a man so young, who was -married, and yet not married, and whose path, accordingly, could not but -be full of thorns and troubles. Such a position is dangerous and -difficult in any sphere; but how much more in that to which he was -going, where every temptation of society would surround the young man, -and every freedom would be accorded to him! The mother and sister had -many a discussion over him; but how difficult it was to question him on -the subject, to pry into those arrangements of his which he did not care -to reveal, or to ask anything about the final causes of the separation! -Arthur, for his part, did not speak on the subject; when he arrived, at -first, he had let them know, in a few words, that his wife and he had -parted. “Don’t ask me about it, for I can’t tell you. I don’t know how -it is,” he had said to his mother. “She will not conform to my way of -living, and I cannot conform to hers--that is all. There is no blame; -but how it happened, don’t ask me, for I don’t know.” Lady Curtis -respected the request absolutely, and inquired no more of him. But it is -needless to say how interesting the subject was to her; and with what -eagerness she endeavoured to get the information otherwise which Arthur -would not furnish. Durant told her all that he knew personally, all that -happened under his own eyes; but this was not much more satisfactory -than Arthur’s silence. “He has an air of thinking that she was not so -very much in the wrong after all,” Lady Curtis said. “I do not -understand Lewis. You would almost think, from the letters he writes, -that she had bewitched him too.” - -“I don’t think so,” Lucy said quickly, with a passing look upon her face -which surprised her mother. - -“I don’t mean to say anything against her,” said Lady Curtis. “It is not -to be supposed that she has any great fault. God forbid, Lucy! I did not -mean that.” - -Lucy did not make any reply. It was not, perhaps, her brother’s wife she -was thinking of. And when Arthur went away, Nancy became as if she had -never existed to the family. They had Arthur’s letters as in the days -when nothing lay between him and home; nothing but mere distance and -absence--time and space, innocent obstacles which harm no one, though -they are hard enough to put up with. And his wife, whom he ceased to -speak of, fell into the background with his people. To be sure, when -any young man in the county, or whom they knew, made a brilliant and -satisfactory marriage, Lady Curtis and Lucy would look at each other -with quick interchange of glances. And Sir John would come in, in the -afternoon, and set his back against the mantel-piece, while he took his -cup of tea, and say with a sigh, “They seem to be making a great fuss -over young Seymour’s marriage.” - -“Yes,” Lady Curtis would answer with another sigh, “and no -wonder--nothing could be more suitable.” They were almost angry with -young Seymour for marrying as the heir to such a property ought to have -married; and, probably, Lucy would launch some arrow at the new pair in -sheer impatience of the praise thus accorded. “So suitable that it is -unnecessary to think of love in the matter,” Lucy perhaps would say. And -then Sir John would shrug his shoulders as he stood before the fire. - -“Love! that’s neither here nor there; if all the follies could be -collected that have been done in the name of love!” And he would shake -his grey old head, and again sigh, looking with eyes of admiration at -Lucy as he went slowly back to his library, not able to get young -Seymour and his fine marriage out of his head. Lady Curtis broke into a -smile against her will as he went away. - -“You are not to think of any such folly, Lucy,” she said, “your father -thinks that with your fortune you would be very happy unmarried. He says -it is only poor people who need fear the fate of old maids. This is a -great step for Sir John to take, who is such a Conservative.” - -“Are old maids against the Tory faith?” said Lucy, not sorry to have -something to say. - -“Yes; it is the ancient creed that every woman should marry, and that it -is only the ugly, the cross, and the unloveable that fail to attain that -glorious end. What a stretch of principle this is for your father! _I_ -do not go so far even with my advanced views.” - -Lady Curtis looked at her daughter curiously as she spoke. They spent -their lives together, hour by hour and year by year. They had everything -in common--when the post came in, they opened each other’s letters -indiscriminately, the last depth of mutual confidence; read the same -books, thought the same thoughts, were one in all the affairs of life; -and yet in this most intimate affair of all, the mother looked at the -daughter with unutterable yearnings of curiosity, not knowing what Lucy -thought. - -Nothing was said for some time after. Spring had come breathing over the -woods, and to look between the pillars of the facade through the long -windows of my lady’s room upon the avenue, was like looking into a -wilderness of buds and hopes. “Here is Bertie coming again,” she said -with a little impatience; then laughing, “he is one, Lucy, of whom your -father is afraid.” - -“Poor Bertie!” said Lucy composedly; but she was startled into dismay -when her mother suddenly burst into tears. - -“To think,” said Lady Curtis, “that Bertie’s child, if he had a child, -would be your father’s heir!” - -“Mamma!” Lucy blushed crimson, then laughed. “He is the second son--and -Arthur--” - -“Arthur will never have any children,” said Lady Curtis gloomily, “if -things do not change. And she is young and strong, as young as you -are--why should she die to accommodate us? And Gerald Curtis is a -wandering invalid. Ah! there is no fear of the Seymours--they will have -their own flesh and blood after them whatever happens. But your father -is growing an old man, Lucy; and Bertie--Bertie’s son will be the heir!” - -“He is not even married yet; there can be no need for vexing ourselves -over such a remote contingency.” - -“But it will happen,” said Arthur’s mother, “though it is so remote. My -boy is like Warrington, in ‘Pendennis,’ Lucy, shut off from life; no -child for him, no love for him; all because of one foolish, foolish step -when he was nothing but a boy!” - -“But, mamma! you really do not mean that boys should be permitted to -escape the consequences of such foolish steps,” cried Lucy. “How unlike -you to say so!” - -“Ah! one becomes unlike one’s self when it is one’s self that suffers,” -said Lady Curtis with a sigh. - -And then Bertie made his appearance, and all feeling was banished from -her countenance. She discussed young Seymour’s marriage with interest. -“Nothing could have been more suitable. So suitable that one felt -something must interpose to put a stop to it. The girl of all others he -ought to have married! And a charming girl--pretty and well-bred, and -sweet--” - -“I hear they are all immensely pleased; but I do not admire her so much -as you do. She is not the style I care for,” said the Rector. “She is -too charming, and too sensible, and too everything she ought to be--for -me.” - -“Faultily faultless,” said Lady Curtis smiling. She was pleased that he -did not approve of young Seymour’s perfect wife. - -“And she is heavy,” said Bertie. “I used to know her very well. Her -brother was of my college. She will not be an addition to the gaiety of -the family. She has not very much to say for herself.” - -“All the more suitable,” Lady Curtis said, brightening visibly, “they -are all heavy.” She had never liked Bertie so well. She told him the -news in Arthur’s last letter, that he was liking Vienna very much, and -happy in his new position; and wound up by an invitation to dinner. Lucy -sat by and worked, and wondered, not without a smile about the corners -of her mouth. She had no objection to her cousin, nor any alarm of him -in her mind. He was “not the style she cared for,” she said to herself -with a mocking echo of his speech; but that Lady Curtis, after her -melancholy anticipation of the inevitable heirship of Bertie’s -problematical son should be so easily mollified, amused her daughter. -She let the conversation go on while she worked quietly, thinking her -own thoughts. Lucy did not, perhaps, find the idea of remaining -unmarried as attractive as her father did. She smiled at that too in -her secret thoughts. Who is there that does not smile at it, being -young? Why should there be anyone in the world who was not happy--who -did not have all that the imagination desires, love and honour, and all -the brightnesses and sympathy which love can give? Lucy had a private -world to retire into at odd moments, a world so peopled that her fancy -could not receive the idea of a lonely life. While her mother and Bertie -talked, she had opened her secret door and gone in, entering into that -vague sweet blessedness of dreams which is more than any vulgar reality -of happiness. She heard their conversation, but it did not touch her. -Her head was bent down a little over that work at which she was seldom -so industrious, and even the smile was concealed that floated about her -lips--that smile which was not for her family, much as she loved them. -Lady Curtis had tried her best to lift the curtain, to look into that -secret world of which she suspected the existence, but which she had no -clue to, no thread to guide her through; but it did not occur to her to -think of this at the moment when her daughter had escaped into it from -her very side. - -“So Bertie is coming,” said Sir John. “Why, Bertie? Yes, to be sure, he -is a relation, and has a claim; but I see no reason why you should ask -him so often. It looks as if you meant to throw him in Lucy’s way.” - -“He will never be anything to Lucy,” said Lady Curtis, smiling. - -“That is all very well; but how do you know? Girls are not like anything -else. They may hate a man one week and accept him the next. I’ve lived -long enough to see that.” - -“You think they like to begin with a little aversion, as Mrs. Malaprop -says--” - -“Eh? I don’t know anything about Mrs. Malaprop. I speak from my own -observation. I would not put him in Lucy’s way.” - -“No one would be less likely to attract Lucy’s attention. Why, Bertie! -he is no more equal to Lucy--” - -“As if that mattered,” said Sir John, with quiet contempt. “What do they -care? You’ve had one example; you ought to know better; and you will -have another before you know where you are. You are injudicious, I must -say. You don’t mind whom you introduce Lucy to, my lady; and if it is -not one it will be another,” he said, winding up hurriedly as Lucy came -in. The parents both looked at her with that tender admiration which is, -perhaps, of all admiration the most exquisite. They were not easily -pleased in respect to Lucy. Her dress, her ornaments, her appearance -were all surveyed with fastidious eyes; and from her shiny hair to the -tip of her little satin shoe, these two difficult people could bear no -imperfection in this lamp of their life. Sir John’s inspection was not -so minute or so intelligent as his wife’s; he could not tell what she -had on, or whether there was technical perfection in her toilette; but -he was very critical about the general effect. As for Lady Curtis, she -went into all the details; and they were both satisfied; it was no -small thing to say. There was a little cluster of white narcissus in her -hair, which her mother liked, but at which Sir John shook his head. “Is -that for Bertie?” he said jealously, in his mind. Girls were strange -creatures; they liked to be admired whether they cared for the man who -admired them or not; and no doubt she would fall a victim to one of my -lady’s _protégés_, if not to Bertie. This thought it was, along with -disapprobation of the flowers, as something added to her toilette for -Bertie’s sake, which made Sir John shake his head. - -“The Rolts were to have been here to-day,” said Lady Curtis; “but I hear -Mrs. John caught cold at the Seymours’, and Julia has gone to nurse -her.” - -“Julia is always nursing somebody,” said Sir John. - -Julia was Mrs. Rolt, the wife of the agent, who was a humble relation of -the Curtises; and Mrs. John Rolt was the wife of his brother, the lawyer -at Oakenden, who had the affairs of the county in his hands. - -“She will have heard everything about the marriage. As soon as she comes -back she will rush up here, wet or dry, to tell us what the bridesmaids -had on, and all about the breakfast; it is a long time,” said Lady -Curtis with a sigh, “since there have been such grand doings in the -county; not since Arthur came of age.” - -“I am glad to hear that Arthur gets on so well in Vienna,” said the -Rector, addressing himself to his uncle; “that is better than the -Seymours’ junketings. I hope he’ll make a mark in diplomacy. He ought -with his abilities.” - -“Ah, yes,” said Sir John; “as for making a mark, that’s another thing. -It’s very well for the present; but a country gentleman’s place is at -home in his own county. It’s all very well now.” - -“Well, Sir,” said the Rector, “some of us have no chance beyond the -county, or even the parish; but when a man has a chance he ought to take -advantage of it.” - -“There’s nothing better than the county,” said Sir John, “and the parish -for a clergyman. What would you have? You can’t do more than your duty -wherever you may be. I hope Arthur will stick to his, and then I shan’t -complain. If he had been at it sooner it would have been better for us -all.” - -“Lewis Durant has been hearing a great deal about him,” said Lady -Curtis; “everything that is most satisfactory. Lewis is not much in -society, I suppose, his work would not permit it; but he hears -everything at the club. That is where you men get all your news. I hear -all sorts of things from him; and he knows the kind of news that is most -acceptable here.” - -“There is a great deal in that,” said the Rector. “Some men make quite a -business of it. It helps a man on wonderfully; but if Durant is rising -in his profession, as you were saying, he can’t have much time for his -club. Son of old Durant, the saddler, isn’t he? How odd that such men -should be in clubs at all.” - -Bertie Curtis knew exactly what he was doing; he was not cowed by the -look of indignant wonder which met him from Lady Curtis’s eyes, nor the -less open gleam of scorn and defiance which came from under Lucy’s -drooped eyelids. It was Sir John the Rector meant to work upon, not the -ladies, whom he knew to be partizans of his rival. Nobody had ever -hinted that Durant was his rival, or that Sir John was nervous on the -subject; but there are some things which reveal themselves without the -aid of words. - -“Not the son, the grandson,” said Sir John. “Old Durant is dead long -ago, and left a very good fortune; but they’ve run through a great part -of it, I fear. That is the worst of fortunes made in trade; they go as -fast as they come. As for young Durant, I wish half the young men in the -clubs were half as good fellows. But he is not the kind of man, one must -allow, whom you would expect to see familiar in our houses.” - -“What kind of men do you like to see familiar in your house?” said Lady -Curtis. “Empty-headed nobodies? Lewis will always make his way. He has -friends that are more worth having than we are. He goes everywhere.” - -“Does he, indeed?” said the Rector; “and his profession, what becomes of -his profession? His father--or grandfather, was it?--would not have -approved of that; but lawyers, though everybody says they are so -hardworking, have a great deal of leisure, I think. How different a -clergyman is, now--” - -“Cousin Bertie, were you not at Epsom or somewhere the other day?” said -Lucy, whose indignation was almost beyond words. - -“Yes; I went down with Gerald, who has to be amused, poor fellow; but I -did not think anyone knew,” the Rector said, hastily; at which Sir John, -though perhaps it was not quite polite, shook his head. - -“The turf is all very well,” he said. “It suits some men well enough; -but a clergyman should not get the name of it, Bertie. I don’t like it -for a clergyman.” - -“Nor I, Sir; you are perfectly right, as you always are. I may have -liked horses too much in my younger days--not wisely, but too well, -perhaps--we all have some weakness; but I hope since I took orders -there has been nothing to object to,” said the Rector, looking his -astonished uncle full in the face, with mild defiance. And what could -Sir John say thus boldly encountered? “Poor Gerald is a wretched -invalid,” he continued, “sick of everything. I never saw such a _blasé_ -washed out being. He has had too much of what people call life, and he’s -tired enough of it all. They think at home that his health depends upon -keeping him amused--that’s why I went,” said Bertie, with all the -innocence imaginable. “We’ve all got to amuse him, and you might just as -well try to amuse this table. He is bored to death with everything. But -then, he always was my father’s favourite, and he can do no wrong.” - -There was a pause, for this Gerald, the eldest son, who was bored with -everything, and in bad health, and possessed every attribute disliked by -Sir John, was, failing Arthur, the heir presumptive of Oakley; and this -passed through the minds of all the party, bringing a pang of -unhappiness with it, as the Rector knew it would do. - -“Is he likely to marry I wonder?” said Sir John. - -“That is the only foolish thing he has omitted to do. It is far from -being a foolish thing with most people; but with him, worn out in body -and mind, old before his time--and without a penny, why should he -marry?” - -“I am not so sure of that,” said Sir John, with a sigh; and then he -broke out hastily with an exclamation and question, in which a stranger -would have seen little coherence. “Lord, what a strange world it is! How -many boys are there of the Seymours?” he said. - -That was the bitterest thought to them. Young Seymour to marry somebody -so very suitable, and failing him, if he had not married, half-a-dozen -boys to succeed! whereas Arthur had put himself out of court, and made -all succession in the direct line impossible; and there were only -Anthony’s sons to follow. Anthony’s sons! the thought was gall and -wormwood to them both. Gerald, a worn out young _roué_, and Bertie; one -of them must come after Arthur, who had cut off himself, or at least cut -off all following, all blessings of succession. And such a suitable -marriage as young Seymour had made! What wonder if it went to their -hearts. - -“I’ve seen Durant at Epsom too,” said the Rector, forgetting, for the -moment, his own line of self-defence; “he’s very much about, I think; -here and there, and wherever one goes. Men of his class lay themselves -out to please; they have more motive, I suppose, than men of more -assured position.” - -“Mr. Durant,” said Lady Curtis, hotly, “lays himself out, if you like -the expression, Bertie, to be of use to his friends. He has got from his -Maker one of the kindest hearts that ever beat, and consequently he is -welcome wherever he is known.” - -“There is justice though in what Bertie says,” said Sir John, coming up -with his heavy forces to conclude the argument. “A young fellow like -that may be very friendly, but you can’t take his friendship for -nothing, my lady; and what would you ladies say who make so much of him, -if the tradesman’s grandson asked for one of your daughters? That would -open your eyes.” - -Sir John felt that he had made a great _coup_ when he said this, and he -was glad of the opportunity of saying it; but nevertheless he was a -little afraid of the consequences. - -“Take another glass of wine,” he said, hurriedly, pushing the decanter -towards his nephew. “You’ll excuse me not sitting long to-night, for -I’ve something to do.” - -This cut short any indignant remonstrance that might have been on Lady -Curtis’s lips. She and Lucy took the hint and went away; but they did -not say anything to each other, as they certainly would have done had -anyone but Durant been in question. To tell the truth, the great -curiosity in Lady Curtis’s curious and lively mind was on this subject -of Durant. What did Lucy think of him? What did he think of Lucy? But as -neither one nor the other had spoken to her on the subject, how could -she interfere? She stole many a look at her daughter as they went to -their tranquil occupations together. Perhaps Lucy’s eyes were heavier -than usual, less ready to meet her mother’s; but she said not a word on -the subject; and from Lady Curtis’s side, after that utterance of her -husband’s, what was there to say? - - - - -CHAPTER III. - - -Thus time went on at Oakley as elsewhere with little happening, long -lulls coming after the moments of active living which tell for so much -in individual history, yet usually occupy so little space in it. Arthur -was as much away from them as if he had been at Underhayes--more in one -way, for he was now swallowed up in public life, embarked upon that -bigger sea of business or pleasure which absorbs all individual -interests. They did not hear much more of him than when he was absorbed -by his bride, and yet how different it was. Though Arthur was less -happy, though he was further off, yet he was restored to his family. -They spoke of him freely to each other and to strangers. There was no -longer any cloud upon him; he was in his natural position. It was true -that the friends of the family would turn to each other and ask in a -whisper, “Do you ever hear anything of his wife--what has become of his -wife?” after the conversation about him, how he was liking his new -appointment, and all about it, which was carried on openly. “What has -been done with _her_?” the friends said; “or was it really a marriage -after all?” Many people came expressly to put these questions to Mrs. -Rolt, who, being a distant relative as well as the agent’s wife, -naturally knew all about the family affairs. Cousin Julia was very -prudent, all the more prudent that she knew nothing about the matter, no -more than the questioners themselves. But about Arthur everybody talked -openly now, inquiring how he liked Vienna, which was a great relief from -the time when the country neighbours did not know how to manage, whether -to remain silent about him altogether, which was the safest way, or to -frame careful questions which could not compromise them. It was very -lucky that all this was now at an end; but still nobody knew much of -Arthur, and except that one rapid visit, he was never seen at home. - -Arthur himself, it need not be said, had a great many convulsions to go -through. Probably he had not expected that Nancy would acquiesce calmly -in the arrangements made for her. He knew her pride, and he knew also -the relentings of tenderness that were in the girl; and in his heart he -believed that she would have scorned the money he had left for her, -would repudiate the settlement altogether--which would have made a -return necessary upon all their steps--and might, indeed, put out all -calculations by rushing back into his arms suddenly, without rhyme or -reason, and making an end of these miserable bargainings. The hope of -this kept him up, though he would not acknowledge it even to himself. -She might come, even, in her impetuosity, to Oakley--he could believe -this possible, unlikely though it was--but at least to his lodgings in -town, where he lingered, making preparations, and thinking that every -sound outside his room meant the arrival of his penitent wife. But Nancy -did nothing of the kind, as has been seen. She accepted the income, and -settled down and took no notice of him. Was it possible that it had all -been calculation from beginning to end, and that she had never loved him -at all? He never said anything of this, never betrayed his expectation -nor his disappointment, unless it might be to Durant, who knew his -thoughts before they got into words, and who also on his part had -expected better things of Nancy; for, naturally, neither of them knew -how her practical father had cowed her, and how all her tempers and -impetuosities had been quenched by the dull and vulgar obstacle of his -determination not to have his daughter back upon his hands without a fit -provision. Thus it was for the first time they did her absolute wrong in -their thoughts. When Arthur, having finally given up all those delusions -which at first had been so consolatory, but which now in their failure -were so bitter, left England, the severance was real and complete. His -mind was now at last turned violently away from the object of his love. -Passion can be borne, that passion which impels a hasty spirit to -foolish actions unintended in cooler moments; and even change can be -forgiven; but who could forgive the bitter wrong of having been chosen -from the first for interested motives, of having been the mere -representative of wealth and advancement to the woman who had accepted -his love? Was she never true at all, never tender, never touched by the -flame of love which had burned in Arthur’s breast? This was the one -intolerable thought; and when silence followed all these agitations, and -Nancy accepted without a word what he could do for her, and left him -without a word, to endure as he best might, taking mere vulgar comfort -from his hands, instead of all that he had been willing to bestow, the -poor young fellow’s heart closed with a pang against her. How much had -she cost him! but she would not permit him to cost her anything. She -would give up nothing to him, or for him. What could it have been all -along that she cared for? Not him, but what he had to bestow; and all -that had been said on this subject came back to Arthur’s mind--the -discussions beforehand, which made it apparent that Nancy had hoped to -be my lady very soon; and her complaints after, that she was so little -the better of the fine marriage she had made. These were trifles, but -such trifles as turn honey itself into gall, and make all evils ten -times worse. He was in very low spirits when he left England. When -Durant spoke of his return, he shook his head. - -“It is much more likely that I will never come back,” he said. “Why -should I come back? I shall be out of everybody’s way there.” - -“Arthur, you know there is nobody who wants you out of the way.” - -“I don’t know it; I know the reverse. I shall be out of _her_ way. She -will be left in quiet. If I came here, I might not be able to put up -with it, Durant. And how can they look at me at home without thinking -what a mess I have made of everything? My poor father! I believe he -feels it most of all--all the more for having so little to say.” - -“Come, come! Sir John will not break his heart.” - -“You don’t know him,” said Arthur, glad of a reason which would justify -the desolate misery in his own. “Poor old governor! he feels it more -than my mother does. She will storm at you, or mock at you, or cry over -you, and get it out. But he says nothing; and the disappointment in me, -the failure of me! I shouldn’t wonder if they broke his heart.” - -Arthur’s eyes grew red while he spoke. He was young enough to feel the -tears in their fountains; but, poor boy! while he spoke of Sir John, it -was Nancy of whom he thought. He loved her, and she thought nothing, -except allowances and comforts, of him. She would allow him to pay her -money, to share his income with her; but not to share his heart with -her, and all his thoughts. These she did not want. Poor Arthur! if that -would have done him any good, he would have laid down his head and -wept. But as it was, he had to shake back indignantly into the depths -all emotions which required stormy utterance. He could be sorry for his -father, but he must not be sorry for himself. - -And this was how he went away. An attaché of a foreign Legation is not -supposed to be the most hardworking of men. Yet there are things which -they may do when it is a matter of preference for them to be occupied; -and Arthur went into society, almost vehemently, not caring to remember -himself and his position. Perhaps he did not pass through the furnace -entirely unscathed. He thrust Nancy’s image out of his heart, and shut -the door on her, and pretended not to be conscious of the efforts that -image made to get back. Not Nancy--Nancy herself made no attempt one way -or another, no overture; but her image, her recollection, that -reflection of her which had occupied him when she was gone, kept -persistently upon the threshold of the temple whence she had been -expelled. Perhaps he was not always faithful to her, but sought after -new impressions, new sensations as a man may be excused for doing to -whom the shrine of his heart has already been defiled; but he never got -beyond the feeling that she was there--his rightful queen, and what was -more his actual possessor, whatever he might think, or others might -think. Meanwhile he lived a gay and busy life. He talked and danced, -and, no doubt, flirted; for though he had made his position known, there -were plenty of people in society to whom his position was quite -indifferent; and Nancy, had she seen her husband, who was so devoted to -her, in those early days of separation, would, no doubt, have had -occasions for heavy enough thoughts on her part. But all the same, her -image was never farther off than outside the door--artificially closed -and bolted by curious devices, but of itself ever ready to open--of -Arthur’s heart. - -All this, however, makes an effect upon a man; and when Durant wrote to -him, after the interval of those two years, that the parents were dead, -and that Nancy had left Underhayes, it made a great commotion in his -mind, no doubt, but it did not rouse him to instant action. His first -thought, indeed, was to rush home himself, and come to her help in her -trouble; but this was only a first thought. Why should he go, said a -soberer impulse? Had she not rejected him, driven him from her, refused -to be touched by any argument he could offer; and why should he humble -himself to seek her again without any indication that he would be more -successful this time? No, no, he would not risk a repetition of it all. -Repetitions are always to be avoided. If any lingering feeling for him -had been in her mind, would not she have had him informed of this new -state of circumstances which might have modified affairs between them? -But she had said nothing, she had taken no notice of his existence at -this moment of trouble, when her heart, no doubt, must have been -touched. He wrote to Durant to inquire into the circumstances, and to -let him know how Nancy was. But he did nothing more. - -As for Durant, his heart perhaps was softer, and he wondered at Arthur’s -indifference; or, perhaps, it was only that he himself had not been the -offended and slighted person; and no one, however warm a friend, can -feel our grievances as we ourselves do. Durant had not himself been -particularly happy during these two years. He had worked hard and made -progress in his profession, but he had not made very wonderful progress. -His father, who had spent his fortune when he had one, had shown no -disinclination to go on spending when he had none; and all that Lewis -got by his labours did not seem too much to keep the paternal house -going. Whosoever will work and support other people who don’t, has to -work and be eaten up in this world. It is a common enough fate; and with -Durant, as with so many others, the miserable meanness of those who -sucked his blood and mind, always wanting more, was a heavier affliction -than the loss of his hard earnings which he took with greater -philosophy. “For what good were they to himself,” he said somewhat -bitterly. Lucy was as far, nay farther, from him than ever. He had not -been asked to Oakley at all during the last year, and though he still -saw the ladies of the family now and then, Sir John’s disapproval had -been too distinct to make it possible to disregard it, so that -everything was at a standstill in this respect. Lucy understood him, he -believed; but what would it serve him to be secretly understood if he -could go no further, if years like this were to float away before he -could approach her openly; before he could break through the obstacles -on all sides, and venture to present himself with his suit openly? -Indeed, for the last year Durant had almost come to acquiesce in his -banishment, to feel that it was better for him not to see her, not to -vex her with a sight of his faithfulness. Rather that she should forget -all about it, not linger, as he did, on the verge of despair, but be -happy whether he was happy or not. He had come this length when Arthur -commissioned him to make those inquiries at Underhayes, and it may be -supposed with how many thoughts, with what suppressed impatience of -these two, who were thus voluntarily wrecking their happiness, and -destroying everything that was best in life to each other, this martyr -to social prejudice and other people’s sins trod over again the road he -had gone with Lucy, along those streets which he had hurried through to -witness Arthur’s marriage. Had it been Lucy and he, who had pledged -their faith that winter morning, what sweet years of righteous toil, -softened and made joyful by love and sympathy, might his have been! -while the other two, who had taken the matter into their own hands, -defiant of duty, had wrecked themselves thus, and parted as lightly and -easily as they had come together. But for his father’s folly, Durant -might have had that to offer to the object of his faithful affection, -which even Sir John could not despise, and but for her brother’s folly, -Lucy would have been free to accept, or refuse, that honest offering. He -did not know that she would have accepted it--but there had been -moments in which his hopes had risen almost to certainty--only to be -cast down again into more miserable depths. Thus the two to whom honour -and duty ranked highest were kept apart, and might be kept apart all -their lives--while the two who thought but little of either (was not -this hard upon Arthur?) played with the happiness they had snatched in -defiance of duty, and threw it away. Durant may be pardoned, all things -considered, for these hard thoughts; for, modest as he was, hope had -been high in his breast when he conducted Lucy to her brother’s wedding. -But gradually, bit by bit, that hope had ebbed away. He had thought of -winning her family’s favour by his devotion to their service. He had -thought that their familiar friendship with him might have balanced the -humbleness of his birth--he had once thought his money, now lost, might -tell for something. But all had worked against him instead of for him; -while Arthur who had got the happiness he wanted, the desire of his -heart, had thrown it away. These thoughts filled his mind as he walked -through the streets of Underhayes. He went to the little house in which -the Bates’ had lived, from which it seemed impossible to believe that -the flavour of the early dinners and the evening rum and water could -have faded away. When lovely things are carried hence by death, the -vacancy is less strange almost, less poignant than when that tragi-comic -strain of grim amusement comes in, and we feel that things so earthy, -things having no affinity with a higher sphere, have come under its -sublimating touch. Could anything have made the tax-collector’s evening -potations approach solemnity? and yet there was a kind of awe in the -recollection of all those vulgar circumstances gone with the vulgar -being to whom they belonged into the darkness--into the unknown which is -not vulgar. Death is more akin to the noble and beautiful than it is to -the paltry and commonplace. It is not unnatural that those should die -and be translated into the sphere to which their finer impulses belong; -but _these_, what have they to do with dying, with heaven and hell and -the unseen? This was what Durant felt as he looked with a kind of -strange pity into the room, now occupied by a young mother with her -little children. - -“All messages is to go to Raisins the grocer,” she said, opening the -familiar door. It seemed to Durant impossible that Arthur was not there -seated with Nancy upon the old haircloth sofa, within; but he met the -haircloth sofa a little further on, standing out in the damp at a -broker’s door; and Arthur and Nancy, where were they? never, it would -seem, likely to sit together again. - -“Oh la, Mr. Durant!” said Sarah Jane. She blushed, and gave a glance at -her husband in his white apron, and felt a burning pang that she had not -married a gentleman. “Won’t you step upstairs, Sir--do step upstairs;” -she cried. She was glad that the customers in the shop, and even her -husband, should see how intimate she was with a gentlemanlike-looking -person, such as Durant undeniably was. And she told him all about the -accident that had carried off papa, and mother’s inability to survive -him. She was in all the freshness of her mourning, and shed a few -natural tears, notwithstanding the pleasure she had in exhibiting her -drawing-room to one of Arthur’s friends. “You would have thought she -didn’t take much notice of him; but he had a deal more in him than -people thought, Mr. Durant, and she couldn’t live without him. She -lingered just seven weeks. I can’t say that she ever held up her head -again.” - -“And your sister has gone away?” - -“Oh, yes, my sister has gone away. Mamma wasn’t one to say very much, -but I say it’s as touching an instance of conjugal affection--like what -they put in the newspapers; and I tell Mr. Raisins, I’m sure I hope I’ll -do as much for him when our time comes,” said Sarah Jane, half laughing, -half crying. “The doctor couldn’t say what it was.” - -“And--Nancy?” - -“You might be more civil, Mr. Durant. My sister isn’t one to be spoken -of as if she was a housemaid; but I forgot--you were always such a -friend of Arthur Curtis. I see his name sometimes in the papers. La, the -difference marriage makes! I never used to look at the papers, but now I -read them regular every morning; and I see Arthur’s name sometimes.” - -“Yes,” said Durant, “and your sister, Mrs. Raisins--where has your -sister gone?” - -“Oh, it has been a trying time!” said Sarah Jane. “Charley went first, -and I’m sure if it’s all true about New Zealand, I wonder we don’t all -go; and then papa died, and then mamma, and now there’s Nancy.” - -“But she has not died--or gone to New Zealand?” - -“I never said she had, Mr. Durant. I was saying it was a trying time, -one thing coming on the back of another. I’m thankful Mr. Raisins and me -were married before it all began, for if we hadn’t been there’s no -telling what might have happened. I couldn’t have been married in my -mourning.” - -“Has Mrs. Arthur Curtis removed far off? It would be very kind to give -me an answer.” - -“Oh la! how can I tell?” cried Sarah Jane. “She’s as self-willed as the -old gentleman himself. Nothing stops her when she’s made up her mind. -There’s no telling where she may get to, before she’s done.” - -“She is travelling then? She may perhaps go to Vienna? Is that what you -mean?” - -“I couldn’t say what I mean--I don’t mean anything particular. You never -can, when it’s Nancy. She may go here or she may go there, and nobody -can tell.” - -“But you must know something--you must have an address for her letters.” - -“Bless you, she never has any letters; who would write to her? She -always paid her way, I must say that for her--and what letters could she -have? She never was one for writing letters herself, so I don’t expect -to hear; and as for writing, if I don’t hear, I never would think of -doing such a thing.” - -“But you must know something of her,” said Durant, alarmed. “You cannot -have lost sight of your sister.” - -“Such things have happened,” said Sarah Jane, with a certain pleasure in -his discomfiture. “When you’re married you’ve other things to think of -than just your own family. I’ve got my house now and my husband; he -don’t ask me to do anything in the business, not a thing; but I like to -be serviceable when I can, though I’m glad to say I’ve no need, Mr. -Durant. We’re doing very well, and I’ve got my nice drawing-room, all my -own, and paid for, and my servants, and my front door to walk out of, as -nice as any lady’s in the land.” - -“I am very glad you are so well off; but there is something I wish to -communicate to your sister.” - -“Oh, you shan’t communicate with her through me; I have had enough of -that; how foolish of Arthur, Mr. Durant, to make such a fuss! and Nancy -too. They never could get on together. I don’t say it was her fault or -it was his fault, but they never got on.” - -“Then you will not tell me where she is?” said Durant. - -“Oh, I never said anything one way or another,” said Sarah Jane; but he -could not get any other reply from her, and left Underhayes as little -informed as when he came. One other fact he ascertained, however, from -Arthur’s banker, who informed him formally that Nancy’s allowance had -been returned by the country banker to whom they were in the habit of -remitting it, with the intimation that it would be received no longer, -Mrs. Arthur Curtis having left the place without giving any address. -Thus Nancy made the first use of her liberty. She disappeared, leaving -no trace of which they could get hold, and the place that had known her, -already knew her no more. - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - - -It was about a month after this, in the early autumn, when Lucy Curtis, -coming down from the Hall upon one of her courses of visitation in the -village, went, as she often did, to Cousin Julia to report herself as -she passed, and inquire if there were any special troubles requiring her -aid in the little community. Mrs. Rolt was not herself so active as her -young cousin; but she heard of everything that was wanted, and was the -universal medium of communication between the village and the Hall. The -poor people came to her if she did not go to them, and her poor -neighbours had unbounded reliance upon her kindness, liking her all the -better perhaps that she never made any investigations into their -cleanliness or providence, and did not trouble them with visits, but was -sorry, indiscriminately, for everybody who was in trouble, and for -everybody who was sick had port-wine to bestow and beef-tea. It was not -entirely indolence, but rather a just knowledge of herself, combined -with a love of keeping at home, which intercepted “parish work” on her -part. “I know I should gossip,” she said, with looks of humility, when -it was suggested to her that she should visit the poor; and there could -be no doubt that she availed herself even of the lessened opportunities -presented to her in this particular when the poor visited her. She was -lying in wait for Lucy on this particular morning, which happened to be -one of the days on which the young lady was expected in the village. -Lucy had a great deal of business to do which is not reckoned in the -management of an estate. She had the villagers to look after, which -probably ought to have been the Rector’s business. But as the Rector did -not take naturally to that portion of his work, it was she who did it. -She had her little private savings-bank, her small provident societies, -her clothing clubs, her parish library, all in her own management, with -various additions to the formal educational processes of the place; -classes for big girls and boys, and a private little school of cookery, -and many small matters, all intended to make the people of Oakley happy; -which object, perhaps, they did not succeed in fulfilling, but yet did -infinitesimal scraps of good, such as is the utmost most human schemes -attain to. One of these undertakings required her presence to-day. It -was an October day; the leaves falling, the sky red; and the time was -nearly three years from Arthur’s marriage. It was cold enough to make -that warm jacket quite expedient which she had hesitated to put on; and -as Lucy approached Mrs. Rolt’s house, Mrs. Rolt stationed herself -at the window, ready to tap as she passed, and secure ten -minutes’--conversation Cousin Julia called it, but gossip would be the -proper word to say. - -The house of the Rolts was a large substantial building of brick, very -much like the Rectory, but not with the same imposing grounds; a house -of Queen Anne’s time, with a pediment, and rows of twinkling windows -flush with the wall. There was an excellent garden behind, but in front -nothing save one large very white doorstep between the door and the -street; and the windows of the dining-room, where Mrs. Rolt sat in the -morning, were so close upon the road that no one could escape her whom -she chose to arrest in this way. - -“I am coming,” said Lucy, nodding as she passed; and the neat housemaid, -already on the alert, rushed to open the door. - -“Missis has been looking for you all the morning,” Sally said. There was -evidently something more than ordinary to say. - -Nothing could be more warm and cosy than the Rolts’ dining-room. Its -warm red curtains filled all the intervals between the windows, not, it -is to be feared, as the canons of art would approve, at the present day, -but with a comfortable fullness. The room itself was panelled, however, -which would have redeemed it, notwithstanding that the old mantelshelf -had been tampered with, and was not so high up as it ought to have been. -There was a big table in the centre of the room, and two easy-chairs by -the fire. The newspaper thrown down in one of them showed that Mr. Rolt -himself had but lately left this comfortable room. A big old mahogany -sideboard, not handsome, but substantial, stood against the end wall, -and a long row of low book-cases opposite the windows. There was not -much room to move about because of the big table, upon which there was -nothing decorative except a huge basin of China-asters, the last of the -garden; but the room was warm, and very handy, Mrs. Rolt thought, when -she had anything to do. The good soul never had anything to do; but what -did that matter? She liked to have her big basket of odds and ends -brought down and placed upon the table, where there was plenty of room; -and there she would occupy herself very pleasantly looking out skeins of -wool which might make a pair of socks for a poor child, and bits of -cloth which would answer for some one’s patchwork. These last were very -useful whenever a bundle of children happened to come to Oakley. More -dolls than tongue could reckon had been dressed out of Mrs. Rolt’s odds -and ends; but they did not do so much good to the poor children who were -in want of socks. Mrs. Rolt met Lucy at the door, and kissed her, and -brought her in to the big chair. - -“How-are-you-and-how-is-your-mamma-and-everybody?” she said in a breath, -linking all the words together in her eagerness to get over -preliminaries. “Will-you-have-a-cup-of-chocolate-after-your-walk? No? -Then-sit-down-and-I-will-tell-you-something,” said Cousin Julia, out of -breath. - -“I knew you must have something to tell me when I saw your face. What is -it? You don’t look as if anything very bad had happened.” - -“Oh, it is nothing very bad. I don’t suppose it is of much consequence, -and yet it is very funny, you know. Lucy, two ladies have come to live -in the little Wren Cottage. Did you ever hear of such a thing? two -ladies, one of them tall and handsome. My old Sam has quite lost his -heart; and the other not so pretty, and much commoner looking, and both -complete strangers, nobody knowing about them, or where they came from, -or whom they belong to; and quite young. Did you ever hear anything so -strange?” - -“Two ladies in the Wren Cottage! Yes, that is news,” said Lucy, with -much composure. “I hope they will turn out pleasant neighbours; it will -be very agreeable for you.” - -“Won’t it? But it is not that, so much that I am thinking of. Who can -they be, you know, Lucy? to choose a place like this to settle in, where -there is no attraction, no society, no inducement whatever?” - -“There is you, and Bertie at the Rectory; that is not bad; and it is -very pretty, you know,” said Lucy. “I don’t wonder that anyone should -choose Oakley. Where could you find so pretty a place?” - -“That is all very well, my dear,” said Mrs. Rolt, who, not having been -brought up in Oakley, was less enthusiastic; “but how did they find out -that it was a pretty place? No one has ever seen them here before. They -could not find it out by instinct, you know, could they? To be sure, -Wren Cottage has been advertised in the paper and is let for almost -nothing at all. That might tempt them, perhaps, if they are poor.” - -“Very likely indeed, I should think; and they must be poor, or else they -would never come to Oakley. Is not that what you are thinking? I am glad -you are going to have neighbours.” - -“Going, Lucy! My love, they are there. Look--look out of the furthest -window; don’t you see somebody’s back in the bedroom doing something? -Look as plain as possible between the white curtains. Somebody’s back, -and I do believe an ear!” - -“I could not swear to the ear,” said Lucy, laughing; “but I see there is -something; and there is Fanny Blunt at the door, charing; that is good,” -she continued, warming into interest. “Fanny Blunt is a good little -girl. I am glad she has a place.” - -“Listen, Lucy. I told you there were two of them. They don’t look like -sisters, but Fanny says they are sisters.” - -“Oh, Cousin Julia! you have been asking Fanny--” - -“Only her mother, only her mother, dear. _Of course_, I would not for -the world question the girl about her mistresses. You could not think I -would be guilty of such a thing, Lucy; but her mother tells me they are -two sisters. You would scarcely believe it. The little one is a nice -common-looking person; but the other, the one who was at the window, and -you saw her ear--” - -“But I could not swear to the ear.” - -“Don’t laugh, dear. I assure you I am quite serious, and very, _very_ -much interested. Their name is Arthur, and one of them is married; at -least it is Mrs. Arthur that has taken the cottage. Of course, if the -other is her sister, she can scarcely be Arthur too.” - -“Mrs. Arthur!” said Lucy, startled. - -“Do you know the name, Lucy? Do you know anyone of the name? I should -like, I must say, to find out some clue.” - -Lucy shook her head. She did not know anyone of the name, which is, of -course, a respectable surname borne by many people. It could have -nothing to do with anyone she knew. - -“I know it only as a Christian name,” said Lucy. - -“Ah, as a Christian name--everybody knows it as that,” said Mrs. Rolt. -“Poor dear Arthur, I think of him every day, poor fellow.” - -“He seems to be happy enough, Cousin Julia; we need not call him poor -fellow now.” - -“No; but then it is uncomfortable, you know, to be like that, separated -from his wife. To be sure, if they did not get on it was better, -perhaps; but what a pity, Lucy, they did not get on! There must be great -faults, I always say, on the woman’s side.” - -“On both sides, I should think,” said Lucy with a sigh. - -“On the woman’s side chiefly, my dear; for we know we ought to give in. -We may always be quite sure we ought to give in, whatever our husbands -may do; and in that case things generally come right; for you know one -person cannot quarrel by himself, can he? there must always be two. But -that has nothing to do with the poor lady opposite.” - -“Is she a poor lady? You seem to know more about her than you said at -first.” - -“Well, Fanny--or, rather, Fanny’s mother--she comes, you know, about her -rent; poor thing, she is always behind with her rent; and she says she -is either a widow or her husband is away. He may be a sailor, you know, -or in India, or something of that sort; and she does not seem to expect -him home. It is a sad position for a young woman. I am not quite sure -which of them is Mrs. Arthur though; the little dumpy one is certainly -the oldest, but then the tall one looks the most superior.” - -“Perhaps it is not always the superior who is the married one,” said -Lucy, again tempted to laugh; for such guesses throw gleams of -reflection upon the hearers, and lead young women unconsciously to think -of themselves. - -“No, indeed; I was thirty-five myself before I married, Lucy. It would -not become me to speak as if the best people were always the ones that -married soonest. There is yourself; but then you are so hard to please. -But it stands to reason in this case, don’t you think, that the married -one should be the chief? for it is her house, you know, and she is the -mistress. Now the tall one, whom you saw at the window, is evidently the -principal; therefore she must be Mrs. Arthur. The little fat one seems a -good little thing. She looks after everything, and helps to cook the -dinner. The other--I wonder if she is a widow?--does very little about -the house. I see her reading generally.” - -“You speak as if they had been the objects of your observation for -years.” - -“No, not for years, of course; but when you live opposite to people for -a fortnight, you find out a great deal about them. You know you have -been away, Lucy. She reads a great deal, and I have seen her out -sketching, and sometimes she talks to the poor people; but she looks shy -and frightened. Whenever she sees me she hurries away.” - -“And you have not called? I wonder you did not call when you take so -much interest in her,” said Lucy, taking up her little basket again, and -preparing to go. - -“Do you think I ought to call?” cried Cousin Julia eagerly. “I have been -turning it over and over in my own mind. I wonder if I ought to call, I -have been saying to Sam. What would your mamma think, I wonder? You see, -they have no introductions, no one to be, as it were, responsible for -them; and they might be something very different, they might be not at -all nice people for anything we can tell.” - -“How unkind of you to imagine evil! Why shouldn’t they be nice people? I -am afraid you are beginning to be hardhearted,” said Lucy, laughing. -“Mamma will be very much surprised to hear that you have not called, I -am sure.” - -“Do you really think so? I am _dying_ to call,” cried Mrs. Rolt. -“Hard-hearted--me! Oh, Lucy, how can you say so? When you know it is -chiefly on your account that your mamma may always be quite certain you -will meet no one whom you ought not to meet here.” - -“I should like to meet her very much,” said Lucy, offering her pretty -cheek for Cousin Julia’s kiss. “I shall come back for some luncheon if -you will have me, and then you can tell me all the rest. My people will -be waiting now.” - -Mrs. Rolt stood at the window and looked after her admiringly as she -went away. Such a young creature--to do so much--and to keep the parish -together. But then the good woman reflected that she had now said this -of Lucy for some years, and counting back, decided that she must be -twenty-three--not so very young to be still unmarried, for Sir John -Curtis’s daughter, who might marry anybody. “I wonder if there is _some -one_,” said Cousin Julia to herself, making a private review in her own -mind of all the gentlemen she knew--which took her thoughts off the -new-comer in Wren Cottage, though she might already be seen at the -window gazing out with a certain eagerness, and showing more than one -ear. - -Lucy went on her way with a little tremble of excitement about her, -though she laughed at herself for this absurd fancy of hers about Mrs. -Arthur. Why should she think of her brother’s wife? She was not aware -that Nancy had left Underhayes, or that anything had happened to the -family; and it was too foolish to suppose that the unknown sister-in-law -who had left her husband and her duty rather than abandon her family -would have thrown them aside again aimlessly to come here. Why should -she come here? She had shown no symptom of any desire to make herself -acquainted with Arthur’s home; but rather had defied and rejected -everything that could connect her with it. And now, after all was over -between them, why should she come now? Arthur was a quite well-known -surname, as Mrs. Rolt said; and she rebuked herself for the fantastic -idea with some vehemence. She went about her business, however, with a -mind a little discomposed, feeling she knew not how, as if some new -chapter had begun; and half expecting the new-comer to rise up in her -path, and interfere with her. But Lucy’s business went on as usual -without disturbance from any one. She held her usual business levée, -receiving the little savings of the poor women, the scrapings of pennies -and threepennies they could put aside for the children’s frocks at -Christmas, and heard all their stories of boys who were doing well, and -boys who were doing ill, and girls that wanted “placing,” and those that -were going to learn the dress-making, or away to Oakenden to service. -Many a domestic tale she had to hear and sympathise with, and had to -make several promises to “speak to” unruly sons and husbands. The -village women had a great confidence in “somebody speaking to” those -careless fellows, who would go with their wages to the public-house -instead of taking them home. “It ain’t that he’s got a bad heart--but -oh, Miss Lucy, he do want talking to!” they would say; and Lucy would -request that the offending husband might be sent up to the Hall on some -little commission, or inveigled in the afternoon into the school-room. -“But he’s got that sharp, he won’t go nigh the school-room now as he -knows as you’re there, and what’s a-coming,” one of these plaintive -wives said shaking her head. “Then you must say I want to speak to him,” -said Lucy, “don’t make any pretence of business, but just say I want to -see him up at the House. I will give him a little job to do for me if he -behaves himself rightly,” said Lucy. She had not, perhaps, so much faith -in “talking to” as they had; but it was, at the worst, a flattering -delusion, and the men themselves did not dislike the importance of the -“talking to” which elevated them for the moment, though it was an -undesirable elevation. She had come among them since she was a child. -She had waged war with the public-house since it was half a joke to hear -her small denunciations, and both women and men had laughed and cried at -Miss Lucy. “Lord bless her! she do speak up bold,” they had said; and -this early interference had given her a certain power such as the -roughest ploughman will allow, holding his breath, to the child, who in -baby rectitude and indignation may sometimes lecture a drunken father. -She had done a great deal of business in this way before she went back -to take luncheon with Cousin Julia, which was not one of the least of -her kind offices. You would have supposed Lucy was the most dainty of -epicures to see the little feasts Mrs. Rolt made for her on these parish -days. Her husband was seldom at home at that hour, and Cousin Julia was -ready to feed on nightingale’s tongues, had they been procurable, the -young Lady Bountiful who saved her from a solitary meal. And in the -afternoon there were the schools to visit, and the little Cottage -Hospital, and the cookery, and all that was going on for the good of -her village subjects. Bertie, too, had a way of coming to Mrs. Rolt’s on -these parish days, and though she was not fond of him, she avowed, as -she was of Lucy, yet Bertie was a cousin too, and it was not possible -for the gentle soul to forbear from a little feeble essay at matchmaking -when she saw these handsome young people together. Bertie was not good -enough for Lucy, but Lucy might like him for all that. Things much more -unlikely had been known; while it was probable, indeed, that he, only a -clergyman, and humble-minded (perhaps) was afraid to venture to open his -mind to Sir John’s daughter. Mrs. Rolt felt that it was only doing as -she would be done by--or rather as she would have been done by--to allow -them to meet when they could. It was the Curtises who were her -relations, not my Lady; and she had a little natural opposition in her -mind to Lucy’s mother, who was understood to have little admiration for -the Rector. “I hope you will not mind, my love, but poor Bertie is -coming to lunch,” she said, in deprecating tones on this particular -“parish day.” - -“Why do you say poor Bertie? I don’t think he considers himself poor,” -said Lucy, half annoyed. - -“Ah, my dear, he does not get everything he wishes for any more than the -rest of us in this world,” Cousin Julia replied; and to such a very -natural and likely fact what could anyone say? - - - - -CHAPTER V. - - -Bertie came to luncheon; and he had things his own way with Cousin -Julia, much more than he ever had at the Hall--especially when Mr. Rolt -was absent, Mr. Hubert Curtis was permitted to lay down the law. On -ordinary occasions he was in the habit of saying that all these shows of -interference with the public-house were a piece of womanish nonsense, -and did no good, and that the public-house had its place in society, as -well as any other institution. But Lucy, being known to entertain strong -opinions on this point, the Rector modified his views, or at least the -expression of them, when she was present. Sometimes, however, his -indiscreet speeches during his absence were brought home to him, even -by Cousin Julia’s misdirected zeal and desire to show him at his -cleverest. - -“Tell Lucy what you were saying about interfering with the people’s -liberty,” she said. “I thought it was very clever, Bertie. I should like -Lucy to know your way of thinking.” At this Lucy pricked up her ears, -and prepared for battle. - -“It was nothing,” said the Rector, confused, and giving his simple -patroness a murderous look. “Lucy knows that I don’t go so far as she -does in using the influence which our position gives us.” - -“Is it about the ‘Curtis Arms’?” said Lucy. “I know I would take away -the license to-morrow, if I was papa.” - -“But, my dearest, your papa must know best. Bertie can tell you a great -deal better than I can; but he says it is a pity to force the people -even to do what is good.” - -“Perhaps,” said Lucy, tossing back her small head and preparing for the -contest. “But I should risk it. Let me force them to do right, if you -call it forcing, and let Bertie leave them to take their own way--and -just see at the end of six months which would be the most satisfactory. -If Bertie,” said the young parish potentate relapsing into calm, and -with a certainty which had some gentle scorn in it, “had worked in the -parish as long as I have done--” - -“One would think that had been a hundred years,” said the Rector, “and I -yield to Lucy’s experience, Cousin Julia. Besides, nothing that I should -do, as you very well know, would interfere with Lucy. To us the legal -means of maintaining order, is by keeping up authority without -interfering with freedom; but let her interfere with freedom as much as -she pleases. Don’t I know that there is not a man in the parish who does -not like to be bullied by Miss Lucy?--not one that I know of,” said the -Rector with a little gentle emphasis. He meant to infer that he too was -ready to be bullied, with that granting of all feminine eccentricities -of influence, which is the gentlemanly way of letting women know that -they have no real right to interfere. - -“I did not think I bullied anyone,” said Lucy, reddening. Perhaps she -deserved this for her implied superiority over the Rector in knowledge -of the parish. But Mrs. Rolt here saw the mistake she had made, and -rushed to the rescue. - -“Dear, no. Bertie never thought so, my love. He is always saying what an -influence you have, and always so beautifully employed. You must never -live anywhere but in the country, Lucy. You could not have your poor -people in a town, and you would miss them dreadfully. It gives one so -many things to think of. And, Bertie, talking of things to think of, -tell us about our new neighbours. You were talking to them yesterday, I -heard from Fanny’s mother. And Lucy is like myself, she is dying to -know.” - -“You mean the ladies at the Wren Cottage? Yes, I saw them yesterday,” -said Bertie; but he showed no disposition to say more. - -“Tell Lucy about them. She has not seen them. And which is Mrs. -Arthur--the tall one, or the little one? and is she a widow? and if she -is not a widow, is her husband coming, or where is he? and what put it -into her head to come to Oakley? Lucy is quite interested from what I -told her; and she wants to know--” - -“You must wait till I have mastered your questions before I can reply. -Is it the tall one or the little one who is Mrs. Arthur? the tall one, I -think. Is she a widow? I can’t tell. She wears an odd sort of dress.” - -“It is more like a Sister’s dress than a widow’s. I know she wears a -peculiar dress, Bertie. You need not tell me that. But you have talked -to her--” - -“Could I ask her if she was a widow? and if not, when her husband was -coming, and why she came to Oakley? I can’t interrogate new parishioners -like that; and only a lady can find out such things. I don’t know -anything about them,” said the Rector hastily. Evidently he had no wish -to talk of them; and Lucy, looking at him keenly, set down this -reluctance as a proof that he knew more than he said. This however was -not at all the case. The Rector did not choose to speak of the -new-comers, because he felt more interest in them than it was perhaps -quite right to feel. He admired “the tall one” very much, and would have -been rather glad to make sure that she was a widow. But, on the other -hand, he did not want Lucy to suspect this, or to take the idea into her -head that Mrs. Arthur was the object of his admiration. Was not Lucy -herself his chief object? And if he could win her, it would be of very -little importance about Mrs. Arthur. But in the meantime there seemed -very little appearance of winning her, and Mrs. Arthur was interesting, -and he had no desire to betray to Lucy that he found her so. In this, of -course, the Rector was very foolish, for if there had been any chance of -awaking Lucy to pique or jealousy, nothing could have been more to his -advantage than that he should allow her to perceive his interest in the -new inhabitants; but few men are wise enough for this, and Bertie, to -his credit, be it said, had in such matters no wisdom at all. - -He owed it, however, to the impression made upon her mind by his -reticence, that he could tell more about these strangers if he would, -that Lucy almost invited his attendance on part of her way home. - -“I will walk with you as far as our paths lie together,” she said, as -she met him at the door of her cookery school; and he turned with her, -well content, though he had not intended to walk that way. Was Lucy -coming round to a sense of his excellencies? he asked himself. It seemed -“just like” one of the usual aggravating ways of Providence, that this -should come, just as he began to feel a new interest stealing into his -mind. - -“Our paths lie together, as far as you will permit,” he said, tempering -however the largeness of this speech by a prudent limit. “I should like -nothing better than to walk up the avenue with you this beautiful -afternoon.” - -“Oh no, don’t take that trouble;” said Lucy. She wanted to question him, -but she did not want so much of him as that; while on the other hand, -he, though conscious of the rising of a new interest, would on no -account have done anything to spoil his chance with Lucy, had she shown -the slightest appearance of turning favourable eyes on him. Whatever -divergencies of sentiment there might be, Bertie knew well, without any -foolishness, which was the right thing to do. - -“How good of you to take so much pains with all these children,” he -said. “Will they be really the better for it, I wonder? The cooking -looked very nice; but will their fathers’ dinners be the better?” - -“Their fathers are prejudiced--and perhaps their mothers too. It is -their husbands and their mistresses who will be the better. We must -always consent to lose a generation,” said Lucy, with youthful prudence. -And he smiled. It was, perhaps, scarcely possible not to smile. - -“Then if my uncle agreed with you,” he said, “and the rest of us--the -girls who are learning to broil and stew in your schools would make nice -dinners for the boys, who never would have been allowed to have a glass -of beer in the ‘Curtis Arms,’ and then the old generation once swept -away, all would go well.” - -“Why not?” said Lucy; “but I do not wish to touch the old generation, if -not for good, certainly not for evil. I would not sweep them away, but I -don’t hope to do much with them. Even the like of you and me,” she said, -with meaning, “though we are not old yet, are too old to take up with a -new order of things. But, Cousin Bertie, it was something else I meant -to say to you. I am not in a flutter of curiosity, like poor dear old -Julia; but--you know something more about these ladies, I could see, -than what you told us, at least.” - -“These ladies! what ladies?” he cried, a little confused by the -question. - -“The new people--at Wren Cottage; Mrs.--Arthur, I think you call her.” - -“Oh!” he said, then made a little pause again, confirming all Lucy’s -suspicions, “indeed I don’t know anything about them, more than I told -you; why should I? I don’t suppose there is anything to know--and if -there is why should I conceal it from you?” - -But in his tone and in his look, there was such a distinct intention of -holding back something that Lucy was more certain of it than ever. - -“Yes,” she said, “why should you--from me? I felt there was something; -if there is a mystery about them, surely, Bertie, I am the best person -to confide it to. I think I have a right to know.” - -What could she mean? did she mean that there being a secret -understanding between them, any “new interest” on his part ought to be -confided to her? The Rector was profoundly puzzled. He had never said -anything to Lucy, nor Lucy to him, to warrant such a pretension as this. - -“Of course,” he said, faltering, “you know that you are the first person -I would confide in--if there was anything to confide. The idea that you -care to know is too sweet to me, Lucy.” - -She looked him full in the face; asking in her turn, what did he mean? -sweet to him, why should it be sweet to him? What was there in her -question to give him this flattered yet confused look? She regarded him -very gravely with inquiring steady eyes. - -“I think you must fail to understand my question,” she said. “And of -course I can’t help being anxious. Tell me; there can be no possible -reason,” she added, with some impatience, “why you should not tell -_me_!” - -But there was something so comical in the perplexity which succeeded -that expression of happy vanity in his face, that Lucy laughed out. - -“I don’t believe, after all, you have anything to tell,” she said. - -“Not I--not a scrap of anything; what could I have to tell? what could -they be to me? I have eyes only for one,” said the Rector, still -somewhat confused, and taking rather awkward advantage of the -opportunity. They were just then approaching the gate, and Lucy gave her -head that little toss of impatience which he was acquainted with, -perceiving, with some anger, her mistake. - -“Here we are at the end of our joint road,” she said, abruptly; “thank -you for carrying my basket so far, Bertie. Oh no, I prefer to carry it -myself. I cannot indeed let you take any further trouble. Good morning. -Papa expects you to-morrow, I believe.” - -“But that need not hinder me from coming now.” - -“Oh no, not at all, if you have any object in coming; but papa will be -out, and you must not take any more trouble for me--Good-bye!” she said, -abruptly, waving her hand to him. He had nothing to do but to acquiesce. -He turned back, feeling that he had not come off well in the -encounter--what did she mean? She was a troublesome squire’s daughter as -ever young Rector was plagued with. She knew the parish better than he -did, and took her own way in it, indifferent to his advice. She would -not be guided, directed, nor made to see that he was the first person to -be considered. And she would not be made love to--nor even receive -compliments--much less consent that to settle down along with him in the -Rectory, bringing with her all that Sir John could keep back from -rebellious Arthur, was the natural arrangement. And, this being the -case, if a “new interest” did enter his mind, why in the name of -everything that was mysterious should she have a right to know it, and -be the natural person to confide it to? He was more mystified and -puzzled than words could say. - -As for Lucy, she went on with a little tingling in her cheeks, feeling -that she had made a mistake, but not clear as to what the mistake was. -Could he think that it mattered to her whether he had eyes for one or -half-a-dozen? what were his eyes to her? But still though she did not -see how what he said could bear upon the subject, there was certainly a -little confusion about Bertie; he knew something about Mrs. Arthur, if -not what she, with so much excitement, permitted herself to suspect. It -was a lovely October evening, with a sunset coming on which blazed -behind the woods. The sunset is, perhaps, the one only scenic -representation of which we are never tired. Lucy went on looking at it, -lost in the beauty of it, as if she had never seen one before. There was -a deep band of crimson round the lower horizon, all broken as it was -with masses of trees, and rosy clouds flung about to all the airs -stained into every gradation of red, till the colour melted in an -ethereal blush upon the blue. And between the crimson below, and the -rose tints above, how the very sky itself changed into magical tones of -green, and faint lights of yellow, far too visionary to be called by -such vulgar names. She went on slowly, her face turned towards it, and -illuminated by the light. “Beginning to sink in the light he loves on a -bed of daffodil sky,” she was saying to herself. At such moments there -are thoughts which will intrude even into the peacefullest soul, -thoughts of some one absent--of something lost--if there should happen -to be anything lost or absent in our lives: and even with those who are -altogether happy, a sweet pretence at unhappiness will invade the heart; -the hour which turns the traveller’s desire homeward that day when he -has bidden sweet friends farewell. All this was in Lucy’s head, and in -her heart, and she forgot what she had been so curious about only a few -minutes before. - -A path struck from the avenue across the Park, not much beyond the gate. -Some sound of crackling twigs under passing footsteps disturbed her with -the moisture, scarcely to be called tears, standing in her eyes. She -half turned her head, and saw two figures against the light, one taller, -the other shorter--figures unknown to her who knew everybody. Without -intending it, Lucy made a half pause of suspicion, which looked almost -like a question--though that was quite unintended too, for it was a -thoroughfare, and she had neither the wish nor the right to interfere -with anyone who might be there. The strangers had long wreaths of the -wild clematis flowered out, with its great downy seedpods, and some -clusters of scarlet and yellow leaves in their hands. They made a little -alarmed pause too, and there was a kind of stumbling retreat backwards, -and a momentary consultation. Lucy went on, but in a moment more, -paused again, at the sound of some one pattering after her over the -carpet of fallen leaves. - -“Oh! if you please--” - -Lucy turned round. It was a comely young woman who stood before her, in -mourning, a little flush upon her face, her breath coming quick with the -running. She was little and plump, a kind, good-tempered, homely little -person, with good sense in her face. - -“I hope we are not trespassing. I hope if we were trespassing you will -forgive us, please, for we did not mean it. We are strangers here. All -this is rubbish,” she said, looking down upon the leaves in her hands; -“not even flowers. We thought it was no harm to pick them; they took my -sister’s fancy, they were so bright-coloured. I hope we have done -nothing wrong.” - -The English was good enough, the h’s faint, yet not markedly absent; but -the voice was not the voice of a lady; this Lucy divined at once. - -“The road is free to everyone,” she said; “you are not trespassing; and -you are quite welcome to the leaves. They are beautiful; you have very -good taste to like them--but of course they are of no use.” - -“Oh, they are of no use;” said the little woman, “it is my sister. She -draws them sometimes. Indeed she paints them quite nicely, as like as -possible. She takes such great pains.” - -“Is she an artist?” said Lucy. It seemed necessary to say something, for -the stranger with her good-humoured face stood still expecting a reply. - -“Oh, no; she does not require to do anything. She does it for her -pleasure. She has a great deal of education--now.” This was said with a -look of some alarm behind her. Lucy turned and looked too; the other -taller figure in sombre black garments had already reached the gate. - -“It must be you who have come to the Wren Cottage,” she said; “everyone -is known and talked about in a village; is it you that are Mrs. Arthur, -or the other lady? I will come and see you, if you will allow me, on my -next parish day.” - -“O-oh!” the plump young woman gave a startled cry. “My sister is not -seeing anybody.” Then her countenance recovered a little, and she said, -“But I shall be glad--very glad to see you. Of course if she wishes to -shut herself up, she can go upstairs.” - -“I should not like to intrude upon anyone,” said Lucy, with a smile. She -was a princess in her own kingdom, and no one could affront her. The -idea indeed amused rather than offended her, that _she_ could be -supposed to intrude upon anyone in Oakley. The notion was delightfully -absurd. - -“Not intrude--oh, dear no, not intrude; but she has had a deal of -trouble,” said the stranger, “a great deal of trouble; if she could be -persuaded to see--anyone, it would do her good.” - -“I will come,” said Lucy, with a friendly nod. She did not require to -stand upon any ceremony with this homely little person; “and in the -meantime the road across the Park is quite free. Good day,” she said, -smiling. All other fancies flew away out of her mind at the sight of -this rational common-place little person. She was not vulgar, certainly -not vulgar, for there was no pretension in her; but certainly not in the -least like----. Lucy had seen the Bateses, the family of Arthur’s wife; -she had seen Sarah Jane in her cheap finery, and the mother in her big -bonnet and shawl. Nothing could be more unlike them than this sensible -little person in her plain neat mourning dress. She had seen them but -for a few minutes, it is true; but the recollection of florid beauty, of -flowers and ribbons, and flimsy fine dresses, and boisterous manners of -the free and easy kind was strong upon her; and this little woman was -quite sensible and simple. What fantastic notions people take into their -heads! there was evidently no mystery or difficulty here, she said to -herself smiling, as nodding again to the new-comer, she resumed her walk -at a quicker pace, and made her way henceforth undisturbed to the Hall. - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - - -“Why did you speak to her? why didn’t you just make our excuses and come -on?” said the younger to the elder. “I thought you would never be done -talking.” - -“I wanted to see her; I wanted to make out what kind of girl she was; -and I will tell you this, she is a nice girl. No more stuck up than I -am. A nice, smiling, pleasant girl, not a bit proud; not half nor a -quarter so proud as you are, Nancy.” - -“_H-hush!_ Don’t call me by that name. Can’t you understand that is the -only name they know? Call me Anna, and it will not matter; they would -never think of that in connection with me.” - -“Why should they think anything about you?” said Matilda. “A young lady -like Miss Curtis, why should she trouble her head with new people coming -into the village? Or what would make her think of you? You know the -reason why you came here, because it was the very last place Arthur -would think of looking for you; though, indeed, he has not troubled you -much with looking for you,” she added in a lower voice. - -“You are very unfeeling,” said Nancy, with a quiver on her lip. - -For it would be in vain to attempt to delude the reader into the idea -that this tall young lady in mourning who had taken the Wren Cottage, -and was called Mrs. Arthur, was anybody but Nancy. Her disguise was -transparent, indeed, to anyone whose suspicions had ever been awakened, -and the very transparence of her disguise was part of the character of -the girl, who had suffered a great deal indeed, and learned something, -but who was still herself at bottom, notwithstanding the progress she -had made. She had made a great deal of progress. She had read numbers -of very heavy, very solid books, and could have passed an examination on -various abstruse subjects which never could be of the slightest service -to her. How was the poor girl to know? She was aware that reading books -was the way to be educated, and she was too proud to be guided by -anybody who knew better than she did. She had devoured a great deal of -poetry, and many novels as well; though these she was rather ashamed of. -But she knew that it must be right to work through the Encyclopædia, and -to read history, and Locke upon the Human Understanding, and other -volumes of solid reputation. No doubt they did her good, more or less, -and the very effort to read them did her good. And she knew now all -about those things which had puzzled her so much at Paris; about the -Queen who was murdered, and the people whose heads were cut off; and had -gone over all the collections of pictures open in London, and knew now, -at least, the names of the painters with whom people are generally -enraptured. Her mistakes in the old days thus gave her a certain -enlightenment, revealing to her certain points on which she was very -ignorant, and which it was right to know; but beyond these limits Nancy -had not much information as to what was wanted for the education of a -lady, and stumbled along in the dark, though with the best will in the -world. But the occupation which this gave her was of the utmost -importance to her, and had softened and consolidated her whole moral -being. Further, she had tried music, which comes into the most -elementary conception of a lady’s training, but had found this very hard -work, neither her fingers nor her patience being equal to the strain -upon them; but she had managed better with drawing, and had made a great -many elaborate pencil copies, and some in chalk, which Matilda thought -beautiful. When her father and mother both died, it was impossible to -keep her longer in Underhayes. No one had any longer the smallest -control over her. Matilda, though she was sensible, had never taken any -lead in the family, and though she criticised, always obeyed the more -potent impulse of her younger sister. Nancy had been as impulsive and -imprudent in her present action as in all the previous movements of her -life. She had given up her income from Arthur without telling anyone, to -the great dismay of her sisters. “What are you to live on?” they had -both cried, with horror and alarm. But Nancy was not to be talked to -then more than at other periods. She had informed them that she meant to -live on her own little infinitesimal fortune, the two hundred and fifty -pounds her aunt had left her; and in answer to all their representations -that this would last a very short time, she would deign no reply. She -had determined to do it, and that was enough--as she had determined to -do other foolish things. Matilda had come with her in the spirit of a -martyr. “We must do something to make our own living when she has spent -it all,” Matilda said; “and I won’t forsake her.” Thus Nancy carried out -her foolish intention. She was independent for the moment, obliged to -nobody, whatever might happen to-morrow or next year. Two hundred and -fifty pounds seems a large sum to the inexperienced. And as to the -reason why she came to Oakley, it would have been still more difficult -to tell that. Because it was the last place in the world where Arthur -would be likely to find her, she said. Was it not rather because when -Arthur came to find her (as she had no doubt he would as soon as he -heard “what had happened,”) she would not permit herself to be found at -Underhayes, yet would not either put herself out of his way? However, -Nancy did not herself know what she meant upon this point. A great many -confused and inarticulate feelings were in her mind. Her heart yearned -towards her husband, whom she had loved in her way. Only when she had -driven him from her had she realized how much he was to her; and though -far too proud to make any overtures of reconciliation, all her forlorn -studies, her foolish self-trainings had been one long silent overture, -had anybody known. And now to come to the neighbourhood of his home, to -hear of him, to see the people whom she had stigmatized so often as -fine folks (how the educated Nancy blushed now at such a vulgar -expression!) seemed the greatest attraction in the world to her. She -would not put herself in the way of being noticed by them, but she would -not, on the other hand, make any violent effort to keep out of their -way; and there was something that pleased her fantastic condition of -mind in the mere idea of living there, unknown, yet not too carefully -concealed, indifferent as to whether she was found out or not; -unrevealed, yet not disguised. She would not change her name. She was -Mrs. Arthur, and there she would stay as Mrs. Arthur. If she were -discovered she was harming no one. She had a right to live there if she -pleased. Thus half in longing, half in defiance, Nancy took up her abode -in the little cottage called, nobody knew why, the Wren Cottage, -probably because it was not much bigger than a wren’s nest. Perhaps it -had not occurred to her how much discussion would be raised in the -tranquil little village by her arrival as a stranger; perhaps she did -not care whether she was talked of or not. Indeed, she did not think on -the subject, but only wondered with all her mind whether they would find -her out, whether they would not find her out, what they would think of -her? but never asked herself, as Matilda said, why they should think of -her at all. This, it was to be feared, was not at all a thing desirable -to Nancy. That they should inquire about her, wonder who she was, -suspect her, recognize her, these were the things she preferred to -imagine, and which it pleased her to brood over. Lucy had seen her, and -very likely would recognize her. She was sure she would recognize Lucy -wherever she might see her. It was exciting to meet her in the avenue as -they approached, and Nancy had a secret pleasure in sending Matilda to -apologize and explain, although she was quite well aware that the -thoroughfare was a public one, and that nobody could interfere with -their movements. Though she would not let Matilda see it, she was -trembling with suppressed excitement when her sister rejoined her. -Nothing could happen in consequence of such a meeting; Lucy could not -have divined who she was by the distant vision of her figure against the -light, or through Matilda, whom she had never seen; but yet the wilful -headstrong girl, who had resisted so much, trembled at this chance -encounter. She went back to the Wren Cottage afterwards, excited and -tingling all over; yet feeling a blankness in the air as if all the -colour and expectation had passed away. - -The Wren Cottage was very small. The door opened direct into the -sitting-room without any passage or antechamber. Nancy of two years ago -would have thought it very common, but Nancy of to-day, knowing a little -about Art, in respect to modern dwelling-places, supposed it must be -“quaint,” and called it so. A wooden staircase led up into the bedrooms. -There was a deep recessed window at the side which gave a little more -pretension to the room, and commanded the road as far as the Hall gates, -and some small portion of the avenue. Here Nancy had ranged her books in -the window sill. They were of a very heterogeneous description. There -was a French book, something about the revolution, which she was reading -“for practice,” and there was a philosophical work which she -read--because she thought that was the right thing to do; but a little -of it went a long way. Thus the few volumes which she liked made an -imperfect balance with a great many which she did not like, but worked -at conscientiously, as understood to be the proper means for her -purpose. Her present solid study was of the most heterodox character, -and might have compromised Nancy’s “soundness” in doctrine, had there -been any critic here apt to judge; and might have confused her own -brain, poor girl, had she paid any attention to it. But she used the -book just as she used a chair--the one was to read, the other to sit -down in; and Nancy did not trouble her mind about the one more than -about the other. Besides these studies, there was a large cartoon in -chalk hung up against the side of the window, which she was copying so -carefully that it made one’s fingers ache to see. When she came in from -her walk, however, Nancy put down her podded clematis, and all the -autumnal leaves in her hands, upon the window sill, and arranged them -somewhat mechanically, yet with a certain grace, upon a large sheet of -paper, where she partly traced, partly drew them as they lay. This was -her fancy--and she thought it very frivolous and childish; not at all a -thing that had to do with the formation of the character, like the -cartoon in chalk. - -While Nancy settled her wreath to her satisfaction, Matilda made the -tea. They had carpeted the little room with a common carpet all of one -colour, ornamented with a narrow border. Among Nancy’s books there had -been some which treated this question, and she had given to it a -solemnity of consideration which might have satisfied the most severe -critic. The little table in the middle of the room had a cover to -correspond; the stairs had the same red carpeting, and there were -similar curtains at the broad lattice window looking out to the street. -This was but an elementary stage of decoration, but how important it -seemed in Nancy’s eyes! as important as Queen Marie Antoinette and the -fact, which she had learned so painfully, that old pictures were -generally considered better than new ones. She was ashamed of herself as -she painted her leaves very rapidly, and with a blush on her face, -thinking it mere childishness, and when she read a novel, or even a new -poem. But to keep Matilda from placing the chairs against the walls, and -to keep the same colour in all the accessories of the room, that was -serious. It was one of her proofs that she was becoming a real lady, and -was no longer ignorant, fond of everything new and gaudy, as she had -been, alas! when Arthur was with her; everything was changed and mended -now. The tea went rather against Nancy’s notions of what she ought to be -doing in her present state of self-culture. She ought to be preparing -for dinner. But then there were practical considerations which told -against theory here. Fanny, the little maid, came only in the morning -and “late dinner,” that distinguishing feature in the life of “the -gentry,” would required cooking before it was eaten; and they both -preferred tea; and it was much cheaper, and caused less trouble; and, -lastly, no one visited them to see that they did not dine. Nancy was not -indisposed to call the dinner luncheon that day the Rector had called. - -As it was she sat down to her bread and butter with sufficient content. -She had a great deal to do, and notwithstanding her precarious -condition, separated from her husband, without an income, and living -upon her little capital, she was not unhappy. She was too busy to be -unhappy. She had been quite unfit to be Arthur’s companion when they -were together; and there was so much to do to qualify herself for that -post. But when the Curtises saw that she could draw so well, and that -her room was so artistic, and that she had read so many books, what -could they think but that she was truly a lady? And Arthur would come -home for her, and all would be well. These hopes were in her mind as she -read, and as she drew. She was occupied, and there was hope in her, and -no one to cross her. Accordingly Nancy was not unhappy. - -“I shouldn’t wonder at all if Miss Curtis was to call--she said -something about it. Will you see her, or will you not see her? I said I -was not sure you would like it.” - -“Matilda, that was rude!” - -“Nothing of the sort--what could I say? I couldn’t tell her, Nancy don’t -want to be seen.” - -“Don’t call me Nancy, please!” - -“Well, Anna then--but I never can recollect. I said I didn’t know if you -would like it--but anyhow you could go upstairs if you didn’t like it.” - -“She must think me a pretty bear. She did not ask you--what your -sister’s name was, nor where she came from, nor--anything about her?” - -“Not a word. Why should she? You didn’t show at all; when you are seen -you are a deal more interesting than me, I don’t deny it.” - -“Please!” said Nancy clasping her hands, “don’t say ‘a deal,’ and ‘more -interesting than me.’” - -“What should I say,” said the good-humoured Matilda; “it is a good thing -I am not nervous. When she comes, you can run upstairs. You can listen -over the banisters, and hear all she is saying; and if you like her -talk, you can come down next time. After all, Nancy, if you had not -imagined that we would see them, why should we have come here?” - -“But she will know me,” said Nancy, “she saw me once--” - -“On your wedding day! You don’t think you are a bit like the same person -in that funny stiff little cap, and white collar, as you were in your -wedding dress with your veil? I don’t think Arthur himself would know -you,” said her sister frankly. Nancy winced at this, in spite of -herself. She did not want to be so changed as this. That she might be -changed a little, that there might be a difficulty in recognising her, -and a sense of mystery exciting their curiosity before they found her -out--that would be nothing but pleasant; but to be so unlike herself as -not to be recognised, even by Arthur, was not in her thoughts. - -It was Matilda’s part to put the tea away, as it had been hers to make -it. There was no question between them of their different positions. -Matilda yielded to Nancy all that the other could require. It was not -hers, heaven forbid it, to read these big books, to think so much about -everything, to take such trouble to learn drawing, and to understand the -arrangements of a room. But she liked getting the tea, and putting the -things away, though she was apt to make Nancy angry by setting the -chairs straight against the wall. And then they sat at the table with -the lamp between them, Matilda with her needlework, Nancy reading her -French for practice. Perhaps in her heart the elder sister might be -sighing for the friendliness of Underhayes, where she could steal out in -the evening and go through the blazing gas in Raisins’ shop, into the -comfortable little parlour, to have a chat with Sarah Jane; but on the -whole they were not at all unhappy; all the energies of Nancy’s active -mind were fixed upon her French. She could now, she thought, understand -very well all that was said to her, if ever she went to France again; -and understand the plays, and know what everything was about. Thus she -revolved in her narrow circle, preparing for those contingencies which -had once happened, and still hopeful that they were the same which would -happen again. - -But Nancy was taking a little rest from her occupations, painting again -her tangled wreath of autumn leaves, but rather disposed to throw -something over it, perhaps one of those wretched antimacassars, which -proved her (though she did not know it) to be still in the land of -bondage--for even Matilda, who entertained a profound admiration for the -chalk cartoon, considered the other rubbish--when next morning there -came a soft knock to the front door. Matilda opened it so quickly that -her sister had neither time to disappear nor even to conceal her -occupation, when Mrs. Rolt’s pleasant middle-aged face appeared at the -door. - -“I am Mrs. Rolt, a very near neighbour. May I come in and see Mrs. -Arthur, if she is at home?” said Cousin Julia. Her soft eyes were quite -keen with curiosity. She glanced to the very background of the picture, -the depth of the recess in which Nancy stood, with her pencils in her -hand. Her figure looked taller than it was in the long clinging black -gown; and the little close cap of transparent net on her head, looked -like a piece of conventual costume; and she wore a jet cross at her -neck, which increased this effect. Mrs. Rolt thought she was like the -mysterious lady in a novel with an interesting secret. She looked at -Nancy, though Matilda stood so much the nearest. “I don’t even know -which is Mrs. Arthur,” she said, with one of her ingratiating smiles. -Nancy came forward, laying down the pencils. She made a nondescript kind -of salutation, half bow, half curtsey, to the stranger. It was awkward -and shy, but it was not ungraceful. Matilda only smiled cordially, which -answered the purpose quite as well, it must be allowed; but there was no -likelihood that Matilda would ever be an ambassador’s wife, called upon -by her duty to be solemnly civil to all the world. “I am so glad to make -your acquaintance,” said Mrs. Rolt; “I daresay you see me sometimes, as -I see you. I have often and often looked across; and I should have -called, but I was afraid you might think I was intruding. However, being -told yesterday--that is Miss Curtis, whom you are sure to have heard of, -told me that I ought to come; and I was very glad to hear her say so. -Have you met any of the Curtises, Mrs. Arthur? They are, as of course -you know, the chief people here.” - -“I have met--one of the family; long ago;” said Nancy, trembling as she -said it. But she could not restrain herself, for she suddenly felt that -she must hear of Arthur or die. - -“Have you indeed? I wonder what one that would be. I should not wonder -if it were Arthur--Arthur is the one that has been most in the world. -And oh, such a sad fate for him, poor fellow! He married some common -girl or other--I don’t mean to say anything against her character, you -know; but she was not a lady. And after a while he had to separate from -her. Such a sad business! and poor dear Arthur was the nicest boy, poor -fellow! I suppose you must have met him in London. How interested poor -dear Lady Curtis will be.” - -“Oh, don’t say I met him!” cried Nancy, whose cheeks were burning. -“It--might not be the same; it might be a mistake. Was he--not -happy--with his wife?” - -Matilda got behind Mrs. Rolt, and made a warning sign to her sister. -Nancy’s eyes were blazing, her face suffused with crimson. Any spectator -less placid and unobservant would have fathomed her secret at once. - -“Oh, poor fellow! he was dreadfully in love with her, I believe, as -young men so often are when they marry out of their own station; but -they separated, you know, so I suppose they can’t have been happy. We -expected them down here, and all sorts of preparations were made, and -dear Lady Curtis so much excited. And then all at once everything was -countermanded, and poor Arthur came down by himself, looking very -wretched, poor fellow! I wonder often if they will ever come together -again. It seems such a pity--a young man with everything before him! -But, of course, this puts a stop to his life; what can he do? cut off -from everything! For people don’t care to encourage in society an -attractive young man like that who is married, and yet isn’t married, as -it were. Ah!” said Mrs. Rolt, drawing a long breath; “how I run on! As -if you, who are strangers to the place, could be as interested about the -Curtises as we are. It is very good of you to listen, I am sure.” - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - - -Nancy’s agitation after this interview with Mrs. Rolt was great. It had -never occurred to her before, to think of the feelings which might -legitimately affect Arthur’s family and friends in respect to her -marriage. That they “looked down upon” her--despised her as a poor girl, -sneered at her as not a lady, was comprehensible enough, and woke her to -a wild defiance. It was this that roused the principle that she was “as -good as they were” in her undisciplined bosom, and led to all the -subsequent woes. But when she heard thus simply what was the state of -feeling on the other side, and especially the lamentation over Arthur’s -spoiled life with which Mrs. Rolt had concluded, Nancy’s heart, which -had been tremulously confident, began to sink. If this was how it -was--and of course this must be how it was--could he forgive her for -having by her perversity doomed him to such a fate? She had thought of -him often jealously as “enjoying himself” in the unknown society of -which she knew nothing; but it had never occurred to her that Arthur was -in a false position in that society, a married man, yet not a married -man; better off, no doubt, than a woman in the same position, yet but -poorly off, all the same; looked upon doubtfully, not belonging to one -class or another. Was this what she had sentenced him to? Had she been -reasonable, had she come with him when Lady Curtis had made all those -preparations for her reception, all this might have been avoided. It -gave her a strange thrill to think that Lady Curtis, who was now so near -her, had made preparations to receive her, and had even herself been -agitated by the thought of meeting her son’s wife. - -“If I went now and told her, what would she say?” Nancy asked herself. -That would be entirely different. Arthur’s wife formerly had a right to -everything. Arthur’s wife now, what had she a right to? nothing but the -dislike and opposition of Arthur’s family. She was a stranger to -them--an enemy! - -“If it takes effect on you like this, just to see one that knows them, -even though she don’t belong to them,” said Matilda, “what will they do -to you if they come themselves? and that young lady said she would come -herself--and oh! hasn’t she got quick eyes? she’ll read you all through -and through in a moment.” - -“Let me alone,” said Nancy; “do you think I care who comes? I have more -control over myself than you think.” - -“I’d like to see some more signs of it,” said Matilda; “I thought you -had mended of your silly ways; but here you are again, walking up and -down and rampaging as bad as you were at home. If this is all to begin -over again at the first mention of Arthur, whatever in all the world did -you leave Arthur for?” - -“Because I was mad, I think;” said Nancy. - -“Well, that was always my opinion. Your husband, a nice -well-dispositioned young man, that would have done anything to please -you! and all for us at home, that were fond of you to be sure; but -didn’t want you very much, Nancy.” - -“You are cruel, very cruel, to tell me so,” cried Nancy, “to tell me -now!” - -“Well, now is the only time I could have told you,” said Matilda, -composedly. “I wouldn’t have said it then to hurt your feelings; but you -can’t blame poor old father and mother now, and it is quite true. When a -daughter has married and gone off with a husband, who wants her back -again at home? But nobody would be unkind and hurt your feelings; and -now you hear the same from the other side. When married folks are -separated, what can anyone think but that there’s something wrong? on -one side or on the other side, it’s all one. But between you there’s -nothing wrong, only your tempers--only your temper, Nancy, I should say, -for Arthur, I will say that for him, always stood a deal more than he -ought to have stood, a deal more than I’d have stood in his place.” - -Nancy made no reply. She retreated into her recessed window, and put -down her head into her hands among all the “rubbish” of autumn leaves -which Matilda was so severe upon, and cried. It was all true. So long as -her father and mother lived, there had been a kind of anchor to her -wayward soul in the thought that Arthur and his family had slighted and -condemned them, whom she was bound to defend and vindicate; and this -gave a certain reason and excuse for her own conduct, which of itself -did not bear any cooler examination. Her books, from which she had -acquired such strange bits of heterogeneous information, had not guided -her much in the way of thought; but to be at a distance from any -exciting period of individual history is of itself sufficient to throw a -cold gleam of uncomfortable light upon it, light which we would in most -cases elude if we could. Nancy had eluded it by impulsive action after -the change which had compelled her to think, the two deaths which threw -her, as it were, adrift upon the world. She had rushed at one thing and -another, given up her allowance, resigned her villa, removed here, -without leaving herself much time to consider; but now the retarded -moment could be held off no longer, and she was obliged to think. There -was not much that was satisfactory in the retrospect. Was it possible -that they had not wanted her at home? and that she had spoiled Arthur’s -life as well as her own? For what? She could not tell. Because his -family “looked down upon her,” because he objected to live in -Underhayes, because she was foolish, hot-headed, unreasonable. And now -what prospect was there that the husband whom she had thus slighted, and -his family whom she had defied and wounded through him, would be ready -to forgive, to take her into favour? A temporary despair came over -Nancy. The first time that an impetuous young mind sees its own faults, -and thoroughly disapproves of itself, what a moment that is! Reproof of -others most generally brings with it an impulse of self-defence which -defeats self-judgment; but when first, in the silence, unaccused of any -one, the soul rises up and judges itself, what a pang is there in the -always tardy conviction--too late, perhaps, late always, after suffering -and making to suffer, distracted in the best cases with the desperate -question whether there may still be a place of repentance. Matilda, -sitting calmly at her needlework, had not the least idea what passionate -despairings were in Nancy’s mind as she sat there and cried. What was to -become of her? The elder sister had been anxious enough over that -question when Nancy was so foolish as to give up her allowance. Matilda -herself had settled to join Charley in New Zealand, where useful young -women like herself were, she knew, wanted, as men’s wives, and in other -domestic capacities; but she would not forsake her foolish sister--and -now Matilda awaited with sufficient composure the solution of the -question, what was to become of them? If, when their transparent secret -was found out, the Curtises showed themselves willing to take charge of -Arthur’s wife, Matilda intended to give her so very distinct a piece of -her mind that there could no longer be any possibility of self-deception -on the part of Nancy; and to lay before her then and there the option of -return to her duties or immediate emigration; but, in the meantime, -until this crisis arrived, the sensible Matilda could wait. She was -working quietly at her own outfit for New Zealand at this very moment, -while Nancy studied her books, or drew, or “played” with the “rubbish” -which littered the room. Matilda, like most people, had a respect for -education, and perhaps there might be good in all that; but while this -fantastic, undirected preparation for something, she could not tell -what, was going on with Nancy, Matilda made those matter-of-fact -preparations which can never be without their use. She made her chemises -for the voyage while the other tried to make herself “a lady.” The one -attempt might fail, but not the other; and thus she worked on steadily, -altogether unconscious of the wild surgings of despair and -self-condemnation in Nancy’s mind. Matilda did not know what these -sentiments were. She herself had always done her duty, and as for Nancy, -she had been very silly, and there was an end of it. If she persevered -in being silly, Matilda had fully settled within herself that she would -take the command of affairs, and bring the fantastic young woman to her -senses, by giving her at least a piece of her mind. - -Things went on in this way for a week or two after Mrs. Rolt’s visit; -nothing further occurred to disturb the sisters in their stillness, and -Nancy at least required the stimulation of some new thing. She got into -despair about her reading, her conscientious pursuit of knowledge and -accomplishments. If things were always to go on as now, what was the -good? Every day she got up hoping that something might happen, some -encounter that would quicken the blood in her veins; but nothing -happened. It was rainy weather, and not even a hairbreadth escape of -meeting Lucy, or any chance of being recognized--that danger which she -professed to fear and secretly longed for--had ever happened. The -village life was very dull and still, and the sisters had no natural -distractions, no breaks upon the heaviness and monotony of the rainy -autumn days. To Matilda, indeed, it was occupation enough to get on -steadily with her chemises, and she even rejoiced in the quiet which -permitted her to “get so much done.” But Nancy, even without the sense -of uncertainty in her fate which made her restless, was not sufficiently -placid of nature to have lived without break or change; and her whole -scheme of living, artificial as it had been from the beginning, was -disorganized and broken up. She had hoped everything at first, making a -little romance of the story: how Arthur would come to seek her as soon -as he knew of “what had happened;” how, failing to find her at -Underhayes, he would rush everywhere to look for her, advertise for her, -pursue her far and near; how he would come sadly home to tell his mother -that his Nancy was lost for ever and his heart broken; and then would -find her, turning all trouble into joy. This was the fancy the foolish -girl had cherished in her heart; but there was no sign or appearance -that anything would come of it. On the contrary, she began to perceive -something like the real state of affairs; she saw what she had brought -upon her husband by her causeless abandonment of him, and something of -the light in which her conduct must appear to others; and how could she -be sure that he was now ready to pardon, ready to open his arms to her -again? This thought disturbed all Nancy’s confidence in her progress, in -her reading, her French, her beautifully shaded _étude_. What folly -these labours would all turn to if he despised them, and had no interest -in her improvement! It could do her no good to be a lady unless she was -reconciled to Arthur; and what if to be reconciled was no longer -Arthur’s desire? - -Mrs. Rolt, however, for her part, was most agreeably moved and excited -by the new neighbours, to whom her visit had brought excitement of so -different a kind. She hurried out to the Hall to tell the story, in her -waterproof and goloshes. It was too wet for Lucy to venture to the -village; but Cousin Julia could have ventured anywhere in the strength -of such a piece of news as she had now to carry. She told how she had -gone to call, chiefly moved by Lucy’s encouragements. - -“For I thought if Lucy thought it was the right thing to do, you must -have thought so, dear Lady Curtis; and of course you know better than I -do. There is something very strange about them. The married one is quite -different from the other. I am sure she is a most accomplished person, -very handsome. I should think she must be something very artistic, and -perhaps she has been on the stage. Oh, no, she did not say anything to -make me think that; but there is something about her;--very handsome, -with such a lovely complexion, and fine eyes and hair. But the other is -quite homely, a nice sort of little friendly woman. My own opinion, if -you ask me,” said Mrs. Rolt, mysteriously, “is that she’s not a widow. -_I_ should say Mr. Arthur, whoever he may be, is no better than he -should be; and he has broken his poor wife’s heart, and driven her away -from him. That’s my idea. Sam says ‘Fudge!’ but then he is always saying -‘Fudge.’ I wish I knew the rights of the story; and you will see, it -will turn out something like what I say.” - -“On the stage--was the young woman on the stage? I hope she will not -introduce any taste for that kind of thing in the village,” said Sir -John, who had come in as usual for his cup of tea. - -“Oh, dear no--no, I did not mean that. She is only the kind of -mysterious, lovely young creature--so superior, and yet with such a -homely sister; and so handsome--and all alone, you know--that might have -been on the stage, as you read in books; something quite romantic, and -so interesting, like a novel,” cried Mrs. Rolt. - -“I hope it may come to the third volume and entertain us all,” said Lady -Curtis. “We want a little amusement this rainy weather. Perhaps the -husband will turn up, and prove to be handsome and superior too: or -perhaps she will hear of his death--what is the matter, Lucy? You have -spilt your tea over my crewels!” - -“No, I only scalded my fingers a little. I don’t like to hear you -settling all about the husband, as if we were quite sure he was the one -to blame.” - -“Ah, well,” said Lady Curtis, with a sigh. It brought another story to -her mind, as no doubt it had done to Lucy’s; and after this no more was -said. To be sure, Mrs. Rolt said to herself, as she drove home in the -brougham which Lady Curtis (always so kind!) insisted upon having out -for her--it was not, perhaps, right to talk of anything that could -recall poor Arthur’s sad circumstances. But then this was evidently so -different, such an interesting young creature; and dear Sir John had -been quite amused. - -The next bright day after this, Lady Curtis and her daughter were both -in the village. After the first outburst of autumn rains, a bright day -is very tempting; and the walk down the avenue was pleasant, and the -village basked in the sunshine with genuine enjoyment, as if the old -red houses knew how expedient it was to make the most of the little -warmth and brightness which remained possible. Lady Curtis sat at Cousin -Julia’s window while she waited for Lucy, and looked out, not without -satisfaction, upon the village, tranquil as it was. To see the women at -their doors, curtseying to the Rector as he passed, and the children -getting out of his way, and the cart with baskets, conducted by two -hoarse and strident tramps, which was at that moment making a triumphal -progress through the street, was a change from the sodden green of the -park, as seen from the long windows of the morning-room. She was a woman -whom it was easy to amuse, and this simple variety pleased her. She was -looking out with a smile on her face at this rural scene, when the -sudden appearance of two unknown figures surprised her; and when Bertie -stopped to speak to them with much appearance of cordiality and -interest, Lady Curtis was interested. - -“Who are these?” she asked, with the ready curiosity of a great county -lady, almost affronted that any new individual unknown to her should -appear, as it were, in the very streets of her metropolis without her -leave. “I never saw Bertie so eager before; he looks as if he had -forgotten for the moment that he himself must be the first person to be -thought of. Who is she, Julia?” cried Lady Curtis. - -Mrs. Rolt came hastily from the other end of the room, where she had -been making the tea. - -“Oh, that is the mysterious stranger--that is Mrs. Arthur--that is the -lovely creature I told you so much about. Don’t you think she is very -handsome--don’t you think she is interesting? I am so glad you have seen -her! Yes, Bertie is very civil to them. He is going back to their door -with them; but they never ask him in. I must say there never was -anything more prudent. They never encourage him to come; and though he -is the Rector he is a young man, you know, and agreeable. I should -certainly say Bertie was agreeable, if my opinion was of any weight.” - -“So that is your mysterious young woman?” said Lady Curtis. “No, Julia, -no, she has never been on the stage. They never walk like that when they -have been on the stage. She doesn’t know how to walk; but there is a -kind of gracefulness about her. I cannot say if she is handsome or not; -but what can such a woman as that possibly want here?” - -“That is just what I never could make out,” said Cousin Julia, delighted -to open forth on her favourite subject. Nancy just then turned round -unconscious of the eyes bent upon her, to look at the cart with the -baskets, and thus exposed herself unawares to the full gaze of her -husband’s mother. Her long black dress gave a certain dignity to her -figure, calling attention by its very plainness, and so did the little -close black bonnet with its edge of white which encircled her face. -Nancy in her ordinary garb and ordinary moods never had looked half so -distinguished or lovely. Lady Curtis could not take her eyes from this -face so softly tinted, so purely fresh and severely framed. - -“Why didn’t you tell me before? The girl is a beauty!” she said. - -“A beauty?” said Lucy, coming into the room; and she, too, gazed from -behind her mother’s shoulder. Had she ever seen that face before? she -asked herself, with an anxiety which neither of the others divined. She -had seen it only once, for a minute or two, surrounded by clouds of -bridal white. Was it likely she could recognise it now in this almost -conventual severity of costume? She dropped behind her mother, -half-satisfied, half-disappointed, and paid no attention to the further -comments of Lady Curtis, which delighted Mrs. Rolt. If it was no one she -had ever seen before--what did it matter to Lucy who it was? But when -the two ladies had left Cousin Julia, after they had taken a few steps -on the way home, Lady Curtis came to a sudden pause. - -“Don’t you think, Lucy,” she said, in a conciliatory tone, “that it -would be only kind to call upon those new people? They must feel very -strange in this quiet place; and as she really seems a lady--” - -“I am quite willing to go, mamma;” said Lucy, feeling her heart beat -more quickly in spite of herself. - -“But don’t you think it is only a duty?” said Lady Curtis. She wanted to -be persuaded that she ought to go--not to go merely because she was -curious, which was the real reason; but when Lucy returned no further -answer, her mother, making use of her own impatience of temper as a -reason for doing what she wanted, turned sharp round with a little show -of annoyance at Lucy, and went straight across to the cottage door. -Cousin Julia saw her, and almost clapped her hands with pleasure, as she -lurked behind the curtains and watched; and the two people in the Wren -Cottage, who had been watching also from their windows since they came -in, saw her too, and prepared for the visit with excitement -indescribable. Lady Curtis’s movements were so rapid that she had -knocked at the door, and Matilda had opened, before Nancy, who was -standing behind, had got over her first breathless start of agitation -and suspicion. She was standing, leaning forward a little, her hands -clasped, her lips apart and panting with excitement, when the visitors -saw her first. Lady Curtis was in a little glow of pleasure and -interest. - -“I had heard of Mrs. Arthur as a new neighbour,” she said; “I hope I may -come in and pay my respects, though it is getting late.” - -“Oh, come in, come in, my lady;” cried Matilda, officiously hastening to -place chairs for the great ladies. Matilda’s heart was not leaping so in -her breast that she thought it must escape altogether--but Nancy’s was, -as she felt herself suddenly in the presence of these two ladies, with -whom her own fate was so closely connected. She held her heart with her -hand, that it might not leap out of her throat, and made a gasp for -breath, and could say nothing; and it was no wonder if Lady Curtis was -flattered by the impression made by her visit, and thought she had never -seen so expressive a face before. - -“My sister will be very pleased to make your ladyship’s acquaintance,” -said Matilda. “What a fine day, and what a blessing after the wet! We -were beginning to think it never would be fine again. Anna! don’t you -see my lady--and haven’t you got a word to say?” - -“It is very kind of Lady Curtis to come,” said Nancy, with difficulty. -She could not withdraw her eyes from the two. And Lucy looked at her -from behind her mother with again a thrill of wonder and suspicion. Why -was she so much agitated? what was there to be agitated about? - -“I hope you like our village,” said Lady Curtis; “very few people see -it, except the people of the place, so it is not admired so much as it -ought to be, we think. It is a pretty village; but I trust you may not -find it very dull as the winter goes on.” - -“Oh, we do not look for much; we are used to living very quietly--” - -“That is well,” said Lady Curtis; “for Oakley is very quiet--so quiet in -winter that I much fear you will be frightened. Any stranger passing by -is an event. To-day for instance, it was quite gay; a pedlar’s cart, a -most picturesque object--and when you two ladies appeared, whom I had -not seen before, it became quite exciting. Hyde Park is seldom so full -of novelty to me.” - -They both stared at her a little, not knowing what to say. - -“The cart looked quite cheerful,” said Matilda; “I thought just like -your ladyship says. Some of the baskets were quite pretty, and it was -nice to see it. But I could not persuade Na--my sister, to buy any,” she -concluded hurriedly. What a glance of fire shot at her from Nancy’s -eyes! - -“We did not want them,” she said; drawing a step nearer. She was too -restless to sit down; her heart indeed beat more quietly, and her -breathing was calmer; but to be here in the same room with them both, -talking to them indifferently, as if she did not know them, as if she -was not devoured with anxiety to conciliate them!--though a touch too -much might have driven her on the other side to defy them openly. For -the first time, Nancy felt how little she could depend on herself. They -might say something, they might even look something, that would offend -her, and send her off at a tangent. She felt no strength in her to guide -herself. At present, even, while there was neither offence nor -_rapprochement_, how wild and breathless she was, how incapable of -managing the situation! It must depend altogether on what they would do -or say. - -“You have resources, I see,” said Lady Curtis, “Books secure one against -everything. But--” she added, shutting one hastily, which she had opened -on the table. “This is not common reading. Is it a girl-graduate in her -golden hair that we have got among us without knowing.” She smiled -graciously as she spoke. And Nancy grew red, and grew pale, and sat -down, though only because her limbs trembled under her. - -“I know--very little,” she said, humbly, scarcely able to command her -voice. - -“But she is not a girl at all,” said Matilda. “She is a married woman, -though you would scarcely think it, my lady; and she is very fond of her -book. Na--Anna, show her ladyship that beautiful drawing you are doing; -that is what she thinks of most.” - -“The leaves? what a charming garland!” said Lady Curtis. The “rubbish” -which Nancy had been amusing herself with, was fixed up against the wall -with two pins. Nancy, herself, thought it was rather pretty, but nothing -of course to the _étude_ in chalks. - -“Oh no, not that! that is all nonsense. It isn’t fit for your ladyship -to look at; but look here, my lady,” said Matilda, proudly. Lady Curtis -cast a careless glance at the drawing, which the sister thought so -superior; then turned with much admiration to the wreath that hung -against the wall. - -“I must try to coax you,” she said, “after a while, when you know us, to -make some designs for me, for my crewels. How beautifully they would -work! Look, Lucy!” - -“They are very clever,” said Lucy, going up to look; the sisters could -not believe their ears; and never, though Nancy had known the sweetness -of girlish triumph, and had “had offers” before Arthur, and had tasted -the sweetness of a young lover’s adoration--never had gratified pride so -touched her heart as at this moment; her face brightened out of its -anxious awe and alarm. - -“Do you really, really think that? that I could make designs--for you?” - -Lady Curtis thought she understood it all; evidently they were poor, and -this promised perhaps some occupation that would help their poor little -ends to meet. “Indeed I do, really, really,” she said, pleased with the -simplicity of the words, “if you will be so very kind and take so much -trouble. I will show you what I am working now when you come to see me -at the Hall.” - -Nancy’s head swam with a soft intoxication of pleasure. These kind -looks, these kind words from this dreaded fine lady, who had been her -bugbear--whom she hated in imagination, and credited with every evil -quality--overwhelmed her. And Lucy’s presence gave a thrill of danger, -half-alarming, half-delicious, to this strange ecstasy of feeling. If -Lucy should have recognised her! She was saying something, she could -scarcely tell what, about nothing she could do being good enough--when -Lady Curtis, still looking, smiling, in her face, prostrated her with -the innocent question: - -“You have met my son--in society--Mrs. Rolt thinks--” - -Nancy started from her chair, unable to restrain herself. “Oh--no, no!” -she said trembling--not, she was going to say, in society, but changed -this by instinct rather than reason, “not--your son; I told her after -that it was--a mistake; only some one of the name.” - -“Ah!” said Lady Curtis with a little sigh. “I am disappointed. I thought -it had been my Arthur. Perhaps then it was one of my nephews, the -General’s boys? The Rector is one of them. My son has not been at home -for more than two years--it is a long time not to see him. I quite -hoped,” she added with flattering friendliness, “that it had been him -you knew.” - -Again Nancy’s head went round and round. Should not she throw herself at -this lady’s feet, who smiled on her so graciously, and tell all that -Arthur was to her? The impulse was almost too strong to be resisted. -While she stood on the eve of this rush, Lucy passing by to resume her -seat after examining the drawing, gave her an inquiring, wondering, -suspicious look. This brought Nancy down again to solid ground. She gave -an alarmed, confused glance round, not daring to trust herself to speak. - -“I am sure my sister would be glad if you would have the picture, my -lady,” said Matilda, “since you like it--though I’m sure I can’t think -why. It’s all leaves that we got out of your park. Me and--Anna often -walk there. It’s a little wet at this time of the year; but it must be -lovely in the summer--if we stay till then.” - -“I hope you will stay,” said Lady Curtis, rising, “you ought to see -Oakley in full beauty; and I hope you will come and see Lucy and me,” -she added, holding out her hand. Nancy did not know what was happening -to her when that soft hand pressed hers. “And if we can be of any use to -you--as you are here alone--I hope you will tell me,” Lady Curtis said. - -“Well!” said Matilda when the door closed upon them, and she had watched -their figures from the window. “Well, Nancy! what do you think of her -now? A nicer lady, more civil, more pleasant, more friendly, I never -wish to see; and that was what you made such a fuss about as if she was -a monster and would eat you! I’d go down on my bended knees to -Providence to give me a mother-in-law like that. Not a bit of pride--as -if we had been the best ladies in the land. Oh, Nancy, Nancy! what a -fool you have been! if poor dear mother only knew.” - -But Nancy was past standing up for herself, or making any reply. She had -covered her face with her hands; her whole frame was tingling, her head -swimming, her heart full of trouble and pleasure, and confusion and -despair. What a fool, what a fool she had been! that, indeed, if nothing -else, was beyond measure true. - -As for Lady Curtis, she was enchanted with her new acquaintance. “There -is some mystery there,” she said as they walked briskly away. “It is -easy to see that the sister is of a very different class and breeding -from that touching young creature with her blue eyes. Is she a sister at -all, I wonder, or some old servant for a protection to her? I don’t know -when I have been so much interested,” she said. - -As for Lucy she said nothing; her mind was full of doubt and confusion. -She did not know what to think, and there was nothing that she could -trust herself to say. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - - -Durant had not been at Oakley for more than a year. No invitation had -come to him, though he still corresponded with Lady Curtis on the same -confidential and affectionate terms as before; and his heart had grown -sick with this pause of stagnation in his life. There are moments when -that which we have borne with tolerable calm for years, becomes all at -once intolerable to us; and this is especially the case with men who, -having laboured hard and dutifully without much personal recompense, are -suddenly moved by some accidental prick to see that their best years are -floating away from them, without any of the delights that belong to that -crown of existence. Why this feeling should have come upon Durant after -his late visit to Underhayes, and not on previous visits, when he had -seen his friend Arthur, so much younger than himself, enjoying the -happiness which it was not given to him to enjoy, it would be difficult -to tell. Perhaps Arthur’s happiness, while it lasted, was too full of -drawbacks to attract his friend, to whom it never could have been -possible to woo his love in Mrs. Bates’ parlour, behind the backs of the -family. But curiously enough, when the family was swept away, and all -its shabbiness had become pathetic; and when Arthur’s happiness had -fallen into dust, and become apparently a thing beyond restoration or -even hope, then, and only then, did it stimulate the dormant passion in -Durant’s veins. He said to himself that to lose the chance of happiness -altogether by thus passively waiting till it should drop upon him from -the clouds, was, perhaps, in the end a greater foolishness than even the -mad folly which had ruined Arthur. Arthur, at all events, at the worst, -had had his chance; whereas Lewis, so far as appearances went, was -never to have his chance, but only toil and toil on for the benefit of -others till the capacity for joy was exhausted in him. In the grey -autumnal weather, when the rains are falling, and the skies lowering, -and all things settling down to “the dead of the year,” does not -sometimes a longing, insupportable, for sunshine and brightness, cross -us--a longing which has to be satisfied by some lighting up of lamps and -artificial processes of illumination, if not by the natural and blessed -sun? Durant went on for a little, with his heart full of smouldering -fire, reflecting upon his own loneliness amidst all the enjoyments and -fellowships of the world, reflecting upon the manner in which his own -hard earnings melted away, running into the bottomless pit of -improvidence and unlovely waste in his father’s house, with no real -benefit even to the dwellers therein, much less to him whose labours had -no lightening, whatever happened. At last the point of explosion was -reached by the touch of a piece of good fortune. For the first time he -was retained as first counsel in an important case likely to attract -some notice in the world, and at the same time was appointed one of a -commission of investigation into certain legal evils then under the -consideration of Parliament. The sudden pleasure of distinction among -his peers, altogether apart from the profit of it, conveyed a swift and -penetrating pleasure to his mind, and altogether overset the impatient -patience which so many thoughts had already put in jeopardy. A little -success often in such circumstances fires the mine which weariness and -reflection and comparison have been filling with combustibles. Why -should he drag on any longer dully, without even an attempt to brighten -his own life? The man who blacked his shoes, secure of weekly -remuneration, had just “thrown up his place,” and risked his existence, -in order to “better himself;” and why should not the master try to -better himself too? This sudden impulse set him all on fire. What was -the use of his self-denial, his renunciation of all pleasant things? -They who would have them, must seize them, without all this reckoning -of possibilities and counting of cost. Durant was not superior to that -almost fierce independence which, like all good that comes out of evil, -has its false side. The dependence and incessant demands of his family -had made him stern in his resolution to owe no man anything, to struggle -out his own career unaided; and had also made him too proud to ask any -favour in his own person, even a night’s lodging from the friends whom -he had served with all the humbleness of true generosity when occasion -offered. He would have spent time, which was more valuable to him than -money is to most people, or money, of which he did not possess too large -a stock, in the service of the Curtises, whenever they called upon him; -but he would not ask them to invite him, or even suggest that he would -like to be invited. This was one of the _défauts de ses qualités_. So it -took him a little trouble to get himself to Oakley in a roundabout way. -He did this by means of a college friend, who had a living within a -dozen miles, and to whom he had no objection to offer himself for a -short visit; and being there, what so natural as that he should drive -over to Oakley for a few hours? He did this a few days after the visit -of Lady Curtis to Nancy, and appeared suddenly in the morning, conscious -and anxious, while the family were still at breakfast. - -“I thought I’d run down and see Cavendish at Stainforth,” he said, -feeling the weakness of the excuse. - -“Cavendish at Stainforth!” Lady Curtis echoed, turning pale. She saw -through the pretence, but she did not see through the cause of it. If it -was her son who immediately occurred to her mind, what mother will blame -her? She ignored all motives of his own on Durant’s part with pitiless, -though unconscious cruelty; and left the table precipitately, her heart -beating with sudden agitation. “Oh, Lewis, something has happened to -Arthur; and you have come to break it to me!” she said, turning round -upon him as he followed her into her morning-room. - -“No,” he said, with a sheepish air of guilt, feeling himself absolutely -wicked to have thus frightened her for ends of his own. - -Lucy had lingered behind, and was following him when she heard this -reply. She turned at once and went away. Her heart had beat even more -wildly than her mother’s at sight of him, but with less simplicity of -feeling. Was it just that Arthur should always be the first thought? If -it was not something which had happened to Arthur that brought Lewis -here, then it was--something else. This conclusion, so very simple when -put into these words, filled Lucy with involuntary excitement. When he -said “No” to her mother’s question, she turned and went away. Was he -going to risk it then, to dare all the dangers of absolute separation? -Lucy had not seen him for more than a year; but she knew what was in his -heart. She had never doubted him; she had been faithful herself to the -undisclosed hope, and so had he. She hurried away to her own room, while -he, she knew it, went to try their fortune, to put it to the test, to -lose or gain everything. Lucy’s heart beat so that she could not think. -And would they be so hard, so cruel as to deny her her happiness, the -father and mother who loved her so dearly? Most probably they would do -so. She could not deceive herself. Most likely he would be sent away -without hope, perhaps with disdain. A girl has a terrible moment to go -through when she knows that her life, and the life of another still more -dear to her, are thus being decided for her without any power of hers to -interfere. If Lewis asked her for her love, she would tell him yes, she -would give it, she had given it; but herself she could not give. She was -free, you may say, of age, fully capable of choosing, and with no law, -human or divine, to prevent her from settling, what was more important -to her than to anyone, her own course and her own companion in life. All -so true, yet so futile in its truth. Lucy was free; yet tied hand and -foot, bound by innumerable gossamer threads of duty and affection, which -she could not, and would not, if she could, attempt to break. It was no -law nor enacted disability, nothing that Parliament could touch, nor -public opinion, nor emancipation of women; but nature, unrepealable, -unchangeable, that bound her. She could not go to her usual occupations, -she could not go downstairs. She sat trembling, scarcely able to think -for the sound in her ears of commotion within her. She had to sit and -wait while he made his venture; she knew there was nothing, for the -moment, in her power. - -“Not Arthur!” cried Lady Curtis. “Oh, forgive me, Lewis, that I always -think of my own boy first. You are sure there is nothing that you want -to tell me gently? I know your kind heart--not to frighten me?” - -“I want to tell you something--about myself, Lady Curtis.” - -“Ah!” she cried in a tone of relief; and then with a perceptible ease -and calm of indifference, “about yourself? I hope it is something very -good, very delightful, something equal to your deserts. There is nothing -I could be so happy to hear.” - -“Something of that to begin with,” he said, and told her of the -advantages that had come to him; his appointment on the Commission, and -his first important brief. Lady Curtis was delighted, as she had -promised to be. She threw herself into the discussion of his prospects -with enthusiasm. - -“I am as glad as I could be of anything, except good fortune to Arthur,” -she said. “My dear Lewis, you who have been so good to us all! you come -next. And now all the world is before you, and everything that is good. -Thank God for it! though I never had any doubt on the subject,” she -said, smiling at him through tears of pleasure, as she held both his -hands. - -How cheering this was! sympathy could not be more warm, more cordial, -more affectionate. It warmed his heart, and brought the tears to his own -eyes. - -“Yes,” he said, “it is the beginning, I believe, and hope--. It is the -opening of the door. My career ought to be clear now, if I have courage -and heart to go on.” - -“You, courage and heart!” she said, “of course you will have both, -Lewis. You are not the kind of man that fails. I never for a moment -expected anything else. It is not always, to be sure, that men get what -they deserve; but you--you are not of the mettle which fails.” - -“But supposing that, and that I succeed, what is it to lead to, Lady -Curtis?” he asked, half-mournfully; for it was evident to him that, as -yet, she had not even the least glimmer of imagination as to what he was -going to ask. - -“Lead to?” she said; “the Bench of course, and perhaps the woolsack; you -speak so little of yourself that I scarcely know which way your -ambitions lie, Lewis, whether you care for politics at all; of course -that is the finer career of the two--if you take to it.” - -“That is all you give me then,” he said, “my choice of two dignities? I -do not say they are not both great objects of ambition; but is there -nothing sweeter, nothing dearer to come, my lady? You are very kind to -me--kinder than I had any right to expect; but have you nothing more to -wish me in your kind heart than the woolsack and the Bench?” - -She looked at him, faltering a little. She began now to see what he -meant. - -“What can I say more?” she said, “yes, everything, Lewis. I wish you -all--you can desire.” - -“The desire of my heart,” he said, getting up from his seat in his -agitation; “that is the wish in the Psalms, and there is none that goes -so far, or is so sweet. My lady, you have known me almost ever since I -was fit to form a wish. Don’t you know what it is--the desire of my -heart?” - -“Lewis--Lewis!” she cried, hastily; then stopped. Had she been about to -warn him to say no more, to stop him in the revelation of his wishes? -but if so she changed her mind, and looked at him eagerly, alarmed, and -wringing her hands. - -“You know what it is,” he said, with a smile, turning to her. “I don’t -need to say it, do I? If I cannot have Lucy, what is everything else -worth to me? I know I am not her equal in birth, if you still think that -matters, beyond everything else. But does it, does it? No one else can -have thought of her so long and constantly as I have done. I know all -her tastes, her ways. What she likes I like--and her brother, you know, -Lady Curtis--has been all I have known for a brother.” - -“I know, I know,” she said, and the tears in her eyes were not now tears -of pleasure. She shook her head while she looked at him with motherly -tenderness, through her wet eyelashes. “And you have been the best -brother to him, the kindest!” she cried. “Alas!” but with all she shook -her head. - -“I did not mean to set up any claim on that score,” he said, quickly; -“but because there has been this constant affection between us, and I -have never thought of any other woman. All the rest of the world has -been naught to me by the side of Lucy. I have thought of no one but her. -And is this all nothing, my lady, worse than nothing, because my -grandfather was a tradesman? It seems hard, don’t you think it is hard, -difficult to bear?” - -“Lewis, you know it is not so everywhere,” she cried. “There are -gentlemen in England--the best in the land, who would give their -daughter to you, Lewis Durant, good as you are known to be, the truest -gentleman, and rejoice in her happiness!” She paused, and her voice -fell, and once more she shook her head. “But Sir John--” - -“If I have your help, my lady, I will not be afraid of Sir John,” he -said, “he is not like you; but he is good to the bottom of his heart, -good all through and through.” - -“Lewis!” cried my lady, with sudden emotion, “do you want me to be in -love with you as well as Lucy? So he is, my dear boy; so he is, my dear -prejudiced narrow-minded old man! he does not understand always--but he -is good, as you say, all good, and no guile in him. But what has that to -do with it after all, my poor boy?” she added, dropping from her -enthusiasm, and shaking her head once more. “He is fond of you too, and -that does not matter either; you will never get him to see it, never! I -know him better than you do.” - -“If you will be on my side he will come to see it,” said Durant. She -made him no direct reply, but hurried on. - -“And all the more since we have had this disappointment with Arthur. If -Arthur had married happily as we liked--as young Seymour has -done--things might have been different. But now that Arthur has made -such shipwreck, Lucy is all that is left to us. He will not let her -speak to anyone whom he thinks inferior to her. He has almost shut the -house even to his nephew Bertie; he would prefer even that she did not -marry at all.” - -“All this will not alarm me,” he said, keeping his eyes upon her, “if -you are on my side.” - -“Think!” she said, not paying any attention; “think how bad it is for us -in the county. Arthur thrown away upon a--worse than nobody: a foolish -girl who has not even the wit to hold by him and make him happy--our -only son! and Lucy our only daughter, if she too were to--” - -“Marry a nobody!” he said, with a smile, which he could not divest of -some bitterness. “Ah, Lady Curtis! that was what I feared--you are not -on my side.” - -“Lewis, only think!” she said; “put yourself in my place! I have been so -proud of my children; perhaps it was foolish, heaven knows one always -suffers for it; but if neither of them--neither of them! is to--have any -_succès_ in marriage, make any brilliant connection. Yes, yes,” she -said, “it is contemptible, I know it, you have a right to scorn me; but, -Lewis, put yourself in my place.” - -“I do,” he said; “and if I could I would grudge Lucy to a nobody as much -as you do; but is all my happiness to go for that, my lady? I dare not -speak of hers,” he said, faltering, “if I could hope that her happiness -was concerned, what secondary consideration in the world could be put by -the side of that?” - -Lady Curtis shook her head. She clasped and unclasped her hands, with -the nervousness of agitation. - -“It is easy for you to say that,” she cried, “very easy for you at your -stage; but happiness is not everything--happiness is not all I have to -look to,” and as she spoke, there flashed across Lady Curtis’s mind a -realization of the time when she should hear her daughter called Mrs. -Durant, and listen to the anxious explanations of society, as to how old -Durant the saddler, was not her father, but her grandfather-in-law. How -could she bear it, how could she bear it? she who had in imagination -seen her pretty daughter the admired of all admirers, at the height of -splendour and fashion, and with a better title than her mother’s. No, -no, no; it was not to be tolerated. She could never permit it! whatever -traitors might fight in her bosom for Lewis and his rights. - -“This is how it is then,” he said, sadly, “it is you, my friend, my -kindest patroness and guide, you who have been the help to me that only -such as you could be--that reject me, _my_ lady? Why should I claim you -as _my_ lady--or use such a familiar term at all?” - -“Lewis, don’t be cruel to me,” she cried. - -“I am not cruel. It is only that it is you, and not Sir John, who -rejects me,” he said. - -No intimation was made to Lucy how this interview was going on; she did -not know what form it would take, nor how far Durant would go; and after -the first half hour of suppressed excitement and agitation, her pride -arose against the notion of waiting here for any news that might be sent -her. She would not do it. She went out, rushing along, round by the back -of the house, to avoid being seen from her mother’s windows, and set off -to visit a sick family in the Park, belonging to one of the gamekeepers. -This would occupy her, and prevent her mind from dwelling upon anything -Lewis might have to say to Lady Curtis, and anything my lady might -reply. But it may be imagined how busy her mind was with a thousand -thoughts as she struck across the damp park, upon which the hoarfrost -had melted not very long before. It made her wet, but she did not care. -She did not come back, and this was done with intention, till the bell -was ringing for luncheon. She saw her mother and Durant both looking -anxiously down the avenue as she made her way in by the back entrance as -she had gone out. “My lady wants you, Miss Lucy,” all the maids told her -one after another; but Lucy’s pride was not to be so easily overcome. -She went upstairs and took off her wet shoes and outdoor wraps with the -composure of a Stoic, going down only when the summons of the bell was -no longer to be neglected, for Sir John was not a man to be kept -waiting. When she got down stairs, her colour a little brighter than -usual, and her air perhaps conscious in the very elaboration of -indifference--she found the party already assembled, her father from his -library, and her mother from the morning-room, where she had been shut -up the whole morning with her guest. These two gave her anxious glances, -both the one and the other. Some understanding she felt sure they must -have come to, as, mastering her pride and the sense of injury she felt -in being thus unacquainted with what had been going on, she sat down at -the table. Why did not she know, why was not she the first person to be -considered? To be sure it was her own fault. She had gone away, -concealing herself from them, binding on her armour of pride, pretending -not to know or care. But it was curious even to Lucy in that condition, -and would have been still more curious to a calmer spectator to see Sir -John taking his place in unbroken calm amid a party so agitated. Sir -John knew nothing of what had been going on, of Durant’s presumptuous -hopes, nor of how he had been occupied winning over Lady Curtis to his -side. He was full of something which had happened to himself, a little -adventure which had quite roused him from his habitual calm. He told -them all the story as they sat at the meal, which was little more than a -pretence to the others. While he ate his cutlet he went on with his -tale, telling them how he had driven out to see the state of the -plantations of which Rolt had been talking, and how as they approached -one special spot he sent the groom away to inquire into some changes in -the covers which he had not authorized. - -“And when I got as far as Fox’s Hollow,” said Sir John, “I found the -gate shut, which Short had assured me was always open. I was driving the -black colt, Lucy; you know the animal is a restive creature and very -fresh. I don’t know when he had been in harness before. I remember the -time when it would not have cost me much to jump down and open the gate, -too quick to give any horse his head, but that is all over now. I was -reflecting what to do with such a high-tempered brute, and a little -doubtful whether I’d venture to get down--a slow business now, Durant, -as you’ll know when you have come to my years; and as I was thinking -that discretion was the better part of valour, who should rise up -suddenly from the bushes but--no, not a pheasant, not a covey--but a -beautiful young lady. You may well open your eyes--a young creature like -a princess in a strange sort of black dress. I never saw her before. -She opened the gate to me, and she made me a curtsey and gave me a -smile. I can tell you, my lady, it produced such a sensation in me as I -have not felt for long enough. Of course I thanked her--of course I said -everything in the way of gratitude, and regret to have troubled her, and -excuse of myself as an old man. But the wonder is I didn’t know her! A -perfectly charming creature! Could it be young Seymour’s wife, or who -could it be? Upon my honour, though it sounds so strange to say so, I -never saw her before!” - -“Then _you_ have seen her, too?” cried Lady Curtis. “Now, Lucy, you -perceive your papa agrees with me--” - -“Who is this mysterious princess?” said Durant. He was glad as was my -lady of something that relieved the painful agitation of pre-occupied -thoughts. - -“I don’t know who she is, but she is a very charming person,” said Sir -John, helping himself to another cutlet. “One would think you had all -lunched in secret while I have been having my adventure. Durant, you -don’t eat anything. If it had been you who had seen this vision, we -should have drawn our own conclusions; but it has not taken away my -appetite,” the old man said with a smile. “If it was young Seymour’s -wife, young Seymour is a lucky fellow. I can’t think otherwise who she -could be.” - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - - -Nancy was not less moved by the morning’s adventure than Sir John had -been. She had strayed much farther than usual, taking her walk alone in -the park while Matilda was busy with her outfit. The gate was close to a -bit of wood where the trees were painted in all their most gorgeous -autumn tints; and since Lady Curtis had admired her simple garland of -leaves, her enthusiasm for them had increased. She had come out here in -perfect good faith to find others which she could copy, which might -please the lady who had been so kind, and whom, though only herself knew -this, it was so important to please. The morning was fine, though the -grass was wet, and Nancy, tired with her walk, was sitting resting on a -fallen tree. Her heart had given a little jump when she saw Sir John -driving along towards her. It was all he could do to manage the -high-spirited young horse. She knew him well enough by sight, and she -had no fear of him such as she had felt of the ladies; her secret was -safe from him. It did not even occur to her, as it might have done, that -to conciliate Arthur’s father would be something in her favour, so that -everything occurred naturally without motive or artificial stimulus. It -was, indeed, the most natural impulse which moved her to get up hastily -as soon as she saw his doubtful glance at the gate, and open it. In all -probability she would not have budged for Lady Curtis. The suspicion and -terror in her heart would have represented to her that the readiness to -do such an office might be misconstrued; but she obeyed her impulse in -respect to Sir John with the most spontaneous readiness. It was -agreeable to her to do him the kindly service which it always becomes -the young to render to the old. She looked up and smiled at him, and -said, “You are very welcome,” as he exhausted himself in thanks. And it -did not make Nancy’s look less gracious, or less fair, that she saw the -old gentleman’s admiring wonder, his evident anxiety to make out who she -was. At Sir John’s age a man need not hide his fatherly admiration for a -lovely face. He looked at her with his white head uncovered, with -pleasure and kindness and surprise in his eyes, and lavished thanks and -excuses. - -“I am glad I was here to do it,” Nancy said, feeling that corresponding -sentiment of kindness in herself, which is the soul of good manners. He -thought she was as gracious, as polished and graceful as she was -handsome; and a sense of gratification that warmed her heart and -softened it, came over her. Arthur’s father! she had not heard half so -much of him as of my Lady and Lucy. She was not afraid of him, and to -serve him gave her a sensation of innocent and real pleasure, which made -Nancy feel affectionate to the old man. He looked back at her as he -drove away, waving his hand and smiling; and she looked after him with -friendly eyes. They were friends from that moment. Lady Curtis’s -kindness had half broken her heart; but the encounter with Sir John made -Nancy happy, made her feel herself approved, flattered, raised in her -own opinion. And when a great many things have happened to lower one in -one’s own opinion, could anything be more grateful than this? She walked -home exhilarated in mind and body, no longer languid or tired, and -surprised Matilda by the news that she had met Sir John, and made -acquaintance with him, “I think he is the nicest of all,” said Nancy, -“old gentlemen are so kind; they do not frighten you like ladies.” - -“Oh, frighten you!” cried Matilda, “how could her Ladyship frighten -you--the kindest lady! but that your evil conscience must be always -saying, what would she say if she knew? Are you going to waste your time -with that rubbish again, Nancy, littering all the floor? Why can’t you -go on with your beautiful drawing? that was worth while--I thought of -getting a frame for it as soon as it was done.” - -“You can frame the original; it must be better than my copy,” said -Nancy, arranging her leaves. Matilda looked at her with an impatience -scarcely to be restrained; but she remembered that her Ladyship had -taken notice of the rubbish, and shrugged her shoulders over the strange -fancies of the gentlefolks. Nancy was just the same as they were. She -might have been born in that rank of life herself, she took such -fancies. Matilda was thankful, as she went on with her hemming, that no -such nonsense had ever occupied _her_. But to know all the details of -the interview pleased her much, and she would have sat all day long -stitching and listening, had not her sister commanded her, later in the -afternoon, to get her hat and come out to see the sunset. “Oh, the -sunset! a great deal of good that will do me; and not half my chemises -done yet,” Matilda murmured to herself, but she obeyed Nancy, who indeed -did not like to be disobeyed. They took the usual walk down through the -village to the Hall gates, and by the stile on the left hand, the same -stile over which they had come the first day they met Lucy. Since then -there had always been the excitement of some possible encounter to -anticipate, and as this idea occurred to her, Matilda’s bosom swelled -with natural exultation to think how entirely they had got into high -life. Sir John and her Ladyship had become, as it were, their daily -bread. If dear father had but known! - -A sunset is a fine thing no doubt; but if you think of it, after all, it -is not much of a sight, a thing that happens almost every day, and costs -nobody a penny; a thing that the very poorest tramp may enjoy as well as -you. To think how many people there are that will gaze and gaze at such -a thing, and look as if they never could have enough of it! Matilda was -more clever; she saw it at a glance, and did not require to look again; -and, indeed, it was very hard not to believe that it was affectation on -Nancy’s part to look at it so long. Matilda looked round her. There was -not much to see, but it is astonishing how much you can see when your -wits are about you. The spot where Nancy and her sister were standing -was quite near the avenue, and as Matilda, with her mind and eyes -unoccupied, looked out for something to amuse her, she suddenly was -aware of two people walking up and down in what might be called the side -aisle of the avenue, under the shadow of the trees, which still were -rich in autumn foliage. This “took her attention” immediately; for who -could it be but a pair of lovers, wandering up and down in intimate -intercourse; and what is there in heaven or earth more attractive to a -young woman than a pair of lovers? This sight woke Matilda out of the -indifference into which the sunset had thrown her. She peered through -the bushes with the liveliest interest and sympathy, not wishing to act -the part of eavesdropper--and, indeed, she was too far off for that--but -with the most purely benevolent regard, doing as she would be done by. -Had any disagreeable interruption of the interview threatened, Matilda -would have been but too glad to act as scout and give the alarm; and -soon a fact became apparent which added immensely to her interest, and, -indeed, turned it into excitement: she perceived that the lady was no -other than Miss Curtis. Here was a startling discovery! She made herself -a little peep-hole through the branches of a gnarled hawthorn that -pricked her fingers as she separated the twigs. Who was the gentleman? -Matilda thought his aspect was strangely familiar. It was not the -Rector, who was said in the village to be going to marry Miss Lucy. Who -was it? Matilda gazed long, and then she gave a start which nearly upset -her into the midst of all the prickles of the thorn. This was, indeed, -something more interesting than such a cheap exhibition as a sunset. -After a moment she came and plucked at her sister’s arm. - -“Nancy, Nancy! look here. I want you to look at something.” - -“What is it?” said Nancy languidly. - -She was sitting on the bank, though it was damp, with her hands folded -in her lap, and her face all illuminated with the golden light which -dropped lower and lower every moment. It had filled Nancy’s soul with -thoughts. She was wondering what was to come of all this, half -hopefully, half drearily; wondering if Arthur and she were to meet -again, if they would ever live together again, if her life was to change -into such a beautiful life as they lived, those people in the great -house; or if it was to be spent dully in the cottage, obscure and hidden -from all eyes. The sunset filled her eyes and glittered in the dew that -filled them, and insensibly as that dew rose, the thoughts welled up -into her heart. - -“Nancy, Nancy!” said Matilda, “oh, look here--oh, please come and look -here! It’s her, as clear as daylight; and I do think it’s _him_.” - -“Him!” Nancy began to tremble, and rose, but did not advance further. -“What are you saying--who do you mean by him?” - -“Will you come here and look?” cried Matilda. “Come! I tell you, it’s -Miss Lucy, as sure as this is me; with her young man.” - -“How dare you speak so!” cried Nancy, flushing crimson, “of any of -them!” - -To talk of Lucy’s young man seemed to her something like blasphemy. -Naturally, she was becoming a purist about language as she learned what -nicety of speech meant. She was a great deal more shocked than Lucy -would have been. - -“Well,” said Matilda, stoutly, “he is her young man. What is wrong in -that? They’ve been going up and down like two young people keeping -company this hour or more, while you have been watching the sky (of -course she exaggerated the time), and nothing a bit wrong in it that I -can see. You’ve done the same yourself--and so would I if it had come in -my way,” said honest Matilda. Then, however, her voice sank, and she -took her sister by the arm. “That’s not half,” she said, “Nancy, dear! -and the most important’s to come. Do you remember Durant, that came to -Underhayes with Arthur? You must remember Durant--him that Sarah Jane -took such a fancy to.” - -“I remember Mr. Durant,” said fastidious Nancy. “I don’t know why _you_ -should talk of him so familiarly.” - -“Oh, have done with your fine talk and your nonsense!” cried Matilda. -“Look here, he’s _there_, Nancy! I tell you he’s there, close by, -courting Miss Lucy. You can come and look for yourself if you don’t -trust me.” - -Nancy came slowly, half forced by the eager Matilda, but already turning -over in her mind what expedients would be necessary to escape this -sudden turn of affairs. Durant! (She allowed herself to drop the Mr. in -her thoughts.) He would find her out, she knew, before many hours were -out. She could not keep her secret from him; he would find her, and -write to Arthur, and make or mar everything. What was she to do? A great -conflict arose within her. She was sick enough of this state of affairs, -and if Durant did intervene to end it, would there be so very much to -regret? Arthur would come home, he would come to her, and there would be -a reconciliation, and all would be well. But then, on the other hand, -she had to own, with a sickening sensation in her heart, that already -Arthur must have been for some time aware of “what had happened,” and he -had not hastened home to her. And the idea that Durant might write to -him, send for him as a matter of duty, sent all the blood coursing -through her veins. Never! never! She would die first. Even short of -that, how much pleasanter it would be to manage everything herself, to -leave it to Providence, than that, anyhow, Durant should step in. All -these thoughts rushed in a heap into her mind, tumultuous, rolling and -rushing over each other like clouds before the wind, as she took the -half-dozen steps necessary to bring her to Matilda’s point of vision to -verify what Matilda had seen. But it did not require any verification to -Nancy. She had felt sure it was true from the first moment. It was -exactly the thing that was most likely to happen. She looked through the -thorn branches, however, with a wakening of sympathy, such as she had -scarcely yet felt, in Lucy. Lucy of late had been lost in Sir John and -her ladyship; and when she had thought of her specially it was with -jealous fear rather than sympathy. Now she watched her with a curious -mingling of interest and opposition. It seemed wrong to Nancy that Miss -Curtis should be here with a young man without the knowledge of her -father and mother; and Durant, Durant, who had his living to make like -any common man! She remembered very well what Arthur had told her about -him. He, it was clear, could be no match for Lucy; it was not right, it -was not _nice_ of Lucy. The forehead of Mrs. Arthur contracted. She did -not like any coming down in the family with which she was connected. She -liked to think of them all as very great people indeed, quite above that -necessity of working for a living which brought down Durant to the -ordinary level of man. All this, however, was by the way; and the -immediate thing she had to consider was what she herself would do in -this new emergency. She ended hastily at last, when the pair of lovers -(since they could be nothing else) turned their faces towards the Hall. -Nancy seized her sister’s arm, and without saying anything rushed -hastily towards the stile. They got over it, and out of the gates, while -still the backs of the others were turned; and then for the moment the -two young women ventured to take breath and feel themselves safe. - -“They were going up towards the house,” said Nancy; “we have no need to -hurry.” But she gave looks of alarm behind her, and walked rapidly back -to the cottage. As ill luck would have it they met the Rector, who -stopped, as he always did, and kept them talking. When he had insisted -on planting himself in their path for a full minute, Nancy got -desperate. He was to be got rid of, she felt, at all hazards. - -“We met Miss Curtis in the avenue just now,” she said. “She had a -gentleman with her. Do you know if there is a gentleman of the name of -Durant, or something like that, visiting at the Hall?” - -“Oh, Durant is there, is he?” said the Rector, with a look of annoyance. -“Yes, I know him. He used to be very intimate then; but I had hoped he -had not been so much in favour of late. I say frankly, ‘I hope,’ for I -am not fond of him. He is a nobody, a--perhaps you have met him, Mrs. -Arthur. He has got into very good society, somehow or other; but he is -nobody.” - -“I think I have seen him somewhere; but you will find him now in the -avenue with Miss Curtis; and we must hurry back,” she said, nodding and -smiling as she went on. She liked Durant a great deal better than she -liked Bertie; but to escape from her present dilemma was more important -than either. “Now, Matilda, make haste; let us get home,” she said. She -had sent the Rector “after them,” not without a certain malicious -pleasure. She had freed herself from the immediate danger in which she -lay. He would talk, and they would be obliged to listen, as, otherwise, -Nancy would have been; and with another anxious look behind, she sped -along the road. But it was an unlucky day. In the village street they -met Mrs. Rolt, who also had a thousand things to say. She rushed across -the street with a budget full of news, and laughed and joked, and -congratulated the young stranger on having made such an impression upon -Sir John. Mrs. Rolt told Nancy that she had been at the Hall immediately -after luncheon, and that Sir John would talk of nothing else. - -“And he is a very good friend, a faithful friend, though he is not very -demonstrative,” said Cousin Julia; “but, indeed, my dear, he was quite -demonstrative about you, and talked of you all the time. Mr. Durant was -there,” she added confidentially, “and I don’t think he much wanted Mr. -Durant. You know there was always a kindness between him and Lucy; but -it would be quite out of the question for Lucy, quite out of the -question, especially since her brother’s unfortunate marriage.” - -“What has her brother’s marriage got to do with it?” cried Nancy, -forgetting, in this unexpected attack, even her fears. - -“Oh, my dear, don’t you know what a dreadful thing it is for the family? -It has spoiled Arthur’s life, poor fellow. Where are the heirs to come -from?” Cousin Julia cried pathetically. “However bad she might be, it -would not be quite so bad, you know, if there were any heirs; but the -succession, my dear! Lucy must marry, and she must marry well, or what -is to become of the family?” Mrs. Rolt said with decision. “She, too, -will have to suffer for her brother. The innocent are always involved -with the guilty; and when once a wrong thing has been done, one never -knows where it may end.” - -Nancy had grown crimson with shame and resentment--and with pain too, -pain that she could not fathom in all its complexities. She turned away -coldly from Mrs. Rolt, scarcely attempting to separate from her with the -pretence at civility, which good manners (she felt) demanded. The -innocent involved with the guilty! how dared anyone so speak of her? She -went on to her cottage, forgetting her previous alarms, holding her head -high, and she did not take any notice of the sound of wheels behind -her, the rapid dash of a dog-cart which came whirling along and round -the corner from the Hall. But she came to herself with a start and cry, -when turning round suddenly she met Durant’s look, which flashed from -the ordinary calm of an indifferent passer-by into profound surprise and -instant eagerness at sight of her. The dog-cart was going so fast, with -so much “way” upon it, that it was a minute before it could be drawn up -and he could spring down from it. In that minute, Nancy aroused to the -necessity of the case, had darted down a little side alley, by which she -knew she could reach the back-door of the cottage. Fortunately there was -nobody about to see her fly along past the little gardens to the open -kitchen door. She darted in to the alarm of Fanny, and flying breathless -upstairs rushed to the shelter of her own room. - -“If anyone calls I am ill in bed,” she cried, as she passed, to the -consternation of the little maid. Matilda, by this time was quietly -seated in the little sitting-room at work. “Come up with me, come up -with me. Durant is after me!” cried Nancy, breathless. Matilda had -presence of mind to obey without a word, though she made a mental -memorandum as she went upstairs after her sister. “She says Durant, -too,” Matilda said to herself--but she made no audible protest; and from -a corner between the curtains she watched and reported how the dog-cart -waited, and how long a time it was before the visitor came back baffled, -after following down the alley and finding nothing. - -“He is looking very suspicious-like at all the houses,” said Matilda. - -“Oh, keep close, keep close!” cried Nancy, from the bed on which she was -crouching--as if he could see in through the curtains. They spent an -anxious half-hour watching his proceedings, for the dog-cart drove away -and then came back, and their fears were renewed for another tremulous -moment. But Durant fortunately did not apply to anyone who could give -him information. He trusted apparently to his own sharp-sightedness, or -to the hope that Nancy had hidden herself, and would reappear again. The -sisters did not venture to draw breath until it was clear that he was -gone. - -Here was another and important embarrassment and difficulty in their -way. They did not know that Durant’s day’s occupation had been so very -important to himself as to eclipse all other interests. They thought he -would come back next day to search thoroughly, and make sure that they -did not escape him. For to Nancy in the present crisis it was evident -that nothing else could be half so important; her own affairs naturally -appeared to her the most likely subject to absorb Durant’s thoughts. - - - - -CHAPTER X. - - -The explanation between Durant and Lucy, of which Nancy had been, so to -speak, a spectator, and which had filled her with such doubtful -feelings, before the moment when she apprehended peril to herself--had -taken place under difficulties. It was only when driven up into a corner -by his repeated appeals that Lady Curtis had given a doubtful and -reluctant assent--it did not deserve so cordial a title as consent--to -his petition--which was only that he might be allowed to refer the -question to Lucy herself. “If she says no, there will not be another -word to say,” he had represented. Lady Curtis had only replied by -shaking her head, a gesture which filled him with exhilaration, though -after all it might have meant something different from the conclusion -he drew from it. But after the confused meal, which he was so anxious to -get over and so impatient of, it was some time before Lucy’s attention -could be secured. She was coy and unwilling, and half-angry, he thought, -while her mother, though so affectionate to himself, would have been -glad enough to stave off the interview which she had reluctantly -promised might take place between them. She would not go back from her -word; but if she could manage to get it postponed, deferred till the -last moment, Lady Curtis would have felt that something was gained. And -things seemed to fall out in harmony with her purpose as the afternoon -went on. Sir John took possession of Durant in the first place to show -him something, and then Lady Curtis managed to keep by Lucy’s side, -hoping that the time at which he had settled to leave them would have -come too near for any explanation before the opportunity came. But -Durant was not the kind of man to be so baffled by circumstances. When -he saw the policy she was pursuing (and which, with an hypocrisy which -half-maddened, half-amused, half-touched him, she seemed to confess and -beg pardon for, with deprecating beseeching looks) he broke openly -through the maze she was entangling his feet in. He went up to Lucy -boldly as she sat by her mother’s side. - -“There is something that I want to say to you,” he said, with a -tremulousness very unlike his usual steady tones. “Your mother has -permitted me to ask you--to hear me--” - -“Do not say that, Lewis, do not say that,” cried Lady Curtis. “I could -not forbid it--that was all.” - -“It comes to the same thing. Will you hear what I have to say--will you -listen to me? It may be nothing to you, but it is everything in the -world to me!” - -Lucy grew crimson red, then pale, then red again. “Can you say it here?” -she asked, in a scarcely audible voice. - -“Anywhere, wherever you will, no place can change what I have to say; -but rather alone,” he cried, growing so agitated that his words were -half inarticulate too. Lady Curtis got up with a sigh to leave them. But -Lucy felt the atmosphere of the room, the sense of constraint in the -very air, stifle her. She sprang up hurriedly. “Stay here, mamma, I will -go out with Lewis,” she said, scarcely knowing what she said. It was -quite unawares that this unconscious familiar utterance of his name -anticipated everything more she could say on her side, as his appeal had -forestalled everything on his. She caught up her hat and a shawl as she -went out, then turned to him with a question in her eyes--was it a -question? She knew as well as he did, and he knew as well she did. Had -it not all been settled years ago? - -Lady Curtis was very restless when she was thus left behind. She had -given her unwilling assent only on hard conditions--that nothing more -than this one interview should at present pass between the lovers--that -no formal engagement should be made or correspondence begun, and nothing -as yet be said to Sir John. She was to “manage” him as best she could, -taking her opportunity; nothing was to be hurried or forced. They were -to wait the next change in the drama of Arthur’s fortunes. If anything -happened in that, Sir John might be more easy to manage. But though she -set up all these imaginary defences round her, Lady Curtis knew very -well that in ceding one point she had virtually ceded all. How keep two -persons who understood each other, who were faithful to each other, who -could neither be coerced nor frightened, apart? the thing was -impossible. It might be done for a time making everybody uncomfortable, -but the means of permanently afflicting Lucy, whom her parents loved, -who was more precious to them than all the rest of the world! This was -folly she knew. Sir John might resist, and he would regret--but yield he -must if they insisted. And what could Lucy do else? Lady Curtis was, as -she avowed to herself, with a smile and a tear, a little in love with -Lewis too. He was so kind, so true, so good a stay and support to all -belonging to him; he was--what need to prolong descriptions--Lewis; and -had not all been said in that word for years? Of course Lucy would -insist: not undutifully, not untenderly, but steadily, and to the end of -her days; there would be no passion, no tragedy--but she would never -change. Her mother knew this as well as she knew her child’s name, and -began to consider, as she wandered about restless, wondering when they -would come back again, wondering what they could find to say to each -other so long, wondering at Durant’s determination and Lucy’s courage, -how she could make the best of it and reconcile herself to the -inevitable. He would be successful in his profession, that there seemed -no doubt of now--he would reach, perhaps, the bench, and then Lucy might -be Lady Durant. Lady Curtis shrugged her shoulders at this prospect. She -was apt to gibe at her own position, and talk of “we Commoners;” but -legal honours of that description were lowlier than any lowliness which -could be affected by the head of a great county family, tenth baronet, -with dormant titles in his race which he did not care to claim. Lady -Durant! “granddaughter-in-law of old Durant, you know, the saddler.” -This was what would be said. Lady Curtis thought she could hear the very -sound of the voices lightly tripping over these syllables. To be sure -many greater ladies than she had accepted the sons of _parvenus_ for -their daughters. Duchesses did it every day; but then dukes were made -for that sort of thing, she said to herself with a smile; were they not -a kind of coroneted steam-engines to drag up the lower classes? very -different from us, Commoners. There was always the woolsack it is true, -an institution which does a great deal for the _noblesse_ of the robe. -With a whimsical half-amusement she began to calculate whether she was -likely to live to see Lewis Lord Chancellor. He might do it (if he was -ever going to do it) in twenty years. Twenty years would suffice as well -as a hundred. Lady Curtis was but forty-seven, there was no particular -reason why she should not live as long as that, and such an elevation -of course would very much sweeten the Lady Durant. - -But how long these two were? What could they possibly find to say to -each other? It was close upon the hour at which Lewis had ordered his -dog-cart, and he had a long drive before him. Then she went to her room -and put on her outdoor garments, and went out to meet the lovers. She -walked down the avenue half-satisfied, half-vexed that they had gone so -far. Why should they have preferred to get out of sight of the house? -and yet it was better that they should not thus suddenly thrust -themselves under the observation of Sir John. With a flutter in her -bosom of mingled pleasure and pain, she perceived them in the distance. -It hurt her infinitesimally, yet consciously, to see her Lucy, her shy, -delicate, fastidious flower of maidenhood, leaning upon any man’s arm -_so_; and yet the happiness in Lucy’s bosom was it not almost her own. -When she came up to them herself blushing, and half abashed to meet -their eyes, the young man was so bold as to come up to her, under her -own trees, and kiss her cheek. He had done it once before when she -clung to him in the depths of her trouble; but there was a dauntless -assurance in this kiss which startled her. She might, perhaps, have -crushed him under her frown with severe disapproval, but that the -dog-cart at that moment was audible, coming rapidly down upon them. -There was no time to be angry when he was going away. She took her -daughter’s arm when he was gone, drawing it closely into hers as they -stood aside to watch him dash down the avenue, for he was late. Lady -Curtis held Lucy close, and the daughter clung to the mother; but is the -clinging ever so close again, after a man’s arm has had that softest, -warmest pressure? Lady Curtis, with a sigh, felt the difference--or -thought she did, which comes to the same thing. - -And as Durant drove away, with his head full of Lucy, he was suddenly -transfixed, shot point-blank, as it were, by the eyes of Mrs. Arthur, -raised in surprise and alarm to his face. Nancy! here! It was so -incredible, and his mind was so preoccupied, that he almost upset his -dog-cart, pulling it up with a jerk, then dropped the reins, which had -been held so firmly, on the horse’s neck. He did not know if he was -awake or dreaming as he stumbled down, the surprise was so great, the -shock so sudden. Nancy! It seemed to him that there was a kind of -suggestion of help, a thread of guidance thrown out to him by this -sudden apparition. He rushed after her, asking one or two gaping -wayfarers who had not perceived her, who the lady was, as he followed -her track; but fear had given wings to Nancy, and she had reached -shelter before he came in sight. He wandered about aimlessly for some -little time, as has been seen, asking vague questions, and gazing about -at the houses. But as nobody had seen the lady to whom he referred, and -as in his excitement his description, perhaps, was less clear than -usual, he made nothing by his inquiries. They pointed out Mrs. Rolt’s -house to him, which he knew, and everything in it; and as the evening -was already falling, Durant felt himself forced at last to resume his -way. He could not make out all that he expected, all that seemed to -flutter about through the confusion in his thoughts--possibilities for -the future, new lights, new likelihoods; for it must be remembered that -his mind was already in a whirl with all that had happened to himself -within the last half-dozen hours--more than had happened for the -half-dozen years before, or, indeed, during all his life. - -There was to be no correspondence; yet Lady Curtis was not surprised to -get a letter next day, enclosing one for Lucy. - -“Just this once,” he pleaded; “and not for mere gratification of writing -to her. There is something I want to tell her. You will not refuse me -this once.” - -Lady Curtis did not refuse him. She gave the note to Lucy with a smile -and a sigh, and a little shrug of her shoulders. - -“What is this great thing he has to tell you, I wonder? The same thing, -I suppose, that he took so long to tell you the other day.” - -“Indeed, it must be something he has forgotten,” said Lucy, with simple -seriousness; but she took the note upstairs to read in her own room, -running off on pretence of wanting something--a pretence which her -mother, with another sigh and shrug of her shoulders, understood well -enough. And, indeed, Durant had not failed to take advantage of his -opportunity. The little letter was a love-letter, a kind of thing which -is too exquisite for common touch; but it had a postscript, which was -its _raison d’être_. - -“_This is what I shall want to be always telling you, what I shall tell -you in my heart daily and hourly till I have you there in real presence, -my Lucy_,” the deceiver wrote; and then, with a twist of his hand, in a -changed writing even, “But I should not have dared to write but for a -strange fact I found out after I left you--ARTHUR’S WIFE IS IN OAKLEY. -It seems incredible, but it is true. I saw her on the road. She -disappeared at the sight of me by a back-lane, and must have gone into -some house. You will tell them or not, as you please; but I must tell -_you_. There seems, I can’t quite tell how, hope for ourselves in it. -My darling!” And then the other kind of writing began again, with which -we sober-minded persons have nothing to do. - -Lucy, it may be supposed, was extremely excited by this communication; -not just at first, it must be allowed, not till she had read it about -six times over did the real point of it strike her mind. At first it was -the other part of the letter that occupied her; and when Lady Curtis -said, smiling, “What was the great piece of news--an old enough story, I -suppose?” Lucy meant no deception in her response. But by and by the -fact began to acquire its real importance in her mind. She had no longer -a moment’s doubt on the subject; had not instinct whispered it to her at -once? Nancy was here, within her reach, within her influence; and only -one thing could be meant by this, that the rebellious young woman who -had made Arthur so unhappy, had seen the error of her ways, and was -willing to depart from them, to seek the favour of her husband’s -family, to endeavour to please them, that there might be a -reconciliation and universal pardoning of all offences, in prospect. -Lucy, when she wholly realized the important fact thus communicated to -her, was lost in perplexity. What was she to do? A strange reluctance -sprang up in her mind to speak of it, to bring it to any one’s -observation. Would it not be better to let this strange young woman, by -whom Lucy had at once been attracted and repelled, work out her -intentions, whatever they were? It was not natural that the young lady -should think with special kindness, or, indeed, without a certain -prejudice, of this interloper. Lucy’s feeling, to start with, had been -all in her sister-in-law’s favour. Before the marriage had taken place, -when the question was whether Arthur should be persuaded or forced into -faithlessness to his promise, Lucy had been Nancy’s faithful, if -reserved, supporter. She had been horrified by the suggestion that a -man’s plighted word and promised love were not binding, when the woman -to whom they were pledged was in an inferior class. This doctrine had -shocked and revolted every feeling in her heart, and when her family had -made ignoble efforts to buy off Nancy, Lucy had been as indignant as -Arthur was. But now everything was changed. The resemblances in nature -and the diversity in circumstances, which gave her a fellow-feeling with -this girl in one stage of her history, gave her a certain sense of -repulsion now. She had thought it a mere foolish imagination on her part -to identify Mrs. Arthur at the Wren Cottage with Nancy; but even while -doing so, Lady Curtis’s ready prepossession in her favour, and the easy -fascination she had exercised over Sir John, had given Lucy a slight -involuntary prick of displeasure. What did they see in this young woman -to be so readily pleased by her? She was pretty. Was that all that was -necessary? Lucy was in no way injured by it, it took nothing from her, -yet she felt more than half angry at the rapid conquest of her parents -which the stranger had made. They were quite absurdly interested in her. -Why? Sir John spoke of her as if she had been a princess, and even her -mother, who, as a woman, should have had more discrimination, had been -disposed to rave about this new face, in which, after all, there was no -such dazzling beauty as to carry the world by storm. Lucy had been a -little vexed with herself for feeling this, yet she had felt it. She had -been inclined in her own person to bestow her attention upon the homely -sister, who was a good modest little body and claimed no one’s -admiration. And when this strange certainty came to confirm the guess, -which even to herself had seemed too fantastic for fact, Lucy felt an -instant increase of prejudice, an almost dislike for which she could -give no reason, and which was at once impolitic and unkind. Why should -her mind turn against Nancy now? Was it not for the interest of the -family as well as her own that she should in every way cultivate the -possibility of reunion between Arthur and his wife? It must be for -Arthur’s good that he should be delivered out of his false position, and -should live out his life honestly, having chosen it; and it must be to -the advantage of the family that its heir should be replaced in his -natural place, both for the present and the future. Finally, there could -be no doubt whatever that it would be for Lucy’s own interest in the new -development of her lot. If Arthur was like any other young married man, -united to a wife whom his parents had learned to like at least, whether -they approved of her or not, how much easier would everything be for the -now impossible marriage of the daughter who at present was their only -hope! But it cannot be said that this suggestion of her own lessened -value and importance, and the likelihood that Nancy might free her by -taking her place in her father’s house, was at all an agreeable thought -to Lucy Curtis. It might promote her “happiness;” but it certainly, for -the moment, did not make her more happy. She was unreasonable--as we all -are more or less. Yes, she would be glad that Arthur should be “happy,” -that all should go well; but to think of her mother’s sudden fancy for -this stranger, of her father’s swift subjugation, of Nancy holding her -own place at Oakley, doing all the things she had done, accepted by -everybody as the young lady of the place, this was hard upon Lucy. For -the moment it gave her an almost intolerable prick--though she took -herself to task for it instantly with hot rage and self-contempt. How -mean and poor, what a wretched pitiful creature she was! - -Then, however, after all this feeling, came the practical side of the -matter. Should she let her mother know? Lucy had no secrets from her -mother, except indeed that one of her love, before her love had been -openly asked for--a thing which not the most tenderly confidential of -daughters could be expected to disclose. She made an heroic effort to -clear from her mind all prejudice, all momentary and accidental -irritation of feeling. Which was best? To let this incognito have its -full value, to permit Arthur’s wife to have the entire advantage of the -effort she was visibly making, and keep her secret? If it were -prematurely revealed it was possible that the effort itself would tell -against Nancy, at least with Lady Curtis. To let her do her best, to say -nothing, to give her the chance of making them her friends, would not -that be the kindest thing that Arthur’s sister could do? The conclusion -is very easily stated, but it took a long time to arrive at; but it was -on this that Lucy decided at last. - -“Will you reply for me?” she said to her mother; “no--I am not going to -exceed your permission, mamma. I will abide by my promise not to write. -Say from me,” said Lucy with a blush, “that I--respond in my heart to -all he says; but that, at present, on all subjects it is best not to -speak. Will you tell him that word for word.” - -“Faithfully, my darling--and thank you, my Lucy,” said the mother, -kissing her, with the quick moisture rising in her eyes. Then she added -with a smile, “I suppose I may give him--your love?” - -Lady Curtis was not hard upon the young people after all. - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - - -Arthur Curtis had not been leading a self-denying or ascetic life; -indeed he had been nearer the depths of moral decadence in the recent -months than ever before. He had got reckless about himself and his life; -not coarsely reckless, as men are who plunge into the ruder -dissipations, but so discouraged and weary that by mere dint of ceasing -to care what he did, he had ceased to do well, and almost dropped into -the gulf on the opposite side. He had been foolish enough in the past, -but his aim had been towards, if not the most exalted objects of -ambition, yet those of honesty, truth, faithfulness, and pure living. It -might have been unwise to love as he did, so far out of the region he -himself belonged to; but, at least, his love brought no harm to any one, -and had no evil thought in it. He had been faithful to it, -notwithstanding everything that had come in his way; opposition and -entreaty on the side of his family, and partial disgust and discontent -on his own, had not moved him; but of what good had all his faithfulness -been? What good had his honesty and pure intentions done him? He was -stranded upon the shore--laid aside helpless and with little hope from -the graver developments of existence. He was bound for life to the wife -who had become a stranger to him--who had thrust him away from her; and -hopelessly cut off from all other honourable connections, from the -happiness of home, from everything which makes up to a young man for the -loss of his first freedom. Arthur had all the evils of that freedom -without the good of it; he was bound yet let loose, tempted to every -kind of license, yet in such a position that ordinary and innocent -liberty was denied to him. Nothing could be more cruel to a -high-spirited young man not trained in the ways of self-denial. And by -the time these two years were over he had become sick of it all: The -restraints that confined him, the conscience which reminded him of these -restraints, and the injured love that gnawed at his heart and felt like -rage. What good had come to him of all his efforts to do well--of all -the honest meaning of his soul? The gayest and least self-denying of his -comrades was better off than he; and he had been on the borders of -vice--not compelled by any force of passion, but rather by disgust and -unwilling cynicism, the what does it matter? of the despairing soul. On -the borders of vice--and half-unbelieving in anything better--half -giving up all that was better in this world--trying to persuade himself -that nothing mattered. Youth comes to this alternative of happiness very -easily. The wisdom which has found out that in happiness, or -unhappiness, life jogs on much the same, and that all is not unmitigated -evil in the worst circumstances, nor unmitigated good in the best; is -an elderly kind of wisdom. But Arthur was impatient of his own -hopelessness--he felt his own weariness intolerable; which is as much as -to say that neither the hopelessness nor the impatience was entirely -genuine, or had half the sway he thought of in his heart. - -Their immediate effect however, was a great bitterness and restlessness, -and distaste for everything around him. He had got to hate his new life, -his occupations, and the pleasures which perhaps palled more quickly -than his occupations; and all that flutter of diplomatic talk, which is -so like the flutter of the smallest parish business, but that the topics -are more important. Those personal discussions and reports, the “he -said” and “she said” which pretend to be of vital importance when the -hes and the shes are kings and queens, but are so like common gossip in -every other respect became tiresome beyond description. All this which -had carried him away from his own presumably small affairs at first, and -had sounded great and magnificent, sickened him now with its -paltriness. “Depend upon it the Emperor meant so and so.” “But I assure -you Count A---- said--” What was a man the better for this? he asked -himself with disdain Nothing at all the better, much the worse, as -having it urged upon his attention that mere gossip and nonsensical -bustle, and officious fussiness thrust themselves in at the gravest -moments, and have a part in the greatest events. Mrs. Bates discussing -the affairs of her chapel and the private dissensions between the -minister and the deacons, or a Secretary of Legation busily calculating -how the Emperor and Count A. and Prince B. contradicted each other, what -was the difference? Was it not all petty, miserable, unworthy? What was -a man the better of it? And though the _salons_ were more lovely and the -style of conversation more graceful, was not the subject everywhere much -the same as in the parlour at Underhayes, in which Arthur had made such -close acquaintance with the vulgarities of life? He was disgusted with -them all. The only good under the sun was surely to enjoy as much as -you could where you could, leaving all other considerations aside. Be -happy--if that come within your powers--but if not happy, then be -amused, if you are able to be so, distracted from your own thoughts, -entertained, if not by the love and kindness, at least by the folly, and -affectations, and self-regard of others. This creed was not naturally to -the taste of a frank and open-hearted young man, sympathetic with his -fellow-creatures, manly, and friendly, and gentle of heart; but his -unhappiness had given him a twist, and all the training he was at -present subject, to all the influences round him, led him that way. What -did it matter? Let us eat and drink for to-morrow we die. Arthur was on -the eve of ceding to this creed. He was on the edge of that pit which is -bottomless, and in which there is so little hope; and he might have -ended by being a gay infidel, a chill but laughing cynic, even an -unbeliever in everything good, who should not only accept that negative -of every virtue, but be amused by it, the last degradation. He had all -but given in, when Durant’s letter telling him of the disappearance of -Nancy came suddenly into his life like a thunderbolt. He had thought as -little about Nancy as possible, poor fellow! She was living the life she -had chosen to live under the protection of her parents in the home she -preferred. Arthur knew the half-savage reserve and purity of the girl -too well to have any doubt of her honour to him. It was not that she -could transfer her heart to another; but that she had no heart at all so -far as he was concerned; not that she was unfaithful in love, but that -she could live without love. He had written to her without eliciting any -answer at first; then he had ceased to write; he had heard nothing of -her for about eighteen months, except that her money was paid; not a -sign of her had come to him in all that time. His heart had gone through -all the stages of longing, of waiting, of dire anxiety, of lingering -hope against hope. And then he had turned resolutely away from the -ungrateful one. He never mentioned so much as her name to anyone, he -gave up his correspondence with Durant, he dropped this past of his in -that grave of obscurity into which so many men cast, one after another, -in broken pieces, the lives they have thrown away. It was not his fault, -or at least it was very far from being all his fault that these chances -of life had been thrown away; but now let them go and let no one attempt -to make any wail over them. She was well off, among the people she liked -best, well cared for, cherished as she chose to be cherished, though not -as he would have cherished her. Let her be. She was his, but she was not -for him, nor could anyone else be for him. She had desolated the life -which he had consecrated to her. Henceforward there was a blank in it -which she would not, and which no one else could fill. The legitimate -ties, the purer hopes were over. But there were other solaces more -cheaply to be had--if he could have persuaded himself to accept those -husks which the swine eat; and to these last degrading feasts he was -making up his mind. - -When suddenly Durant’s news came into his life like a thunderbolt, -breaking the stagnation of the unwholesome air. This woman who belonged -to him was, like himself, alone in the world. The humble coterie which -she had preferred to him was broken up. All that she had loved and clung -to had gone from her. Perhaps she too might have felt, even before this, -the dreariness of that existence deprived of its closest tie, to which -she had condemned him; but at least she must feel it now. Everything had -gone from her, the shelter of her father’s house, the natural protection -and moral support which perhaps had kept her in her error; but which -must have failed her now along with everything else. The first feeling -in Arthur’s mind was a keen pity for Nancy. She had done him grievous -wrong, she had wasted all their mutual chances of happiness; but she was -young, inexperienced, foolish, a child playing with the most dangerous -elements, not knowing any better, and now the time had come when she -must bear the penalty too. But when he realized the results of the -misfortune that had befallen his wife, and heard that she had left -Underhayes and thrown up the allowance which he had been so much -surprised, and disappointed, and satisfied to find her accept at first, -Arthur’s heart swelled with a more generous, more happy sentiment than -had touched it for months before. Had not this been one of the things -which had disgusted him most with human nature, though he had never put -it into words? The thought that his wife when she left him, though she -would not accept love from him, would accept money, humiliating, -degrading thought! With a start and sudden thrill of recognition he -heard that she had thrown it aside now, and this one fact threw light to -him upon all that went before, and seemed to bring her back to him -cleared of a thousand misapprehensions. At last he recognised again his -Nancy, proud, rash, daring, imprudent, capable of any outburst of -passionate folly, but not of mercenary calculation or the prudence of a -deliberate bargain. - -He saw it all now, he thought; and in his thoughts, did, could anyone -wonder? as much injustice to the poor vulgar couple in their graves, -who were not any more mercenary than poverty compelled them to be, as he -had formerly done to his hot-headed and foolish wife. It had been their -fault; they had forced her into this vulgar settlement which had so -revolted him, this compounding for the injuries of the heart by an -allowance. Had he not known all along that it could not be Nancy? What -could be more unlike Nancy, so independent, so defiant, so rash and -regardless of all dictates of prudence as she had been? It had been a -mystery to him, and burning pain all through; but now he recognised her -again. It was as if suddenly, after long obliteration from his memory, -her face with all the characteristic defects and imperfections of its -beauty, defects far more sweet than the faulty faultlessness of others, -had all at once gleamed upon him out of the gloom. Perhaps, how could he -tell, if he had been less distant, if she had been less proud, she might -have turned to him in her grief and loneliness, sought his natural -support, his natural consolation; but at least she had vindicated -herself by that hasty, foolish immediate action. If not love, then not -money, no bargain, no mercenary advantage. Through the gloom, through -the distance, flashing with anger, veiled with tears, Nancy’s eyes -seemed suddenly to gleam upon him, Nancy’s voice, faltering yet firm, to -fling at him a defiance, a challenge--was it an appeal? There came from -Arthur’s breast a sudden burst of cries and laughter mingled, and his -eyes in his solitude filled with tears, salt and scalding but sweet. And -as he sat there alone he blushed fiery red over brow and throat. To what -ignoble rivalship, what miserable partaking, had he almost degraded his -wife! but heaven be praised this voice out of the darkness had come in -time. - -And at first it did not occur to him that this sudden and prompt -vindication of herself, which set Nancy right, brought external -consequences with it which might alarm any man. What could she do to -make up for the loss of her living which must ensue? She would be not -only an orphan and friendless--but also penniless, with nothing, and no -one to keep her from want. This is a thought which might well appal a -man used to all the resources of wealth, and who had no notion how poor -people contrive to stumble on, and keep body and soul together upon no -income at all. A shiver of pain got into Arthur’s being at thought of -the sacrifices and straits she might be driven to; though that was not -half so powerful at first as the relief and satisfaction of the other -discovery, that she was herself still, foolish, rash, passionate, but -not mercenary. It grew upon him, however, as the days went on, and no -answer came to the letter he wrote instantly imploring Durant (whose -time and labours seemed to his friends to belong to them) to lose no -time in finding Nancy. As it happened, and as it happens so often in the -emergencies of individual history, Arthur could not at that moment rush -home himself, as he would have done almost at any other time, to rescue -his wife from her self-imposed privations, whatever they might be. His -chiefs were absent, there was a lull in diplomatic business, and it was -his duty to remain at his post, to note the small gossip of the court, -and chronicle all the small beer, and make into national importance the -scraps of remark that fell from Count A. and Prince B. - -For a month or more he was kept doing this, chafing at every day as it -passed, and growing more and more excited, more and more anxious. By and -by Durant wrote that he was making every possible research, but had as -yet discovered nothing. And then there arose a very fever of anxious -thought in Arthur’s mind. Where could she be? what might she be doing? -what privations might she be enduring, what toils, what hardships? All -the stories of distress he had ever heard, of proud poverty, of -struggles for employment, of Spartan independence starving calmly sooner -than ask for a morsel, all the taunts and spurns which patient merit -from the unworthy takes, came rushing upon his recollection. While he -lived daintily and slept softly, his Nancy, his wife, might be turning -away discouraged, penniless, without shelter, from some door which was -closed upon her. Heaven above! what could he do? He sent wild -advertisements to the “Times,” he wrote ceaseless letters to Durant. -Find her! was his cry; though indeed Nancy was spending her time, on the -whole, very comfortably, as the reader knows. But Arthur did not think -of the little fortune--the two hundred and fifty pounds which was to -have been handed over to her sisters. Nothing had been done about it, -and it had not found a place in his memory; he did not think of anything -reasonable, he only lost himself in a vague cloud of excitement, terror, -and anxiety, intensified by the fact that it was impossible for him to -get away, and to go in search of her himself. And his troubles were made -tenfold greater still by a chance meeting with his Paris friend, Denham, -who “thought he had seen” Mrs. Arthur Curtis somewhere, but could not -recollect where. Denham knew, as everybody did, that the husband and -wife were separated; and he was curious, and ventured upon some leading -question to which Arthur in his state of suspense fell a ready victim. -He did not conceal that he was anxious, “not having heard from his wife -for some time,” he allowed; and then Denham on his side recollected that -he had seen her somewhere; where was it he had seen her? Was it in -Paris, was it London? he had quite lately come from England; and he -could not recollect where it was--at a railway-station somewhere--but -where? The impression left upon Arthur’s mind was that she might be -coming to him, and this beguiled his anxiety for a few days, making him -tremble at every strange sound, and expect day and night her -arrival--which never came. This final trial made an end of him, poor -fellow! It ruined his chance of sleep, so that his nights and days alike -became torment to him. And the probation lasted for more than a month -after he had heard that Nancy had left Underhayes--a month--which felt -like a century. It was far on in November when at last he was released -from his post, and could start for home. For home! where was that, he -asked himself, sadly? could it now exist anywhere for him except where -she was, who was a part of him, who had no one now but himself, and who, -by rejecting that last material tie between them, had caught back the -sick heart which had begun to flutter downward. But never, never again -could he fall back into that disgusted and weary infidelity of thought. -All this time his pride and his reviving affection had kept him from -communicating his anxiety to his family. They did not know Nancy as he -did, they would not think of her as he did, that was certain. Their -pride would be hurt by the idea of poverty or distress falling upon her, -but not their hearts touched. If they should happen to hear of her as -labouring perhaps for daily bread, a poor needlewoman, a poorer teacher, -they would think of her not nobly, but ignobly, as driven to it by -folly, not forced by proud independence. He would not say anything to -them. He did not even let them know that he was coming back. Whether he -went to Oakley or not would depend upon many other things, and he was -full of the unconscious cruelty which springs from pre-occupation and -partial indifference. He did not think what would be the feelings of his -father and mother when they heard he was in England, but as much apart -from them as if he were still in Vienna. What were they in comparison -with Nancy? Nancy who was young, poor, lonely, without guardian or -helper. All the fathers and mothers in the world were nothing compared -with her. This is not a pleasant consideration for the fathers and -mothers; but yet it was true. - -A few days were necessarily lost in travelling; and what so good as the -long compulsory seclusion of a railway carriage, shutting you absolutely -up with yourself, while the long lines of country, plain, and hill sweep -pass, and all the outside hurry and bustle do nothing but make the -whirling silence of the box in which you are enclosed more complete--for -the feeding of anxiety and cherishing of all troublous thoughts? The -mere certainty that he must not surrender himself to his fears had given -him a certain power of self-control so long as he remained at Vienna, -which now abandoned him altogether. His mind was in a fever by the time -he reached London. It was late at night, and the only thing he could do -was to throw himself into a cab and drive to Durant’s chambers in the -Temple, where, in all the commotion of his feverish thoughts, he was -brought to a sudden standstill by the information that Durant was out of -London, engaged on the business of the Commission on which he had been -appointed. He had not even heard of this commission; for Lewis had been -reluctant to write of the many events which had lately occurred, not -knowing what his friend might think of his own half-permitted betrothal, -or whether it was not best that Nancy should have an undisturbed moment -to make her way with the family at Oakley. This had kept Durant silent -for longer than was, perhaps, quite friendly; but, as fate would have -it, he had taken heart of grace at last, and had written to Arthur on -the very day on which Arthur had left Vienna; and the letter which would -have given so much information arrived in the one capital just as the -person to whom it was addressed reached the other. He was cruelly -disappointed by Durant’s absence. It seemed something like a crime in -the confusion of his thoughts. What was any public commission in the -world to the commission which affected his friend’s happiness, the -succour of a woman who was to that friend more than all the world -beside? Arthur could scarcely keep his patience even with the innocent -laundress who answered his questions. He went into his friend’s room, -and found there his own letter announcing his coming, which had arrived -only a few hours before him, and which he tore vehemently into a hundred -pieces. But all his rage and vehemence could do nothing for him. He was -obliged to go away, to go to an hotel, and in utter impossibility of -doing anything, to eat and to sleep, which, perhaps, saved him from a -fever. It was all that could be done that night. - - - - -CHAPTER XII. - - -To know something which those about you do not know--to keep something -secret which would interest them above measure, and affect their -conduct; but which you, in your superior wisdom, believe it better they -should not know--this is to play a very difficult part, one of the most -difficult in life. And if you undertake it without possessing the -necessary qualities of reticence and self-control, with, on the -contrary, all the habits of an innocent life, the traditions of family -frankness and inter-communication of everything, great or small; and if -to add to all these difficulties you have been in the habit of living -with one other close companion as if you and she had possessed between -you but one soul--it may be imagined how hard the task will be. This was -what Lucy Curtis had undertaken to do. She had no idea when she -undertook it how hard it was. In a glow of determined generosity and -good meaning towards the woman of whom, in her inmost soul, she felt -jealous as receiving regard and attention to which she had no right, she -had taken this Herculean task upon her shoulder--and now she would not -shrink from it; but it was hard beyond all belief to carry it out. A -hundred times a day the name of Nancy was trembling on her lips. Between -her mother and herself, the conversation was not talking so much as -thinking aloud. Everything was common between them, their thoughts, the -occurrences of their life, their reading, their speculations--they did -everything _à deux_, as even husband and wife cannot do, as perhaps only -mother and daughter ever succeed in doing. The differences of character -between them, the difference between Lady Curtis’s experience, and those -touches of the world which inevitably in nearly fifty years of living -modify the character, and Lucy’s youthfulness of certainty--her stronger -convictions and more absolute perceptions of good and evil--these gave -the necessary tinge of individuality to their utterances. But there had -never been any reserves between these two. - -Thus when Lucy made up her mind to keep Durant’s intimation of Nancy’s -near presence, to herself, she undertook a burden for which her strength -was scarcely fit. To help herself to bear it, she said to herself, that -she had as yet no certainty on the subject--that she was not sure that -the woman Durant had seen was Mrs. Arthur; and that she herself having -once seen her brother’s wife did not recognise her now, though compelled -by a hundred circumstances to believe that this was she. No, she said to -herself, she had no legal warrant, no certainty sufficiently strong to -justify her in disturbing the minds of her parents by a guess which, -perhaps, might turn out mistaken. It would disturb their minds greatly. -Their kindly prepossession in favour of the stranger was not strong -enough to bear such an interruption, and they would be entirely at a -loss what to do; what Arthur would wish them to do; what would be most -expedient in the painful circumstances. If Nancy was known to be -Arthur’s wife, she could not remain there without acknowledgment from -Arthur’s family; and how could they adopt her into their bosom when it -was she who had separated from her husband, sent him away from her, -ruined his life? She could not be at variance with her husband, and in -friendship with his father and mother--parted from him, but received by -them. No, that was impossible; and when nobody even knew whether it was -Nancy! It might be quite another person whom Lewis had seen--it might be -some one from Oakenden, the nearest town, come over for the day. It -might be the clergyman’s wife of the next parish, young Mrs. Brown, who -was lately married and not much known in the neighbourhood. It might -be--half a dozen people--why should it be Mrs. Arthur of Wren Cottage? -If this were, indeed, Nancy, the wife of Arthur Curtis, was it at all -probable that she would have taken so transparent a disguise? All these -arguments Lucy went over to herself, feeling that they were futile. In -her own mind, she had no doubt that Mrs. Arthur at the Cottage was her -sister-in-law, and that Lewis had seen her, and that she had fled from -him. But these were simply ideas of her own, no more; and even if they -were facts, and proved true, what end could be served by telling her -mother--was it not better to wait, to see what might happen, to let -events shape themselves? But oh! how hard--how much harder than anyone -could have supposed it was! - -Lady Curtis on her side was secretly grieved with her child. She did not -make any complaint; she reasoned with herself indeed against the pain -she felt, saying to herself that it was natural Lucy should be -preoccupied, should talk less freely when they sat together, should -have less to say to her mother. Had she not another now for whom she -would store up all those outflowings of the heart which had been her -mother’s alone? She was, she knew and humbly avowed to herself, -ridiculously ready to be wounded, and felt the smallest little -unconscious prick from those she loved; but she must be just to Lucy. -There was nothing wanting in Lucy that any reasonable mother could wish -for; but only they two had been all in all to each other, and Lady -Curtis felt that to Lucy she was no longer all in all. Long silences -would come between them while she worked at her crewels, and Lucy -carried on the varied occupations of a young lady’s afternoon, a young -lady who is a parish sovereign, and has a great many small yet important -public affairs on hand. Those silences Lady Curtis set down to Durant’s -account, and felt a something growing in her mind very different from -her former affection for Lewis, which she endeavoured with all her might -to crush, without finding it easy to do so. It was natural, and she -must be just; while all the time it was not Lewis that was in fault. -Fortunately, Lucy herself did not even know that her mother had -discovered her embarrassed self-consciousness, and had not the slightest -notion that it was set down to the account of Lewis. And thus a little -something, which was not so much as a cloud, a mist upon the clear sky, -a fantastic vapour, but presaging storm and darkness, began to breathe -between them. They were disappointed in each other; sympathy somehow -seemed to fail between them. Was it that her mother was _exigeante_, -Lucy asked herself--even--painful word--jealous? It was that Lucy had -some one else to love, that she was no longer of first importance to her -child, the mother thought; and the fact was that both were wrong, that -it was neither jealousy on the one side nor desertion on the other, but -Nancy--nothing but a secret, the most innocent of secrets, and the most -well-intentioned, that did the wrong. - -And the more her thoughts dwelt on this subject, and the more apparent -it became to Lucy’s mind that she must not betray her discovery, the -more curious she grew about the object of it all. Never a parish day -came now that she did not pay a visit to Mrs. Arthur. This was not -always successful, for Mrs. Arthur was often out, as Lucy thought, to -avoid her; but on these occasions she would talk to the sister, whose -name nobody knew. Lucy called her Miss Arthur, with a keen glance of -scrutiny, and saw by Matilda’s little start and her sudden look, as if -about to contradict her, that this was not her name; but she thought -better of it after a moment’s consideration, and allowed herself to be -called Miss Arthur for the rest of the interview. And Lucy had little -difficulty in eliciting from Matilda all the particulars of her family -history which did not touch Nancy. How their parents were dead, how -their only brother had gone to New Zealand; and Matilda did not conceal -that she hoped to follow Charley, and, indeed, to that intention was -busy with all the chemises at which Lucy beheld her working. - -“It will be a long voyage,” Matilda said, “and one requires a large -supply.” - -“But will your sister go too?” - -“My sister? I have two sisters, Miss Curtis. One is very well married in -the place where we used to live. I have heard them say that if Charley -did very well, and there seemed a good opening, they wouldn’t mind; for -what is New Zealand nowadays?--not much farther than France used to be, -father always liked to say.” - -“But I meant your sister here, Mrs. Arthur. Will it not be very dreary -for her if you go away?” - -“Oh, my sister, Mrs. Arthur! She is very different from the rest of us; -things are not with her as with the rest of us. I cannot take it upon me -to say what she will do.” - -While this conversation was going on, Lady Curtis, who had walked down -the length of the avenue to look for Lucy, met Mrs. Arthur coming over -the stile, and stopped to talk to her. - -“I see you have got some lovely leaves again; are you going to draw -them? You must have quite a genius for art-work.” - -“Oh, no, no genius for anything,” said Nancy, with the swift flushes of -sudden change going over her face which Lady Curtis always called forth. -She was more at her ease when there was nobody looking on. She had the -feeling that she must be supposed to be “currying favour” with Lady -Curtis when there was a third person present. “No genius; it has been -always my ruin that I am so stupid,” said Nancy, with a serious air, -which looked very piquant and amusing in conjunction with such words. - -“Your ruin, my dear? I hope you are far from ruin anyhow; and I don’t -think it could possibly come on that score,” said Lady Curtis, with a -smile. - -“Ah!” said Nancy, with her whole heart in the sigh that came from her -red lips, “no one can tell another’s troubles. I have had many; but they -have all come because I was so stupid; though after I have said a wrong -thing, I always feel that it is wrong, and know what I ought to have -said; but it is too late then, it only makes it worse,” she breathed -forth with a long sighing breath. - -“Well,” said Lady Curtis, still smiling, “I don’t know what wrong things -you may have done; but that is the best that can happen to you, for you -will remember next time to say, not the wrong thing, but the right.” - -“Ah!” said Nancy again, with great serious eyes; “but that is exactly -what I cannot learn to do! It is not badness, it is stupidness. I make -the same mistakes, and do the same faults, and speak as I ought not to -speak.” - -“Poor girl!” said Lady Curtis, touched by the tears that came while Mrs. -Arthur spoke. “This is a sad experience for you. I hope it is not so -serious as you seem to think. I am a great deal older than you are,” she -went on, still more touched as a big tear fell, locking like a small -ocean on Nancy’s black sleeve, “and if I can help you, or give you any -advice, I should be glad to do so. Our experience is not worth much -unless we can help younger people with it; and though I do not know you, -I take an interest in you.” - -“Oh, you are kind, very kind,” cried Nancy, a brilliant flush darting -all over her face. “I never thought anyone could be so kind; but my -troubles are all of my own bringing on,” she added quickly; “and the -worst is, I can’t do anything. No, no one could do anything. Did you -mean really you would like the pattern?--those poor natural things?” -there was a wistful look in her eyes, but she tried to laugh, and shook -off the tears, “they don’t seem worth the attention of a lady like you.” - -“I am afraid you are a little goose,” said Lady Curtis, patting Nancy’s -hand with her own. It was the only way she could show the sympathy which -rose so warmly within her, she could scarcely tell why. “Nature is as -much worth a queen’s attention as a beggar’s. And yes, indeed, I should -like the pattern. Will you really make it for me? But you must come to -the Hall and see my work; and Sir John wants very much to make your -acquaintance. It was you, was it not, that opened the gate for him?” - -“Yes.” Another vivid flush covered Nancy’s face; she grew prettier and -prettier as she grew thus animated, wavering from one emotion to -another. This time it seemed all pleasure, warming her all over, and -making her countenance glow. - -“He has done nothing but rave about you ever since. I shall be jealous -if you don’t mind. Will you come to-morrow?” - -“Not to-morrow,” said Nancy, her face changing like a sunset sky. “Oh, -Lady Curtis, you are too good to me. You don’t know me--” - -“No, not much; but everything must have a beginning,” said the gracious -lady. “We must settle upon a day. If not to-morrow, let it be Saturday. -That will give you four days to make up your mind. You must come up -early to luncheon, and Lucy and I will show you all there is to see. If -you meet Lucy, will you tell her I am going slowly up the avenue waiting -for her. She should be on her way home now.” - -Nancy went away with her head full of excitement, and a hundred -conflicting thoughts. She met Lucy at the corner of the village street, -who looked at her with investigating eyes. Whom has she been talking to, -to make her look so bright, yet so agitated? Lucy asked herself. Surely -it could not be Bertie, who had passed but a little time before? The -jealousy of a tiger suddenly sprang up in Lucy’s mind. If this girl came -here to conciliate the family, yet under their very eyes looked like -_this_, because of the admiration of another man! - -“Miss Curtis, I have just met----” (Nancy did not like to say “your -mother,” that seemed too familiar; and her ladyship, as Matilda said, -was too like a servant) “Lady Curtis. She said I was to tell you that -she was in the avenue waiting for you. She is very kind,” said Nancy, -with a little appealing look. “She said I was to come to the Hall. Does -she really mean me to come, Miss Curtis? You will tell me true.” - -“Do you think my mother says what she does not mean?” cried Lucy, -herself half-touched, half-angry; for she felt now that she did not -want to like this girl, whose secret she alone knew--and yet there was -danger that she might be made to like her. The creature looked -beautiful, something had inspired her. She had never looked so nearly -beautiful before. “Of course she means you to come, what else could you -suppose?” - -“I did not know that--people were so kind,” said Nancy, in a very low -tone. Then she looked at Lucy, half-wistful, half-suspicious. Lucy was -not like the rest, there was a mixture of feelings in her which did not -exist in the others, a complication of sentiment which Nancy divined, -though she could not have told how. “I will come if you say so,” she -said. - -“Then come,” said Lucy, holding out her hand, with a sudden movement. -“And good-bye. I must run, if my mother is waiting for me--” She hurried -away for other reasons, too. It seemed to her as if she must say -something, disclose her knowledge, encourage Nancy to win the favour of -her father and mother if she lingered a moment longer. “Is it because -she is so pretty?” Lucy asked herself; “if I were a gentleman perhaps!” -As a matter-of-fact, women are absurdly subject to this spell of beauty; -but we have been taught to think that it is not so, and most people -believe as they are taught; so Lucy supposed it must have been something -else which moved her, and suddenly made her forget her prejudices. She -hurried on after her mother, who was still lingering in the avenue. It -was early afternoon still, but the short winter day was already waning. - -“You are late,” Lady Curtis said, when she came up. “I thought, as it -gets dark so soon, I would come and meet you.” This was one of the many -little pathetic additions to her ordinary tender ways, which Lady Curtis -made, partially unawares, to conciliate her child. - -“Thank you, mamma. I met Mrs. Arthur, and she told me you were here.” - -“Yes, I met her, too; how pretty she is! and she made me such curious -pretty speeches. Is it humility, is it pride? I cannot understand. I -think that young woman must have a history.” - -“I suppose most people have,” said Lucy. - -“You know what I mean,” said Lady Curtis. “She took to telling me about -her faults, poor thing, _àpropos de bottes_. It was quite uncalled -for--but confidence, whoever it may be that gives it, is always -touching. I suppose it feels like a compliment. It is always -complimentary when people trust in you.” Here she gave her daughter’s -arm a little soft pressure. Lucy felt it, but misunderstood it, as was -natural. It felt the very softest tenderest of reproaches for something -withheld; but Lucy understood one thing and Lady Curtis meant quite -another. Therefore now they came to an understanding, though still a -mistaken one. “If I ever keep anything from you, mamma,” she cried, “it -is only because--because--” - -“My darling,” said the mother, holding her child’s arm close within her -own. “Do you think I don’t understand?” and she gave a little sigh. - -What was it she did or did not understand? Lucy was wholly puzzled; and -then they fell to talking of other things; of the parish, and how many -flannel-petticoats and pairs of blankets should be ordered for -Christmas; and about the little cookery school, which was Lucy’s present -hobby--how nicely Annie Bird, the model girl, made the soup for the -sick; and then changing from that--wondered when Arthur’s next letter -would come, and told each other that they did not like the tone of the -last one. Poor Arthur! would it be possible to have him home for -Christmas. Surely Lady Curtis said, he did not intend to stay -permanently out of England because of that dreadful wife of his. That -would be hard indeed upon his own family, who loved him. And thus they -beguiled the way up the darkling avenue, with their faces turned towards -the lights of home. Oh, if Arthur would only come home! There at least -he would find nothing but tenderness, not a word to cross him, poor -fellow! nothing to put him in mind of the wife who had made a waste and -wilderness of his life. - -While her mother spoke so it may be supposed how Lucy trembled--so much -that at last Lady Curtis took note of it, and asked in some alarm what -was the matter, did she think she had taken cold? did she feel ill? No, -Lucy said, hurrying on, she had taken no cold; but she was chilly, she -had felt it all the afternoon; and then Lady Curtis hurried her into the -warm blaze of the morning room, and to the warm tea, which Sir John came -in to share, almost as soon as they got indoors. He thought it was very -cold, too, seasonable weather, such as ought, to herald Christmas; then -he heard the little budget of news. He was delighted to hear of Annie -Bird’s proficiency with the soup, and still more delighted that the lady -of the gate, the pretty stranger, was coming on Saturday. The one fact -was not much more important than the other in the old man’s eyes. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII. - - -Nancy went very quickly along the village street; the red brown leaves -were dropping from her hands; she had forgotten them; her mind was full -of excitement, and her eyes of light and life. If Arthur could have seen -her at that moment, he who was just now arriving in England, full of -anxious thoughts about her, thinking of her as perhaps in want, -certainly in poverty, struggling against adverse fate, he would scarcely -have known his wife. Never during all the time he had known her had -Nancy looked so brilliantly vigorous, and indeed happy. She was happy in -a way, happy in the stir of living that was in her mind, the sense of an -emergency that would call forth all her powers, and that potential -consciousness of active existence which is sometimes better even than -happiness. All her faculties were in vigorous exercise, her mind was -busy with plans and thoughts. She had that to encounter which might have -made the bravest woman in her circumstances quail; but it only strung -her nerves, and made her feel the strength within her tingling to her -very finger-points. Rash, impulsive, hot-headed she was, as she had -always been, but the jar and twist of unhappy pride, of false position, -of conscious ignorance and inferiority, and struggling self-assertion -were gone. She went rapidly up the village between the rows of cottages, -with their little lamps lighted, and past the glow which Mrs. Rolt’s -window threw out into the evening. The Rector and the Doctor were going -to dine with Cousin Julia that night, and the table was already laid, -and showed its modest grandeur frankly to the gazers outside, who -thought it very fine indeed. Mrs. Rolt had asked Nancy to that dinner, -and though she had declined to go she cast a glance through the wire -blinds at the lighted interior and the laid out table, with a pleasant -consciousness that she might have been there had she pleased. And then -she went across to the Wren Cottage, where Matilda, more careful than -Mrs. Rolt, had drawn down the blinds when she lit the lamp. She was -seated as usual at her chemises; but she was not so comfortable as -usual, for she had been beguiled into telling Miss Curtis a good deal -about the family, and had mentioned the name of Underhayes, and that of -Nancy--all things which in the code of private instructions drawn out -for her when she came here, were accounted capital crimes. But Matilda -did not feel that she was called upon to disclose these errors. She was, -however, “talkative and unconciliatory,” very willing to hear of the -encounters Nancy might have had, and to give an account, with reserves, -of her own. Nancy came in, opening the door which opened innocently from -the outside, as is the way in most country places. She threw herself -down in the first chair she came to, and put down her leaves (“nasty -wet rubbish, enough to give her her death of cold”) upon the table on -which Matilda already, though it was too early to have it, yet for the -sake of cheerfulness, had set out the tea. And then Nancy looked -straight into the lamp, with eyes that seemed to give out as much light, -so brilliant, so shining, that Matilda, though so familiar with them, -was struck with surprise. - -“How can you stare into the light so, Nancy?” she said, “you will ruin -your eyes.” - -“Shall I? it does not hurt them.” - -“It is all very well to say that now; but wait till you are older. -Mother used to say there was nothing so bad. Ah, Nancy, you have taken -things into your own hands--dear old mother’s rules don’t count for much -now.” - -“Indeed they do,” cried Nancy, with sudden tears; “indeed they do, and -will whatever happens! I am not unfaithful. Those that I love, if I love -them once, I love them for ever--dead or alive.” - -“Ah!” said Matilda, with a tone of interrogation in her voice. It was -not clear what she was thinking of; but Nancy’s quick temper and -restless spirit divined at once. - -“You mean Arthur? Well then, and I mean it too. All the same I do. I -mayn’t have just shown it--always: but I do mean it--and will, if I -should live a hundred years.” - -“I wonder at you, Nancy! Why don’t you write then and tell him? I never -knew whether you did or didn’t till this moment--and it looked a great -deal more like didn’t. He thought so, I’m sure.” - -“Could I give you the sense to see, either to him or you?” cried Nancy, -with quick scorn. She did not know that Dr. Johnson had declared it -impossible to furnish understanding. And then she threw up her arms with -a sudden fine gesture, tossing down the red brown winterly leaves, and -shaking the tea-table with its load. “Oh, what am I to do?” she cried, -“what am I to do? I am going to the Hall on Saturday; they want me to -go, they have all asked me to go; and Lady Curtis called me, my dear. -But she didn’t know who I was. And I am deceiving them, Matty. It is the -same as telling a lie. I have done a great many wicked things,” said -Nancy, “but I never told a lie. How am I to go and sit at their table, -and look in their faces, and all the time it will be a lie?” - -“What will be a lie?” said sober-minded Matilda. “You don’t need to say -anything that isn’t true. It is not as if you had changed your name. You -are Mrs. Arthur, and you would be Mrs. Arthur whatever happened. I do -believe Miss Lucy suspects something; she has a way of taking things so -quietly as if nothing was new to her. And anyhow, if the very worst -should come to the worst, why, you’re not compelled to go.” - -“But I will go,” said Nancy, with flashing eyes. “Oh, just to be there, -to see it all, to know just where he would have taken me, where I might -have lived if I hadn’t been a----. I will go! I have made up my mind to -that. She called me, my dear--did I tell you she called me my dear? and -said old Sir John had raved about me; and begged me to go.” The vivid -blush of pleasure came back to Nancy’s face as she spoke, and her eyes -again blazed, opposite the lamp, like rival yet reflecting lights. A -vague smile came upon her face; there was a little vanity in it, pleased -satisfaction with the conquests she had made. Then a cloud came suddenly -over it. “But all the same it will be cheating, oh, it will be cheating, -Matty! I won’t give it up; but you may begin to pack the boxes,” said -Nancy, suddenly. “After I have been there, I shall have to tell them -everything, and we must go away.” - -“Go away! I think you are out of your senses, Nancy. We have just paid -the second month in advance, and they will never give it back; and -consider how expensive it is travelling with so much luggage--everything -we have in the world. I thought,” said Matilda, aggrieved, “that we -should at least have stayed here, now that we are here, till something -was settled, till you had made up your mind one way or other.” - -“I have made up my mind. When we came here I never thought they would -take any notice of us. Why should they have taken any notice of us--a -couple of poor girls in a small cottage, not knowing anyone? I wanted -just to see what kind of people they were, that was all,” said Nancy, -earnestly. “I never thought of anything more. Why should they have -thought of us at all? We were quite out of their way.” - -“Well,” said Matilda, to whom it appeared that here was a good -opportunity of showing her own superior judgment, “that was because you -thought they were not very nice people. You made up your mind about them -before you knew them. But they _are_ nice people. I never wish to see a -more kind lady than her ladyship is.” - -“Matty, dear, I don’t mean to be nasty; but if you would say Lady -Curtis, not her ladyship--remember that she is my mother-in-law.” - -Once more that vivid blush, too bright for anything but pleasure, came -over Nancy’s face. How much scorn, how much defiance, what attempts at -insult she had lavished upon Lady Curtis’s name; but Arthur’s mother had -called her my dear, had looked at her kindly with soft eyes; and it had -come to pass, by some subtle process, that Nancy felt herself to belong -to this soft-eyed lady more than she did to good honest Matilda, who had -stood by her so stoutly, but who naturally retained the manners of her -class, which was not Nancy’s class any more. - -“Stuff and nonsense!” said Matilda. “She’s not _my_ mother-in-law. She’s -very kind, but she’s a deal superior to me; and I’ll speak respectful, -whatever you think. They _are_ nice people, as I was saying. Miss Lucy -is what I call a perfect lady;” (this, too, jarred upon Nancy’s new-born -fastidiousness; but she did not venture to hint that Miss Curtis would -be more correct) “and when they saw two young women by themselves, like -you and me, of course they took notice. In their own village, these sort -of folks are like kings and queens,” said Matilda; “everything belongs -to them. It’s not like just being better off. I understand the feeling -myself; it’s like what mother used to have for the poor things in the -court, to see they went on all straight and sent their children to -school, and so forth. Mother was not a great lady, but she was known in -the place, and took a charge like; and she was a good woman. There’s a -kind of a likeness in good folks,” said Matilda, turning away her head. -The mother’s loss was still recent, and made their eyes wet unawares -when they spoke of her; but this time Nancy was too much preoccupied to -enter into the allusion. Her own thoughts surged up and deadened her -appreciation of what her sister said; though Matilda’s ideas, if not -brilliant, were often the most sensible of the two. - -“Yes,” said Nancy, after a pause; “that’s how it must be. I don’t want -to leave this little place. I like it; I think I like the country. It -may be dull, but it’s nice.” - -“Very nice,” said Matilda, looking at her seventh chemise affectionately -as she finished the trimming and folded it up, giving little pats of -satisfaction to each fold, “when you have anything you want to get done -with. I should have taken twice the time to do my things if we had -stayed at Underhayes.” - -“But we must go,” said Nancy, continuing. “We might have stayed on if -they had taken no notice, if we had kept ourselves shut up, and not seen -them; but it can’t be helped now. I will go to the Hall, just to see -everything. Fancy sitting down at table with them, being like one of -them! It will feel like a dream. Oh, I must, I must go just once! If -ever Arthur should come back again--” - -“Of course Arthur will come back again. If you tell them who you are, as -you say you will, Arthur will come first train; and do you think -nowadays that folks can hide themselves like they used to do in the -story-books, Nancy? You may run away as much as you like, they’ll have -you back again. They will set the detectives after you. Them that have -far greater reason to hide than you have get found out, and do you think -you can keep safe? Nonsense! Once tell them, and you’ll soon be fetched -back.” - -“Never!” cried Nancy. “Against my will, with detectives sent after me? I -will go to New Zealand first with you, or anywhere. Never! It is not -forcing that will ever hold me.” - -“I believe there is nothing silly you wouldn’t do, if it came to that,” -said Matilda, shaking her head. It was an unwise suggestion she had -made; but after a while Nancy calmed down, and gathered up her leaves -again, and proceeded to arrange them as was her custom. She had -altogether given up the beautiful chalk cartoon which Matilda admired, -for this rubbish. How silly it was, her sister thought; though, indeed, -her ladyship was to blame, who had encouraged Nancy in this nonsensical -occupation. “What is going to be the good of all that?” she asked at -last, with a touch of sarcasm in her voice. “You can’t frame it and put -it up on the wall, to make a room look nice. It’s only lumber, and -gathers dust.” - -“I am drawing something for Lady Curtis to work,” said Nancy, with some -solemnity. “When I go into the house the first time, I shall take -something with me _to give her_. I suppose you will say that is silly -too, but I like to do it. _She_ thinks they are good for something. She -was quite interested, you know. Did I tell you, Matilda, she called me, -my dear?” - -“Oh, yes, you told me, sure enough,” said Matilda, with a little -impatience, “three times over;” and she got up to put away the seventh -chemise along with the others. It was trimmed with her own work, nice -little scallops worked in buttonhole stitch, with three holes in each -curve, very neat and strong; and she was pleased, at once with the -feeling of successful production and personal property. She gave the -little heap another affectionate pat as she laid this one on the top. -Seven new chemises, every stitch of which would bear inspection! Matilda -felt that she had justification for a little pride. She did not sit down -again to begin another, but put on the kettle, that it might come to the -point of perfect boiling before she made the tea; and it was pleasant -to see her moving about in the pleasant firelight, her substantial and -round, but neat person, clothed in a black and white gown, her brown -hair smooth and shining. Matilda was very particular about the due -amount of crape on her Sunday dress, and you may be sure would not put -off her mourning a day sooner than the most rigid rule allowed. But in -the house, with all her little domestic occupations, she thought the -black and white best. “For crape goes if you look at it, and black so -soon gets rusty,” she said. It looked more natural, as well as more -cheerful and pleasant that the fire should have something to brighten -upon and throw ruddy tints over; and it was comfortable to see her make -the tea. What a lucky New Zealander that man would be who got Matilda, -with all her nicely trimmed chemises, for his wife! - -But with Nancy, poor Nancy! it was altogether another affair. It is a -rash thing to come out of the world in which you were born. She had done -it unintentionally, vowing with vehement asserverations that nothing -would change her. And how she had struggled against all poor Arthur’s -attempts! how she had clung, as it were, with clutching of desperate -hands to the fabric of her original home! Those very corrections which -she made in Matilda’s honest diction, had she not hotly resented them, -fiercely refused them when Arthur had tried to suggest them to herself? -But all that was changed. Nancy had drifted away from her own -world--drifted into his; if she clutched at anything now, it was not at -her old ark, but at the slippery rocks and sands of the other hemisphere -on which she had been cast ashore. Falling upon it in her first footing, -she had secretly kissed the soil as conquering invaders have done to -avert the evil omen. She belonged no longer to that old universe which -had been buried with the father and mother, the last lingering traces of -which were to be carried away in Matilda’s trunks along with her careful -outfit; but the other world had not yet received the trembling unavowed -neophyte. Even now, rather than be brought into it by any formal force, -by sense of duty, by the necessity laid upon her husband and his family, -or by their pity, or by anything that could be construed into either, -Nancy would have kept her wild word, and rushed away into the distant -wilds with her sister. Had there been a word, or thought, of -“arrangement,” of negotiation, even of right on the other side to claim -her, or of right on her side to a certain place as Arthur’s wife, no -request, no persuasion would have induced Nancy to accept what was thus -settled for her. She did not even know what she would accept as a -solution of the difficulty--even Arthur, did he stand before holding out -his arms to her, might by some chance glance, some inadvertent word, -turn her from him instead of bringing her to him. Her mind was still -high-fantastical, though changed in so many other ways. But all that had -happened since she came to Oakley had chimed in with her humour. The -advances she had made in knowledge of her husband’s surroundings, and -in the favour of his family had been of a kind that pleased and -flattered her. The Curtises had been aware of no reason for modifying -their criticism of her, or pretending to a liking they did not feel; but -they had all “taken to” Nancy; and Lady Curtis had called her “my dear!” -How haughtily would she have rejected that expression of kindness had it -been applied to Arthur’s wife in the old days; but as given to the young -stranger at Oakley, whose looks and ways had attracted my Lady, it was -sweet. Yes! she had attracted them, she herself, not anything outside of -her. Lucy--Lucy, indeed, had made doubtful response; but Sir John had -“raved about her,” and Lady Curtis called her my dear! These thoughts -made Nancy’s countenance glow. - -And the three intervening days passed quickly in the excitement that -possessed her; everybody seemed to know that she was going to the Hall -on Saturday. The Doctor’s wife, who had kept aloof “till she saw what -other people were going to do,” called at the door in her husband’s -phaeton, and left a stately card, which seemed to Matilda, when it was -brought to her, much more impressive than Lady Curtis’s. And kind Mrs. -Rolt ran over twice a day at least, and asked what she was going to -wear. “If it is wet, Sam shall drive you there, before he goes to -Oakenden,” she said. She was as fussy about it as if Lady Curtis had -been the Queen; and, indeed, she was the Queen of the district, and made -the laws for the neighbourhood. - -“You will have everybody coming to see you now,” said Cousin Julia. -“When Lady Curtis calls on anyone, everybody goes. Yes, it is silly -perhaps; but then we think a great deal of Lady Curtis, my dear. She is -very amiable, and so clever. Did you ever hear that she sometimes writes -for the Reviews? She does indeed; and one must have real genius, you -know, to do that; not like little bits of newspapers. And people must -have some sort of rule--some will not call unless they have an -introduction, and some will call on everybody. But we make Lady Curtis -our rule. If she goes, we all go.” - -“You did not wait till Lady Curtis came,” said Nancy gratefully. - -“Oh, no! I don’t think I could have done it. I fell in love with you the -first time I saw you my dear. I told Lucy of it directly. _So_ pretty, I -said, (as you are, though people don’t generally say it to your face -like me), and quite a lady. ‘Then, of course you should call. I wonder -you did not call instantly,’ said Lucy; and I did not lose much time, -did I, Mrs. Arthur? Then, of course, I was dying to know who you were.” - -“You are very--very kind; but how could you know who I am? I am nobody,” -said Nancy with a smile; and then she added impulsively, “but I am so -glad you thought me--a lady.” When these unadvised words were out of her -mouth, Nancy changed colour, and grew defiant. But her horror at her own -mistake was entirely turned away by Cousin Julia’s soft disposition, -which was well fitted to be a buckler against wrath. - -“As if there could be any doubt of that!” she said, “Lady Curtis says -you have such pretty manners, and Sir John! Sir John is really not -himself. He thought you must be young Seymour’s wife, whom I was telling -you of, who made such an admirable marriage. He married one of the -Glencoe family, quite a near relative of the Earl, the most -unexceptionable delightful match. How we all thought of poor Arthur when -young Seymour was married! But I told Sir John (now you must not be -vain, my dear, but of course one must say what one thinks) I told Sir -John you were a great deal prettier than Mrs. Henry Seymour; not quite -so tall perhaps, but _much_ prettier. What is the matter, my dear, you -turn white and you turn red?” - -Here Nancy confounded her sister, who was present, and bewildered -herself, and won Mrs. Rolt’s tenderest sympathies by telling the merest -simple truth. “When you speak of Arthur,” she said, “you make me think -of my husband; and--I can’t help it!” she said, putting her head down on -Cousin Julia’s kind shoulder and bursting into a passion of tears. How -touched and interested and gratified that good woman was! She insisted -on taking Nancy upstairs and making her lie down for a little. “You poor -dear child!” she said, longing to ask a thousand questions, but -heroically refraining; “but you must rest a little, and get back your -pretty looks. You must not look pale to-morrow. I want you to look your -best to-morrow.” But when she came down stairs again, it was not in -human nature not to make an effort to get something out of Matilda. “She -never said anything to me about her husband before,” said Mrs. Rolt. “It -would do her good to talk a little, not to shut up everything in her own -heart, poor dear. Is it long since?” she asked delicately. She did not -know what it was, whether death or separation. The question had to be -put vaguely, and Cousin Julia had a consciousness that she had put it in -a very successful way. - -“She will tell you herself,” said Matilda. “She does not like other -people to talk about it,” and she opened the door with great alacrity -that the visitor might go away. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV. - - -Arthur went to Durant’s chambers again next morning, with a forlorn hope -that something or other might have brought his friend back, without -whom, it appeared to him, that he did not know what measures to take. -Durant had held the keys of his fortune one way or another, and could -guide him with the right thing to do, the right way to set about -everything. He had never doubted that Durant would be in town, and would -help him, and the first sensation in his mind was one of irritation -mingled with disappointment. Of course, the only thing to be done, -failing Durant, was to go to Underhayes, where he knew his friend had -already gone without success. But what else was there to do, what other -clew was there? At the great railway-station, where he got the train to -Underhayes, it was his bad fortune to meet again with Denham, whom he -had seen not very long ago in Vienna. Arthur gnashed his teeth at sight -of this butterfly fluttering in his way again, no doubt to disturb his -mind with some foolish buzz or other--and did his best to avoid him; but -he was not a man to be avoided. He came forward with all his usual -warmth of friendliness and surprise to see the other in England. - -“You here, Curtis!” he said. - -“You always say, ‘you here,’ whenever we meet,” said Arthur, -half-annoyed, half-amused, remembering so clearly the greeting which -this man had given him at Paris, in the Bois. Denham was the first of -his own world whom Nancy had met, and how many little mistakes and -disagreements, quarrels which looked so ridiculously causeless at this -distance, which might have been so easily avoided, yet which raised such -rapid pulses then in their foolish young bosoms--had arisen while they -were meeting him, going to the theatre with him, or resisting his -invitations; for after all he had always been friendly, and had tried to -please the bride, hard though she was to please. - -“Yes, you always turn up so unexpectedly, just when one thinks you a -hundred miles off. The other day you were in Vienna, and you said -nothing of coming here.” - -“And you were the other day in Vienna, and said nothing of coming here.” - -“Of course, we are both the Queen’s servants,” said Denham; “and public -business, eh? consumes a great deal of our time. But do you know, -Curtis, I wanted to see you. I hope I did not lead you into delusion? I -told you I thought I met Mrs. Curtis on the other side of the water.” - -“Yes;” Arthur’s tone was curt and sharp; he had no intention of -listening to anything about Nancy, as if it was news to him, and yet he -knew so little, and would have been so thankful to hear anything from -anybody! His voice sounded harsh and peremptory in its agitation. - -“Meaning no offence,” said Denham, with a scrap of mock humility; “but I -find I made a mistake. It was at one of the stations on this line I met -Mrs. Curtis, that was my blunder. I forgot till I came here to-day, when -it suddenly flashed across me, that it was here or somewhere near. I -hope I have not caused you any anxiety.” - -“Not at all,” said Arthur, with a blank countenance, which his -diplomatic experience had taught him to wear when he chose; but then -Denham was a brother of the trade, and it was scarcely worth while -wasting it on him. “My--wife’s family lived near. It is very natural -that you should have met her hereabouts. I thought it a mistake, you may -remember.” - -“Ah, did you? I did not recollect. I thought I might have been giving -you deluding information. I hope you have good reports?” - -He did not know what to say. He was a dealer in gossip, and would have -given much to hear the full details of this separation, especially now -when he was on the verge of half-a-dozen country houses; but at the -same time he did not want to worry the man whom he was sorry for, by -betraying his partial knowledge of the facts. He had made a great deal -of Nancy in Paris, betraying her peculiarities, her ignorance to many -admiring listeners, and he would have liked a second chapter, which -probably would have amused society still more. But he did not want to -affront Arthur or wound his feelings. What could he say? ought he to -make believe that he had never heard anything? or delicately that there -was a something, a mist of report, which he knew? - -“Perfectly,” said Arthur, with cold self-restraint. “I am going to her -now. Her mother, to whom she was much attached, is lately dead.” - -“Oh, really!” said Denham; and he watched the young man’s face with keen -scrutiny. Fortunately, he himself was not going by the train which went -to Underhayes. He accompanied Arthur to the door of his carriage, and -stood there talking. “My _hommages_ to Mrs. Curtis,” he said, “I -daresay she has forgotten me; but lay me at her feet, Curtis, all the -same. One does not easily forget a face like hers; you won’t mind me -saying so much?” - -“Oh no--surely not;” said Arthur, smiling. He put himself into a corner -of the train, glad to escape the other’s eyes. No, there were not many -such faces as hers. Then, all suddenly, her aspect as she sat in the -little Victoria in the Bois, that cold bright winter day, came up before -him, he could not tell how; how bright she had looked! no wonder that -Denham said one did not easily forget such a face. Her husband had been -trying to forget it for two years, and now, the moment he had suspended -that effort, how it came back! And where was she, where was he to find -her? How slowly the train seemed to go! Might she be visible perhaps -somewhere on one of the crowded railway platforms which they passed, -where Denham had seen her? He gazed out anxiously whenever they stopped. -Why should it be Denham, Denham! who cared nothing about her, that had -seen her, and not Arthur, to whom such a meeting would have been new -life? This was what was called providential; but what strange -mistakes--mistakes that the poorest clerk in an office would be -discharged if he made--were set down to Providence. If _he_ had but met -her, and not Denham, what trouble might have been spared! - -It was about noon when he reached Underhayes; and he went direct, -remembering what Durant had written, to the shop of Raisins, the grocer. -Sarah Jane was dusting her drawing-room, when her maid brought her word -that a gentleman wanted to see her. It was her pleasure, and not -necessity (she liked people to know this), that made her dust the -drawing-room herself. Servants were negligent, they chipped the china -ornaments, and were not half particular enough about the gilding; but -Sarah Jane had nearly completed this self-imposed task. She put down the -long feather brush which she had been using in a corner, and took off -her housemaid’s gloves. - -“Show the gentleman in,” she said, with some grandeur; but when she saw -who it was, Sarah Jane screamed out with surprise and excitement. -“Arthur!” she cried. She was almost as much startled as if he had come -back from the dead. - -“Where is Nancy?” he said. He had got into such a state of excitement -now that he forgot all preliminaries, and plunged at once into the -subject which interested himself. - -“Nancy? Oh, Arthur, wait a bit, I am so startled. You made my heart -jump! Whoever thought of seeing you here?” - -“It is not so very wonderful to see me when you reflect that my wife has -been here for years. Where is she? You used to be kind and sympathetic, -Sarah Jane. Tell me where my wife is! Where is Nancy? There can be no -reason why I should not know.” - -“Oh, it is so nice to see you again,” said Sarah Jane. “Such a long time -you have been away, two years and a half. It is a long time. Oh, how I -wish Nancy was here! I tried all I could to make her write to you when -poor mother died. But she was always so self-willed, you know.” - -“Where is she?” said Arthur. He went up to Sarah Jane and grasped her by -the arm. He was beginning to lose the little self-control he had, and -his very eyes were dim with the heat of his excitement. It is impossible -to believe that he really hurt her, but it pleased her to assume that he -did, which came to much the same thing. - -“Oh, you monster!” cried Sarah Jane. “Oh, you savage! If that is how you -used poor Nancy, I don’t wonder she wouldn’t take any notice. Let go, or -I’ll call my husband. Oh, my arm! I am sure it is black and blue.” - -“Pardon me, pardon me!” said poor Arthur. “I did not mean to hurt you, -God knows; but I am almost out of my senses. My good girl, tell me where -she is. I have been travelling night and day. If I am impatient, you -must forgive me. Tell me, where is my wife?” - -“Oh, Arthur, I am so sorry. I never thought you would take on so. Nancy -might be very proud if she saw you like that. I never thought a man -would mind so much, they take things so easy. Raisins never would. If I -were to go and leave him, I’m sure he’d let me. Oh, don’t you be afraid, -I ain’t so silly as to try.” - -Arthur had to make a violent effort to restrain himself; but it was -clear she must be treated with in a more cunning way. - -“Will you answer me a simple question? Do you know where Nancy is?” he -said; then with truer policy, “I will hear all about Raisins and -yourself after, and you must tell me what you will like for a wedding -present.” - -“Oh, Arthur, how kind you are! I always said you were nice. Oh, anything -that _you_ like, I am sure! You would be sure to choose something -delightful; and we are brother and sister, ain’t we, Arthur? I must give -you a kiss to thank you,” said Sarah Jane. - -There was no harm in the kiss, and Arthur accepted it meekly. He drew a -little further off when it was over, but took her hand and held it fast. - -“All that afterwards,” he said. “You may be sure I will do all I can to -please you. But tell me first, tell me now, do you know where she is? I -must hear this first. You can’t tell me unless you know.” - -“That is just it,” said Sarah Jane. “Of course, I should have told you -directly. They promised to write, but they never wrote but once.” - -“What does _they_ mean? Who was with her, and where was the letter -from?” - -“Don’t hold me so fast, you frighten me,” cried Sarah Jane. “It was -Matilda that was with her. Charley has gone to New Zealand, and Matilda -is going after him; and Raisins and me, we don’t know whether we mayn’t -follow. Don’t crush my hand like that, Arthur, you hurt me. There was no -date to the letter. No, I can’t say that I expected to hear again just -yet; five weeks, it is not so very long.” - -“And did not you want to write? You might have wished to see your sister -again.” - -“In five weeks, and me married?” said Sarah Jane naïvely, “Oh, no; I -knew they’d write when they wanted me, and what should I want them for? -When you’re in trouble, it’s natural you should think of your friends; -but when you’re doing very nicely, and quite happy, what do you want -with them? But, Arthur, to show you I’m speaking true, I’ll fetch you -the letter, if you will let me go; and then if you can make anything out -of it--let me go, Arthur. I promise I’ll bring you the letter. Oh, -please, I can’t tell you any more. Let me go!” - -When he did so, which he was half afraid of doing, she kept her word, -and produced out of a gay little desk, lined with red, a crumpled note, -with the marks of greasy fingers upon it, the sight of which gave -Arthur, poor fellow, a sickening sensation. Small feelings so mingle -with great that the thought that such a greasy scrap was a relic of his -wife gave him as distinct a pang as if some great disappointment had -happened to him. A lover, such as he felt himself still to be, ought to -have been ready to take to his lips or his heart the meanest message -that came from the beloved; but this gave him a feeling of disgust. And -yet how he loved Nancy, and how his heart struggled and throbbed at the -idea of finding some trace of her. It was at once a relief and a -terrible disappointment to find that the greasy letter was not from -Nancy at all, but from Matilda, though, as it was the fingers of Mr. -Raisins and the pocket of his bride which had produced the stains upon -the letter, Nancy’s own autograph might have been in precisely the same -condition, unprotected by the divinity that should hedge a woman -beloved. - -“I don’t know where she means to settle, nor what we’re going to do,” -wrote Matilda. “She’s always the same hoity-toity creature as ever. She -talks about a house she has heard of somewhere right in the country. I -can’t tell you any more; but I’ll write again; and in the meantime -you’ll be glad to hear that I’ve got some very nice calico, and begun my -outfit.” - -This was all. - -“She _is_ so taken up about her outfit,” said Sarah Jane. “You would -think nobody had ever got such a thing before. But poor Matilda was -always old-maidish in her ways. Lord, Arthur! what’s the matter? Have -you found out anything? What a turn you did give me, to be sure!” cried -Sarah Jane. - -It was something which gave Arthur “a turn” too, as far as that effect -can be produced upon a male subject. It was simply the postmark -“Oakenden” on the envelope of the letter. He had not seen it before, nor -looked for it, being too anxious for the information inside. It startled -him beyond measure now. “Oakenden!” he repeated to himself as in a -dream. Something more than chance, some design which he could not -fathom, some vague trembling of meaning not yet comprehensible, but -tending towards light, seemed to flicker through the word. It was the -post-town of _home_. He knew it as well as he knew the village at his -father’s park gates. What had taken her there of all places in the -world? - -“Thank you,” he said, speaking, he felt, out of a mist of vague wonder -and dawning hope that seemed to envelope him in an atmosphere of his -own. “Thank you; I think this will be of some use. I know the place. -Good-bye. I must go directly and see if they are there.” - -“Stop a moment,” said Sarah Jane. “Stop and have some dinner with us. -Raisins would like to see you, and--where is the place, Arthur? I should -like to know too, for one never knows what may happen, and they are two -lone women with nobody to look after them. It is so different when there -is a man.” - -“I will let you know when I have found them,” said Arthur. “Good-bye, I -cannot wait longer now.” - -“But, Arthur, do stop and have some dinner! Look here,” said Sarah Jane, -getting between him and the door, “do you mean to take her back? Is that -what you mean?” - -“Take her back?” he said, with a half groan. “Was it I who sent her -away?” - -“For look here,” said Sarah Jane, “I don’t say you haven’t a right to be -angry. Raisins would not stand the half, no, nor a tenth part from me -what you stood from Nancy. But she’s not the same now. She’s that proud -she’ll never let you see it if she can help it; but she’s very changed. -She can’t live with her own folks now. Her and me are not such friends -as we were because of that; but I suppose it will please you. She’s -taken to study and so forth, and she don’t find her own folks good -enough company. She’ll be all for us, I shouldn’t wonder, the moment she -sees you; but don’t you believe her, Arthur. It was all she could do to -keep one of us as long as poor mother lived. She’s as changed as -possible. She’s a lady, that’s what she is nowadays,” said Sarah Jane. - -Arthur only partially heard this long speech; he had no patience with -it. He watched the door, and seized his opportunity, when Sarah Jane had -ended her peroration, to hasten away, waving his hand to her. - -“Well, I’m sure!” she said, as he darted down the stairs; and Mr. -Raisins made many jokes at dinner upon the folly of the man who left a -slice of “_that_ beef” to run after a rebellious wife. - -“She should stay where she was if I had her in hand,” said the grocer, -not without an idea that the example was a dangerous one for Sarah Jane. -“You wouldn’t find me leaving my dinner for her, a woman as had given me -up.” He did not mean that his wife should entertain any delusions on -this respect. Whatever “swells” might be, grocers were not such fools. - -Arthur rushed direct to the railway without losing a moment. He did not -make a pilgrimage to the Bates’ house, as Durant had done; he brushed -past the old haircloth sofa standing out exposed to rain and damp at the -broker’s door, and was not conscious of its existence. There was a train -about to start, that was all he knew. When he got back to London he -drove, without losing a moment, to the other railway, and went off at -the earliest possible moment to Oakenden. He arrived there late in the -afternoon, with nothing, not so much as a bag, remembering nothing -beyond the fact that Nancy had been there. But what could he do when he -got there? He did not know how to find such a needle in that bottle of -hay. The town was not large, but it was bustling and busy. It had new -streets even since Arthur left home; and through what weary labour must -he go before he could find the two, who might have veiled themselves in -any one of five hundred new little brick houses? He took a rapid walk -through the new streets in the dusk of the evening, gazing at all the -parlour windows. It was not likely that fortune would answer his appeal -by bringing Nancy to look out just at the moment he passed. Such a thing -might happen to Denham, who had nothing to do with it, but not to him, -to whom it was everything. If he had been seeking a criminal there might -have been hope for him, or had he been in one of the blessed countries -where everybody has _ses papiers_. Why has not everybody _ses papiers_ -in England? Arthur was ready, in the heat of his feelings, to give up -his birthright if that might have helped him to find his wife. - -At last he bethought himself of the post office, and pulling his hat -down over his brows, and his coat-collar up over his chin, he betook -himself there to see if he could find any clue. Curtis? Oh, yes, there -were the Curtises of Oakley, Sir John and her ladyship, the best known -people in the county; and the Reverend Hubert at the Rectory, and old -Miss Curtis at Oakley Dene. In the town? Well, yes, there was a Mrs. -Curtis in Acorn Terrace, No. 12; hadn’t been there long; did not get -very many letters. “Yes, probably that is the lady,” said Arthur, his -heart beating loudly. He went off without a moment’s hesitation to the -little new brick terrace. It seemed to him that there could now be no -doubt on the subject. He knew that Nancy would not take a false name. -How unconscious she must be who was coming to her through the night--for -it was quite dark now, the lamps lighted, the parlour windows shining. -There was bright firelight in the window of No. 12, Acorn Terrace, and -the sound of a piano, and some one singing. Could it be _her_? He -knocked, his heart sounding louder than any knocker, and was admitted -with innocent confidence. Yes, Mrs. Curtis was at home; and the maid -had prepared the lamp, which she carried in before him, announcing -simply, “A gentleman, please, Ma’am.” The inhabitants made Arthur out -before he made them out, and a mild old lady in a widow’s cap rose from -a chair by the fire. What could Arthur do but stammer forth apologies, -his very voice choked with disappointment. “I beg a thousand pardons, it -is a mistake,” he said, rushing out again, leaving the ladies in the -parlour half angry, half interested. What a blank of helplessness he -felt closing round him as he got outside again, hot with shame, and -quivering with the shock of his disappointment. This was no use it was -evident, and where could he go to inquire further? Not to the police, as -if his innocent wife had been a culprit. He could not subject Nancy to -that indignity. He walked about the streets for an hour or two longer, -wondering what he could do. A directory? Her name would not be in it. -The post-office had failed him; and he could not go calling her name -through the streets as the Eastern princess did. Nancy! Nancy! He might -make it echo to all the four winds, but what would that do for him? It -occurred to him at last to try the hotels, as he remembered the date of -Matilda’s letter; but no ladies bearing the names of Mrs. Curtis and -Miss Bates had been heard of anywhere. At one of the hotels (probably at -all) they recognised him, and as he was by this time prostrate with -exhaustion and disappointment, he decided to remain all night, -telegraphing to his servant to meet him there next day. He must go home -now that he was so near; not to-night, but to-morrow, when he was more -fit to meet strangers. Strangers! his own father and mother, his -familiar friends, the servants who had nursed him from his childhood and -loved him all his life; but a preoccupied mind is always unnatural. They -were as strangers to him now. - - - - -CHAPTER XV. - - -Saturday morning! very bright but cold, a sprinkling of snow on the -ground, crisp and slight like a permanent hoar frost, the trees all -frosted, too, with edges of white, like the lights in a snow-landscape. -Nancy in her blackness came out doubly distinct upon this white -background, the long sweeping line of her simple dress and cloak, her -face all glowing with animation and health, and repressed excitement. -Pleasure, yet pain, a happy sense of having pleased, an eager wistful -longing to please more, were all mingled with the feeling that she stood -on the edge of an abyss, and that nothing could excuse this deception, -except the fact that it was for once, only for once, and that when that -was over, all should be told. She kissed her sister as she went out, -which was very unusual for her. “Think of me, till I come back,” she -said. Nancy felt that as yet there had been no more desperate moment in -her life. She was not afraid of it, and yet she was all one pulsation, -all one throb. She could scarcely speak to the people she met on the -road, but nodded, with a wistful sense of friendliness. If they were all -to think kindly of her, would not that support her in the present trial, -and those that were still harder that must come after? For after she had -done this, all would be over, there would be no more excuse for staying -here. She could not live under the shadow of their wing, and go on -deceiving them. And she had got to be “fond” of Oakley. It was Arthur’s -place, where everybody knew him, and to live there was a protection to -her, a shield to her imprudence, whatever happened. What else had she in -the world? even if Matilda left her she might have gone on there, -living quietly; but for that deception which she could not keep up, -which she would take advantage of this once--only this once, but no -more. This was one of the rare cases in which the person most -immediately concerned judged herself more hardly than others did. -Neither Durant nor Lucy blamed her for living here secretly; but rather -were both touched by the idea that she wished thus unknown to recommend -herself humbly to the good opinion of her husband’s parents; but Nancy’s -simpler straightforward mind felt the tacit falsehood of her position to -be untenable. Whatever advantages it might bring her, her duty was to -tell the truth, and take the consequences. She had done much that was -wrong; but she had never told a lie. - -Lady Curtis saw her coming from the window of the morning-room, and -could not but make observations to herself upon the fine elastic figure, -instinct she felt with some special energy, as the young stranger came -up the avenue. What was it that made her walk to-day with such firm -certainty and grace? usually there was a touch of shyness about her, -almost awkwardness, the awkwardness which is a kind of grace in its way, -the wavering of youth, not quite sure about its own movements. But Nancy -was not thinking of her appearance, or that anyone was looking at her; -but only of the great moment that was approaching. Lady Curtis came to -the door of the morning-room to meet her, holding out her hand. - -“This is my pet room, my dear,” she said, smiling; “you must come here -first. Sit down by the fire, and get thawed, and then you shall see -everything. It is not according to the present taste, but for all that I -am fond of it. Won’t you take off your cloak? We can put it here, or -take it upstairs with us when we go. It must be very cold out of doors.” - -“Not when one is walking,” said Nancy, and as she put off her cloak, a -little roll of paper became visible. “I brought you the--sketches,” she -said, with a blush; “they are not worth calling patterns.” - -“They are a great deal better than patterns. _I_ call them drawings,” -said Lady Curtis, with flattering kindness, spreading them out on the -table. What pains Nancy had taken over them! and consequently they -wanted the spontaneous grace of the first design, which Lady Curtis had -so praised. But my lady applauded them as if they had come from the -pencil of Raffaele himself, and showed her crewels and her pieces of -work executed, which filled Nancy with awe. - -“Mine are not so good as these,” she said, shaking her head; “I will -take them back and try to do better.” She was disappointed, and tears -started suddenly to her eyes. But Lady Curtis took the drawings away -carefully, and smiled and shook her head. - -“They are mine,” she said, “you have given them to me. Now look, here is -my private picture-gallery, Mrs. Arthur; my son, whom you thought you -had met, do you remember? You will be able to make sure by looking at -his portrait; and Lucy--you know Lucy? I have been very extravagant -about my children, here they are at all ages. Here is the first of my -boy--and there is the last,” said Lady Curtis, pointing to a framed -photograph on the table. She wondered that the visitor did not move to -look at it. Nancy was holding the child’s miniature in her trembling -hands. She could not have spoken or risen up to save her life. Look at -him--she who belonged to him, to whom he belonged more than to his -mother--she could not do it! There was something almost more than she -could bear even in the child’s face. - -“The connoisseurs of the present day will have nothing to say to my -pretty room,” said Lady Curtis; “but perhaps you are of that way of -thinking, and like darkness and neutral tints. No? I am glad of that. -This is where I have spent almost all my life,” she said, dropping into -that tempting strain of gentle reminiscence which seems to come natural -to us all, when we grow old among the young, as just the other day we -were young among the old, and liked to draw that soft babble of memory -from elder lips. Nancy felt the charm of it, which soothed her even in -her excitement, and looked up listening with eyes that grew bigger and -bigger, like the listening eyes of a child. - -“I furnished it at my own pleasure, after I was married, when I came -first to Oakley;” she said. “Sir John does not care for these sort of -things, he was always pleased when I was always pleased; and all our -little talks we did here; and then the children--all that they had to -say to mamma, this was the place. When Arthur was a boy at school, he -always came rushing in here the moment he arrived; and here they made -all their plans, he and his school friend, Lewis, who is a very dear -friend still. I think I can see their little faces with the firelight -upon them,” said Lady Curtis. “My Arthur! Ah, if he had always been as -open with me as he was then!” - -Nancy was choking with her tears. It was all that she could do not to -cry out--it was my fault, it was my fault! all she could to keep herself -from creeping to Lady Curtis’s feet, and kissing them, and crying her -heart out. She sat still and kept silent, she could not tell how. - -“But I must not talk of that, and make myself cry,” said my lady, “that -would be poor entertainment for you. All these things are presents, they -have been brought me one time or another. Sir John gave me my clock; it -is a genuine seventeenth century one, and we picked it up by the merest -chance. Arthur brought me that Sèvres the first time he went abroad. -Come, I have upset you with my absurd talk. I can see you know what it -is to be in trouble about those you love.” - -My lady was behind Nancy at the moment, and suddenly put her arms round -her, and gave her a little half-embrace. It was gratitude for her -supposed feeling. Nancy stumbled up to her feet with a great cry, “Oh, -my lady--my lady! if you knew! if you only knew!” - -Lady Curtis looked at her fixedly, her cheek flushed a little. After all -she knew nothing of this strange young woman whom she had received so -rashly. What if she should turn out to be--something not fit for the -company of good women? She looked at her with a momentary suspicion. - -“If there was any serious reason why you should not come into my house, -I think you would not have come,” she said, with meaning. Nancy did not -reply--her thoughts were occupied by a wholly different preventing cause -from that which was in Lady Curtis’s thoughts; but neither did she quail -from the look, which she did not understand. The impulse was strong upon -her to tell everything, to go no further, to disclose the whole story -now. - -“After to-day,” she said, with her lips quivering, “I meant, if you -would listen, to tell you everything about me. But perhaps, I thought to -myself, you would not like me then--perhaps you would be angry; and I -thought I might give myself first this one day.” - -“Poor child!” said Lady Curtis, half smiling. “It cannot be very great -wickedness, at which you think I would be angry, which you tell with -such an innocent face. Hush, hush!” she added, “no more of this, here is -Lucy. You shall have your day, and tell me after. Before her not a -word.” - -Was Lady Curtis afraid of Lucy _too_? She came in looking as she always -did, not suspicious perhaps, but _as if she knew_--did she know -anything? and shook hands with Nancy. “You are showing Mrs. Arthur your -own room first, mamma; you are telling her exactly what you expect to be -said, and coaxing her to praise it. That is what you always do; but papa -wishes her to be brought to the library. No, here he is coming after -me,” said Lucy, as a heavy step came towards the door. Nancy was -standing up, tremulous and shaken, her lips with still a quiver in them, -the tears not gone out of her eyes, when Sir John came in. He came up to -her holding out his large, soft, old man’s hand. - -“You need not introduce me, Lucy. I know this lady already. She was very -kind to me, as I told you. I assure you that to allow a young lady, and -one whom I should have been so happy to serve, to take so much trouble -for me, was much against my liking. But my excuse is one we must all -come to, even the fairest. When a man is old--” - -“I was so very glad,” said Nancy, in a low tone, and her eyes, with the -moisture in them, looked so appealing that Sir John’s heart was touched. -He gave a look round, lifting his heavy eyelids to see if there was -anything visible that could account for this emotion. Then, seeing that -his wife also showed signs of fellow-feeling, he concluded that the poor -young widow (as he supposed her) had been telling her story to my lady’s -sympathetic ear. - -“I believe you are going to be shown over the house,” he said, offering -his arm, “and you must let me show you my library myself. I have not -very much,” said Sir John with that tone of mock humility which never -deceives the experienced, “that is worth looking at; but there are one -or two pictures, and some old Roman rubbish, which, perhaps, you may -not care about. Are you fond of antiquities? I know that you are kind to -them, at least,” he said, giving her hand a little fatherly pat as she -put it shyly on his arm. Nancy felt her head swim as she walked through -the great hall leaning on Sir John’s arm. He talked to her all the way, -pointing out one thing and another. “This is one of our treasures--it is -a bit of bas-relief found in an old temple near Rome. Have you ever been -so far? Ah! then you have the pleasure to come. I think it is much -better than going when you are too young to appreciate what you see. -Yes, this is my favourite room. There are plenty of books you see--a -great many more than I make any use of nowadays--some of them, perhaps, -are not quite lady’s reading; but there are a great many which I daresay -you would like, and which you will always be welcome to. This is one of -the pictures we are proud of. It is a Sir Joshua. It is the portrait of -my grandfather. Ah! you start, you see the likeness? It _is_ very like -my son. My lady has been telling you of him, no doubt? Yes, Arthur was -the apple of her eye; and will be yet--and will be yet, please God.” - -Nancy did not hear much more. The choking of those tears she dared not -shed, and those words she did not say, was more than she could bear. -“Oh! please forgive me!” she said, sobbing aloud, “I can’t help it. No, -no, I am not ill--but it brings so many things back--” - -“My dear young lady,” said Sir John alarmed. “You have got upset. Shall -I take you back to Lady Curtis, or will you rest here?” - -“Oh, only for a moment!” cried Nancy. The outbreak had relieved her. He -made her sit down in his own great chair, and was silent for a few -minutes, looking at her with serious sympathy. She was not afraid of Sir -John. He (she divined) would never find her out, however she might -betray herself. He was not quick, like needles, like the ladies. There -was safety in him. And this sense of security helped her to conquer -herself. She got up presently with a smile, and said she was better. The -old man was in no hurry--he was pleased with his pretty companion, and -quite willing to humour her. After this, he took her all round the -library, not sparing her a single relic. He had not been so much -interested for ever so long. She listened to all he said with the -prettiest interest, and if she did not say much, what did that matter? -“I am very ignorant,” she said to begin with, and he liked her all the -better. They suited each other entirely. She did not get impatient as my -lady did, or make fun of everything, which Lucy would sometimes have the -audacity to do; but listened with the greatest interest as if she never -could hear too much. The library was nearly exhausted when the bell rang -for luncheon. “Lady Curtis will wonder what has become of us,” he said, -giving her his arm again, “and I am sure I have worn you out.” - -Meanwhile Lucy and her mother were smiling at each other. “We have no -chance you see, even with your father, against a pretty stranger,” Lady -Curtis said, “but I hope she is not tired of all these antiquities, as -you and I are, Lucy, when we oughtn’t to be.” - -“Oh, she will not show it,” said Lucy, with a little slight involuntary -touch of scorn; but Lady Curtis did not find this sentiment out. - -“Yes, she is a sympathetic young creature. She was all but crying with -me about Arthur, though she can’t know anything of Arthur. It may not be -what hard people call quite sincere, but it is very charming and goes to -one’s heart.” - -“Oh! I did not say she was not sincere,” said Lucy with compunction; and -then the luncheon bell roused them, and they went across the hall to the -dining-room, following Sir John, who issued from his library at the same -moment, and led the way with his courtly old-gentlemanly politeness -leading the stranger. Age is the period in which politeness becomes most -exquisite--like that _cortesia_ which the old Italians make into an -attribute of God himself. Sir John placed Nancy next to himself at -table. She had never sat at a table so daintily served. The big silent -footmen almost filled her with awe. She had never seen anything of the -kind but in the Paris hotel, which after all was only an hotel, served -by chattering rapid waiters, not solemn buckram men like this. Nancy was -awed, every moment more and more. - -“Now you have had her long enough,” said Lady Curtis. “She has to see -the drawing-room now, and all the state rooms.” - -“I hope you have had the drawing-room properly aired. I never had any -confidence in that room. I have known it to be cold,” said Sir John with -a look of horror. “Come back to your own room, my lady, for tea. It is -the most comfortable in the house.” - -“That is on his own account, not ours,” said Lady Curtis, as she, in her -turn, led Nancy away. The drawing-room, was a very large, noble room -divided by pillars, and its magnificence again took away Nancy’s -breath. They took her all round to look at the pictures, and then my -Lady placed the stranger in a large chair before the fire to rest. Never -had any one been so anxious about her, afraid to overtire her. Overtire -her! if my Lady only knew? Nancy, vigorous and young, could have carried -her conductor about as easily as a child; but she could not carry the -load under which she was tottering--the load of concealment and, as she -represented it to herself, deception. This overwhelmed her with a -feverish incapacity. She was glad when they bade her be still. What -agitation was in all her veins! and yet she was happy--wrapped in a -strange, delicious, overwhelming, painful dream. Was it her home, really -her home in which she was thus reposing, or a house which to-day she -would leave for ever? She was not able to answer the question, but sat -still there, in the winter afternoon, while the sun was still shining -outside, in a trance of strange and mingled sensation, lifted out of -herself. - -The drawing-room did not look towards the front of the house. Its large -windows opened into my Lady’s flower-garden, a kind of fairy paradise, -Nancy had thought, in which the grass was very green, and where there -were still flowers. Arrivals or departures did not disturb the dwellers -in this Elysian place; but as they sat together, not talking very much -for the moment, for the sake of Nancy who was “resting,” some kind of -indescribable wave of sound seemed to rise in the house. Something of -wheels, something of quick steps, then a little distant hubbub of -voices, then the ring of several doors opened and shut. “Some one -calling, I suppose,” Lady Curtis said calmly, “but you must not stir, my -dear.” Lucy was near the door. What she heard that roused her curiosity, -or suggested to her the impossible occurrence which had really come to -pass, it would be impossible to say. Her mind was in a state of high -tension and excitement, and this confers a kind of second sight and -second hearing. She stole behind the great screen that guarded the room -from the possibility of a draught, and softy opened the door. She heard -her father’s heavy step come suddenly out of his library, and then a -tremulous outcry in his usually placid voice. Lady Curtis had begun to -listen too. “What is all that commotion,” she said, “ring, Lucy, and -ask?” But Lucy was out of hearing. She had rushed along the corridor to -see with her own eyes, and hear with her own ears. “Yes, Sir, it is I; I -didn’t write, for I did not know I could get here to-day. Where is my -mother?” was what she heard. Lucy’s impulse was to cry out too, to rush -out to the hall and throw herself upon her brother, and it took her no -small effort to restrain herself. Her heart gave a wild leap into her -throat--and then she turned and hurried back. What was going to happen? -“Lucy--Lucy! have you asked what is the matter?” said Lady Curtis, -getting up with natural agitation. She thought of Arthur at once, as was -to be expected; but she found time even in the tide of rising anxiety to -give a kind word to her visitor. “Never mind,” she said, “don’t -stir--there is no need for you to disturb yourself--Lucy! where are you? -what is it?” said my Lady. And then she gave a half scream, and rushed -towards the door, pushing back the screen which had veiled the space -before the fire. - -“Yes, mother, here I am,” said Arthur, coming in. - -One of the party, at least, had no eyes for him, no thought for him. -Lucy did not even look at her brother; and when his eye caught her -standing there, and saw this, Arthur, with his arm still encircling his -mother, followed instinctively to see what interest could keep his -sister from him. Nancy had risen from her seat at the sound of his -voice. Every tinge of colour had gone from her cheeks, her eyes looked -as if they had been forced wide open by a passion of wonder which was -almost agony, her lips had dropped apart. She stood motionless, gazing, -but able to see nothing. - -“My God!” he cried, and put his mother aside. - -Sir John had followed him into the room. They were all there, all who -were most interested, and all felt by instinct that something greater -and stranger had happened than Arthur’s coming home. - -“What is it, what is it?” cried Lady Curtis, in sharp tones of pain. - -Her son made but one step away from her, and caught their unknown -visitor, their strange neighbour, the young woman they had all been so -kind to, in his arms. - -“No, no, no!” they all heard Nancy cry, shrill and high in terror or -anguish, they could not tell which; and then she dropped out of his arms -in a heap upon the floor. - -“Have I killed her?” he said, looking round upon them with a scared and -blanched face, while Sir John and his mother looked at him, speechless -with astonishment. - -“No, no,” cried Lucy, who had possession of her senses; “it is no worse -than fainting. Oh, don’t you see, don’t you see what it is, all of you? -She has scarcely been able to keep from telling you.” - -“What had she to tell me? What do you mean? What is this, what is this, -Lucy? I don’t understand.” - -Arthur had one arm under his wife’s head. - -“She is better, she is coming back,” he cried, and stretched out his -other hand with one glance round. “Mother, God bless you! You have been -keeping her here safe while I have been looking everywhere for her,” he -said. “If I had not owed you everything before, I should owe you my life -now.” - -“Arthur! What has he to do with her? Her name is--Ah!” Lady Curtis ended -with a great cry. - -And Sir John, who was altogether puzzled, came forward a step and looked -at her where she lay, holding up his spectacles solemnly in his hand. - -“I am afraid she has fainted,” he said. “I thought she was not very -well. It will be better to leave your mother and a maid to manage her, -Arthur. We are interested in the young lady, but we are more interested -in you.” - -Nancy came to herself as he spoke, and struggling up, got upon her -knees. - -“I did not faint,” she said, hoarsely; “only the light went from me. I -did not mean to deceive any one. I said just this one day; I wanted to -see you, and Arthur’s home. I did not mean to deceive you. If you -please, I will go away, and never trouble you any more.” - -“Nancy!” cried Arthur, “Nancy!” He put his arm round her, holding her. -He had been kneeling beside her while she lay there, and he was not -aware of the suppliant attitude which accident made him assume. “Look at -me,” he said, “look at _me_! If you cared for Arthur’s home, did you not -care for _me_, Nancy? You shall never go away, except with me.” - -Nancy got up hastily, drawing herself away from him. She was at the turn -of her capricious soul. Would she burst away again, rush out into the -cold and the twilight? Everything hung on the impulse of the moment. She -gave a wild look round upon all those agitated faces. Sir John had put -on his spectacles the better to understand the extraordinary position -of affairs which had begun to dawn upon him now. - -“It appears to me,” he said slowly, “if I understand, that there can be -no question here of going away, no more for this young lady than for any -of us. Is it possible--I do not mean to be uncivil, but you will excuse -the question--is it possible that you are, as I understand, my son’s -wife?” - -Nancy was caught at the moment of doubt. She herself turned and looked -at Arthur. Her eyes softened, her paleness began to glow. He drew her -arm within his, and she did not resist. - -“Yes,” she said, with a long soft sigh. It was hardly possible to tell -which was the word and which the lingering flutter of breath. - -“Then, my dear--though I have forgotten your name,” said the old -gentleman, going up to her, taking her disengaged hand, and kissing her -very solemnly on the forehead, “you are very welcome in his father’s -house.” - -“And me?” said Lady Curtis, with a little moan. Grammar and emotion do -not always go together. “I have only half seen Arthur, and must I turn -all at once to Arthur’s wife?” - -“If you care for me, mother!--” - -“_Care_ for you! Do you hear how he blasphemes--you, young woman, that -are his wife? And he was my little boy, my child before he ever saw you. -Care for him! that is what he calls it,” the mother said, crying, yet -smiling, too, as her manner was. “What is your name? Nancy! Yes, I know -it well enough; I only ask it out of contradiction. Here is my kiss, -Nancy. I did not know you were my daughter, but I liked you; and that is -better than giving you a kiss only for his sake. If you care for him, as -he calls it, you will like me too. Where is Lucy all this time, who was -in the plot--who knew--” - -“I only divined,” said Lucy, coming forward in her turn. - -But Lucy was the one of all whose salutations were the least cordial. -She was glad, but she did not like it somehow. She did not like to hear -my lady say “my daughter.” That was an unexpected stab. She went -through her salutations very prettily, but in such a way as brought the -excited party back to common life. - -“And I think you will find your own room more comfortable,” said Sir -John; “and you are surely later than usual this afternoon, my lady, in -having tea.” - - * * * * * - -This tea, it may be supposed, was not the tranquillizing draught it -usually proved to these agitated people; and it was a relief to -everybody when it was settled that Arthur should walk down with his wife -to the village to tell her sister of the extraordinary event which had -happened, and to make arrangements for Nancy’s removal to the Hall. They -went out into the dark avenue together, arm-in-arm, glad of the -darkness, and feeling it had been made for them, as--if it had been -morning and bright, they would have felt that to have been made for -them. To repeat what they had to say to each other is none of our -business. People do not meet again after such separations without having -in their happiness pain enough to make them humble; and yet that walk -down to the village in the wintry evening was worth some pain. Sir John -was still standing between the two rococo cupids of the mantelpiece, -with his cup in his hand, when they went away. He had come back to the -ordinary habits of his life, which, after any disturbance, it is always -a pleasant thing to do. - -“It seems to me,” he said, “that it was a very fortunate thing we got -hold of Arthur’s wife accidentally, and found her to be so -unexceptionable a person, before we knew who she was; and it was pretty -that she called herself Mrs. Arthur. I did not perceive it just at -first, but of course it was her right name. And all things considered, I -think we may be very thankful to Providence, my lady, that things have -turned out so well,” said Sir John, putting down his cup, and going -slowly away, as was his wont. When the door was closed, which he always -did so carefully, my lady caught Lucy by the waist, who was going away -too. - -“My darling,” she said, “we must strike while the iron is hot, while -your father is so satisfied. Go this moment, and write before the post -goes. Tell Lewis to come at once, to-morrow; he ought not to lose a -day.” - -“Shall I, mamma?” Lucy crept a little closer to her mother, who was not -forgetting her after all. - -“Yes, at once. I hate them all!” cried Lady Curtis with a little -outburst, “taking my children from me. But I suppose you will be -happier; and you know, as Arthur says, I do care--a little--for _you_.” - - - THE END. - - - London: Printed by A. Schulze, 13, Poland Street. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MRS. 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