Durant felt that after this shock he needed a little quiet, to
re-establish him in his former thoughts. Mr. Eagles had assailed him
like a charge of cavalry. He laughed, yet he was shaken. It was not in
his power to take away his man; indeed he was in the most uncomfortable
position possible, supposed to hold an official position in respect to
Arthur, and, indeed, endowed with powers of remonstrance and reproof,
but with no authority--the most difficult of all circumstances. He could
neither take away his man, nor even oblige that man to hear reason, and
yet he was more or less responsible for him; and to crown all, his man
had quarrelled with him, and shaken off even the ties of affection which
had hitherto bound them. This, it is true, did not affect him so much as
it might have done had he been less familiar with Arthur, who he knew
could never stand out or maintain the separation. To be sure, Arthur,
backed up by a new family, and with the possible evil animus of “a set
of women” added to his personal offence, was a person as yet unknown to
his friend; and though Durant was kind, and did not think evil of
others, yet he was not able to divest himself of the natural
prepossession against the “set of women” whose ideas henceforward must,
more or less, inspire Arthur. It is a compliment at least to the mental
power of women that this is the first thought that springs into anyone’s
head when a man makes, or is understood to be about to make, an
unsuitable marriage. The man may be wiser, cleverer, infinitely of more
importance than the woman as a moral being; but the whole inspiration
of his conduct is instantly believed to be _hers_. Durant had not a
notion what was the mental calibre of Nancy Bates. On the surface, of
course, it could only be taken for granted that a member of the educated
classes, a University man, would count for more than an untaught girl,
the daughter of ignorant people. But nobody thinks so, and Durant was
like everyone else. He began to wonder what sort of people the Bates’
were, and finally determined to go and see them according to the
invitation of last night. He might as well feign a little even, with
this admirable motive, and show himself friendly by way of being as
unfriendly as possible. He was not quite sure of the moral grandeur of
the proceeding. Take it all in all, indeed, the effort to seduce Arthur
from his allegiance before their very eyes, so to speak; to beguile him
into breaking his word and renouncing his plighted faith, was not, on
the surface, a highly moral proceeding. But yet Durant, when he came,
had been unable to conceive anything more desirable than this. If he
could only have succeeded in persuading Arthur to do it, it would not
only have left no weight on his conscience, but he would have felt that
he had done well. The girl herself! What of the girl herself? She was a
gambler, playing for high stakes. As for feeling on her part, who was at
all likely to take that into consideration? Certainly when Lewis Durant
did not (and it never occurred to him), it was extremely unlikely that
any one else would.
This thought, however, having got into his mind, he resolved on carrying
it out. He would go and see these people, and find out whether anything
could be done with them, and again (with a smile) he thought of Major
Pendennis and his most successful negotiations. These were the tactics
the Major adopted, and they had proved excellently adapted for the
purpose. The circumstances, however, were evidently different. Nothing
could be said of Arthur Curtis, unless his friend was prepared to lie in
his behalf, which would shake the confidence of the girl’s family in the
advantages of the marriage. He was Sir John’s only son, the estates were
entailed, there was but one sister to share even the personal property
of the family, and Lady Curtis was very well off in her own right.
Anything that could be said, would only make the Bates family more
certain that Nancy had done an admirable thing for herself, so admirable
that nothing should be allowed to stand in her way. Howsoever the
lover’s friends might object, nothing could be done to do away
altogether with the advantages of the marriage, and Durant felt that the
family would be fools indeed to allow any meddler like himself to affect
their action in the matter. Still people are fools now and then,
notwithstanding the strong hold of self-interest, and might be beguiled
into a false step, notwithstanding that every inducement was on the
other side. All this passed through Durant’s mind, and he did not blush
at the thought. It seemed to him quite justifiable, nay, laudable. It
was to save Arthur; if he could save Arthur by deceiving others, what
then? And as for the girl! Talk of hearts, if you please, in other
conditions of life, but the heart of a village girl who beguiles a
gentleman into falling in love with her! Honest, honourable, and true as
he was, Durant, strangely enough, had still no compunction there. Could
he have broken Arthur’s troth-plight like a wand, he would have been
delighted with himself.
He did not know his way very well, having threaded a number of small
dark streets, in the rain, the night before, led by the vague directions
of various officious guides; but he had a notion in which direction it
was, and he had abundance of time before him. He had not gone very far,
indeed, before he met an individual who might easily have guided him,
and whom he passed with a curious consciousness that here would be the
most vulnerable member of the family--no less a person than Mr. Bates
himself; a little stout man in a large white neckcloth, with a book in
his hand, and an appearance of ink spots about him, which betrayed the
existence of what is euphemistically called writing materials somewhere
about his person. The expression of his face was not less characteristic
of his profession. No softening atmosphere of rum was about him now. His
face was red, probably from those long continued, though moderate
evening indulgences, and his lips were pursed up and tight. He looked
the kind of man whose proceedings would be summary, who would take no
excuses, who would be rigid as fate in the punctuality of his
applications. Durant watched him furtively from the other side of the
street; and the conclusion to which he came was that Mr. Bates, though
obdurate with his district, would be incapable of standing an assault
from anyone of superior condition; and however arbitrary he might be to
a defaulter in rates, would not venture to withstand a Sir John, should
he demand the sacrifice of his Iphigenia. Should he approach him at
once, thus unprotected, in the middle of his duties, and frighten him
into a promise to shut his doors upon Arthur? For a moment Durant
hesitated; for, in the first place, he was not Sir John, and in the
second place, he distrusted the power of the tax-gatherer to contend
with “those women.” To subdue the women themselves was a more desperate
piece of work, but it would be more effectual were it done. With this
conclusion, he went on making his way in the direction which he supposed
the right one. He would not awaken curiosity by inquiring, and he had
abundant time, as it was still early. The forenoon was bright and
genial, but the place was very quiet. The men had been swept out of it
by the morning train. Except Mr. Bates, and the butchers and bakers,
and a stray parson of the High Church sect, who blocked out a large
piece of sunshine with his cassock and cloak, there was no one visible,
for it was too early for the female population to leave the business of
their houses. He was sure to find all the females of the Bates’ family,
he thought, in the stuffy little parlour, with probably some
preparations for dinner going on side by side with the bonnet making.
And the heroine, what might she be doing?--not seated on the sofa, nor
love-making he hoped; the bonnet was better than that. He made several
little pictures of her in his imagination, now standing upon her dignity
as engaged to a gentleman, putting on a multitude of little airs,
lording it over her sisters. No doubt this was how she would show her
success. He knew nothing whatever about Nancy, but as his object was to
destroy her hopes, he represented her to himself, unconsciously, as
affected by the very poorest version possible of these hopes. It was
natural. While, however, he was pursuing these thoughts and his way
together, he suddenly encountered, coming round a corner, one of the
sisters, whom he had met on the previous night. They came so suddenly
upon each other, that both paused, with the slight shock of almost
personal contact.
“Oh, Mr. Durant!” cried Sarah Jane.
She blushed “to be caught” in her cotton frock and shabby hat, running
out in the morning--not such was the apparel in which she would have
chosen to be seen by a gentleman--but Sarah Jane was a born flirt, and
even her frock did not subdue her. She would not lose the opportunity.
And to tell the truth, the cotton frock was much more becoming, had she
known it, than the cheap travesties of “the fashion” which she generally
wore.
“I am very glad to have met you, Miss Bates,” he said. “I was trying to
find the way to your house.”
“Oh, la!” said Sarah Jane, her eyes dancing. This was something to the
purpose, for why should he come to the house so soon but for _some
reason_? And it could not be Matilda. “But I ain’t Miss Bates, I’m the
youngest,” she said. “If you’ll just come two or three steps down this
street first, I’ll show you the way. I’ve got some ribbon to match--look
here, Matty’s new Sunday bonnet--but I shan’t be a moment, and I’ll show
you the way.”
Durant consented; it seemed to him the best chance he could have had of
acquiring information. He turned and walked down the street by the side
of the girl, who was half-wild with pride and pleasure. She could see
one or two faces glance out through shop-windows with surprise and envy.
To be seen walking along the street with such a gentleman-like-looking
man! There was nobody in Underhayes, except Arthur, who looked so
distinguished, not even Colonel Hooker, who was supposed by everybody
to be the glass of fashion. This was a delusion of fancy on Sarah Jane’s
part, for Durant’s appearance was nowise remarkable; but as life is but
thought, the idea was quite as good to her as if it had been true.
“I go all the messages,” said Sarah Jane. “I think it is very hard,
especially as the girl is there, doing next to nothing; but they say
they can’t trust the girl. Girls _are_ very queer; they are not to be
depended upon. I am sure, the trouble mamma has with ours!”
They had not kept a girl very long, and Sarah Jane was still a little
proud of it as of a sign of social distinction. She turned to her new
friend for sympathy, though reflecting, as she did so, that probably he
was living in lodgings, and had not in his own person either the pride
or the difficulty of managing a servant of any kind.
“Yes,” said Durant; “I agree with you, Miss Bates. Girls, so far as I
have seen them, are very queer.”
“Ain’t they?” cried Sarah Jane, relieved as to his circumstances, of
which a momentary doubt had crossed her mind; “never to be relied on,
and eating, ma says, as much as any two of us. So I go to the shops. I
don’t mind it, generally; and then if I didn’t go, who would? Matilda
has no eyes. She never sees when a thing doesn’t match; and Nancy, you
know, she’s always either with Arthur, or doing something for him. I
daresay he’s there now.”
“Is he there all day? That must be rather a bore for you.”
“That’s what I always say, Mr. Durant. I daresay Nancy may like it, for,
of course, he is her young man; but we can’t do a thing like we used,
with him always there. I wish to goodness gracious they were married.
Our parlour is a very nice room, but it’s too small to have these two
continually there. Mamma always will call it a parlour, though
drawing-room is so much better.”
“I prefer parlour.”
“Do you now? how funny! All our friends say drawing-room, though I
think, after all, they oughtn’t to, as we take our meals there. It is
such a trouble running in and out from one room to another, and keeping
up two fires. At least, I should not think it a trouble, but mamma does.
She likes her old-fashioned ways. Will Arthur be very rich, Mr. Durant,
and will he be a baronet when his father dies?”
“He will certainly be a baronet when his father dies.”
“What luck for Nancy!” cried Sarah Jane; “and she met him just by
chance, you know, as I might meet--anyone in the street.” She had
intended to say “you,” but paused in time. “When old Aunt Anna died, it
was her she left everything to, all her funny old dresses, and her
money. Perhaps you did not know that she was the rich one? People say
it is a shame, and that Matilda should have got it, as she is the
eldest; but Matilda isn’t so kind as Nancy. I should not have got any
good of it if Matilda had been the heiress. But fancy! when Nancy gets a
dress for herself, she always gets one for me too, so I am just as well
off as though the money were mine.”
“That is very kind of Miss Bates,” said Durant, not seeing how to find
his way through all this prattle, and a little impatient of the long
detour.
“She is not Miss Bates; she’s the second, next to me; and I think--if
you will not tell anyone--that when she marries Arthur, who is rich, she
will give up her legacy. I don’t know if it will be to me; I wish it
might be to me--not that I should keep it all to myself; but it is so
nice to have it all in one’s hands, and make the rest feel under
obligations to you. Don’t you think it is very nice? Especially Matilda.
I should like to say to her, ‘Matilda, dear, shouldn’t you like a new
bonnet?’ Oh, what fun it would be! and her looks between wanting the
bonnet and not wanting to have it from me.”
“It would be amusing, no doubt,” said Durant; “but do you think it is
quite sure that Mr. Curtis will be so rich? I should think it would be
better for your sister to keep her money, for she will have a great many
expenses.”
“Oh, you nasty, unkind, mean--that’s not what I was going to say,” cried
Sarah Jane; “but, dear me, you told me yourself Arthur was rich! Ain’t
he a baronet’s son? What does he want with her little bit of money? I
should be ashamed, myself, of taking money with my wife when I didn’t
want it, if I was a rich gentleman. I call that mean.”
“But perhaps Mr. Curtis is not so rich as you think,” said Durant. “His
father is not an old man; there is no reason why Sir John should not
live for twenty years or more.”
“Twenty years or more!” cried Sarah Jane, turning upon him eyes that
were full of dismay. She stopped short in the street to turn round and
fix upon him her alarmed gaze. “Do you mean to say that Nancy--do you
mean to tell me that Arthur?--But that would be no better than marrying
anyone else. Just Missis, like everybody! Why Nancy!--Nancy will never
give in to that.”
“I thought that probably you were deceiving yourselves,” said Durant,
with some complacency, wondering at this depth of ignorance indeed, but
extremely pleased with himself for having divined it, and thus finding a
means of working. “Miss Nancy, if she marries Mr. Curtis, will be plain
Missis, as you say, for all the world as if she had married the grocer
at the corner.”
“Oh, the grocer! that is what she is never likely to do,” cried Miss
Sarah Jane, with a conscious look towards the corner. The grocer was
standing at the door in his apron--a good-looking young man, whose eyes
were fixed, as Durant saw with some amusement, on himself, and with a
decidedly hostile look. Miss Sarah Jane gave him a nod of airy
fascination across the street. Perhaps but for this conversation she
would not have been so gracious. Durant perceived that he himself was
being presented in the light of a possible rival to the young tradesman,
of whom he had spoken so lightly, and it was all he could do to keep his
gravity in this very novel and unexpected conjuncture. He made an
effort, however, and went on.
“You must know,” he said, “that an independent poor man like that very
good-looking grocer--”
“Oh, poor! none so poor! he is better off than many folks that make a
deal more show,” said Sarah Jane.
“That is precisely what I was going to say. An independent man in his
position, may be really in much better circumstances than the son of a
more important person. Sir John Curtis is not a man to be trifled with,”
Durant went on, with a momentary half-amused compunction for this cruel
slander upon poor Sir John. “He is stern in his own views; he is capable
of withdrawing his son’s allowance altogether if he is dissatisfied with
his marriage. I am very sorry to alarm you, but I feared you might be
under some delusion, and this was what I wanted to say.”
Sarah Jane’s eyes had been growing wider and wider with alarm and
wonder. She turned round upon her heel as upon a pivot.
“Now I think of it,” she said, “Matilda had better come and match her
ribbon herself. It is only for the strings, and the bonnet is not more
than half done--and, please, come and tell all this to mother yourself.
Nancy’s a dear,” said the girl, with a look which entirely changed her
aspect to her sympathetic companion. “She may have her faults, but she’s
always been kind, and I can’t bear that she should be deceived. Come and
tell it to them at home. Mother knows a deal--she’s cleverer than any of
us; _she’ll_ know if you’re right or wrong; but I won’t have Nancy put
upon, not--” cried the girl, with a vehemence of regard which only the
strongest asseveration could justify--“not if I was never to have
another new dress for years and years!”