Durant felt that he had done a good morning’s work. He had succeeded in
frightening Mrs. Bates, and striking with alarm the sensible mind of
Matilda, and the frivolous one of Sarah Jane. He left them in different
stages of perplexity and distress when he came away. They were not more
selfish than other people; but the idea of Nancy’s marriage, which they
had been so proud of in anticipation, coming to nothing, or coming to so
much worse than nothing as to throw the “young couple” on their hands,
naturally appalled them. Arthur had, which, perhaps, was also natural,
told them as little as possible about his family; he had slurred
vaguely over all details of how he and his bride were to live. He had
plenty for both, he said; there would be quite enough to give his Nancy
everything her heart could desire. What could they wish for more? The
daughter of a tax-collector is not usually burdened with very elaborate
marriage settlements.
“I hope your papa and mamma will be pleased,” Mrs. Bates had said, when
she had received the intimation of the betrothal, bestowing on her
future son-in-law a tearful kiss, which he bore like a hero.
“Oh, no fear of them; they will be pleased when they see Nancy,” he had
replied; and with this assurance she had been content.
As the time fixed for the marriage approached, no doubt there had been
searchings of heart on the subject; but these were rather directed to
the question, whether or not he would have any of his family asked to
the wedding than to anything more important. Arthur was four-and-twenty,
surely old enough to choose for himself, and the idea of consulting the
father and mother (it being evident that they were not very likely to be
satisfied with the marriage) did not occur to these good folks. A young
tax-collector would not think of consulting his family, though he might
like them to be pleased; and why should a baronet’s son, a young
gentleman, much more his own master than any tax-collector, be bound to
what his father and mother wished? Mr. Bates, who had a great respect
for the powers that be, had, indeed, grumbled a fear that “they mightn’t
like it;” but “Who cares?” had been the answer of his bolder spouse. She
remembered this now with a little horror.
“Your father is slow,” she said to her girls; “and sometimes we’re all
impatient, as we didn’t ought to be; but it’s wonderful how often he’s
right, is papa.”
The girls scouted the idea in words, but in their hearts they too were
somewhat impressed, and the little parlour was full of agitation all the
morning. Nancy was out, as the day was so fine, with her lover. They had
so nearly quarrelled on the previous night, that their morning meeting
was more interesting than usual, and they had gone out to make it up.
There was a common not far off, with stretches of gorse and little
thickets of half-grown trees, which was the resort of all lovers in the
neighbourhood; and there they had been spending the morning in the midst
of the autumnal sunshine, declaring to each other that nothing should
ever come between them again, neither enemies nor friends.
Durant went home to his inn, very well pleased with himself, though with
a qualm of compunction which he had not expected to feel. On the whole,
these people were not designing people. They were not the harpies of the
social imagination, who pounce upon the hapless _fils de famille_, and
crunch his bones. That did not make them in the smallest degree more
suitable to be connected with Arthur, but it made his friend a little
ashamed of the part he was playing. And at the same time he was
satisfied; for he did not want Arthur to make this foolish marriage, and
he wanted very much to please Lady Curtis, for reasons which will be
disclosed hereafter. He felt he had done a good day’s work, though,
perhaps, it was not work of a very noble kind. He did not believe in the
least that the Curtis family would sentence their son to starvation, or
to be dependent on the house of Bates, though he made use of that idea
to subjugate the latter; but Nature revenged herself upon him for this
lie by permitting him to believe another, which was that these
proceedings of his could have some influence in retarding Arthur’s
marriage. Though he ought to have known that the obstacles thus set up
would, on the contrary, make Arthur doubly eager, and lead him to force
on everything, a little mist of complacent delusion was over his eyes in
respect to his own adroitness, and he really believed that it might be
in his power to save Arthur. And then if he saved Arthur, what might not
Lady Curtis be disposed to do? Not, poor Durant, the same thing over
again, by bestowing her daughter, of whom she was much more proud than
she had ever been of Arthur, upon a poor, if rising barrister. No, that
was not likely, and he knew it was not likely; but yet he had a certain
vague faith in it which impelled him to do anything to please her; and
he thought what he had done would please her. He thought he had produced
some effect. There was a glow of comfortable sensation in his mind. If,
perhaps, he had been not quite kind, not quite just to the poor people
he had just quitted, what claim had they upon his kindness? None
whatever; and it was all perfectly legitimate, perfectly fair. Were they
not coming out of their natural sphere, clutching at the Baronet’s son
for their daughter, publicly boasting the time when Nancy should be my
lady? And was not any way of putting an end to this fair and defensible?
He had done nothing that it was not quite allowable to do.
In this frame of mind he ate his luncheon, and decided to stay another
night at Underhayes. It was rather hard, indeed, to know what to do with
himself in the afternoon; but he hoped that perhaps Arthur might change
his mind, might think it worth while to come to him and argue the point;
and in any arguing of the point, Durant felt that he must be successful.
Then he had a bundle of correspondence to get through. A busy man is
often entirely thrown out of his mental gear by finding himself shut up
in a bare parlour in an inn, without any of his habitual tools, without
books or papers. But he had letters to write, which was always an
occupation; and one of his letters was to Lady Curtis. Before he could
do this, however, it was necessary that he should get paper; and the day
was so mild, and the air so sweet, and the appearance of the little
place so pleasant, that he went out with an agreeable sense that his
business was not pressing, and that he might linger before coming in.
As Durant went out of the inn, however, he was run against by some one
coming in, in hot haste, and with every appearance of impatience and
impetuosity.
“I want to speak to a Mr. Durant that is staying here,” she said to the
waiter; then, stopping short with a start, turned her attention to
himself. “I think you are Mr. Durant,” she said.
It was Nancy Bates in person. Though he had seen her but vaguely on the
previous night, he recognised her now. Her hat looked as if it had been
put on hurriedly, and a long lock of brown hair had dropped upon her
shoulder. Durant could not but notice how long it was, and how soft and
shining it looked--not golden or red, but shining, glossy brown. It
caught his eye, even in the midst of the shock he experienced on hearing
her ask for him. What did she want with him? He felt himself shrink in
spirit, if not in outward appearance. Arthur he had been striving to
save, his conscience was clear in that respect; but this young woman,
what had his intention been so far as she was concerned? It was not to
save her he had been trying, but to break her heart, if she happened to
have one, and anyhow, heart or none, destroy her prospects, and steal
away her supposed good fortune. Therefore, he could not help it, he
shrank a little from Nancy; and there was a haste and hostile energy in
her looks which added to this feeling. He answered, almost in a tone of
deprecation,
“Yes, that is my name; and I think it is Miss Bates?”
“Anna Bates,” she said, with a little elevation of her head, as if the
name she pronounced had been one of imposing importance. “I want to
speak to you, please.”
Durant was entirely taken back. He looked at her with an air of helpless
bewilderment. What was he to do? Ask her to go back to his sitting-room
with him? ask her to go with him outside? He did not know what was
etiquette in such regions. No young woman with whom he was acquainted
had ever called upon him before, and the young man was utterly puzzled
and discomfited, and did not know what to do.
“Surely,” he said, hesitating between the stair and the door, with a
helpless look at the waiter, who might, he thought, have made some
suggestion.
That it was wrong to come to Mr. Durant “on business,” and business so
urgent, had never crossed Nancy’s mind before; but she saw that he
thought so, and this discovery, instead of abashing her, fired her with
new vehemence. The very wonder in his face was as a flag of aristocratic
superiority to Nancy, and made her wild.
“You are surprised,” she said, with a look of scorn, “that I should come
to you; but I am not one of your fine ladies that send for people to
come to them; and there is no room in our house for private talks. You
can speak to me in the street, I suppose.”
And with this she turned her back upon him and hurried out. Here she
paused a moment, seeing, perhaps, for the first time, the difficulties
of an indignant demand for explanations upon Underhayes Green, in the
face of all the people who were coming out on their afternoon walks, and
calls and business. None of these difficulties had ever troubled Nancy
before. The inconvenient splendour of being a person whose proceedings
were watched, had never attended her before. But now it all flashed
upon her in a moment. Already it was known in the place that she was
going to marry, or rather to be married by Mr. Curtis, and if she was
seen at three o’clock in the afternoon walking about the Green in close
conversation with another “gentleman,” what would everybody say? Very
different had been Sarah Jane’s feelings, who only hoped everybody she
knew might see her walking with the “gentleman.” Already the shadow of
her new position had come over Nancy, and the sense that observation now
would be degrading rather than flattering. She had not thought about it
at all in the fervour of her feelings, when she rushed out impetuously
to confront her adversary, but she perceived it through her adversary’s
eyes. She turned half-round to him, and waving her hand towards the
other side of the Green, where there was a little bit of shade with
trees, went on before him, rapidly crossing the grass. Durant followed.
He was nervous about what was going to happen to him; to take him thus
under the damp trees, from which a shower of leaves fell at every puff
of air, was very much like dragging him to some den where he could be
devoured at leisure. Could Arthur be there? but on reflection he felt
sure that Arthur, had he known, would have found some means of subduing
this impetuosity, and preventing an encounter. It could not be for
Arthur’s interest in any way. Before however they had got across the
Green, Durant’s fright had subsided; he began to be interested; the
situation was piquant, if no more; and that lock of brown hair was very
pretty. He would have thought it untidy in Sarah Jane, but here somehow
it looked well. He thought of the “sweet neglect” of Herrick’s
description; the tempestuous petticoat occurred to him in spite of
himself, and he began to be half pleased, half excited by this odd
adventure. What would Arthur say if he saw him being thus carried off
for a private interview? and the direct course which the impetuous
young woman was taking, brought them immediately in front of Mr. Eagle’s
gate. The little line of trees which looked like a Mall in the distance,
lay under his garden walls, and it turned out to be of much less
importance than he thought--a sweep of some old avenue, a hundred yards
or so of path between two fine ranges of elms. It led nowhere, and was
quite deserted. A better place for a mysterious interview could scarcely
be.
When they had got under the shade of the trees, she turned upon him
suddenly.
“You were at our house to-day,” she said; “you were saying a great many
things about--Mr. Curtis’s family. Did they send you, or what right have
you to speak for them? I want to know.”
“Miss Bates, you are very hasty--very peremptory.”
“I am no different from what I have a right to be,” she said, and he
could hear that her voice trembled with passion, and see that the lines
of her face were moving, and that there were tears which looked more
like fire than water in her eyes.
“What do you mean by coming and setting my folks against--Mr. Curtis?
You pretend to be a friend of his. What do you do it for? And what right
have you to interfere with me?”
“None in the world,” said Durant, hastily; “none in the world! nor do I.
I told your mother the truth about the Curtises, as I thought I was
bound to do.”
“Why were you bound to do it? _I_ did not ask you to give us any
information. You might have consulted me first, or--Mr. Curtis. If we
were willing to have nothing said about them, to have nothing to do with
them, was that your business? Don’t you think it’s like a busy-body--a
meddler, Mr. Durant? I wonder you are not ashamed of yourself!” she
said, the passion getting vent, and the tears falling hot and sudden in
spite of herself out of her eyes. “You, a gentleman! if it had been a
silly gossip of a woman, I should not have been surprised.”
This, as may be supposed, galled Durant immensely, for what can be
harder upon a man than to be called like a gossip and a woman? But he
had command of himself.
“I am distressed,” he said, “to have caused any annoyance; I had no
intention of doing so.”
“Then what was your intention?” she said; “I suppose you had one. It
will be honester to tell me directly what you mean.”
“I have no objection to tell you what I mean,” he said, “as I told your
mother. The Curtises are my friends. I know them thoroughly, and I know
that your marriage will grieve them to the heart. Pardon me if I must
speak plainly. It is no offence to you personally, for they don’t know
you. Arthur has told them the step he is going to take only at the last
moment; only, in fact, after they had been told of it from another
source. They are deeply offended, as may be easily supposed. He has not
behaved to them as he ought.”
“You will say nothing against Mr. Curtis, please.”
“But I must say something about him--Arthur! Have you any idea, Miss
Bates, what Arthur has been to me? My companion since he was _that_
height; my younger brother, my charge; nay, almost my child. And you
tell me I am not to speak of him! Is it possible, do you think? My
affection for Arthur gives me a right to say anything to him--or of
him.”
“There is no one in the world,” she said, with her lips quivering, “who
has so much right to him as me.”
Durant threw up his shoulders and his hands in the excitement of the
moment. “So it appears,” he said, “so I suppose--though how it should be
so, God knows, is the last of mysteries. Well! let us say he belongs to
you, and that not his oldest friend, not his nearest relation, has a
right to discuss him if you forbid. It is the wildest madness, but I
suppose, as you say, it is true. And what then, Miss Bates? he will have
_you_, but he will have nothing besides. Everyone else will be separated
from him; his parents not only offended, but wounded to the heart; his
friends alienated, his position lost. What will he be then, and what
will he do? A man cannot be a lover and nothing else all his life. He
would tire of that, and you would tire of it; but he will have nothing
to fall back upon; and after all, if a man defies his parents and throws
off their influence, why should they exert themselves to secure to him
the means of defying them? They will not do it--why should they? and you
will find that you have married poverty--helplessness--discontent.”
“And if I do,” she said, “will that show I am marrying for money? You
bad man! You cruel friend! You go and tell everybody that it is because
he will be rich--because I shall be my lady--that I am going to marry
Arthur. How dare you! how dare you! But if this is how it is going to
be, you will all find out different; you will find it is not for his
money or for his rank. Go away!” she cried, clenching a hand which was
small but strong, and full of impassioned energy; “go away! and don’t
tell lies of me.”
Durant was impressed in spite of himself; he tried to smile, but could
not, and he tried to be angry, but could not refrain from a certain
half-respect, half-admiration.
“I tell no lies of you or anyone,” he said; “I warn you--”
“Warn me! of what? that I shall have a way of showing whether I’m true
or not,” she said, “whether I’m good or not; and you think that will
frighten _me_! Mr. Durant, if his mother sent you, you may go back and
tell her what I say. You’ve dared me to give him up, and I won’t give
him up; and if I were to give him up a hundred times it would make no
difference, for he would not give up me. You can tell her all that. He
can do without her, but he can’t do without me.”
“Do you think that is a kind thing to tell a mother?”
“I don’t care,” said Nancy, “you have said worse to me; and it’s
true--and so it’s always true. I’d tell my own mother the same. What’s a
mother? they didn’t choose to have us; they didn’t pick us out of the
world; and now that we’re here we’ve got to do the best we can for
ourselves. You may go where you like upon your missions, Mr. Durant, but
not here--you shan’t come here; and if you come till doomsday you
wouldn’t do any good, for they put more trust in me--and so they
ought--than in a cunning lawyer like you. We know what lawyer means,”
said the excited girl, once more shaking her small clenched fist in his
face, “liar! and that’s seen in you.”
With this she turned and walked suddenly away, turning the corner of the
high garden wall, and disappearing in a whirlwind of excitement and
emotion, while he stood thunderstruck, staring after her. Durant stood
still and stared, with his mouth open in the extremity of his surprise.
He was too much startled even to be angry; but he was discomfited, there
was no mistaking that sensation. As he stood looking after the excited
girl, a sense of smallness, almost of baseness, came over him. He had
wanted to save Arthur, but he had not taken the other human creature
into consideration, who was just as important as Arthur to the world;
and he had not realized the kind of being he had to deal with, when he
had drawn up his own brief, as it were, and instructed himself in the
line of argument to be pursued. Lawyer, liar! that was a sharp thorn. He
was able to smile feebly at it, as he picked himself up and went slowly
back to his inn; but he could not shake off the sense of failure--the
sense of smallness and meanness that had come over him. Not only had he
found a foeman worthy of his steel, but she had baffled him and put him
to shame even in his own eyes.