"Well, it's to be hoped she's going to do well for herself--that's all
we've got to do with it, eh? I suppose so," said Mr Wodehouse; "she's
nothing to you, is she, but a little girl you've taken a deal of notice
of?--more notice than was wanted, if I am any judge. If she does go and
marry this fellow from Australia, and he's willing to take the whole
bundle back to where they came from, it is the best thing that could
happen, in _my_ opinion. Sly young dog, that doctor, though, I must
say--don't you think so? Well, that's how it appears to me. Let's see;
there was Bessie----; hum! perhaps it's as well, in present circumstances,
to name no names. There was _her_, in the first instance, you know;
and the way he got out of that was beautiful; it was what I call
instructive, was that. And then--why then, there was Miss Marjoribanks,
you know--capital match that--just the thing for young Rider--set him up
for life."
"Papa, pray--_pray_ don't talk nonsense," said Miss Wodehouse, with
gentle indignation. "Miss Marjoribanks is at least ten years----"
"Oh, stuff!--keep your old-maidish memory to yourself, Molly; who cares
for a dozen years or so? Hasn't she all the old Scotchman's practice and
his savings?--and a fine woman yet--a fine woman, eh? Well, yes, I think
so; and then here's this little wretch of a sister-in-law. Why, the
doctor's taken your _role_, Wentworth, eh? Well, I suppose what ought to
be your _role_, you know, though I _have_ seen you casting glances at
the strange little creature yourself."
"Indeed, I assure you, you are entirely mistaken," said Mr Wentworth,
hastily, with a sudden flush of either indignation or guilt. The curate
glanced at Lucy Wodehouse, who was walking demurely by his side, but
who certainly did prick up her ears at this little bit of news. She saw
very well that he had looked at her, but would take no notice of his
glance. But Lucy's curiosity was notably quickened, notwithstanding; St
Roque's Cottage was wonderfully handy, if the perpetual curate of the
pretty suburban church saw anything worth visiting there. Lucy drew up
her pretty shoulders in her grey sister-of-mercy cloak, and opened her
blue eyes a little wider. She was still in circumstances to defy her
reverend lover, if his eyes had declined upon lower attractions than her
own. She looked very straight before her with unpitying precision down
the road, on which St Roque's Church and Cottage were becoming already
visible. The whole party were walking briskly over a path hard with
frost, which made their footsteps ring. The air was still with a winterly
touch, benumbed with cold, yet every sound rang sharply through that
clear cloudless atmosphere, reddened without being warmed by the sun as
it approached the west. It was Christmas again, and they were wending
their way towards St Roque's to assist at the holiday decorations, for
which cartloads of laurel and holly had been already deposited within
the church. Lucy Wodehouse was chief directress of these important
operations. Her sister had accompanied her, partly to admire Lucy's
work, and partly to call at the cottage and see how Nettie was going
on. Mr Wodehouse himself had come merely for the pride and pleasure
of seeing how much they were indebted to his little girl; and the
attendance of the curate was most easily explainable. It was, indeed,
astonishing how many extremely necessary and natural "calls of duty"
should bring Mr Wentworth's path parallel to that of the Wodehouses.
This is why they were all proceeding together on this particular
afternoon in the week before Christmas towards St Roque's.
In the church, when the party arrived, a little group of workers were
busy. The chancel arch was already bristling with glossy holly-leaves.
At a little distance from the active group occupied with this pleasant
work, and full of chatter and consultation, as was natural, stood one
little figure pointing out to two children the wonders of that decorative
art. Every one of the new-comers, except Mr Wodehouse, recognised Nettie
before she was aware of their presence. She stood with her bonnet fallen
a little back, as it generally was, either by encounter of the wind, or
by the quantity and luxuriance of her beautiful hair, looking upwards
to the point where she had directed the children's eyes. She looked a
little forlorn and solitary, as was natural, all by herself, so near
that group of busy girls in the chancel--so little separated from them
by age, so entirely divided by circumstances. If a certain softening of
half-tender pity shone in the curate's eye, could Lucy Wodehouse blame
him? But the fact was, Lucy swept past the little Australian with a very
brief salutation, and burst into sudden criticism of the work that had
been done in her absence, which startled her collaborateurs, while Mr
Wentworth followed her into the chancel with a meekness quite unusual
to that young priest. Nettie noted both circumstances with a little
surprise; but, not connecting them in the most distant degree with
herself, turned round with a little twitch of Freddy's arm to go away,
and in doing so almost walked into the arms of her older and more faithful
friend. Miss Wodehouse kissed her quite suddenly, touching with her
soft old cheek that rounder, fairer, youthful face, which turned, half
wondering, half pleased, with the look of a child, to receive her
caress. Nettie was as unconscious that Miss Wodehouse's unusual warmth
was meant to make up for Lucy's careless greeting, as that Lucy had
passed her with a positive flutter of resentment and indignation, and
that she had been the subject of the conversation and thoughts of all
the party. Miss Wodehouse turned with her, taking Freddy's other hand--a
proceeding to which that hero rather demurred. They went out together
to the frosty road, where the bare willow-branches rustled between
the church and the cottage. When they reached the porch of St Roque's,
Nettie instinctively held her breath, and stood still for a moment.
Along the footpath in front of them a big figure was passing, and beyond
that bearded shadow the doctor's drag flew past with all the separate
tones of the horse's feet, the wheels, the jingle of the harness, ringing
clear through the sharp unsoftened medium of that frosty atmosphere. The
doctor himself had all his attention concentrated upon the windows of
the cottage, in which the sun was blazing red. He did not see Nettie in
the church porch. He was looking for her too intently in the crimsoned
windows, to which he turned his head back as he dashed on. Unawares
Nettie clasped the fingers of her little companion tighter in her hand
as she watched that unexpected homage. The drag was out of sight in
another moment; and in a few seconds more the bell of the cottage pealed
audibly, and the door was heard to open, admitting the Bushman, who had
come upon one of his frequent visits. That last sound disturbed Nettie's
composure, and at the same time brought her back to herself.
"I cannot ask you to go in, for Mr Chatham is there, and Susan of
course talking to him," said Nettie, with a quiet breath of restrained
impatience, "but I should like to talk to you, please. Let me take the
children home, and then I will walk up with you. Mrs Smith is very kind;
she will take off their things for them: they behave better now, when I
am out for a few minutes--though, to be sure, I never am out much to try
them. Come, children; be good, and do not make a great noise till I come
back."
"What do you want to talk to _her_ for?" asked the little girl, gazing
coldly in Miss Wodehouse's face.
"When Nettie went out to tea, we made as much noise as we liked," said
Freddy, "but there was papa there. Now there's only mamma, and she's so
cross. I hate Chatham--mamma is always crossest when Chatham's there.
What do you want to talk to people for, Nettie? Come in, and say there's
to be toast, and let us have tea."
"We never have any tea till Nettie comes back," added his sister,
looking full once more into Miss Wodehouse's face. The calm childish
impertinence disconcerted that gentle woman. She gazed at the wonderful
creatures with dumb amazement. Her eyes fell before their steady stare.
"I should be sorry to bring you out again, dear, if it's a trouble,"
began Miss Wodehouse, turning her face with a sense of relief from the
hard inspection of the children to their little guardian.
Nettie made no reply, but carried off her children to the cottage door,
turned them peremptorily in, and issued her last orders. "If you make a
noise, you shall not go," said Nettie; and then came back alert, with
her rapid fairy steps, to Miss Wodehouse's side.
"Does not their mother take any charge of them?" faltered the gentle
inquisitor. "I never can understand you young people, Nettie. Things
were different in my days. Do you think it's quite the best thing to do
other people's duties for them, dear? and now I'm so sorry--oh, so
sorry--to hear what you are going to do now."
"Susan is delicate," said Nettie. "She never had any health to speak
of--I mean, she always got better, you know, but never had any pleasure in
it. There must be a great deal in that," continued Nettie, reflectively;
"it never comes into my head to think whether I am ill or well; but poor
Susan has always had to be thinking of it. Yes, I shall have to take
them away," she added again, after a pause. "I am sorry, very sorry too,
Miss Wodehouse. I did not think at one time that I had the heart to do
it. But on the whole, you know, it seems so much better for them. Susan
will be stronger out there, and I have not money enough to give the
children a very good education. They will just have to push their way
like the others; and in the colony, you know, things are so different.
I have no doubt in my own mind now that it will be best for them all."
"But, Nettie, Nettie, what of yourself? will it be best for you?" cried
Miss Wodehouse, looking earnestly in her face.
"What is best for them will be best for me," said Nettie, with a little
impatient movement of her head. She said so with unfaltering spirit and
promptitude. She had come to be impatient of the dreary maze in which
she was involved. "If one must break one's heart, it is best to do it at
once and have done with it," said Nettie, under her breath.
"What was that you said about your heart?" said Miss Wodehouse. "Ah, my
dear, that is what I wanted to speak of. You are going to be married,
Nettie, and I wanted to suggest to you, if you won't be angry. Don't you
think you could make some arrangement about your sister and her family,
dear?--not to say a word against the Australian gentleman, Nettie, whom,
of course, I don't know. A man may be the best of husbands, and yet not
be able to put up with a whole family. I have no doubt the children are
very nice clever children, but their manner is odd, you know, for such
young creatures. You have been sacrificing yourself for them all this
time; but remember what I say--if you want to live happily, my dear,
you'll have to sacrifice them to your husband. I could not be content
without saying as much to you, Nettie. I never was half the good in this
world that you are, but I am nearly twice as old--and one does pick up
some little hints on the way. That is what you must do, Nettie. Make
some arrangement, dear. If he has promised to take them out with you,
that is all right enough; but when you come to settle down in your new
home, make some arrangement dear."
When Miss Wodehouse arrived breathless at the conclusion of a speech so
unusually long for her, she met Nettie's eyes flashing upon her with the
utmost surprise and curiosity. "I shall never marry anybody," said
Nettie. "What do you mean?"
"Don't say anything so foolish," said Miss Wodehouse, a little nettled.
"Do you suppose I don't know and see _that_ Mr Chatham coming and going?
How often has he been seen since the first time, Nettie? and do you
suppose it's all been benevolence? My dear, I know better."
Nettie looked up with a startled glance. She did not blush, nor betray
any pleasant consciousness. She cast one dismayed look back towards the
cottage, and another at Miss Wodehouse. "Can _that_ be why he comes?"
said Nettie, with quiet horror. "Indeed, I never thought of it before--but
all the same, I shall never marry anybody. Do you imagine," cried the
brilliant creature, flashing round upon poor Miss Wodehouse, so as to
dazzle and confuse that gentlewoman, "that a man has only to intend
such a thing and it's all settled? I think differently. Twenty thousand
Chathams would not move me. I shall never marry anybody, if I live to be
as old as--as you, or Methuselah, or anybody. It is not my lot. I shall
take the children out to Australia, and do the best I can for them.
Three children want a great deal of looking after--and after a while in
Carlingford, you will all forget that there ever was such a creature as
Nettie. No, I am not crying. I never cry. I should scorn to cry about
it. It is simply _my business_. That is what it is. One is sorry, of
course, and now and then it feels hard, and all that. But what did one
come into the world for, I should like to know? Does anybody suppose
it was just to be comfortable, and have one's own way? I have had my
own way a great deal--more than most people. If I get crossed in some
things, I have to bear it. That is all I am going to say. I have got
other things to do, Miss Wodehouse. I shall never marry anybody all my
life."
"My dear, if you are thrown upon this Mr Chatham for society all the
time of the voyage, and have nobody else to talk to----" said the
prudent interlocutor.
"Then we'll go in another ship," cried Nettie, promptly; "that is easily
managed. I know what it is, a long voyage with three children--they fall
up the cabin-stairs, and they fall down the forecastle; and they give
you twenty frights in a day that they will drop overboard. One does not
have much leisure for anything--not even for thinking, which is a comfort
sometimes," added Nettie, confidentially, to herself.
"It depends upon what you think of, whether thinking is a comfort or
not," said good Miss Wodehouse. "When I think of you young people, and
all the perplexities you get into! There is Lucy now, vexed with Mr
Wentworth about something--oh, nothing worth mentioning; and there was
poor Dr Rider! How he did look behind him, to be sure, as he went past
St Roque's! I daresay it was you he was looking for, Nettie. I wish you
and he could have fancied each other, and come to some arrangement about
poor Mr Fred's family--to give them so much to live on, or something. I
assure you, when I begin to think over such things, and how perverse
both people and circumstances are, thinking is very little comfort to
me."
Miss Wodehouse drew a long sigh, and was by no means disinclined to cry
over her little companion. Though she was the taller of the two, she
leant upon Nettie's firm little fairy arm as they went up the quiet road.
Already the rapid winter twilight had fallen, and before them, in the
distance, glimmered the lights of Carlingford--foremost among which
shone conspicuous the large placid white lamp (for professional reds and
blues were beneath his dignity) which mounted guard at Dr Marjoribanks's
garden gate. Those lights, beginning to shine through the evening
darkness, gave a wonderful look of home to the place. Instinctively
there occurred to Nettie's mind a vision of how it would be on the sea,
with a wide dark ocean heaving around the solitary speck on its breast.
It did not matter! If a silent sob arose in her heart, it found no
utterance. Might not Edward Rider have made that suggestion which had
occurred only to Miss Wodehouse? Why did it never come into his head
that Susan and her family might have a provision supplied for them,
which would relieve Nettie? He had not thought of it, that was all.
Instead of that, he had accepted the impossibility. Nettie's heart had
grown impatient in the maze of might-be's. She turned her back upon the
lights, and clasped Miss Wodehouse's hand, and said good-night hastily.
She went on by herself very rapidly along the hard gleaming road. She
did not pay any attention to her friend's protestation that she too was
coming back again to St Roque's to join Lucy--on the contrary, Nettie
peremptorily left Miss Wodehouse, shaking hands with her in so resolute
a manner that her gentle adviser felt somehow a kind of necessity upon
her to pursue her way home; and, only when Nettie was nearly out of
sight, turned again with hesitation to retrace her steps towards St
Roque's. Nettie, meanwhile, went on at a pace which Miss Wodehouse could
not possibly have kept up with, clasping her tiny hands together with a
swell of scorn and disdain unusual to it in her heart. Yes! Why did not
Edward Rider propose the "arrangement" which appeared feasible enough to
Miss Wodehouse? Supposing even Nettie had refused to consent to it, as
she might very probably have done with indignation--still, why did it
not occur to Dr Edward? She asked herself the question with a heat and
passion which she found it difficult to account for. She half despised
her lover, as woman will, for obeying her--almost scorned him, as woman
will, for the mere constancy which took no violent measures, but only
suffered and accepted the inevitable. To submit to what cannot be helped
is a woman's part. Nettie, hastening along that familiar path, blazed
into a sudden burst of rage against Edward because he submitted. What he
could do else she was as ignorant of as any unreasonable creature could
be. But that mattered little. With indignation she saw herself standing
on the verge of that domestic precipice, and the doctor looking on, seeing
her glide out of his reach, yet putting forth no violent sudden hand to
detain her. All the impatience of her fiery nature boiled in her veins
as she hasted to the cottage, where Susan was discussing their journey
with her Australian visitor. No remnant of pathos or love-sickening
remained about Nettie, as she flashed in upon them in all her old haste
and self-reliance--resolute to precipitate the catastrophe which nobody
took any measures to prevent.