MRS. ARTHUR.
BY
MRS. OLIPHANT,
AUTHOR OF
“The Chronicles of Carlingford,”
&c. &c.
“Fie, fie! unknit that threat’ning, unkind brow,
And dart not scornful glances from those eyes.
* * * * *
A woman mov’d is like a fountain troubled.”
TAMING OF THE SHREW.
“He breathed a sigh, and toasted Nancy!”
DIBDIN.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
LONDON:
HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS,
13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.
1877.
_All rights reserved._
MRS. ARTHUR.
CHAPTER I.
Arthur Curtis did not think of the letter which old Davies had given him
till days after. It had been crushed up in the pocket of his coat, the
sight of his sister, and all the contending emotions of the time having
put it out of his head; and what could there be agreeable in such a
communication at such a time? A final sermon to him upon his folly, a
final admonition as to all the terrible consequences of his fault--he
had, he thought, enough of these, and he had not cared to make himself
miserable on his wedding-day with such a communication. It was not
unmixed delight, even without that, though this was not a confession he
made to himself, in words, at least. But the sight of his sister’s
writing half sickened him when he saw it eventually. To be told that the
course you are pursuing is ruinous, when you are entirely delighted with
that course, is bad enough; but to be told so when the first shock of
doubt, the first sharp suspicion of a mistake, has come into your mind,
is unendurable. Arthur had not, it may be supposed, allowed to himself
that this was already the state of affairs within a few days after his
marriage. He was the “happiest of men;” the society of his bride was
sweet to him, and her tenderness gave him an exquisite, indescribable,
all-penetrating delight, notwithstanding everything. Is the sudden shock
of that absolute identification of two different people, the one with
the other, ever for the first moment, a happiness unmingled? It was not,
at least, to Arthur. And Nancy was not one of those compliant,
sweet-tempered women who swamp their own habits and ways in those of
their husbands. Arthur had known these habits intimately enough; but the
changed relationship brought such an entire change of aspect as was
astonishing to himself. Heretofore he had been able to admire as
piquant, or to laugh at as amusing, the roughnesses or simplicities of a
breeding so different from his own; but suddenly an entire difference
had come upon his feelings. Now that he was responsible for these
peculiarities, they became alarming to him; he saw them with the eyes of
other people, of his mother, his sister, of Durant even, who would
wonder and be horrified to see Arthur’s wife so conducting herself. She
was no longer Nancy Bates, the girl for whom he was willing to risk the
world--but a part of himself, in whom his own character, his own very
being, was involved. This made the strangest difference in everything.
He had already felt it beginning for some time, but it was in full force
from the moment which changed the tax-collector’s daughter into his
wife. Thus he had felt, not amused, but irritated, when she made her
appearance in that salmon-coloured “silk.” That Mrs. Bates’s daughter
should wear the one fine and glistening garment she possessed to do
honour to her bridegroom, and to dazzle the eyes of all beholders on her
wedding-day, would there not have been in this a certain appropriateness
in the midst of the inappropriateness, a _sancta simplicitas_ which
would have charmed him? But it became all at once much more apparent to
Arthur that his wife ought to know better than to set out on a journey
in a pink silk gown; though when he tried by all manner of deceptive
arguments to beguile her into the choice of a more suitable dress,
representing that the dark blue serge or dark brown merino in the shops
would be warmer, more easy and comfortable, less liable to be spoiled,
and every other false yet true reason for preferring it that he could
think of, Nancy remained unconvinced.
“You shan’t make a dowdy of me, Arthur, I can tell you,” she said. “I
didn’t get married to go about the world in these poor sort of clothes,
like a dressmaker’s girl; and to France, where everybody dresses so
well!”
This was during the two or three days they stayed in London on purpose,
if the truth had been told, to get a suitable outfit for her; but only
Arthur, not Nancy, was aware of this true motive for the delay.
“My dear girl, if they dress well it is by having suitable dresses for
everything, not by being fine,” said Arthur, driven to his wit’s end.
“Fine! you mean that I am dressed up,” cried Nancy, her colour rising,
“and that is hard, for it was all done to please you; I thought you
would like to see me fine. I never used to mind what clothes I wore;
but I--and mamma too--tried to make as good a show as ever we could, for
your sake!”
What could Arthur do but protest that he loved her more, if that were
possible, for the pains she had taken to please him, and thought the
salmon-coloured dress lovely; but after a while he returned to the
charge. “In France,” he said with the air of an authority, “they are
great on having a dress for every different occasion. Their dresses for
the morning they never wear in the evening, and their travelling
dresses--”
“But goodness me!” cried Nancy, “what an extravagant way of going on! It
may be all very well for duchesses and grand ladies; but that would
never do for a poor girl like me.”
“You forget you are not a girl at all, much less a poor one,” he said,
pursuing his wiles, “but a married lady, my Nancy.” Goodness me is not a
pretty oath; he swallowed it however, not daring to attempt correction,
with a secret grimace.
“Yes, that is all very well,” she repeated, “but all the same we are
poor enough. I shan’t be a bit richer than I was. I may be grander, I
don’t know; for your folks have cast you off, Arthur, you mustn’t forget
that.”
“Oh! my _folks_!” cried the unhappy one under his breath; the word hurt
him, in spite of himself. He had not been so delicate once; but this was
like a dig in the ribs to Arthur. It made him cry out, though he stifled
the cry.
“No, I don’t think much of what you say if that is French fashion,” said
Nancy, “English fashion is far better. Instead of fussing and changing
all day long, and wasting one’s time, it is so convenient just to pin in
a bit of lace and double back the fronts, and there you have a lovely
dress for the evening; that’s what I like. No need to go and unpack
one’s boxes and get out another dress, it’s done in a moment. You must
allow, Arthur, that English fashion is best for that.”
Poor Arthur! he thought of his sister’s little simple toilettes, so
fresh, so crisp, so plain! and he did not know--what foolish young man
ever does know? that whereas the finery is an easy matter, these dainty
sobrieties of garb are the highest quintessence of art. In novels, which
are the chief exponents of young women to young men, and of young men to
young women, has not the captivating humble bride always a spotless
collar and cuffs ready for every emergency, which make her exquisite on
all occasions? Why had not Nancy the secret of that little collar and
snowy cuff?
All this, however, is a digression from the letter which he found in his
pocket, having thrust it away there on his wedding morning. He tore it
open impatiently after this talk. Did not he know very well what must be
in it? But it was better to glance at it and be done with it at once.
He found it, however, something so very unlike what he supposed, that
the little letter completely unmanned him and took his strength away. He
read it first with so much surprise that he could scarcely comprehend
its meaning, and when he had fully mastered it, burst out into an abrupt
break of sound of the most unintelligible description.
“What is the matter?” cried Nancy; she was half frightened. She came to
the door of the inner room in which she was, and looked out upon him,
half dressed, wrapped in the shawl Matilda had lent her. “Are you
laughing or crying?” Perhaps it had been a little of both; but at all
events it had left the tears in his eyes.
“Look here,” he said, with an unsteady voice, “this is the letter old
Davies gave me on Tuesday;” and then he added in a lower tone, “God
forgive me, I don’t deserve it,” with a half sob.
Very coldly Nancy took the letter. She knew by instinct what it must
be. It was written in a rather illegible but pretty handwriting, not at
all like, but somehow superior she felt to the pointed precision of her
own.
“I am going to your wedding to-morrow, Arthur dear; not to see you,
but to be there, that there may be some one that loves you all the
same. That always goes without saying. We think that you may not
have money enough to do all you want, so we have just been to the
bank to get this. Dear, dear Arthur, God bless you! Mamma shakes
her head, but she says it all the same.
“LUCY.”
And then there was added in another hand:
“Surely I say it, surely I must say it always. And God forgive you,
oh, my cruel boy.”
Nancy puzzled over this for some time. She began to read it aloud and
read it wrong, so that it took a ridiculous sound; then laughed; while
Arthur made a furious step towards her to seize it out of her hand. She
grew serious then, which quickened her wits and made her finish her
reading in silence. When she had done so she flung it to him, letting
the two notes enclosed flutter to the ground, and without a word turned
round and shut the door violently in his face. He caught the letter; but
the two fifty pound notes lay between him and the door, crumpled by
Nancy’s angry fingers. He stood petrified for the moment, too much
surprised to be either hurt or angry. Was this the way in which his wife
received his first appeal to her sympathy? the first mention of those
who, Arthur suddenly remembered, were next to herself the dearest to him
in the world? Somehow he had forgotten this until now; but it suddenly
gleamed upon him; a kind of revelation. Certainly it was so; his mother
and sister, were they not his dearest friends, the most generous and
kind? Was it possible that his wife could read this letter and not be
touched? and yet she had tossed it at him, had crumpled up the notes
like waste paper. Was this the attitude she meant to adopt towards his
family? and he had been so tolerant of hers!
Nancy did not say a word on the subject when they met again. She looked
as if she had been crying; but said nothing, plunging into some
indifferent subject with unusual interest. But it was not reasonable
that the husband of three days could bear the matter like this. He said
something about “my sister’s letter,” as soon as he had a chance. “We
shall have a little more money to spend now, thanks to my mother’s
thoughtfulness,” he said.
“Oh, your mother!” she flung away from him, flushing crimson--a colour
that meant anger as he already knew.
“Yes, my mother,” he said, “why should not I speak of my mother? I
never think it strange, Nancy, that you should think of yours.”
“Mine!” she cried, turning back upon him with flashing eyes, “her
thoughts have been as much for you as for me. She has been as kind to
you as to me,” (this set Arthur thinking; but what could he answer to
it?) “but there is not a word of me in all that letter, not a word,
though they knew I should be your wife when you got it.”
“What could they say? They did not know you, darling, and I had been
silly, I had not written to conciliate as I ought to have done; but to
defy them. What could they say?”
“Say! it is just as good as if they had said, ‘She is no more to us than
the dirt under our feet.’ They could not do anything against me or say
anything against me, so they treat me as if I was not worthy to be
noticed; oh, that is what they mean! they think if they keep that up
they will bring you back to them again, and persuade you that I am not
worth thinking of. Oh, I know women’s ways!”
“You are mistaken, Nancy, I am sure you are entirely mistaken.”
“A great deal you can tell! they will not show you what they are after.
They will smooth you down and keep you not suspicious. Oh! I tell you I
know women’s ways.”
“You don’t know my mother and Lucy,” he said, making an effort to stand
against her, “they are not like the women you--”
“Not like the women I know? I knew you would come to that,” she said
violently. “Oh, I knew it the very moment I set eyes upon her; but not
yet, not so soon as this.” And Nancy, really wounded in her blaze of
unnecessary wrath, burst into fiery tears. They were tears that might
have been red hot, and scalded as they poured down in a very thunder
shower. He had never seen such a torrent, and he stood thunderstruck;
not melted as he had been before, when Nancy was moved in this way. Here
too was a change. He stood still, he did not rush to her, and use all
the blandishments he could think of to put a stop to the intolerable
spectacle of her distress. He let her cry. He was confounded by the
sudden outburst; and a sharp twinge of shame for her mingled with the
pain she gave him. He was ashamed that _his wife_ should be so unjust,
so hasty in her judgment, so violent in her mistaken ideas. When he did
go to her it was slowly, with a hesitation very different from the
lover’s rush. That she should be so foolish _now_, was not that
something derogatory to him?
“Nancy,” he said, “I cannot think how you can be so--unkind. Do you
think I mean any offence to you, or that _they_ mean any offence? Of
course you know they wanted me to marry some one--better off; some one
they knew.”
“Oh, let me go,” she cried, choking with pain and rage together, “I will
go back to my mother; and you can go to yours, of whom you think so
much. What does it matter about a common girl like me!”
“I think you are trying to drive me mad,” he said, “have I ever wavered
between you and my mother? but I see now where I did wrong; I should
have gone to her and made a friend of her, instead of defying her. I
should have taken you to her--”
“Taken me!” she jumped up and faced him, trembling with agitation and
fury, “taken _me_! am _I_ to be dragged about to people that don’t want
me, to people that dare to despise me?”
“Nancy!”
“Nancy! that’s all you can call me now. I used to be your love and your
darling; now we’re married, and I’m bound and can’t get free, and you
call me Nancy! Oh! if it was all to do again, and I knew what I know
now!”
“What on earth do you know now that you did not know a week ago?” he
cried with an impatience beyond words; and yet he felt half inclined to
laugh. That the impassioned creature who stood defying him, blazing in
impulsive wrath, should resent the absence of those loves and darlings
and tender words with which he had hitherto caressed her ears, so hotly
as to desire to break every bond between them, struck him with a sudden
sense of the absurdity of their quarrel. He went suddenly up to her and
took her into his arms. “But you _are_ my darling,” he said, “all the
same; though you are the most unreasonable, the most quick-tempered, the
most provoking. Sweet! what is everybody in the world to me compared
with you?”
Thus the first quarrel terminated, though not without considerably more
trouble. Nancy perhaps saw too the foolishness of this impossible
struggle, and yielded after a certain amount of flattery, coaxing, and
caresses. And the cloud blew over so completely that, much to his
surprise he found himself able to persuade this despairing bride next
morning to get the travelling dress he wished her to have, and to tone
herself down generally, and make herself warm and comfortable and less
fine. They crossed the Channel two days after, more lovers than ever;
but no longer publishing their recent nuptials in their appearance, with
Nancy’s “silk” carefully packed at the bottom of her box, and herself in
a dark blue gown and little plumed hat, looking more like Mrs. Arthur
Curtis than Nancy Bates had ever done before. Arthur’s heart beat high
with pride and pleasure as they watched the white cliffs disappearing.
Nancy not without a little natural sentiment, for she had never been out
of England before, and it seemed a great thing to her to be out of her
own country, and on the verge of a “foreign land.” But fortunately the
passage was a very good one, so that no less elevated feeling mingled
with these tender regrets. He had her in his own hands now, the
bridegroom said to himself; all her antecedents left behind, the home
and relations happily got rid of, and all the influences of her new life
around her to wean her from the past. And how tractable she had shown
herself already, how willing to be convinced! a tender creature, who
accepted his dictation sweetly two minutes after she had burst forth in
rebellion against him; who had been indignant at his sister’s letter
(and it was, Arthur allowed to himself, nasty of Lucy, rather like a
spiteful girl after all as Nancy said, not to mention her in that little
note which was intended to be so gentle and peace-making), and then had
forgiven it so frankly as to use part of the money that Lucy sent. This
unreasonable, inconsistent, foolish, generous, hot-headed, soft-hearted
darling, could any man desire better than to have her wholly to himself
to guide her wayward feet into the print of wifely, womanly ways? The
mean little house, the poor form of existence at Underhayes (ungrateful
young man! it had seemed an idyllic life, full of noble simplicity and
poetry, when he knew her first) lay far behind, and while the probation
lasted it would seem so natural that England itself should fade out of
sight, and all that was past be forgotten; until by and by he should
take his bride home a lady in every outward sign, as she was, he assured
himself in heart. It is so easy in a young man’s glowing fancy to work
this change. Likewise it is very quickly done in many novels, and with
wonderful facility and completeness; and, as has been said, where but
from novels was Arthur to have acquired any experience in the treatment
of cases like his own? All went well during that journey. It was a
beautiful day of the early winter; warmly soft as November can
sometimes be, by way of contrast to its ordinary miseries, the sea and
the sky alike blue; and if the wind was cold, what there was of it, the
sun shining so warmly as to neutralize the wind. And Nancy now at least
was well defended and need fear no chill. Her cheeks glowed with the
fresh breeze, her little outcries, half of alarm half of exhilaration,
when the steamboat gave a small pitch which hurt nobody, delighted
Arthur. She clung to him and steadied herself by him with both hands
clasped on his arm, and had no thought, now that her moment of sentiment
was over, of anything but the excitement of this novel world into which
she was hastening. All the clouds that had been upon their horizon
seemed to float away.
“I have been thinking,” she said, when they got into the
railway-carriage on the other side, and Nancy had got over her first
amused wonder and bewilderment, “to hear everybody talking and not to
understand a word.” They had a carriage to themselves, though that is
not so easy to manage on the other side, and Arthur, delighted with his
task, had begun to teach her little phrases in the tongue, which
notwithstanding her much-talked-of previous studies was quite an unknown
tongue to Nancy. “I have been thinking--”
“What is it? Something very grave indeed, judging from that serious
face.”
“Yes; something very important. I have always wished it, but they would
never give in to me. Not that mamma did not think me quite right, but it
is very difficult to break a habit in a family. But you must do it,
Arthur; it is not such a very old habit with you.”
“What is this great thing I am to do--give up smoking--take off my
moustache?”
“Oh! no!” cried Nancy, horrified. “The nicest thing about you!” which
pleased Arthur much, for it was still new enough to give him unfeigned
and honest pride. “But I will tell you what it is. Nancy is so vulgar,
so common, not a name for a lady; and it will not sound well here,
abroad, where people have such pretty names. Call me Anna--I have always
wished it. I was christened Anna Frances, you know.”
“And I could not think who she was when they married me to her,” cried
Arthur. “I will call you what you like, my darling; but I like Nancy
best.”
Did ever young people start on a honeymoon expedition with a better
understanding? He planned a hundred places to take her to, and things to
do. The theatre every night!--How Nancy’s eyes sparkled! and the Louvre,
of which she was quite willing to admit that it must be very fine,
without knowing what it was; and the Tuileries gardens with the band
playing, and the beautiful shops in the Boulevards. Even to hear of
these delights was enough to charm any bride. They were to go
everywhere, to see everything, to walk about and drive about always
these two together--nobody to interfere with them; and the play every
night! What could any bride desire more?