Nancy had plenty of time to calm herself down before she received the
promised visit of Mrs. Curtis. And Arthur, who had always been so
anxiously compliant with all her wishes, and so ready to excuse all her
shortcomings, looked so serious when she burst out into vituperation of
the “big fat woman,” and declared her determination not to be spied
upon, that even her impetuosity owned a check.
“If you insist upon going away, and not receiving her, it will be a
great vexation and pain to me,” he said, “and your own good sense will
show you, Nancy--”
“I have no good sense,” said the excited creature. “I never pretended to
be sensible; you knew what I was when you married me, Arthur; and to be
spied upon, and examined all over by a set of women--I can’t bear it,
and I won’t, not for anybody in the world; not even for you!”
Poor Arthur did not make any immediate reply. He walked about the little
room with agitated steps; then went and stood at the window, looking out
with a blank and hopeless face. Perhaps silence was, of all others, the
thing which Nancy could least encounter. She sat gazing at him, ready to
make off in a moment to her room, to snatch her hat, and fly out, she
knew not where; anywhere to escape from those shackles of her new life
which were so intolerable. That he would rush after her, entreat her to
return, promise everything that she wished seemed certain to Nancy. She
did not calculate upon this, but was sure of it without thinking. But
his silence chilled her, and when he spoke it was in a voice she did not
recognise, a voice out of which all the music and sweetness seemed to
have gone.
“I don’t know if this will have any influence upon you,” he said, “but
it is worth thinking of: that we cannot live utterly estranged from my
family. Some time or other we must seek a renewal of intercourse. _I_
must seek it, not they; and if my Aunt Curtis could in the meantime
convey a pleasant impression of you--if she was herself won to be on our
side--I don’t say it would be of great consequence, but yet it would be
a beginning. I don’t know what you think of my family, Nancy; if you
think they are some kind of wild beasts to be avoided; but they can’t be
avoided. We shall have to live by them, and it is for our good--it is
indispensable--that we should be friends.”
“Friends!” cried Nancy, breathless with the effort of listening to him
and keeping silence. “Then you may as well throw me over once for all,
Arthur. Friends! with those that would take no notice of me--that never
so much as named me in their letter.”
“That was my fault--that was my fault,” he said, turning round upon her.
“I had no right to keep them in the dark. I ought to have gone to my
mother and told her, not kept everything in holes and corners.”
“You were not a baby!” cried Nancy. “Why, you are four and twenty! Men
don’t go and ask their mamma’s leave like girls.”
“That may be--but neither do men throw all their relatives over; tear
themselves apart from their family. And I will not do it,” said Arthur
with sudden self-assertion. “I will do anything in the world to please
you but this. I will not quarrel with all who belong to me. As soon as I
get an opportunity we must be reconciled to them--_must_, Nancy, there
is no alternative. And why should you reject this easy way? My aunt is a
kind woman. She will do us a good turn if she can. Try to please her,
dear; won’t you try to please her for my sake?”
Nancy had started to her feet, when he said with such energy that he
would not do it: but something arrested her. Whether the reasonableness
of it, which was not likely, or the new force and vigour with which he
spoke, or the pathos of the entreaty at the end, it would be difficult
to say. But she was arrested, her attention caught, and the rush of her
hasty blood restrained. After all, perhaps, there was something in what
he said. It was not worth her while to fly from them--to avoid them as
if she was afraid. But rather to show them her own superiority--to
convince them that she was as good as they were, and had no occasion to
fear them. This, perhaps, was scarcely the sentiment inculcated by
Arthur’s speech; but rather the turn it took in the alembic of her own
mind, in which a hundred crude ideas were fermenting and getting fused
daily. She sat down again after a moment, when he had ceased speaking.
Arthur, notwithstanding his appeal, had excited himself too much to care
precisely what she was thinking, and even this gave a wholesome stimulus
to the turn in the tide of her thoughts. He did not care, but he should
be made to care--he should be proud of her--he should feel that those
people who slighted her were slighting something above themselves. She
would not yield so far as to say anything, to give her promise that she
would endeavour to conciliate Mrs. Curtis. Not for her life; but what
she said did not need to be any criterion of what she would do. She took
up a book which happened to be on the table, and pretended to read it
with an absolute absorption of interest which justified her silence;
while he, on the other hand, having no certainty that he had moved her,
but rather fearing the worst, kept pacing up and down between the window
and the door, excited beyond the immediate question, having, for the
first time, opened up the ultimate matter with himself. And when he once
began to think of it, he could not shake off the idea. It was no
question of expediency or possibility--a thing which ought to be done
perhaps, yet might not. It seemed to him, thinking of it, that he must
at once explain everything, and claim his forgiveness, and the reception
of his bride. “I have done wrong--but it cannot be undone; nor is the
wrong half so serious as you think.” This was what he must say. He had
intended to write ever since he got to Paris, but had deferred it as an
unpleasant business which might stand off from day to day. But now it
appeared to him, all at once, that nothing was so important. Whatever
else he did, he must reconcile himself with his father and mother, his
own flesh and blood. If they would not, he must bear it; but nothing
must be left undone on his part. This sudden conviction was brought upon
him--was it by the sight of his relations--was it by Nancy’s
unreasonable and absurd antipathy to them? He could not tell--but the
fact that he could think of any sentiment on Nancy’s part as absurd and
unreasonable showed what a leap he had suddenly made.
It was not till several hours later that Mrs. Curtis and her daughter
appeared--for this time Mary had insisted upon coming, defying papa.
“We have done nothing but think of papa for the last three months,” she
said. “I think we may be allowed a little of our own way now.”
Mary was very exact and particular, the essence of English duty and
exact young-ladyhood. But there is a point at which duty and
self-abnegation stop; and certainly, after spending three months at a
German bath, a handmaiden to gout, it is not to be expected that the
fortnight in Paris was to be spent in absolute devotion at the same
gloomy shrine, especially as the General was better, and wound up for
the year by all the sulphur he had imbibed. The young lady came
accordingly with her mother, curious, and, indeed, eager to see how the
successful competitor acquitted herself.
“Is she a lady?” Mary had said on the previous evening,
cross-questioning her mother; but Mrs. Curtis had declined to commit
herself.
“She said nothing but no, that I heard. How could I tell from a No?”
“I could have told if she had only coughed,” Miss Curtis replied; and it
may be supposed with what keen eyes she was prepared to investigate her
new cousin. They were so late of coming that Arthur had gone out, and
Nancy, in her blue gown, sat by the fire alone just as the afternoon
sank into twilight. They could not even see each other very clearly, and
Nancy did not give them a very warm welcome. She stood up against the
light, so that they could not make out a feature of her, and made them a
stiff little bow, which was very awkward and self-conscious, yet not
ungraceful. And then they seated themselves, not by Nancy’s invitation.
The log blazed up compassionately now and then on the hearth, and threw
a gleam upon the three half-perceptible faces. It was a strange little
scene in that genteel comedy which we call real life.
“I am sorry we are so late,” said Mrs. Curtis. “We have been seeing our
friends and making a few necessary purchases; and it is astonishing how
trifles take up a winter’s day; it is soon over at this time of the
year. We have stayed longer than we meant to do in Germany, the weather
has been so mild. I hope the General may be able to come to see you
before we leave; but he has to take care of himself just now, after his
baths.” As all this elicited no response, Mrs. Curtis continued. “Is
Arthur out?”
“Yes.” Nancy had intended to keep to her monosyllables, but it was
difficult, and she added, in spite of herself, “I expect him back very
soon; he thought it was too late for you to-day.”
“I am so sorry; if he had been here he would have made us acquainted.”
“On the contrary,” said Mary, striking in, “I think, if Mrs. Arthur will
not mind, it is better my cousin should not be here. Women understand
each other better alone. Don’t you think so? I feel sure of it, for my
part.”
“I don’t know,” said Nancy out of the partial gloom; and then there was
a pause.
Mrs. Curtis made a fresh start, and the aspect of affairs was so
strange, and the absolute passiveness of Nancy so apparent, that all
polite feints were impossible, and the visitor plunged into the heart of
the one subject, the only subject on which they could approach each
other, feeling herself forced into it, whether she would or not.
“I hope you will not think what I am going to say intrusive; but may I
ask if it is true that you have not seen anything of your husband’s
family, Mrs. Arthur--his immediate family, Lady Curtis, or Lucy, or any
of them? Is it so indeed? But I hope you will do all you can to
reconcile your husband with them. It cannot be good for you to be
estranged.”
“I know nothing about them,” said Nancy, with a toss of her head.
“Indeed, I am very sorry for it. I think Arthur might have managed
better. If he had played his cards rightly, when they saw it could not
be helped they would certainly have yielded, and taken some notice of
you.”
“I wanted none of their notice,” cried Nancy, crimson with anger; and
then Mary interfered.
“Mamma, I don’t think you are treating it in the right way,” she said.
“Mrs. Arthur does not know Aunt Curtis. Oh, what a pity that your people
did not insist on seeing my aunt and uncle! that would have made
everything easy. But I suppose you did not know.”
“We did not care,” said Nancy, growing hotter and hotter. She would make
no other reply.
“But your people might have cared,” said Mrs. Curtis, “as my daughter
says. I hope you will not take it amiss if I say that there has been
very great negligence somewhere; and you ought to do all you can to set
things to rights. It is all settled now, and past changing. Don’t you
think that you should try to mend matters? Arthur may be very fond of
you; I daresay he is. I am sure he has given good proof of it; but he
cannot be happy separated from his family.”
“Then he can go back to his family,” cried Nancy, with flashing eyes,
rising suddenly to her feet. “If you are specimens of his family, coming
and abusing me like this, when you don’t even know me--”
“I do not think, Mrs. Arthur, that you are taking what we say in a very
friendly way. What object could we have in coming but to assist you--or
rather Arthur--in the circumstances? For, of course, we think most of
him, it is only natural; and surely it is your duty to do what you can,
as it is you who have brought him into trouble. It cannot be any offence
to you to say as much as that.”
“I wish you would go away,” cried Nancy, hotly. “What have you to do
coming here? only to tell me that I am in Arthur’s way? How have I got
him into trouble? Did I go and ask him to marry me? Did I make love to
him? You think I am only a common girl, and you are ladies. Ladies! Do
ladies behave so?--to bully a girl when she is by herself, when no one
is by--a girl who has never done any harm to them, who is as good as
they are?”
“Oh, this is too much,” cried Mrs. Curtis. “I came to give you advice
for your good--for Arthur’s sake; and this is how you receive it! I
wanted to help you if I could.”
“I did not ask anyone’s help,” said Nancy, defiant, facing them, always
with her back to the light, invisible except as a shadow. Her heart beat
so that every vein felt bursting. She had but one desire in her mind,
and that was to rush off without stopping to see Arthur, without giving
anyone the opportunity of insulting her further, and fly home as fast as
the fastest train would carry her. What were the Curtises to Nancy? How
could she bear this from anyone, to be schooled and dictated to, she who
had never been scolded even at home, who had never been found fault
with, whose whole being rose up in arms against anyone who ventured to
criticise? There are people in all classes who are thus intolerant of a
word, not to be interfered with, whom it is mortal offence to think less
than perfect. She felt as if the blood in her veins had turned to fire.
“Mamma,” said Mary, “Mrs. Arthur is quite right. We have no business to
come here into her own rooms, and tell her what she ought to do. She
knows better what to do than we can tell her. Why should you interfere?”
“Because Mrs. Arthur is young, and does not know, Mary, and it is her
duty to listen when one speaks for her good,” said Mrs. Curtis, furious
in her turn. “But you need not be afraid, I will not say any more. I
will only bid you good morning, Mrs. Arthur. It is no object to me what
you do, or don’t do. If I could have smoothed matters I would; but I
will not force my good offices upon you. I hope you will make your
husband very happy, for otherwise I am sure he will be very miserable.
He was always on such good terms with his family, and now you have made
a complete breach.”
“Will you go away?” cried Nancy, wild with anger.
She made a step forward with her arm lifted. It is not likely that any
provocation would have made her strike; but if the two ladies, alarmed,
thought she was about to do so, no one could blame them. This appearance
of violence appalled them. Such a threatening aspect in a woman was so
foreign to the customs of society, so tremendous a breach of all
decorum, that actual blows would have had no greater effect upon them.
They both retreated before her, with alarm in their startled movements.
Nancy could not see their faces, nor could they see hers.
“Indeed, we will go,” cried Mrs. Curtis, with tones which were tremulous
with wonder and anger, and the kind of moral fright which has been
indicated.
Mary had got her hand upon the door to open it, when some one suddenly
pushed in from outside, and Arthur came into the room.
“What is the matter?” he cried.
All he could see was his wife against the light of the window,
threatening, with her arm raised as if in the act to strike.
“Oh, Arthur, stand between us and her!” cried Mrs. Curtis. “But I will
not stay here another moment. Your wife has ordered us out. You poor
boy, you can come to me if you like. Good-bye. I am very sorry for you;
but I cannot stay another moment here.”
“What is the matter?” he repeated, with a voice which was sharp and keen
as a sword, as the two ladies disappeared hurriedly, and he stood alone
opposite to his wife, gazing at her with eyes that blazed through the
gloom. Her hand had dropped by her side at his entrance, but at the
sound of his voice Nancy, who was beside herself with passion, raised it
again and shook it at him in speechless excitement, then turned and fled
into her own room, clashing the door behind her. He heard her lock it in
her rage, panting for breath as she dashed away. Poor Arthur! he had no
mind to follow her. She might have spared herself that precaution. He
stood upon the hearth, looking mournfully into the big mirror, in which
he could see himself a shadow in the surrounding gloom. Had not all life
turned into a vision of shadows, everything that was lovely and fair
disappearing from about him? There seemed no power in him to do
anything. To go after his aunt and endeavour to make up for his wife’s
incivility, was as impossible as to go after that wife and demand the
meaning of her strange conduct. He had no heart for anything. He stood,
as it were, amid the ruins of his bridal happiness, everything
crumbling about him. Only to-day, only a few hours ago, she had stood by
him, beguiling him with sweet smiles and caresses, she who this minute
had confronted him like a fury, with her hand clenched, threatening
violence. He had borne a good many shocks in this eventful fortnight;
the bloom had been taken off his fond fancy of perfection in his bride.
But this was the climax of all. It seemed to take at once his strength
and his hope away.
Meanwhile Nancy, her blood boiling, her countenance flushed, her eyes
fiery with passion, had rushed out of the darkness into the soft light
of her room, where the candles had been lighted, and where she saw
herself entering like a fury in the great glass which was opposite to
her as she rushed in. This sight made her pause in spite of herself; it
sobered her all at once. Was that the aspect she had borne to these
strangers? to her husband? The sudden shock of her own appearance had
more effect upon her than any amount of moral reprobation. She calmed
down in a moment. They had insulted her, she tried to say to herself;
but what would they think of her, was what conscience said in her. What
would they think of her?--and Arthur? The colour went out of the foolish
creature’s face; a chill came over her. Oh, what was she to do, what was
she to do? She had meant to impose upon them, to be more lady-like, more
calm, more chilly in her politeness than anyone could be; and this was
what it had come to. She threw herself down by her bedside in a passion
of tears and penitence. Had Arthur come to her then, she would have
thrown herself at his feet and asked his pardon; but Arthur was kept
from her by the bolt she had herself drawn in her fury, and by--though
this she was unaware of--the despair and dismay in his heart. She threw
herself on the carpet, and found relief in a torrent of tears. Such
tears! hot as her passion, overwhelming as the impulses that surged
after one another through her heart. He must hear her sob, she felt, in
the _abandon_ of her misery; and though Nancy did not sob to be heard,
it gave her a flutter of hope to think that he must hear her, and must
come to know what it was, to comfort her, even to scold her, it did not
matter, so long as he came. But not a sound except those sobs of hers
broke the silence. The candles burned softly, and glimmered in the
mirror, which reflected her lying there upon the flowery whiteness of
the carpet, a dark miserable figure; but there was no tap at the door,
no voice asking for admission. After a little time, her passion being
spent, she raised herself up, and without drying the tears from her
woebegone countenance, or arranging her disordered hair, opened the door
softly, and looked into the sitting-room where she had left him. All was
changed there; the candles were lighted, the fire re-made, the room full
of warmth and light; but no Arthur. It was vacant, put in good order by
the servants, who knew nothing about what had been happening there. And
Arthur was gone. Where had he gone? Had he followed those women, who
were his relations, though they were her enemies? Was he hearing their
story, who doubtless would paint her as a very devil of ill-temper and
pride? Had he gone over to the other side, he who was the cause of it
all? Her eyes began to flash again, and her veins to refill with that
fire which had all but died out of them. She went back to her room, and
dipped her burning forehead into water, and smoothed her hair, which she
had pulled out of place with her passionate hands. When she had done
this she stood for a moment between the two rooms in the silence, alone,
asking herself what she should do. Had Arthur gone from her? Would he
not come back again? A speechless dismay took possession of her soul,
followed by flashes of passion, and still deeper and deeper despondency.
There was but one thing that it seemed possible to do, except flight,
which she was not equal to at this dreadful moment, when she was not
sure whether he had flown from her. If he had been in the next room she
might have had strength to flee; but not with this uncertainty and dread
in her mind whether he had abandoned her. There was but one thing in
this tremendous emergency which she could do. Had she not promised to
him to write to his mother? She would do this now.