CHAPTER XVI.

Next day, restored to perfect good-humour by the occupation, Nancy went

out with her mother to look at some houses which they had already

selected for her choice. She came into the little sitting-room, in which

Arthur had talked to Durant about his marriage, and where the young pair

were established now--glowing and beaming from her early walk, to tell

him all about these desirable residences. Rose Villas, Glenfield Road,

was the name of the row, in which there were two houses, one empty, and

one furnished, to be let.

“You must come with me and see them the moment you have had your

lunch--I don’t want any lunch,” cried Nancy. “I am so delighted! The

dearest little houses, Arthur! just big enough for us, and so bright,

with gardens back and front, and everything that heart could desire.”

“But we don’t want two houses, do we?” he said.

“No, you silly boy; but if we take the one that is furnished, don’t you

see, for little while, and the one that is not furnished for a

permanency, then we can be comfortable in the one house while we furnish

the other; ain’t that clever?” said Nancy, laughing. “I can’t fancy

anything more delightful. Make haste with your luncheon, Arthur. Oh,

yes, I will sit down with you, I will take a morsel; but I am in such a

hurry. I do hope you will like them as much as I do. It is so nice to

think of having a ’ome, as mother says.”

Arthur did not make any reply; after so much stormy weather as there had

been, it grieved him to destroy all this sunshine by any remonstrances.

He was glad to bask in it a little and put off the next difficulty. It

was a bright winter afternoon when they sallied forth together, the red

sun descending towards the west, and throwing up all the leafless trees

beyond Mr. Eagles’ great house as on a crimson background, against which

every branch and twig stood out--the Green more brilliantly green than

usual from the many rains and from the afternoon redness which enhanced

its colour--the red-brick houses all ruddy and warm in the light. Even

to Arthur, whose heart was heavy, it was a pleasant walk to Glenfield

Road. They were alone, and Nancy was in the gayest humour, full of

satisfaction with herself. Though she had lost her confidence in the

Paris dresses, which had much disappointed her mother and sisters, and

was afraid that her travelling costume looked dreadfully dowdy (which

was Sarah Jane’s opinion)--yet the sense of being at home, able to

dazzle all her old companions with her good fortune, and to feel that

her house and husband, and all her possessions, would be admired and to

envied by the right people, had calmed all Nancy’s susceptibilities and

raised her spirits to the highest point. She all but danced along the

street, holding Arthur’s arm in a way which may be old-fashioned, but

still comes natural to a bride. She was about to have a house of her

own, a house fit for a lady, where obsequious tradesmen, once her

equals, or better than she, would come for orders. She was about to have

servants of her own--not a “girl,” as in the Bates’ establishment, but a

cook and housemaid, as good as the Vicar or any of the fine people on

the Green. And all these fine people would call upon her, Nancy thought;

who was there among them equal to Mrs. Arthur Curtis, a baronet’s

daughter-in-law, some time or other to be Lady Curtis--a baronet’s

wife?--and who could speak familiarly of other baronets, Denham, for

instance, as an intimate friend. And then there was Durant.

“Who is Durant,” she said, “Arthur? Is he anybody, is his father

anybody? I had a long talk with him here once. I was angry--But on the

whole I liked Durant.”

“He is--my oldest friend; and the man in all the world who knows most

about me,” said Arthur, laughing in spite of himself; “but further

information would not enlighten you, Nancy--”

“You mean that I don’t know your peerages, and that sort of thing,” said

Nancy, piqued a little.

This time Arthur laughed with good will. “I don’t think the peerages

would help you much,” he said. “Lewis Durant is a clergyman’s son,

Nancy.”

“_Only_ a clergyman?” She was disappointed. “But they must have been

very rich or something, Arthur, or such proud folks as your people would

not have let Durant be so intimate with you.”

“My people,” said Arthur with some haste, “would not have thought of

interfering with my school friends to ask whose sons they were; and

Lewis’s family, _were_ rich--but they are not rich now. Call him Lewis,

if you please, when you speak of him, Nancy; but don’t say Durant. It

sounds _fast_; and you never will be fast, I hope.”

“Oh, it sounds fast, do you think?” Nancy was mollified. When he had

made the same request before, she had thought it a stigma upon her as

not knowing how a lady should talk, but this was a lesser offence. “Well

then, Mr. Durant--if I must say Mr. Durant--isn’t he rich now?”

“No, not at all rich.”

“Oh, then I suppose he has to work for his living like--any common man?

I am so glad you are not like that, Arthur. What a difference it must

make! To have one’s husband away all day at his work--or to have one’s

husband always at one’s side, ready to take a walk, or to answer a

question, or anything. I am so glad you are a gentleman, Arthur. I never

should have been happy had I married a man in any other rank of life.”

“Durant is just as much a gentleman as I am, Nancy.”

“What! when he has to work for his living? Oh, yes, I know. Whoever

wears good clothes, and knows how to behave himself in society, is

called a gentleman for the name of the thing, Arthur. The assistants in

Shoolbred’s are all gentlemen, of course; but that is not what I

mean--you know what I mean. Now supposing that Durant--I mean Mr.

Durant--had known us longer, and got to coming to our house as you did,

and Sarah Jane and he had fancied each other, she would not have been

nearly so happy as I am.”

“Was _that_ thought of?” said Arthur, with a smile which did not

evidence any real amusement. “I did not know that had been seriously

thought of.”

“Oh, yes, it was thought of. Why shouldn’t it have happened? He was your

friend; and they say one wedding brings on another. I don’t think Sarah

Jane would have minded,” said Nancy in perfect good faith. “She would

have thrown Raisins over in a moment; and indeed I think she treats

Raisins very badly with all her flirtations. I tell her it is he who

will throw her over one of these days.”

“So Durant might have been preferred to Mr. Raisins,” said Arthur. “What

a chance for Lewis!”

Nancy did not feel quite comfortable about the meaning of this laugh.

Perhaps it was not entirely regret for what Durant had lost; but as at

this moment they came in sight of Rose Villas, her whole attention was

drawn to the more exciting subject. “There is the empty one, Arthur,”

she said, “look, how pretty! But I see the door of No. 6 is open, so let

us go there first. There is such a pretty garden behind, and the windows

open into it. There is not much in the garden now, but it will be

delicious in summer. Oh, yes, here we are; this is Mr. Curtis, Mrs.

Smith. We have come again, if you please, to go over the house.”

“If you please, ma’am,” said the prim little landlady, whose lodgings

had not let so well as usual, and who was not unwilling to get rid of

her house. Nancy ran through it delighted, taking her husband from one

room to another. “This you could have to write your letters in, Arthur,

and this would be my drawing-room,” cried Nancy, glowing with not

unlovely pride; “and look what a dear little Davenport, and an inlaid

table, and that funny little three-cornered thing in the corner, and a

nice white cloth over the carpet--so clean-looking--almost like our

white carpets in Paris.”

Arthur allowed himself to be dragged all over the house. It was like a

hundred, nay a million other semi-detached suburban villakins. The

little rooms were neat enough, if not beautiful; and Arthur, though he

had been brought up in Oakley, amid his mother’s favourite splendours,

was not sufficiently fastidious to be annoyed by the common-place

surroundings. It was not the want of beauty that moved him; but the

sensation of “settling down,” which was so delightful to Nancy, affected

his imagination like a nightmare. She was so satisfied herself, so

anxious to know every particular about the maids whom Mrs. Smith “could

recommend,” so eager about everything, that his gloomy looks passed

without remark. And Arthur did not check her delight until, having

settled matters with Mrs. Smith, she insisted upon carrying him next to

No. 9, which was to let unfurnished. “This is the most interesting,” she

said. “Come along, Arthur; for you know this will be our real

’ome--this we will furnish ourselves;” and she dragged him to the door.

Nancy did not usually drop her h’s, but she was too familiar with this

form of the word to call it anything but ’ome.

Here, however, Arthur had strength of mind to resist. “That is enough

for to-day. You must not ask me to do more to-day. After dinner we will

talk it all over, all about it, over the fire.”

“After dinner?” said Nancy. “Oh! I said we would go and see mother, and

tell her what we had settled. Why, what is the matter, Arthur--may not I

go and see mother? We have only been one day back, and you begin to make

faces already! You cannot say I am bringing my people on _you_.”

“I think you might be content with me sometimes,” said Arthur, with an

attempt at a smile.

“I have been content with you for three weeks,” said Nancy. “I have

never seen a soul but you. I should think you would like to see another

face now and again as well as I do--and my own folks!” Arthur did not

say any more. He diverted the conversation into other channels, and led

her back to the subject of the villa, which on the whole was safer

ground; and when the evening came and their dinner was over, and Nancy

went off with a certain gay temerity, yet not without alarm, to get her

wrap, Arthur took his hat to accompany her without saying a word. She

was in a state of the greatest exultation, scarcely able to restrain

little songs of triumph as they walked along the half-lighted street,

and clasping his arm close, with a show of affection which went to

Arthur’s heart.

“At what time shall I come for you?” he said, as they drew near the

door.

“Come for me! are you not coming with me, Arthur?”

“I have not finished my letters,” he said; “as _you_ say, we have had

three weeks of holiday; and then I was out with you all this afternoon.

I must finish my letters for the post to-night.”

She unclasped her hands from his arm without a word, and went in; and

the glimpse Arthur had of the parlour did not tempt him to follow. Young

Raisins was one of the company. He was seated on the sofa where Arthur

had been in the habit of sitting, presumably behind backs, and out of

the observation of the others, with Nancy. Young Raisins was now the

lover on hand, and the sight of him in that place sent the blood to

Arthur’s head as he walked away. Could it be possible that he himself

had been unspeakably happy there a few weeks ago, finding nothing but

pleasantness in the four straight walls, and beauty in the family

affection that made all these people hang so closely together. Raisins

now occupied the foreground of the picture as he had done before, with

infinitely greater suitability. And this was the home which his wife

loved. There was the sting of it! had she been indifferent,

undutiful--even careless, as he thought he remembered that she once was;

but Nancy’s matrimonial experience, which was not entirely successful,

perhaps, had thrown her back upon her earlier affections in a way which

is not unusual, though Arthur was not aware of that. Her husband and

she had only their love to hold them together; their habits were not

like, their manner of thought was different. Even when she was at her

boldest and most confident point, Nancy was never quite at home with the

“gentleman” she had married; but with her own people, she was entirely

at her ease. Arthur did not take this into consideration; but he was

candid enough to feel a compunction as he walked away, and to

acknowledge that from Nancy’s point of view, it might seem hard that he

could not spend an hour or two without complaining in the society of the

family who had been everything to her all her life. It was hard, that so

soon, before a month of her married life was over, she should have to

choose between the old home and the new, between her parents and her

husband. Arthur had a generous mind, and this perception kept him from

feeling himself the aggrieved person, as he had been half disposed to

do. It forced him, also, instead of wandering about as he had done on

the previous night, and brooding over the difficulties of his new

position, to go back to his hotel and really write the half imaginary

letters which were his only business, and the reason which he had again

given for his abandonment of that family circle. His letters were not

all imaginary: there was one from Mr. Rolt, the agent, in answer to

Arthur’s letter to his father. Sir John had been too indignant, as well

as perhaps (but this he was not conscious of) too little disposed for

exertion to answer it himself. He had handed over the note, not to the

lawyer brother, against whom Arthur had vowed vengeance, but to the

agent, who had always been a favourite, the friend of their youth, with

the young Curtises, both boy and girl. Mr. Rolt’s letter was very kind

and reasonable, and to answer it without proving himself to be in the

wrong was difficult. Sir John did not object to raising his

allowance--he did not refuse anything Arthur asked him. There was

nothing hard in the stipulations, nothing forbidding in what his

father’s deputy wrote.

“Your family do not wish you to suffer, how could you think it?--they

do not wish to reduce you from your natural position. Had you treated

them as they might have expected to be treated, my dear Arthur,” wrote

the good man who had known him all his life, “you might, I think, have

reckoned on Sir John’s indulgence to any extent; but you have not put

that trust in your father and mother, though they certainly deserved it

at your hands; and can you wonder if Sir John is angry? He will not

write to you himself, feeling that your letter is not the kind of letter

he ought to have had from you in the circumstances; but he has

instructed me to tell you that your wishes shall be complied with to any

reasonable amount. He does not wish you to suffer in personal comfort in

consequence of the step you have taken.”

This was the letter which Arthur had to answer. He paused, reflecting on

it, repeating to himself, “does not wish you to suffer in personal

comfort.” Were there other ways which they suspected and calculated upon

in which he might suffer for his disobedience? He paused to go over all

that had happened within the last three months. Could he have acted

otherwise than he had done? If he had given his confidence to his

parents from the beginning, as they reproached him for not doing, what

would have been the issue? With what eyes would Lady Curtis and Lucy

have looked upon his Nancy, who, for her part, would have defied them?

He shook his head as he sat pondering over the sheet of paper before

him. No! no! had he confided in them things would have been worse, not

better--for anyhow he would have married Nancy, if without their

consent, if against their deliberate judgment, what did it matter?

except that the last would have been the worst. He could fancy how she

would have met their inspection--how she would have repulsed and scorned

them. No--no, he repeated to himself. Better to leave them in ignorance

than to hazard the open quarrels, the inevitable rending asunder that

must have followed. They could not have withdrawn his heart from Nancy.

No, again no! And the breach would have been more bitter, not less. With

a sigh he decided that, on the whole, he had not chosen the worst way.

He did not say to himself that both were bad enough, but he sighed.

Nancy had left him to go to her family, to be happy in the stuffy little

parlour, where her father drank his rum and water; and he--he sighed,

going no further--for _his_ belongings, for his home, for the natural

occupations of his life. They did not regret their choice either of

them; but yet within the first month of their marriage, this curious

return upon themselves had happened to both. Perhaps this is not so

wonderful even among the happiest as we pretend; for is not the

beginning the hardest, in marriage as in so many other things? Arthur

wrote and posted his letter, feeling himself bound to do so after what

he had said; then went on to fetch his wife from her father’s house.

They were very merry there, he could hear as he passed the lighted

window; and it was more and more curious to him when he went in to find

young Raisins the master of the situation, amusing them all with his

jokes. Arthur, in his time, had never had so much _succès_. He was

rather glad to see that Nancy was not enjoying the fun like the rest,

but sat a little apart and with a somewhat moody countenance until he

entered, when she flung off her gravity, plunged into the riot that was

going on round the table, where Mr. Raisins was doing tricks with cards,

and laughed and talked with the best. Arthur could not make out whether

this was to show him her superior gaiety and light-heartedness at home,

or whether it was his own presence which brought back her

light-heartedness. And he himself, touched by compunction, did his best

to make himself agreeable, to show that he wished for a good

intelligence between them. He was more successful in this than he had

hoped. Young Raisins’ fine qualities had so charmed and delighted the

house that Arthur too shared the good feeling he had called forth. Mrs.

Bates melted altogether, and spreading out her hands declared that

“this _was_ a happy meeting,” and that “parents” had reason to be

satisfied, indeed, when their girls were thus happily settled. “When you

all rally round the ‘old house,’” were the words the gratified mother

used; but unfortunately in the general impulse of emotion that followed,

Arthur could scarcely restrain a slight laugh, which Nancy, who seemed

to be all ear, remarked, though no one else noticed it. Why should he

laugh? He would not have laughed had it been the old house of Oakley,

amid its trees and parks, that was to be rallied round; and why not the

small tenement in East Street, Underhayes? Was it possible that

materialism could go so far as to measure sentiment by the size of the

house? He said this to himself, yet still laughed in his mind, and could

not tell why.

“I hope you have written your letters,” Nancy said, coldly, as they

walked home.

“Yes; the one I specially wanted to write is gone. It was an answer to

Mr. Rolt’s which I told you about.”

“Then you will have no excuse about writing letters to-mor--I mean

another night. You will not have that reason to give for staying away.”

“You do not want me to spend every evening at your mother’s, Nancy?”

“Ah, now it comes out,” she said. “I knew it all along. It was not

letters, but because you wanted to escape from us, from my family, whom

you look down upon. If you despise them, you should never have married

me; for I will stick to them as long as I live.”

“I am not in the habit of making lying excuses,” said Arthur, as calmly

as he could; “and it is not necessary,” he added after a pause,

controlling the sentiment in his voice, “to despise a family because you

do not wish to be with them every night.”

“Every night! this is the second night,” cried Nancy in high disdain.

“Nancy,” said Arthur, “do not let us quarrel. I don’t want to interfere

with your natural affection, but you cannot expect me to feel exactly as

you do. It is not possible! And don’t you think it would be wise to

agree that there are great differences between your family and me? that

we are likely to agree better apart, and that a meeting now and then

would be best, not too often? I don’t want to dictate to you--”

“No; it would be more wise, as you say, not to try,” said Nancy. “I see

now. This is why you wouldn’t condescend to look at the other house. Ah,

I see! you mean to go away, to leave this place, which is the only place

I can be happy in. This is your plan? Oh, I allow it is a fine plan! but

it will not be so easy to carry out.”

“I don’t want, I say, to dictate to you. I don’t want you to give up

anything that is important for your happiness. But I have given up my

people for you, Nancy--”

“Then go back to your people, and have done with it!” cried Nancy,

throwing herself free from his arm, to which she had been clinging, and

pushing him from her. Arthur was so startled to find himself driven to

the edge of the pavement by this energetic impulse, that even the power

of speech seemed taken from him. And what was there to say?

CHAPTER XIII.

Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Curtis settled down in a day or two into No. 6, Rose

Villas, where Nancy had her two maids to manage, and all that had seemed

to her most delightful and desirable in life. The little drawing-room

was not a particularly genial place in winter weather; the carpet was

covered with a white linen cloth tightly strained, there were white

muslin curtains at the windows, the walls were white and gold, after the

approved fashion of little drawing-rooms in little villas. All this, if

it was very clean-looking, as Nancy said, was chilly in December, and

the little fireplace was so near the long French window, and both were

so near the door, that the room was draughty, and scarcely so cosy as

might have been desired. There was a piano in it, upon which Nancy could

not play, though she had received lessons on the piano during those five

quarters in which she had been at school; and a work-table, which she

did not employ much for work; but no books, nor any pictures on the

white-and-gold walls. When Arthur had exerted himself in the

re-arrangement of the furniture, which Nancy did not go into with any

enthusiasm--for she was still of opinion that a row of chairs set

against the wall were “in their proper place,” and that to disturb them

was almost an immorality--the discovery that he had nothing to do

pressed with more and more force upon him. What did he want with

anything to do? Nancy thought. Was it not the best thing in the world

not to require to do anything, the true sign of being a gentleman? A

certain scorn of people who worked for their living had taken possession

of Mrs. Arthur Curtis. Why should they give themselves airs when they

were all as one as a bricklayer, working for their bread? But anyone

could see that Arthur was a gentleman. It is to be hoped that gentlemen

in general were more at their ease under the burden of their gentility

than Arthur. It was not--let no one be deceived--that he wanted to work.

Work when he had read with Mr. Eagles had been extremely irksome to the

young man. It was true he had not remained very long to try it, but he

had not loved his studies, especially under the spur of the sharp and

urgent “coach.” There are other things, however, which young men think

of when they talk of having “something to do,” which do not tell very

much in an industrial point of view. In his natural condition and at

home, Arthur had many occupations. He shot, he hunted, he rode about the

country, he paid visits; he was appealed to by people in trouble; he was

consulted about the affairs of the estate. Sometimes he had to appear on

the hustings in support of his father’s election; he had speeches to

make now and then, and that interest in public business which is

indispensable to one who may sometimes have to take part in it. All this

was at an end now. The calm, not to stay stagnation of his present

existence dropped over him as the curtain drops in a theatre upon the

animated and busy scene. After the drama is over, or in the moment of

repose between its acts, it is some immoveable representation of life or

scenery, an unchangeable incident or landscape, that closes for us the

brilliant stage upon which human life in all its changeableness and

variety of emotion has been represented. Arthur’s domestic bliss was

like this drop scene. His life was gone from him, with all its hopes and

occupations; he was no longer the young Squire, as potent within his

small territory as any Prince of Wales, no longer the budding magnate of

the county, with responsibilities rising round him, with the covers to

think of (if nothing more), and poachers to take in hand, and public

life to look forward to. All that fuller existence had departed. The

drop scene, representing a white-and-gold bower of bliss, with two

figures seated (before the fire, but that was a matter of detail), all

in all to each other, as romantic people say, had fallen with a

remorseless completeness, hiding everything. He took a long walk with

his wife every afternoon. Often he went out in the evening to fetch her

from her father’s, or else he had the pleasure of entertaining her

father and mother at home; and he would stroll out on his own account

here and there, in the mornings, while Nancy was pretending to do her

housekeeping, or read the _Times_ languidly in the room appropriated to

him, feeling as if all the busy commotion of the world indicated in it

had gone away to such a distance from him that he could but faintly

apprehend or understand it. The drop scene! To what innocent bosom would

not that picture have commended itself? Two figures, young and fair to

behold, the world forgetting, by the world forgot; living for each

other, all for love, and the world well lost.

This went on for what was really a long time without disturbance. The

establishment of the Arthur Curtises in Rose Villas gave the little

world of Underhayes many causes of deliberation. Should they call? was a

question hotly discussed. Call? on Bates the tax-collector’s daughter!

Could anything be more absurd? the elder ladies said. But the younger

ones were interested; who would not be interested in such a romantic

business? and the gentlemen were either sorry for or curious about the

young husband who had thus sacrificed everything to “a pretty face.” For

the girl was just an uneducated girl like any other in her position,

everybody said. There was no innate superiority in Nancy to justify her

elevation, neither had her husband taken pains as even a romantic young

fool, now and then, did, to educate her before making her his wife. Even

now, so far as anyone knew, no attempt was being made to qualify Mrs.

Arthur for her husband’s position in society. They had settled at Rose

Villas, avowedly that she might be near her mother--with whom she was

said to spend half her time; and no judicious governess or master able

to impart instruction in those accomplishments which must have been

wanting in her, was ever seen to enter her gates. Not even trying to

improve her mind! She got the pick of the novels which came in Mudie’s

box to the local library, in right of an unusually liberal subscription;

but what could novels do for her? Under these circumstances, it became a

doubly difficult question to know what to do. When she came home at

first she had been very well dressed, which had made an impression in

her favour. Her dark blue “silk” had filled the Green with admiration

and envy. “Paris, of course!” the ladies said, who, notwithstanding

their disapproval of such a marriage, were very curious indeed about the

bride; and some added a joke or a sigh at the idea of putting delicate

garments from Paris, not upon such as themselves, who could appreciate

them, but upon Nancy Bates! However, this mingled approbation and

disdain soon came to an end, for it was not long before the dark blue

silk was thrown aside in favour of more showy garments. “If that is all

they can do in Paris!” Sarah Jane had said, at the sight of it, and she

had spent some time at a milliner’s in town and ought to know. Her own

family all thought Nancy’s dresses dowdy, and ridiculously quiet for a

bride; and the original “silk” which her parents had given her had been

brought to the front again, with others of a similar character.

“I made myself a dowdy to please Arthur. He likes it,” said Nancy; “but

one can’t go on humouring one’s husband for ever, can one, mamma? One

must think for one’s self sooner or later, and ladies surely know best

about their own dress.”

Arthur had not attempted any remonstrance, what was the use? And Nancy

had reappeared with a brightness of colour and breadth of ornament,

which pleased her family a great deal better.

“Now you look something like a newly-married lady, with a husband that

grudges you nothing,” Mrs. Bates said proudly, on that day when the

Green shuddered at Mrs. Arthur’s new costume, and resolved with one

mind, now at least, that nobody could be expected to call. But such

resolutions did not always overcome the stronger inducements of

curiosity, or of that pity and interest which moved some bosoms. Mrs.

Eagles was the first to break the reserve. Her husband insisted upon it,

she said. And she not only called, but asked “the Arthur Curtises” to

dinner. Mrs. Eagles was a mild little woman, as soft-voiced as her

husband was peremptory. She avowed frankly that she had been “very fond”

of Arthur while he lived in her house. “He was so nice, he never would

give any trouble that he could help, so unlike your _parvenus_; he was

always so ready to do anything for you. Yes, I was very fond of him. The

pupils are not attractive as a rule, but young Mr. Curtis was charming.”

This was what she said to her neighbours when it was known that she had

asked the bride to dinner, the boldest thing that had been done on the

Green for many a day.

“I hope you found _her_ charming, too,” said the Vicar’s wife, who was

not disposed to compromise her dignity in such a way. Mrs. Eagles took a

little time to answer the question, and cleared her throat.

“She is--quite unformed--I almost wonder that associating with a

well-bred man should have had so little effect upon her manners. But

then, she is natural--she has no affectations; that is always

something,” said Mrs. Eagles, which was not the case with the Vicar’s

wife. She did not, however, ask the dignified couple from the vicarage,

but only a humbler newly married curate to meet the young pair, who, for

their part, were thrown into considerable excitement by the invitation.

How Nancy might have taken it on her own account is doubtful; but the

delight of her family had driven all thoughts from her mind but those of

delightful elevation in the world and entrance into society.

“It’s only a schoolmaster, it is true,” said Mrs. Bates; “no better,

indeed not so good as ourselves, for I never was brought to such a pass

that I had to take in lodgers to interfere with the family. I always was

able to keep ourselves to ourselves, and of course the pupils are all

the same as lodgers; but still you’ll meet the real gentry there, my

pet, and it will be a beginning, and you needn’t be shy with people

like them.” Thus encouraged, Nancy allowed herself to feel that to go

out to a party was pleasant. For she too, though she had the

distractions of her family and her housekeeping, was growing a little

tired perhaps of the drop scene.

They were all very indignant, however, when Arthur suggested that she

should wear a simple white dress for this first appearance. White, like

an unmarried girl! and as if her husband was not well enough off to

afford her a “silk!” Finally, with great hurry and strain of all their

efforts to get it ready in time, Nancy appeared in light blue, which was

becoming enough, though rather incomplete in those finishing touches

which mark the difference between a home-made garment and one which has

come from the hands of the initiated. As for Arthur he laughed at

himself, not without a little bitterness, as he made his simple toilet.

He was pleased to be asked out to dinner by his former “coach.” It

excited him vaguely, partly with pleasure, partly with anxiety. It was

“revisiting the glimpses of the moon,” for the first time for all these

months; for the slow winter had crept round to March again, and all the

world was stirring into life. To describe the kind of Christmas this

poor young fellow had spent would be too much for ordinary

powers--exiled as he was from everything belonging to himself, and

driven into close, too close encounter with all the jollities of so

different a sphere. He had borne them, and kept them at arm’s length, as

far as he could, and thank heaven, they were over. But the impatience in

his heart grew stronger as the days grew longer, and the world turned to

spring. He was as glad of Mr. Eagles’ invitation as if the “coach” had

been Prime Minister with all manner of advantages to bestow. That

impetuous little personage could not, had he gained first places for all

his pupils in all the examinations under the sun, have put himself in

the same position with the son of such a rural magnate as Sir John

Curtis; but Arthur was as glad of his notice and his wife’s notice, as

if the level of the Bates family had been his own original level.

Nevertheless, there were difficulties in launching Nancy even into this

mild little scholastic world. Arthur did not feel that he could venture

to give her those hints about the manners of ordinary society, which

might have steered her safely through the not appalling dangers of a

dinner party. He did what he could by way of suggestion and supposition,

taking it for granted that she would know; but even that simple mode of

communicating instruction aroused her suspicions. “Oh, you needn’t be

afraid, I know how to behave myself,” she said, with a toss of her head.

How did she know--was it by instinct? instinct is a doubtful guide

through the usages of society; but anyhow, Arthur did not venture to say

any more. When she came downstairs, however, ready to start, with her

blue dress all decorated and looped up with orange-blossoms, Arthur made

a determined stand. He said, “You must take those things off, they are

ridiculous,” with a peremptoriness which she could not resist, saucy as

she was. Arthur at this moment did not seem a person to be trifled with.

“Do you want to make a laughing-stock of your sister?” the young man

said, confounding them all; and the obnoxious decorations were taken off

with a silent speed that was wonderful. It was wonderful, as being

inspired by a mysterious sense of having made a mistake. They had no

idea what the mistake was; and their pride would not permit them to ask

enlightenment; but they felt it the more from its mysterious and unknown

character. When Nancy was ready, and wrapped in the warm white _sortie

du bal_ which they had bought in Paris, the effect of this error was

sufficiently obliterated; and the young husband’s heart swelled with a

little pride when he presented her to the man who had sent him out of

his house because of Nancy. That practical protestation had not done

much more good than all the other efforts which had been made to sever

Arthur from his love; and here she was now, fair and blooming, an

unquestionable fact, which they were all compelled to recognize. But as

he left her in charge of Mrs. Eagles, and dropped off behind, what

anxiety was in Arthur’s thoughts! It was her first essay in society;

would she take the trouble to please? He stood furtively watching her as

he talked to the Curate, whose wife was also on her trial, but caused

him no such tremour. The Curate’s wife was a small young lady of

ordinary breeding and appearance, not to be compared with Nancy in any

possible respect. But she had been born a clergyman’s, not a

tax-collector’s daughter. She knew the outside of social ways, and how

not to commit herself, which was exactly what Nancy did not know.

And it must be allowed that, when Arthur saw that only this Curate and

his wife had been invited to meet them, he was wroth with a savage sort

of anger and scornful humiliation. He gave no sign of his feelings; but

he had been accustomed to be somebody wherever he went, and the sense

that he had now dropped into a doubtful position, in which only the

Curate could be supposed likely to countenance him, gave him a sense of

what had befallen him more sharp and sudden than anything else that had

happened, even than the familiarities of the Bates family. To say that

Nancy was angry too, would be little. Her whole soul rose up in a blaze

of wrath. She had expected to see everything that was fine and famous on

the Green, and to receive, in a way, the homage of the assembled

aristocracy. Nobody with a title lived at Underhayes, and Nancy

considered that she herself had all but a title, and was to be admired

in proportion; yet there was no one here but the little Curate’s wife.

She talked largely to Mr. Eagles during dinner, giving him her opinion

of Society in England.

“Of course being brought up in a place like this, I have seen but

little; and here not much to speak of,” she said, with a frankness that

prepossessed her host--himself so trenchant and decided at all times.

“You are right, very right, Mrs. Curtis. The people about here are not

much to speak of. We have to put up with it, for we can get no better.

Retired people are mostly a set of nuisances; having done all the

mischief they can in the world in their own persons, they revile

everybody who is beginning, and put mischief into their heads.”

“Yes, Dr. Eagles.” He was called Doctor by the common people about, and

he did not like it. “Yes; there never was such a gossiping place, I’ve

heard many people say. They have nothing to do themselves, and they pull

everybody to pieces. I have never gone into it, but I can’t abide that

sort of thing. They are so stuck up; don’t you think they are dreadfully

stuck up? and what is there in them to make them better than their

neighbours? Don’t you think so, Dr. Eagles? I do hate everything like

that,” said Nancy, energetically. “I suppose you did not like to ask

them to meet Arthur and me?”

“I--I don’t ask anyone,” said Mr. Eagles, taken aback for the moment.

“It is my wife that asks the people.” Then he began to realize that

getting out of a difficulty by putting it upon his wife, was not a noble

proceeding. “The fact is, I don’t think anyone was asked. We thought, I

suppose, that you didn’t care for it. I don’t myself; I hope Curtis is

not giving up work altogether. He may be tempted to do so, having no

immediate object, but he ought never to interrupt his course of study.

He was getting on very well with me.”

“What should he go on with his studies for?” said Nancy; “he does not

require it to make a living. He may please himself what he does. Oh, I

shouldn’t like my husband to have to work! When a man is born a

gentleman, Dr. Eagles--”

“You have been good enough to bestow a degree upon me to which I have no

right,” said Mr. Eagles. “I am simple Mr., like all the rest, though I

am obliged to work for my living, and it would be of use to me. A man

ought to work, however, when he’s young like Curtis. If he doesn’t now,

he will miss it after. I’ve always told him so.”

“I am sure I don’t think so at all,” said Nancy. “Why should he work?

or anyone in the position of a gentleman? You know what I mean by a

gentleman. Father is as good as Arthur, or anyone, and he has to work.”

This mollified Mr. Eagles.

“I hope we are all gentlemen,” he said, as lightly as was possible for

him, “whether we work or not.”

“Oh yes, in a kind of a way,” said Nancy, with careless scorn, “in your

manners, and so forth. And clergymen, and teachers, and those sort of

people are called so out of civility; but I never think anybody is a

gentleman that has his own living to make.”

“I think you are a little hard upon us, Mrs. Curtis,” said the Curate,

with a smile.

“Oh, I didn’t mean to be hard,” said Nancy. “You are just as good as

anyone else. Those that have plenty to live on are the best off, but I

don’t say that I despise those that have to work. They are good enough

in their way. It isn’t their fault they were born as they are, nor was

it any virtue in my husband to be born Arthur Curtis. He couldn’t help

it, neither can you.”

Thus Nancy vanquished the adversary at the dinner-table. When the ladies

went back to the drawing-room, which was not till a late hour, for it

took a long time to make Nancy understand Mrs. Eagles’ little nods and

signs from the other end of the table--but when they got upstairs at

last, the Curate’s wife benevolently interfered to set Nancy at her ease

after this mistake.

“I daresay you have been used to the French way of the men coming

upstairs along with the ladies; and a far better plan it is, I think.”

Nancy looked coolly at the questioner. She was more comfortable when

Arthur’s eyes were not upon her, watching everything she said and did.

“I didn’t make any mistake,” she said, “but gentlemen’s conversation is

the best, isn’t it? I wanted to have as much as I could of that. I

didn’t want to be left to women’s society--three petticoats together,”

and she laughed with insolent meaning. Nancy had read a great many

novels, and she knew that these were the sentiments generally attributed

to a heroine, and she was determined that there should be nothing in

her mind which she would not have the courage to say.

“I hope we shall not be so very tiresome to you,” said Mrs. Eagles, with

an involuntary glance at the other. “We hear you have been in Paris,

Mrs. Curtis. You must have enjoyed that. It is always so bright and

gay.”

“I did not think it was gay at all,” said Nancy, “a very stupid place.

Everybody talked so queerly, not at all like the French one learns at

school; and they have such queer dishes, and altogether they are so

queer. Have you been in Paris? I did not find it at all gay.”

“There are so many things to see,” Mrs. Eagles suggested.

“Oh, what sort of things to see! Places where things have happened that

nobody knows anything about, or if one ever heard of them one has

forgotten. I don’t call that amusing,” said Nancy. “There are very

handsome shops, but I did not care much for French taste, do you? they

are so fond of dingy colours; nothing clean-looking nor bright. I was so

glad to get back to England.”

“So was I,” said the Curate’s wife, “when we were abroad; but I thought

it all so interesting. I did enjoy it when we were there. The very names

of the places that one had read about in history!”

“I never read history,” said Nancy, carelessly. “I like to see things

happening now; and nothing seemed to happen, but just hearing about old

dusty rubbish. Oh, yes, the streets were nice. Arthur says that in

summer there are races, and amusements, and concerts out of doors, and

all that sort of thing, but it was too cold when we were there. I went

to hear the men speaking in Parliament, but it was dull; what is the

good of listening to long speeches? One of Arthur’s friends took us--Sir

John Denham--you may have heard of him. He was always offering us boxes

for the theatre, but that was dull too.”

“I am afraid you were difficult to please,” said Mrs. Eagles; but the

Curate’s wife began to listen with a certain interest. It is always

pleasant to hear familiarly about the Sir Johns of this world.

“Yes, they all said I was difficult to please,” said Nancy, sweeping

out of the chair she had just chosen, and nearly knocking down a small

table on which stood a lamp. “Did you get your furniture from town, Mrs

Eagles? Did you have one of the tip-top upholsterers to do it, or did

you pick up things cheap?”

“I am afraid we tried as much as we could to pick up things cheap,” said

Mrs. Eagles, restraining the inclination to laugh which was gaining upon

her. The other young woman was listening anxiously, seeing no fun in it,

and their entertainer thought she liked Mrs. Arthur best.

“I thought so,” said Nancy, calmly, fixing her eyes upon an Italian

cabinet which was the pride of the house, “but I should just put my

house into the hands of some tip-top man. I don’t like making up with

part old and part new. I shall have everything of the best and the

newest fashion,” she said, looking round with a delightful glow of

complaisant superiority. But then she was Sir John Curtis’s

daughter-in-law, and Mrs. Eagles was but a schoolmaster’s wife.

CHAPTER XIV.

“Party! it was no party at all!” said Nancy, “I have just been giving

Arthur a piece of my mind. If he thinks I am going to take the trouble

to have a dress made, and go out among folks I don’t know, to meet the

Curate and his wife! why, we are just as good as they are! or rather, I

should say, a deal better.” She was sitting over the fire next morning,

by no means pleased with her entertainment. Now, indeed, was the time

when she felt it most--for it had been sweet to think of dazzling her

mother and sisters with an account of the grand ladies of the Green; and

there was nothing now to comment upon, save poor little Mrs. Curate in

her muslin frock! Arthur was in the room behind, shut off with folding

doors from this; and she spoke loud that he might have the benefit of

her remarks.

“The Curate!” said Mrs. Bates, “my dear, it’s no compliment, it’s an

insult to ask you; as if you are not good enough to meet the best.”

“That is just what I said. I tell Arthur, if he were to stick up for me

as he ought, nobody would dare to treat me like that. I consider,” said

Nancy, “that we paid those Eagles a great compliment going; and to meet

the Curate! as if we were not good enough to sit down with the finest

folks in this wretched little hole of a place.”

“The Curate is a very nice young man,” said Sarah Jane. “I should not

mind him a bit. _I_ call him handsome; but then he’s married,” she added

with lessened satisfaction. “And so are you married, so it comes to the

same thing. I dare say they thought as you were both young couples--”

“I wish you would think a little what you’re saying,” said Nancy. “Me!

and her! a bit of a girl in white muslin! with a hundred and fifty a

year, at the outside, to live on; and obliged to work hard among the

poor, as hard as if she was a curate too--and me!”

“Yes, indeed, there is no comparison,” said Mrs. Bates. “For shame,

Sarah Jane! But, Nancy, you mustn’t forget that your sister has chosen

her lot very different. John Raisins is an excellent young man; but he

can’t open the doors of high life to her, as Arthur can open them to

you. And it’s best that she should make up her mind to what she can

have--not hanker after what she can’t. It’s very different, my darling

child, with you.”

“I am sure I don’t know if it’s different,” said Nancy. “He hasn’t

opened many doors to me yet, and I think he’d shut your door if he

could, which is the only one that’s left. Oh, why do girls marry? they

are a deal better, if they could only think it, at home.” And with this

Nancy began to cry.

Arthur heard everything in the next room. He had himself felt the

change in his position sorely on the previous night; and Mr. Eagles’

sharp, yet somewhat mournful adjurations to him not to lose his time, to

go on with his work, to do something, had intensified the effect. He had

come upstairs early enough to hear the style of Nancy’s conversation

with the two ladies, and this also had touched him deeply. What is more

painful than to see those whom we love giving what, to our eyes, is a

false representation of themselves to the outside world, which does not

know them? Arthur felt this tingle to his very finger-points--a painful

shame; her foolish rudeness, and the wrong which she did herself by this

misrepresentation had made him miserable. If they could but see her as

he knew her--as she was on other occasions? This, he said to himself,

was not Nancy; it was a foolish braggart of the village, the type of the

Bates family, not his wife, who was as much above the Bates in fine

taste and perception as she was in beauty. To be sure, her taste had not

lately told for very much. But that had been the influence of the

uncomfortable position in which she had felt herself, or of her

connections, whom she had so unfortunately insisted on coming back to.

The pain had been exquisite with which Arthur watched his bride through

this first appearance in society. It brought back to him the feelings

which he had tried to forget, with which he had come in upon the violent

termination of her interview with Mrs. Anthony Curtis. Was there nothing

he could do, or say, which would persuade her that this was not the way

to meet strangers who might turn out to be friends? He was sitting

unhappy enough over his fire, having taken out a book or two, which lay

on the table beside the “Times,” the usual occupation of his aimless

morning. He had been trying to “read” as Mr. Eagles understood reading;

but what were Demosthenes and Cicero to him? He could not go back now,

and toil over the intricacies of language and argument which wanted all

his attention ceaselessly, with happy ease of mind, not with painful

pre-occupation of it, as he had pursued those studies in their earlier

stages. He had never been a hard student, and why should he read now?

What good would it do him? Would all the reading in the world, or his

degree, when he had taken it, restore him to the world in which his wife

could not accompany him, and would not try to accompany him, and where

he could not go without her? He had been sitting dreamily over the fire,

thinking it all over. The vague plan in his mind had been when Nancy was

a little better prepared for it, a little more likely to incline in her

own mind towards it, and willing to try to make the experiment

successful, to take her home and present her to his father and mother,

hoping that the surprise and the pleasure of his own return might

procure them a welcome; this is what he had thought of even when he had

written formal letters to Sir John, and those brief notes to Lucy or his

mother, in which there was no reference to Nancy. When he could get her

guided to that point--when he could feel that she could bear the trial,

then to go. It had been his hope all through, a something vaguely looked

forward to, though never brought down to any settled moment of time.

But, alas! it had receded before him point by point. Nancy was not

willing to do anything to please. She was of opinion that by herself,

without any effort, she ought to rule easily over a subject world. She

felt herself--not as he did, to be upon the painful threshold of an

unexplored country, full of perils, in which all her efforts were needed

to find herself a place--but rather to have conquered all that could be

put in her way and attained every object--with the exception of the

homage of those “stuck up” and disagreeable people, who were envious of

her, and therefore would not pay her the attention to which she had a

right, and whom Nancy would scorn to do anything to conciliate. What a

difference between their points of view! And he who ought to have been

the strongest, who was infinitely better educated, and more reasonable

than Nancy, he was powerless to convey any other conviction to her

mind; although she succeeded in agitating his with all sorts of tumults,

with shame that she should show her worse qualities, and earn the

disapproval she incurred--yet with hot resentment towards those who

disapproved of her. Such sentiments are not unusual in human bosoms.

Husbands feel so for their wives, and wives for their husbands, and

parents for their children. Why will they show themselves at their worst

to make strangers laugh, or wonder, or despise; and at the same time,

how do they dare, these strangers, to despise, or laugh, or wonder? A

more painful conflict of feeling cannot be.

This was what Arthur was thinking, sitting drearily, not among the ruins

of his domestic happiness, but before the sunny, common-place, too

trimly new and flimsy altar of those capricious deities who rule the

hearth. He had not yet been six months married: but how the bloom had

gone off all his hopes, and with how little confidence he regarded the

future, which once had seemed to him so bright! And as he sat there,

with his books thrown down at his elbow, and the “Times” thrust away

from him upon the table, with a sort of loathing in his mind both of the

studies which could now, he thought, do him no good if he returned to

them, and of the public life, once certain, which now seemed to have

become impossible and undesirable, he heard Mrs. Bates and Sarah Jane

come in and the conversation that followed. Even now Arthur had sense

enough (and it was creditable to him) to throw himself into no vulgar

vituperation of his mother-in-law. The woman was well enough; she was

kind, and almost fierce in independence, taking nothing from him, giving

not receiving hospitality, and in no way disposed to encourage his wife

in anything disagreeable to him. It was not Mrs. Bates that was in

fault, but Nancy herself--she who had seemed to him such a lily of grace

and sweetness among all these common-place people. She was so still, he

believed; she was not like them, who were natural to their sphere, and

suggested nothing better. He was faithful notwithstanding all

imperfections to his first ideal of her; but her words thrilled through

and through him, scarring him as with burning arrows. “He had not opened

any doors to her. Oh, why did girls marry!” was this what his wife asked

after five months of marriage with him? Arthur’s veins seemed to fill

full as if some essence of pain had been poured into them. He darted up

overcome by sharp misery and shame, and a passionate resentment which he

could not restrain. It took him but a moment to throw open the folding

doors. If one minute more had elapsed, it would have brought a second

thought, but there was no interval in which this was possible. He threw

open the door and stood looking at her, for the moment too tremulous and

agitated to speak. She had put shame upon him before those women who

were the only visitors she cared for. When she saw him, Nancy jumped up

too and confronted him.

“Well?” she said, loudly, with a sharp and tremulous voice of

interrogation. What had he to say for himself? She had said nothing

which she was not ready to stand to, which she would not defend with all

her powers. No one had ever known Nancy to flinch. However hot and hasty

had been her assertions, however lightly said, she had always stood up

for them; and to such a palpable challenge and trumpet call to conflict,

it was not likely she would give in now.

He stood and looked at her for a moment almost wavering. It was not the

first time she had said such things, why should he resent it so much

more than usual?

“Did you mean that?” he said. “Do you really think that I have closed

doors but opened none, and that girls would not marry if they knew--”

“I said it, therefore I must have meant it,” cried Nancy, with a flush

of angry red. “If you sit and listen to what women are saying! But I

never say anything I will not stand to. Yes: what door have you opened

to me, Arthur? it was mother’s words first. Not your father and

mother’s, which was the first to be thought of, nor any of your

friends’; but mother’s has always been open to you.”

“Oh, hush, hush!” cried Mrs. Bates. “Oh, children, you don’t know what

you’re doing. Why should you quarrel? Nancy, hold your tongue--you’ll be

sorry after that you ever said a word.”

“Not I!” cried Nancy. “I am not one to bottle things up. I’ll say it out

plain before you both, and you can be my witness, mother. When I knew

Arthur first, I never thought what he was. Gentleman or poor man it was

all one to me. He was my fancy, and that was all I thought of. When that

man came, that Durant, then I began to see what I was bringing on me;

but it was too late to draw back. And I said to myself, I’d let him see

it wasn’t his money I wanted, and that I’d never kootoo to one of his

grand friends. And I never have,” she cried, with angry energy, “and I

never will. You’ve opened no doors to me--nor I don’t want you to; but

you shan’t think that it’s been a grand thing for me to marry you,

neither you nor anyone belonging to you. It hasn’t. You’d separate me

from my own people if you could, and you don’t give me any other; and I

say again, if girls only knew--”

“Mrs. Bates,” said Arthur, with trembling lips. “I do not think I have

tried to separate your daughter from you. I may defend myself so far as

this; and I had hoped that some time or other she would have gone with

me to knock at that door which you upbraid me with not having opened.

But what am I to do if, as she tells you, she never will? she never has

shown the slightest inclination to do so, that is the truth indeed.”

“It was them that should have come to her--that’s what she thinks,” said

Mrs. Bates, “and she’s hot-tempered. You know she’s hot-tempered. She

don’t mean half of what she says. Oh, don’t now, don’t quarrel,

children!” cried the mother. In the _mêlée_ Sarah Jane thought she might

as well take a part too.

“I don’t wonder that Nancy was affronted. That stuck up Miss Curtis

coming with her ‘dear Arthur’s,’ and her ‘dear brother’s,’ and taking no

notice, no more than if we were cabbages, of us; but as for Nancy not

thinking of who he was, and that it was a grand marriage, oh, didn’t she

just! You may tell that to those that will believe it, you had better

not tell it to me.”

“You nasty, spiteful, tale-telling disagreeable thing!” cried Nancy,

furious, turning upon her sister, who laughed in her face, and ran round

in fright, which was half real, half pretended, to the other side of the

round table. Arthur stood aghast while this playful episode, so much out

of keeping with his feelings, went on. It was out of keeping to Nancy

too. No smile came upon her face. “I thought it was a great marriage I

was making, if you please,” she said, after she too had paused with the

sense of a crisis, and stared at her sister’s pretended sportiveness. No

smile relaxed the lips of either of the contending pair. “I thought so,

you may say it. I thought I should be a lady, and mix with the best in

the land; what’s come of it? Have I ever set foot among the folks you

belong to, or their kind? No, I said the truth, there’s no door been

open to me--the other way! You would shut mother’s door upon me if you

could, you would keep me away from my own folks--the only friends I

have. But you’ll never do it, Arthur, you may as well give it up at

once. I’ll stick to them that’s good to me, and I won’t stir a step to

court your people, nor to curry favour--no, not if you would ask me on

your knees. I wrote to my lady, because I promised, but my lady wouldn’t

make much of my letter; and never will I make myself so cheap again,

never if I should live hundreds of years.”

“Nancy, Nancy, my child!” cried her mother, “you must not make rash

vows. You don’t know what you’ll do till the time comes. She’s

hot-tempered. That’s all about. And if Arthur will say he is sorry--”

“What shall I say I am sorry for, Mrs. Bates?”

“Oh, now this is too bad. Don’t you see it will please her? She always

was a bit unreasonable and high-tempered. You can’t help your temper,

it’s a thing that’s born with you. Say you’re sorry, and smooth her down

a little, and she’ll soon come round and promise anything you like. I

know my Nancy. She is hot-headed, and she’s contrairy, but her heart’s

in the right place,” said the mother. Mrs. Bates was frightened by the

contraction in Arthur’s face.

“I have nothing to be sorry for,” he said. “I have made no accusations

against anyone; but I cannot always give in. I have come here to please

her, and she is not pleased. Let us go away. Let Nancy second me in my

attempt to get back into a natural life. It is not natural that I should

be cooped up here, doing nothing, wasting my time. I must get out of it

somehow. Either you will go with me, Nancy, or I must go alone. I cannot

go on in this way any longer.”

“You shan’t then!” she cried, with redoubled heat. “Go--wherever you

like for me. Oh, yes, go back to your family that you’re so fond of. You

and your friends do nothing but despise me, even a bit of a

schoolmaster’s wife! Don’t hold me, don’t keep me back, mamma. I’ll not

be left, whatever happens; it’s me that will go, and he can do what he

pleases. Don’t I tell you! Nobody shall hold me, nobody shall keep me in

one place rather than another against my will. But I shan’t stay to be

forsaken. Oh, don’t think it, Arthur! It’s me that will go.”

“I have said nothing about forsaking you,” he said; but he was wearied

out with such struggles, and he made no appeal to her to stay. This

decided Nancy. She rushed impetuously from the room, leaving them all

staring at each other, without giving a word of explanation. Mrs. Bates,

whose face was somewhat blank, called to Sarah Jane to follow her

sister, and herself turned to Arthur with an attempt at a smile.

“It will soon be over now,” she said. “You mustn’t be hard upon her,

Arthur. For all we know, there may be something working with her that

she can’t resist. Young women have queer ways, and you can’t tell what’s

the cause of it till after. Don’t you mind; go back to your books,

there’s a dear, and take no notice. She’ll have a good cry, and she’ll

come to herself, and you mustn’t mind.”

It was not this address that quieted him; but what could he do? The

position was so impossible that he was glad to withdraw from it. It was

worse than ever, now that one of these altercations had taken place

before witnesses; he went back sadly to his fire and sat down again,

blaming himself for the exasperation which had made him speak. Probably

Mrs. Bates was right, and it was all over. She might come downstairs,

looking as if nothing had happened, or she might come down penitent, as

she sometimes did; and this got the better of him at once. But anyhow,

he would not insist upon continuing the altercation, he was too glad

that it was over. He sat down, sighing, and drearily drew towards him

the Demosthenes that lay on the table. How unimportant all that dead

eloquence was, side by side with living passion! The petty stir of

domestic dissensions was too near to let him hear the ring of the old

disputations, the flow and flood of the old eloquence. Nancy’s voice, in

all the warmth of passion, rang more clear on the ear than the greatest

of orators. He sat with his nerves all thrilling, and his mind vainly

striving to get a little instruction through his eyes. Those eyes read

easily enough, hot though they were with the strain they had been

subjected to, but the mind received no impression. It was more busy in

his ears, listening to what was going on. He heard the hasty sound of

Nancy’s footstep upstairs; then he heard her come down, and there were

voices in the little hall, confused and undertoned, one voice mingling

with another; and then there was the sound of the hall-door closing. He

sat after this with a strange sensation, as if that sound of the door

had jarred him in every limb. He did not seem able to move to see what

it was. But the stillness that fell upon the little house was ominous.

Instead of the excited voices which had been audible a little while ago,

filling the place with contention, what a strange deadly sort of quiet!

Arthur was wearied out. So many vicissitudes of feeling had not occurred

in all his previous life as had come to him within these five months

past. Happiness, delight, disappointment, vexation, irritated nerves,

wounded affection, mortified pride, and that combination of impassioned

love and disenchanted vision which is of all things in the world the

hardest to bear. How different, how different from his anticipations!

How lightly the lovers’ quarrels had gone off, quenched in tears and

smiles, and mutual confessions and warmer fondness. “The falling out of

faithful friends renewing is of love.” But then that must not go too

far, or continue too long, and the shiver of hot shame which she had

brought over him so often, the uncertainty as to how she would acquit

herself which was always present, the passionate mortification with

which he had seen other people’s smiles, or heard other people’s

comments, all these were very different from the lovers’ quarrels. He

held his Demosthenes steadily in his hand, and attempted to read. How

far off it was! and the other so near; and of all the things that can

occupy a man’s ear, what is so absorbing as the dead silence of vacancy

after a struggle which has threatened everything, and had ended

in--what? Nothing, silence, vacancy, probably bringing no consequence at

all.

Nancy did not come in at the hour of luncheon. He waited for her,

refusing that refreshment until it was clear she did not mean to come

back. Then he swallowed a glass of wine hastily, and prepared in his

turn to go out--not to seek her. He was resolved that this time, at

least, she should be left in tranquillity, left to do what pleased her

best. He had just gone into the hall to get his hat when some one came

to the door. How his heart jumped! and how sick it grew again when it

turned out to be only Mr. Eagles, who had come to make a serious

remonstrance.

“You oughtn’t to lose your time,” the “coach” said, bending his brows.

“If you can’t do anything better, you should come back to me. The old

set are still hard at work, and there are two or three new men that

will make their mark. It can’t be lively here, doing nothing. Why,

you’ve nothing to do, not even fishing or football, eh? I never hear of

you playing football. What do you do?”

“Nothing,” said Arthur; “and I can’t say I like it; but what’s the good?

I am too old for football and that sort of thing.”

“Ah, four-and-twenty, that’s a great age; but I know what you mean.

Married! there’s the rub--feel yourself too grand for it. But look here,

Curtis. A man can’t live with nothing to do.”

“The wonder to me is how long a man can live with nothing to do,” said

Arthur. “But as I say, what’s the good? I’m too old now to care about my

degree. What does it matter, one way or the other? I have got beyond

that stage.”

“Married, again!” said Mr. Eagles; “that is what drives me wild--not the

fact, which is harmless enough; but Lord, how grand you all think

yourselves! However, it don’t last. You can’t feed upon strawberries and

cream all your lives, my dear fellow. You must buckle to at something,

or you will be nobody. I don’t like anyone who has passed through my

hands, to be nobody. You had better read, Curtis, you had better read.”

“Yes,” said Arthur, vaguely.

He was quite willing to pledge himself to anything so long as Mr. Eagles

would but go away, and leave him to listen and make sure if anyone came:

or get out into the air and distract his mind from listening. One or the

other, he felt, he must do.

“The best thing will be to come back to me,” said Mr. Eagles; “at least

you won’t lose your time completely, and you’ll find it a relief. Too

many sweets will pall upon you; take them in measure and they are

delightful enough. Come, Curtis, I make you an offer I needn’t say, for

you know, that I don’t require to go hunting for pupils; but, my good

fellow, for your own sake you had better come back.”

“Yes,” said Arthur, with a sudden lightening and ease which diffused

itself all over him. There was another sound at the door; and this time

it must, there could be no doubt, be Nancy. This relief made it

possible for him to listen. His countenance cleared. He had not really

known what his fears were, but he felt the vague greatness of them in

this sense of immediate ease and relief.

But all the blood rushed to his head again, and the pulses began to beat

in his brow when the door opened, and not Nancy appeared, but the maid,

showing in the unexpected, and in the circumstances, alarming figure of

Durant.

CHAPTER XV.

“There is something wrong at home!”

This most natural of all the ideas with which foreboding human nature

sees a sudden arrival, sprang to Arthur’s lips almost in spite of

himself. He was already so torn by anxiety and alarm that it seemed

perfectly appropriate that other griefs should come to distract him, and

he scarcely understood the eager “No” with which Durant replied. It was

not till they were seated together, one at each side of the fire--Mr.

Eagles having taken his departure--that Arthur realized that the burning

confusion and pain in his head arose from the fact that his wife had

gone out in a fit of passion a few hours ago and had not yet come back,

not so very serious a matter--and was not owing to any suddenly heard

of calamity, at home.

“No, things are all well, but I have something to say to you, Arthur,”

said Durant. And he began a long commission, which Arthur heard vaguely

and did not understand. It was to the effect that the post of attaché to

a foreign embassy which the young man had wished for, was open to him,

and this was coupled with overtures from the parents whose hearts were

yearning over Arthur. Probably there is after all nothing so well

calculated as long silence to wear out the indignation and resentment of

fathers and mothers. However hot these may be at first, the blank misery

of knowing nothing about a child beloved, damps and quenches the ardour

of offence, and in a great many cases the cruel son or daughter has his

or her will out of the sheer intolerableness of this break, and anxiety

of the tender hearts on whom this unfeeling passiveness tells more

severely than any more actively offensive treatment. This had been

working for all these months at Oakley. Hearing nothing! it was almost

worse than death, of which this miserable certainty that we shall hear

no more of those we have lost, is the greatest bitterness--tempered,

however, with the counterbalancing certainty which alone makes us

capable of bearing it, that human events are over to them, and that none

of the calamities with which we are familiar can happen to those who are

beyond the veil. But the Curtises knew that anything or everything might

be happening to Arthur, while they had no news of him, and were as

ignorant of all his ways as if he had been dead. And when the

information came of this vacancy which he had desired so much, the

opportunity was not to be resisted. They had said nothing about it to

each other for twenty-four hours, and then had burst forth the universal

feeling. Let him accept this, and let him come home and bring his wife,

if no better might be. She had been insolent, what did it matter? She

was the price that must be paid for Arthur; and the moment it became

possible to have Arthur, they all felt that they were too ready to pay

any price. Lady Curtis had telegraphed for Durant when the general

conviction burst forth, and the household at Oakley were now full of

excitement, already beginning to prepare rooms for Arthur and his wife,

and forgetting all other feelings in the pleasure of seeing their boy

again. Durant had lost no time. He was too faithful a friend to consider

that Arthur had all but repulsed his friendly offices after the

marriage, and that not a word of recollection had reached him from

Underhayes during the entire winter. He went down to Oakley at once to

receive his commission, and here he was with full credentials. The

father and mother made no conditions. If Arthur accepted this

appointment, which was the best thing he could do, let him come home and

bring his wife. That was all. And it may be supposed that Durant,

feeling himself the bearer of proposals both generous and tender, was

startled and affronted by the confused and pre-occupied way in which

Arthur seemed to listen, not understanding him, starting at every sound

outside, continually disturbed, and with a look of nervous agitation

which had evidently nothing to do with the question in hand.

“Do you not understand me?” he cried at last, indignant: and then the

rising excitement in Arthur’s mind burst forth.

“Durant, my wife has gone away to her mother’s. I--I can’t answer all at

once.”

“What do you mean, Arthur? How disturbed you look! Has anything

happened?” cried Durant. Arthur made an effort to recover himself. He

laughed tremulously.

“You know me, Lewis,” he said, “I am a--nervous sort of fellow, though I

don’t look it perhaps.”

“I know. There _is_ something the matter, Arthur. What is it? Is your

wife ill? What has happened?”

“Well--nothing has happened. I have been living rather a solitary life,

and one gets irritable--and easily put out.”

“You have had a--difficulty, as the Americans call it--a lover’s

quarrel,” said Durant, with a laugh, which was far from according with

his feelings.

“That is just it. No, not a lover’s quarrel, but a difficulty. We see

things from different points of view; and I don’t know how she will like

this, I must wait. I cannot decide until I know.”

“Arthur, it is all very well, all very right to consult your wife; but

you can’t think of neglecting such an opportunity. It is altogether

unconditional. They will receive her, as if she were a Duke’s daughter;

you know, when once they have made up their minds to it, there will be

no stint, she will have no reason to complain of her reception.”

Arthur’s head was turned to the door.

“You will think me silly,” he said; “a fool! but I cannot help it. One

thing I will tell you, Durant; I will go to Vienna. I don’t think it’s

too late; five months is not long enough at my age to put a man out

altogether, is it? But as for Nancy, I can’t answer. If she will go with

me home, if she will go with me to Vienna, I can’t tell you. We must see

her first. She is at her mother’s--”

“You don’t mean to say that she has left you, Arthur?”

“Oh no, no,” he said; “that is rather too absurd, the most ridiculous

idea. Come along, Durant, let us get out and stretch our legs. I have

not had a real walk for ages. Of course, as it’s Saturday you are going

to stay till Monday? That is right, that is a true pleasure. She is

at--her mother’s,” he added, changing the subject abruptly, and dropping

his voice.

What did it mean? Durant could not tell. He had not disliked Nancy;

though she had defied him too, it had been done in a way which did not

offend the young man. He had admired her, even when she attacked himself

personally; and he had been inclined to think as Arthur did, that she

was a lily among those weeds. He had not been surprised at his friend’s

infatuation. He had thought her a beautiful high-spirited girl, full of

a generous if over vehement disdain for the conventional judgment that

made her appear an unfit wife for a man of worldly position superior to

her own. Her threat to give up her lover, and her counter decision to

marry him disinherited, in order to show his friends how little she

cared about his money, were fresh in his mind. And he had liked Nancy;

though he had been formally on the other side as Lady Curtis’s agent, he

had never really been unfriendly; he remembered well his old

difficulties when he had tried to persuade Arthur to relinquish his

faith to this girl who trusted in him, and with what a sense of relief

he had found that all his arguments were vain, and Arthur’s honour and

love invulnerable. He was mystified and perplexed, as well as grieved,

by Arthur’s painful pre-occupation now, not knowing what could have

happened. They went out in the teeth of the March wind, which blew sharp

and keen along the suburban roads.

“I have not had anything to call a walk for weeks,” Arthur said, with a

feverish look of eagerness, as they reached the fresh breadth of the

common, with the green fields and country paths beyond. The hedgerows

were bristling with buds, the skies softly blue, where they could be

seen through the masses of cloud that swept across the great vault

overhead. The young man sped along like a loosened greyhound, and his

friend, fresh from the confinement of town, had hard ado to follow him.

He talked little as he went along. Was he walking so fast to escape some

care that weighed upon him? If it was not for that there was no other

motive, for the walk was without any object. Now and then he would break

forth for a moment about this prospect which Durant had come to offer

him. “It would be the best thing,” he would say, “far the best thing. I

must get rid of this one way or other.” Then he would be silent, and

after a mile or so say to himself again, “Yes, _this_ will not do--I

must go, it is plain. Going may be salvation.” Durant did not know what

irrepressible cares were plucking at his friend’s skirts and compelling

him to these resolutions; and he himself talked calmly of Oakley, of the

desires of the family there, and the haste they were in to send him off

upon his mission, and all the anticipations of Arthur’s return which

they had already begun to entertain. At this Arthur did nothing but

shake his head, “Will _she_ consent?” he said once. Would Nancy consent?

was that what he meant? Consent! what excuse could she have not to

consent? They walked far, at a great pace, and Durant was almost worn

out. He lagged behind his friend as he approached the house. It was

still all dark, one faint gleam of firelight in the drawing-room

contending feebly with the grey of the twilight, no one at the window

looking out for them, no lamp lighted. “Has Mrs. Curtis returned?”

Arthur asked of the maid, as they went on, and was answered No. They

went into her part of the house, the white little drawing-room, where

indeed there were no pretty signs of Nancy’s presence, no work or books

to mar the trimness of the place, but all the chairs set against the

wall, and the fire flickering dimly in the grate. And the dinner hour

came without any appearance of Nancy. Arthur got more and more agitated

as the time went on--and Durant more and more surprised.

“Is your wife dining out?” he said, when he found they were about to sit

down at the table without her. Arthur made no distinct answer; he said

after a while, as if he had then heard the question for the first

time--“She is at her mother’s.” He did not change his dress before

dinner, or show any recollection of the need of such preliminaries, but

sat over the fire, vaguely replying now and then when his friend spoke

to him, and starting at every sound.

“Shall you not wait for Mrs. Curtis?” Durant said, as Arthur took him

into the little dining-room.

“She is at her mother’s,” was all Arthur replied. Altogether it was very

mysterious, and Durant could not but feel that there was mischief in the

air.

At last when the clock had struck ten, and there was no appearance of

Nancy, Arthur sprang to his feet. “I must go and fetch her,” he said,

“this will never do--this will never do!” Durant took his hat

mechanically also, and they walked out without another word into the

windy night. The sky looked widened and enlarged by the boisterous

breeze which drove mass after mass of clouds across the blue, and across

the face of the waning moon, which shone out at intervals only to be

swallowed up again by those floating vapours. There was a certain hurry,

and coldness, and agitation in the night. The way from Rose Villas into

the lighted street of Underhayes was dark, and the alternations of gloom

and light in the sky made the vision uncertain. Durant could see how

anxiously his friend peered at all the figures they met on the darkling

road; but Nancy was not on her way home. They went on in silence to the

street which Durant remembered perfectly, and to the door, at which

Arthur left him standing as he went in. He had stood there before, and

heard the voices in the parlour when he came here first in search of

Arthur; how strange to come here now in search of Arthur’s runaway wife!

for this was what it seemed to be now. He could hear the silence which

followed Arthur’s entrance--a pause which was impressive from the

confusion of voices that had been audible before. “I have come for

Nancy,” he heard him say.

Arthur had gone in without any question. He had left his friend at the

door, neither thinking nor caring that some revelation might be made

which it was better Durant should not hear. He steadied his own

countenance not to look angry or anxious. “Are you ready?” he said,

addressing his wife, “I did not think you meant to stay so long.”

“You have not given yourself much trouble to look after me,” said Nancy.

“No, I am not ready. I don’t mean to go.”

“What does she mean?” he said with a tremble in his voice, turning to

Mrs. Bates.

“Oh, Arthur, I don’t know what she means. She is as hot-tempered and as

contrary as possible. She takes up things quite wrong. You never meant

to drive her away, did you? You had not thought of leaving her--tell her

for heaven’s sake! She will not listen to me.”

There was no one in the parlour but Mrs. Bates and Sarah Jane. It was a

night when the tax-collector was busy adding up one of his lists of

defaulters, and it was the same party which had witnessed the dispute of

the morning which was assembled now. That was one reason of the sudden

quiet; the other was, the awe and horror that had come over the family

at Nancy’s obstinate resolution to stay at home, and return to her

husband no more--a resolution which he had divined, and which had

weighed on him for the whole day.

“I--leave her!” said Arthur, “what did I say that looked like leaving

her? Nancy, come home. I have been very unhappy, not knowing why you

stayed away from me, and now I have something to consult you about. Come

home.”

“I am at home,” said Nancy, sullenly. “It is no use talking. I have

taken my resolution. Go away, Arthur, as you said, I mean to stay here.”

“What does she mean?” he cried in dismay.

“Oh! I mean what I say. You told me you were going. You said I might

come if I pleased. I--who hate strangers--I, after all the slights

you’ve brought upon me! but that any how you were going. I’ve left for

good and all. Mother can go and pack up the things, and dismiss the

servants, and leave you free; but one word’s enough to me, Arthur, you

shall never have occasion to say another. I don’t budge from here unless

mother turns me out. And as soon as you please, you can go.”

They all looked at each other--the others pale, Nancy red with

excitement and passion.

“You don’t mean this, Nancy,” Arthur said. “You cannot mean, for a hasty

word, to forsake me; it is not possible. A hasty word! how many have you

said to me. Come--come, you are angry; but how little there is to be

angry about! We have had more serious discussions before,” he added with

a faint smile, “and you have said much worse things to me.”

“It does not matter what I said, but what you said. No, Arthur, you may

put up with whatever you like; but I won’t put up with it,” she said,

in all the unreasonableness of passion. “You might think it didn’t

matter what I say; but I think it does matter what you say. No, I am not

going back. You may talk till you’re sick--it won’t make any difference

to me.”

“Nancy! don’t be such a fool,” said Sarah Jane. “Why, only think how

people will talk. Not six months married, and coming back home! And

after all the fuss that was made about your marrying, and the grand

catch we fancied it was. When you come to think of it you can’t be such

a fool.”

“Nancy--Nancy, my dear, you’re unreasonable! indeed you’re

unreasonable--when Arthur says he did not mean it.”

“Nancy!” cried the young man, “why do you torment me like this--what

have I done to you? You make my life a constant contention. We never

have a quiet moment. Have I failed in love to you--have I not thought of

you in everything? You will drive me mad, I think. Have I ever

neglected you, or injured you?”

“You said you would leave me,” said Nancy, “that’s enough, I told you at

the time. Oh! never a man in this world shall say that he has forsaken

_me_! I am not one that will be forsaken. Go, Arthur, go where you

please. I shall stay here.”

“Nancy, Lewis Durant is at the door. He has brought a message of the

greatest importance from Oakley.”

“Lewis Durant!” she started to her feet with fresh impetuosity, “that

was all that was wanted. Do you think I will stay behind to see Lewis

Durant--to let him spy and tell my Lady. No, mamma, no! That’s decided

me. Good night to you all. You may do what you please--but here I’ll

stay.”

And Nancy darted out of the midst of them, quick as thought, while they

all stood stupefied, and rushed out of the room and upstairs, where, as

they listened they heard her quick steps overhead thrilling through the

little house, and the quick closing and locking of the door.

The shock affected the three in different ways. Sarah Jane began to cry.

Mrs. Bates, trembling, went up to Arthur and caught him by the arm. This

strange, terrible incident changed him from her son-in-law, with whom

she was familiar, into her daughter’s judge, before whom she trembled.

“Oh, Mr. Curtis, Mr. Curtis!” she said. “The girl’s wild and out of her

senses. Don’t think too badly of her. It’s like a madness. Oh, forgive

her!” The mother was in too deadly earnest to be able for tears.

“What am I to do?” said Arthur, overcome, with a gasp as if for breath.

“Oh, my dear, my dear! Leave her; she is out of her senses, she is out

of her senses, she is out of her mind! Leave her to me, and I’ll bring

her to you to-morrow to beg your pardon. I will, Arthur, if anything in

this world can do it,” Mrs. Bates said, clasping her hands.

“There is nothing else to be done,” said Arthur. He was as pale as

death. He seemed to get his breath with difficulty as he stood there,

struck with wonder, paralyzed with the sense of impotence in his mind,

and the dire injury that had been done him. A friend may leave a friend,

or even a child a parent; but when a wife, a six months’ bride, leaves

her husband even for a day, even in the house of her father, it is as if

some horrible convulsion had happened which turns the world upside down.

He said nothing more to anyone, but went out, and caught at Durant’s arm

to support him, and walked home under the flying clouds, through the

stormy, agitated night. The night was like his mind, swept by wild

thoughts, overclouded by profound glooms. He scarcely said anything to

Durant, who seemed to divine all that happened, though nothing was said

to him. It was well he was there. When they went back to the villa, the

poor little villa, which was at once so desolate and so meaningless

without Nancy, the young man gave a heavy groan, which seemed to echo

through the mean little rooms. Could anything change this fact, any

coming back again, any penitence? His wife had forsaken him. Nancy had

gone back to her mother’s. It might be only for a night, but could

anything change the fact? His life had come to a stop; no making up

could alter that. As he had been even this morning, he could never be

again any more.

It was Durant who told that little falsehood to the servants about why

their mistress stayed away. She was not well, he said, and they need not

wait up, as it was doubtful whether she would come home. And he stayed

by Arthur through the long dull hours, hearing in breaks and snatches

something of the story which poor Arthur felt was now over: how they had

lived together, and how, according to all he could tell, they had

parted. When the flood-tides were opened, it relieved Arthur to speak.

He showed his friend in his despair all that was in his heart, his love

for Nancy, which was ready to forgive everything, and yet the wounds

which she had given to him.

“It is not her fault,” he said. “It is the want of training. She has

never realised it, what she married for. She thinks it was only to be

happy, to be loved and flattered, to have everything happy round her.”

This the poor young fellow said as if it was the best excuse in the

world. “That is how she has been brought up. It is not her fault. She

has not considered me, nor that there is a duty; and was I to be the one

to remind her of her duty, Durant? I did not want her to love me because

it was her duty. I wanted her to do her duty because of her love,” said

Arthur, unconsciously antithetical. Durant listened to everything, and

made few comments. If he said anything in sympathy for his friend which

meant condemnation of Nancy, Arthur rose up and stopped him. “How can

you tell how she was aggravated?” he said. It was not till the middle of

the night that Durant could persuade him to go to bed; and by that time

the desolateness of the dreary little house without Nancy, which had no

soul or meaning but Nancy, struck Lewis almost as much as it did Arthur.

Poor little miserable shell of a place, which had outgrown its sense and

its use!

Next day was a busy but a miserable day. Durant was at the Bates’ little

house as soon as it was opened in the morning, hoping that his eloquence

might be more effectual than that of the poor young husband, and that he

might be able, through her mother, to induce Nancy to come back. He

found Mrs. Bates very anxious and tearful, very well disposed, but

powerless. He gave her a hint of the proposal he had brought from

Oakley, and of the unconditional surrender of the Curtises, which the

mother carried to her daughter upstairs, but without any favourable

issue. Later he came back with Arthur. Nancy kept upstairs, she would

not show--and all the household was against her.

“I never held with it,” said the tax-collector. “I told my wife so from

the first. I never hold with a young woman complaining of her husband.

Mrs. Bates is too kind a mother, that’s what it is.”

These things penetrated into Arthur’s heart almost unawares; that his

wife had complained of him all through; that there had been talk of the

advantages of the marriage, and that Nancy had hoped to be well off, and

to make a great match, and had married him with that view. All these

things sank into his heart. Was this true, or was it all the truth? It

cannot be said that he believed it, yet it acted upon him as if he had

believed, bringing a mingled pain and bitterness, against which at this

moment he was incapable of struggling. All that day long they kept

coming and going, pleading with her to return; but when another night

came, and the slow hours dragged through with the same excitements as

before--without her, or hope of her--all sense of possible renewal died

out of these hasty young hearts, and the severance seemed complete.

END OF SECOND VOLUME.

London: Printed by A. Schulze, 13, Poland Street.