“Why did you speak to her? why didn’t you just make our excuses and come
on?” said the younger to the elder. “I thought you would never be done
talking.”
“I wanted to see her; I wanted to make out what kind of girl she was;
and I will tell you this, she is a nice girl. No more stuck up than I
am. A nice, smiling, pleasant girl, not a bit proud; not half nor a
quarter so proud as you are, Nancy.”
“_H-hush!_ Don’t call me by that name. Can’t you understand that is the
only name they know? Call me Anna, and it will not matter; they would
never think of that in connection with me.”
“Why should they think anything about you?” said Matilda. “A young lady
like Miss Curtis, why should she trouble her head with new people coming
into the village? Or what would make her think of you? You know the
reason why you came here, because it was the very last place Arthur
would think of looking for you; though, indeed, he has not troubled you
much with looking for you,” she added in a lower voice.
“You are very unfeeling,” said Nancy, with a quiver on her lip.
For it would be in vain to attempt to delude the reader into the idea
that this tall young lady in mourning who had taken the Wren Cottage,
and was called Mrs. Arthur, was anybody but Nancy. Her disguise was
transparent, indeed, to anyone whose suspicions had ever been awakened,
and the very transparence of her disguise was part of the character of
the girl, who had suffered a great deal indeed, and learned something,
but who was still herself at bottom, notwithstanding the progress she
had made. She had made a great deal of progress. She had read numbers
of very heavy, very solid books, and could have passed an examination on
various abstruse subjects which never could be of the slightest service
to her. How was the poor girl to know? She was aware that reading books
was the way to be educated, and she was too proud to be guided by
anybody who knew better than she did. She had devoured a great deal of
poetry, and many novels as well; though these she was rather ashamed of.
But she knew that it must be right to work through the Encyclopædia, and
to read history, and Locke upon the Human Understanding, and other
volumes of solid reputation. No doubt they did her good, more or less,
and the very effort to read them did her good. And she knew now all
about those things which had puzzled her so much at Paris; about the
Queen who was murdered, and the people whose heads were cut off; and had
gone over all the collections of pictures open in London, and knew now,
at least, the names of the painters with whom people are generally
enraptured. Her mistakes in the old days thus gave her a certain
enlightenment, revealing to her certain points on which she was very
ignorant, and which it was right to know; but beyond these limits Nancy
had not much information as to what was wanted for the education of a
lady, and stumbled along in the dark, though with the best will in the
world. But the occupation which this gave her was of the utmost
importance to her, and had softened and consolidated her whole moral
being. Further, she had tried music, which comes into the most
elementary conception of a lady’s training, but had found this very hard
work, neither her fingers nor her patience being equal to the strain
upon them; but she had managed better with drawing, and had made a great
many elaborate pencil copies, and some in chalk, which Matilda thought
beautiful. When her father and mother both died, it was impossible to
keep her longer in Underhayes. No one had any longer the smallest
control over her. Matilda, though she was sensible, had never taken any
lead in the family, and though she criticised, always obeyed the more
potent impulse of her younger sister. Nancy had been as impulsive and
imprudent in her present action as in all the previous movements of her
life. She had given up her income from Arthur without telling anyone, to
the great dismay of her sisters. “What are you to live on?” they had
both cried, with horror and alarm. But Nancy was not to be talked to
then more than at other periods. She had informed them that she meant to
live on her own little infinitesimal fortune, the two hundred and fifty
pounds her aunt had left her; and in answer to all their representations
that this would last a very short time, she would deign no reply. She
had determined to do it, and that was enough--as she had determined to
do other foolish things. Matilda had come with her in the spirit of a
martyr. “We must do something to make our own living when she has spent
it all,” Matilda said; “and I won’t forsake her.” Thus Nancy carried out
her foolish intention. She was independent for the moment, obliged to
nobody, whatever might happen to-morrow or next year. Two hundred and
fifty pounds seems a large sum to the inexperienced. And as to the
reason why she came to Oakley, it would have been still more difficult
to tell that. Because it was the last place in the world where Arthur
would be likely to find her, she said. Was it not rather because when
Arthur came to find her (as she had no doubt he would as soon as he
heard “what had happened,”) she would not permit herself to be found at
Underhayes, yet would not either put herself out of his way? However,
Nancy did not herself know what she meant upon this point. A great many
confused and inarticulate feelings were in her mind. Her heart yearned
towards her husband, whom she had loved in her way. Only when she had
driven him from her had she realized how much he was to her; and though
far too proud to make any overtures of reconciliation, all her forlorn
studies, her foolish self-trainings had been one long silent overture,
had anybody known. And now to come to the neighbourhood of his home, to
hear of him, to see the people whom she had stigmatized so often as
fine folks (how the educated Nancy blushed now at such a vulgar
expression!) seemed the greatest attraction in the world to her. She
would not put herself in the way of being noticed by them, but she would
not, on the other hand, make any violent effort to keep out of their
way; and there was something that pleased her fantastic condition of
mind in the mere idea of living there, unknown, yet not too carefully
concealed, indifferent as to whether she was found out or not;
unrevealed, yet not disguised. She would not change her name. She was
Mrs. Arthur, and there she would stay as Mrs. Arthur. If she were
discovered she was harming no one. She had a right to live there if she
pleased. Thus half in longing, half in defiance, Nancy took up her abode
in the little cottage called, nobody knew why, the Wren Cottage,
probably because it was not much bigger than a wren’s nest. Perhaps it
had not occurred to her how much discussion would be raised in the
tranquil little village by her arrival as a stranger; perhaps she did
not care whether she was talked of or not. Indeed, she did not think on
the subject, but only wondered with all her mind whether they would find
her out, whether they would not find her out, what they would think of
her? but never asked herself, as Matilda said, why they should think of
her at all. This, it was to be feared, was not at all a thing desirable
to Nancy. That they should inquire about her, wonder who she was,
suspect her, recognize her, these were the things she preferred to
imagine, and which it pleased her to brood over. Lucy had seen her, and
very likely would recognize her. She was sure she would recognize Lucy
wherever she might see her. It was exciting to meet her in the avenue as
they approached, and Nancy had a secret pleasure in sending Matilda to
apologize and explain, although she was quite well aware that the
thoroughfare was a public one, and that nobody could interfere with
their movements. Though she would not let Matilda see it, she was
trembling with suppressed excitement when her sister rejoined her.
Nothing could happen in consequence of such a meeting; Lucy could not
have divined who she was by the distant vision of her figure against the
light, or through Matilda, whom she had never seen; but yet the wilful
headstrong girl, who had resisted so much, trembled at this chance
encounter. She went back to the Wren Cottage afterwards, excited and
tingling all over; yet feeling a blankness in the air as if all the
colour and expectation had passed away.
The Wren Cottage was very small. The door opened direct into the
sitting-room without any passage or antechamber. Nancy of two years ago
would have thought it very common, but Nancy of to-day, knowing a little
about Art, in respect to modern dwelling-places, supposed it must be
“quaint,” and called it so. A wooden staircase led up into the bedrooms.
There was a deep recessed window at the side which gave a little more
pretension to the room, and commanded the road as far as the Hall gates,
and some small portion of the avenue. Here Nancy had ranged her books in
the window sill. They were of a very heterogeneous description. There
was a French book, something about the revolution, which she was reading
“for practice,” and there was a philosophical work which she
read--because she thought that was the right thing to do; but a little
of it went a long way. Thus the few volumes which she liked made an
imperfect balance with a great many which she did not like, but worked
at conscientiously, as understood to be the proper means for her
purpose. Her present solid study was of the most heterodox character,
and might have compromised Nancy’s “soundness” in doctrine, had there
been any critic here apt to judge; and might have confused her own
brain, poor girl, had she paid any attention to it. But she used the
book just as she used a chair--the one was to read, the other to sit
down in; and Nancy did not trouble her mind about the one more than
about the other. Besides these studies, there was a large cartoon in
chalk hung up against the side of the window, which she was copying so
carefully that it made one’s fingers ache to see. When she came in from
her walk, however, Nancy put down her podded clematis, and all the
autumnal leaves in her hands, upon the window sill, and arranged them
somewhat mechanically, yet with a certain grace, upon a large sheet of
paper, where she partly traced, partly drew them as they lay. This was
her fancy--and she thought it very frivolous and childish; not at all a
thing that had to do with the formation of the character, like the
cartoon in chalk.
While Nancy settled her wreath to her satisfaction, Matilda made the
tea. They had carpeted the little room with a common carpet all of one
colour, ornamented with a narrow border. Among Nancy’s books there had
been some which treated this question, and she had given to it a
solemnity of consideration which might have satisfied the most severe
critic. The little table in the middle of the room had a cover to
correspond; the stairs had the same red carpeting, and there were
similar curtains at the broad lattice window looking out to the street.
This was but an elementary stage of decoration, but how important it
seemed in Nancy’s eyes! as important as Queen Marie Antoinette and the
fact, which she had learned so painfully, that old pictures were
generally considered better than new ones. She was ashamed of herself as
she painted her leaves very rapidly, and with a blush on her face,
thinking it mere childishness, and when she read a novel, or even a new
poem. But to keep Matilda from placing the chairs against the walls, and
to keep the same colour in all the accessories of the room, that was
serious. It was one of her proofs that she was becoming a real lady, and
was no longer ignorant, fond of everything new and gaudy, as she had
been, alas! when Arthur was with her; everything was changed and mended
now. The tea went rather against Nancy’s notions of what she ought to be
doing in her present state of self-culture. She ought to be preparing
for dinner. But then there were practical considerations which told
against theory here. Fanny, the little maid, came only in the morning
and “late dinner,” that distinguishing feature in the life of “the
gentry,” would required cooking before it was eaten; and they both
preferred tea; and it was much cheaper, and caused less trouble; and,
lastly, no one visited them to see that they did not dine. Nancy was not
indisposed to call the dinner luncheon that day the Rector had called.
As it was she sat down to her bread and butter with sufficient content.
She had a great deal to do, and notwithstanding her precarious
condition, separated from her husband, without an income, and living
upon her little capital, she was not unhappy. She was too busy to be
unhappy. She had been quite unfit to be Arthur’s companion when they
were together; and there was so much to do to qualify herself for that
post. But when the Curtises saw that she could draw so well, and that
her room was so artistic, and that she had read so many books, what
could they think but that she was truly a lady? And Arthur would come
home for her, and all would be well. These hopes were in her mind as she
read, and as she drew. She was occupied, and there was hope in her, and
no one to cross her. Accordingly Nancy was not unhappy.
“I shouldn’t wonder at all if Miss Curtis was to call--she said
something about it. Will you see her, or will you not see her? I said I
was not sure you would like it.”
“Matilda, that was rude!”
“Nothing of the sort--what could I say? I couldn’t tell her, Nancy don’t
want to be seen.”
“Don’t call me Nancy, please!”
“Well, Anna then--but I never can recollect. I said I didn’t know if you
would like it--but anyhow you could go upstairs if you didn’t like it.”
“She must think me a pretty bear. She did not ask you--what your
sister’s name was, nor where she came from, nor--anything about her?”
“Not a word. Why should she? You didn’t show at all; when you are seen
you are a deal more interesting than me, I don’t deny it.”
“Please!” said Nancy clasping her hands, “don’t say ‘a deal,’ and ‘more
interesting than me.’”
“What should I say,” said the good-humoured Matilda; “it is a good thing
I am not nervous. When she comes, you can run upstairs. You can listen
over the banisters, and hear all she is saying; and if you like her
talk, you can come down next time. After all, Nancy, if you had not
imagined that we would see them, why should we have come here?”
“But she will know me,” said Nancy, “she saw me once--”
“On your wedding day! You don’t think you are a bit like the same person
in that funny stiff little cap, and white collar, as you were in your
wedding dress with your veil? I don’t think Arthur himself would know
you,” said her sister frankly. Nancy winced at this, in spite of
herself. She did not want to be so changed as this. That she might be
changed a little, that there might be a difficulty in recognising her,
and a sense of mystery exciting their curiosity before they found her
out--that would be nothing but pleasant; but to be so unlike herself as
not to be recognised, even by Arthur, was not in her thoughts.
It was Matilda’s part to put the tea away, as it had been hers to make
it. There was no question between them of their different positions.
Matilda yielded to Nancy all that the other could require. It was not
hers, heaven forbid it, to read these big books, to think so much about
everything, to take such trouble to learn drawing, and to understand the
arrangements of a room. But she liked getting the tea, and putting the
things away, though she was apt to make Nancy angry by setting the
chairs straight against the wall. And then they sat at the table with
the lamp between them, Matilda with her needlework, Nancy reading her
French for practice. Perhaps in her heart the elder sister might be
sighing for the friendliness of Underhayes, where she could steal out in
the evening and go through the blazing gas in Raisins’ shop, into the
comfortable little parlour, to have a chat with Sarah Jane; but on the
whole they were not at all unhappy; all the energies of Nancy’s active
mind were fixed upon her French. She could now, she thought, understand
very well all that was said to her, if ever she went to France again;
and understand the plays, and know what everything was about. Thus she
revolved in her narrow circle, preparing for those contingencies which
had once happened, and still hopeful that they were the same which would
happen again.
But Nancy was taking a little rest from her occupations, painting again
her tangled wreath of autumn leaves, but rather disposed to throw
something over it, perhaps one of those wretched antimacassars, which
proved her (though she did not know it) to be still in the land of
bondage--for even Matilda, who entertained a profound admiration for the
chalk cartoon, considered the other rubbish--when next morning there
came a soft knock to the front door. Matilda opened it so quickly that
her sister had neither time to disappear nor even to conceal her
occupation, when Mrs. Rolt’s pleasant middle-aged face appeared at the
door.
“I am Mrs. Rolt, a very near neighbour. May I come in and see Mrs.
Arthur, if she is at home?” said Cousin Julia. Her soft eyes were quite
keen with curiosity. She glanced to the very background of the picture,
the depth of the recess in which Nancy stood, with her pencils in her
hand. Her figure looked taller than it was in the long clinging black
gown; and the little close cap of transparent net on her head, looked
like a piece of conventual costume; and she wore a jet cross at her
neck, which increased this effect. Mrs. Rolt thought she was like the
mysterious lady in a novel with an interesting secret. She looked at
Nancy, though Matilda stood so much the nearest. “I don’t even know
which is Mrs. Arthur,” she said, with one of her ingratiating smiles.
Nancy came forward, laying down the pencils. She made a nondescript kind
of salutation, half bow, half curtsey, to the stranger. It was awkward
and shy, but it was not ungraceful. Matilda only smiled cordially, which
answered the purpose quite as well, it must be allowed; but there was no
likelihood that Matilda would ever be an ambassador’s wife, called upon
by her duty to be solemnly civil to all the world. “I am so glad to make
your acquaintance,” said Mrs. Rolt; “I daresay you see me sometimes, as
I see you. I have often and often looked across; and I should have
called, but I was afraid you might think I was intruding. However, being
told yesterday--that is Miss Curtis, whom you are sure to have heard of,
told me that I ought to come; and I was very glad to hear her say so.
Have you met any of the Curtises, Mrs. Arthur? They are, as of course
you know, the chief people here.”
“I have met--one of the family; long ago;” said Nancy, trembling as she
said it. But she could not restrain herself, for she suddenly felt that
she must hear of Arthur or die.
“Have you indeed? I wonder what one that would be. I should not wonder
if it were Arthur--Arthur is the one that has been most in the world.
And oh, such a sad fate for him, poor fellow! He married some common
girl or other--I don’t mean to say anything against her character, you
know; but she was not a lady. And after a while he had to separate from
her. Such a sad business! and poor dear Arthur was the nicest boy, poor
fellow! I suppose you must have met him in London. How interested poor
dear Lady Curtis will be.”
“Oh, don’t say I met him!” cried Nancy, whose cheeks were burning.
“It--might not be the same; it might be a mistake. Was he--not
happy--with his wife?”
Matilda got behind Mrs. Rolt, and made a warning sign to her sister.
Nancy’s eyes were blazing, her face suffused with crimson. Any spectator
less placid and unobservant would have fathomed her secret at once.
“Oh, poor fellow! he was dreadfully in love with her, I believe, as
young men so often are when they marry out of their own station; but
they separated, you know, so I suppose they can’t have been happy. We
expected them down here, and all sorts of preparations were made, and
dear Lady Curtis so much excited. And then all at once everything was
countermanded, and poor Arthur came down by himself, looking very
wretched, poor fellow! I wonder often if they will ever come together
again. It seems such a pity--a young man with everything before him!
But, of course, this puts a stop to his life; what can he do? cut off
from everything! For people don’t care to encourage in society an
attractive young man like that who is married, and yet isn’t married, as
it were. Ah!” said Mrs. Rolt, drawing a long breath; “how I run on! As
if you, who are strangers to the place, could be as interested about the
Curtises as we are. It is very good of you to listen, I am sure.”