Nancy’s agitation after this interview with Mrs. Rolt was great. It had
never occurred to her before, to think of the feelings which might
legitimately affect Arthur’s family and friends in respect to her
marriage. That they “looked down upon” her--despised her as a poor girl,
sneered at her as not a lady, was comprehensible enough, and woke her to
a wild defiance. It was this that roused the principle that she was “as
good as they were” in her undisciplined bosom, and led to all the
subsequent woes. But when she heard thus simply what was the state of
feeling on the other side, and especially the lamentation over Arthur’s
spoiled life with which Mrs. Rolt had concluded, Nancy’s heart, which
had been tremulously confident, began to sink. If this was how it
was--and of course this must be how it was--could he forgive her for
having by her perversity doomed him to such a fate? She had thought of
him often jealously as “enjoying himself” in the unknown society of
which she knew nothing; but it had never occurred to her that Arthur was
in a false position in that society, a married man, yet not a married
man; better off, no doubt, than a woman in the same position, yet but
poorly off, all the same; looked upon doubtfully, not belonging to one
class or another. Was this what she had sentenced him to? Had she been
reasonable, had she come with him when Lady Curtis had made all those
preparations for her reception, all this might have been avoided. It
gave her a strange thrill to think that Lady Curtis, who was now so near
her, had made preparations to receive her, and had even herself been
agitated by the thought of meeting her son’s wife.
“If I went now and told her, what would she say?” Nancy asked herself.
That would be entirely different. Arthur’s wife formerly had a right to
everything. Arthur’s wife now, what had she a right to? nothing but the
dislike and opposition of Arthur’s family. She was a stranger to
them--an enemy!
“If it takes effect on you like this, just to see one that knows them,
even though she don’t belong to them,” said Matilda, “what will they do
to you if they come themselves? and that young lady said she would come
herself--and oh! hasn’t she got quick eyes? she’ll read you all through
and through in a moment.”
“Let me alone,” said Nancy; “do you think I care who comes? I have more
control over myself than you think.”
“I’d like to see some more signs of it,” said Matilda; “I thought you
had mended of your silly ways; but here you are again, walking up and
down and rampaging as bad as you were at home. If this is all to begin
over again at the first mention of Arthur, whatever in all the world did
you leave Arthur for?”
“Because I was mad, I think;” said Nancy.
“Well, that was always my opinion. Your husband, a nice
well-dispositioned young man, that would have done anything to please
you! and all for us at home, that were fond of you to be sure; but
didn’t want you very much, Nancy.”
“You are cruel, very cruel, to tell me so,” cried Nancy, “to tell me
now!”
“Well, now is the only time I could have told you,” said Matilda,
composedly. “I wouldn’t have said it then to hurt your feelings; but you
can’t blame poor old father and mother now, and it is quite true. When a
daughter has married and gone off with a husband, who wants her back
again at home? But nobody would be unkind and hurt your feelings; and
now you hear the same from the other side. When married folks are
separated, what can anyone think but that there’s something wrong? on
one side or on the other side, it’s all one. But between you there’s
nothing wrong, only your tempers--only your temper, Nancy, I should say,
for Arthur, I will say that for him, always stood a deal more than he
ought to have stood, a deal more than I’d have stood in his place.”
Nancy made no reply. She retreated into her recessed window, and put
down her head into her hands among all the “rubbish” of autumn leaves
which Matilda was so severe upon, and cried. It was all true. So long as
her father and mother lived, there had been a kind of anchor to her
wayward soul in the thought that Arthur and his family had slighted and
condemned them, whom she was bound to defend and vindicate; and this
gave a certain reason and excuse for her own conduct, which of itself
did not bear any cooler examination. Her books, from which she had
acquired such strange bits of heterogeneous information, had not guided
her much in the way of thought; but to be at a distance from any
exciting period of individual history is of itself sufficient to throw a
cold gleam of uncomfortable light upon it, light which we would in most
cases elude if we could. Nancy had eluded it by impulsive action after
the change which had compelled her to think, the two deaths which threw
her, as it were, adrift upon the world. She had rushed at one thing and
another, given up her allowance, resigned her villa, removed here,
without leaving herself much time to consider; but now the retarded
moment could be held off no longer, and she was obliged to think. There
was not much that was satisfactory in the retrospect. Was it possible
that they had not wanted her at home? and that she had spoiled Arthur’s
life as well as her own? For what? She could not tell. Because his
family “looked down upon her,” because he objected to live in
Underhayes, because she was foolish, hot-headed, unreasonable. And now
what prospect was there that the husband whom she had thus slighted, and
his family whom she had defied and wounded through him, would be ready
to forgive, to take her into favour? A temporary despair came over
Nancy. The first time that an impetuous young mind sees its own faults,
and thoroughly disapproves of itself, what a moment that is! Reproof of
others most generally brings with it an impulse of self-defence which
defeats self-judgment; but when first, in the silence, unaccused of any
one, the soul rises up and judges itself, what a pang is there in the
always tardy conviction--too late, perhaps, late always, after suffering
and making to suffer, distracted in the best cases with the desperate
question whether there may still be a place of repentance. Matilda,
sitting calmly at her needlework, had not the least idea what passionate
despairings were in Nancy’s mind as she sat there and cried. What was to
become of her? The elder sister had been anxious enough over that
question when Nancy was so foolish as to give up her allowance. Matilda
herself had settled to join Charley in New Zealand, where useful young
women like herself were, she knew, wanted, as men’s wives, and in other
domestic capacities; but she would not forsake her foolish sister--and
now Matilda awaited with sufficient composure the solution of the
question, what was to become of them? If, when their transparent secret
was found out, the Curtises showed themselves willing to take charge of
Arthur’s wife, Matilda intended to give her so very distinct a piece of
her mind that there could no longer be any possibility of self-deception
on the part of Nancy; and to lay before her then and there the option of
return to her duties or immediate emigration; but, in the meantime,
until this crisis arrived, the sensible Matilda could wait. She was
working quietly at her own outfit for New Zealand at this very moment,
while Nancy studied her books, or drew, or “played” with the “rubbish”
which littered the room. Matilda, like most people, had a respect for
education, and perhaps there might be good in all that; but while this
fantastic, undirected preparation for something, she could not tell
what, was going on with Nancy, Matilda made those matter-of-fact
preparations which can never be without their use. She made her chemises
for the voyage while the other tried to make herself “a lady.” The one
attempt might fail, but not the other; and thus she worked on steadily,
altogether unconscious of the wild surgings of despair and
self-condemnation in Nancy’s mind. Matilda did not know what these
sentiments were. She herself had always done her duty, and as for Nancy,
she had been very silly, and there was an end of it. If she persevered
in being silly, Matilda had fully settled within herself that she would
take the command of affairs, and bring the fantastic young woman to her
senses, by giving her at least a piece of her mind.
Things went on in this way for a week or two after Mrs. Rolt’s visit;
nothing further occurred to disturb the sisters in their stillness, and
Nancy at least required the stimulation of some new thing. She got into
despair about her reading, her conscientious pursuit of knowledge and
accomplishments. If things were always to go on as now, what was the
good? Every day she got up hoping that something might happen, some
encounter that would quicken the blood in her veins; but nothing
happened. It was rainy weather, and not even a hairbreadth escape of
meeting Lucy, or any chance of being recognized--that danger which she
professed to fear and secretly longed for--had ever happened. The
village life was very dull and still, and the sisters had no natural
distractions, no breaks upon the heaviness and monotony of the rainy
autumn days. To Matilda, indeed, it was occupation enough to get on
steadily with her chemises, and she even rejoiced in the quiet which
permitted her to “get so much done.” But Nancy, even without the sense
of uncertainty in her fate which made her restless, was not sufficiently
placid of nature to have lived without break or change; and her whole
scheme of living, artificial as it had been from the beginning, was
disorganized and broken up. She had hoped everything at first, making a
little romance of the story: how Arthur would come to seek her as soon
as he knew of “what had happened;” how, failing to find her at
Underhayes, he would rush everywhere to look for her, advertise for her,
pursue her far and near; how he would come sadly home to tell his mother
that his Nancy was lost for ever and his heart broken; and then would
find her, turning all trouble into joy. This was the fancy the foolish
girl had cherished in her heart; but there was no sign or appearance
that anything would come of it. On the contrary, she began to perceive
something like the real state of affairs; she saw what she had brought
upon her husband by her causeless abandonment of him, and something of
the light in which her conduct must appear to others; and how could she
be sure that he was now ready to pardon, ready to open his arms to her
again? This thought disturbed all Nancy’s confidence in her progress, in
her reading, her French, her beautifully shaded _étude_. What folly
these labours would all turn to if he despised them, and had no interest
in her improvement! It could do her no good to be a lady unless she was
reconciled to Arthur; and what if to be reconciled was no longer
Arthur’s desire?
Mrs. Rolt, however, for her part, was most agreeably moved and excited
by the new neighbours, to whom her visit had brought excitement of so
different a kind. She hurried out to the Hall to tell the story, in her
waterproof and goloshes. It was too wet for Lucy to venture to the
village; but Cousin Julia could have ventured anywhere in the strength
of such a piece of news as she had now to carry. She told how she had
gone to call, chiefly moved by Lucy’s encouragements.
“For I thought if Lucy thought it was the right thing to do, you must
have thought so, dear Lady Curtis; and of course you know better than I
do. There is something very strange about them. The married one is quite
different from the other. I am sure she is a most accomplished person,
very handsome. I should think she must be something very artistic, and
perhaps she has been on the stage. Oh, no, she did not say anything to
make me think that; but there is something about her;--very handsome,
with such a lovely complexion, and fine eyes and hair. But the other is
quite homely, a nice sort of little friendly woman. My own opinion, if
you ask me,” said Mrs. Rolt, mysteriously, “is that she’s not a widow.
_I_ should say Mr. Arthur, whoever he may be, is no better than he
should be; and he has broken his poor wife’s heart, and driven her away
from him. That’s my idea. Sam says ‘Fudge!’ but then he is always saying
‘Fudge.’ I wish I knew the rights of the story; and you will see, it
will turn out something like what I say.”
“On the stage--was the young woman on the stage? I hope she will not
introduce any taste for that kind of thing in the village,” said Sir
John, who had come in as usual for his cup of tea.
“Oh, dear no--no, I did not mean that. She is only the kind of
mysterious, lovely young creature--so superior, and yet with such a
homely sister; and so handsome--and all alone, you know--that might have
been on the stage, as you read in books; something quite romantic, and
so interesting, like a novel,” cried Mrs. Rolt.
“I hope it may come to the third volume and entertain us all,” said Lady
Curtis. “We want a little amusement this rainy weather. Perhaps the
husband will turn up, and prove to be handsome and superior too: or
perhaps she will hear of his death--what is the matter, Lucy? You have
spilt your tea over my crewels!”
“No, I only scalded my fingers a little. I don’t like to hear you
settling all about the husband, as if we were quite sure he was the one
to blame.”
“Ah, well,” said Lady Curtis, with a sigh. It brought another story to
her mind, as no doubt it had done to Lucy’s; and after this no more was
said. To be sure, Mrs. Rolt said to herself, as she drove home in the
brougham which Lady Curtis (always so kind!) insisted upon having out
for her--it was not, perhaps, right to talk of anything that could
recall poor Arthur’s sad circumstances. But then this was evidently so
different, such an interesting young creature; and dear Sir John had
been quite amused.
The next bright day after this, Lady Curtis and her daughter were both
in the village. After the first outburst of autumn rains, a bright day
is very tempting; and the walk down the avenue was pleasant, and the
village basked in the sunshine with genuine enjoyment, as if the old
red houses knew how expedient it was to make the most of the little
warmth and brightness which remained possible. Lady Curtis sat at Cousin
Julia’s window while she waited for Lucy, and looked out, not without
satisfaction, upon the village, tranquil as it was. To see the women at
their doors, curtseying to the Rector as he passed, and the children
getting out of his way, and the cart with baskets, conducted by two
hoarse and strident tramps, which was at that moment making a triumphal
progress through the street, was a change from the sodden green of the
park, as seen from the long windows of the morning-room. She was a woman
whom it was easy to amuse, and this simple variety pleased her. She was
looking out with a smile on her face at this rural scene, when the
sudden appearance of two unknown figures surprised her; and when Bertie
stopped to speak to them with much appearance of cordiality and
interest, Lady Curtis was interested.
“Who are these?” she asked, with the ready curiosity of a great county
lady, almost affronted that any new individual unknown to her should
appear, as it were, in the very streets of her metropolis without her
leave. “I never saw Bertie so eager before; he looks as if he had
forgotten for the moment that he himself must be the first person to be
thought of. Who is she, Julia?” cried Lady Curtis.
Mrs. Rolt came hastily from the other end of the room, where she had
been making the tea.
“Oh, that is the mysterious stranger--that is Mrs. Arthur--that is the
lovely creature I told you so much about. Don’t you think she is very
handsome--don’t you think she is interesting? I am so glad you have seen
her! Yes, Bertie is very civil to them. He is going back to their door
with them; but they never ask him in. I must say there never was
anything more prudent. They never encourage him to come; and though he
is the Rector he is a young man, you know, and agreeable. I should
certainly say Bertie was agreeable, if my opinion was of any weight.”
“So that is your mysterious young woman?” said Lady Curtis. “No, Julia,
no, she has never been on the stage. They never walk like that when they
have been on the stage. She doesn’t know how to walk; but there is a
kind of gracefulness about her. I cannot say if she is handsome or not;
but what can such a woman as that possibly want here?”
“That is just what I never could make out,” said Cousin Julia, delighted
to open forth on her favourite subject. Nancy just then turned round
unconscious of the eyes bent upon her, to look at the cart with the
baskets, and thus exposed herself unawares to the full gaze of her
husband’s mother. Her long black dress gave a certain dignity to her
figure, calling attention by its very plainness, and so did the little
close black bonnet with its edge of white which encircled her face.
Nancy in her ordinary garb and ordinary moods never had looked half so
distinguished or lovely. Lady Curtis could not take her eyes from this
face so softly tinted, so purely fresh and severely framed.
“Why didn’t you tell me before? The girl is a beauty!” she said.
“A beauty?” said Lucy, coming into the room; and she, too, gazed from
behind her mother’s shoulder. Had she ever seen that face before? she
asked herself, with an anxiety which neither of the others divined. She
had seen it only once, for a minute or two, surrounded by clouds of
bridal white. Was it likely she could recognise it now in this almost
conventual severity of costume? She dropped behind her mother,
half-satisfied, half-disappointed, and paid no attention to the further
comments of Lady Curtis, which delighted Mrs. Rolt. If it was no one she
had ever seen before--what did it matter to Lucy who it was? But when
the two ladies had left Cousin Julia, after they had taken a few steps
on the way home, Lady Curtis came to a sudden pause.
“Don’t you think, Lucy,” she said, in a conciliatory tone, “that it
would be only kind to call upon those new people? They must feel very
strange in this quiet place; and as she really seems a lady--”
“I am quite willing to go, mamma;” said Lucy, feeling her heart beat
more quickly in spite of herself.
“But don’t you think it is only a duty?” said Lady Curtis. She wanted to
be persuaded that she ought to go--not to go merely because she was
curious, which was the real reason; but when Lucy returned no further
answer, her mother, making use of her own impatience of temper as a
reason for doing what she wanted, turned sharp round with a little show
of annoyance at Lucy, and went straight across to the cottage door.
Cousin Julia saw her, and almost clapped her hands with pleasure, as she
lurked behind the curtains and watched; and the two people in the Wren
Cottage, who had been watching also from their windows since they came
in, saw her too, and prepared for the visit with excitement
indescribable. Lady Curtis’s movements were so rapid that she had
knocked at the door, and Matilda had opened, before Nancy, who was
standing behind, had got over her first breathless start of agitation
and suspicion. She was standing, leaning forward a little, her hands
clasped, her lips apart and panting with excitement, when the visitors
saw her first. Lady Curtis was in a little glow of pleasure and
interest.
“I had heard of Mrs. Arthur as a new neighbour,” she said; “I hope I may
come in and pay my respects, though it is getting late.”
“Oh, come in, come in, my lady;” cried Matilda, officiously hastening to
place chairs for the great ladies. Matilda’s heart was not leaping so in
her breast that she thought it must escape altogether--but Nancy’s was,
as she felt herself suddenly in the presence of these two ladies, with
whom her own fate was so closely connected. She held her heart with her
hand, that it might not leap out of her throat, and made a gasp for
breath, and could say nothing; and it was no wonder if Lady Curtis was
flattered by the impression made by her visit, and thought she had never
seen so expressive a face before.
“My sister will be very pleased to make your ladyship’s acquaintance,”
said Matilda. “What a fine day, and what a blessing after the wet! We
were beginning to think it never would be fine again. Anna! don’t you
see my lady--and haven’t you got a word to say?”
“It is very kind of Lady Curtis to come,” said Nancy, with difficulty.
She could not withdraw her eyes from the two. And Lucy looked at her
from behind her mother with again a thrill of wonder and suspicion. Why
was she so much agitated? what was there to be agitated about?
“I hope you like our village,” said Lady Curtis; “very few people see
it, except the people of the place, so it is not admired so much as it
ought to be, we think. It is a pretty village; but I trust you may not
find it very dull as the winter goes on.”
“Oh, we do not look for much; we are used to living very quietly--”
“That is well,” said Lady Curtis; “for Oakley is very quiet--so quiet in
winter that I much fear you will be frightened. Any stranger passing by
is an event. To-day for instance, it was quite gay; a pedlar’s cart, a
most picturesque object--and when you two ladies appeared, whom I had
not seen before, it became quite exciting. Hyde Park is seldom so full
of novelty to me.”
They both stared at her a little, not knowing what to say.
“The cart looked quite cheerful,” said Matilda; “I thought just like
your ladyship says. Some of the baskets were quite pretty, and it was
nice to see it. But I could not persuade Na--my sister, to buy any,” she
concluded hurriedly. What a glance of fire shot at her from Nancy’s
eyes!
“We did not want them,” she said; drawing a step nearer. She was too
restless to sit down; her heart indeed beat more quietly, and her
breathing was calmer; but to be here in the same room with them both,
talking to them indifferently, as if she did not know them, as if she
was not devoured with anxiety to conciliate them!--though a touch too
much might have driven her on the other side to defy them openly. For
the first time, Nancy felt how little she could depend on herself. They
might say something, they might even look something, that would offend
her, and send her off at a tangent. She felt no strength in her to guide
herself. At present, even, while there was neither offence nor
_rapprochement_, how wild and breathless she was, how incapable of
managing the situation! It must depend altogether on what they would do
or say.
“You have resources, I see,” said Lady Curtis, “Books secure one against
everything. But--” she added, shutting one hastily, which she had opened
on the table. “This is not common reading. Is it a girl-graduate in her
golden hair that we have got among us without knowing.” She smiled
graciously as she spoke. And Nancy grew red, and grew pale, and sat
down, though only because her limbs trembled under her.
“I know--very little,” she said, humbly, scarcely able to command her
voice.
“But she is not a girl at all,” said Matilda. “She is a married woman,
though you would scarcely think it, my lady; and she is very fond of her
book. Na--Anna, show her ladyship that beautiful drawing you are doing;
that is what she thinks of most.”
“The leaves? what a charming garland!” said Lady Curtis. The “rubbish”
which Nancy had been amusing herself with, was fixed up against the wall
with two pins. Nancy, herself, thought it was rather pretty, but nothing
of course to the _étude_ in chalks.
“Oh no, not that! that is all nonsense. It isn’t fit for your ladyship
to look at; but look here, my lady,” said Matilda, proudly. Lady Curtis
cast a careless glance at the drawing, which the sister thought so
superior; then turned with much admiration to the wreath that hung
against the wall.
“I must try to coax you,” she said, “after a while, when you know us, to
make some designs for me, for my crewels. How beautifully they would
work! Look, Lucy!”
“They are very clever,” said Lucy, going up to look; the sisters could
not believe their ears; and never, though Nancy had known the sweetness
of girlish triumph, and had “had offers” before Arthur, and had tasted
the sweetness of a young lover’s adoration--never had gratified pride so
touched her heart as at this moment; her face brightened out of its
anxious awe and alarm.
“Do you really, really think that? that I could make designs--for you?”
Lady Curtis thought she understood it all; evidently they were poor, and
this promised perhaps some occupation that would help their poor little
ends to meet. “Indeed I do, really, really,” she said, pleased with the
simplicity of the words, “if you will be so very kind and take so much
trouble. I will show you what I am working now when you come to see me
at the Hall.”
Nancy’s head swam with a soft intoxication of pleasure. These kind
looks, these kind words from this dreaded fine lady, who had been her
bugbear--whom she hated in imagination, and credited with every evil
quality--overwhelmed her. And Lucy’s presence gave a thrill of danger,
half-alarming, half-delicious, to this strange ecstasy of feeling. If
Lucy should have recognised her! She was saying something, she could
scarcely tell what, about nothing she could do being good enough--when
Lady Curtis, still looking, smiling, in her face, prostrated her with
the innocent question:
“You have met my son--in society--Mrs. Rolt thinks--”
Nancy started from her chair, unable to restrain herself. “Oh--no, no!”
she said trembling--not, she was going to say, in society, but changed
this by instinct rather than reason, “not--your son; I told her after
that it was--a mistake; only some one of the name.”
“Ah!” said Lady Curtis with a little sigh. “I am disappointed. I thought
it had been my Arthur. Perhaps then it was one of my nephews, the
General’s boys? The Rector is one of them. My son has not been at home
for more than two years--it is a long time not to see him. I quite
hoped,” she added with flattering friendliness, “that it had been him
you knew.”
Again Nancy’s head went round and round. Should not she throw herself at
this lady’s feet, who smiled on her so graciously, and tell all that
Arthur was to her? The impulse was almost too strong to be resisted.
While she stood on the eve of this rush, Lucy passing by to resume her
seat after examining the drawing, gave her an inquiring, wondering,
suspicious look. This brought Nancy down again to solid ground. She gave
an alarmed, confused glance round, not daring to trust herself to speak.
“I am sure my sister would be glad if you would have the picture, my
lady,” said Matilda, “since you like it--though I’m sure I can’t think
why. It’s all leaves that we got out of your park. Me and--Anna often
walk there. It’s a little wet at this time of the year; but it must be
lovely in the summer--if we stay till then.”
“I hope you will stay,” said Lady Curtis, rising, “you ought to see
Oakley in full beauty; and I hope you will come and see Lucy and me,”
she added, holding out her hand. Nancy did not know what was happening
to her when that soft hand pressed hers. “And if we can be of any use to
you--as you are here alone--I hope you will tell me,” Lady Curtis said.
“Well!” said Matilda when the door closed upon them, and she had watched
their figures from the window. “Well, Nancy! what do you think of her
now? A nicer lady, more civil, more pleasant, more friendly, I never
wish to see; and that was what you made such a fuss about as if she was
a monster and would eat you! I’d go down on my bended knees to
Providence to give me a mother-in-law like that. Not a bit of pride--as
if we had been the best ladies in the land. Oh, Nancy, Nancy! what a
fool you have been! if poor dear mother only knew.”
But Nancy was past standing up for herself, or making any reply. She had
covered her face with her hands; her whole frame was tingling, her head
swimming, her heart full of trouble and pleasure, and confusion and
despair. What a fool, what a fool she had been! that, indeed, if nothing
else, was beyond measure true.
As for Lady Curtis, she was enchanted with her new acquaintance. “There
is some mystery there,” she said as they walked briskly away. “It is
easy to see that the sister is of a very different class and breeding
from that touching young creature with her blue eyes. Is she a sister at
all, I wonder, or some old servant for a protection to her? I don’t know
when I have been so much interested,” she said.
As for Lucy she said nothing; her mind was full of doubt and confusion.
She did not know what to think, and there was nothing that she could
trust herself to say.