To know something which those about you do not know--to keep something
secret which would interest them above measure, and affect their
conduct; but which you, in your superior wisdom, believe it better they
should not know--this is to play a very difficult part, one of the most
difficult in life. And if you undertake it without possessing the
necessary qualities of reticence and self-control, with, on the
contrary, all the habits of an innocent life, the traditions of family
frankness and inter-communication of everything, great or small; and if
to add to all these difficulties you have been in the habit of living
with one other close companion as if you and she had possessed between
you but one soul--it may be imagined how hard the task will be. This was
what Lucy Curtis had undertaken to do. She had no idea when she
undertook it how hard it was. In a glow of determined generosity and
good meaning towards the woman of whom, in her inmost soul, she felt
jealous as receiving regard and attention to which she had no right, she
had taken this Herculean task upon her shoulder--and now she would not
shrink from it; but it was hard beyond all belief to carry it out. A
hundred times a day the name of Nancy was trembling on her lips. Between
her mother and herself, the conversation was not talking so much as
thinking aloud. Everything was common between them, their thoughts, the
occurrences of their life, their reading, their speculations--they did
everything _à deux_, as even husband and wife cannot do, as perhaps only
mother and daughter ever succeed in doing. The differences of character
between them, the difference between Lady Curtis’s experience, and those
touches of the world which inevitably in nearly fifty years of living
modify the character, and Lucy’s youthfulness of certainty--her stronger
convictions and more absolute perceptions of good and evil--these gave
the necessary tinge of individuality to their utterances. But there had
never been any reserves between these two.
Thus when Lucy made up her mind to keep Durant’s intimation of Nancy’s
near presence, to herself, she undertook a burden for which her strength
was scarcely fit. To help herself to bear it, she said to herself, that
she had as yet no certainty on the subject--that she was not sure that
the woman Durant had seen was Mrs. Arthur; and that she herself having
once seen her brother’s wife did not recognise her now, though compelled
by a hundred circumstances to believe that this was she. No, she said to
herself, she had no legal warrant, no certainty sufficiently strong to
justify her in disturbing the minds of her parents by a guess which,
perhaps, might turn out mistaken. It would disturb their minds greatly.
Their kindly prepossession in favour of the stranger was not strong
enough to bear such an interruption, and they would be entirely at a
loss what to do; what Arthur would wish them to do; what would be most
expedient in the painful circumstances. If Nancy was known to be
Arthur’s wife, she could not remain there without acknowledgment from
Arthur’s family; and how could they adopt her into their bosom when it
was she who had separated from her husband, sent him away from her,
ruined his life? She could not be at variance with her husband, and in
friendship with his father and mother--parted from him, but received by
them. No, that was impossible; and when nobody even knew whether it was
Nancy! It might be quite another person whom Lewis had seen--it might be
some one from Oakenden, the nearest town, come over for the day. It
might be the clergyman’s wife of the next parish, young Mrs. Brown, who
was lately married and not much known in the neighbourhood. It might
be--half a dozen people--why should it be Mrs. Arthur of Wren Cottage?
If this were, indeed, Nancy, the wife of Arthur Curtis, was it at all
probable that she would have taken so transparent a disguise? All these
arguments Lucy went over to herself, feeling that they were futile. In
her own mind, she had no doubt that Mrs. Arthur at the Cottage was her
sister-in-law, and that Lewis had seen her, and that she had fled from
him. But these were simply ideas of her own, no more; and even if they
were facts, and proved true, what end could be served by telling her
mother--was it not better to wait, to see what might happen, to let
events shape themselves? But oh! how hard--how much harder than anyone
could have supposed it was!
Lady Curtis on her side was secretly grieved with her child. She did not
make any complaint; she reasoned with herself indeed against the pain
she felt, saying to herself that it was natural Lucy should be
preoccupied, should talk less freely when they sat together, should
have less to say to her mother. Had she not another now for whom she
would store up all those outflowings of the heart which had been her
mother’s alone? She was, she knew and humbly avowed to herself,
ridiculously ready to be wounded, and felt the smallest little
unconscious prick from those she loved; but she must be just to Lucy.
There was nothing wanting in Lucy that any reasonable mother could wish
for; but only they two had been all in all to each other, and Lady
Curtis felt that to Lucy she was no longer all in all. Long silences
would come between them while she worked at her crewels, and Lucy
carried on the varied occupations of a young lady’s afternoon, a young
lady who is a parish sovereign, and has a great many small yet important
public affairs on hand. Those silences Lady Curtis set down to Durant’s
account, and felt a something growing in her mind very different from
her former affection for Lewis, which she endeavoured with all her might
to crush, without finding it easy to do so. It was natural, and she
must be just; while all the time it was not Lewis that was in fault.
Fortunately, Lucy herself did not even know that her mother had
discovered her embarrassed self-consciousness, and had not the slightest
notion that it was set down to the account of Lewis. And thus a little
something, which was not so much as a cloud, a mist upon the clear sky,
a fantastic vapour, but presaging storm and darkness, began to breathe
between them. They were disappointed in each other; sympathy somehow
seemed to fail between them. Was it that her mother was _exigeante_,
Lucy asked herself--even--painful word--jealous? It was that Lucy had
some one else to love, that she was no longer of first importance to her
child, the mother thought; and the fact was that both were wrong, that
it was neither jealousy on the one side nor desertion on the other, but
Nancy--nothing but a secret, the most innocent of secrets, and the most
well-intentioned, that did the wrong.
And the more her thoughts dwelt on this subject, and the more apparent
it became to Lucy’s mind that she must not betray her discovery, the
more curious she grew about the object of it all. Never a parish day
came now that she did not pay a visit to Mrs. Arthur. This was not
always successful, for Mrs. Arthur was often out, as Lucy thought, to
avoid her; but on these occasions she would talk to the sister, whose
name nobody knew. Lucy called her Miss Arthur, with a keen glance of
scrutiny, and saw by Matilda’s little start and her sudden look, as if
about to contradict her, that this was not her name; but she thought
better of it after a moment’s consideration, and allowed herself to be
called Miss Arthur for the rest of the interview. And Lucy had little
difficulty in eliciting from Matilda all the particulars of her family
history which did not touch Nancy. How their parents were dead, how
their only brother had gone to New Zealand; and Matilda did not conceal
that she hoped to follow Charley, and, indeed, to that intention was
busy with all the chemises at which Lucy beheld her working.
“It will be a long voyage,” Matilda said, “and one requires a large
supply.”
“But will your sister go too?”
“My sister? I have two sisters, Miss Curtis. One is very well married in
the place where we used to live. I have heard them say that if Charley
did very well, and there seemed a good opening, they wouldn’t mind; for
what is New Zealand nowadays?--not much farther than France used to be,
father always liked to say.”
“But I meant your sister here, Mrs. Arthur. Will it not be very dreary
for her if you go away?”
“Oh, my sister, Mrs. Arthur! She is very different from the rest of us;
things are not with her as with the rest of us. I cannot take it upon me
to say what she will do.”
While this conversation was going on, Lady Curtis, who had walked down
the length of the avenue to look for Lucy, met Mrs. Arthur coming over
the stile, and stopped to talk to her.
“I see you have got some lovely leaves again; are you going to draw
them? You must have quite a genius for art-work.”
“Oh, no, no genius for anything,” said Nancy, with the swift flushes of
sudden change going over her face which Lady Curtis always called forth.
She was more at her ease when there was nobody looking on. She had the
feeling that she must be supposed to be “currying favour” with Lady
Curtis when there was a third person present. “No genius; it has been
always my ruin that I am so stupid,” said Nancy, with a serious air,
which looked very piquant and amusing in conjunction with such words.
“Your ruin, my dear? I hope you are far from ruin anyhow; and I don’t
think it could possibly come on that score,” said Lady Curtis, with a
smile.
“Ah!” said Nancy, with her whole heart in the sigh that came from her
red lips, “no one can tell another’s troubles. I have had many; but they
have all come because I was so stupid; though after I have said a wrong
thing, I always feel that it is wrong, and know what I ought to have
said; but it is too late then, it only makes it worse,” she breathed
forth with a long sighing breath.
“Well,” said Lady Curtis, still smiling, “I don’t know what wrong things
you may have done; but that is the best that can happen to you, for you
will remember next time to say, not the wrong thing, but the right.”
“Ah!” said Nancy again, with great serious eyes; “but that is exactly
what I cannot learn to do! It is not badness, it is stupidness. I make
the same mistakes, and do the same faults, and speak as I ought not to
speak.”
“Poor girl!” said Lady Curtis, touched by the tears that came while Mrs.
Arthur spoke. “This is a sad experience for you. I hope it is not so
serious as you seem to think. I am a great deal older than you are,” she
went on, still more touched as a big tear fell, locking like a small
ocean on Nancy’s black sleeve, “and if I can help you, or give you any
advice, I should be glad to do so. Our experience is not worth much
unless we can help younger people with it; and though I do not know you,
I take an interest in you.”
“Oh, you are kind, very kind,” cried Nancy, a brilliant flush darting
all over her face. “I never thought anyone could be so kind; but my
troubles are all of my own bringing on,” she added quickly; “and the
worst is, I can’t do anything. No, no one could do anything. Did you
mean really you would like the pattern?--those poor natural things?”
there was a wistful look in her eyes, but she tried to laugh, and shook
off the tears, “they don’t seem worth the attention of a lady like you.”
“I am afraid you are a little goose,” said Lady Curtis, patting Nancy’s
hand with her own. It was the only way she could show the sympathy which
rose so warmly within her, she could scarcely tell why. “Nature is as
much worth a queen’s attention as a beggar’s. And yes, indeed, I should
like the pattern. Will you really make it for me? But you must come to
the Hall and see my work; and Sir John wants very much to make your
acquaintance. It was you, was it not, that opened the gate for him?”
“Yes.” Another vivid flush covered Nancy’s face; she grew prettier and
prettier as she grew thus animated, wavering from one emotion to
another. This time it seemed all pleasure, warming her all over, and
making her countenance glow.
“He has done nothing but rave about you ever since. I shall be jealous
if you don’t mind. Will you come to-morrow?”
“Not to-morrow,” said Nancy, her face changing like a sunset sky. “Oh,
Lady Curtis, you are too good to me. You don’t know me--”
“No, not much; but everything must have a beginning,” said the gracious
lady. “We must settle upon a day. If not to-morrow, let it be Saturday.
That will give you four days to make up your mind. You must come up
early to luncheon, and Lucy and I will show you all there is to see. If
you meet Lucy, will you tell her I am going slowly up the avenue waiting
for her. She should be on her way home now.”
Nancy went away with her head full of excitement, and a hundred
conflicting thoughts. She met Lucy at the corner of the village street,
who looked at her with investigating eyes. Whom has she been talking to,
to make her look so bright, yet so agitated? Lucy asked herself. Surely
it could not be Bertie, who had passed but a little time before? The
jealousy of a tiger suddenly sprang up in Lucy’s mind. If this girl came
here to conciliate the family, yet under their very eyes looked like
_this_, because of the admiration of another man!
“Miss Curtis, I have just met----” (Nancy did not like to say “your
mother,” that seemed too familiar; and her ladyship, as Matilda said,
was too like a servant) “Lady Curtis. She said I was to tell you that
she was in the avenue waiting for you. She is very kind,” said Nancy,
with a little appealing look. “She said I was to come to the Hall. Does
she really mean me to come, Miss Curtis? You will tell me true.”
“Do you think my mother says what she does not mean?” cried Lucy,
herself half-touched, half-angry; for she felt now that she did not
want to like this girl, whose secret she alone knew--and yet there was
danger that she might be made to like her. The creature looked
beautiful, something had inspired her. She had never looked so nearly
beautiful before. “Of course she means you to come, what else could you
suppose?”
“I did not know that--people were so kind,” said Nancy, in a very low
tone. Then she looked at Lucy, half-wistful, half-suspicious. Lucy was
not like the rest, there was a mixture of feelings in her which did not
exist in the others, a complication of sentiment which Nancy divined,
though she could not have told how. “I will come if you say so,” she
said.
“Then come,” said Lucy, holding out her hand, with a sudden movement.
“And good-bye. I must run, if my mother is waiting for me--” She hurried
away for other reasons, too. It seemed to her as if she must say
something, disclose her knowledge, encourage Nancy to win the favour of
her father and mother if she lingered a moment longer. “Is it because
she is so pretty?” Lucy asked herself; “if I were a gentleman perhaps!”
As a matter-of-fact, women are absurdly subject to this spell of beauty;
but we have been taught to think that it is not so, and most people
believe as they are taught; so Lucy supposed it must have been something
else which moved her, and suddenly made her forget her prejudices. She
hurried on after her mother, who was still lingering in the avenue. It
was early afternoon still, but the short winter day was already waning.
“You are late,” Lady Curtis said, when she came up. “I thought, as it
gets dark so soon, I would come and meet you.” This was one of the many
little pathetic additions to her ordinary tender ways, which Lady Curtis
made, partially unawares, to conciliate her child.
“Thank you, mamma. I met Mrs. Arthur, and she told me you were here.”
“Yes, I met her, too; how pretty she is! and she made me such curious
pretty speeches. Is it humility, is it pride? I cannot understand. I
think that young woman must have a history.”
“I suppose most people have,” said Lucy.
“You know what I mean,” said Lady Curtis. “She took to telling me about
her faults, poor thing, _àpropos de bottes_. It was quite uncalled
for--but confidence, whoever it may be that gives it, is always
touching. I suppose it feels like a compliment. It is always
complimentary when people trust in you.” Here she gave her daughter’s
arm a little soft pressure. Lucy felt it, but misunderstood it, as was
natural. It felt the very softest tenderest of reproaches for something
withheld; but Lucy understood one thing and Lady Curtis meant quite
another. Therefore now they came to an understanding, though still a
mistaken one. “If I ever keep anything from you, mamma,” she cried, “it
is only because--because--”
“My darling,” said the mother, holding her child’s arm close within her
own. “Do you think I don’t understand?” and she gave a little sigh.
What was it she did or did not understand? Lucy was wholly puzzled; and
then they fell to talking of other things; of the parish, and how many
flannel-petticoats and pairs of blankets should be ordered for
Christmas; and about the little cookery school, which was Lucy’s present
hobby--how nicely Annie Bird, the model girl, made the soup for the
sick; and then changing from that--wondered when Arthur’s next letter
would come, and told each other that they did not like the tone of the
last one. Poor Arthur! would it be possible to have him home for
Christmas. Surely Lady Curtis said, he did not intend to stay
permanently out of England because of that dreadful wife of his. That
would be hard indeed upon his own family, who loved him. And thus they
beguiled the way up the darkling avenue, with their faces turned towards
the lights of home. Oh, if Arthur would only come home! There at least
he would find nothing but tenderness, not a word to cross him, poor
fellow! nothing to put him in mind of the wife who had made a waste and
wilderness of his life.
While her mother spoke so it may be supposed how Lucy trembled--so much
that at last Lady Curtis took note of it, and asked in some alarm what
was the matter, did she think she had taken cold? did she feel ill? No,
Lucy said, hurrying on, she had taken no cold; but she was chilly, she
had felt it all the afternoon; and then Lady Curtis hurried her into the
warm blaze of the morning room, and to the warm tea, which Sir John came
in to share, almost as soon as they got indoors. He thought it was very
cold, too, seasonable weather, such as ought, to herald Christmas; then
he heard the little budget of news. He was delighted to hear of Annie
Bird’s proficiency with the soup, and still more delighted that the lady
of the gate, the pretty stranger, was coming on Saturday. The one fact
was not much more important than the other in the old man’s eyes.