Saturday morning! very bright but cold, a sprinkling of snow on the
ground, crisp and slight like a permanent hoar frost, the trees all
frosted, too, with edges of white, like the lights in a snow-landscape.
Nancy in her blackness came out doubly distinct upon this white
background, the long sweeping line of her simple dress and cloak, her
face all glowing with animation and health, and repressed excitement.
Pleasure, yet pain, a happy sense of having pleased, an eager wistful
longing to please more, were all mingled with the feeling that she stood
on the edge of an abyss, and that nothing could excuse this deception,
except the fact that it was for once, only for once, and that when that
was over, all should be told. She kissed her sister as she went out,
which was very unusual for her. “Think of me, till I come back,” she
said. Nancy felt that as yet there had been no more desperate moment in
her life. She was not afraid of it, and yet she was all one pulsation,
all one throb. She could scarcely speak to the people she met on the
road, but nodded, with a wistful sense of friendliness. If they were all
to think kindly of her, would not that support her in the present trial,
and those that were still harder that must come after? For after she had
done this, all would be over, there would be no more excuse for staying
here. She could not live under the shadow of their wing, and go on
deceiving them. And she had got to be “fond” of Oakley. It was Arthur’s
place, where everybody knew him, and to live there was a protection to
her, a shield to her imprudence, whatever happened. What else had she in
the world? even if Matilda left her she might have gone on there,
living quietly; but for that deception which she could not keep up,
which she would take advantage of this once--only this once, but no
more. This was one of the rare cases in which the person most
immediately concerned judged herself more hardly than others did.
Neither Durant nor Lucy blamed her for living here secretly; but rather
were both touched by the idea that she wished thus unknown to recommend
herself humbly to the good opinion of her husband’s parents; but Nancy’s
simpler straightforward mind felt the tacit falsehood of her position to
be untenable. Whatever advantages it might bring her, her duty was to
tell the truth, and take the consequences. She had done much that was
wrong; but she had never told a lie.
Lady Curtis saw her coming from the window of the morning-room, and
could not but make observations to herself upon the fine elastic figure,
instinct she felt with some special energy, as the young stranger came
up the avenue. What was it that made her walk to-day with such firm
certainty and grace? usually there was a touch of shyness about her,
almost awkwardness, the awkwardness which is a kind of grace in its way,
the wavering of youth, not quite sure about its own movements. But Nancy
was not thinking of her appearance, or that anyone was looking at her;
but only of the great moment that was approaching. Lady Curtis came to
the door of the morning-room to meet her, holding out her hand.
“This is my pet room, my dear,” she said, smiling; “you must come here
first. Sit down by the fire, and get thawed, and then you shall see
everything. It is not according to the present taste, but for all that I
am fond of it. Won’t you take off your cloak? We can put it here, or
take it upstairs with us when we go. It must be very cold out of doors.”
“Not when one is walking,” said Nancy, and as she put off her cloak, a
little roll of paper became visible. “I brought you the--sketches,” she
said, with a blush; “they are not worth calling patterns.”
“They are a great deal better than patterns. _I_ call them drawings,”
said Lady Curtis, with flattering kindness, spreading them out on the
table. What pains Nancy had taken over them! and consequently they
wanted the spontaneous grace of the first design, which Lady Curtis had
so praised. But my lady applauded them as if they had come from the
pencil of Raffaele himself, and showed her crewels and her pieces of
work executed, which filled Nancy with awe.
“Mine are not so good as these,” she said, shaking her head; “I will
take them back and try to do better.” She was disappointed, and tears
started suddenly to her eyes. But Lady Curtis took the drawings away
carefully, and smiled and shook her head.
“They are mine,” she said, “you have given them to me. Now look, here is
my private picture-gallery, Mrs. Arthur; my son, whom you thought you
had met, do you remember? You will be able to make sure by looking at
his portrait; and Lucy--you know Lucy? I have been very extravagant
about my children, here they are at all ages. Here is the first of my
boy--and there is the last,” said Lady Curtis, pointing to a framed
photograph on the table. She wondered that the visitor did not move to
look at it. Nancy was holding the child’s miniature in her trembling
hands. She could not have spoken or risen up to save her life. Look at
him--she who belonged to him, to whom he belonged more than to his
mother--she could not do it! There was something almost more than she
could bear even in the child’s face.
“The connoisseurs of the present day will have nothing to say to my
pretty room,” said Lady Curtis; “but perhaps you are of that way of
thinking, and like darkness and neutral tints. No? I am glad of that.
This is where I have spent almost all my life,” she said, dropping into
that tempting strain of gentle reminiscence which seems to come natural
to us all, when we grow old among the young, as just the other day we
were young among the old, and liked to draw that soft babble of memory
from elder lips. Nancy felt the charm of it, which soothed her even in
her excitement, and looked up listening with eyes that grew bigger and
bigger, like the listening eyes of a child.
“I furnished it at my own pleasure, after I was married, when I came
first to Oakley;” she said. “Sir John does not care for these sort of
things, he was always pleased when I was always pleased; and all our
little talks we did here; and then the children--all that they had to
say to mamma, this was the place. When Arthur was a boy at school, he
always came rushing in here the moment he arrived; and here they made
all their plans, he and his school friend, Lewis, who is a very dear
friend still. I think I can see their little faces with the firelight
upon them,” said Lady Curtis. “My Arthur! Ah, if he had always been as
open with me as he was then!”
Nancy was choking with her tears. It was all that she could do not to
cry out--it was my fault, it was my fault! all she could to keep herself
from creeping to Lady Curtis’s feet, and kissing them, and crying her
heart out. She sat still and kept silent, she could not tell how.
“But I must not talk of that, and make myself cry,” said my lady, “that
would be poor entertainment for you. All these things are presents, they
have been brought me one time or another. Sir John gave me my clock; it
is a genuine seventeenth century one, and we picked it up by the merest
chance. Arthur brought me that Sèvres the first time he went abroad.
Come, I have upset you with my absurd talk. I can see you know what it
is to be in trouble about those you love.”
My lady was behind Nancy at the moment, and suddenly put her arms round
her, and gave her a little half-embrace. It was gratitude for her
supposed feeling. Nancy stumbled up to her feet with a great cry, “Oh,
my lady--my lady! if you knew! if you only knew!”
Lady Curtis looked at her fixedly, her cheek flushed a little. After all
she knew nothing of this strange young woman whom she had received so
rashly. What if she should turn out to be--something not fit for the
company of good women? She looked at her with a momentary suspicion.
“If there was any serious reason why you should not come into my house,
I think you would not have come,” she said, with meaning. Nancy did not
reply--her thoughts were occupied by a wholly different preventing cause
from that which was in Lady Curtis’s thoughts; but neither did she quail
from the look, which she did not understand. The impulse was strong upon
her to tell everything, to go no further, to disclose the whole story
now.
“After to-day,” she said, with her lips quivering, “I meant, if you
would listen, to tell you everything about me. But perhaps, I thought to
myself, you would not like me then--perhaps you would be angry; and I
thought I might give myself first this one day.”
“Poor child!” said Lady Curtis, half smiling. “It cannot be very great
wickedness, at which you think I would be angry, which you tell with
such an innocent face. Hush, hush!” she added, “no more of this, here is
Lucy. You shall have your day, and tell me after. Before her not a
word.”
Was Lady Curtis afraid of Lucy _too_? She came in looking as she always
did, not suspicious perhaps, but _as if she knew_--did she know
anything? and shook hands with Nancy. “You are showing Mrs. Arthur your
own room first, mamma; you are telling her exactly what you expect to be
said, and coaxing her to praise it. That is what you always do; but papa
wishes her to be brought to the library. No, here he is coming after
me,” said Lucy, as a heavy step came towards the door. Nancy was
standing up, tremulous and shaken, her lips with still a quiver in them,
the tears not gone out of her eyes, when Sir John came in. He came up to
her holding out his large, soft, old man’s hand.
“You need not introduce me, Lucy. I know this lady already. She was very
kind to me, as I told you. I assure you that to allow a young lady, and
one whom I should have been so happy to serve, to take so much trouble
for me, was much against my liking. But my excuse is one we must all
come to, even the fairest. When a man is old--”
“I was so very glad,” said Nancy, in a low tone, and her eyes, with the
moisture in them, looked so appealing that Sir John’s heart was touched.
He gave a look round, lifting his heavy eyelids to see if there was
anything visible that could account for this emotion. Then, seeing that
his wife also showed signs of fellow-feeling, he concluded that the poor
young widow (as he supposed her) had been telling her story to my lady’s
sympathetic ear.
“I believe you are going to be shown over the house,” he said, offering
his arm, “and you must let me show you my library myself. I have not
very much,” said Sir John with that tone of mock humility which never
deceives the experienced, “that is worth looking at; but there are one
or two pictures, and some old Roman rubbish, which, perhaps, you may
not care about. Are you fond of antiquities? I know that you are kind to
them, at least,” he said, giving her hand a little fatherly pat as she
put it shyly on his arm. Nancy felt her head swim as she walked through
the great hall leaning on Sir John’s arm. He talked to her all the way,
pointing out one thing and another. “This is one of our treasures--it is
a bit of bas-relief found in an old temple near Rome. Have you ever been
so far? Ah! then you have the pleasure to come. I think it is much
better than going when you are too young to appreciate what you see.
Yes, this is my favourite room. There are plenty of books you see--a
great many more than I make any use of nowadays--some of them, perhaps,
are not quite lady’s reading; but there are a great many which I daresay
you would like, and which you will always be welcome to. This is one of
the pictures we are proud of. It is a Sir Joshua. It is the portrait of
my grandfather. Ah! you start, you see the likeness? It _is_ very like
my son. My lady has been telling you of him, no doubt? Yes, Arthur was
the apple of her eye; and will be yet--and will be yet, please God.”
Nancy did not hear much more. The choking of those tears she dared not
shed, and those words she did not say, was more than she could bear.
“Oh! please forgive me!” she said, sobbing aloud, “I can’t help it. No,
no, I am not ill--but it brings so many things back--”
“My dear young lady,” said Sir John alarmed. “You have got upset. Shall
I take you back to Lady Curtis, or will you rest here?”
“Oh, only for a moment!” cried Nancy. The outbreak had relieved her. He
made her sit down in his own great chair, and was silent for a few
minutes, looking at her with serious sympathy. She was not afraid of Sir
John. He (she divined) would never find her out, however she might
betray herself. He was not quick, like needles, like the ladies. There
was safety in him. And this sense of security helped her to conquer
herself. She got up presently with a smile, and said she was better. The
old man was in no hurry--he was pleased with his pretty companion, and
quite willing to humour her. After this, he took her all round the
library, not sparing her a single relic. He had not been so much
interested for ever so long. She listened to all he said with the
prettiest interest, and if she did not say much, what did that matter?
“I am very ignorant,” she said to begin with, and he liked her all the
better. They suited each other entirely. She did not get impatient as my
lady did, or make fun of everything, which Lucy would sometimes have the
audacity to do; but listened with the greatest interest as if she never
could hear too much. The library was nearly exhausted when the bell rang
for luncheon. “Lady Curtis will wonder what has become of us,” he said,
giving her his arm again, “and I am sure I have worn you out.”
Meanwhile Lucy and her mother were smiling at each other. “We have no
chance you see, even with your father, against a pretty stranger,” Lady
Curtis said, “but I hope she is not tired of all these antiquities, as
you and I are, Lucy, when we oughtn’t to be.”
“Oh, she will not show it,” said Lucy, with a little slight involuntary
touch of scorn; but Lady Curtis did not find this sentiment out.
“Yes, she is a sympathetic young creature. She was all but crying with
me about Arthur, though she can’t know anything of Arthur. It may not be
what hard people call quite sincere, but it is very charming and goes to
one’s heart.”
“Oh! I did not say she was not sincere,” said Lucy with compunction; and
then the luncheon bell roused them, and they went across the hall to the
dining-room, following Sir John, who issued from his library at the same
moment, and led the way with his courtly old-gentlemanly politeness
leading the stranger. Age is the period in which politeness becomes most
exquisite--like that _cortesia_ which the old Italians make into an
attribute of God himself. Sir John placed Nancy next to himself at
table. She had never sat at a table so daintily served. The big silent
footmen almost filled her with awe. She had never seen anything of the
kind but in the Paris hotel, which after all was only an hotel, served
by chattering rapid waiters, not solemn buckram men like this. Nancy was
awed, every moment more and more.
“Now you have had her long enough,” said Lady Curtis. “She has to see
the drawing-room now, and all the state rooms.”
“I hope you have had the drawing-room properly aired. I never had any
confidence in that room. I have known it to be cold,” said Sir John with
a look of horror. “Come back to your own room, my lady, for tea. It is
the most comfortable in the house.”
“That is on his own account, not ours,” said Lady Curtis, as she, in her
turn, led Nancy away. The drawing-room, was a very large, noble room
divided by pillars, and its magnificence again took away Nancy’s
breath. They took her all round to look at the pictures, and then my
Lady placed the stranger in a large chair before the fire to rest. Never
had any one been so anxious about her, afraid to overtire her. Overtire
her! if my Lady only knew? Nancy, vigorous and young, could have carried
her conductor about as easily as a child; but she could not carry the
load under which she was tottering--the load of concealment and, as she
represented it to herself, deception. This overwhelmed her with a
feverish incapacity. She was glad when they bade her be still. What
agitation was in all her veins! and yet she was happy--wrapped in a
strange, delicious, overwhelming, painful dream. Was it her home, really
her home in which she was thus reposing, or a house which to-day she
would leave for ever? She was not able to answer the question, but sat
still there, in the winter afternoon, while the sun was still shining
outside, in a trance of strange and mingled sensation, lifted out of
herself.
The drawing-room did not look towards the front of the house. Its large
windows opened into my Lady’s flower-garden, a kind of fairy paradise,
Nancy had thought, in which the grass was very green, and where there
were still flowers. Arrivals or departures did not disturb the dwellers
in this Elysian place; but as they sat together, not talking very much
for the moment, for the sake of Nancy who was “resting,” some kind of
indescribable wave of sound seemed to rise in the house. Something of
wheels, something of quick steps, then a little distant hubbub of
voices, then the ring of several doors opened and shut. “Some one
calling, I suppose,” Lady Curtis said calmly, “but you must not stir, my
dear.” Lucy was near the door. What she heard that roused her curiosity,
or suggested to her the impossible occurrence which had really come to
pass, it would be impossible to say. Her mind was in a state of high
tension and excitement, and this confers a kind of second sight and
second hearing. She stole behind the great screen that guarded the room
from the possibility of a draught, and softy opened the door. She heard
her father’s heavy step come suddenly out of his library, and then a
tremulous outcry in his usually placid voice. Lady Curtis had begun to
listen too. “What is all that commotion,” she said, “ring, Lucy, and
ask?” But Lucy was out of hearing. She had rushed along the corridor to
see with her own eyes, and hear with her own ears. “Yes, Sir, it is I; I
didn’t write, for I did not know I could get here to-day. Where is my
mother?” was what she heard. Lucy’s impulse was to cry out too, to rush
out to the hall and throw herself upon her brother, and it took her no
small effort to restrain herself. Her heart gave a wild leap into her
throat--and then she turned and hurried back. What was going to happen?
“Lucy--Lucy! have you asked what is the matter?” said Lady Curtis,
getting up with natural agitation. She thought of Arthur at once, as was
to be expected; but she found time even in the tide of rising anxiety to
give a kind word to her visitor. “Never mind,” she said, “don’t
stir--there is no need for you to disturb yourself--Lucy! where are you?
what is it?” said my Lady. And then she gave a half scream, and rushed
towards the door, pushing back the screen which had veiled the space
before the fire.
“Yes, mother, here I am,” said Arthur, coming in.
One of the party, at least, had no eyes for him, no thought for him.
Lucy did not even look at her brother; and when his eye caught her
standing there, and saw this, Arthur, with his arm still encircling his
mother, followed instinctively to see what interest could keep his
sister from him. Nancy had risen from her seat at the sound of his
voice. Every tinge of colour had gone from her cheeks, her eyes looked
as if they had been forced wide open by a passion of wonder which was
almost agony, her lips had dropped apart. She stood motionless, gazing,
but able to see nothing.
“My God!” he cried, and put his mother aside.
Sir John had followed him into the room. They were all there, all who
were most interested, and all felt by instinct that something greater
and stranger had happened than Arthur’s coming home.
“What is it, what is it?” cried Lady Curtis, in sharp tones of pain.
Her son made but one step away from her, and caught their unknown
visitor, their strange neighbour, the young woman they had all been so
kind to, in his arms.
“No, no, no!” they all heard Nancy cry, shrill and high in terror or
anguish, they could not tell which; and then she dropped out of his arms
in a heap upon the floor.
“Have I killed her?” he said, looking round upon them with a scared and
blanched face, while Sir John and his mother looked at him, speechless
with astonishment.
“No, no,” cried Lucy, who had possession of her senses; “it is no worse
than fainting. Oh, don’t you see, don’t you see what it is, all of you?
She has scarcely been able to keep from telling you.”
“What had she to tell me? What do you mean? What is this, what is this,
Lucy? I don’t understand.”
Arthur had one arm under his wife’s head.
“She is better, she is coming back,” he cried, and stretched out his
other hand with one glance round. “Mother, God bless you! You have been
keeping her here safe while I have been looking everywhere for her,” he
said. “If I had not owed you everything before, I should owe you my life
now.”
“Arthur! What has he to do with her? Her name is--Ah!” Lady Curtis ended
with a great cry.
And Sir John, who was altogether puzzled, came forward a step and looked
at her where she lay, holding up his spectacles solemnly in his hand.
“I am afraid she has fainted,” he said. “I thought she was not very
well. It will be better to leave your mother and a maid to manage her,
Arthur. We are interested in the young lady, but we are more interested
in you.”
Nancy came to herself as he spoke, and struggling up, got upon her
knees.
“I did not faint,” she said, hoarsely; “only the light went from me. I
did not mean to deceive any one. I said just this one day; I wanted to
see you, and Arthur’s home. I did not mean to deceive you. If you
please, I will go away, and never trouble you any more.”
“Nancy!” cried Arthur, “Nancy!” He put his arm round her, holding her.
He had been kneeling beside her while she lay there, and he was not
aware of the suppliant attitude which accident made him assume. “Look at
me,” he said, “look at _me_! If you cared for Arthur’s home, did you not
care for _me_, Nancy? You shall never go away, except with me.”
Nancy got up hastily, drawing herself away from him. She was at the turn
of her capricious soul. Would she burst away again, rush out into the
cold and the twilight? Everything hung on the impulse of the moment. She
gave a wild look round upon all those agitated faces. Sir John had put
on his spectacles the better to understand the extraordinary position
of affairs which had begun to dawn upon him now.
“It appears to me,” he said slowly, “if I understand, that there can be
no question here of going away, no more for this young lady than for any
of us. Is it possible--I do not mean to be uncivil, but you will excuse
the question--is it possible that you are, as I understand, my son’s
wife?”
Nancy was caught at the moment of doubt. She herself turned and looked
at Arthur. Her eyes softened, her paleness began to glow. He drew her
arm within his, and she did not resist.
“Yes,” she said, with a long soft sigh. It was hardly possible to tell
which was the word and which the lingering flutter of breath.
“Then, my dear--though I have forgotten your name,” said the old
gentleman, going up to her, taking her disengaged hand, and kissing her
very solemnly on the forehead, “you are very welcome in his father’s
house.”
“And me?” said Lady Curtis, with a little moan. Grammar and emotion do
not always go together. “I have only half seen Arthur, and must I turn
all at once to Arthur’s wife?”
“If you care for me, mother!--”
“_Care_ for you! Do you hear how he blasphemes--you, young woman, that
are his wife? And he was my little boy, my child before he ever saw you.
Care for him! that is what he calls it,” the mother said, crying, yet
smiling, too, as her manner was. “What is your name? Nancy! Yes, I know
it well enough; I only ask it out of contradiction. Here is my kiss,
Nancy. I did not know you were my daughter, but I liked you; and that is
better than giving you a kiss only for his sake. If you care for him, as
he calls it, you will like me too. Where is Lucy all this time, who was
in the plot--who knew--”
“I only divined,” said Lucy, coming forward in her turn.
But Lucy was the one of all whose salutations were the least cordial.
She was glad, but she did not like it somehow. She did not like to hear
my lady say “my daughter.” That was an unexpected stab. She went
through her salutations very prettily, but in such a way as brought the
excited party back to common life.
“And I think you will find your own room more comfortable,” said Sir
John; “and you are surely later than usual this afternoon, my lady, in
having tea.”
* * * * *
This tea, it may be supposed, was not the tranquillizing draught it
usually proved to these agitated people; and it was a relief to
everybody when it was settled that Arthur should walk down with his wife
to the village to tell her sister of the extraordinary event which had
happened, and to make arrangements for Nancy’s removal to the Hall. They
went out into the dark avenue together, arm-in-arm, glad of the
darkness, and feeling it had been made for them, as--if it had been
morning and bright, they would have felt that to have been made for
them. To repeat what they had to say to each other is none of our
business. People do not meet again after such separations without having
in their happiness pain enough to make them humble; and yet that walk
down to the village in the wintry evening was worth some pain. Sir John
was still standing between the two rococo cupids of the mantelpiece,
with his cup in his hand, when they went away. He had come back to the
ordinary habits of his life, which, after any disturbance, it is always
a pleasant thing to do.
“It seems to me,” he said, “that it was a very fortunate thing we got
hold of Arthur’s wife accidentally, and found her to be so
unexceptionable a person, before we knew who she was; and it was pretty
that she called herself Mrs. Arthur. I did not perceive it just at
first, but of course it was her right name. And all things considered, I
think we may be very thankful to Providence, my lady, that things have
turned out so well,” said Sir John, putting down his cup, and going
slowly away, as was his wont. When the door was closed, which he always
did so carefully, my lady caught Lucy by the waist, who was going away
too.
“My darling,” she said, “we must strike while the iron is hot, while
your father is so satisfied. Go this moment, and write before the post
goes. Tell Lewis to come at once, to-morrow; he ought not to lose a
day.”
“Shall I, mamma?” Lucy crept a little closer to her mother, who was not
forgetting her after all.
“Yes, at once. I hate them all!” cried Lady Curtis with a little
outburst, “taking my children from me. But I suppose you will be
happier; and you know, as Arthur says, I do care--a little--for _you_.”
THE END.
London: Printed by A. Schulze, 13, Poland Street.