“It must be a mistake,” said Arthur, paler than ever; “it cannot be my mother.”
He put out his hand to stop Mrs. Bates; then he stood aghast, gazing after her. He could not leave his newly-made bride, and how could he meet his mother’s eyes?
“Oh, go—go,” said Nancy; “you needn’t mind me.” Then she herself melted, touched by the situation. “Yes, go, Arthur. I will wait for you,” she said, with something that looked almost like dignity.
He dared not take her with him. Hewent with mingled eagerness and reluctance, wondering, affected, ready to bless his mother, or to cast off all duty to her for ever.
He found Mrs. Bates haranguing old Davies, his mother’s maid, calling her “my lady,” and begging that she would do them the honour to come to the wedding breakfast.
“I don’t pretend to call it breakfast, it’s more like what your ladyship would call a lunch; but the young folks must have something substantial before they start on their journey—and we’ll take it so friendly, and such an honour. It is just what we were wanting, and not daring to hope for, my lady,” said Mrs. Bates, beaming. “Arthur, you can tell her ladyship—”
“Why, Davies, you!” cried Arthur, sharply, stung by sudden rage. “What are you doing here?”
“Davies! Ain’t she my lady after all?” cried Mrs. Bates.
Lucy had been almost crouching in a corner of the pew; but when she saw her brother’s troubled and worn face, she could not restrain herself.
“Oh, Arthur, how could you think mamma would come?” she said. “How could she come after the letter you sent her? But we could not let it be without one near you that loved you; and I am here,” said Lucy, coming forward, putting back her veil, the tears rushing to her eyes.
Arthur was overcome by the sight of her, by the voice, by the incident altogether. He was so much excited and overcome that he could have cried too. He took his sister’s outstretched hands, and kissed her cheek.
“Lucy, I will never forget this. Come and speak to Nancy, and then they can take you away.”
Here Durant came forward, with a feeling that he would be condemned on all sides.
“I don’t think Lady Curtis meant that your sister should see anyone,” he said.
“Lucy, I suppose you are old enough to choose for yourself—is he the keeper of your conscience?” cried Arthur.
Lucy looked at her guardian, with a faint, deprecatory smile quivering on her lip.
“I must,” she said; “I must! How can I help it?”
She seemed to ask his permission; and what was he that he should give or withhold permission? He stood aside, and with reluctant hands opened the pew-door.
Just then Nancy, tired of waiting, and drawn by potent curiosity, came forward alone. She had thrown back her bridal veil. It was natural that there should be a certain defiant expression on her face. She strolled towards them with an appearance of carelessness, a cavalier air. Nancy’s heart was beating loudly enough.She was afraid of the ladies whom she might be about to face, but that only made her put on a bolder and more saucy aspect. She was half-wounded that he should have left her for a moment, half-anxious for the result, and really eager and wistful, wishing to please if she could, had anyone been able to see into her heart. But an image of more complete defiance and saucy freedom than this girl, with her veil put up in a crumpled mass, approaching with a bold swing of her person and a loud-sounding step, could not have been found. All her virginal grace, her tender bridehood and womanhood, seemed to have suddenly flown.
Lucy looked up at her and quailed; her lip quivered more and more; she looked at Durant with an appeal, she looked at Arthur with a pitiful glance. Finally, she stepped forward, and said, softly,
“I must not stay. I wish you may be very, very happy, you and my brother.Oh, Arthur, you know I wish you happy!” Then she made a pause, for Nancy gave no response. “I am sorry,” she went on, faltering, “that it has all been so unhappy—that we have not known you—that Arthur has been so unkind; but it is not our fault.”
“Oh, it does not matter,” said Nancy. She was touched by the look of the girl who stood before her, but to give in was impossible. “It doesn’t matter a bit. I don’t suppose we should have got on, had we known each other. It is better it should be as it is.”
And with this she turned and walked slowly back towards the vestry, turning her back upon them. Lucy stood still for a moment in dismay. Then she said, breathless,
“Good-bye, Arthur, good-bye! Davies will give you a letter, but don’t open it now. Good-bye, and God bless you. Take me away, Mr. Durant, take me away! Come, come,” she said, hasteninghim as they got to the door. “I shall be crying again if we don’t go, I am so silly. I don’t care for the rain, only come, come away!”
Then they were out of doors again, in the wet street, at a distance even from old Davies, who came hobbling after them, the rain blowing in their faces, everything over. Lucy clung to his arm and hurried him on, choking the sobs that would come into her throat.
“How can I forgive myself?” he cried. “I have allowed you to be insulted—I, who would not let the wind blow on you if I had my will.”
She remembered this after, and his agitated look, but did not see them then.
“Oh, it is not that,” she said. “It does not matter, as she told me. But oh, Arthur! he does not belong to us any longer, he cares nothing about us!” cried Lucy, with the shock of discovery which no previous preparation in the mind can lessen.
She had said, as she came, that her brother was severed from his family; but now she saw it with her eyes, and felt the sharpness of the fact, so different from anticipation. Durant was full of a hundred compunctions, as if he had been the cause. He would have said philosophically enough to his own sister that it was the course of nature; but it seemed horrible, unnatural, that such a thing should happen to Lucy. The little suppressed sobs that came from her at intervals as they went back to the train, seemed to rend his own heart.
THOUGH it was his wedding-day, and though he was an impassioned lover, it would be impossible to describe the sensation of despair with which Arthur saw his sister and his friend hurry out of the church. His bride had left him on the other side, turning her back upon him. He was left there, with Mrs. Bates and old Davies! There was a tragical-ludicrous air about the group which seemed the very culmination of that squalor of the weather and the surroundings, which not even Nancy’s bridal-wreath, and Sarah Jane’s pink muslin could counteract. Mrs. Bates and Mrs. Davies were fitlymatched. They were ready to fly at each other’s throats, metaphorically, as they stood there, confronting each other: Mrs. Bates red with confusion and wrath to think that she should have called thispersonmy lady, and Davies dissolved in tears and speechless with indignation. What had young Arthur to do between them? They seemed like symbolical emblems of his fate. No longer to have to do with the beautiful things of this earth, grace, cultivation, loveliness; but with the meaner conditions, the bare, unattractive prose of existence. Everything that was shabby and rusty and poor had taken the place of all that was lovely and pleasant and of good report. Beauty and youth were evanescent qualities; they would flit away even from his bride; and what had he to look forward to but another Mrs. Bates as his final companion? This horrible idea did not communicate itself in so many words, but it flitted vaguely upon the air, giving Arthur a sudden horror of Mrs.Bates, who had taken the place of his mother, as it seemed. He turned away to follow Nancy, but was stopped by old Davies, who called out a despairing “Oh, Master Arthur!” and put a letter, wet with unnecessary tears, into his hand.
“Is it from my mother, Davies?” he said.
“I don’t know, Sir, if it’s my lady or Miss Lucy. I was to have took it; I wasn’t to have seen you; but now as I have seen you—oh, Master Arthur, Master Arthur, how could you, Sir?” cried Davies, with streaming eyes and uplifted hands.
He turned away with rage in his heart, clenching his hand involuntarily; but at that moment Mrs. Bates interfered, and changed the current of Arthur’s feelings.
“You are a most impertinent person,” said Mrs. Bates. “How dare you speak to my son-in-law so? And in church, too!Though you are only a servant, you ought to know better.”
“Davies!” cried Arthur, rushing back and taking the old woman’s hands, “go after Lucy—quick! She is alone. But first say, ‘God bless you!’ dear old Davies. There never was a time that you did not say ‘God bless you’ before!”
“And I will say it!” cried the old woman. “I will say it, never mind who hears. Oh, Master Arthur, dear, God bless you! But you’ve broke my lady’s heart, and Miss Lucy’s too.”
“Run after her—go, Davies, go! my sister is alone,” cried Arthur, giving her such a grasp of his young hands, and turning her round towards the door with such impetuosity, that poor old Davies all but tripped upon the matting in the aisle.
He thrust the letter into his pocket, and went back to Nancy, who stood at the vestry door, looking round for him, withnothing but disdain in her face, and little but dismay in her heart.
“If he leaves me like this now, what will he do after?” Nancy was saying to herself; and though she loved him dearly, and though it was a great marriage for Nancy Bates, her heart quailed for the moment at the difficulties before her, and she repented of the step she had just taken. She stood up against the vestry-door, defying her bridegroom and all his belongings, as it seemed, with dilated nostrils and curled lips, and insolent gaze. But in her heart, what a darkness of despair was quivering about poor Nancy! What had she done? Plunged into a new world, which was all against her, which was superior to her, in which she had nothing but Arthur, who already, ten minutes after he had pledged her his faith, had deserted her—forthem! Oh, how much better to have stayed by the old mother, the shabby father who loved her! Her whole inner being was quivering with thispang of sudden desolation and enlightenment. But with what a look of disdain and defiance she regarded her bridegroom as he came back to her! no softening in her eyes, however much there might be in her heart.
“Forgive me, Nancy,” he said, gently. “You have a right to be vexed; but don’t turn from me, my darling, as if I were unworthy a look.”
“It is you who think me unworthy a look!” she cried, “you and your fine-lady sister, and all your grand friends. Oh, I am sure you would much rather go to them. If they had only come yesterday instead of to-day!”
“Hush, hush!” he said, taking her unwilling hand. She was everything he had in the world now, and any stirrings of anger that might rise in his mind were speedily suppressed by the emergency. People have more dominion even over their feelings than they think. He got rid of the resentment which springs soquickly when the nerves are overstrung and the mind excited, by simple force of the position; for if he allowed himself to quarrel with Nancy, what remained to him? The situation was impossible. He drew her hand within his arm. “Is everybody ready?” he said. “We have not much time to lose. Come!” he added, lower. “Darling, we are going to leave all the trouble behind, both on your side and my side.”
“There is no trouble on my side!”
“Well, then, on mine; we are leaving it all behind. Is not everything happiness, everything delight beyond this church door?”
She could not continue the controversy: for Arthur’s face had regained the lover-look which Nancy had felt the absence of all that strange morning. She had to walk by his side, with her arm in his, and his soft words and glowing looks, and the way in which he held her hand upon his arm, gradually stole at once themisery and the defiance out of her heart. She began to forget the untoward details, and to feel only the thrill of this mysterious thing which had happened. That she was no longer Nancy Bates but Mrs. Arthur Curtis, to be my Lady Curtis sometime—no longer a poor girl, the tax-collector’s daughter, but a lady! All in a moment, this mystic change had been made. And shewaschanged; she felt it, with a sudden revulsion of sentiment. The laugh of Sarah Jane behind her filled her with a half impatient shame. She was annoyed to hear her mother telling over the just concluded incident. She herself had a right to be angry, but what had they to do with Miss Curtis’ visit? Lucy’s visit! that was what her brother’s wife had a right to call her; but “the Bateses” had no right to interfere at all. Had Arthur said this, she would have blazed into high resentment and declared her family to be as good, if not better, than his; but in the seclusion of her private soul,a seclusion not yet in any way impaired by the fact that she was married, this was how she was thinking. It gave her a sense of importance that Lucy had come. She had taken no notice of Arthur’s family, but they had been compelled to take notice of her. And in time to come when she might have many battles to fight with them, it would be well to have this fact in hand. Accordingly, when the party arrived at home, it was Nancy who silenced her mother, whose indignation against Arthur for allowing her to address old Nurse Davies as my lady was great.
“Mamma, you will just stop that,” said Nancy. “You went out of the room in a hurry before Arthur knew. Was it his fault?”
Mrs. Bates was thunderstruck. She had thought of a great many things that might happen, sooner than that Nancy should take up the cudgels for her new family.
“Bless us all!” she said, “is it a reason that no one should dare to speak, because you are Mrs. Arthur Curtis?”
But it was not a moment to quarrel. And when after the meal which Mrs. Bates had thought Lady Curtis would call a luncheon, the mother and sisters left the table with the bride, in a body, to change her dress, according to the well-understood formula of marriages, there was nothing but affection and tears, as is becoming at such a moment. There were no strangers present at the meal. It had been the strong desire of Sarah Jane that Mr. Raisins should be invited, he who it was understood was likely to cause another “wedding in the family” before long. But this had not been permitted, partly on account of Arthur, partly because there was no room.
“We must have your Uncle Sam, and how are we to squeeze in another?” Mrs. Bates had asked; and all Sarah Jane’s indignant protestations about the impossibility of a wedding “without one young man,” were silenced by the physical impossibility. The limited number of the party thus took away much of the supposed festive character from the repast. But for the wedding cake on the table, it might have been a very ordinary domestic dinner; and even Sarah Jane’s pink muslin was of little use to her, and had no effect to speak of upon her spirits. To be sure there were a few people coming to tea, whatever consolation might be got from that. The little parlour was hot and stuffy with eight people seated round the table; and no effort that Arthur could make could keep from his mind a sense of the grotesque incongruity of the scene. People who were passing peered in at the window to see the wedding party, and get a glimpse of the bride. Arthur had found the parlour an earthly paradise at almost every other hour; but he had not been in the habit of coming at this hour. He had nevereven seen the family at their early dinner; and to have his health drank by Uncle Sam from Wapping was a new experience to him.
“I hope as you’ll both be happy, Mr. Curtis, and that you’ll have every satisfaction in Nancy,” said Mr. Sam Bates, solemnly drinking a glass of the brown and filmy port which they all pledged the bride and bridegroom in. He looked at her as if she had been an article just sold, with a calculation of all the uses she might be put to, as he hoped she would give satisfaction. “I have heard a deal of my niece Nancy, and I know she’s had a many advantages,” he said. “I hope she’ll act up to them, Mr. Curtis, and give you every satisfaction in the married state.”
This was the toast of the day, and they all hoped that Arthur would have got up and made a speech; and when he only said, “I am much obliged to you, Mr. Bates,” they were all a trifle disappointed, especially on account of Uncle Sam, who they felt required some practical proof that Nancy’s husband was, in reality, the very fine gentleman and member of the upper classes which they had represented him to be—not perceiving that Sam’s speech of itself proved his perception of the fact. And it was very strange that all these details, which would have amused Arthur greatly, with a kindly amusement without any gall in it, when he first began to come to the house, and which, even up to a very recent period, he would have regarded with amiable toleration, should have become unendurable to him now, at the very moment when he had become legally a member of the household party, and had more reason than ever before to judge them charitably, and look upon their doings and sayings with indulgent eyes; but so it was. How this should be, it is hard to explain, but it was quite natural to feel; and it is scarcely possible to exaggerate the impatience that was inhis mind to get away, and to carry Nancy away. She was his now—“there was no longer any occasion for him,” he said, unconsciously to himself, “to put up with this.” He was enfranchised. Soon there would be land and sea, miles and leagues of it, of English soil, and foreign ground between them; and it would be his own fault if he exposed himself to another dinner in that parlour. When Nancy went away to change her dress, attended by her mother and sisters, Mr. Bates got out the rum, and called to “the girl” for hot water.
“You’ll take a drop before you start for luck,” he said; and though Arthur would not take any, Sam Bates was very willing to do so. The smell of it sickened the young man, for the first time fastidious and critical. He got up and went to the window to look for the carriage which was coming to take his bride and himself away. They were going to Dover direct, to cross in a day or two. How hecounted the moments till he could get out into the fresh air, however damp and gloomy, never, with his will, to come back here any more.
But another shock awaited poor Arthur when Nancy came downstairs attired in the “silk” which was the crown of her little trousseau. It was light and thin, and rustled much, and was of a kind of salmon colour, between pink and brown, largely trimmed with flounces and fringes and bits of lace—every kind of florid ornamentation. The women were so proud of the effect, that Nancy was brought downstairs with the little brown jacket on her arm, which she was to wear over this resplendent garb, which, it seemed to Arthur’s eyes, might have been worn at a flower-show on a brilliant day of summer; for he was not sufficiently trained in details to be aware how the cheap elaboration of Nancy’s gown would have showed among the costlier productions of fashion.
“My! what a swell!” cried Charley Bates, while the two elders looked up complaisant from their rum and water. It was indeed a proud moment for the family.
“The thought I’ve had over this dress!” said the proud mother, with a pull here, and a pinch there to the cracking folds, “for you see there were so many things to think of; the present moment isn’t everything; and if she takes care of it, it will be quite good for next summer, and always a handsome dress for an occasion. And then if they meet friends, and are asked out of an evening, there she is! what could be better? You may say she’s a swell—but lasting was in my mind.”
“It’s a splendid costoom,” said Uncle Sam. “I hope there’s a something in the pocket for luck. And very pretty you look in it, Nancy, and I wish you health to wear it, my dear, and plenty more when that’s done.”
“She must not look for many likethis,” said Mrs. Bates; “not just at present, till Sir John comes round. Parents may stretch a point, but I would never have a young woman be hard upon her husband. Turn round, dear, and show the basques. I never saw a dress that did Miss Snips more credit. But Arthur don’t give his opinion. A shawl! Oh, if that isn’t like a man! Cover her up in a shawl on her wedding-day!”
“But what if she catches cold on her wedding-day?” said poor Arthur.
He put his hand caressingly on the pinkness of the shoulder, and looked at his bride with all the show of admiration which he could put on to hide his secret horror. He was worn out with excitement and emotion, which, no doubt, was the reason why this final accident gave him such a shiver of horror.
Nancy, who had grown suspicious as he grew fastidious, took fire instantly. She flung away from his caressing touch.
“I’d better go upstairs again, and put on my old merino!” she cried, with a flush of passion, wheeling round with indignant impetuosity, and a fury of disappointment in her heart. They all caught and held her, while she struggled to get free.
“She was always like that,” cried her mother. “She never could bear a word about her things. Nancy, dear, it ain’t that he doesn’t like it. It’s all his anxiety for you.”
“My dear Nancy, the carriage is here,” cried Arthur, half frantic. “We shall lose the train. The dress is beautiful, but the day is cold and wet—”
“Don’t you see, dear, he don’t want you to spoil your lovely dress—”
“And be as hoarse as an old crow all the honeymoon,” said the amiable Matilda. “That’s what Arthur is thinking of, and right too! And here’s my new shawl, that I brought down on purpose. Look at the coachman, off of his box, looking in.”
This reduced them all to calm. The coachman sat serenely overhead, contemplating the scene in the parlour with much satisfaction. His attention, however, was chiefly centred in the steaming rum-and-water, which, though it disgusted Arthur, looked very comfortable to the damp cabman in the drizzle, who was elderly, and had no particular interest in the bride. “Lord, how some folks does enjoy themselves!” he was saying in his secret soul. And, fortunately, there was no more time to think of the dress. Matilda wrapped her sister in her big shawl, and they all pressed round with kisses and farewells, of which Arthur had his share. He did not like them to kiss him, but how could he help it? He was on his good behaviour, ready to accept and forgive everything so long as he could get away.
And when they at last drove from the door, what a relief it was! The Bates’ all stood in a circle outside, waving good-byes and yet more kisses, not heeding either the rain or the draggled spectators who stood by. Nor were the other missiles wanting which are common on such occasions. An old white shoe, one of those which Sarah Jane had danced to pieces on the night of the Volunteers’ ball, thrown violently after them, glanced in at the window, and fell on the opposite seat as they set out. Never was there a more squalid spell discharged at the shy and doubtful happiness for which Arthur Curtis had paid so great a price. He took it between his finger and thumb, and pitched it out of the window. Perhaps that, too, was an injudicious step to take.
“I think you might have gone a little further off before you showed my folks how you despise them, Arthur,” cried Nancy, with flaming cheeks.
Poor Arthur! there was not much laughter in his mood. But he made an effort to be light-hearted and gay.
“It was too dirty for anything,” he said, laughing; and then he drew her within his arm, and said, “At last, Nancy! only you and I!”
“Yes; you have got rid of them all at last,” said Nancy, making an effort to resist.
But, after all, they were in love with each other, and had been married that morning. The incipient hostility dropped, and he forgave her dress, and she forgave his criticism. Her manners were as imperfect as her gown; but now she was free from all influences that were perverse, and she was his Nancy—his bride, the girl he loved, the object of his choice. He had paid dearly for the prize he was carrying away. It was not the time, certainly, to look out for flaws in that prize now.
Thus they set off on their honeymoon, poor inexperienced young souls! He persuaded her, with no great difficulty, to stay in London first for a few days—hoping to be able to correct the dress—for how could he take her to France, where dress means something, to travel in November in a salmon-coloured silk gown? This may seem a poor sort of thing to occupy a bridegroom’s thoughts. But then the vehemence of a reformer and missionary was added in Arthur’s case to the new sense of responsibility that was upon him. He must make her perfect—if he could.
THE long avenue at Oakley was as dreary as the damp street of Underhayes. The rain drizzling, a constant soft downfall, half of the chilly shower, half of the yellow leaves, going on without intermission. Here and there one of the great oaks from which the place had its name, stood up all russet and solid, with the dry leaves clinging to its branches; here were feeble flutters of denuded sycamore and lime, there elms standing up in a forlorn faded greenness, all rusty, shabby, ragged, their year’s clothing worn out. The house itself appeared in glimpses as they drove along, grey and cold with its broad lowfront stretching along the damp terraces, which were so green with the wet as to put everything out of harmony. The neighbourhood was proud of Oakley Hall, which was said to be pure Italian, Palladian, or something finer still if there is any finer word. It had an imposing front with pediments and pillars, supposed to be white, but at present the very colour of cold, damp and mournful. Lady Curtis shivered as they drove along, sighting it by glimpses, now more, now less distinctly through the trees. It was her home, but there was not much sympathy between the lively quick-feeling woman and the blank splendour of the cold long-drawn-out house. She was never fond of it at any time. What she would have given for red brick! but Palladio was very much more dignified if not so kindly. “How dismal we shall be without Arthur,” she said as they approached. They had not talked very much to each other on the journey. Allthat could be said about Arthur had been said on the night of Lucy’s return from Underhayes, but it was not possible to keep absolute silence about him now. The house was so full of Arthur; they seemed to see him upon the steps, in the avenue, appearing across the park with his gun. And now he had disappeared from the place. Their own sudden departure, when they first heard of his folly, had broken up the lingering remnant of a shooting party which had assembled at Oakley, chiefly for Arthur’s pleasure, but which no persuasions had induced Arthur to join. Now the men and their guns were all gone, and there was an interval of quiet before them till Christmas, when Sir John’s habitual party of parliamentary friends would assemble. Nothing but mourning could interfere with that; and, “we can’t put on mourning for Arthur, though God knows we might, if separation was all that was meant by it,” said Lady Curtis.
“Oh, mamma!” said Lucy with her usual tone of gentle remonstrance.
Lady Curtis was very quick and outspoken. She said a great many things with her lips which people in general say only in the seclusion of their mind. Lucyfaisait les cornesagain when her mother spoke of mourning for Arthur. The suggestion was intolerable to her. It threw an additional cloud upon the dreary streaming avenue and the grey blank of the eyeless house.
Sir John, who was in reality expecting them anxiously, did not come to the door to meet them, being a little too late in moving from his chair in the library, which was his way. There were often advantages in it; and perhaps to-day, as on other occasions, it was just as well that it was in his library he received his wife and daughter, instead of meeting them in the full sight of the servants. Sir John was a tall grey-haired man with a sort of homely dignity about him. Hewas not clever, and often enough the ladies felt it was difficult to get an idea into his head—and when the idea was in his head, he was in the way of treating it somewhat hardly, as if it was a thing rather than an idea. He could not play with plans and intentions as his wife’s quick mind loved to do—and when he received a blow, it crushed him with a sort of solid monotony to which there was no relief. He had not believed it possible that Arthur would persevere with a marriage which was so seriously against his interests, and had thought it only “some of my lady’s nonsense,” to think that this very fact would make Arthur more decided in throwing himself away. But now that the thing was done, he would allow no hope in it. His son was lost—the prey probably of a bad, certainly of a designing woman, seeking her own interests alone. He might as well die at once for any good that was likely to come of him now. And in consequence ofthis determination, on the part of Sir John that such a thing could not happen, the final act in the drama having taken him entirely by surprise, notwithstanding all warnings, had shaken him enormously in his health as well as in his immediate comfort. “He might as well be dead,” he had said, after he knew that there was no more hope; and those were the words which he repeated by way of greeting to his wife and daughter.
“He might as well be dead at once—why did you let him do it?” he cried. “If I had ever thought he could have been such a fool, I should have taken care to be on the spot myself,” said Sir John.
He had no curiosity about his son, where he was going—what he was doing. He might as well have been dead. To be sure when he himself was dead, Arthur must come back and reign in his state; but then Sir John felt no necessity within himself that he should ever die. It was so far off, that it was unnecessary to calculate upon that remote contingency, and in the meantime it was his son who had departed out of this life, left it altogether without possibility of return. He had spent these last few days very mournfully in the solitude of his vast house. One or two intimate friends had come to see him, but he had not cared to receive their visits. The Rector had been there for a long time that very day preaching strange doctrines: that a thing being done could not be undone, and that it would be wise now to make the best of everything that happened. The Rector was a Curtis too, Sir John’s own nephew, and though he was shocked by this domestic incident, he was aware that it would be best not to allow it to come to anything scandalous. He had ventured to suggest that, perhaps, things might turn out better than they appeared. “Better!” said Sir John, “he might as well have been dead.” He had been able to think of nothing else since he had heard of it; and his thoughts of Arthur wereall of the kind which come into the minds of those who have lost their children. All the old forgotten nursery stories came back to him. What a boy he was—so active, so strong, such a good shot for his years, ready to ride at any thing, and with an opinion of his own on politics and all that. While he sat in his library pretending to read and write (and what is it that elderly gentlemen find to do when they are shut up for day after day, pretending to read and write in their libraries?) these fancies came surging up about him exactly as if Arthur had been dead. He would put down his paper suddenly to think out a little joke of his when he was five, or a school-boy prank at fifteen. What promise, what ability, a hundred times cleverer than ever I was! and all to end in this. The dull surprise in his mind was inexhaustible; how could he be such a fool—how could he commit moral suicide in this way? And why had not his mother put a stop to it? Thisdull misery which he was suffering did not affect Sir John’s ordinary habits; he went on, to all outward appearance, just as usual. He fulfilled every duty he had been accustomed to; ate at the usual times, took all the usual courses at dinner, and presented an imperturbable countenance to the butler and the footman who waited upon him; but his heart was heavy with the thought of his son who was lost. Though he was so glad to have his wife and daughter back again, he met them almost with reproaches.
“You went away, but you have not done any good,” he said. “I expected little, but still you might have been of some use—and you have been of no use. It is exactly as if he were dead.”
“Oh, papa, not that,” cried Lucy; but Lady Curtis only cried as she dropped into the big chair by the fire to get a little warmth. She felt at first as if her husband had a right to reproach her, notwithstanding that she had done everythingshe could; for she had left him with perhaps a boast of her own influence, and with very high hopes. It had seemed to her that Arthur must yield; and not only had Arthur not yielded, but all the harm that had been threatened was accomplished, and their only son was lost to them. She could not contradict what Sir John said. She was humbled, she who had been so confident; she had gone away almost promising to bring him back with her, confident in her power over her boy. Never before had her husband gained such an advantage. He had a kind of right to jibe at her henceforward, if he chose to exercise it. She had nothing to answer to him. It was quite true what he had said. What difference would it have made had the boy died.
“I never thought it would come to this,” said Sir John, “not that I believed in your remonstrances; but I could not have believed that the fellow was such a fool. What does he suppose he will make by it? He had everything that heart could desire,a good allowance, a good home; and to go and cut his own throat as it were, to make an end of himself! He might just as well have done it at once. He will never be of any good again.”
“It is quite true, it is quite true,” said Lady Curtis, “all that your papa says is true.” Her heart was so wrung that she scarcely knew whom she was addressing, Arthur, who had gone away in his disobedience, or Lucy, in whom there were faint appearances of standing up for her brother. The mother would not divest herself of the sense of a domestic audience to be convinced, whom perhaps their papa might be effectual with, though she had failed herself.
“What he could think he was to gain by it!” Sir John resumed, encouraged by this support, which he did not always receive from his wife. “Debt and that sort of thing is bad enough, and we know how young men are drawn into it; but what could anybody suppose this wasgoing to be but ruin and destruction; what could he think there was to gain?”
“Oh, papa!” Lucy could not keep silence any longer. It was not the habit of the house to allow papa to have everything his own way. When Arthur’s youthful peccadilloes had been discussed hitherto, Lady Curtis, however she might object to his conduct, had always been his champion with his father, and one of the greatest marvels and most confusing circumstances of all was this silence on her part, and surrender as it were of Arthur to be crushed as Sir John pleased. Lucy could not be still and hear it all. “Oh, papa!” she cried, “you speak as if poor Arthur thought of nothing but his own interest; was he so selfish? you know that he never thought of what was for his interest at all. Cannot you believe that he loved her, and that this was his motive?”
“My dear,” said Sir John, “I was not speaking to you. You stand up for oneanother as is natural. But see, even your mother has not a word to say.”
This roused Lady Curtis from her depression. “I disapprove of it all as much as you can do, John; I am as unhappy; but still I do not think there was any calculation in Arthur’s mind; how should there have been? It was the height of foolishness and wicked hastiness, but he knew he could get nothing by it—he knew it was ruin, as you say.”
“Why did he do it then?” cried Sir John with outspread hands, appealing to heaven and earth, his eyebrows raised, shaking his head and looking about as if for an answer. Perhaps he felt his son’s defection the most of all of them, although when all was well with Arthur he was not one of the fathers who cultivate their sons unduly, but on the contrary was often impatient of Lady Curtis’s interest in anything connected with the boy, and her anxiety about him. “What could happen to him?” Sir John was in thehabit of saying, when, as sometimes happened, there would be a commotion in the house because Arthur did not write often enough. “Depend upon it he is all right.” This had been his mood before; but now he seemed to miss Arthur wherever he turned. A thousand questions seemed to arise on which he would have liked to consult him; he wanted him to shoot a too-well preserved preserve, he wanted him to say what he thought about those new cottages which had to be built. Sir John did not see the need of new cottages;hedid not want a new house, he was contented with his old one; and why should not other people be content? but in case the cottages should be forced upon him he should have liked to know what Arthur thought. Now that he was gone, there seemed to arise some special reason for appealing to him almost every day. It was as if he had died.
And there was a long silence in the bigstill room where the family had met together after their misfortune. How few families are there which have not known such sorrowful silences: when there is one absent to be bitterly blamed, and some one in fretful anguish cries out, and the others heartbroken, try for excuses and find nothing to say. This was how it was. The mother and daughter had talked it over till there seemed no more to add, but Sir John had not had this relief. All his pain and anger had been locked up in his own bosom, and now they burst forth. “What did he do it for? What did he suppose he could make by it?” Sir John did not believe that his son thought anything could be made by it, but how was he to repress the intolerable pang in his own heart for Arthur’s loss and ruin? And yet he was angry that nobody defended Arthur when he stopped speaking. He was angry also when the women attempted to defend him. It did not much matter which it was. He was silent for amoment; and the dull sky outside, and the dull air with its double rain from the clouds and the trees filled up the great windows with dreariness, adding another element of depression, and Lady Curtis gazed drearily into the fire stooping over it, to get a little warmth, and Lucy stood by the table motionless with tears upon her cheek. Then Sir John burst forth again.
“If there had been anything to justify it, you know! One has heard of a man losing his head for a great beauty, something out of the way—a syren, you know. But a village girl, and, from all I hear, a virago, a temper—”
“Don’t let us speak of her,” said Lady Curtis, with a movement of disgust. “It’s enough that he has done it. Oh, the foolish, foolish boy! Separated himself entirely from his own sphere, and his natural life, and us.”
“Mamma,” said Lucy, breathless, “I don’t want to excuse Arthur; but whatcould you say worse of him, both papa and you, if he had done somethingwrong?”
They both turned upon her, furious: yet so thankful to her for standing up for him with whom both were wroth beyond words.
“Wrong!” they both cried in one breath. “Are you mad, child? Do you think he has not done wrong?”
“He has been very, very foolish,” cried Lucy, growing pale. “Yes, he is wrong; oh, yes, I know he is wrong. But if he had done something shameful,wicked, mother—people’s sons have done so—sin—crime—you could not take it more seriously, you could not say worse of him.”
“Sin!” said Sir John. “Lucy, you are a girl, you don’t understand things. A man might be sinful enough, and not cut himself off like this. It is worse, ever so much worse, both for him and us, than what girls like you call sin.”
“No, papa!” cried Lucy, with flashing eyes. “I will not hear you speak so of Arthur. He has been disobedient to you; but he is a man. God does not mean us always to be obedient like little children. And he has done nothing that is wrong. I will not hear anyone say so.”
“Wrong!” cried Lady Curtis, rising in her indignation and pain. “Do you call it right to bring misery and disgrace into a family, to break off all his old ties for a new one, to throw off father and mother, and duty and honour, for the sake of a fancy, for the sake of a pretty face? What does he know more of her than a pretty face? Love! is that what can be called love?—for the sake of his own will and self-indulgence, the unkind, selfish boy!”
And then she sat down again and cried bitterly, which was a relief to her. Sir John could not cry, but he got angry, which was a relief to him.
“Let me never hear you excuse himagain,” he cried, “or you will make me fear that you are not to be trusted either. What, Lucy! you think children are not to be expected to obey their parents—you, a girl! Then, God help us, what have we to expect, your mother and I?—our only boy lost to us in a disgraceful connection, and our only girl ready to follow his example.”
“Papa!” cried Lucy, indignant, yet trembling.
“Is that the prospect before us? It is kind of you to give us warning: and to take such a moment for doing it, when we are crushed sufficiently, I should think.” Then he changed from this pathetic, sarcastic tone, and turned upon her with fierce and threatening looks. “But mind you, Lucy, I’ll shut you up, as fathers had a right to do once. I’ll keep you on bread and water—by Heaven, I will—before you disgrace yourself like Arthur, right or wrong!”
“Hush, hush!” cried Lady Curtis,roused. “Oh, John, you forget yourself. Lucy, Lucy, your papa does not mean it. We don’t distrust you. Fancy distrusting Lucy, our Lucy, John! Oh, we are not come to that!” and she went to her daughter, and kissed her, and held her close in her arms.
Lucy had not said a word, but she had raised her head as her father vituperated, and fixed her eyes upon him steadily. She was not a girl to be frightened; but her mother grew frightened looking at her, and seeing the pale indignation and firmness in her face.
“Of course, I never meant that,” said Sir John, fretfully, sitting down in his chair with an angrythudwhich seemed but an echo of his sigh. “Why do you put your fantastic meanings into a man’s plain words? Hadn’t you better go and get your things off, and make yourselves comfortable? And you can send me a cup of tea. It is all this wretched, depressing day.”
THE Rector came up next morning to see his aunt and his cousin, and hear their story. Nothing for a long time had interested him so much; and though he was very sorry for Arthur, and sorry for those who had so much to suffer on Arthur’s account, there was a latent feeling in Hubert Curtis’s mind that some advantage, more or less, though he could not exactly tell what, was likely to come to himself from Arthur’s misconduct. He did not wish to profit by his cousin’s loss, but the impression was strong on his mind that this was likely to be the case whether he wished it or not, and, naturally, itmoved him to a certain excitement. Hubert Curtis was not specially adapted to be a clergyman; in fact, it might, perhaps, be said that, of all professions for which he was unadapted, the Church was the chief. It had not been thought of for him till he was eighteen, just leaving Eton, and with thoughts of a crack regiment and all the pleasure of life in his mind. By that time Arthur was fifteen, and it had become quite apparent that there was no likelihood of a second son at the Hall to hold the living of Oakley, as was the tradition in the family; and Sir John’s uncle, who was the then incumbent, was old and growing infirm. This being the case, there was a hurried consultation on the subject in the family; in consequence of which General Curtis paid a short visit to his brother at Oakley. It was because of that uncle, who was still a young man, in possession of Oakley Rectory when Anthony Curtis, Sir John’s younger brother, grew up, that he himself had been made a soldier instead of a clergyman. He was now a General in the Indian Army, with a tolerable fortune, and sons enough to reinforce all the professions. Hubert was his second boy; he was a lively fellow, full of fun, as his family said, and in those days rather apt to get into scrapes—the very boy for the Army. And when the General came home and announced the result of the family conclave, which was that Hubert, instead of putting on a red coat, was to go to the University and study for the Church, there was much tribulation in the old house at Kensington, where the General lived with all his children. The sisters wept with Bertie, who was in despair, and Mrs. Curtis went about the house with a mournful countenance, saying to everybody, “It is so much for his interest, it is a thousand a year.” After a while, it is true, this consideration healed and bound up even the broken heart of Bertie. A man does not comeeasily into possession of a thousand a year as a soldier, and it was not pretended that he was clever to push his way to the front of his profession; whereas here his income would be certain and immediate, and nothing would depend on his cleverness. The parish was small; there was a capital house, very good society, good shooting, fishing, everything a man could desire; and as for the duty, there was not very much of that, and by means of a curate it would always be possible to diminish what little there was.
Thus matters were smoothed down, and Bertie went to the University; and in due time, on his uncle’s death, became the Rector of Oakley, like all his grand-uncles before him. He was so far conscientious that he did not keep a curate, the parish being one which contained about two hundred of a population only—that is, he did not keep a permanent curate, though he indulged freely in occasional aid. But it may be supposed that in these circumstancesBertie Curtis was not, perhaps, so adapted for his work, or so devoted to it as most of the other clergymen of whom we are so proud in England. He liked his ease, which they are not supposed to do, and that liberty of going where he liked, and doing what he liked, which only the richer members of his profession can indulge in. He went to all the races all over the country, and betted a good deal in a quiet way; but, to be sure, the village people did not know where he was when he was absent from home, and he might just as well have been at a meeting of the Church Union as at the Doncaster meeting. And Sir John and the other magnates did not care. Some of them said Bertie Curtis was thrown away where he was, such a good fellow! He “got on” just as well as if he had been the most devoted parish priest under the sun. In externals he was good-looking enough, with the good features and high nose which belonged to the family; of good height, rather over than undermiddle size, but not tall; well-made, well-dressed, active, and not stupid—on the whole, an attractive, agreeable Squire-parson, quite benevolent enough, and not disposed to be uncivil or disagreeable to any man. Poachers he hated by nature, dissenters he disliked professionally, though he was too much of a gentleman even to notice them; but otherwise he was friendly enough to everybody who did not interfere with him.
This was the man who came up to the Hall, concerned and interested, to inquire about Arthur—feeling very sorry for Arthur, yet with an indistinct but not unpleasant consciousness that one way or another Arthur’s mistake and failure in life must be good for himself. There was one little weakness which Hubert had: an inclination towards his cousin Lucy, who did not at all incline towards him. Up to the present moment it cannot be said to have gone the length of love, but he felt that it would be in everyrespect very suitable if Lucy and he could “hit it off together.” Sir John would like to have his daughter settled so near him, and Lucy’s fortune would be a very comfortable addition to Bertie’s thousand a year; and then he liked her better than any of the girls about, better than all the young ladies whom, he modestly felt, he might have for the asking. There are indeed, it must be avowed, a great many young ladies in the world to whom a thousand a year is as attractive as it proved to Bertie Curtis, and who, being unable to get it as Bertie Curtis did, have to “go in for” the clergyman, instead of going in legitimately for the living, as it is the man’s proud privilege to do. But none of these aspirants pleased him as Lucy did, who was not an aspirant at all. In this the contradictoriness of human nature showed itself. He liked Lucy; but Lucy did not care for him. She did not go so far as to dislike her cousin, but she perceived as girls offantastic notions have a way of doing that Bertie’s aims were not very high; and he was not old enough to be looked up to, and to have his faults condoned like the kind old uncle whose place he occupied, who was not an ideal parish priest any more than Bertie, but whom Lucy would not permit anyone to criticize.
When the Rector was seen coming up the avenue next morning, neither Lady Curtis nor Lucy was delighted by the sight. “He is coming to ask after Arthur, that pink of propriety who never did anything imprudent or compromised himself for other people,” said Lady Curtis; which perhaps was not quite just; for Hubert had “compromised himself,” if that was any credit to him, often enough when he was at the University, before it became his profession to be good. But there are many mothers and sisters who will understand Lady Curtis’s feelings. To be sympathized with when your scapegrace is outof favour by some respectable contemporary who never was in anybody’s black books in all his virtuous life, is not that more than feminine flesh and blood can bear? Does not one hate the virtuous youth who has always so wisely shunned the broad path and the green? And Bertie was especially obnoxious to this hatred. Bertie who frequented all the race-courses in a black tie, and had a book on every great “event,” and yet was always so decorous, keeping within the bounds of clergymanly correctness, though he never professed to be devoted to his profession. Had he been an open humbug and hypocrite, he would have offended these ladies less. They knew how sympathetic he would be about Arthur, how he would “understand his feelings,” and yet show in his faultless manly demeanour how weak it was of Arthur to throw himself away. Lucy’s first impulse had been to leave the room when she saw Bertie appearing, but she was convinced of thefutility of this when Lady Curtis sprang to her feet impatiently. “There is Bertie,” she cried, “Lucy, you always get on with Bertie, I really cannot put up with him to-day.”
“But you would not leave me alone—not alone—to entertain Bertie to-day.”
“My dear, what does it matter, he is your cousin,” said Lady Curtis; and then she changed her mind and took her seat again. “Of course he is sure to speak to me about it some time or other—as well to-day as any day,” she said; “but oh, Lucy, to see him sitting there so correct and proper, and my Arthur—!” cried the vexed mother.
“Arthur has done nothing wicked,” said Lucy, elevating her head, with again that look of resolution in her eyes. Lady Curtis did not understand this look. She was afraid of it. She asked herself could Lucy have anything on her mind? Lucy would not and could not emulate Arthur. No chance that she would distress herparents with a lover of low degree, or any man who was not a gentleman. But then if Lucy “took anything into her head,” that would be worse than anything Arthur could do. A trembling came over Lady Curtis. It was hard enough to lose her son, but Lucy seemed now everything she had in the world. While these thoughts were passing through her mind, Bertie was shown into the room. There were some clerical tricks which he had learned, though he did not assume a clerical deportment generally. He would take the hand of a sufferer and press it with silent meaning, with eyes full of sympathy, and if anything in the world could have exasperated Lady Curtis more than the mere fact of his coming, it would have been this deeply-meaning look from Bertie’s eyes.
This however was got over, and so was the close pressure of the hand which seemed to say so much, and Bertie sat down. The ladies were in a small morning-room which they were fond of, whichopened out upon the green terrace in summer; and there they lived half out of doors in a kind of stony bower formed by two of the pillars which adorned the front of the house. The windows were very long and straight, the room was furnished luxuriously, in a taste which is scarcely approved by the art-standards of the present day. But they liked it for very different reasons: Lady Curtis because she had herself furnished it, arranged every festoon of the drapery, and chosen every scrap of the Louis Quinze furniture: and Lucy because she had always known it like this and could not bear any change. Lady Curtis sat with her back to the light, that at least Bertie might not see the effect of his condolences. His face was so serious, so sympathetic, so full of feeling, that few people could have withstood it. He did not say much as he pressed their hands, and after he sat down there was a pause. Lady Curtis had grasped at her workwhen he appeared. It is a great safeguard to a woman to have a piece of work which she can bend her head over, and thus avoid the inspection of such serious eyes. “I heard you had got home yesterday,” he said, “I am sure my uncle will mend now that you are here.”
“Was papa ill,” said Lucy, “while we were away?”
“Ill is not the word, perhaps: but one could not help seeing that he was very unhappy. He will be better now. I came up to the Hall to see if I could be of any use in amusing him a little, but it was not me he wanted. And how is Arthur? I hope you saw him before—”
“Yes, thanks, I saw him,” said Lucy, “he is very well. There has never been anything the matter with him that I know of.”
“No, not with his health of course; and I hope, aunt, you were more satisfied about—the lady—than we hoped;—or I should say feared—”
“If you mean Mrs. Arthur,” said LadyCurtis, forcing herself to speak the words steadily, “I did not see her, Bertie. I did not wish to see her; therefore I cannot give you any opinion on the subject.”
“Nay,” he said gently, “I did not want any opinion. I only trusted that you had been—pleased, or, at least, less displeased—than we fancied. I suppose they have gone abroad?”
“I suppose so,” said Lucy rather drearily. This cross-questioning was insupportable to her also; but she was not of an impatient temper like her mother; accordingly while Lady Curtis fumed, it was Lucy who had to speak.
“That will be a good thing,” said the Reverend Bertie, “so much can be done abroad. It is really the place to go to when a little polish is wanted. The very fact of living among foreigners is good for one in the way of culture, and Arthur himself has such good manners. I hope you will not think it an impertinent question—but I hope, my dear aunt, there is no open breach?”
“What do you mean by an open breach?” she said indignantly. “You talk as if Arthur had murdered some one. If you will tell me plainly what you want to know, I will endeavour to give all the necessary information.”
“My dear aunt! is it not natural I should like to know? Arthur and I have always been good friends. In happier circumstances, I should have married him, or helped to have married him—surely you don’t think it is mere vulgar curiosity. I don’t conceal that I should like to know.”
Lady Curtis threw her work aside. She could not keep up the appearance of calm. “I am sure you mean very well, Bertie,” she said, (though, indeed, she was by no means so very sure). “And, perhaps, I am not so patient as I ought to be. I can’t talk my boy over as if he were a stranger. Arthur has been very foolish—”
“You think I don’t understand,” said the Rector, “do you think I am so unfeeling? I know how hard it must be, and Sir John is very severe. But after all, what is done cannot be undone. Things of this kind so often turn out better than anyone expected. This is why I wanted to know if you had seen the lady. If she has sense, it may all come right, indeed it may—women are so quick, they pick up things so fast. I wish you would let me persuade you to take a little comfort. Things may not be nearly so bad as they seem.”
All this was so well said that even the suspicious mother could not make any objections. After all, the chief thing against him was thathewas not under a cloud, that he had not made an imprudent marriage; and it was hard to refuse his kindness, and treat him as an enemy on that account. Lady Curtis, who was changeable by right of her quick temper and feelings, melted all at once, andopened her mind to him—her mind at least, if not her heart.
“If she had been a girl with any feeling how could she have married so?” she cried. “Not one friend with him—his father and mother holding aloof. No, Bertie, it is very good of you to say so, but I have not any hope. Our boy is lost to us. Of course, when we are out of the way, he will come and take his place here, and she will take my place, which is no pleasant thing to think of; but in the meantime we have lost our boy.”
“Indeed, you must not think so,” said the Rector, “when the first infatuation is over, Arthur will come back. He will not be happy in so different a sphere. He will miss you—he will miss Lucy—and all his old ways. In—how long shall I say? in a month, six weeks—he will come back and beg your pardon.”
“I hope he will not have so little perception,” said Lady Curtis, the colourrising in her face. “You speak as if it were a case in which such a conclusion was possible; and no doubt there are such cases; but this girl—this girl is—Don’t ask me—how can I tell you all the impossibilities of it? I see them, and I know that Arthur is lost to us. As his poor father says, ‘he might as well be dead!’”
Lucy had not said anything, but Lady Curtis saw without looking that her daughter was not on her side. Lucy’s head was very erect—her mouth was closed firmly, as if she was holding herself in; there was a certain resistance in the poise of that head, and displeasure in the mouth. Lady Curtis stopped short after she had answered her nephew, and turning suddenly round to her daughter burst forth: “Say what you mean, Lucy—say what you mean! I would rather have anything said to me than see you keep it in and despise what your mother says.”
“How could I despise what you say, mamma,” said Lucy, “or what you thinkeither? But I should like Bertie to know that I cannot blame Arthur as other people do. He is dreadfully wrong in some things; but we can’t tell he is wrong at all in the great thing. Mamma, I cannot help it—I don’t want to vex you. For anything we know, she may be the one wife in the world for Arthur; and when he was promised to her, pledged to her, and had got her love, and given her his—I should have hated my brother if he had forsaken her. Yes, I know you will be angry—but I can’t help it. I might have been glad in a way—it might have been better for the family; but I should have hated and despised him. He could never have been Arthur to me any more—that, indeed, would have been as bad as dying,” said Lucy emphatically with fire in her eyes.
Lady Curtis was so moved with displeasure that she could scarcely find words to reply. “You, Lucy, you! togo and put yourself on the side of such a creature.”
“I don’t put myself on her side, but Arthur has done nothing irremediable—I cannot, I cannot allow it to be said! Oh, foolish, foolish! unwise, unkind, ill-judged, whatever you please,” she said, “but he has done nothing against his honour, or against nature. He may repent it bitterly; but what he has done is not irremediable, I cannot have it said.”
“All for love,” said the Rector musing, with a half smile, “and the world well lost!”
“I do not mean anything nonsensical,” said Lucy, blushing hotly with the shame of youth for being supposed capable of high-flown sentiment. “I am speaking of mere truth and honour. What is a man who is false to his word? who can be shaken off by other people’s interference from the most solemn engagements a man can make? I had not thought ofit when we left home. It seemed just like going to get Arthur out of any foolish scrape—as you did when he was saucy at Eton—and when he got into trouble about his work. But this is different—a man must keep his word.”
“When he has made mad promises that will ruin him—when he is cheated into vows he does not mean—when he makes engagements that will be the torment and destruction of his life?”
“I—I—suppose so—when he has given his word,” said Lucy, overwhelmed by her mother’s vehemence, and by the sudden sense that even to this subject, which seemed so distinct, there was a second side.