“I don’t think you care for Paris,” said Arthur to his wife. They were driving out to the Bois, and the rain was drizzling, and it was not gay. There were fewer quarrels in this dull interval, but perhaps the fact scarcely improved the liveliness, if it slightly added to the happiness of their life.
“No,” she said, with some vivacity; “not at all. It was very nice for a day or two. But now we seem to have got all we wanted, don’t we, Arthur? Another afternoon in the Roo, or in the Palay Royal, just to pick up a few little presents, and I should be quite content to go as soon as you please.”
“You have seen very little, Nancy.”
“Oh, little! I have seen the whole place, all the best shops, and the best streets. I don’t know what more there is to see.”
“People will not talk about the shops and streets,” said Arthur, in his most didactic way; “but about the pictures in the Louvre, and about Notre Dame; and what music you have heard, and what plays you have seen.”
“I am sure mamma will never ask me any such questions,” said Nancy, “and I don’t suppose you are going to take me to see your great friends.”
“That reminds me,” said Arthur, nervously clearing his throat, “of a favour I was going to ask of you. Will you do something—that will be very disagreeable—for me, Nancy, for my sake?”
She looked at him very keenly, examining his face, conscious that this seeming simple prayer meant something more than appeared. “What is it?” she said, with a gleam of suspicion in her eyes.
“You will not promise then? you are cautious, Nancy. I should have pledgedmyself to do anything and everything for your sake.”
“What is it?” she repeated. “It is so easy to say what it is at once.”
“It is this then—do not reply in a hurry—I am very anxious about it, Nancy; don’t you think you might write a few lines—to my mother.”
“To your mother!” the audacity of the proposal took away her breath.
“Yes, I am going to write—to say what I truly feel: that I am sorry to have offended her—”
“Sorry to have married me!” she cried, almost jumping out of the carriage in her vehemence. She looked at him, trembling with rage and wonder. How could he face her and ask such a thing? How could he frame the words? did he think she was going to give in, to yield now, without rhyme or reason, she who was certainly determined never to yield?
“You know that is not the case,” he said; “you know that I have not repented marrying you—and never will.But, Nancy, it is not for our happiness or—well, I will say interest, though it is an ugly word—to be estranged from my mother. I want to write to her to tell her that I am grieved, hush! to have offended her. I should have known better. I should have managed so as that she might have seen you—known you, before she condemned me—”
“That is that you are sorry you did not send me on approval, as the shopkeepers say—me! Do you suppose I would have done it? Do you think I could have endured for a moment—”
“Can I not ask you a favour—acknowledging it to be a favour, without a quarrel?” said Arthur. “We have been married a fortnight, and how often have we quarrelled already? Nancy, is it worth the while? Could we not discuss a matter that concerns us both, calmly, without anger? If it seems to you impossible, say so. Am I unreasonable to torment you about a thing you refuse? But why quarrel—I hate it—and you cannot—like it.”
“How do you know I don’t like it?” she cried; then stopped herself, with some dim perception of her folly. “I will not do it,” she said, doggedly, “that is enough. My lady has never taken any notice of me—no, nor even your sister, that you are always holding up as a model. I will not lay myself down at their feet to be trampled upon; you may do it yourself, if you please.”
“I shall certainly write,” he said. “There will be no treading upon; but I shall write. If you will not do it, of course I cannot help it; but if you will be persuaded—out of your love for me—then I will be grateful to you, very grateful, Nancy. I will not say any more.”
“I shall not do it,” she said; and then there ensued a silence, which was so long that it alarmed her. Generally Arthur had been but too obsequious, anxious to make up, to clear away any lingering cloud; but this time he said nothing. The fact was that his mind was too full of a multitude of thoughts to leave him any time to speak. He was wondering,in a kind of desolate way, what to do. He had ceased to be an independent agent, he could not go there and come here at his own pleasure. To be sure he was supposed to be the authority, to decide everything, to regulate every step they took; but how different this was in reality from the sound of it! A man has a right to take his wife where he pleases—yes, when she will go; but if the man is a tender-hearted, generous, foolish, impulsive young fellow in love, what becomes of this sublime authority of his? just about as much as comes of all the defences the law can place around a woman to save her from cruelty and oppression, when she happens to be of a like nature and loves her tyrant. Law is one thing, and love is another. Arthur did not know how to oppose Nancy, how to make any move without her agreement and sympathy, and he had already had many indications which way her mind was fixed. She wanted to go home to England, to Underhayes: and he wanted her to stay away, to remove further off from England. His whole mind was occupied by the discussion of expedients how to manage this, how to persuade her from her desire. And he was not even aware of the silence into which he sank, and which she thought so deliberate, and done with so distinct an intention of punishing her. They drove along in the Victoria, which had carried them about so often, side by side neither saying a word. Already Nancy’s appearance had changed. She had put aside her traveling-dress for another “silk” which Arthur had given her, and which was also dark blue in colour; over this she wore a warm mantle trimmed with soft fur about the throat and wrists, a delicate little bonnet, all corresponding, with that graceful Parisian taste, which is not to be picked up in the Paris streets any more than in the London shops, but dwells in its own costly shrine apart. All this changed Nancy’s appearance wonderfully. There was still, perhaps, something in her bearing when she was on foot, that showed the tax-collector’s daughter, thepretty girl of a country town, a little swing and loudness, a careless step and defiant pose; but in the carriage by her husband’s side, wrapped up in those furs, reclining in absolute ease and well-being, Nancy might have been a duke’s daughter for anything anyone could say. There were many of the people about who noticed them as they drove along, the handsome young English couple, usually so lively, to-day so taciturn. A man cannot belong to “Society,” cannot be brought up at Eton and Oxford, even if he is not in Society, without being known, and there were plenty of people who recognised Arthur Curtis, and wondered over his companion—who was she? They had not believed at first that she was his wife. One of these men, more curious than the rest, came to the edge of the pathway now as the Victoria got into the line, and was obliged to go slowly.
“Curtis! is it really you, old fellow? I had been told you were here, but I could not believe my eyes.”
“Was there anything so strange in mybeing here?” said Arthur, rousing himself up. This was one of the men who know everything and everybody, who have it in their power to convey a bad or good impression to more important persons than themselves. This put Arthur at once on his mettle. “You must let me introduce you to my wife,” he said, “My friend, Denham, Nancy. We have not been very long here.”
Nancy was excited by this sudden encounter with one of Arthur’s friends, one of those, perhaps, who knew his “folks,” and belonged to that unknown sphere of which she felt at once curious and defiant. She did not know very well what to do, whether to shake hands with him, or to refrain. Happily the instinct of comfortableness which suggested no change of position made her bow only, and as this little gesture was accompanied by a blush, very natural to the bridal condition and sentiment, the new-comer swore to himself, by Jove! that, were she as good as she looked, Curtis had got a prize.
“Beg pardon for intruding on your domestic happiness,” he said; “but the truth was I had not heard—Not much going on is there? But Paris is as good a place as another for this dreary time of the year.”
“No, I don’t suppose there is much going on, we have been nowhere; and we are off again directly, for Rome, I think,” said Arthur. “Paris is empty like other places. We have not seen a soul we know.”
“I don’t suppose you were likely to look for them,” said Denham. “Would Mrs. Curtis care to see the bear-fight in the Assembly? sometimes it is fun. I will see after it, if you like, on the first good day?”
“Should you, Nancy?” said Arthur, turning to her. Nancy had not a notion what the Assembly or the bear-fight was. She positively trembled in terror of saying something wrong. She who had never hesitated before.
“I—don’t know,” she said; “I don’t care for any—fighting.”
“Oh, they are all muzzled,” said Denham, laughing. “Meurice’s? I will call and let you know.”
“Thanks, but it is not worth the trouble; we shall be off in a few days.”
“If you go to Rome, Neville is there,” cried the stranger after them, as the line moved on more quickly; and he took off his hat to Nancy with a respectful politeness that enchanted her; she was pleased with the novelty of talking to a stranger even for a moment. It made the air a little less still and self-absorbed.
“Who is he?” she asked, with momentary awe.
“Denham, he’s one of the attachés here, not a bad fellow; but talks like half-a-dozen old women.”
“We need not mind how Mr. Denham talks,” said Nancy, with a little elevation of her head. “We have nothing to be afraid of. He can talk as much as he likes for what I care.”
“Isn’t there? But he is Sir John, not Mr. Denham,” said Arthur, carelessly.
Nancy sat a little more upright, shaking herself free of the wraps, and her eyes glistened. “Was that a baronet?” she said, with a little awe—then added, “And so will you be, Arthur. I don’t understand saying anything but Mr. to a gentleman. But you will be a baronet, too.”
“Not for a long time, I hope,” said Arthur, with a sigh. It brought him back to all the tangled course of his own affairs. He was not by nature the kind of son who calculates on the time that must elapse before he comes to his kingdom, and it was very strange to him to see his wife’s eyes brighten at the idea of that “rise in life,” which meant his father’s death. “Poor old governor, I hope he may live to be a hundred,” he said, with a half-laugh, which was a half-sigh. Nancy did not join in this wish. She stared a little with consternation at the thought.
“What did—the gentleman—mean about bear-fighting? Is it a Zoological garden? Assembly in some places means a ball,” said Nancy, “it was rather a jumble; what did he mean?”
“He meant the French Parliament, in which they make the laws, as the House of Commons does in England—or at least, we may say so for the sake of description,” said Arthur; to which Nancy replied with a little startled “Oh!” of disappointment and suspicion.
“Do ladies go to such places? I thought ladies had never anything to do with politics.”
“My dear Nancy,” said Arthur, seizing the opportunity to be instructive, “when you go into society, you will find that people talk a great deal about such things, whether they care for them or not; theyarethe things that people talk about. And it is reasonable to think,” he went on, more and more improving the occasion, “that, when you are in a foreign country, you should like to see what is most important in it. That is always taken for granted. You see Denham thought that was one of the things you would like to see.”
This silenced Nancy more than could have been supposed possible. She hadnever seen this stranger before, and probably never would see him again; but the fact that he had expected her to know what he meant, and to be interested in the French Parliament, impressed her infinitely more than all Arthur’s anxious efforts for her improvement. Were ladies like that, she could not help asking herself? What a bother it would be to be a lady, if that was the sort of thing they were expected to care for—a lot of old men making speeches, which she could not understand one word of! but that of course nobody could be supposed to know. She was overawed, and received Arthur’s sermon more meekly than she had received any of his didactic addresses before. She supposed now that sister of his, that Lucy, would have gone and understood every word, that she would have liked the playacting, and talked about it, and laughed as Arthur did, that she would have seen a great deal in those stupid old pictures. Nancy was silent and dismayed. To be a lady seemed to her a hard trade. How different from the case ofUnderhayes, the talk about Lizzie Brown and Raisins, the grocer, in the snug parlour where everybody was so comfortable! Her mother and Sarah Jane never would ask her about the bear-fighting in the Assembly, nor how she liked M. Got. A longing for home seized the girl, and a terror of what seemed before her. To be sure, if she had known it, the talk about Lizzie Brown was quite as much in Sir John Denham’s way as in that of Mrs. Bates; but then his Lizzie Brown was perhaps an Empress, which makes a difference more or less. The two young people had never been so silent in each other’s company. They drove back so full of many thoughts that neither perceived the pre-occupation of the other, and oddly enough they were both thinking of their homes; Arthur, with a pang, but without any desire to find himself there—Nancy with the strongest determination to get back. There was a half-smile in Arthur’s eyes, but a smile which was strangely associated with that pain behind the eyeballs and slight constriction of thethroat, which means unsheddable tears, as his home seemed to rise up before him among its woods. He saw his father in his library, his mother in that gilded and satin-hung morning-room, which wasà la Louis Quinze, but which nobody thought in bad taste, as we see people in a dream. They did not look at him, nor welcome him, and he did not wish to be there. How could he take Nancy there? He was separated from them, perhaps for ever, and he could scarcely wish it to be otherwise. But Nancy on her side thought of home with much livelier feelings. Oh, only to be there! free to show all her pretty things, her new “silks,” her trinkets and furs: to let everybody see how fine she was: to talk just as she liked, not to be made to admire anything she did not understand—not to be burdened with bonds beyond her comprehension, limits of speech, and word, and action, beyond which it was not “becoming,” not “appropriate,” not “right” perhaps, that she should go. At home she had done what she liked, run out ofdoors when she pleased, laughed as loudly as she pleased, been as ignorant as she pleased. It did not occur to Nancy that at home it had been her inclination to stand on her superiority, as one who had been five quarters at school, and was altogether “a cut above” Matilda and Sarah Jane.
They were sitting after dinner that evening, yawning a little, when Sir John Denham’s card was brought to Arthur. He looked at Nancy half doubtfully, an expression which she caught at once.
“Shall he come up, or shall I go down to him?” he said.
“Oh just as you like,” said Nancy, with the quick thought passing through her mind that Arthur did not choose that his fine friends should see her. He looked at her again; in reality to see what she wished; but to Nancy it seemed an inquisitorial glance, criticising her all over, if perhaps she was “fit to be seen.”
“I will go down and bring him up,” he said. When he was gone, Nancy too looked at herself in one of the many mirrors. She still wore the dark blue silkdress which had been made for her since she came to Paris, with ruffles of lace at the throat and wrists. It was very plain. Should she run and put on the salmon-coloured one, which was a great deal finer, before Arthur returned with the stranger? She hesitated a moment; but her good angel interfered and kept her still. Sir John Denham thought her on the whole a lady-like young woman when he came into the room. Evidently there must be something queer about the business altogether, Denham thought; but she was very pretty, and lookedcomme il faut, so far as he could see.
“I have to make a thousand apologies,” he said, “but I thought it better to run up and tell my story myself, hoping that Curtis would intercede for me as an old friend. May I be allowed to open my mouth at all, at such an inappropriate moment? A thousand thanks; I came to say that if you would be at the Palais de Justice at twelve to-morrow, I could meet you there with La Pic, who is a friend of mine, and would take you in.There is to be aninterpellationwhich probably may be amusing—and if you are going on so soon—”
“It is very kind of you, Denham, I am sure my wife will like it.”
“Mrs. Curtis looks a little doubtful, I think,” said Denham, “but of course you must not mind me. It is only if it will amuse you.”
Nancy vacillated between two courses; she was tempted to a little bravado, to avow boldly her ignorance, and shame the pretensions which her husband made on her behalf; and on the other hand she was also tempted to commend herself to this stranger, who was a real baronet, and finer than anyone she had ever talked with before. Why should she let him see how little she knew? And in this wavering she took a long time to make up her reply.
“I do not understand much about—politics,” she said.
“Especially French politics, I suppose,” said Sir John, smiling and showing large white teeth. “So I should think, Mrs. Curtis;Idon’t understand them thoughit is my business; but it is fine to see how they fly at each other, and will not keep still for all the Presidents in the world. I hope Curtis has been letting you see a little of Paris. We must excuse him, I suppose, for keeping you so entirely to himself.”
“We have been at a theatre or two,” said Arthur carelessly, “that is all; we are just passing through.”
“And I am sorry there is nothing going on yet; after Christmas, if you were staying, I might be of some use. Some of the balls are worth going to in the Carnival. But why should I tell this to you who, probably know a great deal better than I do—”
“Oh no,” said Nancy, “I have never been in Paris before.”
“Ah, that accounts—” said Sir John. “The fact is I have been wondering that I had not seen you anywhere; what luck for Curtis to have so many new things to show you. But there is not much going on. I suppose you are going to Oakley for Christmas, Curtis. Lucky fellow, with nothing to do but amuse yourself. Putme at the feet of the ladies there; I have not seen Lady Curtis or your sister for ages. A poor beggar like me would not know what to do with such a place, otherwise I should envy you, Oakley. What a place! what woods! what a park! it is only in England that one sees anything like it.”
“You were always a romancer, Denham, Oakley is nothing particular. Being home it is very pleasant; but as a model of an English house—”
“I maintain it is, and Mrs. Curtis shall judge between us. It is not a feudal castle—I allow you might find finer things in that line; it has neither moat nor dungeon, I suppose; but for a gentleman’s house—why, we have nothing in the least like it here. Don’t you agree with me, Mrs. Curtis? You have not been long enough in the family to depreciate their good things as they do. I am sure you will give your vote for Oakley against anything you see between this and Rome, of its kind—I wait for your support.”
It was a strange situation enough. Denham did not understand; but hedivined, and liked to play with the unknown danger in Nancy’s doubtful looks, and Curtis’s evident anxiety. As for Nancy, she looked at her husband with a perceptible tremor. She wanted him to instruct her, to indicate what she was to say: though, had it been possible that he could have dictated to her, that very fact would have made her perverse. At last she said hesitating, “I have seen—so little—I could not judge—I have never been out of England before.”
“Ah, that accounts—” said Denham vaguely; and he was very much puzzled by this subdued bride, who had no enthusiasm either for the new world she was visiting or the old world which she had left so lately. He tried to draw her out on a variety of subjects; but Nancy, though at intervals an impulse of self-revelation would come upon her, and it was on her lips to tell him that she knew nothing of Oakley, and cared nothing, and should never be there, nor go to Rome, nor do any one of these things he was talking of, was on the other hand soafraid of betraying herself that she held back, looking stiff and silent, and scarcely could be got to say a word. As for Arthur, his anxiety made him somewhat excited and restless, it took away all ease from his manner. He wanted her to join in the conversation, to come out of the shell of reserve in which she had shut herself up; and yet he was afraid of what she might say if once roused. She was a clever girl, with much natural energy and force; but yet it was annoying how entirely the daughter of Bates the tax-collector was at a loss listening to the conversation of the two men who were not clever, yet who knew by nature many things of which she had not a notion. This Assembly they wanted her to go to, what was it? Why should she go? What was an inter—inter—what? Their world and hers were totally different, though one of them was her husband. She was relieved when they veered into gossip and began to talk of people, though she did not know the people. There she could follow them even in her ignorance; for had not she too a Lizzie Brown?
“WHY cannot we go home?” said Nancy. “I don’t want to stay here. I don’t want to go to your Rome, and places. What is the good of taking me away to make a show of me? I can speak English, but I don’t know any of those jargons. I am sure it is not good French here; and as for Italian, I never heard a word of it. It is only to make me look ridiculous. Denham thinks so, Arthur. He comes and looks at me, and asks me about old Lady So-and-So. I tell him I don’t know her, and I don’t want to know her. I shall tell him some day I never knew Lady Anybody in my life, and thatIam a nobody. I will, if you do not take me away!”
“Do tell him so,” said Arthur, “if you please. I don’t mind what you tell him. You don’t think I want you to make believe? You are all I wish for, Nancy, yourself—better than if you had known a dozen Lady So-and-So’s.”
“Oh, but I am sure you watch me,” she cried. “I always feel that your eye is upon me, Arthur. You are afraid I will say something wrong; and I am afraid too, except when I want to do it: and if I should do it some time, as I am sure I will if we go on, you will not like it. Arthur, don’t let us go further off; let us go home.”
“Home? where is home?” he said. “I don’t know if I should have any welcome.”
“But I should,” cried Nancy. “Mother and all of them would dance for joy. And think how much better we should be. We must be spending a mint of money here. You talk of going further, but I don’t believe you will be able to go further when you look into it. And I don’t know what we have to spend: you don’t tell me anything.”
“I scarcely know myself,” said Arthur, with rather a bewildered look upon his face. “I don’t know what my father—things should be different now.”
“And you are going away travelling without knowing? You will find,” said Nancy, becoming practical all at once, “that we have spent a great deal of money; always having carriages and going to the play—”
“Not to many plays.”
“Two; and that music Denham gave us tickets for—”
“My darling, don’t be angry—but would you mind saying Sir John?”
“Why should I say Sir John? You always call him Denham. And when we went to that Assembly there was another carriage. I suppose it would always be the same if we were going to other places; but at Underhayes it would not be like that. We could take a little house and furnish it, and you have such good taste, Arthur. We would make it so pretty, and everybody would be delighted to see us. I should manage everything, and keep the expenses right, and you—you—”
“Yes!” said Arthur, taking her hands into his as she stood by him, “What for me? I should have nothing to do.”
“Well! when one has plenty to live on, what does it matter? It will always be delightful. We shall take walks. Don’t you remember the common, how beautiful it was? And now and then we will go to London; and in the evening we can—you can read out loud to me,” said Nancy, stopping, with a little confusion. “We can go and see mother,” was what she was about to say; but she stopped instinctively, and kept that in the background. She was standing by his chair, putting her fingers through his hair, arranging and re-arranging it with soft touches, each one of which was a caress. It was seldom that she was in this tender mood, and he felt himself melting under it. Sometimes she would stoop down and put her cheek against his. “You would teach me all sorts of things,” said Nancy. “Sometimes I know I am not good-tempered, Arthur. I give you a great deal of trouble. It makes me wild to think that I am notlike you, that I don’t do you credit; and then my temper gets the better of me, and I say I am as good as they are, why should I trouble?”
As she made this confession, tears came trembling into Nancy’s eyes and stole into her voice. She had never before revealed to her husband the state of mind which made her so capricious, and as she told it, all those vagaries of temper which had tormented Arthur, became sacred things to him, and beautiful in the light of love and penitence. He took into his arms this tender culprit, whose avowal made all her faults into virtues.
“Don’t, my darling!” he cried; “don’t! Not like me? You are far better than I am. Not do me credit? Nancy! don’t you know I am as proud of you as I am fond of you—and can anything be more than that? Teach you! What could I teach you? It is you who teach me.”
And he meant what he said, and she meant it, to the bottom of their foolish young hearts, and it was all true and all false, as only human things can be.Nancy, though her heart was melting and running over with the tenderness of her confession, was as ready to be defiant as ever at half a moment’s notice, and Arthur as sure soon to be doubtful of her, alarmed and anxious, uncertain as to what she might do or say. But neither of them was at all aware of this as they clung together and mutually repented, and declared that never again, never again should anything disturb their harmony and full understanding of each other.
“There are so many things you could teach me,” Nancy said, smiling through her tears, “in our own little house at home! You could make a lady of me. Oh, yes, we all thought you had done that when we were married, but now I know better. But you can make a lady of me, Arthur, if you will try.”
“You are a lady already, my darling,” he said; but how sweet was this consciousness of what was wanting in herself, and the confidence that he could communicate all she wanted! It was like an inspiration direct from Heaven.
“I will study whatever you wish,” said Nancy. “We could give ourselves up to it if we were only in a little house of our own. Whatever you please, Arthur; French if you like, for I am ashamed not to understand it when you talk it so well, and I don’t think it can have been much good what I learned at school; and about pictures and buildings, and everything. I don’t knowanything, Arthur. I could not understand the things you were talking about, Denham and you; and I know you were vexed about the pictures, and the theatre.”
“No, my sweetest, I was not vexed—perhaps a little disappointed; but I knew it was because you had not seen any before.”
“That was all. I know a little better already; and, Arthur, if you were to give this winter to it, and help me, in our own little house! So near London as Underhayes is, we could go up and see things; and you could read books to me. I think I can see it all,” said Nancy, smiling upon him with her wet eyes; “a little drawing-room with lace curtains and windows that opened to the garden, and another nice little room with your pipes in it, where I could come and sit by your side while you smoked your cigar!”
“But, Nancy, might not all this beautiful picture come to pass, just as well in Italy? You don’t know what Italy is. None of your dull wet days, but always soft, bright, sunshiny weather, and the bluest sky, and such moonlight nights. We need not go to Rome at all. I know a little village up amongst the woods with a view of the sea. Nancy! you can’t think how beautiful it is!”
“I don’t care,” she said, with a little pout. “I don’t want to go to Italy. It is so far, so far away; and I cannot speak the language; and it is so dreary to live among people, and hear them chattering, and not understand.”
“But you would very soon learn Italian. It is the easiest language—everybody says so,” said Arthur. “You could pick it up in a few weeks. You would so soon feelat home there. The good people are fond of everything that is beautiful. Oh, they are not all good people, I suppose. Sometimes they will ask too much from you; they will, perhaps, cheat you a little, in quite a friendly way—”
“I could not endure that!” cried Nancy. “That is the one thing I could not put up with; and foreigners are all like that, Arthur; they pretend kindness so long as they have something to gain; but they don’t really care. Oh! there is nothing like England,” she cried, clasping her hands, “and a little house of our own! And in the summer, when, perhaps, your people may have changed their mind, Arthur,thenI should not be afraid to meet with them. I should know a great many things that I don’t know now. And we should be so happy, both together, and no one to interfere with us.”
Arthur was moved to the bottom of his heart. It did not occur to him to think of her own description of “foreigners,” who pretend kindness as long as they have something to gain. Nay, more than that,shedid not think of it either. Nancy was quite sincere. By talking about it, she had made a certainty in her own mind that this was really all she wanted, that in such circumstances happiness would come of itself, without frets or interruption; and in what other way could that be secured? She was so earnest in carrying her point, that she really felt all she expressed. Whereas, if he took her away, if he insisted onhisplan, Nancy felt that she could not answer for herself. It was for his sake as well as hers; it was for their good as well as for their happiness. And what could Arthur answer to all this? The fact that she wanted anything, was not that the most powerful argument for having it? His own inclinations were strongly in favour of absence, and he believed that this teaching of which she spoke, and which he had fully intended, could get itself accomplished far better on the Riviera, or in the villa among the chestnut woods at Castellamare than anywhere near the house of the Bates’. But what could he do or say against her? Hetried to beguile her into talk of what might happen after, when they would go into society, and when, perhaps, he should be able to take her to Oakley to see all its beauties. But this was a subject of which Nancy was very shy. She would not speak of Arthur’s “people,” whom she no longer called “folks.” When she did make their acquaintance, she wanted to do so in a way which would dazzle them. She could not tolerate the idea of any condescension on their part to Arthur’s wife. No, she must have surmounted all difficulties, and feel able to consider herself as much a lady as any of them, before she met those ladies who were her natural enemies and rivals. For Arthur’s sake she would avoid them until she could burst upon them in full glory of new instruction and knowledge.
“Don’t speak to me about Oakley,” she said. “It was all I could do to make sure Oakley was its name when Denham talked of it. It makes me angry to hear of it. I, your wife, not to know it, not to know anything about it or them! whenevery poor creature of an ambassador’s flunkey goes there.”
“Don’t be too hard upon old Denham,” said Arthur, laughing. “How he would be pleased to hear you! But not Denham, Nancy, if you love me. Your mouth was not made to drop words in that careless way.”
“Oh, nonsense, Arthur! What should I say? Sir John is so formal.Youwould not say Denham if it was wrong,” said Nancy, recovering a little from the too great amiability of this episode; and then she added, “You have asked me to do something for you. I will do it. I will not bargain with you, but I will do it; only you must not see my letter, or school me. I will write out of my own head.”
“Will you, Nancy? You are always a darling, always kinder than I deserve; but at least you will let me see it—send it with mine?”
“No,” she said; “no, no, no; but I will write. Now, will that please you? And you will yield to me, like a dear goodArthur, and take me home. I do so wish to go home.”
“That looks as if you were tired of me, Nancy.”
“Does it?” she said with a smile, putting her arm softly about his neck.
She was not addicted to caresses. There was a kind of rude delicacy and reserve in her, which a little more gentleness of manner would have made into that exquisite bloom of modesty which is the crown of all graces. That soft touch said more from her than the utmostabandonof lovingness from another. Poor Arthur was all subdued; he could not resist her; her tenderness filled him with happiness beyond expression. If she would but be always thus, in spite of all he might have to pay for it, what man was there in the world so blessed as he? That even at this exquisite moment he had the strength of mind not to commit himself finally to the carrying out of her wish, was more than could have been expected. It was, perhaps, because “Denham” arrived at that moment to accompany them to a morningperformance at the “Conservatoire,” for which his zeal had with difficulty got them tickets. They had not wanted to go, but “Denham” had insisted upon it. Nancy went away to put on her bonnet as he came upstairs. How near she had been to success! Her heart was full of confidence and pleasure in the thought, and this gave a brightness to her countenance which was all it wanted.
“What have you been doing to your wife? She is radiant. She will have a greatsuccès, and you and I will shine in her lustre,” said their companion to Arthur, as they arrived at the concert-rooms.
How proudly Arthur looked at her, exhilarated yet subdued as she was by that delightful sense of having got, or nearly got, her own way! This happiness had taken from Nancy the look of defiant watchfulness which generally gave a sense of unrest and discomfort to her beauty. For the first time since their marriage she looked at her ease and unafraid. He was so absorbed in her that he did not see awell-known face close to him, nor dream of any interruption of his felicity until, at the first interval in the music, some one reached a fan across from another bench and tapped him on the shoulder.
“Why, Arthur, Arthur! don’t you know us?” a voice said. It seemed to curdle the blood in his veins. He turned round with a sense of absolute dismay.
Behind him—how could he have missed the grey head of the old Indian, the overwhelming bonnet of his aunt, the demure correctness of the English young lady, all three in a row?—sat General Curtis, his uncle, father of the Rev. Hubert, who was Rector of Oakley, with the two ladies who ministered to him. What so natural as that these excellent people should be in Paris? They were on their way home from the German baths where the General went for his gout. And the wife and daughter, worn to death by the process which screwed the General up for the rest of the year, had need of a little taste of Paris to refresh their jaded souls. It was Mrs. Curtis who called “Arthur, Arthur!” A discussion had gone on between the three from the moment that Arthur appeared with the young woman, whose advent filled these ladies with a thrill of curiosity. “Don’t you meddle with what don’t concern you,” growled the General. Arthur was known to have made a dreadful connection, to have married somebody who was nobody, and generally to be in a bad way; and the sight of Nancy had startled this group beyond expression, as she came in looking happy and beautiful in her dainty Parisian bonnet.
“She looks a perfect lady, mamma; why shouldn’t we?” said Mary Curtis, who was charitable and disposed to be “gushing.”
“It concerns us as much as it concerns anyone, except his father and mother,” Mrs. Curtis said. Both wife and daughter were disposed to be rebellious to the dictum of the head of the house. They had gone through so much for him. Now they were on ground which they felt to be their own, and on which he was no longer supreme, and his opposition quickenedtheir desire to penetrate Arthur’s mystery. No one in the family had seen her, they would be the first, and even that thought was pleasant. “That is Sir John Denham on the other side; if she was very bad would he show himself with themin public,” said Mrs. Curtis.
“What does a fellow like that care?” the General growled back, “thedemimondeis what he likes best.”
“Oh, hush, Anthony, think of Mary,” said his wife, “he may like thedemimonde, as you say; but I don’t think he’d like to show himself with themin public. And really she looks very nice. What a pretty bonnet! Anthony, you cannot pass by your own nephew.”
“I won’t have anything to say to him; if you do, you must take the consequence,” said the General.
“Oh do, mamma, do!” cried Mary at her other side. And the result was that Mrs. Curtis put her fan over somebody’s shoulder and called “Arthur, Arthur!” and filled the young man’s mind with unutterable dismay.
“Aunt Curtis!” said Arthur, rising to his feet. He grew crimson with the sudden emergency, with the surprise, “Who would have thought of seeing you here?”
“Indeed if you had thought at all on the subject, you might have made sure we should be here,” said Mrs. Curtis, and then she stooped forward and raised her head to whisper: “She is very pretty, Arthur, and of course you think her as nice as she is pretty. Would she like to be introduced to me?”
“She must be now that you are here,” said Arthur, not with any great eagerness. He took her offer a great deal too easily as a matter of course, not as the distinguished kindness she intended it to be. But her curiosity had reached to a very high point, and there was a touch of kindness as well as of self-importance in the idea of being able to mediate in the family affairs. Besides Sir John Denham was chatting familiarly on the other side of the bride, whose looks in her Paris bonnet were unexceptionable; and Sir John Denham was a very useful man toknow in Paris, and one before whom many doors opened. And though her husband grumbled and held back, her daughter was still more anxious than she was.
“Oh, Arthur, how pretty she is!” Mary Curtis murmured to her cousin, while her mother made up her mind. It was Mary or some one like her who ought to have been elected to fill the post Nancy had secured, to become the future Lady Curtis. If that post had been filled up by competitive examination, as men’s situations are nowadays, no doubt Mary would have got it; and looking at it entirely as a public position without reference to Arthur (who after all was but a necessary adjunct, and not everything) Mary felt a lively interest, touched with doubt of her qualifications, in the successful candidate. She was anxious to inspect her, to have the satisfaction of feeling, which is a very general sentiment, that she herself could have done it better. Would this girl have the least idea how to behave in so important a post? Mary gave her mother little pushes and pinches to urge her on.
“I hope you have taken her to see your mother, Arthur,” said Mrs. Curtis, “she is of course the first person to be thought of. Ah, you have not, you naughty boy! well, if you wish it I will go and speak to her before the music begins again. No, Mary, not you, you had better stay where you are. Papa will be vexed if we both go.”
“Oh, papa! it is always papa,” said Mary, as her mother swept past her, almost sweeping her out of her seat. Mrs. Curtis was large and ample both in figure and drapery, and looked like Society impersonated as she swept round in front into the vacant space before Nancy, with a solemnity becoming the occasion. Nancy looked up alarmed at the coming of this large lady, and if it was partly defiance and resistance, it was also partly shyness, and fright, and ignorance as to what it was right to do, that kept her from rising to receive this imposing introduction. Mrs. Curtis made her a curtsey, which the girl blushing hotly, and confused between pride and shame and helpless ignorance, returnedonly with a little tremulous inclination of her head. Oh, if she only knew what was the most polite yet the most disdainful thing to do!
“I am afraid you scarcely know who I am,” said the large lady, “Arthur has not had much time yet to tell you about his relations. I am your husband’s aunt, Mrs. Arthur; we are all very fond of him. But you have not seen any of the family yet, I am sorry to hear.”
“No,” said Nancy, feeling waves of hot blood come up to her temples. She confronted her new acquaintance without looking at her, with eyes half concealed by her eyelids, dumbly defiant. Arthur’s relations might come and stare at her, and talk to her as they pleased, but she would make no advances. And they could not make much, she thought, out of yes and no.
“Arthur shall tell me where you are, and I will come to see you to-morrow,” said Mrs. Curtis. “I think it is only right for his sake, and I hope you will not be frightened of me. I will do anything I can to be of use to you, for Arthur’s sake,that is, of course, if you wish it. Sir John Denham, I think,” she added, turning to him. Denham had withdrawn a few steps from the family meeting, as courtesy demanded. “I met you, I think, years and years ago at the Carringtons’, though I see you have forgotten me.”
“As if that were possible!” said Denham, in a tone which half offended Nancy. He had pretended to be her friend and Arthur’s; yet here he was just as friendly with the enemy. “But they are going to begin again, I am afraid. Will you take this place,” he said, offering her his vacant chair. Mrs. Curtis paused to reflect that to place herself beside Arthur’s wifein public, was more than was required of her; more, indeed, than was perfectly discreet in the circumstances. So she made her doubtful niece-in-law a bow, and took Arthur’s arm again.
“I must return to my own party I fear,” she said, “but I shall hope to see you to-morrow.” Nancy found herself for a moment left entirely alone, while this unexpected intruder upon her happiness squeezed back again into her place,for Denham too had deserted her, as she saw by a backward glance, to renew acquaintance with the fine young lady behind, with whom Arthur too lingered, leaving her seated there in front alone. The din of the orchestra recommenced, which Nancy was not sufficiently instructed to admire, and her head began to ache with jealous pain and misery. The heat of the place, the languor of the afternoon, the crash of the music, made an atmosphere of confusion and sickening incongruity all around her. Oh, to be in the little parlour at home again! oh, to be Nancy Bates, with no fine ladies to question, or fine gentlemen to thrust the village girl to the front of this alien assembly, where all the people knew each other, and understood what was going on, except only she. These women! she had never expected any inquisition of this kind. She would have liked to jump up and rush away, no matter where, only to be free of it all. She said to herself she could not bear it. She would go home whatever happened; with Arthur or without Arthur, it did not seem to matter now.
NANCY had plenty of time to calm herself down before she received the promised visit of Mrs. Curtis. And Arthur, who had always been so anxiously compliant with all her wishes, and so ready to excuse all her shortcomings, looked so serious when she burst out into vituperation of the “big fat woman,” and declared her determination not to be spied upon, that even her impetuosity owned a check.
“If you insist upon going away, and not receiving her, it will be a great vexation and pain to me,” he said, “and your own good sense will show you, Nancy—”
“I have no good sense,” said the excited creature. “I never pretended to be sensible; you knew what I was whenyou married me, Arthur; and to be spied upon, and examined all over by a set of women—I can’t bear it, and I won’t, not for anybody in the world; not even for you!”
Poor Arthur did not make any immediate reply. He walked about the little room with agitated steps; then went and stood at the window, looking out with a blank and hopeless face. Perhaps silence was, of all others, the thing which Nancy could least encounter. She sat gazing at him, ready to make off in a moment to her room, to snatch her hat, and fly out, she knew not where; anywhere to escape from those shackles of her new life which were so intolerable. That he would rush after her, entreat her to return, promise everything that she wished seemed certain to Nancy. She did not calculate upon this, but was sure of it without thinking. But his silence chilled her, and when he spoke it was in a voice she did not recognise, a voice out of which all the music and sweetness seemed to have gone.
“I don’t know if this will have any influence upon you,” he said, “but it is worth thinking of: that we cannot live utterly estranged from my family. Some time or other we must seek a renewal of intercourse.Imust seek it, not they; and if my Aunt Curtis could in the meantime convey a pleasant impression of you—if she was herself won to be on our side—I don’t say it would be of great consequence, but yet it would be a beginning. I don’t know what you think of my family, Nancy; if you think they are some kind of wild beasts to be avoided; but they can’t be avoided. We shall have to live by them, and it is for our good—it is indispensable—that we should be friends.”
“Friends!” cried Nancy, breathless with the effort of listening to him and keeping silence. “Then you may as well throw me over once for all, Arthur. Friends! with those that would take no notice of me—that never so much as named me in their letter.”
“That was my fault—that was my fault,” he said, turning round upon her. “I had no right to keep them in the dark.I ought to have gone to my mother and told her, not kept everything in holes and corners.”
“You were not a baby!” cried Nancy. “Why, you are four and twenty! Men don’t go and ask their mamma’s leave like girls.”
“That may be—but neither do men throw all their relatives over; tear themselves apart from their family. And I will not do it,” said Arthur with sudden self-assertion. “I will do anything in the world to please you but this. I will not quarrel with all who belong to me. As soon as I get an opportunity we must be reconciled to them—must, Nancy, there is no alternative. And why should you reject this easy way? My aunt is a kind woman. She will do us a good turn if she can. Try to please her, dear; won’t you try to please her for my sake?”
Nancy had started to her feet, when he said with such energy that he would not do it: but something arrested her. Whether the reasonableness of it, which was not likely, or the new force and vigour withwhich he spoke, or the pathos of the entreaty at the end, it would be difficult to say. But she was arrested, her attention caught, and the rush of her hasty blood restrained. After all, perhaps, there was something in what he said. It was not worth her while to fly from them—to avoid them as if she was afraid. But rather to show them her own superiority—to convince them that she was as good as they were, and had no occasion to fear them. This, perhaps, was scarcely the sentiment inculcated by Arthur’s speech; but rather the turn it took in the alembic of her own mind, in which a hundred crude ideas were fermenting and getting fused daily. She sat down again after a moment, when he had ceased speaking. Arthur, notwithstanding his appeal, had excited himself too much to care precisely what she was thinking, and even this gave a wholesome stimulus to the turn in the tide of her thoughts. He did not care, but he should be made to care—he should be proud of her—he should feel that those people who slighted her were slighting somethingabove themselves. She would not yield so far as to say anything, to give her promise that she would endeavour to conciliate Mrs. Curtis. Not for her life; but what she said did not need to be any criterion of what she would do. She took up a book which happened to be on the table, and pretended to read it with an absolute absorption of interest which justified her silence; while he, on the other hand, having no certainty that he had moved her, but rather fearing the worst, kept pacing up and down between the window and the door, excited beyond the immediate question, having, for the first time, opened up the ultimate matter with himself. And when he once began to think of it, he could not shake off the idea. It was no question of expediency or possibility—a thing which ought to be done perhaps, yet might not. It seemed to him, thinking of it, that he must at once explain everything, and claim his forgiveness, and the reception of his bride. “I have done wrong—but it cannot be undone; nor is the wrong half so serious as you think.” This was what he must say. He had intended to write ever since he got to Paris, but had deferred it as an unpleasant business which might stand off from day to day. But now it appeared to him, all at once, that nothing was so important. Whatever else he did, he must reconcile himself with his father and mother, his own flesh and blood. If they would not, he must bear it; but nothing must be left undone on his part. This sudden conviction was brought upon him—was it by the sight of his relations—was it by Nancy’s unreasonable and absurd antipathy to them? He could not tell—but the fact that he could think of any sentiment on Nancy’s part as absurd and unreasonable showed what a leap he had suddenly made.
It was not till several hours later that Mrs. Curtis and her daughter appeared—for this time Mary had insisted upon coming, defying papa.
“We have done nothing but think of papa for the last three months,” she said. “I think we may be allowed a little of our own way now.”
Mary was very exact and particular, the essence of English duty and exact young-ladyhood. But there is a point at which duty and self-abnegation stop; and certainly, after spending three months at a German bath, a handmaiden to gout, it is not to be expected that the fortnight in Paris was to be spent in absolute devotion at the same gloomy shrine, especially as the General was better, and wound up for the year by all the sulphur he had imbibed. The young lady came accordingly with her mother, curious, and, indeed, eager to see how the successful competitor acquitted herself.
“Is she a lady?” Mary had said on the previous evening, cross-questioning her mother; but Mrs. Curtis had declined to commit herself.
“She said nothing but no, that I heard. How could I tell from a No?”
“I could have told if she had only coughed,” Miss Curtis replied; and it may be supposed with what keen eyes she was prepared to investigate her new cousin. They were so late of coming that Arthurhad gone out, and Nancy, in her blue gown, sat by the fire alone just as the afternoon sank into twilight. They could not even see each other very clearly, and Nancy did not give them a very warm welcome. She stood up against the light, so that they could not make out a feature of her, and made them a stiff little bow, which was very awkward and self-conscious, yet not ungraceful. And then they seated themselves, not by Nancy’s invitation. The log blazed up compassionately now and then on the hearth, and threw a gleam upon the three half-perceptible faces. It was a strange little scene in that genteel comedy which we call real life.
“I am sorry we are so late,” said Mrs. Curtis. “We have been seeing our friends and making a few necessary purchases; and it is astonishing how trifles take up a winter’s day; it is soon over at this time of the year. We have stayed longer than we meant to do in Germany, the weather has been so mild. I hope the General may be able to come to see you before we leave; but he has to take careof himself just now, after his baths.” As all this elicited no response, Mrs. Curtis continued. “Is Arthur out?”
“Yes.” Nancy had intended to keep to her monosyllables, but it was difficult, and she added, in spite of herself, “I expect him back very soon; he thought it was too late for you to-day.”
“I am so sorry; if he had been here he would have made us acquainted.”
“On the contrary,” said Mary, striking in, “I think, if Mrs. Arthur will not mind, it is better my cousin should not be here. Women understand each other better alone. Don’t you think so? I feel sure of it, for my part.”
“I don’t know,” said Nancy out of the partial gloom; and then there was a pause.
Mrs. Curtis made a fresh start, and the aspect of affairs was so strange, and the absolute passiveness of Nancy so apparent, that all polite feints were impossible, and the visitor plunged into the heart of the one subject, the only subject on which they could approach each other, feeling herself forced into it, whether she would or not.
“I hope you will not think what I am going to say intrusive; but may I ask if it is true that you have not seen anything of your husband’s family, Mrs. Arthur—his immediate family, Lady Curtis, or Lucy, or any of them? Is it so indeed? But I hope you will do all you can to reconcile your husband with them. It cannot be good for you to be estranged.”
“I know nothing about them,” said Nancy, with a toss of her head.
“Indeed, I am very sorry for it. I think Arthur might have managed better. If he had played his cards rightly, when they saw it could not be helped they would certainly have yielded, and taken some notice of you.”
“I wanted none of their notice,” cried Nancy, crimson with anger; and then Mary interfered.
“Mamma, I don’t think you are treating it in the right way,” she said. “Mrs. Arthur does not know Aunt Curtis. Oh, what a pity that your people did not insist on seeing my aunt and uncle! that would have made everything easy. But I suppose you did not know.”
“We did not care,” said Nancy, growing hotter and hotter. She would make no other reply.
“But your people might have cared,” said Mrs. Curtis, “as my daughter says. I hope you will not take it amiss if I say that there has been very great negligence somewhere; and you ought to do all you can to set things to rights. It is all settled now, and past changing. Don’t you think that you should try to mend matters? Arthur may be very fond of you; I daresay he is. I am sure he has given good proof of it; but he cannot be happy separated from his family.”
“Then he can go back to his family,” cried Nancy, with flashing eyes, rising suddenly to her feet. “If you are specimens of his family, coming and abusing me like this, when you don’t even know me—”
“I do not think, Mrs. Arthur, that you are taking what we say in a very friendly way. What object could we have in coming but to assist you—or rather Arthur—in the circumstances? For, of course, wethink most of him, it is only natural; and surely it is your duty to do what you can, as it is you who have brought him into trouble. It cannot be any offence to you to say as much as that.”
“I wish you would go away,” cried Nancy, hotly. “What have you to do coming here? only to tell me that I am in Arthur’s way? How have I got him into trouble? Did I go and ask him to marry me? Did I make love to him? You think I am only a common girl, and you are ladies. Ladies! Do ladies behave so?—to bully a girl when she is by herself, when no one is by—a girl who has never done any harm to them, who is as good as they are?”
“Oh, this is too much,” cried Mrs. Curtis. “I came to give you advice for your good—for Arthur’s sake; and this is how you receive it! I wanted to help you if I could.”
“I did not ask anyone’s help,” said Nancy, defiant, facing them, always with her back to the light, invisible except as a shadow. Her heart beat so that everyvein felt bursting. She had but one desire in her mind, and that was to rush off without stopping to see Arthur, without giving anyone the opportunity of insulting her further, and fly home as fast as the fastest train would carry her. What were the Curtises to Nancy? How could she bear this from anyone, to be schooled and dictated to, she who had never been scolded even at home, who had never been found fault with, whose whole being rose up in arms against anyone who ventured to criticise? There are people in all classes who are thus intolerant of a word, not to be interfered with, whom it is mortal offence to think less than perfect. She felt as if the blood in her veins had turned to fire.
“Mamma,” said Mary, “Mrs. Arthur is quite right. We have no business to come here into her own rooms, and tell her what she ought to do. She knows better what to do than we can tell her. Why should you interfere?”
“Because Mrs. Arthur is young, and does not know, Mary, and it is her dutyto listen when one speaks for her good,” said Mrs. Curtis, furious in her turn. “But you need not be afraid, I will not say any more. I will only bid you good morning, Mrs. Arthur. It is no object to me what you do, or don’t do. If I could have smoothed matters I would; but I will not force my good offices upon you. I hope you will make your husband very happy, for otherwise I am sure he will be very miserable. He was always on such good terms with his family, and now you have made a complete breach.”
“Will you go away?” cried Nancy, wild with anger.
She made a step forward with her arm lifted. It is not likely that any provocation would have made her strike; but if the two ladies, alarmed, thought she was about to do so, no one could blame them. This appearance of violence appalled them. Such a threatening aspect in a woman was so foreign to the customs of society, so tremendous a breach of all decorum, that actual blows would have had no greater effect upon them. They both retreatedbefore her, with alarm in their startled movements. Nancy could not see their faces, nor could they see hers.
“Indeed, we will go,” cried Mrs. Curtis, with tones which were tremulous with wonder and anger, and the kind of moral fright which has been indicated.
Mary had got her hand upon the door to open it, when some one suddenly pushed in from outside, and Arthur came into the room.
“What is the matter?” he cried.
All he could see was his wife against the light of the window, threatening, with her arm raised as if in the act to strike.
“Oh, Arthur, stand between us and her!” cried Mrs. Curtis. “But I will not stay here another moment. Your wife has ordered us out. You poor boy, you can come to me if you like. Good-bye. I am very sorry for you; but I cannot stay another moment here.”
“What is the matter?” he repeated, with a voice which was sharp and keen as a sword, as the two ladies disappeared hurriedly, and he stood alone opposite tohis wife, gazing at her with eyes that blazed through the gloom. Her hand had dropped by her side at his entrance, but at the sound of his voice Nancy, who was beside herself with passion, raised it again and shook it at him in speechless excitement, then turned and fled into her own room, clashing the door behind her. He heard her lock it in her rage, panting for breath as she dashed away. Poor Arthur! he had no mind to follow her. She might have spared herself that precaution. He stood upon the hearth, looking mournfully into the big mirror, in which he could see himself a shadow in the surrounding gloom. Had not all life turned into a vision of shadows, everything that was lovely and fair disappearing from about him? There seemed no power in him to do anything. To go after his aunt and endeavour to make up for his wife’s incivility, was as impossible as to go after that wife and demand the meaning of her strange conduct. He had no heart for anything. He stood, as it were, amid the ruins of his bridal happiness, everythingcrumbling about him. Only to-day, only a few hours ago, she had stood by him, beguiling him with sweet smiles and caresses, she who this minute had confronted him like a fury, with her hand clenched, threatening violence. He had borne a good many shocks in this eventful fortnight; the bloom had been taken off his fond fancy of perfection in his bride. But this was the climax of all. It seemed to take at once his strength and his hope away.
Meanwhile Nancy, her blood boiling, her countenance flushed, her eyes fiery with passion, had rushed out of the darkness into the soft light of her room, where the candles had been lighted, and where she saw herself entering like a fury in the great glass which was opposite to her as she rushed in. This sight made her pause in spite of herself; it sobered her all at once. Was that the aspect she had borne to these strangers? to her husband? The sudden shock of her own appearance had more effect upon her than any amount of moral reprobation. She calmed down in a moment. They had insulted her, she tried to say to herself; but what wouldthey think of her, was what conscience said in her. What would they think of her?—and Arthur? The colour went out of the foolish creature’s face; a chill came over her. Oh, what was she to do, what was she to do? She had meant to impose upon them, to be more lady-like, more calm, more chilly in her politeness than anyone could be; and this was what it had come to. She threw herself down by her bedside in a passion of tears and penitence. Had Arthur come to her then, she would have thrown herself at his feet and asked his pardon; but Arthur was kept from her by the bolt she had herself drawn in her fury, and by—though this she was unaware of—the despair and dismay in his heart. She threw herself on the carpet, and found relief in a torrent of tears. Such tears! hot as her passion, overwhelming as the impulses that surged after one another through her heart. He must hear her sob, she felt, in theabandonof her misery; and though Nancy did not sob to be heard, it gave her a flutter of hope to think that he must hear her, and must come to know what it was, to comfort her, even to scold her, it did not matter, so long as he came. But not a sound except those sobs of hers broke the silence. The candles burned softly, and glimmered in the mirror, which reflected her lying there upon the flowery whiteness of the carpet, a dark miserable figure; but there was no tap at the door, no voice asking for admission. After a little time, her passion being spent, she raised herself up, and without drying the tears from her woebegone countenance, or arranging her disordered hair, opened the door softly, and looked into the sitting-room where she had left him. All was changed there; the candles were lighted, the fire re-made, the room full of warmth and light; but no Arthur. It was vacant, put in good order by the servants, who knew nothing about what had been happening there. And Arthur was gone. Where had he gone? Had he followed those women, who were his relations, though they were her enemies? Was he hearing their story, who doubtless would paint her as a very devil of ill-temper and pride? Had he gone over to the other side, he who was the cause of itall? Her eyes began to flash again, and her veins to refill with that fire which had all but died out of them. She went back to her room, and dipped her burning forehead into water, and smoothed her hair, which she had pulled out of place with her passionate hands. When she had done this she stood for a moment between the two rooms in the silence, alone, asking herself what she should do. Had Arthur gone from her? Would he not come back again? A speechless dismay took possession of her soul, followed by flashes of passion, and still deeper and deeper despondency. There was but one thing that it seemed possible to do, except flight, which she was not equal to at this dreadful moment, when she was not sure whether he had flown from her. If he had been in the next room she might have had strength to flee; but not with this uncertainty and dread in her mind whether he had abandoned her. There was but one thing in this tremendous emergency which she could do. Had she not promised to him to write to his mother? She would do this now.