THIS period of early winter was a dull one at Oakley at all times. From October to Christmas it was not the custom of the family to invite the usual country-house array of defence against dullness. For some weeks after the partridge-shooting began there would be visitors about—luncheons at the coverside, dinners more or less sleepy, evenings more or less gay. And again at Christmas there was always a large party assembled; but between whiles the family were left to their own resources. How Sir John himself filled up his time was a profound and solemn mystery, which no one could entirely unravel. He spent it mostly in his library—in the perusal of Blue books, inthe writing of letters, and in something which was called business, and supposed to be the management of his estate; but everybody who knew Sir John knew that there was not very much beyond the most ceremonial portion of a sovereign’s duty in his easy lot. The estate had been carefully managed all his life, by the most careful and sensible of functionaries, Mr. Rolt, who was the son of the last agent, and the brother of the solicitor at Oakenden who had the money matters of the family in his hands. And the family had been unexceptionable in its conduct for the last five-and-thirty years; there had been no extravagant heir, no heavy jointure diminishing its resources. General Anthony, who had done very well for himself, was Sir John’s only brother, the only other member of the family; and there had been nothing but unbroken respectability and discretion in the management of the finances of the house. The estate ran upon wheels, or upon velvet, and all but managed itself. Then as for Parliamentary business and the Blue books, SirJohn was a sound reliable Conservative, who never dreamed of opening his mouth in the House. He voted as his leaders voted, who were the best able to judge, and the study of public affairs, to which he thus devoted himself, had all the merit of disinterestedness. It cannot even be said that it told greatly when he sat upon a Parliamentary committee, for he was apt to get confused on the points he knew best, and his knowledge did not stand him in stead at the moment it was wanted, as knowledge ought to do; but still what with the Blue books and the estate, he thought himself very fully occupied, and what could be desired more than this? Two or three times in the day, especially when it rained, he would come into his wife’s morning room, and stand up with his back to the fire and talk, sometimes relevantly, sometimes irrelevantly, like most other people. But he was always serious, whether relevant or not. He had a long face, with grey whiskers and grey hair, and a long upper lip shutting close upon the under, which was feeble, though thechin too was rather long. His face in these wintry days, when there was no news of Arthur, was as serious as a countenance well could be. Whether he was talking of his son or not, Arthur was always more or less in Sir John’s mind, and never smile, or glimmering of a smile, approached within a hundred miles of the serious lines of that long upper lip.
Lady Curtis was of a different disposition altogether. The last extremity of grief even could not produce in her the monotony of melancholy which was possible to her husband. She would weep as he never wept; but then she would laugh also in sheer impatience of the weight of tedium and sameness. Her suffering was far more acute than his steady dullness; but it was broken by gleams of activity, by sudden impulses, by perpetual changes. She flung herself into her housekeeping, stirring up all the quiet corners, and making a commotion in the servants’ hall, such as for some time threatened the family peace—and into the parish, where Lucy did not always want her mother’s assistance. She wrote letters to her friends, half cynical, half sorrowful, and more than half amusing, in which Arthur indeed was never referred to; but where many a cutting sentence, sharp jest, or mocking reflection betrayed that sting of personal suffering which those who knew her best could read between the lines. Lady Curtis was clever. She wrote articles now and then in literary papers, even sometimes in magazines; but this was an indulgence of which she was not proud, and she prudently kept silence about it, being wise enough to know that any such crown of wild olive sits badly upon the matronly brow of a country lady, alarming some people, and giving to others occasion for ill-natured jibes and pleasantry. Not her husband certainly, and even not Lucy knew always when she took upon herself the office of critic; and the able editor who printed her reviews was not aware what had made his contributor more industrious than usual and more bitter. It was Arthur that pointed the clear steel of those polished little arrows which shedischarged at the world. She did it as a relief to herself; but not that anyone might know. And it must be added that there was a certain satisfaction in this safety valve. Then there was crewel work, and the patterns of the Art Needlework Society, of which, however, she soon got tired. Altogether Lady Curtis’s activity was stimulated to its utmost. She had the happiness of discovering a source of waste in the house, and an abuse in the parish; and she fell upon a nest of foolish books to criticize, and began a series of papers upon “The Minor Morals of Society;” and she set vigorously to work upon a set of curtains in a bold and effective pattern of her own invention. And thus she beguiled away the weary days.
Lucy was less difficult perhaps than either her father or her mother. She was young, and it still seemed to her that in the course of nature everything that was amiss must come right, and every breach be mended. Sir John’s opinion was that nothing would ever mend, and hiswife’s that the only thing to be done was to keep yourself busy, and persuade yourself that there was no hope nor expectation of any change within you. But Lucy waited with as much patience as she could, crying sometimes over the estrangement of her brother, but with no despair in her; things would come right, nay, must come right some time or other. To suppose that you could be separated for ever from anyone who belonged to you, anyone you loved! could there be folly in earth so great as that? It was a question of time, and the time was long and dreary and hard to support; but yet by and byof course, who could doubt it? everything would be well. November and December are dreary months, let us make the best of them, and very dreary in the country when the day is over by four o’clock or little after, and there are hours upon hours to be got through in-doors, in a big empty house, pervaded everywhere by that sense of the absent which is so much more urgent and all-prevailing than any presence. When Arthur had been at homehis being there was a matter of course, and no one thought much about it; but when Arthur was away! and away in this dismal manner, absorbed into another life, disjointed from theirs. Such an argument as this might make the dullest feel the superiority of an idea to all that is solid and practical. In her own room, which Arthur rarely entered, Lucy missed her brother, and she missed him going about the parish, where he never went with her. And Sir John missed him in the midst of those Blue Books at which the boy had made grimaces from a distance, but which he never approached; and Lady Curtis felt his absence when she wrote for her Review, though Arthur was the last person in the world to know anything of Reviews. This is at once the desolation and the power of death which fills our very atmosphere and daily breath with those whom it removes out of our sight for ever; and this it was that gave force to the words which both father and mother said of Arthur when he forsook them. It was as if he had died.
The ladies of the family spent most of their time, as has been said, in the morning room, with its two tall windows looking out from between the pillars of the façade. The drawing-room, which was large and splendid, too fine and too big to be cosy in, suffered in consequence, and except when the house was very full, had much the air of an uninhabited place. The morning room was fine enough, too fine most people thought now-a-days. Lady Curtis was one of the people who most feel the influence of those successive waves of taste which sweep across the mind of the most cultivated portion of society from time to time. Had it been necessary to re-furnish this favourite room, she would have done it in the style of Queen Anne, with neutral tints and “flatted” colour, tiled fireplaces and high manteltops. And she was by times a little uncomfortable about the florid effect of herLouis Quinzedecoration; but there was no excuse for remodelling the pretty room which the children loved. It was florid, there could be no doubt. The cornicewas rich with stucco wreaths, and there were Cupids about, and lyres and knots of ribbon, and glowing garlands of flowers. The carpet was white Aubusson with a great bouquet in the centre, as flowery and brilliant as that which had made Nancy happy in Paris. Lady Curtis’s writing table was abonheur de jourof the finest workmanship, and various articles of precious marqueterie stood about, flowery and dainty. Two robust gilt Cupids supported the white marble of the mantel-piece, and the satin curtains were looped and fringed, and festooned with the most elaborate art. Lucy sat and knitted stockings for the village children upon a satin sofa, with her warm wool in the drawer of an inlaid table with curved legs, which was worth half as much as the village. Everything in the room was framed on the principle of being beautiful, not for convenience or comfort, which is supposed to be the inspiration of various other styles of household decoration, but for beauty alone. And perhaps it was more suitable for the home of a bride, such as LadyCurtis had been when she collected all those pretty things about her, than for the centre of household life which it had become; though indeed it was very doubtful whether Lady Curtis, a clever, impatient-minded woman, had ever attained any ecstacy of happiness as the bride of good Sir John. She loved her dainty surroundings better now than she did when they were in all their freshness. She was aware of her husband’s steadfast goodness and truth, though he was not lively and amusing, and had more respect for him, and, at the same time, a tenderer sentiment for the father of her children than, perhaps, she had entertained for the good, dull bridegroom to whom she had been bound, not entirely, report said, with her own freewill. Therefore, perhaps, the beautiful room had never enshrined that impersonation of happiness, luxury, and splendour to whom all these decorations belonged by nature. Now-a-days, certainly, it was not any luxurious leisure and blessedness that dwelt there; but care and doubt, suchas would have been consistent with very sombre surroundings. Lucy sat and knitted, her mind wandering after Arthur, trying to imagine the brightest winter weather in Paris, and her brother enjoying himself, instead of the rainy skies here, the muddy roads and grey miserable day. Lady Curtis was in her chair by the window for the sake of the light, busy with her crewels.
“They may say what they like about the higher art of these subdued tints,” she said, “but nature is not subdued in her tints. How am I to do the autumn leaves in those tones of colour? They are high and bright in nature.” She said this, but she was thinking of Arthur all the time; and by and by Sir John came in from the library, and strolled up to the fire.
“Have not you had tea yet?” he said, putting himself in front, between the Cupids. “I thought you must be having tea. What a dreary afternoon it is! and the hounds are out. They must be having a disagreeable run.” Thus he discoursedwith his lips; but in his heart his thoughts were of Arthur too.
“Lucy has been in the village, though it has been so wet. She says there is a very sad commotion going on. Young Jack Hodge, the blacksmith’s son—tell your papa, Lucy,” said Lady Curtis with a sigh.
“I don’t think it is so very bad,” said Lucy, getting up to make the tea which had just been brought in. “And I am sure papa will not think so; but his mother is making a great fuss. She has got the Dissenting minister over from Oakenden to comfort her; and to hear him speak, you would think it was very bad indeed.”
“What has happened,” said Sir John, “and why did not Bertie go?”
“Oh, Bertie, papa! what is the good of Bertie? There is a look in his nose as if he smelt something disagreeable whenever he goes into one of the cottages. The people cannot put up with it, and why should they? I think the Dissenter was better on the whole. Jack has gone fora soldier, that is all. I tried to say there was nothing so very dreadful in that; but they would not listen to me.”
“That is all the fault of your Dissenters,” said Sir John, “why shouldn’t the lad go for a soldier? They would do away with poor people altogether, these Dissenters if they could—and soldiers too I suppose. They would leave us all defenceless, at the mercy of anybody that chooses to make a run at us. They never have anything themselves. I suppose that is the reason why.”
“Well, that is not bad logic,” said Lady Curtis, “I suppose they think those who have something to lose should defend themselves;” and she sighed again, thinking, where was the son of her own house, who was its natural defender? He was worse than Jack Hodge, who, at least, might be of use to his country even if he did break his mother’s heart.
“You mean the Volunteers?” said Sir John, “but I never believed in the Volunteers. It is all very well to let them amuse themselves, soldiering. And, perhaps,in the country where they would be officered by the gentlemen they know,” he continued after a moment’s pause, with again Arthur, and not the Volunteers, in his thoughts, and echoing his wife’s sigh, “they might be of some use; but I don’t put any faith in them for the defence of the country. Thank you, my dear; on a wet afternoon like this one is glad of a cup of tea.”
Sir John was generally glad of his cup of tea, if not for one reason, then for another, because it was wet, or because it was cold, or because it was sultry and stifling, or else for no reason at all. It formed a break in the long afternoon when there was nothing more interesting to do. For as he stood with his back to the fire, and his cup in his hand, he went on dully talking, as was his way.
“It is the very essence of democracy you know—when you substitute what they call the citizen soldier, the man that is supposed to fight in his own defence, for the soldier that is paid for defending us: the very essence of democracy—it makesout that one man is just as good as another and that the Hodges want as much taking care of as you and I.”
“So they do surely, papa,” said Lucy, “their lives are as precious to them as ours are—to us.”
“You don’t know anything about it, Lucy; they are not half so important to the country, and it’s the country we ought to think of first,” said Sir John. “Without an army where should we be? The throne would have no authority—Volunteers mean democracy, my dear.”
“And Jack Hodge is your true patriot,” said his wife.
“Exactly so. I will tell his mother that is my opinion the next time I am in the village. A foolish woman with her Dissenters to put nonsense into her head. What could the boy do better. But Bertie ought to have been there? Bertie ought to have gone,” said the Baronet. “I allow there are bad smells in the cottages, Lucy; but surely, if I can bear it, he ought to bear it; and you, you never say anything about the smells—I don’t thinkBertie can be doing his duty as a clergyman ought. The young men of the present day are beyond me,” Sir John added with another sigh; and he put down his cup with a dreary shrug of his shoulders, and shook his grey head as he went slowly away.
How glad they all were when the long November day was over, and they could shut out the ceaseless drip-dripping of the rain, the sweep of the dead leaves across the windows! The autumn had been mild, and the foliage had lasted longer than usual. Now it came tumbling down with every breath, with every drop of rain, choking up the paths, and filling the air with the mournfullest downpouring of yellow. On such a day no one came up the avenue, unless it was a draggled villager bound for the servants’ door, or the Rector, or the Doctor, neither of whom contributed much to the gratification of the house; and to look out upon the misty vista of the spectral trees, the damp rising from the ground and falling from the skies, both of which were about the samecolour, for even a short November day is not cheerful to the spirits. It was a relief when the house began to be dotted with lamps, when the shutters were closed and the curtains drawn. Lady Curtis, for some time, had not cared to have the shutters of her favourite room closed till bed-time. She did not give any reason for this fancy, but Sir John had found fault with it, and she had yielded. “It was not safe,” he said, “to leave the lower windows open. Some one might get in and frighten the house, if no more.” Lady Curtis had not stood out. She watched the servant close them with again a lingering sigh. She had meant nothing by having them open. No, nothing. Only if such a thing might happen as that—any one—moved by some impulse of the heart, should suddenly come home—why, then there would be a little light visible from the very end of the avenue to encourage him. Nothing was more unlikely than that such a thing should happen. But still granting that the impossible did sometimes come when noone expected it, then there might be use in the light. But as nobody could explain this, or say anything in defence of so painful a notion, of course it was done away when Sir John objected. My Lady sat in the gilded chair, cushioned with satin, that stood by the fire, and took a last look of the dull twilight with the trees looming through it like ghosts, as the footman began to shut up. It had been a dreary day; it was more agreeable to turn to the clear light of the lamp within, the subdued glimmer of the satin hangings, the sparkle of the fire. The day was done at last.
And yet it was a little dreary, also, to think of the hours that remained unaccomplished—the long still evening in which there would be a little talk, very little, and the routine of dinner to go through, and the still evening after, which Lucy and she would spend together. Perhaps she would work, and Lucy read aloud; or Lucy would take to one of her many undertakings, which were of a homelier kind than Lady Curtis’s crewels, while her mother wrote. The house was very still, asit became a great house to be, lying folded in the darkness, in the great park, in the humid lawn and clouds of watery trees, without one gleam from all the windows in front to welcome anyone who, unexpected, might come out of the busy world to explore the stillness—the most unlikely thing in the world to happen; yet such things had been and, who could tell? might be. There was one event still possible, and that was the coming in of the post, which arrived after dinner, a most inappropriate moment, everybody said. Indeed, Sir John had often proposed not to send for the letters, but to leave them, when there were any, till next morning, rather than spoil the digestion of the family at such a moment. But Lady Curtis had a woman’s liking for letters, and never would hear of this. She had no experience of the letters which spoil digestion. Her milliners’ bills were no trouble to her. She had never been in debt, it is to be supposed, in her life, neither were there mysteries in her existence which she was afraid of; her letterswere pleasant breaks upon the monotony, enriching the quiet of her country life; therefore she would have the post-bag brought up, whatever Sir John might say.
And that night there were two letters that seemed to wake up even in the house itself something like the heart-beating that flutters in an individual bosom at sight of a long-expected communication—two letters which bore the Paris postmark, one to my lady, one to Sir John. The butler saw them at the first glance, recognising the writing of one, guessing at the other. He whispered to the housekeeper, before he went to my lady’s room with her share of the budget.
“Summat from Mr. Arthur,” he whispered in her ear.
“Oh, let me look,” she said.
It was something to see, even the outside of the letters; and they looked at each other across that other one, and agreed in their guess as to what it was. Daly, the butler, was a man of discrimination. He knew, as well as she did, that, whereas Sir John was equally dull at all times, mylady expected the post with a thrill of nervous anxiety every night. He knew it by her eyes, by the clutch of her hand at the letters, by the inspection, quick as lightning, which she gave them, always curbing her disappointment. This was why Daly carried my lady’s letters the first especially to-night.
“LUCY, Lucy!” said Lady Curtis in a stifled voice.
It was the postmark, the thin paper of the foreign letter, the stamp of the hotel which had caught her eye; and it had not occurred to her as she opened the envelope that it was not Arthur’s handwriting. Indeed, Nancy had been copying Arthur’s handwriting, and had partially succeeded in making her own like his, at least for the length of the address. When she called to Lucy, it was that she had perceived the different writing, the unexpected form of address within, and had jumped at the conclusion that something had happened to Arthur, and that it was his servant who was writing. Lucy rushed toher, seeing her agitation, and coming behind her, read over her shoulder the letter which Lady Curtis threw an alarmed glance over, trembling in every limb. They trembled, both of them, with excitement as they went on. It was not what they expected; it was neither a letter from Arthur, nor yet an announcement of his illness, but something else, which they had not anticipated or thought of. It was the letter Nancy had written in hot haste and desperation, after the visit of Mrs. Curtis had come to so violent and sudden an end. My lady read it, the paper trembling in her hand, and Lucy read it over her shoulder, with painful, suppressed exclamations. This is what Nancy had said:—
“My Lady,“Arthur says I am to write to you, though I do not know why; and I have told him I will, if I may say what I like and not show it to him. So you will know, if you are offended, that he has no hand in this. I am to say, I suppose, that I am sorry, though why I cannot tell. Idid not think about you when I consented to marry Arthur? Why should I? In our class of life we don’t think that a young man’s mother has any right to interfere. I never thought of you, therefore I maintain I have nothing to be sorry for about you. I have enough to do to please my own father and mother; why should not he manage his as I did mine?“And since we were married, what did I owe to you? You never did anything for me. You wrote to him, or you made Miss Lucy write to him on our wedding-day, and never once named me. You knew I would be his wife before he got it, but you never named me. Was that a way to make me wish to please you? And the best I could do was never to think of you at all. Was not that as good as putting him against me, never to mention my name on my wedding day? And why should I write to you now? You are old, and I am young. You ought to be the one to come and to say you are sorry. I am your son’s wife; therefore, I am as good as you are, whatever I may have beenbefore; and I was an honest girl before, and as good as anybody. Why didn’t you come then, and make up tome? It is old people who ought to show an example to the young, not young people to the old.“Now that I have said this, I will just warn you that if you try to make Arthur think badly of me, to separate him from me (which you can’t do, however you may try), that I will keep him separate from you. If you are fond of him, you will have to be civil to me, you and Miss Lucy, grand ladies though you are. You think me no better than the dirt below your feet; but if you do not treat me as I ought to be treated, I will keep Arthur from you, so that you shall never see him again. I have the power to do it, not like you, who have no power. He can do without his mother, but he can’t do without me. I think it is honest to tell you this, because he insisted I was to write to you—I shouldn’t have written to you of myself—and because I mean to come back home to England and settle at Underhayes, to be near my people, who have always been(not like you) kind to him as well as to me. So that now, my lady, you know exactly what I mean, you and Miss Lucy, and what I will do.“Anna Frances Curtis.”
“My Lady,
“Arthur says I am to write to you, though I do not know why; and I have told him I will, if I may say what I like and not show it to him. So you will know, if you are offended, that he has no hand in this. I am to say, I suppose, that I am sorry, though why I cannot tell. Idid not think about you when I consented to marry Arthur? Why should I? In our class of life we don’t think that a young man’s mother has any right to interfere. I never thought of you, therefore I maintain I have nothing to be sorry for about you. I have enough to do to please my own father and mother; why should not he manage his as I did mine?
“And since we were married, what did I owe to you? You never did anything for me. You wrote to him, or you made Miss Lucy write to him on our wedding-day, and never once named me. You knew I would be his wife before he got it, but you never named me. Was that a way to make me wish to please you? And the best I could do was never to think of you at all. Was not that as good as putting him against me, never to mention my name on my wedding day? And why should I write to you now? You are old, and I am young. You ought to be the one to come and to say you are sorry. I am your son’s wife; therefore, I am as good as you are, whatever I may have beenbefore; and I was an honest girl before, and as good as anybody. Why didn’t you come then, and make up tome? It is old people who ought to show an example to the young, not young people to the old.
“Now that I have said this, I will just warn you that if you try to make Arthur think badly of me, to separate him from me (which you can’t do, however you may try), that I will keep him separate from you. If you are fond of him, you will have to be civil to me, you and Miss Lucy, grand ladies though you are. You think me no better than the dirt below your feet; but if you do not treat me as I ought to be treated, I will keep Arthur from you, so that you shall never see him again. I have the power to do it, not like you, who have no power. He can do without his mother, but he can’t do without me. I think it is honest to tell you this, because he insisted I was to write to you—I shouldn’t have written to you of myself—and because I mean to come back home to England and settle at Underhayes, to be near my people, who have always been(not like you) kind to him as well as to me. So that now, my lady, you know exactly what I mean, you and Miss Lucy, and what I will do.
“Anna Frances Curtis.”
Lady Curtis was flushed and agitated; her eyes blazed hotly over her crimson cheeks.
“Was ever anyone so insolent?” she said, and bit her lip to keep from crying, altogether overwhelmed by the unexpected insult.
“Oh, mamma, the girl does not mean it!” cried Lucy, distressed, trying to take the letter. It was bad enough to read it once, but to read it as she knew her mother would do, over and over again, feeling the enormity ever greater, would be terrible. Lucy put out her hand for it, to take it away.
“I will not give it you, Lucy. I know what you mean to do; to put it in the fire that I may forget it, and think it is not half so bad.”
“No, mamma; but why should youdwell upon it? She wrote it hastily. See, there is haste in every line; but we will read it at leisure, and go over it again and again. She is so uninstructed, so inexperienced; and there is a kind of savage justice in it, if you will but think, mamma.”
“How dare you say so?” cried Lady Curtis, in whose mind the immediate pain and hurt received were too violent to be thus smoothed away, and who was as little able for the moment to inquire into the absolute justice of the matter as Nancy herself. The tears began to glisten in her eyes, tears of genuine suffering. “This is what our children bring us,” she said; “they for whom we are ready to make any sacrifice—insult, the flaunting in our face of some poor creature, surely, surely not worth as much as his mother was to him, Lucy; not worth you—you, my child; of that I may be sure at least; and his home, and all that was worth having in life—”
And some scalding drops fell on her hands in a hot and sudden shower. Tears do not last at Lady Curtis’ age; they cost too much; only a sharp stab like thiscould bring them, hasty and unwilling, from her eyes.
“I know it is hard, very hard; but, mamma—”
Lucy was interrupted by the sound of her father’s heavy step approaching the room. He threw the door open and came in hastily. He, too, had a letter in his hand, and held it out to his wife as he came forward.
“He has written at last,” he said. “It is a fine thing to have waited so long for. Look, Elizabeth, if you can read it, what your boy says.”
Lady Curtis took the letter, looking anxiously at her husband’s face to read its effect. And then Lucy and she read it as they had read the other, the girl over her mother’s shoulder. The very sight of Arthur’s handwriting moved them. He had written a few words to Lucy to thank her for the money and the blessing conveyed to him on his wedding day; but except these few warm words they had not heard from him since that painful violent letter which Lady Curtis had received after the visit of Mr. Rolt, the family lawyer, to Underhayes. And that had given the ladies so much pain that the very sight of the dear and familiar handwriting brought it back. Sir John went to the fire as was his way, and set himself up against the mantel-piece, turning towards them the dullness of his long melancholy countenance, which showed little change of expression one way or another. His heavy repose, not unclouded with trouble, contrasted sharply with the eager and anxious looks of his wife and daughter already disturbed and excited. They read, breathless with anxiety and haste, flying over the paper, taking in its meaning almost at a glance in a way which was wonderful to him. He shook his head slightly as he saw this rapid process; it was impossible they could understand it, he said to himself; even Arthur’s letter! skimmed over with feminine want of thoroughness in anything, as if it had been a book.
Arthur’s letter, so far as external forms went, was dutiful enough.
“My dear father,“You may think that I ought to say something about the long break in my letters, and I am aware that it would not be without reason; but what am I to say? My marriage was really a thing which concerned me most. I would have been ready to make any apologies for the indiscretions with which it was accompanied, and for the fundamental mistake of not having explained my wishes and intentions to you from the first. But that is too late now, and you must permit me to say that the strange step you yourself took in sending Rolt to Underhayes to interfere in my business, justifies the silence in which I have taken refuge since, as being more respectful to you than anything I can say. I trust and desire to believe that the extraordinary proposals made by him did not emanate from you; nothing indeed but the mind of a pettifogging attorney could have suggested such means of endeavouring to outwit and frustrate an honourable attachment. I can never meet with civility the originatorof these proposals, and it is a desire to say nothing on the subject which has kept me silent even to you.“I now write about a serious matter which it is necessary to call your attention to. The allowance which was ample for me at Oxford, or when I was in another condition of life, is naturally quite inadequate to the expenses of a married man. My wife and I are about to return to England, and at her desire we will proceed at first to Underhayes, where her family reside. Our plans are not yet decided; but the first requisite for any arrangement is to know exactly by what degree you may be disposed to increase my income, in order that I may be able to provide for the increased expense to which I am now subject. We have been in Paris some weeks, and had it not been for the succour which my mother’s generosity provided me, I do not see how I could have afforded to my wife all that it was indispensable my wife and Sir John Curtis’s daughter-in-law should have. These of course are extraneous expenses; but Imust request that you will kindly come to a decision about my present income with as little delay as possible. This is doubly important, as we shall thus only be able to make up our minds on what scale of living it will be proper for us to make our start.“My wife desires her respects to my mother, Lucy, and yourself.“Affectionately,“Arthur Curtis.”
“My dear father,
“You may think that I ought to say something about the long break in my letters, and I am aware that it would not be without reason; but what am I to say? My marriage was really a thing which concerned me most. I would have been ready to make any apologies for the indiscretions with which it was accompanied, and for the fundamental mistake of not having explained my wishes and intentions to you from the first. But that is too late now, and you must permit me to say that the strange step you yourself took in sending Rolt to Underhayes to interfere in my business, justifies the silence in which I have taken refuge since, as being more respectful to you than anything I can say. I trust and desire to believe that the extraordinary proposals made by him did not emanate from you; nothing indeed but the mind of a pettifogging attorney could have suggested such means of endeavouring to outwit and frustrate an honourable attachment. I can never meet with civility the originatorof these proposals, and it is a desire to say nothing on the subject which has kept me silent even to you.
“I now write about a serious matter which it is necessary to call your attention to. The allowance which was ample for me at Oxford, or when I was in another condition of life, is naturally quite inadequate to the expenses of a married man. My wife and I are about to return to England, and at her desire we will proceed at first to Underhayes, where her family reside. Our plans are not yet decided; but the first requisite for any arrangement is to know exactly by what degree you may be disposed to increase my income, in order that I may be able to provide for the increased expense to which I am now subject. We have been in Paris some weeks, and had it not been for the succour which my mother’s generosity provided me, I do not see how I could have afforded to my wife all that it was indispensable my wife and Sir John Curtis’s daughter-in-law should have. These of course are extraneous expenses; but Imust request that you will kindly come to a decision about my present income with as little delay as possible. This is doubly important, as we shall thus only be able to make up our minds on what scale of living it will be proper for us to make our start.
“My wife desires her respects to my mother, Lucy, and yourself.
“Affectionately,“Arthur Curtis.”
“And this is all!” said Lady Curtis, throwing it on the table with a mixture of scorn and grief; “in so short a time how well she has tutored him. Oh don’t say anything, Lucy! I can see that girl’s hand in every word; and this is all!”
“Surely it is all,” said Sir John, “you don’t think I would keep back anything, why should I? It’s all, and enough too, I think. A fellow like that whom we’ve all petted and spoiled, thinking of nothing but his allowance! It’s disappointing, that it certainly is. When one thinks that’s Arthur!” said his father, his lowerlip quivering with unusual emotion, yet something that was intended for a smile.
“Oh don’t make him out any worse than he is,” said Lady Curtis, “I can see that girl’s hand through all.”
Now a more gratuitous assertion than this could not be. Arthur had written when away from Nancy altogether in the writing room of the English Club. She had known nothing about what he was doing, and still less did she know that he had made up his mind not to struggle with his fate any longer, but to let her go back to her congenial soil, which would secure at least no further encounters with people of his own class, even when met in the recent accidental way. He could not, he felt, risk anything like this again. He had not strength for it. It was better to yield to her than to wear himself out with such paltry miseries; but up to this moment even Nancy herself did not know of his decision. Lady Curtis however did not know this, nor did the despair in Arthur’s mind ever occur to her, or the state of severance between him and his wifewhich had really existed when these two letters were written. It seemed to her that they were full of one spirit, and that Nancy had got the entire command and put her own unregulated soul into her husband. Dear as he was to his mother, the bold figure of this girl whom she had never seen, seem to rise up and obliterate her son before Lady Curtis’s eyes—obliterate him intellectually and morally—so that all she saw was a shadow of Nancy, not the reality of Arthur. Sir John did not take this figurative view. He took what he saw for granted, exercising no spirit of divination. He was wounded not to sharp pain like his wife, but with a heavy sense of evil. This was all Arthur wanted, not to be his father’s right hand man, to help him (for, privately, Sir John was of opinion that he had a great deal to do) to become the real head of the estate, understanding everything as his father had wished; but only to have his allowance increased! that was all. It did not give Sir John a less pang in his matter of fact way than it did his wife, but this wasthe low level of interpretation by which he explained to himself the boy who had been his pride.
As for Lucy, she read the two letters with a double distress, as seeming to see something in both of them which escaped her parents. She thought it was because she was young, and in sympathy with these two foolish, erring, unkind, young people, that she was able to read between the lines and see that they were not so unkind as they seemed. There was, as she had said, a kind of savage justice in Nancy’s letter from Nancy’s point of view, and insolent though it was, Lucy felt that she could understand it, and could excuse it though it was inexcusable. And as for Arthur’s cold interestedness and apparent indifference to everything, was not this only a sign of mortal pain, a proof that he felt himself in a position from which he could not recede, which he dared not discuss or enter into? “Oh,” she cried in the tumult of feeling which rose within her, “do not take it all for granted like this. Arthur is not what you think him,papa. He feels it, oh, I know he feels it to the bottom of his heart; but how can he discuss it, how can he open such a subject with us? She is his wife, and she knows what we think of her.”
“Oh, Lucy, hold your peace,” cried Lady Curtis, whose heart was wrung to breaking, “what is the use of this casuistry, as if you knew him better than we do. No, I cannot shut my eyes to the truth whatever you may do; this boy for whom we have done so much, whom we have brought up so carefully, finds something more congenial in low society than in ours. It is unworthy of us to groan over such a preference. See, he avows it. He is going back to that wretched place, to the society of his wife’s relations. We ought to be proud,” said Lady Curtis with her eyes flashing, with a miserable make believe of a smile on her lips, “that is what he likes best,myboy!”
“Oh, mamma, don’t be so hard upon him.”
“So hard, am I hard? upon Arthur! God help me! I wish I could be a littleharder; I wish I could think as little of him as he does of me or of what I feel,” cried Lady Curtis with a moan in her broken voice. Sir John did not show so much emotion. He stood gazing dully before him, not even looking at them, his eyes fixed upon vacancy; but many thoughts were revolving dully in his oppressed spirit too.
“Now that he has written to me like this, he shall be attended to,” said Sir John, “since he wants nothing but money, he shall have his money, and I will wash my hands of him. People do not spend a great deal in that rank of life do they? If that is how he is going to live, he must be provided for accordingly. I will speak to Rolt about it to-morrow. You see how he speaks of poor Rolt, a most meritorious man, that has no thought except our interest. And if it had not been that Arthur got hold of it before he ought to have known, Rolt would have bought the girl off and freed us. Ah, yes—Rolt is the best man of business, and the most considerate family friend I know.”
“But it was a dreadful thing to do; to buy her off! If you will think of it, papa, and think who she was, the girl whom Arthurloved. It does not matter,” cried Lucy with generous heat, “that we do not like her or approve of her. Arthur loved her; and this girl whom he loved so much, whom he thought more of than any one in the world, to be bought off!”
“Ay, that’s it,” said Sir John, “it would have all gone on smoothly if he had not broke in with his high flown ideas just like you; the thing would have been done but for that; and he would have been clear of her. But now that it’s come to this he shall have what he wants, and he shall have what he’s entitled to. I will see Rolt to-morrow,” said Sir John, never changing the dull fixedness of his eyes.
And it may be supposed that the remainder of the evening was not very cheerful. Lady Curtis locked both the letters up in a drawer of her writing-table. “It is a pity they should be separated, these two,” she said with that quiveringsmile of scorn which is so bitter, more painful than weeping. Yes, this was what all their hopes had come to. Arthur her boy, had chosen his own path, and this was what it was, nothing in which his father or mother had any share. What he liked better was the coarse girl who had married him for all the advantages he brought in his hand, and who had infatuated him, and made him such a one as herself. The sense of failure was in Lady Curtis’s mind, the pang of feeling that something inferior had been preferred to her, and to all that was worthy, by her boy. Can anything be more terrible than when father or mother is driven to despise the child of their bosoms? It happens often enough, and there is no such pang on earth. With trembling hands and this miserable quiver of a smile on her lip, she locked them away. Now surely it was time that they should rouse themselves, shake off the dull misery for Arthur’s loss which had paralysed the house, and brood no more over the desertion of one so unworthy their love.
“We have enough of this,” she said, “come, Lucy! I do not mean that your life should be spent in sackcloth because Arthur is unworthy. Because he is hobnobbing with the tax-collector, are there to be no cakes and ale in Oakley? We will send our invitations to-morrow,” she said with a mocking little laugh of pain. Sir John opened his eyes a little at the levity of this unintelligible phrase about cakes and ale. But he had long ceased to criticise my lady whatever she might do or say. She had odd ways of expressing herself sometimes, but she was always to be trusted in the main points.
“I shall speak to Rolt to-morrow,” he said for his part, which was more reasonable, as he went back to his room and resumed his Blue book. And he read till his usual hour, and lighted his candle exactly at the same moment as every other night, though his heart was heavy in his bosom like a lump of lead, not warming his blood as it ought to do. The ladies were not so reasonable, I need not say. They sat over the fire till it died out between them, neither of them remarking the blackness, or being aware that the cold they felt had anything to do with the external circumstances—talking it over and over, arguing, fighting even: Lucy taking the side of defense, while her mother darted arrows of bitter words at Arthur and the girl who had got such empire over him. Men do not make their miseries subjects of endless discussion like this, perhaps because two men are scarcely ever so much like the two halves of one soul as mother and daughter are; nor could any brother and father throw themselves wholly into such a question as the sister could do with the mother. Lucy fought for him, condemned him, justified him, all in a breath; and cried and struggled and held up Arthur’s standard even while she threw herself with passionate sympathy into the proud and sore disappointment of the mother whose hopes had been thus deceived. They were still there over the dead fire in full tide when the solemn little stroke of one startled them, and drove them to their rooms,chilled and miserable. How dark it was outside, the rain falling, the last leaves dropping, in the middle of the December night! It added a shivering of physical sympathy to eyes exhausted with crying and voices exhausted with talking over this ever expanding subject. Every thought and plan of the house had borne reference to Arthur for how many years; and this was how he dropped them, turned from them, threw himself upon the lower and baser elements of life.
ACCORDING to Lady Curtis’s hasty resolution, the invitations, to some at least, of the ordinary Christmas party were for an earlier date than usual. The climax of the distress produced by Arthur had come, and though the struggle was hard to pick up the ordinary occupations of life again, and go on as if nothing had happened, at a time when Arthur’s absence was so doubly felt and apparent, the impatient soul of his mother was better able to bear this variety of pain than the monotonous heaviness of the other, the dull presence of one thought that had been upon the house like bonds of iron. One of the first visitors who arrived was Durant, who had always been the first inArthur’s time, next to the son of the house in familiarity and knowledge of everything and everybody about. Even during the miserable interval now passed, Durant’s letters had given a certain solace to Lady Curtis, as furnishing her always with something to talk of, something to discuss with Lucy, to whom she would point out freely the weakness of his arguments which were always in Arthur’s favour, and for which Arthur’s mother loved him, even while she took a delight in demonstrating their futility. Lucy had a long round to make among her poor people on the afternoon on which Durant was expected. She could not have told why it was that she chose that special day; perhaps because it was fine, a simple reason, quite satisfactory to the ordinary intelligence; perhaps because the association of ideas with him, whom she had not seen since he took her to Arthur’s wedding, was so painful that she was willing to postpone the meeting as long as possible; or perhaps she was desirous in Arthur’s interest that Lady Curtis shouldhave her first conversation with his faithful friend undisturbed by any third person; or, perhaps, again Lucy had reasons of her own, into which none of us have any right to pry. She was for a long time at the almshouses, having started early to take advantage of the brightest part of the short winter day, and took her luncheon with Mrs. Rolt, the wife of the good agent, to whom the children at Oakley had been as her own since ever they were born. Mrs. Rolt had no children of her own, and she had as great a desire to talk about Arthur as his mother herself had. She plunged into the subject as soon as Lucy appeared, and there was nothing but sympathy and tenderness in the bosom of this simple-hearted retainer of the family, who was at the same time a far away cousin, and therefore on more familiar terms than are usually permitted to an agent’s wife. This visit detained Lucy also, so that it was four o’clock, and the red winter sunset just over when she started to walk up the long avenue. Durant had been expected by an earliertrain at the station which was a mile or two off, so that Lucy felt herself safe. She set out upon her walk very full of a new incident which she had not previously heard of, the meeting between her aunt and her brother at Paris of which Mrs. Rolt had been informed by the Rector. “Why did not he tell us, or why did not Aunt Anthony write?” Lucy had said.
“Oh, my pet, what could she write? I don’t suppose it was pleasant,” Mrs. Rolt said, “however angry you, may be with your own, you don’t like to hear them blamed by others; and Mrs. Anthony has sense enough to know that.”
“Then why did she mention it at all?” said Lucy.
“Oh, my love, that would have been more than flesh and blood is equal to. To have had an adventure like that, and not to have mentioned it at all! She said Mrs. Arthur behaveddreadfullyto her, abused her, turned her out of her rooms. But we must take all that with a great many grains of salt, for you know your Aunt Anthony, my dear.”
“Yes, I know Aunt Anthony; but how dreadful it is that Arthur’s wife—fancy,Arthur’s wife!—should give anyone occasion to say that she behaved badly. You will not tell mamma?”
“No, indeed, I promise you; and I daresay, if we could know it all, the half isn’t true. You mustn’t worry about it, my darling,” said Mrs. Rolt, kissing Lucy as she went away.
The girl shook her head. Why should they tell her such things if they meant her not to worry? and yet she was feverishly glad that she had been told, as people are in respect to every such family misery. She went in at the great gates, with her cheek still flushed by the agitation of the news. To hear that a friend, a member of the family, had actually met and spoken with Nancy, seemed to bring her nearer, to make her more real. And perhaps there was a personal advantage in this thrill of renewed agitation about Arthur, which replaced for the moment some of her own thoughts. For lo! it so occurred that all Lucy’s precautions had been futile.She had not walked half-a-dozen yards when she heard behind her the rattle of the dogcart swinging round the corner to the gate, that had been sent for Durant to the station; and before she had time to collect her thoughts, it drew up suddenly just behind her, and Durant himself sprung out of it, and in a moment was at her side. The dogcart went on with his portmanteau, and she felt herself exactly in the circumstances she had so elaborately avoided, bound, without chance of escape, to a long solitary walk through the still avenue, and a long confidential talk before he had seen anyone else, with her brother’s friend.
“Yes, the train was late; there was some slight accident on the line, at which I have been fuming and fretting. But, as it happens, it has been a lucky detention,” said Durant.
Lucy took no notice, not even so much as by a smile.
“You said you were very busy.”
“Yes, I am getting plenty of work to do; not very distinguished work as yet, but I hope better may come.”
“Your leading counsel will fall ill some day, and it will be a very interesting, romantic case, and you will be inspired to make the most eloquent speech, and your fortune will be made.”
“I see you know how such things happen,” he said with a laugh.
“Oh, yes, I have read a great many novels,” said Lucy. “That is always how young barristers get on; and between that and the woolsack is but a step.”
“A very long stride, I fear; but I do not insist on the woolsack,” said Durant; and then there was a pause, and he said lower, “I saw Arthur a few days ago.”
“Did you see him? Oh, Mr. Durant, you must not mind what mamma says. She has begun to jeer at him, and that is the worst of all. How was he looking? Poor Arthur, poor boy! And his wife—did you see her? Oh, I have been hearing such a story of her!”
“What story?” he asked anxiously.
Hehad heard many; but on the whole he was no enemy to Nancy. He saw the glimmer of tears in Lucy’s eyes, and thisdid much to steel his heart against Arthur’s wife; but still he had no feeling against Nancy. He was ready even, more or less, to stand up in her defence.
“My aunt, it appears, saw her in Paris, Mr. Durant.”
“Oh, it is Mrs. Curtis’s story then?” he said.
“You speak as if there were a great many stories about her,” said Lucy, with sudden heat.
“No; but one hears everything, you know, in town—especially, I think, at this time of the year, when there are few men about, and they talk of everything.”
“Yes,” said Lucy, “I have heard often of the gossip in your clubs, that it is worse and more unkind than any other gossip.”
“Do not be too hard upon us! It is as petty and miserable as gossip is everywhere. But I have seen Mrs. Curtis, and heard it from herself. It is nothing, a misunderstanding between women—”
“Which, of course, you consider the merest trifle,” cried Lucy, much more piqued by this countershot than he hadbeen by the assault on the clubs. Women are certainly on this point more ready to take offence than men, who have the calm confidence of their own superiority to fall back upon.
“I do not, indeed; but the women in question are not of the highest order. Mrs. Curtis most likely was fussy and interfering; and Nancy—”
“Do you call her Nancy?” cried Lucy, opening wide eyes.
“I beg your pardon. I got used to the name before she was Mrs. Arthur; and there is such a wonderful incongruity in the idea that she is Mrs. Arthur,” he said, doing his best to conciliate by this remark; but this slip of the name had evidently had a bad effect, he could not tell why. He thought that Lucy (in whom he had never before seen any indication of such foolish family pride) was offended by such a familiarity; and yet what could he say to excuse it? “Mrs. Curtis was intrusive, probably,” he went on, “and Mrs. Arthur resented it.”
“Oh, do not change the name youare accustomed to for me, Mr. Durant!”
“I am not accustomed to it,” he answered meekly, feeling that something was wrong, but not knowing what it was. “She resented it, I suppose. I do not wish to be disagreeable, but you know that a lady like Mrs. Curtis can be very officious and interfering; andsheresented it, I suppose.”
Poor Durant! if he thought he was mending matters by calling Arthur’s wifeshe, with that little emphasis, how mistaken he was! Lucy’s heart was conscious of a thrill and jar, such as one’s foot or hand might experience if suddenly striking against some sharp angle in the dark. She had no right to feel so unreasonably offended with Durant, so unreasonably disdainful of Arthur’s wife. Lucy was angry with herself for the force of her sentiments, which seemed so utterly out of proportion with the matter on hand. She thought it more dignified and befitting to retire from any further question of it. But her aspect changed unawares, her very form grew stiffer and more erect, and she said, icily,“You said you saw Arthur. Is he looking better than when we saw him last?”
“No,” said Durant, hesitating; “I am not able to say that he is. I hope Lady Curtis will not ask me that question.”
“Oh!” said Lucy, the tears springing to her eyes, “do you think I am not as anxious about my only brother—as concerned as mamma?”
“Indeed I do not mean anything of the kind; but I can speak to you more freely.Youunderstand; you always did understand, Miss Curtis,” he said, looking at her with a tender admiration which stole the hardness from Lucy’s heart in spite of herself. “I do not know how it was. It is so natural that Lady Curtis—that all his family should see the folly and the unkindness of it most. But you always saw the whole—and understood.”
“I never excused Arthur, Mr. Durant. No one could know the evil of what he has done—the pain it has produced so well as I.”
“I know,” he said softly, “all the more honour to your delicate heart that understood. I beg your pardon—I was only speaking by way of explanation. I can speak to you as I cannot speak—to any one else. Arthur is not looking well, poor fellow—he is harassed and worried to death. All the glamour has gone out of his eyes, and he sees his wife’s family now as other people see them, as very common-place, sordid, uneducated people, with whom, or with their like, he has no affinity. I would not say even that he did not see this more deeply than—I do, for instance, who am quite indifferent. To me they seem good sort of people enough—in their way. But Arthur has the horror of feeling that they belong to him more or less—and that he is called upon to associate with them.”
“Poor boy! oh, poor boy! and he was always so fastidious! But that is nothing, Mr. Durant—they donotbelong to him. He can shake them off whenever he likes; but her—what of her? She is the chief person to be thought of,” said Lucy, with a sigh that it should be so.
“This is precisely the thing which Ican say to you, and to no other,” said Durant. “She is not the same as they are. If you could fancy one of the stories of a stolen child—that was always different, always superior to the children of the people who brought it up—”
“Superior—Aunt Anthony’s story does not sound much like superiority! I think you are influenced, as they say gentlemen always are, by her good looks, and that is why you make an exception in favour of—my sister-in-law,” said Lucy, with a sound in those words such as Durant had never heard before from her lips. He looked at her in the growing twilight with wonder and pain. Was his certainty ofhersuperiority to every other person concerned, about to turn out vain? It was almost dark, and he could not make out the expression of Lucy’s face; and of all things in the world the last that could have occurred to the young man was any thing to account for this, which should have been flattering to himself.
When he spoke again, there was some distress in his voice, and a half tone ofcomplaint, “I thought I might venture on saying this toyou—I thought you would understand; the facts are all against her. I believe she has managed very badly; and allowed everybody to see her want of cultivation—her strange—ignorance. Nevertheless,” he said earnestly, “I do not despair of Nancy. As for her good looks, they count for very little with me. What effect they may have on idle and unoccupied minds, I cannot pretend to say; but for a man like myself with a busy life and a pre-occupied imagination—”
“Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr. Durant,” cried Lucy, “I did not wish to pry into your secrets.”
She would not have said it had she taken time to think. What folly to let him know that she understood that enigmatical phrase about the pre-occupied imagination! Lucy went on, quickening her pace, feeling the glow of a sudden blush run all over her in the gathering dark. And the silence seemed to thrill about them with all manner of possibilities of what might be said next. They were asmuch alone as if they had been in a desert island—bare trees standing closely about, the twilight all grey among the branches, the whole world still and listening. The thrill came to Lucy too, a kind of visionary tremor.
“Mamma will be looking out for you,” she said, hurriedly. “She will scold me for keeping you so long walking, when you might have been there in the dogcart half an hour ago;” and she sensibly quickened her own pace.
But Durant did not share in that thrill. It affected him only with a contrary touch of despondency. Lucy’s fright lest he should go on to tell her who it was who had pre-occupied his imagination (could she entertain any doubt who it was?) reflected itself in his melancholy sense that he dared not tell her any more. He dared not because he was poor, he who, even if he had been rich, would not have been thought her equal by anyone belonging to her; and because he was her father’s guest, and incapable of betraying his hospitality by a word to his daughter whichSir John would not have permitted. Thus that suggestion of self-disclosure ended in a blank silence which neither would break. He, too, quickened his steps to keep up with her, and in a few minutes they reached the house, which rayed out light into the darkness from the open door and windows. It seemed all bright, all open, full of hospitable warmth and radiance. When Durant had come here before, he had come with Arthur, and there had been a rush of mother and sister to the door to meet the heir of everything, the first thought and hope of all within these walls. Durant had been half-saddened many a time by that warm and exuberant welcome which Arthur always received. He himself had been received kindly too, but with what a difference! and as there was no particular enthusiasm about him in his own home, notwithstanding the fact that his family were indebted to him for everything, he had never been able to divest himself of a certain envy for Arthur. But he was a thousand times more saddened now to go up the great steps into the hall, and seeno mother hurrying out to receive her son, no Arthur coming with cheerful outcry, nothing but himself stealing in softly, half ashamed of being there without Arthur, half afraid to look at Lucy, who must feel it too, he felt. He did not know how to go on and meet Lady Curtis’s eyes. He felt sure they must meet him with a reproach. “Where is Arthur?” he felt the very house say to him; and almost wished that he had been guilty, that he could have taken their reproaches to himself, and answered for his friend’s sake, “It is my fault.” He paused in the hall, and looked round wistfully at Lucy. Her eyes were wet, her lips faltering. She held out that hand to him.
“I know,” she said; “but when we have got over the first, it will be almost as if he had come too.”
“Almost!” he said shaking his head. He felt his eyes grow wet, and held her hand almost without knowing that he held it. Lady Curtis had heard the movement in the hall, though she had been trying not to hear it, and the shock had been broken to her by the arrival of thedogcart which she thought was bringing him. She came out now hiding her agitation with a smile, and held out her hands. Neither of them could speak. But when they got into that room which had seen so many happy meetings, it was too much for Arthur’s mother. She took hold of his arm convulsively with both her hands, and leaned her weight upon his shoulder and cried, “Oh, my boy!” through the sobs which she could not suppress. Durant was overcome at once by the emotion and the confidence. He stooped down with tender reverence and kissed her cheek.
“He is all the brother I have ever known,” he said.
“Yes, Lewis, yes, I know; God bless you! you have always been on Arthur’s side.”
Lucy stood by with strange currents of thought going through her mind, dimly understanding the man who was not her lover, but whose imagination was pre-occupied past being touched by any one else—yet tempted grievously to misunderstand him,and wondering with a latent pain just ready to come into being, whether this was one of the common mockeries of fate which made her mother receive him thus almost as a son, at the very time when he had ceased to entertain that sentiment which might have made a true son of him? Strange are the vagaries of young minds at this doubtful period, when everything is undisclosed and uncertain. She had entertained no doubt as to who it was who occupied his imagination when he had said those words. Did she really entertain a doubt now? or was she fostering such a thing into being—trying to make herself believe it? it would be hard to say. She stood by wondering, feeling in herself all the germs of doubt, and that inclination to nurse and develope them, and make herself unhappy which most of us have felt; all this, however, tempered by a curious thrill of pleasure to hear what Lady Curtis said. Lewis! they had called him Lewis Durant among themself for years, as (she felt no doubt) he had called her Lucy; but the name hadnever been employed before by anyone but Arthur. This was a leap unspeakable in intimacy. Lady Curtis had adopted him, so to speak, by thus involuntary casting herself upon him, and the sudden use of his name. But what didhethink? was it Arthur only that was in his mind?
Lucy drew her mother’s chair to the fire, and pulled off her own thick outdoor jacket. There was tea on the table ready to be poured out, and the soft lamplight and warm glow of the fire brought out all the prettiness of the room, with its gay tints and gleams of gold. What had trouble to do in that cheerful place, amid those artificial graces which had become natural and kindly by use and wont? The stir of her daughter’s movements brought Lady Curtis to herself. They sat down round the fire as if the new comer had been another son, and talked of Arthur. It was almost as endless, almost as engrossing a talk as when the mother and sister sat alone together, and felt as if they could never cease. But by and by Sir John came in for his cup of tea, andasked how it was the train was so late, and all the particulars of the journey. Sir John himself had delayed half an hour beyond his usual time in coming for his tea. He had felt Durant’s arrival too.