Mrs. Rolt, however, for her part, was most agreeably moved and excited by the new neighbours, to whom her visit had brought excitement of so different a kind. She hurried out to the Hall to tell thestory, in her waterproof and goloshes. It was too wet for Lucy to venture to the village; but Cousin Julia could have ventured anywhere in the strength of such a piece of news as she had now to carry. She told how she had gone to call, chiefly moved by Lucy’s encouragements.
“For I thought if Lucy thought it was the right thing to do, you must have thought so, dear Lady Curtis; and of course you know better than I do. There is something very strange about them. The married one is quite different from the other. I am sure she is a most accomplished person, very handsome. I should think she must be something very artistic, and perhaps she has been on the stage. Oh, no, she did not say anything to make me think that; but there is something about her;—very handsome, with such a lovely complexion, and fine eyes and hair. But the other is quite homely, a nice sort of little friendly woman. My own opinion, if you ask me,” said Mrs. Rolt, mysteriously, “is that she’s not a widow.Ishould say Mr. Arthur, whoever he maybe, is no better than he should be; and he has broken his poor wife’s heart, and driven her away from him. That’s my idea. Sam says ‘Fudge!’ but then he is always saying ‘Fudge.’ I wish I knew the rights of the story; and you will see, it will turn out something like what I say.”
“On the stage—was the young woman on the stage? I hope she will not introduce any taste for that kind of thing in the village,” said Sir John, who had come in as usual for his cup of tea.
“Oh, dear no—no, I did not mean that. She is only the kind of mysterious, lovely young creature—so superior, and yet with such a homely sister; and so handsome—and all alone, you know—that might have been on the stage, as you read in books; something quite romantic, and so interesting, like a novel,” cried Mrs. Rolt.
“I hope it may come to the third volume and entertain us all,” said Lady Curtis. “We want a little amusement this rainy weather. Perhaps the husband will turn up, and prove to be handsome and superior too: or perhaps she will hear of his death—what is the matter, Lucy? You have spilt your tea over my crewels!”
“No, I only scalded my fingers a little. I don’t like to hear you settling all about the husband, as if we were quite sure he was the one to blame.”
“Ah, well,” said Lady Curtis, with a sigh. It brought another story to her mind, as no doubt it had done to Lucy’s; and after this no more was said. To be sure, Mrs. Rolt said to herself, as she drove home in the brougham which Lady Curtis (always so kind!) insisted upon having out for her—it was not, perhaps, right to talk of anything that could recall poor Arthur’s sad circumstances. But then this was evidently so different, such an interesting young creature; and dear Sir John had been quite amused.
The next bright day after this, Lady Curtis and her daughter were both in the village. After the first outburst of autumn rains, a bright day is very tempting; and the walk down the avenue was pleasant, and the village basked in the sunshine withgenuine enjoyment, as if the old red houses knew how expedient it was to make the most of the little warmth and brightness which remained possible. Lady Curtis sat at Cousin Julia’s window while she waited for Lucy, and looked out, not without satisfaction, upon the village, tranquil as it was. To see the women at their doors, curtseying to the Rector as he passed, and the children getting out of his way, and the cart with baskets, conducted by two hoarse and strident tramps, which was at that moment making a triumphal progress through the street, was a change from the sodden green of the park, as seen from the long windows of the morning-room. She was a woman whom it was easy to amuse, and this simple variety pleased her. She was looking out with a smile on her face at this rural scene, when the sudden appearance of two unknown figures surprised her; and when Bertie stopped to speak to them with much appearance of cordiality and interest, Lady Curtis was interested.
“Who are these?” she asked, with the ready curiosity of a great county lady,almost affronted that any new individual unknown to her should appear, as it were, in the very streets of her metropolis without her leave. “I never saw Bertie so eager before; he looks as if he had forgotten for the moment that he himself must be the first person to be thought of. Who is she, Julia?” cried Lady Curtis.
Mrs. Rolt came hastily from the other end of the room, where she had been making the tea.
“Oh, that is the mysterious stranger—that is Mrs. Arthur—that is the lovely creature I told you so much about. Don’t you think she is very handsome—don’t you think she is interesting? I am so glad you have seen her! Yes, Bertie is very civil to them. He is going back to their door with them; but they never ask him in. I must say there never was anything more prudent. They never encourage him to come; and though he is the Rector he is a young man, you know, and agreeable. I should certainly say Bertie was agreeable, if my opinion was of any weight.”
“So that is your mysterious young woman?” said Lady Curtis. “No, Julia, no, she has never been on the stage. They never walk like that when they have been on the stage. She doesn’t know how to walk; but there is a kind of gracefulness about her. I cannot say if she is handsome or not; but what can such a woman as that possibly want here?”
“That is just what I never could make out,” said Cousin Julia, delighted to open forth on her favourite subject. Nancy just then turned round unconscious of the eyes bent upon her, to look at the cart with the baskets, and thus exposed herself unawares to the full gaze of her husband’s mother. Her long black dress gave a certain dignity to her figure, calling attention by its very plainness, and so did the little close black bonnet with its edge of white which encircled her face. Nancy in her ordinary garb and ordinary moods never had looked half so distinguished or lovely. Lady Curtis could not take her eyes from this face so softly tinted, so purely fresh and severely framed.
“Why didn’t you tell me before? The girl is a beauty!” she said.
“A beauty?” said Lucy, coming into the room; and she, too, gazed from behind her mother’s shoulder. Had she ever seen that face before? she asked herself, with an anxiety which neither of the others divined. She had seen it only once, for a minute or two, surrounded by clouds of bridal white. Was it likely she could recognise it now in this almost conventual severity of costume? She dropped behind her mother, half-satisfied, half-disappointed, and paid no attention to the further comments of Lady Curtis, which delighted Mrs. Rolt. If it was no one she had ever seen before—what did it matter to Lucy who it was? But when the two ladies had left Cousin Julia, after they had taken a few steps on the way home, Lady Curtis came to a sudden pause.
“Don’t you think, Lucy,” she said, in a conciliatory tone, “that it would be only kind to call upon those new people? They must feel very strange in this quiet place; and as she really seems a lady—”
“I am quite willing to go, mamma;” said Lucy, feeling her heart beat more quickly in spite of herself.
“But don’t you think it is only a duty?” said Lady Curtis. She wanted to be persuaded that she ought to go—not to go merely because she was curious, which was the real reason; but when Lucy returned no further answer, her mother, making use of her own impatience of temper as a reason for doing what she wanted, turned sharp round with a little show of annoyance at Lucy, and went straight across to the cottage door. Cousin Julia saw her, and almost clapped her hands with pleasure, as she lurked behind the curtains and watched; and the two people in the Wren Cottage, who had been watching also from their windows since they came in, saw her too, and prepared for the visit with excitement indescribable. Lady Curtis’s movements were so rapid that she had knocked at the door, and Matilda had opened, before Nancy, who was standing behind, had got over her first breathless start of agitation andsuspicion. She was standing, leaning forward a little, her hands clasped, her lips apart and panting with excitement, when the visitors saw her first. Lady Curtis was in a little glow of pleasure and interest.
“I had heard of Mrs. Arthur as a new neighbour,” she said; “I hope I may come in and pay my respects, though it is getting late.”
“Oh, come in, come in, my lady;” cried Matilda, officiously hastening to place chairs for the great ladies. Matilda’s heart was not leaping so in her breast that she thought it must escape altogether—but Nancy’s was, as she felt herself suddenly in the presence of these two ladies, with whom her own fate was so closely connected. She held her heart with her hand, that it might not leap out of her throat, and made a gasp for breath, and could say nothing; and it was no wonder if Lady Curtis was flattered by the impression made by her visit, and thought she had never seen so expressive a face before.
“My sister will be very pleased to makeyour ladyship’s acquaintance,” said Matilda. “What a fine day, and what a blessing after the wet! We were beginning to think it never would be fine again. Anna! don’t you see my lady—and haven’t you got a word to say?”
“It is very kind of Lady Curtis to come,” said Nancy, with difficulty. She could not withdraw her eyes from the two. And Lucy looked at her from behind her mother with again a thrill of wonder and suspicion. Why was she so much agitated? what was there to be agitated about?
“I hope you like our village,” said Lady Curtis; “very few people see it, except the people of the place, so it is not admired so much as it ought to be, we think. It is a pretty village; but I trust you may not find it very dull as the winter goes on.”
“Oh, we do not look for much; we are used to living very quietly—”
“That is well,” said Lady Curtis; “for Oakley is very quiet—so quiet in winter that I much fear you will be frightened. Any stranger passing by is an event. To-dayfor instance, it was quite gay; a pedlar’s cart, a most picturesque object—and when you two ladies appeared, whom I had not seen before, it became quite exciting. Hyde Park is seldom so full of novelty to me.”
They both stared at her a little, not knowing what to say.
“The cart looked quite cheerful,” said Matilda; “I thought just like your ladyship says. Some of the baskets were quite pretty, and it was nice to see it. But I could not persuade Na—my sister, to buy any,” she concluded hurriedly. What a glance of fire shot at her from Nancy’s eyes!
“We did not want them,” she said; drawing a step nearer. She was too restless to sit down; her heart indeed beat more quietly, and her breathing was calmer; but to be here in the same room with them both, talking to them indifferently, as if she did not know them, as if she was not devoured with anxiety to conciliate them!—though a touch too much might have driven her on the other side to defythem openly. For the first time, Nancy felt how little she could depend on herself. They might say something, they might even look something, that would offend her, and send her off at a tangent. She felt no strength in her to guide herself. At present, even, while there was neither offence norrapprochement, how wild and breathless she was, how incapable of managing the situation! It must depend altogether on what they would do or say.
“You have resources, I see,” said Lady Curtis, “Books secure one against everything. But—” she added, shutting one hastily, which she had opened on the table. “This is not common reading. Is it a girl-graduate in her golden hair that we have got among us without knowing.” She smiled graciously as she spoke. And Nancy grew red, and grew pale, and sat down, though only because her limbs trembled under her.
“I know—very little,” she said, humbly, scarcely able to command her voice.
“But she is not a girl at all,” said Matilda. “She is a married woman,though you would scarcely think it, my lady; and she is very fond of her book. Na—Anna, show her ladyship that beautiful drawing you are doing; that is what she thinks of most.”
“The leaves? what a charming garland!” said Lady Curtis. The “rubbish” which Nancy had been amusing herself with, was fixed up against the wall with two pins. Nancy, herself, thought it was rather pretty, but nothing of course to theétudein chalks.
“Oh no, not that! that is all nonsense. It isn’t fit for your ladyship to look at; but look here, my lady,” said Matilda, proudly. Lady Curtis cast a careless glance at the drawing, which the sister thought so superior; then turned with much admiration to the wreath that hung against the wall.
“I must try to coax you,” she said, “after a while, when you know us, to make some designs for me, for my crewels. How beautifully they would work! Look, Lucy!”
“They are very clever,” said Lucy,going up to look; the sisters could not believe their ears; and never, though Nancy had known the sweetness of girlish triumph, and had “had offers” before Arthur, and had tasted the sweetness of a young lover’s adoration—never had gratified pride so touched her heart as at this moment; her face brightened out of its anxious awe and alarm.
“Do you really, really think that? that I could make designs—for you?”
Lady Curtis thought she understood it all; evidently they were poor, and this promised perhaps some occupation that would help their poor little ends to meet. “Indeed I do, really, really,” she said, pleased with the simplicity of the words, “if you will be so very kind and take so much trouble. I will show you what I am working now when you come to see me at the Hall.”
Nancy’s head swam with a soft intoxication of pleasure. These kind looks, these kind words from this dreaded fine lady, who had been her bugbear—whom she hated in imagination, and creditedwith every evil quality—overwhelmed her. And Lucy’s presence gave a thrill of danger, half-alarming, half-delicious, to this strange ecstasy of feeling. If Lucy should have recognised her! She was saying something, she could scarcely tell what, about nothing she could do being good enough—when Lady Curtis, still looking, smiling, in her face, prostrated her with the innocent question:
“You have met my son—in society—Mrs. Rolt thinks—”
Nancy started from her chair, unable to restrain herself. “Oh—no, no!” she said trembling—not, she was going to say, in society, but changed this by instinct rather than reason, “not—your son; I told her after that it was—a mistake; only some one of the name.”
“Ah!” said Lady Curtis with a little sigh. “I am disappointed. I thought it had been my Arthur. Perhaps then it was one of my nephews, the General’s boys? The Rector is one of them. My son has not been at home for more than two years—it is a long time not to seehim. I quite hoped,” she added with flattering friendliness, “that it had been him you knew.”
Again Nancy’s head went round and round. Should not she throw herself at this lady’s feet, who smiled on her so graciously, and tell all that Arthur was to her? The impulse was almost too strong to be resisted. While she stood on the eve of this rush, Lucy passing by to resume her seat after examining the drawing, gave her an inquiring, wondering, suspicious look. This brought Nancy down again to solid ground. She gave an alarmed, confused glance round, not daring to trust herself to speak.
“I am sure my sister would be glad if you would have the picture, my lady,” said Matilda, “since you like it—though I’m sure I can’t think why. It’s all leaves that we got out of your park. Me and—Anna often walk there. It’s a little wet at this time of the year; but it must be lovely in the summer—if we stay till then.”
“I hope you will stay,” said Lady Curtis, rising, “you ought to see Oakley in full beauty; and I hope you will come and see Lucy and me,” she added, holding out her hand. Nancy did not know what was happening to her when that soft hand pressed hers. “And if we can be of any use to you—as you are here alone—I hope you will tell me,” Lady Curtis said.
“Well!” said Matilda when the door closed upon them, and she had watched their figures from the window. “Well, Nancy! what do you think of her now? A nicer lady, more civil, more pleasant, more friendly, I never wish to see; and that was what you made such a fuss about as if she was a monster and would eat you! I’d go down on my bended knees to Providence to give me a mother-in-law like that. Not a bit of pride—as if we had been the best ladies in the land. Oh, Nancy, Nancy! what a fool you have been! if poor dear mother only knew.”
But Nancy was past standing up for herself, or making any reply. She had covered her face with her hands; her whole frame was tingling, her head swimming, her heart full of trouble and pleasure, and confusion and despair. What a fool, what a fool she had been! that, indeed, if nothing else, was beyond measure true.
As for Lady Curtis, she was enchanted with her new acquaintance. “There is some mystery there,” she said as they walked briskly away. “It is easy to see that the sister is of a very different class and breeding from that touching young creature with her blue eyes. Is she a sister at all, I wonder, or some old servant for a protection to her? I don’t know when I have been so much interested,” she said.
As for Lucy she said nothing; her mind was full of doubt and confusion. She did not know what to think, and there was nothing that she could trust herself to say.
DURANT had not been at Oakley for more than a year. No invitation had come to him, though he still corresponded with Lady Curtis on the same confidential and affectionate terms as before; and his heart had grown sick with this pause of stagnation in his life. There are moments when that which we have borne with tolerable calm for years, becomes all at once intolerable to us; and this is especially the case with men who, having laboured hard and dutifully without much personal recompense, are suddenly moved by some accidental prick to see that their best years are floating away from them, without any of the delights that belong to that crown of existence. Why this feeling should havecome upon Durant after his late visit to Underhayes, and not on previous visits, when he had seen his friend Arthur, so much younger than himself, enjoying the happiness which it was not given to him to enjoy, it would be difficult to tell. Perhaps Arthur’s happiness, while it lasted, was too full of drawbacks to attract his friend, to whom it never could have been possible to woo his love in Mrs. Bates’ parlour, behind the backs of the family. But curiously enough, when the family was swept away, and all its shabbiness had become pathetic; and when Arthur’s happiness had fallen into dust, and become apparently a thing beyond restoration or even hope, then, and only then, did it stimulate the dormant passion in Durant’s veins. He said to himself that to lose the chance of happiness altogether by thus passively waiting till it should drop upon him from the clouds, was, perhaps, in the end a greater foolishness than even the mad folly which had ruined Arthur. Arthur, at all events, at the worst, had had his chance; whereas Lewis, so far as appearances went,was never to have his chance, but only toil and toil on for the benefit of others till the capacity for joy was exhausted in him. In the grey autumnal weather, when the rains are falling, and the skies lowering, and all things settling down to “the dead of the year,” does not sometimes a longing, insupportable, for sunshine and brightness, cross us—a longing which has to be satisfied by some lighting up of lamps and artificial processes of illumination, if not by the natural and blessed sun? Durant went on for a little, with his heart full of smouldering fire, reflecting upon his own loneliness amidst all the enjoyments and fellowships of the world, reflecting upon the manner in which his own hard earnings melted away, running into the bottomless pit of improvidence and unlovely waste in his father’s house, with no real benefit even to the dwellers therein, much less to him whose labours had no lightening, whatever happened. At last the point of explosion was reached by the touch of a piece of good fortune. For the first time he was retained as first counselin an important case likely to attract some notice in the world, and at the same time was appointed one of a commission of investigation into certain legal evils then under the consideration of Parliament. The sudden pleasure of distinction among his peers, altogether apart from the profit of it, conveyed a swift and penetrating pleasure to his mind, and altogether overset the impatient patience which so many thoughts had already put in jeopardy. A little success often in such circumstances fires the mine which weariness and reflection and comparison have been filling with combustibles. Why should he drag on any longer dully, without even an attempt to brighten his own life? The man who blacked his shoes, secure of weekly remuneration, had just “thrown up his place,” and risked his existence, in order to “better himself;” and why should not the master try to better himself too? This sudden impulse set him all on fire. What was the use of his self-denial, his renunciation of all pleasant things? They who would have them, must seize them, without all thisreckoning of possibilities and counting of cost. Durant was not superior to that almost fierce independence which, like all good that comes out of evil, has its false side. The dependence and incessant demands of his family had made him stern in his resolution to owe no man anything, to struggle out his own career unaided; and had also made him too proud to ask any favour in his own person, even a night’s lodging from the friends whom he had served with all the humbleness of true generosity when occasion offered. He would have spent time, which was more valuable to him than money is to most people, or money, of which he did not possess too large a stock, in the service of the Curtises, whenever they called upon him; but he would not ask them to invite him, or even suggest that he would like to be invited. This was one of thedéfauts de ses qualités. So it took him a little trouble to get himself to Oakley in a roundabout way. He did this by means of a college friend, who had a living within a dozen miles, and to whom he had noobjection to offer himself for a short visit; and being there, what so natural as that he should drive over to Oakley for a few hours? He did this a few days after the visit of Lady Curtis to Nancy, and appeared suddenly in the morning, conscious and anxious, while the family were still at breakfast.
“I thought I’d run down and see Cavendish at Stainforth,” he said, feeling the weakness of the excuse.
“Cavendish at Stainforth!” Lady Curtis echoed, turning pale. She saw through the pretence, but she did not see through the cause of it. If it was her son who immediately occurred to her mind, what mother will blame her? She ignored all motives of his own on Durant’s part with pitiless, though unconscious cruelty; and left the table precipitately, her heart beating with sudden agitation. “Oh, Lewis, something has happened to Arthur; and you have come to break it to me!” she said, turning round upon him as he followed her into her morning-room.
“No,” he said, with a sheepish air ofguilt, feeling himself absolutely wicked to have thus frightened her for ends of his own.
Lucy had lingered behind, and was following him when she heard this reply. She turned at once and went away. Her heart had beat even more wildly than her mother’s at sight of him, but with less simplicity of feeling. Was it just that Arthur should always be the first thought? If it was not something which had happened to Arthur that brought Lewis here, then it was—something else. This conclusion, so very simple when put into these words, filled Lucy with involuntary excitement. When he said “No” to her mother’s question, she turned and went away. Was he going to risk it then, to dare all the dangers of absolute separation? Lucy had not seen him for more than a year; but she knew what was in his heart. She had never doubted him; she had been faithful herself to the undisclosed hope, and so had he. She hurried away to her own room, while he, she knew it, went to try their fortune, to put it to the test, to lose or gain everything. Lucy’s heart beat so that she could not think. And would they be so hard, so cruel as to deny her her happiness, the father and mother who loved her so dearly? Most probably they would do so. She could not deceive herself. Most likely he would be sent away without hope, perhaps with disdain. A girl has a terrible moment to go through when she knows that her life, and the life of another still more dear to her, are thus being decided for her without any power of hers to interfere. If Lewis asked her for her love, she would tell him yes, she would give it, she had given it; but herself she could not give. She was free, you may say, of age, fully capable of choosing, and with no law, human or divine, to prevent her from settling, what was more important to her than to anyone, her own course and her own companion in life. All so true, yet so futile in its truth. Lucy was free; yet tied hand and foot, bound by innumerable gossamer threads of duty and affection, which she could not, and would not, if she could, attempt to break. It was no lawnor enacted disability, nothing that Parliament could touch, nor public opinion, nor emancipation of women; but nature, unrepealable, unchangeable, that bound her. She could not go to her usual occupations, she could not go downstairs. She sat trembling, scarcely able to think for the sound in her ears of commotion within her. She had to sit and wait while he made his venture; she knew there was nothing, for the moment, in her power.
“Not Arthur!” cried Lady Curtis. “Oh, forgive me, Lewis, that I always think of my own boy first. You are sure there is nothing that you want to tell me gently? I know your kind heart—not to frighten me?”
“I want to tell you something—about myself, Lady Curtis.”
“Ah!” she cried in a tone of relief; and then with a perceptible ease and calm of indifference, “about yourself? I hope it is something very good, very delightful, something equal to your deserts. There is nothing I could be so happy to hear.”
“Something of that to begin with,” hesaid, and told her of the advantages that had come to him; his appointment on the Commission, and his first important brief. Lady Curtis was delighted, as she had promised to be. She threw herself into the discussion of his prospects with enthusiasm.
“I am as glad as I could be of anything, except good fortune to Arthur,” she said. “My dear Lewis, you who have been so good to us all! you come next. And now all the world is before you, and everything that is good. Thank God for it! though I never had any doubt on the subject,” she said, smiling at him through tears of pleasure, as she held both his hands.
How cheering this was! sympathy could not be more warm, more cordial, more affectionate. It warmed his heart, and brought the tears to his own eyes.
“Yes,” he said, “it is the beginning, I believe, and hope—. It is the opening of the door. My career ought to be clear now, if I have courage and heart to go on.”
“You, courage and heart!” she said,“of course you will have both, Lewis. You are not the kind of man that fails. I never for a moment expected anything else. It is not always, to be sure, that men get what they deserve; but you—you are not of the mettle which fails.”
“But supposing that, and that I succeed, what is it to lead to, Lady Curtis?” he asked, half-mournfully; for it was evident to him that, as yet, she had not even the least glimmer of imagination as to what he was going to ask.
“Lead to?” she said; “the Bench of course, and perhaps the woolsack; you speak so little of yourself that I scarcely know which way your ambitions lie, Lewis, whether you care for politics at all; of course that is the finer career of the two—if you take to it.”
“That is all you give me then,” he said, “my choice of two dignities? I do not say they are not both great objects of ambition; but is there nothing sweeter, nothing dearer to come, my lady? You are very kind to me—kinder than I had any right to expect; but have you nothingmore to wish me in your kind heart than the woolsack and the Bench?”
She looked at him, faltering a little. She began now to see what he meant.
“What can I say more?” she said, “yes, everything, Lewis. I wish you all—you can desire.”
“The desire of my heart,” he said, getting up from his seat in his agitation; “that is the wish in the Psalms, and there is none that goes so far, or is so sweet. My lady, you have known me almost ever since I was fit to form a wish. Don’t you know what it is—the desire of my heart?”
“Lewis—Lewis!” she cried, hastily; then stopped. Had she been about to warn him to say no more, to stop him in the revelation of his wishes? but if so she changed her mind, and looked at him eagerly, alarmed, and wringing her hands.
“You know what it is,” he said, with a smile, turning to her. “I don’t need to say it, do I? If I cannot have Lucy, what is everything else worth to me? I know I am not her equal in birth, if you still think that matters, beyond everythingelse. But does it, does it? No one else can have thought of her so long and constantly as I have done. I know all her tastes, her ways. What she likes I like—and her brother, you know, Lady Curtis—has been all I have known for a brother.”
“I know, I know,” she said, and the tears in her eyes were not now tears of pleasure. She shook her head while she looked at him with motherly tenderness, through her wet eyelashes. “And you have been the best brother to him, the kindest!” she cried. “Alas!” but with all she shook her head.
“I did not mean to set up any claim on that score,” he said, quickly; “but because there has been this constant affection between us, and I have never thought of any other woman. All the rest of the world has been naught to me by the side of Lucy. I have thought of no one but her. And is this all nothing, my lady, worse than nothing, because my grandfather was a tradesman? It seems hard, don’t you think it is hard, difficult to bear?”
“Lewis, you know it is not so everywhere,” she cried. “There are gentlemen in England—the best in the land, who would give their daughter to you, Lewis Durant, good as you are known to be, the truest gentleman, and rejoice in her happiness!” She paused, and her voice fell, and once more she shook her head. “But Sir John—”
“If I have your help, my lady, I will not be afraid of Sir John,” he said, “he is not like you; but he is good to the bottom of his heart, good all through and through.”
“Lewis!” cried my lady, with sudden emotion, “do you want me to be in love with you as well as Lucy? So he is, my dear boy; so he is, my dear prejudiced narrow-minded old man! he does not understand always—but he is good, as you say, all good, and no guile in him. But what has that to do with it after all, my poor boy?” she added, dropping from her enthusiasm, and shaking her head once more. “He is fond of you too, and that does not matter either; you will never gethim to see it, never! I know him better than you do.”
“If you will be on my side he will come to see it,” said Durant. She made him no direct reply, but hurried on.
“And all the more since we have had this disappointment with Arthur. If Arthur had married happily as we liked—as young Seymour has done—things might have been different. But now that Arthur has made such shipwreck, Lucy is all that is left to us. He will not let her speak to anyone whom he thinks inferior to her. He has almost shut the house even to his nephew Bertie; he would prefer even that she did not marry at all.”
“All this will not alarm me,” he said, keeping his eyes upon her, “if you are on my side.”
“Think!” she said, not paying any attention; “think how bad it is for us in the county. Arthur thrown away upon a—worse than nobody: a foolish girl who has not even the wit to hold by him and make him happy—our only son! and Lucy our only daughter, if she too were to—”
“Marry a nobody!” he said, with a smile, which he could not divest of some bitterness. “Ah, Lady Curtis! that was what I feared—you are not on my side.”
“Lewis, only think!” she said; “put yourself in my place! I have been so proud of my children; perhaps it was foolish, heaven knows one always suffers for it; but if neither of them—neither of them! is to—have anysuccèsin marriage, make any brilliant connection. Yes, yes,” she said, “it is contemptible, I know it, you have a right to scorn me; but, Lewis, put yourself in my place.”
“I do,” he said; “and if I could I would grudge Lucy to a nobody as much as you do; but is all my happiness to go for that, my lady? I dare not speak of hers,” he said, faltering, “if I could hope that her happiness was concerned, what secondary consideration in the world could be put by the side of that?”
Lady Curtis shook her head. She clasped and unclasped her hands, with the nervousness of agitation.
“It is easy for you to say that,” shecried, “very easy for you at your stage; but happiness is not everything—happiness is not all I have to look to,” and as she spoke, there flashed across Lady Curtis’s mind a realization of the time when she should hear her daughter called Mrs. Durant, and listen to the anxious explanations of society, as to how old Durant the saddler, was not her father, but her grandfather-in-law. How could she bear it, how could she bear it? she who had in imagination seen her pretty daughter the admired of all admirers, at the height of splendour and fashion, and with a better title than her mother’s. No, no, no; it was not to be tolerated. She could never permit it! whatever traitors might fight in her bosom for Lewis and his rights.
“This is how it is then,” he said, sadly, “it is you, my friend, my kindest patroness and guide, you who have been the help to me that only such as you could be—that reject me,mylady? Why should I claim you asmylady—or use such a familiar term at all?”
“Lewis, don’t be cruel to me,” she cried.
“I am not cruel. It is only that it is you, and not Sir John, who rejects me,” he said.
No intimation was made to Lucy how this interview was going on; she did not know what form it would take, nor how far Durant would go; and after the first half hour of suppressed excitement and agitation, her pride arose against the notion of waiting here for any news that might be sent her. She would not do it. She went out, rushing along, round by the back of the house, to avoid being seen from her mother’s windows, and set off to visit a sick family in the Park, belonging to one of the gamekeepers. This would occupy her, and prevent her mind from dwelling upon anything Lewis might have to say to Lady Curtis, and anything my lady might reply. But it may be imagined how busy her mind was with a thousand thoughts as she struck across the damp park, upon which the hoarfrost had melted not very long before. It made her wet, but she did not care. She did notcome back, and this was done with intention, till the bell was ringing for luncheon. She saw her mother and Durant both looking anxiously down the avenue as she made her way in by the back entrance as she had gone out. “My lady wants you, Miss Lucy,” all the maids told her one after another; but Lucy’s pride was not to be so easily overcome. She went upstairs and took off her wet shoes and outdoor wraps with the composure of a Stoic, going down only when the summons of the bell was no longer to be neglected, for Sir John was not a man to be kept waiting. When she got down stairs, her colour a little brighter than usual, and her air perhaps conscious in the very elaboration of indifference—she found the party already assembled, her father from his library, and her mother from the morning-room, where she had been shut up the whole morning with her guest. These two gave her anxious glances, both the one and the other. Some understanding she felt sure they must have come to, as, mastering her pride and the sense of injury she felt in being thusunacquainted with what had been going on, she sat down at the table. Why did not she know, why was not she the first person to be considered? To be sure it was her own fault. She had gone away, concealing herself from them, binding on her armour of pride, pretending not to know or care. But it was curious even to Lucy in that condition, and would have been still more curious to a calmer spectator to see Sir John taking his place in unbroken calm amid a party so agitated. Sir John knew nothing of what had been going on, of Durant’s presumptuous hopes, nor of how he had been occupied winning over Lady Curtis to his side. He was full of something which had happened to himself, a little adventure which had quite roused him from his habitual calm. He told them all the story as they sat at the meal, which was little more than a pretence to the others. While he ate his cutlet he went on with his tale, telling them how he had driven out to see the state of the plantations of which Rolt had been talking, and how as they approached one specialspot he sent the groom away to inquire into some changes in the covers which he had not authorized.
“And when I got as far as Fox’s Hollow,” said Sir John, “I found the gate shut, which Short had assured me was always open. I was driving the black colt, Lucy; you know the animal is a restive creature and very fresh. I don’t know when he had been in harness before. I remember the time when it would not have cost me much to jump down and open the gate, too quick to give any horse his head, but that is all over now. I was reflecting what to do with such a high-tempered brute, and a little doubtful whether I’d venture to get down—a slow business now, Durant, as you’ll know when you have come to my years; and as I was thinking that discretion was the better part of valour, who should rise up suddenly from the bushes but—no, not a pheasant, not a covey—but a beautiful young lady. You may well open your eyes—a young creature like a princess in a strange sort of black dress. I never saw her before.She opened the gate to me, and she made me a curtsey and gave me a smile. I can tell you, my lady, it produced such a sensation in me as I have not felt for long enough. Of course I thanked her—of course I said everything in the way of gratitude, and regret to have troubled her, and excuse of myself as an old man. But the wonder is I didn’t know her! A perfectly charming creature! Could it be young Seymour’s wife, or who could it be? Upon my honour, though it sounds so strange to say so, I never saw her before!”
“Thenyouhave seen her, too?” cried Lady Curtis. “Now, Lucy, you perceive your papa agrees with me—”
“Who is this mysterious princess?” said Durant. He was glad as was my lady of something that relieved the painful agitation of pre-occupied thoughts.
“I don’t know who she is, but she is a very charming person,” said Sir John, helping himself to another cutlet. “One would think you had all lunched in secret while I have been having my adventure. Durant, you don’t eat anything. If it hadbeen you who had seen this vision, we should have drawn our own conclusions; but it has not taken away my appetite,” the old man said with a smile. “If it was young Seymour’s wife, young Seymour is a lucky fellow. I can’t think otherwise who she could be.”
NANCY was not less moved by the morning’s adventure than Sir John had been. She had strayed much farther than usual, taking her walk alone in the park while Matilda was busy with her outfit. The gate was close to a bit of wood where the trees were painted in all their most gorgeous autumn tints; and since Lady Curtis had admired her simple garland of leaves, her enthusiasm for them had increased. She had come out here in perfect good faith to find others which she could copy, which might please the lady who had been so kind, and whom, though only herself knew this, it was so important to please. The morning was fine, though the grass was wet, and Nancy,tired with her walk, was sitting resting on a fallen tree. Her heart had given a little jump when she saw Sir John driving along towards her. It was all he could do to manage the high-spirited young horse. She knew him well enough by sight, and she had no fear of him such as she had felt of the ladies; her secret was safe from him. It did not even occur to her, as it might have done, that to conciliate Arthur’s father would be something in her favour, so that everything occurred naturally without motive or artificial stimulus. It was, indeed, the most natural impulse which moved her to get up hastily as soon as she saw his doubtful glance at the gate, and open it. In all probability she would not have budged for Lady Curtis. The suspicion and terror in her heart would have represented to her that the readiness to do such an office might be misconstrued; but she obeyed her impulse in respect to Sir John with the most spontaneous readiness. It was agreeable to her to do him the kindly service which it always becomes the young to render tothe old. She looked up and smiled at him, and said, “You are very welcome,” as he exhausted himself in thanks. And it did not make Nancy’s look less gracious, or less fair, that she saw the old gentleman’s admiring wonder, his evident anxiety to make out who she was. At Sir John’s age a man need not hide his fatherly admiration for a lovely face. He looked at her with his white head uncovered, with pleasure and kindness and surprise in his eyes, and lavished thanks and excuses.
“I am glad I was here to do it,” Nancy said, feeling that corresponding sentiment of kindness in herself, which is the soul of good manners. He thought she was as gracious, as polished and graceful as she was handsome; and a sense of gratification that warmed her heart and softened it, came over her. Arthur’s father! she had not heard half so much of him as of my Lady and Lucy. She was not afraid of him, and to serve him gave her a sensation of innocent and real pleasure, which made Nancy feel affectionate to theold man. He looked back at her as he drove away, waving his hand and smiling; and she looked after him with friendly eyes. They were friends from that moment. Lady Curtis’s kindness had half broken her heart; but the encounter with Sir John made Nancy happy, made her feel herself approved, flattered, raised in her own opinion. And when a great many things have happened to lower one in one’s own opinion, could anything be more grateful than this? She walked home exhilarated in mind and body, no longer languid or tired, and surprised Matilda by the news that she had met Sir John, and made acquaintance with him, “I think he is the nicest of all,” said Nancy, “old gentlemen are so kind; they do not frighten you like ladies.”
“Oh, frighten you!” cried Matilda, “how could her Ladyship frighten you—the kindest lady! but that your evil conscience must be always saying, what would she say if she knew? Are you going to waste your time with that rubbish again, Nancy, littering all the floor? Why can’t you go on with your beautiful drawing? that was worth while—I thought of getting a frame for it as soon as it was done.”
“You can frame the original; it must be better than my copy,” said Nancy, arranging her leaves. Matilda looked at her with an impatience scarcely to be restrained; but she remembered that her Ladyship had taken notice of the rubbish, and shrugged her shoulders over the strange fancies of the gentlefolks. Nancy was just the same as they were. She might have been born in that rank of life herself, she took such fancies. Matilda was thankful, as she went on with her hemming, that no such nonsense had ever occupiedher. But to know all the details of the interview pleased her much, and she would have sat all day long stitching and listening, had not her sister commanded her, later in the afternoon, to get her hat and come out to see the sunset. “Oh, the sunset! a great deal of good that will do me; and not half my chemises done yet,” Matilda murmured to herself, but she obeyed Nancy, who indeed did notlike to be disobeyed. They took the usual walk down through the village to the Hall gates, and by the stile on the left hand, the same stile over which they had come the first day they met Lucy. Since then there had always been the excitement of some possible encounter to anticipate, and as this idea occurred to her, Matilda’s bosom swelled with natural exultation to think how entirely they had got into high life. Sir John and her Ladyship had become, as it were, their daily bread. If dear father had but known!
A sunset is a fine thing no doubt; but if you think of it, after all, it is not much of a sight, a thing that happens almost every day, and costs nobody a penny; a thing that the very poorest tramp may enjoy as well as you. To think how many people there are that will gaze and gaze at such a thing, and look as if they never could have enough of it! Matilda was more clever; she saw it at a glance, and did not require to look again; and, indeed, it was very hard not to believe thatit was affectation on Nancy’s part to look at it so long. Matilda looked round her. There was not much to see, but it is astonishing how much you can see when your wits are about you. The spot where Nancy and her sister were standing was quite near the avenue, and as Matilda, with her mind and eyes unoccupied, looked out for something to amuse her, she suddenly was aware of two people walking up and down in what might be called the side aisle of the avenue, under the shadow of the trees, which still were rich in autumn foliage. This “took her attention” immediately; for who could it be but a pair of lovers, wandering up and down in intimate intercourse; and what is there in heaven or earth more attractive to a young woman than a pair of lovers? This sight woke Matilda out of the indifference into which the sunset had thrown her. She peered through the bushes with the liveliest interest and sympathy, not wishing to act the part of eavesdropper—and, indeed, she was too far off for that—but with the most purely benevolent regard, doing as shewould be done by. Had any disagreeable interruption of the interview threatened, Matilda would have been but too glad to act as scout and give the alarm; and soon a fact became apparent which added immensely to her interest, and, indeed, turned it into excitement: she perceived that the lady was no other than Miss Curtis. Here was a startling discovery! She made herself a little peep-hole through the branches of a gnarled hawthorn that pricked her fingers as she separated the twigs. Who was the gentleman? Matilda thought his aspect was strangely familiar. It was not the Rector, who was said in the village to be going to marry Miss Lucy. Who was it? Matilda gazed long, and then she gave a start which nearly upset her into the midst of all the prickles of the thorn. This was, indeed, something more interesting than such a cheap exhibition as a sunset. After a moment she came and plucked at her sister’s arm.
“Nancy, Nancy! look here. I want you to look at something.”
“What is it?” said Nancy languidly.
She was sitting on the bank, though it was damp, with her hands folded in her lap, and her face all illuminated with the golden light which dropped lower and lower every moment. It had filled Nancy’s soul with thoughts. She was wondering what was to come of all this, half hopefully, half drearily; wondering if Arthur and she were to meet again, if they would ever live together again, if her life was to change into such a beautiful life as they lived, those people in the great house; or if it was to be spent dully in the cottage, obscure and hidden from all eyes. The sunset filled her eyes and glittered in the dew that filled them, and insensibly as that dew rose, the thoughts welled up into her heart.
“Nancy, Nancy!” said Matilda, “oh, look here—oh, please come and look here! It’s her, as clear as daylight; and I do think it’shim.”
“Him!” Nancy began to tremble, and rose, but did not advance further. “What are you saying—who do you mean by him?”
“Will you come here and look?” criedMatilda. “Come! I tell you, it’s Miss Lucy, as sure as this is me; with her young man.”
“How dare you speak so!” cried Nancy, flushing crimson, “of any of them!”
To talk of Lucy’s young man seemed to her something like blasphemy. Naturally, she was becoming a purist about language as she learned what nicety of speech meant. She was a great deal more shocked than Lucy would have been.
“Well,” said Matilda, stoutly, “he is her young man. What is wrong in that? They’ve been going up and down like two young people keeping company this hour or more, while you have been watching the sky (of course she exaggerated the time), and nothing a bit wrong in it that I can see. You’ve done the same yourself—and so would I if it had come in my way,” said honest Matilda. Then, however, her voice sank, and she took her sister by the arm. “That’s not half,” she said, “Nancy, dear! and the most important’s to come. Do you remember Durant, that came to Underhayes withArthur? You must remember Durant—him that Sarah Jane took such a fancy to.”
“I remember Mr. Durant,” said fastidious Nancy. “I don’t know whyyoushould talk of him so familiarly.”
“Oh, have done with your fine talk and your nonsense!” cried Matilda. “Look here, he’sthere, Nancy! I tell you he’s there, close by, courting Miss Lucy. You can come and look for yourself if you don’t trust me.”
Nancy came slowly, half forced by the eager Matilda, but already turning over in her mind what expedients would be necessary to escape this sudden turn of affairs. Durant! (She allowed herself to drop the Mr. in her thoughts.) He would find her out, she knew, before many hours were out. She could not keep her secret from him; he would find her, and write to Arthur, and make or mar everything. What was she to do? A great conflict arose within her. She was sick enough of this state of affairs, and if Durant did intervene to end it, would there be so verymuch to regret? Arthur would come home, he would come to her, and there would be a reconciliation, and all would be well. But then, on the other hand, she had to own, with a sickening sensation in her heart, that already Arthur must have been for some time aware of “what had happened,” and he had not hastened home to her. And the idea that Durant might write to him, send for him as a matter of duty, sent all the blood coursing through her veins. Never! never! She would die first. Even short of that, how much pleasanter it would be to manage everything herself, to leave it to Providence, than that, anyhow, Durant should step in. All these thoughts rushed in a heap into her mind, tumultuous, rolling and rushing over each other like clouds before the wind, as she took the half-dozen steps necessary to bring her to Matilda’s point of vision to verify what Matilda had seen. But it did not require any verification to Nancy. She had felt sure it was true from the first moment. It was exactly the thing that was most likely to happen. She looked through the thornbranches, however, with a wakening of sympathy, such as she had scarcely yet felt, in Lucy. Lucy of late had been lost in Sir John and her ladyship; and when she had thought of her specially it was with jealous fear rather than sympathy. Now she watched her with a curious mingling of interest and opposition. It seemed wrong to Nancy that Miss Curtis should be here with a young man without the knowledge of her father and mother; and Durant, Durant, who had his living to make like any common man! She remembered very well what Arthur had told her about him. He, it was clear, could be no match for Lucy; it was not right, it was notniceof Lucy. The forehead of Mrs. Arthur contracted. She did not like any coming down in the family with which she was connected. She liked to think of them all as very great people indeed, quite above that necessity of working for a living which brought down Durant to the ordinary level of man. All this, however, was by the way; and the immediate thing she had to consider was what she herself would do in this newemergency. She ended hastily at last, when the pair of lovers (since they could be nothing else) turned their faces towards the Hall. Nancy seized her sister’s arm, and without saying anything rushed hastily towards the stile. They got over it, and out of the gates, while still the backs of the others were turned; and then for the moment the two young women ventured to take breath and feel themselves safe.
“They were going up towards the house,” said Nancy; “we have no need to hurry.” But she gave looks of alarm behind her, and walked rapidly back to the cottage. As ill luck would have it they met the Rector, who stopped, as he always did, and kept them talking. When he had insisted on planting himself in their path for a full minute, Nancy got desperate. He was to be got rid of, she felt, at all hazards.
“We met Miss Curtis in the avenue just now,” she said. “She had a gentleman with her. Do you know if there is a gentleman of the name of Durant, or something like that, visiting at the Hall?”
“Oh, Durant is there, is he?” said the Rector, with a look of annoyance. “Yes, I know him. He used to be very intimate then; but I had hoped he had not been so much in favour of late. I say frankly, ‘I hope,’ for I am not fond of him. He is a nobody, a—perhaps you have met him, Mrs. Arthur. He has got into very good society, somehow or other; but he is nobody.”
“I think I have seen him somewhere; but you will find him now in the avenue with Miss Curtis; and we must hurry back,” she said, nodding and smiling as she went on. She liked Durant a great deal better than she liked Bertie; but to escape from her present dilemma was more important than either. “Now, Matilda, make haste; let us get home,” she said. She had sent the Rector “after them,” not without a certain malicious pleasure. She had freed herself from the immediate danger in which she lay. He would talk, and they would be obliged to listen, as, otherwise, Nancy would have been; and with another anxious look behind, she sped along theroad. But it was an unlucky day. In the village street they met Mrs. Rolt, who also had a thousand things to say. She rushed across the street with a budget full of news, and laughed and joked, and congratulated the young stranger on having made such an impression upon Sir John. Mrs. Rolt told Nancy that she had been at the Hall immediately after luncheon, and that Sir John would talk of nothing else.
“And he is a very good friend, a faithful friend, though he is not very demonstrative,” said Cousin Julia; “but, indeed, my dear, he was quite demonstrative about you, and talked of you all the time. Mr. Durant was there,” she added confidentially, “and I don’t think he much wanted Mr. Durant. You know there was always a kindness between him and Lucy; but it would be quite out of the question for Lucy, quite out of the question, especially since her brother’s unfortunate marriage.”
“What has her brother’s marriage got to do with it?” cried Nancy, forgetting, in this unexpected attack, even her fears.
“Oh, my dear, don’t you know what a dreadful thing it is for the family? It has spoiled Arthur’s life, poor fellow. Where are the heirs to come from?” Cousin Julia cried pathetically. “However bad she might be, it would not be quite so bad, you know, if there were any heirs; but the succession, my dear! Lucy must marry, and she must marry well, or what is to become of the family?” Mrs. Rolt said with decision. “She, too, will have to suffer for her brother. The innocent are always involved with the guilty; and when once a wrong thing has been done, one never knows where it may end.”
Nancy had grown crimson with shame and resentment—and with pain too, pain that she could not fathom in all its complexities. She turned away coldly from Mrs. Rolt, scarcely attempting to separate from her with the pretence at civility, which good manners (she felt) demanded. The innocent involved with the guilty! how dared anyone so speak of her? She went on to her cottage, forgetting her previous alarms, holding her head high, and she didnot take any notice of the sound of wheels behind her, the rapid dash of a dog-cart which came whirling along and round the corner from the Hall. But she came to herself with a start and cry, when turning round suddenly she met Durant’s look, which flashed from the ordinary calm of an indifferent passer-by into profound surprise and instant eagerness at sight of her. The dog-cart was going so fast, with so much “way” upon it, that it was a minute before it could be drawn up and he could spring down from it. In that minute, Nancy aroused to the necessity of the case, had darted down a little side alley, by which she knew she could reach the back-door of the cottage. Fortunately there was nobody about to see her fly along past the little gardens to the open kitchen door. She darted in to the alarm of Fanny, and flying breathless upstairs rushed to the shelter of her own room.
“If anyone calls I am ill in bed,” she cried, as she passed, to the consternation of the little maid. Matilda, by this time was quietly seated in the little sitting-room at work. “Come up with me, come up with me. Durant is after me!” cried Nancy, breathless. Matilda had presence of mind to obey without a word, though she made a mental memorandum as she went upstairs after her sister. “She says Durant, too,” Matilda said to herself—but she made no audible protest; and from a corner between the curtains she watched and reported how the dog-cart waited, and how long a time it was before the visitor came back baffled, after following down the alley and finding nothing.
“He is looking very suspicious-like at all the houses,” said Matilda.
“Oh, keep close, keep close!” cried Nancy, from the bed on which she was crouching—as if he could see in through the curtains. They spent an anxious half-hour watching his proceedings, for the dog-cart drove away and then came back, and their fears were renewed for another tremulous moment. But Durant fortunately did not apply to anyone who could give him information. He trusted apparently to his own sharp-sightedness,or to the hope that Nancy had hidden herself, and would reappear again. The sisters did not venture to draw breath until it was clear that he was gone.
Here was another and important embarrassment and difficulty in their way. They did not know that Durant’s day’s occupation had been so very important to himself as to eclipse all other interests. They thought he would come back next day to search thoroughly, and make sure that they did not escape him. For to Nancy in the present crisis it was evident that nothing else could be half so important; her own affairs naturally appeared to her the most likely subject to absorb Durant’s thoughts.