“Yes, Curtis. I wish him to go. He is (of course) doing no good here, and the story has oozed out, equally of course. How can I tell that some other idiot may not be moved by his example, and put himself at the feet of a sister? I shall get a bad name. I!—because your friend is a sentimental idiot.”
“Patience!” said Durant, laughing in spite of himself. “I don’t see how any one can blame you.”
“Nor I; but they will,” said Mr. Eagles. “Of all foolish and unreasonable persons on the face of the earth, parents are the most unreasonable. You must take your man away.”
“But he is not my man. I have no authority over him.”
“You are his friend, and you seem to have some sense, and you know his father. This is my ultimatum—you must take your man away. I have no time to say any more. Good morning, Mr. Durant. I like promptitude, and I expect you to act at once upon what I say.”
CHAPTER IV.
DURANT felt that after this shock he needed a little quiet, to re-establish him in his former thoughts. Mr. Eagles had assailed him like a charge of cavalry. He laughed, yet he was shaken. It was not in his power to take away his man; indeed he was in the most uncomfortable position possible, supposed to hold an official position in respect to Arthur, and, indeed, endowed with powers of remonstrance and reproof, but with no authority—the most difficult of all circumstances. He could neither take away his man, nor even oblige that man to hear reason, and yet he was more or less responsible for him; and to crown all, his man had quarrelled with him, and shaken off even the ties of affection which had hitherto bound them. This, it is true, did not affect him so much as it might have done had he been less familiar with Arthur, who he knew could never stand out or maintain the separation. To be sure, Arthur, backed up by a new family, and with the possible evil animus of “a set of women” added to his personal offence, was a person as yet unknown to his friend; and though Durant was kind, and did not think evil of others, yet he was not able to divest himself of the natural prepossession against the “set of women” whose ideas henceforward must, more or less, inspire Arthur. It is a compliment at least to the mental power of women that this is the first thought that springs into anyone’s head when a man makes, or is understood to be about to make, an unsuitable marriage. The man may be wiser, cleverer, infinitely of more importance than the woman as a moral being; but the whole inspiration of his conduct is instantly believed to be hers. Durant had not a notion what was the mental calibre of Nancy Bates. On the surface, of course, it could only be taken for granted that a member of the educated classes, a University man, would count for more than an untaught girl, the daughter of ignorant people. But nobody thinks so, and Durant was like everyone else. He began to wonder what sort of people the Bates’ were, and finally determined to go and see them according to the invitation of last night. He might as well feign a little even, with this admirable motive, and show himself friendly by way of being as unfriendly as possible. He was not quite sure of the moral grandeur of the proceeding. Take it all in all, indeed, the effort to seduce Arthur from his allegiance before their very eyes, so to speak; to beguile him into breaking his word and renouncing his plighted faith, was not, on the surface, a highly moral proceeding. But yet Durant, when he came, had been unable to conceive anything more desirable than this. If he could only have succeeded in persuading Arthur to do it, it would not only have left no weight on his conscience, but he would have felt that he had done well. The girl herself! What of the girl herself? She was a gambler, playing for high stakes. As for feeling on her part, who was at all likely to take that into consideration? Certainly when Lewis Durant did not (and it never occurred to him), it was extremely unlikely that any one else would.
This thought, however, having got into his mind, he resolved on carrying it out. He would go and see these people, and find out whether anything could be done with them, and again (with a smile) he thought of Major Pendennis and his most successful negotiations. These were the tactics the Major adopted, and they had proved excellently adapted for the purpose. The circumstances, however, were evidently different. Nothing could be said of Arthur Curtis, unless his friend was prepared to lie in his behalf, which would shake the confidence of the girl’s family in the advantages of the marriage. He was Sir John’s only son, the estates were entailed, there was but one sister to share even the personal property of the family, and Lady Curtis was very well off in her own right. Anything that could be said, would only make the Bates family more certain that Nancy had done an admirable thing for herself, so admirable that nothing should be allowed to stand in her way. Howsoever the lover’s friends might object, nothing could be done to do away altogether with the advantages of the marriage, and Durant felt that the family would be fools indeed to allow any meddler like himself to affect their action in the matter. Still people are fools now and then, notwithstanding the strong hold of self-interest, and might be beguiled into a false step, notwithstanding that every inducement was on the other side. All this passed through Durant’s mind, and he did not blush at the thought. It seemed to him quite justifiable, nay, laudable. It was to save Arthur; if he could save Arthur by deceiving others, what then? And as for the girl! Talk of hearts, if you please, in other conditions of life, but the heart of a village girl who beguiles a gentleman into falling in love with her! Honest, honourable, and true as he was, Durant, strangely enough, had still no compunction there. Could he have broken Arthur’s troth-plight like a wand, he would have been delighted with himself.
He did not know his way very well, having threaded a number of small dark streets, in the rain, the night before, led by the vague directions of various officious guides; but he had a notion in which direction it was, and he had abundance of time before him. He had not gone very far, indeed, before he met an individual who might easily have guided him, and whom he passed with a curious consciousness that here would be the most vulnerable member of the family—no less a person than Mr. Bates himself; a little stout man in a large white neckcloth, with a book in his hand, and an appearance of ink spots about him, which betrayed the existence of what is euphemistically called writing materials somewhere about his person. The expression of his face was not less characteristic of his profession. No softening atmosphere of rum was about him now. His face was red, probably from those long continued, though moderate evening indulgences, and his lips were pursed up and tight. He looked the kind of man whose proceedings would be summary, who would take no excuses, who would be rigid as fate in the punctuality of his applications. Durant watched him furtively from the other side of the street; and the conclusion to which he came was that Mr. Bates, though obdurate with his district, would be incapable of standing an assault from anyone of superior condition; and however arbitrary he might be to a defaulter in rates, would not venture to withstand a Sir John, should he demand the sacrifice of his Iphigenia. Should he approach him at once, thus unprotected, in the middle of his duties, and frighten him into a promise to shut his doors upon Arthur? For a moment Durant hesitated; for, in the first place, he was not Sir John, and in the second place, he distrusted the power of the tax-gatherer to contend with “those women.” To subdue the women themselves was a more desperate piece of work, but it would be more effectual were it done. With this conclusion, he went on making his way in the direction which he supposed the right one. He would not awaken curiosity by inquiring, and he had abundant time, as it was still early. The forenoon was bright and genial, but the place was very quiet. The men had been swept out of it by the morning train. Except Mr. Bates, and the butchers and bakers, and a stray parson of the High Church sect, who blocked out a large piece of sunshine with his cassock and cloak, there was no one visible, for it was too early for the female population to leave the business of their houses. He was sure to find all the females of the Bates’ family, he thought, in the stuffy little parlour, with probably some preparations for dinner going on side by side with the bonnet making. And the heroine, what might she be doing?—not seated on the sofa, nor love-making he hoped; the bonnet was better than that. He made several little pictures of her in his imagination, now standing upon her dignity as engaged to a gentleman, putting on a multitude of little airs, lording it over her sisters. No doubt this was how she would show her success. He knew nothing whatever about Nancy, but as his object was to destroy her hopes, he represented her to himself, unconsciously, as affected by the very poorest version possible of these hopes. It was natural. While, however, he was pursuing these thoughts and his way together, he suddenly encountered, coming round a corner, one of the sisters, whom he had met on the previous night. They came so suddenly upon each other, that both paused, with the slight shock of almost personal contact.
“Oh, Mr. Durant!” cried Sarah Jane.