“Oh, he does not mean it, he cannot mean it!” cried Lucy, with sobs in her voice.
“No,” said the mother, unconsciously taking up Nancy’s argument, with that curious contempt of the men involved in such a quarrel which is so strangely characteristic of women; “no, it is not him, it is her; and this is the influence my boy, my only boy, is to be under all his life!”
What could Lucy say? There was nothing further to be said or done.
And it may be supposed that as the day approached, and they knew that he who had been the object of deepest concern and affection to both, the son who had been his mother’s favourite, the brother whom his sister had looked up to and regarded with a semi-worship so long as he would let her, was about to go through the most important act of his life without their presence or sympathy—excitement ran very high in the veins of the two ladies. Sir John called them home by every post, having in his mind a secret dread that they might do something or say something to compromise him, or at least themselves, in respect to Arthur; and Lady Curtis, without ever saying why, made excuses to remain, now a week, now a day longer. She did not even tell herself why; she would not allow the thought to form itself, that, perhaps, even at the last moment, Arthur might appear, at least to ask her forgiveness and blessing, if not to tell her that he had repented and abandoned this evil way. She stayed in Berkeley Square, trembling every time there was a knock at the door, gazing wistfully from the window at passing cabs and carriages. When Durant came in a Hansom, one wintry evening, he was received with open arms at the door; and the disappointment and impatience in Lady Curtis’s face at the sight of him, was very far from flattering.
“Oh!” she cried, “I thought it was—” and burst into tears.
When Lucy tried to say that he could not come now, that to desert his bride now would be unmanly and treacherous, her mother turned upon her with a dumb rage which was terrible to see. She hoped till the very eve of the marriage—the time fixed for which Durant had informed them of. And that evening Lucy made a prayer, which her mother was deeply angered by at first, but finally yielded to. Lucy begged, with tears, to be allowed to go and witness her brother’s marriage, from a distance, at least. She promised to do nothing and say nothing which would betray her; to keep her veil down, not to speak to him, not to give him any token of her presence. All this Lucy promised, and at last she carried her point. They spent a miserable evening together, Durant coming in late to bring them the last news. He had found out the hour, and all about the wedding arrangements, and he was too happy to put himself at Lucy’s service to escort her to Underhayes. Lady Curtis’ old maid, who had known Arthur all his life, and who could not be kept from knowing all the family affairs, was to go with them; and Durant pledged himself to meet them at the railway, and take care of them, and see that they were protected from any contact with the family of Arthur’s bride. In the prospect of this, Durant was, perhaps, not so downcast about Arthur’s unhappy marriage as he ought to have been, and Lady Curtis surprised sundry signs of unseemly satisfaction in him.
“I do not think Mr. Durant is nearly so true a friend to my poor boy as I should have expected,” she said, with a suspicious cloud on her face, when he went away.
“Oh, mamma, I am sure he is very fond of Arthur,” said Lucy. She too had seen, perhaps, the glimpses of satisfaction which burst through his gravity; but then Lucy, better informed than her mother, set them down to the right cause.
“He may be fond of Arthur, but he does not see as we do that this is destruction to him,” said Lady Curtis, putting her handkerchief to her wet eyes.
“I am sure he will be his warm friend in any trouble.”