“What is it?” she repeated. “It is so easy to say what it is at once.”
“It is this then—do not reply in a hurry—I am very anxious about it, Nancy; don’t you think you might write a few lines—to my mother.”
“To your mother!” the audacity of the proposal took away her breath.
“Yes, I am going to write—to say what I truly feel: that I am sorry to have offended her—”
“Sorry to have married me!” she cried, almost jumping out of the carriage in her vehemence. She looked at him, trembling with rage and wonder. How could he face her and ask such a thing? How could he frame the words? did he think she was going to give in, to yield now, without rhyme or reason, she who was certainly determined never to yield?
“You know that is not the case,” he said; “you know that I have not repented marrying you—and never will. But, Nancy, it is not for our happiness or—well, I will say interest, though it is an ugly word—to be estranged from my mother. I want to write to her to tell her that I am grieved, hush! to have offended her. I should have known better. I should have managed so as that she might have seen you—known you, before she condemned me—”
“That is that you are sorry you did not send me on approval, as the shopkeepers say—me! Do you suppose I would have done it? Do you think I could have endured for a moment—”
“Can I not ask you a favour—acknowledging it to be a favour, without a quarrel?” said Arthur. “We have been married a fortnight, and how often have we quarrelled already? Nancy, is it worth the while? Could we not discuss a matter that concerns us both, calmly, without anger? If it seems to you impossible, say so. Am I unreasonable to torment you about a thing you refuse? But why quarrel—I hate it—and you cannot—like it.”
“How do you know I don’t like it?” she cried; then stopped herself, with some dim perception of her folly. “I will not do it,” she said, doggedly, “that is enough. My lady has never taken any notice of me—no, nor even your sister, that you are always holding up as a model. I will not lay myself down at their feet to be trampled upon; you may do it yourself, if you please.”
“I shall certainly write,” he said. “There will be no treading upon; but I shall write. If you will not do it, of course I cannot help it; but if you will be persuaded—out of your love for me—then I will be grateful to you, very grateful, Nancy. I will not say any more.”