“Oh, la!” cried Sarah Jane.
“Yes, that was a pleasant thing to be interested in, wasn’t it? Oh, the lots and lots of people that had their heads cut off, if you could put any faith in it! As if that was what one wanted to see! I never believed one quarter of what they said.”
“And quite right,” said her mother; “they do make up stories; but didn’t you go to see something a little livelier, Nancy? I thought there was everything that was gay in Paris. But if that was all, my poor child, I don’t wonder if you felt low, away from everybody you knew. But things will be quite different now,” she said, encouragingly. “You will settle down, you and Arthur, in a nice snug little English ’ome. There is no place like ’ome, as the song says. And you’ll fall into each other’s ways; and you’ll have us close at hand if anything’s wrong. Oh, you’ll see everything will go as smooth as velvet! and me, or Sarah Jane, or Matty always to help you to put things straight.”
At this prospect Nancy brightened up, and the conversation went on in a livelier strain. But Nancy’s brows lowered when Arthur, feeling it all grow more and more intolerable, got up just before the rum-and-water stage, under pretence of business.
“I have some letters which I must write,” he said. Nancy’s countenance grew dark again, and Mr. Bates lamented audibly.
“I thought you’d have joined me and been comfortable, now you’re a married man and got your courting over,” said the tax-collector. Poor Arthur! was this expected of him, that he should share the rum-and-water too? He scarcely knew how he managed to get away at last, promising to return for his wife when his letters were written. But he had in reality no letters to write. He walked about through the darkness very sadly, wondering what he was to do. It was weak perhaps to have yielded to her, to have suffered her to lead him back here; it was all intolerable, the house, the family, the talk. They had been well enough once, how did it happen that they were beyond all patience now?
CHAPTER XVI.
NEXT day, restored to perfect good-humour by the occupation, Nancy went out with her mother to look at some houses which they had already selected for her choice. She came into the little sitting-room, in which Arthur had talked to Durant about his marriage, and where the young pair were established now—glowing and beaming from her early walk, to tell him all about these desirable residences. Rose Villas, Glenfield Road, was the name of the row, in which there were two houses, one empty, and one furnished, to be let.
“You must come with me and see them the moment you have had your lunch—I don’t want any lunch,” cried Nancy. “I am so delighted! The dearest little houses, Arthur! just big enough for us, and so bright, with gardens back and front, and everything that heart could desire.”
“But we don’t want two houses, do we?” he said.