“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 had been 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.”
CHAPTER IX.
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 to the 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 the old 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 occupied her. 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 not like 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 that it 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 she would 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.