[CHAPTER I., ] [ II., ] [ III., ] [ IV., ] [ V., ] [ VI., ] [ VII., ] [ VIII., ] [ IX., ] [ X., ] [ XI., ] [ XVI., ] [ XIII., ] [ XIV., ] [ XV.]

MRS. ARTHUR.

BY
MRS. OLIPHANT,
AUTHOR OF
“The Chronicles of Carlingford,”
&c. &c.

“Fie, fie! unknit that threat’ning, unkind brow,
And dart not scornful glances from those eyes.
. . . . . . .
A woman mov’d is like a fountain troubled.”
TAMING OF THE SHREW.

“He breathed a sigh, and toasted Nancy!”
DIBDIN.

IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
LONDON:
HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS,
13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.
1877.
All rights reserved.

MRS. ARTHUR.

CHAPTER I.

ARTHUR CURTIS did not think of the letter which old Davies had given him till days after. It had been crushed up in the pocket of his coat, the sight of his sister, and all the contending emotions of the time having put it out of his head; and what could there be agreeable in such a communication at such a time? A final sermon to him upon his folly, a final admonition as to all the terrible consequences of his fault—he had, he thought, enough of these, and he had not cared to make himself miserable on his wedding-day with such a communication. It was not unmixed delight, even without that, though this was not a confession he made to himself, in words, at least. But the sight of his sister’s writing half sickened him when he saw it eventually. To be told that the course you are pursuing is ruinous, when you are entirely delighted with that course, is bad enough; but to be told so when the first shock of doubt, the first sharp suspicion of a mistake, has come into your mind, is unendurable. Arthur had not, it may be supposed, allowed to himself that this was already the state of affairs within a few days after his marriage. He was the “happiest of men;” the society of his bride was sweet to him, and her tenderness gave him an exquisite, indescribable, all-penetrating delight, notwithstanding everything. Is the sudden shock of that absolute identification of two different people, the one with the other, ever for the first moment, a happiness unmingled? It was not, at least, to Arthur. And Nancy was not one of those compliant, sweet-tempered women who swamp their own habits and ways in those of their husbands. Arthur had known these habits intimately enough; but the changed relationship brought such an entire change of aspect as was astonishing to himself. Heretofore he had been able to admire as piquant, or to laugh at as amusing, the roughnesses or simplicities of a breeding so different from his own; but suddenly an entire difference had come upon his feelings. Now that he was responsible for these peculiarities, they became alarming to him; he saw them with the eyes of other people, of his mother, his sister, of Durant even, who would wonder and be horrified to see Arthur’s wife so conducting herself. She was no longer Nancy Bates, the girl for whom he was willing to risk the world—but a part of himself, in whom his own character, his own very being, was involved. This made the strangest difference in everything. He had already felt it beginning for some time, but it was in full force from the moment which changed the tax-collector’s daughter into his wife. Thus he had felt, not amused, but irritated, when she made her appearance in that salmon-coloured “silk.” That Mrs. Bates’s daughter should wear the one fine and glistening garment she possessed to do honour to her bridegroom, and to dazzle the eyes of all beholders on her wedding-day, would there not have been in this a certain appropriateness in the midst of the inappropriateness, a sancta simplicitas which would have charmed him? But it became all at once much more apparent to Arthur that his wife ought to know better than to set out on a journey in a pink silk gown; though when he tried by all manner of deceptive arguments to beguile her into the choice of a more suitable dress, representing that the dark blue serge or dark brown merino in the shops would be warmer, more easy and comfortable, less liable to be spoiled, and every other false yet true reason for preferring it that he could think of, Nancy remained unconvinced.

“You shan’t make a dowdy of me, Arthur, I can tell you,” she said. “I didn’t get married to go about the world in these poor sort of clothes, like a dressmaker’s girl; and to France, where everybody dresses so well!”

This was during the two or three days they stayed in London on purpose, if the truth had been told, to get a suitable outfit for her; but only Arthur, not Nancy, was aware of this true motive for the delay.

“My dear girl, if they dress well it is by having suitable dresses for everything, not by being fine,” said Arthur, driven to his wit’s end.

“Fine! you mean that I am dressed up,” cried Nancy, her colour rising, “and that is hard, for it was all done to please you; I thought you would like to see me fine. I never used to mind what clothes I wore; but I—and mamma too—tried to make as good a show as ever we could, for your sake!”

What could Arthur do but protest that he loved her more, if that were possible, for the pains she had taken to please him, and thought the salmon-coloured dress lovely; but after a while he returned to the charge. “In France,” he said with the air of an authority, “they are great on having a dress for every different occasion. Their dresses for the morning they never wear in the evening, and their travelling dresses—”

“But goodness me!” cried Nancy, “what an extravagant way of going on! It may be all very well for duchesses and grand ladies; but that would never do for a poor girl like me.”

“You forget you are not a girl at all, much less a poor one,” he said, pursuing his wiles, “but a married lady, my Nancy.” Goodness me is not a pretty oath; he swallowed it however, not daring to attempt correction, with a secret grimace.

“Yes, that is all very well,” she repeated, “but all the same we are poor enough. I shan’t be a bit richer than I was. I may be grander, I don’t know; for your folks have cast you off, Arthur, you mustn’t forget that.”

“Oh! my folks!” cried the unhappy one under his breath; the word hurt him, in spite of himself. He had not been so delicate once; but this was like a dig in the ribs to Arthur. It made him cry out, though he stifled the cry.

“No, I don’t think much of what you say if that is French fashion,” said Nancy, “English fashion is far better. Instead of fussing and changing all day long, and wasting one’s time, it is so convenient just to pin in a bit of lace and double back the fronts, and there you have a lovely dress for the evening; that’s what I like. No need to go and unpack one’s boxes and get out another dress, it’s done in a moment. You must allow, Arthur, that English fashion is best for that.”

Poor Arthur! he thought of his sister’s little simple toilettes, so fresh, so crisp, so plain! and he did not know—what foolish young man ever does know? that whereas the finery is an easy matter, these dainty sobrieties of garb are the highest quintessence of art. In novels, which are the chief exponents of young women to young men, and of young men to young women, has not the captivating humble bride always a spotless collar and cuffs ready for every emergency, which make her exquisite on all occasions? Why had not Nancy the secret of that little collar and snowy cuff?

All this, however, is a digression from the letter which he found in his pocket, having thrust it away there on his wedding morning. He tore it open impatiently after this talk. Did not he know very well what must be in it? But it was better to glance at it and be done with it at once. He found it, however, something so very unlike what he supposed, that the little letter completely unmanned him and took his strength away. He read it first with so much surprise that he could scarcely comprehend its meaning, and when he had fully mastered it, burst out into an abrupt break of sound of the most unintelligible description.

“What is the matter?” cried Nancy; she was half frightened. She came to the door of the inner room in which she was, and looked out upon him, half dressed, wrapped in the shawl Matilda had lent her. “Are you laughing or crying?” Perhaps it had been a little of both; but at all events it had left the tears in his eyes.

“Look here,” he said, with an unsteady voice, “this is the letter old Davies gave me on Tuesday;” and then he added in a lower tone, “God forgive me, I don’t deserve it,” with a half sob.

Very coldly Nancy took the letter. She knew by instinct what it must be. It was written in a rather illegible but pretty handwriting, not at all like, but somehow superior she felt to the pointed precision of her own.

“I am going to your wedding to-morrow, Arthur dear; not to see you, but to be there, that there may be some one that loves you all the same. That always goes without saying. We think that you may not have money enough to do all you want, so we have just been to the bank to get this. Dear, dear Arthur, God bless you! Mamma shakes her head, but she says it all the same.

“Lucy.”

And then there was added in another hand:

“Surely I say it, surely I must say it always. And God forgive you, oh, my cruel boy.”

Nancy puzzled over this for some time. She began to read it aloud and read it wrong, so that it took a ridiculous sound; then laughed; while Arthur made a furious step towards her to seize it out of her hand. She grew serious then, which quickened her wits and made her finish her reading in silence. When she had done so she flung it to him, letting the two notes enclosed flutter to the ground, and without a word turned round and shut the door violently in his face. He caught the letter; but the two fifty pound notes lay between him and the door, crumpled by Nancy’s angry fingers. He stood petrified for the moment, too much surprised to be either hurt or angry. Was this the way in which his wife received his first appeal to her sympathy? the first mention of those who, Arthur suddenly remembered, were next to herself the dearest to him in the world? Somehow he had forgotten this until now; but it suddenly gleamed upon him; a kind of revelation. Certainly it was so; his mother and sister, were they not his dearest friends, the most generous and kind? Was it possible that his wife could read this letter and not be touched? and yet she had tossed it at him, had crumpled up the notes like waste paper. Was this the attitude she meant to adopt towards his family? and he had been so tolerant of hers!

Nancy did not say a word on the subject when they met again. She looked as if she had been crying; but said nothing, plunging into some indifferent subject with unusual interest. But it was not reasonable that the husband of three days could bear the matter like this. He said something about “my sister’s letter,” as soon as he had a chance. “We shall have a little more money to spend now, thanks to my mother’s thoughtfulness,” he said.

“Oh, your mother!” she flung away from him, flushing crimson—a colour that meant anger as he already knew.

“Yes, my mother,” he said, “why should not I speak of my mother? I never think it strange, Nancy, that you should think of yours.”

“Mine!” she cried, turning back upon him with flashing eyes, “her thoughts have been as much for you as for me. She has been as kind to you as to me,” (this set Arthur thinking; but what could he answer to it?) “but there is not a word of me in all that letter, not a word, though they knew I should be your wife when you got it.”

“What could they say? They did not know you, darling, and I had been silly, I had not written to conciliate as I ought to have done; but to defy them. What could they say?”

“Say! it is just as good as if they had said, ‘She is no more to us than the dirt under our feet.’ They could not do anything against me or say anything against me, so they treat me as if I was not worthy to be noticed; oh, that is what they mean! they think if they keep that up they will bring you back to them again, and persuade you that I am not worth thinking of. Oh, I know women’s ways!”

“You are mistaken, Nancy, I am sure you are entirely mistaken.”

“A great deal you can tell! they will not show you what they are after. They will smooth you down and keep you not suspicious. Oh! I tell you I know women’s ways.”

“You don’t know my mother and Lucy,” he said, making an effort to stand against her, “they are not like the women you—”

“Not like the women I know? I knew you would come to that,” she said violently. “Oh, I knew it the very moment I set eyes upon her; but not yet, not so soon as this.” And Nancy, really wounded in her blaze of unnecessary wrath, burst into fiery tears. They were tears that might have been red hot, and scalded as they poured down in a very thunder shower. He had never seen such a torrent, and he stood thunderstruck; not melted as he had been before, when Nancy was moved in this way. Here too was a change. He stood still, he did not rush to her, and use all the blandishments he could think of to put a stop to the intolerable spectacle of her distress. He let her cry. He was confounded by the sudden outburst; and a sharp twinge of shame for her mingled with the pain she gave him. He was ashamed that his wife should be so unjust, so hasty in her judgment, so violent in her mistaken ideas. When he did go to her it was slowly, with a hesitation very different from the lover’s rush. That she should be so foolish now, was not that something derogatory to him?

“Nancy,” he said, “I cannot think how you can be so—unkind. Do you think I mean any offence to you, or that they mean any offence? Of course you know they wanted me to marry some one—better off; some one they knew.”

“Oh, let me go,” she cried, choking with pain and rage together, “I will go back to my mother; and you can go to yours, of whom you think so much. What does it matter about a common girl like me!”

“I think you are trying to drive me mad,” he said, “have I ever wavered between you and my mother? but I see now where I did wrong; I should have gone to her and made a friend of her, instead of defying her. I should have taken you to her—”

“Taken me!” she jumped up and faced him, trembling with agitation and fury, “taken me! am I to be dragged about to people that don’t want me, to people that dare to despise me?”

“Nancy!”

“Nancy! that’s all you can call me now. I used to be your love and your darling; now we’re married, and I’m bound and can’t get free, and you call me Nancy! Oh! if it was all to do again, and I knew what I know now!”

“What on earth do you know now that you did not know a week ago?” he cried with an impatience beyond words; and yet he felt half inclined to laugh. That the impassioned creature who stood defying him, blazing in impulsive wrath, should resent the absence of those loves and darlings and tender words with which he had hitherto caressed her ears, so hotly as to desire to break every bond between them, struck him with a sudden sense of the absurdity of their quarrel. He went suddenly up to her and took her into his arms. “But you are my darling,” he said, “all the same; though you are the most unreasonable, the most quick-tempered, the most provoking. Sweet! what is everybody in the world to me compared with you?”

Thus the first quarrel terminated, though not without considerably more trouble. Nancy perhaps saw too the foolishness of this impossible struggle, and yielded after a certain amount of flattery, coaxing, and caresses. And the cloud blew over so completely that, much to his surprise he found himself able to persuade this despairing bride next morning to get the travelling dress he wished her to have, and to tone herself down generally, and make herself warm and comfortable and less fine. They crossed the Channel two days after, more lovers than ever; but no longer publishing their recent nuptials in their appearance, with Nancy’s “silk” carefully packed at the bottom of her box, and herself in a dark blue gown and little plumed hat, looking more like Mrs. Arthur Curtis than Nancy Bates had ever done before. Arthur’s heart beat high with pride and pleasure as they watched the white cliffs disappearing. Nancy not without a little natural sentiment, for she had never been out of England before, and it seemed a great thing to her to be out of her own country, and on the verge of a “foreign land.” But fortunately the passage was a very good one, so that no less elevated feeling mingled with these tender regrets. He had her in his own hands now, the bridegroom said to himself; all her antecedents left behind, the home and relations happily got rid of, and all the influences of her new life around her to wean her from the past. And how tractable she had shown herself already, how willing to be convinced! a tender creature, who accepted his dictation sweetly two minutes after she had burst forth in rebellion against him; who had been indignant at his sister’s letter (and it was, Arthur allowed to himself, nasty of Lucy, rather like a spiteful girl after all as Nancy said, not to mention her in that little note which was intended to be so gentle and peace-making), and then had forgiven it so frankly as to use part of the money that Lucy sent. This unreasonable, inconsistent, foolish, generous, hot-headed, soft-hearted darling, could any man desire better than to have her wholly to himself to guide her wayward feet into the print of wifely, womanly ways? The mean little house, the poor form of existence at Underhayes (ungrateful young man! it had seemed an idyllic life, full of noble simplicity and poetry, when he knew her first) lay far behind, and while the probation lasted it would seem so natural that England itself should fade out of sight, and all that was past be forgotten; until by and by he should take his bride home a lady in every outward sign, as she was, he assured himself in heart. It is so easy in a young man’s glowing fancy to work this change. Likewise it is very quickly done in many novels, and with wonderful facility and completeness; and, as has been said, where but from novels was Arthur to have acquired any experience in the treatment of cases like his own? All went well during that journey. It was a beautiful day of the early winter; warmly soft as November can sometimes be, by way of contrast to its ordinary miseries, the sea and the sky alike blue; and if the wind was cold, what there was of it, the sun shining so warmly as to neutralize the wind. And Nancy now at least was well defended and need fear no chill. Her cheeks glowed with the fresh breeze, her little outcries, half of alarm half of exhilaration, when the steamboat gave a small pitch which hurt nobody, delighted Arthur. She clung to him and steadied herself by him with both hands clasped on his arm, and had no thought, now that her moment of sentiment was over, of anything but the excitement of this novel world into which she was hastening. All the clouds that had been upon their horizon seemed to float away.

“I have been thinking,” she said, when they got into the railway-carriage on the other side, and Nancy had got over her first amused wonder and bewilderment, “to hear everybody talking and not to understand a word.” They had a carriage to themselves, though that is not so easy to manage on the other side, and Arthur, delighted with his task, had begun to teach her little phrases in the tongue, which notwithstanding her much-talked-of previous studies was quite an unknown tongue to Nancy. “I have been thinking—”

“What is it? Something very grave indeed, judging from that serious face.”

“Yes; something very important. I have always wished it, but they would never give in to me. Not that mamma did not think me quite right, but it is very difficult to break a habit in a family. But you must do it, Arthur; it is not such a very old habit with you.”

“What is this great thing I am to do—give up smoking—take off my moustache?”

“Oh! no!” cried Nancy, horrified. “The nicest thing about you!” which pleased Arthur much, for it was still new enough to give him unfeigned and honest pride. “But I will tell you what it is. Nancy is so vulgar, so common, not a name for a lady; and it will not sound well here, abroad, where people have such pretty names. Call me Anna—I have always wished it. I was christened Anna Frances, you know.”

“And I could not think who she was when they married me to her,” cried Arthur. “I will call you what you like, my darling; but I like Nancy best.”

Did ever young people start on a honeymoon expedition with a better understanding? He planned a hundred places to take her to, and things to do. The theatre every night!—How Nancy’s eyes sparkled! and the Louvre, of which she was quite willing to admit that it must be very fine, without knowing what it was; and the Tuileries gardens with the band playing, and the beautiful shops in the Boulevards. Even to hear of these delights was enough to charm any bride. They were to go everywhere, to see everything, to walk about and drive about always these two together—nobody to interfere with them; and the play every night! What could any bride desire more?

CHAPTER II.

PARIS, with all its lamps and shop-windows, dazzled Nancy. It was before the days in which ruins were visible from that brilliant Rue de Rivoli, through which they drove to their hotel. She thought it was an illumination as she saw the sweeping circles of light in the Place de la Concorde, and the long line of lamps under the archways, and could not be persuaded that this was how the brightest of cities adorned herself every night. And when she opened her eyes next morning to the brilliancy of the winter sunshine, and saw the brightness and gaiety of everything around, Nancy was fairly transported out of herself. She had never even been in a great hotel before, for Arthur had taken her to London lodgings he had been in the habit of using, in Jermyn Street, which were not dazzling. But here everything was lovely, Nancy thought. They had a little appartement in one of the great hotels over-looking the garden of the Tuileries, with a little balcony; and from the white carpet with its bouquet, and the sparkling wood-fire which was so bright and clean, and supplemented the sunshine so delightfully, to the mirrors and gilding, and white panels of the walls, everything she looked upon filled Nancy with a bewildering delicious sense of having arrived at the summit of fineness and splendour, and being a lady indeed, a princess almost, enshrined in a bower of bliss. Nothing she had ever seen in all her limited experience was half so splendid; and the noiseless waiters who ran up and down with every luxury that Arthur could think of, and the dainty food, and the perpetual service bewildered her unaccustomed brain. This then was how great people lived! with carpets like velvet, sofas covered with satin, a host of eager servants to find out what they wanted, and bring them everything that could be thought of; mirrors to reflect them on every side (Nancy had never been so sure about the sit of her dress, or knew so well what her figure was like before—and it was a very pretty figure). No wonder they were happy! When they had breakfasted, a pretty Victoria, with a fur rug to cover their knees, came to the door, and in this they drove all about, taking what Arthur called a general view of Paris, its pretty streets, its river and quays, its boulevards, the Champs Elysées, brilliant in the sunshine, with the great arch at the end. When Arthur stopped to let her see Notre Dame, Nancy was respectful but failed a little in interest. It chilled her to go into a church in the middle of a week day so soon after she was married. Church was for Sundays, she felt, not a place to go into in the midst of laughing and talk. She felt it like a memento mori, a sudden chill upon her exhilaration, and supposed that Arthur took her there with the intention of making her remember her duty and her “latter end,” which was a suggestion she did not like.

“Now you shall see something quite different in the ecclesiastical way,” he said, stopping at another church before they went back to their hotel; for he felt that somehow, though he did not quite know how, Notre Dame had not been successful with Nancy. But she altogether refused to go into the Madeleine.

“I don’t know why you are so anxious that I should see the churches,” she said, pouting. “I never knew you were so religious.” Arthur made haste to disavow the imputation, as may be supposed, which all the same he did not like her to make. He was not “so religious,” but he did not like to hear women speak of the matter so—it was “bad taste.”

“It is because the building is supposed to be fine,” he said, standing at the door of the little carriage to hand her out; but Nancy declined firmly. If she could not think of her duty without being taken into a lot of churches to be reminded of religion and of dying, and all that sort of thing, she did not feel at all disposed to be instructed so—and they came in from their drive a little silent, and not so delighted with each other, and with everything about them as they had been when they went out, though Arthur, for his part, had not the slightest idea why.

Luncheon, however, obliterated all recollection of the churches, and made her again feel that everything was delightful in her present lot. Not that Nancy was gourmande, or given to dwell upon what she ate. One of those horrible luxuries, known in England as a Bath bun, would have contented her, so far as eatables went, quite as well as the daintiest little fricandeau. It was the accessories of the meal which told upon her, the obsequious attendants, the perpetual service, the silver dishes, the beautiful fruit on the table, and the sparkling wine, which she had heard the name of all her life, as the crown of luxury, but had never tasted it even in its cheapest form. They must be spending heaps of money, Nancy felt, to live like this. But she was not bold enough to interfere just then, and there was an unexpressed and subtle flattery in Arthur’s care to treat her as, she thought, only princesses, who were not brides, would be treated. As a bride, Nancy knew she had a prescriptive right to everything that was fine. Even in her own knowledge, sacrifices were made to secure everything that was better than usual, for the brief but exquisite moment in which a girl held this official position. A bride had a right to a drive in a cab if she wished it—to a glass of wine if she liked it—to cakes and dainties, and a great deal of coaxing and admiration. And to wear her best dress when she went out, even though it should be on a week-day. Arthur gave to his bride a glorified version of all these delights, except the last, the pretty Victoria instead of a Hansom, and this expedition to France and other unknown regions, instead of the day at the Crystal Palace, which Mr. Raisins would most likely suggest to Sarah Jane; though it was strange that he should object to her “silk,” the only thing of which she had been perfectly sure that it was right. It was in this point of view that she liked the dainty luncheon; and when they went out again arm-in-arm in the afternoon for a walk, the shops on the Boulevards threw her into an ecstasy. Arthur was complaisance itself to all her wishes here. He was willing to stand at the windows and look in as long as she pleased, and he took her here and there to glove-shops and milliners, and bought her a hundred pretty trifles. In every shop they entered, both men and women were so eager to know what pleased Madame, so anxious to prove triumphantly that this thing and the other was becoming to Madame, so openly admiring, so caressingly urgent, that Nancy’s head was turned. It seemed impossible not to believe in the sudden enthusiasm she called forth. Could it be only the ribbons, or collars, or gloves they bought that stimulated these delightful people into such warm and apparent admiration. No! Nancy could not entertain such an unworthy thought. It was their kindness, she said to herself, and something still more agreeable whispered in her heart that it was her own attractions that made these people so kind. Had they not a real pleasure in seeing a young bride like herself, so fair, so happy, making everything look well that was put upon her? Nancy did not flatter herself in this open way, but she had a pleased and delightful conviction that this was the feeling in their minds. She believed in their sincerity, and that she had made a real impression upon them. Was not this how all the nice people in books, small and great, showed their appreciation of the lovely young heroine? Nancy had not as yet any experience of the great—and indeed it was an effort on her part to keep up in her mind a certainty that she herself was in a superior position to the masters and mistresses, the “young ladies” and “young gentlemen” in these very fine shops; a little while ago she would have looked up to them; now this consciousness made her head turn round, and gave the most curious piquancy to their admiration and enthusiasm for Madame.

“How funny it is,” she said, as they came out into the crowded Boulevard, where the lamps were beginning to be lit, “to be called Madamm!”

Arthur looked a little strange at this pronunciation; but he did not venture to criticise. It was necessary to go very quietly with this touchy young woman. He told her some pretty things that Monsieur in the shop had said to him while his wife had been fitting on her wares upon Nancy.

“If you make as much sensation at the theatre,” he said, “what shall I do? I am nobody now. I am Madame’s attendant, her obsequious husband.”

“Don’t talk nonsense,” said Nancy, radiant. “What funny people the French are! Are they always paying compliments?”

“To people who have any right to them, yes; to pretty people, and those who pay well, and those who will be likely to believe them.”

“Arthur, how unkind of you! I don’t believe that people are so barefaced, saying things they do not mean. One must have a very bad opinion of other people if one thinks that.”

But for her own part, Nancy was not tempted to think so. She conceived a very high opinion of the French nation. If she could have got Arthur out of the way, she thought she would have liked to try a little conversation on her own account, for it would be delightful to be able to chatter as Arthur did, and talk to anyone; but in his presence she did not like to venture. Once more they went back to their hotel in the most delightful state of content with each other and all the world. They were to dine early, and then go to the “Français” to see the Bourgeois Gentilhomme. Arthur had told her the story of the play, and how she would be sure to like it, and that there was not a better French actor living, and not such a good English one; all which had impressed Nancy. And she was to be allowed to wear her pink dress, with a pretty wrap which he had bought, an Algerian mantle, softly white, with threads of gold, and a flower in her hair. Nancy’s heart beat with the thought of all this gaiety and grandeur. He had bought her also a pretty fan; and they were to have a box, which was a thing which conveyed very magnificent ideas to her mind. To sit there throned like a young princess, and allow herself to be admired while the best of actors did his best to amuse her, in the midst of that which imagination had always painted to her as, after a ball, the most seductive of pleasures, a gaily lighted and brilliant theatre, what could be more delightful? And at first Nancy was quite as happy as she expected to be. When she looked out from the corner of the box with its silken curtains upon the bright, many-coloured crowd, it seemed to her as if she could understand a little how the Queen must feel when she came forward to thank her loyal subjects for their kind reception of her. Half of the people seemed to be looking up admiringly, wonderingly. She had never felt so truly great before. How well she remembered, in the days of her humility, when the highest she could hope for was the upper boxes, watching beautiful ladies come into their box, and giving a careless, splendid look over the rustling company below before they sat down. And now it was she who was the beautiful lady in the box. Was there, perhaps, some poor girl somewhere like Nancy Bates, looking at the lovely new-comer, surveying and envying her with a wistful gaze in all her finery, watching her look down upon the crowd, then sink gracefully into her chair as Nancy did, half retired behind the curtain? It seemed to her that she was two people, herself in the box—Mrs. Arthur Curtis—and Nancy Bates watching from her inferior place; and this doubled the enjoyment in the most wonderful way. How she would have noticed everything, the beautiful white mantle with its gold threads, the flower in the lady’s hair, her dress, and everything about her! and with great, yet less absorbing interest, the handsome young husband who completed her belongings, and was so “devoted” to her. Nancy would scarcely have had eyes for the play in her admiration of the beautiful lady; and now she was the beautiful lady herself, in full possession of all the greatness a box at the play could bestow! How wonderful it was, and delightful; but yet, perhaps, not altogether so delightful and wonderful as it had seemed to Nancy in the pit.

But when the curtain rose, Nancy was not so sure that it was delightful. She was not sufficiently at her ease to enter into even the frank fun of the Bourgeois Gentilhomme. She stared at M. Got with wondering curiosity and doubt. No doubt it must be very amusing, for everybody laughed, and so did Arthur; but Nancy could not laugh. What did that queer man on the stage mean by all those strange antics of his?—trying on his clothes in public, fencing with his maid-servant, making his mouth into round O’s, when the still funnier man in the witch-like black hat directed him to do so. It was all strange to her. She puzzled over him, and could not make him out. “What is he saying?” she whispered to Arthur when there was a wilder laugh than usual; but before she could understand what Arthur whispered back, laughing, there was another burst of amusement, and she was thrown out again. At first the sensation was only disappointment, but by and by it became irritation. She could not bear to feel herself the only one who did not know. High up in the gallery above her, she could see a little French girl in a cap, who was enjoying it with all her heart. And Arthur, though he tried to explain all the jokes, forgot now and then, and gave himself up to the fun too, and never thought of her sitting there who did not know what it meant, and could not possibly enjoy it. The doubtful smile which she kept on her face for the first scene or two, gave way to a fixed and somewhat sullen stare. She fixed her eyes obstinately on the stage, and gazed at the fun with unsympathising face, blank and immovable. If M. Got had seen her, she would have been like a beautiful nightmare to him; and as a matter of fact, that inimitable actor played all his pranks before Nancy without conveying a single humorous idea to her mind, or one smile to her face. How weary, how angry, how dull and miserable she grew while the house rang with laughter, and all that fun went on under her eyes, now sore with staring! All this time the little French girl in the cap, up above, a poor little girl, not at all equal even to Nancy Bates, laughed till the tears came to her eyes; and Arthur laughed, untiring, too, though sometimes wondering a little why Nancy should be so quiet, and stealing anxious looks at her, which she would not respond to, but kept her eyes riveted on the stage. When the curtain fell, she gave a sigh of relief, but turned her back upon Arthur, and would not answer his questions as to how she had enjoyed it. Enjoyed it! How could he ask her, he who had done nothing but laugh, and never cared for her. When he rose, she rose too, but repulsed his attempts to wrap her cloak more closely round her.

“It will do very well as it is,” she said, twitching it out of his hand.

“What is the matter?” he asked, wistfully, drawing her arm through his, not without a little resistance on her part.

“The matter? What should be the matter? I am only tired, and I shall be glad to get home,” said Nancy.

“I have made you do too much. I have dragged you about and worn you out, my poor darling!” cried Arthur, and he was full of compunctions, half carrying her downstairs. But when they got into the little coupé which waited for them, she burst forth.

“I can’t see what there was so very amusing. I don’t think it could be good French,” cried Nancy. “I don’t pretend that I can talk like you, but I learned French at school, and I am sure I could understand if it was good. You call that acting! I did not think he was clever at all.”

“My love,” said poor Arthur, “it was the great Got, the best comic actor in the world, I think. I never saw anyone like him.”

“I have seen a dozen better,” cried Nancy. “What did he do? nothing but make a fool of himself, putting on those ridiculous clothes, and dancing and singing, and learning lessons, an old man! The great Go! I wished he would go, I am sure, long before he did go,” she said, recovering her spirits a little by means of her pun. But the process was not so successful in respect to Arthur. He did not say anything, but shrugged his shoulders, which fortunately she did not perceive.

“I see,” he said, at last. “That is not the kind of acting you care for; the higher walks perhaps would please you better. We will try something quite different to-morrow.”

“Oh, to-morrow!” she said, with a little shiver. This delight of the play had already exploded for Nancy; and she recollected with dismay that they had agreed to go to a play every night! Was this how her life was to be spent? She thought regretfully of her mother and sisters sitting round the table, chatting about everything that had happened, and everything that was going to happen. The parlour was dingy, and she had thought of it with a wondering recoil of half disgust in comparison with her appartement, and all its coquetries, its white carpets and curtains; but she had never been so tired, so worn with trying to be happy at home. The little wood fire, however, was burning brightly, and the wax-candles lighted, and the pretty sitting-room looked very comfortable when they got back to the hotel, which they began to call “home,” with easy desecration of that word upon which the English pride themselves. Arthur put her into a comfortable chair, and made her take some wine, and petted and consoled her. Poor Arthur, he was disappointed too, but he concealed it manfully. His character was developing in this unexpected probation, he was growing patient, forbearing, ready to make all sorts of compromises and sacrifices, to ensure that his young wife should be happy. He had not been so good or so forbearing in his former relationships, when everything had been done to please him; but in marriage, if one will not be accommodating, why the other must, there is no changing that necessity of nature. This union which had cost so much must not turn out a failure. If she would not exert herself, he must. Therefore he swallowed his disappointment in respect to the immediate evening, and in respect to the narrowing of future resources, which, if Nancy could not be made to like the theatre, would be very serious, and also the deeper disappointment, which he scarcely allowed himself to look at, of finding in Nancy less understanding than he thought. He sat over the fire a little when she had gone to bed and pondered it all. After all, perhaps, it was not unnatural that a young girl who had no experience, and did not understand French, should not all at once appreciate Molière, even when interpreted by Got. Was it to be expected, was it likely? Arthur began to say to himself that his disappointment was the fault of his exaggerated expectations, and that he had been very foolish; poor Nancy, what an ordeal he had subjected her to! But he would not be discouraged, he would try again. Something romantic and sensational at the Porte St. Martin, or a sentimental comedy, such as was running at the Gymnase would do better. He would try that, something that would interest her. Arthur knew a good deal about the theatres, and he felt sure that one or the other would supply what was wanted. But there was a vague depression in his mind, notwithstanding the bright fire and the white carpets which were so warm and soft. This first effort had not been a success. Nancy had not responded to his call; it was, he supposed, his fault, but it was depressing. There was nothing injurious to Nancy in the comparison that suggested itself. He thought involuntarily of Lucy, how she would have laughed at Got’s acting, how lightly she would have come in and sat with him over the fire, and talked it all over, and enjoyed it a second time. All that this proved was the advantages of education—it proved nothing more—and he did not want to change Nancy for Lucy, or to abandon the ventures of this strange and alarming double existence, which, having once begun for him, could never end except by death. The little failures, the continual perils of opposition and resistance, excited at least, if they did not delight him. Life was no longer tame and monotonous whatever else might be said.

CHAPTER III.

NEXT day Arthur made a further experiment with his bride. It was one of the things he had promised her when they talked of Paris, and it had not occurred to him that the very name of the Louvre conveyed no idea to Nancy’s mind. She had been quite willing to accept it as something vaguely splendid which she was to see, but that was all. He took her across the broad sunshiny courts with a little thrill of expectation, chiefly pleasurable, yet with a touch of doubt in it which perhaps made it more exciting. Arthur was not himself very learned in art, nor an enthusiast about it. He knew what a young man of his breeding could scarcely escape knowing—he knew which were the pictures that everybody admires; he had all his life been accustomed to believe that he admired them, and what with association, what with faith, what with some natural sense of beauty, such as few minds are quite destitute of, he had liked to go and look at them from time to time when he was in the way of it, and had a certain acquaintance with the great galleries in all the places he had visited. He knew the Louvre well enough to know his way about, to be able to lead a neophyte from one great picture to another, and even to have his favourites in the Salon Carré. This does not necessitate a very high appreciation of art, or much real acquaintance with its productions; but yet it was as the highest knowledge and the wildest furore in comparison with the absolute ignorance and indifference which exists in the class from which Nancy was taken. A less intelligent girl than Nancy, proceeding from the slightly elevated social position at which it has become known that pictures are things to be admired, and that admiration of them is a proof of superiority both in rank and intellect, would have known how to acquit herself in such an emergency. She would have gone through these galleries with a gush of indiscriminate delight, finding everything beautiful, or at the worst would have taken her cue from her husband, and admired what he admired. But Nancy had not been educated even up to this point. She knew nothing about them, had never heard of Raffaelle or Murillo, and when Arthur said, “This is the famous Assumption,” stared blankly, never having heard of it before; then turned her eyes up and down, gazing about her with that idea that one thing is as good as another, which is the very essence of ignorance. She had not even knowledge enough to be aware that it was becoming to feign an interest.

“What nice rooms to dance in—are they all kept up for nothing but pictures?” she said, in deference to his apparent interest. Nancy did not say stupid pictures, as she had intended; and it is impossible to describe the disappointed feeling, the eager instructiveness of poor Arthur, who felt his own hitherto superficial conviction that every ordinarily well-endowed mind must care for pictures, at once confounded and intensified by the absolute blankness of his bride.

“My dear Nancy, France is more proud of these than of anything she possesses. It is one of the finest collections in the world.”

“I suppose they are worth a great deal of money,” she said, looking at them calmly, yet with a certain respect founded on this consideration. She was looking up at that divine wall upon which hangs the great Murillo, the Virgin of the Garden, and Her of the Veil, the sidelong penetrating fascination of the Gioconda, and many a wonder more; and her calm of incomprehension was almost sublime. Some were “pretty” she thought; but she pulled Arthur’s arm a little to go on, not knowing why he should wish to stay so long, and keep looking when she had seen everything. To be sure it was natural enough to respect things which were worth a great deal of money—the big vases, for instance, in the vestibules, of which she had felt that they must be worth a great deal, though they were not pretty. It was difficult to associate the same idea of value with the pictures, yet Nancy supposed nobody would make so much fuss about them but for this.

“Money!” Arthur said, with a little groan, then making the best of it as he was learning to do: “Yes, dear, a great deal of money—and more than money. Any one of them, almost, is worth more, even in money, than all you and I have in the world.”

“What a shame!” cried Nancy, “nasty old things,” and she pulled him on a little. Then she stopped for a second before the Leonardo in the corner, and laughed out. “What funny women! what are they sitting in each other’s laps for? That is the funniest I have seen yet,” she said.

“Hush, Nancy! this is by a very famous painter; but I cannot say I am fond of it,” said Arthur, in his didactic vein. “That on the other side is his, too—the Gioconda it is called—I like it better.”

“Not I,” said Nancy; “isn’t she deep! I can’t bear people with that look in their eyes. She is exactly like Lizzie Brown at home in Underhayes—you remember Lizzie Brown, Arthur? Come on, I am sure we have stayed long enough here.”

“As you like,” he said, with a sigh; “but there are some more I should have liked to point out to you—”

“That is pretty,” said Nancy, pointing to a bright-coloured copy which one of the many workers in the Salon Carré was making. “Mayn’t one look what they are doing? they would paint at home if they didn’t want to be seen. Oh, they are copying, are they? I am sure that is a great deal prettier than the old thing on the wall. What do they copy for?”

“To sell chiefly,” said Arthur, with a certain sullenness in his despair.

“Oh, to sell! I suppose people like to have them to hang in their rooms? how curious! I would much rather have a picture of you.”

Now Arthur had been falling into lower and lower depths of despondency up to this moment. He had said to himself that all his efforts were mere failures—that he could do nothing, and must give up the attempt; but now he cheered up quite unaccountably, quite unreasonably. There was nothing in what she had said to throw a new light upon Nancy’s capacity and rehabilitate her in his eyes, yet somehow it did so. A sudden tender compunction for the harsh judgment he had been forming came into his mind, softening and melting him. He felt disposed to beg her pardon on his knees.

“You silly girl,” he said, “what do you want with my picture? If it was of you, it might be worth something; but tell me, Nancy, if I were to buy you some of those copies, which would you choose?”

“I don’t want one; you are buying too many things already. Well, perhaps that,” said Nancy at random, pointing at the picture which French taste entitles La Belle Jardinière. It was a lucky guess enough.

“You shall have it, my darling,” cried Arthur delighted, “I knew you had real taste at the bottom of your heart.”

“Oh no, not I,” cried Nancy, shrugging her shoulders and dragging him on, “I don’t care about it. It was only the first that caught my eye. Let us go on quickly through the other rooms; we have been such a long time here. You must not buy that thing, what should I do with it? I don’t really care for pictures. To be sure they make a room rather nice when they have nice frames; but we have not even a room to hang them in. But I will tell you what I should like to do,” she continued, leading him out and in of the smaller rooms. “Let us go and get photographed, Arthur, together, in a nice large size. It will be a much nicer memorial of Paris. And then mamma would like it so much to hang up in the parlour and show to everybody. We must take her a present of some sort, and that would please ourselves too. She would like it a great deal better than that pink lady with the little boy.”

“For heaven’s sake don’t describe the picture like that! Do you know it is a famous Raffaelle,” said Arthur, all the more horrified that some one had heard her young confident voice and had turned round to admire.

“What is a famous Raffaelle? I don’t pretend to know anything about it; and I’d much rather have a picture of you; but what would be really delightful would be to be photographed together. I wonder I never thought of it before. Let us go and find some one as soon as we get out of this stupid place. Oh yes, I have seen everything I want to see.”

Poor Arthur! he was pleased that she should want a portrait of himself. This flattering touch mended his wounds a little, and as she hurried him out again into the bright wintry streets (breathing, herself, a sigh of relief when they got fairly clear of the galleries), he said to himself with the new philosophy which had come to his aid: Well! how was it to be expected she should care for pictures, she who had never seen any? Of course the anticipation was quite absurd on his part. Art demands a special education. To plunge an unsophisticated mind without any training, without any preface, straight into the profundities of Leonardo, of Raffaelle, of Perugino, was ever anything so unreasonable? and then to expect her to understand at once! The poor young fellow felt that he had been hard upon his Nancy, though heaven knows, without meaning it. And then what a pretty idea that was of hers about the photograph! He had winced a little at the idea of having it hung up in Mrs. Bates’s parlour, and exhibited to all her friends; but that was a paltry feeling—and what could be more natural and delightful than that she should wish for such a memento of their honeymoon? That she should be so eager about it, was not that a proof that she was happy, notwithstanding all the little frets of her new position, and those ill-advised efforts of his to force her into his own conventional code of the right things to be admired? That was all a matter of education, he felt sure. He had not thought it to be so before. He had supposed in his ignorance that a fine picture was like a fine landscape, comprehensible to everybody; but then Arthur recollected what he had read somewhere that it was very long even before people began to admire nature, that a generation or two back the Alps were only horrible snowy deserts, and mountains generally were looked upon as obstructions and eyesores by the common mind. This showed clearly (he said to himself) that education was everything. It not only trained the eye but might be said to create it, giving perceptions of beauty that actually had not existed before. This thread of thought kept him occupied as he went on through the bright streets, drawn by Nancy’s eagerness to one of the shops where they had made their previous purchases, to ask about a photographer. She was in such spirits over the idea that she kept up the conversation and covered his silence; and he had conducted his cogitation to a most satisfactory end, the conclusion that Nancy had really shown originality in her remarks and that it was a mere absurdity on his part to look for art knowledge from her—by the time they reached the shop, where they were received with the most cordial satisfaction, and where there were a great many new things to see which Nancy admired greatly. The shopkeeper had no difficulty in indicating an artist of his own acquaintance who, he had no doubt, would do justice to Madame, and would be too proud and happy to have such a subject. Arthur, however, came to himself when they had got this length, whether by the touch of the practical involved in buying some more pretty things for Nancy, or by the fact that he had proved her to his entire satisfaction to be quite justified in her indifference to the pictures in the Louvre; and he had sufficient good sense left to avoid the recommendation of the modiste, and take Nancy to a really good photographer who gave them an appointment for the next day. They were both quite exhilarated by this engagement. It was something to do! They went back to their hotel in the afternoon, consoled and happy, talking about it. And while Nancy reposed herself and took out her dress for the evening, Arthur went to look at the newspapers as in duty bound. He took up the latest “Times,” and hid himself behind its ample sheet; but he did not get much good of his reading. However distinctly you may make out that it is unreasonable to expect your bride to be interested in the interesting things of the place in which you are living, it is impossible to deny that it is very embarrassing when she is not. A girl who was frightened and chilled by Notre Dame, wearied at the Français, uninterested in the Louvre, what was her poor young husband to do with her? The weather was not favourable for those excursions which are so easy in summer. And besides what interest could there be in Versailles, for example, to one who knew nothing about the Grand Monarque, and probably had never heard of Marie Antoinette? People do not marry their wives or their husbands because they understand Molière, and love the Great Masters, and know Continental history; but it is bewildering to be in Paris, or anywhere else for that matter, with a new companion who has no associations with anything, and is at once indifferent and ignorant of all that is in the past. What was he to do with her? Where was he to take her? Poor Arthur puzzled behind his “Times,” and did not know.

That evening he took her to the Gymnase, and at first the spell seemed to tell. Nancy for the first act gave her attention to the stage, and certainly it was not such a failure as the Français. There was a good deal of love-making, and that interested her. But it ended as before, in disgust and weariness.

“I wish you would not take me to such places,” she cried, “is it because you are afraid of an evening at home? When we are settled at home at Underhayes you will be obliged to put up with me, there will be no play there.”

This speech was particularly galling to Arthur, because he had not the slightest intention of settling at Underhayes, and to have it taken for granted gave him a pang which was chiefly terror. Should he be able to resist the foregone conclusion which thus had established itself in Nancy’s mind?

“Indeed,” he said, “I should be glad to stay at home. Indeed I don’t mind where I am, so long as you are there too. I do not care for the play.”

“Then what do you go for? Ah! I know, to polish me up, to teach me how to behave, to remedy my defective education.” This was once more said in the carriage as they were driving home.

“Nancy, you are unkind,” said Arthur, “why should you speak to me so? I know nothing about defective education. I took you to amuse you. You thought you would like it.”

“I did not know they were such poor sticks,” said Nancy, “I did not suppose they would gabble their French so. The people in the shops talk a great deal better. I never mistake them; and it worries me to look so stupid,” she added relenting. “I should not mind for myself; but it looks so bad for you having a wife that does not understand.”

“For me, my darling!” cried Arthur delighted. “Do I care? An evening at home will be a great deal more pleasant; but my wife never looks stupid, cannot look stupid,” said the foolish young man. And again all was well.

Thus the course of their honey-days went on not without fluctuations. What he said in his foolishness, was true so far, that Nancy did not look stupid. She looked careless, defiant, indifferent, scornful of what she saw, as of something which was not worth the trouble even of an effort to understand; but there was nothing stupid in her aspect at any time, and in spite of herself, stray gleams of understanding came in to the girl’s mind. Gleams which did not enlighten her then; but which worked in the chaos, apart from any will of hers. Her will was all set steadfastly the other way, to reject all possibilities of improvement, and the idea of being educated up to her husband’s level. Was not she as good as he to start with, was not her family as good as his family, if not better? Not so rich, but nicer, kinder people, to be upheld in their plainness above any attempt to pull them down. Nancy’s native energy of mind all ran into vigorous scorn of any attempt to separate her from her own race and identify her with his. To think of her old self in the pit, admiring her new self triumphant in a private box was a sensation which, all delicious as it was, originated in herself and was not betrayed to anyone. Had Arthur seemed to think of this difference, Nancy would have proposed at once to descend to the pit as the preferable plan. She had made an immense ascent in the social scale by her marriage; but she never meant to acknowledge, not if she should die for it, that the ascent was of any consequence to her, or that it was expedient to change her manners or her smallest actions because of it; was she not “good enough” for Arthur? Then why did Arthur choose to marry her? It was he who had asked her, she would have said, not she who had asked him. He had pledged himself to take her for better for worse; but she had not pledged herself to change anything in her life or habits on his account. And she did not mean to do it. She was not a fine lady; she did not wish to look like a fine lady. It was far better that everybody should know what she was and who she was from the beginning. The idea that Arthur had begun a process of education struck her suddenly after that visit to the Louvre; why had he been so anxious that she should admire everything? Why should he take her to the theatre? He wanted her to learn French; but she would not learn French. She had not asked Arthur to marry her; he it was who had asked her, and he must take the consequences. She had no wish to be here in Paris. It would be far better to have a little house in Underhayes, where she could show her advancement to those who knew her, and distinguish herself in the only circle where as yet she wished to be distinguished. Such was the course of thought in Nancy’s mind. This was curiously interfered with by the new thoughts which arose in her in spite of herself; but she clung to it all the same. She would go back upon the first grievance of her dress, the pink silk which he would not let her travel in, long after she had been convinced that the blue serge was better and more comfortable, and even looked better, which was the most difficult doctrine of all. She was quite aware that if she had known then as much even as she knew now, she would never have dreamed of setting out upon her journey in her salmon-coloured “silk,” yet still resented the fact that Arthur had objected to her “silk.” She would not yield. She would not try to adapt herself to the “ways” he had been accustomed to. The Bateses were as good as the Curtises, and so she would prove. But every day, in spite of herself, Nancy became more and more aware how far different her habits were from her husband’s, how unlike his were all her ways of thinking. But she would never, never give in, she said to herself. It was he who had asked her, not she who had asked him.

This was very different from Arthur’s eager desire to make out, after every new demonstration of the difference between them, that Nancy could not act in any other way, that it was absurd to expect other things from her. He was by far the humblest of the two, the most tolerant and forbearing. Indeed Nancy was not forbearing at all. She took offence at a look, and blazed into sudden wrath at the merest possibility of a suggestion of anything derogatory; whereas he bore numberless little shafts launched at his family, at fine people who thought themselves superior, at dainty ways and prejudices about dress and modes of living. Whenever she showed her ignorance more conspicuously than usual, or was more painfully unequal to some claim upon her, poor Arthur plunged once again into thought proving to himself that this was what he ought to have looked for, that nothing else would have been natural. He justified her in this way for everything she did, and everything she proved unable to do. But still it was rather a trying process, and the conclusion he came to at the end of a week was that Paris had not been a successful place to think of for the honeymoon. Honeymooning is more difficult in winter than in summer. There is so much more to be done in the latter season, and the open air harmonizes a great many things. Whereas two people not used to each other’s society, not interested in the same pursuits, brought up in perfectly different ways, and with no resources, shut up together even in a beautiful little apartment in a fine hotel on the Rue de Rivoli, what are they to do? The photograph was a charming occupation for one day, and it was tolerably successful, as successful as photographs ever are, and was the object of great admiration in Underhayes, when done up in a velvet frame. Nancy sent it home.

“I hope you are soon going to follow,” Mrs. Bates wrote, and Nancy gave the letter to her husband to read. Certainly Paris had not been very successful. They had contented themselves with drives and walks after that mournful day at the Louvre, had gone to the Bois, which was rather naked at this time of the year, and walked about and got tired. And in the evening they had sat “at home” in the hotel. But Nancy had nothing to do, not even a scrap of fancy work, and when Arthur read to her, fell asleep; and they went to bed very early, which both of them felt was always a virtuous thing to do, if rather dull. And thus a fortnight of the honeymoon came not very cheerfully to an end.

CHAPTER IV.

“I don’t think you care for Paris,” said Arthur to his wife. They were driving out to the Bois, and the rain was drizzling, and it was not gay. There were fewer quarrels in this dull interval, but perhaps the fact scarcely improved the liveliness, if it slightly added to the happiness of their life.

“No,” she said, with some vivacity; “not at all. It was very nice for a day or two. But now we seem to have got all we wanted, don’t we, Arthur? Another afternoon in the Roo, or in the Palay Royal, just to pick up a few little presents, and I should be quite content to go as soon as you please.”

“You have seen very little, Nancy.”

“Oh, little! I have seen the whole place, all the best shops, and the best streets. I don’t know what more there is to see.”

“People will not talk about the shops and streets,” said Arthur, in his most didactic way; “but about the pictures in the Louvre, and about Notre Dame; and what music you have heard, and what plays you have seen.”

“I am sure mamma will never ask me any such questions,” said Nancy, “and I don’t suppose you are going to take me to see your great friends.”

“That reminds me,” said Arthur, nervously clearing his throat, “of a favour I was going to ask of you. Will you do something—that will be very disagreeable—for me, Nancy, for my sake?”

She looked at him very keenly, examining his face, conscious that this seeming simple prayer meant something more than appeared. “What is it?” she said, with a gleam of suspicion in her eyes.

“You will not promise then? you are cautious, Nancy. I should have pledged myself to do anything and everything for your sake.”

“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.”

“I shall not do it,” she said; and then there ensued a silence, which was so long that it alarmed her. Generally Arthur had been but too obsequious, anxious to make up, to clear away any lingering cloud; but this time he said nothing. The fact was that his mind was too full of a multitude of thoughts to leave him any time to speak. He was wondering, in a kind of desolate way, what to do. He had ceased to be an independent agent, he could not go there and come here at his own pleasure. To be sure he was supposed to be the authority, to decide everything, to regulate every step they took; but how different this was in reality from the sound of it! A man has a right to take his wife where he pleases—yes, when she will go; but if the man is a tender-hearted, generous, foolish, impulsive young fellow in love, what becomes of this sublime authority of his? just about as much as comes of all the defences the law can place around a woman to save her from cruelty and oppression, when she happens to be of a like nature and loves her tyrant. Law is one thing, and love is another. Arthur did not know how to oppose Nancy, how to make any move without her agreement and sympathy, and he had already had many indications which way her mind was fixed. She wanted to go home to England, to Underhayes: and he wanted her to stay away, to remove further off from England. His whole mind was occupied by the discussion of expedients how to manage this, how to persuade her from her desire. And he was not even aware of the silence into which he sank, and which she thought so deliberate, and done with so distinct an intention of punishing her. They drove along in the Victoria, which had carried them about so often, side by side neither saying a word. Already Nancy’s appearance had changed. She had put aside her traveling-dress for another “silk” which Arthur had given her, and which was also dark blue in colour; over this she wore a warm mantle trimmed with soft fur about the throat and wrists, a delicate little bonnet, all corresponding, with that graceful Parisian taste, which is not to be picked up in the Paris streets any more than in the London shops, but dwells in its own costly shrine apart. All this changed Nancy’s appearance wonderfully. There was still, perhaps, something in her bearing when she was on foot, that showed the tax-collector’s daughter, the pretty girl of a country town, a little swing and loudness, a careless step and defiant pose; but in the carriage by her husband’s side, wrapped up in those furs, reclining in absolute ease and well-being, Nancy might have been a duke’s daughter for anything anyone could say. There were many of the people about who noticed them as they drove along, the handsome young English couple, usually so lively, to-day so taciturn. A man cannot belong to “Society,” cannot be brought up at Eton and Oxford, even if he is not in Society, without being known, and there were plenty of people who recognised Arthur Curtis, and wondered over his companion—who was she? They had not believed at first that she was his wife. One of these men, more curious than the rest, came to the edge of the pathway now as the Victoria got into the line, and was obliged to go slowly.

“Curtis! is it really you, old fellow? I had been told you were here, but I could not believe my eyes.”

“Was there anything so strange in my being here?” said Arthur, rousing himself up. This was one of the men who know everything and everybody, who have it in their power to convey a bad or good impression to more important persons than themselves. This put Arthur at once on his mettle. “You must let me introduce you to my wife,” he said, “My friend, Denham, Nancy. We have not been very long here.”

Nancy was excited by this sudden encounter with one of Arthur’s friends, one of those, perhaps, who knew his “folks,” and belonged to that unknown sphere of which she felt at once curious and defiant. She did not know very well what to do, whether to shake hands with him, or to refrain. Happily the instinct of comfortableness which suggested no change of position made her bow only, and as this little gesture was accompanied by a blush, very natural to the bridal condition and sentiment, the new-comer swore to himself, by Jove! that, were she as good as she looked, Curtis had got a prize.

“Beg pardon for intruding on your domestic happiness,” he said; “but the truth was I had not heard—Not much going on is there? But Paris is as good a place as another for this dreary time of the year.”

“No, I don’t suppose there is much going on, we have been nowhere; and we are off again directly, for Rome, I think,” said Arthur. “Paris is empty like other places. We have not seen a soul we know.”

“I don’t suppose you were likely to look for them,” said Denham. “Would Mrs. Curtis care to see the bear-fight in the Assembly? sometimes it is fun. I will see after it, if you like, on the first good day?”

“Should you, Nancy?” said Arthur, turning to her. Nancy had not a notion what the Assembly or the bear-fight was. She positively trembled in terror of saying something wrong. She who had never hesitated before.

“I—don’t know,” she said; “I don’t care for any—fighting.”

“Oh, they are all muzzled,” said Denham, laughing. “Meurice’s? I will call and let you know.”

“Thanks, but it is not worth the trouble; we shall be off in a few days.”

“If you go to Rome, Neville is there,” cried the stranger after them, as the line moved on more quickly; and he took off his hat to Nancy with a respectful politeness that enchanted her; she was pleased with the novelty of talking to a stranger even for a moment. It made the air a little less still and self-absorbed.

“Who is he?” she asked, with momentary awe.

“Denham, he’s one of the attachés here, not a bad fellow; but talks like half-a-dozen old women.”

“We need not mind how Mr. Denham talks,” said Nancy, with a little elevation of her head. “We have nothing to be afraid of. He can talk as much as he likes for what I care.”

“Isn’t there? But he is Sir John, not Mr. Denham,” said Arthur, carelessly.

Nancy sat a little more upright, shaking herself free of the wraps, and her eyes glistened. “Was that a baronet?” she said, with a little awe—then added, “And so will you be, Arthur. I don’t understand saying anything but Mr. to a gentleman. But you will be a baronet, too.”

“Not for a long time, I hope,” said Arthur, with a sigh. It brought him back to all the tangled course of his own affairs. He was not by nature the kind of son who calculates on the time that must elapse before he comes to his kingdom, and it was very strange to him to see his wife’s eyes brighten at the idea of that “rise in life,” which meant his father’s death. “Poor old governor, I hope he may live to be a hundred,” he said, with a half-laugh, which was a half-sigh. Nancy did not join in this wish. She stared a little with consternation at the thought.

“What did—the gentleman—mean about bear-fighting? Is it a Zoological garden? Assembly in some places means a ball,” said Nancy, “it was rather a jumble; what did he mean?”

“He meant the French Parliament, in which they make the laws, as the House of Commons does in England—or at least, we may say so for the sake of description,” said Arthur; to which Nancy replied with a little startled “Oh!” of disappointment and suspicion.

“Do ladies go to such places? I thought ladies had never anything to do with politics.”

“My dear Nancy,” said Arthur, seizing the opportunity to be instructive, “when you go into society, you will find that people talk a great deal about such things, whether they care for them or not; they are the things that people talk about. And it is reasonable to think,” he went on, more and more improving the occasion, “that, when you are in a foreign country, you should like to see what is most important in it. That is always taken for granted. You see Denham thought that was one of the things you would like to see.”

This silenced Nancy more than could have been supposed possible. She had never seen this stranger before, and probably never would see him again; but the fact that he had expected her to know what he meant, and to be interested in the French Parliament, impressed her infinitely more than all Arthur’s anxious efforts for her improvement. Were ladies like that, she could not help asking herself? What a bother it would be to be a lady, if that was the sort of thing they were expected to care for—a lot of old men making speeches, which she could not understand one word of! but that of course nobody could be supposed to know. She was overawed, and received Arthur’s sermon more meekly than she had received any of his didactic addresses before. She supposed now that sister of his, that Lucy, would have gone and understood every word, that she would have liked the playacting, and talked about it, and laughed as Arthur did, that she would have seen a great deal in those stupid old pictures. Nancy was silent and dismayed. To be a lady seemed to her a hard trade. How different from the case of Underhayes, the talk about Lizzie Brown and Raisins, the grocer, in the snug parlour where everybody was so comfortable! Her mother and Sarah Jane never would ask her about the bear-fighting in the Assembly, nor how she liked M. Got. A longing for home seized the girl, and a terror of what seemed before her. To be sure, if she had known it, the talk about Lizzie Brown was quite as much in Sir John Denham’s way as in that of Mrs. Bates; but then his Lizzie Brown was perhaps an Empress, which makes a difference more or less. The two young people had never been so silent in each other’s company. They drove back so full of many thoughts that neither perceived the pre-occupation of the other, and oddly enough they were both thinking of their homes; Arthur, with a pang, but without any desire to find himself there—Nancy with the strongest determination to get back. There was a half-smile in Arthur’s eyes, but a smile which was strangely associated with that pain behind the eyeballs and slight constriction of the throat, which means unsheddable tears, as his home seemed to rise up before him among its woods. He saw his father in his library, his mother in that gilded and satin-hung morning-room, which was à la Louis Quinze, but which nobody thought in bad taste, as we see people in a dream. They did not look at him, nor welcome him, and he did not wish to be there. How could he take Nancy there? He was separated from them, perhaps for ever, and he could scarcely wish it to be otherwise. But Nancy on her side thought of home with much livelier feelings. Oh, only to be there! free to show all her pretty things, her new “silks,” her trinkets and furs: to let everybody see how fine she was: to talk just as she liked, not to be made to admire anything she did not understand—not to be burdened with bonds beyond her comprehension, limits of speech, and word, and action, beyond which it was not “becoming,” not “appropriate,” not “right” perhaps, that she should go. At home she had done what she liked, run out of doors when she pleased, laughed as loudly as she pleased, been as ignorant as she pleased. It did not occur to Nancy that at home it had been her inclination to stand on her superiority, as one who had been five quarters at school, and was altogether “a cut above” Matilda and Sarah Jane.

They were sitting after dinner that evening, yawning a little, when Sir John Denham’s card was brought to Arthur. He looked at Nancy half doubtfully, an expression which she caught at once.

“Shall he come up, or shall I go down to him?” he said.

“Oh just as you like,” said Nancy, with the quick thought passing through her mind that Arthur did not choose that his fine friends should see her. He looked at her again; in reality to see what she wished; but to Nancy it seemed an inquisitorial glance, criticising her all over, if perhaps she was “fit to be seen.”

“I will go down and bring him up,” he said. When he was gone, Nancy too looked at herself in one of the many mirrors. She still wore the dark blue silk dress which had been made for her since she came to Paris, with ruffles of lace at the throat and wrists. It was very plain. Should she run and put on the salmon-coloured one, which was a great deal finer, before Arthur returned with the stranger? She hesitated a moment; but her good angel interfered and kept her still. Sir John Denham thought her on the whole a lady-like young woman when he came into the room. Evidently there must be something queer about the business altogether, Denham thought; but she was very pretty, and looked comme il faut, so far as he could see.

“I have to make a thousand apologies,” he said, “but I thought it better to run up and tell my story myself, hoping that Curtis would intercede for me as an old friend. May I be allowed to open my mouth at all, at such an inappropriate moment? A thousand thanks; I came to say that if you would be at the Palais de Justice at twelve to-morrow, I could meet you there with La Pic, who is a friend of mine, and would take you in. There is to be an interpellation which probably may be amusing—and if you are going on so soon—”

“It is very kind of you, Denham, I am sure my wife will like it.”

“Mrs. Curtis looks a little doubtful, I think,” said Denham, “but of course you must not mind me. It is only if it will amuse you.”

Nancy vacillated between two courses; she was tempted to a little bravado, to avow boldly her ignorance, and shame the pretensions which her husband made on her behalf; and on the other hand she was also tempted to commend herself to this stranger, who was a real baronet, and finer than anyone she had ever talked with before. Why should she let him see how little she knew? And in this wavering she took a long time to make up her reply.

“I do not understand much about—politics,” she said.

“Especially French politics, I suppose,” said Sir John, smiling and showing large white teeth. “So I should think, Mrs. Curtis; I don’t understand them though it is my business; but it is fine to see how they fly at each other, and will not keep still for all the Presidents in the world. I hope Curtis has been letting you see a little of Paris. We must excuse him, I suppose, for keeping you so entirely to himself.”

“We have been at a theatre or two,” said Arthur carelessly, “that is all; we are just passing through.”

“And I am sorry there is nothing going on yet; after Christmas, if you were staying, I might be of some use. Some of the balls are worth going to in the Carnival. But why should I tell this to you who, probably know a great deal better than I do—”

“Oh no,” said Nancy, “I have never been in Paris before.”

“Ah, that accounts—” said Sir John. “The fact is I have been wondering that I had not seen you anywhere; what luck for Curtis to have so many new things to show you. But there is not much going on. I suppose you are going to Oakley for Christmas, Curtis. Lucky fellow, with nothing to do but amuse yourself. Put me at the feet of the ladies there; I have not seen Lady Curtis or your sister for ages. A poor beggar like me would not know what to do with such a place, otherwise I should envy you, Oakley. What a place! what woods! what a park! it is only in England that one sees anything like it.”

“You were always a romancer, Denham, Oakley is nothing particular. Being home it is very pleasant; but as a model of an English house—”

“I maintain it is, and Mrs. Curtis shall judge between us. It is not a feudal castle—I allow you might find finer things in that line; it has neither moat nor dungeon, I suppose; but for a gentleman’s house—why, we have nothing in the least like it here. Don’t you agree with me, Mrs. Curtis? You have not been long enough in the family to depreciate their good things as they do. I am sure you will give your vote for Oakley against anything you see between this and Rome, of its kind—I wait for your support.”

It was a strange situation enough. Denham did not understand; but he divined, and liked to play with the unknown danger in Nancy’s doubtful looks, and Curtis’s evident anxiety. As for Nancy, she looked at her husband with a perceptible tremor. She wanted him to instruct her, to indicate what she was to say: though, had it been possible that he could have dictated to her, that very fact would have made her perverse. At last she said hesitating, “I have seen—so little—I could not judge—I have never been out of England before.”

“Ah, that accounts—” said Denham vaguely; and he was very much puzzled by this subdued bride, who had no enthusiasm either for the new world she was visiting or the old world which she had left so lately. He tried to draw her out on a variety of subjects; but Nancy, though at intervals an impulse of self-revelation would come upon her, and it was on her lips to tell him that she knew nothing of Oakley, and cared nothing, and should never be there, nor go to Rome, nor do any one of these things he was talking of, was on the other hand so afraid of betraying herself that she held back, looking stiff and silent, and scarcely could be got to say a word. As for Arthur, his anxiety made him somewhat excited and restless, it took away all ease from his manner. He wanted her to join in the conversation, to come out of the shell of reserve in which she had shut herself up; and yet he was afraid of what she might say if once roused. She was a clever girl, with much natural energy and force; but yet it was annoying how entirely the daughter of Bates the tax-collector was at a loss listening to the conversation of the two men who were not clever, yet who knew by nature many things of which she had not a notion. This Assembly they wanted her to go to, what was it? Why should she go? What was an inter—inter—what? Their world and hers were totally different, though one of them was her husband. She was relieved when they veered into gossip and began to talk of people, though she did not know the people. There she could follow them even in her ignorance; for had not she too a Lizzie Brown?

CHAPTER V.

“WHY cannot we go home?” said Nancy. “I don’t want to stay here. I don’t want to go to your Rome, and places. What is the good of taking me away to make a show of me? I can speak English, but I don’t know any of those jargons. I am sure it is not good French here; and as for Italian, I never heard a word of it. It is only to make me look ridiculous. Denham thinks so, Arthur. He comes and looks at me, and asks me about old Lady So-and-So. I tell him I don’t know her, and I don’t want to know her. I shall tell him some day I never knew Lady Anybody in my life, and that I am a nobody. I will, if you do not take me away!”

“Do tell him so,” said Arthur, “if you please. I don’t mind what you tell him. You don’t think I want you to make believe? You are all I wish for, Nancy, yourself—better than if you had known a dozen Lady So-and-So’s.”

“Oh, but I am sure you watch me,” she cried. “I always feel that your eye is upon me, Arthur. You are afraid I will say something wrong; and I am afraid too, except when I want to do it: and if I should do it some time, as I am sure I will if we go on, you will not like it. Arthur, don’t let us go further off; let us go home.”

“Home? where is home?” he said. “I don’t know if I should have any welcome.”

“But I should,” cried Nancy. “Mother and all of them would dance for joy. And think how much better we should be. We must be spending a mint of money here. You talk of going further, but I don’t believe you will be able to go further when you look into it. And I don’t know what we have to spend: you don’t tell me anything.”

“I scarcely know myself,” said Arthur, with rather a bewildered look upon his face. “I don’t know what my father—things should be different now.”

“And you are going away travelling without knowing? You will find,” said Nancy, becoming practical all at once, “that we have spent a great deal of money; always having carriages and going to the play—”

“Not to many plays.”

“Two; and that music Denham gave us tickets for—”

“My darling, don’t be angry—but would you mind saying Sir John?”

“Why should I say Sir John? You always call him Denham. And when we went to that Assembly there was another carriage. I suppose it would always be the same if we were going to other places; but at Underhayes it would not be like that. We could take a little house and furnish it, and you have such good taste, Arthur. We would make it so pretty, and everybody would be delighted to see us. I should manage everything, and keep the expenses right, and you—you—”

“Yes!” said Arthur, taking her hands into his as she stood by him, “What for me? I should have nothing to do.”

“Well! when one has plenty to live on, what does it matter? It will always be delightful. We shall take walks. Don’t you remember the common, how beautiful it was? And now and then we will go to London; and in the evening we can—you can read out loud to me,” said Nancy, stopping, with a little confusion. “We can go and see mother,” was what she was about to say; but she stopped instinctively, and kept that in the background. She was standing by his chair, putting her fingers through his hair, arranging and re-arranging it with soft touches, each one of which was a caress. It was seldom that she was in this tender mood, and he felt himself melting under it. Sometimes she would stoop down and put her cheek against his. “You would teach me all sorts of things,” said Nancy. “Sometimes I know I am not good-tempered, Arthur. I give you a great deal of trouble. It makes me wild to think that I am not like you, that I don’t do you credit; and then my temper gets the better of me, and I say I am as good as they are, why should I trouble?”

As she made this confession, tears came trembling into Nancy’s eyes and stole into her voice. She had never before revealed to her husband the state of mind which made her so capricious, and as she told it, all those vagaries of temper which had tormented Arthur, became sacred things to him, and beautiful in the light of love and penitence. He took into his arms this tender culprit, whose avowal made all her faults into virtues.

“Don’t, my darling!” he cried; “don’t! Not like me? You are far better than I am. Not do me credit? Nancy! don’t you know I am as proud of you as I am fond of you—and can anything be more than that? Teach you! What could I teach you? It is you who teach me.”

And he meant what he said, and she meant it, to the bottom of their foolish young hearts, and it was all true and all false, as only human things can be. Nancy, though her heart was melting and running over with the tenderness of her confession, was as ready to be defiant as ever at half a moment’s notice, and Arthur as sure soon to be doubtful of her, alarmed and anxious, uncertain as to what she might do or say. But neither of them was at all aware of this as they clung together and mutually repented, and declared that never again, never again should anything disturb their harmony and full understanding of each other.

“There are so many things you could teach me,” Nancy said, smiling through her tears, “in our own little house at home! You could make a lady of me. Oh, yes, we all thought you had done that when we were married, but now I know better. But you can make a lady of me, Arthur, if you will try.”

“You are a lady already, my darling,” he said; but how sweet was this consciousness of what was wanting in herself, and the confidence that he could communicate all she wanted! It was like an inspiration direct from Heaven.

“I will study whatever you wish,” said Nancy. “We could give ourselves up to it if we were only in a little house of our own. Whatever you please, Arthur; French if you like, for I am ashamed not to understand it when you talk it so well, and I don’t think it can have been much good what I learned at school; and about pictures and buildings, and everything. I don’t know anything, Arthur. I could not understand the things you were talking about, Denham and you; and I know you were vexed about the pictures, and the theatre.”

“No, my sweetest, I was not vexed—perhaps a little disappointed; but I knew it was because you had not seen any before.”

“That was all. I know a little better already; and, Arthur, if you were to give this winter to it, and help me, in our own little house! So near London as Underhayes is, we could go up and see things; and you could read books to me. I think I can see it all,” said Nancy, smiling upon him with her wet eyes; “a little drawing-room with lace curtains and windows that opened to the garden, and another nice little room with your pipes in it, where I could come and sit by your side while you smoked your cigar!”

“But, Nancy, might not all this beautiful picture come to pass, just as well in Italy? You don’t know what Italy is. None of your dull wet days, but always soft, bright, sunshiny weather, and the bluest sky, and such moonlight nights. We need not go to Rome at all. I know a little village up amongst the woods with a view of the sea. Nancy! you can’t think how beautiful it is!”

“I don’t care,” she said, with a little pout. “I don’t want to go to Italy. It is so far, so far away; and I cannot speak the language; and it is so dreary to live among people, and hear them chattering, and not understand.”

“But you would very soon learn Italian. It is the easiest language—everybody says so,” said Arthur. “You could pick it up in a few weeks. You would so soon feel at home there. The good people are fond of everything that is beautiful. Oh, they are not all good people, I suppose. Sometimes they will ask too much from you; they will, perhaps, cheat you a little, in quite a friendly way—”

“I could not endure that!” cried Nancy. “That is the one thing I could not put up with; and foreigners are all like that, Arthur; they pretend kindness so long as they have something to gain; but they don’t really care. Oh! there is nothing like England,” she cried, clasping her hands, “and a little house of our own! And in the summer, when, perhaps, your people may have changed their mind, Arthur, then I should not be afraid to meet with them. I should know a great many things that I don’t know now. And we should be so happy, both together, and no one to interfere with us.”

Arthur was moved to the bottom of his heart. It did not occur to him to think of her own description of “foreigners,” who pretend kindness as long as they have something to gain. Nay, more than that, she did not think of it either. Nancy was quite sincere. By talking about it, she had made a certainty in her own mind that this was really all she wanted, that in such circumstances happiness would come of itself, without frets or interruption; and in what other way could that be secured? She was so earnest in carrying her point, that she really felt all she expressed. Whereas, if he took her away, if he insisted on his plan, Nancy felt that she could not answer for herself. It was for his sake as well as hers; it was for their good as well as for their happiness. And what could Arthur answer to all this? The fact that she wanted anything, was not that the most powerful argument for having it? His own inclinations were strongly in favour of absence, and he believed that this teaching of which she spoke, and which he had fully intended, could get itself accomplished far better on the Riviera, or in the villa among the chestnut woods at Castellamare than anywhere near the house of the Bates’. But what could he do or say against her? He tried to beguile her into talk of what might happen after, when they would go into society, and when, perhaps, he should be able to take her to Oakley to see all its beauties. But this was a subject of which Nancy was very shy. She would not speak of Arthur’s “people,” whom she no longer called “folks.” When she did make their acquaintance, she wanted to do so in a way which would dazzle them. She could not tolerate the idea of any condescension on their part to Arthur’s wife. No, she must have surmounted all difficulties, and feel able to consider herself as much a lady as any of them, before she met those ladies who were her natural enemies and rivals. For Arthur’s sake she would avoid them until she could burst upon them in full glory of new instruction and knowledge.

“Don’t speak to me about Oakley,” she said. “It was all I could do to make sure Oakley was its name when Denham talked of it. It makes me angry to hear of it. I, your wife, not to know it, not to know anything about it or them! when every poor creature of an ambassador’s flunkey goes there.”

“Don’t be too hard upon old Denham,” said Arthur, laughing. “How he would be pleased to hear you! But not Denham, Nancy, if you love me. Your mouth was not made to drop words in that careless way.”

“Oh, nonsense, Arthur! What should I say? Sir John is so formal. You would not say Denham if it was wrong,” said Nancy, recovering a little from the too great amiability of this episode; and then she added, “You have asked me to do something for you. I will do it. I will not bargain with you, but I will do it; only you must not see my letter, or school me. I will write out of my own head.”

“Will you, Nancy? You are always a darling, always kinder than I deserve; but at least you will let me see it—send it with mine?”

“No,” she said; “no, no, no; but I will write. Now, will that please you? And you will yield to me, like a dear good Arthur, and take me home. I do so wish to go home.”

“That looks as if you were tired of me, Nancy.”

“Does it?” she said with a smile, putting her arm softly about his neck.

She was not addicted to caresses. There was a kind of rude delicacy and reserve in her, which a little more gentleness of manner would have made into that exquisite bloom of modesty which is the crown of all graces. That soft touch said more from her than the utmost abandon of lovingness from another. Poor Arthur was all subdued; he could not resist her; her tenderness filled him with happiness beyond expression. If she would but be always thus, in spite of all he might have to pay for it, what man was there in the world so blessed as he? That even at this exquisite moment he had the strength of mind not to commit himself finally to the carrying out of her wish, was more than could have been expected. It was, perhaps, because “Denham” arrived at that moment to accompany them to a morning performance at the “Conservatoire,” for which his zeal had with difficulty got them tickets. They had not wanted to go, but “Denham” had insisted upon it. Nancy went away to put on her bonnet as he came upstairs. How near she had been to success! Her heart was full of confidence and pleasure in the thought, and this gave a brightness to her countenance which was all it wanted.

“What have you been doing to your wife? She is radiant. She will have a great succès, and you and I will shine in her lustre,” said their companion to Arthur, as they arrived at the concert-rooms.

How proudly Arthur looked at her, exhilarated yet subdued as she was by that delightful sense of having got, or nearly got, her own way! This happiness had taken from Nancy the look of defiant watchfulness which generally gave a sense of unrest and discomfort to her beauty. For the first time since their marriage she looked at her ease and unafraid. He was so absorbed in her that he did not see a well-known face close to him, nor dream of any interruption of his felicity until, at the first interval in the music, some one reached a fan across from another bench and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Why, Arthur, Arthur! don’t you know us?” a voice said. It seemed to curdle the blood in his veins. He turned round with a sense of absolute dismay.

Behind him—how could he have missed the grey head of the old Indian, the overwhelming bonnet of his aunt, the demure correctness of the English young lady, all three in a row?—sat General Curtis, his uncle, father of the Rev. Hubert, who was Rector of Oakley, with the two ladies who ministered to him. What so natural as that these excellent people should be in Paris? They were on their way home from the German baths where the General went for his gout. And the wife and daughter, worn to death by the process which screwed the General up for the rest of the year, had need of a little taste of Paris to refresh their jaded souls. It was Mrs. Curtis who called “Arthur, Arthur!” A discussion had gone on between the three from the moment that Arthur appeared with the young woman, whose advent filled these ladies with a thrill of curiosity. “Don’t you meddle with what don’t concern you,” growled the General. Arthur was known to have made a dreadful connection, to have married somebody who was nobody, and generally to be in a bad way; and the sight of Nancy had startled this group beyond expression, as she came in looking happy and beautiful in her dainty Parisian bonnet.

“She looks a perfect lady, mamma; why shouldn’t we?” said Mary Curtis, who was charitable and disposed to be “gushing.”

“It concerns us as much as it concerns anyone, except his father and mother,” Mrs. Curtis said. Both wife and daughter were disposed to be rebellious to the dictum of the head of the house. They had gone through so much for him. Now they were on ground which they felt to be their own, and on which he was no longer supreme, and his opposition quickened their desire to penetrate Arthur’s mystery. No one in the family had seen her, they would be the first, and even that thought was pleasant. “That is Sir John Denham on the other side; if she was very bad would he show himself with them in public,” said Mrs. Curtis.

“What does a fellow like that care?” the General growled back, “the demimonde is what he likes best.”

“Oh, hush, Anthony, think of Mary,” said his wife, “he may like the demimonde, as you say; but I don’t think he’d like to show himself with them in public. And really she looks very nice. What a pretty bonnet! Anthony, you cannot pass by your own nephew.”

“I won’t have anything to say to him; if you do, you must take the consequence,” said the General.

“Oh do, mamma, do!” cried Mary at her other side. And the result was that Mrs. Curtis put her fan over somebody’s shoulder and called “Arthur, Arthur!” and filled the young man’s mind with unutterable dismay.

“Aunt Curtis!” said Arthur, rising to his feet. He grew crimson with the sudden emergency, with the surprise, “Who would have thought of seeing you here?”

“Indeed if you had thought at all on the subject, you might have made sure we should be here,” said Mrs. Curtis, and then she stooped forward and raised her head to whisper: “She is very pretty, Arthur, and of course you think her as nice as she is pretty. Would she like to be introduced to me?”

“She must be now that you are here,” said Arthur, not with any great eagerness. He took her offer a great deal too easily as a matter of course, not as the distinguished kindness she intended it to be. But her curiosity had reached to a very high point, and there was a touch of kindness as well as of self-importance in the idea of being able to mediate in the family affairs. Besides Sir John Denham was chatting familiarly on the other side of the bride, whose looks in her Paris bonnet were unexceptionable; and Sir John Denham was a very useful man to know in Paris, and one before whom many doors opened. And though her husband grumbled and held back, her daughter was still more anxious than she was.

“Oh, Arthur, how pretty she is!” Mary Curtis murmured to her cousin, while her mother made up her mind. It was Mary or some one like her who ought to have been elected to fill the post Nancy had secured, to become the future Lady Curtis. If that post had been filled up by competitive examination, as men’s situations are nowadays, no doubt Mary would have got it; and looking at it entirely as a public position without reference to Arthur (who after all was but a necessary adjunct, and not everything) Mary felt a lively interest, touched with doubt of her qualifications, in the successful candidate. She was anxious to inspect her, to have the satisfaction of feeling, which is a very general sentiment, that she herself could have done it better. Would this girl have the least idea how to behave in so important a post? Mary gave her mother little pushes and pinches to urge her on.

“I hope you have taken her to see your mother, Arthur,” said Mrs. Curtis, “she is of course the first person to be thought of. Ah, you have not, you naughty boy! well, if you wish it I will go and speak to her before the music begins again. No, Mary, not you, you had better stay where you are. Papa will be vexed if we both go.”

“Oh, papa! it is always papa,” said Mary, as her mother swept past her, almost sweeping her out of her seat. Mrs. Curtis was large and ample both in figure and drapery, and looked like Society impersonated as she swept round in front into the vacant space before Nancy, with a solemnity becoming the occasion. Nancy looked up alarmed at the coming of this large lady, and if it was partly defiance and resistance, it was also partly shyness, and fright, and ignorance as to what it was right to do, that kept her from rising to receive this imposing introduction. Mrs. Curtis made her a curtsey, which the girl blushing hotly, and confused between pride and shame and helpless ignorance, returned only with a little tremulous inclination of her head. Oh, if she only knew what was the most polite yet the most disdainful thing to do!

“I am afraid you scarcely know who I am,” said the large lady, “Arthur has not had much time yet to tell you about his relations. I am your husband’s aunt, Mrs. Arthur; we are all very fond of him. But you have not seen any of the family yet, I am sorry to hear.”

“No,” said Nancy, feeling waves of hot blood come up to her temples. She confronted her new acquaintance without looking at her, with eyes half concealed by her eyelids, dumbly defiant. Arthur’s relations might come and stare at her, and talk to her as they pleased, but she would make no advances. And they could not make much, she thought, out of yes and no.

“Arthur shall tell me where you are, and I will come to see you to-morrow,” said Mrs. Curtis. “I think it is only right for his sake, and I hope you will not be frightened of me. I will do anything I can to be of use to you, for Arthur’s sake, that is, of course, if you wish it. Sir John Denham, I think,” she added, turning to him. Denham had withdrawn a few steps from the family meeting, as courtesy demanded. “I met you, I think, years and years ago at the Carringtons’, though I see you have forgotten me.”

“As if that were possible!” said Denham, in a tone which half offended Nancy. He had pretended to be her friend and Arthur’s; yet here he was just as friendly with the enemy. “But they are going to begin again, I am afraid. Will you take this place,” he said, offering her his vacant chair. Mrs. Curtis paused to reflect that to place herself beside Arthur’s wife in public, was more than was required of her; more, indeed, than was perfectly discreet in the circumstances. So she made her doubtful niece-in-law a bow, and took Arthur’s arm again.

“I must return to my own party I fear,” she said, “but I shall hope to see you to-morrow.” Nancy found herself for a moment left entirely alone, while this unexpected intruder upon her happiness squeezed back again into her place, for Denham too had deserted her, as she saw by a backward glance, to renew acquaintance with the fine young lady behind, with whom Arthur too lingered, leaving her seated there in front alone. The din of the orchestra recommenced, which Nancy was not sufficiently instructed to admire, and her head began to ache with jealous pain and misery. The heat of the place, the languor of the afternoon, the crash of the music, made an atmosphere of confusion and sickening incongruity all around her. Oh, to be in the little parlour at home again! oh, to be Nancy Bates, with no fine ladies to question, or fine gentlemen to thrust the village girl to the front of this alien assembly, where all the people knew each other, and understood what was going on, except only she. These women! she had never expected any inquisition of this kind. She would have liked to jump up and rush away, no matter where, only to be free of it all. She said to herself she could not bear it. She would go home whatever happened; with Arthur or without Arthur, it did not seem to matter now.

CHAPTER VI.

NANCY had plenty of time to calm herself down before she received the promised visit of Mrs. Curtis. And Arthur, who had always been so anxiously compliant with all her wishes, and so ready to excuse all her shortcomings, looked so serious when she burst out into vituperation of the “big fat woman,” and declared her determination not to be spied upon, that even her impetuosity owned a check.

“If you insist upon going away, and not receiving her, it will be a great vexation and pain to me,” he said, “and your own good sense will show you, Nancy—”

“I have no good sense,” said the excited creature. “I never pretended to be sensible; you knew what I was when you married me, Arthur; and to be spied upon, and examined all over by a set of women—I can’t bear it, and I won’t, not for anybody in the world; not even for you!”

Poor Arthur did not make any immediate reply. He walked about the little room with agitated steps; then went and stood at the window, looking out with a blank and hopeless face. Perhaps silence was, of all others, the thing which Nancy could least encounter. She sat gazing at him, ready to make off in a moment to her room, to snatch her hat, and fly out, she knew not where; anywhere to escape from those shackles of her new life which were so intolerable. That he would rush after her, entreat her to return, promise everything that she wished seemed certain to Nancy. She did not calculate upon this, but was sure of it without thinking. But his silence chilled her, and when he spoke it was in a voice she did not recognise, a voice out of which all the music and sweetness seemed to have gone.

“I don’t know if this will have any influence upon you,” he said, “but it is worth thinking of: that we cannot live utterly estranged from my family. Some time or other we must seek a renewal of intercourse. I must seek it, not they; and if my Aunt Curtis could in the meantime convey a pleasant impression of you—if she was herself won to be on our side—I don’t say it would be of great consequence, but yet it would be a beginning. I don’t know what you think of my family, Nancy; if you think they are some kind of wild beasts to be avoided; but they can’t be avoided. We shall have to live by them, and it is for our good—it is indispensable—that we should be friends.”

“Friends!” cried Nancy, breathless with the effort of listening to him and keeping silence. “Then you may as well throw me over once for all, Arthur. Friends! with those that would take no notice of me—that never so much as named me in their letter.”

“That was my fault—that was my fault,” he said, turning round upon her. “I had no right to keep them in the dark. I ought to have gone to my mother and told her, not kept everything in holes and corners.”

“You were not a baby!” cried Nancy. “Why, you are four and twenty! Men don’t go and ask their mamma’s leave like girls.”

“That may be—but neither do men throw all their relatives over; tear themselves apart from their family. And I will not do it,” said Arthur with sudden self-assertion. “I will do anything in the world to please you but this. I will not quarrel with all who belong to me. As soon as I get an opportunity we must be reconciled to them—must, Nancy, there is no alternative. And why should you reject this easy way? My aunt is a kind woman. She will do us a good turn if she can. Try to please her, dear; won’t you try to please her for my sake?”

Nancy had started to her feet, when he said with such energy that he would not do it: but something arrested her. Whether the reasonableness of it, which was not likely, or the new force and vigour with which he spoke, or the pathos of the entreaty at the end, it would be difficult to say. But she was arrested, her attention caught, and the rush of her hasty blood restrained. After all, perhaps, there was something in what he said. It was not worth her while to fly from them—to avoid them as if she was afraid. But rather to show them her own superiority—to convince them that she was as good as they were, and had no occasion to fear them. This, perhaps, was scarcely the sentiment inculcated by Arthur’s speech; but rather the turn it took in the alembic of her own mind, in which a hundred crude ideas were fermenting and getting fused daily. She sat down again after a moment, when he had ceased speaking. Arthur, notwithstanding his appeal, had excited himself too much to care precisely what she was thinking, and even this gave a wholesome stimulus to the turn in the tide of her thoughts. He did not care, but he should be made to care—he should be proud of her—he should feel that those people who slighted her were slighting something above themselves. She would not yield so far as to say anything, to give her promise that she would endeavour to conciliate Mrs. Curtis. Not for her life; but what she said did not need to be any criterion of what she would do. She took up a book which happened to be on the table, and pretended to read it with an absolute absorption of interest which justified her silence; while he, on the other hand, having no certainty that he had moved her, but rather fearing the worst, kept pacing up and down between the window and the door, excited beyond the immediate question, having, for the first time, opened up the ultimate matter with himself. And when he once began to think of it, he could not shake off the idea. It was no question of expediency or possibility—a thing which ought to be done perhaps, yet might not. It seemed to him, thinking of it, that he must at once explain everything, and claim his forgiveness, and the reception of his bride. “I have done wrong—but it cannot be undone; nor is the wrong half so serious as you think.” This was what he must say. He had intended to write ever since he got to Paris, but had deferred it as an unpleasant business which might stand off from day to day. But now it appeared to him, all at once, that nothing was so important. Whatever else he did, he must reconcile himself with his father and mother, his own flesh and blood. If they would not, he must bear it; but nothing must be left undone on his part. This sudden conviction was brought upon him—was it by the sight of his relations—was it by Nancy’s unreasonable and absurd antipathy to them? He could not tell—but the fact that he could think of any sentiment on Nancy’s part as absurd and unreasonable showed what a leap he had suddenly made.

It was not till several hours later that Mrs. Curtis and her daughter appeared—for this time Mary had insisted upon coming, defying papa.

“We have done nothing but think of papa for the last three months,” she said. “I think we may be allowed a little of our own way now.”

Mary was very exact and particular, the essence of English duty and exact young-ladyhood. But there is a point at which duty and self-abnegation stop; and certainly, after spending three months at a German bath, a handmaiden to gout, it is not to be expected that the fortnight in Paris was to be spent in absolute devotion at the same gloomy shrine, especially as the General was better, and wound up for the year by all the sulphur he had imbibed. The young lady came accordingly with her mother, curious, and, indeed, eager to see how the successful competitor acquitted herself.

“Is she a lady?” Mary had said on the previous evening, cross-questioning her mother; but Mrs. Curtis had declined to commit herself.

“She said nothing but no, that I heard. How could I tell from a No?”

“I could have told if she had only coughed,” Miss Curtis replied; and it may be supposed with what keen eyes she was prepared to investigate her new cousin. They were so late of coming that Arthur had gone out, and Nancy, in her blue gown, sat by the fire alone just as the afternoon sank into twilight. They could not even see each other very clearly, and Nancy did not give them a very warm welcome. She stood up against the light, so that they could not make out a feature of her, and made them a stiff little bow, which was very awkward and self-conscious, yet not ungraceful. And then they seated themselves, not by Nancy’s invitation. The log blazed up compassionately now and then on the hearth, and threw a gleam upon the three half-perceptible faces. It was a strange little scene in that genteel comedy which we call real life.

“I am sorry we are so late,” said Mrs. Curtis. “We have been seeing our friends and making a few necessary purchases; and it is astonishing how trifles take up a winter’s day; it is soon over at this time of the year. We have stayed longer than we meant to do in Germany, the weather has been so mild. I hope the General may be able to come to see you before we leave; but he has to take care of himself just now, after his baths.” As all this elicited no response, Mrs. Curtis continued. “Is Arthur out?”

“Yes.” Nancy had intended to keep to her monosyllables, but it was difficult, and she added, in spite of herself, “I expect him back very soon; he thought it was too late for you to-day.”

“I am so sorry; if he had been here he would have made us acquainted.”

“On the contrary,” said Mary, striking in, “I think, if Mrs. Arthur will not mind, it is better my cousin should not be here. Women understand each other better alone. Don’t you think so? I feel sure of it, for my part.”

“I don’t know,” said Nancy out of the partial gloom; and then there was a pause.

Mrs. Curtis made a fresh start, and the aspect of affairs was so strange, and the absolute passiveness of Nancy so apparent, that all polite feints were impossible, and the visitor plunged into the heart of the one subject, the only subject on which they could approach each other, feeling herself forced into it, whether she would or not.

“I hope you will not think what I am going to say intrusive; but may I ask if it is true that you have not seen anything of your husband’s family, Mrs. Arthur—his immediate family, Lady Curtis, or Lucy, or any of them? Is it so indeed? But I hope you will do all you can to reconcile your husband with them. It cannot be good for you to be estranged.”

“I know nothing about them,” said Nancy, with a toss of her head.

“Indeed, I am very sorry for it. I think Arthur might have managed better. If he had played his cards rightly, when they saw it could not be helped they would certainly have yielded, and taken some notice of you.”

“I wanted none of their notice,” cried Nancy, crimson with anger; and then Mary interfered.

“Mamma, I don’t think you are treating it in the right way,” she said. “Mrs. Arthur does not know Aunt Curtis. Oh, what a pity that your people did not insist on seeing my aunt and uncle! that would have made everything easy. But I suppose you did not know.”

“We did not care,” said Nancy, growing hotter and hotter. She would make no other reply.

“But your people might have cared,” said Mrs. Curtis, “as my daughter says. I hope you will not take it amiss if I say that there has been very great negligence somewhere; and you ought to do all you can to set things to rights. It is all settled now, and past changing. Don’t you think that you should try to mend matters? Arthur may be very fond of you; I daresay he is. I am sure he has given good proof of it; but he cannot be happy separated from his family.”

“Then he can go back to his family,” cried Nancy, with flashing eyes, rising suddenly to her feet. “If you are specimens of his family, coming and abusing me like this, when you don’t even know me—”

“I do not think, Mrs. Arthur, that you are taking what we say in a very friendly way. What object could we have in coming but to assist you—or rather Arthur—in the circumstances? For, of course, we think most of him, it is only natural; and surely it is your duty to do what you can, as it is you who have brought him into trouble. It cannot be any offence to you to say as much as that.”

“I wish you would go away,” cried Nancy, hotly. “What have you to do coming here? only to tell me that I am in Arthur’s way? How have I got him into trouble? Did I go and ask him to marry me? Did I make love to him? You think I am only a common girl, and you are ladies. Ladies! Do ladies behave so?—to bully a girl when she is by herself, when no one is by—a girl who has never done any harm to them, who is as good as they are?”

“Oh, this is too much,” cried Mrs. Curtis. “I came to give you advice for your good—for Arthur’s sake; and this is how you receive it! I wanted to help you if I could.”

“I did not ask anyone’s help,” said Nancy, defiant, facing them, always with her back to the light, invisible except as a shadow. Her heart beat so that every vein felt bursting. She had but one desire in her mind, and that was to rush off without stopping to see Arthur, without giving anyone the opportunity of insulting her further, and fly home as fast as the fastest train would carry her. What were the Curtises to Nancy? How could she bear this from anyone, to be schooled and dictated to, she who had never been scolded even at home, who had never been found fault with, whose whole being rose up in arms against anyone who ventured to criticise? There are people in all classes who are thus intolerant of a word, not to be interfered with, whom it is mortal offence to think less than perfect. She felt as if the blood in her veins had turned to fire.

“Mamma,” said Mary, “Mrs. Arthur is quite right. We have no business to come here into her own rooms, and tell her what she ought to do. She knows better what to do than we can tell her. Why should you interfere?”

“Because Mrs. Arthur is young, and does not know, Mary, and it is her duty to listen when one speaks for her good,” said Mrs. Curtis, furious in her turn. “But you need not be afraid, I will not say any more. I will only bid you good morning, Mrs. Arthur. It is no object to me what you do, or don’t do. If I could have smoothed matters I would; but I will not force my good offices upon you. I hope you will make your husband very happy, for otherwise I am sure he will be very miserable. He was always on such good terms with his family, and now you have made a complete breach.”

“Will you go away?” cried Nancy, wild with anger.

She made a step forward with her arm lifted. It is not likely that any provocation would have made her strike; but if the two ladies, alarmed, thought she was about to do so, no one could blame them. This appearance of violence appalled them. Such a threatening aspect in a woman was so foreign to the customs of society, so tremendous a breach of all decorum, that actual blows would have had no greater effect upon them. They both retreated before her, with alarm in their startled movements. Nancy could not see their faces, nor could they see hers.

“Indeed, we will go,” cried Mrs. Curtis, with tones which were tremulous with wonder and anger, and the kind of moral fright which has been indicated.

Mary had got her hand upon the door to open it, when some one suddenly pushed in from outside, and Arthur came into the room.

“What is the matter?” he cried.

All he could see was his wife against the light of the window, threatening, with her arm raised as if in the act to strike.

“Oh, Arthur, stand between us and her!” cried Mrs. Curtis. “But I will not stay here another moment. Your wife has ordered us out. You poor boy, you can come to me if you like. Good-bye. I am very sorry for you; but I cannot stay another moment here.”

“What is the matter?” he repeated, with a voice which was sharp and keen as a sword, as the two ladies disappeared hurriedly, and he stood alone opposite to his wife, gazing at her with eyes that blazed through the gloom. Her hand had dropped by her side at his entrance, but at the sound of his voice Nancy, who was beside herself with passion, raised it again and shook it at him in speechless excitement, then turned and fled into her own room, clashing the door behind her. He heard her lock it in her rage, panting for breath as she dashed away. Poor Arthur! he had no mind to follow her. She might have spared herself that precaution. He stood upon the hearth, looking mournfully into the big mirror, in which he could see himself a shadow in the surrounding gloom. Had not all life turned into a vision of shadows, everything that was lovely and fair disappearing from about him? There seemed no power in him to do anything. To go after his aunt and endeavour to make up for his wife’s incivility, was as impossible as to go after that wife and demand the meaning of her strange conduct. He had no heart for anything. He stood, as it were, amid the ruins of his bridal happiness, everything crumbling about him. Only to-day, only a few hours ago, she had stood by him, beguiling him with sweet smiles and caresses, she who this minute had confronted him like a fury, with her hand clenched, threatening violence. He had borne a good many shocks in this eventful fortnight; the bloom had been taken off his fond fancy of perfection in his bride. But this was the climax of all. It seemed to take at once his strength and his hope away.

Meanwhile Nancy, her blood boiling, her countenance flushed, her eyes fiery with passion, had rushed out of the darkness into the soft light of her room, where the candles had been lighted, and where she saw herself entering like a fury in the great glass which was opposite to her as she rushed in. This sight made her pause in spite of herself; it sobered her all at once. Was that the aspect she had borne to these strangers? to her husband? The sudden shock of her own appearance had more effect upon her than any amount of moral reprobation. She calmed down in a moment. They had insulted her, she tried to say to herself; but what would they think of her, was what conscience said in her. What would they think of her?—and Arthur? The colour went out of the foolish creature’s face; a chill came over her. Oh, what was she to do, what was she to do? She had meant to impose upon them, to be more lady-like, more calm, more chilly in her politeness than anyone could be; and this was what it had come to. She threw herself down by her bedside in a passion of tears and penitence. Had Arthur come to her then, she would have thrown herself at his feet and asked his pardon; but Arthur was kept from her by the bolt she had herself drawn in her fury, and by—though this she was unaware of—the despair and dismay in his heart. She threw herself on the carpet, and found relief in a torrent of tears. Such tears! hot as her passion, overwhelming as the impulses that surged after one another through her heart. He must hear her sob, she felt, in the abandon of her misery; and though Nancy did not sob to be heard, it gave her a flutter of hope to think that he must hear her, and must come to know what it was, to comfort her, even to scold her, it did not matter, so long as he came. But not a sound except those sobs of hers broke the silence. The candles burned softly, and glimmered in the mirror, which reflected her lying there upon the flowery whiteness of the carpet, a dark miserable figure; but there was no tap at the door, no voice asking for admission. After a little time, her passion being spent, she raised herself up, and without drying the tears from her woebegone countenance, or arranging her disordered hair, opened the door softly, and looked into the sitting-room where she had left him. All was changed there; the candles were lighted, the fire re-made, the room full of warmth and light; but no Arthur. It was vacant, put in good order by the servants, who knew nothing about what had been happening there. And Arthur was gone. Where had he gone? Had he followed those women, who were his relations, though they were her enemies? Was he hearing their story, who doubtless would paint her as a very devil of ill-temper and pride? Had he gone over to the other side, he who was the cause of it all? Her eyes began to flash again, and her veins to refill with that fire which had all but died out of them. She went back to her room, and dipped her burning forehead into water, and smoothed her hair, which she had pulled out of place with her passionate hands. When she had done this she stood for a moment between the two rooms in the silence, alone, asking herself what she should do. Had Arthur gone from her? Would he not come back again? A speechless dismay took possession of her soul, followed by flashes of passion, and still deeper and deeper despondency. There was but one thing that it seemed possible to do, except flight, which she was not equal to at this dreadful moment, when she was not sure whether he had flown from her. If he had been in the next room she might have had strength to flee; but not with this uncertainty and dread in her mind whether he had abandoned her. There was but one thing in this tremendous emergency which she could do. Had she not promised to him to write to his mother? She would do this now.

CHAPTER VII.

THIS period of early winter was a dull one at Oakley at all times. From October to Christmas it was not the custom of the family to invite the usual country-house array of defence against dullness. For some weeks after the partridge-shooting began there would be visitors about—luncheons at the coverside, dinners more or less sleepy, evenings more or less gay. And again at Christmas there was always a large party assembled; but between whiles the family were left to their own resources. How Sir John himself filled up his time was a profound and solemn mystery, which no one could entirely unravel. He spent it mostly in his library—in the perusal of Blue books, in the writing of letters, and in something which was called business, and supposed to be the management of his estate; but everybody who knew Sir John knew that there was not very much beyond the most ceremonial portion of a sovereign’s duty in his easy lot. The estate had been carefully managed all his life, by the most careful and sensible of functionaries, Mr. Rolt, who was the son of the last agent, and the brother of the solicitor at Oakenden who had the money matters of the family in his hands. And the family had been unexceptionable in its conduct for the last five-and-thirty years; there had been no extravagant heir, no heavy jointure diminishing its resources. General Anthony, who had done very well for himself, was Sir John’s only brother, the only other member of the family; and there had been nothing but unbroken respectability and discretion in the management of the finances of the house. The estate ran upon wheels, or upon velvet, and all but managed itself. Then as for Parliamentary business and the Blue books, Sir John was a sound reliable Conservative, who never dreamed of opening his mouth in the House. He voted as his leaders voted, who were the best able to judge, and the study of public affairs, to which he thus devoted himself, had all the merit of disinterestedness. It cannot even be said that it told greatly when he sat upon a Parliamentary committee, for he was apt to get confused on the points he knew best, and his knowledge did not stand him in stead at the moment it was wanted, as knowledge ought to do; but still what with the Blue books and the estate, he thought himself very fully occupied, and what could be desired more than this? Two or three times in the day, especially when it rained, he would come into his wife’s morning room, and stand up with his back to the fire and talk, sometimes relevantly, sometimes irrelevantly, like most other people. But he was always serious, whether relevant or not. He had a long face, with grey whiskers and grey hair, and a long upper lip shutting close upon the under, which was feeble, though the chin too was rather long. His face in these wintry days, when there was no news of Arthur, was as serious as a countenance well could be. Whether he was talking of his son or not, Arthur was always more or less in Sir John’s mind, and never smile, or glimmering of a smile, approached within a hundred miles of the serious lines of that long upper lip.

Lady Curtis was of a different disposition altogether. The last extremity of grief even could not produce in her the monotony of melancholy which was possible to her husband. She would weep as he never wept; but then she would laugh also in sheer impatience of the weight of tedium and sameness. Her suffering was far more acute than his steady dullness; but it was broken by gleams of activity, by sudden impulses, by perpetual changes. She flung herself into her housekeeping, stirring up all the quiet corners, and making a commotion in the servants’ hall, such as for some time threatened the family peace—and into the parish, where Lucy did not always want her mother’s assistance. She wrote letters to her friends, half cynical, half sorrowful, and more than half amusing, in which Arthur indeed was never referred to; but where many a cutting sentence, sharp jest, or mocking reflection betrayed that sting of personal suffering which those who knew her best could read between the lines. Lady Curtis was clever. She wrote articles now and then in literary papers, even sometimes in magazines; but this was an indulgence of which she was not proud, and she prudently kept silence about it, being wise enough to know that any such crown of wild olive sits badly upon the matronly brow of a country lady, alarming some people, and giving to others occasion for ill-natured jibes and pleasantry. Not her husband certainly, and even not Lucy knew always when she took upon herself the office of critic; and the able editor who printed her reviews was not aware what had made his contributor more industrious than usual and more bitter. It was Arthur that pointed the clear steel of those polished little arrows which she discharged at the world. She did it as a relief to herself; but not that anyone might know. And it must be added that there was a certain satisfaction in this safety valve. Then there was crewel work, and the patterns of the Art Needlework Society, of which, however, she soon got tired. Altogether Lady Curtis’s activity was stimulated to its utmost. She had the happiness of discovering a source of waste in the house, and an abuse in the parish; and she fell upon a nest of foolish books to criticize, and began a series of papers upon “The Minor Morals of Society;” and she set vigorously to work upon a set of curtains in a bold and effective pattern of her own invention. And thus she beguiled away the weary days.

Lucy was less difficult perhaps than either her father or her mother. She was young, and it still seemed to her that in the course of nature everything that was amiss must come right, and every breach be mended. Sir John’s opinion was that nothing would ever mend, and his wife’s that the only thing to be done was to keep yourself busy, and persuade yourself that there was no hope nor expectation of any change within you. But Lucy waited with as much patience as she could, crying sometimes over the estrangement of her brother, but with no despair in her; things would come right, nay, must come right some time or other. To suppose that you could be separated for ever from anyone who belonged to you, anyone you loved! could there be folly in earth so great as that? It was a question of time, and the time was long and dreary and hard to support; but yet by and by of course, who could doubt it? everything would be well. November and December are dreary months, let us make the best of them, and very dreary in the country when the day is over by four o’clock or little after, and there are hours upon hours to be got through in-doors, in a big empty house, pervaded everywhere by that sense of the absent which is so much more urgent and all-prevailing than any presence. When Arthur had been at home his being there was a matter of course, and no one thought much about it; but when Arthur was away! and away in this dismal manner, absorbed into another life, disjointed from theirs. Such an argument as this might make the dullest feel the superiority of an idea to all that is solid and practical. In her own room, which Arthur rarely entered, Lucy missed her brother, and she missed him going about the parish, where he never went with her. And Sir John missed him in the midst of those Blue Books at which the boy had made grimaces from a distance, but which he never approached; and Lady Curtis felt his absence when she wrote for her Review, though Arthur was the last person in the world to know anything of Reviews. This is at once the desolation and the power of death which fills our very atmosphere and daily breath with those whom it removes out of our sight for ever; and this it was that gave force to the words which both father and mother said of Arthur when he forsook them. It was as if he had died.

The ladies of the family spent most of their time, as has been said, in the morning room, with its two tall windows looking out from between the pillars of the façade. The drawing-room, which was large and splendid, too fine and too big to be cosy in, suffered in consequence, and except when the house was very full, had much the air of an uninhabited place. The morning room was fine enough, too fine most people thought now-a-days. Lady Curtis was one of the people who most feel the influence of those successive waves of taste which sweep across the mind of the most cultivated portion of society from time to time. Had it been necessary to re-furnish this favourite room, she would have done it in the style of Queen Anne, with neutral tints and “flatted” colour, tiled fireplaces and high manteltops. And she was by times a little uncomfortable about the florid effect of her Louis Quinze decoration; but there was no excuse for remodelling the pretty room which the children loved. It was florid, there could be no doubt. The cornice was rich with stucco wreaths, and there were Cupids about, and lyres and knots of ribbon, and glowing garlands of flowers. The carpet was white Aubusson with a great bouquet in the centre, as flowery and brilliant as that which had made Nancy happy in Paris. Lady Curtis’s writing table was a bonheur de jour of the finest workmanship, and various articles of precious marqueterie stood about, flowery and dainty. Two robust gilt Cupids supported the white marble of the mantel-piece, and the satin curtains were looped and fringed, and festooned with the most elaborate art. Lucy sat and knitted stockings for the village children upon a satin sofa, with her warm wool in the drawer of an inlaid table with curved legs, which was worth half as much as the village. Everything in the room was framed on the principle of being beautiful, not for convenience or comfort, which is supposed to be the inspiration of various other styles of household decoration, but for beauty alone. And perhaps it was more suitable for the home of a bride, such as Lady Curtis had been when she collected all those pretty things about her, than for the centre of household life which it had become; though indeed it was very doubtful whether Lady Curtis, a clever, impatient-minded woman, had ever attained any ecstacy of happiness as the bride of good Sir John. She loved her dainty surroundings better now than she did when they were in all their freshness. She was aware of her husband’s steadfast goodness and truth, though he was not lively and amusing, and had more respect for him, and, at the same time, a tenderer sentiment for the father of her children than, perhaps, she had entertained for the good, dull bridegroom to whom she had been bound, not entirely, report said, with her own freewill. Therefore, perhaps, the beautiful room had never enshrined that impersonation of happiness, luxury, and splendour to whom all these decorations belonged by nature. Now-a-days, certainly, it was not any luxurious leisure and blessedness that dwelt there; but care and doubt, such as would have been consistent with very sombre surroundings. Lucy sat and knitted, her mind wandering after Arthur, trying to imagine the brightest winter weather in Paris, and her brother enjoying himself, instead of the rainy skies here, the muddy roads and grey miserable day. Lady Curtis was in her chair by the window for the sake of the light, busy with her crewels.

“They may say what they like about the higher art of these subdued tints,” she said, “but nature is not subdued in her tints. How am I to do the autumn leaves in those tones of colour? They are high and bright in nature.” She said this, but she was thinking of Arthur all the time; and by and by Sir John came in from the library, and strolled up to the fire.

“Have not you had tea yet?” he said, putting himself in front, between the Cupids. “I thought you must be having tea. What a dreary afternoon it is! and the hounds are out. They must be having a disagreeable run.” Thus he discoursed with his lips; but in his heart his thoughts were of Arthur too.

“Lucy has been in the village, though it has been so wet. She says there is a very sad commotion going on. Young Jack Hodge, the blacksmith’s son—tell your papa, Lucy,” said Lady Curtis with a sigh.

“I don’t think it is so very bad,” said Lucy, getting up to make the tea which had just been brought in. “And I am sure papa will not think so; but his mother is making a great fuss. She has got the Dissenting minister over from Oakenden to comfort her; and to hear him speak, you would think it was very bad indeed.”

“What has happened,” said Sir John, “and why did not Bertie go?”

“Oh, Bertie, papa! what is the good of Bertie? There is a look in his nose as if he smelt something disagreeable whenever he goes into one of the cottages. The people cannot put up with it, and why should they? I think the Dissenter was better on the whole. Jack has gone for a soldier, that is all. I tried to say there was nothing so very dreadful in that; but they would not listen to me.”

“That is all the fault of your Dissenters,” said Sir John, “why shouldn’t the lad go for a soldier? They would do away with poor people altogether, these Dissenters if they could—and soldiers too I suppose. They would leave us all defenceless, at the mercy of anybody that chooses to make a run at us. They never have anything themselves. I suppose that is the reason why.”

“Well, that is not bad logic,” said Lady Curtis, “I suppose they think those who have something to lose should defend themselves;” and she sighed again, thinking, where was the son of her own house, who was its natural defender? He was worse than Jack Hodge, who, at least, might be of use to his country even if he did break his mother’s heart.

“You mean the Volunteers?” said Sir John, “but I never believed in the Volunteers. It is all very well to let them amuse themselves, soldiering. And, perhaps, in the country where they would be officered by the gentlemen they know,” he continued after a moment’s pause, with again Arthur, and not the Volunteers, in his thoughts, and echoing his wife’s sigh, “they might be of some use; but I don’t put any faith in them for the defence of the country. Thank you, my dear; on a wet afternoon like this one is glad of a cup of tea.”

Sir John was generally glad of his cup of tea, if not for one reason, then for another, because it was wet, or because it was cold, or because it was sultry and stifling, or else for no reason at all. It formed a break in the long afternoon when there was nothing more interesting to do. For as he stood with his back to the fire, and his cup in his hand, he went on dully talking, as was his way.

“It is the very essence of democracy you know—when you substitute what they call the citizen soldier, the man that is supposed to fight in his own defence, for the soldier that is paid for defending us: the very essence of democracy—it makes out that one man is just as good as another and that the Hodges want as much taking care of as you and I.”

“So they do surely, papa,” said Lucy, “their lives are as precious to them as ours are—to us.”

“You don’t know anything about it, Lucy; they are not half so important to the country, and it’s the country we ought to think of first,” said Sir John. “Without an army where should we be? The throne would have no authority—Volunteers mean democracy, my dear.”

“And Jack Hodge is your true patriot,” said his wife.

“Exactly so. I will tell his mother that is my opinion the next time I am in the village. A foolish woman with her Dissenters to put nonsense into her head. What could the boy do better. But Bertie ought to have been there? Bertie ought to have gone,” said the Baronet. “I allow there are bad smells in the cottages, Lucy; but surely, if I can bear it, he ought to bear it; and you, you never say anything about the smells—I don’t think Bertie can be doing his duty as a clergyman ought. The young men of the present day are beyond me,” Sir John added with another sigh; and he put down his cup with a dreary shrug of his shoulders, and shook his grey head as he went slowly away.

How glad they all were when the long November day was over, and they could shut out the ceaseless drip-dripping of the rain, the sweep of the dead leaves across the windows! The autumn had been mild, and the foliage had lasted longer than usual. Now it came tumbling down with every breath, with every drop of rain, choking up the paths, and filling the air with the mournfullest downpouring of yellow. On such a day no one came up the avenue, unless it was a draggled villager bound for the servants’ door, or the Rector, or the Doctor, neither of whom contributed much to the gratification of the house; and to look out upon the misty vista of the spectral trees, the damp rising from the ground and falling from the skies, both of which were about the same colour, for even a short November day is not cheerful to the spirits. It was a relief when the house began to be dotted with lamps, when the shutters were closed and the curtains drawn. Lady Curtis, for some time, had not cared to have the shutters of her favourite room closed till bed-time. She did not give any reason for this fancy, but Sir John had found fault with it, and she had yielded. “It was not safe,” he said, “to leave the lower windows open. Some one might get in and frighten the house, if no more.” Lady Curtis had not stood out. She watched the servant close them with again a lingering sigh. She had meant nothing by having them open. No, nothing. Only if such a thing might happen as that—any one—moved by some impulse of the heart, should suddenly come home—why, then there would be a little light visible from the very end of the avenue to encourage him. Nothing was more unlikely than that such a thing should happen. But still granting that the impossible did sometimes come when no one expected it, then there might be use in the light. But as nobody could explain this, or say anything in defence of so painful a notion, of course it was done away when Sir John objected. My Lady sat in the gilded chair, cushioned with satin, that stood by the fire, and took a last look of the dull twilight with the trees looming through it like ghosts, as the footman began to shut up. It had been a dreary day; it was more agreeable to turn to the clear light of the lamp within, the subdued glimmer of the satin hangings, the sparkle of the fire. The day was done at last.

And yet it was a little dreary, also, to think of the hours that remained unaccomplished—the long still evening in which there would be a little talk, very little, and the routine of dinner to go through, and the still evening after, which Lucy and she would spend together. Perhaps she would work, and Lucy read aloud; or Lucy would take to one of her many undertakings, which were of a homelier kind than Lady Curtis’s crewels, while her mother wrote. The house was very still, as it became a great house to be, lying folded in the darkness, in the great park, in the humid lawn and clouds of watery trees, without one gleam from all the windows in front to welcome anyone who, unexpected, might come out of the busy world to explore the stillness—the most unlikely thing in the world to happen; yet such things had been and, who could tell? might be. There was one event still possible, and that was the coming in of the post, which arrived after dinner, a most inappropriate moment, everybody said. Indeed, Sir John had often proposed not to send for the letters, but to leave them, when there were any, till next morning, rather than spoil the digestion of the family at such a moment. But Lady Curtis had a woman’s liking for letters, and never would hear of this. She had no experience of the letters which spoil digestion. Her milliners’ bills were no trouble to her. She had never been in debt, it is to be supposed, in her life, neither were there mysteries in her existence which she was afraid of; her letters were pleasant breaks upon the monotony, enriching the quiet of her country life; therefore she would have the post-bag brought up, whatever Sir John might say.

And that night there were two letters that seemed to wake up even in the house itself something like the heart-beating that flutters in an individual bosom at sight of a long-expected communication—two letters which bore the Paris postmark, one to my lady, one to Sir John. The butler saw them at the first glance, recognising the writing of one, guessing at the other. He whispered to the housekeeper, before he went to my lady’s room with her share of the budget.

“Summat from Mr. Arthur,” he whispered in her ear.

“Oh, let me look,” she said.

It was something to see, even the outside of the letters; and they looked at each other across that other one, and agreed in their guess as to what it was. Daly, the butler, was a man of discrimination. He knew, as well as she did, that, whereas Sir John was equally dull at all times, my lady expected the post with a thrill of nervous anxiety every night. He knew it by her eyes, by the clutch of her hand at the letters, by the inspection, quick as lightning, which she gave them, always curbing her disappointment. This was why Daly carried my lady’s letters the first especially to-night.

CHAPTER VIII.