DURANT felt that he had done a good morning’s work. He had succeeded in frightening Mrs. Bates, and striking with alarm the sensible mind of Matilda, and the frivolous one of Sarah Jane. He left them in different stages of perplexity and distress when he came away. They were not more selfish than other people; but the idea of Nancy’s marriage, which they had been so proud of in anticipation, coming to nothing, or coming to so much worse than nothing as to throw the “young couple” on their hands, naturally appalled them. Arthur had, which, perhaps, was also natural, told them as little as possible about his family; he had slurred vaguely over all details of how he and his bride were to live. He had plenty for both, he said; there would be quite enough to give his Nancy everything her heart could desire. What could they wish for more? The daughter of a tax-collector is not usually burdened with very elaborate marriage settlements.
“I hope your papa and mamma will be pleased,” Mrs. Bates had said, when she had received the intimation of the betrothal, bestowing on her future son-in-law a tearful kiss, which he bore like a hero.
“Oh, no fear of them; they will be pleased when they see Nancy,” he had replied; and with this assurance she had been content.
As the time fixed for the marriage approached, no doubt there had been searchings of heart on the subject; but these were rather directed to the question, whether or not he would have any of his family asked to the wedding than to anything more important. Arthur was four-and-twenty, surely old enough to choose for himself, and the idea of consulting the father and mother (it being evident that they were not very likely to be satisfied with the marriage) did not occur to these good folks. A young tax-collector would not think of consulting his family, though he might like them to be pleased; and why should a baronet’s son, a young gentleman, much more his own master than any tax-collector, be bound to what his father and mother wished? Mr. Bates, who had a great respect for the powers that be, had, indeed, grumbled a fear that “they mightn’t like it;” but “Who cares?” had been the answer of his bolder spouse. She remembered this now with a little horror.
“Your father is slow,” she said to her girls; “and sometimes we’re all impatient, as we didn’t ought to be; but it’s wonderful how often he’s right, is papa.”
The girls scouted the idea in words, but in their hearts they too were somewhat impressed, and the little parlour was full of agitation all the morning. Nancy was out, as the day was so fine, with her lover. They had so nearly quarrelled on the previous night, that their morning meeting was more interesting than usual, and they had gone out to make it up. There was a common not far off, with stretches of gorse and little thickets of half-grown trees, which was the resort of all lovers in the neighbourhood; and there they had been spending the morning in the midst of the autumnal sunshine, declaring to each other that nothing should ever come between them again, neither enemies nor friends.
Durant went home to his inn, very well pleased with himself, though with a qualm of compunction which he had not expected to feel. On the whole, these people were not designing people. They were not the harpies of the social imagination, who pounce upon the hapless fils de famille, and crunch his bones. That did not make them in the smallest degree more suitable to be connected with Arthur, but it made his friend a little ashamed of the part he was playing. And at the same time he was satisfied; for he did not want Arthur to make this foolish marriage, and he wanted very much to please Lady Curtis, for reasons which will be disclosed hereafter. He felt he had done a good day’s work, though, perhaps, it was not work of a very noble kind. He did not believe in the least that the Curtis family would sentence their son to starvation, or to be dependent on the house of Bates, though he made use of that idea to subjugate the latter; but Nature revenged herself upon him for this lie by permitting him to believe another, which was that these proceedings of his could have some influence in retarding Arthur’s marriage. Though he ought to have known that the obstacles thus set up would, on the contrary, make Arthur doubly eager, and lead him to force on everything, a little mist of complacent delusion was over his eyes in respect to his own adroitness, and he really believed that it might be in his power to save Arthur. And then if he saved Arthur, what might not Lady Curtis be disposed to do? Not, poor Durant, the same thing over again, by bestowing her daughter, of whom she was much more proud than she had ever been of Arthur, upon a poor, if rising barrister. No, that was not likely, and he knew it was not likely; but yet he had a certain vague faith in it which impelled him to do anything to please her; and he thought what he had done would please her. He thought he had produced some effect. There was a glow of comfortable sensation in his mind. If, perhaps, he had been not quite kind, not quite just to the poor people he had just quitted, what claim had they upon his kindness? None whatever; and it was all perfectly legitimate, perfectly fair. Were they not coming out of their natural sphere, clutching at the Baronet’s son for their daughter, publicly boasting the time when Nancy should be my lady? And was not any way of putting an end to this fair and defensible? He had done nothing that it was not quite allowable to do.
In this frame of mind he ate his luncheon, and decided to stay another night at Underhayes. It was rather hard, indeed, to know what to do with himself in the afternoon; but he hoped that perhaps Arthur might change his mind, might think it worth while to come to him and argue the point; and in any arguing of the point, Durant felt that he must be successful. Then he had a bundle of correspondence to get through. A busy man is often entirely thrown out of his mental gear by finding himself shut up in a bare parlour in an inn, without any of his habitual tools, without books or papers. But he had letters to write, which was always an occupation; and one of his letters was to Lady Curtis. Before he could do this, however, it was necessary that he should get paper; and the day was so mild, and the air so sweet, and the appearance of the little place so pleasant, that he went out with an agreeable sense that his business was not pressing, and that he might linger before coming in.
As Durant went out of the inn, however, he was run against by some one coming in, in hot haste, and with every appearance of impatience and impetuosity.
“I want to speak to a Mr. Durant that is staying here,” she said to the waiter; then, stopping short with a start, turned her attention to himself. “I think you are Mr. Durant,” she said.
It was Nancy Bates in person. Though he had seen her but vaguely on the previous night, he recognised her now. Her hat looked as if it had been put on hurriedly, and a long lock of brown hair had dropped upon her shoulder. Durant could not but notice how long it was, and how soft and shining it looked—not golden or red, but shining, glossy brown. It caught his eye, even in the midst of the shock he experienced on hearing her ask for him. What did she want with him? He felt himself shrink in spirit, if not in outward appearance. Arthur he had been striving to save, his conscience was clear in that respect; but this young woman, what had his intention been so far as she was concerned? It was not to save her he had been trying, but to break her heart, if she happened to have one, and anyhow, heart or none, destroy her prospects, and steal away her supposed good fortune. Therefore, he could not help it, he shrank a little from Nancy; and there was a haste and hostile energy in her looks which added to this feeling. He answered, almost in a tone of deprecation,
“Yes, that is my name; and I think it is Miss Bates?”
“Anna Bates,” she said, with a little elevation of her head, as if the name she pronounced had been one of imposing importance. “I want to speak to you, please.”
Durant was entirely taken back. He looked at her with an air of helpless bewilderment. What was he to do? Ask her to go back to his sitting-room with him? ask her to go with him outside? He did not know what was etiquette in such regions. No young woman with whom he was acquainted had ever called upon him before, and the young man was utterly puzzled and discomfited, and did not know what to do.
“Surely,” he said, hesitating between the stair and the door, with a helpless look at the waiter, who might, he thought, have made some suggestion.
That it was wrong to come to Mr. Durant “on business,” and business so urgent, had never crossed Nancy’s mind before; but she saw that he thought so, and this discovery, instead of abashing her, fired her with new vehemence. The very wonder in his face was as a flag of aristocratic superiority to Nancy, and made her wild.
“You are surprised,” she said, with a look of scorn, “that I should come to you; but I am not one of your fine ladies that send for people to come to them; and there is no room in our house for private talks. You can speak to me in the street, I suppose.”
And with this she turned her back upon him and hurried out. Here she paused a moment, seeing, perhaps, for the first time, the difficulties of an indignant demand for explanations upon Underhayes Green, in the face of all the people who were coming out on their afternoon walks, and calls and business. None of these difficulties had ever troubled Nancy before. The inconvenient splendour of being a person whose proceedings were watched, had never attended her before. But now it all flashed upon her in a moment. Already it was known in the place that she was going to marry, or rather to be married by Mr. Curtis, and if she was seen at three o’clock in the afternoon walking about the Green in close conversation with another “gentleman,” what would everybody say? Very different had been Sarah Jane’s feelings, who only hoped everybody she knew might see her walking with the “gentleman.” Already the shadow of her new position had come over Nancy, and the sense that observation now would be degrading rather than flattering. She had not thought about it at all in the fervour of her feelings, when she rushed out impetuously to confront her adversary, but she perceived it through her adversary’s eyes. She turned half-round to him, and waving her hand towards the other side of the Green, where there was a little bit of shade with trees, went on before him, rapidly crossing the grass. Durant followed. He was nervous about what was going to happen to him; to take him thus under the damp trees, from which a shower of leaves fell at every puff of air, was very much like dragging him to some den where he could be devoured at leisure. Could Arthur be there? but on reflection he felt sure that Arthur, had he known, would have found some means of subduing this impetuosity, and preventing an encounter. It could not be for Arthur’s interest in any way. Before however they had got across the Green, Durant’s fright had subsided; he began to be interested; the situation was piquant, if no more; and that lock of brown hair was very pretty. He would have thought it untidy in Sarah Jane, but here somehow it looked well. He thought of the “sweet neglect” of Herrick’s description; the tempestuous petticoat occurred to him in spite of himself, and he began to be half pleased, half excited by this odd adventure. What would Arthur say if he saw him being thus carried off for a private interview? and the direct course which the impetuous young woman was taking, brought them immediately in front of Mr. Eagle’s gate. The little line of trees which looked like a Mall in the distance, lay under his garden walls, and it turned out to be of much less importance than he thought—a sweep of some old avenue, a hundred yards or so of path between two fine ranges of elms. It led nowhere, and was quite deserted. A better place for a mysterious interview could scarcely be.
When they had got under the shade of the trees, she turned upon him suddenly.
“You were at our house to-day,” she said; “you were saying a great many things about—Mr. Curtis’s family. Did they send you, or what right have you to speak for them? I want to know.”
“Miss Bates, you are very hasty—very peremptory.”
“I am no different from what I have a right to be,” she said, and he could hear that her voice trembled with passion, and see that the lines of her face were moving, and that there were tears which looked more like fire than water in her eyes.
“What do you mean by coming and setting my folks against—Mr. Curtis? You pretend to be a friend of his. What do you do it for? And what right have you to interfere with me?”
“None in the world,” said Durant, hastily; “none in the world! nor do I. I told your mother the truth about the Curtises, as I thought I was bound to do.”
“Why were you bound to do it? I did not ask you to give us any information. You might have consulted me first, or—Mr. Curtis. If we were willing to have nothing said about them, to have nothing to do with them, was that your business? Don’t you think it’s like a busy-body—a meddler, Mr. Durant? I wonder you are not ashamed of yourself!” she said, the passion getting vent, and the tears falling hot and sudden in spite of herself out of her eyes. “You, a gentleman! if it had been a silly gossip of a woman, I should not have been surprised.”
This, as may be supposed, galled Durant immensely, for what can be harder upon a man than to be called like a gossip and a woman? But he had command of himself.
“I am distressed,” he said, “to have caused any annoyance; I had no intention of doing so.”
“Then what was your intention?” she said; “I suppose you had one. It will be honester to tell me directly what you mean.”
“I have no objection to tell you what I mean,” he said, “as I told your mother. The Curtises are my friends. I know them thoroughly, and I know that your marriage will grieve them to the heart. Pardon me if I must speak plainly. It is no offence to you personally, for they don’t know you. Arthur has told them the step he is going to take only at the last moment; only, in fact, after they had been told of it from another source. They are deeply offended, as may be easily supposed. He has not behaved to them as he ought.”
“You will say nothing against Mr. Curtis, please.”
“But I must say something about him—Arthur! Have you any idea, Miss Bates, what Arthur has been to me? My companion since he was that height; my younger brother, my charge; nay, almost my child. And you tell me I am not to speak of him! Is it possible, do you think? My affection for Arthur gives me a right to say anything to him—or of him.”
“There is no one in the world,” she said, with her lips quivering, “who has so much right to him as me.”
Durant threw up his shoulders and his hands in the excitement of the moment. “So it appears,” he said, “so I suppose—though how it should be so, God knows, is the last of mysteries. Well! let us say he belongs to you, and that not his oldest friend, not his nearest relation, has a right to discuss him if you forbid. It is the wildest madness, but I suppose, as you say, it is true. And what then, Miss Bates? he will have you, but he will have nothing besides. Everyone else will be separated from him; his parents not only offended, but wounded to the heart; his friends alienated, his position lost. What will he be then, and what will he do? A man cannot be a lover and nothing else all his life. He would tire of that, and you would tire of it; but he will have nothing to fall back upon; and after all, if a man defies his parents and throws off their influence, why should they exert themselves to secure to him the means of defying them? They will not do it—why should they? and you will find that you have married poverty—helplessness—discontent.”
“And if I do,” she said, “will that show I am marrying for money? You bad man! You cruel friend! You go and tell everybody that it is because he will be rich—because I shall be my lady—that I am going to marry Arthur. How dare you! how dare you! But if this is how it is going to be, you will all find out different; you will find it is not for his money or for his rank. Go away!” she cried, clenching a hand which was small but strong, and full of impassioned energy; “go away! and don’t tell lies of me.”
Durant was impressed in spite of himself; he tried to smile, but could not, and he tried to be angry, but could not refrain from a certain half-respect, half-admiration.
“I tell no lies of you or anyone,” he said; “I warn you—”
“Warn me! of what? that I shall have a way of showing whether I’m true or not,” she said, “whether I’m good or not; and you think that will frighten me! Mr. Durant, if his mother sent you, you may go back and tell her what I say. You’ve dared me to give him up, and I won’t give him up; and if I were to give him up a hundred times it would make no difference, for he would not give up me. You can tell her all that. He can do without her, but he can’t do without me.”
“Do you think that is a kind thing to tell a mother?”
“I don’t care,” said Nancy, “you have said worse to me; and it’s true—and so it’s always true. I’d tell my own mother the same. What’s a mother? they didn’t choose to have us; they didn’t pick us out of the world; and now that we’re here we’ve got to do the best we can for ourselves. You may go where you like upon your missions, Mr. Durant, but not here—you shan’t come here; and if you come till doomsday you wouldn’t do any good, for they put more trust in me—and so they ought—than in a cunning lawyer like you. We know what lawyer means,” said the excited girl, once more shaking her small clenched fist in his face, “liar! and that’s seen in you.”
With this she turned and walked suddenly away, turning the corner of the high garden wall, and disappearing in a whirlwind of excitement and emotion, while he stood thunderstruck, staring after her. Durant stood still and stared, with his mouth open in the extremity of his surprise. He was too much startled even to be angry; but he was discomfited, there was no mistaking that sensation. As he stood looking after the excited girl, a sense of smallness, almost of baseness, came over him. He had wanted to save Arthur, but he had not taken the other human creature into consideration, who was just as important as Arthur to the world; and he had not realized the kind of being he had to deal with, when he had drawn up his own brief, as it were, and instructed himself in the line of argument to be pursued. Lawyer, liar! that was a sharp thorn. He was able to smile feebly at it, as he picked himself up and went slowly back to his inn; but he could not shake off the sense of failure—the sense of smallness and meanness that had come over him. Not only had he found a foeman worthy of his steel, but she had baffled him and put him to shame even in his own eyes.