DURANT felt that after this shock he needed a little quiet, to re-establish him in his former thoughts. Mr. Eagles had assailed him like a charge of cavalry. He laughed, yet he was shaken. It was not in his power to take away his man; indeed he was in the most uncomfortable position possible, supposed to hold an official position in respect to Arthur, and, indeed, endowed with powers of remonstrance and reproof, but with no authority—the most difficult of all circumstances. He could neither take away his man, nor even oblige that man to hear reason, and yet he was more or less responsible for him; and to crown all, his man had quarrelled with him, and shaken off even the ties of affection which had hitherto bound them. This, it is true, did not affect him so much as it might have done had he been less familiar with Arthur, who he knew could never stand out or maintain the separation. To be sure, Arthur, backed up by a new family, and with the possible evil animus of “a set of women” added to his personal offence, was a person as yet unknown to his friend; and though Durant was kind, and did not think evil of others, yet he was not able to divest himself of the natural prepossession against the “set of women” whose ideas henceforward must, more or less, inspire Arthur. It is a compliment at least to the mental power of women that this is the first thought that springs into anyone’s head when a man makes, or is understood to be about to make, an unsuitable marriage. The man may be wiser, cleverer, infinitely of more importance than the woman as a moral being; but the whole inspiration of his conduct is instantly believed to be hers. Durant had not a notion what was the mental calibre of Nancy Bates. On the surface, of course, it could only be taken for granted that a member of the educated classes, a University man, would count for more than an untaught girl, the daughter of ignorant people. But nobody thinks so, and Durant was like everyone else. He began to wonder what sort of people the Bates’ were, and finally determined to go and see them according to the invitation of last night. He might as well feign a little even, with this admirable motive, and show himself friendly by way of being as unfriendly as possible. He was not quite sure of the moral grandeur of the proceeding. Take it all in all, indeed, the effort to seduce Arthur from his allegiance before their very eyes, so to speak; to beguile him into breaking his word and renouncing his plighted faith, was not, on the surface, a highly moral proceeding. But yet Durant, when he came, had been unable to conceive anything more desirable than this. If he could only have succeeded in persuading Arthur to do it, it would not only have left no weight on his conscience, but he would have felt that he had done well. The girl herself! What of the girl herself? She was a gambler, playing for high stakes. As for feeling on her part, who was at all likely to take that into consideration? Certainly when Lewis Durant did not (and it never occurred to him), it was extremely unlikely that any one else would.
This thought, however, having got into his mind, he resolved on carrying it out. He would go and see these people, and find out whether anything could be done with them, and again (with a smile) he thought of Major Pendennis and his most successful negotiations. These were the tactics the Major adopted, and they had proved excellently adapted for the purpose. The circumstances, however, were evidently different. Nothing could be said of Arthur Curtis, unless his friend was prepared to lie in his behalf, which would shake the confidence of the girl’s family in the advantages of the marriage. He was Sir John’s only son, the estates were entailed, there was but one sister to share even the personal property of the family, and Lady Curtis was very well off in her own right. Anything that could be said, would only make the Bates family more certain that Nancy had done an admirable thing for herself, so admirable that nothing should be allowed to stand in her way. Howsoever the lover’s friends might object, nothing could be done to do away altogether with the advantages of the marriage, and Durant felt that the family would be fools indeed to allow any meddler like himself to affect their action in the matter. Still people are fools now and then, notwithstanding the strong hold of self-interest, and might be beguiled into a false step, notwithstanding that every inducement was on the other side. All this passed through Durant’s mind, and he did not blush at the thought. It seemed to him quite justifiable, nay, laudable. It was to save Arthur; if he could save Arthur by deceiving others, what then? And as for the girl! Talk of hearts, if you please, in other conditions of life, but the heart of a village girl who beguiles a gentleman into falling in love with her! Honest, honourable, and true as he was, Durant, strangely enough, had still no compunction there. Could he have broken Arthur’s troth-plight like a wand, he would have been delighted with himself.
He did not know his way very well, having threaded a number of small dark streets, in the rain, the night before, led by the vague directions of various officious guides; but he had a notion in which direction it was, and he had abundance of time before him. He had not gone very far, indeed, before he met an individual who might easily have guided him, and whom he passed with a curious consciousness that here would be the most vulnerable member of the family—no less a person than Mr. Bates himself; a little stout man in a large white neckcloth, with a book in his hand, and an appearance of ink spots about him, which betrayed the existence of what is euphemistically called writing materials somewhere about his person. The expression of his face was not less characteristic of his profession. No softening atmosphere of rum was about him now. His face was red, probably from those long continued, though moderate evening indulgences, and his lips were pursed up and tight. He looked the kind of man whose proceedings would be summary, who would take no excuses, who would be rigid as fate in the punctuality of his applications. Durant watched him furtively from the other side of the street; and the conclusion to which he came was that Mr. Bates, though obdurate with his district, would be incapable of standing an assault from anyone of superior condition; and however arbitrary he might be to a defaulter in rates, would not venture to withstand a Sir John, should he demand the sacrifice of his Iphigenia. Should he approach him at once, thus unprotected, in the middle of his duties, and frighten him into a promise to shut his doors upon Arthur? For a moment Durant hesitated; for, in the first place, he was not Sir John, and in the second place, he distrusted the power of the tax-gatherer to contend with “those women.” To subdue the women themselves was a more desperate piece of work, but it would be more effectual were it done. With this conclusion, he went on making his way in the direction which he supposed the right one. He would not awaken curiosity by inquiring, and he had abundant time, as it was still early. The forenoon was bright and genial, but the place was very quiet. The men had been swept out of it by the morning train. Except Mr. Bates, and the butchers and bakers, and a stray parson of the High Church sect, who blocked out a large piece of sunshine with his cassock and cloak, there was no one visible, for it was too early for the female population to leave the business of their houses. He was sure to find all the females of the Bates’ family, he thought, in the stuffy little parlour, with probably some preparations for dinner going on side by side with the bonnet making. And the heroine, what might she be doing?—not seated on the sofa, nor love-making he hoped; the bonnet was better than that. He made several little pictures of her in his imagination, now standing upon her dignity as engaged to a gentleman, putting on a multitude of little airs, lording it over her sisters. No doubt this was how she would show her success. He knew nothing whatever about Nancy, but as his object was to destroy her hopes, he represented her to himself, unconsciously, as affected by the very poorest version possible of these hopes. It was natural. While, however, he was pursuing these thoughts and his way together, he suddenly encountered, coming round a corner, one of the sisters, whom he had met on the previous night. They came so suddenly upon each other, that both paused, with the slight shock of almost personal contact.
“Oh, Mr. Durant!” cried Sarah Jane.
She blushed “to be caught” in her cotton frock and shabby hat, running out in the morning—not such was the apparel in which she would have chosen to be seen by a gentleman—but Sarah Jane was a born flirt, and even her frock did not subdue her. She would not lose the opportunity. And to tell the truth, the cotton frock was much more becoming, had she known it, than the cheap travesties of “the fashion” which she generally wore.
“I am very glad to have met you, Miss Bates,” he said. “I was trying to find the way to your house.”
“Oh, la!” said Sarah Jane, her eyes dancing. This was something to the purpose, for why should he come to the house so soon but for some reason? And it could not be Matilda. “But I ain’t Miss Bates, I’m the youngest,” she said. “If you’ll just come two or three steps down this street first, I’ll show you the way. I’ve got some ribbon to match—look here, Matty’s new Sunday bonnet—but I shan’t be a moment, and I’ll show you the way.”
Durant consented; it seemed to him the best chance he could have had of acquiring information. He turned and walked down the street by the side of the girl, who was half-wild with pride and pleasure. She could see one or two faces glance out through shop-windows with surprise and envy. To be seen walking along the street with such a gentleman-like-looking man! There was nobody in Underhayes, except Arthur, who looked so distinguished, not even Colonel Hooker, who was supposed by everybody to be the glass of fashion. This was a delusion of fancy on Sarah Jane’s part, for Durant’s appearance was nowise remarkable; but as life is but thought, the idea was quite as good to her as if it had been true.
“I go all the messages,” said Sarah Jane. “I think it is very hard, especially as the girl is there, doing next to nothing; but they say they can’t trust the girl. Girls are very queer; they are not to be depended upon. I am sure, the trouble mamma has with ours!”
They had not kept a girl very long, and Sarah Jane was still a little proud of it as of a sign of social distinction. She turned to her new friend for sympathy, though reflecting, as she did so, that probably he was living in lodgings, and had not in his own person either the pride or the difficulty of managing a servant of any kind.
“Yes,” said Durant; “I agree with you, Miss Bates. Girls, so far as I have seen them, are very queer.”
“Ain’t they?” cried Sarah Jane, relieved as to his circumstances, of which a momentary doubt had crossed her mind; “never to be relied on, and eating, ma says, as much as any two of us. So I go to the shops. I don’t mind it, generally; and then if I didn’t go, who would? Matilda has no eyes. She never sees when a thing doesn’t match; and Nancy, you know, she’s always either with Arthur, or doing something for him. I daresay he’s there now.”
“Is he there all day? That must be rather a bore for you.”
“That’s what I always say, Mr. Durant. I daresay Nancy may like it, for, of course, he is her young man; but we can’t do a thing like we used, with him always there. I wish to goodness gracious they were married. Our parlour is a very nice room, but it’s too small to have these two continually there. Mamma always will call it a parlour, though drawing-room is so much better.”
“I prefer parlour.”
“Do you now? how funny! All our friends say drawing-room, though I think, after all, they oughtn’t to, as we take our meals there. It is such a trouble running in and out from one room to another, and keeping up two fires. At least, I should not think it a trouble, but mamma does. She likes her old-fashioned ways. Will Arthur be very rich, Mr. Durant, and will he be a baronet when his father dies?”
“He will certainly be a baronet when his father dies.”
“What luck for Nancy!” cried Sarah Jane; “and she met him just by chance, you know, as I might meet—anyone in the street.” She had intended to say “you,” but paused in time. “When old Aunt Anna died, it was her she left everything to, all her funny old dresses, and her money. Perhaps you did not know that she was the rich one? People say it is a shame, and that Matilda should have got it, as she is the eldest; but Matilda isn’t so kind as Nancy. I should not have got any good of it if Matilda had been the heiress. But fancy! when Nancy gets a dress for herself, she always gets one for me too, so I am just as well off as though the money were mine.”
“That is very kind of Miss Bates,” said Durant, not seeing how to find his way through all this prattle, and a little impatient of the long detour.
“She is not Miss Bates; she’s the second, next to me; and I think—if you will not tell anyone—that when she marries Arthur, who is rich, she will give up her legacy. I don’t know if it will be to me; I wish it might be to me—not that I should keep it all to myself; but it is so nice to have it all in one’s hands, and make the rest feel under obligations to you. Don’t you think it is very nice? Especially Matilda. I should like to say to her, ‘Matilda, dear, shouldn’t you like a new bonnet?’ Oh, what fun it would be! and her looks between wanting the bonnet and not wanting to have it from me.”
“It would be amusing, no doubt,” said Durant; “but do you think it is quite sure that Mr. Curtis will be so rich? I should think it would be better for your sister to keep her money, for she will have a great many expenses.”
“Oh, you nasty, unkind, mean—that’s not what I was going to say,” cried Sarah Jane; “but, dear me, you told me yourself Arthur was rich! Ain’t he a baronet’s son? What does he want with her little bit of money? I should be ashamed, myself, of taking money with my wife when I didn’t want it, if I was a rich gentleman. I call that mean.”
“But perhaps Mr. Curtis is not so rich as you think,” said Durant. “His father is not an old man; there is no reason why Sir John should not live for twenty years or more.”
“Twenty years or more!” cried Sarah Jane, turning upon him eyes that were full of dismay. She stopped short in the street to turn round and fix upon him her alarmed gaze. “Do you mean to say that Nancy—do you mean to tell me that Arthur?—But that would be no better than marrying anyone else. Just Missis, like everybody! Why Nancy!—Nancy will never give in to that.”
“I thought that probably you were deceiving yourselves,” said Durant, with some complacency, wondering at this depth of ignorance indeed, but extremely pleased with himself for having divined it, and thus finding a means of working. “Miss Nancy, if she marries Mr. Curtis, will be plain Missis, as you say, for all the world as if she had married the grocer at the corner.”
“Oh, the grocer! that is what she is never likely to do,” cried Miss Sarah Jane, with a conscious look towards the corner. The grocer was standing at the door in his apron—a good-looking young man, whose eyes were fixed, as Durant saw with some amusement, on himself, and with a decidedly hostile look. Miss Sarah Jane gave him a nod of airy fascination across the street. Perhaps but for this conversation she would not have been so gracious. Durant perceived that he himself was being presented in the light of a possible rival to the young tradesman, of whom he had spoken so lightly, and it was all he could do to keep his gravity in this very novel and unexpected conjuncture. He made an effort, however, and went on.
“You must know,” he said, “that an independent poor man like that very good-looking grocer—”
“Oh, poor! none so poor! he is better off than many folks that make a deal more show,” said Sarah Jane.
“That is precisely what I was going to say. An independent man in his position, may be really in much better circumstances than the son of a more important person. Sir John Curtis is not a man to be trifled with,” Durant went on, with a momentary half-amused compunction for this cruel slander upon poor Sir John. “He is stern in his own views; he is capable of withdrawing his son’s allowance altogether if he is dissatisfied with his marriage. I am very sorry to alarm you, but I feared you might be under some delusion, and this was what I wanted to say.”
Sarah Jane’s eyes had been growing wider and wider with alarm and wonder. She turned round upon her heel as upon a pivot.
“Now I think of it,” she said, “Matilda had better come and match her ribbon herself. It is only for the strings, and the bonnet is not more than half done—and, please, come and tell all this to mother yourself. Nancy’s a dear,” said the girl, with a look which entirely changed her aspect to her sympathetic companion. “She may have her faults, but she’s always been kind, and I can’t bear that she should be deceived. Come and tell it to them at home. Mother knows a deal—she’s cleverer than any of us; she’ll know if you’re right or wrong; but I won’t have Nancy put upon, not—” cried the girl, with a vehemence of regard which only the strongest asseveration could justify—“not if I was never to have another new dress for years and years!”