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.

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.

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.