Here the good fellow paused, afraid to venture any further. Nettie looked up in a sudden blaze, and transfixed him with her eye.
“We have enough for everything we want, thank you,” said Nettie, looking through and through his guilty benevolent intentions, and bringing a flush of confusion to his honest cheeks. “When I say I cannot afford anything, I don’t mean to ask anybody’s assistance, Mr. Chatham. We can do very well by ourselves. If it came to be best for the children—or if Susan keeps on wishing it, and gets her own way, as she generally does,” said Nettie, with heightened colour, dropping her eyes, and going on at double speed with her work, “I daresay we shall manage it as we did before. But that is my concern. Nobody in the world has anything to do with it but me.”
“Oh, Nettie, dear, you’re giving in at last!—do say you’ll go! and Mr. Chatham promises he’ll take care of us on the way,” cried Mrs. Fred, clasping her hands. They were thin hands, and looked delicate in contrast with her black dress. She was very interesting, pathetic, and tender to the rough eyes of the Bushranger. He thought that imperative little creature opposite, with her brilliant glances, her small head drooping under those heavy braids of hair, her tiny figure and rapid fingers, looked like a little cruel sprite oppressing the melancholy soul. When Nettie rose from the table, goaded into sudden intolerance by that appeal, the climax of the “continual dropping,” and threw her work indignantly on the table, and called Freddy to come directly, and get dressed for his walk, the impression made by her supposed arbitrary and imperious behaviour was not diminished. She went out disdainful, making no reply, and left those two to a private conference. Then Mrs. Fred unbosomed her bereaved heart to that sympathetic stranger. She told him how different everything was now—how hard it was to be dependent even on one’s sister—how far otherwise things might have been, if poor dear Fred had been more prudent: one way or other, all her life through, Susan had been an injured woman. All her desire was to take the children back to the colony before she died. “If Nettie would but yield!” sighed Mrs. Fred, clasping her hands.
“Nettie must yield!” cried the Bushranger, full of emotion; and Susan cried a little, and told him how much the poor dear children wished it; and knew in her fool’s heart that she had driven Nettie to the extremest bounds of patience, and that a little more persistence and iteration would gain the day.
In the meantime Nettie went out with Freddy—the other two being at school—and took him across the fields for his afternoon walk. The little fellow talked of Australia all the way, with a childish treachery and betrayal of her cause which went to Nettie’s heart. She walked by his side, hearing without listening, throbbing all over with secret disgust, impatience, and despair. She too perceived well enough the approaching crisis. She saw that once more all her own resolution—the purpose of her heart—would be overborne by the hopeless pertinacity of the unconvincible, unreasoning fool. She did not call her sister hard names—she recognised the quality without giving it its appropriate title—and recognised also, with a bitterness of resistance, yet a sense of the inevitable, not to be described, the certain issue of the unequal contest. What chance had the generous little heart, the hasty temper, the quick and vivacious spirit, against that unwearying, unreasoning pertinacity? Once more she must arise, and go forth to the end of the world: and the sacrifice must be final now.
XIV
“Well, it’s to be hoped she’s going to do well for herself—that’s all we’ve got to do with it, eh? I suppose so,” said Mr. Wodehouse; “she’s nothing to you, is she, but a little girl you’ve taken a deal of notice of?—more notice than was wanted, if I am any judge. If she does go and marry this fellow from Australia, and he’s willing to take the whole bundle back to where they came from, it is the best thing that could happen, in my opinion. Sly young dog, that doctor, though, I must say—don’t you think so? Well, that’s how it appears to me. Let’s see; there was Bessie—; hum! perhaps it’s as well, in present circumstances, to name no names. There was her, in the first instance, you know; and the way he got out of that was beautiful; it was what I call instructive, was that. And then—why then, there was Miss Marjoribanks, you know—capital match that—just the thing for young Rider—set him up for life.”
“Papa, pray—pray don’t talk nonsense,” said Miss Wodehouse, with gentle indignation. “Miss Marjoribanks is at least ten years—”
“Oh, stuff!—keep your old-maidish memory to yourself, Molly; who cares for a dozen years or so? Hasn’t she all the old Scotchman’s practice and his savings?—and a fine woman yet—a fine woman, eh? Well, yes, I think so; and then here’s this little wretch of a sister-in-law. Why, the doctor’s taken your role, Wentworth, eh? Well, I suppose what ought to be your role, you know, though I have seen you casting glances at the strange little creature yourself.”
“Indeed, I assure you, you are entirely mistaken,” said Mr. Wentworth, hastily, with a sudden flush of either indignation or guilt. The curate glanced at Lucy Wodehouse, who was walking demurely by his side, but who certainly did prick up her ears at this little bit of news. She saw very well that he had looked at her, but would take no notice of his glance. But Lucy’s curiosity was notably quickened, notwithstanding; St. Roque’s Cottage was wonderfully handy, if the perpetual curate of the pretty suburban church saw anything worth visiting there. Lucy drew up her pretty shoulders in her grey sister-of-mercy cloak, and opened her blue eyes a little wider. She was still in circumstances
