Nettie made no reply, but carried off her children to the cottage door, turned them peremptorily in, and issued her last orders. “If you make a noise, you shall not go,” said Nettie; and then came back alert, with her rapid fairy steps, to Miss Wodehouse’s side.
“Does not their mother take any charge of them?” faltered the gentle inquisitor. “I never can understand you young people, Nettie. Things were different in my days. Do you think it’s quite the best thing to do other people’s duties for them, dear? and now I’m so sorry—oh, so sorry—to hear what you are going to do now.”
“Susan is delicate,” said Nettie. “She never had any health to speak of—I mean, she always got better, you know, but never had any pleasure in it. There must be a great deal in that,” continued Nettie, reflectively; “it never comes into my head to think whether I am ill or well; but poor Susan has always had to be thinking of it. Yes, I shall have to take them away,” she added again, after a pause. “I am sorry, very sorry too, Miss Wodehouse. I did not think at one time that I had the heart to do it. But on the whole, you know, it seems so much better for them. Susan will be stronger out there, and I have not money enough to give the children a very good education. They will just have to push their way like the others; and in the colony, you know, things are so different. I have no doubt in my own mind now that it will be best for them all.”
“But, Nettie, Nettie, what of yourself? will it be best for you?” cried Miss Wodehouse, looking earnestly in her face.
“What is best for them will be best for me,” said Nettie, with a little impatient movement of her head. She said so with unfaltering spirit and promptitude. She had come to be impatient of the dreary maze in which she was involved. “If one must break one’s heart, it is best to do it at once and have done with it,” said Nettie, under her breath.
“What was that you said about your heart?” said Miss Wodehouse. “Ah, my dear, that is what I wanted to speak of. You are going to be married, Nettie, and I wanted to suggest to you, if you won’t be angry. Don’t you think you could make some arrangement about your sister and her family, dear?—not to say a word against the Australian gentleman, Nettie, whom, of course, I don’t know. A man may be the best of husbands, and yet not be able to put up with a whole family. I have no doubt the children are very nice clever children, but their manner is odd, you know, for such young creatures. You have been sacrificing yourself for them all this time; but remember what I say—if you want to live happily, my dear, you’ll have to sacrifice them to your husband. I could not be content without saying as much to you, Nettie. I never was half the good in this world that you are, but I am nearly twice as old—and one does pick up some little hints on the way. That is what you must do, Nettie. Make some arrangement, dear. If he has promised to take them out with you, that is all right enough; but when you come to settle down in your new home, make some arrangement dear.”
When Miss Wodehouse arrived breathless at the conclusion of a speech so unusually long for her, she met Nettie’s eyes flashing upon her with the utmost surprise and curiosity. “I shall never marry anybody,” said Nettie. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t say anything so foolish,” said Miss Wodehouse, a little nettled. “Do you suppose I don’t know and see that Mr. Chatham coming and going? How often has he been seen since the first time, Nettie? and do you suppose it’s all been benevolence? My dear, I know better.”
Nettie looked up with a startled glance. She did not blush, nor betray any pleasant consciousness. She cast one dismayed look back towards the cottage, and another at Miss Wodehouse. “Can that be why he comes?” said Nettie, with quiet horror. “Indeed, I never thought of it before—but all the same, I shall never marry anybody. Do you imagine,” cried the brilliant creature, flashing round upon poor Miss Wodehouse, so as to dazzle and confuse that gentlewoman, “that a man has only to intend such a thing and it’s all settled? I think differently. Twenty thousand Chathams would not move me. I shall never marry anybody, if I live to be as old as—as you, or Methuselah, or anybody. It is not my lot. I shall take the children out to Australia, and do the best I can for them. Three children want a great deal of looking after—and after a while in Carlingford, you will all forget that there ever was such a creature as Nettie. No, I am not crying. I never cry. I should scorn to cry about it. It is simply my business. That is what it is. One is sorry, of course, and now and then it feels hard, and all that. But what did one come into the world for, I should like to know? Does anybody suppose it was just to be comfortable, and have one’s own way? I have had my own way a great deal—more than most people. If I get crossed in some things, I have to bear it. That is all I am going to say. I have
