Chapter XXXI. No, She Would Not

The Shuttle

by Francis Hodgson Burnett

Sir Nigel did not invite Rosalie to accompany them, when the next
morning, after breakfast, he reminded Betty of his suggestion of the
night before, that she should walk over the place with him, and show
him what had been done. He preferred to make his study of his
sister-in-law undisturbed.

There was no detail whose significance he missed as they went
about together. He had keen eyes and was a quite sufficiently
practical person on such matters as concerned his own interests. In
this case it was to his interest to make up his mind as to what he
might gain or lose by the appearance of his wife's family. He did
not mean to lose--if it could be helped-- anything either of personal
importance or material benefit. And it could only be helped by his
comprehending clearly what he had to deal with. Betty was, at
present, the chief factor in the situation, and he was sufficiently
astute to see that she might not be easy to read. His personal
theories concerning women presented to him two or three effective
ways of managing them. You made love to them, you flattered them
either subtly or grossly, you roughly or smoothly bullied them, or
you harrowed them with haughty indifference--if your love-making had
produced its proper effect--when it was necessary to lure or drive or
trick them into submission. Women should be made useful in one way
or another. Little fool as she was, Rosalie had been useful. He
had, after all was said and done, had some comparatively easy years
as the result of her existence. But she had not been useful enough,
and there had even been moments when he had wondered if he had made a
mistake in separating her entirely from her family. There might have
been more to be gained if he had allowed them to visit her and had
played the part of a devoted husband in their presence. A great
bore,

of course, but they could not have spent their entire lives at
Stornham. Twelve years ago, however, he had known very little of
Americans, and he had lost his temper. He was really very fond of
his temper, and rather enjoyed referring to it with tolerant regret
as being a bad one and beyond his control--with a manner which
suggested that the attribute was the inevitable result of strength of
character and masculine spirit. The luxury of giving way to it was a
great one, and it was exasperating as he walked about with this
handsome girl to find himself beginning to suspect that, where she
was concerned, some self- control might be necessary. He was led to
this thought because the things he took in on all sides could only
have been achieved by a person whose mind was a steadily-balanced
thing. In one's treatment of such a creature, methods must be well
chosen. The crudest had sufficed to overwhelm Rosalie. He tried two
or three little things as experiments during their walk.

The first was to touch with dignified pathos on the subject of
Ughtred. Betty, he intimated gently, could imagine what a man's
grief and disappointment might be on finding his son and heir
deformed in such a manner. The delicate reserve with which he
managed to convey his fear that Rosalie's own uncontrolled hysteric
attacks had been the cause of the misfortune was very well done. She
had, of course, been very young and much spoiled, and had not learned
self-restraint, poor girl.

It was at this point that Betty first realised a certain hideous
thing. She must actually remain silent--there would be at the outset
many times when she could only protect her sister by refraining from
either denial or argument. If she turned upon him now with
refutation, it was Rosy who would be called upon to bear the
consequences. He would go at once to Rosy, and she herself would
have done what she had said she would not do--she would have brought
trouble upon the poor girl before she was strong enough to bear it.
She suspected also that his intention was to discover how much she
had heard, and if she might be goaded into betraying her attitude in
the matter.

But she was not to be so goaded. He watched her closely and her
very colour itself seemed to be under her own control. He had
expected--if she had heard hysteric, garbled stories from his
wife--to see a flame of scarlet leap up on the cheek he was admiring.
There was no such leap, which was baffling in itself. Could it be
that experience had taught Rosalie the discretion of keeping her
mouth shut?

"I am very fond of Ughtred," was the sole comment he was
granted. "We made friends from the first. As he grows older and
stronger, his misfortune may be less apparent. He will be a very
clever man."

"He will be a very clever man if he is at all like----" He
checked himself with a slight movement of his shoulders. "I was
going to say a thing utterly banal. I beg your pardon. I forgot for
the moment that I was not talking to an English girl."

It was so stupid that she turned and looked at him, smiling
faintly. But her answer was quite mild and soft.

"Do not deprive me of compliments because I am a mere American,"
she said. "I am very fond of them, and respond at once."

"You are very daring," he said, looking straight into her
eyes--"deliciously so. American women always are, I think."

"The young devil," he was saying internally. "The beautiful
young devil! She throws one off the track."

He found himself more and more attracted and exasperated as they
made their rounds. It was his sense of being attracted which was the
cause of his exasperation. A girl who could stir one like this would
be a dangerous enemy. Even as a friend she would not be safe,
because one faced the absurd peril of losing one's head a little and
forgetting the precautions one should never lose sight of where a
woman was concerned--the precautions which provided for one's holding
a good taut rein in one's own hands.

They went from gardens to greenhouses, from greenhouses to
stables, and he was on the watch for the moment when she would reveal
some little feminine pose or vanity, but, this morning, at least, she
laid none bare. She did not strike him as a being of angelic
perfections, but she was very modern and not likely to show easily
any openings in her armour.

"Of course, I continue to be amazed," he commented, "though one
ought not to be amazed at anything which evolves from your
extraordinary country. In spite of your impersonal air, I shall
persist in regarding you as my benefactor. But, to be frank, I
always told Rosalie that if she would write to your father he would
certainly put things in order."

"She did write once, you will remember," answered Betty.

"Did she?" with courteous vagueness. "Really, I am afraid I did
not hear of it. My poor wife has her own little ideas about the
disposal of her income."

And Betty knew that she was expected to believe that Rosy had
hoarded the money sent to restore the place, and from sheer weak
miserliness had allowed her son's heritage to fall to ruin. And but
for Rosy's sake, she might have stopped upon the path and, looking at
him squarely, have said, "You are lying to me. And I know the
truth."

He continued to converse amiably.

"Of course, it is you one must thank, not only for rousing in
the poor girl some interest in her personal appearance, but also some
interest in her neighbours. Some women, after they marry and pass
girlhood, seem to release their hold on all desire to attract or
retain friends. For years Rosalie has given herself up to a chronic
semi-invalidism. When the mistress of a house is always depressed
and languid and does not return visits, neighbours become discouraged
and drop off, as it were."

If his wife had told stories to gain her sympathy his companion
would be sure to lose her temper and show her hand. If he could make
her openly lose her temper, he would have made an advance.

"One can quite understand that," she said. "It is a great
happiness to me to see Rosy gaining ground every day. She has taken
me out with her a good many times, and people are beginning to
realise that she likes to see them at Stornham."

"You are very delightful," he said, "with your `She has taken me
out.' When I glanced at the magnificent array of cards on the salver
in the hall, I realised a number of things, and quite vulgarly lost
my breath. The Dunholms have been very amiable in recalling our
existence. But charming Americans--of your order--arouse amiable
emotions."

"I am very amiable myself," said Betty.

It was he who flushed now. He was losing patience at feeling
himself held with such lightness at arm's length, and at being, in
spite of himself, somehow compelled to continue to assume a jocular
courtesy.

"No, you are not," he answered.

"Not?" repeated Betty, with an incredulous lifting of her
brows.

"You are charming and clever, but I rather suspect you of being
a vixen. At all events you are a spirited young woman and
quick-witted enough to understand the attraction you must have for
the sordid herd."

And then he became aware--if not of an opening in her armour--at
least of a joint in it. For he saw, near her ear, a deepening
warmth. That was it. She was quick-witted, and she hid somewhere a
hot pride.

"I confess, however," he proceeded cheerfully, "that
notwithstanding my own experience of the habits of the sordid herd, I
saw one card I was surprised to find, though really" --shrugging his
shoulders--"I ought to have been less surprised to find it than to
find any other. But it was bold. I suppose the fellow is
desperate."

"You are speaking of----?" suggested Betty.

"Of Mount Dunstan. Hang it all, it was bold!" As if in
half-amused disgust.

As she had walked through the garden paths, Betty had at
intervals bent and gathered a flower, until she held in one hand a
loose, fair sheaf. At this moment she stooped to break off a spire
of pale blue campanula. And she was--as with a shock --struck with a
consciousness that she bent because she must-- because to do so was a
refuge--a concealment of something she must hide. It had come upon
her without a second's warning. Sir Nigel was right. She was a
vixen--a virago. She was in such a rage that her heart sprang up and
down and her cheek and eyes were on fire. Her long-trained control
of herself was gone. And her shock was a lightning-swift awakening
to the fact that she felt all this--she must hide her face--because
it was this one man--just this one and no other--who was being
dragged into this thing with insult.

It was an awakening, and she broke off, rather slowly, one--
two--three--even four campanula stems before she stood upright
again.

As for Nigel Anstruthers--he went on talking in his low-
pitched, disgusted voice.

"Surely he might count himself out of the running. There will
be a good deal of running, my dear Betty. You fair Americans have
learned that by this time. But that a man who has not even a decent
name to offer--who is blackballed by his county--should coolly
present himself as a pretendant is an insolence he should be kicked
for."

Betty arranged her campanulas carefully. There was no exterior
reason why she should draw sword in Lord Mount Dunstan's defence. He
had certainly not seemed to expect anything intimately interested
from her. His manner she had generally felt to be rather restrained.
But one could, in a measure, express one's self.

"Whatsoever the `running,' " she remarked, "no pretendant has
complimented me by presenting himself, so far--and Lord Mount Dunstan
is physically an unusually strong man."

"You mean it would be difficult to kick him? Is this
partisanship? I hope not. Am I to understand," he added with
deliberation, "that Rosalie has received him here?"

"Yes."

"And that you have received him, also--as you have received Lord
Westholt?"

"Quite."

"Then I must discuss the matter with Rosalie. It is not to be
discussed with you."

"You mean that you will exercise your authority in the
matter?"

"In England, my dear girl, the master of a house is still
sometimes guilty of exercising authority in matters which concern the
reputation of his female relatives. In the absence of your father, I
shall not allow you, while you are under my roof, to endanger your
name in any degree. I am, at least, your brother by marriage. I
intend to protect you."

"Thank you," said Betty.

"You are young and extremely handsome, you will have an enormous
fortune, and you have evidently had your own way all your life. A
girl, such as you are, may either make a magnificent marriage or a
ridiculous and humiliating one. Neither American young women, nor
English young men, are as disinterested as they were some years ago.
Each has begun to learn what the other has to give."

"I think that is true," commented Betty.

"In some cases there is a good deal to be exchanged on both
sides. You have a great deal to give, and should get exchange worth
accepting. A beggared estate and a tainted title are not good
enough."

"That is businesslike," Betty made comment again.

Sir Nigel laughed quietly.

"The fact is--I hope you won't misunderstand my saying it--you
do not strike me as being un-businesslike, yourself."

"I am not," answered Betty.

"I thought not," rather narrowing his eyes as he watched her,
because he believed that she must involuntarily show her hand if he
irritated her sufficiently. "You do not impress me as being one of
the girls who make unsuccessful marriages. You are a modern New York
beauty--not an early Victorian sentimentalist." He did not despair
of results from his process of irritation. To gently but steadily
convey to a beautiful and spirited young creature that no man could
approach her without ulterior motive was rather a good idea. If one
could make it clear--with a casual air of sensibly taking it for
granted-- that the natural power of youth, wit, and beauty were
rendered impotent by a greatness of fortune whose proportions
obliterated all else; if one simply argued from the premise that
young love was no affair of hers, since she must always be regarded
as a gilded chattel, whose cost was writ large in plain figures, what
girl, with blood in her veins, could endure it long without wincing?
This girl had undue, and, as he regarded such matters, unseemly
control over her temper and her nerves, but she had blood enough in
her veins, and presently she would say or do something which would
give him a lead.

"When you marry----" he began.

She lifted her head delicately, but ended the sentence for him
with eyes which were actually not unsmiling.

"When I marry, I shall ask something in exchange for what I have
to give."

"If the exchange is to be equal, you must ask a great deal," he
answered. "That is why you must be protected from such fellows as
Mount Dunstan."

"If it becomes necessary, perhaps I shall be able to protect
myself," she said.

"Ah!" regretfully, "I am afraid I have annoyed you-- and that
you need protection more than you suspect." If she were flesh and
blood, she could scarcely resist resenting the implication contained
in this. But resist it she did, and with a cool little smile which
stirred him to sudden, if irritated, admiration.

She paused a second, and used the touch of gentle regret
herself.

"You have wounded my vanity by intimating that my admirers do
not love me for myself alone."

He paused, also, and, narrowing his eyes again, looked straight
between her lashes.

"They ought to love you for yourself alone," he said, in a low
voice. "You are a deucedly attractive girl."

"Oh, Betty," Rosy had pleaded, "don't make him angry --don't
make him angry."

So Betty lifted her shoulders slightly without comment.

"Shall we go back to the house now?" she said. "Rosalie will
naturally be anxious to hear that what has been done in your absence
has met with your approval."

In what manner his approval was expressed to Rosalie, Betty did
not hear this morning, at least. Externally cool though she had
appeared, the process had not been without its results, and she felt
that she would prefer to be alone.

"I must write some letters to catch the next steamer," she said,
as she went upstairs.

When she entered her room, she went to her writing table and sat
down, with pen and paper before her. She drew the paper towards her
and took up the pen, but the next moment she laid it down and gave a
slight push to the paper. As she did so she realised that her hand
trembled.

"I must not let myself form the habit of falling into rages--or
I shall not be able to keep still some day, when I ought to do it,"
she whispered. "I am in a fury--a fury." And for a moment she
covered her face.

She was a strong girl, but a girl, notwithstanding her powers.
What she suddenly saw was that, as if by one movement of some
powerful unseen hand, Rosy, who had been the centre of all things,
had been swept out of her thought. Her anger at the injustice done
to Rosy had been as nothing before the fire which had flamed in her
at the insult flung at the other. And all that was undue and
unbalanced. One might as well look the thing straightly in the face.
Her old child hatred of Nigel Anstruthers had sprung up again in
ten-fold strength. There was, it was true, something abominable
about him, something which made his words more abominable than they
would have been if another man had uttered them--but, though it was
inevitable that his method should rouse one, where those of one's own
blood were concerned, it was not enough to fill one with raging flame
when his malignity was dealing with those who were almost strangers.
Mount Dunstan was almost a stranger--she had met Lord Westholt
oftener. Would she have felt the same hot beat of the blood, if Lord
Westholt had been concerned? No, she answered herself frankly, she
would not.