sympathy with a well-meaning fellow creature who might feel himself snubbed, she could have shaken him by the hand. She had even parted her lips to venture a word of civility when she was startled by hearing Sir Nigel's voice raised in angry rating.
“Damned bad management not to bring something else,” she heard. “Kind of thing you fellows are always doing.”
She made her way to the carriage, flurried again by not knowing whether she was doing right or wrong. Sir Nigel had given her no instructions and she had not yet learned that when he was in a certain humour there was equal fault in obeying or disobeying such orders as he gave.
The carriage from the Court—not in the least a new or smart equipage—was drawn up before the entrance of the station and Sir Nigel was in a rage because the vehicle brought for the luggage was too small to carry it all.
“Very sorry, Sir Nigel,” said the coachman, touching his hat two or three times in his agitation. “Very sorry. The omnibus was a little out of order—the springs, Sir Nigel—and I thought——”
“You thought!” was the heated interruption. “What right had you to think, damn it! You are not paid to think, you are paid to do your work properly. Here are a lot of damned boxes which ought to go with us and—where's your maid?” wheeling round upon his wife.
Rosalie turned towards the woman, who was approaching from the waiting room.
“Hannah,” she said timorously.
“Drop those confounded bundles,” ordered Sir Nigel, “and show James the boxes her ladyship is obliged to have this evening. Be quick about it and don't pick out half a dozen. The cart can't take them.”
Hannah looked frightened. This sort of thing was new to her, too. She shuffled her packages on to a seat and followed the footman to the luggage. Sir Nigel continued rating the coachman. Any form of violent self-assertion was welcome to him at any time, and when he was irritated he found it a distinct luxury to kick a dog or throw a boot at a cat. The springs of the omnibus, he argued, had no right to be broken when it was known that he was coming home. His anger was only added to by the coachman's halting endeavours in his excuses to veil a fact he knew his master was aware of, that everything at Stornham was more or less out of order, and that dilapidations were the inevitable result of there being no money to pay for repairs. The man leaned forward on his box and spoke at last in a low tone.
“The bus has been broken some time,” he said. “It's—it's an expensive job, Sir Nigel. Her ladyship thought it better to——” Sir Nigel turned white about the mouth.
“Hold your tongue,” he commanded, and the coachman got red in the face, saluted, biting his lips, and sat very stiff and upright on his box.
The station master edged away uneasily and tried to look as if he were not listening. But Rosalie could see that he could not help hearing, nor could the country people who had been passengers by the train and who were collecting their belongings and getting into their traps.
Lady Anstruthers was ignored and remained standing while the scene went on. She could not help recalling the manner in which she had been invariably received in New York on her return from any journey, how she was met by comfortable, merry people and taken care of at once. This was so strange, it was so queer, so different.
“Oh, never mind, Nigel dear,” she said at last, with innocent indiscretion. “It doesn't really matter, you know.”
Sir Nigel turned upon her a blaze of haughty indignation.
“If you'll pardon my saying so, it does matter,” he said. “It matters confoundedly. Be good enough to take your place in the carriage.”
He moved to the carriage door, and not too civilly put her in. She gasped a little for breath as she sat down. He had spoken to her as if she had been an impertinent servant who had taken a liberty. The poor girl was bewildered to the verge of panic. When he had ended his tirade and took his place beside her he wore his most haughtily intolerant air.
“May I request that in future you will be good enough not to interfere when I am reproving my servants,” he remarked.
“I didn't mean to interfere,” she apologised tremulously.
“I don't know what you meant. I only know what you did,” was his response. “You American women are too fond of cutting in. An Englishman can think for himself without his wife's assistance.”
The tears rose to her eyes. The introduction of the international question overpowered her as always.
“Don't begin to be hysterical,” was the ameliorating tenderness with which he observed the two hot salt drops which fell despite her. “I should scarcely wish to present you to my mother bathed in tears.”
She wiped the salt drops hastily away and sat for a moment silent in the corner of the carriage. Being wholly primitive and unanalytical, she was ashamed and began to blame herself. He was right. She must not be silly because she was unused to things. She ought not to be disturbed by trifles. She must try to be nice and look cheerful. She made an effort and did no speak for a few minutes. When she had recovered herself she tried again.
“English country is so pretty,” she said, when she thought she was quite sure that her voice would not tremble. “I do so like the hedges and the darling little red-roofed cottages.”
It was an innocent tentative at saying something agreeable which might propitiate him. She was beginning to realise that she was continually making efforts to propitiate him. But one of the forms of unpleasantness most enjoyable to him was the snubbing of any gentle effort at palliating his mood. He condescended in this case no response whatever, but merely continued staring contemptuously before him.
“It is so picturesque, and so unlike America,” was the pathetic little commonplace she ventured next. “Ain't it, Nigel?”
He turned his head slowly towards her, as if she had taken a new liberty in disturbing his meditations.
“Wha—at?” he drawled.
It was almost too much for her to sustain herself under. Her courage collapsed.
“I was only saying how pretty the cottages were,” she faltered. “And that there's nothing like this in America.”
“You ended your remark by adding, 'ain't it,'” her husband condescended. “There is nothing like that in England. I shall ask you to do me the favour of leaving Americanisms out of your conversation when you are in the society of English ladies and gentlemen. It won't do.”
“I didn't know I said it,” Rosy answered feebly.
“That is the difficulty,” was his response. “You never know, but educated people do.”
There was nothing more to be said, at least for a girl who had never known what it was to be bullied. This one felt like a beggar or a scullery maid, who, being rated by her master, had not the refuge of being able to “give warning.” She could never give warning. The Atlantic Ocean was between her and those who had loved and protected her all her short life, and the carriage was bearing her onwards to the home in which she was to live alone as this man's companion to the end of her existence.
She made no further propitiatory efforts, but sat and stared in simple blankness at
