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A Marriage
by
These were some of his arguments. But then, too, he had developed the domestic affections to a surprising degree, and if his first passion for Nettie were somewhat assuaged, he had a much more tender feeling for her now than in the beginning. And he was devoted to his little daughter; a devotion which a few months ago he would have sworn he was incapable of feeling for any so uninteresting an animal as a baby. He reproached himself bitterly for having placed her at such a disadvantage in life as illegitimacy entails; he felt that he ought at least to give the expected child all the rights which a legal recognition can confer.
His chief argument, however, was that he had sinned, and that in marriage lay the only reparation; and let a man persuade himself that a certain course of action is the one righteous, the one honourable course to take and–more particularly if it jumps with his own private inclinations–nothing can deter him from it.
“Not even French proverbs,” laughed West into his beard.
“Come down and see her,” Catterson urged, and West, moved by a natural curiosity, as well as by a desire to oblige his friend, agreed to meet him that evening at Waterloo, that they might go down together.
His soul being eased by confession, Catterson regained at once the buoyant good spirits which were natural to him, but which, of late, secret anxieties and perturbation of mind had overshadowed completely. For when depressed he touched deeper depths of depression than his neighbour, in exact proportion to the unusual height and breadth of his gaiety in moments of elation.
Now he enlivened the journey out from town, by cascades of exuberant talk, filling up the infrequent pauses with snatches of love-songs: the music-hall love-songs of the day.
Yet as the train approached Teddington, he fell into silence again. A new anxiety began to dominate him: the anxiety that West should be favourably impressed by Nettie Hooper. His manner became more nervous, his stammer increased; a red spot burned on either cheek. He could not keep his thoughts or his speech from the coming interview.
“She doesn’t talk much,” he explained, as they walked along the summer sunset roads; “she’s very shy; but you mustn’t on that account imagine she’s not glad to see you. She’s very much interested in you. She wants to meet you very much.”
“Of course she’s not what’s called a lady,” he began again; ” her people don’t count at all. She, herself, wants to drop them. But you would never discover she wasn’t one. She has a perfect accent, a perfect pronunciation. And she is so wonderfully modest and refined. I assure you, I’ve kn
own very few real ladies to compare to her.”
He eulogised her economy, her good management.”My money goes twice as far since she has had the spending of it. She’s so clever, and you can’t think how well she cooks. She has learned it from the old lady with whom we lodge. Mrs. Baker is devoted to Nettie, would do anything for her, thinks there’s no one like her in the world. And then she makes all her own clothes, and is better dressed than any girl I see, although they only cost her a few shillings.”
He sang the praises of her sweetness, of her gentleness, of her domesticity.”She’s so absolutely unselfish; such a devoted mother to our little girl; and yet, she’s scarcely more than a child herself. She won’t be nineteen till next April.”
All which encomiums and dozens more wearied West’s ear, without giving him any clear conception of their subject. He was thankful when Catterson suddenly broke off with, “Here we are, this is Rose Cottage.”