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Title: Nora; vol. 1 [of 3]
Author: Lady Emily Ponsonby
Release date: August 27, 2026 [eBook #79461]
Language: English
Original publication: London: Hurst and Blackett, 1870
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NORA; VOL. 1 [OF 3] ***
NORA.
VOL. I.
NORA.
BY
THE LADY EMILY PONSONBY,
AUTHOR OF
“THE DISCIPLINE OF LIFE,”
&c. &c.
Fierce passions discompose the mind
As tempests lash the sea.
COWPER.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS,
13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.
1870.
_The right of Translation is reserved._
LONDON:
PRINTED BY MACDONALD AND TUGWELL, BLENHEIM HOUSE,
BLENHEIM STREET, OXFORD STREET.
NORA.
CHAPTER I.
“A little girl!--oh! goodness me!” exclaimed an old gentleman to himself
as he sat at breakfast.
An old gentleman, so he was called, and called himself, but he was only
fifty-eight, and hale and healthy. He was seated on a high-backed chair
with a tray before him. One muffin and four thin bits of toast composed
his breakfast this day, and every day. He was thin and spare; his
complexion was drab, his hair speckled drab and grey. His brows were
shaggy, his mouth was large, and his nose ended in a knob. Yet this
ungainly old gentleman--for ungainly he certainly was--had a kind of
attraction about him. He was so ugly that the fact of ugliness was
accepted as inevitable, and then came the surprise of a charm. Wherein
lay the charm it was hard to say. He was, and he looked, peevish, and
crabbed, and sour, and yet the kind heart that was buried beneath all
these human infirmities found a means of peering out.
Mr. Smythe, for this was his name, was a London merchant. He had a
fortune which people who liked to use large words called princely; and
because he made but little show with this princely fortune, people who
liked to use hard words called him a miser. But these last were few. As
the kind heart gleamed out of the ugly face, so did the generous nature
out of a cold kind of life. He was one of those who so hated show, who
were so innately modest in their charity, that they tried to deceive
with an appearance of niggardliness; exulting when they could deceive,
and most of all trying to deceive themselves. He therefore did good
irregularly; by stealth, by snatches; at every fresh act of charity
assuring himself it was for the last time.
To return to the beginning of the chapter. On each side of the
breakfast-tray, this morning and every morning, letters and papers were
laid. Letters on one side, printed papers on the other. Never was Mr.
Smythe’s face more peevish than at this moment of the day. He touched
his letters as if they burnt him, and some were laid apart with a look
which may be seen on board a steamer. These were the begging letters,
from individuals known or unknown, and it was to resist these that he
put on his sour morning face.
The letter that caused his exclamation was not a regular begging letter.
It contained a request, indeed, and from almost a stranger; but it was
not a begging letter. In some of Mr. Smythe’s mercantile transactions he
had made the acquaintance of a gentleman living abroad, and had had a
good deal of communication with him. They had met only once. Their
acquaintance, such as it was, was by letter, and was not on subjects
which reveal the affectionate cast of a character. Nevertheless, it was
to Mr. Smythe that the gentleman from a death-bed bequeathed his
daughter. Somehow or other, through the rugged face, and the hard crust
of the shrewd merchant’s correspondence, he had discovered that soft
place on which he might build his hope.
The request was a bold one. It was that Mr. Smythe would receive into
his house and watch over the interests of a young girl of eighteen or
nineteen, with whom he had no connection. A bold request, and one which
most men would have looked upon as an impossible one. After making his
request, the gentleman proceeded to tell his reasons.
“I was married under peculiar circumstances--such circumstances as
induce me to cast myself and my child on your compassion. About twenty
years ago, I, then a mature bachelor of five-and-forty, was travelling
in the Midland Counties of England. I was taken ill at a small country
inn; my illness was almost to death, and that it was not to death was,
the physician said, solely owing to the presence of mind and to the care
of my landlady. My gratitude was naturally great, and I cast about in
my mind what manner of reward I should proffer her.
“During my convalescence I could not help perceiving that she often
brought her daughter into my room, and sometimes needlessly employed her
in the little attentions an invalid is compelled to receive. There was
nothing remarkable in the girl, but she was handy and neat, and
tolerably good-looking; and gradually my thoughts submitted themselves
as to a doom to the fate which I saw was being prepared for me. I
remembered the story of Hooker; but, like him, I felt helpless in my
landlady’s hands. I submitted to my doom. I write lightly on the
subject; God knows I do not lightly think of my weakness or my mistake.
Not that I had any reason to complain, as far as I myself was concerned.
My wife was a good, useful wife to me, and when she died I regretted
her. If she were now alive I should fearlessly entrust her child to her
guardianship, knowing she would protect her in that point where
protection is needed. But she is dead, and my daughter may become in
consequence a prey to covetousness and be doomed to misery. She has a
number of relatives in a different rank of life from that in which she
has been brought up. Some are sensible, respectable people, and, aware
of the difference between them in education and nurture, will not molest
her. Others are less respectably-minded, and my daughter’s fortune,
though small, is an object to them. One family in particular--that is to
say, one young man, the only son of this family, at this present time a
smart young man in a haberdasher’s shop--has persecuted her with his
attentions. My daughter is a weak, soft-natured girl, ill-fitted to
contend, and likely to fall a prey to persecutions; but a docile,
dutiful girl, with a sense of right, and a trust in those who protect
her.
“I know not on whom to cast her but on you. Your kindness in two cases
which have come to my knowledge”--here he specified them, and as he read
the words, Mr. Smythe winced and shivered, for he had supposed that no
human eye had seen his weakness--“emboldens me to come to you. You have
a large house, and my daughter has a fortune, which I have left in your
hands until her marriage. I ask nothing for her, nor desire it, but that
she may have the shelter of your house, the benefit of your advice, and
the protection of your name.”
The rest of the letter became pathetic in its entreaties, its gratitude
and its trust, and though he fought against the conviction through
every sentence of the letter, Mr. Smythe knew from the first that he
should give way.
When he laid the letter down, he said that he would not answer it that
day; but even while he said it, he knew he was saying what was false. He
knew that he should not sleep in peace until he had relieved the anxiety
of the dying man; and so it was that the post carried out a letter of
acquiescence. Thus it was that Mr. Smythe, the old bachelor, who had
lived alone for twenty-eight years, was doomed to receive the most
troublesome of guests, a young lady, into his house.
As soon as the weakness of his compassion,--so he called it,--was
relieved by the departure of the letter, his peace was gone. He could
not get his future troubles out of his thoughts. Every time the servant
came into the room he blushed; and night and day revolved the terms in
which he should make known, to that sedate and respectable man, the
event that was about to occur.
The nightmare of this dread became intolerable, and after four days the
disclosure was abruptly made.
“Stephens, I am going to have a little girl here.”
Stephens stood still to hear; making no reply, nor suffering any
expression whatever to appear on his face.
That mute, impassive countenance was a relief to Mr. Smythe. He took
courage, and went on with a tone of indifference.
“I don’t know when she will come; but she will live here for a time.
Tell Mrs. Ratcliffe a room or so will be wanted, and don’t let me be
bothered any more.”
The last words had lost their tone of calm indifference. There was a
tremulous, pathetic peevishness, that touched the heart of the attached
servant.
He merely bowed, asked no questions, and left the room.
Mr. Smythe sighed a sigh of relief, rolled his troubles off, slept that
night in peace, and dismissed the idea from his mind.
That their master would some day be taken in, was an idea which Mr.
Smythe’s servants had long entertained. That the time was come, was the
idea they entertained on this occasion. Nevertheless, the stir and
bustle of the preparation for, and the marvelling over, the event was
not displeasing to them.
They made ready a room or so; that is, interpreting the order largely,
they got ready the drawing floor, and the floor above, neither of which
had been inhabited during Mr. Smythe’s abode in the house. Good
furniture which had stood safely stowed against the walls, was dragged
out. A few pictures were hung, some Turkey carpets, old, yet good, were
laid down, and the rooms presented a very tolerable appearance. All this
was completed in a few days, and they then waited in patient curiosity
for further disclosures.
A month passed away, and then Mr. Smythe observed to Stephens, in a
voice of uncontrolled pettishness,
“The little girl will be here to-morrow. Have you got a room ready.”
Stephens bowed. “All ready, sir.”
“Tell Mrs. Ratcliffe she must put her to bed when she comes. I won’t
have anything to do with it.”
“No, sir.”
Nothing more passed, and from early dawn on the following day, Mrs.
Ratcliffe, in her best cap, awaited the arrival. Whether a small child
was to come in a bundle, or a little girl was to be deposited from a
splendid coach, she had not a guess. From the expression that she was to
be put to bed, she inclined to the first opinion.
Late in the evening a cab stopped at the door, and two women in deep
mourning got out. Mrs. Ratcliffe anxiously inspected them, until one, in
poor English, asked if this was Mr. Smythe’s.
“_Voici donc_,” she said, pointing to the other. “Miss Maxwell.”
Mrs. Ratcliffe soon saw she had been mistaken in her anticipations; but
she was a woman equal to all situations, and she addressed herself with
respectful courtesy to the young lady. She invited her to follow her,
and as soon as she had led her to the drawing-room, where candles were
lit, and a fire blazed, gave her a very proper message from her master.
He could not see her that night, but he hoped she would make herself
comfortable. And she then laid herself out to insure that she should be
so; with kind motherly ways leading the young stranger to express her
wishes, and confide in her.
It did not seem a difficult task. Miss Maxwell was very soft and weak,
and inclined to cling; and Mrs. Ratcliffe’s manners had the conscious
dignity of her position. The young lady yielded easily to her kindness,
and in an hour or two had acquired a friend. She told her of her
father’s death, and her sea-sickness; and shed tears over both events.
She told her that she had very few real friends, and then directing her
attention to a dreadful tear in her new crape, asked her advice about
it. She said how kind it was of Mr. Smythe to have her, and she wondered
whether he would think she had brought too many trunks.
To some persons her irrelevant discoursing might have seemed singular;
but Mrs. Ratcliffe, though a wise woman in her way, was not given to
severe scrutiny.
The young stranger was pretty, soft, childish, and confiding, and her
heart was completely won. Whether or not her mind was of a high order,
was a matter of indifference. She took her under her protection, and
became bold in her behalf.
The following morning she presented herself before her lord, and stated
her opinion that he ought to come and speak to his charge. He sighed,
but followed with docility. The appearance of the drawing-room into
which she ushered him startled him; but again he sighed and resigned
himself, feeling so it was ordained to be.
He walked shyly up to the young person, who rose from her seat to
receive him; and with a movement of his hands behind him, as if to
preclude the possibility of being shaken hands with, said,
“How d’ye do, my dear? Your poor father asked me to let you live here,
and I am--ready to do it. But you can’t expect me to notice you much,
for I am not used to the sort of thing.”
Here his voice fell into pathos.
“Oh! no, sir,” said the young lady, with great earnestness.
Her earnestness affected him, and he said with kindness,
“I beg you will make yourself comfortable. Ask Mrs. Ratcliffe for
whatever you want, and she will give it you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Good morning, my dear,” and he stood for a moment doubtful whether or
no he should shake hands.
“I am so much obliged to you, sir, for having me,” the young lady then
took courage to say; “and I _hope_,” she added, for this had weighed on
her mind, “that you will not think I have brought too many trunks. I had
so many pretty gowns, that it seemed a pity to leave them behind.”
Mrs. Ratcliffe had taken good care that no trunks should meet his eye;
he was therefore quite unprepared for the appeal, and much touched by
it.
“Oh! no, my dear; pray have as many trunks as you like. Good morning,”
and he held out a shy stiff hand in mark of approval and compassion.
He then hastened to his library, relieved himself with a deep sigh, and
banishing the recollection of the inroad upon his peace, thought he had
put away his troubles, and went to business.
But he little knew himself if he thought his troubles were put away. He
could not rid himself of the remembrance that he was now a guardian.
Compassion for the young stranger’s desolate lot pursued him whenever he
intermitted his attention to business. It even made him dream, a thing
he usually scorned; and after two days he desired Stephens to send Mrs.
Ratcliffe to him.
She came.
“How’s the little girl?” he asked peevishly.
“Miss Maxwell is quite well, sir, and hopes you are quite well.”
“You must get somebody, a governess, I suppose, to look after her. I
suppose the poor thing will like to see the Tower and the British
Museum, and she must have somebody, I suppose, to look after her.”
Mrs. Ratcliffe acquiesced, and was then desired to find a proper person.
She discharged her task with discretion. A widow lady was found, and for
a week after she had inhabited the house Mr. Smythe was at peace. His
ward was under the protection of a respectable matron. He might roll her
off his mind; he might forget her existence.
But in one week Mrs. Rogers asked an interview, and the purport was the
destruction of all his newly-acquired calm.
Mrs. Rogers had to report that a young man appeared to watch the comings
and goings of Miss Maxwell; and had once had the audacity to address
her. Mrs. Rogers was a fussy person, and she made the most of her tale,
and ended by a pathetic hint that she had not been treated with
confidence, and a request to be told who the young man was.
“Hang me, Madam!” cried the astonished and irritated auditor of her
wordy narrative, “how should I know?”
But it would not do. The words were no sooner said than his conscience
pricked him with the recollection that this must be the very young man,
as a protector against whom he had been invested with his office. He
humbled himself to confess the fact; and having put Mrs. Rogers in
possession of all he knew, and constituted her anew a duenna armed with
authority, dismissed her and tried to be at peace.
But responsibility weighed upon him, and when ten days afterwards he
heard in a fresh interview that, although meetings could not take place,
nosegays and other small presents were constantly sent, he roused
himself up to consider the case, and act like a guardian and a man.
His determination was to institute inquiries about the young man; if he
found him good, respectable, and willing to improve himself, to give him
means of improvement, and, after telling his ward of her father’s wishes
and opinions, to allow the cousins to meet occasionally under his roof,
as kinsfolk might. This plan, formed with considerable judgment, was,
however, frustrated, for his inquiries were not satisfactorily answered.
Mr. Maxwell had given him a true report. The young man was the son of a
small country dealer, and eight years before, being a sharp-witted,
brisk-looking lad, had been apprenticed by his aunt, Mrs. Maxwell, to a
great London haberdasher, in whose house he still remained, receiving a
good salary--in whose house, at least, he had remained, until the more
advantageous speculation of winning his cousin had caused him to give it
up.
His late master, when questioned by Mr. Smythe, owned that he had not a
good opinion of him. He was too eager, he said, to make money, to allow
himself to fall into irregular habits; but he certainly considered him a
low-minded fellow, and one who could under no circumstances be a
gentleman. He said he had trusted him to a certain degree, because he
saw that to get on was the ruling passion of his mind; but as far as he
had observed he had no other principle to guide him.
“He’s a sharp, smart fellow, though,” he added, “and is popular with
many ladies who come to my establishment.”
These last words made Mr. Smythe the more uneasy, and his plan having
failed, and unable to resolve upon any other, he was obliged to rely on
the precautions taken by Mrs. Rogers, against the prosecutions of the
young man’s suit.
For three months he led a life of misery. A week never passed without
the demand of an interview, in which Mrs. Rogers detailed the
persecutions which Miss Maxwell had endured during the week, and her
counter-schemes to outwit the schemes of the young man. To her the
affair was evidently not without enjoyment; but to him it was misery. He
lived in hourly dread of his ward being carried off, and of the wound
which would be made in his conscience, should such an event happen, for
ever.
At length on two successive days Mrs. Rogers brought into his study two
letters, well-written, and almost pathetic in their complaints and
protestations. These were from the young man to his cousin.
Mr. Smythe said but little, but when Mrs. Rogers left him on the second
morning he came to a sudden resolution. He rang the bell, and desired
Stephens to fetch Miss Maxwell.
Mr. Smythe’s intercourse with his ward had been but slight. Every now
and then, once or twice in a month, he forced himself to go up and ask
her if she wanted anything, and to beg her to make any request she
pleased. She generally thanked him, and said she was quite happy, and so
the interview ended. On the last occasion she had said she had a great
favour to ask. He, anticipating a request for his sanction to her
cousin’s courtship, had gathered up his powers to argue or to withstand,
but the request was less momentous.
“Would he be so good as to allow her to have a little bird?”
He stared at her in his surprise, and she hurried on--
“I promise you you shall not hear it sing. Mrs. Ratcliffe says it would
annoy you to hear it sing; but indeed, sir, I would not annoy you for
the world.”
“My poor little girl,” he said, patting her shoulder with a most
unconscious expression of kindly feeling, “have as many birds as you
please.”
Though their intercourse was slight, the terms of the ward and guardian
were therefore such as were most to be desired. She trusted and
respected him, and her awe had nothing painful about it. She came to
him on this occasion without trepidation, and stood patiently to hear
his will.
“My dear,” he began in his peevish voice, “this state of things cannot
go on. You must end it. You must marry somebody.”
“I would, sir, indeed, if I could,” she replied, “but I don’t know
whom.”
“My dear, this state of things can’t go on. It will kill me if it does.
You must marry somebody; and, as we have nobody else, it must be either
your cousin or me. Now tell me which it shall be?”
“Oh! sir, I would much rather it were you;” and she seemed as little
startled as if he had asked her to sit down.
“Very well, my dear, but only think well about it. I am a very old
fellow, and your cousin is a young man.”
“But, sir, you are good and kind, and you would always take care of me.
I don’t like my cousin, nor more did poor papa. If you please, sir, I
would much rather marry you.”
“Very well, my dear, then we had better set about it at once. Shall it
be in a fortnight or so?”
“Whenever you please, sir.”
“Then tell Mrs. Ratcliffe to get everything ready, and ask her for
whatever you want.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“But, my dear,” and here his voice put on its most pathetic and
querulous tone, “you must not bother me much when we are married. I am
not at all used to the sort of thing, and I can’t be pestered with a
wife all day long.”
“Indeed, sir, I will always do just what you tell me,” she said, with an
earnestness equal to his own.
And this was the history of the marriage of the old bachelor Mr. Smythe,
an event which caused a good deal of amusement and a good deal of dismay
in the small world to which he belonged.
CHAPTER II.
“Oh! Simon, what do you think? Oh! good gracious, Simon, what _do_ you
think?”
These two exclamations were made at another breakfast, and were caused
by another letter. They were made in a tone of simple wonder. No other
feeling was mingled with it.
The Simon addressed was reading a newspaper, and without looking up he
replied--
“I think nothing. You know I hate guessing. What is the row?”
A lady and gentleman were at breakfast in the small room of a villa near
London. The room was bright from the large window that opened on the
small garden, and everything in it was in decent order; but it was a
tasteless room. The presiding genius of the room evidently did not care
for pretty things. The lady was tolerably young, tolerably dressed, and
tolerably good-looking, but like her room she was tasteless. A
commonplace amiable woman, and nothing else. The man was different, but
he shall not be described till his wife has spoken.
“Why, Simon, only think; here is a letter from Uncle Smythe, and what do
you think he says? He is going to be married!”
There are moments in life when, in consequence of sudden temptation,
secrets are revealed to men regarding the mysteries of their own
hearts. So, also, there are moments when, in consequence possibly of
some slumbering passion awaking, a new expression comes out on a
well-known countenance.
Before her husband answered her, commonplace and unobservant as Mrs.
Devereux was, she saw a new something in _his_ face, which, diverting
her thoughts from her letter, made her say,
“Are you ill? What is the matter?”
“Give me that letter!” he said, shortly and sharply.
And she, mutely and wonderingly regarding him, obeyed.
He read it, and made no comment; but low and hissing through his teeth
there came the sound of an oath.
The mind of Mrs. Devereux, which was not, as has been said, a large
mind, which could not easily pursue two trains of thought at once, was
so occupied with her husband, that she sat regarding him with awe and
surprise, unconscious of the connection between his new face and the
fact announced in the letter. She was a tolerably good woman, good
without thought, and the sound of an oath instinctively shocked her; on
the other hand, she thought men were lords of the creation, and their
privileges large; wrong was wrong, but if men did wrong that altered the
case. _They_ had privileges. The man her husband more than any.
His oath shocked her inward sense; but outwardly he alone occupied her.
What could have given his face that strange expression; what could have
disturbed his usual demeanour?
The usual demeanour of Mr. Devereux was not particularly prepossessing,
not at least in the eyes of any one but his wife; but he looked like a
gentleman. There was nothing vulgar or coarse or unrefined in his air or
manner; but there was nothing good and winning. His features and figure
were not badly formed, but were cold and charmless. There was nothing to
repel, but nothing to attract. Hitherto he had been a kind of negative
man; calm, unattractive, and apparently passionless.
But on this day an expression had come into his calm face--had been
suddenly born into it; and it was not a pleasant one. He sat reading and
re-reading the letter with this new-born expression on his face, and his
wife sat puzzling over it. At last a gleam of intelligence came to her.
“Are you thinking about Uncle Smythe’s marriage?” she asked.
He roused himself from his abstraction, folded up the letter, and
returned it to her.
“What do you think of it, Simon?” she asked, varying her question.
“I think there is no doubt he is insane,” he said calmly.
“Do you? Poor old man! Do you know, Simon, that when Jane Ord heard of
his taking that girl to live with him, she said something disagreeable
would be sure to happen. I suppose she was thinking of this.”
“Hardly. No one, unless he, too, was insane, could have thought of such
an event.”
“I suppose I must write and wish him joy,” she now said doubtfully.
“You may leave it to me,” he replied with a cold sneer. “I will go and
wish him joy.”
Mrs. Devereux looked puzzled and frightened.
“Do you mean to tell Uncle Smythe that he is--that you don’t like his
marriage?”
“I shall certainly give him my mind on the subject.”
“But oh! Simon, do you remember how angry he was about my
settlement--with what you said, I mean?”
“I suppose, Letitia, I may be allowed to know my own business.”
“Oh! yes; certainly.”
“I consider it my duty as, through you, his nearest relation, to
interfere; a duty to him, a duty to you, and a duty to those poor
children.” And he glanced towards a little girl and a baby boy, who were
on the floor in a corner of the room.
“Oh! yes,” his wife said admiringly. “You are always right.”
Mrs. Devereux was a great-niece of Mr. Smythe’s. Her grandmother had
been his half-sister, much older than himself. Both mother and
grandmother had died, and she was his nearest relation. Although
therefore the daughter of a poor man--a Captain Allen in the Navy--she
had been considered a good speculation by one who was given to think of
speculations even where his affections were concerned.
Mr. Devereux was the son of a gentleman of good family and good means.
But the good means had been squandered, and when at seventeen Mr.
Devereux had succeeded to his inheritance, he succeeded to debts and
little else. His father had been fond of money, though he squandered it.
He had squandered it in trying to make more of it; and he had imbued his
son, not with a sense of the value of money, which is good, but with
the love of it, which is a different thing. At seventeen Simon Devereux
was able to persuade those who acted for him to sell his property, and
to give him by this means as large an income as was possible. He went to
college and became a lawyer.
During his youth he lived a kind of negative life. Nobody liked him.
Nobody disliked him. No one thought about him. He had no vices, and no
virtues; no friends, and no enemies. He studied for the bar, and he also
studied--with the small income that he had--the art of speculating
wisely. He walked and talked like other men; but an undercurrent was
always going on in his mind; how he could make a little money! His love
for money was negative like his life. He did not love to hoard, nor love
to spend. Everything about him was always proper and decent; not pretty
nor showy, nor yet spare or miserly. It was the love of money, pure and
simple, without regard to consequences.
When he was nine-and-twenty he thought he would marry. He was beginning
to have a little business, and this, joined to the small income, made
him able to offer himself without shame. He looked about him for a
suitable wife, and found Letitia Allen. She was humble and fortuneless,
and therefore would be likely to be flattered by his notice; but she was
great-niece to a rich merchant, and therefore a good speculation.
At the moment he chose her she was only a speculation. Captain Allen had
offended Mr. Smythe by two things. First by his character, which was
unsteady; and secondly, by asking, as a right, for the assistance which
would otherwise have been willingly given. Mr. Smythe and his
half-sister had inherited from their father the same sum, not a very
large one. The large fortune he possessed he had made by his own
exertions, and he did not choose to be dictated to as to its disposal.
On this point his mind had always been openly expressed. Notwithstanding
which, Captain Allen had claimed his assistance to pay his debts as a
_right_.
The assistance so claimed had been given. When he saw his distress, Mr.
Smythe had been unable to refuse, but he had taken the opportunity once
more to assert his freedom, and, as regarded Letitia Allen, to declare
in positive terms that she was not, and should not be his heiress.
This declaration had been made some months before Simon Devereux became
acquainted with Letitia; but it was not talked of, and he had courted
her under the impression that she was, or was likely to be, an heiress.
When he had gained his point, and won the soft heart he had attacked, he
found out his mistake. Now, there are very few monsters in human nature.
The bad have some good, and the cold have some warmth. Simon Devereux
had a hard, passionless nature; but still it was a human nature, and
though he had begun to attack the soft heart without affection, a
feeling of affection was, during the courtship, elicited. When he found
out his mistake, he also found out a reluctance to give her up. This
bias of inclination biassed his views; it made the speculation--though
declared to be uncertain--appear a good and certain one in his eyes. He
determined to stick to his bargain, and to marry Letitia Allen.
He had an immediate reward. Mr. Smythe was pleased with what he heard,
and gave Miss Allen a wedding present of ten thousand pounds.
Instead, however, of being satisfied with this, the instantaneous
concession made by the great-uncle enlarged the hopes and views of the
lover. He thought the game was in his own hands, and having a high
opinion of himself and his powers, he endeavoured to draw from Mr.
Smythe some definite promises for the future--some tangible thing that
could form a portion of the settlements.
Mr. Smythe was displeased and offended. An opportunity had been lost.
Had Simon Devereux, bent on winning him, seen how to do it, it might
have been done. He was pleased at the marriage of his great-niece. His
mind was essentially just, and though tenacious of his right and his
freedom, he would have been glad to be able to like his relations. The
family of the young man, and his own staid character, contrasted
favourably with all that was known of Captain Allen; and his choice of
Letitia while under the ban of his displeasure made a favourable
impression. It was a moment in which one who knew how to humour him
might have wound a chord about him. But most men’s characters are
stronger than their perceptions. Many can act a part if they see a
reason for it, but few can hold their characters at bay while they make
discoveries how to act.
Simon Devereux did not see. He offended in the very same way that
Captain Allen had done. Mr. Smythe, however, though he began to watch
him, remained civil. He took a dislike to him, but he did not give him
up. His civility deceived. In spite of the determined refusal with which
his request was met, Mr. Devereux thought he had got the best of it. He
thought the way to manage him was to hold persistently and steadily
before him the rights of relationship, to enthral him with the bond of
kindred. On this opinion he had acted then, and he now was prepared to
act again.
It was five years since his marriage, and they had been years of peace.
A doubt of the success of his speculation had never crossed his brain.
Looking on his wife as the means of obtaining enormous wealth, he had
honoured her, and he waited in calmness for the happy time of prosperity
to arrive. During these five years, the love of money had reposed in his
breast. It did not sleep, for it now and then gave signs of life, and
these the keen sight of Mr. Smythe perceived; but it reposed--the hope
in the future fed it so fully, that it seldom bestirred itself. He lived
a quiet, sober, respectable, negative life, doing nothing good, and
doing apparently no evil. His wife admired and loved him; saw with his
eyes, and thought with his brain.
On this morning the old love arose from its long rest, and with it a
violent feeling, almost a passion awoke in his calm breast--a hate to
Mr. Smythe. Revenge for having deceived him; hate for the deception. It
came up very suddenly, and he was himself unconscious of its growth. He
went, as he had intended, to express his feelings on the proposed
marriage; and he went as one who had a right to do so, and was
determined to exercise his rights. Now, that the connections of an
elderly man should be annoyed at a marriage to a very young girl, was
but just and right. That they should fear for her happiness and his, and
that they should wish to dissuade from a dangerous experiment, was but
charitable.
That there should be disappointment in such a case, was also simply
natural. The nearest relations of a rich elderly man can hardly help a
hope that they or their children will benefit by his riches; and though
common discretion advises the conquest of such disappointment, the thing
itself is almost inevitable.
When Mr. Devereux went on his errand to Mr. Smythe he might have so
spoken as to prevent the evil he feared. A good word in due season is
seldom altogether lost; at all events it will not in the end offend a
good nature. But men speak according to their characters; and as there
was no spark of kindness or charity in the heart of Mr. Devereux
towards his old relation, no spark of kindness came forth in his words.
His speech, though studiously temperate in expression, was hard and
insolent, grasping and selfish.
Mr. Smythe heard him with perfect patience. When all seemed to be said
he addressed him in a tone strangely unlike his usual half-childish,
peevish tone.
“Listen to me, Simon Devereux. If, as you say, you speak for my
interest, let me inform you that I have ceased to be a child, and am not
yet in my dotage. If, as I think, you speak for your own, let me inform
you that you are in the wrong box. My money is my own, and with the very
last sixpence of it I shall do as I, and only I, think proper. Now, good
morning to you.”
Rage and mortification swelled in the breast of Simon Devereux, but he
spoke without passion. A cold and withering sneer came over his lips,
and he said,
“Some part of your speech I am disposed to doubt. _Some_ men can
understand advice when it is given. I have offered mine, and you have
rejected it. It is as you will.”
“This much at least I have sense to understand. I understand _you_,” was
the retort. “Enough of this. Leave me!” and they parted.
“What fools these mortals be!” says the sprite Ariel in the “Tempest;”
and certainly to a passionless spectator the folly of passion is often a
marvel. To anyone but Mr. Devereux it would have been plain that he had,
in familiar phrase, done for himself; but it was not so to him; so far
from it that he returned home exulting in the success of the scheme he
was laying for the future. That Mr. Smythe was offended with him he did
see, but this gave him little concern. He imagined that even in
offending he was binding himself to him, and impressing his rights upon
his mind.
“Well, Simon,” asked his wife, eager for news on his return, “did you
congratulate Uncle Smythe?”
“I did what I thought it right to do,” was his cold reply; and she saw
she was not to be satisfied.
After a moment she asked timidly if she had better call on Miss Maxwell,
or rather putting it as a necessity if she had not better do it.
“Call on Miss Maxwell!” he said severely. “No, Letitia. I do not suppose
Miss Maxwell is a proper person for my wife to associate with.”
“Mrs. Ratcliffe told me she was very amiable, though not very clever,”
she said, hesitatingly.
“If it is amiable and modest for a young woman to marry an insane old
man for his money, then, I suppose, she is amiable. My views are
different.”
“Do you think Uncle Smythe is mad?” she asked, and she stared at him.
“Decidedly so.”
“Poor old man!” And having so said, Mrs. Devereux resigned herself into
her husband’s hands. Had she consulted her own feeling, she would have
said it was a pity; that it was not right, and even not wise to make
divisions and quarrels in the family; but she never did consult her own
feeling. Her husband was her conscience, his eyes her eyes, his
judgment her judgment; and so the matter rested, and no visit was paid.
CHAPTER III.
“A little girl! Oh! goodness me!”
This second exclamation was wrung from Mr. Smythe about a year after his
marriage, at the announcement of an unexpected, yet not astonishing
event. A smiling doctor entered his library, and congratulated him on
being the father of a young daughter. Dim visions of the possible
occurrence of such an event had of late once or twice floated before his
eyes, but he had banished manfully the horrible thought, and the
announcement did truly take him by surprise. His wife had been too
timid, Mrs. Ratcliffe too knowing, to mention it. His housekeeper knew
him well--knew that the dread of the anxiety and trouble consequent on
such an arrival in his quiet abode might drive him mad; but that if all
was taken calmly, he might be reconciled to it. She therefore took upon
herself the arrangement of the affair in its minutest particulars; and
it so chanced that, until the event was safely and happily over, no
reference to him was needed.
It was an hour or two before dinner, while engaged with some intricate
business, that the news was borne to him, and that he thus expressed
himself.
“Yes, sir; a young lady is, I fear, on her first arrival, generally a
disappointment; but no doubt it will be a son next time.”
Mr. Smythe put on his sourest face, and made no reply. After assuring
him that both mother and child were perfectly well, the doctor
withdrew; having indeed been instructed so to behave himself by Mrs.
Ratcliffe.
As soon as he had disappeared, Mr. Smythe, with a kind of dogged
determination not to be a father, say what they might, re-seated himself
at his table, and endeavoured to give his mind to his business. But he
was not left in peace. Mrs. Ratcliffe appeared, and told him it was
customary for a good husband to visit his wife on such an occasion, and
she thought Mrs. Smythe would not rest easy until she had heard that he
was pleased with the baby. The conscience of the poor husband was now
touched, and with a look of abject misery he placed himself in the hands
of his housekeeper, and prepared to do her bidding. She conducted him to
his wife’s bedroom, where she lay, pretty and peaceful and happy, with
her baby beside her. It was an emergency for which he was totally
unfitted, but his kind heart prompted him how to act.
“So that is the little girl!” he exclaimed; “well, my dear, it seems a
very nice little thing, and I hope it will be a comfort to you.”
He patted the hand that lay on the child, and by that means appeared to
take the child also under his protection, and the trusting young mother
was satisfied.
“Thank you, sir,” she said gently; “and indeed it shall never be a
trouble to you.”
“No, no, my dear, of course it won’t. And now rest easy and get well.
Good night.” He patted her hand again, and returned to his solitude. His
conscience was easy; his house seemed peaceful and quiet, and he drove
away all anxious thoughts and vexations from his mind.
The marriage of Mr. and Mrs. Smythe had been a very peaceful one. She
had obeyed him, and had made it the study of her life not to bother him;
to submit to all his whims and wishes, to refrain from any intrusion on
the solitude he loved. At the same time she trusted him entirely, and if
she had a desire for anything which required his permission to obtain,
she fearlessly asked it. For smaller things she placed herself in the
hands of Mrs. Ratcliffe, and her mind was so constituted, that with
these two authorities to guide her, and with birds and flowers to occupy
her, she was happy. Now that a child was come, happiness would be
complete.
And Mr. Smythe, too, had been at peace. After the cares of guardianship,
the care of a submissive young wife had made a great calm in his mind.
One or two decided steps he took, such as, to his views, were incumbent
on every husband, viz., dining in company with his wife, and walking
with her to church on a Sunday; but with these, and a very few other
exceptions, he lived his old solitary life, and resumed his old peace of
mind. The dining in company instead of alone had cost him a struggle,
but the conscience of the husband insisted on the sacrifice being made,
and it was done. A solitary evening and a solitary breakfast were still
permitted, and on the whole he had lived as tranquil a life with his
wife as he had done without her.
Shortly after his marriage that implacable enemy of his, his conscience,
had suggested to him that the young man whom he had baffled was now a
connection of his own, and ought to be looked after. This worried him
for a time. At last he proposed to his wife to receive him, and be kind
to him. But she expressed so decided an aversion and disinclination to
his society, that he thankfully put aside the idea of cultivating his
acquaintance. He sent for him, however, and told him he wished to
befriend him, and help him, if he so pleased, upward in life; finally
offering to procure for him a clerkship in a counting-house. The young
man, James Field by name, sullen and mortified by disappointment, would
not be touched by his kindness, but was at the same time willing to
profit by it. His master had said truly that he never could be a
gentleman, and so Mr. Smythe perceived. Having procured for him,
therefore, a place suited to his abilities, and in which diligence and
good conduct would be sure to advance him, he felt satisfied; and this
care was banished with the rest of the cares that had led to his
marriage.
On this peaceful life the prospect of the cares of a family now broke.
In vain was his determination to ignore the event that had occurred; in
vain his resolution to keep himself aloof from nurses and a nursery.
Mrs. Ratcliffe’s words that his wife would not rest easy unless she
thought he was pleased with the baby, were a perpetual thorn in his
couch, a hoarse whisper in his ear. They forced his legs up twice a day
to his wife’s room; and when there, forced him to act a kindly and
fatherly part, patting her hand, and patting the bundle of linen which
generally lay by her side.
But all he did was done as a matter of duty. In many men the fatherly
instincts awake in the mere fact of possessing a child. But it was not
so with him. He had relieved his conscience by taking under his
protection, as best he could, the weak being entrusted to his care; but
he remained the same man, loving only his own solitary business--forced
into kindliness only by the inexorable heart within.
Towards the end of the month of his wife’s seclusion, he went one
morning to pay his visit, and found her up and well, with a real baby,
and no longer a bundle on her knee. She was looking very pretty in her
invalid costume, and the tenderness with which she bent over the child
gave an interesting cast to her impassive and inexpressive countenance.
Most people would have admired the picture of maternal love; but Mr.
Smythe had no eye for beauty. He groaned in his inward man as he
pictured to himself the days to come, when day by day, and week after
week, he should be expected to notice the baby.
He sat down, however, and composed himself to do what was necessary on
this occasion; said he was glad to see her so well, and observed that
her child was growing fast.
He then asked her if she had anything she wanted, and a few other
customary questions, and then patting her shoulder, and the arm of the
baby, he rose up.
But she arrested him timidly.
“Oh! sir, could you sit down for a minute? I want very much to speak to
you.”
He sighed and sat down.
“Anything you like, my dear.”
“It is about the baby. I suppose it must have a name.”
“I suppose it must. I had forgotten that. What shall you call her?”
“I want you to help me, sir. There are two names I want to have, and I
cannot decide which I like best.”
She spoke in a tone of childish vexation and perplexity.
“Oh! well, my dear, let me choose,” he said kindly.
“One is Pamela,” she said, “and the other is Clarissa.”
“Pamela and Clarissa!” and his shaggy brows seemed to shake as he knit
them. “No, indeed, no child of mine shall ever bear such names as those.
Let us have a decent Christian name, and be content.”
She trembled, and opened wide her eyes.
“What is your name, my dear?”
“Only Ann, sir.”
“A very good name. My mother’s name, too, was Ann. Let the child be
called Ann.”
“Oh! sir.” And a large tear fell from each eye.
But he was inexorable.
“I will have her called Ann, my dear, and nothing else,” he said
sternly, and he left the room.
He did not mean to be unkind to his wife. His view was to secure to his
daughter a decent Christian name, and his conscience made him no
reproaches.
The following morning Mrs. Ratcliffe knocked at his door. For the sake
of her docile young mistress she was always bold. She came to tell him
that Mrs. Smythe had had a restless night, and was not very well; and
she feared it was owing to the fact that she had fretted a good bit,
poor thing, about her child’s name.
“Could not----”
But here her master interrupted her. He was an obstinate man, and a fit
of righteous obstinacy was now upon him.
“The little girl shall be called Ann,” he said, pressing his thin lips
together. “Don’t let me be bothered any more.”
Mrs. Ratcliffe disappeared, and he remained with his obstinacy. He
carried it about triumphantly all the day, but when in the evening he
visited his wife, and saw her pale cheeks and red eyes, it began to melt
in his heart. He almost hoped she would attack him on the subject, but
she did not. She was too timid to say more.
The next morning, however, the strife recommenced. Mrs. Ratcliffe again
entered his room, and this time with a big book--a kind of dictionary of
names. She said she had been trying to make out a name that would
please both parents, and she had found one with which her mistress was
quite delighted--Annora. She could be Ann to her father and at home, if
he pleased, but she would be something prettier than Ann to the world.
Obstinacy seized Mr. Smythe as she spoke. His senses shivered and
quivered at the idea of possessing a daughter Annora. He pressed his
lips together, and was about to repeat that the little girl should be
called Ann, and nothing else, when his tyrant conscience gave him such a
sudden stab that he quailed under it. He saw a vision of the timid wife
with her pale cheeks and red eyes, and he melted.
“Poor little fool!” he said bitterly. “Get along, Mrs. Ratcliffe, and
let her have the name she pleases.”
Thus it was settled, and thus the child was baptized. It was the only
matrimonial strife in which the fatherly husband and childlike wife were
ever engaged. The little Annora was baptized, but her father did not
think it necessary to attend her baptism. She lived and grew, was
short-coated, and cut her teeth, and still he paid her no attention. She
was, as all who saw her said, a fine handsome child, the image of
himself; but his likeness made no impression on his heart. He returned
to his old life, dining with his wife, and walking with her to church on
a Sunday; and sometimes, when he found the child on her knee, patting it
for her sake, but he took no interest in it.
Mrs. Smythe was very happy with her baby, and if she did sometimes wish
that he would notice how much it was grown, she remembered her promise
not to bother him, and restrained her wishes. But there was one person
who was not grateful. The head nurse, who received very high wages, was
quite unused to such treatment of her charges. She felt it was incumbent
on her to vanquish this cold-hearted father, and she set herself to the
task. Who could tell what might happen if he did not take to the child?
Why, he might will all his money away, and go and die, and where should
they all be? She watched his movements, met him on the stairs, met him
in the streets, and on every occasion flourished the child in his view;
but all in vain. He passed on with his own thoughts, and took no heed to
nurse or baby.
At length the first anniversary of the birth of a Miss Smythe came
round. On the morning of that day the nurse washed her with extra care,
put on the very best of best frocks, blue bows on her shoulders, and
the most exquisite blue kid shoes on her tiny feet. No baby had ever
seemed more able to soften an obdurate heart.
Bearing her in her arms, and entering the room of her master with the
air of a princess, the nurse approached him.
“Miss Smythe is a year old, sir, to-day. I thought you would be
expecting to see her.” Not quite the truth.
But vain were her efforts; vain the blue sash, and even the blue kid
shoes. For a moment the old man was dismayed, and looked up bashfully
from his breakfast; but the next moment he felt “now or never.”
“I am glad to see the little girl is well,” he said; “but you may take
her away, and I will ring when I want her.”
The nurse was in her turn abashed; but she also recovered herself.
“Thank you, sir,” she replied, with presence of mind. “Now, my dear,
say ‘bye-bye’ to your papa,” and she raised the child, and held it in an
attitude towards him.
In some mute expectation of hearing “bye-bye” from those infant lips, he
gazed up in wonder. No “bye-bye” came, but the child, as if
instinctively attracted by the kind heart that was hid under that
ungainly face, stretched out towards him her little fat arms and smiled.
A thrill shivered through his frame, a strange feeling of paternal love
leaped into his heart; he half rose from his seat to gratify it. Then he
composed himself, and though he did slowly rise, he spoke gravely.
“She’s a nice little girl,” and he softly patted her arm; “but you may
take her away now, and I will send when I want her.”
The nurse did not quite understand. She had not seen the smile which
had achieved the conquest of his heart, and uncertain whether or not the
conquest was achieved, she withdrew. But she guessed it before long. Mr.
Smythe would not acknowledge, even to himself, that he pined and
thirsted to have those fat arms round his neck; but it was the case, and
he plotted for that gratification with deep-laid schemes. He began to
note the hours of the day when she took her walks. Sometimes concealed
behind his door, and sometimes concealed at the end of the street, he
would watch for her coming forth, and would go forward to meet her. He
would then stop and pat her, receive the smile, and pass on, still
plotting for other days, when the moment for receiving her into his arms
might naturally come. It was some weeks before it came, but when it came
the victory was complete. From the day when first she took her place on
his knee, she ruled over him with absolute power, and gradually
transformed his crusty attentions into a soft and benign tenderness.
CHAPTER IV.
It is not to be supposed that Mr. Devereux had received calmly the news
of the arrival of a young heiress. The matter had been kept so close
that it burst upon him with a surprise as great as that which it had
caused to Mr. Smythe, and the surprise overwhelmed him. He was a man
who, though with a hard, unimaginative mind, always believed what he
chose to believe. He had decided that there would be no Master or Miss
Smythe, and having so decided, he had felt little anxiety on the
subject. He had made his plans for dealing with a mad old man and a
silly young wife, and having made his plans he rested.
The arrival of a child overset his plans. Will or no will, no one could
say that a child was not the nearest of kin to its own father. He was
unable to form his plans for the future, and his mind became tossed with
passion. The only settled plan he could form was, that the child should
die; not die by his plotting, he was not bad enough for that; but that
it must and should die. It was a hateful intruder in the world, and it
was no doubt intended to die. His mind prone, as was said, to believe
what it wished, shortly began to believe this. The agreeable subject of
his daily wishes was the death of an infant, and by means of wishes he
began to be convinced it would be so.
Meanwhile the child lived and grew, and no tales of its unhealthiness
were heard.
No communication had ever taken place between the families. In sundry
disagreeable ways Mr. Devereux managed to keep himself and his rights in
Mr. Smythe’s mind; but he allowed no visiting. When Mrs. Smythe was
confined, a maternal fellow-feeling had drawn from Mrs. Devereux an
expression of a wish to make her acquaintance and see the baby. But it
had been received with a negative so fierce and savage that she yielded
at once. No doubt Simon had his good reasons.
When Annora was nearly a year old, she one day met Mrs. Ratcliffe. The
Devereuxs lived beyond Kensington, and Mrs. Ratcliffe had been on a
visit to a sick relation in the same quarter. She was walking along the
road to find an omnibus, and Mrs. Devereux was taking a walk with her
two children.
Mrs. Ratcliffe and Letitia Allen had been good friends before, and
friends in a degree after Letitia’s marriage. She had, however, so
resented the neglect of Mrs. Smythe that of late the friendship had
lapsed into a quiet enmity. Mrs. Devereux neglected Mrs. Smythe, and she
in return neglected Mrs. Devereux. When, however, she saw her leading a
fine little boy by the hand, her enmity for the moment ceased. She could
not resist stopping to ask her how she did, and begging for a kiss from
the fine little boy.
Poor Letitia had felt no enmity. She had not indeed a heart strong
enough to nourish any strong passion; and though, in obedience to her
husband, it liked and disliked at his pleasure, they were mild
sensations, liable to be overset at the very least temptation. She
forgot all about the strife, and turned and walked and talked with Mrs.
Ratcliffe; easing her mind of many anxious questions regarding the
health of Mrs. and Miss Smythe.
Mrs. Ratcliffe had too much wisdom and dignity to enter on unpleasant
topics. She made no allusion to the coolness that had taken place, but,
when she went home, observed to Mrs. Smythe that it was no fault of Mrs.
Devereux’s that she did not call; and expatiating on the charms of the
boy, stirred up her young mistress to interest and curiosity concerning
him. He was, she explained to her, between three and four years old, and
had “such a sweet, rosy, mischievous face, she should have liked to have
cooked and eaten him on the spot.”
Mrs. Smythe was much excited, and inquired whether she thought she
might send him a present. Most christianly anxious to appease strifes,
Mrs. Ratcliffe encouraged the idea, and they went together to the Soho
Bazaar, from whence a large and handsome cart and team of horses, the
cart full of sacks, were despatched to the villa beyond Kensington. It
was addressed--
“_For Mr. Henry Devereux,
With Miss Smythe’s love._”
This was a master-stroke of policy. Mrs. Ratcliffe could read the bad
feelings which Mr. Devereux entertained towards Mrs. Smythe both in his
conduct and his countenance; but the poor little innocent baby was, she
supposed, for the present at least, an innocent object in his eyes.
When Mr. Devereux came down to dinner on the evening after the arrival
of the present, his children, as was generally the case, for he dined
early, were brought down and sat in a corner. When he was in a good
temper he liked them to be there, for he was fond of his children in a
certain way; and if he was in a bad temper, he liked them to be there,
as it gave him more opportunities of finding fault with his submissive
wife than he might otherwise have found. Of late he had indeed always
been in a bad temper. The gnawing hate he felt to the unwelcome child
left no peace in his heart. But even a bad temper has its variations.
There are no good days perhaps, but there are very bad days and moderate
days. This was a moderate day. Shortly before his arrival at home he had
forced a tradesman who demurred to give him discount on a bill, and this
had produced a certain glow of satisfaction. Instead therefore of
saying, “What a row these children make!--hush! hush! hush!” he
observed, when dinner was about half concluded, “What has happened to
Letitia’s tongue to-day?”
There were certainly other reasons besides moderation of temper that
called for this observation. For the last ten minutes the children had
not been quiet only, they had been dumb. Intense curiosity regarding the
contents of the sacks possessed them, and one armed with a rusty nail,
the other with a large crooked yellow pin, were hacking away at the
seams and necks of the sacks. But at the very moment he spoke, the quiet
was broken. Letitia was nearly five years old, and her crooked pin,
though a feeble instrument, had at last produced an effect. A drop of
bran, like a drop of blood, began to ooze out of a hole in the seam.
Henry screamed with joy, and attempted to gain possession of Letitia’s
sack. Mr. Devereux looked at his wife, to inquire what was going on.
Now Mrs. Devereux had fully intended to tell her husband what had
occurred; she had been thinking of it ever since he returned home, and
was only watching for a favourable opportunity. Nevertheless, there was
a slight blush on her cheek as she said, “It is rather a long story; I
was going to tell you, Simon.”
The fact was, when the present arrived, she and her children had been so
enraptured with its appearance, that, forgetting the strife and her
husband’s probable displeasure, they had all sat upon the floor to
unpack and enjoy it. Afterwards a fear had arisen that she ought to have
awaited his consent to receive it; and though she said to herself,
“From the baby he cannot mind,” she was perfectly aware that it was at
the best a doubtful matter.
Mr. Devereux saw the blush and guessed a cause. He waited with cold
staring eyes to hear the long story; and it was given, haltingly,
hesitatingly, apologetically, and diffusely.
Then he rang the bell.
“Bring back the wrappers of the parcel that arrived this afternoon,” he
said sternly. He was obeyed. A number of sheets of brown paper were
brought into the room. “That will do,” he said, and the servant went.
“Now pack it up,” he said to his wife.
Mrs. Devereux rose. She saw he was angry, angry in his worst
manner--coldly, sternly angry; but she did not blame him. She felt how
wrong she had been. Desirous to do her best, she now coaxed the
children into assisting her, by saying she was going to put the cart to
bed.
“No, it is not going to bed,” thundered out her husband. “It is going
away for good.”
The children looked at him. They were too much awed to cry; and Mrs.
Devereux hastily finished the packing while they sat staring at their
father. It was only when it was fairly hidden, and the cord was being
tied, that little Henry recovered his self-possession. When he did
recover it he laid his fat hand on the parcel, clenched his teeth, and
shouted,
“It’s mine, and it shan’t go away!”
“Set it down, sir!” again thundered out the father, and again the
children were awed into staring wonder.
After a moment Mr. Devereux spoke again, and this time coldly and
calmly--
“Listen to me,” he said. “That parcel was sent by a person who has no
right to send it. She is your enemy. She has robbed you--_robbed you_;
mind what I say. She must not pretend to love you, and you must not love
her.”
The children were young, but they were excited at this explanation. The
little girl, a sharp-featured, forward child, with a great deal of her
father in her face, came towards the table, and asked pertly,
“Shall I hate her?”
“You may. You have good right. I hate her because she has robbed _you_.”
“I hate her!” said the child, with emphasis.
The little boy now approached, and put his chin on the table.
“And _I_ hate her,” he said.
Though the childish face was “sweet, rosy and mischievous,” his cheeks
flashed and his eyes kindled as he spoke; an innate consciousness that
he was doing wrong made the words delightful to him, and he spoke them
with heart-felt savageness.
Mrs. Devereux looked at her husband. She could hardly think this was a
right education. She could hardly think this was a picture of Christian
principles. She expected some word of disapprobation; but no such came.
“That will do,” he said. “Remember. And now go to bed.”
It was some minutes before she could gather her senses sufficiently to
summon her usual principle of guidance to her aid. When she did so, and
had mentally observed “that Simon must know best,” she sighed a short,
unwonted sigh, and then banished the subject from her mind.
CHAPTER V.
For three years Annora reigned empress over her father’s heart, and then
he died--caught cold and died, after two days’ illness. He was a
strange, eccentric being, but he had been loved, and he was mourned. By
his servants bitterly, by his little daughter passionately, by his wife
as deeply as her nature could mourn for anything. She had looked forward
to living many years under his protection, and she wept when she found
herself unprotected. She was only three-and-twenty, and Annora was
little more than four years old. She wondered how they ever should
struggle through mortal life alone.
The news of the death of Mr. Smythe, while the child had chosen to live,
stirred Mr. Devereux into a storm of agitation. There was a pause of a
few days, and then the grand question, the will, was made known. It was
a very simple one. There were many small bequests to servants and
persons who now first appeared as dependent on his charity. There were
two or three large bequests to hospitals. There was a legacy of £25,000
to Henry Devereux at his mother’s death, the interest to be paid to her
during her life; and the whole of the rest of his property was left to
his daughter. It was left in the hands of guardians until she attained
the age of sixteen, and then was to be solely and absolutely at her own
disposal. His wife had been provided for in a settlement made after
their hurried marriage, and to her he only left a gold box, “as a mark
of gratitude for her constant obedience to his wishes.”
This was the will. It was dated six months before the day of his death.
Mr. Devereux was paralysed. His worst anticipations had never pictured
anything like this. He had made sure of a large legacy to Letitia. Those
rights which he had asserted so constantly seemed to secure this at the
least. It was a blow not only to his ingrained love of money, but a blow
to his daily life. He was not a hoarder. His love of money was not of
that nature. He wished to have it, and to increase it: he liked to give
his time and thought to it, making innumerable small speculations. He
wanted money for his life, for his increasing family; he wanted
money--money! He had made sure of it, and the prospect was suddenly
clouded. The promised riches had taken wings and flown away. His
original plan had been to dispute the will on the ground of his uncle’s
insanity at the time of his marriage. Annora’s birth had overset this
hope; for even though mad, there was the child with her rights as
nearest of kin. She was a fact which no one could gainsay. After the
first paralysing blow, however, this plan, somewhat modified, revived
again. There were new circumstances to deal with. It appeared that there
were several wills--wills made on different occasions for ten years
back, and they were not all as unfavourable to the rights of Letitia
Allen as the last.
Careful and methodical as Mr. Smythe had been in most things, he had not
been very careful of his wills. He would make a will, and have it
witnessed, and put it away, either in his own library or at his
lawyer’s office, and there it would remain undestroyed till a new will
came to bear it company. And these wills were seen by some of the young
men about the lawyer’s office, and so it was that the fact of the many
wills became known to Simon Devereux, and that he became possessed of
copies of some of them.
It would be tedious to detail all the provisions of these wills. Suffice
it to say that there were four wills before his marriage, in which,
although the sum greatly varied, and gradually decreased, Letitia was
liberally provided for. In the first of these wills the name of Mr.
Devereux was associated with that of his wife; in the others the eldest
son took the place of the father, who was mentioned no more. There was
another peculiarity in these wills, which was that the sum gradually
taken from Letitia was given to the payment of the National Debt.
A month after the marriage of Mr. Smythe there was a new will. Mrs.
Smythe was not mentioned. (He had already provided for her by purchasing
an annuity of a thousand a year. This he had done in the hopes of
securing her comfort, and protecting her from the burden of wealth, when
there were no brains to bear it.) To Letitia Devereux he left £30,000,
to her eldest son £50,000. The whole of the rest of his property, “in
the event of my death without a child,” was left to charities, or to the
payment of the National Debt.
During the four following years, however, it was evident that the
conduct of the Devereux family had affected the mind of Mr. Smythe
regarding them, and thence the reduction of the legacy in the last will
to the simple £25,000 left to Henry. It was not only the birth of his
child. The wills contained a kind of biographical notice of the feelings
of the great-uncle regarding his relations. In the scales of his just
mind they had been tried and found wanting.
It was after mastering all the wills, and noting all their
peculiarities, that Mr. Devereux at length determined on a course. He
rejected all the wills made before Mr. Smythe’s marriage, and took his
stand on the one made in the month of his marriage. The last will of all
he rejected on the ground of insanity. It was with a bitter pang that
the first wills were resigned, but while £25,000 was as nothing, £80,000
would be something to secure, and he saw his way to the securing of
this.
Shortly after the death of Mr. Smythe, therefore, notice was given that
the will would be disputed, and Mr. Devereux and his lawyers applied
their minds to make out the case. It is not necessary here to state the
case that was made out. It is enough to say that it was well done--that
the proofs of insanity were, to say the least, plausible. Many months
were consumed in working out the evidence, and then the trial came.
Mr. Devereux had an assistant, who helped him with a malignity almost
equal to his own. It was James Field, the young clerk, the haberdasher’s
apprentice, who conceived that he had been outwitted. He had evidence to
give regarding a variety of interviews that had taken place between him
and his late benefactor (for such Mr. Smythe had showed himself), and
there had been at all times sufficient eccentricity in the strange old
being for a malignant imagination to draw such a conclusion.
The ground, however, on which Mr. Devereux built his case was in proving
how, up to a certain moment, the old man’s thoughts had constantly
recurred to his niece, Letitia Allen; that as long, in fact, as he had
his senses, he had acknowledged her claims.
The mind of Mrs. Smythe was not strong, but it laid tenaciously hold of
impressions. The facts of the different wills were beyond her grasp; but
this one thing she understood, that Mr. Smythe had left everything to
his daughter, and that wicked people were trying to deprive her of her
fortune. That in any case Annora would be a great heiress, she did not
realize. She pictured wealth or penniless poverty, and she wept daily
over the horrible prospect.
Mrs. Ratcliffe shared her feelings on this point. She had the brains,
indeed, to distinguish, but not the will to do it. It was all or nothing
with her, and she was determined to stand to Annora’s rights to the
death. Her respect for her master prompted the same feeling. She was too
angry to weep over the attack on the will, but she shed many tears over
the insult to his memory occasioned by the trial.
And, to do her justice, her evidence to his sanity was very convincing.
She had all her wits about her, and spoke with such an air of calm
conviction that the impression made on the judge and jury was lasting
and strong.
The verdict was given in favour of Annora, and Mr. Devereux was
defeated.
The blow was again paralyzing, for he had made sure of a contrary
result. There remained to him nothing now but to wish for the death of
that child who stood between him and his rights; between him and his
hopes; between him and money. And having no remaining hope but this,
into this he cast the whole energy of his nature. To speculate on the
difference the snapping of one frail link would make to him and his,
became the sole subject of his unoccupied hours, and he pictured that
difference, pictured his condition under those desired circumstances so
vividly, that the conviction that the picture would be a reality became
the rooted and settled conviction of his brain. Meanwhile he allowed
himself a slight revenge.
Mrs. Smythe was much relieved by the favourable verdict. Unlike Mr.
Devereux, she had feared a contrary result. She had almost persuaded
herself that her poor husband was insane; would have been quite
persuaded of the fact had not Mrs. Ratcliffe so boldly stood to the
contrary. It was a relief in every way. It was a relief that Annora was
not to be a pauper, and it was a relief to be assured that she had not
married a madman. She had a short time of peace, and then a new trouble
began.
Mr. Devereux caused an idea to be planted in her mind, which became,
indeed, like a thorn in the flesh. It was this: that there was a
possibility of his stealing Annora, and making away with her. Not that
such a purpose ever crossed his mind. He was not boldly bad enough for
that. But it was a pleasure to him to murder her peace by this dread.
From the moment the suggestion was made, it took complete possession of
her mind; and though Mrs. Ratcliffe argued with her fears, she, too, had
a latent dread that Mr. Devereux might be capable even of this.
Her cousin the clerk cast his sting also into her weak mind. Among the
words of advice given by her dying husband had been, “Don’t marry James
Field, my dear;” and she had answered with eager protestations. But the
warning was not needed. Weak minds often have an instinct to warn them
who they may trust. It is but an instinct, and a clever man may overcome
it; but it is a help; and that instinct Mrs. Smythe had opposed to the
claims of her cousin. She disliked him as much as was in her nature, but
dreaded his marrying her still more.
Now, like Mr. Devereux, his suggestion was only a revenge. He wished to
torment, not to marry her. Her circumstances were different from what
they had been, and he was unwilling to connect himself with the mother
of a great heiress--one left to the guardianship of two honest,
quick-sighted men. He was as keen-sighted as ever to his own interests,
but these circumstances did not entice him. He made her, however, as
much afraid of being stolen herself, as she already feared the robbery
of her child; and the poor thing’s life was poisoned.
Mrs. Ratcliffe decided on removing into the country. To this her
mistress made some objection. She liked the society of doctors. It was a
pleasure to her to be visited by her physician, and to pour into his
great mind her small griefs. It was a still greater pleasure to show
Annora to her apothecary, and to be assured that the child was finer
than the rest of her species. On this score her objections to move from
the house where she had taken root were strong. In the end, however,
they were overruled, and a pretty house was taken in a distant county.
To this place they removed, and there the persecutors left them in
peace. Both were London men, and soon wearied of the objectless revenge.
After they had been a year or two in the country, the guardians wrote to
say that if Mrs. Smythe was looking out for a governess, which they
supposed was necessary for Annora, they had one to recommend.
Though injured by the suggestion, Mrs. Smythe acquiesced, and when a
young person arrived, submitted herself quietly to her guidance. The
young person did not approve of the solitude of the country, and soon
began to speak of masters. As London was out of the question, Mrs.
Smythe consented to the suggestion that they should go abroad; and they
went first to Brussels, then to different towns in Switzerland,
settling finally at Geneva when Annora was about thirteen.
CHAPTER VI.
The education of Annora was not conducted on the most approved plans.
She had four persons devoted to her service, bidding for her favour, and
competing with each other in making her a princess. Her nurse attended
to her body, her governess to her mind; her mother was her playfellow,
and Mrs. Ratcliffe her friend. With a quick intellect and a strong will
she soon learned how to manage them all as she pleased.
With these four persons she passed the greater part of her time.
Occasionally young companions were met with; but as the deference
exacted at home was not as cheerfully paid abroad, Annora made little
effort to secure their affections.
Neither her nurse nor her governess was blest with brains. They each did
their duty, but they exercised no influence on the mind. Mrs. Smythe had
no brains at all, and had it not been for Mrs. Ratcliffe, Annora’s case
would have been a hard one. Mrs. Ratcliffe, however, although
uneducated, and although as conscientiously bent on doing her duty to
her late master by spoiling his child as the rest of the house, was
gifted not only with good sense, but with a religious mind. Her
conversation was imbued with these two properties--a natural wisdom and
a more than natural sense of the importance of heavenly things; and they
fell on the young mind that clung to her, and sowed in the soil many a
good seed.
The guardians of the little girl made occasional inquiries after her
welfare, but it was not till she was eleven years old that she began to
be a person in their eyes. At that age a reference was made to them by
her desire. At that age Annora and her mother began to disagree. So long
as her child was satisfied to play, and could be amused with games and
annals of the lives and deaths of canary birds and bullfinches, the
mother and daughter amused themselves together; but Annora had a quick
intellect, and no sooner did she begin to exercise it freely than she
began to feel her mother’s deficiences. She found that she could silence
her in an argument, that she could make her cry by teasing, that she
understood nothing of the questions that occupied her precocious
intellect. The child used her power in general mercifully, but when she
was set on a whim she knew how to obtain her purpose.
In her alarm at losing her authority, a thing very dear to a weak mind,
Mrs. Smythe put forward the guardians, and, whenever she could not rule
her child, threatened her with them. For a time the plan succeeded, but
at eleven Annora began to wish to rule her guardians also. It was an
exciting idea, and at length, to her mother’s surprise, on an occasion
of disagreement a reference to them was proposed. The disagreement was
regarding her name. Annora took a dislike to it, and one day perplexed
her mother by asking her why she gave it? Mrs. Smythe did not wish to
tell. She beat about the bush, saying people must have some name, and
other wise observations; but as these were not accepted, at last said,
peevishly,
“I am sure I hope you are not going to be like your poor father.”
“Why, mamma, did _he_ not like it?” For the little girl could put two
and two together; and, with tears in her eyes, her mother was then
forced to make a full confession. “And what did he want me to be?”
Annora said, resolvedly. “I should like to be his name.”
“He wanted you to be Ann,” whimpered the poor mother; “but I tell you,
if you make yourself Ann, you will break my heart.”
Annora’s face became very long. She did not like Ann. She felt abashed
and conquered. After a short reflection, however, her ready wit helped
her.
“Ann is half my name, mamma?”
Her mother nodded.
“Then I will be like papa, and have half. I will take Nora, and,” with
determination, “henceforward I will be Nora, and nothing else.”
It was on this point that a reference to the guardians was made. Mrs.
Smythe thought even the Queen could not permit a change of name, and
Mrs. Ratcliffe had serious doubt whether it would not imperil the
property. But no assurances that it was dangerous to tamper with names
would satisfy the young lady, who, the more she was opposed, became the
more resolute on the subject. She desired her mother to write and ask
permission of her guardians, and, had they refused to sanction the
change, would probably have appealed to the Queen in person. The
guardians, however, gave free permission for Annora to do as she
pleased, observing only that it might sometimes be necessary for her to
sign with the larger name. This gave her a very exalted opinion of their
capacity, and she determined to make the Mr. Fanshawe who had written
her friend.
In two years she had occasion to trouble them again.
When they arrived at Geneva, the governess who had hitherto instructed
Nora left her to be married. She had done her duty, as was said,
tolerably well, but she had failed to obtain influence over her pupil;
and such being the case, instruction had proved tedious. Nora wished to
learn, but only when and as she pleased. She therefore now announced her
intention to do without a governess.
Mrs. Smythe was paralyzed, Mrs. Ratcliffe dismayed. The guardians were
threatened. At the first word, Nora took the affair into her own heads,
and wrote a letter of appeal to Mr. Fanshawe.
He laughed heartily when he received her letter, and said she was quite
right; a governess was a bore. Nevertheless, mindful of his duty, he
wrote a letter of persuasive good sense on the subject.
To this Nora replied:--
“MY DEAR GUARDIAN,
“I liked your letter very much. Perhaps it would be good for most
people to do as you say. But it will not be good for me.
Governesses wish to be submitted to and obeyed. I suppose it is
right for them to wish it; but I can’t submit. It would be no use
for me to promise to do it, because I _can’t_. I should like very
much to talk to you, and I know I should persuade you; but I don’t
like to trouble you with a long letter, because, of course, you
are busy. I must only ask you, therefore, to trust me that I know
what is best when I say a governess will not be good for _me_. I
will have as many masters as mamma pleases, but I _cannot_ consent
to have a governess.
“Your affectionate ward,
“NORA SMYTHE.”
Mr. Fanshawe laughed again and gave way.
“For if she won’t, she won’t,
And there’s an end on ’t,”
he said to his son, quoting the well-known lines.
Mrs. Smythe missed the society of the governess; that is to say, she
missed the presence of the third person who had hitherto supported her
in her efforts to entertain Nora. The poor woman had been very happy
with her child while she was a little child; but now that her daughter
was growing up strong and clever, and indifferent to games and stories,
she was happy no longer. Had it been possible to her to think and to
make observations on her child’s disposition, she would, however, have
known how to be happy again.
She would have seen that Nora was essentially a lover of duty, and that
though haughty, she had a generous disposition, which would have made
the protection of the weak a natural inclination. Could Mrs. Smythe have
put herself into her daughter’s hands, and trusted to her guidance, they
might have been very happy together; Nora the mother, and the mother the
child.
But a weak intellect cannot reason, and a mother may be pardoned who
fails to discover that _her_ wisdom is to submit to a child of tender
years. A jealousy of her rights as mother took hold of Mrs. Smythe’s
weak nature, and even while shedding tears over her incapacity to guide
or influence, she still clung to her rights tenaciously.
Nora had discovered her mother’s weakness. She felt it, but had not
reasoned upon it. When, therefore, the weak mother attempted petty
tyrannies, the child, who felt her own superiority, rebelled.
Thus it was that the mother and daughter were not happy together. Nora,
finding a book more entertaining than the feeble twaddle which was all
her mother had in store, preferred to pass the evening in reading; and
this reading was the plague of Mrs. Smythe’s life.
It was in desperation at her own powerlessness to attract her daughter,
that on one dull rainy day Mrs. Smythe told Nora of her prospects in
life; that she was rich, independent, and to be of age at sixteen. This
secret had been preserved as a treasure. While she had it, she felt a
certain superiority. It was something in store; it was something Nora
had not.
Nora knew well that they were rich; that, as in the days of King
Solomon, silver was little thought of in her house. She knew too, and
could not fail to know, that she was a person of importance; but of her
history she knew nothing; of an existence independent of her mother she
had never dreamed.
This secret and one other had lain deep in Mrs. Smythe’s mind. The other
was the story of the enemies. By Mrs. Ratcliffe’s advice this had been
buried. “The young people will grow up very nicely, I don’t doubt,
ma’am; and it would be a thousand pities to prevent their being friends
together.” So she had observed, when Mrs. Smythe had once consulted her
on the subject, and the woman of amiable character though weak intellect
had submitted with cheerful obedience. This other secret she had no wish
to tell; but the secret of the enormous riches and the independent
position was brought out on this rainy day.
Nora was now between fourteen and fifteen. She was lying on the floor,
wrapt in “Le Robinson Suisse.” No observations could draw her eyes away
from her book. In desperation the secret was told; and its effects had
not been too highly pictured. The book was tossed away. With sparkling
eyes and eager ears Nora came and sat like a child at her mother’s feet,
while she heard the tale of the position she was to hold.
“But be of age at sixteen, mamma! How can I? To be of age is to be
twenty-one. Papa could not alter that.”
“I don’t know how he did it. I only know it is true. I have often
wondered why he settled it. _I_ should have thought a girl of sixteen
ought not to do everything she pleased; but he was very wise, and I am
sure it is right.”
“And how rich shall I be, mamma?”
“I am sure I don’t know. I should think from all I heard more than could
be counted. Perhaps hundreds of thousands a-year.”
“Oh! mamma, but what shall I do with it?” And Nora opened wide her large
brown eyes.
“There is plenty to do with money,” said her mother, sagely. “Of course
you must eat and drink and wear clothes, and take houses, and all this
costs a good deal more than young people think. And then, besides, you
must give away. Your poor father gave away a great deal to poor people,
I always heard.”
“Did he, mamma?” and Nora’s face and voice softened; “and do we?”
“We would if we could; but we have got no beggars here,” and Mrs. Smythe
spoke as if she was sorely aggrieved. “But then, Nora, there is one
dreadful thing about being rich, people will always be wanting to marry
you for your money.”
“Marry me, mamma! But they shall not. I shall take good care of that.”
“It is no use your taking care; depend upon it that is what will happen.
That was what happened to me; and if your poor father had not married
me, I am sure I don’t know what I should have done. However, of course
I shall take care of you if I am alive.”
There was no lack of conversation on that day, nor for many days after;
and Mrs. Smythe exulted at the success of her experiment.
Three days after the announcement, Nora told her mother that she had
decided on returning to England as soon as she was sixteen, and that her
first act would be to buy a large house in the country, and live like a
queen; and when once this idea took possession of her mind, there was no
end to the imaginative powers exercised. It was like a baby-house to a
child of four, who can alter the rooms for ever at her pleasure. On this
tangible castle in the air, the young girl’s mind could expatiate
without ceasing. No details too small; no fancy too exalted. And her
mother listened and sympathised, and was able occasionally to make a
humble suggestion of her own regarding the fittings of the new mansion.
CHAPTER VII.
But these happy days, this renewed intimacy, did not last long. It was
partly the fault of Mrs. Smythe that it came to an end, but much more
the fault of Nora. She became a person of immense importance in her own
eyes. In her secret cogitations she thought her father must have seen
some hidden superior qualities, which prompted him thus to break the
common law in her favour; nay, further, she sometimes thought her
Heavenly Father must have chosen her for some special distinction. Her
heart was lifted up. The immediate consequence was a separation in her
thoughts from her mother. “We” vanished from her common speech, and the
unpleasant “I” became prominent.
There was not any real lack of affection in this--on the contrary,
already dim thoughts of being her mother’s protector were forming
themselves within; nor did any future dream commend itself to her eyes,
except as acted out before her mother. It was “_I_ will do, and _you_
will see;” it was, “And when I am this great woman, almost a queen,
shall you not be proud of me, mamma?”
Mrs. Smythe did not, however, make distinctions. She found herself put
by; her young daughter settling all things without inquiring into her
will, and her maternal pride was sorely wounded. Had she spoken in the
beginning, had she peevishly said out her peevish thoughts, the ill
would probably have been stayed; but the soreness was too sore. She
brooded on her grievance within, and it grew out of all bounds.
Things went on thus till Nora was within a few months of sixteen; and
then a blow fell upon her, which was a very natural consequence of Mrs.
Smythe’s state of mind, but one Nora had never even imagined. It arose
from the fact that, although concealing her sore heart from Nora and
from Mrs. Ratcliffe, the poor mother did make a confidant.
It has been said that the society of her medical advisers was peculiarly
agreeable to her. At Geneva, as usual, she found a medical friend.
Monsieur Jules d’Alberg was the son of a Swiss pastor and an English
woman. His delightful foreign manners, and his English conversation, had
early recommended him to Mrs. Smythe, and she poured her confidences
into his ear. He, on his side, was early attracted by the still youthful
widow--not attracted by herself, but by her circumstances. He was not a
very bad man, but the principle of self-interest was the most largely
developed of his qualities, and he saw the means of forwarding his
interests here. One thing only withheld him. He could not make out the
mother’s position. Sometimes she spoke like a princess, and sometimes as
if she was the most ill-used of mortals.
Nora from the first disliked him, and with her young tyranny forbade her
mother to invite him to tea, as she would have liked to do. Mrs.
Ratcliffe neither liked nor disliked, but knowing her mistress’s ways,
let her alone. She must always have her medical adviser and friend, that
she knew, but she and the rest of the household needed him not.
Monsieur d’Alberg, therefore, had no means of making discoveries
regarding the position of Mrs. Smythe. Meanwhile he invited her
confidence by his charm of demeanour.
It happened one day, when Nora was nearly sixteen, that she said to her
mother,
“I can hardly sleep at night, mamma, for thinking of it all. Oh! don’t
you long for the day when we shall go to England?” For Nora always
supposed that it was something connected with this event that kept them
abroad.
Mrs. Smythe was in a peevish humour, and she peevishly replied that she
did not see why they should go to England at all.
Nora stared.
“Not go to England, mamma? But it is the very first thing I mean to do
when I am of age. Surely you want to go to England”?
Mrs. Smythe reiterated, in the same tone, that she did not. She hated
England! Nora was silent for a moment from astonishment and dismay. She
then warmly expressed her feelings on the subject, ending with--
“I would rather be a beggar in England than a queen of gold here!”
“I wish you _were_ a beggar, or at least a baby again,” said her mother,
vexed beyond her poor powers; and when Nora, offended, walked with a
stately step out of the room, she burst into tears. She cried till her
head ached, and while her head was aching, Monsieur d’Alberg made his
call. He soothed and charmed as usual, and she shortly owned to him that
she was vexed. She had cried, and crying had made her head ache; and a
few further inquiries revealed the cause. Her daughter meant to go to
England, and she did not want to go.
“But how could that be?” he asked with quick diplomacy. “It was not
usually the young lady who ruled the house?”
And Mrs. Smythe then told him all things. Her whole life, vexations,
grievances, up to that moment. If she was prolix he could bear it, for
the tale was of interest to him.
While she spoke he revolved all in his mind. He was in the first instant
shocked, for he had supposed her to be enormously rich. But, after a
little consideration, he found he might stand on safer ground. He
summarily arranged in his mind that Mrs. Smythe’s private fortune should
be settled on himself and put away, and that he and she should content
themselves with her annuity of £1000 a year.
In a few seconds he was prepared to act, and before he left the house he
did act, and was not repulsed. After the first moments of delight,
however, in finding herself with a lover, a protector, and a home,
independent of Nora and her grandeur, the poor weak woman began to weep
and to tremble. The mother’s heart went after her daughter. How, she
said, if Nora persisted in going to England, should she live without
her; and how should she ever tell Nora what had occurred?
For the moment M. d’Alberg recommended delay. He soothed her tenderly,
and, in short, in a few days one thing he made clear to her mind--come
what might, she never could part from him.
A short time elapsed; and at last, one week before the coming of age,
Nora was informed that Monsieur d’Alberg was to be her stepfather. It
was Monsieur d’Alberg who performed the task. He saw that, unless he did
it, it would never be done. The information was given not without inward
trepidation, for Nora had inspired him with some degree of fear, but
outwardly with coolness and calmness. He hoped, he said, as he
concluded, that she would learn to love him.
It was the first blow in Nora’s life, and she was thunderstruck. She
could not collect her senses to understand all; but to his last words
replying with ineffable disdain, “Never!” she rushed from the room.
He was abashed, and after telling Mrs. Smythe what had passed, left her
to contend with Nora alone.
CHAPTER VIII.
As far as birth was concerned, Nora had no reason to complain;
nevertheless, if all the blood of the Plantagenets had been in her
veins, she could not have scorned Monsieur d’Alberg and the alliance
more than she did. She had been brought up like a princess, and she felt
as a princess might have felt.
“How,” she cried, when at last she went to her mother, “oh! how could
you so demean yourself!”
Mrs. Smythe wept bitterly, but in justifying herself, observed that
_she_ had no reason to be proud, as her own mother was almost a
peasant.
Nora was astounded, and then in very deed the whole tale was told; not
about the enemies, but about the tradesman cousin, and how Mrs. Smythe
had been saved from him.
This was Nora’s second blow, and deeply felt. Yet, after but little
thought, she rose above it. Her nature was essentially noble, and with a
feeling of love and respect for what her father had done, she set
herself to imitate him. He had saved her mother from unworthy hands, and
she would do the same.
As the first tainted passion of wounded pride passed away, her mind
seemed to become clearer. She looked steadily into the circumstances,
saw her mother’s weakness, and Monsieur d’Alberg’s motives, and, with a
newly aroused passion of love and pity for that weak mother,
endeavoured to save her.
With prayers, with tears, she implored her not to leave her. Would she
not be her mother; be with her all her days, share her fortune, help her
if unhappy, nurse her in sickness?
“Should they ever?” she asked, “be happy if separated?”
A love which Nora had never guessed to be slumbering in her heart,
because it had never been awakened from its calm sleep--a love for which
Mrs. Smythe had pined for years, now came forth, flowing like waters
from a long sealed fountain.
But the toils of another love were already round the mother’s heart; a
love different in its nature, a love which at this moment she would have
willingly shaken off; but it had become her master, and she could not.
She wept again and again; she clung to her daughter, and replied that
she never would or could leave her; but when Nora, hopeful and
satisfied, asked to be allowed to answer Monsieur d’Alberg, she shook
her head and renewed her weeping.
It was not strange that her manner made Nora more suspicious than was
just. She thought her mother did not wish for the marriage, but was
afraid to break it off, and she determined to take the matter into her
own hands.
She was still under sixteen; but she was, she always had been,
precocious. Her thoughts, her feelings on this occasion were those of a
woman of a sound and thoughtful mind; but though her thoughts were
sound, the passionate impetuosity of untutored youth guided her actions.
She sent for Monsieur d’Alberg on the following morning, and with a
dignity that astonished him entered on the question. He was a clever
man, a self-possessed man, and thirty-five; yet he felt awkward and
abashed in her youthful presence. Instead of maintaining a calm dignity,
he became insolent; to affront her seemed at that moment the only means
he had of putting himself above her.
And when he became insolent, Nora’s youthful impetuosity got the better
of her womanly dignity. Her eyes flashed, and in no calm terms she told
him what she thought of his conduct, laying bare his motives with an
acuteness which made him wince. He had no refuge but to return scorn for
scorn, and though he had only imperfectly learned Nora’s history, he
flung it back in her face. What right had she to impute motives of
interest to him, who at that very moment was defrauding a cousin of his
rights?
The wide open eyes, the transfixed, astonished, innocent look, showed
him her ignorance of the whole affair, and he related to her her history
with embroidery. He told her of a mad father, of a just heir cut out, of
the disputed will, and finally of a young man left in poverty, while she
lorded it like a queen. These were the facts he told,--now in French,
and now in English; partly in derision of her, and partly in
justification of himself.
Nora sat perfectly still. That there must be truth she felt at once, and
a truth that would pierce into her very life. Yet she sat still and
heard him, and when he ceased she had again resumed the dignity of the
woman.
“I do not think your tale can be altogether true,” she said, coldly and
calmly, rising as she spoke. “At any rate, it cannot apply to me; for
if I am defrauding anyone, it is done in ignorance. And be it as it may,
it does not affect you. I shall guard my mother from you if I can.” And
she left him.
But Mrs. Smythe was not to be guarded. Nora soon saw this truth. Saw
that the stranger lover had gained that position with her mother which
she ought to have had. She saw it--saw that the fault had lain in
herself, and was humbled as she saw. Her views for the future did not
change, but her dreams were robbed of their beauty. She had not known
till now how much the thought of her mother had been bound up with those
dreams. She felt how cold and sad it was to enter on life alone. She
had, however, an undaunted spirit, and when she saw the event was
inevitable she ceased to argue, ceased to remonstrate, and determined
only, with a love touching for her years, to be the protector of her
mother’s interests now and for ever--to be to her the guardian her
father would have been.
She formed her present plans anew, and Mrs. Smythe consented to them.
The day after Nora’s birthday they should leave Geneva for England, and,
as London was distasteful to her mother, take up their abode at
Brighton. Then if, on consideration, the mind of Mrs. Smythe remained
favourable to matrimony, Monsieur d’Alberg should join them. There the
marriage should be celebrated, and there the parting between mother and
daughter should take place. Her birthday, meanwhile, passed differently
from what she had anticipated. There were no outward signs. Nora came of
age, but she kept silence over the circumstance. Not even to Mrs.
Ratcliffe did she make any comments, or show any of that exultation she
once had felt. There were words hovering about her, striking roots into
her heart, which kept her from all exultation over the future. On the
meaning of those words she made no present inquiries, but she meditated
upon them within.
On her birthday she received a letter from Mr. Fanshawe--a kind letter,
requesting a visit to his house in London, where he might talk over with
her the matters of business necessary to be transacted. In her reply she
accepted his invitation for herself, and then went on to tell him of her
mother’s marriage and her proposed plans. She begged him to allow all
things to remain unchanged until her visit was paid; begging him only,
in the meanwhile, to furnish her with the money necessary for the
intended visit to Brighton and the coming marriage, all which she hoped
to take upon herself.
The tone of the letter, its concise and quiet wording, and the
forethought shown regarding her mother, surprised Mr. Fanshawe. He took
it to the other guardian, Mr. Conway, and observed,
“I thought we should have had trouble with this young lady, powerless
advisers as we shall be, but after reading this letter I do not fear;
the girl has a heart and has brains.”
“A powerless adviser I will never be,” said Mr. Conway drily. “The girl
is free now. If she asks my advice I give it her, but I force it on no
man.”
“True, true; but she will want advice at first, poor child, and we must
stand her friends. Meanwhile, I suppose she must have what money she
pleases.”
“She is of age. Of course she must have what money she pleases.”
Mr. Conway and Mr. Fanshawe had been trusty friends of Mr. Smythe’s. Mr.
Conway was dry, but wise. Mr. Fanshawe was an enthusiast--apt to be run
away with by out-of-the-way ideas; but at the same time entertaining for
this nature of his so profound a contempt, and for dry wisdom,
especially for Mr. Conway’s, so profound an admiration, that his
enthusiasm was perfectly safe, and her father had chosen wisely in
confiding Nora to his care.
She and Mrs. Smythe arrived at Brighton, and it was soon made clear that
change of scene dispelled no visions. The discomforts of her journey and
a rough passage so disturbed Mrs. Smythe, that she longed again for the
peace of Geneva, and the soothing of her medical lover. Monsieur
d’Alberg was summoned, and the marriage took place.
The stay at Brighton was embittered to all parties by strife and
altercations. Nora, in imitation of her father, and really desirous to
take the best care she could of her mother, refused to make any further
settlement upon her. With most affectionate words and assurances, she
told her in private that all she had was at her disposal; but to
Monsieur d’Alberg she was cold as steel; and the more he begged and
threatened, the more fixed was her resolution to keep the care of her
mother in her own hands.
On another and less important point she was equally obstinate. Monsieur
d’Alberg wished to have a grand marriage; Nora refused it. She said the
marriage was no pleasure, but a bitter grief to her, and she would not
celebrate it. The strife continued to the very last day, but she
remained firm; and with the greatest privacy and the simplest
proceedings the marriage took place.
After the marriage came the parting, and then Madame d’Alberg seemed to
feel what she had done. She clung to Nora as if she never would leave
her, and had to be lifted fainting into the carriage that bore her away.
And on that last day Nora also melted, and implored Monsieur d’Alberg,
with tears, to make her mother happy. He answered with great amiability,
and after all the strifes, they parted good friends. He had determined
for the present to continue in his profession, and to remain at Geneva;
and in a very few days to Geneva they returned. Nora and Mrs. Ratcliffe
went to London.
CHAPTER IX.
It is a long while since there has been any news of Mr. Devereux; but
re-acquaintance with him must now be made. With the exception that his
children had increased in number, and advanced in years, there was no
great change in his circumstances, and there was no great change in him.
Mr. Smythe’s legacy, however disappointing, had been an addition to his
income, and his income from other sources had also a little increased;
but to set against this, there was the increase in his family, so that
upon the whole he was only where he was. The desire of money was still
the one desire of his heart; the want of money still a need that was
felt. He still frittered away any little sums he had in small
speculations, too trilling to pay much, too carefully watched to lead to
great losses. They occupied his thoughts and his time, and set his heart
unceasingly on money; but they left him much where he was.
During all the years of Nora’s youth, he had daily expected to hear of
her death. Over and over again he had framed to himself the letter
containing the announcement of that event. It was the occupation of
dreamy hours to write it, and repeat it to himself. He rarely entered
his house without glancing at a certain table, on which letters were
placed, to see if it was come; but as we know, it never came.
This expectation prevented his making reductions, and therefore it was
that, though far from extravagant in his tastes, he was in want of money
for very necessary things. At the moment at which we resume our
acquaintance, the want of money was indeed a very great want in the
house. Henry Devereux was between eighteen and nineteen. He wished to go
to Oxford; he had been always told that he should go to Oxford. The time
was now come, and it was found impossible; there was no money to do it.
The children of Mr. Devereux had been brought up vaguely. These children
were Letitia and Henry, now grown up, and some smaller ones; and all had
been, and were being brought up in a vague, desultory way. Sometimes
they had had teachers of various kinds, daily or stationary, and pains
were bestowed upon them; again, for months together, they were let
alone. Some of their teachers, both daily and stationary, were good,
instilled good principles, and taught them well. Some were very much the
reverse. It was a kind of scramble. Education was tossed among the
children at intervals, and a very alert one might have picked up a good
deal. Education, however, not being in general so desirable as
halfpence, the most alert on common occasions was not alert in this
scramble. The most alert of all the family, the eldest son Henry, had
certainly caught the least. He had once been to a master whom he liked,
and who had done him some good; for the rest his education had been a
scramble indeed. Nevertheless, he had set his heart on going to Oxford.
Henry Devereux and his father were good friends. This was remarkable,
for better fathers than Mr. Devereux might have felt jealousy of the
son whose name was put in his place. But the enormous injury done to
father and son alike by the birth of Nora covered all petty jealousies.
No trifling legacy to Henry could make amends for the loss of both their
rights. To do Mr. Devereux justice, also, he had his natural affections.
He was a faithful, though not an adoring husband to Letitia Allen; and
he was a faithful, though not agreeable father to his children.
Of all his children, Henry was his favourite; and yet Henry was the only
one who had no likeness, nor the shadow of a shade of a likeness, to
himself. Letitia had grown up a sharp, shrewd girl, with good features,
and a hard face--not exactly like her father’s, but very like him. The
younger children also exhibited mental and bodily features which, with
a thrill of rapture, Mrs. Devereux pronounced to be like papa. But Henry
was formed in a different mould. He was a wild, careless, impetuous,
passionate, and good-tempered boy. He rarely thought; he never
calculated, never compared, or put two and two together; he closed his
eyes to disagreeables, and set his heart violently on the pleasures of
life. He had many amiable and even excellent qualities; and his mother,
being naturally amiable and well-principled, had let fall, without the
least consciousness of doing so, many drops of wisdom and goodness among
her children, and these Henry had often picked up. But his education had
been, as has been said, a scramble, and he had picked up also a good
deal that was neither amiable nor wise.
From early years Henry had heard much about his rights, and had formed
his own opinion, therefore, as to what his future life should be. It was
very well to talk of a profession, and to agree to being a lawyer, when
he was told that that would be the best choice; but his intention was to
enjoy himself without any profession whatever. His rights would probably
come some day, and if they did not, he knew he had a legacy. He rarely
thought, was perfectly careless as to the value of money, knew not
whether the Queen had a thousand or a million a year, but wished to
enjoy himself, and be let alone.
Of the probable death of his cousin, the one person who stood between
him and his rights, he sometimes thought. If people were very
disagreeable, and pressed upon him hard truths about the future--truths
which a latent good sense forced him to acknowledge, then he re-assured
himself by saying to himself,
“They may talk, but it’s all nonsense; there’s only a life between me
and millions, and of course it will die.”
But this quieting assurance of a death was without the least grain of
malice in it. The thought of that death gave him ease from disagreeable
reflections, and he took the ease when he required it, without once
reasoning on what it was that soothed him.
Nevertheless, if there was a shade of bitterness in Henry’s nature, it
was in his feelings towards this cousin. He had been told to hate her in
his early youth, and that instruction had been among the things picked
up and cherished. With glowing cheeks and sparkling eyes, he had then
said he hated her, and the sensation was carried on, and improved upon
from year to year.
Not that he thought much about her--not that he would have done her any
harm, or would have refused to do her any good, had such a possibility
been actually in his power. The hate was a vague sensation, but such as
it was it was cherished. It was a pleasurable excitement to hear his
father abuse her; it was pleasurable to feel that every grievance in the
family was caused by her. It had certainly been a pleasure to hear, when
once it had reached their ears, that she was a purse-proud little thing.
She was the enemy; he had been told to hate her, and he did.
“I wish your gowns were prettier,” he said one day to his sister; it was
after she was grown up, and when a boy’s eyes are beginning to like to
see a young lady well-dressed.
Letitia had not good taste. If there was an ugly shade of a pretty
colour to be seen, she always chose it; but she was not conscious of her
deficiency, and she answered dryly and peevishly,
“I can’t help my gowns. I am not Miss Smythe. _She_ wears beautiful
silks, of course, but _I_ can’t.”
It was thus; it was by allusions such as this that Nora’s name was
constantly brought before Henry’s eyes. She was associated with all that
was disagreeable. He thought of her as a vague being, who, having first
deprived him of his rights, now lived in luxury, while those whom she
had injured, suffered endless disappointments, privations, and wrongs.
At the present moment there was a worse grievance, of which, as usual,
she was the cause. Henry had set his heart on going to Oxford. This
desire was from no worthy motive. Among his youthful follies was a great
desire to be grand and fine; to be, in familiar language, “a swell.” As
he had not been to a public school, he thought a sojourn at Oxford,
where his agreeable qualities might make him popular, was the best way
to achieve this object; and it was to secure that object that he gave
his careless acquiescence to the prospect of being a lawyer.
It has been said that among Henry’s masters was one who had once done
him good. Of him more will be heard. He was a private tutor, and with
him Henry had remained for upwards of two years. It was while with him
that he had had for a companion a youth whose destiny it was to be
great without effort. He was a well-disposed boy, but proud of his
destiny, and somewhat given to boasting. Too well-bred to boast of
present rank, he chose rather to boast of his ancestors; to bring
forward and comment on a fine Norman name, which showed, he said, that
his forefathers had been powerful barons, perhaps princes, in the days
of William the Conqueror.
Henry was a youth of ambitious soul. He was not desirous of _doing_ any
great things, but he was ambitious of grandeur. The confined sphere in
which his father and mother lived was small and dull and ugly in his
eyes. When the Norman youth boasted he felt humbled, and cast about his
eyes in search of comfort. It was at this time that he discovered that
he, too, had an historic name; that _he_ might talk of ancestors; and,
though he was not aware of there being any connection with the
families, might observe that the head of his family was the first
Viscount in England. The discovery was an ineffable consolation to him.
When he told it to his friend, and added to it the story of his rights,
he saw that the respect of the friend increased. More than ever it was
impressed upon his mind that he was born to grandeur, and that it was
his duty to take his proper place in the world.
After leaving this private tutor, his education flagged for a time.
There was a want of money in the house, and Henry was left to his own
devices. He lived at home by way of keeping up his studies, but he was
chiefly occupied in paying visits. One young companion introduced him to
another young companion, and an idle, handsome, good-tempered boy, who
was up to anything, seemed to lack no friends; his company was always
welcome.
Mr. Devereux was not given to think of the moral or intellectual good of
his children. This being a time when money was scarce, Henry’s frequent
absences from home were agreeable to him, and for two or three years,
from fifteen to eighteen, he was allowed to idle as he pleased.
But though Henry idled and got into a good deal of mischief, he did not
forget his object. He was always thinking of college; and when the time
came, and his father told him that his going was impossible, he was not
only disappointed--he was vexed and angry. The blame, of course, was
laid on Nora; but as she was a vague, absent being, the vexation was
visited on those nearer to him. For the first time in his life Henry was
cross--out of temper, not for a moment, but for days and weeks
together. He thought himself ill-used. The disappointment caused him to
think a little, and he hated thought. He could not help looking on and
saying once or twice, if he did not have his rights, what should he do
in life? And the mere act of thought disturbed him.
It was about this time that Mr. Devereux, one morning as he sat at
breakfast, exclaimed,
“So that woman has married again!”
“What woman?” said Mrs. Devereux, who was ever dull.
“That woman,” he repeated, with his usual politeness.
“Oh, papa!” cried Letitia, “has Miss Smythe really married? Married, and
at sixteen! What a shame!”
“Not Miss Smythe, but the mother.”
“What, that old woman!” said Letitia.
“Not old,” observed Mrs. Devereux with dignity, for she knew her to be
several years younger than herself.
“You know what I mean, mamma; and whom has she married?”
Mr. Devereux read the paragraph:--
“At Brighton, Anne Smythe, widow of the late Joshua Smythe, Esq., to
Monsieur Jules d’Alberg, of Geneva.”
“Of Geneva!” observed Letitia, “Oh! then they don’t mean to settle in
England. I am glad of that. I should have hated to have them here.”
“I don’t know about that, Letitia,” said Mrs. Devereux in her drawling
voice. “I think I am sorry. I am afraid it puts an end to my plan.”
“Your plan, mamma! What is your plan?”
“Why, you see, as Henry is the person who will in the end suffer the
most by the dreadful will, it struck me the other day that the best of
all things that could happen would be for Henry to marry her; and I
really don’t see why it should not happen.”
Up to this point Henry had not paid any attention to the conversation.
He possibly was listening, but he paid no attention. Usually he was what
is called the life and soul of the party, the only one who had much life
or much soul; but since his displeasure, he had retired behind a penny
newspaper, which he took in himself for the very purpose of showing his
displeasure.
After Mrs. Devereux spoke, both gentlemen moved--Mr. Devereux slightly,
taking one quick, sidelong glance at his son. Mr. Simon Devereux had a
mean soul. He could hate with intense and venomous hate, and yet profit
by the person hated, and be willing to do so.
Henry was otherwise formed. His hate was not of a venomous kind; it
might not be Christian (it was not very un-Christian), nevertheless, it
was a true feeling; it was good sound hate, so far as it went. His cheek
grew crimson at his mother’s words, and with flashing eyes he cried--
“Don’t dare to plan about me, mother, for I won’t suffer it. If every
limb of her body was made of pure gold of Ophir, I would rather die than
touch her!”
The voice was so intensely in earnest, that there was a pause. Mr.
Devereux buried himself in his newspaper, and though he had faintly
expected a different answer, murmured under his voice, “Right.”
Mrs. Devereux, as usual, stared. She knew they all hated, and she hated
too, but she was always surprised when any reality appeared in the
hate. It was a feeling that had grown up in her family, and which she
dutifully encouraged, to please her husband, but she never took in what
it all meant. Letitia stared also.
“What nonsense you talk, Henry!” she said, carelessly. “I am sure I hate
her as much as you do, and would do her any harm I could; but I would
marry her to-morrow, if I was a man, both for the money’s sake, and for
the pleasure of vexing her.”
Henry deigned no answer, and as Letitia rarely thought it worth while to
talk only to her mother, the conversation dropped.
A few mornings afterwards, however, it was resumed. Henry’s penny
newspaper contained sometimes news of a description not admitted to the
newspaper of Mr. Devereux, and he one day found in it a short account
of the marriage that had lately taken place at Brighton. There was
nothing of interest to record, but for lack of subjects of greater
moment, about twenty lines were devoted to Mrs. Smythe. There was some
statement and some mis-statement of facts. The great wealth of the bride
was mentioned, and the fact that, nevertheless, the bridegroom intended
to resume his duties. The weak nerves of the lady were said to be the
cause of the quiet marriage, but it was graced by the presence of her
beautiful and accomplished daughter, who had just attained her
twenty-first year, and entered into possession of enormous wealth. It
was then added that, after a short honeymoon, the whole party intended
to return to their beautiful residence on the Lake of Geneva.
Love or hate both excite interest, and though Henry had, as he supposed,
a scorn for everything that could be called gossip, he read this
paragraph with interest; and when he had read it to himself, he was
sufficiently amiable to pass it over to his mother, to whom he knew the
very smallest article of gossip to be acceptable. She read it to herself
with quiet delight, and then began drawling it out to Letitia, who,
before it was half done, impatiently snatched the paper from her hand.
There were often petty disputes between Letitia and her mother, owing to
Letitia’s superior sharpness and desire to tyrannize. Mr. Devereux
usually sided with his daughter, but Henry always with his mother, and
that was perhaps the reason why he was inclined to talk on this day.
“What was the use of reading that, mamma,” said Letitia. “There is
nothing whatever in it.”
“I don’t know,” she replied. “It tells me some things that I did not
know before. I certainly did not know that Miss Smythe was so handsome.”
“Oh! mamma, how silly! Newspapers say ‘beautiful and accomplished’ to
anybody, however hideous.”
“Well, but, my dear, she might be handsome. Mrs. Ratcliffe used to tell
me that her mother was very pretty, and she might, you know, take after
her instead of her poor father.”
“Was her father very ugly?” asked Henry.
He knew perfectly what the answer would be, but to hear anything against
the Smythes was a pleasure to him that never was satiated.
“Ugly! Oh! my dear Henry, if you could have seen him, poor man. It was
as if he had two noses one after the other. If his daughter,” she added,
thoughtfully, “has a nose at all like his, it is impossible she can be
handsome.”
“And she has, you may depend upon it.”
“Poor girl! Then I really do pity her.”
“I don’t,” said Henry, “there is no room for pity. Nose or no nose, she
has done too well for herself for that.”
“I sometimes think,” said Mrs. Devereux, forgetting the hate, as was not
unusual, “that perhaps it is almost a pity that we are so prejudiced
against her. She may not be as bad as we think. I sometimes wish we
could have a good account of her.”
“Don’t talk trash,” said her husband, shortly. “There is no good
account to be heard.”
“And I,” said Henry, sticking to his mother, “should like to hear an
account of her, too. But what I should be glad to hear is, that she is
just what I think she is.”
“You shall hear about her if you please,” observed Mr. Devereux. “I have
an acquaintance at Brighton who knows all that goes on. I dare say this
marriage will not have escaped him. I will write and inquire.”
It was not to please Henry, however, that Mr. Devereux wrote. He was
anxious himself to hear further particulars. He was especially anxious
to know whether she looked sickly, and likely to do her duty and die.
Francis Horner, in his diary, observes that asking questions is an art,
and one in which he is deficient. At a later date in the same diary he
remarks that he was improved in the art of asking questions. These
questions were of course with a view to eliciting information; but there
is another sense in which there is an art in questioning. When we wish
for a particular answer to be given, the enquiry has to be framed with
art and nicety. The answer must, in fact, be contained in the question.
It was on this principle that Mr. Devereux framed his inquiries to his
Brighton acquaintance. He wished to know that Nora was all he had
depicted her to be, and he gave his cue. He said that he had great
fears, from various things he had heard, that she was purse-proud,
miserly, and heartless. He should be glad to know if any circumstances
of her conduct at Brighton agreed with this character, as, once informed
of her real character, he should be better able to deal with her. After
answering a good many other inquiries contained in the letter, the
gentleman, in his reply, wrote thus:
“It is curious that the words you apply to Miss Smythe should be
precisely those which I had applied to her character from the
circumstances which reached my ears. I am afraid all I have to say
tallies with your pre-conceived opinion. You must know that she took
lodgings in the same street in which I live, and her comings and goings
were under my eye. That she is miserly may be easily gathered from many
facts of her conduct. In the first place, rich as she is, she chose to
go into lodgings--very decent ones, but not at all suitable to the
wealth she is said to possess. While there she lived in the smallest
possible way, and even at the time of the marriage showed no
liberality. The mistress of the house is an acquaintance of my wife’s,
and from her we heard these and other particulars. She, good woman, was
anxious for a little of the pomp of matrimony, and so, also, she says,
was the mother, Mrs. Smythe. But the young lady did not choose to have
it so. The marriage was not only private, but shabby. The dresses were
decent, but no more. There was not an attempt to do honour to her
mother. And yet so fond of power is Miss Smythe, that she insisted on
having every bill brought to herself. She would be all in all--her
mother nothing.
“I have often met them in the street. The mother is young-looking, and
looks kind and gentle. Miss Smythe is less easy to describe. I
understand she is only sixteen, but she looks several years older. She
is what some would call a fine girl, but I did not admire her. Her hair
and eyes are good, but her features are large and cold. She does not
exactly look unhealthy, but neither does she look young and blooming. I
myself admire amiable-looking women, and if I had to choose I would
choose the mother before the daughter.
“I omitted to tell you that I heard in confidence from a friend who drew
up Monsieur d’Alberg’s settlements, a trait which I think very bad. Mrs.
Smythe, it appears, was left with a jointure of only £1,000 a year--a
very small sum, considering the property her husband possessed. As she
may very possibly have a new family, she was exceedingly anxious to have
something to settle on them, something beyond a life interest, and
implored her daughter to make such a provision; but Miss Smythe declined
in the most determined manner. Now, considering that she has but one
parent, but one near relation, I own I think her conduct unjustifiable.”
“It is vile! it is loathsome!” cried Henry, interrupting with violence.
“Let me hear no more!--never hear her name again! I am ashamed to be,
however distantly, connected with such a wretch!”
The whole party looked surprised. Again the reality of Henry’s vehemence
astonished. Mr. Devereux folded up his letter and put it in his pocket,
saying, “It was only what I expected. A good account would have
surprised me much more.”
“I am afraid she must have got her father’s nose,” observed Mrs.
Devereux. “He says her features are large, you see.”
“That does not follow,” was Letitia’s observation. “I am very much
afraid she is handsome.”
“It matters very little what she is,” Henry said. “With a mind like
hers, she must be hateful, even had she the features of Venus!”
“You are so ridiculous,” said his sister; then added, laughing, “if you
talk so violently, you will end by falling in love with her.”
Henry got up, and banged the door as he went out; Letitia laughed; Mrs.
Devereux stared as usual; Mr. Devereux looked up, and then looked down
again. Passion surprised him also; his hate was calm and cold; he could
hardly understand his son’s warmth on the subject.
CHAPTER X.
When Nora parted from her mother and came to London, all her haughtiness
of disposition, the acquired haughtiness of circumstances, and all the
self-reliance of her nature, the fruit partly of circumstances and
partly of disposition, were, for the first time, beat out of her. She
had failed in her duty to her mother; her lack of tenderness had driven
her into a marriage that promised little happiness. She felt this truth
with the keenness of a strong and honest nature, and it bowed her before
herself in sackcloth and ashes. She had failed. Pride fled at the
thought.
She felt very lonely on entering London. There had been a time when the
thought of her all-sufficiency to herself had charmed her; but that
charm was gone. Those possible brilliant prospects on which she was
entering looked cold and dead; there was no one to admire her, no one to
smile on her, and the glow of light in which they had been bathed,
vanished. With quiet resolution she examined these prospects, and there
was but one thought in the future that brought a kind of life and
beating to her heart--the idea that by something she might do she might
win this family of cousins of whom Monsieur d’Alberg had told her; this
family who hated her; or, to speak more correctly, might win that one
cousin, the young man whom she had been politely informed must wish her
dead. The lonely catch at slight helps to ease their loneliness, and
this family of distant cousins had in a short time become tangible
objects in Nora’s mind and affections. For some, the thought of being
hated would have prevented the growth of feelings of kindliness; but
Nora’s nature was otherwise made--its very strength and self-reliance
made her rise out of the atmosphere of personal considerations. She
would be glad to receive, but that which she was longing for was to
give, affection.
She had received, as was said, an invitation to her guardian’s house,
and thither she repaired, and found him alone. He had a married daughter
and a blind son, who both made his house their home when they pleased;
but both were absent now.
On the very first meeting Mr. Fanshawe lost his heart to his ward. This
would not have been the case with many guardians. The matronly girl of
sixteen, calm and collected as a woman of thirty, would have had little
charm for many elderly men. But Mr. Fanshawe, being himself an
enthusiast, had a fanatical admiration for practical qualities and
common sense, and he submitted himself at once to the influence of the
young maiden who came to him for protection and advice. He saw at a
glance the strength of her character. He did not see, not at that first
glance, that an enthusiasm equal to his own was hid under her quiet
manners, and was ready at a spark to gleam out of her dark eye. But he
discovered something of it during the first evening, for no sooner was
dinner over than she asked him, with some abruptness, as he stood
enjoying his cup of coffee by his drawing-room fire, to tell her all
about her father’s will. “Your father’s will,” he said, amazed. “Why,
what do you want to know?”
“All the facts,” she said. “I have heard them, but perhaps from an
enemy. I want to know the very truth about it all.”
“Bless my soul! why, what do you suspect? Why, I was one of the
witnesses to the will. What are you going to accuse me of, my dear?”
Nora did not smile.
“I have heard the story only once,” she replied; “I wish to hear it
again. All, everything--from the day of my father’s marriage till the
day of his death.”
“I wish Mr. Conway was here,” said Mr. Fanshawe in his heart. This was a
little soliloquy which was almost unconsciously made within, whenever he
thought anything of responsibility was attached to his words.
Notwithstanding his wish for Mr. Conway, he felt himself, however, in no
difficulty on this occasion. He collected the particulars from the
recesses of his memory, and being a man of truth, and becoming warm with
the telling of a tale to so attentive a listener, he laid before her all
the facts connected with the wills, together with the behaviour of all
parties connected with the affair.
Nora listened in silence till he had done. She then drew a deep breath,
and said,
“I think the case is clear; I must give it all up.”
“Bless my soul!” he said, pushing back the chair which he had drawn
nearer and nearer to her. “Why, what have I said?”
“Nothing but the truth--it _was_ the truth I had heard. If I had not
been born, my cousin would have had all. Why was I born?”
“Why, my dear child, for no other reason that I can imagine but that it
pleased God.”
The extreme simplicity with which this was said made Nora smile. But the
smile faded, and the cloud returned.
“What I say is true,” she said. “I am an intruder. I cannot live on and
bear it. Let them make their claim, and take what they claim.”
“And say your father was mad? Your poor father, who was as good and true
a man as ever lived, who knew what he was about to the day of his death
as well as I do--who thought he was making a right disposition of his
money in leaving it to his child--one who he hoped would follow his
steps--and in cutting it off from the bad, who would, he guessed, abuse
it. Very well; if this is your first act, of course, neither I nor Mr.
Conway have any power to forbid you; but--but _I_ wash my hands of it.”
In vain, from the first words of this oration, had Nora endeavoured to
arrest him. He would not be arrested; his mind, filled with the thoughts
conjured up by his tale, had become excited for the memory of his old
friend, and he ran on breathlessly, unheeding the gestures and
exclamations that attempted to stay his words. Before he concluded, Nora
was in tears.
“I never meant that,” she said. “Do not accuse me of it. I will do
whatever you advise.”
This little excitement had the effect of righting the positions of the
elderly man and the young girl. Nora’s might be the strongest nature,
but she had no knowledge of life. Mr. Fanshawe, taken by her manners,
had been disposed to retreat into obscurity, and all the comfort of his
relations with her might have been lost. But to cause tears in a pretty
young lady is a feat of which a guardian may be proud, and Mr. Fanshawe
felt a thrill of elation tingle through his veins. All was as it should
be, and he set himself to soothe and to advise with all his powers. And
except that he had his weaknesses of enthusiasm, and except that almost
anyone who had the will could take advantage of his weakness and guide
him, he was well fitted to be her friend. For he had sense and
principle, and such a dread of himself, as made him always in the first
instance oppose whatever his self was inclined to do. He and Nora,
therefore, entered quietly on this question of one person standing in
another’s light, and he spoke with a truth and force that allayed the
turmoil of his mind. She began to see again that her father had had the
right to entrust her wealth to her, if he chose, and to feel again the
responsibility that trust laid upon her shoulders.
Nevertheless these cousins, this young cousin, occupied her mind, and
when she reappeared on the following morning, it was with plans to be
laid before her guardians for their benefit. The light that had faded
from her prospects was beginning to gleam again, and the brightness that
was kindled arose from the thought of being their benefactress. She
would bear her wealth as it was laid upon her, but it should be for
their sakes. She began with inquiries regarding them. Mr. Fanshawe did
not know much.
“After their behaviour, my dear, to your poor father, I cut them,” was
his first short answer.
“But they might have improved,” she suggested.
He was sorry to say that Mr. Devereux had not improved. That much he did
know. He was a bad man. Mrs. Devereux, he believed, was a fool, and he
did not like what he heard of the children. Nora was set down for a
moment, then returned to the charge.
“I was talking to Mrs. Ratcliffe last night,” she said, “and she spoke
of my cousin. She says she saw him once, and he was a beautiful boy.”
“May be so; but I fear, I fear he is a young scamp. Of him, however, you
shall hear more, if you please. I was telling you of my poor blind son.
His mania is education, and five or six years ago he had Henry Devereux
in his charge. He was a scamp, depend upon it, but my son has a liking
for him.”
Nora’s heart bounded with pleasure, and felt a glow of warmth towards
the poor blind son. She said no more of him, however, but began to
explain to her guardian her views as to being a help to her cousins, and
asked him whether, in her place, he should not feel as she did.
“If I was to die they would have all. Why make them wish for my death?
Why should I not help them now?”
Her pathetic voice touched Mr. Fanshawe, and he agreed that he should,
in her place, wish to help them. But no sooner had he agreed than he
drew back again. He and Mr. Conway had indeed already conversed on this
subject, and had determined for the present to keep her out of Mr.
Devereux’s hands. He was a dangerous man, and once placed in
communication with her, there was no saying how he might prey upon her.
They were no longer her guardians, but they had resolved, with the best
of their power, to keep her from the influence of her cousins until she
had come to an age more proper to manage for herself. All this, in
apology for his rapid change of opinion, Mr. Fanshawe told her freely.
This passed in the morning, and being then forced to leave her, Nora
remained with her disappointment alone. But a young and lively mind is
not easily damped, nay, it is almost certain that if a natural desire is
in any way repelled, it will find a hundred less natural ways of
shooting forth. And so it was that as Nora talked with herself, and
thought to herself, she came suddenly upon the idea of being a secret
benefactress. The idea was no sooner formed than it grew up bright and
beautiful, and it was a cherished thing before Mr. Fanshawe returned at
night.
And at the first possible moment it was laid before him; not with all
its brightness and fascination about it, but in the calm, sensible,
prosaic way in which many bright inward cogitations are produced to the
world, and so calmly and prosaically was it placed before him, that Mr.
Fanshawe actually acceded to it as a good plan. He had certainly felt as
she did, that in her place he should wish to do something; and yet no
arguing had lessened his dislike to placing her in communication with
Mr. Devereux. All the day long he had felt perplexed and annoyed, and
afraid of further pressure, and Nora’s idea relieved him from his
difficulty. In the first instant he spoke his approval with warmth; then
a vision of Mr. Conway arose, and he qualified his approval. He finally
ended with--
“Certainly, as you say, it will be right to do something, and this will
give us a handle. I will make inquiries regarding his present needs, and
one of these days you shall hear from me. A man with a family is best
assisted by some help for the education of his children.”
“Not one of these days, but now,” Nora said imploringly. “Let me get
this off my mind. Of course he must want to educate his children. Could
you have him informed that a friend of his family will give him
henceforth a sum every year?”
“No, no, not every year--till further notice we will say.”
“As you please. The only thing I should wish would be to ensure a part
to my cousin.”
“Your cousin--the young man, you mean. Well, we can do that. And what
sum do you propose?”
“I was thinking of two thousand a year; one thousand five hundred to Mr.
Devereux, and----”
“Two thousand a year! Bless my soul, child, why, what are you thinking
of? If we are to buy a property and build a house, and pension widows,
and educate orphans, why, where do you suppose all the money is to come
from? You may be rich, but riches have wings and fly away.”
“What, then, shall it be?”
“Not one penny more than a thousand; and I don’t know what Mr. Conway
will say to that.”
“But what, then, could my cousin have?” And Nora looked perplexed.
“Your cousin--what, the young man?” Mr. Fanshawe did not, as Nora did,
ignore the relationship to the older persons, and fix it on the younger
and more distant connexion. “Oh! he could have three hundred a
year--enough and too much, if all I hear of him be true.”
As three hundred and three thousand were sums regarding the value of
which Nora was in equal ignorance, she quietly acquiesced, and warmly
thanked her guardian for his consent to her plans.
“My consent, yes; but we must hear what Mr. Conway says. And meanwhile
you shall hear more about that young scamp, Henry Devereux. My son knows
him. We will go down to-morrow and visit my son at Windsor. I will write
a line this evening--no, stay, it must be the day after.”
CHAPTER XI.
Stephen Fanshawe kept a school, or home, rather, for eight or ten boys,
in the neighbourhood of Windsor. As they drove from the station, Mr.
Fanshawe talked to Nora of his son. How that, although born blind, he
was so active-minded and intelligent, that he seemed to know the things
in the world by intuition, and rarely betrayed in his conversation that
he saw them not. That one of his special pleasures was travelling, and
how, ten years before this time, when he was twenty, he had joined some
boys who were in Switzerland, under the charge of a tutor; had there
discovered that to influence boys was his special faculty; how ever
since he had devoted himself to education, and how successful he had
been.
“He does it for love, poor fellow,” his father said, “not money; but as
his desire was to educate _gentlemen_, he was obliged to form his plans
on the usual scale. Privately, however, he is able to make exceptions to
his rules, and I fancy that was the case with Henry Devereux.”
They were late on arriving at Summerhill, and were shown into luncheon
by Stephen Fanshawe, who came out to receive them, to a party consisting
of two ladies and nine boys.
When her first awkwardness was over, Nora was amused by the novelty of
the scene, and would contentedly have listened to the conversation of
her guardian with the boys, but that her attention was perpetually
engaged by the ladies, one of whom sat by her side. She was not given to
consider the requirements of society. Nor had she ever thought of making
herself agreeable for politeness sake; and when in the course of
conversation she discovered that these ladies had been invited to meet
her, she felt vexed and misunderstood. She was desirous to talk to
Stephen Fanshawe, and responded eagerly enough when he addressed her;
but unsatisfied to talk to her alone, he perpetually drew into the
conversation the quiet, unassuming lady who sat by her side; guiding
her, though not forcing her, into acquaintanceship.
Had she known Stephen Fanshawe she would have guessed that he had a
purpose in view. His father, who had been in the beginning as surprised
as Nora was at the presence of strangers, soon surmised the cause.
Stephen Fanshawe was, like his father, an enthusiast in benevolence;
but, unlike his father, without shame or apologies--without hesitation,
doubts, or fears. His benevolence was a benevolence of his own. It did
not find vent in large plans, or give its name to gigantic schemes, but
humbly imitated, or tried to imitate, in its own little sphere, and
within its own tiny limits, the watchful Providence of the Father of
all. It was a benevolence that never slept; it heard the least appeal
that was made to it, nor waited for appeals--its eye was always
wandering round, watching for objects for its attention, planning for
such as were found. His brain was like the cells in a beehive, and few
things were mentioned in his presence that did not, in some far-fetched
manner, perhaps, strike on the history of some occupant of some cell.
Thus it was that, when Nora’s coming was announced, a thought in a few
seconds sprang up regarding the occupant of one cell of his brain.
To tell the history shortly, he hoped to place this occupant in Nora’s
house as her companion. She was a lady of about three-and-thirty, whose
tale had excited his compassion. She had been her father’s companion and
devoted daughter until she was twenty-seven. At that time he had been
married by a scheming widow with a child. After a very few years he died
and left all he had to his wife during her lifetime. The home that had
been happy became one of utter misery, and the daughter longed to
escape.
Stephen Fanshawe had met her and heard her story some short time before
this, and no sooner was Nora’s name mentioned to him than his plot was
formed.
It will save time to say here that it was successful. As regarded the
real object of her visit, she was, on the whole, satisfied. Some
disappointment she felt on discovering that Stephen Fanshawe was no
longer on terms of intimacy, scarcely on speaking terms, with Henry
Devereux. He gave his opinion, in contradiction to his father, that he
was _not_ a scamp, yet he owned that he was idle and careless, and
feared that he was wasting his life in folly and amusement. “But I never
see him now,” he said, “and have heard but little of him of late.”
“And why, if you had influence once, do you never see him?” Nora asked,
eagerly.
“Because I am cut by him and by his whole family. He was an unruly boy
when he was with me, but I bore with him for the sake of his good
qualities--and they are many--as long as was possible. But some things a
master cannot do. He must not pardon defiance; and we were forced to
part.”
“But that was long ago?” Nora said.
“Yes; three or four years ago. But neither Henry nor his family can
forgive me. Henry has a peculiar disposition. It is at once sweet and
vindictive; I do not know how the combination is effected; both
passionate and good-tempered--both resentful and placable. He cannot
forgive, and yet I am sure would never willingly harm a fly. As to me,
he thinks I ill-used him; and, though he liked me, almost loved me once,
he cannot forgive. For a time I made advances, perhaps wearied him with
endeavours at reconciliation. Of late I have left him alone.”
Though disappointed by this account, and somewhat distressed
too--feeling that she also might never be forgiven for her involuntary
fault in being born,--yet certainly it tended to increase Nora’s
interest in her cousin, and she entered eagerly on her proposed plans;
or listened, rather, with eagerness--for she was not herself a
talker--while Mr. Fanshawe conversed with his son. In answer to Mr.
Fanshawe’s slighting question, “But what will a young fellow like that
do with three hundred a-year?” Stephen replied--
“I know very well what he will do. Henry’s heart is set on going to
college, and his father cannot afford to send him.”
“To college!--I did not know the scatter-brained young fellow could form
such a reasonable wish.”
“I do not know,” Stephen said, smiling, “that it is exactly for purposes
of study, but this is his present wish. I have heard of it from a person
we both know. He wishes it so earnestly, that he is thoroughly out of
heart and temper because his father declines to send him. Miss Smythe,
if she is anxious to help the young man, cannot be doing a more kindly
deed.”
As regarded the secrecy of the plan, Stephen declined to give an
opinion. Nora fancied that he did not approve, but evidently he thought
it was no business of his to interfere with her or his father; and
having satisfied them to the best of his power regarding Henry, left the
rest of the business to be settled between Nora and her guardian. This
was very shortly done, Mr. Conway’s sanction having been obtained.
CHAPTER XII.
The one master who has been mentioned as having an influence over Henry
Devereux for good was Stephen Fanshawe. The one time in his life when he
received what could be called education was during his stay in his
house.
About three years after his devoting himself to the education of boys,
Stephen had met Henry while on a visit to one of his pupils, and a
mutual attraction had taken place between the blind man and the madcap
boy. Henry had looked with a kind of awful pity at the sightless
eyes--moved by pity, had watched, and then wondered at the cheerful
disposition and simple manners; and thus moved to attention, had been
won. On the other hand, the heartfelt mirth and merriment of Henry’s
character had caught the blind man’s fancy. There was in him a reckless
yet innocent abandonment to thoughtlessness which was more like the
mirth of a young animal than of a human being, and he speculated upon
him with a fascinated attention.
Henry was at this time twelve years old. In his conversation with his
new friend he soon betrayed the deficiencies of his education, and
Stephen Fanshawe was filled with a desire to supply them. He heard
enough of the character of Mr. Devereux to guess how the desire might be
gratified; and while winning Henry to wish to come to him, he set before
him the advantages of the offer he made.
These advantages were great. As his father had said, his work was done
for love, not money; and though carefully guarding his house from the
suspicion of being a charitable institution, he was able to make a
reduction in his charges when he pleased, and this reduction he
willingly offered to make in Henry’s case.
Having won Henry to wish, he left the affair alone, but was shortly
gratified by receiving a letter from Mr. Devereux, asking him the lowest
terms on which he would take his son as a pupil. Henry was a
pertinacious youth, and although, in the first instance, he had met with
a refusal, he continued to put forth his wish, and the advantages of his
wish, until Mr. Devereux became himself convinced that he could do no
better thing for his son.
Henry was placed under his care, and remained with him for nearly three
years. The happy arrangement then came to an end by Henry’s own fault.
During all the years of his stay he was a troublesome charge; but partly
from the charm of his disposition, and partly from compassion for his
neglected education, Stephen bore with him with patience and in hope.
But a grave act of disobedience was at last committed, and justice
acknowledged that further mercy would be a sin.
So ended the connection, and neither Henry nor his family either forgot
or forgave. It was Henry’s last chance, and from that time, as has been
related, he had led a life of amusement and idleness.
It was about three weeks after the conversations recorded in the last
chapter that Mr. Devereux received a note from his banker, requesting to
speak to him. On his appearing, the gentleman said that he had been
desired to make known to him that a distant relation had placed seven
hundred pounds to his account, and that he had been ordered to place
three hundred pounds to the name of Mr. Henry Devereux, with whom he
must open an account. He added that he had orders to say that the same
sum would be paid yearly until further notice.
Mr. Devereux listened with an impassive face. He was surprised, but he
had no intention of allowing his banker to discover this.
“From whom, did you say?” he asked carelessly.
“From a distant relation, who does not wish to be known.”
“There are several from whom, if I had my due, such a sum, and much
more, might come. If, however, he or she is really unwilling to be
named, I must submit.” He looked craftily in the banker’s face.
“She is unwilling,” said the unwary gentleman.
Mr. Devereux asked no more. He knew from whence it came, and yet did not
desire to know it. He had a mean soul. He would have done Nora all the
harm he could, but he was ready to receive a benefit from her.
With a cold and haughty manner, as if the intelligence had been without
interest, he conversed for a while with the banker, and then returned
home. As he walked he reflected. He knew that Henry had not a mean soul;
he knew, also, that he had an impracticable temper, and he guessed that
if he surmised from whence the money came, he would refuse to receive
it. As _his_ acute mind had instantly guessed at the truth, so he
feared might Henry’s. He walked and thought, and was perplexed how to
act.
His anxiety that Henry should accept it was extreme. Henry was still
making himself an unpleasant inmate of the family, and to all appearance
would continue to do so until he obtained his wish. Yet, to accede to
that wish was far from Mr. Devereux’s intention; was, indeed, unless he
subjected the rest of the family, and, moreover, himself, to great
inconveniences, out of his power. To have Henry provided for was indeed
a boon.
He at length laid his plan, and the next morning called Henry into his
room, and told him that he had just received information that a legacy
of one thousand pounds a year had been left to him.
“I am sure I am very glad,” burst in Henry. “Then _now_, perhaps, you
will let me go to college.”
“Exactly,” said his father. “It was for that reason that I sent for you.
Three hundred pounds is to be paid to your account. You must give your
signature at the bank, and draw it out as you find you want it. I think
I need not impress upon you that you must be careful. Three hundred a
year is a large, a very large allowance for a young man in your
position, but it is easily frittered away.”
“I am sure I am very much obliged to you, my dear father!” Henry cried,
with warmth and even affection. “I am afraid I have been very sullen and
bad, but it was because I thought you _would_ not do it when you could.
Now I see, and I am very sorry for having been so ill-tempered.”
Mr. Devereux calmly received his son’s apologies; then cleared his
throat, and turned over some papers. He expected an inquiry as to the
legacy, and was anxious to have the question put and answered as soon as
possible.
But not such was Henry’s turn of mind. More thoughtless and careless
than any child, a legacy seemed to him as natural as his daily bread. He
and his father, and mother, and sister had often talked of legacies. It
never so much as occurred to him to inquire whence it came. So as he
went to college, that was the important thing.
When a question came it was on this subject alone. Had his name been put
down as had been promised, and could he go next term; and when satisfied
on these points, he again warmly thanked his father and retreated.
The question that he did not ask was asked both by Mrs. Devereux and
Letitia. By Mrs. Devereux in private, and was easily satisfied. But
Letitia asked it at dinner.
“Whom can the legacy be from, papa? I am sure no relation has died
lately, or we must have heard of it?”
“Not must. Be sure if it was of any importance the name would be
mentioned; but it is not so.”
Mr. Devereux spoke in a tone of mild parental authority uncommon to him.
It was adopted because he had observed that, when he snapped, Henry
invariably took up the cudgels for the person rebuked.
At this moment Henry was occupied in sliding some morsels of tart into a
little boy’s mouth, who crouched at his side. This was a forbidden
indulgence, and therefore the more favoured by Henry. Mr. Devereux
perceived his occupation, but passed it over, in the hope that it would
distract his attention from the conversation.
“I can’t think why you say of no importance, papa,” said Letitia. “There
never is a mystery without a cause. And if there is a cause for this
secret, it must be interesting to know it. Don’t you think so, Henry?”
“Don’t bother,” he replied shortly, unwilling to be brought into notice.
For having crammed too large a bit of pastry into little Simon’s mouth,
he was in momentary expectation of an explosion.
Letitia pursed up her sharp lips, and muttered something about idiots.
But as no one assisted her, the conversation fell to the ground.
CHAPTER XIII.
When Mr. Conway had been told of Nora’s intentions to her relations he
had expressed some disapprobation. He disliked and mistrusted the
Devereux family, and he thought a thousand a year a large sum to give
away without further inquiry. The only part of the plan of which he
approved was that part of which Mr. Fanshawe had been almost afraid to
tell him--the doing the thing in secret.
“Simon Devereux is a bad man,” he said, “a dangerous man. If he gets the
girl into his power it may cause her trouble. Keep her from him as far
as you can for the next two years at least. I suppose, however,” he
added, with a dry laugh, “a young lady who comes of age at sixteen will
not easily take the advice of guardians.”
Mr. Fanshawe, wishing to influence Nora, repeated Mr. Conway’s advice,
smilingly adding the last sentence, saying he might as well give the
whole.
To his surprise she then told him not only that she would take their
advice regarding the Devereux family, but that she had made up her mind
to ask them to resume their guardianship for two years, letting all
things go on quietly till these were over.
“If I am to have all this I must make myself fit,” she said; “I am more
ignorant than a child of four. I must learn.”
“And how?” he asked, amazed.
“It is all settled with Miss Willis,” she said, smiling.
Miss Willis was the name of the lady lately mentioned.
And so it was. She had consulted her, and by her advice had decided on
taking a house at Cheltenham, where she understood masters of all kinds
could be had; and thither she meant to go for two years, provided her
guardians acceded to her request.
Whether or not Nora made her plans in the best way for supplying the
deficiencies of her education, might be doubtful; but the intention did
her credit. This was one of the fruits of her newly-acquired humility.
Yet she did not entirely put dreams of the future aside.
On the evening before her final departure, she suddenly asked her
guardian whether she might make a slight change in her name; drop the y
and the emphasis, and become simply Smith.
“Most people make a change the other way,” he observed.
“I think,” she said, with vexation, “that it is a misfortune to have
been born with such a name as Annora Smythe. Nora Smith will pass much
more quietly through the world.”
“And do you wish to pass quietly through the world?”
“Yes. Once, perhaps, I did not. Now I do. I am beginning a new life, and
I would rather begin it as Miss Smith, who has offended no one.”
“I suppose, my dear child, you can do as you please; certainly, as far
as common life is concerned. I suppose I might spell my name Phanshawe,
if I chose; but I should be an ass to do it; and this one piece of
advice I give you; keep as far as you can from plots and alias’s.” He
looked keenly at her.
“I don’t mean to have alias’s,” she said, colouring. “You know I never
liked my name--my first name, and I have often wondered that my father
did not change the other. At the same time,” she added, truth compelling
her to speak, “I will own that I should be glad, if I did chance to meet
with my cousins, to begin without prejudice. They might like, before
they thought of hate.”
“I thought so, I thought so,” said Mr. Fanshawe, elated at having seen
through her. “Well, I don’t know what Mr. Conway would say, but I
suppose in this small matter you may please yourself. At your time of
life I might have felt as you do. Keep out of harm’s way, that’s all;
and God bless you!”
* * * * *
Nora and Miss Willis established themselves at Cheltenham. At the end of
a year they made a journey to Geneva. It was a painful visit. Monsieur
d’Alberg was not improved by his marriage, or by the prosperity of his
affairs. He found his wife a fool, and there was no domestic affection,
therefore, to soften him. In the second place, she had already presented
him with twin daughters, and he saw himself, in prospect, the father of
one of those “long English families,” as he called them. In the third
place, he did not wish for Nora to pass her remarks upon him, and he
received her coldly.
Nor did her mother, except in the first moment of excited delight, repay
her for his coldness. Tutored by her husband, she maintained a painful
reserve, and expressed but little of the affection she felt. Nora saw
that she loved her, but their meetings were dull and spiritless, and
after a few days she thought it best to depart.
She was pleased with her little sisters, and perhaps thought the more of
them because of the contempt with which Monsieur d’Alberg treated them.
On one occasion, when he was complaining of their birth in her presence,
Nora, with more warmth than judgment, said he need not fear that her
sisters should ever trouble him.
“Ah!” he replied, with a Frenchman’s shrug, “in a few years you will
have a long family of your own, and then where will the sisters be!”
Altogether the visit was a failure, and joyless and disappointed, Nora
returned to Cheltenham. She had not what Colonel Mannering called the
knack of running up intimacies; and even while longing for something to
love, remained solitary. For nearly a year longer she and Miss Willis
plodded on their way alone.
With a sigh of weariness and a smile of hope, she saw her eighteenth
birthday arrive, and then gave permission to her thoughts to settle in
the future. On the eve of her birthday she went to London, and was again
the guest of her guardian. The object of her journey was to consult with
him about her future residence. She wished to buy a property, and to
enter on the joys and cares of the management of an estate, “the more
unformed and the wilder the better.” These had been her words of
instruction by letter.
She found Mr. Fanshawe prepared for the consultation. He had heard of a
property likely to be for sale in the course of a few weeks or months.
The circumstances agreed with Nora’s wishes, and the purchase appeared
too advantageous a one to neglect. There were, however, disadvantages.
There was no house; the climate was cold, and though a part of the land
was of great value, a part was bleak and bare. He advised that she
should herself go down and pass a short time in the neighbourhood, see
with her eyes whether she liked the spot, and feel with her lungs
whether the air was salubrious.
Nora consented with delight. It was autumn, and in the neighbourhood of
this property was a kind of Spa, a place not of world-wide reputation,
but of resort to the northern county in which it stood. Thither, still
retaining her house at Cheltenham, she bent her steps for a few weeks.
She arrived there, she and Miss Willis, and the attendant of each, and
engaged a small lodging-house, detached, though it stood in a row. The
Spa was not generally visited by the great or gay of the world. It was a
quiet place, resorted to by the large families of business men, by
elderly ladies and small children. The scenery around was pretty, the
air was bracing, and the inhabitants of the large towns in the county
sometimes escaped for a week or two together to refresh themselves with
the pure cold air. There were a large number of visitors at the time of
Nora’s arrival, but they were quiet people, and she quietly mingled with
the throng. She caused no sensation. Some young girls said, “There is a
new face. She is lodging at No. 6. I wonder if the other is her
governess?” Some ladies'-maids also remarked the new ladies'-maids; but
when they heard that they served a Miss Smith and Miss Willis, they
felt little interest. The names were too common to cause excitement.
About half a mile from the Spa lived a Squire and his wife. The Squire
was past sixty, but his wife was not yet forty. He was a quaint,
old-fashioned individual. He hated the present generation, and would
probably have hated equally the last, and the one before that, and, in
fact, all generations, unless they had been formed of persons whose
tastes agreed with his own. His taste was to keep at home, and occupy
himself with his own concerns, his own farm, his own tenants, his own
books, and his own wife. Mrs. Elliott, his wife, was different. She was
gay in spirit, and younger than her age. Her sympathies were much with
the young generation, and she would have been glad to diversify her
life at home with occasional life abroad. She was, however, a sensible
woman, and much attached to her old man, as she called him; and after
one or two vain efforts to alter his taste, she conformed herself to it
with a good grace.
While so conforming herself, however, she endeavoured to mix with the
world by other ways, and besides alluring friends and relations to her
house, she tried to make new friends when and where she could. The
visitors to the Spa were scrutinized by her with a keen eye, and so soon
as she saw a face with promise in it, she set about an acquaintance. Her
position, which gave her the power of kindness and civility, made this
generally an easy task; and though the promise was often ill-fulfilled,
she had made a few acquaintances, who were added to the stock of real
friends. This success emboldened her to continue her scrutiny.
She saw Nora and Miss Willis at church, and, like the young girls,
observed, “There is a new face.” With more discernment she added, “There
is promise in it.” She made a few inquiries, and two days afterwards
presented herself at No. 6, Montpellier Row.
Nora was in her bonnet, awaiting a pony-phaeton, in which she was about
to proceed on a voyage of inspection and discovery. It was autumn, and
the afternoons were short, and her heart was in her drive. Her habits
were unused to, and indifferent to, society, and her visitor was
received with coldness and ill-disguised surprise.
Mrs. Elliott was too quick not to see, and though her visits were
usually received in a different spirit, she was too sensible not to
suppose it possible a person might find a visitor a nuisance. She still
saw promise in Nora’s face, and though she sensibly shortened her visit,
she proffered more than usual civilities. She not only begged her to
walk through her pleasure-grounds whenever she pleased, but expressed a
wish to show her her garden, if an autumn garden could interest her.
Little heeded Nora the polite speeches--she was only wishing her guest
away; and when the door closed, she said with an impatient sigh--
“She is gone at last. Now, Miss Willis, let us be off.”
“I am quite ready--but, dear Miss Smith,” with a little breathless gasp,
“excuse me if I say a word.”
Miss Willis was a very conscientious person. If such a thing is
possible, she was too conscientious. She was not satisfied to walk by
the broad foundations of right and wrong, but was always in nervous
dread of overlooking some duty at her feet.
With some weakness, however, in her disposition, it so happened that
this torturing scrupulosity was not unsuited to Nora. She had picked up
broad notions of right and wrong, but had had little help in applying
them to the trifles of daily life. She came to respect, even while she
smiled at Miss Willis; and never caught the sound of the little, timid,
breathless “Excuse me,” without bending her ears to hear. She knew she
had done something which Miss Willis’s acuter conscience condemned, and
which, though it was agony to her to speak, her inward monitor impelled
her to utter.
“What is it?” Nora said, pausing and smiling. “What have I done now?”
“Perhaps we had better go. I will speak as we drive along.” And having
seated herself by Nora’s side, she made a little breathless oration on
the duties of society, saying, Mrs. Elliott had meant to be kind, and it
was not right to repel kindly attention, &c.
“You mean to tell me that I was abominably rude,” was Nora’s
observation.
“No, you could not be rude. But you looked--you looked, in short, as if
you wished her away.”
“And so I did.”
“Excuse me, but if you went to a person, meaning to offer them a
civility, it would annoy you to be repelled.”
Nora made no answer. They had turned from the cultivated parts around
the Spa into a wide, bleak expanse, and her eyes wandered over it with
curiosity. But that last observation sank deep. It recurred to her
again and again. She was now planning out her future life, and the old
dream of being the bounteous lady of a realm was returning. Another
dream of certain cousins, of one cousin, was also flitting about her,
and she asked herself how she should feel if her bounties should all be
repelled.
“We will return Mrs. Elliott’s visit,” she said, smiling, the next
morning; “ought it to be to-day or to-morrow?”
The next day the visit to Thorneybank was paid.
Mrs. Elliott received them with more than graciousness. She showed them
her autumn roses, with all the other beauties of a carefully-cultivated
garden, and then walked part of the way homewards. When they parted she
invited them to dine with her on the next evening but one, which was a
Saturday. Nora was again taken by surprise, and, being wrapt in her own
plans and designs, was not desirous of society. She hesitated, and cast
about in her mind for a good excuse.
“I have not much to offer you,” Mrs. Elliott said, “a few friends and
acquaintances dine with us; but, as you may guess, my choice is not
great.”
“However small it may be it will be great to me,” Nora said simply. “I
have no acquaintance at all.”
“You have not had time to form acquaintance,” said her companion, with
civility, though, indeed, she did not guess that her quiet guest was
only eighteen. “But the time is now surely come, unless you mean to be a
hermit, and deprive the world of what would--excuse me--grace it.”
“Oh! no, I am no hermit. We will dine with you with great pleasure.”
And they parted.
“That is a piece of luck,” said Mrs. Elliott to herself as she walked
back to her house. “I shall now have a young lady for Henry.”
For Henry Devereux was to arrive at Thorneybank on the Saturday.
CHAPTER XIV.
We left Henry Devereux on the eve of attaining the object of his wishes.
He went to college, and there remained for two years. His time of
residence ended under no flattering circumstances. It was then suggested
to him, mildly but firmly, that, unless he wished to be rusticated, he
must return no more.
Not that Henry was guilty of any grievous offences. He was a favourite
with all men who came within the sphere of his influence; and his
tutors, like Stephen Fanshawe, over-looked his misdemeanours as long as
it was possible to do so. But Henry was guilty of a boyish and
mischievous spirit of insubordination. He would not submit to rules; he
broke them himself, and incited others to follow his example; and the
time came when patience was exhausted, and the warning was given.
Henry was exceedingly angry. He had been very happy at Oxford, and
though he had no wish to distinguish himself as a scholar, he had a
great wish to do all that a young gentleman ought to do, all that those
with whom he associated intended to do. He meant to have passed decently
through all examinations, and to leave college in the conviction that he
had received in all points a proper university education.
He felt angry and aggrieved, robbed of his rights, and ill-treated by
the world. Far from being penitent, he was proudly resentful, and by
his stern sense of his wrongs brought many to sympathise with him. It
was not that his intellectual powers were insufficient to understand
that the discipline of a college must be upheld. He was quite equal to
reason, and reason well, would he have given himself up to thought; but
there was in his mind so singular a thoughtlessness, so strange a
distaste to one moment’s reflection, that at one and twenty he was
still, in some points of view, an infant. An infant looks neither before
nor behind, nor more did Henry. An infant thinks of no consequences to
its words and actions, nor more did Henry. An infant lives in the
innocent belief that all it does is well done, and so did Henry.
From the time of his leaving college to the present time only a few
months had elapsed, and those months had passed, in spite of the
resentment of his mind, happily by. A kind young friend had helped him
in some money difficulties--which, of course, had occurred on leaving
Oxford; for though not specially extravagant, Henry was careless, and
had a little debt, and the debt to the friend was to be repaid by little
and little, leaving him power to enjoy the greatest part of his three
hundred pounds a year in peace. He did enjoy it, therefore, putting his
future out of his head, and wandering about as a young gentleman at
large. When his father once or twice asked him frowningly what he
intended to do in life, Henry lightly answered there was time enough to
think, and absented himself from home and disagreeable questions as much
as possible. But in truth Mr. Devereux only asked the question because
he knew it was disagreeable; he did not imagine that Henry need turn
his mind to business. The pleasure of touching an instalment of his
property--viz., Nora’s money--had in no degree abated his desire to
possess it all, nor his confidence that he should do so in the end.
Mr. Elliott was distantly related to the Devereux, and having once seen
Henry, took a fancy to him. Mr. Elliott hated the young generation with
mortal hatred, but it was the young generation fused into a body that he
hated; to individuals he was indulgent, and the thoughtless boyish
disposition of Henry was suited to his taste.
“He’s not so bad as the rest,” he observed to his wife in apology for
his fancy, and the same observation always followed a fancy. “He may
think small beer of me, and I daresay he does in his heart; but he
don’t show it, and that’s something. And I don’t fancy that he cares
more for getting on in the world than I did when I was a boy. They are
all so precious knowing now-a-days, but he’s not so bad as the rest. He
likes to be a boy, and enjoy himself while he may.”
Henry therefore had a general invitation to Thorneybank; and as at
Thorneybank, or in its neighbourhood, there was a little shooting, and a
little hunting, and a little fishing, and other diversions, he was not
slow to avail himself of the invitation.
Mrs. Elliott liked him also; and though he, companionable and
affectionate, was satisfied with the comfortable life he found under her
roof, however quiet it might be, she, on hospitable thoughts intent,
always endeavoured to provide special attractions when he came.
On the Saturday evening mentioned he stood with his back to the fire
near Mr. Elliott’s chair, watching the guests as they assembled. He was
a good-looking young man, and his countenance might still be best
described in Mrs. Ratcliffe’s words. He had such a “sweet, mischievous
look,” that an amiable cannibal would certainly have cooked and eaten
him at once.
He stood watching, and now and then addressing a remark on the sad
condition of the roads to Mr. Elliott; for he had just arrived, and his
arrival had been delayed by the extremely disordered state of the
turnpike road.
“I don’t see what, turnpikes are for if they don’t keep the roads in
order,” he said, with sage complaint.
“It’s all of a piece,” grunted Mr. Elliott, “nothing is done now-a-days.
Nothing but talk. They talk till I’m sick; but what’s the good of
that?”
“They do talk,” Henry replied with hearty agreement. “I bought a
newspaper on the way, and I believe twelve columns were full of men’s
speeches. They go spouting about the country, and making a bother; and I
don’t see what good it does. It would be better to mend the roads.”
“It’s all of a piece,” Mr. Elliott grunted again, and said no more, for
he was chary even of abuse before dinner.
Mrs. Elliott now approached him.
“How do you like the look of your company?” she asked.
“Oh! I like them very well,” he replied. “I am not fastidious.”
“That is a covert way of depreciating my guests,” she said, laughing;
“but don’t be alarmed. I have got a reserve; a very nice young lady for
you.”
“Then I wish you would not,” he said, with vexation. “Why a young lady?
The very last thing I like is a young lady.”
“Is it?”
“Indeed it is; and I am not singular--I hear many young men say the
same. Now-a-days, wherever one goes, one is provided with a young lady.
It never used to be so; was it, Mr. Elliott?”
“Never. A woman used to be a woman, and there was an end of it.”
“I doubt it,” said Mrs. Elliott. “However, I do as I would be done by. I
know, till I met with my old man, I used to like to have a young one.”
“Well, I am sure I don’t. I would far rather have you, Mrs. Elliott.”
“But you can’t have me. I am the property of that grave squire out
there, J.P., and other letters besides. Take my advice, and be pleased
with the young lady.”
“I will make myself useful, of course; only I can’t help thinking this
new plan a dreadful bore.”
“I don’t think you will find her a bore; and, besides, you may form some
useful designs. I won’t vouch for the truth, but it is reported here
that my young friend has a little money.”
“And of all things in the world what I most _hate_ is a girl with
money.”
Henry’s vehement speech was stopped by a tap from Mrs. Elliott, and she
hurried away, to be near the door to meet Nora, who had just been
announced.
She supposed Nora would be shy, and kindly accompanied her across the
room to a sofa. But Nora was not shy. She had been too much wrapt in
her own thoughts all her life to think of the eyes of the world; and it
is the dread of the eyes of the world that makes the shyness of such
occasions. She calmly accompanied her hostess, was introduced to Mr.
Elliott as she passed, and to a lady, by whom she sat down; and all the
while she had never even thought of the curious eyes that were watching
her. Poor Miss Willis, on the contrary, who was always afraid of doing
something wrong, felt, as she followed her, that every gaze was fixed on
her feet, and her feet, in consequence, growing unruly, she first trod
on her gown, and then stumbled over a stool.
It was not only because Nora was new that she was looked at. There was
also a decision to be made whether or not she was handsome. That she was
so was of course proved by the speculations on the subject; but the
degree in which the beauty was allowed, was according to differing
tastes. She looked old for her years; the smoothness and freshness of
girlhood were not wanting, but there was a something about her unlike
youth. Her features, though soft and pensive, were firmly cut; her dark
eyes were quiet and grave; and all her movements, though light enough,
had a composure which was not young.
Nor was her dress according to the common taste for eighteen. It was a
beautiful black velvet, made without any trimming; and she had one red
rose in her hair. The dress became her, but it was a matronly dress.
Of all affectations, the only one that is pardonable is that which
assumes the sober dress of maturer years; and this because it is not a
falsehood, for a few years must inevitably make that a truth which is
only forestalled. This affectation Nora had. She liked to hear that she
looked twenty-five; and in governing her ways, she endeavoured not only
to assume, but to obtain, the calm judgment and sober sense which
experience gives. She had planned out her life as for one who intended
to be a looker-on, a helper to others, not a sharer in the common joys
and sorrows of her kind. It was her utter loneliness in life that made
this cold kind of dream her dream of the future.
When she had seated her newly arrived guests, Mrs. Elliott returned to
Henry.
“What do you say now?” she asked, playfully. “Do you like your young
lady?”
“Not at all.”
“Indeed! Now, I think she is one of the most attractive-looking persons
I ever saw. You must call her handsome.”
“She is too superior-looking to please me,” he said, stubbornly. “I like
superior old people, but I can’t bear superior young ones.”
“Nor I, often; but this girl is so simple and straightforward that,
though superior, she did not offend me. I think you will like her.”
“Pray don’t trouble yourself about it, Mrs. Elliott. Of course I don’t
expect always to have the most agreeable companion that can be imagined,
but I hope I do my duty like a man. What is the young lady’s name, and
what are her connections? Let me be forearmed, that I may not abuse her
dearest relation.”
“Her name is Miss Smith. You must be very careful indeed, or you will
surely get into mischief.”
“That I shall. So she doesn’t even attain to the aristocratic
distinction of Smythe. I honour her for that.”
He spoke with vehement and bitter irony. Mrs. Elliott laughed, and
added,
“She is only a visitor at the Spa, and I have made few inquiries about
her. But if you do not abuse either the Smiths or the Smythes, I daresay
you will get safely through dinner.”
She left him, and immediately afterwards dinner was ready, and she
called him to his charge.
“Mr. Henry Devereux,” she said, naming him to Nora.
Nora stood amazed and transfixed, and in a maze sat down to dinner. This
moment, often pictured in her dreaming, but not hoped for in her daily
fancy, had, then, arrived! Henry thought so superior and
composed-looking a young lady ought to bear the burden of conversation.
Nora, wrapt in her agitating thoughts--for they were agitated, she knew
not why--thought not of conversation at all. The soup went round, and
was eaten in silence. While Henry was accepting some fish and some
fish-sauce, she, not having yet seen his face, raised her eyes and
looked curiously at him. As Henry put the sauce on his plate, he thought
the time was come when he ought to speak, and turned his head in the
same moment to address her. He met her grave inquiring gaze fastened on
him.
“What are you looking at?” he said, startled and astonished.
The next moment he coloured, and felt abashed at his question. Vanity
suggested that he was worth a look, and modesty that he ought not to
have noticed it.
“I was looking to see who had taken me in to dinner. The whole company
is new to me. Even Mr. Elliott I never saw before.”
The answer was given with the grave unabashed simplicity of a child.
Henry’s feeling of flattered vanity was put to flight, but he felt
better disposed towards the superior young lady than he had hitherto
done, and they fell into conversation.
“I don’t know them all myself,” he replied, feeling comfortable,
nevertheless, in the superiority of his position, “but I will tell you
those I do know.” And he gave a slight sketch, not ill-natured, but
boyishly mischievous, of every person present.
Totally unaccustomed to the society of young people, and more especially
to ways and manners of this kind, Nora laughed as she never had laughed
before; and Henry, flattered at her tribute to his powers, thought her
charming, and exerted himself to be agreeable.
“Mr. Elliott is worth knowing,” he said, as he finished up his sketch
with his host. “It is so jolly to hear an old fellow abusing everything
and everybody. I often make him do it for fun, and he never finds me
out.”
He then abruptly changed the subject, and asked her if she did not find
the Spa very flat.
She innocently asked if he meant dull, and with laughing eyes but demure
voice he replied that he did.
“No, not dull. I have too much to do to be dull.”
“What _can_ you have to do?” he asked, curiously.
And with openness and simplicity she replied that, being almost alone in
the world, she had to manage her own concerns; and that, having been
but ill-prepared for it when she was a child, she had to try now to make
herself fit.
Henry cast a glance of respect upon her. Her superiority seemed to be
coming up to the surface, and he felt inclined to draw back and be less
friendly in his manner. A short silence followed. During that time Nora
had been thinking about him--wondering what were his character and
thoughts, and wishing to discover. Before he broke the silence by the
introduction of any other subject, she took courage, and said,
“May I ask you the question you asked me? What do you do all day?”
“Oh! I do nothing,” he said quickly.
“Nothing! But how tiresome! When I have nothing to do, then is the time
that I feel miserable.”
“You must understand, Miss Smith,” he said very seriously, “there are
two meanings to the word nothing. You use it in one sense; I use it in
another. I guessed what you would understand by the word, and so I
replied to you in your own language. According to _your_ understanding I
do nothing. _I_ use the word differently.”
“Then in your sense of the word?” she asked, smiling.
“I amuse myself. At this moment I may say I do nothing but amuse myself.
I read a book if it amuses me; if it don’t, I shut it up. I go to a
house, and if it amuses me, I stay as long as I am wished for; if it
don’t, I go away. I talk to a person if he amuses me; if he doesn’t--I
am not speaking of common civility, in which, I hope, I am not
deficient--I move away. This kind of life you would call doing nothing,
but I find it pleasant enough.”
“I daresay it is for the moment; but it would not do for life,” slowly
considering, and shaking her head. “When you think of the future don’t
you----”
“The future is a bore,” he interrupted, decidedly. “I _never_ think of
it.”
Nora was silent. She was thinking.
“If you ask me what I think,” Henry began, again speaking rapidly, as if
her thoughtful countenance forced him to address it, “I will tell you
what it is I do think; and that is, that people think a great deal too
much. Young people, I mean. I am all for the thoughts of the old, and
wise, and experienced; but I cannot bear to hear young people so knowing
and so prudent as they are now-a-days. The very schoolboys are made to
think how they are to get on in life. In my opinion there is no use,
and no good, in putting scheming thoughts into schoolboys’ heads. Young
people ought to enjoy their youth, and leave the cares of their life to
those who have a right to care for them. I beg your pardon,” he said,
stopping himself suddenly. “You must know this is a favourite topic of
mine, and one on which I preach to my intimate friends by the hour
together. But I have no right to inflict it on you; especially as you
will not agree with me, I know.”
“I really don’t know,” Nora replied, and she raised her eyes with a
perplexed look. “I never thought on this subject at all. I don’t know
whether I agree or disagree. Perhaps I agree.”
“Oh! no, you don’t. You say you wish to improve yourself, and I daresay
you are full of prudent schemes.”
“For myself, yes. I think my only wish is to be useful in the world. But
then, I am no rule for other people. I am very lonely. I hope most
others are happier than I am.”
“Then you would allow happy people to enjoy themselves.”
“I think I would, but I have not considered. I am prudent, you see. I
will not give an opinion without thought.”
“I don’t mind that,” he said, with condescension. “I assure you I have
no particular admiration for fools.”
There was a good deal more conversation during dinner, for, though Nora
was often addressed by her other neighbour, Henry considered her as his
own property for the time being, and as often as she turned away watched
his opportunity to recall her attention to himself.
When the gentlemen came into the drawing-room, the ladies were already
entertaining themselves with music. A Miss Romer, a lady singularly
unprepossessing in manner, conversation, and appearance, was playing,
and Nora was seated by her, absorbed in attention. This singularly
unprepossessing lady became while playing like one inspired, and, in
consequence of her talent, received at all times considerable attention.
Henry was fond of music, and as he could not reach Nora, he seated
himself by Mrs. Elliott and Miss Willis. They were listening, but were
at a greater distance, and were occasionally talking as well as
listening.
“Yes, it is wonderful,” Mrs. Elliott was saying. “Whence comes such a
gift, and why is it bestowed on so strangely unsuitable a person?”
“By way of compensation, perhaps,” Miss Willis said, “lest a poor human
being should be too much despised.”
“That is just what I should have said,” Henry burst in, “only not so
well. How I do hate this way of wishing to account for the use of
everything, and laying out everything by rule. We all are what we are,
and the worst of us have our accomplishments and our amiable qualities,
I daresay.”
“I am rebuked, indeed,” Mrs. Elliott said, laughing; “but
notwithstanding your rebukes, I wonder still. Whence come those chords?
They cannot be mechanical; and where is the soul lodged that produces
them?”
They were the finishing chords of a beautiful piece of Mendelssohn’s,
and Miss Romer rose up, cold, ugly, portly, and impassive, and seated
herself near Nora.
“Do you sing?” she asked abruptly.
“A little.”
“I fancied you did. Pray sing.”
Nora blushed, and Mrs. Elliott and Henry came forward to make a civiller
request.
She sang, and one or two others sang, and then, at Mrs. Elliott’s
request, she sang again. Her voice was sweet and fresh. She sang with
pleasure, and she gave pleasure. Her second song was a well-known
English song. Henry, delighted, rose from his seat near Miss Willis,
stood behind her, and after two or three bars, took a second, slightly,
but correctly. Nora, surprised, stopped and looked round.
“I beg your pardon,” he said earnestly, stooping down to address her,
“do I put you out?”
“Oh! no.”
“Oh! pray go on!” shouted every voice; and Nora once more began, a
strange sensation in her heart and in her throat, as their voices united
again, and united most harmoniously in the song.
“I beg your pardon, and I beg everybody’s pardon,” Henry said, when they
had done.
“And I will not hear of such a thing as pardon,” cried Mrs. Elliott,
warmly. “Now, talking of accomplishments, as we were just now, where
have you lodged _your_ accomplishment all this while?”
“I don’t know. I discovered it by chance two or three months ago, and am
extremely proud of it. But the curious thing is that, though I can take
a second, or make a second at a moment’s notice, I know nothing of
music--nothing whatever. It seems a thing with which I have nothing
whatever to do.”
“That is like me, sir,” said Miss Romer. “My musical talent comes direct
from Heaven.”
“I don’t know what to say about coming from Heaven,” replied Henry,
demurely; “all I mean to say is that I have taken no trouble with it,
and have no influence with it.”
“Will you be so good as to have this influence with it,” said Mrs.
Elliott, “to make it sing again? Will you give us a song of your own?”
“Oh! no, I can’t sing alone. That is the curious thing. I am told I am
very correct as a second; but my solo pieces are another thing.”
“Oh! let us hear one!” cried many voices.
“No, indeed. Such as I do sing are not at all fit for a drawing-room.
Not that I sing any harm, Miss Willis,” turning and addressing her,
though the poor thing certainly made no sign; “the songs are innocent
enough, but boisterous, and perhaps vulgar. I sing sometimes at suppers,
but never elsewhere. If Miss Smith will sing again, I will with great
pleasure do my second, but not otherwise.”
Nora re-seated herself, and turned over some of Mrs. Elliott’s music.
“Do you mind?” he said, bending down again, and speaking with unwonted
gentleness. “Did you think me impertinent?”
She looked round at him, and shook her head. He helped her to the choice
of a song, and again their voices united, and with a sweetness and
harmony that riveted the attention of the hearers, and exercised a kind
of fascination over themselves. Nora especially, possessed of her
secret, felt a strange emotion. Her heart beat quick, and with
difficulty she governed her voice, and kept it steady.
The party dispersed, and Henry and Mr. and Mrs. Elliott remained alone.
“Well, how did you like the young lady?” she said, archly.
“I liked her very well,” he replied, with stately indifference.
“I thought Miss Smith a very well-behaved young lady,” observed Mr.
Elliott.
“So did I, sir,” he then added, seriously--“not at all like a modern
young lady.”
“No,” said Mr. Elliott--“quiet and civil, respectful to her betters, and
modest in her ways. I tell you what, Mr. Henry, you may go further and
fare worse. Powderham has been telling me that he is sure she is rich.”
“That I am sure she isn’t,” he replied sharply. “She as good as told me
she was not happy.”
“Happy!--what has that to do with it? Are you one of those young men of
the day who think money all in all?”
“I!” cried Henry--“I care for money!--no, indeed; I like to have what is
proper for my position, but otherwise money is my abomination. But I
mean to say that I don’t think she is rich. I should say that she
wished, on the contrary, to make herself rich. From some things she
said, I almost fancy she wishes to keep a school.”
“A school! Gammon! She does not wish any such thing. Powderham says he
hears----”
He stopped.
“What does Mr. Powderham say?” Henry asked, curiously.
“Now I think of it, he told me to keep his surmises to myself. I am
sorry to balk your curiosity.”
“My curiosity!” cried Henry--“I have none. Why should I care?”
Mr. Elliott and Henry were well suited to each other, for each, with
perfect unconsciousness, responded to the other’s intentions. Mr.
Elliott could always be made to abuse the day, and Henry could always be
teased. Both, therefore, exulted in their superiority, and enjoyed the
position of superior knowingness.
CHAPTER XV.
The following morning Henry walked with Mr. and Mrs. Elliott to church.
As he returned home, and during luncheon, he was fractious, exceedingly
ready to be teased, and not good-tempered about it. This was because of
a disappointment. He had expected to meet Nora, and perhaps to walk with
her; but though he had seen her in church, Mr. and Mrs. Elliott had
walked out, and walked on homewards, without waiting to converse like
their neighbours at the church door. Such being their conduct, he had
felt bound to accompany them.
As they rose from luncheon, Mrs. Elliott said to him, “I am going to
church again, but I suppose you will not come?”
“And why should you suppose any such thing?” he replied sharply. “Why
may not I be as good a Christian as my neighbours?”
“Oh! then will you come with me? I shall be delighted to have your
company for my walk. My old man never will go twice to church. He says
he was not brought up to it.”
“Nor more I was. And I tell you what, Mr. Henry, all the church-going of
the present day has no more religion in it than there is in Tom Jones.
One goes to hear fine music, and another goes to abuse the new
altar-cloth, and another goes to laugh at the old altar-cloth.”
“Yes, sir,” said Henry, who certainly could not be accused of being a
great church-goer; “and another goes to hear the new curate intone so
beautifully.”
“Yes,” cried Mr. Elliott, “and another to laugh at the poor old rector
because he can’t intone; and if he could intone ever so well, would not
do it--no, not to please the whole generation; and he’s right.”
“Well, never mind,” said Mrs. Elliott, who, knowing her husband could be
worked up to insanity on any religious party question, dreaded such
subjects; “we have no intoning here. And if our young curate preaches
this afternoon, we are sure to have a good sermon. Will you be in the
garden at a quarter before three?”
Henry acquiesced, and Mr. Elliott observed drily,
“And some go to church to see a young lady.”
On which Henry coloured, and said bitterly,
“If you mean me, sir, I don’t seem to have attained my object this
morning.”
“No. I wish you more luck this afternoon.”
“But I did not say it _was_ my object,” Henry began; and then, struck
suddenly with his folly, bit his lip, looked foolish, laughed, and
walked out of the room.
On their way to church Mrs. Elliott observed,
“Mr. Elliott does not approve of gossiping outside the church door. He
thinks it irreverent, and says he was brought up differently. It is
often a disappointment to me to turn away, but I think he is in the
right, and I generally try to follow his example. This afternoon,
however, I want to persuade a few of my acquaintance to come up to
Thorneybank to tea; we will therefore wait in the road till the
congregation passes us.”
Henry immediately recovered his good temper. He might have guessed that
his thoughts had been read, and that this was a plot of his kind hostess
to meet his wishes; but he was not accustomed to reflect, and only
thought how easily he could now accomplish his purpose of seeing a
little more of Miss Smith.
She and Miss Willis, and three other ladies, accepted Mrs. Elliott’s
invitation; and as the October day closes in early, they walked to
Thorneybank at once. Mrs. Elliott and the three ladies in front; Henry,
with Nora and Miss Willis, behind.
Mrs. Elliott had said that if the young curate preached there would be a
good sermon. He had preached, and there was a good sermon. This young
curate was not an eloquent speaker, nor was he remarkable for talent,
nor apparently remarkable in any way, but he always preached well.
Sometimes his sermons were more excellent than at other times, but from
the first day when he began to preach he had never been known to preach
a dull sermon. Wherein his gift consisted no one knew, but when he went
into the pulpit every countenance expressed satisfaction, and when he
ceased no one looked weary.
On this Sunday his text had been, “He went about doing good,” and for
twenty-three minutes he gave his thoughts on this text, riveting, while
he spoke, the attention of his hearers. _While he spoke!_ For the most
part, when he had done his words were forgotten. The cares of the world
came in and replaced them. But in every congregation there are one or
two who, having a sincerer desire for help and advice than the rest,
have truly ears to hear.
Nora was at this time in great want of advice; her mind, always
thoughtful, had become active in thought; her conscience had become more
quick. Her responsibility had begun to weigh on her in a more religious
sense, and the mind, concentred on itself and its needs, was seeking
food and help wherever it cast its eyes. The sermon of the young curate
had taken her by surprise. She almost felt that it was addressed to her;
and when she left the church she was like a person in a dream, or like
one conning over a lesson that has to be learned. In this mood she
half-reluctantly accepted Mrs. Elliott’s invitation, and, with little
thought of the requirements of society, walked along wrapt in her
reflections.
Henry and Miss Willis talked as they walked. Henry had taken a fancy to
Miss Willis the night before. Her gentle, timid manner, and pleased
reception of the commonest attentions, gave her a kind of attraction,
and he talked to her for some little way without dissatisfaction. It was
Nora, however, who interested him against his will; and when he had told
Miss Willis of Mr. Elliott’s distaste of gossiping at the church door,
had heard her warm agreement in the same opinion; when he had laughed at
her about it, asking if it was a sin to say “How d’ye do?” which
expression he pronounced in ten different tones of voice, mimicking all
the varieties of voices, ages, and characters that might be found at a
country church door, he turned to Nora. Though Miss Willis was laughing
heartily at his wit, she was still immersed in thought, and he was
piqued.
“If I may ask, what are you thinking about?” he said, abruptly.
Nora started. She had been quite unaware how profoundly she was
reflecting.
“I was thinking about the sermon,” she replied. “Was it not wonderful?”
“It was good, I think,” he replied, with condescension. “Yes, I think it
must have been good, because I listened to it, which does not happen to
me above twice a year. But was it wonderful? How? In what way?”
“Wonderful in advice,” she said, with a kind of sigh. “I never thought
before what one’s life ought to be.”
Henry stared.
“One’s own life!” he said. “Oh! dear, no. I don’t suppose all our lives
could be like that.”
“Was not that what he said? That if everyone set before his eyes the
one desire to go about doing good, this world would be a different place
from what it is.”
“I daresay it would, indeed! But that does seem a little too much to
expect of us poor mortals. Don’t suppose,” he added, with most innocent
gravity, “that I am uncharitable. I like to give--I can’t bear to see
distress; and though I am not rich, I hope I never refuse to help a sad
thing that comes in one’s way. But to go about looking up pains and
troubles, is quite another thing; and I can’t say I think that would be
a proper plan to pursue.”
Nora made no answer. She was thinking very deeply, and his speech did
not hit upon her tone of thought.
Miss Willis, with her breathless gasp, said,
“And yet I think I do know people whose lives are like what the preacher
described--who do go about looking for pains and troubles, that they
may relieve them.”
“Well, Miss Willis,” Henry said, reluctantly, “I think I do know one
such person. It is not common, but I do know one; and that person is a
man. And I do believe that he not only looks up pains and troubles, as I
said, but that he also considers how he can give pleasure, which is
more. I believe he gets up every morning thinking what good he can do.”
“Is it Mr. Fanshawe you mean?” she cried, amazed.
“Yes. What do you know of Mr. Fanshawe?” And he looked eagerly at her.
“Oh! I know him a little,” she said; then, suddenly conscious of
indiscretion, added, “I made his acquaintance a year or two ago--not
more.”
“How curious! And do you also know him?” and he turned to Nora.
“I do a little,” she replied with a blush.
He saw the blush, and something prompted him to say, with a vexed
manner,
“I am very sorry you know him. He is my best friend and my worst enemy.
I mean he tries to be my friend; but he thinks a great deal worse of me
than I deserve, and has used me, as I think, very ill. I should be sorry
that you spoke to him about me.”
Nora made no answer. She felt exceedingly uncomfortable. Concealment was
bringing her into difficulties; and yet at that moment she could not
risk a discovery of herself. She walked on in silence. Miss Willis,
alarmed at her indiscretion, and much more alarmed lest she should have
to take part in anything like disguise, remained silent also; and
Henry, huffed at receiving no complimentary observation from Nora’s
lips, would not speak.
The silence at length struck Nora, and impelled her to action. After
walking a short distance, she began to talk of the singing of the
previous evening. Though the change was abrupt, it was natural, and
Henry fell into it at once. They entered into a musical discussion, so
interesting and animated that before they separated he had asked leave
to call on her the following morning, that he might inspect her
collection of songs.
CHAPTER XVI.
“Are you going out, Miss Willis?” asked Nora, the following morning,
seeing her with her bonnet on. “Mr. Devereux is coming to look at my
songs, and I would rather you were at home.”
“Oh! certainly, I will stay,” Miss Willis replied, though she looked
surprised.
She left the room, and presently returned without her bonnet. Her
countenance had a perplexed, dissatisfied look, and after a short time
there came, “Excuse me, dear Miss Smith, but I must say a word,” and
then she gasped.
Nora knew what it was, and after a moment’s thought replied--
“I agree with you before you speak. But how is it to be done?”
“There would be deception if it was allowed to continue any longer.”
“Deception, no,” Nora said indignantly. “He has never spoken of his
relations, nor asked me about mine. Why was I to force my history upon
him?”
“Because--because--I think because of the peculiar circumstances, you
know. Excuse me, but indeed I lay awake last night thinking what I
should do if he spoke of Mr. Fanshawe again.”
“Don’t trouble yourself,” Nora said, smiling. “It shall be done. But
how?”
She went and stood in the window, and she murmured to herself,
“It is hard. Just when I was making one friend.”
But her feeling that it must be done was as strong as that of Miss
Willis, and she stood revolving different turns the conversation might
take, by which she might introduce herself as the unwelcome cousin.
When Henry arrived he came accompanied by Mrs. Elliott. Nora, though
relieved for an instant, was disappointed, and felt more perplexed than
ever how to proceed.
Mrs. Elliott seated herself by Miss Willis, and Henry, without alluding
to the purpose of his visit, sat down by Nora, and said,
“Is it not curious? I have had a letter from that person this very day.”
Nora’s pre-occupied mind could not guess what he meant, and she looked
at him in a bewildered manner which made him laugh.
“Mr. Fanshawe, I mean,” he said. “It struck me as strange that we should
both be acquainted with him.”
“Oh! yes, I remember,” she said, with embarrassment.
The very opportunity seemed given, but with Mrs. Elliott sitting
opposite she dared not enter on the disclosure.
“And my speaking of him was strange,” he added. “I had not given him a
thought for weeks and weeks, and should not have given him a thought for
weeks and weeks more, if it had not been for that sermon. Then here
comes a letter from him.”
“I have often remarked that,” Nora said sagely, eagerly rushing from a
personal into a general topic, “when once we have met with a name we
meet it till we are tired.”
“He writes in his usual style,” Henry went on, leaving the general for
the personal topic.
“And what is that?” Nora was obliged to ask, though she felt as if she
was treading on hot coals.
“Of course, to persecute me.”
“Persecute!”
“Yes. Don’t you call advice persecution? I do. I think a sane person
with common sense is much better able to regulate his affairs than those
who know nothing whatever of the matter.”
“I rather agree,” Nora said, laughing. “At the same time,” she added, “I
should be thankful for the advice, even if I did not take it. Advice is
friendly.”
“Very friendly indeed!” in an ironical tone. “The purport of Mr.
Fanshawe’s advice is that he thinks I am idling my time away, and to
beg me to consider seriously all that lies before me.”
“That is good advice,” Nora said, hardly knowing how to speak.
“Indeed it is not. I am only just of age, and a man must have a time of
amusement in his life. Besides, there is really no need for me to be in
a hurry. A kind individual left me a legacy, and I don’t see why I am
not to enjoy his kindness in peace and comfort.”
A sudden flush of crimson on Nora’s cheek arrested him. In vain she
averted her eyes; guilty and trembling, she was unable to collect her
thoughts, or conceal her embarrassment. A sensation, that was
disagreeable, he knew not why, crossed Henry’s mind. It was a feeling
almost of jealousy of Mr. Fanshawe. He fancied he must have spoken of
him in a tone that for some reason was displeasing to Nora; and what
could that reason be?
“Of course I am very much obliged to Mr. Fanshawe for his interest in
me,” he observed, by way of apology; but his tone was bitter.
Nora was relieved for the moment by Mrs. Elliott’s rising from her seat.
“I only looked in, Miss Smith,” she said. “I am very sorry I cannot stay
and hear some music, but I promised an invalid lady to call this
morning, and must go on.”
Nora walked with her to the door, and then into a small hall into which
the drawing-room opened, accompanying her to the house door, Mrs.
Elliott talking as they went, and turning back as she stepped out to
speak again.
When Nora re-entered the drawing-room, Henry was at the pianoforte, and
wrapt in the contemplation of something. She had been for a minute or
two absent, and in that time he had seized a heap of music, and had
tossed it over, throwing it about as piece after piece appeared in which
he felt no interest.
At the bottom of the heap were three pieces of music of an earlier date.
On each one was written, “Annora Smythe, Geneva,” with the year and
date. Henry’s attention had first been caught by the words, “Rule
Britannia” on one of the pieces. It was a tune he liked, and his hand
lingered on the name for an instant. In that instant his eye fell on a
word, then on three words, and he stood contemplating them with a
puzzled and troubled look. He did not suspect the identity of the two
persons, but the sudden appearance of the hated name perturbed him.
There are persons whose temper is put out by an east wind; there are
others who are irritated by a cough; there are some who shudder at the
unseen approach of certain animals; there are others who cannot command
their impatience when music or certain airs are played. All these are
involuntary irritations of the nerves, and something like one of these
was the effect of the name Annora Smythe on Henry’s mind. He hated her
with a more voluntary kind of ill-will; but there was, besides that
other hate, a reasonless antipathy to her name, which had grown with his
growth, and which affected his mind with an involuntary irritation,
discomfort, and perturbation. At the mere sight he was no longer quite
himself.
“What is the matter?” Nora said smiling, as she joined him. She thought
he had found some much-liked or much-hated song. He raised his face
with a blank, put out look.
“I was looking at that,” he said. “What is it? Do you know her?”
Nora’s face was crimson first, then pale. He looked at her with
astonishment.
“Do you know her?” he repeated, in an angry, authoritative tone.
“I was--I mean I am Annora Smythe,” she said, trying to still her
trembling; that trembling which was utterly reasonless, for what had she
done?
“You!” He drew back from the pianoforte, and gazed at her with a gaze
that was almost wild, while passionate blood flew in torrents to his
face. “You! And why have you dared to cheat me in this way? None but
you--none but _she_ could have done it. I might have known it. I ought
to have expected it; it is of a piece with her life. Most men would have
had honour enough, bad as they are, to forbid such tricks; but to her
all meanness is possible. She--”
“What have I done?” Nora cried, interrupting him with a fierceness like
his own. She had stood at first paralysed; but at the word “meanness”
her haughty temper took fire.
“What you have done! Do you ask me what you have done? Wait, and you
shall hear. You have added this to the rest of your deeds, that, like a
prying impostor, you have come trying to worm out the secrets of my
life--prying into my ways, into my weaknesses and follies, if you will.
I am not ashamed to own I have them; it is for you to be ashamed of the
meanness which would thus drag them out!” He seemed half-choked.
“Mr. Devereux,” Nora said tremulously and imploringly, “hear me!”
“Do you ask me what you have done!” he continued, neither heeding nor
hearing her. “Wait, and I will tell you!” And from the inner recesses of
his heart came pouring forth in passionate words all the thoughts
cherished for years, facts true and facts false; the true warped and
magnified, the false utterly false; his words vehement in tone, violent
in language; his eyes glaring and flashing beneath his passion.
Nora stood for a time paralysed; to astonishment succeeded terror, and
to terror a resentment that was half the effect of anger and pride, and
half the sense of wrong and injury.
“If this is what you think of me,” she said, breaking in upon, but not
stopping the torrent that flowed from him, “I leave you. I could have
borne much--this I will not bear.” And she turned suddenly and left the
room.
Then only Henry paused. He paused because her sudden disappearance
surprised him--not because his passion was at an end.
“Oh, Mr. Devereux!” Miss Willis said piteously; “what can you mean?”
“I am glad,” he said, clenching his teeth, “that for once, just for one
moment in my life, I have had the power to tell her what I think. I
shall be the better for it all my life long.” And he drew a breath of
relief, almost of enjoyment, as if indeed he did feel relieved of a
burden.
“You will not be glad,” she said gently; “when you have time to think,
you will grieve over the words you have used.”
“I shall _not_ grieve, Miss Willis. In cold blood I might never have
dared to do it; but her imposition upset my temper, and forced from me
the history of my wrongs. I am glad I have spoken. Now we stand on equal
terms. Now she knows what I think of her; and if ever we meet again,
why--she knows what I think of her.”
“How have you wrongs?” Miss Willis said, eagerly, too much excited to
feel her usual timidity. “Can _she_ help it if she was born?”
“Do you think I quarrel with that?” he cried fiercely. “What is that to
me? But there are few who, if they had used a person as I have been
used, would not have made reparation. Little care has it been to her
that a family has been struggling up in poverty; no pleasures in their
lives, no education as befits their position. She has had the world at
her command, but we are like the scum of the earth, and she is glad of
it. I myself have had the common education of a gentleman, only through
the unforeseen kindness of a friend.”
“But, Mr. Devereux, she--she--” gasped Miss Willis, “_she_ was the
friend;” her excitement, her agony of desire to heal the feud,
indiscreetly drawing the secret from her.
“What do you say?” he said, looking as if he would eat her up.
She hoped it was eagerness to hear more, hoped it was dawning penitence;
and as quietly and composedly as she was able, but, in fact, with great
hurry and perturbation, told what Nora had done.
He stood to hear her, the crimson glow ebbing and flowing on his cheek.
When she stopped, he was deadly pale; and though far from calm, he was
stilled. For a moment or two he struggled to speak, and could not; but
at last he said,
“Will you be good enough to desire Miss Smythe to come down? I must
speak to her.”
She did not understand his countenance, but she hoped much from his
sudden composure, and went, and in a broken voice related to Nora what
she had done.
At the moment Nora felt relieved. Her passion had faded, and the
intolerable sense of wrong, of being so wrongly judged, was weighing
upon her. But after an instant’s consideration her feelings changed--so
far changed, at least, that she desired Miss Willis to go down and say
that she declined to obey his summons.
“I am not displeased,” she said kindly. “I am sure you acted for the
best, and I daresay it will prove for the best; but I will not see
him--I cannot.”
Disappointed and reluctant, Miss Willis returned, and said Nora refused
to appear.
“It is no matter,” he said, “you can tell her what I say. Go to her, if
you please, and tell her that I would rather die, rather lie down and be
ground into atoms, ground beneath a granite millstone, than lie down
before her to receive her hated bounty!” He ground his teeth, and even
clenched his fists.
“Oh! Mr. Devereux!” poor Miss Willis began, “consider----”
“If I go to work on the treadmill, if I steal,” he cried, passionately,
“I would rather do it than be her slave! Tell her so. Tell her that it
is in vain she plumes herself on her bounteous gifts!--I scorn them and
renounce them! She thinks she has humbled me. She will find it is not so
easily done as she thinks. Tell her what I have said; and now I have
done.”
Miss Willis repeated as little as she could of the scene that had
passed; much was gradually, however, drawn from her, and almost with
tears she begged Nora to forgive her for the indiscretion which had
brought such consequences.
“Think of it no more,” Nora said; “it was a foolish plan, and it is
right that it should have failed. My first dream is over.”
Deep was the disappointment which, however, the event of the morning
caused. It struck on a sore place. She had hoped to conciliate, and she
had failed. She, in those days, had read Henry’s character, and could
see its faults and merits; but he, she found, had not read hers; he,
after three days’ intercourse, could still misdoubt and hate her. After
a time from Henry her mind wandered to her mother. Her love she had also
failed to retain; and the tears she had been ashamed to shed over her
new disappointment fell fast when she recurred to that older one.
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