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Title: Nora; vol. 2 [of 3]
Author: Lady Emily Ponsonby
Release date: August 27, 2026 [eBook #79462]
Language: English
Original publication: London: Hurst and Blackett, 1870
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NORA; VOL. 2 [OF 3] ***
NORA.
VOL. II.
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. II.
LONDON: HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.
1870.
_The right of Translation is reserved._
LONDON
PRINTED BY MACDONALD AND TUGWELL,
BLENHEIM HOUSE.
NORA.
CHAPTER I.
Mr. Powderham was the famous attorney of the county in which the Spa
stood. He knew everyone’s affairs, was everyone’s counsellor, and the
master of many minds. In his hands was the property Mr. Fanshawe wished
Nora to purchase. As soon as he had heard from Nora that she liked the
looks of the country, her guardian, anxious to bring the matter to a
decision, wrote to Mr. Powderham on the subject, and hearing from him
that in his hands the affair had been placed, and that an immediate
settlement was agreeable to him, desired him to wait on Nora and learn
her wishes.
His visit roused her from the apathy into which Henry’s departure had
thrown her. For he did depart. Miss Willis had assured her that he would
return, that when his passion was past he would be sorry for the
language he had used. She had herself hoped it might be so. But he went
the morning after the scene had occurred, and a day or two afterwards
his departure was mentioned by Mrs. Elliott.
Mrs. Elliott was a lady who was always suspecting, perhaps hoping for
the discovery of incipient romances. She had suspected one on the
present occasion, but Henry’s sudden departure puzzled her. On the
evening of the day of his visit to Nora he appeared at dinner grave and
gloomy. She accused him of abstraction, and archly suggested that he had
left his thoughts with some inhabitant of the Spa. He shortly replied
that he had left the Spa long before she did, and had been to a
neighbouring town. Which was true, for he had walked there and back as a
means of quieting his excited thoughts. She was surprised, but said no
more. A few people came to dinner, and Henry was allowed to be as gloomy
as he pleased.
The following morning he told her he must go to London. When asked why,
he replied, “On disagreeable business.” There was nothing more to be
said, and Mrs. Elliott was obliged to lay by her suspicion of a dawning
romance. When next she saw Nora she mentioned his departure. She had
given up her romancing, and mentioned it casually. After a moment’s
thought, Nora said,
“Did Mr. Devereux tell you that he had discovered we were relations?”
“No,” Mrs. Elliott cried, in surprise. “He came home in a very odd, a
very gloomy state of mind, but he said nothing of the sort. The
discovery was not unpleasing, was it?” And she smiled confidently.
“It annoyed him,” Nora said, “and perhaps with justice. There were old
feuds between our families, and he was displeased at having been forced
into friendliness without his consciousness and without his will.”
Mrs. Elliott looked full of curiosity, but she only said,
“That was not very wise on Mr. Henry’s part, was it?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps he had cause to complain, though, indeed, I did
not intend to mislead. Has he ever spoken to you of a Miss Smythe?”
“Once--only once. Are you Miss Smythe?” with a sudden burst of
intelligence. “Oh, yes, of course you are. That explains it all!”
“I changed one letter of my name when I came of age.”
“And why? Forgive me if I ask curious questions.”
“I dislike the name of Smythe,” Nora said resolutely; then, with a
slight pink on her cheek, added, “I always hoped also to meet, as I have
done most unexpectedly, a relation. I grieve for our quarrels, and I
wished we might be friends before prejudice and hate interfered. But it
has been in vain.”
“I know very little,” Mrs. Elliott observed after a moment. “He once
spoke to me about Miss Smythe; and, to say the truth, what he said was
so foolish, that I have avoided the subject ever since.”
She had paused to consider what words she should use. Henry had, in
fact, in speaking once of his future prospects, alluded to the enormous
riches which only “one life” withheld from him; and when Mrs. Elliott
had sagely said, “One life is as good as another--I advise you not to
dwell on such an unchristian thought,” he had entered excitedly on his
defence, speaking bitterly of the Miss Smythe whom he had little reason
to love, but whose life, he assured her, was a matter of total
indifference to him. She might live as long as she liked for anything
he cared; but if she died he should not mourn in sackcloth----; and a
good deal more to this purpose.
Nora soon changed the subject. Her conscience had reproached her for the
little mystery she had made; and, as a point of duty, she had determined
to tell Mrs. Elliott who she was; but the subject was annoying, and she
escaped from it, after begging her not to talk of what she had heard.
The knowledge that Henry was gone did not raise her spirits, and, as was
said, depression stole over her, until aroused by Mr. Powderham’s visit.
She had felt that life was over, that in her failure to win her cousin,
every purpose of existence was at an end; and it was not until he began
to speak, and to point out all on which she must decide, that she found
life was not yet begun.
Mr. Powderham had been amused at the idea of coming to converse with a
young lady of eighteen; still more was he surprised at finding that she
had an opinion. His idea of the capacity of his fellow-creatures was not
high, and instead of thinking the gift of common sense a common one, he
was accustomed to say that there was not above one sensible man in a
century. He, of course, was the representative of that rare class in the
nineteenth century.
Nora did not enter on business--not, that is to say, on the buying and
selling part of the business; but finding that her guardian had decided
on the purchase, and that the settlement would be immediate, she had
many questions to ask regarding the state of the property--questions
which showed Mr. Powderham that he had to deal with an independent mind,
not with that which he preferred, a puppet.
The property belonged to a bad family. Mr. Powderham was anxious to
dispose of it without much talk on the subject. A good price was, of
course, desirable; but an immediate sale--a sale without
advertisement--was still more desirable. This Mr. Fanshawe knew, and
Nora, therefore, was to become the possessor before the world in general
knew that a sale was decided on.
She suddenly found herself the mistress of an enormous property--one on
which the responsibilities of property had never been felt. There was
also another weighty question pending. There was no house. She must
decide on the spot where she would build, on the style of building, and
the thousand questions which such an important subject must raise. It
was indeed like the beginning of life, and for the moment her
disappointment faded away.
It was on the subject of this house that Mr. Powderham found her capable
of an independent opinion. He had his own opinion--a strong one. There
was a house for sale belonging to a private person, which was capable of
becoming the groundwork of a large family mansion, and which a small sum
might make suitable for immediate occupation.
But this house was distasteful to Nora. It was close to the Spa; it was
several miles from the part of the property which attracted her--a poor
and populous part--and it was built in the style of a modern villa; a
style for which, in her residence at Cheltenham, she had acquired a
great dislike. One of these objections might have been overruled, but
the three together formed a phalanx that was invincible, and Mr.
Powderham, to his great surprise, found himself foiled. Not that he had
any personal interest in the matter, but when he gave advice he liked to
have it taken; he was not fond of man or woman who differed from him.
Nora, accustomed to have her own way, and having no knowledge of Mr.
Powderham’s character, spoke out her opinions fearlessly, and attempted
no sweetening of her rebellion. She was very civil and very much obliged
for his advice, but she did not like it, and so the matter ended. He was
perfectly civil also, and showed no vexation; but he disliked her, took
a prejudice against her, and thenceforward saw all she did through a
prejudiced medium.
Nor was he conciliated when, three or four days afterwards, she wrote to
ask his advice on a site she had found and chosen for her house. It was
five miles from the Spa. On the other side of the property there lay
some beautiful green and sloping meadows, which seemed born, if such an
expression may be used, to be enclosed for a cultivated demesne. On
these meadows, in a pretty position, stood an old farm-house, from which
the present inhabitant, Nora had ascertained, would be glad to be
removed. This farm-house was built of white brick, with a dark red roof,
lightened by tall chimneys and pointed windows. It took her fancy, and
she planned to make it the private portion of the intended house, and to
add the rest in the same style.
“Here is my plan,” she said to Miss Willis, having sketched and lightly
coloured the future mansion. The old part formed one side of a square.
Then was added a long low front, and then another side to the square.
It looked, on paper, as large and roomy as Aladdin’s palace, and Miss
Willis opened her eyes.
“It will be a long while before your family can inhabit such a house,”
she said.
“_My_ family,” Nora said, laughing. “Yes, indeed, I hope it will. But I
must have a house for my friends, must I not?” She stopped, and then
added, “Perhaps you are thinking, as I do myself, that I have no
friends. But I must be ready for them in case they come. If my mother
and her children should want a home, must I not be prepared? And should
my cousins, the young Devereux, need amusement and change, I would offer
it if I could. Though I have been disappointed, I do not mean to give
them up. What should I care for this house, or any other thing, if it
was not to give pleasure to others?”
“You are quite like Mr. Fanshawe,” observed Miss Willis, and she sighed
as she spoke.
The site, with the plan, was, as has been said, submitted to Mr.
Powderham; but though approved, he was not conciliated by it. The place
was so well chosen, the plan so feasible, and the inquiries that had
been made so very much to the point, that he was quite disgusted. Had he
suggested it to Nora, and she accepted it from him, he would have loved
her much; but, since the contrary was the case, he loved her little; and
though perhaps the inference he drew was not a logical one, he spoke of
her thenceforward as “that foolish woman,” tapping his forehead when
her schemes and plans were talked of in his presence.
CHAPTER II.
Henry Devereux returned to London, and to his father, and there made
known to him what had passed and what were his intentions.
“And I wish to know, sir,” he said, peremptorily, “whether you were
aware from where the legacy came?--whether, in fact, you also deceived
me?”
Mr. Devereux quailed for an instant before his fiery son, and then
answered boldly, “No.”
“I am glad of that, father, very glad.”
“But you will allow me to add, Henry, that if on discovery whence it
comes you give it up, you are acting like a fool.”
“Then I _am_ acting like a fool, for I _have_ given it up. I would
rather die, beg, or steal, than live upon her bounty, and so I have sent
her word.”
“You are a fool!” said his father, contemptuously. “Live upon her
bounty, indeed! Why, if she gave you all, instead of such mere scrapings
as these, you would have but your rights.”
“I have no rights,” he cried in a firm tone. “Why have you deceived me
all my life, talking to me of rights which do not exist?”
For in the calm that had followed upon the storm, Henry, for the first
time in his life, had thought; in eight and forty hours had put away,
comparatively speaking, childish things. As he journeyed from
Thorneybank to London, his mind, in a ferment, had asked itself question
after question; and though to some no answer could be given, to this one
a plain one came. What were his rights? None. In blank dismay, in shame
and bitterness of spirit, he saw the truth and owned it. When he stood
before his father, he was no longer a child.
“That is a matter of opinion,” said his father, in the same cool tone.
“As my opinion differs from yours, this discovery will not affect me. I
shall take this share of my rights, miserable as it is, and I recommend
you to do the same.”
“Never!” Henry said, clutching his fist. “She may have humbled me, but
it shall not be as low as that!”
“What, then, do you intend to do?” and Mr. Devereux fixed his eyes on
his son with cold inquiry. “A man must live, and I cannot support you.”
“Work, beg, or steal,” Henry said, passionately; and after a few more
words of the same kind, he left his father alone. He had put away
childish thoughts, but calm sense had not replaced the things put away.
Thought had always disturbed and agitated--it now frenzied him. How he
had laid himself open to that hated cousin, how his foolish thoughts had
been undisguisedly spoken, how she must scorn him, how she must have
deceived! Never had his hate seemed to burn so fiercely as now; and yet
the thoughts of _her_ scorn and his humiliation maddened him.
Mr. Devereux talked coldly to his son, but his inward feelings were not
cool. Disturbance in him took no outward shape; but he was disturbed.
What was Henry to do? He had said he was unable to support him, and he
was so. Henry might live at home like a boy, but he had nothing to spare
for him. His whole life had been spent in accumulating small sums, and
in frittering them away; and he was still at the same work. Intense
application and watchfulness prevented his being in want of those sums
necessary for the way of life he led; but he had no money. He had made
no provision for his children--laid up no sums against an evil day. When
that hated life came to an end he should have enough. This thought had
always been present, and was so still. Nora was between him and money,
and he waited for that impediment to give way.
He was, therefore, far from taking Henry’s resolutions coolly; and
finding himself unable to bring forward the arguments that would move
him, he desired his wife and Letitia to do what they could. He spoke to
each separately, and impressed both with the necessity of saving Henry
from ruin.
Mrs. Devereux had more influence with her son than anyone else. Though
so obedient to her hard husband, she was always soft-natured, and Henry
could only be dealt with by soft words. He heard her earnest appeal
without anger, and condescended to argue with her.
“My dear mother, I am very sorry to distress you; but the thing is
impossible. You cannot wish me to degrade myself to live on charity.”
“Such nonsense you talk, Henry! You know that over and over again that
man’s money--I mean my poor dear Uncle Smythe’s money--was left to you;
and it is no charity to live on your own.”
“That is the folly on which I have been brought up!” he cried, becoming
wrathful. “How can you answer to yourself, mother, for having taught me
such miserable trash? What have I to do with her money? What right has a
distant cousin to a man’s goods when he has a daughter of his own?”
“Oh! I know very well that you have--at least _I_ have. He never ought
to have had that daughter. It was very wrong and very unfair. And that’s
the reason we ought to have all we can get. Your father says so, and he
knows best.”
“Look here, mother--do you like a thief?”
“How can you talk such nonsense?”
“I say do you like a thief?” he cried, raising his voice.
“No, of course not. How can you be so silly?”
“Well, mother, I would rather be a thief; I should think it more
honourable to go and steal, than to go and take her money under the vile
pretence it is my right.”
“Well, Henry, I think it very unkind; and whatever you are to do I don’t
know.”
“Nor more do I,” he said fiercely.
This was the tone of several long conversations between the mother and
son. They never advanced beyond this point.
Letitia’s tone was different. The brother and sister were standing in
the window of the drawing-room at Kensington (for they were still living
in the same house) when she first attacked him.
“So you have had a romantic adventure, and with Miss Smythe!”
The blood flew to Henry’s face, and he answered loudly,
“Yes, a very romantic adventure. It is a trick of which an honest woman
ought to be ashamed.”
“I don’t see that. She wanted to see what you were like, of course. I am
sure I hope you have made a favourable impression.”
“I hope I have,” in the same loud, angry voice. “If I have not I will.
She shall see I am not to be made a blind fool of.”
“I don’t the least think she wants to make a fool of you. Come, Henry,
what is she like? Is she handsome, or, as mamma says, ‘has she her poor
father’s nose?’”
“Handsome or ugly, it is all the same to me. I hate her!” and he ground
his teeth.
“How can you tell stories?” said his sister, archly. “You know that
before the fatal secret was found out you lost your heart.”
“I! Lose my heart to _her_! I would sooner work in the galleys.”
“That may be. But you did it before you could help it. I know you did,
or you would not be so fierce about the money. If you did not love her a
little, you would not be so afraid of her scorn.”
He stood in impotent crimson passion. Words were unable to express the
indignation of his soul.
“Look here, Letitia,” he said at last, suddenly becoming calm, “if my
father has set you on to argue me out of my mind, you may spare your
breath. No jeers or jibes, no prayers or arguments, shall move me. He
taught me to hate her, and I hate her; and I will take no favours where
I hate.”
Letitia saw she had gone a step too far. She receded.
“Don’t suppose papa puts arguments into my mouth. He very naturally
wishes you to take the money, and he said I might advise you; but it is
you who put suspicions into my head. Why be so angry and fierce? What is
there to be in a passion about?”
“Everything,” he replied bitterly,--“life itself.”
“I agree with you there. Life is not pleasant.”
As she spoke somebody passed beneath the window who took off his hat to
her. She slightly bowed, with a faint tinge of red flitting over her
cheek.
“Who is that?” asked Henry, curiously.
“That. Why, don’t you know? It is Mr. Field.”
“Field! Why, what do you know of him?”
“He is rather a friend of mine,” she said, carelessly.
“Then don’t have him for a friend. I hardly know him, but he is a man
who makes my blood boil.”
Mr. James Field was, as may be remembered, Madame d’Alberg’s cousin. He
had stuck to the line of life in which Mr. Smythe had placed him, and
had got on and risen in it. Mr. Devereux had made his acquaintance at
the time of the disputed will, and there had been a kind of acquaintance
ever since.
“What were we saying?” Letitia said. “Oh! I know. That life is not very
agreeable. It is not--not our life, at any rate. With a father absorbed
in business, and a mother who has no thoughts, and no will, it is not
likely to be so. We have a joyless and a comfortless home, and if we can
escape from it we are wise.” She spoke with a warmth unlike her usual
cold, sarcastic manner. “I shall certainly do so if I can, and so I
advise you to do. Now, Henry, listen to me. There are two things open to
you. Treat Miss Smythe either as a friend or as an enemy. If you prefer
the old line of hate, why, hate her well, hate her in right earnest, as
papa does, and do not be afraid to spoil her of some of her ill-gotten
goods. There is, and you know it well, only her life between you and
prosperity--between all of us and prosperity. I wish the life dead with
all my heart; but as I would not murder, nor more, I suppose, would you,
make the best of it, and take what you can get.”
“Letitia!” Henry cried, and he shuddered. Often and often had he vaguely
wished the life dead; but he had seen the life now, and he shuddered at
her thought, and still more at his own old wishes.
“Well, what have I said? Do we not all wish the life was dead?”
“No!” And he let his hand fall on the window with violence.
“I thought we did. Well, never mind. If you don’t like the old one, take
a new line with her. Be a friend, and love her if you will. You are
young, and handsome, and agreeable. Make her love you, and make her
your wife. Now you have my advice; take it and think about it!”
And she escaped from the storm of passion she saw in his face.
Henry could storm. His sister’s words were revolting to every feeling;
her alternatives were no alternatives to him. But not the less the
question had to be decided, what was he to do? He was one and twenty,
and he had no profession, nor had been educated to any profession. His
way of life had been idle and careless; his mind was little informed on
any subject, and least of all on any useful matters. His reputation was
that of an idle young man, nor had he, among his many friends, any who
considered him in a better light. And yet the time was come when he must
live; and he had, besides, in idle folly, hampered himself with a debt.
These were the vexing thoughts that agitated and disordered him,
disordered him in a degree which told against himself and his powers. He
had so allowed his mind to run riot at its will, that when he tried to
restrain it, the efforts to think, and the discovery of his incapability
to control himself, disordered him more. He knew not where to turn, nor
on what to decide. His father, to whom he applied for help and advice,
agitated him further. Not that he utterly refused to advise, not that he
did not suggest certain applications for employment that might be made,
but all he said was accompanied with such taunting words, that Henry’s
soul was in turmoil, now rising up in defiance, now repelling with
scorn, now wrapping itself up in impenetrable gloom. For many weeks he
led a miserable life, and it told on health, strength, and spirits.
CHAPTER III.
After settling her affairs as far as could be done, Nora left the Spa
and returned to Cheltenham. As soon as the excitement attending the
choice of her site and other arrangements had passed away, her thoughts
recurred to Henry, and the old depression returned. The improvement of
her mind, which had been her object before this unfortunate
acquaintance, interested her no more. Depressed yet restless, she could
settle to no occupation.
“You have something on your mind,” said Miss Willis. “Excuse me, but I
do not think you ought to allow _that_ circumstance to annoy you. You
did all you could for your cousins. If they will not be benefited, the
fault is theirs, not yours.”
“The fault is mine,” replied Nora. “I acted foolishly. I might have
guessed that no young man of spirit would bear such interference. What
to do now I do not know. If I could only hear something!”
This was about ten days after her return to Cheltenham.
She was not left without hearing something. The morning afterwards she
received a letter from her banker, saying that a press of business had
prevented him from communicating to her sooner; that some three weeks
back he had received a visit from Mr. Henry Devereux. He came, he said,
to make certain inquiries regarding the sum paid to him annually, and
ended by requesting that it should be paid no more. The letter asked
for instructions on the subject.
“Three weeks ago!” she cried in dismay, “and I have done nothing. If the
money is now paid to his father it is useless. He will suspect. I have
made him suspect me.”
She sat wrapt in thought.
“If I were you,” observed Miss Willis, “I should consult Mr. Stephen
Fanshawe.”
Nora raised her eyes quickly.
“He knows and likes Mr. Devereux, and from what Mr. Devereux said, I am
sure he respects him. He might have influence with him. He would, at any
rate, advise you.”
“I believe you think Mr. Fanshawe can do anything,” Nora said, and
smiled. But she took her advice, and though feeling she had no right to
do so, wrote to Mr. Stephen Fanshawe.
Her letter was long. She had to tell him of the sad end of her plot; she
had to blame herself regarding that plot; and she had to ask his advice
and help for the future; and in this latter part she unconsciously
poured out her feelings and her views of life; how it was not life
unless you could help others; and then followed a special application of
her duty to her cousins.
More than a week passed before any notice was taken of her letter, and
Nora began to think she had done a strange thing, or that her interest
in her cousin’s welfare was a strange thing; but one morning, having
worked herself up almost to despair, when she went down to breakfast she
found Stephen Fanshawe.
“I am come for the day,” he said. “I am a bad correspondent, and I
waited until I could act.”
And he then related to her that he had been kept from acting by a boy’s
serious illness; but two days before this day had gone to London and
seen Mrs. Devereux.
“Not my cousin, then?”
“No. I think I told you that Henry and I are not on good terms. About a
month ago I was entreated by a person at Oxford, who took an interest in
him, to write and give him some advice. It was reluctantly done, and he
never answered me.”
“There was a reason for that,” Nora said.
“So I imagine now; but I felt that, as Henry had avoided me when
prosperous, he would not be easily guided by me when in anxiety; so I
went to Mrs. Devereux. She and all the family have resented what they
call ‘my behaviour’ to Henry; but she is a soft-natured person, and
easily forgets her resentment; and luckily I found her alone. I believe
my visit was the greatest relief to her mind.”
“They are troubled about him, then?” Nora asked, anxiously.
“Very much troubled. Henry is not a young gentleman made of wax, and his
family are very ill-fitted to deal with him. She says he is now as
anxious to work as once he was to be idle, but that he cannot find
employment. He is pestered with little bills, and has hampered himself
with a debt to a friend, and his father will not help him, and he does
not know how to help himself; and he torments himself and his
parents;--and life, the poor woman said, was not worth having.”
“And can I do nothing? What could be more natural than for me to pay his
debts? Consider our positions, and all that you know about the old
disappointments and troubles.”
“It might be natural; but many things are natural that cannot be done.
In this case Henry told his mother that he would much rather steal than
receive anything from you. You look shocked,” as if he had seen her
face; “but I daresay Henry feels it, and, to a degree, I respect the
feeling; and I think his feelings ought to be considered. But there may
be a way to help him, nevertheless.”
“You have a thought,” Nora cried, eagerly.
“Yes,” smiling at her impatience. “You see, he wishes to work, but
cannot find employment. His father did so far help him as to procure for
him two situations as merchant’s clerk, and he went to try his chance,
but he failed. His handwriting is execrable; and he could not add up the
simplest column of arithmetic correctly. It is not, his mother says,
that he _cannot_, for he is quick, and could soon do what he pleased;
but his mind is so agitated that he seems unable to collect himself for
any effort. He has now terrified them by threatening to be a private
soldier.”
“Oh! but you must prevent it!” Nora cried.
“I will if I can, and will tell you my thought. But it requires your
consent.”
“It is given, of course.”
“Well, but listen. I went to my father, and asked him first to take
Henry into his office; but though he was most kind, he thinks, and now I
see it also, that it would not do. His clerks are sharp young men, and
Henry’s position would be disagreeable. A thought then struck me. Shall
you not want some person, a gentleman, to overlook your work and workmen
while building your house?”
“Of course I shall!” Nora cried, without in the least knowing whether
she did or not.
“I am not sure that it is _absolutely_ necessary,” and he smiled, “but I
think you may make it necessary. Something like a clerk of the works is
generally provided; but this may be a different office. Something like
an agent, to watch and report to you, and act for you.”
“It seems the very thing. But then,” and her countenance fell, “what is
the use, if he will not take anything from me?”
“Not take, perhaps, but earn. There is a great difference. I have always
found that, in the midst of his whims, Henry has great good sense. I
think he will see the difference. You can but try.”
“Will you do it?” Nora asked, timidly; “or am I giving you too much
trouble?”
“No trouble at all, if it was wise; but I think it will come best from
yourself. Let all be open and direct--no negotiations. Do you see what I
mean? Write to him a simple statement--you will know what to say.”
It was easy for Stephen Fanshawe to write a simple statement. Nora felt
utterly perplexed. One wrong word might make worse confusion than ever.
She could bear no part in the conversation, and shortly retired to her
room to think. She was anxious to act while Stephen Fanshawe was in the
house.
But when she had taken up a pen and made an effort to collect her
thoughts, she did not find the difficulty so great as she had
anticipated. She gradually simplified her thoughts, and instead of
taking an excursive view of life, of wills, of money matters, of past
feelings and present feelings, all which had in the first instance
seemed necessary, she became aware that the less that was said the
better.
“My dear Cousin.” Thus she began after much consideration. “Dear Mr.
Devereux” did not express that nearness to him, that right to be
interested, which she wished to convey. “My dear Henry” was out of the
question. This, then, seemed all that was left to her:--
“MY DEAR COUSIN,
“Though we parted in anger, it was not long before I became
convinced that your displeasure was just, and therefore my anger is
gone. I am grieved to have given you so much annoyance. If I could
I would explain my motives, but such things are more easily fancied
than explained. I will only say this, that my wish was to be of use
to my relations; and having heard that some at least had a
prejudice against me, I tried to do away with the prejudice before
I made their acquaintance.
“I am still of the same mind, and that is the cause of my troubling
you with a letter. At this moment there is a place at my disposal,
which I would rather entrust to a relation than to a stranger. It
is to overlook the workmen who will shortly begin to build my
house. The salary is to be four or five hundred a year, and the
duties, I am told, will be neither difficult nor arduous. If you
would undertake this for me it will be a great pleasure, and it
will show me that you forgive me for the annoyance I have so
thoughtlessly caused you.
“Your affectionate cousin,
“NORA SMITH.
“P.S. My guardian, Mr. Fanshawe, will tell you all particulars.”
When her letter was written, Nora returned to her guest with a light
heart, and was amused by his expressing a wish to see Cheltenham, and
his inviting her and Miss Willis, if convenient, to walk with him.
Nora’s letter was to go by the post, and until she received an answer no
new step was to be taken. Stephen Fanshawe promised to make his father
conciliatory and encouraging, if Henry should call upon him, and there
was no doubt that his father would obey him. His visit, therefore,
brought things to a satisfactory end. Nora’s letter went by the post,
and was duly delivered. Henry was not at home, and it was placed by the
servant, with other letters, in his room.
CHAPTER IV.
Henry was now in the habit of having letters. During his prosperous days
he had visited many shops of various kinds, not running up large bills,
but buying some article he fancied, with a promise to call and pay. How
the whole mercantile body in England could have heard that the little
prosperity he had enjoyed was now departed, it would be hard to say, but
such appeared to be the case; for although he had never been troubled
before, little bills from divers parts of London and England were now
suddenly sent in.
It gave him a feeling of desperation when, morning after morning, these
little bills appeared upon his table; and yet, notwithstanding the
desperation it caused, he would not draw a small balance which remained
from his last quarter, and which would have been sufficient to set this
particular annoyance at rest. Not one penny of _that_ money would he
touch, as he observed to himself again and again, grinding his teeth as
he said it.
He had been persuaded at this moment by a young man, one of the least
idle of his associates, to dine and sleep at his father’s villa at
Hampstead. It was the first diversion Henry had taken, and he was
persuaded to it only because the whirl of his brain frightened him. He
had attempted to take some lessons in arithmetic, and partly from the
agitation and nervousness into which the attempt cast him, and still
more because his pre-occupied mind refused to clear itself of its
imaginings, and give itself to its subject, he had disgraced himself.
This would not have mattered could he have taken it good-humouredly; his
teacher was probably accustomed to the sight of failure, but Henry could
not take it calmly. He saw contempt, as he fancied, in the face of his
instructor; he heard words of condemnation and contempt, and he
quarrelled with him.
It was after the despair caused by this last occurrence that Henry had
accepted the invitation to the house of his friend. Another day of
thought upon his prospects would, he felt, make him mad in good earnest,
and he went. It was the home of a rich merchant with a large family.
There were games, and there was music, and singing, and all that Henry
had formerly most enjoyed. But he could enjoy nothing now.
“I thought you said he was such a capital fellow,” said one of the girls
to her brother.
“So he is, but he is out of sorts. Don’t notice him. The change will do
him good.”
It was an amiable family, and the handsome young man out of sorts became
a subject of interest with the young ladies. They did not notice his
depression, but they tried hard to please, and so far succeeded that
Henry returned to London in a saner state of mind. For more than a month
he had listened unceasingly to his father’s cold words, his mother’s
complaints, his sister’s sharp remarks, and his own despairing
cogitations. It was no wonder that his poor brain had lost its
tranquillity. The fresh air, the change, and the kindness he had
received, all combined to allay the inward fever, and, to his surprise,
he whistled as he walked along the streets. But the sound of the whistle
brought him back to himself. “What’s the use?” he said, gloomily, and
the black dog sprang on his shoulders again. He banged the door of the
house as he entered with his wonted impatient movement, and strode up to
his room without vouchsafing an inquiry after the health of his family.
“You will find some letters in your room, sir,” said the housemaid, as
he passed her on the stairs.
“Hang them!” was his gracious reply.
There were five letters on his table. He knew the look of them and
their contents well; nevertheless, in gloomy disgust he opened them. One
was a small bill of five and sixpence for a pot of pomatum; another was
of ten shillings for a “waterfall.” But there was a more serious one, a
few words to remind him that he had never paid for a gun purchased the
year before, a matter of twenty or thirty pounds.
Henry groaned aloud. Not that this addition made any very great
difference in the amount of debt that hampered him. But there was
something in it which at that moment completely overset him. He dropped
the bill and groaned. It was then that his eye fell on Nora’s letter,
which was the last in the heap. He was not very well acquainted with her
handwriting, but by some intuition he recognized it, and he shuddered
as he took it up. It was opened, however, and read. But his mind,
overset and excited, could not calmly understand its contents.
“She is determined to trample upon me!” he cried passionately; “and I
will _not_ be trampled on. Thus I treat her and her offers,” and he
threw the letter on the ground, and put his foot upon it with a stamp.
Thus he stood, when there came a little, sharp tap at the door, and
without waiting permission to enter, Letitia opened it.
“You intended to escape me,” she said, with a laugh, “but you won’t. I
heard your very dignified slam, and should know it among a thousand
noises, and I came up to see what is the matter now.”
She walked a few steps towards him, and then exclaimed,
“Why, what _is_ the matter now? Goodness gracious me! you look as fierce
as crooked-backed Richard in the play last night.”
“I didn’t tell you to come in here,” Henry replied. “I am very busy, and
I don’t want you.”
“Not very busy, I think. Dancing on a piece of paper,” for her quick eye
had seen it at once.
“Not dancing on a bit of paper,” he said passionately; for, like a
child, he could be played upon to any extent. “Trampling on it, if you
will.”
“All the same. From the fierceness of your face, I did not suppose it
was a graceful dance. Well, what is it? One of your precious bills? How
childish! I would not vex myself about a bill.”
“It is _not_ a bill!” in a very loud voice.
Letitia was perfectly aware of that; but she paused a moment to examine
his face before she said--
“I guess it. You have received an offer of marriage from Miss Smythe, or
Smith, or whatever she chooses to be.”
“Have done with your folly!”
“Let me see how she words it,” and she stooped and endeavoured to pull
the letter from under his foot. “It is an awkward thing for a lady to
do; but I have no doubt she does it well.”
“Have done, I say!” he cried; and he took up the letter and put it in
his pocket.
“Come, Henry, don’t be nonsensical. I know it is from Miss Smythe. I
looked over your letters this morning, and I saw the Cheltenham
post-mark. That is where she lives, is it not?”
“I neither know nor care.”
“Well, if ever a man quarrelled with his bread and butter, it is you.
What is in that letter of course I can’t guess, but that it is an offer
of something I am sure. I don’t exactly suppose she mentions marriage;
but that is the aim and end, depend upon it. From all I hear, she does
not find many lovers, notwithstanding her riches, and she is determined
to make hay while she can.”
“Letitia, I hate you!” he cried with vehemence.
“Do you? You are not singular in that. I have not many lovers either.
But no matter for my affairs. I want to give you advice. Make up to
that woman, whether you can like her or not; make her like you, and
then profit by it.”
“I believe you are--” he paused.
“Well, what?” laughing.
“A fiend, Letitia.”
“Indeed I am not. I am only advising you for your good. If you could
make her like you, and then ill-use her, I own I should be glad. I hate
her, and a revenge in that small way, a jilt, an offence to her pomp,
would be a brilliant revenge; but I am sorry to say I have no such hope.
I know you are in love with her; if not, you are too soft to take any
revenge.”
“Go away, and leave me alone!” he cried half passionately, half wearily.
The soothing of the previous evening’s refreshment, even while soothing,
had unstrung him. While his sister spoke, there was a choking sensation
within which seemed as if it must find vent in tears.
“As you please. Only this, Henry--take my advice, and, whatever it may
be, accept her offer. I don’t believe in disinterested offers; I think
people always have a motive for what they do; above all, I don’t believe
in disinterested offers from _her_. I think she has a selfish motive in
making up to you, and, as I can think of no other, I suppose that motive
to be love. If so, don’t _you_ be a fool and throw your good hands away.
Now I have done.”
He made no comment nor answer to what she said, and she closed the door
and left him. Then he sat down at the table and put his face in his
hands, and sighed as from his heart’s depths. Letitia’s words had not
affected him as she intended, but the manner in which they affected him
tended to the same result.
She wished him to accept the offer, and she supposed every man would be
flattered by the suggestion that he had gained a heart. Of the malice
that coloured all her words she made no account. She had a malicious
disposition, and her words and thoughts were naturally coloured by it.
But while her suggestions of Miss Smythe’s affection for himself passed
totally unheeded by Henry’s ears, the maliciousness of her words made
him shudder.
He shuddered, not at Letitia, she was nothing to him, but at himself.
Why was this innocent being, who had innocently inherited that thing
which they desired, to be treated as he had treated her; to be thought
of as he thought of her? What had she done, that he should trample on
her kindness?
He raised his head and drew her letter from his pocket, and as he read
it tears fell from his eyes. It was the contrast of her words, soft,
kind, truthful, and touched with gentle reproach, to the words of his
sister and his own hard thoughts, which thus affected him. His nerves
were unstrung, and for a few moments the tears dropped one by one on the
letter, and he was unconscious of it. When he did perceive them,
although he dashed them away with a passionate gesture, he still
remained gazing on the words before him, and yielding to the softer
impulse that was stealing over him.
Henry was the slave of his impulses. He had never learned, had scarcely
been taught to control them, and after a short cogitation he yielded to
his impulse now. It was on this occasion a good one, a forgiving
impulse, one tending to humble himself; and, without consulting anyone,
he took up a pen and wrote:--
“MADAM,
“I accept the offer you make me, and will do my best to discharge
the duties you entrust to me faithfully.
“I know well that I am at present unfit for such a charge, but I
will endeavour to make myself fit; and I trust you may not repent
the generous confidence you show in me.
“Your humble servant,
“HENRY DEVEREUX.”
The formal style proceeded from three different sources, of none of
which he was exactly conscious. He only knew that so, and so only, did
he choose to write; that as a stranger only did he choose to be
employed by her.
The three sources were pride, self-defence, and hate. It was a balm to
his impotent pride to express himself thus. The style he used was an
answer to his sister’s insinuations; and to sever himself from her, to
place her in her personal relations far from him, was food to that hate
which, in the midst of his penitence and softer feelings, still fretted
him, still kept him unquiet and disturbed.
When his letter was written, and the envelope directed, he rose and rang
his bell with vehemence. The nurse and a housemaid both flew to answer
it. Henry was the only person who was loved or respected in the house.
His ways certainly asked for no great respect, and his “Hang them” to
the communications made him were not strictly to be called courteous.
Still, so it was. Henry was beloved, and in a certain sense respected
also. The servants, when they looked in his face, saw the good nature
that shone through the faults; and, looking up to that good nature,
reverenced it.
He took no great notice of the _empressement_ shown to obey him, but
said with peremptoriness,
“Beg my mother to come up and speak to me.”
The door closed, and he stood with the two letters in his hand until his
mother came.
“Goodness me, Henry, do you want to startle us quite out of our wits?”
she began, gaspingly.
“No, mother--never mind. I want you to read these two letters. There,
sit down,” perceiving she was really out of breath. “I beg your pardon.”
He pushed her into a chair, and put the letters into her hand; then
stood looking at her.
“Now, for goodness sake, Henry, do turn your eyes away! How ever am I to
read if you stand staring like that.” Most people would have felt the
same.
“Remember, mother,” he said, as he moved away, “that I ask no opinion. I
want you to read them, that you may tell my father what I have done.
What she says, and what I have said. Don’t hurry yourself. When you have
finished, I shall take my letter to the post at once.”
“Do you want me to learn them by heart, then?” she asked, in sincere
alarm.
“No, no, only remember them. Get on, mother, pray do.” He spoke
coaxingly--he was hardly ever ferocious with her.
It took Mrs. Devereux a considerable time to master the two letters.
From maternal affection, she read Henry’s first; and not understanding
it in the least, had to turn to the other. “Who is Madam?” she inquired,
while she was puzzling over it; but as her son did not answer, she asked
no further questions. When Miss Smith’s had been fully mastered, she
turned again to Henry’s, and the first comment she made on the
correspondence was--
“I don’t see why you put ‘your humble servant’; you are quite as good as
she is. In point of family a great deal better, as I have often told
you.”
“Never mind, mother. I put what I thought best. I do not want any
opinion; I only want you to know what I do, and to tell my father. Of
course,” and he kissed her, “I shall be glad if you are glad.”
Henry’s little tendernesses were the one charm of Mrs. Devereux’s life.
He was the only one of her children who ever kissed her, except at
stated times; and whenever he kissed her, she felt like a slave at his
feet.
“Of course, my dear boy, I am very glad. It seems quite like what people
call an opening; and I daresay the work will be nothing so very hard.
Odd work it sounds, looking after workmen; but I daresay you will like
it better than sitting at a desk.”
She did not feel very clear as to whether he was to make mortar or not:
but she felt this would be rather good fun if it were so.
“Oh! yes, I shall like the work. Do you remember the letters, mother?”
“Yes, pretty well. They are very proper letters. I don’t quite like that
humble servant, but perhaps I am wrong.”
“That will do, then, mother. And I hope,” he added, and as he spoke he
kissed her again, “that I shall never in future worry you as I have done
for the last month.”
“I am sure I hope not,” she honestly said, notwithstanding the kiss. “I
assure you, my dearest boy, I have hardly slept a wink; for what was to
become of you I did not see.”
“No more did I. Now, mother, that will do.” And she obediently
disappeared.
She reserved her news till her husband came in, notwithstanding
Letitia’s pertinacious efforts to know what that idiot Henry was about.
It was not often that she was placed in a position so important. When he
came in she made her statement, and considering all things, made it
pretty faithfully. She did, indeed, leave both her hearers in great
perplexity as to what the proposed office was, some idea of manual work
lingering in her head; but still she conveyed a not unfaithful idea of
the correspondence; she especially remembered, and reported with
emphasis, the beginning and end of each letter.
“How ridiculous of Henry!” was Letitia’s comment. “I would have died
sooner than put ‘humble servant’ to her.”
“I did point that out,” replied her mother. “I told him that he was as
good as she was in point of family, and a great deal better.”
“That has nothing to do with it, mamma. If the Queen was writing, she
might put it to you if she pleased. But I would not have put it to
_her_. So that was the mystery! Well, he has taken my advice.”
“You do not speak, my love,” said Mrs. Devereux, looking at her husband.
“I hope you do not disapprove of what Henry has done?”
Mr. Devereux was looking fixedly at the fire. On his hard, impassive
face no expression was to be seen. Even Letitia did not feel certain of
his feeling on the subject.
After a moment Mrs. Devereux repeated a part of her question.
“I do not know,” he then said, turning slowly round, and speaking with
that cold calm bitterness which made his voice at times unlike a human
voice, “whether I am most disgusted or delighted.”
His wife, even after her many years’ experience, totally blind to his
unamiable disposition, gazed at his hard face with amazed curiosity. He
answered the gaze.
“I am disgusted with Henry for accepting a servile employment under such
a woman; but my disgust is qualified by the delight of knowing that he
can do her nothing but mischief.”
“Indeed,” said Mrs. Devereux, “I think Henry will do his best.”
A sound came from her husband that was more like a laugh than anything
that had ever proceeded from him. But such a laugh as it was! It made
his wife uncomfortable; it even for a moment repelled Letitia. Nothing
more was then said about Henry’s prospects. Later in the evening, when
Letitia, who, finding, as was usual, the society of her parents
wearisome, retired, Mr. Devereux spoke again.
“You will tell Henry from me that I approve,” he said, suddenly looking
up from some papers he was studying.
“Yes, my love. I hoped you would.”
“That is quite enough for him to know. You need not say another word.”
“No, my love.”
“If he can bring himself to receive as pay the money which is his own,
it is his affair, not mine. If justice will not give it, let us take it
when we can.”
“I sometimes think,” observed his wife, after a moment of intense
thought, “that perhaps all the money _is_ hers. In a kind of way, at
least,” seeing his darkening face.
“We may think any folly,” was all he coldly observed, and returned to
his papers.
CHAPTER V.
Nora had not shown her letter to Miss Willis, nor did she show Henry’s
answer.
“It is hard,” she sighed, as she read it. However, something had been
done, and she felt she ought to be satisfied. And after the first
disappointment in the style of the answer was over, she _was_ satisfied.
To Miss Willis she only told the fact of the acceptance of the offer.
“You see you were right,” she said, smiling. “Mr. Fanshawe can do
anything.”
Her next task was to write to Mr. Powderham, and she set about it. Not,
indeed, that she felt much difficulty. Her care for him was too little
for her to study his character, her confidence in herself too great to
allow herself to be in his hands; and the difficulty arose more from the
wording of her letter, the wording of the description of office she
intended Henry to hold, than from any fear of his opinion, or desire for
his approbation.
Hence the style of her letter was authoritative, not suggestive. Not
authoritative with any unmannerly assumption, but speaking of the thing
as done, of the affair as settled, leaving no loop-hole to the man who
loved to advise and govern, to take that office upon himself. Hence,
also as usual, Mr. Powderham was disgusted with her; nay, more, so
angry was he at a young woman daring to take such affairs into her own
hands, that he lost his calmness, and entered into opposition.
He wrote a formal letter, telling her he was sorry to say the thing was
impossible. It would have been better had she communicated with him
before she made arrangements. He must inform her that he had already
engaged a clerk of the works, an efficient man of over thirty, and his
supervision would be sufficient. His style was as peremptory as hers,
and he left her, also, as he thought, no loop-hole for insubordination.
Nora’s eyes flashed as she read the letter, and she replied to it not
only authoritatively, but with haughtiness. She said the arrangement had
been made after due consideration, and she intended to hold to it.
These were not the words, but this was the sense of her letter.
Had Mr. Powderham been a very clever man, he would have known how to
make Nora, with a will, as docile a client as one who had no particular
will. But he was a clever man, not a _very_ clever man, and he made a
mistake. It so happened that never before had an employer acted quite
without consulting him. “I’ll talk to Powderham,” was, even with men,
the common phrase; and when the day came when he was not talked to he
did not know how to act. He made a mistake and rebelled.
Instead of answering by letter, he made a circuit on his road to London
and called on her. She received him courteously; wilful but placable. He
came to her wilful and gloomy, a kind of cold thunder, thunder-clouds,
but no lightning, in his air and looks.
Nora would not enter on grievances, and, taking his visit as a visit,
began to fear he had had a cold journey.
“It was cold, madam; but I was forced to lengthen it and to travel all
night, that I might call upon you. The thing is impossible; no sane
person could propose it; and I thought it more courteous to tell you
this by word than by letter.”
Nora was astounded--not abashed, but astounded--at his presuming to
dispute her will.
“I am sorry to say, Mr. Powderham, that it is done,” she said, as calmly
as she was able.
“Impossible, madam! I should not be doing my duty if I allowed it.
What! place a young man, without education, without experience, and, as
I understand, of very doubtful character, in a position of such
importance! It is madness!”
“He is my cousin,” she said, with flashing eyes and crimson cheeks.
“Were he twenty times your cousin, madam, that relationship could not
make him fit. As I understand, also, the cousinship is not of that
degree which gives him a claim upon you. You have a cousin nearer than
that.”
He paused for a moment, and though not a bad-hearted man, so irritated
was he, that he watched with malicious hope to see her wince. Instead of
wincing, however, she simply stared.
“You must be aware of the many cousins you have on your mother’s side,”
he went on. “One of these, a man over thirty, with his wits about him,
and considerable experience, applied to me for employment, and I had
selected him, thinking to give you pleasure, for the very office you
have designed for young Mr. Devereux.”
“What is his name?” Nora asked, for a moment her thoughts entirely
diverted from the subject in hand. Of her mother’s relations she had
heard. Monsieur d’Alberg had taken care of that; but he was little
informed about them; nor, having accomplished his object, had he cared
to know more. Her mother hated to talk of them; and Nora being, as has
been said, without any good reason, as proud as a princess, had hitherto
swept them from her thoughts, as things belonging to her mother, with
which she had nothing to do. Nor had they yet found her out; they were
only just beginning to do so. They had supposed her to be still under
her mother’s wing.
She asked her question, therefore, with unfeigned curiosity.
“Mr. Field--Mr. James Field. His birth was nothing, I believe, that a
man cares to talk about, but he has raised himself, and is now a man of
education and experience--a gentleman, I may say. I am not personally
acquainted with him--I shall see him during my stay in London; but I
form my judgment from his letters, and from report.”
Now, the little history of the transaction was this. James Field,
hearing from Letitia Devereux of Henry’s adventure, began to consider
what profit he could make out of his relationship to the heiress. He met
Letitia but seldom; and having heard the tale, he said no more to her,
trusting to his own wits to help him.
He made inquiries regarding Nora’s plans. It took him some little time,
but he discovered all, and wrote to Mr. Powderham, asking for
employment; mentioning, in short, the very office of clerk of the works.
But there was nothing remarkable in the letter; and though he stated he
was related to Miss Smith, that relationship gave him no claim.
Mr. Powderham left the letter unnoticed, as was his custom with useless
applications.
But when a few days afterwards he received Nora’s letter, his mind
reverted to it; he sought it out, and before he answered her, answered
it. He said if on inquiry he found he was up to _his_ mark (for he was
conscientious) he would employ Mr. Field.
He told Nora he had hoped to give her pleasure. This was an embroidery
on the truth; what he wished was to oppose his cousin to her cousin; but
at the moment of selection he had no reason for supposing it would be
disagreeable to her. When he began to make inquiries, and heard
something of James Field’s history, this truth dawned upon him; and
after her second letter, it became a truth that was sweet to him.
Nora listened to his reply to her question regarding this cousin, and
sat for some moments reflecting on it. When she spoke it was with
perfect composure. If the discovery of this cousin annoyed her, she did
not allow him to see it.
“I do not know Mr. Field,” she said, “nor can I remember to have heard
the name; but I know I have relations with whom I have no acquaintance.
As he is a cousin, and as you say he is fit, I shall be glad to have him
employed; but it need not interfere with what I have already settled.
Mr. Field may be the working clerk. I shall wish Mr. Devereux to be
something of a different kind--to watch the building in my stead, to see
that all things are well-conducted, and especially to see that the
workmen are cared for during the time of the building, mentally and
bodily.”
Mr. Powderham indulged in a slight laugh of contempt at this last
suggestion, but he knew he was conquered, and his mind, with natural
quickness, was seizing on a ground for honourable retreat.
“Well, madam, since such are your views, and since you are willing to
throw away five hundred a year on a fancy situation, I have no more to
say. All I have to do is to see that your work is well done, that is my
duty,”--with pompous dignity--“and it shall be done, come what may. Mr.
Devereux may possibly be fitted for such duties as you now propose. I
hope so. I have no more to say on the subject. May I ask for a glass of
wine?”
“If you had not been so very hasty in attacking me,” Nora said,
smiling--for, having had her own way, she had no bitterness on the
subject of Mr. Powderham’s opposition--“I should not have been so
uncivil as to forget to offer you luncheon. You must have some after
your journey.”
She left the room, and he presently sat down to an excellent luncheon.
But creature comforts, though they were certainly appreciated, could not
make up for wounded dignity; nor could Nora’s smiles and kind words
soften him. Had he been able to put her down in any way, had she spoken
with less self-possession, he might still have taken her to his heart;
but he could not help seeing that she had a certain amount of brains,
and he was disgusted. He left her, sincerely hoping that she would have
to repent of her wilfulness.
When he was gone, Nora sat for an hour with her feet on the fender, and
a frown on her brow, unoccupied and brooding. At last she said,
“As usual, I have behaved very badly, Miss Willis.”
“Indeed I do not think so. I hardly think I should have answered Mr.
Powderham as calmly as you did.”
“I don’t mean to him,” and she shook her head. “I mean to my relations.
The fact is, Miss Willis, my grandmother, my mother’s mother, was the
daughter of an innkeeper, and I have always hated the idea; and I have
never thought about them as relations, much less made any inquiries
about them. But as they are my relations, I suppose I ought to do it.”
“I suppose you ought,” said Miss Willis, who was no flatterer.
“Then it shall be done,” Nora said; and she rose up, and sat down to
write to her guardian.
She made no secret of her distaste, but very resolutely said she was
now determined to overcome her feelings, and acknowledge them as her
own relations, as well as her mother’s. Mr. Fanshawe took her letter to
Mr. Conway. It was a case in which he wished to fortify himself with his
authority. It was, indeed, a case in which a young woman required the
assistance and experience of older men.
“Chain her up somehow,” said Mr. Conway, lifting his eyebrows after he
had read, “or she will soon be without a tack on her back.”
As this was Mr. Fanshawe’s own opinion, he wrote her in return a very
sensible letter. He begged her to leave her relations alone for the
present, promising, meanwhile, to get a faithful report of the
circumstances of each.
“If, as I believe,” he went on, “they are well-to-do people, I would do
nothing beyond an occasional present, if such should be required. Should
any be in want, I agree with you that it is your duty to relieve them,
and depend upon it I will not prevent you. You speak of acknowledging
them. The word expresses too much. There is no doubt there is a tie of
blood between you; but when your grandfather married your grandmother,
he raised her into a different position of life. She was wise enough to
know this; she was, I believe, very kind, but she never attempted to
associate with her relations again. Do not unsettle their minds by
filling them with thoughts and hopes which are idle. You could not make
all rich; but you might very easily make all discontented.
“As to James Field, his position is different. He has profited by your
father’s kindness to him, and has educated and raised himself in life. I
have a bad opinion of him, and so I will tell Mr. Powderham; but if he
employs him, you will have done all that is necessary on your part
towards him. Should he do well, it will be time enough then to
distinguish him.”
Nora was satisfied with this letter, and was still more disposed to be
guided by her guardian’s advice, when, a month afterwards, he wrote to
tell her that a miller’s daughter, a great-niece of her grandmother’s,
was going to make a very respectable marriage to a young farmer, and he
thought a present of a handsome silk gown would be acceptable.
She was delighted, and a handsome gown, shawl, and bonnet, for the
wedding dress, were despatched, with a kind letter to the young girl in
question. In her letter she touched but lightly on the connection with
herself, but putting her mother forward, said she was sure it would give
_her_ pleasure if this present was accepted for her mother’s sake.
Indeed, if Mr. Powderham had seen the letter, he would have been forced
to own the sense it showed, and would have said, “that foolish woman,”
with more zest than ever.
The girl belonged to one of the most respectable families of the
connection; one who rarely thought of their rich relations, and cared
still less to think about them. Nevertheless the young girl and all her
family were enchanted at the kind note and present, and a grateful,
unassuming letter was written, conveying the thanks and good wishes of
the whole family. Nora had never yet felt so quiet a sense of pleasure
in her riches as this little incident caused her.
CHAPTER VI.
We must now pass lightly over several months--from December to the
August following. Both Henry Devereux and James Field were appointed to
the situations laid out for them. Mr. Fanshawe spoke his mind to Mr.
Powderham regarding James Field; but as it was only opinion, an opinion
founded on his conduct fifteen years before, since which time he was
forced to own that he had conducted himself reputably in the eyes of the
world, Mr. Powderham saw no reason for refusing him the employment he
sought. His own inquiries had been answered satisfactorily. No one spoke
warmly of Mr. Field, but all owned that he was “sharp,” and all gave him
a fair character. For five years he had been a clerk in the office of a
great builder, and the builder said he was perfectly competent to
overlook the carrying out of Nora’s plan. He was therefore appointed
clerk of the works, with a salary of three hundred and fifty pounds a
year. In point of money he was no great gainer by this appointment; but
he was satisfied. To be an immediate gainer he had not expected.
Henry’s situation was one less clearly defined; but in fact he became
agent to Miss Smith; he kept the accounts, not only of the building
concern, but of the property; he received her communications; watched
to see her wishes and orders enforced and executed; in short, any
commission regarding her new property that she chose to commit to him.
All he did was under Mr. Powderham, but the nature of his duties made
him more independent than James Field.
From the moment, from the very day that he posted his letter of
acceptance, Henry had become a new man--new in this degree, that he set
his mind as steadfastly on doing his duty in the charge he had
undertaken, as he had hitherto set his mind on pleasing himself. It was
no thorough radical change in heart, or temper, or principles; but it
was a radical change of views and habits.
He was not easy in his mind; he did not bear with serenity his father’s
ironical approbation; nor did he himself think with serenity of being
in Nora’s service--paid by her. But he was so far a man that, having
done it, he stuck to it; swept away disturbing thoughts when they
intruded, and, above all, calmed the inward fever by saying that even to
an enemy a man should do his duty, and that it mattered little, if it
was just pay for a duty done, whether the pay was earned from one loved
or hated.
Hence, from this determination to earn and not be indebted, arose a
passionate desire to make himself fit; and he gave himself up for the
three or four weeks that elapsed before his services were required to
self-improvement. It was this occupation of the mental powers that, in
fact, soothed and calmed Henry’s mind. “Love labour,” says William Penn;
“if thou doest not want it for food, thou wilt for physic.” It was new
to him to have his mental powers taxed, and the taxing was of
unspeakable service. He might still have fiery elements within, but
there was nothing to kindle them into flame.
With a manly candour which really had in it something noble, he returned
to the instructor whom he had insulted; begged his pardon; acknowledged
his fault, and said he was come to offer himself again. The instructor
accepted the confession, granted the pardon, and renewed his efforts to
teach.
To learn with heart and hope is a different thing to the attempt to
learn without them. Henry, sane in brain, and resolved to understand,
was a different being to the passionate, puzzle-headed youth who had
worn his teacher to death a few days before. There was no want of
intelligence in his mind, and he made a progress both in writing and
arithmetic which delighted himself and astonished his master. The
execrable scrawl became a bold, efficient-looking hand; the sheets of
writing and figures were presented blotless and spotless; and though he
did not attempt the highest branches of arithmetic, he mastered
sufficient for all practical purposes, and was enabled to apply what he
learned to the art of book-keeping.
The more he applied himself, the more his mind opened, and the more he
was delighted with his prospects and himself, and he went down to
Riddlemere, when summoned by Mr. Powderham, full of life and eager
spirit.
Nora would have given much to invite him to Cheltenham, and communicate
to him her many wishes by word of mouth. But she did not dare. By the
style of his letter she understood that he meant to be her servant, not
her friend--her humble servant in the proud sense which the words often
bear. She understood, and refrained from pressing on an unhealed wound.
She went to London and told her guardian her wishes and plans, and he
laid them before Henry. She remained to answer the questions which might
occur while the interviews were taking place, but Henry never offered to
see her, and she made no attempt to see him.
After that a correspondence of a certain kind was opened between them.
She sent to Mr. Powderham instructions to be given to Henry--they were
simply formal, having neither beginning nor end. Henry answered them,
sometimes through Mr. Powderham, more often directly to herself, but
always in the strain he had originally adopted. He wished her to be
nothing but “Madam” to him.
It was a shock to him, on his arrival at Riddlemere, to find James Field
installed as clerk of the works. As he had said to Letitia, he was a man
the sight of whom made his blood boil. He had no reason for his dislike;
he was but imperfectly acquainted with the family history, and, had it
been better known to him, Field had done nothing but furnish his father
with facts, in his attempt to overset the will; but a reasonless dislike
is more trying than one for which there is cause, and it certainly was a
trial to Henry’s temper when he found with whom he had to do. Being now,
however, sane in mind, he could see that quarrels in his position would
be unseemly, and he wisely resolved to keep away from him as much as
possible, and to be coldly civil when forced to his society.
James Field, on the other hand, found his position under Henry extremely
galling. Henry was the responsible head; in his hands lay all the money
transactions; he kept the accounts, he gave orders, he was at liberty to
find fault with whatever he thought amiss. James Field paid the men, but
under Henry’s supervision. He, as he felt, an experienced man of between
thirty and forty; Henry a raw, inexperienced, ignorant boy. James Field
was aspiring and conceited, and it was very galling to him;
nevertheless, for divers reasons, he, too, determined to endure. He had
this consolation, also, the knowledge he very shortly obtained, that
Mr. Powderham disliked Henry. This consolation was great.
If Mr. Powderham had not at first disliked Henry, he would have been,
after all that had passed, an amiable man; and though not particularly
unamiable, he did feel a grudge against him. But, besides this grudge,
he really did think the appointment a folly, and he was very keen in
watching Henry’s conduct. Possibly had Henry shown himself to be a
good-tempered fool, he, satisfied that he had been right, would have
forgiven and helped him. But Henry showed, in the business he had to do,
a kind of homely good sense that was very valuable. His accounts were
accurate, his tone with all who came about him was firm and courteous,
and his influence was great. Nor were these his only qualifications.
Nora had begged that he might write her an account of the state of the
property; the state of the farms; the state of the tenantry; the state
of buildings; the mode of life, &c.; and Henry performed this task
sufficiently well to annoy Mr. Powderham exceedingly. He could not use
technical terms, nor write in a properly formal manner, but he had known
what he was about, and, having obtained his facts, laid them out with a
simplicity of style that made them clear to the meanest intellect.
Therefore it was that Mr. Powderham continued to cherish his prejudice
against him, to say constantly that his engagement would turn out ill,
and to show marked favour to James Field when the two, as sometimes
happened, differed in opinion regarding the building.
Notwithstanding these elements of discord, all things went on smoothly.
Fully occupied, interested in his business, and, perhaps, a little
elated with his performances, Henry’s mind became more composed and
rational. He learned something of what patience was, something of
punctuality; he learned, also, that, being under Mr. Powderham, he must
submit to him, and very imperfectly, perhaps, but in a degree he put in
practice what he learned.
There was one subject, however, on which his mind was not yet sane, one
which never failed to irritate him, and this, after a time, James Field
learned. It was the old subject, Nora. He could work for her, but he
could not bear to have the subject of his relations with her handled.
James Field found this out, and some strifes ensued in consequence.
Now, as Field, secretly but certainly, aspired to obtain the hand and
heart of Letitia Devereux, it was singular that he should take pleasure
in tormenting her brother, and this before his object was gained; but
whether it was liking or ambition that prompted him to seek Letitia,
there was a stronger passion than either of these in his breast, and
this was envy. He envied Henry; and his nature was such that bad
passions, when admitted, took strong hold upon him. He disliked Henry
before they were brought into close contact. On one or two occasions
when they had met, Henry had treated him with considerable haughtiness.
This rankled, but envy never took real possession of his mind until they
were placed side by side to work out, as it seemed, their destinies. He
then came to envy him with a baleful envy. He envied his youth and good
looks; he envied that thoughtless charm which seemed to win the hearts
of the roughest; and still more the respect which, notwithstanding his
apparently careless manner, seemed to be accorded involuntarily to his
character. But deeper still than this, he envied his favour with Nora.
_There_ was the sting. The position he held proclaimed that favour; and
what might come of it was a fear that made Field mad. He was a nearer
relation; he ought, he felt, to have been singled out; that Henry was
sought and favoured, he ascribed to his good looks, and what will not
good looks do with women? These were his constant meditations.
He, however, and Henry, both governed themselves; and it was only after
a time, and when Field had learned how to irritate him, that sharp words
arose between them.
On some of these occasions Henry unfortunately lost his self-command,
and spoke foolishly.
One morning Henry, while going about his business, passed a knot of
people. There were some masons working, and James Field and another man
were talking. Their backs were turned, and Henry heard without being
seen. James Field was speaking, and in a conceited tone, of his
relationship to Nora. Henry did not stay to listen, but only heard some
words as he passed, and when he got to a distance he called “Field”
loudly. The person summoned did not hurry himself; he was obliged to
obey Henry in a certain sense, but he always did it in a defiant
manner. Having kept him waiting, he joined him, and asked what he
wanted.
“Only to say one word,” Henry said. “I heard what you were saying as I
passed, and I must tell you that I do not consider that way of speaking
respectful to Miss Smith. I beg of you to leave it off.”
It was galling enough to be under Henry at all. To be spoken to in this
manner was hardly endurable.
“What have you to do with it?” he replied, sharply.
“A good deal. I think I am responsible for the way in which Miss Smith
is spoken of by those she employs. I look on it as an unmanly and
unmannerly thing to do--to boast, as you have been doing, of being
distantly connected with her.”
“Not so very distant. Don’t you wish you were as near?”
“Whatever I was or may be, or whatever my feelings on the subject were,
I should think it, as I tell you, unmannerly and disrespectful to
proclaim the fact here.”
Henry was growing warm, and his voice, pitched high, told the fact.
“I don’t know why you are to take up the cudgels for her.”
“The why is very plain. She has chosen to make me her agent.”
“I think there must be another reason,” James Field said, mildly. He now
knew he was getting the best of it.
“There is none.”
“I think there is. I think there must be a nearer connection in view;
and then, for selfish reasons, a connection with me might not be
agreeable.”
“I don’t know what connection you mean,” Henry cried, played upon like a
foolish youth, as he was, at the pleasure of the sharper-witted man.
“Oh! I mean marriage, only I thought it premature to use the word.”
“Marriage!” Henry shouted, for the moment beside himself. “Don’t you
know she is the enemy of our house? I would sooner die!” And he strode
off.
So loud had been his voice, that two workmen at a distance heard the
words “enemy of our house,” and paused in their work to listen.
They heard no more, for Henry cut short the conversation; but as he
strode away he observed their faces and their attitudes, and shame came
over him. He had done the very thing for which he had reproved James
Field. He had spoken of her disrespectfully in presence of the men in
her employment. He felt oppressed with shame, and the shame disordered
his mind, and for some days he was hardly himself. That inward fever had
been inflamed; it was with difficulty that he commanded his temper to
Field; it was even with difficulty at some moments that he did not throw
up his situation and say he would serve under her no more.
But a few days calmed his mind, and he then forgot the sensations that
had embittered it--so forgot them, that he was ready to be played on
again.
Mr. Powderham one day found fault with him. A bow-window which was to
have been made according to one plan, had been made according to another
which had been rejected. He was very angry, and spoke of Henry’s
“intolerable carelessness.”
Now Henry had misunderstood the order, which had been given in haste. It
was a mistake, it was not carelessness, and he said so. He spoke
discreetly. Much annoyed at what had happened, he expressed extreme
regret, and bore patiently Mr. Powderham’s sharp words.
But when Mr. Powderham did not seem to believe him, when he called James
Field, and notwithstanding Henry’s justification of himself, repeated
the charge of intolerable negligence, begging him--Field--to undertake
the alterations that were necessary, Henry’s temper was roused.
“I do not mind blame,” he cried; “I daresay I deserve it for being
blunder-headed; but I will not be accused of negligence, for that my own
conscience tells me I do _not_ deserve. I work with all my heart and
soul, and all the intellect I have.”
“I am sure you do,” observed James Field. “Indeed, sir, negligence is
the last thing of which Mr. Devereux should be accused.”
The tone of his voice was so mild, that an uninterested hearer would
have supposed he was defending Henry; but Henry detected that tone, that
insinuation which he could not bear.
“I don’t want your defence,” he said sharply; “my own conscience is
enough.”
“Quite enough; but I must also bear witness that in your _present_
business, negligence is the very last thing to be laid to your charge.”
“What do you mean?” said the foolish young man, loudly, while Mr.
Powderham looked from one to the other, half perplexed, half enjoying
the sight of Henry’s discomposure.
“I mean that your private interest in Miss Smith’s affairs would alone
prevent it.”
“My private interest is to do my duty in the situation in which I am
placed; and that I shall try to do, whether to a friend or to an enemy,
as she is.”
“An enemy!” said Mr. Powderham, surprised.
“The enemy of my house--she always has been, and always will be.” But he
had no sooner said the foolish words than the sharp pain of shame came
over him. His cheek crimsoned, and he stood for a moment discomfited.
Then he suddenly said, “But no matter for my private affairs. What can I
do to undo the mischief I have done?”
“Nothing,” said Mr. Powderham, coldly. “Leave the plans with me. Good
morning.”
He turned away, and Henry saw the smile on James Field’s face as he
followed him. It was a hard battle that he fought with himself; he could
have followed both and struck them with pleasure. Rage swelled in his
breast almost to bursting. And then, while swelling with rage against
them, came the remembrance of his own ingratitude. What had she done
that he should thus proclaim her everywhere as his enemy? Something like
a tear of penitence glistened for a moment in his eye, and allayed
while it did so the flame within. And though he dashed the tear away, he
walked off in a better mood of mind than after such ebullitions was
common to him--a more humbled, a more repentant mood; more forgetful of
his enemies and their provocations, more thoughtful of his own errors.
Nora, meanwhile, had passed the year ostensibly at Cheltenham; but she
made many visits to London, in the view of choosing papers and
furniture; and while there, began to mingle a little in the society to
which Mr. Fanshawe introduced her; she also did her best to open her
mind by seeing all that it is right to see. And both things were useful
to her. Society softened, increased knowledge humbled her. She was apt
to be full of her own concerns, and in society she saw this; while
gazing on what was great or good, she felt it. The world was large;
human interests various; whereas her unconscious cogitations chiefly
related to one man and one woman.
In the month of May, after passing a fortnight in London, and feeling
very lonely, even though she shared in its bustle, she visited her
mother at Geneva. Day by day, in absence, the love for her mother
strengthened--that only near tie--that tie which her own fault had
broken; and she travelled to Geneva, full of hopes which a moment’s
thought ought to have dispelled.
It was not likely that either Monsieur or Madame d’Alberg should be
changed, and they were not changed. The illusion vanished when Nora
stood in their presence; she knew then that she might love her mother,
but that there could be no sympathy--that she would never be permitted
to pour forth her love.
Two moments only she had during her stay which were satisfying to her
heart. They were the moments of meeting and of parting. In those two
moments she felt how her mother clung to her; but with these exceptions
all was disappointment. The only change was in a third child, and that
again a daughter; and this event had not smoothed Monsieur d’Alberg’s
temper. He had endured the prospect in the determination that he would
have a son; but being deprived of this object, his terrors regarding the
long family had increased.
Under the influence of this dread, he had, on the appearance of a third
daughter, allowed her to be called Annora. He thought he might thus tie
Nora down to provide for one child. So utterly distrustful was his mean
mind of that bounteous nature, which only longed to pour out its wealth.
Her mother looked pale and worn, but made no complaints, nor suffered
Nora to make inquiries. She feared she but added to her difficulties,
and after a fortnight of disappointment she returned to England.
And then, with restless longing, she began to allow her mind to dwell
upon the coming event--the taking possession of her own house--the
entrance upon that life she had from childhood pictured--the being a
great lady, dispensing her bounties on all around her.
Whatever else was now bound up with this dream, as she herself was not
conscious of it, need not be touched upon.
CHAPTER VII.
In the latter end of August, Nora was to take possession. The old part
of the house, repaired, papered, and painted, but in its inward form and
arrangements left unaltered, had been made ready for her. The rest of
the building was unfurnished and uninhabitable, with the exception of
one room. This was a drawing-room. The rooms in the old part of the
house were low, and were, for the most part, intended for offices. One
pretty little room, however, opening on the garden, had been chosen by
Nora for her boudoir; but, as it was small and low, she had requested
that it might open into the drawing-room, the first room in the new
front. This it now did, and as she was to take possession in the summer,
the drawing-room had been to a degree made ready for her also.
Mrs. Ratcliffe had arrived early in the month. She was now past seventy,
but had more work in her, as she said, than many a young woman
“nowadays.” She was accompanied by a widowed niece and her little girl.
The niece was to be, for the present, cook and house-keeper under her
directions, and the little girl, Sophy Brook, about nine years old, was
to be brought up under Mrs. Ratcliffe’s eye, instructed in the mysteries
of household work, and made such a servant “as there used to be.”
It was a pleasant, homelike arrangement for the old and attached
servant; it had delighted Nora to make it, and she also looked forward
to a share in the joy of instructing little Sophy.
Henry busied himself extremely in the inner arrangements of the house.
He had not seen much of beauty or comfort in his own home; but he had
passed a great part of his life in visiting, and in his visits he had
not only seen, but, owing to the want of such attractions at home, had
particularly noticed the thousand small things which make a room pretty
and comfortable. Many men suppose such things grow as they are, like the
wild flowers of a field; but others see and notice, and have a taste for
arrangement fully equal to that of women. Henry’s new-fashioned taste
differed considerably from that of Mrs. Ratcliffe, and many a fight was
the consequence; but, although he was not always as patient or as
courteous in enforcing his will as might be, she forgave him all
offences, and took him to her heart. Since the day when she first longed
to eat him, she had never forgotten him, and, in spite of his whims, she
would still have eaten him with great pleasure.
She forgave him even a greater offence. Two or three days before Nora’s
arrival, he insisted on having Mrs. Elliott over to see all that had
been done.
“Now, don’t do it, sir. What’s the good? I know better what Miss Smith
likes than a strange lady can.”
“She may not know what Miss Smith likes, but she knows what ladies in
general like. Most of them probably like the same things.”
“Not a bit of it, sir. Miss Smith is no more like common ladies than I
am like a cowslip.”
Henry laughed.
“I shall have my way, Mrs. Ratcliffe,” he said, pertinaciously. “I can’t
believe in any extraordinary difference; and I want to know what a lady
thinks.”
“He’s a wilful young man,” observed Mrs. Ratcliffe to Mrs. Brook, “but
he’s a nice young gentleman, so I let him do as he pleased. Now, for
that Mr. Field that goes creeping about, I would have fought him with
the broomstick before I would have allowed him to bring a strange lady
in.”
Mrs. Elliott came over at Henry’s summons. She had seen the plan and
the early part of the building, but, having broken her leg in the
spring, had not since been over. After approving all within, she walked
out, though still lame, into the garden.
The garden was a thing of the future, not the present. It was all rough
grass, and so was to be left till the building was over. The long, low
front looking south faced the garden; the little boudoir opened to the
west side, and the new drawing-room to the south front.
They stood at a distance, looking back, and Mrs. Elliott said,
“Well, yes, I like it now. I must own I thought the plan horrible. I
thought it would look like one of the new poor-houses; but I give up. It
is odd, but well managed. I wonder if Miss Smith will be pleased. When
does she come?”
“The day after to-morrow--Thursday, as we understand at present.”
“Let me know if she puts off. I must come on Friday to welcome her. I am
glad for your sake she is coming. You must have had a lonely time of
it.”
“I don’t suppose her coming will make much difference to me,” Henry
said, colouring as he spoke.
“It must make a difference. It will make a difference to me; much more
to you on the spot.”
“That does not follow,” Henry replied gravely. “It may make a difference
to you, because you will associate with her on intimate terms. But that
can never be the case with me.”
“And why?”
“You know very well, Mrs. Elliott. We are not enemies; I will not say
that--I try not to say it after the manner in which she has behaved to
me; but we cannot be friends.”
“And why not, I say? Do not be so foolish. Is it that old offence of the
money?”
“No, it is _not_ the money!” he cried passionately, switching a little
tree with his stick. “Let the money go to the bottom of the Jordan if it
pleases. But such things as have passed between us and our families can
never be forgotten. Would to heaven they could!” he added, still more
vehemently; “but they can’t.”
Mrs. Elliott longed to say “What things?” and it might have been of use
to Henry’s mind if she had, to force him to express in plain terms what
he had to complain of. But she felt afraid, and there was a pause. She
then rallied, and said,
“How, then, do you mean to behave?”
“As her faithful servant,” he replied, and with a dignity that made her
bite her lip to suppress a smile.
“Who is that?” she asked, as, passing within view of the boudoir, a
little head, with short fair curls hanging round it, peeped out of the
window.
“It’s that little mischievous girl, Mrs. Ratcliffe’s grand-daughter, or
some complicated relationship of the kind. I say, Sophy, come here!” he
called, authoritatively.
Sophy Brook was a pretty little girl, not ill-disposed, but very vain,
and fond of praise and notice. If she was to be the valuable servant
Mrs. Ratcliffe intended, much would have to be learned and unlearned. A
good deal of supervision was exercised over her by her two guardians,
but a good deal of freedom was also allowed; and they did not know how
often in those hours of freedom she stole about among the workmen, in
the hope of getting a little notice. Any notice was welcome, but the one
that was coveted was Henry’s. He would indeed, if she intruded when he
was busy, push her away most unceremoniously; but if he was in the mood,
he would talk to her with that genuine sympathy in her childish
pleasures which children are quick to appreciate.
She came now at his call, frightened, yet holding down her head with a
coquettish air.
“What are you doing in there, Miss Sophy?” he said. “Did your mother
give you leave to go in?”
Sophy only hung her head, blushing.
“I thought how it was. Now, mind, you are _not_ to go in now the things
are set out. If you disobey and anything should be broken--” he did not
finish his sentence, but he looked very fierce, and shook his fist most
menacingly.
The little girl began to cry--she could never bear to be blamed; on
which Henry, mollified, patted her head, pulled out her little soft
curls, and told her not to spoil such a pretty face with crying. Sophy,
delighted, blushed again, dried her tears with her pinafore, gave one
look at him with her pretty blue eyes, and then bounded away.
“What excellent education!” said Mrs. Elliott, satirically.
“Oh! hang education!” he replied; “if there is a thing I hate it is
that. Why not please a poor little mortal? Don’t you see how she likes
to hear she is pretty?”
“I do indeed,” she replied drily; but what was the use of talking to
Henry on the subject; and she said no more.
CHAPTER VIII.
The great day of Nora’s intended arrival came at last. It ended
differently from what had been expected. All the day was bustle. Try, as
the best-disposed and most methodical people may, to have everything
ready, and not to stave things off to the last, still, when the last day
comes, a number of mysterious things spring up--though never thought of
before, they seem imperatively to demand attention, distract the minds
of the sanest, and put elasticity into the joints of the laziest.
All the day, therefore, was bustle, and running hither and thither. In
some hearts there was agitation also, which they allayed by fomenting
the flame of bustle. Both Henry and James Field were inwardly agitated.
Henry, he knew not why; James Field, very consciously, because he felt
much would depend on the first impression made on Nora. When he saw
Henry bent on beautifying the place, and in the midst of the bustle of
the day potting some geraniums to put on the rough grass, he sneered;
then, determined to get the best of him, set to work more calmly to
smooth and ornament also.
At five o’clock all was ready; but at five o’clock a telegraph messenger
arrived, bringing a message that Nora’s journey was put off till the
following day.
There was a moment of universal depression and disappointment; and then
consolation came, in the thought of several more things that might be
done to improve. In the hearts of Henry and James Field, at least, this
consolation arose.
About seven o’clock, when all business was over, Henry entered the house
to take a survey--to see what new suggestions would present themselves
for improvements to his criticizing eye. The house was quiet, and, after
all the bustle, apparently deserted. Mrs. Ratcliffe and her niece were
at tea in the still-room. Now that the excitement was over, and the
disappointment over as well, they felt thoroughly tired, and were
sitting over their tea and enjoying it, previous to an early retirement
to bed. There was nothing to catch his attention in the quiet passages,
and he passed on to the boudoir and thence to the drawing-room. It was a
fine but not a bright evening, and the hour made it almost twilight. The
windows of the rooms were open, but the blinds had been pulled down.
Nevertheless, there was light enough for Henry, as he stood at the
drawing-room door, to admire. He was very proud of this room. It was in
some senses his child, his creation, for he had watched over its birth
and infancy, and had worn the workmen to death by his determination to
have it ready in time. Ready it was, but finished it was not. The paper
was only a plain under paper of white; there was only matting on the
floor, and no curtains but airy muslin ones. For regular furnishing the
room was not ready. Very light, however, and airy and pretty it looked,
and Henry could see nothing to be altered for the better. One window
opened with steps into the garden. The middle window was the one
regarding which there had been a mistake, which had now been set right.
It jutted out, and in the little nook which it formed, a writing-table
and chair had been placed, with all appliances for comfort. As Henry
looked out, he remembered Mrs. Elliott’s request to know the day of
Nora’s arrival.
He sat down in the tempting spot, pulling up the blind for better light,
and wrote his few words. When he had done, he looked about for an
envelope, but though every kind of luxury had been thought of, this
little necessary was wanting. He folded up his paper, therefore, in the
form of a letter, lit the little taper and sealed it. Remembering then
that he must hurry to catch the post, he drew down the blind, blew out
the candle, looked back carefully to see that all was safe, and hurried
off to the village, a short quarter of a mile off, where he lodged. It
was the last he ever saw of the pretty drawing-room.
CHAPTER IX.
Henry was awakened, having gone to bed early, tired, like the rest of
the world, and, like the rest, impatient for morning, by the sound of
the workmen’s bell.
“I seem only just to have gone to sleep,” he thought, yawning, and
turning his head to rest again. “Oh! Roberts!” as the bell rang on and
on, “you will crack our ears. Do be still!” and he put his head under
the clothes.
But the bell rang on, and Henry, now thoroughly awakened, looked out
into the room--it was quite dark.
“Why, what can the matter be?” he cried, darting out and opening the
shutters; and then stood for one moment transfixed and amazed with
horror. The night was day with the great flame that went up from Nora’s
house.
His clothes were on in one second, and he flew along till he reached the
spot, pausing only at a house where several workmen lodged to shout
“Fire! fire!”
He was almost the first on the spot. The bell had been rung by a
watchman when he discovered the fire, and the few who had assembled
seemed bewildered. Henry had to collect his scattered senses, and
organize an effective mode of overcoming the flames. Mrs. Ratcliffe and
all the inmates of that portion of the house were safe, and, as the
wind set in an opposite direction, the only danger to the old part was
from the sparks and bits of timber that flew about. But in the new
building the fire had got the upper hand. The roof was cracking, and the
flames were blazing all down the front of the house at least, and it
required violent action to over-master the conflagration.
James Field arrived shortly after Henry, and, being more experienced,
and having attended many fires in London, was more useful. Some
preparations in the possibility of such an event had been made, and when
once the arrangements were organized, it was soon apparent that the
flames would be got under. Long before morning dawned the worst was
over; but the first rays of light disclosed the mere shell of a house.
The work of so many months was destroyed.
When all danger was over, sore, bruised, burnt and black, Henry returned
to his lodgings to wash and dress; and then, ordering his horse, rode
off to Mr. Powderham, who lived about seven miles from Riddlemere.
He was broken-hearted. No one seemed to have any idea when or how the
fire had broken out. He could not blame himself for any negligence, but
he felt that the building was under his charge, and that under his
charge this misfortune had occurred. He would not indulge himself by
making an inquiry under his own auspices; he thought it his duty to go
first and inform Mr. Powderham of the event, and then act under his
authority.
Had he not been, as usual, hasty in his actions and decisions, he would
have found that James Field had already despatched a messenger to Mr.
Powderham; and before Henry, riding hard across country, had reached his
house, that gentleman, driving much more leisurely along the high road,
had arrived at Riddlemere.
His first step was an inquiry into the cause of the fire. As he trotted
along the road, although shocked, certainly very much shocked at the
accident, he could not refrain from an exultant “Ah! who was right? I
knew how it would be!” And the ardent desire that this firm conviction
might prove the right one, made him set about the inquiry in a spirit of
opposition to Henry. He was so sure he had been negligent that he
wished him to have been so.
James Field suggested the inquiry the moment he arrived. He gave a very
good reason.
“People have not yet had time to think. You will hear the truth if you
take them before they have puzzled themselves with thought.”
Mr. Powderham agreed, and sat down at once in Mrs. Ratcliffe’s little
private room to hear the evidences that could be given.
Henry was absent. This was James Field’s reason for hurrying it on. His
real conscious reason. Mr. Powderham had no such conscious reason. He
really did not wish or mean to be unfair; but owing to the state of his
mind regarding Henry, he did say to himself, “We shall get at the truth
better in his absence. He is too excitable for calm inquiry.”
Mr. Powderham sat down, and James Field stood behind him. A very few
words from the watchman who had discovered the fire having proved that
it originated in or near the new drawing-room, Mrs. Ratcliffe was
called. Mrs. Brook, however, said her aunt had been so tired with her
exertions all night, that she had persuaded her to rest; she could give
information equally well.
“Who, as far as you know, Mrs. Brook,” asked Mr. Powderham, “was the
last person that went into the new drawing-room?” “I believe, sir, it
was me myself; and yet, sir, I am very sure I did no mischief, for I
went in when it was broad day.”
“Do you mean that you shut the shutters in broad daylight?”
“I did not shut the shutters, sir, but I shut up the room. It was a
little before seven. I will tell you, sir, how it was. My aunt put off
our tea till after Miss Smith should come. When she did not come we were
too much disappointed to be in a hurry to take it, and we did not have
it till just upon seven; meaning, as we felt tired like, to go early to
bed.”
“And you shut the shutters of the rooms before tea?”
“Not the shutters, sir; but I went round the rooms and shut them up,
shut the doors, and drew down the blinds, and made sure that all was
right before we sat down to our tea.”
“And do you never shut the shutters at night?”
“Yes, sir, in a general way; but for the last week Mr. Devereux ordered
the windows to be kept wide open all night. He fancied there was a smell
of paint and plaster, and he said that was the best way to get rid of
it.”
Mr. Powderham put up his eyebrows.
“I should have thought Mrs. Ratcliffe was the best judge of that. It
seems a curious order to give. Supposing it came on to rain in the
night, what then?”
“Oh! sir, there was the watchman. He had particular orders to see to it;
and Mr. Devereux gave him sixpence a night additional all these nights
past, to be on at nine instead of half-past ten. But, indeed, sir, there
has been no fear of rain for ten days, or more.”
“And was the watchman on at nine last night?”
“Well, sir, I am afraid he was not. When Miss Smith was to come, Mr.
Devereux told him he need not be on till the usual time. When she did
not come, Jenkins says he went down to him to tell him to come up here
as before, and Jenkins said he would; but he had a little engagement,
and he called in to a friend on his way up, and he did not get here till
past ten. He owned it to me himself; but he knew, he says, there would
be no rain, and he never thought of any damage.”
“And when Jenkins came up he saw no appearance of fire--that is what I
think he said--but saw it later?”
“Yes, sir. He told me he walked about as usual, and he saw a bright
light in the new drawing-room, and he thought to himself that Miss Smith
was come after all. Now, sir, a person like him has no business to
think, not in a general way, and so I told him.”
“I quite agree with you,” observed Mr. Powderham, with a dry smile.
“And then, sir, he sat down facing the road, and took his pipe as usual;
and then he smelt a smell; and then he looked up and saw sparks; and
then he ran round, and the front of the house, sir, he said, was the
most beautiful sight, all the windows like a fairy palace. It was too
late then; the flames had got the masters; and he ran under our windows
and shouted ‘Fire! fire!’ And my aunt jumped up as quick as thought and
called ‘Ring the bell!’ And that, sir, is how it all was.”
“Very good, Mrs. Brook. But now the question arises, did anybody go into
those rooms after nightfall? Who have you in the house besides yourself
and Mrs. Ratcliffe?”
“Only Hannah, sir, an under-housemaid, and my little girl. Miss Smith
was particularly anxious to have everything quiet, and no great bother
of servants, till she had looked about her; and we said we could do very
well, and indeed better in a general way, without further help, except,
indeed, a charwoman, which----”
Mrs. Brook, in her regard for Nora’s honour, was hurrying to explain all
the ins and outs of the case, but was brought back by Mr. Powderham.
“Never mind about that. You say there was Hannah and your little girl.
Where is Hannah?”
“Here, sir,” said a voice; for Hannah, on the tiptoe of curiosity, had
stationed herself outside.
“Very well. And your little girl; call her. She is the most likely
person to have been in fault.”
“She can’t have been in fault, sir, for she was sitting at tea with Mrs.
Ratcliffe and me, and she went early to bed. She’s asleep, sir, just
now, for she was terribly upset by the night we had; but I’ll wake her,
sir, if you think proper.”
“No need to wake Sophy,” said Hannah. “I saw a person go into the rooms
after you shut them up, mum.”
There was a universal cry of curiosity from within and without the room,
and a “Speak out, girl,” from Mr. Powderham.
“Yes, sir. It was Mr. Devereux,” said Hannah. “I saw him go in, and shut
the doors after him.”
“Indeed!” cried Mr. Powderham, surprised. “And at what time was this?”
“About seven, sir. Just upon getting dark. And I daresay he took his
cigar in with him, and one of them nasty sparks getting about, may have
done all the mischief.”
“Certainly they may,” Mr. Powderham said, very gravely. “Go and see,
Field, if Mr. Devereux has returned. Say I should be glad to speak with
him.”
This supposition of Hannah’s was a perfectly gratuitous piece of
ill-nature, for she certainly had seen no cigar, nor could have done so,
as Henry never smoked. But Hannah, though not an ill-natured girl in
general, had a grudge against Henry, and could not resist the
opportunity of showing it. The reason of her grudge was this: She had a
lover among the workmen; one, at least, whose attentions she was for
the present admitting. This lover of hers had been caught by Henry in a
small act of dishonesty. As the man bore a good character in general,
Henry had been very lenient; had forgiven him, and concealed his
offence; but he had spoken sharply, as was his wont, and had threatened
instant dismissal if there should be a second offence. The man, who was
of a sullen disposition and did not forgive, was one of the few who
disliked Henry, and he poured his griefs into Hannah’s breast. Hannah,
hearing the case through her lover’s medium, called Henry “a meddlesome
upstart, and she’d tell him so to his face some day.” With singular
delight she therefore threw out her fact and her supposition.
Heated and vexed, Henry, just returned from his fruitless ride, was
found by James Field, and the message was delivered.
“Immediately,” James Field said irritatingly, as Henry paused a moment
to look with pity at the state of the horse from which he had just
dismounted.
He made no reply, but tossed the bridle to a man who stood near, and
saying “Look to him,” walked off. He did not speak, but a storm was
swelling in his breast. He felt ill-used, though he hardly knew why.
Mr. Powderham bowed coldly. “I want to ask you a few questions, Mr.
Devereux. It appears, from the inquiries I have made, you were the last
person who went into the new drawing-room last night.”
Henry looked thunderstruck. “Who says I was?” he asked quickly.
Mr. Powderham told him what had been said by Mrs. Brook and Hannah; and
then added, “Now, if you please, collect yourself, and endeavour to
speak quietly. I wish to ascertain a few facts. It has been suggested
that you may have taken a cigar with you.”
“And who on earth can have made so ridiculous a suggestion!” exclaimed
Henry with heat. “Anyone who knows me, and there are plenty who do, may
know that I never smoke. I hate it; it makes me sick. And if,” he added,
his voice rising--for the poor youth was losing his command of
himself--“I smoked a thousand cigars a day, does anyone in his senses
suppose that I should go and smoke it in Miss Smith’s drawing-room.”
“Compose yourself,” said Mr. Powderham with that kind of manner which is
like throwing water on a fire. “I simply said it had been suggested. One
word of denial was enough. But now, will you be so good as to collect
yourself and tell us what passed when you were in the drawing-room.”
“I wrote a letter,” he said; his heart sinking as he felt, however
certain he might be that he had done no injury, that he should never
convey this certainty to others--“wrote it and sealed it.” The sinking
of his heart had stilled him. He spoke quietly now.
“Wrote a letter and sealed it, sir. Good gracious!” exclaimed Mrs.
Brook. “Did you light a candle, then!”
“Don’t interrupt us, good woman,” said Mr. Powderham. “But you hear the
question, Mr. Devereux, and I repeat it. Did you light a candle?”
“Yes,” he replied. “Mrs. Elliott desired me to let her know if Miss
Smith did not arrive. I forgot this till it was nearly post time. I
remembered it when I saw Miss Smith’s writing-table. I sat down and
wrote, but could find no envelope. I therefore lit the little taper and
sealed my letter. I then blew out the candle; and not only blew it out,
but I remember looking particularly to see if it was well out and all
safe. I am always afraid of fire. I have had an especial terror of it
upon me for ten days past. The watchman knows how I have spoken to him
on the subject.” He said all this calmly.
“And what happened to the lucifer-match?” asked James Field, breaking a
pause that followed Henry’s explanation.
“Ah! yes--what happened to the lucifer-match?” Mr. Powderham repeated.
“The lucifer-match,” cried Henry, excited again. “I am sure I forget. I
tossed it out of the window, I think. What can a lucifer-match do when
all the fire is out of it.”
“I am sorry to say, Mr. Devereux, that I think your explanation very
unsatisfactory--I mean so far as to exculpating yourself. I am afraid
there can be no doubt that a spark was left smouldering, which spark has
caused all this mischief. I am extremely sorry to say it, but I fear we
must conclude you are the author of the ill.”
“Of course, sir,” Henry said, not so respectfully as he ought, “if you
say it was my spark, I cannot help myself. I suppose it is
possible--just possible. I have no proof, nor can have, to gainsay you
except my assurance, and therefore the blame must lie on my shoulders. I
may think it hard, but I must submit.”
“I do not think it hard, Mr. Devereux. It appears to me that in many
ways you have shewn great negligence; but we need not discuss them
here. This matter may be considered as settled.”
Henry deigned to say no more. He turned round with a swelling heart, and
walked off.
While Mr. Powderham was saying a few words to James Field, Mrs.
Ratcliffe entered. Sophy followed her, looking pale and scared from the
terrors of the night. Mrs. Ratcliffe had only just discovered what was
going on, and was extremely angry with her niece for the care which had
prevented her from taking a part in the inquiries. She was also much
vexed at the turn those inquiries had taken, and she expressed a few
words of doubt on the matter.
Mr. Powderham, having now made up his mind, was not going to stand a
doubt; and very forcibly, and in very good plain language, he stated
the case as he supposed it to have taken place. He thought a spark had
fallen somewhere in the matting, and had smouldered there for a
time--burning, not blazing; that it had reached at last the muslin
curtains, which had blazed up and then died out, leaving a smouldering
fire in the light wooden rods, which, until the room was finished, had
been put up for the support of the curtains-rings; this in course of
time had communicated with the roof, where the fire had principally
raged, and finally all had been burnt.
Mrs. Ratcliffe was awestruck, and Sophy listened with wide open eyes.
“Poor, poor young gentleman!” was, however, Mrs. Ratcliffe’s pitying
observation; “to think of his having got himself into such a scrape!”
Sophy began to cry.
“What is the matter, little girl?” said Mr. Powderham, paying his
tribute to beauty by an attention he would never have paid to an ugly
girl.
“She is very fond of Mr. Devereux, sir,” explained Mrs. Ratcliffe. “She
is sorry for him, and I could cry myself, too, to think of it.”
“I am sorry for him also, but it was a terrible piece of negligence; and
what the cost of it all will be it is impossible to say. But I think,
Mrs. Ratcliffe, instead of being sorry for Mr. Devereux, we ought to be
thankful to Providence that the event was no worse. You might have been
burnt in your beds. Think of that, little girl. It is dreadful to see
what carelessness may do.” He spoke very awfully.
“That is true, sir. Don’t cry, Sophy; we ought to be very grateful to be
alive.”
But Sophy still cried bitterly, and Mr. Powderham, offended at her
reception of his notice, paid no further attention. He settled with Mrs.
Ratcliffe how the remaining rooms should be arranged for Miss Smith, and
the conferences broke up.
CHAPTER X.
Henry walked away in a whirl of mingled passions--resentment mingled
with wounded feelings; and one added force to the other. He had worked
all night, perilling life without a care, but no word had been said on
this subject. He had hastened over, weary and hungry, to confess all to
Mr. Powderham, and advantage had been taken of his absence to get up
stories against him. The sense of unfairness and ill-usage made his
heart smart and bleed; the impossibility of coping with the unfairness
maddened him.
Those who have been born fiery and sensitive may imagine the feelings of
impotent resentment and desire of revenge that swept through his mind,
adding to the inward tumult by the very consciousness of their
impotency. But most men, either from principle or obedience to common
laws of society, govern those feelings, instead of allowing them to be
the governors. But Henry, unfortunately, had yielded too little to
control, knew too little the duty or the importance of self-mastery, to
be able to reason when agitated. His mind lost its balance, and before
he reached his lodgings he had determined to throw up his situation.
“Why had he ever taken it? Why had he ever exposed himself to the
insults of underlings?--to the oppression of masters? Why had he ever
thought it possible that a connexion--any connexion--with his house’s
enemy could bring good luck with it. He renounced it at once and for
ever. Better be a common workman, a railway navvy, than bear what he had
had to bear.”
He was exhausted with want of food when he got to his lodging, for he
had had nothing during the work of the night, or the ride of the
morning, and he called for some breakfast. The refreshment of his bodily
powers in some degree soothed his mind, but did not alter his
resolution; and after breakfast he began to sort out his papers and tear
his letters.
In the course of his hurried inspection he opened Nora’s letter to
himself, and as his eyes fell on the first few sentences a softer mood
stole over him. He did not change his views, but the mood of mind
changed. He would still resign, but he would not throw his resignation
with bitter words in Mr. Powderham’s face; he would see Nora, and calmly
yield up to her the office she had entrusted to him. This decision
stilled and calmed him, and restored him to a sense of dignity. Possibly
even without allowing it, a something in the future which might stay the
offer of resignation floated dimly and consolingly before him; but it
was not consciously seen.
He hurriedly put back his papers, only half sorted and arranged, and
went up to the house to see what was going forward. He was calmed, but
his mood of mind was still sensitive, and everything conspired to add to
this sensitiveness. He found all the workmen busily at work, and no
notice was taken of him as he stood by. This was but natural, since Mr.
Powderham was supreme, and had given his orders; but Henry felt none the
less overlooked. At last he asked if Mr. Powderham was gone. The man
said he thought not. He thought he was going to stay to receive Miss
Smith.
This was natural, but it was another blow to Henry.
“Where is Mr. Field?” he asked next.
There was something going on--a letter or messenger being sent to Miss
Smith, the man said. He thought he was gone to find one.
Henry had intended to be this messenger himself. He felt every way
baffled. He wandered into the house, no longer daring to take on
himself to make arrangements for Nora’s reception; but did not find
comfort there. All indeed were kind; even Hannah, now that she saw the
look of misery on his handsome face, was repentant for her spiteful
speech. But one and all seemed to look on him as the culprit--as without
any doubt the culprit; and a feeling, a reasonless one, but a feeling of
kindliness and chivalry, made him bear it bravely, and not attempt to
shift the blame to other shoulders. Finding little comfort therefore in
the house, he turned away. As he left the kitchen, where he had found
Mrs. Ratcliffe, Sophy, beginning to cry, slipped her hand into his.
“Poor little thing!” he said, patting the little hand. “Were you very
much frightened?”
“She was terribly frightened, sir,” said Mrs. Ratcliffe, “but I think
she frets most for you. She don’t like to have you blamed.”
“Poor little thing!” he said, much touched. He stooped and kissed her;
but feeling overmuch softened by the unexpected kindness, dropped her
hand and strode away.
Sophy gasped a sob, and then sat down again and cried silently.
As Henry returned to his lodgings, he met James Field. “Where do you
come from?” he asked shortly.
“Mr. Powderham has written to Miss Smith. A messenger is to go with the
letter to the Junction. That will save her a surprise when she arrives.”
“I meant to go to the station to meet her.”
“So do I,” said James Field, with a stately manner, “and so does Mr.
Powderham; but still it was right to prepare her.”
“Who is going?”
“Thornhill. He is just off, but you can catch him if you have a private
message to send.”
“I have none.” That word “private,” pronounced in a peculiar tone of
irony, made his flesh creep. “I shall be at the station,” he said, and
walked on.
The storm was renewed within.
He set to work again upon his papers, now and then looking at his watch.
His horse was tired, and he must walk to the station, which was six
miles off. He determined to do it leisurely, and not arrive heated and
excited. The weather was hot, and the sun very powerful; he did not mind
this in general, but his mind was set on this reception at the station,
and his appearance there assumed an enormous importance in his eyes.
Not his personal appearance in any conceited sense; that for which he
felt anxiety was for the dignity and self-possession of his air and
manner.
He wished to be at the station by five. A little before three a message
was brought him that a workman wished to speak to him. He went down and
found a man, who, with an agitated manner, began to tell him that he had
been suspected of stealing a fellow-workman’s tools.
“Now, sir,” he said, “the tools was taken between three and four
yesterday afternoon; that is owned by Thorpe himself; and how could I
have taken them when I was not there? You knows well, sir, that you sent
me to Dollington,” naming the nearest town.
“Yes, I sent you. It was to get a piece of velvet for the chimney-piece
of the unfortunate room.”
“Yes, sir. It is four good miles to Dollington, and I brought it you
back at four o’clock; you knows that.”
“Yes, I am sure of it; and I did not give you the commission till after
your dinner. All right; you can prove it is a mistake.”
“No, sir, that’s what I can’t do; for it seems nobody missed me; or they
won’t say as they did. I’ve got a bit of a temper, sir, and I’m not a
popular man, and they don’t care to see me down; but I value my
character, sir, and I can’t put up with this.”
“Then you want me to prove it?”
“Yes, sir. I’ve got to be hauled before the magistrate, Squire Lubbock,
this evening, and if there’s nobody to speak for me, I shall be hauled
to prison; and, sir, I value my character, and if you be so good, I
can’t put up with it.”
Henry’s countenance fell.
“What time are you to go?”
“I am to be at Squire Lubbock’s at half after five; and if you, sir,
will be so good as to meet me there, you may get me out of this scrape,
and I shall be for ever grateful to your honour.”
“Well, my good man, I can’t refuse you,” Henry said. “I know what it is
to be wrongfully accused. Though I would rather be shot, and shoot you,
too,” he added, using in his excitement one of those foolishly forcible
expressions which did him so much injury. “I will do a good turn when I
can. Go. I will meet you.”
“Thank ye, sir,” and the man went away.
Henry was forced to change his plans. Mr. Lubbock was a squire who lived
in an opposite direction to the station, three or four miles over the
heath. He was there by half-past five, but was kept waiting for nearly
an hour, and it was past half-past seven before the business was well
over, and he was at home again. He thought it too late to intrude on
Nora.
“What will she think of me?” he said, as he sat dreary and distracted in
his lodgings. “But it shall all be ended to-morrow morning. I’ll be off
from this unfortunate place before another sun has set.”
CHAPTER XI.
Mr. Powderham drove in a little dog-cart to the station, and finding
James Field was bent on going, he offered him a lift. If he had not
chosen Field and put him in his place, he might not perhaps have
selected him as a companion. But from that opinion he had of himself, he
was thoroughly loyal to the objects of his selection; and as a man or
woman in love invests an object with charms which others fail to see, so
he cast over Field the charm of his own choice--saw that, and was
satisfied.
It must also, however, be owned that James Field was quick-witted. He
made himself well master of anything he had to do, and, when he chose,
could offer, in a very deferential, unpresuming manner, valuable
suggestions. As they drove along, the subject was the rebuilding of the
house; and so pleased was Mr. Powderham with the intelligence of his
companion’s conversation, that he inwardly determined he would stand no
more nonsense. Nora might say what she pleased, but Field should have
the sole charge of the building. He had perhaps suffered the interview
at Cheltenham to fade out of his memory.
They reached the station in good time, and stood conversing on the
platform.
The railway to the Spa was a branch. A man had been sent to the
Junction to meet Nora with Mr. Powderham’s letter. This she had
received. It was a kind letter, breaking to her the unfortunate event.
The writer entered into few particulars, but said he feared it was owing
to a degree of negligence on the part of Mr. Devereux.
To say that Nora was not shocked and grievously disappointed at the
event, would be saying too much. She was so, undoubtedly; or would have
been so, had not another sensation prevented the disappointment from
being, in the first instance, felt. Miss Willis shed tears of dismay,
but Nora was absorbed in another view of the question--pity for Henry.
During the short run from the Junction to the Spa, where a carriage was
to meet her, and where Mr. Powderham had said “_We_ shall be,” the
thought of seeing Henry, of shewing him how cheerfully she could
contemplate the loss, entirely occupied her mind.
The train slowly came to a pause, and she looked eagerly out of the
window. There stood Mr. Powderham and a stranger. The disappointment was
so great that she, still as hitherto absorbed in the interest of the
moment, could not conceal it. Both Mr. Powderham and James Field saw and
felt the look with which her eye wandered down the platform, and how it
gradually stiffened as it returned to where they stood.
She met Mr. Powderham, however, graciously, and spoke as cheerfully as
she had intended about the loss; but when, after conversing for a few
minutes, he said, “I do not know anything of Mr. Devereux, but Mr. Field
has accompanied me to pay his duty and express his regrets,” the
haughty spirit rose up in opposition. She had not time to think much,
but the natural woman said within, “He is forcing him upon me; Mr. Field
is forcing himself upon me as a relation; they are keeping my cousin in
the background, and I _will not_ have it!” and the bow which was
returned to James Field’s obsequious bow was a chilling one.
If human beings were conscious of the effects sometimes caused by
inadvertent words and actions, they would very early learn to curb and
subdue themselves. A cold look, may in certain senses, actually do
murder; it may kill what is good, and leave the soul thus deadened to
follow its evil thoughts. Nora’s haughty bow had some such bad effect on
James Field. He had an evil thought in his head, but it was as yet only
a thought; had he been graciously received, it might have been
smothered. That chilling inclination of the head made his baleful envy
of Henry take full possession of his mind.
After a very short conversation, Nora entered her carriage to drive
home, and Mr. Powderham re-entered his and trotted after her. He would
be there, he said, as soon as she was, an attention for which she tried
in vain to be grateful.
After they had trotted along for some little way without exchanging a
word, James Field broke the silence abruptly.
“Do you really think, sir, that the fire was owing to negligence on the
part of Mr. Devereux?”
“Yes, I do,” Mr. Powderham replied with heat, for he had now taken up
this opinion and made it dear. He was not going to allow it to be
controverted. “What have you got to say against it?”
“Only, sir, that I do not think it was from _negligence_.”
“How do you mean?” he asked, arrested by the emphasis.
“It is a difficult thing to say or to explain; but I have formed a
different opinion. I think it was premeditated.”
“Take care, Field,” Mr. Powderham said gravely, “you are making a very
serious charge.”
“Of course I am, sir--a very serious one. I know to what I expose
myself; to enmity and dislike, if I am unable to prove it, not only from
Mr. Devereux, but from those who favour him. Nevertheless, as I am in
some degree trusted here, I must do my duty; and as I have formed this
opinion, I mention it to you, sir, to set you on your guard.”
“You are quite right,” Mr. Powderham said; but he did not speak
readily. He was very much shocked; nay, distressed. It was so very
serious a charge, that even his dislike to Henry could not make him take
it up willingly. He liked to be in the right, and was not sorry to prove
others to be in the wrong; but he did not wish to find them criminals.
“If my reasons were not strong I should not have named the idea. I have
been debating all day--ever since, at least, I formed the
opinion--whether I should speak or not; at length I have decided that I
cannot do otherwise.”
“You are right. But I should be glad to hear the reasons for so strange
an idea before I form an opinion myself.”
“You must know, sir, that the idea came into my head during the inquiry
this morning. There seemed some very curious circumstances connected
with Mr. Devereux. I need hardly name them, as I saw they caught your
attention; in fact it was, I believe, from your countenance that I
gathered my own impression.”
“You mean the open windows, and the absence of the watchman,” Mr.
Powderham said, not displeased to think of his impressive countenance.
“Yes, sir, and the singular visit to Miss Smith’s drawing-room at that
hour of the day.”
“True, very true. I certainly thought the circumstances of the case very
singular. Yet I own I should hardly----”
“No, sir, it was not likely you should form the opinion I have formed.
It was indeed impossible you, or any one else, should do so. It
required a different sort of evidence. The idea did, however, even then
enter _my_ head, in consequence of my knowledge of the feelings of Mr.
Devereux for Miss Smith. You perhaps remember the strange expression he
one day used regarding her.”
“I do, I do,” Mr. Powderham said hurriedly. “I thought it a piece of
folly, owing to some quarrel between you.”
“No, sir, we have had no quarrels; but he has allowed me and all about
here to know his feeling on the subject. Freely, before the workmen, he
has called her his enemy.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes, sir. It was owing to my knowledge of this that the idea struck
me; yet I should hardly have entertained it, had it not been for the
accidental finding of a letter which threw some light on the subject.
Are you acquainted, sir, with Mr. Devereux’s father?”
“Not in the least; nor do I wish to be so.”
“No, sir. There is nothing desirable in his acquaintance; but it is
necessary you should know the kind of man he is. He hates Miss Smith
with a deadly hatred; he does not disguise it. He thinks she stands
between him and wealth, which indeed she does. But he is not hot-headed
like Mr. Henry Devereux. He is one of the sharpest and coolest men I
know, and he guides his family with an iron bridle. The letter I have
accidentally found is from him to his son.”
“And what is its purport?” asked Mr. Powderham, with anxious curiosity.
“Have you got it about you?”
“No, sir, for I had not made up my mind when I left home as to what I
should do. It required thought. The letter is vaguely worded, but
certainly seems, as I understand it, to contemplate some accident; it
expresses most deadly hatred to Miss Smith.”
“I always knew this appointment would bring mischief and annoyance,” Mr.
Powderham said, pathetically. He did feel very seriously annoyed at the
business before him. “You must bring this letter to me to-morrow
morning. I have a lawyer staying with me, and we will consult him on the
subject. We must be very careful in bringing such a charge.”
“No doubt, sir. I have spoken only to you.”
“When did you find the letter?”
A tinge of colour came into James Field’s cheeks.
“When you sent me to find a messenger, sir, I thought I would call and
tell Mr. Devereux what I was doing. I went to his lodgings, and, to my
surprise, found he had spent the morning in tearing letters and papers.
The room was in disorder, but he was absent. As I left the house, I
suppose one of the torn letters clung to my clothes, for Mrs. Bowers’s
girl ran after me, and said I had dropped a letter at the door. I took
it from her and opened it, and seeing it was torn in two, was going to
tear it up and throw it away, when my eye fell on some very remarkable
words. I then kept it, sir, and have got it to show you. No sooner did I
see the words than the idea which had presented itself became a fixed
opinion. I have now done my duty. It is for you to decide what should be
done further.”
“You shall come to me to-morrow morning. It is a very serious charge;
yet I confess the circumstances are exceedingly suspicious.”
“I think so, or I should not have spoken.”
There was not much more between Mr. Powderham and his companion. On
approaching Riddlemere he dropped him, and drove on alone to receive
Nora, whose carriage he had passed almost immediately after leaving the
station.
On her arrival he showed her all things; explained to her how the fire
arose, and entered a little into his views for the future. But he was
not pleased with her, nor did he grow to love her. Not that on this
occasion she showed any remarkable wilfulness, for her mind was too much
pre-occupied to have any opinions about the future; but she did not
listen to him with the hearty deference he approved. She was weary and
disappointed; her eyes and her mind were wandering away from him, in the
vain hope that Henry would appear; and his plans and explanations were
inexpressibly tedious. She did try to be civil, but Mr. Powderham was
too acute not to see that he had only a part of the woman at his
disposal. He guessed to what quarter the rest was gone, and did not
feel amiable towards that quarter in consequence.
CHAPTER XII.
When Nora was sitting at an early breakfast the following morning, a
message was brought to her that Mr. Devereux would be glad to speak to
her.
She was alone. Miss Willis had had a bad cold, which, having delayed the
journey, was, in fact, the small cause of the great ill. The preceding
day’s journey had brought back the cold, and Nora had persuaded her to
remain in bed. She was sitting in a little room which had been intended
for a temporary dining-room; for the boudoir, though not seriously
injured, was damaged by the fire. This little room was dull and dark,
but perhaps, at the moment it was lucky it was so, as the stately
footman who brought the message might otherwise have wondered at the
brilliant colour which suddenly flushed the cheeks and brow, and even
the hands of his mistress. Perhaps it did not altogether escape him even
as it was; yet there were no signs of discomposure in the quiet voice
with which Nora said, “Beg him to come in. I am quite ready.”
When the door closed, however, she rose and tried by a movement to the
window and back again to recover herself. She was conscious of feeling
agitated at the interview; she was not surprised at so feeling,
considering how they had parted, and how they met; but she would have
been glad of more time to consider with what words she should greet
him. The mastering of her agitation prevented all preparation now, and
when the door opened to admit him, her behaviour was at the mercy of
chance.
The impulse of the moment was to go forward cordially with her hand
extended; but when she had moved a few steps in this spirit she paused,
for there was no responsive forwardness on his part.
He stood at the door, grave and formal, with his hat in his hand; and in
answer to her movement, and scarcely murmured greeting, he merely
inclined his head. When she paused, he, after an instant, made a
movement and said,
“I intrude too early, I know; but my business is pressing. I ought to
have seen you last night; it was a circumstance I could not help which
prevented me from trying at least to do so.”
“I hoped you would come,” Nora said, her agitation somewhat stilled by
his distant manner, “but it is not too early. I am quite at leisure.
Will you sit down?” she added more timidly.
“I have but a few words to say, and will not detain you. You may guess a
part of these words. I am, it seems,--I do not allow it,--I cannot
understand it,--but I am, it seems, supposed to be the author of this
unhappy accident; and I cannot disprove the supposition. You may guess
what I feel, and what I would say; words cannot say it.”
“My dear cousin,” Nora said, forgetting all but her desire to console
him, “let it be who it will, what can it matter to me? I am grieved for
those who feel pain at the accident, but to me it is nothing. Except by
setting to work to rebuild what has been injured, let us think of it no
more.”
“You are very good,” he said. There had been a tinge of colour in his
cheek at her affectionate address; there was a slight tremble in his
voice as he acknowledged her kindness; but that was all. He remained
standing and immovable, and after a moment went on--
“Since you understand, then, what I would say, I will not dwell on that
part of the subject. The rest shall also be quickly said. I am come to
resign into your hands the office I have held. From you I received the
trust, and to you I return it. I do so not ungratefully--believe me, not
ungratefully.”
“But why?” Nora cried, amazed. “Surely you mistake; surely you will
think better of it. I had hoped to have your help----”
He shook his head.
“No. I could give no help now. I too had hoped I might assist in undoing
the injury that has been done; but I have considered the point. When a
man has fallen in estimation he can do no good. I have fallen, and I
will stay no longer.”
The last words were said so sternly and resolvedly, that pleading seemed
out of place. Nora was silent while considering what arguments to use,
and before she spoke he went on--
“I have put together the few plans and papers that may be specially of
use to you. The accounts are all in the office, and will, I think, be
found correct. And now I wish you good-bye.”
There was a momentary pause, during which Nora looked up into his face,
and for a single instant their eyes met. The effects of that meeting
were a strange inward tremble in the heart and the bodily frame of
each--a strange inward feeling, whose outward expression was a hurried
withdrawal of the glance, and a rush of blood to the cheeks. But each,
too conscious of the effect on themselves, saw nothing of it on the
other; and both equally alarmed at their sensations, and fearful of
having them observed, recovered themselves with marvellous speed.
The effect of the sensation in Nora was to make her more dignified and
self-possessed; less earnest, less affectionate than she might naturally
have been.
“Good-bye, if it must be so,” she said. “And thank you for all the
trouble you have taken.”
She held out her hand half timidly.
He took it, but only for a second. Then putting down a parcel of papers
on the table, he inclined his head as he had done on entering, and went.
He had already, with the inconsiderate haste with which he did all
things, sent his luggage to the railway station, and he now hastened
after it himself. Off he walked with lightning speed, never looking
about him, nor allowing himself to think. Here he would not, ought not
to stay; what would become of him he did not know, and for the moment he
did not care.
CHAPTER XIII.
James Field went over to Mr. Powderham, on the same morning, with the
letter he had spoken of.
This letter was from Mr. Devereux to Henry, in answer to one from him.
It was on some money business. When Henry accepted Nora’s offer, Mr.
Devereux had, after some difficulty, consented to advance him money for
the payment of his little bills, on the condition that he should be
repaid out of the first half year’s salary. On receiving, therefore, his
money, Henry had kept to the stipulation. He had, however, a faint
hope,--that hope which some men never fail to have, that certain persons
will not act like themselves--that his father would not accept the
payment, would, in short, excuse it; and even in repaying he threw out a
slight hint that he might not be willing to receive it.
This hint Mr. Devereux either did interpret, or chose to interpret, as a
doubt whether he would or would not accept the money earned from Nora,
and his letter was addressed in that supposition. It began, therefore,
in the usual style. It spoke of Henry’s “hateful employment,” of the
degradation of working for what was his own; of Nora as an impostor, for
pretending thus to give him his rights. This part of the letter ended in
the usual manner, by advising the taking of what was his own in any
manner by which the infernal laws of England permitted him to get it. It
was, in short, a statement of the case between them, couched in the most
violent language. But it went further. After this matter had been
disposed of, there came another sentence. “You say that Miss Smythe’s
house is nearly finished, and that she is shortly going to take
possession. Were the elements of my mind, she should never set her foot
in it. Some lightning should blast, or fire burn, before she should
possess the fruits of iniquity.”
This letter was dated ten days before the time we have reached. It had
enclosed a receipt for Henry’s money. He had, on receiving the letter,
glanced at it anxiously enough, so much as to discover whether or not
his little suggestion had been accepted. Seeing it was not so--seeing it
contained nothing of interest or novelty--he laid it by (with the
receipt), barely read. He saw, indeed, that it was a violent letter; but
he imagined he knew every word. It was the language he had heard from
his childhood--in which at one time he had in simple folly taken his
part. If it made him shudder now, that new sensation was one which he
dared not thoroughly sift. He merely glanced at it, therefore, and laid
it by almost unread.
When he tore his papers, he took out this letter, and keeping the
receipt, threw it with a passionate gesture on the floor--not from any
remembrance of its actual terms, but from a feeling partly of hatred to
its sentiments, and partly of dissatisfaction with himself and the
position in which he stood; even with that service under Nora which at
the moment seemed to have brought him misery.
He went out, leaving his work unfinished, not expecting that any visitor
would enter his room, or, if he did, that he would find anything
remarkable in it.
James Field had been curious about his disappearance during the morning.
He wished to know what he was doing with himself, and he called on him
to ascertain. On finding him out, he went up and looking about him,
observed, with surprise, the appearance of disorder in the room.
Now it was during the inquiry, as he had said, that the thought
presented itself that Henry _might_ have set fire to the house on
purpose. Not that he _would_ have done it; he knew well enough that he
was incapable of such a purpose, but that the circumstances made the
suspicion possible. The idea came into his head, and was received--not
accepted, not rejected--but put away for further thought.
When he entered Henry’s room, and perceived what he had been about, the
idea suggested itself more strongly; and the evident haste with which he
had torn his papers seemed to confirm the suspicion he had at first
formed without sufficient evidence.
He looked about him, and saw among the torn papers the letter in Mr.
Devereux’s handwriting.
“There will be more evidence there, I guess,” he thought, as he picked
it up, knowing well the way in which that gentleman usually expressed
himself regarding Nora.
But he did not expect what he saw. He even trembled as he read; for he
had not been anxious to discover any real evidence on which to found
such a charge. Not that he was in reality deceived by the words. He, as
well as Henry, knew the language of Mr. Devereux too well to be
astonished at any violence; but the extraordinary fitness of the evil
wish did amaze and shock him. It was in the first instance so much more
than he wished, that he dropped the letter and made a step towards the
door.
But then again he paused, and with the self-deception which is part of
the villainy of some characters, he said internally something about his
duty. He would not decide, it must depend very much on circumstances;
but if future events should give rise to further suspicion, that letter
ought to be seen. He turned back and picked it up.
When he got downstairs he called the maid of the house, and desired her
to tell Mr. Devereux he had called; and as he left her, he dropt the
letter. She saw it, as he intended, and followed him to return it. He
took it, and put it away for further consideration. Should Henry miss
the letter he determined to own what he had done, giving as his reason
its dangerous nature. Should he not miss it, he thought this explanation
more agreeable than a confession that he had looked over another man’s
torn papers.
This was the letter that was produced for the inspection of Mr.
Powderham.
He was extremely shocked. Not knowing Mr. Devereux, he could make no
allowance for the language--could read it in no vague sense. He was
shocked and astounded, and laid it, with the circumstances of Henry’s
behaviour, before his friend the lawyer.
This gentleman was just departing, and could not enter fully into the
case. He told them they must take care what they were about; but for his
part he thought the letter the most villainous production he had ever
happened to read. He could believe _anything_ of a father and son who
corresponded in such terms.
Mr. Powderham was, on this day, very busy, and had been summoned by a
gentleman in an opposite direction to where Riddlemere lay. He desired
James Field to say nothing; to go back and think well over all the
circumstances, and to keep his eye on Henry. This last charge he
repeated two or three times, not so much because he thought it
necessary, as because he thought he ought to think it necessary.
Notwithstanding his dislike to Henry, he found it difficult to work
himself up to the belief that he was an incendiary. But he was working
himself up.
When James Field returned, the first thing he heard was that Henry was
gone. From the disorder of his room, he had supposed some such act to be
in contemplation, but the promptitude of the proceeding amazed him--the
folly of it astounded him.
“It looks like a guilty conscience,” he said, trying to persuade himself
that he believed what he said.
This first day spent by Nora in her new home was inexpressibly dreary.
For many months her heart had been set on it, and it failed to bring the
joy that had been anticipated. Miss Willis was ill, Mrs. Ratcliffe was
ill, and little Sophy was ill. The two last had been thoroughly overset
by the fire, their nerves agitated, and their bodies chilled. They
passed the day in bed. The little room which had been made ready for
Nora was dull; it looked to the north-east, and to the entrance where
the workmen were engaged in setting the heaps of rubbish to rights. She
was afraid of going out for fear of meeting James Field, whom she saw
among the workmen, and to whom she felt an intense dislike; within, if
she spoke to Mrs. Brook, it was only to hear the story of the fire
repeated. It was none of these things, however--for she was not one to
fret at trifles--that caused the shadow to rest so wearily upon her new
life. The source of pleasure had suddenly dried up.
Late in the day she was cheered by the arrival of Mrs. Elliott. When she
was happy and busy she was not very tolerant of visitors; but the
pleasure with which she welcomed a visitor on this dreary day, taught
her better than words that the most self-reliant are not independent of
the help of their fellow-creatures.
Mrs. Elliott had heard of the fire, but had not heard the particulars,
and Nora had to relate all that she had gathered, of which she was
already weary. The way in which the subject irritated her was very
singular. Even speaking of it to kind Mrs. Elliott irritated her. The
expressions of sympathy for her own loss and disappointment irritated
her more than all.
“And so, in fact, I am in fault,” was Mrs. Elliott’s comment, after
hearing the tale. “My unfortunate request! I daresay if the truth were
known the foolish boy never blew out the candle at all, and there it is
explained. A breath of wind at any moment may have blown the curtains to
it.”
“They say he said he was sure,” Nora replied, emphatically. “But it
does not signify how it was done. It was a mischance; such as might
happen to any of us.”
“You must get away from all this mess and rubbish,” said Mrs. Elliott
kindly, struck by something weary and vexed in her tone. “Pay me a
visit. In a week or two things will look different.”
“Thank you; but no. I will stay, now I am come. Besides, I have been
looking about, and find I can make myself more comfortable. My bed-room
is bright and cheerful; I can turn that into a sitting-room.” Then
suddenly thinking she had been ungracious, she added, “But I shall like
to visit you later--when things are more settled.”
“Perhaps you are right, and it will be best; and I will try and persuade
that foolish Mr. Devereux to come down for some shooting.”
There was a sudden bound in Nora’s heart; a sudden brightening in the
dull landscape of her life. She drew back her head into a corner while
she said,
“Do you know, then, that he is gone?”
“Yes; somebody saw him at the station this morning, and told us of it.
Foolish, foolish boy! My old man is very much vexed.”
“I thought it hasty,” Nora said.
“It is the most inconsiderate thing that ever was done. Mr. Elliott says
it may cause all kinds of injurious reports.”
When she got up and said she must go, Nora said she wished to ask her
advice upon a point. It was on the subject of James Field. She told her
exactly the history of their relationship, and also the advice she had
received from Mr. Fanshawe regarding her relations.
“I agree with him, and mean to follow his advice,” she said; “but he
allowed that Mr. Field was in a different position. I do not quite know
how to behave. I do not like his looks, and yet there he is. He is my
mother’s first cousin.”
“I think,” Mrs. Elliott replied, after a little consideration, “that his
position here may guide you for the present. You can be very civil, but
the fact of the situation he holds will prevent intimacy. I quite agree
with Mr. Fanshawe. If, after a time, you find that Mr. Field is an
educated man, and has the mind of a gentleman, you can assist him to
rise a step or two higher.”
“Will you be so very kind as to go with me to speak to him?” Nora said.
“I think I ought, and yet I shrink from it. I was certainly cold to him
yesterday, and I am sorry. I dislike his looks, but I would be friendly
if I could. You will help me?”
Mrs. Elliott acquiesced; and on her way to her carriage, which stood
beyond the disordered court, they made a circuit to where James Field
and some workmen stood. Nora bowed as graciously as she could when they
got near, and he then took off his hat.
“This has been a bad job,” Mrs. Elliott said, thinking it was easiest
for her to speak.
“Yes; but it is well it was no worse.”
This was said in that peculiar disagreeable manner he had of throwing
hidden meaning into his words.
“We are quite satisfied with the degree of badness,” Mrs. Elliott
replied lightly, looking at Nora and smiling; but Nora felt irritated,
and would not speak.
After a moment, however, she recovered herself, and asked,
“How long will it take to rebuild this, do you suppose?”
“Indeed I can’t say.”
“Not long, I should think,” said Mrs. Elliott; “the walls seem for the
most part uninjured.”
“There must be a regular examination, ma’am, before we can tell.”
He did not seem interested in the question, and Mrs. Elliott was trying
to think of something to say next, when he prevented her.
Looking full at Nora, he asked,
“Is it true, ma’am, that you saw Mr. Devereux before he left this
morning?”
She felt her blood boil, and a glow rise in her cheeks.
“Yes, I saw him,” she answered coldly.
“I think you were the only person who did see him, ma’am.”
“I don’t know. I saw him.”
The impertinence of his manner was more than she could bear, and after
waiting for a moment uncertain, she turned to Mrs. Elliott,
“It is bad for you to stand, is it not? Let us go. Good evening,” she
then forced herself to say, and they went.
“Proud vixen, I’ll spite you!” said James Field between his teeth.
“No, I certainly do not like his looks or his manner,” replied Mrs.
Elliott to a strong expression of dislike on Nora’s part; “but you must
make allowances. He feels awkward, and in trying to be easy, and show
himself at his best, he does in fact show himself at his worst. You must
wait awhile before you decide upon him.”
“I will try. I _must_ try,” Nora added, “for the feeling I have against
him is perfectly unchristian.”
“Is it not strange,” Nora thought sadly, as she walked homewards alone,
“that between me and all my relations there seems to be an antipathy. Am
I never to love as I wish to love! Is there, on the contrary, always to
be war?” She paused a moment in her sad reflections, and her mind
reverted to the morning, to that short meeting with Henry; and as it was
presented before her, there came a glow to her cheek and a tingling
sense of pleasure ran through her veins. “Had it been war--had there
been antipathy there?” By her sensations it hardly seemed so. It is true
Henry had been distant and formal; but had there been antipathy between
them? She did not consciously answer herself, but a pink sunset glow
which was stealing over the landscape was reflected in her own
thoughts, and she re-entered the house cheerfully.
CHAPTER XIV.
It was in the middle of the following day that Nora received a message
from Mr. Powderham. “If it was perfectly convenient he should be glad to
be permitted to say a few words to her.”
As she had been expecting him all the morning, the stately message
amused her.
“Mr. Powderham’s visits are to be looked on like angels’ visits, I
suppose,” she said laughing to Miss Willis.
She was in very different spirits on this day from the last. The
invalids, all except little Sophy, were up, and there were things to be
seen, and heard, and done. With Mrs. Ratcliffe’s assistance the change
of room had been effected, and there was now a sunny sitting-room. Nora
was beginning to establish herself. In short, she was full of thoughts
and hopes again.
Mr. Powderham came in with a very grave face and manner.
Wishing to be on more cordial terms with him, Nora drew his attention to
her room, playfully pointed out its beauties and charms, and called upon
him for approbation. It would not do. He remained wrapped in gravity,
and she ceased her efforts with the reflection shooting through her
mind, “It is impossible to make any one like me.”
When she ceased to speak he said,
“The cause of my wishing to see you is to inform you of a very
unpleasant circumstance. You must give me your attention for a moment.”
“Certainly,” Nora said; and moving a chair towards him, sat down
herself. She was sorry to think of unpleasant circumstances, but she did
not feel, as some would have done, alarm.
“It is on the subject of this fire. I told you that it was owing to
negligence on the part of Mr. Devereux. I have now reason to change my
opinion.”
“It seems to me, Mr. Powderham,” said Nora, with the decision of manner
he so much disliked, “that it is much better to leave the fire alone. It
is only a worry to ourselves and everybody else, to dwell on the causes.
Unless, indeed,” she added, with sudden recollection, “you have
discovered that it was caused by an accident.”
“I differ from you entirely, Miss Smith,” he said with severity. “It is
my duty to search into the cause of the event, and I am sorry to say I
have reasons to believe it was from no accident whatever.”
“How then?”
“I mean to say that I think it was a premeditated act.”
“Indeed! and by whom?”
“By Mr. Devereux, of course.”
“Oh! Mr. Powderham,” and she laughed. The idea was so ludicrous that she
did not even feel indignant.
He was irritated beyond measure. Her countenance plainly said to him, to
_him_, “How ridiculous!” and he was offended.
“I am come on serious business, not on a laughing matter,” he observed
in his severest tone. “It is not my habit to jest in affairs of this
nature. I am come to make a grave charge against Mr. Devereux, and,
unfortunately, I have only too good reasons to uphold what I say.”
“Of course it is my duty to listen to whatever you have to say,” Nora
replied with spirit, “but you must not be angry if I tell you beforehand
that nothing shall make me believe it.”
“I will lay the whole case before you, madam,” he said. “It is a very
serious charge, and when first it was laid before me, I almost did as
you do. I refused to believe it. But I have had reason to change my
opinion.”
“Who made the charge?” she asked, with quickness.
“Allow me to proceed in my own manner.”
“Only one moment, Mr. Powderham. The charge is made, I guess, by Mr.
Field. I should like to know this before I listen to your statement.”
“The charge is made by myself, on good evidence, or I should not have
brought it before you. I am not in the habit of being guided by any man;
least of all by those subordinate to me.”
“You said a charge was laid before you,” was on Nora’s lips, but an
imploring look from Miss Willis made her suddenly cease to arrest him.
Why would she not listen quietly to Mr. Powderham? She composed herself
and said instead, “I am quite ready to listen to you patiently. I beg
your pardon for my interruptions.”
She submitted, but incredulity was visible in every muscle of her face.
He read it there, and his belief gathered strength from her opposition.
Having mentioned these small particulars in Henry’s conduct which seemed
singular, he went on--
“These facts, of course, are nothing in themselves. I thought he had
been officious, but I thought no more. Yet I own his behaviour on the
morning after the events did not prepossess me. His replies were most
unsatisfactory, and his manner was that of a person bewildered with
passion. Knowing him to be a hot-headed and excitable young man, I
excused it; but I cannot forget that it was like the manner of a guilty
conscience. It was about an hour and a half or two hours after he left
us, that, having decided on sending a messenger to you, Mr. Field went
to his lodging to inform him of the fact, and was astonished, as indeed
I was when I heard of it, to find that he had already been engaged in
tearing his papers and making preparations for a departure. For what
reason I cannot imagine; unless this same guilty conscience made him
unable to remain and meet you. You will remember that he did not
accompany us to the station, and before I could return here the
following morning he was gone. Why this avoidence, this resolute
determination to be seen no more? Why, but because he was unable to face
the questions to which he might naturally have been exposed.”
“He gave me a different reason,” Nora interrupted. “I do not say it was
a good one; I think it was a hasty one, but it was a real reason. He
seemed to feel that he was no longer looked upon in a proper light--no
longer looked up to, as in his position he ought to be. That was his
reason, and I can partly understand it.”
“It was only two hours after parting with me that his disordered room
was found. There had been no time for him to make such a discovery. He
had been alone during the morning. The reason is a very insufficient
one.”
“Some people are very sensitive. Indeed, Mr. Powderham, I see no
evidence. I am glad to say that, after following your story, I find it
impossible to think otherwise.”
“Well, madam, I allow that all I have said is no evidence. It requires
light to be thrown on it before it becomes so. That light, I grieve to
say, I have. I must trouble you to read this letter.”
He took from his waistcoat-pocket the torn letter from Mr. Devereux, and
laid it before Nora. He then sat with his hands clasped on the table,
intently contemplating her.
If he wished to pain, if he wished to startle, if he wished to drive a
sharp steel into her heart, he had succeeded at last. She sat staring at
the words, when she had at last mastered them, while every tinge of
colour faded from her cheeks. Once she looked up, and her lips moved,
but they trembled, and she looked down again; yet in that glance the
paleness of her skin spoke so forcibly of the pain within, that Mr.
Powderham was melted. He was proud of his success, but grieved, really
grieved, for her. He was preparing some little speech, sympathizing,
amiable, and consolatory. He had got it on his lips, and was about to
form the words, when it was arrested.
She looked up again, and said steadily,
“But I do not believe it, Mr. Powderham, even now.”
“Is it possible!”
“I see they hate me!” she cried with bitter passion--“but I do not think
them guilty of _this_. It is one thing to have a feeling in the mind,
and another to act upon it.”
He was sorry for her, even though she argued with him. He could not help
being sorry, and his voice was softer than was usual to him.
“When hate is cherished in the mind, my dear young lady, I believe no
action to be impossible. I laid that letter before a lawyer of talent.
I would not decide upon it on my own judgment. He did not say, I
confess, that it was evidence; but he said, and justly, ‘A father and
son who can correspond in such terms _are capable of anything_’; and I
agree with him.”
“It is dreadful,” Nora said; and she shivered.
“It is dreadful; and the more so because--at least, as I
understand--there is no cause for such feelings.”
“Oh! no; no cause,” Nora said sadly, “except my birth. I ought not to
have been born.”
“And that,” and Mr. Powderham, who, in his kindly mood, was facetious in
tone, “is certainly not your fault. To the best of my belief, not only
there is no cause, but there is very much the reverse. I cannot forget
the step which you took against my advice, and which---- but no matter.
I only mean to say, however mistaken, I think it was a step which was
sufficient proof of your charitable feelings towards the family.”
He was now in extreme good-humour. The remembrance of how right he had
been was like a ray of sunshine; and Nora’s subdued air was exactly what
he had wished. Even in a little altercation that followed, he never lost
his amiable compassion.
He was in a hurry, and he very shortly took his leave, saying he would
return the following morning, as he had more to say to her. After
wishing her good-bye, he put his hand on the letter.
“May I not keep it?” Nora said.
“No, madam; I cannot allow it to go out of my own hands. I will send you
in a copy, if you please.”
“How came you to see the letter?” she asked suddenly.
“It was taken, singularly enough, to Mr. Field; it was among the torn
papers on the floor in Mr. Devereux’s room. Mr. Field supposes he may
have kicked it with his foot. On leaving the house, a maid, believing he
had dropped a paper, took it to him.”
“And he read it?” Nora said. She shuddered as she thought of James
Field, and for a moment an idea of a plot came into her mind. But it
passed. There was the letter--what could undo the wording of that
letter? It seemed to her that she was surrounded by villains.
“Of course he did so; he supposed it to be his own.”
“I do not see what right we have to read it. It is a private letter. We
ought never to have seen it; it is no concern of ours.”
“On this subject I will not attempt to argue. Mr. Field laid the letter
before me, and I, as is my duty, bring the subject before you. I will
return and speak to you to-morrow, for I have more to say. I wish you
good morning, madam,” and bowing politely to her and Miss Willis, he
went.
When he left her, Nora sat immovable. A great horror and darkness had
come over her mind. Whether or not the suspicion was true, she had not
had time to examine. It was scarcely in her thoughts. That of which she
thought--that which subdued her to a lamb-like submission--was the
knowledge of the deadly hatred she had inspired. She had spoken of
hate; she had known from Henry’s violent speech that she was supposed to
have wronged them--but the word hate had carried no impression to her
brain. But there was the essence of hate, such as a demon might feel, in
Mr. Devereux’s letter, and it made her flesh creep. She was haunted by
the words of the lawyer--“A father and son who can correspond in such
terms are capable of anything.” Was it possible that Henry had received
and kept this letter--had cast it, as a light thing, among his waste
papers? Was this the way in which, not only the father to the son, but
the son to the father, wrote about her? _He_--there was the sting--he to
whom.... Then she paused, pressing her hands on her brain to stay the
thoughts that arose--crushing down a something that seemed rushing up to
madden her. She suddenly started up from the place where she sat, and at
the same moment a letter was brought to her.
It was only an envelope from Mr. Powderham, containing a copy of the
letter. She handed it to Miss Willis, saying, “Read it,” and then stood
watching her.
Its effect on Miss Willis--the mildest of human beings--was so evident,
the shock so great, that Nora, even in the midst of her keener
sensations, smiled.
In her commenting on the subject, however, she dwelt so much on her own
birth as making misery and crime, that Miss Willis was much troubled.
She spoke out with warmth some of her own views of life. Among other
things she said, how could Nora know that she had not been born
expressly to stand between her cousins and guilt? Who could tell whether
riches would not have been poison to them? Who could tell whether it was
not intended that she should overcome their evil by good?
Nora heard her almost without hearing her, and yet her words made an
impression; and as the day wore on, especially the last suggestion made
an impression. If there _was_ all this evil and hate, she _would_
overcome it by persistence in good offices. Nothing, not even that
letter should move her to resentment. She would think of it no more.
Henry should never know that she had seen it. It, as well as all other
things connected with this event, should be buried in oblivion.
This was the resolution she formed before she slept, and she held to it
the more resolutely because her heart was sore and sad. That Henry
should have received such a letter and kept it!
But her resolution was not Mr. Powderham’s plan. He, on the contrary,
had made up his mind that it was his duty to bring the matter before the
public. He did not, indeed, think the evidence conclusive, but he
thought it extremely suspicious. He came on the following morning to
tell Nora that he intended to lay the affair before Mr. Lubbock the
magistrate. He did not begin by telling her that he intended her to
prosecute; but such was his intention.
She received his information with a simple assurance that she had made
up her mind to think of it no more.
“But you must think of it, madam,” he said coldly. “Were a poor man
suspected of such a deed we should not shield him. And why should we
shield Mr. Devereux?”
“As to the deed,” she said, “it is nonsense--it is impossible! And were
it ever so possible, who could prove it? Who can prove what is a man’s
_thought_? It is ridiculous!”
“Unfortunately, madam,” he replied, “we can prove what has been in his
thought. I omitted to tell you yesterday, wishing to save you pain, that
Mr. Devereux has made no secret here of his feelings for you; twice to
my knowledge, once in my hearing, he called you the enemy of his
house.”
And he gave her a rapid but vivid picture of poor Henry’s folly.
This was the unkindest cut of all. Hitherto, in spite of the letter, a
something of internal conviction or suggestion had whispered that he was
not of his father’s mind; but here was proof positive that she was
mistaken.
She sat so silent and subdued that Mr. Powderham was again melting
towards her, when she again baffled him.
“His speaking so publicly of his feelings is a proof, I think, that of
_this_ deed he was not guilty. The feelings are bad enough, but let us
leave them alone.”
“We cannot, madam. It is our duty to notice them.”
“For my sake leave them alone. Why should all this enmity be made
public.”
“No private considerations, madam,” he said, with pomp, “should
interfere with public duty. I consider it a public duty to have the
matter investigated. I have already written to Mr. Lubbock on the
subject, and if he concurs with me, there must be a trial.”
“A trial! Do you mean a regular trial.”
“I do!”
“Do you mean to prosecute?”
“In your name, madam, I certainly do intend, should Mr. Lubbock
encourage me to prosecute.”
“But I do not consent. I refuse to prosecute,” Nora said, with
quickness.
He quite hated her for the ready phrase, which she had somewhere read
or heard, and coldly said,
“I believe you have no power to refuse; but Mr. Lubbock will decide the
point. He is absent, but will return this evening. I shall see him
to-morrow morning, after which I will return to you.”
“Remember,” Nora said, as he bowed, “that nothing but force, absolute
force, shall make me do it.”
He paused in his bow, and said,
“May I ask, madam, for what reason you are so unwilling to act? If it
was a poor man, should you be equally resolved?”
“I hope I should,” she said; but her colour went and came for a moment,
and in some inner yet unconscious dread of showing agitation, she only
added resolutely, “at any rate I am resolved now.”
He bowed again, equally resolved.
CHAPTER XV.
Henry, meanwhile, had arrived in London in some elation of mind. There
is a common expression of a person’s being “on his high horse,” and he
was on the high horse as he travelled from Riddlemere homewards. He
thought he had acted with spirit and dignity. What he had done he had
done with passionate impulse; but looking back on his conduct, it struck
him as being dignified. He admired himself; he hoped others would
admire. Above all, one. He did not name her; he did not allow his
thoughts to frame the idea consciously; but there ran and tingled about
his veins a pleasurable sense of joy in the feeling that she would
admire the spirit of his conduct.
It was in this mood that he went home, and he was altogether in good
spirits. Careless and affectionate, five months’ absence had washed from
his memory all unpleasant thoughts connected with his home; and
bestowing on it his own more amiable qualities, he fancied he should see
and be seen with pleasure. He longed to kiss his mother, and hear her
soft drawling voice; to tumble about a little sister of whom he was
fond--in fact, to be at home again.
It was past ten before he got in, and at the first aspect of the party
in the drawing-room his fair hopes faded; he began to dismount from his
steed, and instead of elation of mind, to feel uneasiness and doubt.
His sister’s sharp “Didn’t I say it was Henry’s bell? Nobody but Henry
would make such a noise!”--his father’s silent stare of surprise--and
his mother’s “Oh! Henry, why didn’t you let us know?” were all so like
his old receptions, that the illusions absence had fostered faded away.
Not even his mother’s fond embrace, none the less fond because of the
peevish speech, could do away the impression. He felt blank, and sat
down hardly knowing how to explain his return.
But Letitia was really very glad to see him, and her questions, rapidly
poured out, soon drew from him a history of the fire. And as he
detailed the events of the night, again his spirits rose, for all sat
listening to him with wrapt attention. With the extinction of the fire
his narrative came to an end. Of the events of the morning he said
nothing.
“How brave you must be!” said his mother admiringly. Not that Henry had
boasted of his doings. He had simply related all that had taken place.
“The very sight of the flames would have taken all my brains
away,”--which was no doubt true enough.
“I must say I am glad,” Letitia observed. “Just as she was going to step
into her grandeur, to be baffled in this way! It shows, I think----”
“Letitia!” Henry cried in a tone of disgust.
“But I will speak. I say it shows on whose side the elements are. But
how did it happen? Who did it--or who is supposed to have done it?”
“I am,” Henry said, shortly and bitterly.
“You!” with a scream, in which even his father joined, laying down the
book he held, in his surprise.
“They choose to say so. And if people choose to say a thing in this
world, they will say it. That I have learnt. It is no more use to talk
to the world than it is to preach a sermon on Algebra in Bedlam. I will
tell you what they say;” and, unable to control his excitement, he
again, with eagerness, made a narrative of the unfortunate visit he had
paid to Nora’s room.
“I don’t say it is quite impossible,” he concluded. “I suppose it is
just within the limits of possibility, and so it must be left. It was a
most unfortunate accident to happen to anybody; but I really hardly see
how it could have been helped.”
“Are you sure it was an accident?” said Mr. Devereux, looking at him
with cold scrutiny.
Henry stared--stared so ludicrously, so totally without understanding
what his father meant to say, that Letitia burst out laughing.
“Oh! papa, no. How can you imagine such a thing? You might have done it,
and would, I believe, with great pleasure; but Henry would not--Henry
could not.”
“Could not, indeed!” he cried fiercely, as he saw the meaning. “Who
dares say such things?”
“Nobody. At least, _I_ say you could not do it. You would have been
burning your own heart and hope and future home. There would have been
no sense in it.”
He rose up with an impatient, impetuous movement. Less than ever could
he bear that imputation. He would at the moment almost have taken the
suggestion of his father to escape from it.
“A pleasant place this is to come to!” he cried, as he rose; and banging
the door, he left the room.
Mr. Devereux took up his book. Letitia continued to laugh. Mrs. Devereux
sat uneasily. She was thinking of Henry’s comfort, and longing to get to
him.
“I wonder if Henry expected dinner?” she said at last.
“He may expect it in vain,” replied her husband, “for he will not have
it at home.”
“No,” she said; “and so I think I had better tell him. If he wants
dinner he had better go and get it.”
Mr. Devereux made no objection, and she left the room. This was the
cleverest thing Mrs. Devereux had ever done in her life. It was a little
plan to get to Henry, and it was successful.
She found him helping the housemaid to put his room to rights. As soon
as that loud bell rang, guessing, as well as Letitia, whose it was, the
faithful housemaid had flown to make it ready; and by dint of good will,
and assistance from the nurse and the cook, it was, when he came up, no
longer quite as it had lately been, the family lumber-room. While he
helped, he was making a variety of droll observations, and he received
his mother with perfect good temper.
She found that he had dined, and that a cup of tea would satisfy him.
This she got him with her own hands, and sat down with him while he
drank it; and, recurring again to her admiration for his bravery,
soothed his ruffled spirit, and received from him at parting one of
those embraces she prized so dearly.
After breakfast the following morning Henry pursued his father as he was
leaving the house to communicate the fact that he had thrown up his
appointment under Nora. He felt cowardly about making the
communication. The elation of mind had given place to an unpleasant
sensation that perhaps he had acted hastily, and like a fool.
His father’s words, however--his cool contempt--his compliment to Henry
on his superlative wisdom, sufficed to rouse his spirit again; and with
the same dignity with which he had explained his motives to Nora, he
laid them before his father. A man who was watched with suspicion could
not properly perform the duties of an overseer of others. This was his
apology, and the dignity and warmth with which he spoke were not
assumed. He felt from his heart what he said. He might not have acted as
a wise man; but conscientiousness, if nothing else, was written on his
face, and heard in his explanation.
His father looked at him, and something like the passion of curiosity
might have been seen in his impassive face. Henry’s desire to do his
duty to Nora was altogether beyond his power to understand.
Of his curiosity, however, he said nothing. After a moment he observed,
“It was no will of mine, to have you take such a situation; but it is
still less my will to have you throw it up like a fool. How do you
propose to earn your bread in future?”
“By my own exertions,” Henry said, with a glow in his cheek. “I am no
longer the same man; I have been tried, and I know what I can do. Miss
Smith will bear witness that I can work, nor do I suppose Mr. Powderham
himself would deny it.”
“Does it never strike you that you have damaged your reputation by your
hasty conduct; that you have done the very thing to expose yourself to
suspicion.”
“To the suspicion of what?” asked Henry, with sharpness.
“Of having voluntarily set fire to Miss Smythe’s house!” his father said
slowly, fixing his eyes upon him.
“Of being an incendiary!” Henry cried, in his violent manner, the blood
of all the Devereux, counting from the one whom he fondly loved to
consider an ancestor, swelled to bursting in his veins.
“Even so,” replied his father, crossing his arms, and smiling a bitter
smile. “Are you sure there was no lingering hope of such a result in
the lucifer that was thrown away?”
“If you were not my father you should not dare----” Henry cried
passionately, and he flung out of the room.
As he crossed the hall, stamping off to his own regions, Letitia opened
the drawing-room door and called to him.
“I was watching for you,” she said. “Do come in here and talk a little.
Our house is not so lively that I am not glad of a change.”
He paused a moment; then remarking her face, which indeed looked pale
and dreary enough, his wrath evaporated in good-nature.
“What is the matter?” she said, as he followed her into the room, and
she saw his flushed countenance.
“Nothing, except that I think the world is infested by a plague of
demons.”
“There I agree with you;” and she spoke more soothingly than usual. “But
let the demons rest for a while. I want to talk. I want to hear about
things. What sort of a place is it down there? Come, do talk. I have not
spoken to a rational being for this month past, and I am very glad to
have you back.”
Henry’s nature was one which was affected by a word of love or kindness.
There may be a little vanity in the composition that is thus easily
pleased, yet the larger ingredient is affectionateness of nature. He was
gratified at his sister’s expression of pleasure in his society, and he
came further into the room, and very amiably answered the few questions
she carelessly put, about the house at Riddlemere and the sort of
scenery around it. He had been interested by the wild country, and
scarcely observing how careless her inquiries were, he entered heartily
into the subject.
“Well, and how did you get on with the work?” she then inquired, with
more zest. “Was it hard?”
“Not the least hard. Very interesting.”
Letitia laughed.
“Why laugh? If you think I don’t like work, Letitia, you utterly and
entirely misunderstand me. I am as sick of idleness as you are of
staring out of that window.”
“And that is saying a good deal. Well, don’t be angry, Henry. You know I
have yet to learn your new character. I did not mean to offend. And so
you got on well--found it all easy?”
“There was nothing in my work that I could not do with proper attention.
I should never have had any bother at all, if it had not been for the
people I had to deal with; and luckily I had not very much to say to
them.”
“What people?”
“Mr. Powderham and that James Field. They are enough to put an angel
into a tantarum. I defy a plain, honest man to live with them in peace.”
He was becoming excited, but in the midst of his excitement a faint
blush on his sister’s cheek opened his blind eyes to the cause of her
questioning. He paused, and then said,
“If you hoped I should become friends with James Field, Letitia, you
hoped wrong. It is a thing that could not be. He is not a gentleman.”
“What do you mean by a gentleman?” she asked.
“Nothing to do with birth or fortune. I have seen down there--among the
navvies, even, and much more among the country-people--men whose
feelings and manners would have done honour to princes. But James Field
is not a gentleman.”
“I suppose you quarrelled, if the truth was known.”
“No, we did not quarrel. I did not allow myself to quarrel. Once or
twice, when his insolence was more than I could bear, we had words; but
we are on as friendly terms now as we were on the first day we met.”
“And that is on no friendly terms at all.”
“Well, I don’t pretend to be a friend. I don’t like him, and I never
shall; and I warn you against him, Letitia.”
“I want no warning,” she said, petulantly. “I had better warn you. Take
care that he does not cut you out in Miss Smythe’s affections. You have
left him the field all to himself.”
“Cut me out!” he began, ever roused at that idea; then muttering only,
“a pretty home this is to come to!” he left the room with his usual
slam.
Letitia laughed; but then sighed; and the worn, harassed look returned
to her face. She was an odious girl, but she had excuses. The dreariness
of her life had embittered her mind. Few sought her; none loved her as
they had sought and loved Henry, and she lived and breathed only the
cold dull atmosphere of her own home.
One person had seemed to seek her, and to him such heart as she had had
been yielded. By occasional meetings with him, secret, not so much in
the outward form of meeting as in the motives which inspired them to
seek each other, a certain excitement had been given to her life. This
was now over, and a vague hope, vague and with few illusions about it,
was all that was left her. She had hoped to hear some pleasant words
from Henry. She had hoped he and Henry might have become friends. The
hope was disappointed. She clung to her one dream in spite of what
Henry said; yet she felt his words; she knew dimly that he was right,
and her one soft feeling was a bitter one.
CHAPTER XVI.
“What is to be done now, Miss Willis?” Nora cried. She had been sitting
for a long time in reflection after Mr. Powderham’s departure.
Miss Willis had one resource for all troubles, and she began--
“If Mr. Stephen Fanshawe were here----”
“I had already thought of him,” Nora said, “but it is impossible.
Something must be done to-night. Do you not see? I do not think a trial
could prove anything; but a character may be destroyed by it for ever. I
think I will go to Mr. Lubbock myself. You will come with me. He will
perhaps be home for dinner; I will go at six, and try to speak to him.
What do you think?”
As there was no point of conscience, Miss Willis gave a ready
acquiescence. She was as anxious as Nora was to prevent such a public
disclosure; and although she looked on Henry as a hair-brained young
man, she could not easily believe him a guilty one. Before the time of
departure came, however, her confidence in his innocence was slightly
shaken. Mrs. Ratcliffe came to her room to tell her in confidence that
there were strange stories about Henry afloat; that it appeared he had
never made any secret of his hate to Miss Smith, and that people were
beginning to suspect that the fire had been an act of revenge.
When a number of people, rich or poor, in city or country, talk over a
mysterious matter, the same thing occurs; there are truths and
falsehoods, exaggerations and mistakes. There is therefore no need to
relate the stories that had been made up regarding Henry, and which, now
poured into Mrs. Ratcliffe’s ear, had at last overset her confidence in
him. She was so shocked at the one fact--his having called Miss Smith
his enemy in the hearing of two workmen whom she knew and trusted, and
who, with mysterious shakes of the head, now reported the speech--that
she was almost ready to believe anything, and, as has been said, her
doubts in some degree overset the mind of Miss Willis also.
She told Mrs. Ratcliffe, however, that Mr. Powderham had already
mentioned the report, and advised that nothing further should be said.
“Miss Smith was harassed enough,” she said. “Do not let us add to her
anxiety.”
“Well, I won’t,” replied Mrs. Ratcliffe, “though I did feel I could have
gone and hanged him with my own hands. And I won’t tell Sophy either;
for the poor child is ill, and does fret so after him, I don’t know what
to do with her; she says it’s a shame to be angry about an accident. And
so it is, if it was an accident. Well, please God it will turn out so,
for I never was so deceived. Never.”
Except with two or three, Henry had been very popular; but few stand by
their friends as friends should. Nor is it altogether from fickleness;
there is always that terrible dread of having been deceived.
Late in the day Miss Willis accompanied Nora to Squire Lubbock’s. She
had been correct in her views regarding him. When she reached his house
at six o’clock she found that he had just returned to dinner.
She sent up her name and begged to be allowed to speak to him.
Squire Lubbock was an honest, unrefined country gentleman, giving his
heart as well as his time to the common business of a country gentleman.
He was an active magistrate and a strict one; but a favourite, because
just and kind-hearted. Though somewhat unrefined, he had a respect that
was almost chivalrous, not only for youth and beauty, not only for a
lady, but for every woman that was neatly dressed; and that he had not
the same respect for all women, was because he was firmly possessed with
the idea that every proper woman ought to be neatly dressed, could be
neatly dressed if she pleased; and if not neatly dressed, was not a
woman according to his ideas.
There was a homely gallantry and courtesy about him when he came down at
Nora’s summons; and he assisted her from the carriage, handed her into
his house, and asked what he could do for her, with an evident desire to
do it, whatever it were.
In one way these courteous manners helped her; gave her confidence, and
made her task easy. But in another way it made it more difficult. It
made her suddenly feel that Henry was a young man, and that her motives
might be misunderstood. This was only a passing reflection, however.
The next instant she cast it aside, and made known her business.
She told her story with truth, courage, and quietness; showed where she
thought the evidence of premeditated intention broke down; and then
touched on her reasons for wishing to bury the finding of the letter in
oblivion.
Mr. Lubbock heard her with great interest and attention. When she had
done he said,
“Of course I must hear what Mr. Powderham has to say; but, to relieve
your mind, I will tell you that I so far agree with you. It chanced that
I saw Mr. Devereux on the day after the fire. He came here to give
evidence in favour of a poor man; and though I must allow that he
appears to be an impatient, passionate-tempered young gentleman, yet,
unless men’s countenances err more than I suspect they do, I should
acquit him of all malignant intentions. We must remember the letter is
_to_ him, not from him; that makes a great difference. Passionate
speeches are very bad, but they show passion, not malignity; _that_ is a
great difference. Unless the case is very much worse than I imagine it
is, let me promise you that you shall not be forced to prosecute against
your will.”
His manners became still more respectful and courteous after he had
heard her; and when he handed her back into her carriage, she felt that
he was a friend who would stand by her.
CHAPTER XVII.
Mr. Powderham paid his visit to Mr. Lubbock on the following morning;
and his feelings may be imagined when he found that he had been
forestalled.
Mr. Lubbock immediately informed him of Nora’s visit, and stated plainly
the opinion he had formed from her account, but observed that possibly
many things had escaped her observation.
Now, there is something depressing in such an opening. A man speaking of
free will can make an oration with great spirit, and give effect to
small and incidental circumstances. This was what Mr. Powderham had
intended to do. But to be told to state a case is a very different
thing. The very words are freezing, and the small circumstances become
stiff as wire in the fingers.
Mr. Powderham did state his case, but he was conscious that he did it
badly. He was a clever man, but not so clever that he was not liable to
be put out. He was much put out on this occasion, and he knew he made a
poor exhibition of his powers.
Mr. Lubbock, after listening to him attentively, shook his head.
“There is even less than I expected,” he said. “I think if you were to
bring so lame a case before a jury they would laugh at you.”
Laugh at Mr. Powderham! A thrill of rage against this laughing jury ran
through his veins. It stirred him up; it put spirit into his blood.
“I perceive,” he said, “that we look on this matter from two points of
view. You have made up your mind that Mr. Devereux is innocent. I, on
the contrary, however little I may be able to make the evidence
complete, know him to be guilty.”
This was true. Without hearing Nora, Mr. Lubbock, from long habit of
judging of men’s countenances, would have decided that Henry was
innocent. Mr. Powderham, though he had been long in coming to the
opinion, did now believe him to be guilty. And from the peculiar
formation of his mind, which attached itself with bands of iron to
every opinion it adopted, he was bound to this opinion. It was adopted;
and he was prepared to do his duty towards it at any cost.
He left Mr. Lubbock, angry, not cast down; uncertain how to act, but
determined to act.
* * * * *
Mr. Lubbock had refused to force a prosecution on Nora. As to an
investigation, that, he said, was as Mr. Powderham thought best. He
would only advise him to be very guarded. It seemed impossible to prove
a malicious intent; many circumstances appeared rather to disprove
anything like premeditation. On the other hand, it was impossible for
Mr. Devereux, if asked to do so, to disprove what he had _thought_; and
a young man’s character might be tainted for ever.
“It is easy to take away a character, Mr. Powderham; not so easy in this
world to give it back again.”
So Squire Lubbock concluded, and with a hearty laugh, which was his
habit even when no laugh was required.
Mr. Powderham drove home in his little gig, with James Field. Field had
accompanied him to Mr. Lubbock’s, to answer questions, should that
gentleman have been disposed to take the matter in hand.
Mr. Powderham, having in a degree admitted him to his confidence, did
not scruple, after repeating what had passed, to express an opinion that
Squire Lubbock was an ass. Having said this, he felt relieved; anger
passed from his mind, and he was able to consider what should be done.
“Does anything strike you, sir, in this business?” James Field began
hesitatingly. “I feel sure it must.”
“A great many things strike me, Field. But may I ask to what you
particularly allude?”
“I mean with regard to Miss Smith’s conduct in this matter; the motive
that guides her.” He paused; then, not being sure he was understood,
added quickly, “The unfortunate attachment she shows. I feel sure it has
not escaped you.”
This was the way in which he played on Mr. Powderham’s little weakness.
He put his own ideas into his mind, and then considered them as _his_.
On the previous day, when Mr. Powderham had asked that question of Nora
about her unwillingness, the idea had shot through his mind for an
instant. He was able, therefore, to reply with truth and gravity,
“Well, yes, Field, I own something of the kind has struck me.”
He looked very serious over it.
“I thought it must strike you. I am glad it has done so, for it is not
for me in my position here to allude to such things.”
“You are quite right.”
“At the same time,” continued James Field, “my relationship to Miss
Smith, and the strong interest I take in her affairs, compels me to be
anxious. It is no doubt a motive common to young ladies; one, indeed,
which we might expect to find in her as in others, were it not that she
seems superior in intellect to the majority----”
“I am not sure of that, Field!” Mr. Powderham interrupted to say.
“I daresay I mistake. The deference you, sir, have shown her is the
cause of the opinion I formed.”
“She has a strong will; but that is perfectly compatible with the common
weakness of her sex.”
“Then I think you have her motive, and I confess it grieves me to think
of the comments that will be made.”
“You fear that she will be supposed to shield Mr. Devereux from motives
of unworthy partiality; from love, in short.”
“Something of the sort has been breathed in my ear, sir. Our workmen are
a rough lot, and speak as they think, without regard to our notions of
delicacy. Now, sir, we have no means of governing this class of men but
by justice in our dealings. If their feelings on this point are
aggravated, they take to Chartist ideas, and even Miss Smith’s property
may not be safe.”
“Very true. The case is this. Either they will think lightly of the
crime, seeing a gentleman is shielded from the consequences; or else
they will be aggravated, speak of class against class, and so become
dangerous.”
“Exactly, sir.”
They drove along in silence. Mr. Powderham was reflecting.
“I have been considering the matter, Field,” he said at last, “and I
think it _is_ a case in which I ought to interfere. I will go to Miss
Smith. When she sees the reasons in favour of an investigation, when she
hears what unworthy motives are imputed to her, she will consent to
act.”
They trotted along to Riddlemere without more conversation. Mr.
Powderham there left his gig, and walked slowly towards the house. When
he came to think of it, he found what he had to say more difficult than
he had thought in the beginning. He was not afraid of Nora--oh! no; but
there was at times something in her ways which made him cower. As he
went over his conversation--the conversation that was about to be
held--he found that to go and inform a young lady to her face that she
was supposed to be in love with a person who had been acting as her
agent, and who had misbehaved himself, was not an agreeable errand. His
pace slackened, and he cast about in his mind for a variety of delicate
phrases by which, without seeming to do so, he might convey to her what
he wished to say.
At last a bright thought flashed on his mind. It was this: he would make
his communication to Miss Willis. He would make a third person
understand what he meant. He had not hitherto noticed Miss Willis. With
the politeness of a gentleman, he had bowed to her on entering and
leaving the room, but she had been a nonentity in his eyes. At this
moment she became a person of importance, and he quickened his pace,
walked to the door, and asked if she was at home.
The servant seemed surprised, but answered yes, and was despatched with
a message to request a few moments’ conversation.
Miss Willis, who was writing in her room, was much more surprised, but
hastened down obediently to attend to him.
Mr. Powderham entered upon his business at once. He felt no fears of
Miss Willis, and the anxious attention with which she listened to him
inspired, and made him eloquent. He set the whole case before her very
well and very forcibly; drew a picture of the evils to be dreaded; his
fears for Nora’s welfare; his fears for her delicacy; his fears for the
morals of the navvies; and his fears for the effect of screening
delinquents on the public in general. All he said was very true, and he
was so much in earnest, that all he said was convincing.
Miss Willis was carried away by him. She was horror-struck. The morals
of the navvies, and the welfare of the public did not indeed affect her
much; but her sensitive feminine nature shrank in horror at the
suspicion of Nora’s secret attachment; at the idea of her feelings being
canvassed; at the idea of such a motive being imputed. Breathlessly she
repelled the imputation, and equally breathlessly declared herself ready
to do her best to point out to Nora the necessity of so acting as to
repel it in her own person.
Mr. Powderham took his leave on this assurance, promising to return on
the following morning; and so satisfied was he with Miss Willis and her
deference, that, had there not been already a Mrs. Powderham with whom
he was satisfied, he would have bestowed that place upon her at once.
Miss Willis went up stairs, not slowly but breathlessly, to the sunny
drawing-room where Nora sat. Had she allowed herself to go slowly, some
of the difficulties in her way might have presented themselves to her
mind; but she was too much excited to allow time for thought, and she
hurried up with her message bursting from her lips.
She was so eager to have the one charge repelled, that she gave little
thought to any other part of the subject; no thought at all to the
wording of the message. It came bursting out; first her fears that Nora
_must_ act against her will, and secondly the reason why. It was just as
well that she allowed no time for thought, for she spoke more forcibly
in her excitement than she would have done with preparation, and brought
before Nora the evil that had to be dreaded in a strong light.
Nora began to listen with something of defiance in her air; but when the
charge was understood she quivered. A blush, not
“Celestial rosy red, Love’s proper hue,”
but purple in its tint, dyed her cheeks and brow. It rose and faded,
leaving her as pale as she had been flushed; and all the while that this
ebbing and flowing was going on, she sat silent and immovable.
Miss Willis, after one glance of sympathetic feeling, averted her eyes.
She grieved for the wounded modesty, so plainly betrayed by the flushed
countenance; and beginning to consider the words she had used, was
herself ready to sink into the earth at the thought of what she had
done.
She wondered what was to come next, and began to consider how to show
her own utter disbelief in the charge.
But before she had gathered up her ideas, Nora raised her head and
spoke.
“This is a terrible charge, Miss Willis,” she said.
Her tone was ironical and haughty, but calm and composed. No air of
wounded modesty--no averting of her eyes.
It was a tone so different from what had been expected, that Miss Willis
had not power to take in the new impressions it gave, and she replied--
“It is;” and then added, “nothing would have made me the medium of
giving you this pain, but the conviction that it was best you should
know what was said.”
“Oh! yes, it is best to know everything.”
The tone of her voice was so strangely cold, that Miss Willis became
perplexed, and remained silent.
“And what is to be done now?” Nora asked, in the same manner. “Has Mr.
Powderham arranged any plan by which this terrible charge is to be met?”
“Only what he before mentioned. He wishes you to let the matter be
investigated. It is your backwardness which has given rise to these
comments.”
She gasped, feeling guilty while she spoke her daring words.
“I understand,” Nora said. “In fear of what may be said of _me_, I am to
be driven to prosecute an innocent man. Is that it, Miss Willis?”
“No, surely not exactly,” Miss Willis said hurriedly; but she was
beginning to be abashed, to lose her clear thoughts on the subject--to
lose her head, in short.
“Is it not? It seems to me that I have stated the case _exactly_. Well,
Miss Willis, you may give this answer. They may say of me what they
please. I will _not_ do it; I will not do an unjust act from any selfish
reason whatever. Fortunately perhaps for me,”--but here a sigh came, and
her tone softened--“I am so accustomed to be suspected and
misunderstood, that the world’s opinion has little influence over me.
When will you give Mr. Powderham my message?” she asked suddenly.
“He will not return till to-morrow.”
“Well, come when he may, there it is ready for him. And you, Miss
Willis,”--and she fixed her piercing eyes upon the poor thing till she
cowered before them,--“is it possible you thought I would consent to
act thus? Could _you_ misunderstand me?”
“I hardly know.” Tears came into Miss Willis’s eyes. “You look on it in
so different a light. I felt ready to drop with shame, and did not
consider that it might be unjust. Forgive me. I admire your courage.”
Nora said no more; and after arranging her papers leisurely, left the
room.
CHAPTER XVIII.
But the calm outside, and the air of disdain, was an unfaithful picture
of the heart within.
Nora went slowly upstairs, lingering as she went, as if dreading to be
face to face with herself. But when her door closed, and she stood with
no eye upon her, the dreadful secret that had been dragged into light
met her and glared upon her.
For days and days she had been keeping it at bay. She had refused to
question the meaning of the new, strange, torturing feelings that
assailed her. She had said “It was bitter to be hated,” but had
repelled what might have been added--to be hated where she loved. But
the truth came forth now, and would not be denied utterance.
She loved him. He who scorned and hated her had been able to lure her
heart away; he whom she could neither esteem nor respect had won her; he
whom she had been endeavouring--in simple benevolence, as she
supposed--to befriend, had been like the strong man; he had broken in
and taken her dearest treasure, her self-respect, away.
The idea was torture. She crushed her fingers into the palms of her
hands to stay the rush of thought; but thoughts and bitter fancies would
not be stayed until this first agony was replaced by a reflection which
for the moment was bitterer still.
A proud spirit can bear its agony, but can scarcely bear the agony of
men’s eyes upon its pain. She was found out. Her agents, her servants,
were talking over her, were pitying her for her misplaced love. The
feelings inspired by this picture, when it presented itself before her,
may be imagined. Shame overpowered her; the demon of wounded pride took
possession of her. Her recent decision was forgotten. How to hide her
shame, how to deceive, how best to repel the charge, became the subject
of her thoughts.
There seemed but one way--to allow Mr. Powderham to do what he
wished--coldly and calmly to suffer them to persecute Henry as they
pleased. Something of a glad relief came over her when she thought of
having this remedy in her power.
It was a moment of exceeding bitterness; it was a moment in which,
unless God sent some good angel to save them, many women have cast the
peace of their life away for ever.
But a good angel came to Nora, and saved her from herself.
It was in the form of a poor woman. A message was brought to her that a
woman called Hannah Barlow wished to speak to her.
Her door was locked, and, glancing at her crimson cheeks in the glass,
she answered with unaccustomed sharpness that she was unable to see her.
But the sound of her sharp voice grated on her ears, and in moving, her
eye fell on a fine print of one of Raphael’s fair and calm Madonnas. The
contrast of this holy face to her own crimsoned cheeks and agitated
appearance struck her--as will sometimes strangely happen--with vivid
force; and she flew to the door and arrested the departing footsteps by
“No, James, beg her to wait. I will see her in five minutes.”
And, having cooled and calmed the outward rather than the inward man,
she went down in search of her.
The woman, Hannah Barlow, was the wife of the man who had been falsely
accused, and whom Henry had saved from committal for trial. Most of the
workmen employed about the house were navvies, but some of the higher
sort belonged to the place, and this was one. The woman was in great
distress. Although the case had been discharged by the magistrate, the
accusation lived on. The man was not popular, and his companions said
the discharge had been a job--“one of that Mr. Devereux’s jobs,” and
his life was not worth having with their taunts. She came to beg Nora to
speak to Squire Lubbock. What he could do she did not know, but he
_must_ do something to prove her husband’s innocence; to re-establish
his character in the eyes of the world.
The story excited Nora’s mind, and she listened attentively, and entered
eagerly into the question what could be done.
“The best might be to write to the young gentleman,” the woman said.
_He_ knew he was innocent. But then he was in a peck of trouble himself
she understood, and perhaps after all Squire Lubbock might be more
listened to just now. “It’s all lies they say of him,” she said. “I beg
pardon, my lady, for speaking, but it’s all lies just as much as the
tales against my poor man. The world is a pack of liars. Why now, my
lady, do you think if he’d been up to such a dreadful deed that he would
have gone with my poor man that day? Why, he was as vexed to go, John
says, as if he was to be hanged himself, and was well-nigh in a terrible
passion because Squire Lubbock kept him waiting; because, you see, he
wanted to meet you, my lady, after the terrible accident; but for all
that he wouldn’t leave my poor man in the lurch. What’s a little bit of
passion? He had his passions no doubt, and so has my poor man; but I’d
rather have a good passion now and again, than I’d have folks creeping
about with a saint’s smile on their lips and a serpent in their hearts.”
Nora could have embraced the woman as with eager, grateful ears she
drank in her words. She promised in some way to have her husband
reinstated in his proper place in public opinion, and when she left her
and returned to her own room, it was in an altered frame of mind.
Tears fell down her cheeks, but they were soft tears. Henry was not,
could not be unworthy of her love. He might hate her; he did hate her,
that she knew; but he might have been brought up to it. He was not
altogether unworthy. The poor woman evidently loved him; and so might
she, and not be ashamed. Her tears fell down--tears of humiliation, and
self-pity, and repentance; but the bitterness was past.
She roused herself from these reflections to consider how she was to
act. Her position was become difficult. That revelation of her secret
heart made it difficult. No more fearless acting. She shuddered as she
thought of her visit to Mr. Lubbock; and although she had promised,
shrank from bringing herself under his notice again. Every step seemed
bold and unmaidenly. The weakest girl scarcely gives her heart unsought,
and yet _she_ had done so. Trust and self-confidence and self-respect
were gone, and she was afraid.
In the course of the afternoon she was called down to Mr. and Mrs.
Elliott. The accusation against Henry had only reached their ears that
morning. At a meeting of gentry at the Spa, it had been mentioned to Mr.
Elliott. The mere fact of the accusation was told as a bit of gossip,
but there was an evident belief in its truth.
Mr. Elliott was in a state of mingled wrath and mirth, and had insisted
on being driven over to Riddlemere, a thing, as he told Nora, that had
not happened for twenty years.
“He considers a drive in a barouche in the light of a purgatory,” said
his wife, laughing; “nevertheless his anxiety for the fame of Henry
Devereux made him submit to it.”
“Anxiety! Not a bit of it!” he cried. “It’s the fun of the thing! Why,
he’s no more capable of carrying out such a plot than an infant in arms.
Let him call me as a witness; I’ll tell them what I think. If they ask
me if he set fire to the house, ‘Yes, gentlemen,’ I should say, ‘he’s a
youth with so few brains that I never sleep in peace in my house when
he’s there; a youth who reads a novel in bed, and tilts up a candle on
his pillow; but as to plotting to burn a house out of hate, he couldn’t
do it. He couldn’t do it any more than a wild colt could do it.’ I’ll be
hanged if the folly of the world is not enough to make one sick.”
The mists and clouds that had been enveloping Nora for some days blew
away. It was like morning light after a bad dream. She wondered what all
the misery had been about, and shook herself free from it with a thrill
of delight.
It is true that the happier mood was a little disturbed when Mr.
Elliott, having asked to see the letter he had heard about, read it.
“It’s the devil’s own writing,” he cried forcibly, and remained silent
while he read it over a second time.
The more mirthful view of the subject then returned, and he said,
“But if the devil chooses to write to a man, what can the man do but
what Henry did?--throw the letter on the floor!”
His desire, however, to satisfy his curiosity regarding the whole
subject made him, when Nora consulted him about the affair of the poor
man, catch at the idea of seeing Mr. Lubbock. He and Mrs. Elliott would
drive her to Mr. Lubbock’s, and return home by a shorter way. She could
have her carriage to meet her.
As Mr. Elliott was subject to rheumatism, and it was already late, Mrs.
Elliott offered some remonstrances against the plan; but he observed,
with wisdom, drawn perhaps from experience,
“If I was driven there against my will, I should certainly have my
rheumatics; but if I go with my will, rheumatics won’t dare to come.”
Mr. Lubbock, although most chivalrously desirous to attend to Nora’s
wishes, was yet unable to promise much help to the man Barlow. But he
made some observations which were useful to her in another way.
“Let him live the accusation down,” he said. “It is not a rapid remedy,
but it is a sure one. And if he would permit me, that is the advice I
would give to Mr. Devereux also. He is in this same trouble. Let him
live the accusation down. He knows his own innocence; let him scorn all
false imputations--trample them under his feet. Men must not be
milksops. They must learn to bear, as the best of men have borne, evil
report as well as good report.”
These observations occupied Nora on her way homewards, and stilled her,
both as regarded Henry and herself. Tongues were making free with both
their names. Let them both live the accusation down; both go steadfastly
on their way, not scorning, but not overmuch heeding the malicious
speeches of men. The lesson, in short, that she took to herself was to
have patience, that hardest lesson to learn; to wait and see--to wait
and trust--to beware of fierce passions; the impetuous impulses of a
discomposed mind.
On her return home, she found that Mr. Powderham had called again to
know her decision.
Now, to do him justice, had that decision been to place the matter in
his hands he intended to be very lenient. Fully expecting that such
would be the case, he had considered, as he returned to Riddlemere, how
he should act, so as to satisfy justice and yet please her; and several
half formed schemes were in his head.
But he was not to have the matter in his hands. Nora withstood him, Mr.
Lubbock withstood him, and even Miss Willis, who that very morning had
been a soft piece of wax in his fingers, gently yet firmly told him that
on further thought she believed Nora was right to pay no attention to
ill-natured remarks.
He was deeply wounded. So vain a man could not but be wounded to find
himself baffled by a girl. He was on his way to dine with a friend, and
had called at Riddlemere in cheerful spirits, intending only to have his
anxiety set at rest. As he recrossed the court to re-enter his gig his
steps were slow. He tried to think what course to pursue, but was too
angry and disappointed to be able to think as readily as usual. Henry
must and should feel his displeasure; must and should know the dreadful
suspicions which were entertained against him. How should he act?
While slowly walking, James Field saw him and joined him.
“Is anything to be done, sir?”
“Nothing.” He spoke sharply, angry at having to confess so much.
“Nothing at all, sir? I think it an extremely ill-judged decision.”
“So do I, Field, for the matter of that. I do not say, however, that I
shall do nothing. I was speaking of Miss Smith’s decision.”
“I understand, sir. Well, sir,” he added mildly, “the decision may be
wrong, but perhaps it is a natural one. It appears to me--but no doubt
you have already decided on your course of action.”
“Not quite. I was at that moment considering how best to satisfy my own
conscience and public opinion in the matter. To pass over the whole
affair seems monstrous.”
“It appears to me, sir, that the end you have in view may be simply
attained by ascribing the passing over of the transaction to Miss
Smith’s kind forbearance. It will be sufficient here, and it may be
sufficient also with Mr. Devereux. If you, sir, were to send him a
statement of the whole case, with the evidence against him, making known
to him, as to others, what kind influence had prevailed to shield him,
the effect would be--but I need not say more, you had probably thought
of something of the kind.”
“Partly. Not altogether. Yes, Field, I think your suggestion a proper
one. I will act upon it to-night. Be good enough to make another copy of
Mr. Devereux’s letter, and send it to my house by a messenger. I shall
be home early.”
He had not intended to be home early, but as he drove along he wrote a
letter in his imagination--so lofty, so majestic, so soothing to his own
wounded pride, and so telling to Henry, that he was in a fever until he
could write it down and send it off. After going a short distance, the
fever to write became predominant, the friend’s dinner was forsaken, he
turned his horse’s head and trotted home, calling for a copy of the
letter in his way. The letter was written and dispatched that night.
Mr. Powderham was not a cruel man. In all the domestic relations of
life, what are called its charities, he was a kind-hearted, amiable man;
but at this moment he not only wrote a cruel letter, but he intended it
to be so--to be so to a certain degree. He had his views of his duty,
and did not wish to go a step beyond; but he certainly did wish to
administer privately to Henry a little of that just rebuke which the
public had been prevented from expressing. This was the letter:--
“SIR,
“On the morning of your departure--your ill-advised departure--from
the scene of this disastrous fire, certain reports concerning you
arose. They were reports of a very unpleasant nature. In no long
time they reached my ear, and you may imagine the amazement, and I
will add the incredulity, with which at first I heard them. Such
was my amazement, that it was not until I had laid the facts of the
case before a legal friend, and seen the effect of those facts on
his mind, that my incredulity gave way to conviction. My opinion is
now formed, and I have told you of my hesitation, that you may
understand it was not formed hastily. That opinion is of a very
serious character.”
Mr. Powderham then made a short statement of the facts to which he had
alluded, directed Henry’s attention to the letter found and enclosed,
made a few apt and moral reflections on the tone of the letter, and the
general subject of passion and hate, and then proceeded:
“When suspicions which so seriously affect the character of an
individual are entertained, I, in my judgment, consider it the
right of an Englishman to have an opportunity to defend himself. It
was in this view that I expressed an opinion that it would be
proper to summon you, to answer for yourself before competent
judges. My opinion has been overruled. When the case was submitted
to Miss Smith, she declined to give her consent to any measures
which would make the investigation of a public character. The
natural gentleness of the female character, together with her
relations with your family, made her no doubt desirous to shield
you from public rebuke. I bow to her decision. I consider it,
however, my duty, as her agent and confidential adviser, to inform
you of the suspicions entertained. Should you have any means of
disproving the reception of the letter, of denying the violent
words reported to have been used, or in other ways of justifying
yourself, it will of course be a satisfaction to all your friends;
among which, I beg of you to include, sir,
“Your obedient servant,
“HORATIUS POWDERHAM.”
For a day or two, Henry had been tossing about London. No other word so
aptly expresses the state of his mind and feeling. Before the close of
the day on which he had spoken to his father, the sense of his folly had
replaced all other considerations in his mind. He became distracted as
he thought of what he had so hastily given up; distracted at having cut
himself off from a future and more zealous discharge of his trust. He
longed for Riddlemere, for the sight of the building, for his wild
rides over the heath, for his steady work in the office, with a longing
that could be compared to that of a heart-sick exile. “Fool,” he
repeated with a stamp of the foot, a hundred times a day as he trod
about the streets.
He could turn to no occupation. No theatre could allure him, no
diversion amuse. Although distracted with anxiety, he endeavoured to put
off thought, by repeating that it was useless to dwell on the future
until he heard more about the past.
About the past! There was one sweet faint hope which every now and then
intruded itself; and although not a calming one, for every vein
palpitated when it was indulged, it was sweet. He fancied that when the
excitement of the moment had passed by, and the fire began to be
forgotten--when Nora saw all he had done, and heard the cottagers talk
of him--his value would come to be acknowledged; that she would perhaps
invite, perhaps implore him to return.
A little vanity, and an honest sense that he had done well, aided this
dream; and while it floated before him, the stamping would cease and
softness relax his features.
But no sooner did he suffer the dream to get hold of him, no sooner
yield himself to its influence, than a blighting apparition of James
Field, accompanied by Mr. Powderham, would float between the dream and
him. What might they not say of him! Why had he left his reputation in
their hands! And as these reflections arose, the stamping and the
tossing about were renewed.
It was on the fourth morning, and it was in this mood of mind, that Mr.
Powderham’s letter was received.
Its effect was all--nay, far more than Mr. Powderham had anticipated or
wished.
END OF THE SECOND VOLUME.
LONDON: PRINTED BY MACDONALD AND TUGWELL, BLENHEIM HOUSE
Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:
the invitaton=> the invitation {pg 49}
unfeigned euriosity=> unfeigned curiosity {pg 80}
bounteons nature=> bounteous nature {pg 118}
Don’t yon see=> Don’t you see {pg 131}
more confortable=> more comfortable {pg 211}
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