It was a long time before it was fully understood in Dura what had
become of Ned. At first it was said he had gone on a visit, then that he
had joined some of his college friends in an expedition abroad; but
before spring it began to be fully understood, though nobody could tell
how, that Ned had gone off from his home, and that though occasional
letters came from him, his family did not always know where he was, or
what he was about. There was no distinct authority for this, but the
whole neighbourhood became gradually aware of it. The general idea was
that he had gone away because Norah Drummond had refused him; and the
consequence was that Norah Drummond was looked upon with a certain
mixture of disapproval and envy by the youthful community. The girls
felt to their hearts the grandeur of her position. Some were angry,
taking Ned's part, and declaring vehemently that she had 'led him on;'
some were sympathetic, feeling that poor Norah was to be pitied for the
tragical necessity of dismissing a lover; but all felt the proud
distinction she had acquired by thus driving a man (they did not say
boy) to despair. The boys, for the most part, condemned Ned as a
muff--but in their hearts felt a certain pride in him, as proving that
their side was still capable of a great act of decision and despair. As
for Norah, when the news burst upon her, her kind little heart was
broken. She cried till her pretty eyes were like an old woman's. She
gave herself a violent headache, and turned away from all consolation,
and denounced herself as the wickedest and cruellest of beings. It was
natural that Norah should believe it implicitly. After that scene in the
Rectory garden, when poor Ned, in his boyish passion, had half thrown
the responsibility of his life upon her shoulders, there had been other
scenes of a not unsimilar kind; and there was that last meeting at the
door of the Gatehouse, when she had dismissed him so summarily. Oh, if
he had only looked round, Norah thought; and she remembered, with a
passing gleam of consolation, that she had intended to wave her hand to
him. 'What shall I do? Oh, what shall I do?' she said, 'if--anything
should happen to him, mamma, I shall have killed him! If anybody calls
me a murderess, I shall not have a word to say.'
'Not so bad as that, my darling,' Helen said, soothing her; but Helen
herself was very deeply moved. This was the revenge, the punishment she
had dreamt of. By her means, whom he had injured so deeply, Reginald
Burton's only son had been driven away from him, and all his hopes and
plans for his boy brought to a sudden end. It was revenge; but the
revenge was not sweet. Christianity, heaven knows, has not done all for
us which it might have done, but yet it has so far changed the theories
of existence that the vague craving of the sufferer for punishment to
its oppressors gives little gratification when it is fulfilled. Helen
was humbled to the dust with remorse and compunction for the passing
thought, which could scarcely be called an intention, the momentary,
visionary sense of triumph she had felt in her daughter's power (as she
believed) to disturb all the plans of the others. Now that was done
which it had given her a vague triumph to think of; and though her tears
were not so near the surface as Norah's, her shame and pain were deeper.
And this was all the more the fact because she dared not express it. A
word of sympathy from her (she felt) would have looked like nothing so
much as the waving of a flag of triumph. And, besides, from Ned's own
family there came no word of complaint.
The Dura people put the very best face upon it possible. Mrs Burton, who
had never been known to show any emotion in her life, of course made
none of her feelings visible. Her husband declared that 'my young fool
of a son' preferred amusing himself abroad to doing any work at home.
Clara was the only one who betrayed herself. She assured Katie Dalton,
in confidence, that she never could bear to see that hateful Norah
again--that she was sure it was all her fault. That Ned would never have
looked at her had not she done everything in her power to 'draw him
on'--and then cast him off because somebody better worth having came in
her way. Clara's indignation was sharp and vehement. It was edged with
her own grievance, which she was not too proud to refer to in terms
which could not disguise her feelings. But she was the only one of her
house who allowed that Ned's disappearance had any significance. His
mother said nothing at all on the subject even to her husband and her
child; but in reality it was the severest blow that fate had ever aimed
at her. Her hopes for his 'career' toppled over like a house of cards.
The Merewethers, astounded at the apology which had to be sent in reply
to their invitation to Ned for Christmas, suddenly slackened in their
friendship. Lady Florizel ceased to write to Clara, and the Marchioness
sent no more notes, weighted with gilded coronets, to her dear Mrs
Burton. So far as that noble household was concerned, Ned's prospects
had come to an end. The son of so rich a man, future proprietor of Dura,
might have been accepted had he been on the spot to press his suit; but
the Ladies Merewether were young and fair, and not so poor as to be
pressed upon any one. So Lady Florizel and the parliamentary influence
sunk into the background; and keenly to the intellectual machine, which
served Mrs Burton instead of a heart, went the blow. This was the
moment, she felt, in which Ned could have made himself 'safe,' and
disentangled himself from the fatal web which instinct told her her
husband was weaving about his feet. There was no confidence on business
matters between Mr Burton and his wife; but a woman cannot be a man's
constant companion for twenty years without divining him, and
understanding, without the aid of words, something of what is going on
in his mind. She had felt, even before Golden's arrival, a certain
vague sense of difficulty and anxiety. His arrival made her sure of it.
He had been abroad, withdrawn from the observation of English mercantile
society for all these years; but his talents as the pilot of a ship,
desperately making way through rocks and sandbanks, were sufficiently
well known; and his appearance was confirmation sure to Mrs Burton of
all her fears. Thus she felt in her reticent, silent breast that her boy
had thrown up his only chance. The son of the master of Dura could have
done so much--the son of a bankrupt could do nothing. He might have
withdrawn himself from all risk--established himself in a sure
position--had he taken her advice; and he had not taken it. It was the
hardest personal blow she had ever received. It did not move her to
tears, as it would have done most women. She had not that outlet for her
sorrow; but it disarranged the intellectual machinery for the moment,
and made her feel incapable of more thinking or planning. Even her
motherhood had thus its anguish, probably as deep an anguish as she was
capable of feeling. She was balked once more--her labour was in vain,
and her hopes in vain. She had more mind than all of her family put
together, and she knew it; but here once more, as so often in her
experience, the fleshly part in which she was so weak overrode the mind,
and brought its counsels to nought. It would be hard to estimate the
kind and degree of suffering which such a conviction brought.
Time went on, however, as it always does; stole on, while people were
thinking of other things, discussing Ned's disappearance and Norah's
remorse, and Mr Nicholas's hopes of a living, and Mary's trousseau. When
the first faint glimmer of the spring began, they had another thing to
talk of, which was that Cyril Rivers had appeared on the scene again,
often coming down from London to spend a day, and then so ingratiating
himself with the Rectory people, and even with Nicholas, the bridegroom
elect, that now and then he was asked to spend a night. This time,
however, he was not invited to the great house; neither would Mrs
Drummond ask him, though he was constantly there. She was determined
that nobody should say she drew him on this time, people said. But the
fact was that Helen's heart was sick of the subject altogether, and that
she would have gone out of her way to avoid any one who had been
connected with the Burtons, or who might be supposed to minister to that
revenge of which she was so bitterly ashamed. While Cyril Rivers went
and came to Dura village, Mr Golden became an equally frequent visitor
at the House. The city men in the white villas had been filled with
consternation at the first sight of him; but latterly began to make
stiff returns to his hearty morning salutations when he went up to town
along with them. It was so long ago; and nothing positively had been
proved against him; and it was hard, they said, to crush a man
altogether, who, possibly, was trying to amend his ways. Perhaps they
would have been less charitable had he been living anywhere else than at
the great house. Gradually, however, his presence became expected in
Dura; he was always there when there were guests or festivities going
on. And never had the Burtons been so gay. They seemed to celebrate
their son's departure by a double rush of dissipation. The idea of any
trouble being near so pleasant, so brilliant a place was ridiculous, and
whatever Mrs Burton's thoughts on the subject might have been, she said
nothing, but sent out her invitations, and assembled her guests with her
usual calm. The Rectory people were constantly invited, and so indeed
were the Drummonds, though neither Norah nor her mother had the heart to
go.
Things were in this gay and festive state when Mr Baldwin suddenly one
morning paid his daughter a visit. It was not one of his usual visits,
accompanied by the two aunts, and the old man-servant and the two maids.
These visits had grown rarer of late. Mrs Burton had so many guests, and
of such rank, that to arrange the days for her father on which the
minister of the chapel could be asked to dinner, and a plain joint
provided, grew more and more difficult; while the old people grew more
and more alarmed and indignant at the way Clara was going on. 'Her dress
alone must cost a fortune,' her aunt Louisa said. 'And the boy brought
up as if he were a young Lord; and the girl never to touch a needle nor
an account-book in her life,' said Mrs Everest; and they all knew by
experience that to 'speak to' Clara was quite futile. 'She will take her
own way, brother, whatever you say,' was the verdict of both; and Mr
Baldwin knew it was a true one. Nevertheless, there came a day when he
felt it was his duty to speak to Clara. 'I have something to say to
Haldane; and something to arrange with the chapel managers,' he said
apologetically to his sisters; and went down all alone, in his black
coat and his white tie with his hat very much on the back of his head,
to his daughter's great house.
'I have got some business with Haldane and with the chapel managers,'
he said, repeating his explanation; 'and I thought as I was here, Clara,
I might as well come on and see you.'
'You are very welcome always, papa.'
'But I don't know if I shall be welcome to-day,' he went on, 'because I
want to speak to you, Clara.'
'I know,' she said, with a faint smile, 'about our extravagance and all
that. It is of no use. I may as well say this to you at once. I cannot
stop it if I would; and I don't know that I would stop it if I could.'
'Do you know,' he said, coming forward to her, and laying his hand on
her shoulder; for though he wore his hat on the back of his head, and
took the chair at public meetings, he was a kind man, and loved his only
child. Do you know, Clara, that in the City--you may despise the City,
my dear, but it is all-important to your husband--do you know they say
Burton is going too fast? I wish I could contradict it, but I can't.
They say he's in a bad way. They say----'
'Tell me everything, papa. I am quite able to bear it.'
'Well, my dear, I don't want to make you unhappy,' said Mr Baldwin,
drawing a long breath, 'but people do begin to whisper, in the
best-informed circles, that he is very heavily involved.'
'Well?' she said looking up at him. She too drew a long breath, her
face, perhaps, paled by the tenth of the tint. But her blue eyes looked
up undaunted, without a shadow in them. Her composure, her calm
question, drove even Mr Baldwin, who was used to his daughter's ways,
half out of himself.
'Well?' he cried. 'Clara, you must be mad. If this is so, what can you
think of yourself, who never try to restrain or to remedy?--who never
made an attempt to retrench or save a penny? If your husband has even
the slightest shadow of embarrassment in his business, is this great,
splendid house, full of guests and entertainments, the way to help him
through?'
'It is as good a way as any other,' she said, still looking at him.
'Papa, you speak in ignorance of both him and me. I don't know his
circumstances; he does not tell me. It is he that enjoys all this; not
me. And if he really should be in danger, I suppose he thinks he had
better enjoy it as long as he can; and that is my idea too.'
'Enjoy it as long as he can! Spend other people's money in every kind of
folly and extravagance!' cried Mr Baldwin aghast. 'Clara, you must be
mad.'
'No, indeed,' she said quietly. 'I am very much in my senses. I know
nothing about other people's money. I cannot control Mr Burton in his
business, and he does not tell me. But don't suppose I have not thought
this all over. I have taken every circumstance into consideration, papa,
and every possibility. If we should ever be ruined, we shall have plenty
to bear when that comes. There is Clary to be taken into consideration
too. If there were only two days between Mr Burton and bankruptcy I
should give a ball on one of those days. Clary has a right to it. This
will be her only moment if what you say is true.'
To describe Mr Baldwin's consternation, his utter amazement, the eyes
with which he contemplated his child, would be beyond my power. He could
not, as people say, believe his ears. It seemed to him as if he must be
mistaken, and that her words must have some other meaning, which he did
not reach.
'Clara,' he said, faltering, 'you are beyond me. I hope you understand
yourself--what--you mean. It is beyond me.'
'I understand it perfectly,' she said; and then, with a little change of
tone, 'You understand, papa, that I would not speak so plainly to any
one but you. But to you I need not make any secret. If it comes to the
worst, Clary and I--Ned has deserted us--will have enough to bear.'
'You will always have your settlement, my dear,' said her father, quite
cowed and overcome, he could not tell why.
'Yes. I shall have my settlement,' she said calmly; 'but there will be
enough to bear.'
It was rather a relief to the old man when Clary came in, before whom
nothing more could be said. And he was glad to hurry off again, with
such astonishment and pain in his heart as an honest couple might have
felt who had found a perverse fairy changeling in their child's cradle.
He had thought that he knew his daughter. 'Clara has a cold exterior,'
he had said times without number; 'but she has a warm heart.' Had she a
heart at all? he asked himself; had she a conscience? What was she?--a
woman or a----The old man could have stopped on the way and wept. He was
an honest old man, and a kind, but what kind of a strange being was this
whom he had nourished so long in his heart? It was a relief to him to
get among his chapel managers, and regulate their accounts; and then he
took Mr Truston, the minister, by the arm, and walked upon him. 'Come
with me and see Haldane,' he said. Mr Truston was the same man who had
wanted to be faithful to Stephen about the Magazine, but never had
ventured upon it yet.
'I am afraid you are ill,' said the minister. 'Lean upon me. If you will
come to my house and take a glass of wine.'
'No, no; with my daughter so near I should never be a charge to the
brethren,' said Mr Baldwin. 'And so poor Haldane gets no better? It is a
terrible burden upon the congregation in Ormond Road.'
'It must be indeed. I am sure they have been very kind; many
congregations----'
'Many congregations would have thrown off the burden utterly; and I
confess since they have heard that he has published again, and has been
making money by his books----'
'Ah, yes; a literary man has such advantages,' said the minister with a
sigh.
He did not want to favour the congregation in Ormond Road to the
detriment of one of his own cloth; and at the same time it was hard to
go against Mr Baldwin, the lay bishop of the denomination. In this way
they came to the Gatehouse. Stephen had his proofs before him, as usual;
but the pile of manuscripts was of a different complexion. They were no
longer any pleasure to him. The work was still grateful, such as it was,
and the power of doing something; but to spend his life recording
tea-meetings was hard. He raised his eyes to welcome his old friend with
a certain doubt and almost alarm. He too knew that he was a burden upon
the congregation in Ormond Road.
'My dear fellow, my dear Stephen!' the old man said, very cordially
shaking his hand, 'why you are looking quite strong. We shall have him
dashing up to Ormond Road again, Mrs Haldane, and giving out his text,
before we know where we are.'
Stephen shook his head, with such attempt at smiling as was possible. Mr
Baldwin, however, was not so much afraid of breaking bad news to him as
he had been at the great house.
'It is high time you should,' he continued, rubbing his hands
cheerfully; 'for the friends are falling sadly off. We want you there,
or somebody like you, Haldane. How we are to meet the expenses next year
is more than I can say.'
A dead silence followed. Miss Jane, who had been arranging Stephen's
books in the corner, stopped short to listen. Mrs Haldane put on her
spectacles to hear the better; and poor Mr Truston, dragged without
knowing it into the midst of such a scene, looked around him as if
begging everybody's forbearance, and rubbed his hands faintly too.
'The fact is, my dear Haldane--it was but for five years--and now we've
come to the end of the second five--and you have been making money by
your books, people say----'
It was some little time before Stephen could answer, his lips had grown
so dry. 'I think--I know--what you mean,' he said.
'Yes. I am afraid that is how it must be. Not with my will--not with my
will,' said Mr Baldwin; 'but then you see people say you have been
making money by your books.'
'He has made sixteen pounds in two years,' said Miss Jane.
Stephen held up his hand hurriedly. 'I know how it must be,' he said.
'Everybody's patience, of course, must give way at last.'
'Yes--that is just about how it is.'
There was very little more said. Mr Baldwin picked up his hat, which he
had put on the floor, and begged the minister to give him his arm again.
He shook hands very affectionately with everybody; he gave them, as it
were, his blessing. They all bore it as people ought to bear a great
shock, with pale faces, without any profane levity. 'They take it very
well,' he said, as he went out. 'They are good people. Oh, my dear
Truston, I don't know a greater sign of the difference between the
children of this world and the children of the light than the way in
which they receive a sudden blow.'
He had given two such blows within an hour; he had a right to speak. And
in both cases, different as was the mien of the sufferers, the blow
itself had all the appearance of a _coup de grâce_. It had not occurred
to Mr Baldwin, when he made that classification, that it was his own
child whom he had taken as the type of the children of wrath. He thought
of it in the railway, going home; and it troubled him. 'Poor Clara! her
brain must be affected,' he thought; he had never heard of anything so
heathenish as her boldly-professed determination to give a ball, if need
was, on the eve of her husband's bankruptcy, and for the reason that
they would have a right to it. It horrified him a great deal more than
if she had risked somebody else's money in trade and lost. Poor Clara!
what might be coming upon her? But, anyhow, he reflected, she had her
settlement, and that she was a child of many prayers.
Mrs Burton said nothing of this stroke which had fallen upon her. It
made her fears into certainty, and she took certain steps accordingly,
but told nobody. In Stephen's room at the Gatehouse there was silence,
too, all the weary afternoon. They had lost the half of their living at
a blow. The disaster was too great, too sudden and overwhelming, to be
spoken of; and to one of them, to him who was helpless and could do
nothing, it tasted like the very bitterness of death.