Mrs Burton said nothing about her troubles to any one: she avoided
rather than sought confidential intercourse with her husband. She formed
her plans and declined to receive any further information on the
subject. Her argument to herself was that no one could have any right to
suppose she knew. When the crash came, if come it must, she would be
universally considered the first of the victims. The very fact of her
entertainments and splendours would be so much evidence that she knew
nothing about it--and indeed what did she know? her own fears and
suspicions, her father's hints of coming trouble--nothing more. Her
husband had never said a warning word to her which betrayed alarm or
anxiety. She stood on the verge of the precipice, which she felt a moral
certainty was before her, and made her arrangements like a queen in the
plenitude of her power. 'There will be enough to bear,' she repeated to
herself. She called all the county about her in these spring months
before people had as yet gone to town. She made Dura blaze with lights
and echo with music: she filled it full of guests. She made her
entertainments on so grand a scale, that everything that had hitherto
been known there was thrown into the shade. The excitement, so far as
excitement could penetrate into her steady little soul, sustained and
kept her up; or at least the occupation did, and the thousand
arrangements, big and little, which were necessary. If her husband was
ever tempted to seek her sympathy in these strange, wild, brilliant days
which passed like a dream--if the burden on his shoulders ever so bowed
the man down that he would have been glad to lean it upon hers, it is
impossible to say; he looked at her sometimes wondering what was in her
mind; but he was not capable of understanding that clear, determined
intelligence. He thought she had got fairly into the whirl of mad
dissipation and enjoyed it. She was playing into his hands, she was
doing the best that could be done to veil his tottering steps, and
divert public attention from his business misfortunes. He had no more
idea why she was doing it, or with what deliberate conscious steps she
was marching forward to meet ruin, than he had of any other
incomprehensible wonder in heaven or earth.
The Haldanes made no secret of the distress which had fallen upon them.
It was a less loss than the cost of one of Mrs Burton's parties, but it
was unspeakable to them who had no way of replacing it. By one of those
strange coincidences, however, which occur so often when good people are
driven to desperation, Stephen's publisher quite unexpectedly sent him
in April a cheque for fifty pounds, the produce of his last book, a book
which he had called 'The Window,' and which was a kind of moral of his
summer life and thoughts. It was not, he himself thought, a very good
book; it was a medley of fine things and poor things, not quite free
from that personal twaddle which it is so difficult to keep out of an
invalid's or a recluse's view of human affairs. But then the British
public is fond of personal twaddle, and like those bits best which the
author was most doubtful about. It was a cheap little work, published by
one of those firms which are known as religious publishers; and nothing
could be more unexpected, more fortunate, more consoling, than this
fifty pounds. Mrs Haldane, with a piety which, perhaps, was a little
contemptuous of poor Stephen's powers, spoke of it, with tears in her
eyes, as an answer to prayer; while Miss Jane, who was proud of her
brother, tried to apportion the credit, half to Providence and half to
Stephen; but anyhow it made up the lost allowance for the current year,
and gave the poor souls time to breathe.
All this time the idea which had come into Dr Maurice's mind on the day
of the picnic in October had been slowly germinating. He was not a man
whose projects ripened quickly, and this was a project so delicate that
it took him a long time to get it fully matured, and to accustom himself
to it. It had come to full perfection in his mind when in the end of
April Mrs Drummond received a letter from him, inviting Norah and
herself to go to his house for a few days, to see the exhibitions and
other shows which belong to that period of the year. This was an
invitation which thrilled Norah's soul within her. She was at a very
critical moment of her life. She had lost the honest young lover of her
childhood, the boy whose love and service had grown so habitual to her
that nobody but Norah knew how dreary the winter had been without him;
and she was at present exposed to the full force of attentions much more
close, much more subtle and skilful, but perhaps not so honest and
faithful. Norah had exchanged the devotion of a young man who loved her
as his own soul, for the intoxicating homage of a man who was very much
in love with her, but who knew that his prospects would be deeply
injured, and his position compromised, did he win the girl whom he wooed
with all the fascinations of a hero in a romance, and all the
persistency of a mind set upon having its own way. His whole soul was
set upon winning her; but what to do afterwards was not so clear, and
Rivers, like many another adventurer in love and in war, left the morrow
to provide for itself. But Norah was very reluctant to be won.
Sometimes, indeed, capitulation seemed very near at hand, but then her
lively little temper would rise up again, or some hidden susceptibility
would be touched, or the girl's independent soul would rise in arms
against the thought of being subjugated like a young woman in a book by
this 'novel-hero!' What were his dark eyes, his speaking glances, his
skilful inference of a devotion above words, to her? Had not she read
about such wiles a thousand times? And was it not an understood rule
that the real hero, the true lover, the first of men, was never this
bewitching personage, but the plainer, ruder man in the background,
with perhaps a big nose, who was not very lovely to look upon? These
thoughts contended in Norah with the fascinations of him whom she began
to think of as the _contre-heros_. The invitation to London was doubly
welcome to her, insomuch that it interrupted this current of thought and
gave her something new to think about. She was fond of Dr Maurice: she
had not been in town since she was a child: she wanted to see the parks
and the pictures, and all the stir and tumult of life. For all these six
years, though Dura was so near town, the mother and daughter had never
been in London. And it looked so bright to Norah, bright with all the
associations of her childhood, and full of an interest which no other
place could ever have in its associations with the terrible event which
ended her childhood. 'You will go, mamma?' she said, wistfully reading
the letter a second time over her mother's shoulder. And Helen, who felt
the need of an interruption and something new to think of as much as her
child did, answered 'Yes.'
Dr Maurice was more excited about the approaching event than they were,
though he had to take no thought about his wardrobe, and they had to
take a great deal of thought; the question of Norah's frocks was nothing
to his fussiness and agitation about the ladies' rooms and all the
arrangements for their comfort. He invited an old aunt who lived near to
come and stay with him for the time of the Drummonds' visit, a
precaution which seemed to her, as it seems to me, quite unnecessary. I
do not think Helen would have had the least hesitation in going to his
house at her age, though there had been no chaperon. It was he who
wanted the chaperon: he was quite coy and bashful about the business
altogether: and the old aunt, who was a sharp old lady, was not only
much amused, but had her suspicions aroused. In the afternoon, before
his visitors arrived, he was particularly fidgety. 'If you want to go
out, Henry, I will receive your guests,' the old lady said, not without
a chuckle of suppressed amusement; 'probably they will only arrive in
time to get dressed before dinner. You may leave them to me.'
'You are very kind,' said the doctor, but he did not go away. He walked
from one end of the big drawing-room to the other, and looked at himself
in the mirror between the windows, and the mirror over the mantelpiece.
And then he took up his position before the fireplace, where of course
there was nothing but cut paper. 'How absurd are all the relations
between men and women,' he said, 'and how is it that I cannot
ask my friend's widow, a woman in middle life, to come to my
house--without----'
'Without having me?' said the aunt. 'My dear Henry, I have told you
before--I think you could. I have no patience with the freedom of the
present day in respect to young people, but, so far as this goes, I
think you are too particular--I am sure you could----'
'You must allow me to be the best judge, aunt, of a matter that concerns
myself,' said Dr Maurice, with gentle severity. 'I know very well what
would happen: there would be all sorts of rumours and reports. People
might not, perhaps, say there was anything absolutely wrong between
us--Pray may I ask what you are laughing at?'
For the old lady had interrupted him by a low laugh, which it was beyond
her power to keep in.
'Nothing, my dear, nothing,' she said, in a little alarm. 'I am sure I
beg your pardon, Henry. I had no idea you were so sensitive. How old may
this lady be?'
'The question is not about this lady, my dear aunt,' he answered in the
dogmatic impatient tone which was so unlike him, 'but about any lady. It
might happen to be a comfort to me to have a housekeeper I could rely
on. It would be a great pleasure to be able to contribute to the
comfort of Robert Drummond's family, poor fellow. But I dare not. I know
the arrangement would no sooner be made than the world would say all
sorts of things. How old is Mrs Drummond? She was under twenty when they
were married, I know--and poor Drummond was about my own age. That is,
let me see, how long ago? Norah is about eighteen, between eighteen and
nineteen. Her mother must be nearly, if not quite, forty, I should
think----'
'Then, my dear Henry----' began the old lady.
'Why, here they are!' he said, rushing to the window. But it was only a
cab next door, or over the way. He went back to his position with a
little flush upon his middle-aged countenance. 'My dear aunt,' he
resumed, with a slight tremor in his voice, 'it is not a matter that can
be discussed, I assure you. I know what would happen; and I know that
poor Helen--I mean Mrs Drummond--would never submit to anything that
would compromise her as Norah's mother. Even if she were not very
sensitive on her own account, as women generally are, as Norah's mother
of course she requires to be doubly careful. And here am I, the oldest
friend they have, as fond of that child as if she were my own, and
prevented by an absurd punctilio from taking them into my house, and
doing my best to make her happy! As I said before, the relations between
men and women are the most ridiculous things in the world.'
'But I do think, Henry, you make too much of the difficulties,' said the
old aunt, busying herself with her work, and not venturing to say more.
'You must allow me to be the best judge,' he said, with a mixture of
irritation and superiority. 'You may know the gossip of the
drawing-rooms, which is bad enough, I don't doubt; but I know what _men_
say.'
'Oh, then, indeed, my poor Henry,' said the old lady, with vivacity,
eagerly seizing the opportunity to have one shot on her own side, 'I can
only pray, Good Lord deliver you; for everybody knows there never was a
bad piece of scandal yet, but it was a man that set it on foot.'
Aunt Mary thus had the last word, and retired with flying colours and in
very high feather from the conflict; for at this moment the Drummonds
arrived, and Dr Maurice rushed down-stairs to meet them. The old aunt
was a personage very well worth knowing, though she has very little to
do with this history, and it was with mingled curiosity and amusement
that she watched for the entrance of Mrs Drummond and her daughter. It
would be a very wise step for him anyhow to marry, she thought. The
Maurice family were very well off, and there were not many young
offshoots of the race to contend for the doctor's money. Was he
contemplating the idea of a wife young enough to be his daughter? or had
he really the good sense to think of a woman about his own age? Aunt
Mary, though she was a woman herself, and quite ready to stand up for
her own side, considered Helen Drummond, under forty, as about his own
age, though he was over fifty. But as the question went through her
mind, she shook her head. She knew a great many men who had made fools
of themselves by marrying, or wishing to marry, the girl young enough to
be their daughter; but the other class who had the good sense, &c., were
very rare indeed.
There was, however, very little light thrown upon the subject by Aunt
Mary's observations that evening. Mrs Drummond was very grave, almost
sad; for the associations of the house were all melancholy ones, and her
last visit to it came back very closely into her memory as she entered
one room--the great old gloomy dining-room--where Norah, a child, had
been placed by Dr Maurice's side at table on that memorable occasion,
while she, unable even to make a pretence of eating, sat and looked on.
She could not go back now into the state which her mind had been in on
that occasion. Everything was calmed and stilled, nay, chilled by this
long interval. She could think of her Robert without the sinking of the
heart--the sense of hopeless loneliness--which had moved her then. The
wound had closed up: the blank, if it had not closed up, had acquired
all the calmness of a long-recognized fact. She had made up her mind
long since that the happiness which she could not then consent to part
with, was over for her. That is the great secret of what is called
resignation: to consent and agree that what you have been in the habit
of calling happiness is done with; that you must be content to fill its
place with something else, something less. Helen had come to this. She
no longer looked for it--no longer thought of it. It was over for her,
as her youth was over. Her heart was tried, not by active sorrow, but by
a heavy sense of past pain; but that did not hinder her from taking her
part in the conversation--from smiling at Norah's sallies, at her
enthusiasm, at all the height of her delight in the pleasure Dr Maurice
promised her. Norah was the principal figure in the scene. She was
surrounded on every side by that atmosphere of fond partiality in which
the flowers of youth are most ready to unfold themselves. Dr Maurice was
even fonder than her mother, and more indulgent; for Helen had the
jealous eye which marks imperfections, and that intolerant and sovereign
love which cannot put up with a flaw or a speck in those it cherishes.
To Dr Maurice the specks and flaws were beauties. Norah led the
conversation, was gay for every one, talked for every one. And the old
aunt laughed within herself, and shook her head: 'He cannot keep his
eyes off her; he cannot see anything but perfection in her,--but she is
a mere excited child, and her mother is a beautiful woman,' said Aunt
Mary to herself; 'man's taste and woman's, it is to be supposed, will be
different to the end of time.' But after she had made this observation,
the old lady was struck by the caressing, fatherly ways of her nephew
towards this child. He would smooth her hair when he passed by her;
would take her hand into his, unconsciously, and pat it; would lay his
hand upon her shoulder; none of which things he would have ventured to
do had he meant to present himself to Norah as her lover. He even kissed
her cheek, when she said good-night, with uncontrollable fondness, yet
unmistakable composure. What did the man mean?
He had sketched out a very pretty programme for them for their three
days. Next evening they were to go to the theatre; the next again, to an
opera. Norah could not walk, she danced as she went up-stairs. 'The only
thing is, will my dress do?' she said, as she hung about her mother in
the pretty fresh room, new-prepared, and hung with bright chintz, in
which Mrs Drummond was lodged. Could it have been done on purpose? For
certainly the other rooms in the house still retained their dark old
furniture; dark-coloured, highly-polished mahogany, with deep red and
green damask curtains--centuries old, as Norah thought. Mrs Drummond was
surprised, too, at the aspect of this room. She was more than surprised,
she was almost offended, by the presence of the old aunt as chaperon.
'Does the man think I am such a fool as to be afraid of him?' she
wondered, with a frown and a smile, but gave herself up to Norah's
pleasure, rejoicing to see that the theatre and the opera were strong
enough to defeat for the moment and drive from the field both Cyril and
Ned. And the next day, and the next, passed like days of paradise to
Norah. She drove about in Dr Maurice's carriage, and laughed at her own
grandeur, and enjoyed it. She called perpetually to her mother to notice
ladies walking who were like themselves. 'That is what you and I should
be doing, if it were not for this old darling of a doctor! trudging
along in the sun, getting hot and red----'
'But think, you little sybarite, that is what we shall be doing
to-morrow,' cried Helen, half amused and half afraid.
'No, the day after to-morrow,' said Norah, 'and then it will be
delightful. We can look at the people in the carriages, and say, "We are
as good as you;--we looked down upon you yesterday." And, mamma, we are
going to the opera to-night!'
'You silly child,' Helen said. But to eyes that danced so, and cheeks
that glowed so, what could any mother say?
It was the after-piece after that opera, however, which was what neither
mother nor daughter had calculated upon, but which, no doubt, was the
special cause of their invitation, and of the new chintz in the
bed-rooms, and of all the expense Dr Maurice had been at. Norah was
tired when they got home. She had almost over-enjoyed herself. She
chatted so that no one could say a word. Her cheeks were blazing with
excitement. When the two elder people could get a hearing, they sent her
off to bed, though she protested she had not said half she had to say.
'Save it up for to-morrow,' said Dr Maurice, 'and run off and put
yourself to bed, or I shall have you ill on my hands. Mrs Drummond, send
her away.'
'Go, Norah, dear, you are tired,' said Helen.
Norah stood protesting, with her pretty white cloak hanging about her;
her rose-ribbons a little in disorder; her eyes like two sunbeams. How
fondly her old friend looked at her; with what proud, tender, adoring,
fatherly admiration! If Aunt Mary had not been away in bed, then at
least she must have divined. Dr Maurice lit her candle and took her to
the door. He stooped down suddenly to her ear and whispered, 'I have
something to say to your mother.' Norah could not have explained the
sensation that came over her. She grew chill to her very fingers' ends,
and gave a wondering glance at him, then accepted the candle without a
word, and went away. The wonder was still in her eyes when she got
up-stairs, and looked at herself in the glass. Instead of throwing off
her cloak to see how she looked, as is a girl's first impulse, she
stared blankly into the glass, and could see nothing but that surprise.
What could he be going to talk about? What would her mother say?
Helen had risen to follow her daughter, but Dr Maurice came back, having
closed the door carefully, and placed a chair for her. 'Mrs Drummond,
can you give me ten minutes? I have something to say to you,' he said.
'Surely,' said Helen; and she took her seat, somewhat surprised; but not
half so much surprised as Norah was, nor, indeed, so much as Dr Maurice
was, now that matters had finally come to a crisis, to find himself in
such an extraordinary position. Helen ran lightly over in her mind a
number of subjects on which he might be going to speak to her; but the
real subject never entered her thoughts. He did not sit down, though he
had given her a chair. He moved about uneasily in front of her, changing
his attitude a dozen times in a minute, and clearing his throat. 'He is
going to offer me money for Norah,' was Helen's thought.
'Mrs Drummond,' he said--and his beginning confirmed her in her idea--'I
am not a--marrying man, as you know. I am--past the age--when men think
of such things. I am on the shady side of fifty, though not very far
gone; and you are--about forty, I suppose?'
'Thirty-nine,' said Helen, with more and more surprise, and yet with the
natural reluctance of a woman to have a year unjustly added to her age.
'Well, well, it is very much the same thing. I never was in love that I
know of, at least not since;--and--and--that sort of thing, of course,
is over for--you.'
'Dr Maurice, what do you mean?' cried Helen in dismay.
'Well, it is not very hard to guess,' he said doggedly. 'I mean that you
are past the love-business, you know, and I--never came to it, so to
speak. Look here, Helen Drummond, why shouldn't you and I, if it comes
to that--marry? If I durst do it I'd ask you to come and live here, and
let Norah be child to both of us, without any nonsense between you and
me. But that can't be done, as you will easily perceive. Now, I am sure
we could put up with one another as well as most people, and we have one
strong bond between us in Norah--and--I could give her everything she
wishes for. I could and I would provide for her when I die. You are not
one to want pretences made to you, or think much of a sacrifice for your
child's sake. I am not so vain but to allow that it might be a
sacrifice--to us both.'
'Dr Maurice,' said Helen, half laughing, half sobbing, 'if this is a
joke----'
'Joke! am I in the way of making such jokes? Why, it has cost me six
months to think this joke out. There is no relaxation of the necessary
bonds that I would not be ready to allow. You know the house and my
position, and everything I could offer. As for settlements, and all
business of that kind----'
'Hush,' she said. 'Stop!' She rose up and held out her hand to him.
There were tears in her eyes; but there was also a smile on her face,
and a blush which went and came as she spoke. 'Dr Maurice,' she said,
'don't think I cannot appreciate the pure and true friendship for Robert
and me----'
'Just so, just so!' he interposed, nodding his head; he put his other
hand on hers, and patted it as he had patted Norah's, but he did not
again look her in the face. The elderly bachelor had grown shy--he did
not know why; the most curious sensation, a feeling quite unknown to him
was creeping about the region of his heart.
'And the love for Norah----' resumed Helen.
'Just so, just so.'
'Which have made you think of this. But--but--but----' She stopped; she
had been running to the side of tears, when suddenly she changed her
mind. 'But I think it is all a mistake! I am quite ready to come and
stay with you, to keep house for you, to let you have Norah's company,
when you like to ask us. I don't want any chaperon. Your poor, dear,
good aunt! Dr Maurice,' cried Helen, her voice rising into a hysterical
laugh, 'I assure you it is all a mistake.'
He let her hand drop out of his. He turned away from her with a shrug of
his shoulders. He walked to the table and screwed up the moderator lamp,
which had run down. Then he came back to his former position and said,
'I am much more in the world than you are; you will permit me to
consider myself the best judge in this case. It is not a mistake. And I
have no answer from you to my proposal as yet.'
Then Helen's strength gave way. The more serious view which she had
thrust from her, which she had rejected as too solemn, came back. The
blush vanished from her face, and so did the smile. 'You were his
friend,' she said with quivering lips. 'You loved him as much as any one
could, except me. Have you forgotten you are speaking to--Robert's
wife?'
'Good lord!' cried Dr Maurice with sudden terror; 'but he is dead.'
'Yes, he is dead; but I do not see what difference that makes; when a
woman has once been a man's wife, she is so always. If there is any
other world at all, she must be so always. I hate the very name of
widow!' cried Helen vehemently, with the tears glittering in her eyes.
'I abhor it; I don't believe in it. I am his wife!'
Dr Maurice was a man who had always held himself to be invincible to
romantic or high-flown feelings. But somehow he was startled by this
view of the question. It had not occurred to him before; for the moment
it staggered him, so that he had to pause and think it over. Then he
said, 'Nonsense!' abruptly. 'Mrs Drummond, I cannot think that such a
view as this is worth a moment's consideration; it is against both
reason and common sense.'
She did not make any reply; she made a movement of her hand,
deprecating, expostulating, but she would not say any more.
'And Scripture, too,' said Dr Maurice triumphantly, 'it is quite against
Scripture.' Then he remembered that this was not simply an argument in
which he was getting the better, but a most practical question. 'If it
is disagreeable to you, it is a different matter,' he said; 'but I had
hoped, with all the allowances I was ready to make, and for Norah's
sake----'
'It is not disagreeable, Dr Maurice; it is simply impossible, and must
always be so,' she said.
Then there was another silence, and the two stood opposite to each
other, not looking at each other, longing both for something to free
them. 'In that case I suppose there had better be no more words on the
subject,' he said, turning half away.
'Except thanks,' she cried; 'thanks for the most generous thoughts, the
truest friendship. I will never forget----'
'I do not know how far it was generous,' he said moodily, and he got
another candle and lighted it for her, as he had done for Norah; 'and
the sooner you forget the better. Good night.'
Good night! When he looked round the vacant room a moment after, and
felt himself alone, it seemed to Dr Maurice as if he had been dreaming.
He must have fallen down suddenly from some height or other--fallen
heavily and bruised himself, he thought--and so woke up out of an odd
delusion quite unlike him, which had arisen he could not tell how. It
was a very curious sensation. He felt sore and downcast, sadly
disappointed and humbled in his own conceit. It had not even occurred to
him that the matter might end in this way. He gave a long sigh, and said
aloud, 'Perhaps it is quite as well it has ended so. Probably we should
not have liked it had we tried it,' and then went up to his lonely
chamber, hearing, as he thought, his step echo over all the vacant
house. Yes, it was a vacant house. He had chosen that it should be years
ago, and yet the feeling now was dreary to him, and it would never be
anything but vacant for all the rest of his life.