Mrs Burton was alone in her deserted house. The house was not deserted
in the common sense of the word. Up-stairs at this very moment it was
buzzing with life and movement; and at least the young men in the
smoking-room--men who had come from town, from their duties and their
pleasures, expressly for the ball--were commenting to each other
carelessly upon the absence of their host. 'Young Burton has been off
for six months on a wandering fit, and old Burton is up to the eyes in
business, as usual,' Cyril Rivers explained, who was not unfriendly to
his entertainers; while the Marchioness, with Lady Florizel in the room
of state up-stairs, who was commenting upon Clara's behaviour, and
declaring her intention to leave next morning. 'Fortunately, Merewether
has not committed himself,' the Marchioness was saying. In another room
of the house, Mrs Burton's two aunts, supported by their two maids,
were shaking their heads together in mingled sorrow and anger. 'Depend
upon it, something will come of all this,' Mrs Everest said, as she put
on her nightcap; and Aunt Louisa cried, and exclaimed that when Clara
entered on such an extravagant course, she always knew that some
chastisement must come. 'I would shut that child up, and feed her on
bread and water,' cried the stronger-minded sister; and so said the
maids, who thought Miss Clary was bewitched--and with such a man!
While all this was going on, little Mrs Burton was alone in the
ball-room, which was still blazing with lights. She was seated wearily
in a big chair at one end. But for her diamonds, which sought the light,
and made a blaze of radiance round about her, like the aureole of a
saint, she would have been invisible in the great, spacious, empty room.
A deserted ball-room has been so often described, that I will not repeat
the unnecessary picture. This ball-room, however, had not a dismal
aspect; everything was too well managed for that. The flowers, arranged
in great brilliant banks of colour, were not fading, but looked as
brilliant as ever; the lights shone as brightly. Except for some flowers
dropped about from the bouquets of the dancers, some shreds of lace and
tulle torn from their dresses, it might have been before instead of
after the ball. Mrs Burton was seated at the further end. She sat quite
motionless, her hands crossed in her lap, her diamonds reflecting the
light. What a night this had been for her! The other parties concerned
had each had their share--her husband his ruin, her child her elopement;
but this small woman with her hands clasped, with this crowded house to
regulate and manage, with her part still to play in the world around
her, knew all and had all to bear. She sat thus among the ruins, nothing
hid from her, nothing postponed. Through her slight little frame there
was a dull throbbing of pain; but her head was clear, and did not lose a
jot of all that fate had done, of all it had in store. She did not
complain. She had foreseen much; she had gone forward with her eyes
open; she had even said that were her husband to be bankrupt in two
days, she would give a ball on the intermediate night. If it was a brag,
she had excelled that brag; she had given her greatest ball, and reached
her apotheosis, on the very night when he was flying from justice. And
no good angel had interfered to soften to her the news of these
successive blows. She had herself opened the ball with old Lord
Bobadil--the man of highest rank present; and it was when she had
resumed her seat after that solemn ceremonial that Golden, whom she
hated, approached her, and whispered in her ear the news of her
husband's ruin. She had been prepared for the news, but not then, nor at
such a moment; nevertheless, she stood up and received the blow without
a cry, without a moment's failure of her desperate courage. And
everything had gone on. She was always pale, so that there was nothing
to betray her so far as that went, and her cares as hostess never
relaxed. She went from side to side, dispensing her attentions, looking
after everybody's comfort as if she had been a queen, and all the time
asking herself had he been taken? was he a prisoner? how much shame
should she have to bear? Then, when the slow hours had gone on, and the
insupportable din about her seemed as if it must soon come to an end,
there arrived that other messenger of woe, poor kind Mrs Dalton, with
tears in her eyes, and a voice which faltered. 'The rector has gone
after them. Oh, will you let me stay with you? Can I be of any use to
you?' Mrs Dalton had sobbed, attracting, as the other woman--the real
sufferer--knew, the attention of those groups about, who had no right to
know anything of her private sorrows. 'It is not necessary. My father
is here, and my aunts. I can have everything done that is wanted,' Mrs
Burton replied: and she had turned round to show some one who came to
ask her where the basket was with all the ribbons, and flowers, and
pretty toys for the cotillion. Through all this she had stood her
ground. She had shaken hands with the last of her guests and had seen
the visitors to their rooms before she gave in; and even now she was not
giving in. Had any one entered the empty room, Mrs Burton would have
proved equal to the occasion; she would have risen to meet them--have
talked on any subject with perfect self-command. But, fortunately, no
one came.
Poor old Mr Baldwin had arrived at Dura only that night, he had heard a
great many disquieting rumours, and he was very unhappy about his
son-in-law's position, and about the way in which his daughter took it.
Even the fact that she had her settlement scarcely consoled him; for he
said to himself that the creditors would 'reflect' upon all this
extravagance, and that even about the settlement itself a great deal
would be said. He had hovered about her all the evening, looking
wistfully at her, inviting her confidence; but Mrs Burton had not said a
word to him, even of her daughter's disappearance. She had felt no
impulse to do anything about Clary. Whether it was that all her energy
was required to bear up against those successive blows, or if her pride
shrank from informing even her own friends, or finally, if she felt it
useless, and knew that now no power on earth could compel the
self-willed girl to return, it is certain that Mrs Burton had 'taken no
steps.' Even now she did not think of taking any steps. She allowed her
father and her aunts to go to bed without a word. She sat and pondered,
and did nothing. Alone in that great blazing deserted room--alone in the
house--alone in the world: this was what she felt. Out of doors the
birds were singing and the sun shining; but the closed windows admitted
only the palest gleam of the daylight. When the servants came to tell
her that Mr Dalton was at the door, asking to see her, she sent him a
civil message: 'Many thanks; but her father was with her, and could do
all she wanted.' Then her maid came to ask if Mrs Burton did not want
anything, and was sent away with a wave of her hand. Then the butler
came timidly to ask should they shut up? was master to be expected? At
that summons Mrs Burton rose.
'I am tired,' she said, putting on her company calm; for Simmons the
butler was as important in his way as old Lord Bobadil. 'I was glad to
rest a little after all the worry. Yes, certainly, shut up, and let
everybody go to bed. I do not expect your master to-night.'
'If I might make so bold, madam,' said Simmons, 'Tom the groom have just
been in to say as orders was took to the stables to send the dog-cart
for master to the north gate, and as he took him up there and drove him
to Turley station, and as he gave him this note, and said as it was all
right.'
'All right!' She repeated the words, looking at him with a ghastly
bewilderment which frightened the man. And then she recovered herself,
and resumed her former composure. 'That will do, Simmons. Your master
had a--journey--to make. I was not aware he would have started so--soon.
Have everything shut up as quickly as possible, and let all the servants
go to bed.'
She went up-stairs, emerging all at once into the full morning sunshine
in the hall, which dazzled and appalled her. The light dazzled her eyes,
but not her jewels, which woke at its touch, and blazed about her with
living, many-coloured radiance. A little rainbow seemed to form round
her as she went up-stairs. How her temples throbbed! What a dull aching
was in every limb, in every pulse! She went into Clara's room first. She
was not a very tender mother, and never had been; yet almost every night
for seventeen years she had gone into that room before retiring to her
own. Clara's maid was seated, fast asleep, before a table on which a
candle was burning pitifully in the full daylight. The room looked trim
and still as a room does which has not been occupied in that early
brightness. The maid woke with a shiver as Mrs Burton entered.
'Oh, Miss Clara, I beg your pardon!' she said.
'It is no matter. My daughter will not want you to-night. Go to bed,
Jane,' said Mrs Burton. 'And you can tell Barnes to go to bed. Neither
of you will be wanted. Go at once.'
When she was left alone, she cast a glance round to see if there was any
letter. There was a little three-cornered note fastened on the
pin-cushion. She took that into her hand along with her husband's note,
which she held there, but did not attempt to read either. With a quick
eye she noted that Clara's jewel-case and all the presents which had
been showered upon her that morning--her eighteenth birthday--had gone.
A faint, mechanical smile came upon her face, and then she locked the
door, and went to her own room.
There she sat down again to think, with the diamonds still upon her and
all her ornaments, and the two letters in her hand. Why should she read
them? She knew exactly what they would be. The one she did open after a
long pause was Clary's. The other--had she any interest in it? it gave
her a sensation of disgust rather: she tossed it on the table. Clary's
note was very short. It ran thus:--
'DEAR MAMMA,--Feeling sure you never would consent, and as we both
know we could not live without each other, I have made up my mind
to leave you. I shall be Mrs Golden when you get this, for he has
prepared everything. We start immediately for the Lakes, and I will
write you from there. Of course it would have been nicer to have
been Lady Somebody; but then I never saw any one who was half so
nice as he is; and he hopes, and so do I, that you will soon make
up your mind to it, and forgive us.
'Your affectionate CLARY.
'He bids me say it is to be at St James's, Piccadilly, and that if
you inquire, you will find everything quite right.'
Mrs Burton tossed this from her too on to the same table where the
father's letter lay unopened. The scorn with which they filled her
stopped for a moment the movements of that wonderful machine for
thinking which nothing had yet arrested. It was 'human nature' _pur et
simple_. Clara had taken her jewels, had made sure it was 'all right'
about the wedding; and the father had sent the same message--'all
right.' All right! A smile flitted across the pale, almost stern, little
face of the woman who was left to bear all this, and to bear it alone.
Most other women would have made some passionate attempt to do
something--to pursue the one or the other--to go to their succour. Mrs
Burton had no such impulse. She was like a soldier who has fought to the
last gasp; she stood still upon her span of soil, her sword broken, her
banner taken from her; nothing to fight for any longer, yet still, with
the instinct of battle, holding out, and standing firm. So long as there
was any excuse for keeping up the conflict, she would have borne every
blow like a stoic; what she could not bear was the thought of giving
in; and the hour for giving in had come.
Must it be told? Must she acknowledge before the world that all had been
in vain? that her husband was a fugitive, her daughter the victim of a
scoundrel, her family for ever crushed down and trampled in the dust? To
everything else she could have wound up her high courage. This was the
only thing that was really hard for her, and this was what she had to
do. How much, she wondered, would she have to suffer? Probably Mr Burton
would be taken, tried, share the fate which various men whose names she
knew had already borne. Should she have to go to him? to visit him in
his prison? to read her own name in the papers--'Mrs Burton spent an
hour with the prisoner.' 'His wife was present!' She clasped her small,
thin hands together. For a long time she had wondered whether when it
came she would feel it. She could have answered her own question now.
Ruin, shame, public comment, sudden descent from her high estate,
humiliation, sympathy, even pity--all these were before her; and it
would have been hard for her to say which was the worst.
The young men roused her with their voices as they came up-stairs. It
was not worth while going to bed, she heard one say; a bath, and then a
long walk somewhere before breakfast was the only thing possible. This
called her attention to the clock striking on the mantelpiece. Six
o'clock! No longer night, but day! She rose, and took off her jewels and
her evening dress. It troubled, and tired, and irritated her to do all
this for herself; but she succeeded at last. A nightly vigil, and even
all the emotion through which she had passed did not make the same
difference to her colourless countenance which it would have done to a
more blooming woman. When she knocked at her father's door, and went in
to his bedside to speak to him, he thought her looking very much as
usual. He thought he must have overslept himself, which was likely
enough, considering how late he had been last night; and that she had
come to call him and have a chat with him before all her fine people
came down to breakfast. It was kind of Clara. It showed, what he had
sometimes doubted, that she was still capable of recollecting that she
was his child.
'I have come to tell you of some things that have happened,' she said,
sitting down in the big chair by the bed, 'and to ask your advice and
help. Some strange things have happened to-night. In the first place,
papa, you were a true prophet. Mr Burton has been obliged to go away.'
'To go away?'
'Yes, to escape, to fly--whatever you call it. He is--ruined. I suppose
he must be worse than ruined,' she added quietly; 'for--I hear--the
police----'
'Oh, Clara! Oh, my poor, poor child!'
'Don't be sorry for me, papa. Let us look at it calmly. I am not one to
cry, you know, and get over it in that way. So far as I have heard yet,
he has got off: he reached Turley station this morning, I suppose in
time for the train. Most likely he has money, as he has not asked for
any, and he may get safely off. Stop, papa; that is not all I have to
tell you. There is something more.'
'Clara, my own poor girl! there can be nothing so bad.'
'Some people would think it worse,' she said. 'Papa, don't say any more
than you can help. Clara has--eloped. She has gone off with Mr Golden,
whom you all forgave, whom I hated, who was--her father's friend.'
The old man gave a great cry. Clary was his grandchild, whom he adored.
He loved her with that fond, caressing, irresponsible love which is
sometimes sweeter than even a parent's love for his own child. It was
for others to find fault with, to correct, her; the grandfather had
nothing to do but admire, and pet, and praise. 'Clary!' it was but the
other day that he told her stories as she sat on his knee!
'Yes, Clary. Here is her note, and here is--Mr Burton's. They are both
gone. All this has happened since last night.'
'Clara, what o'clock is it now?'
'Half-past six,' she said, mechanically taking out her watch, 'and
fortunately nobody will be stirring for some time at least. Papa, what
are you going to do?'
'I am going to get up,' he said. 'Clara, there is still time. If I can
get up to town by the first train, I may be in time to stop it yet.'
'To stop--what?'
'The marriage, child, the marriage! Clary's destruction! Go away, my
dear, and let me get up.'
'It would be of no use,' she said. 'Papa, when Clary has made up her
mind, nothing that we can say would stop her. You might do it by law,
perhaps; but she will never come home again--never hear reason. I know
her better. There were a great many things I wanted to ask about----'
'Leave me just now, for heaven's sake, Clara! I must try, at least, to
save the child.'
She rose without another word, and went away. A smile once more stole
upon her face, and stayed there, rigid and fixed. He might have been of
a little help to herself; but he thought of Clary first--Clary, who was
obstinate, and whom nothing could move--who was coaxing and winning to
those who loved her, and would persuade the old man to anything. Well,
Mrs Burton said to herself, she had hoped for his help for a moment; but
now it was clear that she must do everything for herself.
She went down-stairs, and took down a cloak which hung in the hall, and
wrapping it about her, stepped out into the fresh air. That, at least,
might help her, though nothing else would. She walked down to the
avenue, to the skirt of the woods. Like a cordial the soft air breathed
about her, and gave her a certain strength. She was not a woman who
cared about the meaner delights of wealth; all these she would have
given up without a pang. But to exchange this large, free, lofty life
which she had been leading for the restrained and limited existence of
her father's house--to be no longer entire mistress of her own actions,
but to be bound by her father's antiquated notions, by what Aunt
Everett and Aunt Louisa thought proper--that would be hard to bend her
mind to. To give up Dura for Clapham! Even that she could do stoically,
and no one would ever be the wiser. But to bear all the shame, all the
comments, a husband in prison, a story of romance of real life, ruin of
the father, elopement of the daughter, in the newspapers! Mrs Burton
gave no outward sign of the struggle that went on within her, but she
clasped her little thin white hands together, and she recognised at
once, wholly and clearly, without any self-deception, what she would
have to bear.
She waited there till her father came up to her on his way to the
station. He stopped and told her he would come back as soon as he could.
'Most likely I will take Clary to Clapham first,' he said. 'Better than
here, don't you think? She might be frightened to face you after her
folly. My dear, take a little courage, if you can. The innocent child
has given us all the clue that is necessary--St James's, Piccadilly. No
marriage could take place before eight o'clock, and I shall reach there
soon after--in time to prevent that, at least. I will take her to
Clapham, and then, my dear, I will come straight back to you.'
'Very well, papa,' she said.
In her heart she wondered at his simplicity, at the folly of his hopes;
but what was the use of saying anything? If it pleased him to do this,
if this was what he thought best, why, let him do it. Let every one act
as it seemed good in his own eyes.
'And by-the-by, Clara, one thing more,' he said--'Ned's address. Where
is he now? I must telegraph at once for him.'
Then some faint semblance of the tigress guarding her young appeared in
Mrs Burton.
'Ned! Why should Ned be brought home? Why should he be involved in
trouble he has nothing to do with? He is out of it; he, at least, is
safe. No, papa; I will not have him brought back.'
'Clara, you are mad, you are incomprehensible!' cried her father. 'Give
me the boy's address.'
'I will not,' she answered, looking at him.
The woman had come to light in her at last--the woman and something of
the mother. As a daughter she had neglected none of the observances of
respect. She had been dutiful, though she had long been an independent
agent, and had forgotten the very idea of obedience. But never had she
defied her father before. She did it now calmly, as she did everything.
She had upheld her family and its importance as long as mortal strength
could do it; and now when that had failed, she could at least defend her
boy.
'Clara, you astonish me. I could not have believed it of you,' said her
father severely.
But he had no time to remonstrate or to command. He had to hurry away
for his train. And she stood and looked after him, her breath for the
first time quickened with excitement, her resolution bringing a certain
colour to her cheek. Ned was safe, and out of all this trouble. It was
the only gleam of comfort in her clouded sky. He who should bring her
boy back to undergo all this shame and suffering was her enemy, though
it were done on the specious pretence of serving her. To bring her son
back to support and help her would be to do her the last and cruellest
wrong. She could do without the help and support. She was ready to bear
anything, since it must be borne. What relief could it afford her to
know that another suffered too, and that other her son? She went back to
the house with quickened steps under the sway of the thought, that Ned,
at least, was safe and out of it. She was not the kind of woman who
would complain of bearing anything alone.
Breakfast was a very late and straggling meal that day at Dura; but Mrs
Burton was the first at the table--before even the young man who had
proposed a bath and a walk instead of sleep. The breakfast was as
sumptuous, as well served, as usual, and there were the same number of
servants about, the dogs, as usual, on the lawn, the man with the
post-bags, as usual, visible, coming up the avenue. The ordinary eye
would have seen no indication of any change. But Mrs Burton made a calm
little speech to every new group, which had the most curiously
disconcerting effect upon her guests. She said to them that family
circumstances compelled her to make preparations at once for leaving
Dura; that some things had happened which she need not tell them
of--family events--which had changed all her arrangements. She hoped,
under these circumstances, they would pardon her, if she said
plainly----
'Oh, yes, certainly. Not another word,' the visitors cried, dismayed.
They all gazed at each other, and whispered over their teacups when her
back was turned. They heard her say the same thing to one party after
another--even to the Marchioness herself, who had come down fully
primed, meaning to overwhelm Mrs Burton with a theatrical leave-taking.
'Why, why, why!' she cried in her wrath, 'you mean that you want to--get
rid of us, Mrs Burton!' and her hair stood on end upon her noble head.
'I am afraid, without making any mystery of it, that is what I do mean,
Lady Upshire,' said the woman, who was only the wife of a rich City
man--a _parvenue_, one of the _nouveaux riches_--fixing her blue eyes
calmly upon her splendid guest.
'What pluck she has!' the young men said to themselves. They almost
cheered her for her dauntless front. And they were all gone by two
o'clock--Marchioness and maid, guardsman and public servant--every
visitor, gentle and simple. They disappeared as if by magic. What
questions they asked each other, what speculations they entertained
among themselves, Mrs Burton neither knew nor cared. The first thing was
to be free of them; and when the afternoon came, she was alone with the
startled servants and her two aunts, to whom as yet she had given no
explanations, and whose private opinion, stated a hundred times that
morning, was, that at last beyond all controversy Clara must be mad.