Nora did, perhaps, try to be satisfied, and to await further
intelligence with patience. But so far as the inward woman was
concerned, the effort was not successful. The fear of betraying that
hidden secret which weighs with all women, which almost governs a proud
nature, did assist her in outwardly bearing the delay patiently, but
even outwardly she was restless and excitable. What she hoped, or whom
she hoped to see, she scarcely knew, but her eyes and ears were ever
watching for some sign of the coming of some person who might bring
intelligence.
Mr. Powderham visited her, with the plans of the building, which he
wished her to look over. He was longing to ask her if she had heard from
or of Henry, but his wounded pride forbade him to open the subject. She
was longing to make the same inquiry of him, but finding him cold and
reserved, dared not touch upon past differences.
Mrs. Elliott also called, and by the interest she exhibited in Henry’s
welfare and Nora’s difficulties endeared herself to Nora. But she knew
nothing.
These visits helped to pass the time; but they left the fears and
anxieties of her heart unrelieved.
Was Henry gone? Had Stephen Fanshawe been able on that first day to
arrest his flight? She thought the letter of explanation she had
written, and which Mr. Fanshawe was to communicate to Henry, must have
prevented his ill-judged resolution. But had he been in time? Upon the
whole she hoped. There was nothing to cause a hasty flight, except that
Henry was not a person influenced as other mortals are.
On the evening of the third day, after she and Miss Willis had dined,
the doorbell suddenly rang. Nora, hardly knowing whom or what to expect,
flew down the stairs; but, hearing Stephen Fanshawe’s voice, retreated
again, the hope that had been dancing in her veins chilled. Why should
_he_ come? She stood, however, at the drawing-room door, and cordially
meeting him, exclaimed,
“How kind of you to come down here!”
“I came myself,” he said, “because I have not good news. I tell you
that at once. I have failed; and I thought I should best offer my
explanations to you in person.”
He had failed. Then Henry was gone. Nora received so much into her
brain; but, unable to meet the intelligence at that moment, she suffered
it, as persons of strong will can do, to go no further. She asked no
questions, but, putting the subject aside, gave her grateful and
graceful attentions to the person whose kindness had brought him to her.
Repeating her cordial words, she preceded him into the drawing-room,
where she forced him to own that he was chilly and hungry, and would not
object to some attention to the wants of the natural man.
All this was interspersed with conversation on his journey, and Nora
then left the room to order a tray of dinner to be taken up to her
guest.
When all had been provided for, she went, like the stricken deer, to
weep apart. Not, indeed, to weep with the eyes, but to face the
intelligence she had heard, to receive it into her heart as well as into
her brain. Henry was gone. He had left his home and country, and she
should see him no more. He who for months she now knew too well had been
the master of her thoughts, was blotted out from the sphere of her life,
and must leave that life a blank. Gone in anger, and, if not in hate, in
misunderstanding, calling her his enemy still.
In a kind of luxury of misery she suffered these reflections to take
possession of her. It was a chilly night, but she opened the window and
stood gazing out, making, as many have done, a kind of sad appeal to the
silence and quiet of the sky. It was not passionate sorrow, it was an
utter prostration of hope that was upon her; an intense pity for
herself; a depth of dejection and melancholy that seemed for the moment
unbearable.
How long she stood she did not know. At last, in very pity for her fate,
a tear fell down her cheek; and at that sensation she came to herself.
What was she doing, and how long had she been absent, and was it thus
she was preparing herself for the tale she had to hear? Should Stephen
Fanshawe, whom three times she had employed in her dealings with Henry,
suspect that he had been employed for a reason that was stronger than
benevolence? The moods of human beings are indeed variable as the shade
of the quivering aspen leaf; and as this idea struck her, all weakness
and dejection passed from Nora’s spirit. Her pale cheek became purple
with shame, and in two minutes she was armed with a courage that could
hear every particular with the tranquillity of an indifferent person.
On her return to the drawing-room, she made no apology for her absence,
but, finding Stephen Fanshawe had finished his repast, invited him again
to the fire, and said if he was quite at liberty she should now like to
hear “all the particulars of this terrible business.”
During her absence he had been making some inquiries of Miss Willis. He
did not fully understand, he said, how so singular an idea as that of
Henry’s guilt could, in the first instance, have arisen; nor why, when
it arose, Henry was not immediately summoned back to exculpate himself.
Miss Willis did not herself know clearly why Henry had been suspected,
except that the letter gave ground for suspicion; but she did know that
Nora, feeling the letter ought not to have been found, had wished that
Henry should never know the fact; and perhaps fixing her mind too
exclusively on that wish, had been mistaken in her conduct.
In making this explanation she touched on all that had occurred, and
spoke with admiration of the courage with which Nora had endured the
most trying of suspicions:
At this part of her narrative Stephen Fanshawe fixed his sightless eyes
very intently upon her and said,
“I wonder if the suspicion is true. I beg your pardon; I ought not to
have any wonderings on such a subject, but if I was assured it was not
so, I should speak more freely.”
“You may be quite sure,” Miss Willis cried warmly. “He is not the sort
of person to attract Miss Smith; and had he been so, her conduct in the
matter, under such an idea, must have been different.”
His conversation with Miss Willis had not altogether satisfied Stephen
Fanshawe on this point. A little suspicion had been excited by the very
earnest tone of Nora’s letter, and that slight suspicion had, in fact,
brought him down. He knew what he had to say must give pain; and he
wished by personal communication to soothe and satisfy, as far as was
possible. What, however, Miss Willis had failed to do, Nora’s words did.
There was something so unromantic, so very prosaic in the manner in
which she asked for the “particulars of the terrible business,” that his
suspicions fled in a moment. The phrase had been prepared as Nora came
along; and she might have been gratified had she known its effect.
Much relieved, he came, therefore, to tell his tale; and drawing his
chair near to her--she, to assist her tranquillity, having taken out her
work--he began by observing that he had never seen Henry at all. He was
gone before he reached London.
“My movements were as rapid as possible,” he said, “yet they were vain.
He had left London for Liverpool the night before--in fact, on the night
of the day he wrote to you. On hearing this I telegraphed to a friend at
Liverpool, begging him to discover him; but the vessel had sailed. We
fancy that Henry had inquired at the Packet Office, and finding a fine
vessel on the eve of sailing for Australia, made haste to catch it. But,
you see, we know where he is gone. The vessel was bound for Melbourne;
and, though I have not myself an acquaintance in that city, I shall have
no difficulty in communicating through persons in my father’s office.”
“Australia!” Nora had said, when he pronounced the word, in dismay and
utter despondency. She knew as little about Australia as a well-educated
person can know. To her it was the land that is very far off; and her
heart sank. But when he ceased she said with quietness, “He has indeed
gone beyond the reach of my good offices.”
“Hardly. Australia is nothing now-a-days. If it were Sydney, I have
myself many friends settled there. Depend upon it, many of your
acquaintance have half their hearts in Australia.”
Half their hearts! Did he suspect her of having half her heart on the
way there? Nora armed herself anew at this thought. Putting down her
work, and looking full at him, she asked,
“Now tell me about his mother. Did you see her?”
“I did; but I found the poor woman in so pitiable a state that I could
learn nothing from her. I was myself, you know, in great perplexity as
to what had happened, and I found her unable to do anything but cry and
wring her hands. Literally wring her hands,” he continued; “not a book
expression. I never saw it done before. Never, I mean, observed it. Two
or three times I put my hand on her hands, and implored her to be still,
but in vain.”
“And I the cause,” Nora said involuntarily, for she had intended to hold
her peace.
“A complication of causes, I fancy. After trying in vain to discover
something from her, I asked if I could see Miss Devereux; and as she did
not forbid it, I rang the bell, and sent for her. I think I have often
mentioned that the Devereux refused to speak to me, and Miss Devereux
was one of the sharpest in her enmity. She is a disagreeable girl, but
on this occasion she was less disagreeable than usual. She not only
obeyed my summons, but seemed softened in mind, and very full of regrets
at her brother’s departure. In this a reproaching conscience had some
share.
“What I gathered from her was this. On receiving Mr. Powderham’s letter,
containing the account of the accusation that had been made, Henry was
at first completely stunned; but on reading a letter--_the_ letter from
his father, which I have not seen--shame and horror took possession of
his mind, and he went to his father and delivered himself of his
opinions in no measured terms. Letitia Devereux said there had been a
regular scene; and that her father had lost his temper--which was a very
rare thing for him. He had told Henry that it was a useless piece of
hypocrisy on his part to object to the letter, for he knew well enough
that, while _he_ had confined himself to writing his wishes, Henry had
_acted_; making himself, you understand, Henry’s accuser.
“After this scene, Miss Devereux said, her brother came to her in a
state not far removed from insanity. If his own father accused him, he
said, what hope was there for him in the world? She, it seems--” here he
paused a moment, and hesitated; then went on--“I beg your pardon, if
what I say should annoy you, but I think it is best to tell you the
whole story. She, then, it seems, has had a joke of long standing with
her brother, regarding his feelings for you.”
Nora’s heart leapt into her mouth, and, except that her cheek was
crimson, restrained any outward expression, and he hurried on.
“All the family, you know well, I believe, have indulged in the foolish
idea that you are their enemy--Henry as much as the others; but his
sister has chosen always to impute to him contrary feelings, teasing
him, as she owns, out of his life. On this occasion, instead of
comforting him, she renewed her old joke, telling him that there was a
very easy way of getting out of his difficulties, for he had but to go
and disclose to you the state of his affections, and of course the
accusation would die away of itself. Henry, she says, burst into a rage
the like of which she had never seen; and calling her, and you, and all,
his persecutors and enemies, said he should leave England for ever. He
then left her, and she had very little idea that he would put the threat
into execution.”
“His sister is much to blame. She must feel she is,” was all Nora could
say, her lips moving as by wires.
“I think she does. She seemed really unhappy, and more than once said
she had so often joked him before, that she never thought of his taking
things so seriously. It appears he then made all his arrangements
privately; packed up a few things; did not dine at home, but came in
after dinner to take leave of them. She said her father was much
shocked, and endeavoured to dissuade him from so rash a step; but Henry
was then incapable of listening to reason. He was quite calm, but, like
a person wound up to a thing, it was as little use to speak to him as to
speak to a block of wood. He took leave of them quietly, she said, till
he came to his mother; but when he kissed her he broke down, and she
thinks it was the agony of that parting that overwhelmed the poor
woman.”
Stephen Fanshawe’s voice shook a little, and he paused. He had tried to
tell it all very quietly, but, in fact, the scene in Mr. Devereux’s
house in London had affected him deeply. The broken-hearted mother
wringing her hands was a picture before him.
Not a sound proceeded from Nora, though he listened eagerly. He then
said,
“I am afraid I have told you a painful story, but that was what I came
for. I thought it best.”
“Much best,” she said, with a super-human effort at tranquillity, and a
successful one. “I now understand things, and see why my cousin was
unwilling to let me help him. His sister is very very much to blame.”
“We must not be too hard on her,” he said. “Such jokes are the amusement
of some families, and if they are teasing, they are also enlivening.
Where Miss Devereux is to blame--and she feels it now--is in not having
seen that the case was too serious for jests. It is not an every-day
thing to be accused of being an incendiary.”
Little more was said on that evening. Nora could still talk of common
topics, but she made few inquiries further regarding Henry.
Soon after tea, Stephen Fanshawe, having engaged Henry’s lodgings as he
came by, departed, promising to return for breakfast, which he did.
Before his departure he asked Nora if there was anything else he could
do for her, and she requested him to tell her if he could think of any
means by which James Field could be withdrawn from Riddlemere?
He looked perplexed, and she said quickly,
“I daresay I am very wrong in my feeling about him, but I really cannot
help it. I have tried to get over it, but every day my dislike
increases. If he stays here, my whole peace and comfort is destroyed.”
“What can be done?” he said, more to himself than to her.
“You must understand that I wish him well. He is my mother’s nearest
relation, and that cause alone would be enough to make me anxious for
his welfare. But, indeed, though sometimes my feelings approach very
nearly to hate, it is not a wicked hate. I would do _anything_ for him;
visit him if he was ill, do him good in any way, but I cannot bear to
have him here. I have a feeling that he watches me; and even sometimes
in the house I fancy that he is spying at me.”
“But is it so?” Stephen Fanshawe said, surprised, and turning his eyes
from her to Miss Willis.
“Oh, no!” Nora cried eagerly. “I don’t accuse him of it. I only say that
is the feeling he gives me. I think he thinks of our relationship, and,
perhaps, feels we ought to be more intimate than we are. But it cannot
be. I try to be friendly, as your father advised me--friendly but
distant; but if I attempt this friendliness he revolts me. I think I am
wrong; but I tell you my feeling, and ask if anything can be done.”
“It can be done only, I suppose, by offering him something better. You
mean that, of course.”
“Yes; twice as good if it could be--only not here.”
“But is he fit?--ought I to recommend him?” he inquired seriously, as a
conscientious person must.
“I think you may. Mr. Powderham is more than satisfied; and all here
speak well of him--well not only of his cleverness, but of his conduct.
Even Mrs. Ratcliffe, though, like me, she cannot like him, says he is a
very proper-behaved man.”
“Then I daresay it may be done. I will try, at any rate. Depend on
that.”
“I don’t know why I give you all this trouble,” Nora said, with a tone
of feeling in her voice. “How shall I thank you for all?”
“Don’t talk about trouble,” he replied lightly. “Trouble is my life. If
it should please God to disable me from taking trouble, then, indeed, I
should have trouble, and find it hard to bear. Till then I am at your
service.”
“I feel like that myself,” Nora said, with a smile.