After the departure of Henry Devereux a time of darkness and dreariness
had fallen upon Nora’s spirit, affecting her mentally and bodily. Could
any of those about her have seen the truth--could they have perceived
that she, strong and wilful and haughty as she was, was reduced to the
condition of a common love-sick girl, something might have been done to
rouse her. But to this fact all were blind. Miss Willis thought she was
out of heart and disappointed; Mrs. Ratcliffe that she was suffering
from the effects of the over-excitement of the fire and its
consequences. That she should be so was very natural. _She_ was
suffering from it, so was Sophy; and, though Nora had not actually been
present at the fire, she had suffered more than any from the worry
afterwards. No one imagined that the hair-brained, thoughtless Henry
could have captivated the sage Nora.
Mrs. Ratcliffe consulted Miss Willis about a change of scene. Sophy
ought to have sea air. Should she ask Miss Smith to go to the sea for a
few weeks? Miss Willis thought the plan good. The building was in a
miserable state; but the two fine months of September and October would
be sufficient to set much to rights; and Nora might then return to take
up her abode in renewed delight.
Nora received the request with eager pleasure. To escape from the sight
of the devastations, and from the sight of James Field, was in itself a
boon; and a plan was shortly made and executed.
During the preparations for the removal she cheered up, and her faithful
friends thought themselves Solomons. But no sooner was it accomplished
than she became drearier and wearier than ever. At Riddlemere she might
have had occupation out of herself. At the sea she was forced in very
shame to apply herself to common occupations--music, reading, drawing,
&c.; and from each and all her soul revolted. She was always in fancy
sailing with a ship to Australia, and striving to penetrate into the
secrets of a heart on board the vessel. There were moments when the few
soft words at the close of Henry’s letter, under the light shed upon
them by Stephen Fanshawe’s statement, spoke hopeful things to her pining
heart--moments when she felt with a deep conviction that Henry in his
heart loved her, and that a day might come when all would be made clear.
But vague hopes are the most intangible of blessings. The more the mind
tries to grasp them the more shadowy they become. Whenever, therefore,
the conviction was taken home with the intention of being nursed and
cherished, so soon it flitted away, and she felt she had taken hold of a
spectre.
She returned, therefore, to take renewed possession of Riddlemere with a
heart as cheerless as the one she carried away.
During her absence, the only occupation that had given her pleasure was
the endeavour to amuse Sophy. Natural kindness was, in part, the reason
of this; but there was another reason, of which Nora was unconscious.
About once a week Sophy would ask in a plaintive voice whether anything
had been heard of Mr. Devereux. She was the only person who seemed to
bear him in memory, or, at least, in a cherished memory; and Nora clung
to the child in consequence.
This occupation did not fail her on her return, for though slightly
improved in health, Sophy was still ailing. She had lost her appetite,
and her spirits, and her pretty colour; and being one of those natural
born tyrants who rule those about them with a rod of iron, she kept all
the inhabitants of Riddlemere in bondage to her whims and caprices.
The very day of Nora’s return to Riddlemere, James Field received the
offer of a new situation; a place which, if he chose to exert himself,
and behave himself, would be permanent, and in which he would rise
gradually to higher trust. The situation was worth four hundred and
fifty pounds a year.
James Field was affected in two ways by the offer. He was delighted, and
he was annoyed. The offer was as good as he had ever expected to have;
the work, which was chiefly as accountant and superintendent in a house
of business, was what he was fittest for, and it gave him a thrill of
pleasure to think of showing Nora how little he depended on her favour
for his advance in life. And yet he was annoyed. He had looked forward
to a time when, having the field all to himself, he might gain her
favour. What idle dreams ran in his head, and made a part of this
favour, he scarcely knew himself! They were like Alnaschar’s visions.
But dreams of the future he certainly had.
He asked an interview on the morning of her return, and made a parade of
the offer he had received, saying at the same time that he believed Mr.
Powderham was satisfied with him, and would be sorry to lose him, and
that he was therefore undecided what to do. He wished to see how Nora
felt towards him, now that Henry was gone.
He was conceited, but less disagreeable in manner than usual, and Nora
was able to be civil, and even kind. She said she was very glad he had
had such a good offer, and as she should very shortly cease to want his
assistance, she advised him to accept it at once.
His keen eye searched her through and through, to try and discover if
his going caused her a feeling of regret. It need not be said that no
such discovery could be made; and he lost his temper in consequence.
“Some people,” he said, “did not know what faithful service was.”
“How do you mean?” Nora inquired, with a haughtiness that cowed him.
“I make no complaint, ma’am, but considering my faithful service, not to
speak of other circumstances, I had hoped that you might have been less
unwilling to dispense with me.”
Nora’s courage usually rose with the occasion; after a moment’s thought
she replied--
“With the way in which you have performed your duties here, I believe I
have every reason to be satisfied. My good wishes, therefore, you shall
always have; and as I suppose the other circumstances you speak of are
our relationship, be sure you shall never find me wanting, should you at
any time require my help. In other respects I will not pretend a
satisfaction which I do not feel.”
“In what respects may I ask?” he asked.
“I did not think you behaved fairly to Mr. Devereux. It is all passed,
and I have no wish to return to the annoyance of that time; but I never
can think the showing of a letter found by chance was a just action. It
is passed, and I shall try to forget it; and my good wishes you shall
always have.”
“Ladies can never understand a man’s duty,” he replied bitterly; but he
knew she had fixed on that very thing for which his own easy conscience
could not altogether acquit him. He attempted no further arguments, and
they parted.
“Proud vixen!” he murmured. “I will be even with her yet.”
His departure was of great use to Nora. She now felt free and at home at
Riddlemere. She could watch the works, and talk to the workmen, and go
in and out without fear; and this fearless feeling cheered her, while
the objects about interested her--as much, that is to say, as anything
could interest her which was not on board that vessel sailing, and now
approaching, to the far land of Australia.
But there came other events, not to cheer, certainly, but to arouse her
from that languor of spirit in which she passed her days.
Six weeks after the departure of James Field, she saw among the
marriages in the _Times_ the announcement of the marriage of James
Field, Esq., to Letitia Devereux, daughter of Simon Devereux, Esq.
There could be no mistake; and Nora put down the paper with a face of
consternation. It was not so much at the event itself as at the sudden
thought that came that _she_ was responsible for this. She had helped
him into a place where marriage was possible. James Field the
brother-in-law of Henry! She shuddered as she thought of it, and of what
his feelings would be.
In her consternation she could resolve on no other step than her usual
one--of writing, that is, to Stephen Fanshawe, to beg him to inquire
into the circumstances. She, as usual, consulted Miss Willis before
doing so, and received from her the usual assurance that to employ him
was to do him a favour, not to give him trouble.
She wrote, and then had to wait. His boys were just returning home, and
he was busy; and it was ten days, just Christmas-time, before he came.
He then came, instead of writing, securing, as before, the lodging in
the village.
His account of the state of affairs in the Devereux family was most
melancholy. So melancholy, he told Miss Willis, that he was afraid to
let anyone but himself relate it to Nora.
He had found, on calling, that Mrs. Devereux was too ill to see him. Not
knowing where to turn, he had discovered the apothecary who was in
attendance; and on going to him for information, found that he was the
best person to consult, as he appeared to know well all the
circumstances of the family. The account he gave was shortly this:
About a month back James Field had proposed to Letitia. His acquaintance
with the family was one of long standing, in a formal way; but the
apothecary observed that with regard to Miss Devereux it appeared to
have been by no means formal. This, however, was without the knowledge
of her parents.
The proposal had been received by both father and mother with
astonishment and horror. Mr. Devereux,--showing, as Mr. Blair, the
apothecary said, a pride of family which no one had ever suspected in
him--and which he--Mr. Blair--must observe he had no right to
entertain,--had put himself in a paroxysm of rage. Mrs. Devereux, who
since Henry’s departure had never smiled, and seldom ceased to weep, who
had been unable to interest herself in anything, roused herself to
express her horror at this marriage. With her it seemed to be a dislike
of the man, founded on old recollections; a dislike which, overpowering
her in her weak state, seemed perfectly ungovernable.
Miss Devereux, and he believed Mr. Field, also, had taken the
opposition, after the first moment, very quietly. They refused to break
off their engagement; but he ceased to come to the house, and there was
no appearance of any further design in contemplation.
A fortnight, however, after the refusal, Letitia was missed, and the day
following wrote to her father to announce her marriage. It had been
properly celebrated in the presence of many witnesses, and she was now
gone to her husband’s home. She expressed regret at having been forced
to take a step in opposition to her father’s wishes, but excused herself
by pleading her conviction that when once he had said a thing he was
incapable of changing; her long attachment to James Field; and, lastly,
the unendurable dulness of her home. Of her mother she said nothing.
Neither father nor mother, Mr. Blair said, had appeared to be quite in
their senses since the event. Mrs. Devereux had had a violent hysterical
fit, and after being carried to bed, had there remained. She was a
woman, he said, of few ideas, but those few held her fast. Devotion to
her husband, love for Henry, and a sense of the necessity of propriety
of behaviour in women, were the ideas that possessed her most strongly.
Unable to make the excuses which he and all others who knew what a
dreary life she had led could make for the daughter, she thought only of
the step itself, and coming on her already shattered state, it crushed
her.
With regard to Mr. Devereux, it was difficult to say what it was that
affected him so strongly. But Mr. Blair thought that, after years of
prosperity, the sudden turn in his fortunes, the oversetting of his
quiet life, was probably the thing that had unhinged him. He probably
felt remorse as well as regret for Henry’s departure--a double remorse
when he saw the effect on his wife; and whether or not he disliked James
Field, and blamed himself for having put his daughter in his way, Mr.
Blair could not say.
Stephen Fanshawe here repeated a remark of Mr. Blair’s, that it is
impossible to argue from definite grounds in considering a character
like that of Mr. Devereux.
To judge from his usual manners and conduct, it would have been thought
that he had no feelings of a tender kind. But he possibly had some, as
other human beings have, and the very unlikelihood of their rising up to
sting him, the very uncommonness of the sensations of such a sting,
would the more master him. Certain it was that he was altered. He had
become violent, irritable, anxious, seemingly not master of himself; to
use a French expressive word, _éperdu_.
The house, he said, was in a miserable state; and a little girl of four
years old, who had long been in weak health, would not, in human
probability, survive the winter. If that blow fell, he feared Mrs.
Devereux would sink altogether.
Nora asked if anything would be done. Her heart yearned to be of use to
the poor, crushed mother; but Stephen Fanshawe said nothing could be
done by _her_. Guessing she would wish to be of use, he had sounded Mr.
Blair; but he found that her name was often on the lips of Mr. Devereux,
and never in any kindly manner. (He did not say what Mr. Blair had said,
“always with curses.”) He advised her not to attempt to interfere at
present--not at all without consulting _him_, he added, smiling.
Nothing had been heard of Henry. If good news came from him, the whole
house might be cheered and restored.
Nora, after hearing these details, fell back no more into languor.
There is something in the sight or the hearing of the real stubborn
miseries of this world which often acts as a cure to the more
imaginative part of sorrow. She did not feel less, her heart was little
healed, but she began to look on life with different eyes. The thought
of the poor, broken-hearted mother constantly pursued her, and withdrew
her thoughts from herself.