We must again pass over many months.
A year, or nearly so, went wearily and drearily round, until, towards
the end of September, Mrs. Elliott returned to Thorneybank, and returned
so suddenly, that she herself bore the news of her arrival to
Riddlemere.
Why the year had been so weary must be told; for Henry’s words, that
henceforward he should not shrink when the children spoke of Riddlemere,
had left a smile of hope in Nora’s breast, which promised other things.
But it was too soon apparent that, although possibly his feelings
regarding Riddlemere itself and its inhabitants had undergone a
change--that having been righted in the eyes of that world, he now felt
able to hold up his head--although there was this change, there was no
further change. He had no desire to be there; he seized no opportunity
to be in Nora’s presence.
It was about six weeks after Sophy’s confession that this began to be
apparent.
After the excitement of that time, the poor girl’s strength and vitality
gave way. Although relieved, and thenceforward comparatively tranquil,
she was exhausted, and roused herself to life no more.
On the morning of her death--for in a few weeks she died--she gave to
Nora a gold pencil-case, one of her best treasures, and begged that it
might be sent to Henry; and “Will you ask him,” she added, while a tear
rolled down her cheek, “to come and stand at my grave?”
Nora promised, and the request was forwarded and complied with. Henry
came on the morning of the funeral; won every heart, every portion of
the hearts not already won, by his simple and kindly sympathy; walked by
Nora’s side in the little band of mourners, and then--immediately on his
return to Riddlemere--departed again.
He said he must be in London early on the following day. His lips were
always true, and it was, therefore, no doubt true; yet Nora felt blank
with disappointment. Was it to be ever thus? Was the hope of his
friendship, was the hope of union with him and her cousins in the common
interests of life, for which her lonely heart craved, to be for ever
deferred?
This was all she said. Since her eyes again had rested upon him, that
dread secret that had once been faced was driven back into the recesses
of her soul.
Disappointment preyed upon her spirits and told upon her health. At
Easter Mrs. Ratcliffe, observing her pale looks, advised a change. All
the inhabitants of Riddlemere had felt the loss of poor Sophy, and,
attributing Nora’s dejection partly to that cause, she remarked that it
would be better for them all to make a break. Would she not go to see
her guardian in London?
But Nora had an invincible repugnance to London. She hardly knew why,
but the real cause was this. She felt she could not escape a visit,
perhaps many visits, to Annabella; and at this moment it was a positive
pain to her to think of entering Henry’s house.
Although she refused to think of London, she did not, however, oppose
the idea of a change; and while she was considering the subject, with
the listless consideration which is given to a point of profound
indifference, her resolution was suddenly taken by the reception of a
letter from Henry.
In this letter he told her he had decided on sending Simon to school,
and, as Annabella would be lonely after his departure, he ventured to
ask her to receive her for about three weeks.
Almost while she was reading the letter Nora came to a decision on her
plans. She would go to the Spa after Easter, and there receive Henry
when he brought Annabella for the proposed visit.
A great deal of work is done by the mental powers unconsciously. While
Nora was reading, some inward suggestion was made, that there would be
less awkwardness to Henry in paying her a visit at a public place like
the Spa than in paying a visit at her own house. It was very suddenly
that the little suggestion was made and, strange to say, it had never
struck her before. But no sooner was it made than the decision was
formed; and after Easter, with some zest and hope of pleasure, she left
Riddlemere.
The request was in itself exhilarating, and, although the tone of
Henry’s letter had been more formal, more cold than any she had yet
received, she endeavoured to forget the tone, and to dwell on that
overture of peace and friendliness which the request conveyed.
Henry’s letter had been very short and concise, but for the first time
it had had a beginning and an end; the abruptness of feeling and
agitation was over. It began “Dear Miss Smith,” and ended with
“Faithfully yours.” On the words of the letter there was little to
comment; but this calm and commonplace beginning and end had caused a
pang, which, if Nora had been disposed to examine herself, might have
shown her how far beyond friendship her hopes extended.
As was said, however, she endeavoured to forget, or to explain away the
formality of the tone, and to accept the request with hope and
gratitude. But again all her hopes were blighted. Henry brought his
sister to the Spa, but so arranged his plans, that, with perfect truth
he was able to say he must be in London early on the following morning.
He arrived at the Spa, therefore, at five o’clock in the afternoon, and
left again by the 6.30 for London. Deducting the comings and goings, he
allowed three quarters of an hour for his visit to Nora.
And even this three quarters of an hour all felt to be too long. He
accepted the proffer of tea, which in a slight degree broke the dull
formality of the visit, but cold and dull and formal it was in no common
degree.
A few arrangements were made for Annabella’s visit. She was to stay with
Nora while she remained at the Spa, and then to have the pleasure of a
week at Riddlemere.
“And when that is over,” Henry said, “I will, if you will allow me, send
Mademoiselle down to fetch her.”
Up to this point Nora, trying to overcome the formality, had exerted
herself to talk; but when this blow fell, her sentences became as
measured as those of Henry. It was like two persons talking by
machinery.
Towards the end of the visit a sharp cry from Annie d’Alberg was heard
upstairs. Miss Willis, who had been one of the agreeable party
described, but who, always backward and timid, had done little but make
tea and ask a few questions, rose up and said she would see after her.
But Nora prevented her.
There were in her heart so many bitter thoughts, that it was a relief to
escape, even from this visit, which, it appeared, was to be the only one
she was destined to have.
No sooner had she left the room than the manner of Henry changed. The
frost was broken up. The thaw had come.
“Do you ever see Mr. Fanshawe now, Miss Willis?” he asked.
Miss Willis had not a lively imagination, and even now drew no
deductions from the sudden change, but she did start at the altered tone
of voice.
“We have not seen him of late,” she replied; “not for eight or nine
months, I think?”
“I saw him last week,” Henry pursued. “He was engaged, as usual, in
doing good.”
“Yes, always that,” was the hearty reply.
“Yes.” He paused for a moment, then went on--“It was here, at this Spa,
that you once spoke so warmly about him. Do you remember? It was when we
discovered that he was a common acquaintance.”
“Oh, yes, I remember very well.”
“I have not taken to the doing good yet myself,” and he half smiled,
“but I no longer look on a life devoted to benevolence--is that the
proper word to use--in the light I did then.”
“I should guess that,” Miss Willis said frankly.
“Why? Why should you guess?”
“Because you look altogether changed.”
“I look as I ought, then,” he replied, his countenance which had
brightened clouding over. “I am changed, and I have had enough to change
me. Oh! Miss Willis, do you know what it is to be so oppressed with
shame that you sometimes hardly dare to lift up your head? No,” he
suddenly paused in his vehement speech, and laughed outright. “How
should you, and why should you?”
Before anything more was said, Nora returned, and brought with her
Annabella, who had been playing upstairs. Annie had cut herself, and was
to go to bed.
The explanation was hardly made before Henry found it was time to go. He
kissed Annabella, repeated what he had said--that Mademoiselle should
fetch her--and departed; departed, leaving a feeling of almost despair
behind him.
In the course of the evening that followed, Miss Willis repeated to Nora
what had passed in her absence. A person of commonly lively fancy would
have made something of it. But one part of the subject only had
attracted the conscious attention of Miss Willis; and it was with this
part that she coloured her whole narrative. This part was the evident
influence that Stephen Fanshawe was exercising over Henry, and how that
influence was improving him.
Now Nora had almost ceased to think of improvement in Henry. He was to
her only too perfect; and never had his looks, his voice, his tone, his
manner, his everything, seemed more perfect than on this day. The words
of Miss Willis, therefore, first irritated and then saddened her. In
the colourless narrative she had had no part; and, though it was
something to think of, though it did give her some insight into his
habits and ways of life, there was no hope for her in the picture. He
could have friends, and go hither and thither; but she was nothing in
his life.
There came another visitor to Nora at the Spa, and he returned with her
to Riddlemere. It was old Mr. Fanshawe. He was one of those to whom
London is a necessity. He liked its light bread and its muffins, its
ceaseless letters and ceaseless newspapers. Once only had he made up his
mind to accept Nora’s pressing invitations to Riddlemere, and on that
occasion a fit of the gout had prevented his carrying out the good
intention. But the feeling that he ought to see the property of his
ward sat like a nightmare on his conscience; and at this time the
pressure on his conscience forced him to obey it.
On his return to London, he observed to his son how greatly Nora was
changed.
“In what way?” Stephen asked.
“Why, in every way,” was the reply. “She used to be self-willed and
haughty, and now she has no will at all. It is all calmness and
submission. Not that I like self-will in a woman. I don’t mean to find
fault; but I like a little spirit; we want it in this dull world. I used
to be afraid of her enthusiasm. I thought she would saddle herself with
all the sons of Adam; but she is as sober now as Mr. Conway himself.
Above all, she used to be so confident; if she did not say so, I saw she
thought that all her plans were perfect plans; and now she plainly says
that ‘whatever she does in life, she is sure to make a mistake.’ What do
you think about her?”
And he looked keenly at his son. For a certain unconscious shrinking
from discussing Stephen’s affairs with him, had put some ideas into Mr.
Fanshawe’s head.
“I think nothing,” he said composedly. “But I am very sorry to hear what
you say.”
“Then you have not observed it. When did you see her last?”
“Last June. Ten months ago, and then only for a day. But,” he added,
smiling, “I must make an opportunity to go and see after her. I
consider her happiness my particular charge.”
Mr. Fanshawe’s budding ideas were put to flight.
“Well, do so,” he said, “you will find it as I say. I suppose the girl’s
life is too lonely. She ought to be married. Moralists would say she is
improved. But I like a little spirit, I own. Always within due bounds,”
he added, prudently.
Stephen Fanshawe could not forget what his father had said. Nor could he
explain the change in Nora. He had renewed his acquaintance with Henry,
and from him had heard of the late disclosure at Riddlemere. He had
hoped that this foolish barrier being swept away, the relations of Nora
with her cousins were intimate and easy. But his father’s words made him
think. His own disappointment had rather increased than damped his
desire for her happiness; and as people of ardent desires will feel, he
felt as if her happiness was his special charge.
Although he and Henry had renewed their acquaintance, they rarely met.
He was occupied, and tied to his home. Henry was extremely busy, and
only when occasionally in London for a Sunday, went down to Summerhill
to visit him. During all this summer both were unusually busy, and both
tied to their business, and Stephen could think of no reason for
intruding himself on Nora’s privacy, nor could he make any observation
of Henry’s conduct. Yet the idea that there was something to be
discovered, haunted him.
It was Henry who gave him the opportunity he sought.
One day, at the end of a sultry July, he went down to Stephen, and
asked if he would take a flying tour with him.
“Simon and Annabella are going with a kind lady to Broadstairs. The
invitation extended to me; but I have not spirits for visiting. Yet I
feel worn and wearied, and wish for novelty. I have never seen the Swiss
mountains. Could we fly to Switzerland for a fortnight, and see
something worth seeing?”
Stephen paused over the request. Formed an instantaneous plan, and said
in reply,
“Have you ever seen the English lakes?”
“Never!”
“Then let that be our plan. I have only ten days to spare, for I have
promised to take charge of two unhealthy boys during the holidays, and
during those ten days I wish much to pay a visit at Riddlemere. We can
take it on our way to the Lakes?”
“What sort of a visit?” Henry asked, with a pink spot on his cheek.
“A very short one. Of course we cannot intrude upon two ladies, except
for a day. We will arrive in the morning, and go on our way in the
evening.”
* * * * *
Henry gave his consent to the plan, from simple reluctance to say no.
But he anticipated no pleasure from his visit to Nora, and he was
correct in his anticipations. The day was not a pleasant one.
The chief cause of failure was in the hours of the visit. A visit from
twelve to five is permissible only to intimacy. When acquaintance,
however slight, arrive before dinner, pass the evening together,
separate for the night, and meet again in the morning, the strange
particles melt together and awkwardness evaporates. But there can be
little hope of strange particles melting together in broad daylight,
where there is nothing to assist conversation, and no special thing to
be done.
And on this occasion the particles themselves were of the most
unyielding nature, for constraint is that one thing that might and
courage cannot overcome. Henry was constrained with Nora, and Nora,
because of his constraint--a constraint which, in her phraseology, was
called coldness--was constrained with him. Stephen would have been at
his ease with Nora, had she permitted it; but she, on this first
meeting--and seeing again that affliction of his, which ought to have
made her doubly careful of wounding his peace--felt a shame at having
misled him, which gave unwonted timidity and gentleness to her manners.
Even Miss Willis, partly feeling guilty both to him and Nora, and partly
catching the general infection, added her mite to the awkwardness of the
meeting.
It was, indeed, so awkward a day, that, had it not been so wretched, it
would have been laughable. Even wretched as it was, Nora, who was most
alive to the difficulties of the case, could hardly help smiling over
them.
At the close of the day there came a few moments of relaxation, a few
moments which left on Nora’s mind a happier impression than the rest of
the visit could have done. They were sitting in the drawing-room shortly
before the departure of the guests. Stephen Fanshawe began to talk to
Miss Willis about her step-mother. The conversation was not intended to
be private, for he did not lower his voice, yet both Henry and Nora felt
that could they at that moment have consulted the book of etiquette, it
would most certainly order them to talk.
They were sitting near each other, by Nora’s writing-table; but having
during the day exhausted every topic that human ingenuity could bring
forward, this sudden command of conscience, or good manners, to
converse, was not an easy one to obey. After casting his mind about in
every direction, Henry gave it up in despair. But desperation made Nora
bold, and the moment having arrived when she felt she must speak or
die, she, in her desperation, caught hold of one of those very topics
which during the day had been forbidden. A recurrence to past times.
“Mr. Fanshawe was speaking of building cottages just now,” she said. “Do
you remember the plan of a cottage you left with me? It has been much
liked, and we have followed it almost exactly in two that have been
built.”
She had spoken in the very thoughtlessness of the moment’s desperation;
and no sooner were the words said, than her heart leaped into her mouth
with terror at what she had done. What would he think of her for thus
bringing forward what he so determinedly avoided?
But Henry took the observation quietly. He was at the moment as
thankful as she was to find a new subject on which they might converse.
“No, I had forgotten it,” was all he said; but as at the same instant
she laid her hand on a large kind of scrap-book which was beside her on
the table, and opened it, he rose, and came behind her to see it.
“I stuck all the papers you left me into this book,” Nora observed, with
ease, and her usual simplicity of manner; for the quiet way in which he
had replied, and his apparent interest, had put to flight unpleasant
sensations.
“Did you, indeed! I am afraid that was an attention far more flattering
than they deserved.”
Nora’s head drooped over the book, and she nervously turned over the
pages. No words could have been more prosaically spoken than
Henry’s--they were in fact a simple expression of what he thought, but
Nora was suddenly conscious that she had paid them a too flattering
attention, and that to pay that attention had been at one time her only
consolation. Losing her ease and self-possession, she bent down her head
and blushed.
But Henry saw nothing, guessed nothing of the effect of his words.
Standing behind her, he could not see her blushes, and had he done so it
would never have occurred to him to guess the cause. He saw of her
sudden emotion far less than sightless eyes which were at a distance.
He stood waiting behind her, until she came to the page which contained
the plan.
“Oh! yes, I remember now,” he observed, looking at it with interest;
“but it is not perfect. I have been looking at many plans of cottages of
late, and some I have seen are both better and cheaper than this one.”
He then began to talk to her of his present employment; told her how
desirous was the guardian of the youth whose property he managed to
improve the dwellings of the poor; and, taking the book from her hand to
place it on the table, traced with his finger on the paper the varieties
in some of those cottage plans of which he spoke.
For more than five minutes all went easily and pleasantly--so easily and
pleasantly, that neither of them remembered their own identity; that
they were that Henry and Nora between whom there never had been, and it
seemed there never might be, peace. But a sudden recollection of
identity came, and all was changed. In turning over a page in the
scrap-book, Henry’s eyes fell on a list of names, which carried back his
thoughts to what he called that time of horror. It had been written in
haste the day after the fire, while arranging and tearing his papers. A
blot on the paper, and a scrawled and excited look in the characters,
brought vividly before him the torturing feelings and passionate conduct
of that day. He thought of his father’s letter, recollected the hasty
speeches which he had himself spoken against Nora--thought of all the
folly and all the madness at that time, and of his whole life, and with
a sudden change of manner and countenance, he closed the book and
returned to his seat. And again constraint paralyzed his powers and made
him dumb.
Nora could not but see that something had occurred to displease or annoy
him. Could not but feel the influence of that annoyance. Felt indeed
frozen with dismay, at the fear of having offended. But there was a
great difference between Henry and Nora, as there is perhaps in this
respect between most men and women. Nora was almost always outwardly
equal to any emergency. It was even a fault in her manners that they
were too impassive.
On this occasion, instead of seeming to observe his annoyance, she added
a few words on the subject of cottages; then quietly, and with
dexterity, slid away into some common-place topic of which she caught
hold.
And Henry felt that she had seen his discomposure; felt that she had
understood and endeavoured to cover it; felt that she had set him at
ease again; and was grateful, and humbled.