There is always a little excitement in a village over a new inhabitant,
and the Drummonds were not common strangers to be speculated vaguely
about. There were many people in Dura who remembered Helen in her beauty
and youth. And next morning, when it became known that she had arrived
at the Gatehouse, the whole place burst into gossip on the subject. Even
the new people, the City people who lived in the white villas near the
station, were moved by it. For poor Drummond's story was known
everywhere, and his miserable fate, and the discussion in the
newspapers. Even here, in the quietness of the country, people took
sides, and public opinion was by no means so unanimous as poor Helen had
supposed. The papers had accepted her husband's guilt as certain, but
opinion was very much divided on the subject among people who had means
of knowing. 'Burton ought to have warned that poor fellow,' one of the
City gentlemen said to another at the station, going up by the early
train. 'I would not trust a simpleton in the hands of a smart man like
Golden.'
'Do you think he was a simpleton?' said the other.
'In business, yes----' said the first speaker.
'How could he be otherwise? But, by Jove, sir, what a splendid painter!
I never saw anything I liked better than that picture of his in the last
Exhibition. Poor fellow! And to put him in Golden's hands, a man well
known to be up to every dodge. I wonder what Burton could be thinking
of. I wonder he can look that poor lady in the face.'
'I should just like to find out how much Burton himself knew about it,'
said the other, nodding his head.
'And so should I,' the first speaker said significantly, as they took
their place in the train.
Thus it will be seen that the world, which Helen thought of so bitterly
as all against her, was by no means so clear on the subject. At the
breakfast-table in the Rectory the conversation took a still more
friendly tone.
'I hear that poor Mrs Drummond has come to the Gatehouse,' said Mrs
Dalton. 'I almost think I saw her yesterday--a tall woman, in a crape
veil, with a little girl about Mary's size. I shall make a point of
calling the first time I go out. Oh, George, what a sad, sad story! I
hope she will let me be of some use to her.'
'I don't see that you can be of much use,' said her husband. 'She has
the Burtons, of course, to fall back upon. How strange to think of Helen
Burton coming back here! I could not have supposed it possible. So proud
a girl! And how that man at Dura could ask her! I suppose he feels the
sweetness of revenge in it. Everybody knew she refused him.'
'Oh George, hush! the children,' cried Mrs Dalton under her breath.
'Psha! everybody knows. What a difference it would have made to her,
though! It is strange she should have chosen to come and live in sight
of his splendour.'
'Oh, do you think she cares about his splendour? Poor soul!' said kind
Mrs Dalton, with tears in her eyes. 'She must have very different
thoughts in her mind. Most likely she was glad of any shelter where she
could hide her head, after all the newspapers and the publicity. Oh,
George! it must be doubly hard upon her if she was proud.'
'Probably it was her pride that made her husband such a fool,' said the
rector. 'You women have a great deal to answer for. If she drove him
into that thirst for money-making--a thing he could know nothing
about----You are all fond of money--'
'For money's worth, George,' said Mrs Dalton humbly. She could not deny
the accusation. For her own part she would have done anything for
money--she with her eight children, and Charlie's education so
dreadfully on her mind.
'Oh, I don't say you are miserly,' said the rector, who was a literary
man of superior mind, and hated to be bothered by family cares, which
incapacitated him for thought; 'but when a woman wants more than her
husband can give her, what is the unhappy man to do? _Ne sutor ultra
crepidam._ Which means, Mary----'
'I have heard it before,' said his wife meekly. 'I think I know what it
means.'
'Then you see what comes of it,' said Mr Dalton. 'I don't believe a word
that is in the papers. I seldom do. He went and got himself involved and
bamboozled. How was he to know what he was doing? I don't blame poor
Drummond, but I am not so sure it was not her fault.'
At the great house the talk was different; there was no discussion of
the rights or wrongs of the question. Mr Burton, indeed, preferred not
to speak of Mr Drummond; and young Mr Rivers, who had come down with him
on the previous night, had got no opening to report the scene of which
he had been a spectator. They were early people, and though they had
entertained a large party the night before, their breakfast was earlier
than that at the Rectory. They were all out on the lawn, visitors,
children, dogs, and all, while Mr Dalton drank his coffee. Ned was
busily employed training the Skye to jump over a stick, an exercise
which was not much to Shaggy's taste; while the big pointer (who was
only in his babyhood, though he was so big, and was imbecile, as puppies
are) looked on, and made foolish springs and vaults about his clever
brother. Malta, in his blue ribbon, kept close by Mrs Burton's side, and
looked on at the performance with the contemptuous toleration of a
superior being; and Clara, also decked with blue ribbons, hung by her
mother too.
'You had better come with me and see Helen, said the head of the house.
'I told you she arrived last night.'
'Now!' said Mrs Burton, with some surprise. She had her gardening gloves
on and a basket in her hand for flowers. These she would have laid down
at once, had it been only a walk to the station which was in question;
but this was a different affair.
'Yes; why not now?' said her husband with that roll of wealth and
comfort in his voice. 'We are relations, we need not stand upon
ceremony. You mean to call on her some time, I suppose.'
'Oh, certainly, I shall call; but not at this hour, Mr Burton. I have
only seen her once. Familiarity would be impertinence in me.'
'Pshaw, nonsense! one of your fantastic notions,' he said. 'I have seen
her more than once, and I can't afford to stand on ceremony. Come along.
I am going there now.'
'Then I think you should go immediately,' said Mrs Burton, looking at
her watch, 'or you will be too late for the train. Clara, papa will not
want us this morning; we can go for some flowers. You will be back by
the usual train? I will pick you up at the station, if you like, for I
have some calls to make to-day.'
'As you please,' said her husband; 'but I can't understand why you
should cross me, Clara, about my cousin. You don't mean to say,' he
added with a laugh, 'that you have any--feeling on the subject? That you
are--ever so little--piqued about poor Helen? I shouldn't like to use
the other word.'
Clara Burton looked at her husband very calmly. She was not offended. It
was human nature; men were known to possess this kind of vanity, though
it was so strange. 'I am not at all piqued,' she said; 'but I like to be
civil. I don't suppose Mrs Drummond and I will be moved to rush into
each other's arms all at once, and I don't wish to look as if I paid her
less respect because she is poor. If you are going there, you ought to
go immediately. You will be late for the train.'
'Confound your composure!' Mr Burton said to himself, as he went down
the avenue.
It would have pleased him had his wife been a little discomposed. But,
after a while, he took comfort, saying to himself that Clara was a
consummate little actress, but that she could not take _him_ in. Of
course, she was nettled by the presence of his old love, and by his
haste to visit her; but she was proud, and would not show it. He felt a
double triumph in the sense that these two women were both affected, and
endured, for his sweet sake, a certain amount of pain. He set out his
chest more than ever, and held up his head. Now was his moment of
triumph over the woman who had once rejected him. Had he been able to
induce her to come to Dura while she was still prosperous, the triumph
would have been sweeter, for it would have been unmingled with any tinge
of regretful or remorseful feeling; but as it was it was sweet. For the
first time she would see him in his full importance, in all his state
and splendour, she would see him from the depths of her own humiliation,
and the force of a contrast greater than he had desired, more complete
even than he had dreamed, must already have flashed upon her. Yes, now
she would see what she had lost--what a mistake she had made. He meant
to be very kind; he would have given her anything she chose to ask for,
if she but showed the least sign of penitence, of clearer perception, of
being aware of what she had lost. There was nothing which her cousin
would not have done for Helen; but he could not resign his own
delightful consciousness of triumph. Under this genial influence, he was
overflowing with good-nature and kindness.
'What! come out for a little sunshine, old John,' he said to the old man
at the lodge, who was seated basking in the warmth on the bench at his
door. 'Good for the rheumatics, ain't it, a day like this? I envy you,
old fellow, with nothing to do but sit by your door in the sun and sniff
your flowers; you are better off than I am, I can tell you.'
'Ay, ay! master, it's fine for me; but you wouldn't think much on't
yourself, if you had it,' said old John.
Mr Burton went on laughing and waving his hand, amused with the old
man's impudence.
'If I had it myself,' he said, with a smile, 'I!----' The thought
tickled him. It was hard to believe that he himself, a man in the prime
of life, growing richer every day, was made of the same clay as old
John; and yet of course it was so, he admitted good humouredly. His mind
was full of his own benevolence and kind-heartedness as he pursued his
way to visit his cousin. What quantities of people were dependent upon
his will and pleasure--upon his succour and help! his servants, so many
that he could scarcely count them; the clerks in his office; the
governess who taught Clara, and who in her turn supported her mother and
sisters; and then there was old Stephenson in the village, in his
decay, who had once been in Mr Burton's office; and his old nurse; and
the poor Joneses and Robinsons, whose boys he had taken in as errand
boys. He ran over this list with such a pleasant sense of his goodness,
that his face shone in the morning sunshine. And at the head of all,
first of his pensioners, chief of his dependents--Helen! Mr Burton
laughed half aloud, and furtively rubbed his hands. Yes, yes, by this
time there could be no doubt she must have found out her mistake.
Helen had got up that morning with the determination to put grief away
from the foreground of her life, and resume such occupations as remained
to her. Norah's books had been got out, and her music, and some
work--small matters which made a difference in the ghostly drawing-room
already, and brought it back to life. Helen was standing by the table
arranging some flowers when Mr Burton came in. Norah had gathered them
almost before the dew was off them, and stood by her mother watching her
as she grouped them together.
'I wish I could arrange flowers as you do, mamma,' Norah was saying
admiringly. 'How nice it must be to be able to do everything one tries!
They will not come right when _I_ do it. You are like the fairy that
touched the feathers with her wand, and they all came together as they
ought. I wonder how you do it. And you never break anything or spoil
anything; but if I only _look_ at a vase it breaks.'
Norah was saying this with a rueful look when Mr Burton's smart summons
came to the door; and the next minute he had come in, bringing so much
air with him into the room, and motion, and sense of importance. Helen
put the flowers aside hastily and gave him her hand.
'So you are making use of the garden,' he said, taking note of
everything with an eye of proprietorship; 'quite right, quite right. I
hope you will make yourselves quite at home. It is a funny old house,
but it is a good style of a place. You need not be ashamed to receive
any one here. And I have no doubt you will find everybody very civil,
Helen. I have let the people in Dura know you are my cousin. That,
though I say it that shouldn't, is a very good passport here.'
'I hope you will not take any trouble about us,' said Helen hastily.
'All I want is to be quiet. I do not care for civilities.'
'But you prefer them to incivilities, I hope,' said Mr Burton. 'My wife
thinks I am wrong to come in this unceremonious way to call. I wanted
her to come with me, but she would not. You ladies have your own ways of
acting. But I felt that you would be mortified if you saw me pass the
door.'
'Oh no. I should not have been mortified.'
'I will take care you sha'n't,' he said, the roll in his voice sounding
more full of protection and benevolence than ever. 'I have not much time
now. But, my dear Helen, remember that I am always at your
service--always. I have mentioned you to all the nicest people. And we
hope very soon to see you at the House. I should not have brought you
here, I assure you, without intending to be a friend to you in every
way. You may rely upon me.'
'You are very kind,' was all Helen could say.
'I want to be kind. You cannot please me better than by asking me for
what you want. Tell me always when your mother wants anything, Norah.
There now, I won't say any more; you understand me, Helen. I have a few
things in my power, and one of them is to make you comfortable. When you
have time to see about you you will perceive that things have gone very
well with me: not that I intend to boast; but Providence, no doubt, has
been very kind. My wife will call this afternoon, and should you like a
drive or anything, I am sure Clara----'
'Please don't trouble. I would rather be quiet. You forget,' said Helen,
with a momentary sharpness in her voice, 'that Providence, which has
been so kind to you, has been hard upon us.'
'My dear Helen! you are too good and pious, I am sure, not to know that
we ought not to repine.'
'I don't think I repine, and I am sure you mean to be kind; but oh! if
you would take pity on me, and let me alone----'
It was all she could do to keep from tears. But she would not weep
before him. Her jealousy of him and distrust were all coming back.
Instinctively she felt the triumph in his voice.
'Poor Helen!' said Mr Burton, 'poor girl! I will not trouble you longer
just now. You shall not be bothered. Good-bye; trust to me, and I will
take care of you, my poor dear!'
It was ludicrous, it was pitiable; she scorned herself for the
impression it made upon her; but how could she help it? She felt that
she hated Reginald Burton, as he stood before her in all his wealth and
comfort, patronising and soothing her. When he was gone, she rushed up
to her room, that Norah might not see her weakness, to weep a few hot,
burning tears, and to overcome the wild, unreasonable anger that swelled
in her heart. It was his moment of triumph. Perhaps Helen felt it all
the more because, deep down in her heart, she had a consciousness that
she too had once triumphed over him, and rejoiced to feel that she could
humble him. This was a hard punishment for such an old girlish offence;
but still it felt like a punishment, and added a sting to everything he
did and said. And whether it was at that moment or at a later period,
she herself could not have told, but a sudden gleam came across her of
some words which she had once read somewhere--'Burton and Golden have
done it.' Whence came these words? had she dreamt them? had she read
them somewhere? They came before her as if they had been written upon
the wall. Burton and Golden! Was it true? What could it mean?
Mrs Burton called in the afternoon. She had Clara with her, and what was
still more remarkable, young Mr Rivers, who was staying in the house,
but who up to this time had made no mention of the scene he had
witnessed. Perhaps it was for lack of an opportunity, perhaps because
he did not know how far it would be safe to mention Helen--whom he heard
spoken of as a relative, yet not with the feeling which moved his own
mind when he thought of her. Cyril Rivers was but a big boy, though he
began to think himself a man, and Helen had moved him to that sudden
fantastic violence of admiration with which an older woman often
momentarily inspires a boy. He was eager to go with Mrs Burton to call.
He would walk down with her, he said, and continue his walk after the
carriage had picked her up; and in his heart he said to himself that he
must see that woman again. He was full of awe and enthusiasm at the
thought of her. She was to him like the heroine of a tragedy, of a story
more striking, more affecting than any tragedy he had ever heard of; for
this was real, and she was a true woman expressing her natural
sentiments, forgiving nothing. It seemed to bring the youth, who was all
thrilling with natural romance, within that charmed inner circle of
emotion and passion which is, though it is seldom visible, the centre
and heart of life.
But Helen bore a very different aspect when she waited to receive Mrs
Burton's call from that which she bore at the door of St Mary's Road,
confronting Golden. Her flush of colour and glow of energy and
vehemence were gone. She was seated, pale and silent, by the table near
the window, with her dead white cap encircling her face, and some
needlework in her hand. It was not the same Mrs Drummond, was young
Rivers' first disappointed thought. And when she invited the party to
sit down, and began to talk about the weather and the country round, he
was so bewildered that he longed to steal away. The two ladies sat
opposite to each other, and said the sort of things which all ladies say
when they call or are called upon. Helen's tone was low, and her voice
fell; but these and her black dress were the only things that made it
apparent that anything had happened to her. It was only when this little
artificial conversation flagged and a pause occurred that the real state
of affairs became even slightly visible. The momentary silence fell
heavy upon people who had so much on their minds; and while they all sat
motionless, the little mirror on the wall made a picture of them in
little, which looked like a caricature, full of humourous perception and
significance. Mrs Burton had been hesitating as to what she should say.
Helen was a study to her, of which she had as yet made nothing; and
perhaps it was as much from curiosity as any other feeling that she at
last introduced a subject more interesting than the weather or the
landscape. It was after a second pause still more serious than the
first.
'It must be very strange to you coming back to Dura after all that has
happened. It must be--hard upon you,' she said.
'Yes; it is hard,' Helen could not trust herself to many words.
'If there is anything in which I can be of use,' Mrs Burton began, 'will
you let me know? If there is anything that can make it less painful for
you. I should be very glad to be of any use.'
Mrs Drummond made no reply; she gave a little bow, and went on with the
needlework she held in her hands, but not as if she cared for that. She
was not like what he had thought, but yet young Rivers got up with a
certain tremulous awe and approached her. She had not recognised him.
She turned her eyes upon him wondering what he could have to do with
her. Her heart was steeled to encounter all those words of routine which
she knew would have to be said--but who was this boy?
'I think I will go now,' he said hastily to Mrs Burton; and then he
lowered his voice. 'May I say just one word? If I can ever do anything
to set things right, will you let me know? I shall never forget what you
said--on Tuesday.'
'On Tuesday?' Helen repeated, in her great surprise looking at him. She
ran over Tuesday's proceedings in her mind; at first in vain, and then a
little flush came over her face. 'Ah,' she said, 'it was you who came
with--Mr Golden. I remember now.'
'But I shall never be with him again,' said the youth with energy, which
brought the responsive blood to his cheeks. 'Of that you may be sure. I
am Cyril Rivers. I am not much good now, but I might be--afterwards.
Will you remember me? Will you let me serve you if ever I can?'
'Thanks,' said Helen, putting out her hand, with a sudden softness in
her voice.
The lad was young, romantic, chivalrous. She was to him like some
majestic dethroned queen in her sorrow and wronged estate. He stooped
down, and touched her white fingers with his lips, and then, without
looking round, turned, and went away. His impulsive generous words, his
fanciful pledge of eagerness to help her, went to Helen's heart. She had
not expected this, and it surprised and touched her. She was not
conscious for a moment of her visitor's steady, investigating glance.
'What a romantic boy!' said Mrs Burton, with a smile.
'Yes,' said Helen, and she called herself back with an effort. 'But
romance sometimes does one good. It is a surprise at least.'
'At that age it does not matter much. I did not know you knew the
Riverses,' said Mrs Burton. 'This is the eldest son, to be sure; but
since the late misfortune they are quite poor. They have not much in
their power.'
She said this with a charitable motive. It seemed to her as if Helen
must mean something by it. Everybody appeared to mean something in the
eyes of this philosopher. And she was a little moved by the misfortunes
of the woman beside her. She thought it was kind to warn her not to
waste her efforts. Helen, on her side, did not know in the least what
Mrs Burton meant; did not suppose she meant anything indeed, and sat
patient, accepting this speech with the others as an effort to make
conversation, not ungrateful to Mrs Burton, but wondering when she would
go away.
Meanwhile Cyril Rivers hastened out full of emotion. He took the wrong
turn in going out, and before he knew, found himself in the garden,
where the two girls were 'making acquaintance,' as Mrs Burton had bidden
them do. Clara was big and fair, with her father's full form, and a
beautiful complexion, the greatest possible contrast to little Norah,
with her light figure, and faint rose tints. But Norah at this moment
was flushed and angry, looking as her mother had done that memorable
evening at St Mary's Road.
'Oh, do come here, Mr Rivers,' said Clara, 'Norah is so cross. I only
said what papa says so often--that it would be wretched to live in the
country without a carriage or a pony or anything. Don't you think so
too?'
Norah flushed more deeply than ever. 'I am not cross. We did not come to
live in the country for pleasure, and what does it matter to us about
carriages and ponies? We are poor.'
'And so am I,' said the boy, with that instinctive adoption of 'our
side' which Norah had attributed to him. He thought how pretty she was
as she lifted her brown eyes. What a pretty child! and he was
approaching twenty, a man, and his heart yearned over the helpless and
sorrowful. 'I shall have to sell my horses and go afoot; but I don't
think I shall be wretched. Everybody cannot be rich like Mr Burton, you
know.'
'But you are always Lord Rivers's son,' said Clara. 'You can have what
you like everywhere. I think it is very cross of Norah not to care.'
And Mr Burton's daughter, foiled in her first attempt to secure her own
cousin's envy and admiration, looked as if she would like to cry. Young
Rivers laughed as he went away at her discomfiture. As he turned to find
the right way of exit, he looked back upon them with an unconscious
comparison. He did not know or think what was Norah Drummond's descent.
He took her unconsciously as the type of a higher class impoverished but
not fallen, beside that small representative of the _nouveaux riches_.
And all his sympathies were on the side of the former. He pulled a
little white rosebud from a tree as he passed, and put it in his coat
with a meaning which was partly real and partly fantastic. They were
poor, they were injured, and wronged, and in trouble. He put their
colours, as it were, in his helmet. Foolish boy, full of romance and
nonsense! one day or other in their cause he felt he might couch his
lance.