And everything settled down, and Nature resumed her common round. This
is what Nature does in all circumstances. There never was so bad a storm
but next morning the thrifty mother took heart and set to work again as
best she could to make amends for it. It is only when the storm affects
human hearts and lives that this cheerful, pathetic effort to get the
better of it becomes terrible; for the mending in such cases is so often
but superficial, the cure impossible. Other trees grow up to fill the
gap made by the one blown down; but not other loves or other hopes. Yet
gradually the tempest calms, the wreck is swept away, and some things
that are new are always better than some things that were old, even
though the old can never be replaced while life goes on.
Of all the dwellers in the Gatehouse, it was poor Haldane who felt this
the most. The reality of this life in the country was very different
from the anticipation. The fresh air which his mother had hoped to have
for Stephen--the cottage garden which they had all dreamt of (even he
himself by moments), where he could be wheeled in his chair to sit under
the apple-tree and smell the flowers--had vanished from their list of
possibilities. All the fresh air he could have was from the open window
by which his chair was placed. But not even the garden and the
apple-tree would have done so much for him as the varieties of the
country road. Instead of the garden walls at Victoria Villas, the strip
of dusty grass, the chance sight of a neighbour's child at play, or
(more likely) of a neighbour's clothes hung out to dry, he had a genuine
rural highroad, with all its sights. He saw the carts passing with rural
produce, full of big baskets of vegetables for the London market; he saw
the great waggons of odorous hay, with a man asleep on the top,
half-buried in the warm and fragrant mass, or cracking his whip on the
path, and shouting drowsy, inarticulate calls to the horses, who took
their own way, and did not mind him; he saw the carriages gleam past
with the great people, whom by degrees he got to know; and then the
Rectory children were always about, and Mrs Dalton in her pony-chaise,
and the people coming and going from the village. There were two of the
village folk in particular who brought a positive pleasure into his
life--not a pair of lovers, or any pretty group, but only Clippings, the
tailor, and Brown, the shoemaker, who strolled down the road in the
evening to smoke their pipes and talk politics as far as the Rectory
gate. Clippings, who lived 'up town,' was always decorous in his shabby
coat; but Brown, whose shop was 'at the corner,' came in his
shirt-sleeves, with his apron turned up obliquely to one side. They
would stop just opposite his window when they got hot in their
discussion. Sometimes it was the parish they talked of, sometimes the
affairs of the state, and it was in Stephen's mind sometimes to invite
them to cross the road, and to have his say in the matter. They were not
men of education or intelligence perhaps; but they _were_ men, living
the natural human life from which he had been torn, and it did him good
to watch them. After a while they began to look over at him and take off
their hats, half with village obsequiousness to a possible customer,
half with natural feeling for a soul in prison; and he gave them a nod
in return.
But this vulgar fancy of his was not quite approved of within. 'If you
are so friendly with these men, Stephen, you will have them coming
over, and poisoning the whole house with tobacco,' Mrs Haldane said,
with an expressive sniff. 'I think I smell it even now.' But his mother
was not aware that the scent of the tobacco was like an air of paradise
to poor Stephen, who had loved it well enough when he was his own
master, though it had become impossible now.
Mrs Haldane, however, did not say a word against Mr Dalton's cigar,
which he very often smoked under Stephen's window in those summer
mornings, lounging across in his study coat. It must be remembered that
Stephen was not a Dissenting minister _pur et simple_, but a man whose
name had been heard in the literary world, especially in that literary
world which Mr Dalton, as a 'thoughtful' and 'liberal' clergyman,
chiefly affected. The rector felt that it was kind to go and talk to
poor Haldane, but he was not so overwhelmingly superior as he might have
been under other circumstances. He did not set him down at once at a
distance of a hundred miles, as he did Mr Truston, the minister of the
chapel at Dura, by the mere suavity of his 'good morning.' On the
contrary, they had a great deal of talk. Mr Dalton was a man who piqued
himself on his Radicalism, except when he happened to come in contact
with Radicals, and he was very great in education, though he left the
parish schools chiefly to his wife. When anything had happened which was
more than ordinarily interesting in public affairs, he would stride
across with gaiety to the encounter: 'I told you your friend Bright was
not liberal-minded enough to see that distinction,' he would say; or,
'Gladstone has gone off on another search after truth;' and then the
battle would go on, while Stephen sat inside and his interlocutor paced
the white flags in front of the Gatehouse up and down under the windows
with that fragrant cigar. Sometimes Mary would come flying over from the
Rectory: 'Papa, papa, you are wanted. There are some papers to sign, and
mamma can't do it, she says.' '_Pazienza!_' the rector would answer, for
he had travelled too.
And then on the Saturday there were other diversions for Stephen. Old
Ann from the farm of Dura Den would whip up her old white pony and stop
her cart under his window. She had her grandson with her, a chubby lad
of twelve, in a smock-frock, beautifully worked about the shoulders,
with cheeks as red as the big poppies in the nosegay which his
grandmother made a point of bringing every Saturday to the poor sick
gentleman.
'And how do you do, sir, this fine fresh morning?' she would shout to
him. 'I hope as I sees you better. Sammy, give me the flowers. It's
old-fashioned, master, but its sweet; and I just wish I see you able to
come and fetch 'em for yourself.'
'Thank you, Ann; but I fear that's past hoping for,' Stephen would say
with a smile.
The same colloquy passed between them every week, but they did not tire
of it, and the little cart with its mixture of colours, the red carrots,
and white cauliflowers, and many-tinted greens, was a pleasant sight to
him. He did not object even to the pungent odour of the celery, which
often communicated itself to his bouquet. The white pony, and the red
and white and green of the vegetables, and Old Ann with a small face,
like a russet winter apple, under her deep bonnet, and her little red
shawl, trimly tied in round her waist by the great, many-pocketed apron;
and Sammy trudging behind, with boots like buckets, with a basket of
crimson cabbage for pickles on his arm, and his puffy, peony cheeks,
made up a homely picture which delighted the recluse. It was an event
for him when the Saturday came round, and he began (he said) to be fond
of the smell of celery, and to think double poppies very handsome,
showy flowers to put into a nosegay. Miss Jane took an interest in Ann
too, but it was of a different kind. She would go out to the door, and
have long discussions with her on various subjects quite as interesting
as the rector's battles with Stephen--whether the butter was rising, and
what was the cheapest for her poultry; for Ann's butter and her poultry
were the best in Dura, and when she knew you, and felt that you were to
be depended upon, she was not dear, Miss Jane always said.
There was also another visitor, who came once a week, not to Stephen's
window, but to make a call in all proper state. This was Mr Truston, the
minister of the chapel, who was, like Stephen, a _protégé_ of Mr
Baldwin, but had not either done so much credit or given so much trouble
to the denomination as Haldane had. Mr Truston was aware how his new
acquaintance was spoken of by the community, and his mind was much
divided between veneration for Stephen's powers and a desire to be
faithful with his brother. If he could be the humble instrument of
setting him quite right with the denomination and preserving the
efficiency of the magazine, he felt that he would not have lived in
vain. But it was a dreadful trial to his modesty to assume an admonitory
position to one whom he respected so much. He confided his difficulties
to Mrs Wigginton, the wife of the draper at Dura, who was a leading
member of the congregation, and a very thoughtful woman; and she had
given him a great deal of encouragement, and put his duty before him in
the clearest light.
'The thing is to keep him to fundamental principles,' Mrs Wigginton
said. 'I would excuse a great deal if he preserved these. _We_ may be
superior to distinctions, and know that there is good both in church and
chapel. But that will not do for the common mass. And we must support
the denomination, Mr Truston. It has its faults--but, whatever its
faults may be, we must stand by our flag.'
'Ah, I wish you would take him in hand,' said the minister with a sigh;
but, all the same, such inspiration as this did not go for nothing. He
began to call on the Haldanes every week; and when he had screwed up his
courage he meant to be very faithful with Stephen; but a man cannot
begin that process all at once.
Thus the Haldanes settled down in the Gatehouse; and their settling down
affected Helen with that unintentional example and encouragement, which
people convey to each other without meaning it. They were all very
poor, but Miss Jane, who had never been very rich, and who had been
trained to live on the smallest sum imaginable, made no hardship of her
poverty, and communicated a certain cheerfulness about it even to her
neighbour, whose mind and training were so very different. Miss Jane
took it as she had learned to take (though not till after many
struggles) her brother's illness, as a matter of course. She was aware
that there were rich people in the world. She saw them even, the
Burtons, for instance, who passed her every day, and whose life was full
of luxury; but this did not move her, any more than the sight of a great
beauty would have moved her to impatience of her own plain and homely
face. The wealth, like the beauty, was exceptional. The homeliness and
the poverty were the natural rule. And Helen saw that the lines of pain
were softened in Stephen's face, and that he had begun to feel something
like pleasure in those alleviations of his loneliness which have been
described. All this produced a soothing, quieting influence upon her.
She was hushed, as a child is who is not satisfied, whose cry is ready
to burst forth at any moment, but upon whom the very atmosphere, the
stillness of the air, has produced a certain calm. The wrong which had
burnt her heart like a fire was not extinguished; it burned low, not for
want of fuel, but because the air was soft and humid, and kept down the
flame. And she herself was subdued. She was weary of suffering, and the
routine of the new life acted upon her like an opiate, and the sense
that all this was accepted as ordinary and natural by others, kept her
down. And then Norah had cast away those bonds which oppress a
child--the bonds of conventional quiet, which remain when natural grief
has passed away in the order of things. Norah had begun to sing about
the house, to dance when she should have walked, to wake up like the
flowers, to live like the birds, spending her days in a chatter and
flutter of life and gladness. All this calmed down and suppressed the
feelings which had swayed Helen after her husband's death. Though her
old sense of suspicion in respect to her cousin had succeeded the
momentary relenting which his kindness had produced in her, even that
was suppressed in the artificial calm. She blamed herself for shrinking
from his presence, for disliking his friendliness; she even made an
effort to go to his house, to overcome what she said to herself was her
mean envy of his prosperity. She made friends with his wife, as far as
two women so different could make friends, and tried to believe that
Reginald Burton himself had never meant but well. It was in October,
when she had first begun fully to realise the strange quietness that had
come upon her, that it was suddenly broken up, never in that same
fashion to return again.
There were visitors at the time at Dura House, visitors of importance,
great county people, potentates whom, it was said, Mrs Burton was
specially bent on conciliating in order to open the way into
Parliament--a glory upon which her heart was set--to her husband. Mr
Burton had himself taken a holiday from business, and on this particular
day had gone up, after a long interval, 'to see,' he said, with that
cheerful, important laugh of his, 'how things were going on.' That
evening, however, Dura village was disappointed of its usual amusement.
The phaeton with the bays went slowly past, driven by the groom, with a
certain consternation in every line of the horses, and in every splendid
tail and high-stepping hoof.
'Has not your master come?' Mrs Burton asked, when she met this forlorn
equipage in the avenue. Such a thing had been known; sometimes business
was so urgent that Mr Burton had lost his train, or waited for one that
went later. But that which had happened this evening had never happened
before.
'He is walking, ma'am,' said the groom, with gloomy signification. It
gave even Mrs Burton a start, though she was usually so self-possessed;
and as for the groom, he spread it about through the house that there
had been 'a smash' in the City. Nothing else could account for so
extraordinary a step.
Mr Burton walked, and his countenance was clouded. There was a shade on
it, which the people about Dura, stupefied in the first instance by
seeing him afoot at that hour, interpreted as the groom did. They
thought 'something must have happened.' The Bank of England must have
faltered on its throne; half the merchants, at home and abroad, must
have fallen to the dust, like Dagon. Some one of weak mind, who
suggested that the ministry might be out, was snubbed by everybody with
a contempt proportioned to his foolishness. Would Mr Burton look like
that for any merely political misfortune? But no one ventured even to
suggest that Burton & Co. themselves might have sustained some blow.
Such treason might be in men's thoughts, but no one dared to hint at an
event which more than a revolution or a lost empire would have
convulsed Dura. There are some things which it is impious even to
speculate about.
Mr Burton went direct to the Gatehouse. He had not his usual
condescending word to Susan, nor did he remember to wave his hand to
Stephen as he passed the window. He went straight into the drawing-room,
where Helen and Norah were sitting. They had just come in from their
walk, and were going to have tea; and such a visit at this hour startled
them. There was something more than gloom on his face; there was
suppressed anger, and he had the look of a man who had come to speak his
mind. He shook hands in the slightest, most hasty way, not caring
evidently to waste time in salutations, and he did not take the chair
that was offered to him. He kept standing, looking first at Helen and
then at Norah, with glances which he seemed to expect would be
understood; but as Norah had been present at every discussion in the
house all her life, it did not occur to her to go away, nor to her
mother to send her. At last he was obliged to speak plainly.
'I am anxious to talk to you by yourself,' he said. 'I have something
very important to say. Norah, perhaps, would run out to the garden, or
somewhere--for half an hour, I should not ask for more.'
'Norah!' said Helen, with surprise. 'But she has heard everything that
any one can have to say to me. She knows as much as I do. You may say
anything before Norah.'
'By----!' said Mr Burton. He did not put any word in the vacant place.
He swore by Blank, as we do in books, contenting himself with the
'By----!' '_I_ don't mean to speak of my affairs before Norah,' he said,
walking to the window and looking out. 'Send her away.'
He waited there with his back turned to the two, who gazed at each other
amazed.
'Go up-stairs till I send for you, Norah,' said Helen, with a trembling
voice. It must be some new pain, some new terror, something about
Norah's father. She put her hand on her heart to keep it still. This was
how her calm was broken all in a moment. She put her child away with the
other hand. And Norah, astonished, indignant, choking with sudden rage
and mortification, flew out of the room and rushed up-stairs. The sound
of her hurried, angry retreat seemed to ring through all the house. And
it was not till her foot was heard overhead that her mother found breath
to speak. 'What is it?--tell me! There can be nothing now so very hard
to bear.'
'I don't know what you mean about hard to bear,' said Mr Burton,
turning pettishly round and seating himself on a chair in front of her.
'Helen, I have done all I could to be kind to you. You will say it has
not cost me very much, but it has cost me more than you think. I have
put myself to a great deal of trouble, and----'
'Is this all you have to tell me?' she asked faintly, still holding her
hand upon her heart.
'All!' he repeated; and then, changing his tone suddenly, 'do you know
anything about this new folly Maurice has taken in hand? Don't
prevaricate, Helen; answer me yes or no.'
'I do not know what you mean,' she said, and paused for breath. Her
fright, and the strange assault that had been made upon her, confused
her mind. Then gradually with Maurice's name came a sudden gleam of
light.
'That is a pretence,' he said. 'I can see in your face that you
understand. You that I have been, so to speak, nourishing in my
bosom--you--Helen! There is still time to think better of it. Have you
given your consent to it? Has he got your name?'
'If it is anything Dr Maurice is doing,' she said, 'yes, he has got my
consent, and more than my consent.'
'Good heavens, why? Are you in your senses? I thought it was some
idiotic woman's notion. What good can it possibly do to rake up that
business all over again? What the deuce do you mean by it? What can it
ever be to you?'
'What is it to you?' she said.
'To me!' She was looking at him, and his voice fell. He had begun
loudly, as if with the intention of declaring that to him it was less
than nothing; but he was caught by her look, and only grew confused, and
stammered out again, 'To me!'
'Yes,' said Helen. 'You are not a Director. You have said you were a
loser only, you had no responsibility. Then what does it matter to you?'
Mr Burton turned away his head; he stamped his foot slightly on the
floor in impatience. 'What is the use?' he said, as if to himself, 'you
might teach an elephant to fly sooner than make a woman understand about
business. Without being anything to me, it might be something to my
friends.'
'Is that man--that--Golden--is he your friend?'
'Of course he is,' said Mr Burton roughly, with a certain defiance. 'You
are prejudiced against him unjustly. But he is my friend, and a very
good fellow too.'
'Then it is better not to say any more,' said Helen rising, trembling in
every limb. 'It is best not to say any more. Oh don't venture to name
his name to me! If I had not been a woman, I should have--not killed
him. That would have been too good. Innocent men are killed, and you
others look on, and never lift a finger. I would have pursued him till
his last breath--crushed him--made him feel what he has done. And I
will--if I have the power!'
She stood up confronting her cousin, trembling, yet glowing with that
passion which the name of her husband's slanderer always roused within
her. She was almost as tall as Burton was, and he felt as if she towered
over him, and was cowed by the strength of her emotion. He rose too, but
he shrank back a step, not knowing how to meet the spirit he had roused.
'These are nice Christian sentiments,' he said, with an attempt at a
sneer; but in his heart the man was afraid.
'I ask nobody what kind of sentiments they are,' she cried. 'If he had
wronged me only, I would have forgiven him. But no man shall say his
name before me--no man! I may not have the power; my friends may not
have the power; but it is that, and not the will, which will fail if we
fail. I will never give up trying to punish him, never in my life!'
'Then you will be acting like a fool,' Mr Burton said; but he changed
his tone, and took a great deal of trouble to persuade her to take her
seat again, and discuss the matter calmly with him.
Norah stood up-stairs by the window, watching till he should go. The
child's heart was bursting with rage and pain. She had never been sent
away before; she had heard everything, had been always present whatever
was going on. Her father, Dr Maurice, Mr Haldane, every one of them had
spoken in her presence all that they had to say. And she remembered
words that no one else remembered, scraps of talk which she could put
together. She did so with a violent exercise of her memory as she stood
there drumming on the window, and wondering when he would go. 'He thinks
I am only a child,' she said to herself, in the fiery commotion of her
spirits, and thought of a hundred things she could do to prove the
contrary. She would go to Dr Maurice; she would let 'everybody' know. He
was no friend; he was a conspirator against them--one of those who
killed her father. Every moment that passed inflamed Norah more. She
stood at the window and watched, thinking would he never be gone,
thinking, oh why could not she make herself grow--make herself a woman!
What her mother had done was nothing to what Norah felt herself capable
of doing. Every vein in her body, and every nerve had begun to thrill
and tremble before she heard the sound down-stairs of the door opening,
and saw him go hastily away.
This was what he said when he opened the door of the sitting-room
down-stairs--
'You will do what you please, of course. I have found out before now
what it is to struggle with an unreasonable woman. Do what you like.
Drag your husband's name through the dirt again. Throw all sorts of new
light on his motives. That is what you will do. People might have
forgotten it; but after what you are going to do, they will never
forget. And that is all you will have for your pains--you may be sure
you can do nothing to _us_.'
'Us?' said Helen. 'You told me you were not concerned.'
And then Mr Burton changed colour and lost his temper.
'You drive a man wild,' he cried. 'You make me that I don't know what I
am saying. Of course you know what I mean, though you pretend you
don't. I mean my friends. And you know that; and you know how much you
owe to me, and yet the answer I get is--this!'
He slammed the door after him like an angry maid-servant; he strode
hastily away to his own house, with a face which of itself gave a new
paralytic seizure to old John at the lodge. He filled everybody with
consternation in his own house. And Helen stood still after he had left
her, half exultant, half stupefied. _Us!_ Had she found his cunning
manœuvres out?