Mrs Burton had taken a very serious piece of work in hand. No wonder
that she lingered over the fire in the library, or in her drawing-room,
or wherever she could find a fire, in those early chills of October, to
warm her little cold toes, and to make up her plan of warfare. She was a
chilly little woman, as I have said. She had not much except a mind to
keep her warm, and mind is not a thing which preserves the caloric
thoroughly unless it is comforted by the close vicinity of other organs.
Mrs Burton had no body to speak of; and, so far as has been seen, not
very much heart. Her mind had to fulfil all the functions usually
performed by these other properties, and to keep her warm besides; so
that it was not wonderful if she sat over the fire.
It was not to be expected, however, that the Marchioness would always be
so obliging as to remain in her room till three o'clock; and
consequently Mrs Burton's thinking had to be done at odd moments when
the cares of her household could be lawfully laid aside. She was rather
in bondage to her distinguished guest; and as she was a little
republican, a natural democrat at heart, the bondage was hard to her.
She was a great deal cleverer than the Marchioness of Upshire; her mind
went at railroad speed, while that great lady jogged along at the
gentlest pace. Where the heart is predominant, or even a good, honest,
placid body, there is tolerance for stupidity; but poor intellect is
always intolerant. Mrs Burton chafed at her noble companion, and
suffered tortures inwardly; but she was very civil, so far as outward
appearance went, and did her duty as hostess in a way which left nothing
to be desired.
But it took all her powers to master the problem before her. She had an
adversary to overcome; an adversary whom she did not despise, but whom
everybody at the first glance would have thought too slight a creature
to merit so much as a thought. Mrs Burton knew better. She looked at
Norah Drummond not in her simple and evident shape as a little girl of
eighteen, the daughter of a poor mother, who lived upon a hundred
pounds a year. This was what Norah was; and yet she was a great deal
more. She was the commander of a little compact army, of which the two
chief warriors, love and nature, were not much known to Mrs Burton; but
which was reinforced by youth, and supreme perverseness and self-will,
powers with which she was perfectly acquainted. Ned's love his mother
might perhaps have laughed at; but Ned's obstinacy, his determination to
have his own way, were opponents at which she could not laugh; and they
were arrayed against her. So was the capricious fancy, the perverse
individuality of Cyril Rivers, who was a man accustomed to be courted,
and not over-likely to fall into an arrangement made for him by his
family. Mrs Burton pondered much upon all these things. She found out
that her guest was seen at the Gatehouse almost every day, and she saw
from her son's aspect that he too knew it, and was beginning to hate his
rival. Then there arose a little conflict in her mind as to which of her
two children she should make herself the champion of. A mother, it may
be thought, would incline most to the daughter's side; but Mrs Burton
was not an emotional mother. She was not scheming how she could save her
children pain. The idea of suffering on their part did not much affect
her--at least, suffering of a sentimental kind. She formed her plan at
last with a cold-blooded regard to their advantage, founded on the most
careful consideration. There was no particular feeling in it one way or
another. She had no desire to injure Norah, or even Norah's mother, more
than was inevitable. She had not even any harsh or revengeful feelings
towards them. To confound their projects was necessary to the success of
her own--that was all; but towards themselves she meant no harm. With an
equal impartiality she decided that her operations should be on Ned's
side. If she could be said to have a favourite, it was Ned. Clara was
self-seeking and self-willed to a degree which was disagreeable to Mrs
Burton. Such strenuous sentiments were vulgar and coarse to the more
intellectually constituted nature. And Clara had so much flesh and
blood, while her mother had so little, that this, too, weakened the
sympathy between them. The mother, who was all mind, could not help
having a certain involuntary unexpressed contempt for the daughter whose
overwhelming physique carried her perpetually into a different world.
But what was vulgar in Clara was allowable in Ned; and then Ned had
talent in his way, and had taken his degree already, and somewhat
distinguished himself, though he was careful, as he himself said, to
'put his brains in his pocket,' and refrain from all exhibition of them
when he got home. Then, it would not have flattered Mrs Burton's vanity
at all to see her daughter the Hon. Mrs., or even Lady Rivers; but it
was a real object with her to see her son in Parliament. She had tried
hard to thrust her husband into a seat, with a little swell of
impatience and ardour in her heart, to have thus an opportunity of
exercising her own powers in the direction of the State. It was a thing
she could have done, and she would have given half her life to have it
in her power. But this had turned out an impossible enterprise, and now
all her wishes were set upon Ned. With the Merewethers' influence, in
addition to their own, Ned, almost as soon as he had come of age, might
be a legislator. With the talents he had derived from her, and which she
would stimulate and inspire, he might be of service to his country. It
was not an ungenerous aspiration; it was rather, on the contrary, as
noble a wish as mere intellect could form. And to attain this it was
necessary that Ned should gain his father's favour by bringing a
splendid connection to the house of Dura; and that, on the other hand,
he should obtain that influence which was his shortest way to the
coveted position. What did it matter if a temporary heart-break were the
price he had to pay, or even a temporary humiliation in the shape of
giving up his own will? His mother decided for him that such a price was
a very small matter to pay. She made up her mind accordingly that he
should pay it at once, and in its most unquestionable form. That Clara
should be humbled, too, and exposed to tortures of wounded pride and
mortification, was a pity; but there was no other way.
This, then, was Mrs Burton's plan: to encourage young Rivers, the suitor
whom her husband had chosen for her daughter, to devote himself to
Norah; to throw him continually in the girl's way; to make him display
his admiration, and if possible his devotion to her; to delude Norah
into satisfaction, even response, to the assiduities of her new suitor;
and by these means to disgust and detach Ned from the object of his
youthful affection. It was a bold scheme, and at the same time it
promised to be an easy one. As to what might follow in respect to Clara,
the risk would have to be run; but it did not seem a very great risk. In
the first place, Clara's 'feelings' (a word at which her mother smiled)
were not engaged; and in the second place, Cyril Rivers, though he might
be foolish enough, was not such a fool as to throw his handsome self
away upon a penniless girl without connections or anything to recommend
her. There was very little fear that it would ever come to that. He
might fall in love with Norah, might flatter and woo, and even break
(Mrs Burton smiled again, the risk seemed so infinitesimal) the girl's
heart; but he was not likely, as a man of the world, to commit himself.
And if after her end was served it might be thought expedient still that
he should marry Clara, why a flirtation of this kind could make very
little difference; it might put a stop to Mr Burton's ideas at the
moment, but it need not affect them in the future. She made this plan,
with her toes warming at the library fire, and she did not confide it to
any one. Such schemes sound a great deal worse when they are put into
words than they feel in the recesses of the bosom that gave them birth.
She felt very well satisfied when she had thus settled what to do. It
seemed the minimum of pain for the maximum of advantage; and then it was
a kind of pain which Mrs Burton could not but contemplate with a certain
mockery, and which she could but faintly realize.
At luncheon that day it turned out, as she supposed, that Mr Rivers was
not one of the shooting party. He had been writing letters, he said; he
was going to call at the Rectory in the afternoon to see Mr Dalton. In
short, he had an appointment. Mr Dalton was a member of the
Anthropological Society, to which he also belonged.
'I wonder if I might ask you to do something for me,' said Mrs Burton.
'It is just to leave a note at the Gatehouse. You know the Gatehouse?
Mrs Drummond's, just opposite the Rectory.'
'Certainly. I know Mrs Drummond,' said Rivers. He answered very
promptly, feeling that there was a covert attack intended, and that this
was meant to remind him of the allegiance he owed elsewhere. His reply
had thus quite an unnecessary degree of promptitude and explanatoriness.
'I have known her for many years. In fact, I called there yesterday.' He
felt it was expedient for his own independence to assert his freedom of
action at once.
'Then you won't mind leaving my note,' said Mrs Burton. 'We are getting
up a picnic for Wednesday, you know; and I should like Norah to be with
us. She has rather a dull life at home, poor child.'
'That is the pretty girl you were dancing with, Mr Rivers,' said Lady
Florizel, 'with dark hair and hundreds of little flounces. I should
have said she was too little for so many flounces, if she had consulted
me.'
'That is the mistake girls always make,' said the Marchioness,
'especially girls who are not in society. They follow the fashion
without ever thinking whether it suits them or not.'
'But, under correction, I think it did suit her,' said Mr Rivers. 'Do
not let us call them flounces--call them clouds, or lines of soft white
mist. I am not sufficiently learned in _chiffons_ to speak.'
'Oh, but you are delightful on _chiffons_!' said Lady Florizel. 'Men
always are when they know just a little. Sometimes, you know, one can
actually derive an idea from you; and then you make the most delicious
mistakes. Clara, let us make him talk _chiffons_; it is the greatest fun
in the world.'
'I have more confidence in my maid,' said Clara. She was not in the
habit of controlling herself or hiding her emotions. She contracted her
white forehead, which was not very high by nature, with a force which
brought the frizzy golden fringe of hair over her very eyebrows--and
pouted with her red lips. 'Besides, Mr Rivers has something better to
do,' she said, getting up from the table.
She was the first to get up--a thing which filled the Marchioness with
consternation. Clara was a girl of the nineteenth century, feeling that
her youth, and her bloom, and riotous, luxurious beauty made her queen
of the more gently toned, gently mannered company. She broke up the
party with that pout and frown.
Rivers went away with the note in his pocket, believing devoutly that it
had been intended for a snare for him, a way of interfering with his
freedom. 'Let her wait at least till I am in her toils, which will not
be just yet,' he said to himself while he went down the avenue; while
Clara pursued her mother, who had gone to put on her bonnet to accompany
the Marchioness on her drive, up-stairs.
'How could you, mamma?' she cried. 'Oh, how could you? It is because you
think nothing of me; you don't care for me. To ask the Drummonds at all
was bad enough; but to send Cyril Rivers to ask them. It seems too bad
even for you.'
'Clara, what is Cyril Rivers to you?'
'To me?' Clara faltered, stopped short, was silent, gazing at her mother
with blue, wide-open eyes, which astonishment made round. Even to a
dauntless girl, accustomed to speak her mind, the question was a hard
one. She could not answer, 'Papa means him to marry me. He is my
property; no one has any right to him but me,' as she might have done
had she spoken at all. It requires a very great deal of hardihood to put
such sentiments into speech, and Clara, with all her confidence, was not
quite bold enough. She gazed at her mother, with angry blue eyes,
speaking with them what she could not say in words; but all she could do
audibly was to murmur again, 'To me!'
'Yes, to you. I don't know what right you have to interfere. If you
consider that you have any just right, state it to me; and if I find it
reasonable I will tell you what I am doing; but, otherwise, not a word.
In the circumstances composure and patience are the best things for you.
I am acting, and I shall act, towards Mr Rivers according to principles
of my own, and a system of my own; and I don't mean to be interfered
with, Clara. You understand that.'
'I shall speak to papa,' said Clara, in her anger. 'I shall just tell it
all to papa.'
'Do, my dear,' said her mother calmly, and put on her bonnet. It was
clear that now, at least, there was not another word to be said.
Clara went away in her anger to Lady Florizel for sympathy.
'Mamma has made up her mind to ask those people,' she said. 'And I hate
them. They are low people--people that ought not to be asked to meet
you.'
'Oh, as for us, never mind! They will not hurt us,' said Lady Florizel
shrugging her shoulders; 'but I thought you told me you were great
friends with the people in the village before the ball.'
'That is the worst of all,' said Clara. 'We are great friends. They were
all the company I ever had before I came out. But now, when I don't
require them any longer, they have grown disagreeable; and yet there is
the old habit existing all the same.'
'Poor Clara!' said her new companion, 'what a bore for you! Village
companions are so apt to be a bore. But I am sure if you were to talk to
your mamma she would find some way of getting rid of them. That would be
the best.'
'Why, it is she that is asking them,' said Clara.
And it became more and more apparent that her injury was past help; for
in the face of her mother's invitation what could even papa do?
Mr Rivers carried the note with much fidelity to its destination. 'I
should not have ventured to come,' he said when he went in and met Mrs
Drummond's look of suspicion, 'but for _this_. And I hope it will find
favour in your eyes. I suppose I am to wait and take an answer? And it
will be a favourable answer, I hope.'
Helen and her child had been talking of him before he appeared, and
Norah had been a little agitated, half-pleasurably, half-painfully, by
her mother's warning.
'I do not like him to come so often,' Mrs Drummond had said. 'Whether he
means anything or not, I would much rather he did not come.'
'Mean, mamma! What could he mean, except to talk to you a little? I am
sure he does not mean anything,' Norah had cried, with the premature
confidence of her age.
And then he had made his appearance, and with the knowledge of that
brief discussion in her mind she was embarrassed, and felt as if he must
read all about it in her eyes.
'May I tell you what it is, Miss Drummond?' he asked, turning to her,
while her mother opened the note, and sinking his voice. 'It is a picnic
to the old tower of Dura. I suppose you know all about it. It is to be
on Wednesday, and I hope you will come.'
'Oh, a picnic!' said Norah, with a flush of joyful anticipation. 'I
never was at a real grown-up picnic. I should like it so much, if mamma
thinks we may.'
'But perhaps you could influence mamma.'
'No, no. I don't think it. I would rather not bother her,' said Norah,
with a little hesitation, feeling all her embarrassment return. 'Of
course she must know best.'
'Oh, of course,' said Mr Rivers. He smiled as he looked at her, and
Norah, giving a wistful, furtive glance at him, was suddenly seized with
spontaneous wonder as to what he meant--a question not arising from what
her mother had said, but from herself. The thought sprung up in her mind
unawares, bringing with it a blush. What could he mean? Why did he come
so often? Why did he wish that she should have this new pleasure? What
could it matter to him? There would be plenty of people at the
picnic--young people, nice people, pretty people, people all dressed in
purple and fine linen--who would be much more like him than Norah. And
why should he care? A delicious doubt, a delicious suspicion came into
her thoughts. Could it be possible? Might it really, really--? She shut
some little trap-door down upon it resolutely in her mind, and would
not look at, would not consider that suggestion; but it ran through all
her veins when she cast it out of her thoughts. Could it be possible?
And this was not Ned Burton, a boy whom she had known all her life, but
the hero of romance himself--he who looked as if he had walked out of a
book. It flattered her--she could not tell why. She cast down her eyes,
for he had been looking at her all the time, and it seemed to her as if
he must be able to tell her thoughts.
But he did not. He took up the cotton with which she was working, and
wound and unwound it upon his fingers.
'I have to run over to the Rectory,' he said. 'Perhaps I had better do
that now, and come back to get my answer. Perhaps then I might have a
cup of tea? This room is the very sort of room to drink tea in. The
first dish of tea must have been made here.'
'It is not so old as that.'
'Oh, it is as old as we like to believe it,' said Mr Rivers. 'Don't
disturb Mrs Drummond. I will go away now, and in half an hour I shall
come back.' And he let himself out like a child of the house, assuming a
familiarity to which he had not any right.
Norah sat quite tremulous, yet perfectly quiet, after he was gone,
wondering, and trying to stop herself from wondering--feeling somehow
that this must be that power of which she had read, which made the
strongest and best of men subject to a girl--and feeling that it was not
possible, seeing the girl was 'only _me_.'
'It is another invitation,' Mrs Drummond said, with a little sigh. 'You
must decide about it, Norah. It will be a pleasure to you, and it seems
hard you should not have a little pleasure. But, on the other hand, my
dear, after all you told me about Ned, and how Mr Rivers----'
'There is nothing about Mr Rivers, mamma.'
'Perhaps not, perhaps not, dear. I do not say there is--anything, Norah;
but still it is not comfortable that he should come so often. There is
the note. I will not say yes or no, my darling. You shall decide whether
we shall go or stay.'
Norah read the note over with glowing eyes. The blood came hot to her
face. It seemed to open up before her a day out of Paradise. The
children had made picnics among themselves often enough to Dura Tower.
They had gone in the height of the summer for a long day; the boys
walking, the girls packed into Mrs Dalton's pony-carriage, or the little
donkey-chair, which lived in the village. Bread and butter, and fruit,
and hard-boiled eggs, and bottles of milk was what they used to take
with them; and they would come home laden with garlands of the lush
woodbine, with honeysuckles in sheaves, and basketfuls of those fragile
wild-flowers which never survive the plucking, but which children cannot
resist. These old days rose before her with all their sweetness. But
this was different;--one of the Dura carriages to take them up; a few
hours among the woods, and luncheon out of doors, if it was warm enough;
'to show the Marchioness and the young ladies what little antiquities we
have.' Perhaps the grandeur and the glory of the society would make up
for the absence of the brilliant summer, and the freedom of the childish
party; but yet----She looked up shyly at her mother with cheeks that
were crimson upon her dark eyelashes.
'I suppose, mamma, it would be selfish of me to want to go?'
'That means you do want to go, Norah,' said Helen, shaking her head
softly, with a half-reproachful smile.
'Is it wrong?' said Norah, stealing behind her mother's chair with a
coaxing arm round her neck. 'I never saw anything like it. I _should_
like, just this once. Our old little parties were such baby affairs,
mamma. That donkey-chair, what fun it was! And oh! do you remember how
it always ran away, and that time when little Jenny fell asleep? But
this will be grand--something to see. And you will like the drive; it is
such a pretty drive; and the woods will be lovely. I never was there in
October before.'
'You coaxing child, as Miss Jane says; you want to go.'
'Yes, please, mamma.'
And Norah dropt a little curtsey demurely, like the child she was no
longer. And yet as she stood there in her gray frock, she was so very
like a child that Helen had to rub her eyes and ask herself what was
this wonderful difference. Yesterday or so Norah had trudged along among
the boys, taking her share, pushing them about, carrying her own basket
in all the _bon camaraderie_ of childhood. Now she was the princess,
drawing their wistful looks after her, breaking poor Ned's heart,
attracting the other hero out of his natural sphere. How was it? The
mother sighed a little, wondering, and smiled, with a sense that the
world, which had so long neglected her, was offering to her, to herself,
not to Norah, the sweetest, strangest flatteries. She was anxious as to
how it might all end, and sometimes was unhappy; and yet she was
pleased--what mother ever was otherwise?--'to see her bairn respected
like the lave.'
And then Mr Rivers came back for his cup of tea. What did he want,
haunting the old house? He came back for the answer, he said; and called
himself Mrs Burton's man, and the penny-post, and made very merry over
the whole transaction. But in all this he made it very apparent that any
excuse for coming was sweet to him. And Norah laughed at the joke, and
cast down her pretty eyes, and her colour went and came like the wind.
What did he mean? Did he mean anything? Or was it for mere amusement
that on every pretext possible he came to the Gatehouse?