As far as birth was concerned, Nora had no reason to complain;
nevertheless, if all the blood of the Plantagenets had been in her
veins, she could not have scorned Monsieur d’Alberg and the alliance
more than she did. She had been brought up like a princess, and she felt
as a princess might have felt.
“How,” she cried, when at last she went to her mother, “oh! how could
you so demean yourself!”
Mrs. Smythe wept bitterly, but in justifying herself, observed that
_she_ had no reason to be proud, as her own mother was almost a
peasant.
Nora was astounded, and then in very deed the whole tale was told; not
about the enemies, but about the tradesman cousin, and how Mrs. Smythe
had been saved from him.
This was Nora’s second blow, and deeply felt. Yet, after but little
thought, she rose above it. Her nature was essentially noble, and with a
feeling of love and respect for what her father had done, she set
herself to imitate him. He had saved her mother from unworthy hands, and
she would do the same.
As the first tainted passion of wounded pride passed away, her mind
seemed to become clearer. She looked steadily into the circumstances,
saw her mother’s weakness, and Monsieur d’Alberg’s motives, and, with a
newly aroused passion of love and pity for that weak mother,
endeavoured to save her.
With prayers, with tears, she implored her not to leave her. Would she
not be her mother; be with her all her days, share her fortune, help her
if unhappy, nurse her in sickness?
“Should they ever?” she asked, “be happy if separated?”
A love which Nora had never guessed to be slumbering in her heart,
because it had never been awakened from its calm sleep--a love for which
Mrs. Smythe had pined for years, now came forth, flowing like waters
from a long sealed fountain.
But the toils of another love were already round the mother’s heart; a
love different in its nature, a love which at this moment she would have
willingly shaken off; but it had become her master, and she could not.
She wept again and again; she clung to her daughter, and replied that
she never would or could leave her; but when Nora, hopeful and
satisfied, asked to be allowed to answer Monsieur d’Alberg, she shook
her head and renewed her weeping.
It was not strange that her manner made Nora more suspicious than was
just. She thought her mother did not wish for the marriage, but was
afraid to break it off, and she determined to take the matter into her
own hands.
She was still under sixteen; but she was, she always had been,
precocious. Her thoughts, her feelings on this occasion were those of a
woman of a sound and thoughtful mind; but though her thoughts were
sound, the passionate impetuosity of untutored youth guided her actions.
She sent for Monsieur d’Alberg on the following morning, and with a
dignity that astonished him entered on the question. He was a clever
man, a self-possessed man, and thirty-five; yet he felt awkward and
abashed in her youthful presence. Instead of maintaining a calm dignity,
he became insolent; to affront her seemed at that moment the only means
he had of putting himself above her.
And when he became insolent, Nora’s youthful impetuosity got the better
of her womanly dignity. Her eyes flashed, and in no calm terms she told
him what she thought of his conduct, laying bare his motives with an
acuteness which made him wince. He had no refuge but to return scorn for
scorn, and though he had only imperfectly learned Nora’s history, he
flung it back in her face. What right had she to impute motives of
interest to him, who at that very moment was defrauding a cousin of his
rights?
The wide open eyes, the transfixed, astonished, innocent look, showed
him her ignorance of the whole affair, and he related to her her history
with embroidery. He told her of a mad father, of a just heir cut out, of
the disputed will, and finally of a young man left in poverty, while she
lorded it like a queen. These were the facts he told,--now in French,
and now in English; partly in derision of her, and partly in
justification of himself.
Nora sat perfectly still. That there must be truth she felt at once, and
a truth that would pierce into her very life. Yet she sat still and
heard him, and when he ceased she had again resumed the dignity of the
woman.
“I do not think your tale can be altogether true,” she said, coldly and
calmly, rising as she spoke. “At any rate, it cannot apply to me; for
if I am defrauding anyone, it is done in ignorance. And be it as it may,
it does not affect you. I shall guard my mother from you if I can.” And
she left him.
But Mrs. Smythe was not to be guarded. Nora soon saw this truth. Saw
that the stranger lover had gained that position with her mother which
she ought to have had. She saw it--saw that the fault had lain in
herself, and was humbled as she saw. Her views for the future did not
change, but her dreams were robbed of their beauty. She had not known
till now how much the thought of her mother had been bound up with those
dreams. She felt how cold and sad it was to enter on life alone. She
had, however, an undaunted spirit, and when she saw the event was
inevitable she ceased to argue, ceased to remonstrate, and determined
only, with a love touching for her years, to be the protector of her
mother’s interests now and for ever--to be to her the guardian her
father would have been.
She formed her present plans anew, and Mrs. Smythe consented to them.
The day after Nora’s birthday they should leave Geneva for England, and,
as London was distasteful to her mother, take up their abode at
Brighton. Then if, on consideration, the mind of Mrs. Smythe remained
favourable to matrimony, Monsieur d’Alberg should join them. There the
marriage should be celebrated, and there the parting between mother and
daughter should take place. Her birthday, meanwhile, passed differently
from what she had anticipated. There were no outward signs. Nora came of
age, but she kept silence over the circumstance. Not even to Mrs.
Ratcliffe did she make any comments, or show any of that exultation she
once had felt. There were words hovering about her, striking roots into
her heart, which kept her from all exultation over the future. On the
meaning of those words she made no present inquiries, but she meditated
upon them within.
On her birthday she received a letter from Mr. Fanshawe--a kind letter,
requesting a visit to his house in London, where he might talk over with
her the matters of business necessary to be transacted. In her reply she
accepted his invitation for herself, and then went on to tell him of her
mother’s marriage and her proposed plans. She begged him to allow all
things to remain unchanged until her visit was paid; begging him only,
in the meanwhile, to furnish her with the money necessary for the
intended visit to Brighton and the coming marriage, all which she hoped
to take upon herself.
The tone of the letter, its concise and quiet wording, and the
forethought shown regarding her mother, surprised Mr. Fanshawe. He took
it to the other guardian, Mr. Conway, and observed,
“I thought we should have had trouble with this young lady, powerless
advisers as we shall be, but after reading this letter I do not fear;
the girl has a heart and has brains.”
“A powerless adviser I will never be,” said Mr. Conway drily. “The girl
is free now. If she asks my advice I give it her, but I force it on no
man.”
“True, true; but she will want advice at first, poor child, and we must
stand her friends. Meanwhile, I suppose she must have what money she
pleases.”
“She is of age. Of course she must have what money she pleases.”
Mr. Conway and Mr. Fanshawe had been trusty friends of Mr. Smythe’s. Mr.
Conway was dry, but wise. Mr. Fanshawe was an enthusiast--apt to be run
away with by out-of-the-way ideas; but at the same time entertaining for
this nature of his so profound a contempt, and for dry wisdom,
especially for Mr. Conway’s, so profound an admiration, that his
enthusiasm was perfectly safe, and her father had chosen wisely in
confiding Nora to his care.
She and Mrs. Smythe arrived at Brighton, and it was soon made clear that
change of scene dispelled no visions. The discomforts of her journey and
a rough passage so disturbed Mrs. Smythe, that she longed again for the
peace of Geneva, and the soothing of her medical lover. Monsieur
d’Alberg was summoned, and the marriage took place.
The stay at Brighton was embittered to all parties by strife and
altercations. Nora, in imitation of her father, and really desirous to
take the best care she could of her mother, refused to make any further
settlement upon her. With most affectionate words and assurances, she
told her in private that all she had was at her disposal; but to
Monsieur d’Alberg she was cold as steel; and the more he begged and
threatened, the more fixed was her resolution to keep the care of her
mother in her own hands.
On another and less important point she was equally obstinate. Monsieur
d’Alberg wished to have a grand marriage; Nora refused it. She said the
marriage was no pleasure, but a bitter grief to her, and she would not
celebrate it. The strife continued to the very last day, but she
remained firm; and with the greatest privacy and the simplest
proceedings the marriage took place.
After the marriage came the parting, and then Madame d’Alberg seemed to
feel what she had done. She clung to Nora as if she never would leave
her, and had to be lifted fainting into the carriage that bore her away.
And on that last day Nora also melted, and implored Monsieur d’Alberg,
with tears, to make her mother happy. He answered with great amiability,
and after all the strifes, they parted good friends. He had determined
for the present to continue in his profession, and to remain at Geneva;
and in a very few days to Geneva they returned. Nora and Mrs. Ratcliffe
went to London.