When Nora parted from her mother and came to London, all her haughtiness
of disposition, the acquired haughtiness of circumstances, and all the
self-reliance of her nature, the fruit partly of circumstances and
partly of disposition, were, for the first time, beat out of her. She
had failed in her duty to her mother; her lack of tenderness had driven
her into a marriage that promised little happiness. She felt this truth
with the keenness of a strong and honest nature, and it bowed her before
herself in sackcloth and ashes. She had failed. Pride fled at the
thought.
She felt very lonely on entering London. There had been a time when the
thought of her all-sufficiency to herself had charmed her; but that
charm was gone. Those possible brilliant prospects on which she was
entering looked cold and dead; there was no one to admire her, no one to
smile on her, and the glow of light in which they had been bathed,
vanished. With quiet resolution she examined these prospects, and there
was but one thought in the future that brought a kind of life and
beating to her heart--the idea that by something she might do she might
win this family of cousins of whom Monsieur d’Alberg had told her; this
family who hated her; or, to speak more correctly, might win that one
cousin, the young man whom she had been politely informed must wish her
dead. The lonely catch at slight helps to ease their loneliness, and
this family of distant cousins had in a short time become tangible
objects in Nora’s mind and affections. For some, the thought of being
hated would have prevented the growth of feelings of kindliness; but
Nora’s nature was otherwise made--its very strength and self-reliance
made her rise out of the atmosphere of personal considerations. She
would be glad to receive, but that which she was longing for was to
give, affection.
She had received, as was said, an invitation to her guardian’s house,
and thither she repaired, and found him alone. He had a married daughter
and a blind son, who both made his house their home when they pleased;
but both were absent now.
On the very first meeting Mr. Fanshawe lost his heart to his ward. This
would not have been the case with many guardians. The matronly girl of
sixteen, calm and collected as a woman of thirty, would have had little
charm for many elderly men. But Mr. Fanshawe, being himself an
enthusiast, had a fanatical admiration for practical qualities and
common sense, and he submitted himself at once to the influence of the
young maiden who came to him for protection and advice. He saw at a
glance the strength of her character. He did not see, not at that first
glance, that an enthusiasm equal to his own was hid under her quiet
manners, and was ready at a spark to gleam out of her dark eye. But he
discovered something of it during the first evening, for no sooner was
dinner over than she asked him, with some abruptness, as he stood
enjoying his cup of coffee by his drawing-room fire, to tell her all
about her father’s will. “Your father’s will,” he said, amazed. “Why,
what do you want to know?”
“All the facts,” she said. “I have heard them, but perhaps from an
enemy. I want to know the very truth about it all.”
“Bless my soul! why, what do you suspect? Why, I was one of the
witnesses to the will. What are you going to accuse me of, my dear?”
Nora did not smile.
“I have heard the story only once,” she replied; “I wish to hear it
again. All, everything--from the day of my father’s marriage till the
day of his death.”
“I wish Mr. Conway was here,” said Mr. Fanshawe in his heart. This was a
little soliloquy which was almost unconsciously made within, whenever he
thought anything of responsibility was attached to his words.
Notwithstanding his wish for Mr. Conway, he felt himself, however, in no
difficulty on this occasion. He collected the particulars from the
recesses of his memory, and being a man of truth, and becoming warm with
the telling of a tale to so attentive a listener, he laid before her all
the facts connected with the wills, together with the behaviour of all
parties connected with the affair.
Nora listened in silence till he had done. She then drew a deep breath,
and said,
“I think the case is clear; I must give it all up.”
“Bless my soul!” he said, pushing back the chair which he had drawn
nearer and nearer to her. “Why, what have I said?”
“Nothing but the truth--it _was_ the truth I had heard. If I had not
been born, my cousin would have had all. Why was I born?”
“Why, my dear child, for no other reason that I can imagine but that it
pleased God.”
The extreme simplicity with which this was said made Nora smile. But the
smile faded, and the cloud returned.
“What I say is true,” she said. “I am an intruder. I cannot live on and
bear it. Let them make their claim, and take what they claim.”
“And say your father was mad? Your poor father, who was as good and true
a man as ever lived, who knew what he was about to the day of his death
as well as I do--who thought he was making a right disposition of his
money in leaving it to his child--one who he hoped would follow his
steps--and in cutting it off from the bad, who would, he guessed, abuse
it. Very well; if this is your first act, of course, neither I nor Mr.
Conway have any power to forbid you; but--but _I_ wash my hands of it.”
In vain, from the first words of this oration, had Nora endeavoured to
arrest him. He would not be arrested; his mind, filled with the thoughts
conjured up by his tale, had become excited for the memory of his old
friend, and he ran on breathlessly, unheeding the gestures and
exclamations that attempted to stay his words. Before he concluded, Nora
was in tears.
“I never meant that,” she said. “Do not accuse me of it. I will do
whatever you advise.”
This little excitement had the effect of righting the positions of the
elderly man and the young girl. Nora’s might be the strongest nature,
but she had no knowledge of life. Mr. Fanshawe, taken by her manners,
had been disposed to retreat into obscurity, and all the comfort of his
relations with her might have been lost. But to cause tears in a pretty
young lady is a feat of which a guardian may be proud, and Mr. Fanshawe
felt a thrill of elation tingle through his veins. All was as it should
be, and he set himself to soothe and to advise with all his powers. And
except that he had his weaknesses of enthusiasm, and except that almost
anyone who had the will could take advantage of his weakness and guide
him, he was well fitted to be her friend. For he had sense and
principle, and such a dread of himself, as made him always in the first
instance oppose whatever his self was inclined to do. He and Nora,
therefore, entered quietly on this question of one person standing in
another’s light, and he spoke with a truth and force that allayed the
turmoil of his mind. She began to see again that her father had had the
right to entrust her wealth to her, if he chose, and to feel again the
responsibility that trust laid upon her shoulders.
Nevertheless these cousins, this young cousin, occupied her mind, and
when she reappeared on the following morning, it was with plans to be
laid before her guardians for their benefit. The light that had faded
from her prospects was beginning to gleam again, and the brightness that
was kindled arose from the thought of being their benefactress. She
would bear her wealth as it was laid upon her, but it should be for
their sakes. She began with inquiries regarding them. Mr. Fanshawe did
not know much.
“After their behaviour, my dear, to your poor father, I cut them,” was
his first short answer.
“But they might have improved,” she suggested.
He was sorry to say that Mr. Devereux had not improved. That much he did
know. He was a bad man. Mrs. Devereux, he believed, was a fool, and he
did not like what he heard of the children. Nora was set down for a
moment, then returned to the charge.
“I was talking to Mrs. Ratcliffe last night,” she said, “and she spoke
of my cousin. She says she saw him once, and he was a beautiful boy.”
“May be so; but I fear, I fear he is a young scamp. Of him, however, you
shall hear more, if you please. I was telling you of my poor blind son.
His mania is education, and five or six years ago he had Henry Devereux
in his charge. He was a scamp, depend upon it, but my son has a liking
for him.”
Nora’s heart bounded with pleasure, and felt a glow of warmth towards
the poor blind son. She said no more of him, however, but began to
explain to her guardian her views as to being a help to her cousins, and
asked him whether, in her place, he should not feel as she did.
“If I was to die they would have all. Why make them wish for my death?
Why should I not help them now?”
Her pathetic voice touched Mr. Fanshawe, and he agreed that he should,
in her place, wish to help them. But no sooner had he agreed than he
drew back again. He and Mr. Conway had indeed already conversed on this
subject, and had determined for the present to keep her out of Mr.
Devereux’s hands. He was a dangerous man, and once placed in
communication with her, there was no saying how he might prey upon her.
They were no longer her guardians, but they had resolved, with the best
of their power, to keep her from the influence of her cousins until she
had come to an age more proper to manage for herself. All this, in
apology for his rapid change of opinion, Mr. Fanshawe told her freely.
This passed in the morning, and being then forced to leave her, Nora
remained with her disappointment alone. But a young and lively mind is
not easily damped, nay, it is almost certain that if a natural desire is
in any way repelled, it will find a hundred less natural ways of
shooting forth. And so it was that as Nora talked with herself, and
thought to herself, she came suddenly upon the idea of being a secret
benefactress. The idea was no sooner formed than it grew up bright and
beautiful, and it was a cherished thing before Mr. Fanshawe returned at
night.
And at the first possible moment it was laid before him; not with all
its brightness and fascination about it, but in the calm, sensible,
prosaic way in which many bright inward cogitations are produced to the
world, and so calmly and prosaically was it placed before him, that Mr.
Fanshawe actually acceded to it as a good plan. He had certainly felt as
she did, that in her place he should wish to do something; and yet no
arguing had lessened his dislike to placing her in communication with
Mr. Devereux. All the day long he had felt perplexed and annoyed, and
afraid of further pressure, and Nora’s idea relieved him from his
difficulty. In the first instant he spoke his approval with warmth; then
a vision of Mr. Conway arose, and he qualified his approval. He finally
ended with--
“Certainly, as you say, it will be right to do something, and this will
give us a handle. I will make inquiries regarding his present needs, and
one of these days you shall hear from me. A man with a family is best
assisted by some help for the education of his children.”
“Not one of these days, but now,” Nora said imploringly. “Let me get
this off my mind. Of course he must want to educate his children. Could
you have him informed that a friend of his family will give him
henceforth a sum every year?”
“No, no, not every year--till further notice we will say.”
“As you please. The only thing I should wish would be to ensure a part
to my cousin.”
“Your cousin--the young man, you mean. Well, we can do that. And what
sum do you propose?”
“I was thinking of two thousand a year; one thousand five hundred to Mr.
Devereux, and----”
“Two thousand a year! Bless my soul, child, why, what are you thinking
of? If we are to buy a property and build a house, and pension widows,
and educate orphans, why, where do you suppose all the money is to come
from? You may be rich, but riches have wings and fly away.”
“What, then, shall it be?”
“Not one penny more than a thousand; and I don’t know what Mr. Conway
will say to that.”
“But what, then, could my cousin have?” And Nora looked perplexed.
“Your cousin--what, the young man?” Mr. Fanshawe did not, as Nora did,
ignore the relationship to the older persons, and fix it on the younger
and more distant connexion. “Oh! he could have three hundred a
year--enough and too much, if all I hear of him be true.”
As three hundred and three thousand were sums regarding the value of
which Nora was in equal ignorance, she quietly acquiesced, and warmly
thanked her guardian for his consent to her plans.
“My consent, yes; but we must hear what Mr. Conway says. And meanwhile
you shall hear more about that young scamp, Henry Devereux. My son knows
him. We will go down to-morrow and visit my son at Windsor. I will write
a line this evening--no, stay, it must be the day after.”