Stephen Fanshawe kept a school, or home, rather, for eight or ten boys,
in the neighbourhood of Windsor. As they drove from the station, Mr.
Fanshawe talked to Nora of his son. How that, although born blind, he
was so active-minded and intelligent, that he seemed to know the things
in the world by intuition, and rarely betrayed in his conversation that
he saw them not. That one of his special pleasures was travelling, and
how, ten years before this time, when he was twenty, he had joined some
boys who were in Switzerland, under the charge of a tutor; had there
discovered that to influence boys was his special faculty; how ever
since he had devoted himself to education, and how successful he had
been.
“He does it for love, poor fellow,” his father said, “not money; but as
his desire was to educate _gentlemen_, he was obliged to form his plans
on the usual scale. Privately, however, he is able to make exceptions to
his rules, and I fancy that was the case with Henry Devereux.”
They were late on arriving at Summerhill, and were shown into luncheon
by Stephen Fanshawe, who came out to receive them, to a party consisting
of two ladies and nine boys.
When her first awkwardness was over, Nora was amused by the novelty of
the scene, and would contentedly have listened to the conversation of
her guardian with the boys, but that her attention was perpetually
engaged by the ladies, one of whom sat by her side. She was not given to
consider the requirements of society. Nor had she ever thought of making
herself agreeable for politeness sake; and when in the course of
conversation she discovered that these ladies had been invited to meet
her, she felt vexed and misunderstood. She was desirous to talk to
Stephen Fanshawe, and responded eagerly enough when he addressed her;
but unsatisfied to talk to her alone, he perpetually drew into the
conversation the quiet, unassuming lady who sat by her side; guiding
her, though not forcing her, into acquaintanceship.
Had she known Stephen Fanshawe she would have guessed that he had a
purpose in view. His father, who had been in the beginning as surprised
as Nora was at the presence of strangers, soon surmised the cause.
Stephen Fanshawe was, like his father, an enthusiast in benevolence;
but, unlike his father, without shame or apologies--without hesitation,
doubts, or fears. His benevolence was a benevolence of his own. It did
not find vent in large plans, or give its name to gigantic schemes, but
humbly imitated, or tried to imitate, in its own little sphere, and
within its own tiny limits, the watchful Providence of the Father of
all. It was a benevolence that never slept; it heard the least appeal
that was made to it, nor waited for appeals--its eye was always
wandering round, watching for objects for its attention, planning for
such as were found. His brain was like the cells in a beehive, and few
things were mentioned in his presence that did not, in some far-fetched
manner, perhaps, strike on the history of some occupant of some cell.
Thus it was that, when Nora’s coming was announced, a thought in a few
seconds sprang up regarding the occupant of one cell of his brain.
To tell the history shortly, he hoped to place this occupant in Nora’s
house as her companion. She was a lady of about three-and-thirty, whose
tale had excited his compassion. She had been her father’s companion and
devoted daughter until she was twenty-seven. At that time he had been
married by a scheming widow with a child. After a very few years he died
and left all he had to his wife during her lifetime. The home that had
been happy became one of utter misery, and the daughter longed to
escape.
Stephen Fanshawe had met her and heard her story some short time before
this, and no sooner was Nora’s name mentioned to him than his plot was
formed.
It will save time to say here that it was successful. As regarded the
real object of her visit, she was, on the whole, satisfied. Some
disappointment she felt on discovering that Stephen Fanshawe was no
longer on terms of intimacy, scarcely on speaking terms, with Henry
Devereux. He gave his opinion, in contradiction to his father, that he
was _not_ a scamp, yet he owned that he was idle and careless, and
feared that he was wasting his life in folly and amusement. “But I never
see him now,” he said, “and have heard but little of him of late.”
“And why, if you had influence once, do you never see him?” Nora asked,
eagerly.
“Because I am cut by him and by his whole family. He was an unruly boy
when he was with me, but I bore with him for the sake of his good
qualities--and they are many--as long as was possible. But some things a
master cannot do. He must not pardon defiance; and we were forced to
part.”
“But that was long ago?” Nora said.
“Yes; three or four years ago. But neither Henry nor his family can
forgive me. Henry has a peculiar disposition. It is at once sweet and
vindictive; I do not know how the combination is effected; both
passionate and good-tempered--both resentful and placable. He cannot
forgive, and yet I am sure would never willingly harm a fly. As to me,
he thinks I ill-used him; and, though he liked me, almost loved me once,
he cannot forgive. For a time I made advances, perhaps wearied him with
endeavours at reconciliation. Of late I have left him alone.”
Though disappointed by this account, and somewhat distressed
too--feeling that she also might never be forgiven for her involuntary
fault in being born,--yet certainly it tended to increase Nora’s
interest in her cousin, and she entered eagerly on her proposed plans;
or listened, rather, with eagerness--for she was not herself a
talker--while Mr. Fanshawe conversed with his son. In answer to Mr.
Fanshawe’s slighting question, “But what will a young fellow like that
do with three hundred a-year?” Stephen replied--
“I know very well what he will do. Henry’s heart is set on going to
college, and his father cannot afford to send him.”
“To college!--I did not know the scatter-brained young fellow could form
such a reasonable wish.”
“I do not know,” Stephen said, smiling, “that it is exactly for purposes
of study, but this is his present wish. I have heard of it from a person
we both know. He wishes it so earnestly, that he is thoroughly out of
heart and temper because his father declines to send him. Miss Smythe,
if she is anxious to help the young man, cannot be doing a more kindly
deed.”
As regarded the secrecy of the plan, Stephen declined to give an
opinion. Nora fancied that he did not approve, but evidently he thought
it was no business of his to interfere with her or his father; and
having satisfied them to the best of his power regarding Henry, left the
rest of the business to be settled between Nora and her guardian. This
was very shortly done, Mr. Conway’s sanction having been obtained.