We left Henry Devereux on the eve of attaining the object of his wishes.
He went to college, and there remained for two years. His time of
residence ended under no flattering circumstances. It was then suggested
to him, mildly but firmly, that, unless he wished to be rusticated, he
must return no more.
Not that Henry was guilty of any grievous offences. He was a favourite
with all men who came within the sphere of his influence; and his
tutors, like Stephen Fanshawe, over-looked his misdemeanours as long as
it was possible to do so. But Henry was guilty of a boyish and
mischievous spirit of insubordination. He would not submit to rules; he
broke them himself, and incited others to follow his example; and the
time came when patience was exhausted, and the warning was given.
Henry was exceedingly angry. He had been very happy at Oxford, and
though he had no wish to distinguish himself as a scholar, he had a
great wish to do all that a young gentleman ought to do, all that those
with whom he associated intended to do. He meant to have passed decently
through all examinations, and to leave college in the conviction that he
had received in all points a proper university education.
He felt angry and aggrieved, robbed of his rights, and ill-treated by
the world. Far from being penitent, he was proudly resentful, and by
his stern sense of his wrongs brought many to sympathise with him. It
was not that his intellectual powers were insufficient to understand
that the discipline of a college must be upheld. He was quite equal to
reason, and reason well, would he have given himself up to thought; but
there was in his mind so singular a thoughtlessness, so strange a
distaste to one moment’s reflection, that at one and twenty he was
still, in some points of view, an infant. An infant looks neither before
nor behind, nor more did Henry. An infant thinks of no consequences to
its words and actions, nor more did Henry. An infant lives in the
innocent belief that all it does is well done, and so did Henry.
From the time of his leaving college to the present time only a few
months had elapsed, and those months had passed, in spite of the
resentment of his mind, happily by. A kind young friend had helped him
in some money difficulties--which, of course, had occurred on leaving
Oxford; for though not specially extravagant, Henry was careless, and
had a little debt, and the debt to the friend was to be repaid by little
and little, leaving him power to enjoy the greatest part of his three
hundred pounds a year in peace. He did enjoy it, therefore, putting his
future out of his head, and wandering about as a young gentleman at
large. When his father once or twice asked him frowningly what he
intended to do in life, Henry lightly answered there was time enough to
think, and absented himself from home and disagreeable questions as much
as possible. But in truth Mr. Devereux only asked the question because
he knew it was disagreeable; he did not imagine that Henry need turn
his mind to business. The pleasure of touching an instalment of his
property--viz., Nora’s money--had in no degree abated his desire to
possess it all, nor his confidence that he should do so in the end.
Mr. Elliott was distantly related to the Devereux, and having once seen
Henry, took a fancy to him. Mr. Elliott hated the young generation with
mortal hatred, but it was the young generation fused into a body that he
hated; to individuals he was indulgent, and the thoughtless boyish
disposition of Henry was suited to his taste.
“He’s not so bad as the rest,” he observed to his wife in apology for
his fancy, and the same observation always followed a fancy. “He may
think small beer of me, and I daresay he does in his heart; but he
don’t show it, and that’s something. And I don’t fancy that he cares
more for getting on in the world than I did when I was a boy. They are
all so precious knowing now-a-days, but he’s not so bad as the rest. He
likes to be a boy, and enjoy himself while he may.”
Henry therefore had a general invitation to Thorneybank; and as at
Thorneybank, or in its neighbourhood, there was a little shooting, and a
little hunting, and a little fishing, and other diversions, he was not
slow to avail himself of the invitation.
Mrs. Elliott liked him also; and though he, companionable and
affectionate, was satisfied with the comfortable life he found under her
roof, however quiet it might be, she, on hospitable thoughts intent,
always endeavoured to provide special attractions when he came.
On the Saturday evening mentioned he stood with his back to the fire
near Mr. Elliott’s chair, watching the guests as they assembled. He was
a good-looking young man, and his countenance might still be best
described in Mrs. Ratcliffe’s words. He had such a “sweet, mischievous
look,” that an amiable cannibal would certainly have cooked and eaten
him at once.
He stood watching, and now and then addressing a remark on the sad
condition of the roads to Mr. Elliott; for he had just arrived, and his
arrival had been delayed by the extremely disordered state of the
turnpike road.
“I don’t see what, turnpikes are for if they don’t keep the roads in
order,” he said, with sage complaint.
“It’s all of a piece,” grunted Mr. Elliott, “nothing is done now-a-days.
Nothing but talk. They talk till I’m sick; but what’s the good of
that?”
“They do talk,” Henry replied with hearty agreement. “I bought a
newspaper on the way, and I believe twelve columns were full of men’s
speeches. They go spouting about the country, and making a bother; and I
don’t see what good it does. It would be better to mend the roads.”
“It’s all of a piece,” Mr. Elliott grunted again, and said no more, for
he was chary even of abuse before dinner.
Mrs. Elliott now approached him.
“How do you like the look of your company?” she asked.
“Oh! I like them very well,” he replied. “I am not fastidious.”
“That is a covert way of depreciating my guests,” she said, laughing;
“but don’t be alarmed. I have got a reserve; a very nice young lady for
you.”
“Then I wish you would not,” he said, with vexation. “Why a young lady?
The very last thing I like is a young lady.”
“Is it?”
“Indeed it is; and I am not singular--I hear many young men say the
same. Now-a-days, wherever one goes, one is provided with a young lady.
It never used to be so; was it, Mr. Elliott?”
“Never. A woman used to be a woman, and there was an end of it.”
“I doubt it,” said Mrs. Elliott. “However, I do as I would be done by. I
know, till I met with my old man, I used to like to have a young one.”
“Well, I am sure I don’t. I would far rather have you, Mrs. Elliott.”
“But you can’t have me. I am the property of that grave squire out
there, J.P., and other letters besides. Take my advice, and be pleased
with the young lady.”
“I will make myself useful, of course; only I can’t help thinking this
new plan a dreadful bore.”
“I don’t think you will find her a bore; and, besides, you may form some
useful designs. I won’t vouch for the truth, but it is reported here
that my young friend has a little money.”
“And of all things in the world what I most _hate_ is a girl with
money.”
Henry’s vehement speech was stopped by a tap from Mrs. Elliott, and she
hurried away, to be near the door to meet Nora, who had just been
announced.
She supposed Nora would be shy, and kindly accompanied her across the
room to a sofa. But Nora was not shy. She had been too much wrapt in
her own thoughts all her life to think of the eyes of the world; and it
is the dread of the eyes of the world that makes the shyness of such
occasions. She calmly accompanied her hostess, was introduced to Mr.
Elliott as she passed, and to a lady, by whom she sat down; and all the
while she had never even thought of the curious eyes that were watching
her. Poor Miss Willis, on the contrary, who was always afraid of doing
something wrong, felt, as she followed her, that every gaze was fixed on
her feet, and her feet, in consequence, growing unruly, she first trod
on her gown, and then stumbled over a stool.
It was not only because Nora was new that she was looked at. There was
also a decision to be made whether or not she was handsome. That she was
so was of course proved by the speculations on the subject; but the
degree in which the beauty was allowed, was according to differing
tastes. She looked old for her years; the smoothness and freshness of
girlhood were not wanting, but there was a something about her unlike
youth. Her features, though soft and pensive, were firmly cut; her dark
eyes were quiet and grave; and all her movements, though light enough,
had a composure which was not young.
Nor was her dress according to the common taste for eighteen. It was a
beautiful black velvet, made without any trimming; and she had one red
rose in her hair. The dress became her, but it was a matronly dress.
Of all affectations, the only one that is pardonable is that which
assumes the sober dress of maturer years; and this because it is not a
falsehood, for a few years must inevitably make that a truth which is
only forestalled. This affectation Nora had. She liked to hear that she
looked twenty-five; and in governing her ways, she endeavoured not only
to assume, but to obtain, the calm judgment and sober sense which
experience gives. She had planned out her life as for one who intended
to be a looker-on, a helper to others, not a sharer in the common joys
and sorrows of her kind. It was her utter loneliness in life that made
this cold kind of dream her dream of the future.
When she had seated her newly arrived guests, Mrs. Elliott returned to
Henry.
“What do you say now?” she asked, playfully. “Do you like your young
lady?”
“Not at all.”
“Indeed! Now, I think she is one of the most attractive-looking persons
I ever saw. You must call her handsome.”
“She is too superior-looking to please me,” he said, stubbornly. “I like
superior old people, but I can’t bear superior young ones.”
“Nor I, often; but this girl is so simple and straightforward that,
though superior, she did not offend me. I think you will like her.”
“Pray don’t trouble yourself about it, Mrs. Elliott. Of course I don’t
expect always to have the most agreeable companion that can be imagined,
but I hope I do my duty like a man. What is the young lady’s name, and
what are her connections? Let me be forearmed, that I may not abuse her
dearest relation.”
“Her name is Miss Smith. You must be very careful indeed, or you will
surely get into mischief.”
“That I shall. So she doesn’t even attain to the aristocratic
distinction of Smythe. I honour her for that.”
He spoke with vehement and bitter irony. Mrs. Elliott laughed, and
added,
“She is only a visitor at the Spa, and I have made few inquiries about
her. But if you do not abuse either the Smiths or the Smythes, I daresay
you will get safely through dinner.”
She left him, and immediately afterwards dinner was ready, and she
called him to his charge.
“Mr. Henry Devereux,” she said, naming him to Nora.
Nora stood amazed and transfixed, and in a maze sat down to dinner. This
moment, often pictured in her dreaming, but not hoped for in her daily
fancy, had, then, arrived! Henry thought so superior and
composed-looking a young lady ought to bear the burden of conversation.
Nora, wrapt in her agitating thoughts--for they were agitated, she knew
not why--thought not of conversation at all. The soup went round, and
was eaten in silence. While Henry was accepting some fish and some
fish-sauce, she, not having yet seen his face, raised her eyes and
looked curiously at him. As Henry put the sauce on his plate, he thought
the time was come when he ought to speak, and turned his head in the
same moment to address her. He met her grave inquiring gaze fastened on
him.
“What are you looking at?” he said, startled and astonished.
The next moment he coloured, and felt abashed at his question. Vanity
suggested that he was worth a look, and modesty that he ought not to
have noticed it.
“I was looking to see who had taken me in to dinner. The whole company
is new to me. Even Mr. Elliott I never saw before.”
The answer was given with the grave unabashed simplicity of a child.
Henry’s feeling of flattered vanity was put to flight, but he felt
better disposed towards the superior young lady than he had hitherto
done, and they fell into conversation.
“I don’t know them all myself,” he replied, feeling comfortable,
nevertheless, in the superiority of his position, “but I will tell you
those I do know.” And he gave a slight sketch, not ill-natured, but
boyishly mischievous, of every person present.
Totally unaccustomed to the society of young people, and more especially
to ways and manners of this kind, Nora laughed as she never had laughed
before; and Henry, flattered at her tribute to his powers, thought her
charming, and exerted himself to be agreeable.
“Mr. Elliott is worth knowing,” he said, as he finished up his sketch
with his host. “It is so jolly to hear an old fellow abusing everything
and everybody. I often make him do it for fun, and he never finds me
out.”
He then abruptly changed the subject, and asked her if she did not find
the Spa very flat.
She innocently asked if he meant dull, and with laughing eyes but demure
voice he replied that he did.
“No, not dull. I have too much to do to be dull.”
“What _can_ you have to do?” he asked, curiously.
And with openness and simplicity she replied that, being almost alone in
the world, she had to manage her own concerns; and that, having been
but ill-prepared for it when she was a child, she had to try now to make
herself fit.
Henry cast a glance of respect upon her. Her superiority seemed to be
coming up to the surface, and he felt inclined to draw back and be less
friendly in his manner. A short silence followed. During that time Nora
had been thinking about him--wondering what were his character and
thoughts, and wishing to discover. Before he broke the silence by the
introduction of any other subject, she took courage, and said,
“May I ask you the question you asked me? What do you do all day?”
“Oh! I do nothing,” he said quickly.
“Nothing! But how tiresome! When I have nothing to do, then is the time
that I feel miserable.”
“You must understand, Miss Smith,” he said very seriously, “there are
two meanings to the word nothing. You use it in one sense; I use it in
another. I guessed what you would understand by the word, and so I
replied to you in your own language. According to _your_ understanding I
do nothing. _I_ use the word differently.”
“Then in your sense of the word?” she asked, smiling.
“I amuse myself. At this moment I may say I do nothing but amuse myself.
I read a book if it amuses me; if it don’t, I shut it up. I go to a
house, and if it amuses me, I stay as long as I am wished for; if it
don’t, I go away. I talk to a person if he amuses me; if he doesn’t--I
am not speaking of common civility, in which, I hope, I am not
deficient--I move away. This kind of life you would call doing nothing,
but I find it pleasant enough.”
“I daresay it is for the moment; but it would not do for life,” slowly
considering, and shaking her head. “When you think of the future don’t
you----”
“The future is a bore,” he interrupted, decidedly. “I _never_ think of
it.”
Nora was silent. She was thinking.
“If you ask me what I think,” Henry began, again speaking rapidly, as if
her thoughtful countenance forced him to address it, “I will tell you
what it is I do think; and that is, that people think a great deal too
much. Young people, I mean. I am all for the thoughts of the old, and
wise, and experienced; but I cannot bear to hear young people so knowing
and so prudent as they are now-a-days. The very schoolboys are made to
think how they are to get on in life. In my opinion there is no use,
and no good, in putting scheming thoughts into schoolboys’ heads. Young
people ought to enjoy their youth, and leave the cares of their life to
those who have a right to care for them. I beg your pardon,” he said,
stopping himself suddenly. “You must know this is a favourite topic of
mine, and one on which I preach to my intimate friends by the hour
together. But I have no right to inflict it on you; especially as you
will not agree with me, I know.”
“I really don’t know,” Nora replied, and she raised her eyes with a
perplexed look. “I never thought on this subject at all. I don’t know
whether I agree or disagree. Perhaps I agree.”
“Oh! no, you don’t. You say you wish to improve yourself, and I daresay
you are full of prudent schemes.”
“For myself, yes. I think my only wish is to be useful in the world. But
then, I am no rule for other people. I am very lonely. I hope most
others are happier than I am.”
“Then you would allow happy people to enjoy themselves.”
“I think I would, but I have not considered. I am prudent, you see. I
will not give an opinion without thought.”
“I don’t mind that,” he said, with condescension. “I assure you I have
no particular admiration for fools.”
There was a good deal more conversation during dinner, for, though Nora
was often addressed by her other neighbour, Henry considered her as his
own property for the time being, and as often as she turned away watched
his opportunity to recall her attention to himself.
When the gentlemen came into the drawing-room, the ladies were already
entertaining themselves with music. A Miss Romer, a lady singularly
unprepossessing in manner, conversation, and appearance, was playing,
and Nora was seated by her, absorbed in attention. This singularly
unprepossessing lady became while playing like one inspired, and, in
consequence of her talent, received at all times considerable attention.
Henry was fond of music, and as he could not reach Nora, he seated
himself by Mrs. Elliott and Miss Willis. They were listening, but were
at a greater distance, and were occasionally talking as well as
listening.
“Yes, it is wonderful,” Mrs. Elliott was saying. “Whence comes such a
gift, and why is it bestowed on so strangely unsuitable a person?”
“By way of compensation, perhaps,” Miss Willis said, “lest a poor human
being should be too much despised.”
“That is just what I should have said,” Henry burst in, “only not so
well. How I do hate this way of wishing to account for the use of
everything, and laying out everything by rule. We all are what we are,
and the worst of us have our accomplishments and our amiable qualities,
I daresay.”
“I am rebuked, indeed,” Mrs. Elliott said, laughing; “but
notwithstanding your rebukes, I wonder still. Whence come those chords?
They cannot be mechanical; and where is the soul lodged that produces
them?”
They were the finishing chords of a beautiful piece of Mendelssohn’s,
and Miss Romer rose up, cold, ugly, portly, and impassive, and seated
herself near Nora.
“Do you sing?” she asked abruptly.
“A little.”
“I fancied you did. Pray sing.”
Nora blushed, and Mrs. Elliott and Henry came forward to make a civiller
request.
She sang, and one or two others sang, and then, at Mrs. Elliott’s
request, she sang again. Her voice was sweet and fresh. She sang with
pleasure, and she gave pleasure. Her second song was a well-known
English song. Henry, delighted, rose from his seat near Miss Willis,
stood behind her, and after two or three bars, took a second, slightly,
but correctly. Nora, surprised, stopped and looked round.
“I beg your pardon,” he said earnestly, stooping down to address her,
“do I put you out?”
“Oh! no.”
“Oh! pray go on!” shouted every voice; and Nora once more began, a
strange sensation in her heart and in her throat, as their voices united
again, and united most harmoniously in the song.
“I beg your pardon, and I beg everybody’s pardon,” Henry said, when they
had done.
“And I will not hear of such a thing as pardon,” cried Mrs. Elliott,
warmly. “Now, talking of accomplishments, as we were just now, where
have you lodged _your_ accomplishment all this while?”
“I don’t know. I discovered it by chance two or three months ago, and am
extremely proud of it. But the curious thing is that, though I can take
a second, or make a second at a moment’s notice, I know nothing of
music--nothing whatever. It seems a thing with which I have nothing
whatever to do.”
“That is like me, sir,” said Miss Romer. “My musical talent comes direct
from Heaven.”
“I don’t know what to say about coming from Heaven,” replied Henry,
demurely; “all I mean to say is that I have taken no trouble with it,
and have no influence with it.”
“Will you be so good as to have this influence with it,” said Mrs.
Elliott, “to make it sing again? Will you give us a song of your own?”
“Oh! no, I can’t sing alone. That is the curious thing. I am told I am
very correct as a second; but my solo pieces are another thing.”
“Oh! let us hear one!” cried many voices.
“No, indeed. Such as I do sing are not at all fit for a drawing-room.
Not that I sing any harm, Miss Willis,” turning and addressing her,
though the poor thing certainly made no sign; “the songs are innocent
enough, but boisterous, and perhaps vulgar. I sing sometimes at suppers,
but never elsewhere. If Miss Smith will sing again, I will with great
pleasure do my second, but not otherwise.”
Nora re-seated herself, and turned over some of Mrs. Elliott’s music.
“Do you mind?” he said, bending down again, and speaking with unwonted
gentleness. “Did you think me impertinent?”
She looked round at him, and shook her head. He helped her to the choice
of a song, and again their voices united, and with a sweetness and
harmony that riveted the attention of the hearers, and exercised a kind
of fascination over themselves. Nora especially, possessed of her
secret, felt a strange emotion. Her heart beat quick, and with
difficulty she governed her voice, and kept it steady.
The party dispersed, and Henry and Mr. and Mrs. Elliott remained alone.
“Well, how did you like the young lady?” she said, archly.
“I liked her very well,” he replied, with stately indifference.
“I thought Miss Smith a very well-behaved young lady,” observed Mr.
Elliott.
“So did I, sir,” he then added, seriously--“not at all like a modern
young lady.”
“No,” said Mr. Elliott--“quiet and civil, respectful to her betters, and
modest in her ways. I tell you what, Mr. Henry, you may go further and
fare worse. Powderham has been telling me that he is sure she is rich.”
“That I am sure she isn’t,” he replied sharply. “She as good as told me
she was not happy.”
“Happy!--what has that to do with it? Are you one of those young men of
the day who think money all in all?”
“I!” cried Henry--“I care for money!--no, indeed; I like to have what is
proper for my position, but otherwise money is my abomination. But I
mean to say that I don’t think she is rich. I should say that she
wished, on the contrary, to make herself rich. From some things she
said, I almost fancy she wishes to keep a school.”
“A school! Gammon! She does not wish any such thing. Powderham says he
hears----”
He stopped.
“What does Mr. Powderham say?” Henry asked, curiously.
“Now I think of it, he told me to keep his surmises to myself. I am
sorry to balk your curiosity.”
“My curiosity!” cried Henry--“I have none. Why should I care?”
Mr. Elliott and Henry were well suited to each other, for each, with
perfect unconsciousness, responded to the other’s intentions. Mr.
Elliott could always be made to abuse the day, and Henry could always be
teased. Both, therefore, exulted in their superiority, and enjoyed the
position of superior knowingness.