Henry Devereux returned to London, and to his father, and there made
known to him what had passed and what were his intentions.
“And I wish to know, sir,” he said, peremptorily, “whether you were
aware from where the legacy came?--whether, in fact, you also deceived
me?”
Mr. Devereux quailed for an instant before his fiery son, and then
answered boldly, “No.”
“I am glad of that, father, very glad.”
“But you will allow me to add, Henry, that if on discovery whence it
comes you give it up, you are acting like a fool.”
“Then I _am_ acting like a fool, for I _have_ given it up. I would
rather die, beg, or steal, than live upon her bounty, and so I have sent
her word.”
“You are a fool!” said his father, contemptuously. “Live upon her
bounty, indeed! Why, if she gave you all, instead of such mere scrapings
as these, you would have but your rights.”
“I have no rights,” he cried in a firm tone. “Why have you deceived me
all my life, talking to me of rights which do not exist?”
For in the calm that had followed upon the storm, Henry, for the first
time in his life, had thought; in eight and forty hours had put away,
comparatively speaking, childish things. As he journeyed from
Thorneybank to London, his mind, in a ferment, had asked itself question
after question; and though to some no answer could be given, to this one
a plain one came. What were his rights? None. In blank dismay, in shame
and bitterness of spirit, he saw the truth and owned it. When he stood
before his father, he was no longer a child.
“That is a matter of opinion,” said his father, in the same cool tone.
“As my opinion differs from yours, this discovery will not affect me. I
shall take this share of my rights, miserable as it is, and I recommend
you to do the same.”
“Never!” Henry said, clutching his fist. “She may have humbled me, but
it shall not be as low as that!”
“What, then, do you intend to do?” and Mr. Devereux fixed his eyes on
his son with cold inquiry. “A man must live, and I cannot support you.”
“Work, beg, or steal,” Henry said, passionately; and after a few more
words of the same kind, he left his father alone. He had put away
childish thoughts, but calm sense had not replaced the things put away.
Thought had always disturbed and agitated--it now frenzied him. How he
had laid himself open to that hated cousin, how his foolish thoughts had
been undisguisedly spoken, how she must scorn him, how she must have
deceived! Never had his hate seemed to burn so fiercely as now; and yet
the thoughts of _her_ scorn and his humiliation maddened him.
Mr. Devereux talked coldly to his son, but his inward feelings were not
cool. Disturbance in him took no outward shape; but he was disturbed.
What was Henry to do? He had said he was unable to support him, and he
was so. Henry might live at home like a boy, but he had nothing to spare
for him. His whole life had been spent in accumulating small sums, and
in frittering them away; and he was still at the same work. Intense
application and watchfulness prevented his being in want of those sums
necessary for the way of life he led; but he had no money. He had made
no provision for his children--laid up no sums against an evil day. When
that hated life came to an end he should have enough. This thought had
always been present, and was so still. Nora was between him and money,
and he waited for that impediment to give way.
He was, therefore, far from taking Henry’s resolutions coolly; and
finding himself unable to bring forward the arguments that would move
him, he desired his wife and Letitia to do what they could. He spoke to
each separately, and impressed both with the necessity of saving Henry
from ruin.
Mrs. Devereux had more influence with her son than anyone else. Though
so obedient to her hard husband, she was always soft-natured, and Henry
could only be dealt with by soft words. He heard her earnest appeal
without anger, and condescended to argue with her.
“My dear mother, I am very sorry to distress you; but the thing is
impossible. You cannot wish me to degrade myself to live on charity.”
“Such nonsense you talk, Henry! You know that over and over again that
man’s money--I mean my poor dear Uncle Smythe’s money--was left to you;
and it is no charity to live on your own.”
“That is the folly on which I have been brought up!” he cried, becoming
wrathful. “How can you answer to yourself, mother, for having taught me
such miserable trash? What have I to do with her money? What right has a
distant cousin to a man’s goods when he has a daughter of his own?”
“Oh! I know very well that you have--at least _I_ have. He never ought
to have had that daughter. It was very wrong and very unfair. And that’s
the reason we ought to have all we can get. Your father says so, and he
knows best.”
“Look here, mother--do you like a thief?”
“How can you talk such nonsense?”
“I say do you like a thief?” he cried, raising his voice.
“No, of course not. How can you be so silly?”
“Well, mother, I would rather be a thief; I should think it more
honourable to go and steal, than to go and take her money under the vile
pretence it is my right.”
“Well, Henry, I think it very unkind; and whatever you are to do I don’t
know.”
“Nor more do I,” he said fiercely.
This was the tone of several long conversations between the mother and
son. They never advanced beyond this point.
Letitia’s tone was different. The brother and sister were standing in
the window of the drawing-room at Kensington (for they were still living
in the same house) when she first attacked him.
“So you have had a romantic adventure, and with Miss Smythe!”
The blood flew to Henry’s face, and he answered loudly,
“Yes, a very romantic adventure. It is a trick of which an honest woman
ought to be ashamed.”
“I don’t see that. She wanted to see what you were like, of course. I am
sure I hope you have made a favourable impression.”
“I hope I have,” in the same loud, angry voice. “If I have not I will.
She shall see I am not to be made a blind fool of.”
“I don’t the least think she wants to make a fool of you. Come, Henry,
what is she like? Is she handsome, or, as mamma says, ‘has she her poor
father’s nose?’”
“Handsome or ugly, it is all the same to me. I hate her!” and he ground
his teeth.
“How can you tell stories?” said his sister, archly. “You know that
before the fatal secret was found out you lost your heart.”
“I! Lose my heart to _her_! I would sooner work in the galleys.”
“That may be. But you did it before you could help it. I know you did,
or you would not be so fierce about the money. If you did not love her a
little, you would not be so afraid of her scorn.”
He stood in impotent crimson passion. Words were unable to express the
indignation of his soul.
“Look here, Letitia,” he said at last, suddenly becoming calm, “if my
father has set you on to argue me out of my mind, you may spare your
breath. No jeers or jibes, no prayers or arguments, shall move me. He
taught me to hate her, and I hate her; and I will take no favours where
I hate.”
Letitia saw she had gone a step too far. She receded.
“Don’t suppose papa puts arguments into my mouth. He very naturally
wishes you to take the money, and he said I might advise you; but it is
you who put suspicions into my head. Why be so angry and fierce? What is
there to be in a passion about?”
“Everything,” he replied bitterly,--“life itself.”
“I agree with you there. Life is not pleasant.”
As she spoke somebody passed beneath the window who took off his hat to
her. She slightly bowed, with a faint tinge of red flitting over her
cheek.
“Who is that?” asked Henry, curiously.
“That. Why, don’t you know? It is Mr. Field.”
“Field! Why, what do you know of him?”
“He is rather a friend of mine,” she said, carelessly.
“Then don’t have him for a friend. I hardly know him, but he is a man
who makes my blood boil.”
Mr. James Field was, as may be remembered, Madame d’Alberg’s cousin. He
had stuck to the line of life in which Mr. Smythe had placed him, and
had got on and risen in it. Mr. Devereux had made his acquaintance at
the time of the disputed will, and there had been a kind of acquaintance
ever since.
“What were we saying?” Letitia said. “Oh! I know. That life is not very
agreeable. It is not--not our life, at any rate. With a father absorbed
in business, and a mother who has no thoughts, and no will, it is not
likely to be so. We have a joyless and a comfortless home, and if we can
escape from it we are wise.” She spoke with a warmth unlike her usual
cold, sarcastic manner. “I shall certainly do so if I can, and so I
advise you to do. Now, Henry, listen to me. There are two things open to
you. Treat Miss Smythe either as a friend or as an enemy. If you prefer
the old line of hate, why, hate her well, hate her in right earnest, as
papa does, and do not be afraid to spoil her of some of her ill-gotten
goods. There is, and you know it well, only her life between you and
prosperity--between all of us and prosperity. I wish the life dead with
all my heart; but as I would not murder, nor more, I suppose, would you,
make the best of it, and take what you can get.”
“Letitia!” Henry cried, and he shuddered. Often and often had he vaguely
wished the life dead; but he had seen the life now, and he shuddered at
her thought, and still more at his own old wishes.
“Well, what have I said? Do we not all wish the life was dead?”
“No!” And he let his hand fall on the window with violence.
“I thought we did. Well, never mind. If you don’t like the old one, take
a new line with her. Be a friend, and love her if you will. You are
young, and handsome, and agreeable. Make her love you, and make her
your wife. Now you have my advice; take it and think about it!”
And she escaped from the storm of passion she saw in his face.
Henry could storm. His sister’s words were revolting to every feeling;
her alternatives were no alternatives to him. But not the less the
question had to be decided, what was he to do? He was one and twenty,
and he had no profession, nor had been educated to any profession. His
way of life had been idle and careless; his mind was little informed on
any subject, and least of all on any useful matters. His reputation was
that of an idle young man, nor had he, among his many friends, any who
considered him in a better light. And yet the time was come when he must
live; and he had, besides, in idle folly, hampered himself with a debt.
These were the vexing thoughts that agitated and disordered him,
disordered him in a degree which told against himself and his powers. He
had so allowed his mind to run riot at its will, that when he tried to
restrain it, the efforts to think, and the discovery of his incapability
to control himself, disordered him more. He knew not where to turn, nor
on what to decide. His father, to whom he applied for help and advice,
agitated him further. Not that he utterly refused to advise, not that he
did not suggest certain applications for employment that might be made,
but all he said was accompanied with such taunting words, that Henry’s
soul was in turmoil, now rising up in defiance, now repelling with
scorn, now wrapping itself up in impenetrable gloom. For many weeks he
led a miserable life, and it told on health, strength, and spirits.