After settling her affairs as far as could be done, Nora left the Spa
and returned to Cheltenham. As soon as the excitement attending the
choice of her site and other arrangements had passed away, her thoughts
recurred to Henry, and the old depression returned. The improvement of
her mind, which had been her object before this unfortunate
acquaintance, interested her no more. Depressed yet restless, she could
settle to no occupation.
“You have something on your mind,” said Miss Willis. “Excuse me, but I
do not think you ought to allow _that_ circumstance to annoy you. You
did all you could for your cousins. If they will not be benefited, the
fault is theirs, not yours.”
“The fault is mine,” replied Nora. “I acted foolishly. I might have
guessed that no young man of spirit would bear such interference. What
to do now I do not know. If I could only hear something!”
This was about ten days after her return to Cheltenham.
She was not left without hearing something. The morning afterwards she
received a letter from her banker, saying that a press of business had
prevented him from communicating to her sooner; that some three weeks
back he had received a visit from Mr. Henry Devereux. He came, he said,
to make certain inquiries regarding the sum paid to him annually, and
ended by requesting that it should be paid no more. The letter asked
for instructions on the subject.
“Three weeks ago!” she cried in dismay, “and I have done nothing. If the
money is now paid to his father it is useless. He will suspect. I have
made him suspect me.”
She sat wrapt in thought.
“If I were you,” observed Miss Willis, “I should consult Mr. Stephen
Fanshawe.”
Nora raised her eyes quickly.
“He knows and likes Mr. Devereux, and from what Mr. Devereux said, I am
sure he respects him. He might have influence with him. He would, at any
rate, advise you.”
“I believe you think Mr. Fanshawe can do anything,” Nora said, and
smiled. But she took her advice, and though feeling she had no right to
do so, wrote to Mr. Stephen Fanshawe.
Her letter was long. She had to tell him of the sad end of her plot; she
had to blame herself regarding that plot; and she had to ask his advice
and help for the future; and in this latter part she unconsciously
poured out her feelings and her views of life; how it was not life
unless you could help others; and then followed a special application of
her duty to her cousins.
More than a week passed before any notice was taken of her letter, and
Nora began to think she had done a strange thing, or that her interest
in her cousin’s welfare was a strange thing; but one morning, having
worked herself up almost to despair, when she went down to breakfast she
found Stephen Fanshawe.
“I am come for the day,” he said. “I am a bad correspondent, and I
waited until I could act.”
And he then related to her that he had been kept from acting by a boy’s
serious illness; but two days before this day had gone to London and
seen Mrs. Devereux.
“Not my cousin, then?”
“No. I think I told you that Henry and I are not on good terms. About a
month ago I was entreated by a person at Oxford, who took an interest in
him, to write and give him some advice. It was reluctantly done, and he
never answered me.”
“There was a reason for that,” Nora said.
“So I imagine now; but I felt that, as Henry had avoided me when
prosperous, he would not be easily guided by me when in anxiety; so I
went to Mrs. Devereux. She and all the family have resented what they
call ‘my behaviour’ to Henry; but she is a soft-natured person, and
easily forgets her resentment; and luckily I found her alone. I believe
my visit was the greatest relief to her mind.”
“They are troubled about him, then?” Nora asked, anxiously.
“Very much troubled. Henry is not a young gentleman made of wax, and his
family are very ill-fitted to deal with him. She says he is now as
anxious to work as once he was to be idle, but that he cannot find
employment. He is pestered with little bills, and has hampered himself
with a debt to a friend, and his father will not help him, and he does
not know how to help himself; and he torments himself and his
parents;--and life, the poor woman said, was not worth having.”
“And can I do nothing? What could be more natural than for me to pay his
debts? Consider our positions, and all that you know about the old
disappointments and troubles.”
“It might be natural; but many things are natural that cannot be done.
In this case Henry told his mother that he would much rather steal than
receive anything from you. You look shocked,” as if he had seen her
face; “but I daresay Henry feels it, and, to a degree, I respect the
feeling; and I think his feelings ought to be considered. But there may
be a way to help him, nevertheless.”
“You have a thought,” Nora cried, eagerly.
“Yes,” smiling at her impatience. “You see, he wishes to work, but
cannot find employment. His father did so far help him as to procure for
him two situations as merchant’s clerk, and he went to try his chance,
but he failed. His handwriting is execrable; and he could not add up the
simplest column of arithmetic correctly. It is not, his mother says,
that he _cannot_, for he is quick, and could soon do what he pleased;
but his mind is so agitated that he seems unable to collect himself for
any effort. He has now terrified them by threatening to be a private
soldier.”
“Oh! but you must prevent it!” Nora cried.
“I will if I can, and will tell you my thought. But it requires your
consent.”
“It is given, of course.”
“Well, but listen. I went to my father, and asked him first to take
Henry into his office; but though he was most kind, he thinks, and now I
see it also, that it would not do. His clerks are sharp young men, and
Henry’s position would be disagreeable. A thought then struck me. Shall
you not want some person, a gentleman, to overlook your work and workmen
while building your house?”
“Of course I shall!” Nora cried, without in the least knowing whether
she did or not.
“I am not sure that it is _absolutely_ necessary,” and he smiled, “but I
think you may make it necessary. Something like a clerk of the works is
generally provided; but this may be a different office. Something like
an agent, to watch and report to you, and act for you.”
“It seems the very thing. But then,” and her countenance fell, “what is
the use, if he will not take anything from me?”
“Not take, perhaps, but earn. There is a great difference. I have always
found that, in the midst of his whims, Henry has great good sense. I
think he will see the difference. You can but try.”
“Will you do it?” Nora asked, timidly; “or am I giving you too much
trouble?”
“No trouble at all, if it was wise; but I think it will come best from
yourself. Let all be open and direct--no negotiations. Do you see what I
mean? Write to him a simple statement--you will know what to say.”
It was easy for Stephen Fanshawe to write a simple statement. Nora felt
utterly perplexed. One wrong word might make worse confusion than ever.
She could bear no part in the conversation, and shortly retired to her
room to think. She was anxious to act while Stephen Fanshawe was in the
house.
But when she had taken up a pen and made an effort to collect her
thoughts, she did not find the difficulty so great as she had
anticipated. She gradually simplified her thoughts, and instead of
taking an excursive view of life, of wills, of money matters, of past
feelings and present feelings, all which had in the first instance
seemed necessary, she became aware that the less that was said the
better.
“My dear Cousin.” Thus she began after much consideration. “Dear Mr.
Devereux” did not express that nearness to him, that right to be
interested, which she wished to convey. “My dear Henry” was out of the
question. This, then, seemed all that was left to her:--
“MY DEAR COUSIN,
“Though we parted in anger, it was not long before I became
convinced that your displeasure was just, and therefore my anger is
gone. I am grieved to have given you so much annoyance. If I could
I would explain my motives, but such things are more easily fancied
than explained. I will only say this, that my wish was to be of use
to my relations; and having heard that some at least had a
prejudice against me, I tried to do away with the prejudice before
I made their acquaintance.
“I am still of the same mind, and that is the cause of my troubling
you with a letter. At this moment there is a place at my disposal,
which I would rather entrust to a relation than to a stranger. It
is to overlook the workmen who will shortly begin to build my
house. The salary is to be four or five hundred a year, and the
duties, I am told, will be neither difficult nor arduous. If you
would undertake this for me it will be a great pleasure, and it
will show me that you forgive me for the annoyance I have so
thoughtlessly caused you.
“Your affectionate cousin,
“NORA SMITH.
“P.S. My guardian, Mr. Fanshawe, will tell you all particulars.”
When her letter was written, Nora returned to her guest with a light
heart, and was amused by his expressing a wish to see Cheltenham, and
his inviting her and Miss Willis, if convenient, to walk with him.
Nora’s letter was to go by the post, and until she received an answer no
new step was to be taken. Stephen Fanshawe promised to make his father
conciliatory and encouraging, if Henry should call upon him, and there
was no doubt that his father would obey him. His visit, therefore,
brought things to a satisfactory end. Nora’s letter went by the post,
and was duly delivered. Henry was not at home, and it was placed by the
servant, with other letters, in his room.