We must now pass lightly over several months--from December to the
August following. Both Henry Devereux and James Field were appointed to
the situations laid out for them. Mr. Fanshawe spoke his mind to Mr.
Powderham regarding James Field; but as it was only opinion, an opinion
founded on his conduct fifteen years before, since which time he was
forced to own that he had conducted himself reputably in the eyes of the
world, Mr. Powderham saw no reason for refusing him the employment he
sought. His own inquiries had been answered satisfactorily. No one spoke
warmly of Mr. Field, but all owned that he was “sharp,” and all gave him
a fair character. For five years he had been a clerk in the office of a
great builder, and the builder said he was perfectly competent to
overlook the carrying out of Nora’s plan. He was therefore appointed
clerk of the works, with a salary of three hundred and fifty pounds a
year. In point of money he was no great gainer by this appointment; but
he was satisfied. To be an immediate gainer he had not expected.
Henry’s situation was one less clearly defined; but in fact he became
agent to Miss Smith; he kept the accounts, not only of the building
concern, but of the property; he received her communications; watched
to see her wishes and orders enforced and executed; in short, any
commission regarding her new property that she chose to commit to him.
All he did was under Mr. Powderham, but the nature of his duties made
him more independent than James Field.
From the moment, from the very day that he posted his letter of
acceptance, Henry had become a new man--new in this degree, that he set
his mind as steadfastly on doing his duty in the charge he had
undertaken, as he had hitherto set his mind on pleasing himself. It was
no thorough radical change in heart, or temper, or principles; but it
was a radical change of views and habits.
He was not easy in his mind; he did not bear with serenity his father’s
ironical approbation; nor did he himself think with serenity of being
in Nora’s service--paid by her. But he was so far a man that, having
done it, he stuck to it; swept away disturbing thoughts when they
intruded, and, above all, calmed the inward fever by saying that even to
an enemy a man should do his duty, and that it mattered little, if it
was just pay for a duty done, whether the pay was earned from one loved
or hated.
Hence, from this determination to earn and not be indebted, arose a
passionate desire to make himself fit; and he gave himself up for the
three or four weeks that elapsed before his services were required to
self-improvement. It was this occupation of the mental powers that, in
fact, soothed and calmed Henry’s mind. “Love labour,” says William Penn;
“if thou doest not want it for food, thou wilt for physic.” It was new
to him to have his mental powers taxed, and the taxing was of
unspeakable service. He might still have fiery elements within, but
there was nothing to kindle them into flame.
With a manly candour which really had in it something noble, he returned
to the instructor whom he had insulted; begged his pardon; acknowledged
his fault, and said he was come to offer himself again. The instructor
accepted the confession, granted the pardon, and renewed his efforts to
teach.
To learn with heart and hope is a different thing to the attempt to
learn without them. Henry, sane in brain, and resolved to understand,
was a different being to the passionate, puzzle-headed youth who had
worn his teacher to death a few days before. There was no want of
intelligence in his mind, and he made a progress both in writing and
arithmetic which delighted himself and astonished his master. The
execrable scrawl became a bold, efficient-looking hand; the sheets of
writing and figures were presented blotless and spotless; and though he
did not attempt the highest branches of arithmetic, he mastered
sufficient for all practical purposes, and was enabled to apply what he
learned to the art of book-keeping.
The more he applied himself, the more his mind opened, and the more he
was delighted with his prospects and himself, and he went down to
Riddlemere, when summoned by Mr. Powderham, full of life and eager
spirit.
Nora would have given much to invite him to Cheltenham, and communicate
to him her many wishes by word of mouth. But she did not dare. By the
style of his letter she understood that he meant to be her servant, not
her friend--her humble servant in the proud sense which the words often
bear. She understood, and refrained from pressing on an unhealed wound.
She went to London and told her guardian her wishes and plans, and he
laid them before Henry. She remained to answer the questions which might
occur while the interviews were taking place, but Henry never offered to
see her, and she made no attempt to see him.
After that a correspondence of a certain kind was opened between them.
She sent to Mr. Powderham instructions to be given to Henry--they were
simply formal, having neither beginning nor end. Henry answered them,
sometimes through Mr. Powderham, more often directly to herself, but
always in the strain he had originally adopted. He wished her to be
nothing but “Madam” to him.
It was a shock to him, on his arrival at Riddlemere, to find James Field
installed as clerk of the works. As he had said to Letitia, he was a man
the sight of whom made his blood boil. He had no reason for his dislike;
he was but imperfectly acquainted with the family history, and, had it
been better known to him, Field had done nothing but furnish his father
with facts, in his attempt to overset the will; but a reasonless dislike
is more trying than one for which there is cause, and it certainly was a
trial to Henry’s temper when he found with whom he had to do. Being now,
however, sane in mind, he could see that quarrels in his position would
be unseemly, and he wisely resolved to keep away from him as much as
possible, and to be coldly civil when forced to his society.
James Field, on the other hand, found his position under Henry extremely
galling. Henry was the responsible head; in his hands lay all the money
transactions; he kept the accounts, he gave orders, he was at liberty to
find fault with whatever he thought amiss. James Field paid the men, but
under Henry’s supervision. He, as he felt, an experienced man of between
thirty and forty; Henry a raw, inexperienced, ignorant boy. James Field
was aspiring and conceited, and it was very galling to him;
nevertheless, for divers reasons, he, too, determined to endure. He had
this consolation, also, the knowledge he very shortly obtained, that
Mr. Powderham disliked Henry. This consolation was great.
If Mr. Powderham had not at first disliked Henry, he would have been,
after all that had passed, an amiable man; and though not particularly
unamiable, he did feel a grudge against him. But, besides this grudge,
he really did think the appointment a folly, and he was very keen in
watching Henry’s conduct. Possibly had Henry shown himself to be a
good-tempered fool, he, satisfied that he had been right, would have
forgiven and helped him. But Henry showed, in the business he had to do,
a kind of homely good sense that was very valuable. His accounts were
accurate, his tone with all who came about him was firm and courteous,
and his influence was great. Nor were these his only qualifications.
Nora had begged that he might write her an account of the state of the
property; the state of the farms; the state of the tenantry; the state
of buildings; the mode of life, &c.; and Henry performed this task
sufficiently well to annoy Mr. Powderham exceedingly. He could not use
technical terms, nor write in a properly formal manner, but he had known
what he was about, and, having obtained his facts, laid them out with a
simplicity of style that made them clear to the meanest intellect.
Therefore it was that Mr. Powderham continued to cherish his prejudice
against him, to say constantly that his engagement would turn out ill,
and to show marked favour to James Field when the two, as sometimes
happened, differed in opinion regarding the building.
Notwithstanding these elements of discord, all things went on smoothly.
Fully occupied, interested in his business, and, perhaps, a little
elated with his performances, Henry’s mind became more composed and
rational. He learned something of what patience was, something of
punctuality; he learned, also, that, being under Mr. Powderham, he must
submit to him, and very imperfectly, perhaps, but in a degree he put in
practice what he learned.
There was one subject, however, on which his mind was not yet sane, one
which never failed to irritate him, and this, after a time, James Field
learned. It was the old subject, Nora. He could work for her, but he
could not bear to have the subject of his relations with her handled.
James Field found this out, and some strifes ensued in consequence.
Now, as Field, secretly but certainly, aspired to obtain the hand and
heart of Letitia Devereux, it was singular that he should take pleasure
in tormenting her brother, and this before his object was gained; but
whether it was liking or ambition that prompted him to seek Letitia,
there was a stronger passion than either of these in his breast, and
this was envy. He envied Henry; and his nature was such that bad
passions, when admitted, took strong hold upon him. He disliked Henry
before they were brought into close contact. On one or two occasions
when they had met, Henry had treated him with considerable haughtiness.
This rankled, but envy never took real possession of his mind until they
were placed side by side to work out, as it seemed, their destinies. He
then came to envy him with a baleful envy. He envied his youth and good
looks; he envied that thoughtless charm which seemed to win the hearts
of the roughest; and still more the respect which, notwithstanding his
apparently careless manner, seemed to be accorded involuntarily to his
character. But deeper still than this, he envied his favour with Nora.
_There_ was the sting. The position he held proclaimed that favour; and
what might come of it was a fear that made Field mad. He was a nearer
relation; he ought, he felt, to have been singled out; that Henry was
sought and favoured, he ascribed to his good looks, and what will not
good looks do with women? These were his constant meditations.
He, however, and Henry, both governed themselves; and it was only after
a time, and when Field had learned how to irritate him, that sharp words
arose between them.
On some of these occasions Henry unfortunately lost his self-command,
and spoke foolishly.
One morning Henry, while going about his business, passed a knot of
people. There were some masons working, and James Field and another man
were talking. Their backs were turned, and Henry heard without being
seen. James Field was speaking, and in a conceited tone, of his
relationship to Nora. Henry did not stay to listen, but only heard some
words as he passed, and when he got to a distance he called “Field”
loudly. The person summoned did not hurry himself; he was obliged to
obey Henry in a certain sense, but he always did it in a defiant
manner. Having kept him waiting, he joined him, and asked what he
wanted.
“Only to say one word,” Henry said. “I heard what you were saying as I
passed, and I must tell you that I do not consider that way of speaking
respectful to Miss Smith. I beg of you to leave it off.”
It was galling enough to be under Henry at all. To be spoken to in this
manner was hardly endurable.
“What have you to do with it?” he replied, sharply.
“A good deal. I think I am responsible for the way in which Miss Smith
is spoken of by those she employs. I look on it as an unmanly and
unmannerly thing to do--to boast, as you have been doing, of being
distantly connected with her.”
“Not so very distant. Don’t you wish you were as near?”
“Whatever I was or may be, or whatever my feelings on the subject were,
I should think it, as I tell you, unmannerly and disrespectful to
proclaim the fact here.”
Henry was growing warm, and his voice, pitched high, told the fact.
“I don’t know why you are to take up the cudgels for her.”
“The why is very plain. She has chosen to make me her agent.”
“I think there must be another reason,” James Field said, mildly. He now
knew he was getting the best of it.
“There is none.”
“I think there is. I think there must be a nearer connection in view;
and then, for selfish reasons, a connection with me might not be
agreeable.”
“I don’t know what connection you mean,” Henry cried, played upon like a
foolish youth, as he was, at the pleasure of the sharper-witted man.
“Oh! I mean marriage, only I thought it premature to use the word.”
“Marriage!” Henry shouted, for the moment beside himself. “Don’t you
know she is the enemy of our house? I would sooner die!” And he strode
off.
So loud had been his voice, that two workmen at a distance heard the
words “enemy of our house,” and paused in their work to listen.
They heard no more, for Henry cut short the conversation; but as he
strode away he observed their faces and their attitudes, and shame came
over him. He had done the very thing for which he had reproved James
Field. He had spoken of her disrespectfully in presence of the men in
her employment. He felt oppressed with shame, and the shame disordered
his mind, and for some days he was hardly himself. That inward fever had
been inflamed; it was with difficulty that he commanded his temper to
Field; it was even with difficulty at some moments that he did not throw
up his situation and say he would serve under her no more.
But a few days calmed his mind, and he then forgot the sensations that
had embittered it--so forgot them, that he was ready to be played on
again.
Mr. Powderham one day found fault with him. A bow-window which was to
have been made according to one plan, had been made according to another
which had been rejected. He was very angry, and spoke of Henry’s
“intolerable carelessness.”
Now Henry had misunderstood the order, which had been given in haste. It
was a mistake, it was not carelessness, and he said so. He spoke
discreetly. Much annoyed at what had happened, he expressed extreme
regret, and bore patiently Mr. Powderham’s sharp words.
But when Mr. Powderham did not seem to believe him, when he called James
Field, and notwithstanding Henry’s justification of himself, repeated
the charge of intolerable negligence, begging him--Field--to undertake
the alterations that were necessary, Henry’s temper was roused.
“I do not mind blame,” he cried; “I daresay I deserve it for being
blunder-headed; but I will not be accused of negligence, for that my own
conscience tells me I do _not_ deserve. I work with all my heart and
soul, and all the intellect I have.”
“I am sure you do,” observed James Field. “Indeed, sir, negligence is
the last thing of which Mr. Devereux should be accused.”
The tone of his voice was so mild, that an uninterested hearer would
have supposed he was defending Henry; but Henry detected that tone, that
insinuation which he could not bear.
“I don’t want your defence,” he said sharply; “my own conscience is
enough.”
“Quite enough; but I must also bear witness that in your _present_
business, negligence is the very last thing to be laid to your charge.”
“What do you mean?” said the foolish young man, loudly, while Mr.
Powderham looked from one to the other, half perplexed, half enjoying
the sight of Henry’s discomposure.
“I mean that your private interest in Miss Smith’s affairs would alone
prevent it.”
“My private interest is to do my duty in the situation in which I am
placed; and that I shall try to do, whether to a friend or to an enemy,
as she is.”
“An enemy!” said Mr. Powderham, surprised.
“The enemy of my house--she always has been, and always will be.” But he
had no sooner said the foolish words than the sharp pain of shame came
over him. His cheek crimsoned, and he stood for a moment discomfited.
Then he suddenly said, “But no matter for my private affairs. What can I
do to undo the mischief I have done?”
“Nothing,” said Mr. Powderham, coldly. “Leave the plans with me. Good
morning.”
He turned away, and Henry saw the smile on James Field’s face as he
followed him. It was a hard battle that he fought with himself; he could
have followed both and struck them with pleasure. Rage swelled in his
breast almost to bursting. And then, while swelling with rage against
them, came the remembrance of his own ingratitude. What had she done
that he should thus proclaim her everywhere as his enemy? Something like
a tear of penitence glistened for a moment in his eye, and allayed
while it did so the flame within. And though he dashed the tear away, he
walked off in a better mood of mind than after such ebullitions was
common to him--a more humbled, a more repentant mood; more forgetful of
his enemies and their provocations, more thoughtful of his own errors.
Nora, meanwhile, had passed the year ostensibly at Cheltenham; but she
made many visits to London, in the view of choosing papers and
furniture; and while there, began to mingle a little in the society to
which Mr. Fanshawe introduced her; she also did her best to open her
mind by seeing all that it is right to see. And both things were useful
to her. Society softened, increased knowledge humbled her. She was apt
to be full of her own concerns, and in society she saw this; while
gazing on what was great or good, she felt it. The world was large;
human interests various; whereas her unconscious cogitations chiefly
related to one man and one woman.
In the month of May, after passing a fortnight in London, and feeling
very lonely, even though she shared in its bustle, she visited her
mother at Geneva. Day by day, in absence, the love for her mother
strengthened--that only near tie--that tie which her own fault had
broken; and she travelled to Geneva, full of hopes which a moment’s
thought ought to have dispelled.
It was not likely that either Monsieur or Madame d’Alberg should be
changed, and they were not changed. The illusion vanished when Nora
stood in their presence; she knew then that she might love her mother,
but that there could be no sympathy--that she would never be permitted
to pour forth her love.
Two moments only she had during her stay which were satisfying to her
heart. They were the moments of meeting and of parting. In those two
moments she felt how her mother clung to her; but with these exceptions
all was disappointment. The only change was in a third child, and that
again a daughter; and this event had not smoothed Monsieur d’Alberg’s
temper. He had endured the prospect in the determination that he would
have a son; but being deprived of this object, his terrors regarding the
long family had increased.
Under the influence of this dread, he had, on the appearance of a third
daughter, allowed her to be called Annora. He thought he might thus tie
Nora down to provide for one child. So utterly distrustful was his mean
mind of that bounteous nature, which only longed to pour out its wealth.
Her mother looked pale and worn, but made no complaints, nor suffered
Nora to make inquiries. She feared she but added to her difficulties,
and after a fortnight of disappointment she returned to England.
And then, with restless longing, she began to allow her mind to dwell
upon the coming event--the taking possession of her own house--the
entrance upon that life she had from childhood pictured--the being a
great lady, dispensing her bounties on all around her.
Whatever else was now bound up with this dream, as she herself was not
conscious of it, need not be touched upon.