Mr. Powderham drove in a little dog-cart to the station, and finding
James Field was bent on going, he offered him a lift. If he had not
chosen Field and put him in his place, he might not perhaps have
selected him as a companion. But from that opinion he had of himself, he
was thoroughly loyal to the objects of his selection; and as a man or
woman in love invests an object with charms which others fail to see, so
he cast over Field the charm of his own choice--saw that, and was
satisfied.
It must also, however, be owned that James Field was quick-witted. He
made himself well master of anything he had to do, and, when he chose,
could offer, in a very deferential, unpresuming manner, valuable
suggestions. As they drove along, the subject was the rebuilding of the
house; and so pleased was Mr. Powderham with the intelligence of his
companion’s conversation, that he inwardly determined he would stand no
more nonsense. Nora might say what she pleased, but Field should have
the sole charge of the building. He had perhaps suffered the interview
at Cheltenham to fade out of his memory.
They reached the station in good time, and stood conversing on the
platform.
The railway to the Spa was a branch. A man had been sent to the
Junction to meet Nora with Mr. Powderham’s letter. This she had
received. It was a kind letter, breaking to her the unfortunate event.
The writer entered into few particulars, but said he feared it was owing
to a degree of negligence on the part of Mr. Devereux.
To say that Nora was not shocked and grievously disappointed at the
event, would be saying too much. She was so, undoubtedly; or would have
been so, had not another sensation prevented the disappointment from
being, in the first instance, felt. Miss Willis shed tears of dismay,
but Nora was absorbed in another view of the question--pity for Henry.
During the short run from the Junction to the Spa, where a carriage was
to meet her, and where Mr. Powderham had said “_We_ shall be,” the
thought of seeing Henry, of shewing him how cheerfully she could
contemplate the loss, entirely occupied her mind.
The train slowly came to a pause, and she looked eagerly out of the
window. There stood Mr. Powderham and a stranger. The disappointment was
so great that she, still as hitherto absorbed in the interest of the
moment, could not conceal it. Both Mr. Powderham and James Field saw and
felt the look with which her eye wandered down the platform, and how it
gradually stiffened as it returned to where they stood.
She met Mr. Powderham, however, graciously, and spoke as cheerfully as
she had intended about the loss; but when, after conversing for a few
minutes, he said, “I do not know anything of Mr. Devereux, but Mr. Field
has accompanied me to pay his duty and express his regrets,” the
haughty spirit rose up in opposition. She had not time to think much,
but the natural woman said within, “He is forcing him upon me; Mr. Field
is forcing himself upon me as a relation; they are keeping my cousin in
the background, and I _will not_ have it!” and the bow which was
returned to James Field’s obsequious bow was a chilling one.
If human beings were conscious of the effects sometimes caused by
inadvertent words and actions, they would very early learn to curb and
subdue themselves. A cold look, may in certain senses, actually do
murder; it may kill what is good, and leave the soul thus deadened to
follow its evil thoughts. Nora’s haughty bow had some such bad effect on
James Field. He had an evil thought in his head, but it was as yet only
a thought; had he been graciously received, it might have been
smothered. That chilling inclination of the head made his baleful envy
of Henry take full possession of his mind.
After a very short conversation, Nora entered her carriage to drive
home, and Mr. Powderham re-entered his and trotted after her. He would
be there, he said, as soon as she was, an attention for which she tried
in vain to be grateful.
After they had trotted along for some little way without exchanging a
word, James Field broke the silence abruptly.
“Do you really think, sir, that the fire was owing to negligence on the
part of Mr. Devereux?”
“Yes, I do,” Mr. Powderham replied with heat, for he had now taken up
this opinion and made it dear. He was not going to allow it to be
controverted. “What have you got to say against it?”
“Only, sir, that I do not think it was from _negligence_.”
“How do you mean?” he asked, arrested by the emphasis.
“It is a difficult thing to say or to explain; but I have formed a
different opinion. I think it was premeditated.”
“Take care, Field,” Mr. Powderham said gravely, “you are making a very
serious charge.”
“Of course I am, sir--a very serious one. I know to what I expose
myself; to enmity and dislike, if I am unable to prove it, not only from
Mr. Devereux, but from those who favour him. Nevertheless, as I am in
some degree trusted here, I must do my duty; and as I have formed this
opinion, I mention it to you, sir, to set you on your guard.”
“You are quite right,” Mr. Powderham said; but he did not speak
readily. He was very much shocked; nay, distressed. It was so very
serious a charge, that even his dislike to Henry could not make him take
it up willingly. He liked to be in the right, and was not sorry to prove
others to be in the wrong; but he did not wish to find them criminals.
“If my reasons were not strong I should not have named the idea. I have
been debating all day--ever since, at least, I formed the
opinion--whether I should speak or not; at length I have decided that I
cannot do otherwise.”
“You are right. But I should be glad to hear the reasons for so strange
an idea before I form an opinion myself.”
“You must know, sir, that the idea came into my head during the inquiry
this morning. There seemed some very curious circumstances connected
with Mr. Devereux. I need hardly name them, as I saw they caught your
attention; in fact it was, I believe, from your countenance that I
gathered my own impression.”
“You mean the open windows, and the absence of the watchman,” Mr.
Powderham said, not displeased to think of his impressive countenance.
“Yes, sir, and the singular visit to Miss Smith’s drawing-room at that
hour of the day.”
“True, very true. I certainly thought the circumstances of the case very
singular. Yet I own I should hardly----”
“No, sir, it was not likely you should form the opinion I have formed.
It was indeed impossible you, or any one else, should do so. It
required a different sort of evidence. The idea did, however, even then
enter _my_ head, in consequence of my knowledge of the feelings of Mr.
Devereux for Miss Smith. You perhaps remember the strange expression he
one day used regarding her.”
“I do, I do,” Mr. Powderham said hurriedly. “I thought it a piece of
folly, owing to some quarrel between you.”
“No, sir, we have had no quarrels; but he has allowed me and all about
here to know his feeling on the subject. Freely, before the workmen, he
has called her his enemy.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes, sir. It was owing to my knowledge of this that the idea struck
me; yet I should hardly have entertained it, had it not been for the
accidental finding of a letter which threw some light on the subject.
Are you acquainted, sir, with Mr. Devereux’s father?”
“Not in the least; nor do I wish to be so.”
“No, sir. There is nothing desirable in his acquaintance; but it is
necessary you should know the kind of man he is. He hates Miss Smith
with a deadly hatred; he does not disguise it. He thinks she stands
between him and wealth, which indeed she does. But he is not hot-headed
like Mr. Henry Devereux. He is one of the sharpest and coolest men I
know, and he guides his family with an iron bridle. The letter I have
accidentally found is from him to his son.”
“And what is its purport?” asked Mr. Powderham, with anxious curiosity.
“Have you got it about you?”
“No, sir, for I had not made up my mind when I left home as to what I
should do. It required thought. The letter is vaguely worded, but
certainly seems, as I understand it, to contemplate some accident; it
expresses most deadly hatred to Miss Smith.”
“I always knew this appointment would bring mischief and annoyance,” Mr.
Powderham said, pathetically. He did feel very seriously annoyed at the
business before him. “You must bring this letter to me to-morrow
morning. I have a lawyer staying with me, and we will consult him on the
subject. We must be very careful in bringing such a charge.”
“No doubt, sir. I have spoken only to you.”
“When did you find the letter?”
A tinge of colour came into James Field’s cheeks.
“When you sent me to find a messenger, sir, I thought I would call and
tell Mr. Devereux what I was doing. I went to his lodgings, and, to my
surprise, found he had spent the morning in tearing letters and papers.
The room was in disorder, but he was absent. As I left the house, I
suppose one of the torn letters clung to my clothes, for Mrs. Bowers’s
girl ran after me, and said I had dropped a letter at the door. I took
it from her and opened it, and seeing it was torn in two, was going to
tear it up and throw it away, when my eye fell on some very remarkable
words. I then kept it, sir, and have got it to show you. No sooner did I
see the words than the idea which had presented itself became a fixed
opinion. I have now done my duty. It is for you to decide what should be
done further.”
“You shall come to me to-morrow morning. It is a very serious charge;
yet I confess the circumstances are exceedingly suspicious.”
“I think so, or I should not have spoken.”
There was not much more between Mr. Powderham and his companion. On
approaching Riddlemere he dropped him, and drove on alone to receive
Nora, whose carriage he had passed almost immediately after leaving the
station.
On her arrival he showed her all things; explained to her how the fire
arose, and entered a little into his views for the future. But he was
not pleased with her, nor did he grow to love her. Not that on this
occasion she showed any remarkable wilfulness, for her mind was too much
pre-occupied to have any opinions about the future; but she did not
listen to him with the hearty deference he approved. She was weary and
disappointed; her eyes and her mind were wandering away from him, in the
vain hope that Henry would appear; and his plans and explanations were
inexpressibly tedious. She did try to be civil, but Mr. Powderham was
too acute not to see that he had only a part of the woman at his
disposal. He guessed to what quarter the rest was gone, and did not
feel amiable towards that quarter in consequence.