When Nora was sitting at an early breakfast the following morning, a
message was brought to her that Mr. Devereux would be glad to speak to
her.
She was alone. Miss Willis had had a bad cold, which, having delayed the
journey, was, in fact, the small cause of the great ill. The preceding
day’s journey had brought back the cold, and Nora had persuaded her to
remain in bed. She was sitting in a little room which had been intended
for a temporary dining-room; for the boudoir, though not seriously
injured, was damaged by the fire. This little room was dull and dark,
but perhaps, at the moment it was lucky it was so, as the stately
footman who brought the message might otherwise have wondered at the
brilliant colour which suddenly flushed the cheeks and brow, and even
the hands of his mistress. Perhaps it did not altogether escape him even
as it was; yet there were no signs of discomposure in the quiet voice
with which Nora said, “Beg him to come in. I am quite ready.”
When the door closed, however, she rose and tried by a movement to the
window and back again to recover herself. She was conscious of feeling
agitated at the interview; she was not surprised at so feeling,
considering how they had parted, and how they met; but she would have
been glad of more time to consider with what words she should greet
him. The mastering of her agitation prevented all preparation now, and
when the door opened to admit him, her behaviour was at the mercy of
chance.
The impulse of the moment was to go forward cordially with her hand
extended; but when she had moved a few steps in this spirit she paused,
for there was no responsive forwardness on his part.
He stood at the door, grave and formal, with his hat in his hand; and in
answer to her movement, and scarcely murmured greeting, he merely
inclined his head. When she paused, he, after an instant, made a
movement and said,
“I intrude too early, I know; but my business is pressing. I ought to
have seen you last night; it was a circumstance I could not help which
prevented me from trying at least to do so.”
“I hoped you would come,” Nora said, her agitation somewhat stilled by
his distant manner, “but it is not too early. I am quite at leisure.
Will you sit down?” she added more timidly.
“I have but a few words to say, and will not detain you. You may guess a
part of these words. I am, it seems,--I do not allow it,--I cannot
understand it,--but I am, it seems, supposed to be the author of this
unhappy accident; and I cannot disprove the supposition. You may guess
what I feel, and what I would say; words cannot say it.”
“My dear cousin,” Nora said, forgetting all but her desire to console
him, “let it be who it will, what can it matter to me? I am grieved for
those who feel pain at the accident, but to me it is nothing. Except by
setting to work to rebuild what has been injured, let us think of it no
more.”
“You are very good,” he said. There had been a tinge of colour in his
cheek at her affectionate address; there was a slight tremble in his
voice as he acknowledged her kindness; but that was all. He remained
standing and immovable, and after a moment went on--
“Since you understand, then, what I would say, I will not dwell on that
part of the subject. The rest shall also be quickly said. I am come to
resign into your hands the office I have held. From you I received the
trust, and to you I return it. I do so not ungratefully--believe me, not
ungratefully.”
“But why?” Nora cried, amazed. “Surely you mistake; surely you will
think better of it. I had hoped to have your help----”
He shook his head.
“No. I could give no help now. I too had hoped I might assist in undoing
the injury that has been done; but I have considered the point. When a
man has fallen in estimation he can do no good. I have fallen, and I
will stay no longer.”
The last words were said so sternly and resolvedly, that pleading seemed
out of place. Nora was silent while considering what arguments to use,
and before she spoke he went on--
“I have put together the few plans and papers that may be specially of
use to you. The accounts are all in the office, and will, I think, be
found correct. And now I wish you good-bye.”
There was a momentary pause, during which Nora looked up into his face,
and for a single instant their eyes met. The effects of that meeting
were a strange inward tremble in the heart and the bodily frame of
each--a strange inward feeling, whose outward expression was a hurried
withdrawal of the glance, and a rush of blood to the cheeks. But each,
too conscious of the effect on themselves, saw nothing of it on the
other; and both equally alarmed at their sensations, and fearful of
having them observed, recovered themselves with marvellous speed.
The effect of the sensation in Nora was to make her more dignified and
self-possessed; less earnest, less affectionate than she might naturally
have been.
“Good-bye, if it must be so,” she said. “And thank you for all the
trouble you have taken.”
She held out her hand half timidly.
He took it, but only for a second. Then putting down a parcel of papers
on the table, he inclined his head as he had done on entering, and went.
He had already, with the inconsiderate haste with which he did all
things, sent his luggage to the railway station, and he now hastened
after it himself. Off he walked with lightning speed, never looking
about him, nor allowing himself to think. Here he would not, ought not
to stay; what would become of him he did not know, and for the moment he
did not care.