James Field went over to Mr. Powderham, on the same morning, with the
letter he had spoken of.
This letter was from Mr. Devereux to Henry, in answer to one from him.
It was on some money business. When Henry accepted Nora’s offer, Mr.
Devereux had, after some difficulty, consented to advance him money for
the payment of his little bills, on the condition that he should be
repaid out of the first half year’s salary. On receiving, therefore, his
money, Henry had kept to the stipulation. He had, however, a faint
hope,--that hope which some men never fail to have, that certain persons
will not act like themselves--that his father would not accept the
payment, would, in short, excuse it; and even in repaying he threw out a
slight hint that he might not be willing to receive it.
This hint Mr. Devereux either did interpret, or chose to interpret, as a
doubt whether he would or would not accept the money earned from Nora,
and his letter was addressed in that supposition. It began, therefore,
in the usual style. It spoke of Henry’s “hateful employment,” of the
degradation of working for what was his own; of Nora as an impostor, for
pretending thus to give him his rights. This part of the letter ended in
the usual manner, by advising the taking of what was his own in any
manner by which the infernal laws of England permitted him to get it. It
was, in short, a statement of the case between them, couched in the most
violent language. But it went further. After this matter had been
disposed of, there came another sentence. “You say that Miss Smythe’s
house is nearly finished, and that she is shortly going to take
possession. Were the elements of my mind, she should never set her foot
in it. Some lightning should blast, or fire burn, before she should
possess the fruits of iniquity.”
This letter was dated ten days before the time we have reached. It had
enclosed a receipt for Henry’s money. He had, on receiving the letter,
glanced at it anxiously enough, so much as to discover whether or not
his little suggestion had been accepted. Seeing it was not so--seeing it
contained nothing of interest or novelty--he laid it by (with the
receipt), barely read. He saw, indeed, that it was a violent letter; but
he imagined he knew every word. It was the language he had heard from
his childhood--in which at one time he had in simple folly taken his
part. If it made him shudder now, that new sensation was one which he
dared not thoroughly sift. He merely glanced at it, therefore, and laid
it by almost unread.
When he tore his papers, he took out this letter, and keeping the
receipt, threw it with a passionate gesture on the floor--not from any
remembrance of its actual terms, but from a feeling partly of hatred to
its sentiments, and partly of dissatisfaction with himself and the
position in which he stood; even with that service under Nora which at
the moment seemed to have brought him misery.
He went out, leaving his work unfinished, not expecting that any visitor
would enter his room, or, if he did, that he would find anything
remarkable in it.
James Field had been curious about his disappearance during the morning.
He wished to know what he was doing with himself, and he called on him
to ascertain. On finding him out, he went up and looking about him,
observed, with surprise, the appearance of disorder in the room.
Now it was during the inquiry, as he had said, that the thought
presented itself that Henry _might_ have set fire to the house on
purpose. Not that he _would_ have done it; he knew well enough that he
was incapable of such a purpose, but that the circumstances made the
suspicion possible. The idea came into his head, and was received--not
accepted, not rejected--but put away for further thought.
When he entered Henry’s room, and perceived what he had been about, the
idea suggested itself more strongly; and the evident haste with which he
had torn his papers seemed to confirm the suspicion he had at first
formed without sufficient evidence.
He looked about him, and saw among the torn papers the letter in Mr.
Devereux’s handwriting.
“There will be more evidence there, I guess,” he thought, as he picked
it up, knowing well the way in which that gentleman usually expressed
himself regarding Nora.
But he did not expect what he saw. He even trembled as he read; for he
had not been anxious to discover any real evidence on which to found
such a charge. Not that he was in reality deceived by the words. He, as
well as Henry, knew the language of Mr. Devereux too well to be
astonished at any violence; but the extraordinary fitness of the evil
wish did amaze and shock him. It was in the first instance so much more
than he wished, that he dropped the letter and made a step towards the
door.
But then again he paused, and with the self-deception which is part of
the villainy of some characters, he said internally something about his
duty. He would not decide, it must depend very much on circumstances;
but if future events should give rise to further suspicion, that letter
ought to be seen. He turned back and picked it up.
When he got downstairs he called the maid of the house, and desired her
to tell Mr. Devereux he had called; and as he left her, he dropt the
letter. She saw it, as he intended, and followed him to return it. He
took it, and put it away for further consideration. Should Henry miss
the letter he determined to own what he had done, giving as his reason
its dangerous nature. Should he not miss it, he thought this explanation
more agreeable than a confession that he had looked over another man’s
torn papers.
This was the letter that was produced for the inspection of Mr.
Powderham.
He was extremely shocked. Not knowing Mr. Devereux, he could make no
allowance for the language--could read it in no vague sense. He was
shocked and astounded, and laid it, with the circumstances of Henry’s
behaviour, before his friend the lawyer.
This gentleman was just departing, and could not enter fully into the
case. He told them they must take care what they were about; but for his
part he thought the letter the most villainous production he had ever
happened to read. He could believe _anything_ of a father and son who
corresponded in such terms.
Mr. Powderham was, on this day, very busy, and had been summoned by a
gentleman in an opposite direction to where Riddlemere lay. He desired
James Field to say nothing; to go back and think well over all the
circumstances, and to keep his eye on Henry. This last charge he
repeated two or three times, not so much because he thought it
necessary, as because he thought he ought to think it necessary.
Notwithstanding his dislike to Henry, he found it difficult to work
himself up to the belief that he was an incendiary. But he was working
himself up.
When James Field returned, the first thing he heard was that Henry was
gone. From the disorder of his room, he had supposed some such act to be
in contemplation, but the promptitude of the proceeding amazed him--the
folly of it astounded him.
“It looks like a guilty conscience,” he said, trying to persuade himself
that he believed what he said.
This first day spent by Nora in her new home was inexpressibly dreary.
For many months her heart had been set on it, and it failed to bring the
joy that had been anticipated. Miss Willis was ill, Mrs. Ratcliffe was
ill, and little Sophy was ill. The two last had been thoroughly overset
by the fire, their nerves agitated, and their bodies chilled. They
passed the day in bed. The little room which had been made ready for
Nora was dull; it looked to the north-east, and to the entrance where
the workmen were engaged in setting the heaps of rubbish to rights. She
was afraid of going out for fear of meeting James Field, whom she saw
among the workmen, and to whom she felt an intense dislike; within, if
she spoke to Mrs. Brook, it was only to hear the story of the fire
repeated. It was none of these things, however--for she was not one to
fret at trifles--that caused the shadow to rest so wearily upon her new
life. The source of pleasure had suddenly dried up.
Late in the day she was cheered by the arrival of Mrs. Elliott. When she
was happy and busy she was not very tolerant of visitors; but the
pleasure with which she welcomed a visitor on this dreary day, taught
her better than words that the most self-reliant are not independent of
the help of their fellow-creatures.
Mrs. Elliott had heard of the fire, but had not heard the particulars,
and Nora had to relate all that she had gathered, of which she was
already weary. The way in which the subject irritated her was very
singular. Even speaking of it to kind Mrs. Elliott irritated her. The
expressions of sympathy for her own loss and disappointment irritated
her more than all.
“And so, in fact, I am in fault,” was Mrs. Elliott’s comment, after
hearing the tale. “My unfortunate request! I daresay if the truth were
known the foolish boy never blew out the candle at all, and there it is
explained. A breath of wind at any moment may have blown the curtains to
it.”
“They say he said he was sure,” Nora replied, emphatically. “But it
does not signify how it was done. It was a mischance; such as might
happen to any of us.”
“You must get away from all this mess and rubbish,” said Mrs. Elliott
kindly, struck by something weary and vexed in her tone. “Pay me a
visit. In a week or two things will look different.”
“Thank you; but no. I will stay, now I am come. Besides, I have been
looking about, and find I can make myself more comfortable. My bed-room
is bright and cheerful; I can turn that into a sitting-room.” Then
suddenly thinking she had been ungracious, she added, “But I shall like
to visit you later--when things are more settled.”
“Perhaps you are right, and it will be best; and I will try and persuade
that foolish Mr. Devereux to come down for some shooting.”
There was a sudden bound in Nora’s heart; a sudden brightening in the
dull landscape of her life. She drew back her head into a corner while
she said,
“Do you know, then, that he is gone?”
“Yes; somebody saw him at the station this morning, and told us of it.
Foolish, foolish boy! My old man is very much vexed.”
“I thought it hasty,” Nora said.
“It is the most inconsiderate thing that ever was done. Mr. Elliott says
it may cause all kinds of injurious reports.”
When she got up and said she must go, Nora said she wished to ask her
advice upon a point. It was on the subject of James Field. She told her
exactly the history of their relationship, and also the advice she had
received from Mr. Fanshawe regarding her relations.
“I agree with him, and mean to follow his advice,” she said; “but he
allowed that Mr. Field was in a different position. I do not quite know
how to behave. I do not like his looks, and yet there he is. He is my
mother’s first cousin.”
“I think,” Mrs. Elliott replied, after a little consideration, “that his
position here may guide you for the present. You can be very civil, but
the fact of the situation he holds will prevent intimacy. I quite agree
with Mr. Fanshawe. If, after a time, you find that Mr. Field is an
educated man, and has the mind of a gentleman, you can assist him to
rise a step or two higher.”
“Will you be so very kind as to go with me to speak to him?” Nora said.
“I think I ought, and yet I shrink from it. I was certainly cold to him
yesterday, and I am sorry. I dislike his looks, but I would be friendly
if I could. You will help me?”
Mrs. Elliott acquiesced; and on her way to her carriage, which stood
beyond the disordered court, they made a circuit to where James Field
and some workmen stood. Nora bowed as graciously as she could when they
got near, and he then took off his hat.
“This has been a bad job,” Mrs. Elliott said, thinking it was easiest
for her to speak.
“Yes; but it is well it was no worse.”
This was said in that peculiar disagreeable manner he had of throwing
hidden meaning into his words.
“We are quite satisfied with the degree of badness,” Mrs. Elliott
replied lightly, looking at Nora and smiling; but Nora felt irritated,
and would not speak.
After a moment, however, she recovered herself, and asked,
“How long will it take to rebuild this, do you suppose?”
“Indeed I can’t say.”
“Not long, I should think,” said Mrs. Elliott; “the walls seem for the
most part uninjured.”
“There must be a regular examination, ma’am, before we can tell.”
He did not seem interested in the question, and Mrs. Elliott was trying
to think of something to say next, when he prevented her.
Looking full at Nora, he asked,
“Is it true, ma’am, that you saw Mr. Devereux before he left this
morning?”
She felt her blood boil, and a glow rise in her cheeks.
“Yes, I saw him,” she answered coldly.
“I think you were the only person who did see him, ma’am.”
“I don’t know. I saw him.”
The impertinence of his manner was more than she could bear, and after
waiting for a moment uncertain, she turned to Mrs. Elliott,
“It is bad for you to stand, is it not? Let us go. Good evening,” she
then forced herself to say, and they went.
“Proud vixen, I’ll spite you!” said James Field between his teeth.
“No, I certainly do not like his looks or his manner,” replied Mrs.
Elliott to a strong expression of dislike on Nora’s part; “but you must
make allowances. He feels awkward, and in trying to be easy, and show
himself at his best, he does in fact show himself at his worst. You must
wait awhile before you decide upon him.”
“I will try. I _must_ try,” Nora added, “for the feeling I have against
him is perfectly unchristian.”
“Is it not strange,” Nora thought sadly, as she walked homewards alone,
“that between me and all my relations there seems to be an antipathy. Am
I never to love as I wish to love! Is there, on the contrary, always to
be war?” She paused a moment in her sad reflections, and her mind
reverted to the morning, to that short meeting with Henry; and as it was
presented before her, there came a glow to her cheek and a tingling
sense of pleasure ran through her veins. “Had it been war--had there
been antipathy there?” By her sensations it hardly seemed so. It is true
Henry had been distant and formal; but had there been antipathy between
them? She did not consciously answer herself, but a pink sunset glow
which was stealing over the landscape was reflected in her own
thoughts, and she re-entered the house cheerfully.