It was in the middle of the following day that Nora received a message
from Mr. Powderham. “If it was perfectly convenient he should be glad to
be permitted to say a few words to her.”
As she had been expecting him all the morning, the stately message
amused her.
“Mr. Powderham’s visits are to be looked on like angels’ visits, I
suppose,” she said laughing to Miss Willis.
She was in very different spirits on this day from the last. The
invalids, all except little Sophy, were up, and there were things to be
seen, and heard, and done. With Mrs. Ratcliffe’s assistance the change
of room had been effected, and there was now a sunny sitting-room. Nora
was beginning to establish herself. In short, she was full of thoughts
and hopes again.
Mr. Powderham came in with a very grave face and manner.
Wishing to be on more cordial terms with him, Nora drew his attention to
her room, playfully pointed out its beauties and charms, and called upon
him for approbation. It would not do. He remained wrapped in gravity,
and she ceased her efforts with the reflection shooting through her
mind, “It is impossible to make any one like me.”
When she ceased to speak he said,
“The cause of my wishing to see you is to inform you of a very
unpleasant circumstance. You must give me your attention for a moment.”
“Certainly,” Nora said; and moving a chair towards him, sat down
herself. She was sorry to think of unpleasant circumstances, but she did
not feel, as some would have done, alarm.
“It is on the subject of this fire. I told you that it was owing to
negligence on the part of Mr. Devereux. I have now reason to change my
opinion.”
“It seems to me, Mr. Powderham,” said Nora, with the decision of manner
he so much disliked, “that it is much better to leave the fire alone. It
is only a worry to ourselves and everybody else, to dwell on the causes.
Unless, indeed,” she added, with sudden recollection, “you have
discovered that it was caused by an accident.”
“I differ from you entirely, Miss Smith,” he said with severity. “It is
my duty to search into the cause of the event, and I am sorry to say I
have reasons to believe it was from no accident whatever.”
“How then?”
“I mean to say that I think it was a premeditated act.”
“Indeed! and by whom?”
“By Mr. Devereux, of course.”
“Oh! Mr. Powderham,” and she laughed. The idea was so ludicrous that she
did not even feel indignant.
He was irritated beyond measure. Her countenance plainly said to him, to
_him_, “How ridiculous!” and he was offended.
“I am come on serious business, not on a laughing matter,” he observed
in his severest tone. “It is not my habit to jest in affairs of this
nature. I am come to make a grave charge against Mr. Devereux, and,
unfortunately, I have only too good reasons to uphold what I say.”
“Of course it is my duty to listen to whatever you have to say,” Nora
replied with spirit, “but you must not be angry if I tell you beforehand
that nothing shall make me believe it.”
“I will lay the whole case before you, madam,” he said. “It is a very
serious charge, and when first it was laid before me, I almost did as
you do. I refused to believe it. But I have had reason to change my
opinion.”
“Who made the charge?” she asked, with quickness.
“Allow me to proceed in my own manner.”
“Only one moment, Mr. Powderham. The charge is made, I guess, by Mr.
Field. I should like to know this before I listen to your statement.”
“The charge is made by myself, on good evidence, or I should not have
brought it before you. I am not in the habit of being guided by any man;
least of all by those subordinate to me.”
“You said a charge was laid before you,” was on Nora’s lips, but an
imploring look from Miss Willis made her suddenly cease to arrest him.
Why would she not listen quietly to Mr. Powderham? She composed herself
and said instead, “I am quite ready to listen to you patiently. I beg
your pardon for my interruptions.”
She submitted, but incredulity was visible in every muscle of her face.
He read it there, and his belief gathered strength from her opposition.
Having mentioned these small particulars in Henry’s conduct which seemed
singular, he went on--
“These facts, of course, are nothing in themselves. I thought he had
been officious, but I thought no more. Yet I own his behaviour on the
morning after the events did not prepossess me. His replies were most
unsatisfactory, and his manner was that of a person bewildered with
passion. Knowing him to be a hot-headed and excitable young man, I
excused it; but I cannot forget that it was like the manner of a guilty
conscience. It was about an hour and a half or two hours after he left
us, that, having decided on sending a messenger to you, Mr. Field went
to his lodging to inform him of the fact, and was astonished, as indeed
I was when I heard of it, to find that he had already been engaged in
tearing his papers and making preparations for a departure. For what
reason I cannot imagine; unless this same guilty conscience made him
unable to remain and meet you. You will remember that he did not
accompany us to the station, and before I could return here the
following morning he was gone. Why this avoidence, this resolute
determination to be seen no more? Why, but because he was unable to face
the questions to which he might naturally have been exposed.”
“He gave me a different reason,” Nora interrupted. “I do not say it was
a good one; I think it was a hasty one, but it was a real reason. He
seemed to feel that he was no longer looked upon in a proper light--no
longer looked up to, as in his position he ought to be. That was his
reason, and I can partly understand it.”
“It was only two hours after parting with me that his disordered room
was found. There had been no time for him to make such a discovery. He
had been alone during the morning. The reason is a very insufficient
one.”
“Some people are very sensitive. Indeed, Mr. Powderham, I see no
evidence. I am glad to say that, after following your story, I find it
impossible to think otherwise.”
“Well, madam, I allow that all I have said is no evidence. It requires
light to be thrown on it before it becomes so. That light, I grieve to
say, I have. I must trouble you to read this letter.”
He took from his waistcoat-pocket the torn letter from Mr. Devereux, and
laid it before Nora. He then sat with his hands clasped on the table,
intently contemplating her.
If he wished to pain, if he wished to startle, if he wished to drive a
sharp steel into her heart, he had succeeded at last. She sat staring at
the words, when she had at last mastered them, while every tinge of
colour faded from her cheeks. Once she looked up, and her lips moved,
but they trembled, and she looked down again; yet in that glance the
paleness of her skin spoke so forcibly of the pain within, that Mr.
Powderham was melted. He was proud of his success, but grieved, really
grieved, for her. He was preparing some little speech, sympathizing,
amiable, and consolatory. He had got it on his lips, and was about to
form the words, when it was arrested.
She looked up again, and said steadily,
“But I do not believe it, Mr. Powderham, even now.”
“Is it possible!”
“I see they hate me!” she cried with bitter passion--“but I do not think
them guilty of _this_. It is one thing to have a feeling in the mind,
and another to act upon it.”
He was sorry for her, even though she argued with him. He could not help
being sorry, and his voice was softer than was usual to him.
“When hate is cherished in the mind, my dear young lady, I believe no
action to be impossible. I laid that letter before a lawyer of talent.
I would not decide upon it on my own judgment. He did not say, I
confess, that it was evidence; but he said, and justly, ‘A father and
son who can correspond in such terms _are capable of anything_’; and I
agree with him.”
“It is dreadful,” Nora said; and she shivered.
“It is dreadful; and the more so because--at least, as I
understand--there is no cause for such feelings.”
“Oh! no; no cause,” Nora said sadly, “except my birth. I ought not to
have been born.”
“And that,” and Mr. Powderham, who, in his kindly mood, was facetious in
tone, “is certainly not your fault. To the best of my belief, not only
there is no cause, but there is very much the reverse. I cannot forget
the step which you took against my advice, and which---- but no matter.
I only mean to say, however mistaken, I think it was a step which was
sufficient proof of your charitable feelings towards the family.”
He was now in extreme good-humour. The remembrance of how right he had
been was like a ray of sunshine; and Nora’s subdued air was exactly what
he had wished. Even in a little altercation that followed, he never lost
his amiable compassion.
He was in a hurry, and he very shortly took his leave, saying he would
return the following morning, as he had more to say to her. After
wishing her good-bye, he put his hand on the letter.
“May I not keep it?” Nora said.
“No, madam; I cannot allow it to go out of my own hands. I will send you
in a copy, if you please.”
“How came you to see the letter?” she asked suddenly.
“It was taken, singularly enough, to Mr. Field; it was among the torn
papers on the floor in Mr. Devereux’s room. Mr. Field supposes he may
have kicked it with his foot. On leaving the house, a maid, believing he
had dropped a paper, took it to him.”
“And he read it?” Nora said. She shuddered as she thought of James
Field, and for a moment an idea of a plot came into her mind. But it
passed. There was the letter--what could undo the wording of that
letter? It seemed to her that she was surrounded by villains.
“Of course he did so; he supposed it to be his own.”
“I do not see what right we have to read it. It is a private letter. We
ought never to have seen it; it is no concern of ours.”
“On this subject I will not attempt to argue. Mr. Field laid the letter
before me, and I, as is my duty, bring the subject before you. I will
return and speak to you to-morrow, for I have more to say. I wish you
good morning, madam,” and bowing politely to her and Miss Willis, he
went.
When he left her, Nora sat immovable. A great horror and darkness had
come over her mind. Whether or not the suspicion was true, she had not
had time to examine. It was scarcely in her thoughts. That of which she
thought--that which subdued her to a lamb-like submission--was the
knowledge of the deadly hatred she had inspired. She had spoken of
hate; she had known from Henry’s violent speech that she was supposed to
have wronged them--but the word hate had carried no impression to her
brain. But there was the essence of hate, such as a demon might feel, in
Mr. Devereux’s letter, and it made her flesh creep. She was haunted by
the words of the lawyer--“A father and son who can correspond in such
terms are capable of anything.” Was it possible that Henry had received
and kept this letter--had cast it, as a light thing, among his waste
papers? Was this the way in which, not only the father to the son, but
the son to the father, wrote about her? _He_--there was the sting--he to
whom.... Then she paused, pressing her hands on her brain to stay the
thoughts that arose--crushing down a something that seemed rushing up to
madden her. She suddenly started up from the place where she sat, and at
the same moment a letter was brought to her.
It was only an envelope from Mr. Powderham, containing a copy of the
letter. She handed it to Miss Willis, saying, “Read it,” and then stood
watching her.
Its effect on Miss Willis--the mildest of human beings--was so evident,
the shock so great, that Nora, even in the midst of her keener
sensations, smiled.
In her commenting on the subject, however, she dwelt so much on her own
birth as making misery and crime, that Miss Willis was much troubled.
She spoke out with warmth some of her own views of life. Among other
things she said, how could Nora know that she had not been born
expressly to stand between her cousins and guilt? Who could tell whether
riches would not have been poison to them? Who could tell whether it was
not intended that she should overcome their evil by good?
Nora heard her almost without hearing her, and yet her words made an
impression; and as the day wore on, especially the last suggestion made
an impression. If there _was_ all this evil and hate, she _would_
overcome it by persistence in good offices. Nothing, not even that
letter should move her to resentment. She would think of it no more.
Henry should never know that she had seen it. It, as well as all other
things connected with this event, should be buried in oblivion.
This was the resolution she formed before she slept, and she held to it
the more resolutely because her heart was sore and sad. That Henry
should have received such a letter and kept it!
But her resolution was not Mr. Powderham’s plan. He, on the contrary,
had made up his mind that it was his duty to bring the matter before the
public. He did not, indeed, think the evidence conclusive, but he
thought it extremely suspicious. He came on the following morning to
tell Nora that he intended to lay the affair before Mr. Lubbock the
magistrate. He did not begin by telling her that he intended her to
prosecute; but such was his intention.
She received his information with a simple assurance that she had made
up her mind to think of it no more.
“But you must think of it, madam,” he said coldly. “Were a poor man
suspected of such a deed we should not shield him. And why should we
shield Mr. Devereux?”
“As to the deed,” she said, “it is nonsense--it is impossible! And were
it ever so possible, who could prove it? Who can prove what is a man’s
_thought_? It is ridiculous!”
“Unfortunately, madam,” he replied, “we can prove what has been in his
thought. I omitted to tell you yesterday, wishing to save you pain, that
Mr. Devereux has made no secret here of his feelings for you; twice to
my knowledge, once in my hearing, he called you the enemy of his
house.”
And he gave her a rapid but vivid picture of poor Henry’s folly.
This was the unkindest cut of all. Hitherto, in spite of the letter, a
something of internal conviction or suggestion had whispered that he was
not of his father’s mind; but here was proof positive that she was
mistaken.
She sat so silent and subdued that Mr. Powderham was again melting
towards her, when she again baffled him.
“His speaking so publicly of his feelings is a proof, I think, that of
_this_ deed he was not guilty. The feelings are bad enough, but let us
leave them alone.”
“We cannot, madam. It is our duty to notice them.”
“For my sake leave them alone. Why should all this enmity be made
public.”
“No private considerations, madam,” he said, with pomp, “should
interfere with public duty. I consider it a public duty to have the
matter investigated. I have already written to Mr. Lubbock on the
subject, and if he concurs with me, there must be a trial.”
“A trial! Do you mean a regular trial.”
“I do!”
“Do you mean to prosecute?”
“In your name, madam, I certainly do intend, should Mr. Lubbock
encourage me to prosecute.”
“But I do not consent. I refuse to prosecute,” Nora said, with
quickness.
He quite hated her for the ready phrase, which she had somewhere read
or heard, and coldly said,
“I believe you have no power to refuse; but Mr. Lubbock will decide the
point. He is absent, but will return this evening. I shall see him
to-morrow morning, after which I will return to you.”
“Remember,” Nora said, as he bowed, “that nothing but force, absolute
force, shall make me do it.”
He paused in his bow, and said,
“May I ask, madam, for what reason you are so unwilling to act? If it
was a poor man, should you be equally resolved?”
“I hope I should,” she said; but her colour went and came for a moment,
and in some inner yet unconscious dread of showing agitation, she only
added resolutely, “at any rate I am resolved now.”
He bowed again, equally resolved.