Mr. Powderham paid his visit to Mr. Lubbock on the following morning;
and his feelings may be imagined when he found that he had been
forestalled.
Mr. Lubbock immediately informed him of Nora’s visit, and stated plainly
the opinion he had formed from her account, but observed that possibly
many things had escaped her observation.
Now, there is something depressing in such an opening. A man speaking of
free will can make an oration with great spirit, and give effect to
small and incidental circumstances. This was what Mr. Powderham had
intended to do. But to be told to state a case is a very different
thing. The very words are freezing, and the small circumstances become
stiff as wire in the fingers.
Mr. Powderham did state his case, but he was conscious that he did it
badly. He was a clever man, but not so clever that he was not liable to
be put out. He was much put out on this occasion, and he knew he made a
poor exhibition of his powers.
Mr. Lubbock, after listening to him attentively, shook his head.
“There is even less than I expected,” he said. “I think if you were to
bring so lame a case before a jury they would laugh at you.”
Laugh at Mr. Powderham! A thrill of rage against this laughing jury ran
through his veins. It stirred him up; it put spirit into his blood.
“I perceive,” he said, “that we look on this matter from two points of
view. You have made up your mind that Mr. Devereux is innocent. I, on
the contrary, however little I may be able to make the evidence
complete, know him to be guilty.”
This was true. Without hearing Nora, Mr. Lubbock, from long habit of
judging of men’s countenances, would have decided that Henry was
innocent. Mr. Powderham, though he had been long in coming to the
opinion, did now believe him to be guilty. And from the peculiar
formation of his mind, which attached itself with bands of iron to
every opinion it adopted, he was bound to this opinion. It was adopted;
and he was prepared to do his duty towards it at any cost.
He left Mr. Lubbock, angry, not cast down; uncertain how to act, but
determined to act.
* * * * *
Mr. Lubbock had refused to force a prosecution on Nora. As to an
investigation, that, he said, was as Mr. Powderham thought best. He
would only advise him to be very guarded. It seemed impossible to prove
a malicious intent; many circumstances appeared rather to disprove
anything like premeditation. On the other hand, it was impossible for
Mr. Devereux, if asked to do so, to disprove what he had _thought_; and
a young man’s character might be tainted for ever.
“It is easy to take away a character, Mr. Powderham; not so easy in this
world to give it back again.”
So Squire Lubbock concluded, and with a hearty laugh, which was his
habit even when no laugh was required.
Mr. Powderham drove home in his little gig, with James Field. Field had
accompanied him to Mr. Lubbock’s, to answer questions, should that
gentleman have been disposed to take the matter in hand.
Mr. Powderham, having in a degree admitted him to his confidence, did
not scruple, after repeating what had passed, to express an opinion that
Squire Lubbock was an ass. Having said this, he felt relieved; anger
passed from his mind, and he was able to consider what should be done.
“Does anything strike you, sir, in this business?” James Field began
hesitatingly. “I feel sure it must.”
“A great many things strike me, Field. But may I ask to what you
particularly allude?”
“I mean with regard to Miss Smith’s conduct in this matter; the motive
that guides her.” He paused; then, not being sure he was understood,
added quickly, “The unfortunate attachment she shows. I feel sure it has
not escaped you.”
This was the way in which he played on Mr. Powderham’s little weakness.
He put his own ideas into his mind, and then considered them as _his_.
On the previous day, when Mr. Powderham had asked that question of Nora
about her unwillingness, the idea had shot through his mind for an
instant. He was able, therefore, to reply with truth and gravity,
“Well, yes, Field, I own something of the kind has struck me.”
He looked very serious over it.
“I thought it must strike you. I am glad it has done so, for it is not
for me in my position here to allude to such things.”
“You are quite right.”
“At the same time,” continued James Field, “my relationship to Miss
Smith, and the strong interest I take in her affairs, compels me to be
anxious. It is no doubt a motive common to young ladies; one, indeed,
which we might expect to find in her as in others, were it not that she
seems superior in intellect to the majority----”
“I am not sure of that, Field!” Mr. Powderham interrupted to say.
“I daresay I mistake. The deference you, sir, have shown her is the
cause of the opinion I formed.”
“She has a strong will; but that is perfectly compatible with the common
weakness of her sex.”
“Then I think you have her motive, and I confess it grieves me to think
of the comments that will be made.”
“You fear that she will be supposed to shield Mr. Devereux from motives
of unworthy partiality; from love, in short.”
“Something of the sort has been breathed in my ear, sir. Our workmen are
a rough lot, and speak as they think, without regard to our notions of
delicacy. Now, sir, we have no means of governing this class of men but
by justice in our dealings. If their feelings on this point are
aggravated, they take to Chartist ideas, and even Miss Smith’s property
may not be safe.”
“Very true. The case is this. Either they will think lightly of the
crime, seeing a gentleman is shielded from the consequences; or else
they will be aggravated, speak of class against class, and so become
dangerous.”
“Exactly, sir.”
They drove along in silence. Mr. Powderham was reflecting.
“I have been considering the matter, Field,” he said at last, “and I
think it _is_ a case in which I ought to interfere. I will go to Miss
Smith. When she sees the reasons in favour of an investigation, when she
hears what unworthy motives are imputed to her, she will consent to
act.”
They trotted along to Riddlemere without more conversation. Mr.
Powderham there left his gig, and walked slowly towards the house. When
he came to think of it, he found what he had to say more difficult than
he had thought in the beginning. He was not afraid of Nora--oh! no; but
there was at times something in her ways which made him cower. As he
went over his conversation--the conversation that was about to be
held--he found that to go and inform a young lady to her face that she
was supposed to be in love with a person who had been acting as her
agent, and who had misbehaved himself, was not an agreeable errand. His
pace slackened, and he cast about in his mind for a variety of delicate
phrases by which, without seeming to do so, he might convey to her what
he wished to say.
At last a bright thought flashed on his mind. It was this: he would make
his communication to Miss Willis. He would make a third person
understand what he meant. He had not hitherto noticed Miss Willis. With
the politeness of a gentleman, he had bowed to her on entering and
leaving the room, but she had been a nonentity in his eyes. At this
moment she became a person of importance, and he quickened his pace,
walked to the door, and asked if she was at home.
The servant seemed surprised, but answered yes, and was despatched with
a message to request a few moments’ conversation.
Miss Willis, who was writing in her room, was much more surprised, but
hastened down obediently to attend to him.
Mr. Powderham entered upon his business at once. He felt no fears of
Miss Willis, and the anxious attention with which she listened to him
inspired, and made him eloquent. He set the whole case before her very
well and very forcibly; drew a picture of the evils to be dreaded; his
fears for Nora’s welfare; his fears for her delicacy; his fears for the
morals of the navvies; and his fears for the effect of screening
delinquents on the public in general. All he said was very true, and he
was so much in earnest, that all he said was convincing.
Miss Willis was carried away by him. She was horror-struck. The morals
of the navvies, and the welfare of the public did not indeed affect her
much; but her sensitive feminine nature shrank in horror at the
suspicion of Nora’s secret attachment; at the idea of her feelings being
canvassed; at the idea of such a motive being imputed. Breathlessly she
repelled the imputation, and equally breathlessly declared herself ready
to do her best to point out to Nora the necessity of so acting as to
repel it in her own person.
Mr. Powderham took his leave on this assurance, promising to return on
the following morning; and so satisfied was he with Miss Willis and her
deference, that, had there not been already a Mrs. Powderham with whom
he was satisfied, he would have bestowed that place upon her at once.
Miss Willis went up stairs, not slowly but breathlessly, to the sunny
drawing-room where Nora sat. Had she allowed herself to go slowly, some
of the difficulties in her way might have presented themselves to her
mind; but she was too much excited to allow time for thought, and she
hurried up with her message bursting from her lips.
She was so eager to have the one charge repelled, that she gave little
thought to any other part of the subject; no thought at all to the
wording of the message. It came bursting out; first her fears that Nora
_must_ act against her will, and secondly the reason why. It was just as
well that she allowed no time for thought, for she spoke more forcibly
in her excitement than she would have done with preparation, and brought
before Nora the evil that had to be dreaded in a strong light.
Nora began to listen with something of defiance in her air; but when the
charge was understood she quivered. A blush, not
“Celestial rosy red, Love’s proper hue,”
but purple in its tint, dyed her cheeks and brow. It rose and faded,
leaving her as pale as she had been flushed; and all the while that this
ebbing and flowing was going on, she sat silent and immovable.
Miss Willis, after one glance of sympathetic feeling, averted her eyes.
She grieved for the wounded modesty, so plainly betrayed by the flushed
countenance; and beginning to consider the words she had used, was
herself ready to sink into the earth at the thought of what she had
done.
She wondered what was to come next, and began to consider how to show
her own utter disbelief in the charge.
But before she had gathered up her ideas, Nora raised her head and
spoke.
“This is a terrible charge, Miss Willis,” she said.
Her tone was ironical and haughty, but calm and composed. No air of
wounded modesty--no averting of her eyes.
It was a tone so different from what had been expected, that Miss Willis
had not power to take in the new impressions it gave, and she replied--
“It is;” and then added, “nothing would have made me the medium of
giving you this pain, but the conviction that it was best you should
know what was said.”
“Oh! yes, it is best to know everything.”
The tone of her voice was so strangely cold, that Miss Willis became
perplexed, and remained silent.
“And what is to be done now?” Nora asked, in the same manner. “Has Mr.
Powderham arranged any plan by which this terrible charge is to be met?”
“Only what he before mentioned. He wishes you to let the matter be
investigated. It is your backwardness which has given rise to these
comments.”
She gasped, feeling guilty while she spoke her daring words.
“I understand,” Nora said. “In fear of what may be said of _me_, I am to
be driven to prosecute an innocent man. Is that it, Miss Willis?”
“No, surely not exactly,” Miss Willis said hurriedly; but she was
beginning to be abashed, to lose her clear thoughts on the subject--to
lose her head, in short.
“Is it not? It seems to me that I have stated the case _exactly_. Well,
Miss Willis, you may give this answer. They may say of me what they
please. I will _not_ do it; I will not do an unjust act from any selfish
reason whatever. Fortunately perhaps for me,”--but here a sigh came, and
her tone softened--“I am so accustomed to be suspected and
misunderstood, that the world’s opinion has little influence over me.
When will you give Mr. Powderham my message?” she asked suddenly.
“He will not return till to-morrow.”
“Well, come when he may, there it is ready for him. And you, Miss
Willis,”--and she fixed her piercing eyes upon the poor thing till she
cowered before them,--“is it possible you thought I would consent to
act thus? Could _you_ misunderstand me?”
“I hardly know.” Tears came into Miss Willis’s eyes. “You look on it in
so different a light. I felt ready to drop with shame, and did not
consider that it might be unjust. Forgive me. I admire your courage.”
Nora said no more; and after arranging her papers leisurely, left the
room.