But the calm outside, and the air of disdain, was an unfaithful picture
of the heart within.
Nora went slowly upstairs, lingering as she went, as if dreading to be
face to face with herself. But when her door closed, and she stood with
no eye upon her, the dreadful secret that had been dragged into light
met her and glared upon her.
For days and days she had been keeping it at bay. She had refused to
question the meaning of the new, strange, torturing feelings that
assailed her. She had said “It was bitter to be hated,” but had
repelled what might have been added--to be hated where she loved. But
the truth came forth now, and would not be denied utterance.
She loved him. He who scorned and hated her had been able to lure her
heart away; he whom she could neither esteem nor respect had won her; he
whom she had been endeavouring--in simple benevolence, as she
supposed--to befriend, had been like the strong man; he had broken in
and taken her dearest treasure, her self-respect, away.
The idea was torture. She crushed her fingers into the palms of her
hands to stay the rush of thought; but thoughts and bitter fancies would
not be stayed until this first agony was replaced by a reflection which
for the moment was bitterer still.
A proud spirit can bear its agony, but can scarcely bear the agony of
men’s eyes upon its pain. She was found out. Her agents, her servants,
were talking over her, were pitying her for her misplaced love. The
feelings inspired by this picture, when it presented itself before her,
may be imagined. Shame overpowered her; the demon of wounded pride took
possession of her. Her recent decision was forgotten. How to hide her
shame, how to deceive, how best to repel the charge, became the subject
of her thoughts.
There seemed but one way--to allow Mr. Powderham to do what he
wished--coldly and calmly to suffer them to persecute Henry as they
pleased. Something of a glad relief came over her when she thought of
having this remedy in her power.
It was a moment of exceeding bitterness; it was a moment in which,
unless God sent some good angel to save them, many women have cast the
peace of their life away for ever.
But a good angel came to Nora, and saved her from herself.
It was in the form of a poor woman. A message was brought to her that a
woman called Hannah Barlow wished to speak to her.
Her door was locked, and, glancing at her crimson cheeks in the glass,
she answered with unaccustomed sharpness that she was unable to see her.
But the sound of her sharp voice grated on her ears, and in moving, her
eye fell on a fine print of one of Raphael’s fair and calm Madonnas. The
contrast of this holy face to her own crimsoned cheeks and agitated
appearance struck her--as will sometimes strangely happen--with vivid
force; and she flew to the door and arrested the departing footsteps by
“No, James, beg her to wait. I will see her in five minutes.”
And, having cooled and calmed the outward rather than the inward man,
she went down in search of her.
The woman, Hannah Barlow, was the wife of the man who had been falsely
accused, and whom Henry had saved from committal for trial. Most of the
workmen employed about the house were navvies, but some of the higher
sort belonged to the place, and this was one. The woman was in great
distress. Although the case had been discharged by the magistrate, the
accusation lived on. The man was not popular, and his companions said
the discharge had been a job--“one of that Mr. Devereux’s jobs,” and
his life was not worth having with their taunts. She came to beg Nora to
speak to Squire Lubbock. What he could do she did not know, but he
_must_ do something to prove her husband’s innocence; to re-establish
his character in the eyes of the world.
The story excited Nora’s mind, and she listened attentively, and entered
eagerly into the question what could be done.
“The best might be to write to the young gentleman,” the woman said.
_He_ knew he was innocent. But then he was in a peck of trouble himself
she understood, and perhaps after all Squire Lubbock might be more
listened to just now. “It’s all lies they say of him,” she said. “I beg
pardon, my lady, for speaking, but it’s all lies just as much as the
tales against my poor man. The world is a pack of liars. Why now, my
lady, do you think if he’d been up to such a dreadful deed that he would
have gone with my poor man that day? Why, he was as vexed to go, John
says, as if he was to be hanged himself, and was well-nigh in a terrible
passion because Squire Lubbock kept him waiting; because, you see, he
wanted to meet you, my lady, after the terrible accident; but for all
that he wouldn’t leave my poor man in the lurch. What’s a little bit of
passion? He had his passions no doubt, and so has my poor man; but I’d
rather have a good passion now and again, than I’d have folks creeping
about with a saint’s smile on their lips and a serpent in their hearts.”
Nora could have embraced the woman as with eager, grateful ears she
drank in her words. She promised in some way to have her husband
reinstated in his proper place in public opinion, and when she left her
and returned to her own room, it was in an altered frame of mind.
Tears fell down her cheeks, but they were soft tears. Henry was not,
could not be unworthy of her love. He might hate her; he did hate her,
that she knew; but he might have been brought up to it. He was not
altogether unworthy. The poor woman evidently loved him; and so might
she, and not be ashamed. Her tears fell down--tears of humiliation, and
self-pity, and repentance; but the bitterness was past.
She roused herself from these reflections to consider how she was to
act. Her position was become difficult. That revelation of her secret
heart made it difficult. No more fearless acting. She shuddered as she
thought of her visit to Mr. Lubbock; and although she had promised,
shrank from bringing herself under his notice again. Every step seemed
bold and unmaidenly. The weakest girl scarcely gives her heart unsought,
and yet _she_ had done so. Trust and self-confidence and self-respect
were gone, and she was afraid.
In the course of the afternoon she was called down to Mr. and Mrs.
Elliott. The accusation against Henry had only reached their ears that
morning. At a meeting of gentry at the Spa, it had been mentioned to Mr.
Elliott. The mere fact of the accusation was told as a bit of gossip,
but there was an evident belief in its truth.
Mr. Elliott was in a state of mingled wrath and mirth, and had insisted
on being driven over to Riddlemere, a thing, as he told Nora, that had
not happened for twenty years.
“He considers a drive in a barouche in the light of a purgatory,” said
his wife, laughing; “nevertheless his anxiety for the fame of Henry
Devereux made him submit to it.”
“Anxiety! Not a bit of it!” he cried. “It’s the fun of the thing! Why,
he’s no more capable of carrying out such a plot than an infant in arms.
Let him call me as a witness; I’ll tell them what I think. If they ask
me if he set fire to the house, ‘Yes, gentlemen,’ I should say, ‘he’s a
youth with so few brains that I never sleep in peace in my house when
he’s there; a youth who reads a novel in bed, and tilts up a candle on
his pillow; but as to plotting to burn a house out of hate, he couldn’t
do it. He couldn’t do it any more than a wild colt could do it.’ I’ll be
hanged if the folly of the world is not enough to make one sick.”
The mists and clouds that had been enveloping Nora for some days blew
away. It was like morning light after a bad dream. She wondered what all
the misery had been about, and shook herself free from it with a thrill
of delight.
It is true that the happier mood was a little disturbed when Mr.
Elliott, having asked to see the letter he had heard about, read it.
“It’s the devil’s own writing,” he cried forcibly, and remained silent
while he read it over a second time.
The more mirthful view of the subject then returned, and he said,
“But if the devil chooses to write to a man, what can the man do but
what Henry did?--throw the letter on the floor!”
His desire, however, to satisfy his curiosity regarding the whole
subject made him, when Nora consulted him about the affair of the poor
man, catch at the idea of seeing Mr. Lubbock. He and Mrs. Elliott would
drive her to Mr. Lubbock’s, and return home by a shorter way. She could
have her carriage to meet her.
As Mr. Elliott was subject to rheumatism, and it was already late, Mrs.
Elliott offered some remonstrances against the plan; but he observed,
with wisdom, drawn perhaps from experience,
“If I was driven there against my will, I should certainly have my
rheumatics; but if I go with my will, rheumatics won’t dare to come.”
Mr. Lubbock, although most chivalrously desirous to attend to Nora’s
wishes, was yet unable to promise much help to the man Barlow. But he
made some observations which were useful to her in another way.
“Let him live the accusation down,” he said. “It is not a rapid remedy,
but it is a sure one. And if he would permit me, that is the advice I
would give to Mr. Devereux also. He is in this same trouble. Let him
live the accusation down. He knows his own innocence; let him scorn all
false imputations--trample them under his feet. Men must not be
milksops. They must learn to bear, as the best of men have borne, evil
report as well as good report.”
These observations occupied Nora on her way homewards, and stilled her,
both as regarded Henry and herself. Tongues were making free with both
their names. Let them both live the accusation down; both go steadfastly
on their way, not scorning, but not overmuch heeding the malicious
speeches of men. The lesson, in short, that she took to herself was to
have patience, that hardest lesson to learn; to wait and see--to wait
and trust--to beware of fierce passions; the impetuous impulses of a
discomposed mind.
On her return home, she found that Mr. Powderham had called again to
know her decision.
Now, to do him justice, had that decision been to place the matter in
his hands he intended to be very lenient. Fully expecting that such
would be the case, he had considered, as he returned to Riddlemere, how
he should act, so as to satisfy justice and yet please her; and several
half formed schemes were in his head.
But he was not to have the matter in his hands. Nora withstood him, Mr.
Lubbock withstood him, and even Miss Willis, who that very morning had
been a soft piece of wax in his fingers, gently yet firmly told him that
on further thought she believed Nora was right to pay no attention to
ill-natured remarks.
He was deeply wounded. So vain a man could not but be wounded to find
himself baffled by a girl. He was on his way to dine with a friend, and
had called at Riddlemere in cheerful spirits, intending only to have his
anxiety set at rest. As he recrossed the court to re-enter his gig his
steps were slow. He tried to think what course to pursue, but was too
angry and disappointed to be able to think as readily as usual. Henry
must and should feel his displeasure; must and should know the dreadful
suspicions which were entertained against him. How should he act?
While slowly walking, James Field saw him and joined him.
“Is anything to be done, sir?”
“Nothing.” He spoke sharply, angry at having to confess so much.
“Nothing at all, sir? I think it an extremely ill-judged decision.”
“So do I, Field, for the matter of that. I do not say, however, that I
shall do nothing. I was speaking of Miss Smith’s decision.”
“I understand, sir. Well, sir,” he added mildly, “the decision may be
wrong, but perhaps it is a natural one. It appears to me--but no doubt
you have already decided on your course of action.”
“Not quite. I was at that moment considering how best to satisfy my own
conscience and public opinion in the matter. To pass over the whole
affair seems monstrous.”
“It appears to me, sir, that the end you have in view may be simply
attained by ascribing the passing over of the transaction to Miss
Smith’s kind forbearance. It will be sufficient here, and it may be
sufficient also with Mr. Devereux. If you, sir, were to send him a
statement of the whole case, with the evidence against him, making known
to him, as to others, what kind influence had prevailed to shield him,
the effect would be--but I need not say more, you had probably thought
of something of the kind.”
“Partly. Not altogether. Yes, Field, I think your suggestion a proper
one. I will act upon it to-night. Be good enough to make another copy of
Mr. Devereux’s letter, and send it to my house by a messenger. I shall
be home early.”
He had not intended to be home early, but as he drove along he wrote a
letter in his imagination--so lofty, so majestic, so soothing to his own
wounded pride, and so telling to Henry, that he was in a fever until he
could write it down and send it off. After going a short distance, the
fever to write became predominant, the friend’s dinner was forsaken, he
turned his horse’s head and trotted home, calling for a copy of the
letter in his way. The letter was written and dispatched that night.
Mr. Powderham was not a cruel man. In all the domestic relations of
life, what are called its charities, he was a kind-hearted, amiable man;
but at this moment he not only wrote a cruel letter, but he intended it
to be so--to be so to a certain degree. He had his views of his duty,
and did not wish to go a step beyond; but he certainly did wish to
administer privately to Henry a little of that just rebuke which the
public had been prevented from expressing. This was the letter:--
“SIR,
“On the morning of your departure--your ill-advised departure--from
the scene of this disastrous fire, certain reports concerning you
arose. They were reports of a very unpleasant nature. In no long
time they reached my ear, and you may imagine the amazement, and I
will add the incredulity, with which at first I heard them. Such
was my amazement, that it was not until I had laid the facts of the
case before a legal friend, and seen the effect of those facts on
his mind, that my incredulity gave way to conviction. My opinion is
now formed, and I have told you of my hesitation, that you may
understand it was not formed hastily. That opinion is of a very
serious character.”
Mr. Powderham then made a short statement of the facts to which he had
alluded, directed Henry’s attention to the letter found and enclosed,
made a few apt and moral reflections on the tone of the letter, and the
general subject of passion and hate, and then proceeded:
“When suspicions which so seriously affect the character of an
individual are entertained, I, in my judgment, consider it the
right of an Englishman to have an opportunity to defend himself. It
was in this view that I expressed an opinion that it would be
proper to summon you, to answer for yourself before competent
judges. My opinion has been overruled. When the case was submitted
to Miss Smith, she declined to give her consent to any measures
which would make the investigation of a public character. The
natural gentleness of the female character, together with her
relations with your family, made her no doubt desirous to shield
you from public rebuke. I bow to her decision. I consider it,
however, my duty, as her agent and confidential adviser, to inform
you of the suspicions entertained. Should you have any means of
disproving the reception of the letter, of denying the violent
words reported to have been used, or in other ways of justifying
yourself, it will of course be a satisfaction to all your friends;
among which, I beg of you to include, sir,
“Your obedient servant,
“HORATIUS POWDERHAM.”
For a day or two, Henry had been tossing about London. No other word so
aptly expresses the state of his mind and feeling. Before the close of
the day on which he had spoken to his father, the sense of his folly had
replaced all other considerations in his mind. He became distracted as
he thought of what he had so hastily given up; distracted at having cut
himself off from a future and more zealous discharge of his trust. He
longed for Riddlemere, for the sight of the building, for his wild
rides over the heath, for his steady work in the office, with a longing
that could be compared to that of a heart-sick exile. “Fool,” he
repeated with a stamp of the foot, a hundred times a day as he trod
about the streets.
He could turn to no occupation. No theatre could allure him, no
diversion amuse. Although distracted with anxiety, he endeavoured to put
off thought, by repeating that it was useless to dwell on the future
until he heard more about the past.
About the past! There was one sweet faint hope which every now and then
intruded itself; and although not a calming one, for every vein
palpitated when it was indulged, it was sweet. He fancied that when the
excitement of the moment had passed by, and the fire began to be
forgotten--when Nora saw all he had done, and heard the cottagers talk
of him--his value would come to be acknowledged; that she would perhaps
invite, perhaps implore him to return.
A little vanity, and an honest sense that he had done well, aided this
dream; and while it floated before him, the stamping would cease and
softness relax his features.
But no sooner did he suffer the dream to get hold of him, no sooner
yield himself to its influence, than a blighting apparition of James
Field, accompanied by Mr. Powderham, would float between the dream and
him. What might they not say of him! Why had he left his reputation in
their hands! And as these reflections arose, the stamping and the
tossing about were renewed.
It was on the fourth morning, and it was in this mood of mind, that Mr.
Powderham’s letter was received.
Its effect was all--nay, far more than Mr. Powderham had anticipated or
wished.
END OF THE SECOND VOLUME.
LONDON: PRINTED BY MACDONALD AND TUGWELL, BLENHEIM HOUSE
Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:
the invitaton=> the invitation {pg 49}
unfeigned euriosity=> unfeigned curiosity {pg 80}
bounteons nature=> bounteous nature {pg 118}
Don’t yon see=> Don’t you see {pg 131}
more confortable=> more comfortable {pg 211}