Young Gordon left the house in Bloomsbury after he had delivered the
message which was the object of his visit, but which he had forgotten in
the amusement of seeing Dora, and the interest of these new scenes which
had so suddenly opened up in his life. His object had been to beg that
Miss Bethune would visit the lady for whom it had been his previous
object to obtain an entrance into the house in which Dora was. Mrs.
Bristow was ill, and could not go again, and she wanted to see Dora’s
friend, who could bring Dora herself, accepting the new acquaintance for
the sake of the child on whom her heart was set, but whom for some
occult reason she would not call to her in the more natural way. Gordon
did not believe in occult reasons. He had no mind for mysteries; and was
fully convinced that whatever quarrel there might have been, no man
would be so ridiculously vindictive as to keep his child apart from a
relation, her mother’s sister, who was so anxious to see her.
But he was the kindest-hearted youth in the world, and though he smiled
at these mysteries he yet respected them in the woman who had been
everything to him in his early life, his guardian’s wife, whom he also
called aunt in the absence of any other suitable title. She liked that
sort of thing--to make mountains of molehills, and to get over them
with great expenditure of strategy and sentiment, when he was persuaded
she might have marched straight forward and found no difficulty. But it
was her way, and it had always been his business to see that she had her
way and was crossed by nobody. He was so accustomed to her in all her
weaknesses that he accepted them simply as the course of nature. Even
her illness did not alarm or trouble him. She had been delicate since
ever he could remember. From the time when he entered upon those duties
of son or nephew which dated so far back in his life, he had always been
used to make excuses to her visitors on account of her delicacy, her
broken health, her inability to bear the effects of the hot climate.
This was her habit, as it was the habit of some women to ride and of
some to drive; and as it was the habit of her household to accept
whatever she did as the only things for her to do, he had been brought
up frankly in that faith.
His own life, too, had always appeared very simple and natural to Harry,
though perhaps it scarcely seemed so to the spectator. His childhood had
been passed with his father, who was more or less of an adventurer, and
who had accustomed his son to ups and downs which he was too young to
heed, having always his wants attended to, and somebody to play with,
whatever happened. Then he had been transferred to the house of his
guardian on a footing which he was too young to inquire into, which was
indeed the simple footing of a son, receiving everything from his new
parents, as he had received everything from his old. To find on his
guardian’s death that he had nothing, that no provision was made for
him, was something of a shock; as had been the discovery on his
twenty-first birthday that his guardian was simply his benefactor, and
had no trust in respect to him. It came over Harry like a cloud on both
occasions that he had no profession, no way of making his own living;
and that a state of dependence like that in which he had been brought up
could not continue. But the worst time in the world to break the link
which had subsisted so long, or to take from his aunt, as he called her,
the companion upon whom she leant for everything, was at the moment when
her husband was gone, and there was nobody else except a maid to take
care of her helplessness. He could not do this; he was as much bound to
her, to provide for all her wants, and see that she missed nothing of
her wonted comforts; nay, almost more than if he had been really her
son. If it had not been for his easy nature, the light heart which goes
with perfect health, great simplicity of mind, and a thoroughly generous
disposition, young Gordon had enough of uncertainty in his life to have
made him very serious, if not unhappy. But, as a matter of fact, he was
neither. He took the days as they came, as only those can do who are to
that manner born. When he thought on the subject, he said to himself
that should the worst come to the worst, a young fellow of his age, with
the use of his hands and a head on his shoulders, could surely find
something to do, and that he would not mind what it was.
This was very easy to say, and Gordon was not at all aware what the real
difficulties are in finding something to do. But had he known better, it
would have done him no good; and his ignorance, combined as it was with
constant occupations of one kind or another, was a kind of bliss. There
was a hope, too, in his mind, that merely being in England would mend
matters. It must open some mode of independence for him. Mrs. Bristow
would settle somewhere, buy a “place,” an estate, as it had always been
the dream of her husband to do, and so give him occupation. Something
would come of it that would settle the question for him; the mere
certainty in his mind of this cleared away all clouds, and made the
natural brightness of his temperature more assured than ever.
This young man had no education to speak of. He had read innumerable
books, which do not count for very much in that way. He had, however,
been brought up in what was supposed “the best” of society, and he had
the advantage of that, which is no small advantage. He was at his ease
in consequence, wherever he went, not supposing that any one looked down
on him, or that he could be refused admittance anywhere. As he walked
back with his heart at ease--full of an amused pleasure in the thought
of Dora, whom he had known for years, and who had been, though he had
never till to-day seen her, a sort of little playfellow in his
life--walking westward from the seriousness of Bloomsbury, through the
long line of Oxford Street, and across Hyde Park to the great hotel in
which Mrs. Bristow had established herself, the young man, though he had
not a penny, and was a mere colonial, to say the best of him, felt
himself returning to a more congenial atmosphere, the region of ease and
leisure, and beautiful surroundings, to which he had been born. He had
not any feature of the man of fashion, yet he belonged instinctively to
the _jeunesse dorée_ wherever he went. He went along, swinging his cane,
with a relief in his mind to be delivered from the narrow and noisy
streets. He had been accustomed all his life to luxury, though of a
different kind from that of London, and he smiled at the primness and
respectability of Bloomsbury by instinct, though he had no right to do
so. He recognised the difference of the traffic in Piccadilly, and
distinguished between that great thoroughfare and the other with purely
intuitive discrimination. Belgravia was narrow and formal to the
Southerner, but yet it was different. All these intuitions were in him,
he could not tell how.
He went back to his aunt with the pleasure of having something to say
which he knew would please her. Dora, as has been said, had been their
secret between them for many years. He had helped to think of toys and
pretty trifles to send her, and the boxes had been the subject of many a
consultation, calling forth tears from Mrs. Bristow, but pure fun to the
young man, who thought of the unknown recipient as of a little sister
whom he had never seen. He meant to please the kind woman who had been
a mother to him, by telling her about Dora, how pretty she was, how
tall, how full of character, delightful and amusing to behold, how she
was half angry with him for knowing so much of her, half pleased, how
she flashed from fun to seriousness, from kindness to quick indignation,
and on the whole disapproved of him, but only in a way that was amusing,
that he was not afraid of. Thus he went in cheerful, and intent upon
making the invalid cheerful too.
A hotel is a hotel all the world over, a place essentially vulgar,
commonplace, venal, the travesty of a human home. This one, however, was
as stately as it could be, with a certain size about the building, big
stairs, big rooms, at the end of one of which he found his patroness
lying, in an elaborate dressing-gown, on a large sofa, with the vague
figure of a maid floating about in the semi-darkness. The London sun in
April is not generally violent; but all the blinds were down, the
curtains half drawn over the windows, and the room so deeply shadowed
that even young Gordon’s sharp eyes coming out of the keen daylight did
not preserve him from knocking against one piece of furniture after
another as he made his way to the patient’s side.
“Well, Harry dear, is she coming?” a faint voice said.
“I hope so, aunt. She was sorry to know you were ill. I told her you
were quite used to being ill, and always patient over it. Are things
going any better to-day?”
“They will never be better, Harry.”
“Don’t say that. They have been worse a great many times, and then
things have always come round a little.”
“He doesn’t believe me, Miller. That is what comes of health like mine;
nobody will believe that I am worse now than I have ever been before.”
Gordon patted the thin hand that lay on the bed. He had heard these
words _many_ times, and he was not alarmed by them.
“This lady is rather a character,” he said; “she will amuse you. She is
Scotch, and she is rather strong-minded, and----”
“I never could bear strong-minded women,” cried the patient with some
energy. “But what do I care whether she is Scotch or Spanish, or what
she is? Besides that, she has helped me already, and all I want is Dora.
Oh, Harry, did you see Dora?--my Dora, my little girl! And so tall, and
so well grown, and so sweet! And to think that I cannot have her, cannot
see her, now that I am going to die!”
“Why shouldn’t you have her?” he said in his calm voice. “Her father is
better; and no man, however unreasonable, would prevent her coming to
see her own relation. You don’t understand, dear aunt. You won’t believe
that people are all very like each other, not so cruel and hard-hearted
as you suppose. You would not be unkind to a sick person, why should
he?”
“Oh, it’s different--very different!” the sick woman said.
“Why should it be different? A quarrel that is a dozen years old could
never be so bitter as that.”
“It is you who don’t understand. I did him harm--oh, such harm! Never,
never could he forgive me! I never want him to hear my name. And to ask
Dora from him--oh no, no! Don’t do it, Harry--not if I was at my last
breath!”
“If you ever did him harm as you say--though I don’t believe you ever
did any one harm--that is why you cannot forgive him. Aunt, you may be
sure he has forgiven you.”
“I--I--forgive? Oh, never, never had I anything to forgive--never! I--oh
if you only knew!”
“I wouldn’t say anything to excite her, Mr. Harry,” said the maid. “She
isn’t so well, really; she’s very bad, as true as can be. I’ve sent for
the doctor.”
“Yes, tell him!” cried the poor lady eagerly; “tell him that you have
never seen me so ill. Tell him, Miller, that I’m very bad, and going to
die!”
“We’ll wait and hear what the doctor says, ma’am,” said the maid
cautiously.
“But Dora, Harry--oh, bring her, bring her! How am I to die without my
Dora? Oh, bring her! Ask this lady--I don’t mind her being strong-minded
or anything, if she will bring my child. Harry, you must steal her away,
if he will not let her come. I have a right to her. It is--it is her
duty to come to me when I am going to die!”
“Don’t excite her, sir, for goodness’ sake; promise anything,” whispered
the maid.
“I will, aunt. I’ll run away with her. I’ll have a carriage with a
couple of ruffians to wait round the corner, and I’ll throw something
over her head to stifle her cries, and then we’ll carry her away.”
“It isn’t any laughing matter,” she said, recovering her composure a
little. “If you only knew, Harry! But I couldn’t, I couldn’t tell
you--or any one. Oh, Harry, my poor boy, you’ll find out a great many
things afterwards, and perhaps you’ll blame me. I know you’ll blame me.
But remember I was always fond of you, and always kind to you all the
same. You won’t forget that, however badly you may think of me. Oh,
Harry, my dear, my dear!”
“Dear aunt, as if there could ever be any question of blame from me to
you!” he said, kissing her hand.
“But there will be a question. Everybody will blame me, and you will be
obliged to do it too, though it goes against your kind heart. I seem to
see everything, and feel what’s wrong, and yet not be able to help it.
I’ve always been like that,” she said, sobbing. “Whatever I did, I’ve
always known it would come to harm; but I’ve never been able to stop it,
to do different. I’ve done so many, many things! Oh, if I could go back
and begin different from the very first! But I shouldn’t. I am just as
helpless now as then. And I know just how you will look, Harry, and try
not to believe, and try not to say anything against me----”
“If you don’t keep quiet, ma’am, I’ll have to go and leave you! and a
nurse is what you will get--a nurse out of the hospital, as will stand
no nonsense.”
“Oh, Miller, just one word! Harry, promise me you’ll think of what I
said, and that you will not blame----”
“Never,” he said, rising from her side. “I acquit you from this moment,
aunt. You can never do anything that will be evil in my eyes. But is not
the room too dark, and don’t you mean to have any lunch? A little light
and a little cutlet, don’t you think, Miller? No? Well, I suppose you
know best, but you’ll see that is what the doctor will order. I’m going
to get mine, anyhow, for I’m as hungry as a hunter. Blame you? Is it
likely?” he said, stooping to kiss her.
Notwithstanding his affectionate fidelity, he was glad to be free of the
darkened room and oppressive atmosphere and troubled colloquy. To return
to ordinary daylight and life was a relief to him. But he had no very
serious thoughts, either about the appeal she had made to him or her
condition. He had known her as ill and as hysterical before. When she
was ill she was often emotional, miserable, fond of referring to
mysterious errors in her past. Harry thought he knew very well what
these errors were. He knew her like the palm of his hand, as the French
say. He knew the sort of things she would be likely to do, foolish
things, inconsiderate, done in a hurry--done, very likely, as she said,
with a full knowledge that they ought not to be done, yet that she
could not help it. Poor little aunt! he could well believe in any sort
of silly thing, heedless, and yet not altogether heedless either,
disapproved of in her mind even while she did it. Our children know us
better than any other spectators know us. They know the very moods in
which we are likely to do wrong. What a good thing it is that with that
they love us all the same, more or less, as the case may be! And that
their eyes, though so terribly clear-sighted, are indulgent too; or, if
not indulgent, yet are ruled by the use and wont, the habit of us, and
of accepting us, whatever we may be. Young Gordon knew exactly, or
thought he knew, what sort of foolish things she might have done, or
even yet might be going to do. Her conscience was evidently very keen
about this Mr. Mannering, this sister’s husband, as he appeared to be;
perhaps she had made mischief, not meaning it and yet half meaning it,
between him and his wife, and could not forgive herself, or hope to be
forgiven. Her own husband had been a grave man, very loving to her, yet
very serious with her, and he knew that there had never been mention of
Dora between these two. Once, he remembered, his guardian had seen the
box ready to be despatched, and had asked no questions, but looked for a
moment as if he would have pushed it out of the way with his foot.
Perhaps he had disapproved of these feeble attempts to make up to the
sister’s child for harm done to her mother. Perhaps he had felt that the
wrong was unforgiveable, whatever it was. He had taken it for granted
that after his death his wife would go home; and Harry remembered a
wistful strange look which he cast upon her when he was dying. But the
young man gave himself a little shake to throw off these indications of
a secret which he did not know. His nature, as had been said, was averse
to secrets; he refused to have anything to do with a mystery. Everything
in which he was concerned was honest and open as the day. He did not
dwell on the fact that he had a mystery connected with himself, and was
in the curious circumstance of having a mother whom he did not know. It
was very odd, he admitted, when he thought of it; but as he spent his
life by the side of a woman who was in all respects exactly like his
mother to him, perhaps it is not so wonderful that his mind strayed
seldom to that thought. He shook everything off as he went downstairs,
and sat down to luncheon with the most hearty and healthy appetite in
the world.