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Title: Nora; vol. 3 [of 3]

Author: Lady Emily Ponsonby


        
Release date: August 27, 2026 [eBook #79463]

Language: English

Original publication: London: Hurst and Blackett, 1870

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NORA; VOL. 3 [OF 3] ***




                                 NORA.

                               VOL. III.




                                 NORA.

                                   BY

                        THE LADY EMILY PONSONBY,

                               AUTHOR OF

                       “THE DISCIPLINE OF LIFE,”

                                &c. &c.

              Fierce passions discompose the mind
              As tempests lash the sea.
                                            COWPER.

                           IN THREE VOLUMES.
                               VOL. III.


                                LONDON:
                    HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS,
                     13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.
                                 1870.

                _The right of Translation is reserved._

                                 LONDON

           PRINTED BY MACDONALD AND TUGWELL, BLENHEIM HOUSE.
                    BLENHEIM STREET. OXFORD STREET.




                                 NORA.




CHAPTER I.


Partly in hope that her trouble was over, and partly to practise that
patience which she had set herself as a lesson, Nora ordered her
carriage on the following morning, and spent the day in visiting the
cottagers in a village some miles off.

She shrank from the sight of the work-people and James Field; but when
beyond the precincts of her new home she breathed freely, and her spirit
came back to her.

The occupation itself pleased her; the people were glad to see her, and
their quaint out-of-the-world ways and speeches amused her. But there
was a higher pleasure than this.

Henry had hoped that, when Nora came to visit her property, the way in
which he was spoken of would teach her his value; and he would have been
gratified could he have been present this day. His good looks and ready
smiles had no doubt had a great effect in winning hearts; but these
qualities, though they win favour, do not, when standing alone, move the
affections. There had been a kindliness, a thoughtful desire to make all
under him happy, which had told as much as the outward charm; and there
were few houses in which he was not spoken of with warmth. Some were
unconscious of his departure, and asked to speak to him; others had
heard rumours of troubles, and anxiously inquired into their truth.

When the praises first began to fall on her ears, Nora blushed and was
agitated; but pride and the dread of betraying herself soon came to her
aid, and before they left the village she not only heard these eulogies
with calmness, but in a kind of lofty manner called Miss Willis’s
attention to the subject, expressing a composed regret that for one
single moment other reports should have made an impression upon her.

On her return home she devoted the evening to an examination of the
papers and plans which Henry, on that eventful morning, had placed in
her hand.

Her inspection of these papers still further tended to raise him in her
estimation. There was nothing in them betokening remarkable talent, and
there were defects not only in composition, but here and there even in
spelling; but they were characterized by a kind of determined industry,
by very good sense, and, above all, by a most evident desire to fulfil
her wishes; not only her expressed wishes, but that general wish for the
well-being of the people which he knew to be her prevailing sentiment.
There were, besides, lists of names with quaint little remarks appended,
and here and there odd little sketches of buildings or out-houses, which
were better described thus than by word--small characteristic touches
which gave life to the dry details.

The examination interested and agitated her. Feelings of mingled joy and
regret stirred her mind--joy in the conviction that he was worthy of
her regard, in the faint hope that he had taken pleasure in acting for
her; and regret, intolerable regret, in the thought of the events that
had driven him away. Already the recall, that imploring recall of which
poor Henry had dreamed, was stirring in her mind; but only stirring to
be driven back again. For with such a secret in her heart, how could she
act? How could she dare to invite him to her constant presence?

She lay awake thinking; at one moment feeling that her strength would
bear her through--that all that regard which should not be indulged
could be crushed out; and the next moment, as she vividly pictured
future scenes, shrinking from them, from him, and from herself.

She rose up as unsettled and agitated as she had lain down; but she was
happy, nevertheless. The stagnant life was stirred to its depths, and
come what might in the present, the future smiled upon her. Its features
were not distinct, but it lay with a golden gleam upon it.

It was in this cheerful state of mind that she went down to breakfast;
but by the side of her plate there lay that which was to cloud the
present and the future alike.

She saw the now well-known characters, and with eager fingers tore open
the letter and read the words that follow:--

     “Why were you born to be my enemy? It is just, perhaps, for God
     knows we have deserved little at your hands; yet it was cruel to
     beguile me with fair words, and then to undermine my peace as you
     have done. What remains for me but to fly from a country in which I
     dare no longer hold up my head? Had you summoned me to answer for
     myself, had you allowed me that justice all men are allowed, I
     think in that first moment my horror and surprise might have
     convinced you of my innocence; but, even if permitted, such justice
     is too late now. My mind, troubled and distracted, has no power to
     satisfy my judges. It has no power to satisfy even myself; for
     where is the proof of a thought to be found? Where in all heaven or
     earth could I look for it? I dare not--I, strong in innocence, say
     it--I dare not expose myself to the torture of such an inquisition
     as that which must be held. If those who know me have entertained a
     suspicion so vile, how could I convince a stranger? There lies the
     hateful letter, to give the lie to every word I say. Farewell for
     ever! They tell me you acted in kindness. If it be so, mistaken
     though it was, I will not refuse to say God bless you for it! I ask
     no answer to this letter. I need none. What are words to one who
     can no longer show his face in the light of day?”

Miss Willis, who was presiding over the teapot, an occupation Nora
particularly disliked, was startled by a sudden exit from the room. Nora
had fled.

She had fled to conceal a great agony--an agony of mind she could not
master. Sharply as Mr. Powderham’s letter had pierced Henry’s heart, so
sharply did his letter thrust its iron into her soul. She was amazed and
consciencestricken; so amazed as to feel for a moment’s time guilty of
all of which Henry accused her.

It was only after standing for some minutes pressing her hand on her
aching, beating heart, that she began to see more clearly. She might
have been mistaken in refusing to summon him to exculpate himself--she
could not then debate the point; but except for a few overwhelming
moments she had never thought him guilty of anything but hate, and that
hate she had wished to retaliate only by good. When once she felt
cleared regarding her conduct and her motives, hope revived, and thought
came to her aid. She saw it was no time for reflection, but for action,
and almost at once her resolution was taken.

She went back to Miss Willis; apologized simply for her abrupt
departure; explained with most deceiving openness that it had been
caused by a vexation and annoyance that had upset her; and after
relating the purport of that vexation, asked if she knew where Mr.
Stephen Fanshawe could be found.

Miss Willis’s eyes sparkled as she replied that, feeling convinced his
services would be required in this business, she had written to a friend
who knew his movements a few days before, and found that he would be at
home this day, in order to make preparations for receiving his boys on
the 6th.

“I have no right to trouble him, but I must do it,” Nora said.

And Miss Willis, who had an idea in her head which completely blinded
her to all other ideas concerning Nora, assured her that he would be
willing, always willing, to act where he could do good.

Nora wrote this telegraph message:--

     “_Miss Smith begs Mr. Fanshawe to hasten to Mr. Devereux, whom he
     may prevent from rashly leaving England. Particulars by post._”

In the evening she received, with intense relief and delight, a return
message.

     “_I hasten to obey your commands._”

“You have now done all you can,” observed blind Miss Willis, “and you
may rest satisfied.”




CHAPTER II.


Nora did, perhaps, try to be satisfied, and to await further
intelligence with patience. But so far as the inward woman was
concerned, the effort was not successful. The fear of betraying that
hidden secret which weighs with all women, which almost governs a proud
nature, did assist her in outwardly bearing the delay patiently, but
even outwardly she was restless and excitable. What she hoped, or whom
she hoped to see, she scarcely knew, but her eyes and ears were ever
watching for some sign of the coming of some person who might bring
intelligence.

Mr. Powderham visited her, with the plans of the building, which he
wished her to look over. He was longing to ask her if she had heard from
or of Henry, but his wounded pride forbade him to open the subject. She
was longing to make the same inquiry of him, but finding him cold and
reserved, dared not touch upon past differences.

Mrs. Elliott also called, and by the interest she exhibited in Henry’s
welfare and Nora’s difficulties endeared herself to Nora. But she knew
nothing.

These visits helped to pass the time; but they left the fears and
anxieties of her heart unrelieved.

Was Henry gone? Had Stephen Fanshawe been able on that first day to
arrest his flight? She thought the letter of explanation she had
written, and which Mr. Fanshawe was to communicate to Henry, must have
prevented his ill-judged resolution. But had he been in time? Upon the
whole she hoped. There was nothing to cause a hasty flight, except that
Henry was not a person influenced as other mortals are.

On the evening of the third day, after she and Miss Willis had dined,
the doorbell suddenly rang. Nora, hardly knowing whom or what to expect,
flew down the stairs; but, hearing Stephen Fanshawe’s voice, retreated
again, the hope that had been dancing in her veins chilled. Why should
_he_ come? She stood, however, at the drawing-room door, and cordially
meeting him, exclaimed,

“How kind of you to come down here!”

“I came myself,” he said, “because I have not good news. I tell you
that at once. I have failed; and I thought I should best offer my
explanations to you in person.”

He had failed. Then Henry was gone. Nora received so much into her
brain; but, unable to meet the intelligence at that moment, she suffered
it, as persons of strong will can do, to go no further. She asked no
questions, but, putting the subject aside, gave her grateful and
graceful attentions to the person whose kindness had brought him to her.

Repeating her cordial words, she preceded him into the drawing-room,
where she forced him to own that he was chilly and hungry, and would not
object to some attention to the wants of the natural man.

All this was interspersed with conversation on his journey, and Nora
then left the room to order a tray of dinner to be taken up to her
guest.

When all had been provided for, she went, like the stricken deer, to
weep apart. Not, indeed, to weep with the eyes, but to face the
intelligence she had heard, to receive it into her heart as well as into
her brain. Henry was gone. He had left his home and country, and she
should see him no more. He who for months she now knew too well had been
the master of her thoughts, was blotted out from the sphere of her life,
and must leave that life a blank. Gone in anger, and, if not in hate, in
misunderstanding, calling her his enemy still.

In a kind of luxury of misery she suffered these reflections to take
possession of her. It was a chilly night, but she opened the window and
stood gazing out, making, as many have done, a kind of sad appeal to the
silence and quiet of the sky. It was not passionate sorrow, it was an
utter prostration of hope that was upon her; an intense pity for
herself; a depth of dejection and melancholy that seemed for the moment
unbearable.

How long she stood she did not know. At last, in very pity for her fate,
a tear fell down her cheek; and at that sensation she came to herself.

What was she doing, and how long had she been absent, and was it thus
she was preparing herself for the tale she had to hear? Should Stephen
Fanshawe, whom three times she had employed in her dealings with Henry,
suspect that he had been employed for a reason that was stronger than
benevolence? The moods of human beings are indeed variable as the shade
of the quivering aspen leaf; and as this idea struck her, all weakness
and dejection passed from Nora’s spirit. Her pale cheek became purple
with shame, and in two minutes she was armed with a courage that could
hear every particular with the tranquillity of an indifferent person.

On her return to the drawing-room, she made no apology for her absence,
but, finding Stephen Fanshawe had finished his repast, invited him again
to the fire, and said if he was quite at liberty she should now like to
hear “all the particulars of this terrible business.”

During her absence he had been making some inquiries of Miss Willis. He
did not fully understand, he said, how so singular an idea as that of
Henry’s guilt could, in the first instance, have arisen; nor why, when
it arose, Henry was not immediately summoned back to exculpate himself.

Miss Willis did not herself know clearly why Henry had been suspected,
except that the letter gave ground for suspicion; but she did know that
Nora, feeling the letter ought not to have been found, had wished that
Henry should never know the fact; and perhaps fixing her mind too
exclusively on that wish, had been mistaken in her conduct.

In making this explanation she touched on all that had occurred, and
spoke with admiration of the courage with which Nora had endured the
most trying of suspicions:

At this part of her narrative Stephen Fanshawe fixed his sightless eyes
very intently upon her and said,

“I wonder if the suspicion is true. I beg your pardon; I ought not to
have any wonderings on such a subject, but if I was assured it was not
so, I should speak more freely.”

“You may be quite sure,” Miss Willis cried warmly. “He is not the sort
of person to attract Miss Smith; and had he been so, her conduct in the
matter, under such an idea, must have been different.”

His conversation with Miss Willis had not altogether satisfied Stephen
Fanshawe on this point. A little suspicion had been excited by the very
earnest tone of Nora’s letter, and that slight suspicion had, in fact,
brought him down. He knew what he had to say must give pain; and he
wished by personal communication to soothe and satisfy, as far as was
possible. What, however, Miss Willis had failed to do, Nora’s words did.
There was something so unromantic, so very prosaic in the manner in
which she asked for the “particulars of the terrible business,” that his
suspicions fled in a moment. The phrase had been prepared as Nora came
along; and she might have been gratified had she known its effect.

Much relieved, he came, therefore, to tell his tale; and drawing his
chair near to her--she, to assist her tranquillity, having taken out her
work--he began by observing that he had never seen Henry at all. He was
gone before he reached London.

“My movements were as rapid as possible,” he said, “yet they were vain.
He had left London for Liverpool the night before--in fact, on the night
of the day he wrote to you. On hearing this I telegraphed to a friend at
Liverpool, begging him to discover him; but the vessel had sailed. We
fancy that Henry had inquired at the Packet Office, and finding a fine
vessel on the eve of sailing for Australia, made haste to catch it. But,
you see, we know where he is gone. The vessel was bound for Melbourne;
and, though I have not myself an acquaintance in that city, I shall have
no difficulty in communicating through persons in my father’s office.”

“Australia!” Nora had said, when he pronounced the word, in dismay and
utter despondency. She knew as little about Australia as a well-educated
person can know. To her it was the land that is very far off; and her
heart sank. But when he ceased she said with quietness, “He has indeed
gone beyond the reach of my good offices.”

“Hardly. Australia is nothing now-a-days. If it were Sydney, I have
myself many friends settled there. Depend upon it, many of your
acquaintance have half their hearts in Australia.”

Half their hearts! Did he suspect her of having half her heart on the
way there? Nora armed herself anew at this thought. Putting down her
work, and looking full at him, she asked,

“Now tell me about his mother. Did you see her?”

“I did; but I found the poor woman in so pitiable a state that I could
learn nothing from her. I was myself, you know, in great perplexity as
to what had happened, and I found her unable to do anything but cry and
wring her hands. Literally wring her hands,” he continued; “not a book
expression. I never saw it done before. Never, I mean, observed it. Two
or three times I put my hand on her hands, and implored her to be still,
but in vain.”

“And I the cause,” Nora said involuntarily, for she had intended to hold
her peace.

“A complication of causes, I fancy. After trying in vain to discover
something from her, I asked if I could see Miss Devereux; and as she did
not forbid it, I rang the bell, and sent for her. I think I have often
mentioned that the Devereux refused to speak to me, and Miss Devereux
was one of the sharpest in her enmity. She is a disagreeable girl, but
on this occasion she was less disagreeable than usual. She not only
obeyed my summons, but seemed softened in mind, and very full of regrets
at her brother’s departure. In this a reproaching conscience had some
share.

“What I gathered from her was this. On receiving Mr. Powderham’s letter,
containing the account of the accusation that had been made, Henry was
at first completely stunned; but on reading a letter--_the_ letter from
his father, which I have not seen--shame and horror took possession of
his mind, and he went to his father and delivered himself of his
opinions in no measured terms. Letitia Devereux said there had been a
regular scene; and that her father had lost his temper--which was a very
rare thing for him. He had told Henry that it was a useless piece of
hypocrisy on his part to object to the letter, for he knew well enough
that, while _he_ had confined himself to writing his wishes, Henry had
_acted_; making himself, you understand, Henry’s accuser.

“After this scene, Miss Devereux said, her brother came to her in a
state not far removed from insanity. If his own father accused him, he
said, what hope was there for him in the world? She, it seems--” here he
paused a moment, and hesitated; then went on--“I beg your pardon, if
what I say should annoy you, but I think it is best to tell you the
whole story. She, then, it seems, has had a joke of long standing with
her brother, regarding his feelings for you.”

Nora’s heart leapt into her mouth, and, except that her cheek was
crimson, restrained any outward expression, and he hurried on.

“All the family, you know well, I believe, have indulged in the foolish
idea that you are their enemy--Henry as much as the others; but his
sister has chosen always to impute to him contrary feelings, teasing
him, as she owns, out of his life. On this occasion, instead of
comforting him, she renewed her old joke, telling him that there was a
very easy way of getting out of his difficulties, for he had but to go
and disclose to you the state of his affections, and of course the
accusation would die away of itself. Henry, she says, burst into a rage
the like of which she had never seen; and calling her, and you, and all,
his persecutors and enemies, said he should leave England for ever. He
then left her, and she had very little idea that he would put the threat
into execution.”

“His sister is much to blame. She must feel she is,” was all Nora could
say, her lips moving as by wires.

“I think she does. She seemed really unhappy, and more than once said
she had so often joked him before, that she never thought of his taking
things so seriously. It appears he then made all his arrangements
privately; packed up a few things; did not dine at home, but came in
after dinner to take leave of them. She said her father was much
shocked, and endeavoured to dissuade him from so rash a step; but Henry
was then incapable of listening to reason. He was quite calm, but, like
a person wound up to a thing, it was as little use to speak to him as to
speak to a block of wood. He took leave of them quietly, she said, till
he came to his mother; but when he kissed her he broke down, and she
thinks it was the agony of that parting that overwhelmed the poor
woman.”

Stephen Fanshawe’s voice shook a little, and he paused. He had tried to
tell it all very quietly, but, in fact, the scene in Mr. Devereux’s
house in London had affected him deeply. The broken-hearted mother
wringing her hands was a picture before him.

Not a sound proceeded from Nora, though he listened eagerly. He then
said,

“I am afraid I have told you a painful story, but that was what I came
for. I thought it best.”

“Much best,” she said, with a super-human effort at tranquillity, and a
successful one. “I now understand things, and see why my cousin was
unwilling to let me help him. His sister is very very much to blame.”

“We must not be too hard on her,” he said. “Such jokes are the amusement
of some families, and if they are teasing, they are also enlivening.
Where Miss Devereux is to blame--and she feels it now--is in not having
seen that the case was too serious for jests. It is not an every-day
thing to be accused of being an incendiary.”

Little more was said on that evening. Nora could still talk of common
topics, but she made few inquiries further regarding Henry.

Soon after tea, Stephen Fanshawe, having engaged Henry’s lodgings as he
came by, departed, promising to return for breakfast, which he did.

Before his departure he asked Nora if there was anything else he could
do for her, and she requested him to tell her if he could think of any
means by which James Field could be withdrawn from Riddlemere?

He looked perplexed, and she said quickly,

“I daresay I am very wrong in my feeling about him, but I really cannot
help it. I have tried to get over it, but every day my dislike
increases. If he stays here, my whole peace and comfort is destroyed.”

“What can be done?” he said, more to himself than to her.

“You must understand that I wish him well. He is my mother’s nearest
relation, and that cause alone would be enough to make me anxious for
his welfare. But, indeed, though sometimes my feelings approach very
nearly to hate, it is not a wicked hate. I would do _anything_ for him;
visit him if he was ill, do him good in any way, but I cannot bear to
have him here. I have a feeling that he watches me; and even sometimes
in the house I fancy that he is spying at me.”

“But is it so?” Stephen Fanshawe said, surprised, and turning his eyes
from her to Miss Willis.

“Oh, no!” Nora cried eagerly. “I don’t accuse him of it. I only say that
is the feeling he gives me. I think he thinks of our relationship, and,
perhaps, feels we ought to be more intimate than we are. But it cannot
be. I try to be friendly, as your father advised me--friendly but
distant; but if I attempt this friendliness he revolts me. I think I am
wrong; but I tell you my feeling, and ask if anything can be done.”

“It can be done only, I suppose, by offering him something better. You
mean that, of course.”

“Yes; twice as good if it could be--only not here.”

“But is he fit?--ought I to recommend him?” he inquired seriously, as a
conscientious person must.

“I think you may. Mr. Powderham is more than satisfied; and all here
speak well of him--well not only of his cleverness, but of his conduct.
Even Mrs. Ratcliffe, though, like me, she cannot like him, says he is a
very proper-behaved man.”

“Then I daresay it may be done. I will try, at any rate. Depend on
that.”

“I don’t know why I give you all this trouble,” Nora said, with a tone
of feeling in her voice. “How shall I thank you for all?”

“Don’t talk about trouble,” he replied lightly. “Trouble is my life. If
it should please God to disable me from taking trouble, then, indeed, I
should have trouble, and find it hard to bear. Till then I am at your
service.”

“I feel like that myself,” Nora said, with a smile.




CHAPTER III.


The story is renewed after the lapse of nearly two years. The last
chapter closed in the month of September. This one opens in June two
years later. The last chapter closed at Riddlemere, and this re-opens in
the same place. But a Riddlemere no longer the scene of devastation--no
longer occupied by workmen and navvies. Riddlemere is a thing complete.
It stands a fine feature in the wild country; and its beautiful gardens
and pleasure-grounds are the pride of the district.

The scene re-opens in this beautiful garden. The capabilities of the
place had been great. _That_ Nora’s eye had seen at once, and for having
seen it Mr. Powderham had been disgusted with her. A skilful eye and
skilful hands had made the most of the materials, and though much
remained to be done, the garden was already a pride in the country.

On a smooth lawn, tufted with shrubs, and ornamented with shrubs and
flowers in pots, a party of children sat. There were five. Three very
young, nearly of an age, and a girl and a boy, several years older.

The three little girls were pretty, and full of airs and graces. The
older boy and girl had little charm of appearance, but seemed to be
dissolved in love and admiration of their younger playfellows. With this
group sat Miss Willis reading.

On a bench nearer to the house, and shaded by a large tree, lay another
young girl. She was very pretty, but an invalid. She might be thirteen
or fourteen years old, but the fair, fragile features were marked with
lines of care. A garden chair was placed near her, and on this sat Nora,
and by Nora stood a blind man.

“I know it is only four o’clock, Sophy,” Nora said, “but it is not a hot
day, and for the last ten minutes I have fancied there was a chill in
the air.”

“I like a chill in the air,” replied Sophy Brook, fretfully. “A cold air
is what I want; I am always so hot. Stifled!”

“What, last week?” asked Stephen Fanshawe, smiling. For the week before
there had been a remarkable event, frost and snow in June.

“Yes, always hot. Even when I am cold I am hot.”

And though it sounded perverse, what Sophy said was very true, and Nora
did not attempt to contradict the statement. Sophy was always tossing
about, and complaining of being parched.

“But you know, Sophy,” she said, soothingly, “that whatever we feel we
must obey orders. Dr. Lewis, when he came, told me to take care you were
in the air as much as possible, but also to be sure you were never out
late, or when the wind was chill. I do not dare to disobey him. There!
the wind is certainly rising, and you must go in.”

Sophy knew she must when Nora said she must, but she chose to be
perverse, and refused to move. The wind was really rising, and Nora,
alarmed, was considering what argument would be most prevailing, when
Stephen Fanshawe, as if he had seen her perplexed face, looked at her
with a smile, then took up the peevish invalid in his arms, and carried
her in. Sophy, too much astonished to resist, lay quiet, while they
walked, and suffered herself to be put down in Nora’s boudoir, into
which they entered.

Nora then called her mother, and Sophy was led away.

Notwithstanding, however, the summary process, she had staid in the
garden five minutes too long. A return of her illness was the
consequence, of which more will be said afterwards.

“Thank you,” Nora said, turning to Stephen Fanshawe, as Sophy left the
room. “How you guess all one’s wishes! I often wonder how you do it. Are
you always studying man’s nature; and does that study always teach you
what is the right thing to be done?”

“I don’t know if I study man,” he replied, and there was a shadow on his
face. “Perhaps I do, for I certainly have a mania for character. But
there are other means by which one guesses people’s wishes.”

“I suppose so. I spoke foolishly. Study might do something, but study
would never give the gift of helping rightly. That must come by nature;
it is a gift which you have, and I am utterly without. I do what I can,
but I do not _see_. It is my bane that I do not see.”

“I don’t know that I have it by nature,” he began again. “I was saying
there are means by which one learns the wishes of another.”

He spoke gravely; defending himself, as Nora thought, from thanks and
praises, and she answered to her thought,

“You must not think I am flattering when I say that you have the gift of
being a real helper. You have helped me again and again when I was most
in need of help, and I should be ungrateful, indeed, if I did not feel
it.”

The warmth of her words, and some thoughts connected with his help,
brought a glow to her cheek, and there was a glow also on his.

Nora saw it, and it puzzled her; but there came a sudden uncomfortable
sensation at being alone with him. She stepped out of her boudoir and
plucked a sprig of syringa from a tree which stood in a wooden tub
outside, saying, as she did so, “I am very fond of syringa; are you?
Some people say it has too strong a scent, but I like it to be blown in
at my windows.”

“I like it too,” he said, and held out his fingers for the sprig. She
gave it carelessly, and then again felt uncomfortable, and remarked,

“I am glad Sophy is gone in. The wind is cool, if not cold, and I think
it will rain. Must you go to-night?”

“I fear so,” he said sadly. “Should you mind walking with me to that
thornbush? I have one question I want to ask you?”

“Oh! certainly,” she replied, trying to speak indifferently, though she
began to wonder what was coming; to wonder, as those do who will not
face a thought that comes to trouble them.

“Will you not get a bonnet or a hat, or whatever is preferred?” he
asked, so much in his usual manner that Nora put her wondering away,
and answered lightly,

“No. Miss Willis has to take care of winds, but my death must come in
quite a different manner. As poor Sophy says, even when I am cold I am
hot.”

And they walked off together. When he had escaped from the immediate
neighbourhood of the house, he said,

“You said just now that the bane of your life was that you could not
see. May I show you something which for nearly two years has been making
my life so great a burden to me, that unless I do show it, I do not know
what the consequence will be?”

Hating herself for the dread that had taken hold of her; thinking it
scarcely possible, after the friendly way in which she had always
treated him, yet not the less pursued by it, Nora knew not what to say.
If her dread was a true one, she would prevent its expression if she
could.

“Surely, you must know me too well,” she said at last, with earnestness,
“to be afraid to speak to me of whatever concerns you. Even were the
claim one of gratitude only, you have the right to claim my assistance;
but I would also hope that we are friends, and the best of friends.”

On the last few words a very slight emphasis was put;--sufficient to
warn him, if he needed warning, and no more. He did need it; and he felt
it, and a flush of pain passed over his face.

“I knew it was in vain,” he said sadly. “Wisdom has cried to me a
thousand times that my hope was so impossible, I had better close it
from the light of day. But when I am absent from you, impossible as it
is, it pursues and torments me; I came last night with the determination
that I would try to see more clearly. Thank you, let us say no more on
the subject.”

“Oh! Mr. Fanshawe!” she said, in a broken voice, and a tear fell from
her eye.

It was not only the pain of giving pain to that blind man; there was a
swelling of the heart within, to think that love had come to her--she
who had so pined for love, and that it was worse than useless. It lost
her a friend.

“Do not let me grieve you,” he said, not only hearing the tears in her
voice, but knowing that he had caused one to fall from her eyes. “I
shall get over it now. It was the strife that killed me. If there was a
chance, the very faintest, I know you would give it to me; but there is
none, and therefore I _must_ submit to overcome.”

“I would,” she said, in a low voice, “but there is none.”

“Thank you. I know it. Now go in; I do not mean to lose you as my half
ward and my friend. Go in out of this cold wind.”

He shook her hand with a smile, and she obeyed him thankfully.

He walked to the place where Miss Willis sat, and stood beside her.

“I have tried, Miss Willis, and I have failed.”

“Oh! impossible!” she said, turning pale.

“Quite true. I do not thank you the less for all your kind wishes and
kind encouragement. Now, good-bye. I am off; but mean to come again.”

He shook her hand also, and went.

And poor Miss Willis sat and wept bitterly. She had for two years been
feeding him with hopes. Never definitely, but seeing his hope, and
administering to it in gentle ways, and with words dropped in season.

In season, at least, as she thought, but very much out of season, as it
appeared. It was one of those cases where a well-meaning person, arguing
from a theory, can do a world of mischief. She had a theory that two
persons possessed of an enthusiasm of benevolence, as were Nora and
Stephen Fanshawe, must be, as old nurses would say, “married in heaven.”
She felt that they only needed help to be brought together, and made
happy for time and eternity. And her theory was very good; only that
human nature is perverse, and will not like in those fitting ways.
There may be good reason why it will not, but it is often vexatious
enough to see its stubbornness.




CHAPTER IV.


After the departure of Henry Devereux a time of darkness and dreariness
had fallen upon Nora’s spirit, affecting her mentally and bodily. Could
any of those about her have seen the truth--could they have perceived
that she, strong and wilful and haughty as she was, was reduced to the
condition of a common love-sick girl, something might have been done to
rouse her. But to this fact all were blind. Miss Willis thought she was
out of heart and disappointed; Mrs. Ratcliffe that she was suffering
from the effects of the over-excitement of the fire and its
consequences. That she should be so was very natural. _She_ was
suffering from it, so was Sophy; and, though Nora had not actually been
present at the fire, she had suffered more than any from the worry
afterwards. No one imagined that the hair-brained, thoughtless Henry
could have captivated the sage Nora.

Mrs. Ratcliffe consulted Miss Willis about a change of scene. Sophy
ought to have sea air. Should she ask Miss Smith to go to the sea for a
few weeks? Miss Willis thought the plan good. The building was in a
miserable state; but the two fine months of September and October would
be sufficient to set much to rights; and Nora might then return to take
up her abode in renewed delight.

Nora received the request with eager pleasure. To escape from the sight
of the devastations, and from the sight of James Field, was in itself a
boon; and a plan was shortly made and executed.

During the preparations for the removal she cheered up, and her faithful
friends thought themselves Solomons. But no sooner was it accomplished
than she became drearier and wearier than ever. At Riddlemere she might
have had occupation out of herself. At the sea she was forced in very
shame to apply herself to common occupations--music, reading, drawing,
&c.; and from each and all her soul revolted. She was always in fancy
sailing with a ship to Australia, and striving to penetrate into the
secrets of a heart on board the vessel. There were moments when the few
soft words at the close of Henry’s letter, under the light shed upon
them by Stephen Fanshawe’s statement, spoke hopeful things to her pining
heart--moments when she felt with a deep conviction that Henry in his
heart loved her, and that a day might come when all would be made clear.

But vague hopes are the most intangible of blessings. The more the mind
tries to grasp them the more shadowy they become. Whenever, therefore,
the conviction was taken home with the intention of being nursed and
cherished, so soon it flitted away, and she felt she had taken hold of a
spectre.

She returned, therefore, to take renewed possession of Riddlemere with a
heart as cheerless as the one she carried away.

During her absence, the only occupation that had given her pleasure was
the endeavour to amuse Sophy. Natural kindness was, in part, the reason
of this; but there was another reason, of which Nora was unconscious.
About once a week Sophy would ask in a plaintive voice whether anything
had been heard of Mr. Devereux. She was the only person who seemed to
bear him in memory, or, at least, in a cherished memory; and Nora clung
to the child in consequence.

This occupation did not fail her on her return, for though slightly
improved in health, Sophy was still ailing. She had lost her appetite,
and her spirits, and her pretty colour; and being one of those natural
born tyrants who rule those about them with a rod of iron, she kept all
the inhabitants of Riddlemere in bondage to her whims and caprices.

The very day of Nora’s return to Riddlemere, James Field received the
offer of a new situation; a place which, if he chose to exert himself,
and behave himself, would be permanent, and in which he would rise
gradually to higher trust. The situation was worth four hundred and
fifty pounds a year.

James Field was affected in two ways by the offer. He was delighted, and
he was annoyed. The offer was as good as he had ever expected to have;
the work, which was chiefly as accountant and superintendent in a house
of business, was what he was fittest for, and it gave him a thrill of
pleasure to think of showing Nora how little he depended on her favour
for his advance in life. And yet he was annoyed. He had looked forward
to a time when, having the field all to himself, he might gain her
favour. What idle dreams ran in his head, and made a part of this
favour, he scarcely knew himself! They were like Alnaschar’s visions.
But dreams of the future he certainly had.

He asked an interview on the morning of her return, and made a parade of
the offer he had received, saying at the same time that he believed Mr.
Powderham was satisfied with him, and would be sorry to lose him, and
that he was therefore undecided what to do. He wished to see how Nora
felt towards him, now that Henry was gone.

He was conceited, but less disagreeable in manner than usual, and Nora
was able to be civil, and even kind. She said she was very glad he had
had such a good offer, and as she should very shortly cease to want his
assistance, she advised him to accept it at once.

His keen eye searched her through and through, to try and discover if
his going caused her a feeling of regret. It need not be said that no
such discovery could be made; and he lost his temper in consequence.

“Some people,” he said, “did not know what faithful service was.”

“How do you mean?” Nora inquired, with a haughtiness that cowed him.

“I make no complaint, ma’am, but considering my faithful service, not to
speak of other circumstances, I had hoped that you might have been less
unwilling to dispense with me.”

Nora’s courage usually rose with the occasion; after a moment’s thought
she replied--

“With the way in which you have performed your duties here, I believe I
have every reason to be satisfied. My good wishes, therefore, you shall
always have; and as I suppose the other circumstances you speak of are
our relationship, be sure you shall never find me wanting, should you at
any time require my help. In other respects I will not pretend a
satisfaction which I do not feel.”

“In what respects may I ask?” he asked.

“I did not think you behaved fairly to Mr. Devereux. It is all passed,
and I have no wish to return to the annoyance of that time; but I never
can think the showing of a letter found by chance was a just action. It
is passed, and I shall try to forget it; and my good wishes you shall
always have.”

“Ladies can never understand a man’s duty,” he replied bitterly; but he
knew she had fixed on that very thing for which his own easy conscience
could not altogether acquit him. He attempted no further arguments, and
they parted.

“Proud vixen!” he murmured. “I will be even with her yet.”

His departure was of great use to Nora. She now felt free and at home at
Riddlemere. She could watch the works, and talk to the workmen, and go
in and out without fear; and this fearless feeling cheered her, while
the objects about interested her--as much, that is to say, as anything
could interest her which was not on board that vessel sailing, and now
approaching, to the far land of Australia.

But there came other events, not to cheer, certainly, but to arouse her
from that languor of spirit in which she passed her days.

Six weeks after the departure of James Field, she saw among the
marriages in the _Times_ the announcement of the marriage of James
Field, Esq., to Letitia Devereux, daughter of Simon Devereux, Esq.

There could be no mistake; and Nora put down the paper with a face of
consternation. It was not so much at the event itself as at the sudden
thought that came that _she_ was responsible for this. She had helped
him into a place where marriage was possible. James Field the
brother-in-law of Henry! She shuddered as she thought of it, and of what
his feelings would be.

In her consternation she could resolve on no other step than her usual
one--of writing, that is, to Stephen Fanshawe, to beg him to inquire
into the circumstances. She, as usual, consulted Miss Willis before
doing so, and received from her the usual assurance that to employ him
was to do him a favour, not to give him trouble.

She wrote, and then had to wait. His boys were just returning home, and
he was busy; and it was ten days, just Christmas-time, before he came.
He then came, instead of writing, securing, as before, the lodging in
the village.

His account of the state of affairs in the Devereux family was most
melancholy. So melancholy, he told Miss Willis, that he was afraid to
let anyone but himself relate it to Nora.

He had found, on calling, that Mrs. Devereux was too ill to see him. Not
knowing where to turn, he had discovered the apothecary who was in
attendance; and on going to him for information, found that he was the
best person to consult, as he appeared to know well all the
circumstances of the family. The account he gave was shortly this:

About a month back James Field had proposed to Letitia. His acquaintance
with the family was one of long standing, in a formal way; but the
apothecary observed that with regard to Miss Devereux it appeared to
have been by no means formal. This, however, was without the knowledge
of her parents.

The proposal had been received by both father and mother with
astonishment and horror. Mr. Devereux,--showing, as Mr. Blair, the
apothecary said, a pride of family which no one had ever suspected in
him--and which he--Mr. Blair--must observe he had no right to
entertain,--had put himself in a paroxysm of rage. Mrs. Devereux, who
since Henry’s departure had never smiled, and seldom ceased to weep, who
had been unable to interest herself in anything, roused herself to
express her horror at this marriage. With her it seemed to be a dislike
of the man, founded on old recollections; a dislike which, overpowering
her in her weak state, seemed perfectly ungovernable.

Miss Devereux, and he believed Mr. Field, also, had taken the
opposition, after the first moment, very quietly. They refused to break
off their engagement; but he ceased to come to the house, and there was
no appearance of any further design in contemplation.

A fortnight, however, after the refusal, Letitia was missed, and the day
following wrote to her father to announce her marriage. It had been
properly celebrated in the presence of many witnesses, and she was now
gone to her husband’s home. She expressed regret at having been forced
to take a step in opposition to her father’s wishes, but excused herself
by pleading her conviction that when once he had said a thing he was
incapable of changing; her long attachment to James Field; and, lastly,
the unendurable dulness of her home. Of her mother she said nothing.

Neither father nor mother, Mr. Blair said, had appeared to be quite in
their senses since the event. Mrs. Devereux had had a violent hysterical
fit, and after being carried to bed, had there remained. She was a
woman, he said, of few ideas, but those few held her fast. Devotion to
her husband, love for Henry, and a sense of the necessity of propriety
of behaviour in women, were the ideas that possessed her most strongly.

Unable to make the excuses which he and all others who knew what a
dreary life she had led could make for the daughter, she thought only of
the step itself, and coming on her already shattered state, it crushed
her.

With regard to Mr. Devereux, it was difficult to say what it was that
affected him so strongly. But Mr. Blair thought that, after years of
prosperity, the sudden turn in his fortunes, the oversetting of his
quiet life, was probably the thing that had unhinged him. He probably
felt remorse as well as regret for Henry’s departure--a double remorse
when he saw the effect on his wife; and whether or not he disliked James
Field, and blamed himself for having put his daughter in his way, Mr.
Blair could not say.

Stephen Fanshawe here repeated a remark of Mr. Blair’s, that it is
impossible to argue from definite grounds in considering a character
like that of Mr. Devereux.

To judge from his usual manners and conduct, it would have been thought
that he had no feelings of a tender kind. But he possibly had some, as
other human beings have, and the very unlikelihood of their rising up to
sting him, the very uncommonness of the sensations of such a sting,
would the more master him. Certain it was that he was altered. He had
become violent, irritable, anxious, seemingly not master of himself; to
use a French expressive word, _éperdu_.

The house, he said, was in a miserable state; and a little girl of four
years old, who had long been in weak health, would not, in human
probability, survive the winter. If that blow fell, he feared Mrs.
Devereux would sink altogether.

Nora asked if anything would be done. Her heart yearned to be of use to
the poor, crushed mother; but Stephen Fanshawe said nothing could be
done by _her_. Guessing she would wish to be of use, he had sounded Mr.
Blair; but he found that her name was often on the lips of Mr. Devereux,
and never in any kindly manner. (He did not say what Mr. Blair had said,
“always with curses.”) He advised her not to attempt to interfere at
present--not at all without consulting _him_, he added, smiling.

Nothing had been heard of Henry. If good news came from him, the whole
house might be cheered and restored.

Nora, after hearing these details, fell back no more into languor.
There is something in the sight or the hearing of the real stubborn
miseries of this world which often acts as a cure to the more
imaginative part of sorrow. She did not feel less, her heart was little
healed, but she began to look on life with different eyes. The thought
of the poor, broken-hearted mother constantly pursued her, and withdrew
her thoughts from herself.




CHAPTER V.


And then came further trouble. Early in February, Monsieur d’Alberg
wrote an exultant letter to announce the birth of a son. Why a son was
so important to him none could say, but so it was; and, under the
influence of this joyful event, his heart expanded enough to impart
itself to Nora. He wrote a kindly as well as a triumphant letter; and it
gave her a feeling that one of her haters was thawing towards her.

He did not invite her to come over at that time; but he expressed a
wish that when Madame was recovered she would come and see the young
heir.

Madame, however, did not recover rapidly. Nora began at last to wonder
at the often-repeated bulletin: “Doing well, but continues weak.” She
wrote to say that, if Monsieur d’Alberg approved, she would like to
visit her mother. Perhaps her visit might invigorate her.

Monsieur d’Alberg wrote in reply to beg her to come. He did not say he
felt uneasy; but Nora imagined that he did so, and set off without
delay.

It did not need many looks in her mother’s face to convince Nora that
her days were numbered. Monsieur d’Alberg did not appear to see it,
physician though he was; but to the keen and searching eye of the sad
daughter it was plain. And, in fact, after a painless decay of six
weeks, Madame d’Alberg died.

Sad as were those weeks, they were not without sweetness. It was Nora
who once again was all in all to her mother. Monsieur d’Alberg was not a
man to invite to himself trouble and sorrow; and, as his eyes began to
open to the conviction that his wife was dying, he very thankfully
resigned her to Nora’s care. Not altogether in want of affection, he was
very kind, and, whenever he came, spoke gently both to mother and
daughter. It was more the wish to spare himself the sight of her decline
than from want of common feeling; and there was nothing but peace and
comfort around the dying bed of the well-meaning but weak woman.

Nor after her death did Monsieur d’Alberg shew any return of distrust
or dislike. He acceded to her wish of taking little Annora under her
protection for good; and with equal readiness to her taking the two
elder sisters for a long visit to Riddlemere. He was going, he said, to
break up his establishment for a time, to place his boy with a sister
who lived in some other part of Switzerland, and would let her know when
he intended to reform his household.

With three little sisters Nora therefore returned to Riddlemere, and a
good deal of life was introduced into the house. Sophy was still in
failing health, and in attending upon her, in amusing the children and
performing her usual duties, full occupation was provided. She was still
sad enough at heart, but was learning to control herself, and was
outwardly cheerful.

Before the close of the year, Riddlemere was destined to receive other
guests.

In the summer, Mrs. Devereux, after a long illness, in which her mind as
well as body failed, died. The child of whom Mr. Blair had spoken died
in the spring, and the blow, as he had imagined, gave the finishing
stroke to her strength. Mrs. Devereux died, and a month after her death
it could no longer be concealed that Mr. Devereux was mad.

Letitia had not been allowed to come to the house during her mother’s
illness, or after her death. Her very name caused Mr. Devereux
momentarily to lose his reason. But when the time came that the long
brooding insanity became a confirmed thing, she was sent for.

Poor Letitia was not very happy in her marriage; and when these family
cares devolved on her, she found but little help from her husband. He
did indeed ascertain for her the state in which the money matters stood;
but, finding these were not satisfactory, he declined to have any more
to say. It was necessary to place Mr. Devereux in some sort of
confinement, and to provide for the two children that were left. During
the past year Mr. Devereux had done little to increase his fortune, and
debts had accumulated; while the income which was settled on his wife
and Henry could not be touched till Henry’s return.

Letitia wrote to Henry; but she did not know where he was, and she knew
that his receipt of her letter was a doubtful event. He had at last
written to his mother, and had said that he had found employment, but he
also said that his life was an unsettled one. He gave a direction to
which letters were to be sent, but desired her not to be uneasy if no
answer was returned. He had, he said, no definite plans; when she wrote
to Australia he might possibly be in New Zealand, “or in any other
country on the face of the earth, except England.” The stormy passions
that drove him away, too evidently still raging within him.

Letitia had had but one strong feeling in her life. Natural affections
she certainly had, as was evident now, for she was oppressed with sorrow
and care, and something of remorse, too, at the death of her mother, and
the state of her father, and her home. But she had only consciously
indulged one feeling, and to this she now clung. It was not a passion
that made her happy, but she had taken it to herself, and to that
passion or feeling, now become a duty, she was resolved to give her
life’s devotion. When she saw, therefore, that she was to find no help
or sympathy from her husband in her cares for her family, she resolved
that she would take the burden on herself, and refrain from annoying him
by word or look.

But in order to bear this burden without annoying him, she took a step
which no other consideration would have made her take. She appealed, and
in no haughty tone, to Nora. Her letter to Nora was a good one. Its tone
would, in a man, have been called manly; for it acknowledged faults in
the past, and yet, without abject expressions, asked that they should on
this occasion be forgotten. She said she had a young brother and sister
to provide for until Henry’s return, and could not from circumstances
receive them herself. It was not money, she said, that she asked for
them, but care. She was herself inexperienced in such things, and wished
for the advice and assistance of one better fitted to offer it.

It would be difficult to say whether pleasure or surprise predominated
in Nora’s mind on the reception of this letter. She had been led to form
ideas of Letitia’s character different from what it portrayed. But the
fact was, Letitia herself was changed. Devotion even to a bad husband
was better for the character than the life of idle discontent which she
had led at home; and the better parts of her character were beginning to
emerge from darkness.

Unwilling to say anything that might wound, Nora simply answered the
letter with the assurance of her willingness to give both assistance
and advice; and then requested her faithful servant, Stephen Fanshawe,
to go to Letitia and discover her wishes.

Her own wish, she told him, was to receive and keep the children until
Henry’s return; but prudence made her unwilling to make the proposal, if
such should not be Letitia’s plan.

On going to Letitia, Stephen found that the plan was exactly what she
most approved. Her feeling of responsibility in arranging for the
welfare of the children was satisfied; and as the home might then be
broken up, there was good hope that the money matters might be
satisfactorily arranged in the course of a few months. This last subject
was of great importance to her. She of course had had no fortune, but
should there be a satisfactory arrangement of affairs, a fortune might
come to her, more or less; and whatever it were, it would gratify her
husband.

Nora came to London, to her guardian’s house, to receive the children.
She behaved with great prudence, making no advances to Letitia beyond
what the occasion required, and was gratified by receiving a visit from
her when the children were placed under her care.

There was no likeness to Henry in Letitia, and but little in the other
children. The one who had lately died, the little girl of four years
old, was the only one who had had any promise of the features, or of the
charm of disposition, of the elder son. But the children were harmless,
poor little shy things, who had had few pleasures and a careless
education, and were therefore more interesting to a kind heart than had
they been beautiful and charming.

She took them back to Riddlemere, and for the next seven months devoted
herself to her large family.

It was at the end of that time that the little event mentioned two
chapters back, broke the quietness of her life.




CHAPTER VI.


Stephen Fanshawe had made a mistake. It was the first real, the first
great mistake he had made in his life, and the mortification of that
consciousness for a time overpowered other feelings. Had he followed his
own keen and clear judgment it is unlikely that he would ever have been
misled; but the continual dropping of a flattering suggestion had been
too much for him. It had beguiled a heart only too ready to be beguiled,
and judgment had for a time slept.

The occasion which had put his judgment to sleep had arisen only two
months before his disclosure. Nora and Mr. Powderham differed in opinion
about the purchase of a small piece of land adjoining her property. Nora
wished to have it; Mr. Powderham said the purchase was too bad a one to
permit him to allow it. She appealed to Mr. Fanshawe, whom she trusted
as her guardian still. He took her part; and a feud between the two
advisers followed. Nora, not yet thoroughly taught to yield, would not
yield, and finally implored Mr. Fanshawe to come down and help her. He
promised to do so; but a fit of the gout prevented his keeping his
appointment, and he sent down his son during the Easter holidays to act
for him. “Though blind,” he said, in his letter to Mr. Powderham, “you
will find his judgment as good as mine.”

A great deal better, Mr. Powderham found it, for Stephen Fanshawe,
without any hesitation, sided with him. The bit of property, he said,
would cause Nora an amount of worry, and perhaps litigation, which it
was not worth, even in her view--which no friendly adviser could allow
her to saddle herself with. He stated his opinion openly and
unhesitatingly, and the matter was decided.

It was on this occasion that his heart, which had only been too ready to
escape, fairly escaped out of his keeping; that his judgment, only too
ready to be beguiled, disappeared under a cloud. The way in which she
bore his interference; the candour, the gentleness, the submission to
reason, not only won his admiration, but suggested a flattering hope.
Mr. Powderham had spoken of a woman’s obstinacy. Where was it? Was it
before _him_ that it had disappeared?

When he returned to his scholars he very shortly found that his mind was
no longer as it had been; his work had lost its engrossing power; his
mind was perpetually weighing and sifting hopes and fears, words and
signs. His was a strong and determined mind, and feeling, like Othello,
that “doubt was no fit state for man,” he resolved to be resolved. To
Riddlemere, therefore, he suddenly went, and the result is known.

He had made a great mistake. He knew it before the words had left his
lips, and yet persisted. He felt it bitterly afterwards. For a time, as
was said, the mortification of the mistake almost swallowed up the other
pain. Nor was the mortification selfish. He knew that, strong though
Nora was in some senses, and blind as he was, there yet was no
comparison of strength between them. He was, though blind, a strong man;
and she, though formed in no soft mould, a weak woman. He had seen it
from the very first; and it had been his joy to devote a part of his
energies to help her. From this joy in the first instance he felt he had
cut himself off.

But he was not one to be cut off from anything on which his mind was
set, except impossibilities. And here, he thought, there is no
impossibility. It was this idea which aroused him out of his depression.

“There are some past things which cannot be undone,” he reflected; “but
this shall not be one. In its effects it _can_ be undone. I have only to
forget what I said, and she will forget also. I have only to return
unconcernedly to our old relations, and she will return also.”

It might be a difficult task, but he was determined; and he cast about
in his mind for an opportunity of exhibiting to her his easy yet hearty
friendship.

There came to him an opportunity which he had not expected.

Having occasion to go to London to speak to the father of one of his
pupils, he unexpectedly heard a piece of news interesting to Nora. The
gentleman to whom he went, a great merchant, had been seized on the
morning of his visit with an attack of quinzy. When his visitor arrived,
he was no better than a dumb man. A brother-in-law, who was at the
moment in the house, went down to Stephen to apologize for the trouble
that had been given him in vain.

This brother-in-law, finding Stephen a tutor of a peculiar kind, and
interested by his words and ways, entered into conversation with him;
and, shortly struck by his intelligence, consulted him also. He told him
he had only the day before arrived from Australia; that he had on his
hands a difficult business--the care of the property of a young man now
in Australia, a minor, and somewhat weak in his wits. He entered a good
deal into the subject, delighted at finding a kind listener to his
difficulties.

Stephen was always a kind listener, on principle; and though now, as
often, wearied with unimportant details, was listening on, in hopes of
being of use to some of the many who looked to him for help and
employment, when he was suddenly startled by this answer to a question
he put.

“Yes, very true--that landed property must have an agent; I should ask
you if you could name a fit person for such a charge, were it not that I
have partly engaged myself to an individual who made the passage with
me, a Mr. Devereux, who appears to be a shrewd, knowing man.”

A Mr. Devereux returning from Australia! Stephen started, yet the
description of the person was as unlike Henry as any description well
could be.

“Do you know such a person?” inquired the gentleman.

“Perhaps I do. Is it a young gentleman?”

“Young! well, yes, I suppose so,” smiling. “About thirty, perhaps; but
having the air of one well accustomed to business. A grave, sober
person; intelligent, but not lively.”

“Possibly I do know him; your description does not exactly coincide with
my remembrance, but years make changes. If the same, he has, I should
say, the very qualities for the situation you propose, though without
the usual routine education. And he has undertaken the task?”

“Not yet. He is to give me his answer in a week. We had, at different
times, a good deal of conversation, and I was so struck by his common
sense--a quality I value beyond all others--that I made him my offer
before we parted yesterday, hoping sincerely that I should prevail on
him to accept it. He asked a week’s delay, and I promised to wait.”

Henry’s common sense! That quality in which he had been to general
appearance so singularly deficient. But Stephen perfectly understood the
description. He had it, and he had it not. He had it in his nature, but
it was too often swept from the surface by the blasts of passion.

After a few inquiries he hurried away, not only interested in Henry
himself, but eager to use the opportunity for renewing his intercourse
with Nora.

Unable, on that occasion, to remain in London, and hunt out the
interesting stranger, yet by some inquiries satisfied of the truth of
his suspicion, he hurried to Windsor, and there, before post-time,
indited one of those letters to Nora which gave him so much trouble.

The trouble was simply in the manual labour; he felt none in re-opening
the correspondence. He made no allusion to the past episode, but in his
usual easy style told her of what had occurred in the morning. It was
concisely told. He added that she would probably hear from Henry
himself--perhaps receive a visit; but if it should not be so, and she
would let him know, he would give a special holiday to his boys, and go
to London himself to see him.

Nora blushed as she took up Stephen’s letter. He might have resolved to
forget, but she had not forgotten. Her tender regrets were ever pursuing
_him_; a sense of shame in having so misled him was ever pursuing _her_;
a pity for herself in having thus lost one of her few friends, was ever
present to her imagination. She blushed as she touched the letter, and
glanced timidly at Miss Willis, dreading that she might be observed
while thus perusing his first--not love-letter--but the reverse.

Miss Willis would probably have been conscious that there was a letter
from Stephen Fanshawe in the room had she been as blind as he was. She
knew such things by instinct, and was quite aware of the fact now. But,
or rather in consequence, she was poring over a paper of her own; and
Nora read her letter under the happy impression that it was unseen. Miss
Willis had been very unhappy about Stephen. She blamed herself, not
Nora; and yet Nora felt guilty when she saw how unhappy she was. His
name, therefore, had passed out of their intercourse.

It was a different blush that dyed Nora’s cheeks, as she read, from the
soft blush that had flitted over them when she began. It was a blush
that rose from the depths of an agitated heart; and when it left her, it
left her sick with ardent hope, and cold with deadly fear.

For about five minutes there was a silence. Poor Miss Willis, painfully
conscious that there was something going on, read and re-read again her
paper, and was proceeding to a fourth perusal, when the silence was
broken. Nora had resumed her self-possession and composure.

“What do you think I have heard, Miss Willis?” she said, with a smile.

Miss Willis, full of Stephen, looked up with a wondering face. What
could Nora have heard of such cheerful import?

“This letter is from Mr. Stephen Fanshawe;” and for the moment, the
little episode being entirely forgotten, Nora said the name with easy
fluency, “and what do you think he tells me? My cousin is come back.”

“Oh!” said Miss Willis. Expecting some important revelation regarding
Stephen, this news fell flatly on her ear.

“He arrived the day before yesterday from Australia; and Mr. Fanshawe,
who certainly has the gift of hearing pleasant things, found it out, and
writes to tell me of it. Where are Simon and Bella? They must be told;”
and she rose and called.

The two children were good children, and were opening, warming, and
improving under her kind care; but they were not like children. The
dreariness of their early home had left a shadow on them; and, though
they had a good soil to be worked on, they had no childish bloom and
radiancy.

Nora, who dared not herself give vent to the joyful feelings of her
heart, was hoping for a burst from them. But she was disappointed. They
loved the remembrance of Henry; but the remembrance of their dreary home
was strongly upon them, and they could not, in the first instance,
separate the different parts of the subject.

“Are you not glad?” Nora said, half reproachfully as they hung their
heads.

“Of course we are glad,” the boy said bluntly. “Only we don’t know much
about it. Will Henry come here?”

She turned her face away for a moment; then replied that she did not
know.

“I think you should write to him, Simon,” she said. “You can send your
letter to Letitia. She will be sure to know where he is.”

“And I will send my love,” said Annabella, perceiving, as she thought,
in Nora’s eye, that a polite message would be proper.

“Poor things!” said Miss Willis, as they left the room, “they have been
happier with you than in all their lives before; you must not expect
romance from them.”

When Nora took Stephen’s letter to answer, she was, for the first time,
struck by it. The absorbing contents of the letter had banished all
tender regrets for him from her mind; but when she re-read it, its
absence of sentiment struck her. If, in her tender regrets for him,
there had been a shadow of relenting, this absence of sentiment would,
as it has often happened, have caused a sensation of pique, or actual
disappointment, as the case might have been; but Nora was too terribly
conscious of the secrets of her own heart, to have room for any such
feelings regarding a lover. She noticed the absence of sentiment with
gratitude and emotion, understanding the motive, and touched by it.

Something of this gratitude, something of her sorrowful regrets, she now
longed to pour forth to him; but after writing on and destroying one
sheet of paper, an unusual wisdom came to her rescue. Let the past be
past, since he was willing to have it so, and her answer was written in
a tone copied from his. The word “grateful,” added to her usual
signature, was the only sign of more than common feeling allowed to
escape.

Stephen had not expected any relenting, and the answer, though it did
not gratify, satisfied him.

In this answer she expressed a confident expectation that her cousin
would visit, or otherwise communicate with his brother and sister. If
her expectation should prove false she would then, she said, trouble him
again.

Of this she had no need. She did otherwise hear of Henry.




CHAPTER VII.


The description given of Henry by the strange gentleman was a true one.
He was not in reality as much altered as he appeared; but on the surface
of his character there was a great change. Its lightness and brightness
had faded; its volatile caprice and giddiness was gone; and, such being
the case, the more practical parts of his nature had come in to
play--were, in fact, what was chiefly seen. He was, in his inner being,
so remorseful and penitent and sad; and, for the time being, so given up
to these feelings that he had no desire for diversion, no heart to be
otherwise than sober and grave.

His life in Australia had been a hard one. On the voyage out, he had
been supported by many thoughts and many dreams. The thoughts chiefly
his own wrongs; the dreams, dreams of proving what he could do, which
might make England regret him. England--a large word to express at once
Nora, Mr. Powderham, and James Field.

To assist in these dreams, he, with the common sense he certainly
possessed, made the best use of his time on board. From a kind teacher
or professor of mathematics and arithmetic he took lessons in
arithmetic, &c. From a surveyor who was on his way to an employment he
took lessons and received hints in all matters appertaining to the
surveyor’s business; and, working with a good heart, he pleased his
kind instructors by his progress. Very valuable knowledge was thus
stored for future use in his head.

But, while devoting a part of his days to these sensible duties, another
part was as regularly devoted to the consideration of his wrongs. Could
we fancy a calm spirit, studying as a curiosity the mind of man, there
is, perhaps, no other thing which would cause a greater surprise than
the unwearied manner in which man’s mind can dwell on certain subjects;
and among all subjects none more astonishing than the way in which it
can dwell un-tired on its wrongs. Day by day, and day by day, the same
words can be repeated, the same scenes re-acted, the same indignant,
impotent passion stirred within. So it was with Henry. He was never
tired in recalling the painful past; the years of neglected childhood;
the wrongs he had received from Stephen Fanshawe; the misery of his
home; the false hopes on which his youth had been fed, up to the last
painful time--his wrongs from James Field and Mr. Powderham, and Nora
herself.

But, having stirred himself to passion during the earlier years, he
rarely dwelt on the last item of all--on Nora; something warned him off
from that track. “If I think of _her_ I shall go mad!” was the usual
conclusion to his reveries; and then he would stamp about the deck, and
drive the insanity away.

On his arrival at Melbourne, in his haste to find employment, he bound
himself to remain for six months in the office of a land-surveyor. One
day of ill success had stirred him to impatience, and he made his
engagement in his usual thoughtless way. His master was a hard-working,
rough, and hard-tempered man; and Henry had a weary time of it. Until
that was over he wrote no letter home. No sooner was he free from this
employment than, tired and cramped in spirit by his labours at a desk,
he accepted a situation with a large sheep farmer up the country. He
longed for air and freedom; but his dreams were failing him, he was
undecided as to his future life, and it was then, before leaving
Melbourne for the open country, that he wrote to his mother.

The wild life pleased him for a time, but his heart was growing sad, and
he was longing even for that unsoft home which had been his. Again he
resorted to that contemplation of his wrongs which had driven him from
home, country, comfort, love, and happiness; which had forced from him a
vow to return to England no more until his innocence was made clear.

He had been about six months in his wild life when Letitia’s letter,
reporting the death of his mother, and the insanity of his father,
reached and paralyzed him. He loved his mother, and knew she loved him.
The thought of her last embrace had been at once a torment and a
consolation in his exile, and the hope of her smiling caress when he
returned, if he ever did return, was the one hope of the future which
was all bright, and had no darkness in it. Of death making an invasion
into his home he had never thought. When in a passion he often wished
himself and others dead; he often had seen and heard of the mournful
emblems of man’s mortality; but he had never met with death in his
private life, and had certainly never pictured it as seizing _his_
mother--the one being of whose love he was secure. But she was dead, and
when he heard the news he would not be comforted.

Yet in this first woe, sad as it might be, there was sweetness compared
with the feelings which consideration brought upon him. When he came to
study, as an exile does, Letitia’s letter, a horror of remorse came over
him. Letitia was not of a soft or pitiful nature, neither to herself nor
to others, and she said in plain words, “Your going first, and then my
marriage, killed her.” “Your going killed her.” These four words took
hold of Henry’s brain and maddened him. He had killed her, his mother;
the only being who loved him.

He threw up his situation, he hardly knew wherefore, and travelled night
and day in sultry weather, he knew not why, to Melbourne, and there fell
ill of a fever, as might have been expected.

He fell into kind hands, and in the calm of convalescence for the first
time came to think.

All his wild dreams of doing great things in Australia were over. He had
only just money enough to take him home. But to this he was indifferent.
He must go home; go to that country which had so wronged him--that
country where as an innocent man he never could appear--that country in
which the only being who cared for him lay sleeping in the grave. He
must go. He must retract his vow; he could not resist Letitia’s appeal;
he must go, but he wished he was dead and laid beside his mother.

He said this one day to a grave, motherly woman who had attended him in
his illness.

“It would certainly be better for many of us,” she replied calmly, and
without rebuke, “if we are certain that we are fit to meet God.”

Henry stared at her. Not that he had not often heard such words, but
they had never before come home to him. He made her no answer; but he
shivered, and his eyes went into himself, as they had never done before.
Was _he_ fit to meet God, if his wild words and prayers were granted?
No great results ensued from this scrutiny; nothing that would have
satisfied those who on such an occasion expect a definite and apparent
change. Yet his self-questioning did effect a change. He no longer
wearily wished to die, but wished to live. He no longer dreaded a return
to England, but wished to reach it, and by his new life to redeem the
past. He no longer dwelt on his wrongs, but, humbled in spirit, owned
his own miserable failures; and in fact, if not in word, said, “Lord,
have mercy upon me, and incline my heart to keep Thy laws.”

So far he was changed; and he went home with a steadfast purpose in his
soul. If his father was indeed insane, _he_ was the head of the house
from which father and mother had been taken. He would do his duty to
them, acting for Letitia and the rest as a father would do--for Letitia,
even though married to “that man,” at whom his very flesh recoiled.
Perhaps this last resolve more than aught else cheered him. It was
something to feel that he _could_ call Letitia sister still, although
her name was Field.

So far he was changed. Over the upper crust of his character a breath of
manliness and energy had passed, which sobered and quieted him, while
deeper within a new and higher principle had begun to stir and act.

Yet he was Henry still. There was the same nature, impulsive,
unreasoning, more under control, because he was more conscious of
weakness, but liable to be blown with every blast of caprice or fancy or
passion still.

On his arrival in London he went to his old home, now the habitation of
others, and heard at the door that Letitia lived far away eastward, and
that the rest of his family were at Riddlemere.

“Where?” he cried, with a crimson glow on his cheek, which astonished
the quiet maid who answered his inquiries.

“A place called Riddlemere,” she said. “We have been sometimes asked, so
I remember the name; but I don’t know the family.”

He turned away, and a little cloud began to arise and to shadow his
intellect. What was the meaning of this? He walked on, feeling very
desolate, and could not decide which way to turn. To visit Letitia at
James Field’s house was beyond that full forgiveness he had purposed.
That was a step he could not take. After some hesitation he went
eastward, and took a lodging for himself in a respectable street not
very far from where she lived. There he established himself, and sent
for his luggage. He then wrote to Letitia, telling her where he was, and
asking her to come to him.

Letitia obeyed with alacrity. Though given up heart and soul to her
husband, she was not so happy with him as not to feel a certain joy in
the sight of Henry’s face again. Only, as she entered his room she said,

“I come, Henry, and willingly; but I am a wife, and I will not hear one
word against my marriage.”

“You shall not,” he said sadly; “there is misery enough for us to talk
about.”

Then she looked into his sorrowful, changed face, and kissed him.

Their meeting was sad and quiet, but satisfactory so far as their own
future relations were concerned. He listened to all Letitia had to tell;
blamed her for nothing; owned that, in accepting Nora’s proposal, she
had done the best for the children, and, in fact shewed himself, as he
intended to do, the future father of the family. With a face quiet
though careworn he listened to all the painful details of his mother’s
illness and his father’s growing insanity, and only once shed a tear. It
was when he heard for the first time of the little child’s death. It had
been a soft little gentle thing, and Henry, in imagination, had had her
hands around his neck, and his lips on her cheek, and had felt comforted
about his mother. In her letter Letitia had forgotten this event, and
when he heard of it a large tear rolled down his cheek. But he did not
dwell on it. He felt so sad that nothing greatly affected him.

Nothing, except that one thought of Riddlemere. When he turned his
thoughts in that direction, there was a cloud upon his brain.

He told Letitia of the agency that had been offered him.

She advised him to accept it. “If,” she added, with emphasis, “you
_must_ go to work again.”

“Of course I must work,” he replied. “Even if the affairs were in a
better state than it seems from what you tell me they are, I should be a
fool as regards myself, and worse than a fool as regards the family, if
I did not work.”

“Yes, I did not mean that,” she said.

“Then what did you mean?” He controlled himself, speaking with a
quietness that deceived her.

“I mean, Henry, that in your position anything of hard work is a mistake
and a folly. You are the next heir to great wealth, and, as far as
appears, Miss Smythe has no wish to marry. Of course she may marry, but
if she does, I think, as I have always done, that you are the person she
would choose.”

Considering the raging storm that was in Henry’s mind, the effort with
which he kept it in check was truly heroic.

“Letitia,” he said, without apparent passion, but with solemnity, “if
you and I are to remain friends, such words must never pass your lips
again. You, of all people, ought to know,” he went on, with a tremble
in his voice, “that the cloud under which I live, and which even here in
London, where I am scarcely known, makes me afraid to lift up my head,
has fixed a great gulf between Miss Smith and me. And were it not so,
the thoughts you suggest are unseemly and unfitting.”

Letitia’s mind was not formed in the mould which thinks much of the
unseemly. Of that part of Henry’s reply she thought nothing; but she had
been affected by another part. When he said, “you of all people,” there
came a bright spot on her cheek. She thought he was going to attack her
husband, and that she was resolved not to bear. She was touched by his
reticence.

“I beg your pardon, Henry,” she cried. “I really at the moment had
forgotten that ridiculous folly.”

And it was true. Even in the midst of the excitement she had felt only
the ridicule of the charge made against Henry, and had never believed
that it was that charge which had driven him away.

“It was no folly,” he sadly said, but said no more; and they parted in
peace, and with a promise on Letitia’s part to come again.

But, as was usual with Letitia, she had ruffled instead of soothing his
spirits; and when she left him he laid his head on his hands and
thought.

The subject of his thoughts was how to conduct himself with regard to
Nora; how to take or to bear the benefits she poured on his family. With
the mere effort to think about her, there returned something of old
irritation and bitterness; the sad but natural effect of long habit
upon the mind. Then came also that flood of vague passionate thoughts
and feelings which always disordered him, and which he never dared to
face. There was also, on this occasion, the pride of Henry, and the
natural pride of man; the humiliation of accepting this unceasing return
of good for evil.

He thought till he was weary. Then he went out in search of dinner, and,
glad to escape from that portion of his thoughts which regarded Nora, he
endeavoured to arrange his plans for the few next days. As he strolled
home from a clean tavern, where he had found a clean dinner, he passed a
church, where, in this poor district, an evening service was being
celebrated, with choral music, and all the care and beauty a Queen might
have commanded. He went in, and knelt, and listened with the poor
congregation; and while the sweet and soothing sounds fell on his ear
and stole into his heart, he felt, as many have done in like
circumstances, that the cares and worries of this life were not
everything; that there was a life of man which might be in a higher
region--above the smoke and stir of this dim spot--where the peace of
God was the only wind that blew.

He did not consciously think much of this. He only felt it, but, as he
walked home, he said in his heart that he would do his duty, and not be
tossed about as he had been, with the oppositions and contradictions of
this vexing world.

The following morning he went to the asylum in which his father had been
placed. He hoped to be allowed to see him, but this request was
refused, and refused with decision.

“They had few cases in the asylum,” was the observation of the person to
whom Henry was speaking, “more desperate, and, as far as yet appeared,
more hopeless.”

The concern in Henry’s face softened the words the gentleman was about
to use; but even softened, the account was a painful one. The malignant
passions Mr. Devereux had cherished, now in the failure of mental power
lorded over him, and there were times when it seemed as if a fiend
possessed him. There were other and gentler moods, the gentleman said;
and the hope was that they would in time be the prevailing ones.

After hearing this hopeless account, and feeling more than ever that it
had become his business to watch over his family, Henry went to the
lawyer in whose hands were the family affairs, and mastered the general
state of things.

On his return home he wrote to accept the agency that had been so
opportunely offered; and when Letitia came to him, he begged her to
accompany him in his search for a small house, which he wished to take
at once.

“But is there not a house in Hertfordshire, where you are going?”

“I believe there is, but all that will take time to settle. I want to
have Simon and Bella at home with me at once. We can make our plans
afterwards.”

He found the house he required somewhere towards Kensington. His
affectionate nature turned lovingly to the old home he had once so
hated, and he chose to bend his steps in that direction. It was not
till the following day that he wrote to Nora.




CHAPTER VIII.


Henry’s letter was as follows:--

     “London, July 17.

     “You will be surprised, after the declarations I once made, to hear
     of my return to England. But circumstances change, and changes make
     those vows rash which once were spoken in honesty. When I heard of
     my father’s unsettled mind, my dear mother’s death, and my sister’s
     marriage, I knew that my place was in England, and I returned to
     take such of my family as still remained to me under my care.

     “It was not till I arrived that I knew who, up to this time, had
     been their protector.

     “I will not attempt to thank you for what you have done. Your own
     generous nature prompted you, and that generous nature is its own
     sufficient reward.

     “The time is come, however, when it is both my wish and my duty to
     release you from cares which ought not to be yours. I have taken a
     house near Kensington, and there, for the present, I hope to make a
     home for myself and the children. Eventually other arrangements may
     be necessary. I have accepted an agency about fifty miles from
     London, and possibly may, in the end, make my home there. At
     present I do not know what will be required of me.

     “Will you be so good as to give the enclosed to Simon. It contains
     my directions regarding the journey. You will, perhaps, read it
     yourself, and assist him with your advice.

     “The day I have named for the departure of the children is still a
     week distant. I could not make a comfortable arrangement for their
     reception sooner. I do not apologise for this delay. I know you too
     well to have any hesitation in asking it. It is but adding a mite
     to the load of obligation which would oppress me, were it not that
     it has pleased God to make you what you are. I remember how you
     once said that we ought all to be followers of Him who went about
     doing good. You may have forgotten the words you said, but, though
     in my life they have borne no fruit, they have haunted my memory;
     and it is not the first time I have felt they were spoken from the
     promptings of your own nature. May God bless you for your care of
     the worse than fatherless!

                       “HENRY DEVEREUX.”

A tear dropped from Henry’s eye as he finished his letter--a sudden
startling one. It startled him, and he dashed it off--as once before in
writing to Nora had happened--with disdain.

The tear was the expression of bitter but restrained feelings within, a
sore heart striving to subdue its soreness; a gratitude felt, yet making
the heart heavy with its weight; a struggle with a slumbering passion--a
passion which _was_ worship, but which was _not_ love.

In feelings of youthful love, even under adverse circumstances, there is
always some sweetness. But there was no sweetness here. It was no
youthful love that he felt. She filled the inner recesses of his heart
and brain; she caused a storm in his mind. But he had no hopes, nor
wishes to have hopes. Therefore it could not be love.

It was not love he felt, and this Nora could feel as she read. When she
saw his writing she took the letter away, and read it in solitude. She
had been momentarily expecting to hear from him; and though the letter
was not long delayed, being in circumstances which does quickly feel
despair, she had begun to despair.

She opened it with joyful alacrity; but its grave, even tenor fell like
a fog upon her fancy. At the sudden softening at the close she suddenly
melted, and a sudden tear fell, even as Henry’s had done; but this was
the only alleviating sensation, the only moment that had any sweetness
in it. And even that soft close, even the remembrance he recalled of a
former day, seemed to speak of the pains of gratitude. She could see and
feel the sore heart labouring under the weight of her benefits, and
words that might have been sweet, read in this light, became bitter.

In the course of the day she replied to him; and she felt none of the
difficulties Henry had felt. Deep down in her soul secrets, which she
herself rarely faced, lay; but on the surface she could still speak of
him and to him with the freedom of the days before that painful secret
had been revealed.

She called him “my dear cousin,” and said how glad she was to hear of
his return, glad even though it brought a blow and disappointment with
it, in that it deprived her of the society of the children. Of the
bitter blow it was to have the children thus formally removed she said
nothing, but added a few kind words regarding them; how greatly
interested she should be in their future welfare, and how she hoped
their visit might be repeated. There was then a few answers to the
directions Henry had given for the journey, and she closed with a simple
expression of her thanks for his kind words and thoughts about herself.

She felt no difficulty in writing, and in her simple, easy style Henry
certainly could read nothing, could suspect nothing of the feelings that
lay beneath it.

All was made ready for the departure of the two Devereux. They went with
regret. Henry they had loved when he was with them, but of their London
home they had no fond recollections. And they were parted with with
regret. Although with few charms of body and mind, they had the charm of
being easily pleased; of softening, and improving under care and
culture. Miss Willis had devoted herself to them. Mrs. Ratcliffe had
loved them for Henry’s sake--that Henry to whom she had been disloyal,
but whom, even during her disloyalty, she had regretted and loved.

But there was one who cried herself ill when the day of departure came,
and this was Sophy Brook. She had shewn no special love for the children
during their stay, but when they were thus suddenly removed she cried
till she had a fit of hysterics.

Sophy had caught cold, as it was said, on that June afternoon when
Stephen Fanshawe carried her home. She had a severe attack of
bronchitis, and Dr. Lewis, a famous physician at the Spa, was again
summoned to see her.

He brought her well through the attack, but she did not afterwards
improve as he expected.

“I cannot quite understand it,” he said one day to Nora, after examining
her thoroughly; “there is no actual disease about the lungs. She is
delicate and fragile, but there is nothing to threaten life, if proper
care is taken. Were she a few years older,” he added, laughing, “I
should ask if there was anything wrong here,” lightly touching his
heart. “She has every symptom of a pining, hopeless attachment. But, of
course, with her it is impossible.”

Nora repeated the words smilingly to Mrs. Ratcliffe. Mrs. Ratcliffe
looked serious on the subject.

“That’s queer,” she observed. “We used to say, her mother and me, that
Sophy had lost her heart to Mr. Henry Devereux. But we spoke jokingly,
you know,” she added quickly, as Nora blushed; which she took as a
rebuke for her speech. “He had such a way with him--turning her head,
silly little thing!”

“Of course it is only a joke,” Nora said; but nevertheless her interest
in Sophy increased.

When the news of his arrival came, she had told Sophy of it herself, and
was amused by the pink glow that stole into her cheek.

“Do you think he will come down here?” Sophy had asked.

“I don’t know about that. Do you want to see him, Sophy?” she added
lightly, for at the thought of Sophy’s supposed attachment her own took
courage.

The pink glow changed to a deep crimson, and Sophy turned away her eyes
while she said petulantly,

“I never said so; why should I?” And Nora, though amused and interested,
said no more.

When, however, the news was broken that Simon and Annabella were to go,
and that no visit from Henry would take place, Sophy cried; and when the
children took leave of her, she cried herself into a fit of hysterics.

“It’s not for _them_,” Mrs. Ratcliffe said mysteriously, tossing her
chin, and making wondering eyes at Nora.

Nora smiled, but wondered too, and devoted herself to cheer the pining
invalid.




CHAPTER IX.


Two days after the departure of the young Devereux, Monsieur d’Alberg
wrote to tell Nora of his approaching marriage. With some pomp he
observed that the education of the children being his first duty, he had
guided his affections with that idea in his mind, and was happy to say
that he had been fortunate enough to find an efficient guardian. He
begged that he might have his daughters restored to him in a fortnight’s
time; and gave directions, as Henry had done, as to how the journey was
to be properly performed.

Nora was in dismay, and in her dismay condescended to supplicate. She
accepted the fact of his marrying for his children’s good, and agreed
with him that an efficient guardian would be invaluable for them. But
she begged him to allow her to keep her sisters until the spring. She
told him of the recent departure of her cousins, and dwelt with pathos
on the loneliness she would now endure in her large house.

The account, however, that Monsieur d’Alberg had given of his marriage
was not quite correct. He had chosen his first wife, and tyrannized over
her; but the lady about to be his wife had chosen him, and there was
little doubt would tyrannize over him. She was a maiden lady, whose
passion was management; and when she saw Monsieur d’Alberg, being at
the moment out of employment, she decided on taking charge of him and
his four young children.

She was likely to prove a kind step-mother, but she had no pity to spare
for Nora. The letter was submitted to her, but what she understood of
Nora’s position made her feel envious, not compassionate. She insisted
on the immediate return of her step-daughters--for she was married when
the letter arrived--and it was with difficulty that Monsieur d’Alberg
made her understand that his promise to leave the youngest to the charge
of her sister and godmother had been given. Unwilling to deprive Annora
of the advantages in store for her, he did manage to hold his ground on
this point; but nothing else was conceded, and punctually to the day
the little twins left Riddlemere for Geneva.

The strife with her stepfather, and the departure of her sisters, for a
time occupied Nora’s mind. But when all excitement had ceased, and she
was left alone with one little child, who, pining after her four
companions, was sad also, the sensation of loneliness, and of aching
longing for a something she did not dare to think of, became almost
overpowering.

She had hoped that the connection with her cousins might be closely
maintained; she had imagined that it might be maintained through Henry,
but in both respects she was disappointed.

The first letter--the account of the journey--came in due course; but it
was from Simon, and was as unsatisfactory, as vexing, as a boy’s letter
could be.

He began by saying that he wrote because she had desired him to do so;
and that, as he wrote, Henry would not. In words evidently dictated, he
then went on to say how the journey had been made, how Henry met them at
the station; how surprised he was at their size, and “he begs me to say
how much he thinks we are improved.”

After this the boy had evidently been left to himself, and a few natural
words were added.

     “We like London better than we expected. The house is quite a
     little thing, but rather jolly. Henry is very good-natured, but
     _quite changed_. His hair is cut short, and that is what, I
     daresay, makes him look ill.” (Henry in former times had been
     somewhat vain of his abundant and glossy hair.) “He says perhaps we
     are to live in the country next year. I wish it could have been
     near Riddlemere. We never can like anything as well.

                       “Your affectionate cousin,
                           “SIMON DEVEREUX.”

The poor boy had seemed to make a little collection of teasing facts,
and to throw them out for Nora’s benefit.

After this she heard no more for three weeks. Annabella then wrote to
tell her that they had a Mademoiselle to teach them every day; that she
was very good-natured; that Henry was not often in London, but when he
was, was very good-natured, and had given her a doll with blue eyes.

Nor did future letters add much to her information. They were very
rare--Nora could not know that when they came they were by Henry’s
order. About once a month he would say, “Have you written lately to
Miss Smith, Bella?” and a letter would then be compounded by
Mademoiselle and Annabella, which was submitted to Henry, and which, if
without a blot, he would pronounce all right. That it contained no
information regarding himself he was not likely to observe. Not that the
children forgot Nora; but a child’s correspondence is a visionary thing.

Very dreary was the present, and dreary too the look of the future, for
there was added at this time the departure of Mrs. Elliott from
Thorneybank. In vain dreams Nora had pictured a meeting with Henry
there; but Mrs. Elliott had a sister in declining health. It was her
only sister; and, in pity for his wife, Mr. Elliott had not only
consented to go abroad, but had actually proposed the step. For four or
five months Thorneybank was to be shut up.

And yet while, as it seemed, all things tended to prevent a meeting
between Nora and Henry, there was a chance meeting in store for her. So
little needed as well as useless are oftentimes the worries of blind
mortals.

Sophy Brook’s health continued to decline--that is to say, it did not
improve, which is said to be the same thing. Nora, whose interest had
been greatly excited, and who paid her continued attention, was the
first to make this observation. She began to feel that she was destined
not to recover; and, with this thought in her head, to meditate on what
her duty, with regard to Sophy’s state of religious preparation, ought
to be. Hitherto to keep Sophy amused had been with everybody the great
object. Some invalids are comfortable invalids. They allow attentions,
they invite them, and, receiving them with gratitude, excite those who
wait upon them to new efforts. These invalids are blessings, not cares.
But Sophy was an uncomfortable invalid. It was hardly possible to please
her. If attentions were paid her, she said, “Why was she to be treated
as if she was ill?” Yet if, to punish her perverseness, a little neglect
was sometimes administered, or if by chance anything was forgotten, her
peevishness was a torment to the house.

There is no doubt that an invalid of this class had been a greater
blessing to Nora than a comfortable invalid could have been; it occupied
her mind as no other could have done. Nevertheless, when she began to
observe that Sophy never really improved in health, and to feel
convinced that death would come some day when, perhaps, not expected,
the faults of Sophy’s temper and disposition began to press upon her
mind.

The clergyman of Riddlemere was an elderly man--not old, but elderly. He
was a kind-hearted man, sincerely bent on doing his duty, but he was not
what would now be called an active man. Had he been born twenty years
later he would probably have been so, for he had latent qualities of a
useful and valuable kind; but in his early days he had run in a
groove--a groove of reading, hearing, thinking, preaching, and a sort of
mud had settled over his moral and intellectual frame. He could not bear
an excess, and if the poor man was proud of anything (and he was not
proud) it was of being a humdrum. “As for me,” he would say, if he ever
fell into society whose zeal appeared to him dangerous, “I am a humdrum,
and, please God, mean to die so.” And he thought he was saying a good
thing; not a witty, but a religious thing.

When Nora came into his parish, he soon perceived that she was an
enthusiast, but he shortly found, also, that her enthusiasm was chiefly
on benevolence; that, as far as religious knowledge went, she was
ignorant; that the strife of parties was as incomprehensible to her mind
as the warfare of the Greeks among themselves; and that, so far from
wishing to stir him out of that muddy atmosphere he so much loved, she
was ready, as humbly and devoutly as his poorest almswoman, to receive
instruction from his hands. Such being the case, they got on well
together. He gave her good advice--advice really sound and
good--whenever she wanted it; and he attended to her wishes regarding
the church music, paying to it a greater degree of attention than had
been his habit until she came.

But although Nora was, owing to her imperfect and foreign education,
little instructed in religious questions, her mind was young and active.
The muddy atmosphere was not beloved by her; and, though she entered not
upon questions which she did not understand, certain things made an
impression on her brain; almost without knowing they were there, she
found them there when they were required.

It was thus with regard to Sophy. She felt that she ought to be placed
in the hands appointed to watch over her, and yet how to accomplish this
without alarming Sophy, she hardly knew. Mr. Lee had often seen her; he
sometimes shook hands with her. If she had been able to be at church, he
said he had been glad to see her there; if she had not, he said he hoped
he should soon see her there; but with this his attentions had rested.
Feeling, naturally perhaps, that with Nora and Miss Willis to instruct
her, his cares were better bestowed elsewhere, to them he had left her.

After some consideration, it struck Nora that Sophy was approaching an
age when the preparation for her confirmation should begin; and when
once this thought was admitted, her way was clear. She mentioned the
subject to Mr. Lee, and was pleased to find that he entered into her
wishes; offering to take all responsibility upon himself, and explain to
Sophy why he asked to visit her.

His first visit was dreaded by Nora. Sophy was so strange a being that
she felt almost as if striking her death-bell in permitting the
agitation it might cause her. But there is no arguing on human
characters, especially in their perverse young days. Far from being
agitated, Sophy was pleased; far from being alarmed about her health,
the mention of her confirmation allayed her fears. She was always more
or less uneasy about herself, even when wilfully opposing the rules laid
down for her benefit, and the mention of an event which could not take
place till the following spring seemed to her like an assurance that
for so long at least her life was secure. And if she lived till the
spring, why should she die then?

The visits of Mr. Lee were therefore peaceably permitted, and to a
certain degree liked. Her mind was lively and intelligent, and any
instruction bestowed in a kindly manner was pleasing to her.

Sophy was not a religiously minded child. Though fond of religious tales
and hymns, and very scrupulous in regard to saying her prayers morning
and night, she had not a reverent mind. She liked to be instructed, but
not admonished; and, as far as she was able, drew off the minds of those
who visited her from practical to theoretical questions.

Mr. Lee had a quiet homely way of speaking, which, for the most part,
went right to the subject on which he was engaged, and with many of his
parishioners had been in their illness very effective. But even he was
drawn out of his usual track by Sophy. He was unprepared for the
intelligence of her mind. It was not what he had expected of Mrs.
Brook’s daughter, and he hardly knew what to make of it! Her beauty
also, and her winningly capricious ways, affected, and, to a certain
degree, bewildered him--so bewildered him as to shake him out of his
muddy atmosphere, and lure him to follow her into the questions she put
out for his consideration.

It was so, at least, in the beginning of his attendance. After four or
five visits he became aware of a defect in his teaching. He observed
that, after visiting Sophy, his own mind was busied about the
difficulties of the Old Testament, questions of a small Colenso kind,
which had already presented themselves to Sophy’s youthful intellect,
and with which she occupied him during a great part of his stay.

Mr. Lee shook his head at himself; and on the next occasion, having in
his explanations on the Catechism read a part of the Baptismal service,
in which a mention is made of Noah’s ark; and, having been arrested by
Sophy with a question as to how he imagined the beasts were stowed away
in the ark, he was on the alert.

“Never mind the beasts, Sophy,” he replied quaintly. “It will be more to
the purpose if we turn our attention to the wild beasts in your heart;”
and seeing her smile at this he went on: “We will attack them one by
one, and first of all the elephant. There is generally an elephant in
every ark. I mean, my dear child, what is your besetting sin?”

At this sudden turn Sophy’s smiles vanished. Her cheeks became of a
crimson dye, and in a moment--for Sophy’s tears were always near--large
drops fell on her crimson cheeks.

Mr. Lee was much troubled. A character like Sophy’s was new to him, and
though a few minutes before he had been anxious to stab, he was now
desirous only to soothe.

“Don’t cry, Sophy,” he said, patting her hand, “I never meant to accuse
you of any terrible sin. We all have our special temptations; and from
things I had seen, and heard, I fancied you had one special temptation.
Are you not a little cross and peevish, my child?”

The intense blush faded from Sophy’s cheeks; the tears ceased; the
countenance cleared, and she replied, “I am, sir. But indeed I don’t
mean to be;” and then, with a little of her peculiar sophistry, “I think
it is my illness more than myself that is in fault. I was not cross when
I was young.”

Mr. Lee need not be followed into the way in which he dealt with this
argument. He spoke well, and Sophy profited. It was remarked by all that
she was less cross and petulant. All her energies appeared to be
directed to this point, and with success.

On one occasion, when she had borne a disappointment with great
good-humour, Nora could not refrain from a kind word of praise.

“I am fighting with my wild beasts, Mr. Lee says,” said Sophy smiling.
“We are to attack them one by one; and my temper is my elephant.”

“And have you got a whale?” asked old Mrs. Ratcliffe, who was present,
and whose mind was excited by the thought of Sophy’s warfare.

A dark shade fell on the girl’s face, and it was only after a moment
that she said, “A whale is not a wild beast, Gran.”

The instructions were continued during the autumn, and Sophy’s health
continued not to improve. It was towards the end of November, at a
sudden change from mild weather to a searching east wind, that, in spite
of every care, Sophy caught a violent cold.




CHAPTER X.


“Can I speak with Miss Smith?” asked Mr. Lee, as he left the room of
Sophy Brook late one evening in the beginning of December.

Sophy had been very ill. The violence of the attack had abated, but she
did not rally. Dr. Lewis, who again attended, said, that although the
case was not hopeless, the violence of the late attack had considerably
modified his former opinion. There was, evidently, mischief within.

She one day surprised her mother in tears. Mrs. Brook thought she was
sleeping, and was therefore indulging herself in a good cry by her
bedside. But Sophy was either not sleeping, or else awoke, and heard
sundry small sounds, as of tears and their consequences. She put back a
little white curtain from the head of her bed, and asked her mother why
she cried?

Mrs. Brook had none of her daughter’s intelligence. She was paralyzed by
the sudden inquiry, and made no reply.

“Am I going to die?” asked Sophy with authority.

Mrs. Brook replied that she was sure she hoped not, but when people were
very ill they sometimes did die.

Sophy said no more; but the next morning Mrs. Brook, who slept in her
daughter’s room, reported to Nora that she had had a very bad night;
restless and feverish. “And she kept talking about her besetting sin,
and sometimes she called it an elephant, and sometimes a whale, and such
nonsense.”

During all the day Sophy lay brooding, and towards evening expressed a
wish to see Mr. Lee.

It was late when he came, and it was on leaving her room that he asked
to see Nora.

He was taken to the drawing-room, in which she and Miss Willis were
sitting.

“Sophy Brook desired me to come and make a request to you,” he said, as
he approached the place where she was writing. “It is a curious one. She
wishes much to see Mr. Devereux once more.”

Nora had risen to receive him, but turned back to her writing, to
conceal the glow which came to her cheeks at this strange request.

“Mr. Devereux!” she repeated, as she gathered her papers together.

“If you consent to her wish she will further ask you to write and press
him to come without delay.”

“But, Mr. Lee,” Nora said, recovered from her first surprise, “can I?”

She was thinking of the singularity of writing to a busy man a hundred
and fifty miles away at least, to ask him to come to the sick-bed of a
fanciful child.

“It can do no harm,” he replied; “it must be for Mr. Devereux to decide
whether or no he consents to the request.”

“If you think so--” she said, hesitatingly; and she looked into his face
to endeavour to gather from it what he thought. But it was as impassive
as it was wont to be.

“I think,” he replied, “that Sophy is very ill; and when a person in
weak health has a strong fancy, I would always yield to it when it is
sane and possible. It is giving trouble to Mr. Devereux; but, as I
before said, it will be for him to refuse or decline the request. There
can be no harm in making it.”

“No.”

“Then I may tell Sophy you will write? It will be too late for this
night’s post; but the letter might go in the morning.”

Nora acquiesced, and he left her.

There was no harm certainly in making the request; but the bare idea of
his coming had brought a pulse into every limb of her body. She was
tingling with agitation from head to foot as she sat down to write.

“How strange of Sophy!” she said to Miss Willis.

“It is the little romance of her life,” was the reply. “Mr. Devereux
cannot be angry at such devotion.”

Nora wrote:

     “MY DEAR COUSIN,

     “You remember little Sophy Brook. She is no longer very little, and
     is very ill. For two years she has been out of health, and, having
     lately caught cold, is much worse, and, I fear, is in danger. She
     has a great wish to see you once more--so great, that we cannot
     refuse to tell you of it. I do not think she has ever forgotten
     you, or the kindness you showed her; and if you could attend to
     her wish--although I feel it is asking a great deal--it would cheer
     and comfort her.

                       “Your affectionate cousin,
                             “NORA SMITH.”

In two days Henry replied--

     “I will certainly attend to Sophy Brook’s request. This day I am
     obliged to go down into Hertfordshire, but hope to be back by ten,
     and will start by the night mail. I hope I may reach Riddlemere by
     four o’clock. Poor Sophy! she was once my only friend.

                           “HENRY DEVEREUX.”

The letter was placed in Sophy’s hands in the morning, and a tear fell
from her eyes at the last words. It was a strange little romance, Nora
thought, thinking of what Miss Willis had said; and she kissed Sophy
lovingly, with unconscious sympathy in her feelings.

All the morning Sophy lay quiet. Between twelve and one o’clock she
heard a sound, and asked her mother to look out and see if it was Mr.
Powderham arriving. He still came on certain days to the office at
Riddlemere.

It was so, and Sophy begged her mother to go to him, and say she would
be glad to speak to him. “You need not say anything about it,” she
observed, “to any one else.”

Mrs. Brook stared, and thought her daughter must either be going to die,
or go mad outright; but she implicitly obeyed her.

She shortly came back with a message that Mr. Powderham would be very
happy to see Sophy, but he had an appointment at two o’clock, some
miles off. He should be returning about four, and would go up and see
her then, if she allowed it.

“That will do very well,” she replied, and relapsed into silence.

Henry arrived at four o’clock, as he had expected. He was shewn up into
the room, where Nora awaited him. And all the agitation which for days
had been stirring within her, and all the feelings of the years since
they had parted, changed or melted away in his presence. Nothing could
be more simple or commonplace than their meeting. There was no
awkwardness, no doubt, no hesitation. Henry shook hands with her and
then said,

“How is Sophy to-day?” as he might have done had they been in the
constant habit of meeting.

Nora replied, and added, “It is very kind of you to attend to her
wish.”

“I did not come wholly out of kindness,” he said. “I hope I should have
come only on that account, but I had another reason.”

He spoke so entirely without feeling, or meaning, that it never even
crossed Nora’s brain to imagine a flattering or sentimental idea to be
contained in his words. She wondered what he meant, but did not presume
to ask. When Sophy had been thus disposed of a silence came, and with
the silence came a little awkwardness.

Nora was the one to relieve it. She said she would go and see if Sophy
was inclined to receive him. She went, but almost immediately returned,
saying she was not ready.

She then remembered hospitality, and begged Henry to have something to
eat.

“There is cold luncheon ready in the dining-room,” she said. “Four
o’clock is not an hour for dinner, I suppose, but if you would like hot
things better, they will be ready in a moment.”

He declined the hot things, but accepted the cold offer; and as she rose
to ring the bell said,

“Do not ring. I should like to try and find my way. Did they keep to the
old plan of the house?”

And, receiving an acquiescence to this question, he left the room and
left Nora alone. And then strange feelings stole over her; so strange
that she sat lost in reverie. She went over, in those few minutes, all
their singular acquaintance, the few happy meetings at the Spa, and the
stormy close; and then that one meeting at Riddlemere, the recollection
of which never failed to make her blood dance in her veins. And now he
was here in her house after nearly three years’ absence; and all was
cold and calm and passionless, all except her beating heart within.

She was roused by his voice at the door.

“Mrs. Ratcliffe came to fetch me, Miss Smith,” he said; “and Sophy
wishes you to come too.”

Nora jumped up. Mrs. Ratcliffe had been in quest of a candle, for the
passages were not yet lit, and now joined them at the door.

“Sophy sent me for Mr. Devereux, ma’am,” she said; “but the child begged
me to ask you to come also.”

And so saying she led the way along the dark passages.

When the door of Sophy’s room was thrown open Nora felt bewildered. It
seemed to be full of people. Two candles were burning on a table near a
fire, and there stood Mrs. Brook and two maids of the house. By the side
of Sophy’s bed sat Mr. Powderham, and behind him stood Mr. Lee. Miss
Willis was also there.

Nora paused at the door, and looked at Henry who followed her, with
perplexity and surprise; but he did not appear to be surprised; and when
Mrs. Ratcliffe turned and touched his arm, followed her to Sophy’s bed.

“Here is Mr. Devereux, my dear,” she said, stooping over her. “Will you
have a candle?”

“No, I don’t want light,” she replied, fretfully. “I want Mr. Devereux.”

“Here I am, Sophy,” he said, holding out his hand. “I am sorry you are
so ill.”

“I want to speak to you, sir,” she said, taking no notice of the hand he
held out. “I want to tell you, and to tell you before all these people,
that I was the person who burnt the house. It kills me to tell it, but
it has killed me worse to hide it.”

“I have often fancied it might have been so, Sophy,” Henry replied, and
in a voice so calm and clear, no one could have imagined the storms that
had been stirred by the subject. “Thank you for telling me. You will
make a new man of me.”

“And do you forgive?” she asked, with a low, gasping sob.

“Forgive, Sophy! My poor child!” and he stooped down and kissed her,
“there are too many things for which I need to be forgiven to talk much
of forgiveness. But indeed I do forgive, and thank you.”

There was another sob from Sophy, and then a sound of a nose blowing by
her bed. This was from Mr. Powderham. He was one of those men who,
unless when things come in the routine of business, are always affected.
Poor Sophy, making her dying confession, touched him. He blew his nose,
and then said,

“Mr. Devereux, I beg your pardon. I understand now why Sophy Brook
wished to have me here. I beg your pardon for my unjust suspicions;
which, however, I will add, have long slept.”

“You were certainly very hard upon me, Mr. Powderham,” Henry replied.
“But since the matter may be now set at rest, I would rather not, even
in discussion, return to recollections of that time of horror.”

“It was because he was so hard that I was frightened,” Sophy cried in a
shrill voice. “I thought if he was angry with you, what would he be with
me.”

“How was it, Sophy?” Mr. Powderham asked, stooping towards her bed; the
curiosity of the man putting other feelings to flight.

“I saw Mr. Devereux go into Miss Smith’s room, and he was there about
five minutes; and then I saw him come out; and I wondered what he had
been doing there; and I thought I would go and see. So I slipped away
from Gran and mother and went in; and it was so dark I could not see if
he had changed anything, so I lit the candle on the table; and just as
I had lit it, I heard a noise, and I was afraid Gran would come and
catch me, so I slipped out and left the candle. I remembered after I was
in bed, but I never thought a little candle could do any harm.” And she
ended with another sob.

“Well, never mind,” Mr. Powderham said soothingly; “it does not matter
now. Why, the house is as fine as if there had never been an accident.”

“I did not care about the house,” Sophy cried, in the same shrill voice,
“it was because you suspected Mr. Devereux that I was so unhappy. I
meant every moment to tell, but I did not dare, and it has killed me.”

“Poor child!” Henry said kindly, “you will be happy now. You have made
_me_ very happy, you know. We are tiring her, are we not?” he said,
turning to Mrs. Ratcliffe; feeling that he was the person in whom it lay
to end the scene.

She agreed, and the whole party began to move. Henry moved also, but
after going a few steps went back again to the bed. “Good-bye, Sophy,”
and he kissed her. “I am going back to London to-night.”

“Oh, must you?” she gasped.

“Yes, I must. God bless you, my poor child, and do not trouble about
having made me unhappy any more. You have always been my kind friend,
and now more so than ever.”

He touched her little hand, and left the room.

Nora had returned to the drawing-room, which was now lighted, and where
also Mr. Powderham and Mr. Lee stood. Henry joined them there, and Nora
now, for the first time saw him clearly, and saw how much he was
changed. She agreed with Simon that it was probably caused in part by
the shortness of his hair; he had formerly, as was said, been proud of
it, and had worn it in a manner which, in a woman, would have been
called coquettish; but all airs of that kind were at an end. His head
had been shaved during his fever, and the hair had not yet attained its
old growth. It was not, however, only the growth of the hair. His air,
and, as Dickens would say, “deportment,” was altogether
different--grave, quiet, and subdued; a quiet that was hardly natural,
as of one who kept a rein over himself, which was tighter than it ought
to be.

Henry had lingered for his few words with Sophy, and a few more with
Mrs. Ratcliffe. When he entered the drawing-room, Mr. Powderham was
making inquiries of Mr. Lee regarding Sophy’s confession. Mr. Powderham,
as is known, did not like to be in the wrong; but, having been so
glaringly in the wrong, he was anxious to be now in the right, by
acknowledging he had been wrong. At the same time, he wished to go
back--to draw forth all the circumstances, and make certain
explanations. Regarding Sophy and her confession, he received little
satisfaction from Mr. Lee. He was as impenetrable as to what had passed
between them, as any father confessor could be. It was natural, he said,
the poor girl should wish to relieve her mind of such a secret; and that
was all he told.

When Henry appeared, Mr. Powderham turned to him. He was anxious to do
the thing handsomely, so far as confession of error went; but at the
same time he felt he could prove that, although he had been wrong, he
might, and, from the circumstances, even _ought_, to have been right.

But when he renewed his apologies, and his attempts at explanation,
Henry again arrested him.

“I beg your pardon for interrupting you, Mr. Powderham; you can talk of
these things calmly, but I cannot. When I remember the conduct to which
I was driven, and the consequences of my conduct, my mind becomes in a
flame. I bear no ill-will, I assure you, but I would rather leave the
past at rest.”

“So be it,” Mr. Powderham said, with the air of a martyr; and he gave a
slight, very slight shrug of his shoulder, which was meant to express to
whosoever would have the wit to understand him, that Henry was as mad
as he had always supposed him to be.

“You cannot forbid me the making public what the poor child has said.”

“On the contrary, I shall feel very grateful if you will do it.”

Henry then passed on, and approached Nora, who had sat down. “I must
wish you good-bye now,” he said.

Poor Nora’s heart sank down in her body like a lump of lead. Going in
this haste; she was nothing then, and less than nothing, if there be
such a quantity, in his eyes.

But she spoke, as was usual to her, with composure.

“Must you really go so soon? Will you not at least stay to dine?”

“Thank you, no; I have business to-morrow, and the sooner I am off the
better.”

He held out his hand. She rose and gave her own.

“I do not think you knew,” he said, “how good a deed you were doing in
writing for me.”

She shook her head.

“Thank you for it all the same. I hope I shall be a new man.
Henceforward,” and he smiled for the first time, “I shall not shrink
from the name of Riddlemere when the children speak of it.”

That smile was left to comfort Nora.

“Good-bye, Miss Willis,” he said, in a more cheerful voice than had yet
been heard from him. “How d’ye do? and good-bye--for I think this is our
first speaking. It is very long since you and I have met.”

After a word with the other two guests, he went. With Mr. Lee he was
very little acquainted. Mr. Lee had been out of health during the period
Henry lived at Riddlemere, and during the fire, and the time succeeding
it, had been abroad. He was, however, interested in Henry, and would
have been glad to follow and speak to him; but Mr. Powderham was
determined to go over his explanations with _somebody_. He therefore
held him fast while he showed how right he had been, although in the
wrong.




CHAPTER XI.


We must again pass over many months.

A year, or nearly so, went wearily and drearily round, until, towards
the end of September, Mrs. Elliott returned to Thorneybank, and returned
so suddenly, that she herself bore the news of her arrival to
Riddlemere.

Why the year had been so weary must be told; for Henry’s words, that
henceforward he should not shrink when the children spoke of Riddlemere,
had left a smile of hope in Nora’s breast, which promised other things.

But it was too soon apparent that, although possibly his feelings
regarding Riddlemere itself and its inhabitants had undergone a
change--that having been righted in the eyes of that world, he now felt
able to hold up his head--although there was this change, there was no
further change. He had no desire to be there; he seized no opportunity
to be in Nora’s presence.

It was about six weeks after Sophy’s confession that this began to be
apparent.

After the excitement of that time, the poor girl’s strength and vitality
gave way. Although relieved, and thenceforward comparatively tranquil,
she was exhausted, and roused herself to life no more.

On the morning of her death--for in a few weeks she died--she gave to
Nora a gold pencil-case, one of her best treasures, and begged that it
might be sent to Henry; and “Will you ask him,” she added, while a tear
rolled down her cheek, “to come and stand at my grave?”

Nora promised, and the request was forwarded and complied with. Henry
came on the morning of the funeral; won every heart, every portion of
the hearts not already won, by his simple and kindly sympathy; walked by
Nora’s side in the little band of mourners, and then--immediately on his
return to Riddlemere--departed again.

He said he must be in London early on the following day. His lips were
always true, and it was, therefore, no doubt true; yet Nora felt blank
with disappointment. Was it to be ever thus? Was the hope of his
friendship, was the hope of union with him and her cousins in the common
interests of life, for which her lonely heart craved, to be for ever
deferred?

This was all she said. Since her eyes again had rested upon him, that
dread secret that had once been faced was driven back into the recesses
of her soul.

Disappointment preyed upon her spirits and told upon her health. At
Easter Mrs. Ratcliffe, observing her pale looks, advised a change. All
the inhabitants of Riddlemere had felt the loss of poor Sophy, and,
attributing Nora’s dejection partly to that cause, she remarked that it
would be better for them all to make a break. Would she not go to see
her guardian in London?

But Nora had an invincible repugnance to London. She hardly knew why,
but the real cause was this. She felt she could not escape a visit,
perhaps many visits, to Annabella; and at this moment it was a positive
pain to her to think of entering Henry’s house.

Although she refused to think of London, she did not, however, oppose
the idea of a change; and while she was considering the subject, with
the listless consideration which is given to a point of profound
indifference, her resolution was suddenly taken by the reception of a
letter from Henry.

In this letter he told her he had decided on sending Simon to school,
and, as Annabella would be lonely after his departure, he ventured to
ask her to receive her for about three weeks.

Almost while she was reading the letter Nora came to a decision on her
plans. She would go to the Spa after Easter, and there receive Henry
when he brought Annabella for the proposed visit.

A great deal of work is done by the mental powers unconsciously. While
Nora was reading, some inward suggestion was made, that there would be
less awkwardness to Henry in paying her a visit at a public place like
the Spa than in paying a visit at her own house. It was very suddenly
that the little suggestion was made and, strange to say, it had never
struck her before. But no sooner was it made than the decision was
formed; and after Easter, with some zest and hope of pleasure, she left
Riddlemere.

The request was in itself exhilarating, and, although the tone of
Henry’s letter had been more formal, more cold than any she had yet
received, she endeavoured to forget the tone, and to dwell on that
overture of peace and friendliness which the request conveyed.

Henry’s letter had been very short and concise, but for the first time
it had had a beginning and an end; the abruptness of feeling and
agitation was over. It began “Dear Miss Smith,” and ended with
“Faithfully yours.” On the words of the letter there was little to
comment; but this calm and commonplace beginning and end had caused a
pang, which, if Nora had been disposed to examine herself, might have
shown her how far beyond friendship her hopes extended.

As was said, however, she endeavoured to forget, or to explain away the
formality of the tone, and to accept the request with hope and
gratitude. But again all her hopes were blighted. Henry brought his
sister to the Spa, but so arranged his plans, that, with perfect truth
he was able to say he must be in London early on the following morning.
He arrived at the Spa, therefore, at five o’clock in the afternoon, and
left again by the 6.30 for London. Deducting the comings and goings, he
allowed three quarters of an hour for his visit to Nora.

And even this three quarters of an hour all felt to be too long. He
accepted the proffer of tea, which in a slight degree broke the dull
formality of the visit, but cold and dull and formal it was in no common
degree.

A few arrangements were made for Annabella’s visit. She was to stay with
Nora while she remained at the Spa, and then to have the pleasure of a
week at Riddlemere.

“And when that is over,” Henry said, “I will, if you will allow me, send
Mademoiselle down to fetch her.”

Up to this point Nora, trying to overcome the formality, had exerted
herself to talk; but when this blow fell, her sentences became as
measured as those of Henry. It was like two persons talking by
machinery.

Towards the end of the visit a sharp cry from Annie d’Alberg was heard
upstairs. Miss Willis, who had been one of the agreeable party
described, but who, always backward and timid, had done little but make
tea and ask a few questions, rose up and said she would see after her.
But Nora prevented her.

There were in her heart so many bitter thoughts, that it was a relief to
escape, even from this visit, which, it appeared, was to be the only one
she was destined to have.

No sooner had she left the room than the manner of Henry changed. The
frost was broken up. The thaw had come.

“Do you ever see Mr. Fanshawe now, Miss Willis?” he asked.

Miss Willis had not a lively imagination, and even now drew no
deductions from the sudden change, but she did start at the altered tone
of voice.

“We have not seen him of late,” she replied; “not for eight or nine
months, I think?”

“I saw him last week,” Henry pursued. “He was engaged, as usual, in
doing good.”

“Yes, always that,” was the hearty reply.

“Yes.” He paused for a moment, then went on--“It was here, at this Spa,
that you once spoke so warmly about him. Do you remember? It was when we
discovered that he was a common acquaintance.”

“Oh, yes, I remember very well.”

“I have not taken to the doing good yet myself,” and he half smiled,
“but I no longer look on a life devoted to benevolence--is that the
proper word to use--in the light I did then.”

“I should guess that,” Miss Willis said frankly.

“Why? Why should you guess?”

“Because you look altogether changed.”

“I look as I ought, then,” he replied, his countenance which had
brightened clouding over. “I am changed, and I have had enough to change
me. Oh! Miss Willis, do you know what it is to be so oppressed with
shame that you sometimes hardly dare to lift up your head? No,” he
suddenly paused in his vehement speech, and laughed outright. “How
should you, and why should you?”

Before anything more was said, Nora returned, and brought with her
Annabella, who had been playing upstairs. Annie had cut herself, and was
to go to bed.

The explanation was hardly made before Henry found it was time to go. He
kissed Annabella, repeated what he had said--that Mademoiselle should
fetch her--and departed; departed, leaving a feeling of almost despair
behind him.

In the course of the evening that followed, Miss Willis repeated to Nora
what had passed in her absence. A person of commonly lively fancy would
have made something of it. But one part of the subject only had
attracted the conscious attention of Miss Willis; and it was with this
part that she coloured her whole narrative. This part was the evident
influence that Stephen Fanshawe was exercising over Henry, and how that
influence was improving him.

Now Nora had almost ceased to think of improvement in Henry. He was to
her only too perfect; and never had his looks, his voice, his tone, his
manner, his everything, seemed more perfect than on this day. The words
of Miss Willis, therefore, first irritated and then saddened her. In
the colourless narrative she had had no part; and, though it was
something to think of, though it did give her some insight into his
habits and ways of life, there was no hope for her in the picture. He
could have friends, and go hither and thither; but she was nothing in
his life.

There came another visitor to Nora at the Spa, and he returned with her
to Riddlemere. It was old Mr. Fanshawe. He was one of those to whom
London is a necessity. He liked its light bread and its muffins, its
ceaseless letters and ceaseless newspapers. Once only had he made up his
mind to accept Nora’s pressing invitations to Riddlemere, and on that
occasion a fit of the gout had prevented his carrying out the good
intention. But the feeling that he ought to see the property of his
ward sat like a nightmare on his conscience; and at this time the
pressure on his conscience forced him to obey it.

On his return to London, he observed to his son how greatly Nora was
changed.

“In what way?” Stephen asked.

“Why, in every way,” was the reply. “She used to be self-willed and
haughty, and now she has no will at all. It is all calmness and
submission. Not that I like self-will in a woman. I don’t mean to find
fault; but I like a little spirit; we want it in this dull world. I used
to be afraid of her enthusiasm. I thought she would saddle herself with
all the sons of Adam; but she is as sober now as Mr. Conway himself.
Above all, she used to be so confident; if she did not say so, I saw she
thought that all her plans were perfect plans; and now she plainly says
that ‘whatever she does in life, she is sure to make a mistake.’ What do
you think about her?”

And he looked keenly at his son. For a certain unconscious shrinking
from discussing Stephen’s affairs with him, had put some ideas into Mr.
Fanshawe’s head.

“I think nothing,” he said composedly. “But I am very sorry to hear what
you say.”

“Then you have not observed it. When did you see her last?”

“Last June. Ten months ago, and then only for a day. But,” he added,
smiling, “I must make an opportunity to go and see after her. I
consider her happiness my particular charge.”

Mr. Fanshawe’s budding ideas were put to flight.

“Well, do so,” he said, “you will find it as I say. I suppose the girl’s
life is too lonely. She ought to be married. Moralists would say she is
improved. But I like a little spirit, I own. Always within due bounds,”
he added, prudently.

Stephen Fanshawe could not forget what his father had said. Nor could he
explain the change in Nora. He had renewed his acquaintance with Henry,
and from him had heard of the late disclosure at Riddlemere. He had
hoped that this foolish barrier being swept away, the relations of Nora
with her cousins were intimate and easy. But his father’s words made him
think. His own disappointment had rather increased than damped his
desire for her happiness; and as people of ardent desires will feel, he
felt as if her happiness was his special charge.

Although he and Henry had renewed their acquaintance, they rarely met.
He was occupied, and tied to his home. Henry was extremely busy, and
only when occasionally in London for a Sunday, went down to Summerhill
to visit him. During all this summer both were unusually busy, and both
tied to their business, and Stephen could think of no reason for
intruding himself on Nora’s privacy, nor could he make any observation
of Henry’s conduct. Yet the idea that there was something to be
discovered, haunted him.

It was Henry who gave him the opportunity he sought.

One day, at the end of a sultry July, he went down to Stephen, and
asked if he would take a flying tour with him.

“Simon and Annabella are going with a kind lady to Broadstairs. The
invitation extended to me; but I have not spirits for visiting. Yet I
feel worn and wearied, and wish for novelty. I have never seen the Swiss
mountains. Could we fly to Switzerland for a fortnight, and see
something worth seeing?”

Stephen paused over the request. Formed an instantaneous plan, and said
in reply,

“Have you ever seen the English lakes?”

“Never!”

“Then let that be our plan. I have only ten days to spare, for I have
promised to take charge of two unhealthy boys during the holidays, and
during those ten days I wish much to pay a visit at Riddlemere. We can
take it on our way to the Lakes?”

“What sort of a visit?” Henry asked, with a pink spot on his cheek.

“A very short one. Of course we cannot intrude upon two ladies, except
for a day. We will arrive in the morning, and go on our way in the
evening.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Henry gave his consent to the plan, from simple reluctance to say no.
But he anticipated no pleasure from his visit to Nora, and he was
correct in his anticipations. The day was not a pleasant one.

The chief cause of failure was in the hours of the visit. A visit from
twelve to five is permissible only to intimacy. When acquaintance,
however slight, arrive before dinner, pass the evening together,
separate for the night, and meet again in the morning, the strange
particles melt together and awkwardness evaporates. But there can be
little hope of strange particles melting together in broad daylight,
where there is nothing to assist conversation, and no special thing to
be done.

And on this occasion the particles themselves were of the most
unyielding nature, for constraint is that one thing that might and
courage cannot overcome. Henry was constrained with Nora, and Nora,
because of his constraint--a constraint which, in her phraseology, was
called coldness--was constrained with him. Stephen would have been at
his ease with Nora, had she permitted it; but she, on this first
meeting--and seeing again that affliction of his, which ought to have
made her doubly careful of wounding his peace--felt a shame at having
misled him, which gave unwonted timidity and gentleness to her manners.
Even Miss Willis, partly feeling guilty both to him and Nora, and partly
catching the general infection, added her mite to the awkwardness of the
meeting.

It was, indeed, so awkward a day, that, had it not been so wretched, it
would have been laughable. Even wretched as it was, Nora, who was most
alive to the difficulties of the case, could hardly help smiling over
them.

At the close of the day there came a few moments of relaxation, a few
moments which left on Nora’s mind a happier impression than the rest of
the visit could have done. They were sitting in the drawing-room shortly
before the departure of the guests. Stephen Fanshawe began to talk to
Miss Willis about her step-mother. The conversation was not intended to
be private, for he did not lower his voice, yet both Henry and Nora felt
that could they at that moment have consulted the book of etiquette, it
would most certainly order them to talk.

They were sitting near each other, by Nora’s writing-table; but having
during the day exhausted every topic that human ingenuity could bring
forward, this sudden command of conscience, or good manners, to
converse, was not an easy one to obey. After casting his mind about in
every direction, Henry gave it up in despair. But desperation made Nora
bold, and the moment having arrived when she felt she must speak or
die, she, in her desperation, caught hold of one of those very topics
which during the day had been forbidden. A recurrence to past times.

“Mr. Fanshawe was speaking of building cottages just now,” she said. “Do
you remember the plan of a cottage you left with me? It has been much
liked, and we have followed it almost exactly in two that have been
built.”

She had spoken in the very thoughtlessness of the moment’s desperation;
and no sooner were the words said, than her heart leaped into her mouth
with terror at what she had done. What would he think of her for thus
bringing forward what he so determinedly avoided?

But Henry took the observation quietly. He was at the moment as
thankful as she was to find a new subject on which they might converse.

“No, I had forgotten it,” was all he said; but as at the same instant
she laid her hand on a large kind of scrap-book which was beside her on
the table, and opened it, he rose, and came behind her to see it.

“I stuck all the papers you left me into this book,” Nora observed, with
ease, and her usual simplicity of manner; for the quiet way in which he
had replied, and his apparent interest, had put to flight unpleasant
sensations.

“Did you, indeed! I am afraid that was an attention far more flattering
than they deserved.”

Nora’s head drooped over the book, and she nervously turned over the
pages. No words could have been more prosaically spoken than
Henry’s--they were in fact a simple expression of what he thought, but
Nora was suddenly conscious that she had paid them a too flattering
attention, and that to pay that attention had been at one time her only
consolation. Losing her ease and self-possession, she bent down her head
and blushed.

But Henry saw nothing, guessed nothing of the effect of his words.
Standing behind her, he could not see her blushes, and had he done so it
would never have occurred to him to guess the cause. He saw of her
sudden emotion far less than sightless eyes which were at a distance.

He stood waiting behind her, until she came to the page which contained
the plan.

“Oh! yes, I remember now,” he observed, looking at it with interest;
“but it is not perfect. I have been looking at many plans of cottages of
late, and some I have seen are both better and cheaper than this one.”

He then began to talk to her of his present employment; told her how
desirous was the guardian of the youth whose property he managed to
improve the dwellings of the poor; and, taking the book from her hand to
place it on the table, traced with his finger on the paper the varieties
in some of those cottage plans of which he spoke.

For more than five minutes all went easily and pleasantly--so easily and
pleasantly, that neither of them remembered their own identity; that
they were that Henry and Nora between whom there never had been, and it
seemed there never might be, peace. But a sudden recollection of
identity came, and all was changed. In turning over a page in the
scrap-book, Henry’s eyes fell on a list of names, which carried back his
thoughts to what he called that time of horror. It had been written in
haste the day after the fire, while arranging and tearing his papers. A
blot on the paper, and a scrawled and excited look in the characters,
brought vividly before him the torturing feelings and passionate conduct
of that day. He thought of his father’s letter, recollected the hasty
speeches which he had himself spoken against Nora--thought of all the
folly and all the madness at that time, and of his whole life, and with
a sudden change of manner and countenance, he closed the book and
returned to his seat. And again constraint paralyzed his powers and made
him dumb.

Nora could not but see that something had occurred to displease or annoy
him. Could not but feel the influence of that annoyance. Felt indeed
frozen with dismay, at the fear of having offended. But there was a
great difference between Henry and Nora, as there is perhaps in this
respect between most men and women. Nora was almost always outwardly
equal to any emergency. It was even a fault in her manners that they
were too impassive.

On this occasion, instead of seeming to observe his annoyance, she added
a few words on the subject of cottages; then quietly, and with
dexterity, slid away into some common-place topic of which she caught
hold.

And Henry felt that she had seen his discomposure; felt that she had
understood and endeavoured to cover it; felt that she had set him at
ease again; and was grateful, and humbled.




CHAPTER XII.


The travellers went on their way. No comments were made on the day they
had passed, or the company they had left, yet both were thinking
thoughts, and the thoughts of each were regarding the other. The
thoughts of Henry were spoken at last.

It was at the close of a day spent on one of the lakes. They sat at a
window which commanded a view of great beauty, and were watching a
glorious sunset--Henry and his sightless companion. Henry described the
beauties of the scene, and became animated as he described the various
changes from black to violet, to rose, to scarlet, to gold, as the
clouds caught the beams of the dying sun. He had enjoyed the two days of
sight-seeing. His spirits had risen, and his own vivid enjoyment had
been yet more excited, by finding he had power to kindle the imagination
of his companion by his exclamations and descriptions.

It was suddenly, as the sun’s last beam vanished and left the landscape
beautiful but grey, that he said,

“I wonder that you do not marry, Fanshawe?”

“That I do not marry!” Stephen repeated with a dry smile. “Easily said.
As if a whole life’s welfare was not shut up in the idea! Who do you
suppose would take me; and whom--though it would seem this question
ought to be more easily settled--would I take?”

“I have had a thought,” Henry said, hesitatingly; “it has been much in
my mind--especially to-day. There are persons to whom I think the
literal words of being ‘sight to the blind’ would be bliss; so ardent
seems their desire to spend themselves in doing good. With them, that
one thing which makes you feel you are not as other men, would, so far
from being a drawback, be an added attraction.”

“There are such, no doubt,” he said, with a melancholy smile. “But where
are they to be found?”

There are occasions when people have an insuperable dislike to naming
names. They hope to be understood by vague terms. Henry had hoped that
Stephen would at once jump to the conclusion to which he wished his
vague description to lead him.

There was a flush on his cheek, and a slight effort in his voice as he
said,

“You must guess of who I was thinking. I mean Miss Smith.”

“Yes, I guessed that she was the person to whom your description
applied. I guessed it, because I had once the same thought. But it was
in vain.”

And a faint tinge, for the first time, flushed his own cheek.

“You surely mistake?” Henry cried, earnestly. “I do not think it would
be in vain. I am almost certain it would not be so.”

“It _was_ in vain. I asked the question, and she told me so.”

Henry looked as if he did not believe it. He was trying to recall that
last day at Riddlemere, when, to his eyes, Nora and Stephen had seemed
on peculiar terms; so friendly, and yet so--he hardly knew how to term
it--but the mingled friendliness and timidity had struck him.

“Then women are strange beings,” at last he observed.

“In what way?” Stephen asked, smiling.

“It is so impossible to argue upon them. Their tastes have no reason in
them. What do you think of my sister, Letitia, for instance?” he added,
suddenly and gratefully changing the subject; for he felt he had been
upon ground as dangerous with Stephen as it was unpleasant to himself.
“It is utterly impossible for a _man_ to conceive the state of heart and
taste, and affection, which makes her endure that wretch, her husband.
And not only endure. I can understand her having married him. She was
wretched. Any escape was a temptation to her. But having married him,
and knowing, as she fully must, how base and mean his nature is, how she
can love him,--and she does love him,--is a thing that is to me utterly
incomprehensible! A man might do his duty if he was a well-principled
man in such circumstances; but he could not love, as Letitia does, a
thing so utterly unworthy.”

“I think not. There is, I fancy, a radical difference in that respect
between a man’s and a woman’s nature; and it is lucky it is so. What
would become of this world if there was not the self-devotion of women
to help and heal it. I am very sorry for your sister’s fate; but her
case is too common a one for me to call it strange. There are things
which I think stranger, far.”

“What things?” Henry asked; for the words were said with that sort of
magnetism which forces the inquiry that is wanted.

“I think men are sometimes strange; and I think you are strange; and
among strange things there is none that I think stranger than that you
should not love Miss Smith.”

“I marry Miss Smith!” Henry said, colouring violently, and speaking with
that old passionate excitement which his general conduct led his friends
to believe had evaporated from his character. “If there was no other
woman left in the world, I do not think it could be.”

“I said nothing of marriage,” Stephen replied, calmly. “Marriage
requires the consent of two persons. I was speaking only of yourself,
your tastes, your feelings. I think it strange, in the position you
have been, knowing Miss Smith as you have cause to know her, and with
that singular tinge of romance in your relations--I think it strange, I
say, that she should not have caught your fancy; have excited you, in
short, to love.”

“The positions may have been in fault,” Henry said, after a short pause.
“There are some positions which make love impossible.”

“I know it. I suppose no man naturally loves an heiress. He may do it by
force of will, or he may do it even because he is determined against it;
but marriage with a very great heiress can never be a position natural
to a man. In this case, however, there are so many circumstances of a
modifying kind, that I do think your hardness strange. I will not speak
of youth and beauty, and gifts of mind, and grace of manner--these
others may have--but I do think there is a something in the manner in
which she bears her wealth which is uncommon, and which is the more
striking from the fact that her character, irrespective of her wealth,
is proud and independent. She always seems to me, so far from glorying
in her riches, to be apologizing for them.”

He paused a moment, but as Henry made no observation went on--

“And in other respects, there is so much to win a man. Her character, in
spite of her good intellect and clear judgment, and her determination
not to be tyrannized over when she does not trust, is one of the most
confiding I ever met with; the most easy to lead and guide, and
convince. Where she loved, she would love with the submission of her
whole being. And then the loneliness of her position; her longing for
affection and protection; the failure of all her efforts to win the
friendship that others naturally have.”

He paused again for a moment, and then said in an altered voice,

“It was my sense of her isolation in this world that first won me, and
at last led me to dare to approach her with my love. I felt that I, even
I, cut off as I am from all that makes a man attractive, might yet
protect her in her difficulties, and comfort her in loneliness. That she
thought otherwise, has not altered my feelings. The gentleness with
which she warned me against hope, has but made me love her more.”

There was a long silence after he ceased to speak. Henry had been moved
and carried on by his words; he hardly knew for a few moments how to
answer him. He knew what he felt, but the ground seemed to have been
cut away from under his feet.

At last he said,

“Every man has his own feelings. I hardly know why we are to wonder one
at another.”

“You began,” said his companion, smiling; “I did but turn upon you. My
answer was, alas! easily given. As to you, do not answer me at all,
unless you please. What reason, you truly remark, have we to wonder one
at another! Each man is a whole by himself, as well as a member of
Adam.”

“I do not mind answering you,” Henry said, perversely. “I do not love,
nor do I even wish to love, Miss Smith. Do not suppose”--and though he
was trying to speak calmly and temperately, there was a touch of heat
in his voice--“that I do not see her with eyes of admiration, perhaps of
homage, worship, or whatever a poor mortal feels towards a superior
being; but homage is not always love. Do you remember some lines of
Shakespeare--they are in ‘Julius Cæsar,’ I suppose--no, I think they are
in ‘Antony and Cleopatra;’ it is where he describes the feelings of
Antony in Cæsar’s presence. Antony was a great man everywhere else, but
there he was small. Stay--they struck me much, because they describe
what I feel when I am with _her_:--

    ‘Thy demon (that thy spirit which keeps thee) is
     Noble, courageous, high, unmatchable,
     Where Cæsar’s is not; but near him thy angel
     Becomes a fear, as being o’erpowered; therefore
     Make space enough between you.’”

Henry spoke these lines with a force of expression difficult to
describe, as if they had indeed engrained themselves upon his mind.

“There is more of it,” he said, “but to the same purpose. That is what I
feel when I am with _her_. With such feelings a man does not love, nor
would he marry, even though a fairy made other impossibilities
possible.”

“Most true. Marriage in such a case would be far from a heaven. I had
never looked on Miss Smith in that light. It was the other side of her
character which affected me.”

“It may have been so with you. You would not naturally look on her as I
do. I---- Have you forgotten all the strange dealings which I and my
family have had with her? It would seem as if between us a great gulf
had been fixed--had been ordered, as well as fixed.”

“My dear Henry--forgive me for still calling you so, but you speak
unreasonably--your poor father’s faults were never yours.”

“I cannot say that,” Henry replied, with passion and bitterness. “If you
could know what it is to me to look back on my past life! I found some
old verses in a book of Annabella’s the other day. I copied them, and
carry them about with me. They are the only words I ever saw which
express what I feel about myself.”

He drew a paper from his pocket, and all unconsciously held it out to
Stephen. The blind man smiled, and Henry, colouring, withdrew it. The
lines were these:--

    “When I look back, and in myself behold
     The wandering ways which youth could not descry,
     And mark the fearful course that youth did hold,
     And melt in mind the steps youth strayed awry,
     My knees I bow, and from my heart I call--
     O God, forgive these faults and follies all!

    “For now I see how void youth is of skill--
     How vain, also, his prime-time and his end.
     I do confess my fault and all my ill,
     And sorrow sore for that I did offend;
     And with a heart repentant of all crimes,
     Pardon I ask for youth ten thousand times.”

“Will you read them?” Stephen had said, and Henry had done so--very
calmly, he thought, but, in truth, with his whole heart in what he
repeated.

“We may all feel that,” was the remark, gravely made.

“No, we may not,” Henry replied. “It is my own special folly and
madness, which is tied like a clog about my neck, and makes my life a
burden to me. But let us have done now and for ever with this subject.”

“Certainly, for ever, if you wish it.”




CHAPTER XIII.


This visit had taken place in July. At the end of September Mrs. Elliott
suddenly appeared at Riddlemere.

She came, asking largely for Nora’s sympathy. She had gone abroad with a
sister--her only sister--apparently doomed to death. She returned with
her not only destined to live, and live in health, but destined also to
be married. This sister was many years younger than Mrs. Elliott, and
was, and ever had been, the great interest of her life. She was now
“insanely happy,” as she herself described herself, in the prospects
opening before her.

In the two months--two dreary months that had elapsed after Henry’s
visit--a change had come over Nora. That day, constrained and painful as
it had been while passing, had left a kind of fragrance on her memory.
It was the only day she had ever passed in his society; it was, with the
exception of their early acquaintance, the only time when she had seen
him in quiet--not in the hurry of going and coming. After his departure,
she lived upon the recollection of this day; going over the scenes, the
conversations, the small events of the day, again and again in her
fancy. At first this enjoyment had been unconscious; but gradually Nora
came to see, and finally to blush over the tendency of her reflections;
and when at last this was perceived, she could deceive herself no more.

It was in this respect that she was changed. She faced the secret of her
soul, and although she scarcely attained the idea of overcoming it, she
determined not to be its slave. Looking backwards, she saw how it had
poisoned her life--not her happiness only, but her life and character,
poisoning with the moral poison of selfishness--how from the first
moment that the fate of this cousin had interested her, she had given
herself up to the thought of him, secluding herself from other
interests, and to a great degree cutting herself off from common
sympathies.

With Nora to acknowledge was to endeavour at least to reform. And it
was when in the first ardour of her reformation that Mrs. Elliott came.

She came full of all the cares, thoughts, hopes, plans, arrangements,
large and small, of an approaching wedding; and, for the first time, she
found in Nora a willing and sympathising listener. To care or sorrow she
had always been a kindly friend, but sympathy with the trifles which
form a large part of life was new. Her mind had always been wandering
after other things, too much absorbed to come down to common life.

When Nora first understood that there was going to be a marriage at
Thorneybank, and that she was being invited, a bright light flashed over
the future; but a few more words from Mrs. Elliott damped her
expectations.

“I ask _you_, Nora,” Mrs. Elliott added, “as my own peculiar friend.
But I am not going to have a great wedding--not a party; and I will tell
you why. Oh! Nora, you do not know how good my old man has been. I never
knew before how good he was. You know how willingly he went abroad with
me when I was unhappy; and he behaved so like an angel all the winter
that, as soon as ever my fears were relieved, and I saw Sybilla
recovering, I proposed to come home. That was in March. But he said no,
it would be safer to remain; and, as I thought it might be so, I gladly
consented. But the reason of his proposing to stay on was that his sharp
eyes had seen, what I never saw, the beginning of what has now happened.
And he knew what joy it would be to me to put Sybilla into such hands as
Colonel Greville’s; and he knew how easily the hopes of a man no longer
very young are dashed, and how much more easily he could see Sybilla in
our foreign life than in the quiet life of England. And he would not
stir. And we have been cruizing, and travelling, and meeting Colonel
Greville again and again; and suddenly it was all settled, and we set
off home. But now for my reason,” she added, smiling. “You must know,
Nora, that he has, and has always had, a monomania against
wedding-parties. When he hears of the showing of trousseaux, and the
accumulation of presents, and of twelve bridesmaids in veils, and such
things, he becomes fit for an asylum; and so, as he has been so good I
thought I would please him by having the quietest wedding man ever had.
And Sybilla is as pleased as he is. It is a blow to me. But am I not
right?”

Disappointed as she was, Nora could not but heartily say she was right.

During this quiet visit at Thorneybank Mrs. Elliott, busy as she was
with other concerns, was so struck with the change in Nora, that she
speculated much on the cause.

“I wonder what she is thinking of,” she observed one day, as she stood
at her husband’s library window and watched Nora as she walked.

“Who is thinking?” asked Mr. Elliott.

“Nora. She is changed, and the whole thing puzzles me. She is not in
high spirits; but then she never had high spirits; and I don’t think
that is the change I mean.”

“I think she is always a very proper-behaved young lady.”

“Yes, that always; but she is very much changed--very much improved. I
always liked and admired her, but now I love her. I used to feel abashed
when she asked me to call her Nora; but now I feel inclined to call her
dearest, and all sorts of fancy names. She _is_ changed. You must own
it.”

Mr. Elliott was very reluctant ever to own anything when called upon;
but at last he said, unless he had forgotten, or unless the spending of
a year abroad had made him prize English beauty, he thought she was
prettier than she used to be.

“I think so too. So much more play of countenance; so much softer in
look as well as manner. But what is the cause? I think there must be a
cause. Have you any guess what it is?”

“No,” he said, resolutely, “I have no guess at all on the subject. But I
guess what _you_ think.”

“I feel sure there must be something between those young people. It is
no new thought. I always thought so, perverse as all the circumstances
of their acquaintance seemed. But what is it?--what is the matter? I was
talking last night to Miss Willis about Henry Devereux, in whom she is
much interested. She was telling me how changed he is; changed out of
all knowledge, she said.”

“I don’t believe a bit of it,” observed Mr. Elliott in a mutter.

“She says so; but when I tried to discover what had changed him, she
gave me no hint of what I imagine to be the case. She said he was
changed by the misfortunes of his family. I said I thought they were
unlikely so entirely to crush the spirit of a young man of his age and
temperament; and she said it was because he felt himself to be the cause
of all the trouble. But that is nonsense. I wish I could see him and
tell him so. Not that I believe he really thinks so!”

“Nor more do I.”

“Then I think you feel like me, that there is some hidden cause for the
change in both these young people, and that it is most probably
connected with some quarrel or foolishness between them, which a little
intercourse would set to rights. I must bring them together here, and
exercise my own intellect upon them. I wish I could get Henry here
to-morrow.”

She said this thoughtfully, as if she was considering some step that
might be taken. Mr. Elliott laid down the book which had occupied him
during the conversation, and now said gravely,

“Bring them together, my dear, if you please, whenever it can be done in
a natural way. But, if you will take my advice, you will leave the
matter alone. That young Mr. Henry has quicksilver instead of blood in
his veins, and anybody who undertakes to manage him will bring
themselves and him into trouble. And I very much doubt whether you would
find Miss Nora an easy task. Depend upon it, if she fancied you
speculated on her thoughts, and made designs even for her happiness,
her maiden pride would break out into a hundred fiery bristles. No, no,
Greville and Sybilla would have been difficult subjects to design for,
but they would have been lambs in your hands compared to those other
young people.”

“I would not think of designs if I could see how they are to meet; to
meet, as I mean, familiarly. Nora cannot receive him at Riddlemere, and
I am their only mutual acquaintance. Who can bring them together, if I
do not?”

“Bring them together, my dear, if you please, but naturally--not
non-naturally. Leave it alone till Christmas. At present--it will not be
for long, but at present,” shaking his head, “we are allowed to keep
Christmas like our forefathers. While we are allowed such indulgences,
let us have a merry Christmas, and invite our friends and relations. Ask
Henry and his young ones, and then he and Miss Nora will meet, and can’t
help themselves.”

“You are right, as usual,” said his wife; and she put present designs
out of her head.

When Christmas approached, she gave the purposed invitation to Henry. It
was gratefully accepted for Annabella and Simon, and he promised to give
as much of his own company as he could. Mrs. Elliott knew that she must
be content with this promise; and she then gave her invitation to Nora,
to pass a long Christmas in her house, including weeks on each side of
it.

In the first instance Nora declined, and with a regret so intense--for
she guessed who would be at Thorneybank--that it made her more resolute
in her refusal. The reason of that refusal was a very simple one. For
three years she had kept her Christmas at Riddlemere, and the chief
happiness of her autumns had lain in her preparations for giving
pleasure at that time. Had it not been for the hope of meeting Henry,
she would not have even had a wish to leave home, and the knowledge that
she did wish it made her resolute not to give way.

But it so happened that a fortnight before Christmas the step-mother of
Miss Willis was taken dangerously ill, and Miss Willis was sent for. As
soon as Mrs. Elliott heard of this she returned to the charge, said she
would not and could not leave Nora alone; and Nora then very gratefully
gave way. Some of her plans were postponed; some she would be near
enough to direct. She and little Annora therefore removed to Thorneybank
for a time. Simon and Annabella arrived a few days afterwards, but Henry
did not come till Christmas Eve, and then only for a few days.

Being a person who, whatever she did, did it with her might, Nora had
considered much of late how best to deal with herself, and had found
that occupation and society, and the being driven out of the routine of
life, was the most salutary remedy for her secret ailment that she could
use. In this respect, therefore, she was a changed person. She exerted
herself in society to the uttermost, gave her assistance in the
entertainment of the young or the old with equal and cheerful readiness;
and sometimes, in the joyousness of a large party, to which she was
totally unaccustomed, caught the infection of joyousness, and did
heartily what she did dutifully.

This had been the case, that is to say, before Henry’s arrival, and
during the first day or two of his stay. After that, although the duty
was as rigidly done, there was not much heart in it. For Henry did not
thaw towards her. They were together, they met constantly, they
sometimes conversed, but there was no approach to intimacy. There was no
improvement in the terms of their acquaintance--there was even a going
back. She had met him with ease and quietness. Even after the
disappointment in his continued coldness, she only became a shade more
formal with him. No careless person would have perceived that his
presence in any way affected her.

Mrs. Elliott, by intense watching, did indeed make some observations,
and they were these: that the presence of Nora affected Henry in a
manner exactly contrary to the effect of his presence on her. When Henry
was in the room, Nora, without being more really joyous, seemed to be
stirred up to greater exertions, was more lively, more conversible.

With Henry it was otherwise. In Nora’s presence he seemed to be like a
man moving in chains. He never was quite like his old self; but there
were times when she felt tolerably re-assured as to his identity; but
these never occurred when Nora was in the room.

Was it the natural consequence only of the old enmity, or did he cherish
a secret affection, which her worldly position forbade him to make
known? Or was there a misunderstanding between them, which neither had
power to overcome? She could not resolve these and other questions.

Mr. Elliott had refused to believe that Henry was changed. But even he
was forced to allow that it was so.

“He’s just one of the young men of the day,” he observed discontentedly
to his wife, on the evening of Christmas day. “I don’t care a button for
him now; he may be off to-morrow if he pleases.”

“Not if I can help it,” she said.

“It is impossible to make the fellow laugh; and what is the row, I
should like to know? I hate your languid, _blasé_ young man. I did think
Henry had a little of the spirit of our forefathers left. But they are
all the same. I hope I may be in my grave before England comes quite to
an end.”

“In some ways I think Henry improved,” said his wife.

“In very queer ways, then. I believe he is a bit of a Puritan, if you
mean that. From some things I observed, I suspect it.”

“No,” said his wife, laughing, “quite the other way.”

“What! a Papist, then?”

“Something between the two. From what he said this morning, I suspect he
likes what we old-fashioned, sober people, can hardly understand.”

“It’s all the same thing--it’s what I mean by a Puritan; a man wrapt in
his doctrines, and who does not care to adorn his doctrines by a
cheerful Christian temper. _That_ is what is wanted, and Mr. Henry and
his Puritanism may take themselves off from my house.”

“I think you wrong him. Henry is certainly very much changed. He was
thoughtless, and he is so no longer. But I do not think his religious
views are in fault, or have anything to do with his dejection. I cannot
understand it; but I will make it out before long, that I am
determined.”

But even Mrs. Elliott failed to make out what was the cause of his
dejection; although she soon perceived that it had something to do with
Nora.

Since Nora had acknowledged to herself her feelings for Henry, she had
set herself to conquer them; to conquer, at least, that part which she
would not have dared to own; for to conquer her interest in him, her
strong cousinly affection, never entered her thoughts.

On the fourth evening after Christmas, the lady who had so great a gift
of music made one of the party at Thorneybank. She played as before,
and, after concluding one piece, to which all had listened with rapt
attention, she turned suddenly to Nora, and said,

“It is near four years, I think, since I met you here. On that occasion
you and another person, who is also present, delighted us with a song,
artless and simple, indeed, but going straight to the heart. May I
request you to delight us again?”

Nora blushed, and glanced at Henry, but, without answering for him,
expressed her own readiness to sing.

Henry had been leaning against the wall near the pianoforte. The playing
of Miss Romer was of that nature which arrests even the careless; and
he was not careless. He was fond of music, and had been standing, wrapt
in thought, like the rest. When Nora agreed to the request, every eye
turned to him; and Miss Romer and Mrs. Elliott made their earnest
request that he would consent to take his part.

“I cannot,” he said. “How can I? I have not sung for years.”

But as few could understand how really disagreeable to him was the
petition, a volley of voices implored him only just to try.

To refuse such pertinacious requests is worse than to yield, however
unwelcome; and, seeing him hesitate, Nora came to his assistance, chose
out an easy song--one of Christy’s Minstrels’--simple but touching, and
placed it on the desk.

“I think you could manage this,” she said to him, with a smile of
invitation.

He still looked annoyed, but came nearer; repeated that he knew he could
not, but would try, as it was wished.

Nora began, and whatever her feelings might be, her voice was under
control; its tones, as usual, sweet and clear and steady. Henry
followed, and for a line or two he also sang steadily. But just as their
voices were uniting with that peculiar sweetness which had lingered on
Miss Romer’s memory, he faltered, tried to recover, made a false note,
and suddenly broke down.

“I cannot do it--I told you I could not!” he said with passion.

With strange sweet feelings Nora had felt the mingling of their voices;
but they had inspired, not overpowered her. Her voice had risen high
and clear. When he suddenly paused, however, she paused also.

“It was nothing,” she said softly, looking up as she spoke. “Shall we
begin again?”

“No, I cannot,” he cried in the same tone. “I do but spoil and drown
your voice.” He then recovered himself, and in an altered and polite
manner observed, “If you will be so good as to sing alone, you will
cover my retreat.” And he placed a song on the desk, and retreated
accordingly.

Nora began at his request, but no longer with inspiration in her tones.
She sang the song correctly, but with a heart far away.

Mrs. Elliott followed Henry to a distant seat which he had taken, and
said,

“What is the matter with you?”

“Matter with me!” he said with a short laugh. “Is it a very curious
thing that a man who has not thought of music for years should not be
able to sing a second at sight!”

“Perhaps not. I think, however, you could if you chose. But that is not
the question. What is the matter with you? I have been daily longing to
ask you.”

“I don’t understand. What _is_ the matter with me?”

“You are so changed--more than you ought to be--so grave--so unlike
everything you used to be.”

“I should have thought,” he said, in a sarcastic tone, “that a change in
me was a desirable thing. A man at my age, and with my experience, ought
not to be an imp of folly--such as I was.”

“Very true; and yet----”

“Oh! Mrs. Elliott, leave a man alone. I do very well as I am.”

Seeing she really annoyed him, she refrained from further questioning.
On the night following, Henry, for the first time, sat by Nora at
dinner. Mrs. Elliott, satisfied--by her husband’s constant advice--with
the opportunity she had given to the supposed lovers to meet in her
house, had made no efforts to force them together. As the time passed
on, however, and she perceived that, although on friendly terms, there
was seldom anything like conversation between them, she for once exerted
a little art, and so arranged the party as to make it necessarily fall
to Henry’s lot to take charge of his cousin.

But vain even was the hour during which they were, in a certain sense,
bound together. A conversation of a fragmentary kind was indeed
maintained, but there was the same evident chain on Henry’s spirit, and
an increasing quietness and formality on the part of Nora. As he did not
thaw, she froze.

Mrs. Elliott gave it up in despair. On the next day but one he was to
return to London, and the visit which was to have accomplished so much
had proved a failure.




CHAPTER XIV.


On the two days following Christmas Day there had been a slight frost.
Then came a harder one; and on this, the fifth day, there was an early
announcement by Simon Devereux and another boy who was of the party at
Thorneybank, that the lake in the grounds would bear.

It was a brilliant, exhilarating day. The frost was hard and the air
keen, but there was not a breath of wind, and the sky was as blue, and
the sun as bright as on a day in June. Mr. Elliott was as eager as the
boys to be on the ice. In all sincerity he observed that in the days of
his youth an English winter had been composed of frosts of the present
delightful nature, and he hurried off to enjoy himself as soon as
breakfast was over. Although refraining from partaking very actively in
the amusements, he remained constantly upon and around the scene.

Towards noon Mrs. Elliott, with Nora, and two other ladies, joined the
party also. Henry was skating when they drew near, but owing to the
suddenness of the frost many persons were unprovided with skates, and he
had already promised to give up his. Shortly after the arrival of Mrs.
Elliott he did so, resigning them for a time to another gentleman. He
came and stood on the banks, and assisted Annabella in her slides.

Nora’s youth had been passed abroad, and since her return to England she
had lived the life of a matron of fifty rather than that of a young
girl. She had never ventured on the ice beyond a few careful steps, and
was nervous at the mere idea of launching herself freely upon it. The
exhilaration of the scene, however, and the pressing entreaties of Mr.
Elliott, at length animating her to overcome her fears, she consented to
be instructed.

The very first rudiments, the suffering herself to be carried down a
slide, had to be taught, and with good-humoured helplessness she put
herself into Mr. Elliott’s hands. He, not Henry, was her instructor.
Henry, as before said, was occupying himself with Annabella.

There was a curve in the lake at the place where they stood, and across
the curve a slide for the children, short and safe, had already been
made. Annabella was tired of it, and was venturing on a longer one, but
on this safe slide Nora began her practice. She went two or three times
slowly and carefully across. Becoming confident, and warmed and
animated, she, after two or three ventures, desirous of shewing her
improvement, and obtaining exercise of a livelier kind, withdrew from
the edge of the bank on the opposite side, and took a run of some yards
before she launched herself on the slide.

The operation was more rapid than she had been prepared for, and she
came to the edge on the further side with a shock so violent that she
lost her balance and her head. She stretched out her arms to recover
herself, catching at she knew not what; but the support she had expected
to find, gave way under her, and she and it fell.

The support was Henry. He had been at the moment, bending forward and
stretching out his hand to a little girl who was in difficulties. He was
not attending to Nora, or conscious of her violent approach, and when
she suddenly grasped him he fell.

Nora rose in an instant, ashamed, but laughing, and not exactly
conscious of what had occurred. But the laugh was over in a moment; for
Henry did not rise; and the next instant there was a scream from
Annabella.

“Oh! Henry, are you hurt?”

A general rush to the spot followed, while Nora stood stupefied with
horror.

He had fallen with his head against a stone, and the blow had been
unbroken by the soft hat he wore. He lay back with an expression of pain
on his face, but pale and motionless.

A plank was procured in a moment from a neighbouring boat-house;
messengers were dispatched for medical advice, and Henry was borne off
to the house.

“How was it?” Mrs. Elliott said to Nora, as they slowly followed. “I did
not see what happened.”

“I did it,” Nora said, forcing out the words. “In saving myself I threw
him down.” She was pale and cold, but quiet.

“I think he is only stunned,” Mrs. Elliott observed compassionately. She
took no special notice of what Nora said. She felt it to be a case in
which words were useless.

Henry was carried to the house, and medical advice was very shortly
procured. But no decisive opinion could be given. He lay during the
whole day speechless and immovable; except, indeed, that one or two
faint moans were heard, and there were once or twice faint movements of
his head. The extent of the injury it was impossible to tell; but the
grave faces betrayed the fears that were entertained.

During that whole day Nora sat in simple endurance like the rest. Had
she not known it before she knew it now, that the life of her life was
threatened; yet she had no rights, no power to say that during these
fleeting moments she would watch over him. She had to endure like the
rest, with only this sad superiority in her case, that she was the cause
of the ill that had befallen.

The human mind can hardly admit of two overpowering sensations, and this
consciousness, “and I the cause,” although it was there, although she
knew the fact, and was made constantly aware of it through the pitying
avoidance of the subject by all about her, was hardly felt. Henry’s life
was trembling in the balance, and she had no power to divert her eyes
from that one consideration. She was to feel it; but it scarcely added
its sting to that day of horror and suspense.

Towards evening there was a slight change. Mrs. Elliott, who alone was
permitted to go near the room, bore the news and made the most of it;
and before the general separation for the night, she was able to give a
yet more favourable report. Henry had moved and spoken. There might be
other dangers--there was a fear of fever; but the first worst fear that
he never would speak again was at an end. And the first relief from
dread, however qualified by other fear, was what no words can express,
or comparison describe.




CHAPTER XV.


The fears of fever proved to be true. A brain-fever came on, and for a
week Henry was very ill. Although serious, however, the attack was not
considered dangerous, and as every day the physician spoke confidently
of the result, cheerfulness returned to the members of the house.

Except the children, there were none who were bound to Henry by those
near ties which make anxiety last while illness lasts. All were
satisfied to know that he was no worse, or a shade better, and
thankfully rolled anxiety away. All but Nora; and she had to behave like
the rest. She did not dare to ask from hour to hour whether there was a
change; did not dare to meet the physicians, and ask if they were
convinced the danger was passed. No one appeared to consider her
specially interested, or, indeed, except from the unfortunate
circumstance of her fall, interested in any way.

No one except Mrs. Elliott. She saw the anxiety that devoured Nora; she
saw the efforts by which she maintained her constant composure, and she
did all which a kind person can do to relieve a state of mind which,
although visible, shrinks from notice.

“But she will make herself ill,” she thought, “and the sooner she sees
Henry the better. Possibly under these new circumstances the
estrangement will give way.”

At the end of about ten days Henry was pronounced to be convalescent;
and no sooner did the children hear that he was really better than they
became clamorous to see him. Hitherto Mrs. Elliott only, and she under
great restraint, had been allowed to go near his room.

“Now will be the time for Nora,” she thought; but before she had taken
any measures for such a step, Nora herself spoke.

“I do not know if it could be allowed,” she said to Mrs. Elliott, “but I
should be very glad if I might see my cousin. I am haunted by his face
as he lay on the ground. It is dreadful! Nothing, I think, but seeing
him can drive the impression away.”

She spoke quietly but earnestly. She did indeed feel as if she could
scarcely bear for a longer time the torture of her mind.

“I understand that,” Mrs. Elliott said; and promised to see what could
be done.

Henry was attended by two physicians; a great one, who came at stated
times from a distance, and a little one, who devoted almost his whole
time to him.

Mrs. Elliott waited until the following day, when the great physician
came, and then made her request. “As he was satisfied with Henry’s
state, might his little sister and his cousin now be allowed to see
him?”

“To a visit from his little sister,” the physician replied, “there can
be no possible objection. I am afraid the other is a more doubtful
matter. Indeed,” he added, shaking his head, “I cannot take on myself at
present to let him run the risk of agitation.”

Mrs. Elliott looked at him curiously.

“Would his cousin’s presence agitate him? Does he remember what happened
on the ice?” she asked, discreetly.

“Are you not aware,” said the physician, “that during his delirium Mr.
Devereux has constantly spoken of Miss Smith--so constantly, indeed,
that I have every reason to fear he would not see her with calmness.”

“No, I was not aware,” she said, with extreme surprise and curiosity.

The physician looked at her with a smile.

“I see what you imagine; but that is not at all the impression I intend
to convey. My impression would be of a contrary nature. Mr. Devereux
very constantly spoke of and addressed Miss Smith, often calling her
Miss Smythe. Sometimes he addressed her as having injured him, but more
often reproached himself as if he had injured her. It was impossible to
put any meaning to his ravings; but, under the circumstances, I think
you will feel with me that the visit must be delayed.”

Mrs. Elliott was not very clear on this point, but it was not one on
which she could venture to have an opinion.

She told Nora that Annabella was to be allowed to see Henry, as her
visit would be no effort to him; but that any further step was forbidden
for a few days longer. She spoke cheerfully, and Nora could only be
satisfied to wait.

Henry was convalescent, but he did not recover. The joys of
convalescence, such as poets have painted them, were not his. He was
allowed to get up, he was laid on a sofa, he was wheeled to the window;
but all the day long he lay languid, joyless, and indifferent.

When the great physician, who had ceased his constant attendance, came
at the end of five or six days, he found but little improvement. “I
cannot understand it,” he said. “There must be some hidden injury.”

“He would be well if he chose to be well,” said the lesser practitioner
impatiently; “everything depends on the patient. If the patient will
make no exertions, medicine is useless. If Mr. Devereux was in a
hospital, they would turn him out; and the best thing for him, too.”

The little doctor who spoke thus had become much attached to Henry, but
he was provoked with him for not getting well. He had been looking
forward to a display of the progress made under his care, and he was
disappointed.

The great physician asked for Mrs. Elliot.

“I think we will try your remedy,” he said. “The excitement I feared may
prove a help instead of a hindrance. Mr. Devereux must be roused. Let us
try an experiment. If Miss Smith is disposed to visit him, let her do so
this afternoon. I need not recommend care and watchfulness. You will be
on your guard. I leave the matter in your hands.”

Mrs. Elliott undertook it cheerfully. While he was dining, she paid
Henry a visit; and as she left him, observed, quietly, that a few people
were now to be admitted. “I shall bring Nora to see you this afternoon.”

She did not wait for any reply, nor paused to observe the manner in
which the statement was received.

An hour afterwards she fetched Nora and accompanied her to his room. As
they walked along, Nora begged her to remain with her during the visit.

“You see I have got my knitting,” Mrs. Elliott said, smiling. She could
not refuse a request made with great earnestness, but she determined to
use her discretion.

As they appeared at the door, a deep flush for an instant dyed Henry’s
cheek, and then passed away with the rapidity of weakness, and left him
deadly pale. He looked so wan, so weak, so emaciated with illness, that
Nora paused breathless to recover herself from the shock he gave her.
The sight of him was worse than the vision that had haunted her. “And I
the cause!” she now said in her heart.

Accustomed, however, to self-control, the pause of horror was hardly
perceived before she came quietly forward, and then shook hands in
sedate and tranquil fashion. Mrs. Elliott then placed a chair for her
opposite to him at the foot of the sofa, and sat down herself nearer to
the door.

“I hoped I should have found you better,” Nora said, and her voice
trembled a little as she spoke.

“I am better, thank you,” he replied. “Indeed, in a few days I suppose I
shall be quite well.”

His words were cheerful and re-assuring, but the tone of his voice was
most painful. So languid, weak, and weary.

“Do you not wish to get well?” Nora asked, addressing the tone of his
voice, not the words he had said.

“I don’t know. Oh! yes, I suppose I wish to get well. All men do. But
life is a great trouble--a great struggle. Sometimes I feel as if it was
hardly worth while.”

And while he said these sentences, disconnectedly, his eyes rested on
her, looking so large and mournful in his sunken cheeks, so like the
eyes of Sophy in her dying days, that Nora felt struck as with a pang of
death.

“I think you should wish to live,” she said, bending forward towards
him, and speaking earnestly.

“I know I should,” he replied. “I know well that I am not fit to die;
nor is weariness of life a good preparation for death.”

“I did not mean that. I meant--” and here her voice took a tone of
passion in its earnestness--“I meant that you should wish to live for my
sake.” A glow tinged his cheek for a second, but Nora scarcely perceived
it. “If you were to die, what would become of me? Do you not know that I
should have killed you?”

“You have killed me many times,” he answered; and in his voice, also,
there was now a sound touched and altered from its languid tone. “This
time only the stroke would have been welcome.”

“How have I killed you? What have I ever done that you should hate me?”

“Hate! Is it possible you think I hate?”

Up to this time, notwithstanding her great discomfort, Mrs. Elliott, in
obedience to Nora’s wishes, had sat still. But here she felt unable to
maintain her position longer, and softly left the room. Her departure
was unperceived. She had been forgotten.

“It seems like hate,” Nora replied; “and what have I done, and how have
I deserved it? If it has been my unhappy fate to offend you often, and
now to have done you harm; you should pity, and not hate me. You should
pity me; for you cannot tell how I wished to do you good--how I have
longed, in my lonely life, to have you for my friend, and not my enemy.”

Her words were poured out, as she thus pleaded her cause before him,
with a force and quickness uncommon to her. Henry listened with
wide-opened eyes, and made no effort to arrest her.

It is related in Guarini’s “Pastor Fido,” that a hard-hearted young
hunter, who had trampled on love, scorning a young maiden who loved him,
was in a moment of time transformed by the discovery that he had
wounded, and he thought to death, the maiden he was disdaining. In one
instant the hard heart became soft.

It was with some such feeling, and with like suddenness, that Henry was
now transformed. As he listened to Nora’s voice pleading before him, as
he looked into her earnest eyes, the stubborn rebellious feeling which
had made his life miserable, born of passion first, then of pride, gave
way--melted within him.

“Hate!” he cried, and in an altered tone, “is it possible you think I
_hate_?”

And then a new and sudden struggle began within. It was no longer the
struggle of opposing feelings always felt in her presence, but the
struggle against one feeling, which seemed bursting for utterance. The
physician would have been alarmed if he had seen his agitation. His
cheeks were flushed with crimson, and every vein in the now transparent
skin seemed to be quivering beneath its slender covering.

Nora was terrified. She had hitherto been so absorbed by her intense
desire to set all bitterness at rest between them, that she had not
thought of the possibility of agitation. She now looked round, and saw
that Mrs. Elliott was gone.

“You are ill,” she cried, in a fright. “I have done you harm again!” and
she rose quickly from her seat.

“Wait,” he cried, and he stretched out his hand to her.

Pausing irresolute, hardly knowing what she did, she took it; and then
meeting a gaze that seemed designed to read her very soul, she began to
feel and to think;--and she blushed.

The blush loosed the fetters that withheld him.

“You said hate,” he cried, still gazing at her. “It is not hate. Shall I
say what it is--unworthy though I am to feel it?”

A swift bright glow, radiant in its beauty and gladness, flitted over
her unconscious face. It made her look so lovely that Henry could have
risen from his couch and worshipped her. He did spring up and attempted
to rise, but her imploring hand and weakness combined subdued him.

“Is it possible!” he cried, gazing at her. “Do _you not_ hate?”

She smiled and blushed, and slowly shook her head; and so it came to
pass that the barrier between them was broken down.

Nor was it likely to arise again, for the life of principle and
self-control he had lately led had delivered Henry from the folly and
childishness of old passion. The mirror of his mind was now smooth and
clear, and it needed only to brush the mists away that had gathered
upon it, and light entered, and with the light peace.

He one day described to Mrs. Elliott the singular torture he had long
endured. Nora, as he saw her to be, as he knew her to be, had long won
his heart. In their first meeting she had caught his fancy. To this had
been afterwards added gratitude and reverence; and growing from these a
devotion which, owing to their peculiar relations, was touched with a
light of romance.

But in opposition to these feelings there had been another image
perpetually rising before him--never, after his first acquaintance,
taking any hateful form, but one tending to distance, to freeze, to
chill him. He saw her as his benefactress and his judge. He saw her calm
and kind, extending to him her clemency, inviting him to mercy, judging
of him pitifully; seeing his errors, but forgiving them. And, strange to
say, the more the first feelings strove for mastery, and sometimes
gained it, the more did this image, with a cold Medusa gaze, haunt and
repel him. The combat between the two feelings had made his life
torture, his visits to her a torment.

“And no wonder,” was Mrs. Elliott’s observation. “But did it never
strike, never cross your poor brain, that she could perhaps feel more
like a young girl than an old judge?”

“Never but once,” he said. “After I left Riddlemere I was haunted by the
thought, the hope that I had made a favourable impression; but Mr.
Powderham’s letter telling me of her friendly interference in my favour
put that to flight for ever. Nor was it likely, after her kindness to
my family, that I should even imagine such a feeling on my return. I
think,” and he coloured and smiled, “if what I now gather from her is
true, her conduct to me and to them--judging by the common feelings of
people in that position--was truly heroic. The devotion of my life will
be a poor reward for all she has borne, and done.”

       *       *       *       *       *

A conclusion is hardly needed to a tale that has been already too long.
And there needs no pointing of a moral, when a moral has been so
glaringly exhibited.

It is not perhaps a common thing for an individual hate to be nourished
and cherished in a family; yet unless the annals of the world greatly
lie, the very same state of mind is nourished and cherished by single
persons, and in families, towards inanimate things; towards subjects,
bodies, names, and words. There are reasonless antipathies and
prejudices so nursed and fed in certain minds, that the very minds
become perturbed by the violence of the hate; a single word, a simple
name, sufficing to raise such a host of fiery thoughts, that the mental
powers lose their balance, and become incapable of fair and righteous
judgment.

It was the thought of some such truth that suggested the idea of the
story which has been told; which prompted the attempt to display the
effects of a reasonless hate on a young, unthinking character.

    “Fierce passions discompose the mind,
     As tempests lash the sea.”

There is the truth to be remembered. The remainder of the verse has its
truth also:

    “But calm content and peace we find
     When, Lord, we turn to Thee.”

Yet it would be unfair to deny that these reasonless hates and
antipathies are often cherished by minds whose desires are set in a
right direction. Good men, religious men, indulge in prejudices, until
their minds are unstrung by them. Yet good men, above all others, should
beware of such things; for fierce passions and prejudices, if cherished,
will discompose their brains, let them be as good as they may.


                                THE END.


       LONDON: PRINTED BY MACDONALD AND TUGWELL, BLENHEIM HOUSE.


Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:

the two cbildren=> the two children {pg 73}

for it acknowleged=> for it acknowledged {pg 75}

disappoinment with it=> disappointment with it {pg 127}

and very scrupulons=> and very scrupulous {pg 146}

and Sophy profitted=> and Sophy profited {pg 150}

evening in the begining=> evening in the beginning {pg 152}

what I imgaine=> what I imagine {pg 230}




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