CHAPTER XIV.
Mr Burton was a man who was accustomed in his own house to have, in agreat degree, his own way; but this was not because his wife wasdisinclined to hold, or incapable of forming, an opinion of her own. Onthe contrary, it was because he was rather afraid of her than otherwise,and thought twice before he promulgated any sentiments or started anyplan which was likely to be in opposition to hers. But he had neitherconsulted her, nor, indeed, thought much of what she would say, in thesudden proposal he had made to the Haldanes. He was not a hasty man; butDr Maurice's indignation had made an impression upon him, and he hadfelt all at once that in going to the Haldanes and to Helen, he mustnot, if he would preserve his own character, go with merely emptysympathy, but must show practically his pity for them. It was perhapsthe only time in his life that he had acted upon a hasty idea withouttaking time to consider; and a chill doubt, as to what Clara would say,was in his mind as he turned his face homewards. Dura was about twentymiles from town, in the heart of one of the leafiest of Englishcounties; the station was a mile and a half from the great house, halfof which distance, however, was avenue; and Mr Burton's phaeton, withthe two greys--horses which matched to a hair, and were not equalled inthe stables of any potentate in the county--was waiting for him when thetrain arrived. He liked to drive home in this glorious way, rousing thevillage folks and acting as a timepiece for them, just as he liked thegreat dinner-bell, which the old Harcourts sounded only on greatoccasions, to be rung every day, letting the whole neighbourhood knowthat their local lord, their superior, the master of the great house,was going to dinner. He liked the thought that his return was an eventin the place almost justifying the erection of a standard, as it waserected in a royal castle not very far off, when the sovereign went andcame. Our rich man had not gone so far as yet, but he would have likedit, and felt it natural. The village of Dura was like a collection ofbeads threaded on the long white thread of road which ran from thestation to the house--and occupied the greater part of the space, withsingle houses straggling at either end, and a cluster in the middle. Thestraggling houses at the end next the station were white villas, builtfor people whose business was in town, and who came home to dinner bythe same train which brought Mr Burton, though their arrival was lessimposing; but where the clump of dwelling-places thickened, the housestoned down into old-fashioned, deeply-lichened brick, with here andthere a thatched roof to deepen, or a white-washed gable to relieve, thecomposition. At the end nearest the great house the village made arespectful pause, and turned off along a slanting path, which showed thetower of the church behind over the trees. The rectory, however, apretty house buried in shrubberies, fronted the high road with modestconfidence; and opposite it was another dwelling-place, in front ofwhich Mr Burton drew up his horses for a moment, inspecting it with acareful and anxious eye. His heart beat a little quicker as he looked.His own gate was in sight, and these were the very grounds of DuraHouse, into which the large walled garden of this one intruded like asquare wedge. In front there were no shrubberies, no garden, nothing todivide it from the road. A double row of pollard limes--one on the edgeof the foot-path, one close to the house--indicated and shaded, but didnot separate it from the common way. The second row of limes was levelwith the fence of the Dura grounds, and one row of white flagstones laybetween them and the two white steps, the green door, and shining brassknocker of the Gatehouse. It was a house which had been built in thereign of the first George, of red brick, with a great many windows,three-storied, and crowned by a pediment, with that curious mixture ofthe useful and (supposed) ornamental, which by this time has come tolook almost picturesque by reason of age. It had been built for themother of one of the old Harcourts, a good woman who had been born theRector's daughter of the place, and loved it and its vicinity, and thesight of its comings and goings. This was the origin of the Gatehouse;but since the days of Mrs Dunstable Harcourt it had rarely beeninhabited by any of the family, and had been a trouble more than anadvantage to them. It was too near the hall to be inhabited bystrangers, and people do not always like to establish their own poorrelations and dependents at their very gates. As the Harcourts dwindledand money became important to them, they let it at a small rate to amaiden household, two or three old ladies of limited means, and blood asblue as their own. And when Dura ceased, except on county maps, to beHarcourt-Dura, and passed into the hands of the rich merchant, he, too,found the Gatehouse a nuisance. There had been talk of pulling it down,but that would have been waste; and there had been attempts made to letit to 'a suitable tenant,' but no suitable tenant had been found.Genteel old ladies of blue blood had not found the vicinity of theBurtons a comfort to them as they did that of the Harcourts. And thereit stood empty, echoing, void, a place where the homeless might besheltered. Did Mr Burton's heart glow with benevolent warmth as hepaused, drawing up his greys, and looked at it, with all its windowstwinkling in the sun? To one of these windows a woman came forward atthe sound of his pause, and, putting her face close to the small pane,looked out at him wondering. He gave her a nod, and sighed; and thenflourished his whip, and the greys flew on. In another moment they hadturned into the avenue and went dashing up the gentle ascent. It was apretty avenue, though the trees were not so old as most of the Duratrees. The sunset gleamed through it, slanting down under the lowestbranches, scattering the brown mossy undergrowth with lumps of gold. Alittle pleasant tricksy wind shook the branches and dashed little mimicshowers of rain in the master's face: for it had been raining in theafternoon, and the air was fresh and full of a hundred nameless odours;but Mr Burton gave forth another big sigh before he reached the house.He was a little afraid of what his wife would say, and he was afraid ofwhat he had done.
He did not say anything about it, however, till dinner was over. Themost propitious moment seemed that gentle hour of dessert, when theinner man is strengthened and comforted, and there is time to dally overthe poetic part of the meal--not that either of the Burtons werepoetical. They were alone, not even the children being with them, forMrs Burton disapproved of children coming to dessert; but all the same,she was beautifully dressed; he liked it, and so did she. She made verylittle difference in this particular between her most imposing dinnerparties and those evenings which she spent _t?te-?-t?te_ with herhusband. When her aunts, who had old-fashioned ideas about extravagance,remonstrated with her, she defended herself, saying she could affordit, and he liked to see her well dressed. Mr Burton hated to have anyscrap of capital unemployed; and the only interest you could get fromyour jewels was the pleasure of wearing them, and seeing them worn, hesaid. So Mrs Burton dined with her husband in a costume which a Frenchlady of fashion would have considered appropriate to a ball or royalreception, with naked shoulders and arms, and lace and ornaments. Madamela Duchesse might have thought it much too fine, but Mrs Burton did not.She was a pale little woman, small and thin, but not without beauty. Herhair was not very abundant, but it was exquisitely smooth and neat. Heruncovered shoulders were white, and her arms round and well-formed; andshe had clear blue eyes, so much brighter than anybody expected, thatthey took the world by surprise: they were cold in their expression, butthey were full of intelligence, and a hundred times more vivid andstriking than anything else about her, so that everybody observed andadmired Mrs Burton's eyes.
'What has been going on to-day? What have you been doing?' she asked,when the servants went away. The question sounded affectionate, andshowed at least that there was confidence between the husband and wife.
'Very much as usual,' Mr Burton said, with colloquial ease; and then hestopped and cleared his throat. 'But for my own part I have donesomething rather foolish,' he said, with an almost imperceptible tremorin his voice.
'Indeed?' She gave a quick glance up at him; but she was not excited,and went on calmly eating her strawberries. He was not the kind of manof whose foolish actions a wife is afraid.
'I have been to see the Haldanes to-day,' he said, once more clearinghis throat; 'and I have been to Helen Drummond's,
but did not see her.The one, of course, I did out of regard for your father; the other----Iwas so distressed by the sight of that poor fellow in his helplessness,that I acted on impulse, Clara. I know it's a foolish thing to do. Isaid to myself, here are two families cast out of house and home, andthere is the Gatehouse----'
'The Gatehouse!'
'Yes, I was afraid you would be startled; but reflect a moment: it is ofno use to us. We have got nobody to occupy it. You know, indeed, howalarmed you were when your aunt Louisa took a fancy to it; and I havetried for a tenant in vain. Then, on the other hand, one cannot but besorry for these poor people. Helen is my cousin; she has no nearerfriend than I am. And your father is so much interested in theHaldanes----'
'I don't quite understand,' said Mrs Burton, with undisturbed composure;'my father's interest in the Haldanes has nothing to do with theGatehouse. Are they to live there?'
'That was what I thought,' said her husband, 'but not, of course, if youhave any serious dislike to it--not if you decidedly object----'
'Why should I decidedly object?' she said. 'I should if you werebringing them to live with me; but otherwise----It is not at allsuitable--they will not be happy there. It will be a great nuisance tous. As it is, strangers rather admire it--it looks old-fashioned andpleasant; but if they made a squalid place of it, dirty windows, andcooking all over the house----'
'So far as _my_ cousin is concerned, you could have nothing of that kindto fear,' said Mr Burton, ceasing to be apologetic. He put a slightemphasis on the word _my_; perhaps upon this point he would not havebeen sorry to provoke his wife, but Clara Burton would not gratify herhusband by any show of jealousy. She was not jealous, she was thinkingsolely of appearances, and of the possible decadence of the Gatehouse.
'Besides, Susan must stay,' he continued, after a pause; 'she mustremain in charge; the house must be kept as it ought to be. If that isyour only objection, Clara----'
'I have made no objection at all,' said Mrs Burton; and then she brokeinto a dry little laugh. 'What a curious establishment it will be--anold broken-down nurserymaid, a Dissenting minister, and your cousin! MrBurton, will she like it? I cannot say that I should feel proud if itwere offered to me.'
His face flushed a little. He was not anxious himself to spare Helen'sfeelings. If he had found an opportunity, it would have been agreeableto him to remind her that she had made a mistake; but she was his ownrelation, and instinct prompted him to protect her from his wife.
'Helen is too poor to allow herself to think whether she likes it ornot,' he said.
His wife gave a sharp glance at him across the table. What did he mean?Did he intend to be kind, or to insult the desolate woman? Clara askedherself the question as a philosophical question, not because she cared.
'And is your cousin willing to accept it from you, after--that story?'she said.
'What story? You mean about her husband. It is not my story. I havenothing to do with it; and even if I had, surely it is the man who doeswrong, not the man who tells it, that should have the blame; besides,she does not know.'
'Ah, that is the safest,' said Clara. 'I think it is a very strangestory, Mr Burton. It may be true, but it is not like the truth.'
'I have nothing to do with it,' he exclaimed. He spoke hotly, with aswelling of the veins on his temples. 'There are points of view in whichhis death was very providential,' he said.
And once more Clara gave him a sharp glance.
'It was the angel who watches over Mr Golden that provided the boat, nodoubt,' she answered, with a contraction of her lips; then fell backinto the former topic with perfect calm. 'I should insist upon the housebeing kept clean and nice,' she said, as she rose to go away.
'Surely--surely; and you may tell your father when you write, that poorHaldane is so far provided for.' He got up to open the door for her,and, detaining her for a moment, stooped down and kissed her forehead.'I am so much obliged to you, Clara, for consenting so kindly,' he said.
A faint little cold smile came upon her face. She had been his wife fora dozen years; but in her heart she was contemptuous of the kiss whichhe gave her, as if she had been a child, as a reward for heracquiescence. It is to be supposed that she loved him after her fashion.She had married him of her free will, and had never quarrelled with himonce in all their married life. But yet had he known how his kiss wasreceived, the sting would have penetrated even through the toughcovering which protected Reginald Burton's _amour propre_, if not hisheart. Mrs Burton went away into the great drawing-room, where herchildren, dressed like little princes in a comedy, were waiting for her.The Harcourts in the old days, had made a much smaller room their familycentre; but the Burtons always used the great drawing-room, and lived,as it were, in state from one year's end to another. Here Clara Burtondwelt--a little anonymous spirit, known to none even of her nearestfriends. They were all puzzled by her 'ways,' and by the blankmany-sided surface like a prism which she presented to them, refusingto be influenced by any. She did not know any more about herself thanthe others did. Outside she was all glitter and splendour; nobodydressed so well, nobody had such jewels, or such carriages, or suchhorses in all the county. She used every day, and in her homeliestmoments, things which even princes reserve for their best. Mrs Burtonmade it a boast that she had no best things; she was the same always,herself--and not her guests or anything apart from herself--being thecentre of life in her house and in all her arrangements. The dinnerwhich the husband and wife had just eaten had been as varied and asdainty, as if twenty people had sat down to it. It was her principlethroughout her life. And yet within herself the woman cared for none ofthese things. Another woman's dress or jewels was nothing to her. Shewas totally indifferent to the external advantages which everybody elsebelieved her to be absorbed in. Clara was very worldly, her aunts said,holding up their hands aghast at her extravagance and costly habits; butthe fact was, that Clara made all her splendours common, not out of lovefor them, but contempt for them: a thing which nobody suspected. It isonly a cynical soul that could feel thus, and Mrs Burton's cynicismwent very deep. She thought meanly of human nature, and did not believemuch in goodness; but she seldom disapproved, and never condemned. Shewould smile and cast about in her mind (unawares) for the motive of anydoubtful action, and generally ended by finding out that it was 'verynatural,' a sentence which procured her credit for large toleration anda most amiable disposition, but which sprang really from the cynicalcharacter of her mind. It did not seem to her worth while to censure orto sermonize. She did not believe in reformation; and incredulity was inher the twin-brother of despair; but not a tragical despair. She took itall very calmly, not feeling that it was worth while to be disturbed byit; and went on unconsciously tracking out the mean motives, the poorpretensions, the veiled selfishness of all around her. And she was notaware that she herself was any better, nor did she claimsuperiority--nay, she would even track her own impulses back to theirroot, and smile at them, though with a certain bitterness. But all thiswas so properly cloaked over that nobody suspected it. People gave hercredit for wisdom because she generally believed the worst, and was sovery often right; and they thought her tolerant because she would takepains to show how it was nature that was in fault, and not the culprit.No one suspected the terrible little cynic, pitiless and hopeless thatshe was in her heart.
And yet this woman was the mother of children, and had taught them theirprayers, and was capable at that or any other moment of giving herselfto be torn in pieces for them, as a matter of course, a thing whichwould not admit a possibility of doubt. She had thought of that in hermany thinkings, had attempted to analyze her own love, and to fathom howmuch it was capable of. 'As much as a tiger or a bear would do for hercubs,' she had said to herself, with her usual smile. The strangestwoman to sit veiled by Reginald Burton's fireside, and take the head ofhis table, and go to church with him in the richest, daintiest garmentswhich money and skill could get for her! She was herself to some degreebehind the scenes of her own nature; but even she co
uld not alwaysdiscriminate, down among the foundations of her being, which was falseand which was true.
She went into the drawing-room, where her little Clara and Ned werewaiting. Ned was thirteen, a year older than Norah Drummond. Mr Burtonhad determined that he would not be behind the cousin who refused him,nor allow her to suppose that he was pining for her love, so that hismarriage had taken place earlier than Helen's. Ned was a big boy, veryactive, and not given to book-learning; but Clara, who was a yearyounger, was a meditative creature like her mother. The boy was standingoutside the open window, throwing stones at the birds in the distanttrees. Little Clara stood within watching him, and making her commentson the sport.
'Suppose you were to kill a poor little bird. Suppose one of the youngones--one of the baby ones--were to try and fly a little bit, and youwere to hit it. Suppose the poor papa when he comes home----'
'Oh, that's enough of your supposes,' said the big boy. 'Suppose I wereto eat _you_? But I don't want to. I don't think you would be nice.'
'Ned!' said a voice from behind Clara, which thrilled him through andthrough, and made the stones fall from his hands as if they had beensuddenly paralyzed, and were unable to grasp anything. 'I know it isnatural to boys to be cruel, but I had rather not have it under my owneyes.'
'Cruel!' cried Ned, with some discontent. 'A parcel of wretched sparrowsand things that can't sing a note. They have no business in our trees.They ought to know what they would get.'
'Are boys always cruel, mamma?' said little Clara, laying hold upon hermother's dress. She was like a little princess herself, all lace andembroidery and blue ribbons and beautifulness. Mrs Burton made noanswer. She did not even wait to see that her boy took no more shots atthe birds. She drew a chair close to the window, and sat down; and asshe took her seat she gave vent to a little fretful sigh. She wasthinking of Helen, and was annoyed that she had actually no means ofjudging what were the motives that would move her should she come toDura. It was difficult for her to understand simple ignorance andunsuspiciousness, or to give them their proper place among the springsof human action. Her worst fault philosophically was that of ignoringthese commonest influences of all.
'Mamma, you are thinking of something,' said little Clara. 'Why do yousigh, and why do you shake your head?'
'I have been trying to put together a puzzle,' said her mother, 'as youdo sometimes; and I can't make it out.'
'Ah, a puzzle,' said Ned, coming in; 'they are not at all fun, mamma.That beastly dissected map Aunt Louisa gave me--by Jove! I should liketo take the little pieces and shy them at the birds.'
'But, mamma,' said Clara, 'are you sure it is only that? I never saw youplaying with toys.'
'I wonder if I ever did?' said Mrs Burton, with a little gleam ofsurprise. 'Do you remember going to London once, Clara, and seeing yourcousin, Norah Drummond? Should you like to have her here?'
'She was littler than me,' said Clara, promptly, 'though she was older.Papa told me. They lived in a funny little poky house. They had nocarriages nor anything. She had never even tried to ride; fancy, mamma!When I told her I had a pony all to myself, she only stared. Howdifferent she would think it if she came here!'
Her mother looked at the child with a curious light in her cold blueeyes. She gave a little harsh laugh.
'If it were not that it is natural, and you cannot help it,' she said,'I should like to whip you, my dear!'