CHAPTER XII.
Mrs Burton had taken a very serious piece of work in hand. No wonderthat she lingered over the fire in the library, or in her drawing-room,or wherever she could find a fire, in those early chills of October, towarm her little cold toes, and to make up her plan of warfare. She was achilly little woman, as I have said. She had not much except a mind tokeep her warm, and mind is not a thing which preserves the caloricthoroughly unless it is comforted by the close vicinity of other organs.Mrs Burton had no body to speak of; and, so far as has been seen, notvery much heart. Her mind had to fulfil all the functions usuallyperformed by these other properties, and to keep her warm besides; sothat it was not wonderful if she sat over the fire.
It was not to be expected, however, that the Marchioness would always beso obliging as to remain in her room till three o'clock; andconsequently Mrs Burton's thinking had to be done at odd moments whenthe cares of her household could be lawfully laid aside. She was ratherin bondage to her distinguished guest; and as she was a littlerepublican, a natural democrat at heart, the bondage was hard to her.She was a great deal cleverer than the Marchioness of Upshire; her mindwent at railroad speed, while that great lady jogged along at thegentlest pace. Where the heart is predominant, or even a good, honest,placid body, there is tolerance for stupidity; but poor intellect isalways intolerant. Mrs Burton chafed at her noble companion, andsuffered tortures inwardly; but she was very civil, so far as outwardappearance went, and did her duty as hostess in a way which left nothingto be desired.
But it took all her powers to master the problem before her. She had anadversary to overcome; an adversary whom she did not despise, but whomeverybody at the first glance would have thought too slight a creatureto merit so much as a thought. Mrs Burton knew better. She looked atNorah Drummond not in her simple and evident shape as a little girl ofeighteen, the daughter of a poor mother, who lived upon a hundredpounds a year. This was what Norah was; and yet she was a great dealmore. She was the commander of a little compact army, of which the twochief warriors, love and nature, were not much known to Mrs Burton; butwhich was reinforced by youth, and supreme perverseness and self-will,powers with which she was perfectly acquainted. Ned's love his mothermight perhaps have laughed at; but Ned's obstinacy, his determination tohave his own way, were opponents at which she could not laugh; and theywere arrayed against her. So was the capricious fancy, the perverseindividuality of Cyril Rivers, who was a man accustomed to be courted,and not over-likely to fall into an arrangement made for him by hisfamily. Mrs Burton pondered much upon all these things. She found outthat her guest was seen at the Gatehouse almost every day, and she sawfrom her son's aspect that he too knew it, and was beginning to hate hisrival. Then there arose a little conflict in her mind as to which of hertwo children she should make herself the champion of. A mother, it maybe thought, would incline most to the daughter's side; but Mrs Burtonwas not an emotional mother. She was not scheming how she could save herchildren pain. The idea of suffering on their part did not much affecther--at least, suffering of a sentimental kind. She formed her plan atlast with a cold-blooded regard to their advantage, founded on the mostcareful consideration. There was no particular feeling in it one way oranother. She had no desire to injure Norah, or even Norah's mother, morethan was inevitable. She had not even any harsh or revengeful feelingstowards them. To confound their projects was necessary to the success ofher own--that was all; but towards themselves she meant no harm. With anequal impartiality she decided that her operations should be on Ned'sside. If she could be said to have a favourite, it was Ned. Clara wasself-seeking and self-willed to a degree which was disagreeable to MrsBurton. Such strenuous sentiments were vulgar and coarse to the moreintellectually constituted nature. And Clara had so much flesh andblood, while her mother had so little, that this, too, weakened thesympathy between them. The mother, who was all mind, could not helphaving a certain involuntary unexpressed contempt for the daughter whoseoverwhelming physique carried her perpetually into a different world.But what was vulgar in Clara was allowable in Ned; and then Ned hadtalent in his way, and had taken his degree already, and somewhatdistinguished himself, though he was careful, as he himself said, to'put his brains in his pocket,' and refrain from all exhibition of themwhen he got home. Then, it would not have flattered Mrs Burton's vanityat all to see her daughter the Hon. Mrs., or even Lady Rivers; but itwas a real object with her to see her son in Parliament. She had triedhard to thrust her husband into a seat, with a little swell ofimpatience and ardour in her heart, to have thus an opportunity ofexercising her own powers in the direction of the State. It was a thingshe could have done, and she would have given half her life to have itin her power. But this had turned out an impossible enterprise, and nowall her wishes were set upon Ned. With the Merewethers' influence, inaddition to their own, Ned, almost as soon as he had come of age, mightbe a legislator. With the talents he had derived from her, and which shewould stimulate and inspire, he might be of service to his country. Itwas not an ungenerous aspiration; it was rather, on the contrary, asnoble a wish as mere intellect could form. And to attain this it wasnecessary that Ned should gain his father's favour by bringing asplendid connection to the house of Dura; and that, on the other hand,he should obtain that influence which was his shortest way to thecoveted position. What did it matter if a temporary heart-break were theprice he had to pay, or even a temporary humiliation in the shape ofgiving up his own will? His mother decided for him that such a price wasa very small matter to pay. She made up her mind accordingly that heshould pay it at once, and in its most unquestionable form. That Clarashould be humbled, too, and exposed to tortures of wounded pride andmortification, was a pity; but there was no other way.
This, then, was Mrs Burton's plan: to encourage young Rivers, the suitorwhom her husband had chosen for her daughter, to devote himself toNorah; to throw him continually in the girl's way; to make him displayhis admiration, and if possible his devotion to her; to delude Norahinto satisfaction, even response, to the assiduities of her new suitor;and by these means to disgust and detach Ned from the object of hisyouthful affection. It was a bold scheme, and at the same time itpromised to be an easy one. As to what might follow in respect to Clara,the risk would have to be run; but it did not seem a very great risk. Inthe first place, Clara's 'feelings' (a word at which her mother smiled)were not engaged; and in the second place, Cyril Rivers, though he mightbe foolish enough, was not such a fool as to throw his handsome selfaway upon a penniless girl without connections or anything to recommendher. There was very little fear that it would ever come to that. Hemight fall in love with Norah, might flatter and woo, and even break(Mrs Burton smiled again, the risk seemed so infinitesimal) the girl'sheart; but he was not likely, as a man of the world, to commit himself.And if after her end was served it might be thought expedient still thathe should marry Clara, why a flirtation of this kind could make verylittle difference; it might put a stop to Mr Burton's ideas at themoment, but it need not affect them in the future. She made this plan,with her toes warming at the library fire, and she did not confide it toany one. Such schemes sound a great deal worse when they are put intowords than they feel in the recesses of the bosom that gave them birth.She felt very well satisfied when she had thus settled what to do. Itseemed the minimum of pain for the maximum of advantage; and then it wasa kind of pain which Mrs Burton could not but contemplate with a certainmockery, and which she could but faintly realize.
At luncheon that day it turned out, as she supposed, that Mr Rivers wasnot one of the shooting party. He had been writing letters, he said; hewas going to call at the Rectory in the afternoon to see Mr Dalton. Inshort, he had an appointment. Mr Dalton was a member of theAnthropological Society, to which he also belonged.
'I wonder if I might ask you to do something for me,' said Mrs Burton.'It is just to leave a note at the Gatehouse. You know the Gatehouse?Mrs Drummond's, just opposite the Rectory.'
'Certainly. I know Mrs Drummond,' said Rivers. He answe
red verypromptly, feeling that there was a covert attack intended, and that thiswas meant to remind him of the allegiance he owed elsewhere. His replyhad thus quite an unnecessary degree of promptitude and explanatoriness.'I have known her for many years. In fact, I called there yesterday.' Hefelt it was expedient for his own independence to assert his freedom ofaction at once.
'Then you won't mind leaving my note,' said Mrs Burton. 'We are gettingup a picnic for Wednesday, you know; and I should like Norah to be withus. She has rather a dull life at home, poor child.'
'That is the pretty girl you were dancing with, Mr Rivers,' said LadyFlorizel, 'with dark hair and hundreds of little flounces. I shouldhave said she was too little for so many flounces, if she had consultedme.'
'That is the mistake girls always make,' said the Marchioness,'especially girls who are not in society. They follow the fashionwithout ever thinking whether it suits them or not.'
'But, under correction, I think it did suit her,' said Mr Rivers. 'Donot let us call them flounces--call them clouds, or lines of soft whitemist. I am not sufficiently learned in _chiffons_ to speak.'
'Oh, but you are delightful on _chiffons_!' said Lady Florizel. 'Menalways are when they know just a little. Sometimes, you know, one canactually derive an idea from you; and then you make the most deliciousmistakes. Clara, let us make him talk _chiffons_; it is the greatest funin the world.'
'I have more confidence in my maid,' said Clara. She was not in thehabit of controlling herself or hiding her emotions. She contracted herwhite forehead, which was not very high by nature, with a force whichbrought the frizzy golden fringe of hair over her very eyebrows--andpouted with her red lips. 'Besides, Mr Rivers has something better todo,' she said, getting up from the table.
She was the first to get up--a thing which filled the Marchioness withconsternation. Clara was a girl of the nineteenth century, feeling thather youth, and her bloom, and riotous, luxurious beauty made her queenof the more gently toned, gently mannered company. She broke up theparty with that pout and frown.
Rivers went away with the note in his pocket, believing devoutly that ithad been intended for a snare for him, a way of interfering with hisfreedom. 'Let her wait at least till I am in her toils, which will notbe just yet,' he said to himself while he went down the avenue; whileClara pursued her mother, who had gone to put on her bonnet to accompanythe Marchioness on her drive, up-stairs.
'How could you, mamma?' she cried. 'Oh, how could you? It is because youthink nothing of me; you don't care for me. To ask the Drummonds at allwas bad enough; but to send Cyril Rivers to ask them. It seems too badeven for you.'
'Clara, what is Cyril Rivers to you?'
'To me?' Clara faltered, stopped short, was silent, gazing at her motherwith blue, wide-open eyes, which astonishment made round. Even to adauntless girl, accustomed to speak her mind, the question was a hardone. She could not answer, 'Papa means him to marry me. He is myproperty; no one has any right to him but me,' as she might have donehad she spoken at all. It requires a very great deal of hardihood to putsuch sentiments into speech, and Clara, with all her confidence, was notquite bold enough. She gazed at her mother, with angry blue eyes,speaking with them what she could not say in words; but all she could doaudibly was to murmur again, 'To me!'
'Yes, to you. I don't know what right you have to interfere. If youconsider that you have any just right, state it to me; and if I find itreasonable I will tell you what I am doing; but, otherwise, not a word.In the circumstances composure and patience are the best things for you.I am acting, and I shall act, towards Mr Rivers according to principlesof my own, and a system of my own; and I don't mean to be interferedwith, Clara. You understand that.'
'I shall speak to papa,' said Clara, in her anger. 'I shall just tell itall to papa.'
'Do, my dear,' said her mother calmly, and put on her bonnet. It wasclear that now, at least, there was not another word to be said.
Clara went away in her anger to Lady Florizel for sympathy.
'Mamma has made up her mind to ask those people,' she said. 'And I hatethem. They are low people--people that ought not to be asked to meetyou.'
'Oh, as for us, never mind! They will not hurt us,' said Lady Florizelshrugging her shoulders; 'but I thought you told me you were greatfriends with the people in the village before the ball.'
'That is the worst of all,' said Clara. 'We are great friends. They wereall the company I ever had before I came out. But now, when I don'trequire them any longer, they have grown disagreeable; and yet there isthe old habit existing all the same.'
'Poor Clara!' said her new companion, 'what a bore for you! Villagecompanions are so apt to be a bore. But I am sure if you were to talk toyour mamma she would find some way of getting rid of them. That would bethe best.'
'Why, it is she that is asking them,' said Clara.
And it became more and more apparent that her injury was past help; forin the face of her mother's invitation what could even papa do?
Mr Rivers carried the note with much fidelity to its destination. 'Ishould not have ventured to come,' he said when he went in and met MrsDrummond's look of suspicion, 'but for _this_. And I hope it will findfavour in your eyes. I suppose I am to wait and take an answer? And itwill be a favourable answer, I hope.'
Helen and her child had been talking of him before he appeared, andNorah had been a little agitated, half-pleasurably, half-painfully, byher mother's warning.
'I do not like him to come so often,' Mrs Drummond had said. 'Whether hemeans anything or not, I would much rather he did not come.'
'Mean, mamma! What could he mean, except to talk to you a little? I amsure he does not mean anything,' Norah had cried, with the prematureconfidence of her age.
And then he had made his appearance, and with the knowledge of thatbrief discussion in her mind she was embarrassed, and felt as if he mustread all about it in her eyes.
'May I tell you what it is, Miss Drummond?' he asked, turning to her,while her mother opened the note, and sinking his voice. 'It is a picnicto the old tower of Dura. I suppose you know all about it. It is to beon Wednesday, and I hope you will come.'
'Oh, a picnic!' said Norah, with a flush of joyful anticipation. 'Inever was at a real grown-up picnic. I should like it so much, if mammathinks we may.'
'But perhaps you could influence mamma.'
'No, no. I don't think it. I would rather not bother her,' said Norah,with a little hesitation, feeling all her embarrassment return. 'Ofcourse she must know best.'
'Oh, of course,' said Mr Rivers. He smiled as he looked at her, andNorah, giving a wistful, furtive glance at him, was suddenly seized withspontaneous wonder as to what he meant--a question not arising from whather mother had said, but from herself. The thought sprung up in her mindunawares, bringing with it a blush. What could he mean? Why did he comeso often? Why did he wish that she should have this new pleasure? Whatcould it matter to him? There would be plenty of people at thepicnic--young people, nice people, pretty people, people all dressed inpurple and fine linen--who would be much more like him than Norah. Andwhy should he care? A delicious doubt, a delicious suspicion came intoher thoughts. Could it be possible? Might it really, really--? She shutsome little trap-door down upon it resolutely in her mind, and wouldnot look at, would not consider that suggestion; but it ran through allher veins when she cast it out of her thoughts. Could it be possible?And this was not Ned Burton, a boy whom she had known all her life, butthe hero of romance himself--he who looked as if he had walked out of abook. It flattered her--she could not tell why. She cast down her eyes,for he had been looking at her all the time, and it seemed to her as ifhe must be able to tell her thoughts.
But he did not. He took up the cotton with which she was working, andwound and unwound it upon his fingers.
'I have to run over to the Rectory,' he said. 'Perhaps I had better dothat now, and come back to get my answer. Perhaps then I might have acup of tea? This room is the very sort of room to drink tea in. Thefirst
dish of tea must have been made here.'
'It is not so old as that.'
'Oh, it is as old as we like to believe it,' said Mr Rivers. 'Don'tdisturb Mrs Drummond. I will go away now, and in half an hour I shallcome back.' And he let himself out like a child of the house, assuming afamiliarity to which he had not any right.
Norah sat quite tremulous, yet perfectly quiet, after he was gone,wondering, and trying to stop herself from wondering--feeling somehowthat this must be that power of which she had read, which made thestrongest and best of men subject to a girl--and feeling that it was notpossible, seeing the girl was 'only _me_.'
'It is another invitation,' Mrs Drummond said, with a little sigh. 'Youmust decide about it, Norah. It will be a pleasure to you, and it seemshard you should not have a little pleasure. But, on the other hand, mydear, after all you told me about Ned, and how Mr Rivers----'
'There is nothing about Mr Rivers, mamma.'
'Perhaps not, perhaps not, dear. I do not say there is--anything, Norah;but still it is not comfortable that he should come so often. There isthe note. I will not say yes or no, my darling. You shall decide whetherwe shall go or stay.'
Norah read the note over with glowing eyes. The blood came hot to herface. It seemed to open up before her a day out of Paradise. Thechildren had made picnics among themselves often enough to Dura Tower.They had gone in the height of the summer for a long day; the boyswalking, the girls packed into Mrs Dalton's pony-carriage, or the littledonkey-chair, which lived in the village. Bread and butter, and fruit,and hard-boiled eggs, and bottles of milk was what they used to takewith them; and they would come home laden with garlands of the lushwoodbine, with honeysuckles in sheaves, and basketfuls of those fragilewild-flowers which never survive the plucking, but which children cannotresist. These old days rose before her with all their sweetness. Butthis was different;--one of the Dura carriages to take them up; a fewhours among the woods, and luncheon out of doors, if it was warm enough;'to show the Marchioness and the young ladies what little antiquities wehave.' Perhaps the grandeur and the glory of the society would make upfor the absence of the brilliant summer, and the freedom of the childishparty; but yet----She looked up shyly at her mother with cheeks thatwere crimson upon her dark eyelashes.
'I suppose, mamma, it would be selfish of me to want to go?'
'That means you do want to go, Norah,' said Helen, shaking her headsoftly, with a half-reproachful smile.
'Is it wrong?' said Norah, stealing behind her mother's chair with acoaxing arm round her neck. 'I never saw anything like it. I _should_like, just this once. Our old little parties were such baby affairs,mamma. That donkey-chair, what fun it was! And oh! do you remember howit always ran away, and that time when little Jenny fell asleep? Butthis will be grand--something to see. And you will like the drive; it issuch a pretty drive; and the woods will be lovely. I never was there inOctober before.'
'You coaxing child, as Miss Jane says; you want to go.'
'Yes, please, mamma.'
And Norah dropt a little curtsey demurely, like the child she was nolonger. And yet as she stood there in her gray frock, she was so verylike a child that Helen had to rub her eyes and ask herself what wasthis wonderful difference. Yesterday or so Norah had trudged along amongthe boys, taking her share, pushing them about, carrying her own basketin all the _bon camaraderie_ of childhood. Now she was the princess,drawing their wistful looks after her, breaking poor Ned's heart,attracting the other hero out of his natural sphere. How was it? Themother sighed a little, wondering, and smiled, with a sense that theworld, which had so long neglected her, was offering to her, to herself,not to Norah, the sweetest, strangest flatteries. She was anxious as tohow it might all end, and sometimes was unhappy; and yet she waspleased--what mother ever was otherwise?--'to see her bairn respectedlike the lave.'
And then Mr Rivers came back for his cup of tea. What did he want,haunting the old house? He came back for the answer, he said; and calledhimself Mrs Burton's man, and the penny-post, and made very merry overthe whole transaction. But in all this he made it very apparent that anyexcuse for coming was sweet to him. And Norah laughed at the joke, andcast down her pretty eyes, and her colour went and came like the wind.What did he mean? Did he mean anything? Or was it for mere amusementthat on every pretext possible he came to the Gatehouse?