CHAPTER II.
There is always a little excitement in a village over a new inhabitant,and the Drummonds were not common strangers to be speculated vaguelyabout. There were many people in Dura who remembered Helen in her beautyand youth. And next morning, when it became known that she had arrivedat the Gatehouse, the whole place burst into gossip on the subject. Eventhe new people, the City people who lived in the white villas near thestation, were moved by it. For poor Drummond's story was knowneverywhere, and his miserable fate, and the discussion in thenewspapers. Even here, in the quietness of the country, people tooksides, and public opinion was by no means so unanimous as poor Helen hadsupposed. The papers had accepted her husband's guilt as certain, butopinion was very much divided on the subject among people who had meansof knowing. 'Burton ought to have warned that poor fellow,' one of theCity gentlemen said to another at the station, going up by the earlytrain. 'I would not trust a simpleton in the hands of a smart man likeGolden.'
'Do you think he was a simpleton?' said the other.
'In business, yes----' said the first speaker.
'How could he be otherwise? But, by Jove, sir, what a splendid painter!I never saw anything I liked better than that picture of his in the lastExhibition. Poor fellow! And to put him in Golden's hands, a man wellknown to be up to every dodge. I wonder what Burton could be thinkingof. I wonder he can look that poor lady in the face.'
'I should just like to find out how much Burton himself knew about it,'said the other, nodding his head.
'And so should I,' the first speaker said significantly, as they tooktheir place in the train.
Thus it will be seen that the world, which Helen thought of so bitterlyas all against her, was by no means so clear on the subject. At thebreakfast-table in the Rectory the conversation took a still morefriendly tone.
'I hear that poor Mrs Drummond has come to the Gatehouse,' said MrsDalton. 'I almost think I saw her yesterday--a tall woman, in a crapeveil, with a little girl about Mary's size. I shall make a point ofcalling the first time I go out. Oh, George, what a sad, sad story! Ihope she will let me be of some use to her.'
'I don't see that you can be of much use,' said her husband. 'She hasthe Burtons, of course, to fall back upon. How strange to think of HelenBurton coming back here! I could not have supposed it possible. So prouda girl! And how that man at Dura could ask her! I suppose he feels thesweetness of revenge in it. Everybody knew she refused him.'
'Oh George, hush! the children,' cried Mrs Dalton under her breath.
'Psha! everybody knows. What a difference it would have made to her,though! It is strange she should have chosen to come and live in sightof his splendour.'
'Oh, do you think she cares about his splendour? Poor soul!' said kindMrs Dalton, with tears in her eyes. 'She must have very differentthoughts in her mind. Most likely she was glad of any shelter where shecould hide her head, after all the newspapers and the publicity. Oh,George! it must be doubly hard upon her if she was proud.'
'Probably it was her pride that made her husband such a fool,' said therector. 'You women have a great deal to answer for. If she drove himinto that thirst for money-making--a thing he could know nothingabout----You are all fond of money--'
'For money's worth, George,' said Mrs Dalton humbly. She could not denythe accusation. For her own part she would have done anything formoney--she with her eight children, and Charlie's education sodreadfully on her mind.
'Oh, I don't say you are miserly,' said the rector, who was a literaryman of superior mind, and hated to be bothered by family cares, whichincapacitated him for thought; 'but when a woman wants more than herhusband can give her, what is the unhappy man to do? _Ne sutor ultracrepidam._ Which means, Mary----'
'I have heard it before,' said his wife meekly. 'I think I know what itmeans.'
'Then you see what comes of it,' said Mr Dalton. 'I don't believe a wordthat is in the papers. I seldom do. He went and got himself involved andbamboozled. How was he to know what he was doing? I don't blame poorDrummond, but I am not so sure it was not her fault.'
At the great house the talk was different; there was no discussion ofthe rights or wrongs of the question. Mr Burton, indeed, preferred notto speak of Mr Drummond; and young Mr Rivers, who had come down with himon the previous night, had got no opening to report the scene of whichhe had been a spectator. They were early people, and though they hadentertained a large party the night before, their breakfast was earlierthan that at the Rectory. They were all out on the lawn, visitors,children, dogs, and all, while Mr Dalton drank his coffee. Ned wasbusily employed training the Skye to jump over a stick, an exercisewhich was not much to Shaggy's taste; while the big pointer (who wasonly in his babyhood, though he was so big, and was imbecile, as puppiesare) looked on, and made foolish springs and vaults about his cleverbrother. Malta, in his blue ribbon, kept close by Mrs Burton's side, andlooked on at the performance with the contemptuous toleration of asuperior being; and Clara, also decked with blue ribbons, hung by hermother too.
'You had better come with me and see Helen, said the head of the house.'I told you she arrived last night.'
'Now!' said Mrs Burton, with some surprise. She had her gardening gloveson and a basket in her hand for flowers. These she would have laid downat once, had it been only a walk to the station which was in question;but this was a different affair.
'Yes; why not now?' said her husband with that roll of wealth andcomfort in his voice. 'We are relations, we need not stand uponceremony. You mean to call on her some time, I suppose.'
'Oh, certainly, I shall call; but not at this hour, Mr Burton. I haveonly seen her once. Familiarity would be impertinence in me.'
'Pshaw, nonsense! one of your fantastic notions,' he said. 'I have seenher more than once, and I can't afford to stand on ceremony. Come along.I am going there now.'
'Then I think you should go immediately,' said Mrs Burton, looking ather watch, 'or you will be too late for the train. Clara, papa will notwant us this morning; we can go for some flowers. You will be back bythe usual train? I will pick you up at the station, if you like, for Ihave some calls to make to-day.'
'As you please,' said her husband; 'but I can't understand why youshould cross me, Clara, about my cousin. You don't mean to say,' headded with a laugh, 'that you have any--feeling on the subject? That youare--ever so little--piqued about poor Helen? I shouldn't like to usethe other word.'
Clara Burton looked at her husband very calmly. She was not offended. Itwas human nature; men were known to possess this kind of vanity, thoughit was so strange. 'I am not at all piqued,' she said; 'but I like to becivil. I don't suppose Mrs Drummond and I will be moved to rush intoeach other's arms all at once, and I don't wish to look as if I paid herless respect because she is poor. If you are going there, you ought togo immediately. You will be late for the train.'
'Confound your composure!' Mr Burton said to himself, as he went downthe avenue.
It would have pleased him had his wife been a little discomposed. But,after a while, he took comfort, saying to himself that Clara was aconsummate little actress, but that she could not take _him_ in. Ofcourse, she was nettled by the presence of his old love, and by hishaste to visit her; but she was proud, and would not show it. He felt adouble triumph in the sense that these two women were both affected, andendured, for his sweet sake, a certain amount of pain. He set out hischest more than ever, and held up his head. Now was his moment oftriumph over the woman who had once rejected him. Had he been able toinduce her to come to Dura while she was still prosperous, the triumphwould have been sweeter, for it would have been unmingled with any tingeof regretful or remorseful feeling; but as it was it was sweet. For thefirst time she would see him in his full importance, in all his stateand splendour, she would see him from the depths of her own humiliation,and the force of a contrast greater than he had desired, more completeeven than he had dreamed, must already have flashed upon her. Yes, nowshe would see what she had lost--what a mistake she had m
ade. He meantto be very kind; he would have given her anything she chose to ask for,if she but showed the least sign of penitence, of clearer perception, ofbeing aware of what she had lost. There was nothing which her cousinwould not have done for Helen; but he could not resign his owndelightful consciousness of triumph. Under this genial influence, he wasoverflowing with good-nature and kindness.
'What! come out for a little sunshine, old John,' he said to the old manat the lodge, who was seated basking in the warmth on the bench at hisdoor. 'Good for the rheumatics, ain't it, a day like this? I envy you,old fellow, with nothing to do but sit by your door in the sun and sniffyour flowers; you are better off than I am, I can tell you.'
'Ay, ay! master, it's fine for me; but you wouldn't think much on'tyourself, if you had it,' said old John.
Mr Burton went on laughing and waving his hand, amused with the oldman's impudence.
'If I had it myself,' he said, with a smile, 'I!----' The thoughttickled him. It was hard to believe that he himself, a man in the primeof life, growing richer every day, was made of the same clay as oldJohn; and yet of course it was so, he admitted good humouredly. His mindwas full of his own benevolence and kind-heartedness as he pursued hisway to visit his cousin. What quantities of people were dependent uponhis will and pleasure--upon his succour and help! his servants, so manythat he could scarcely count them; the clerks in his office; thegoverness who taught Clara, and who in her turn supported her mother andsisters; and then there was old Stephenson in the village, in hisdecay, who had once been in Mr Burton's office; and his old nurse; andthe poor Joneses and Robinsons, whose boys he had taken in as errandboys. He ran over this list with such a pleasant sense of his goodness,that his face shone in the morning sunshine. And at the head of all,first of his pensioners, chief of his dependents--Helen! Mr Burtonlaughed half aloud, and furtively rubbed his hands. Yes, yes, by thistime there could be no doubt she must have found out her mistake.
Helen had got up that morning with the determination to put grief awayfrom the foreground of her life, and resume such occupations as remainedto her. Norah's books had been got out, and her music, and somework--small matters which made a difference in the ghostly drawing-roomalready, and brought it back to life. Helen was standing by the tablearranging some flowers when Mr Burton came in. Norah had gathered themalmost before the dew was off them, and stood by her mother watching heras she grouped them together.
'I wish I could arrange flowers as you do, mamma,' Norah was sayingadmiringly. 'How nice it must be to be able to do everything one tries!They will not come right when _I_ do it. You are like the fairy thattouched the feathers with her wand, and they all came together as theyought. I wonder how you do it. And you never break anything or spoilanything; but if I only _look_ at a vase it breaks.'
Norah was saying this with a rueful look when Mr Burton's smart summonscame to the door; and the next minute he had come in, bringing so muchair with him into the room, and motion, and sense of importance. Helenput the flowers aside hastily and gave him her hand.
'So you are making use of the garden,' he said, taking note ofeverything with an eye of proprietorship; 'quite right, quite right. Ihope you will make yourselves quite at home. It is a funny old house,but it is a good style of a place. You need not be ashamed to receiveany one here. And I have no doubt you will find everybody very civil,Helen. I have let the people in Dura know you are my cousin. That,though I say it that shouldn't, is a very good passport here.'
'I hope you will not take any trouble about us,' said Helen hastily.'All I want is to be quiet. I do not care for civilities.'
'But you prefer them to incivilities, I hope,' said Mr Burton. 'My wifethinks I am wrong to come in this unceremonious way to call. I wantedher to come with me, but she would not. You ladies have your own ways ofacting. But I felt that you would be mortified if you saw me pass thedoor.'
'Oh no. I should not have been mortified.'
'I will take care you sha'n't,' he said, the roll in his voice soundingmore full of protection and benevolence than ever. 'I have not much timenow. But, my dear Helen, remember that I am always at yourservice--always. I have mentioned you to all the nicest people. And wehope very soon to see you at the House. I should not have brought youhere, I assure you, without intending to be a friend to you in everyway. You may rely upon me.'
'You are very kind,' was all Helen could say.
'I want to be kind. You cannot please me better than by asking me forwhat you want. Tell me always when your mother wants anything, Norah.There now, I won't say any more; you understand me, Helen. I have a fewthings in my power, and one of them is to make you comfortable. When youhave time to see about you you will perceive that things have gone verywell with me: not that I intend to boast; but Providence, no doubt, hasbeen very kind. My wife will call this afternoon, and should you like adrive or anything, I am sure Clara----'
'Please don't trouble. I would rather be quiet. You forget,' said Helen,with a momentary sharpness in her voice, 'that Providence, which hasbeen so kind to you, has been hard upon us.'
'My dear Helen! you are too good and pious, I am sure, not to know thatwe ought not to repine.'
'I don't think I repine, and I am sure you mean to be kind; but oh! ifyou would take pity on me, and let me alone----'
It was all she could do to keep from tears. But she would not weepbefore him. Her jealousy of him and distrust were all coming back.Instinctively she felt the triumph in his voice.
'Poor Helen!' said Mr Burton, 'poor girl! I will not trouble you longerjust now. You shall not be bothered. Good-bye; trust to me, and I willtake care of you, my poor dear!'
It was ludicrous, it was pitiable; she scorned herself for theimpression it made upon her; but how could she help it? She felt thatshe hated Reginald Burton, as he stood before her in all his wealth andcomfort, patronising and soothing her. When he was gone, she rushed upto her room, that Norah might not see her weakness, to weep a few hot,burning tears, and to overcome the wild, unreasonable anger that swelledin her heart. It was his moment of triumph. Perhaps Helen felt it allthe more because, deep down in her heart, she had a consciousness thatshe too had once triumphed over him, and rejoiced to feel that she couldhumble him. This was a hard punishment for such an old girlish offence;but still it felt like a punishment, and added a sting to everything hedid and said. And whether it was at that moment or at a later period,she herself could not have told, but a sudden gleam came across her ofsome words which she had once read somewhere--'Burton and Golden havedone it.' Whence came these words? had she dreamt them? had she readthem somewhere? They came before her as if they had been written uponthe wall. Burton and Golden! Was it true? What could it mean?
Mrs Burton called in the afternoon. She had Clara with her, and what wasstill more remarkable, young Mr Rivers, who was staying in the house,but who up to this time had made no mention of the scene he hadwitnessed. Perhaps it was for lack of an opportunity, perhaps becausehe did not know how far it would be safe to mention Helen--whom he heardspoken of as a relative, yet not with the feeling which moved his ownmind when he thought of her. Cyril Rivers was but a big boy, though hebegan to think himself a man, and Helen had moved him to that suddenfantastic violence of admiration with which an older woman oftenmomentarily inspires a boy. He was eager to go with Mrs Burton to call.He would walk down with her, he said, and continue his walk after thecarriage had picked her up; and in his heart he said to himself that hemust see that woman again. He was full of awe and enthusiasm at thethought of her. She was to him like the heroine of a tragedy, of a storymore striking, more affecting than any tragedy he had ever heard of; forthis was real, and she was a true woman expressing her naturalsentiments, forgiving nothing. It seemed to bring the youth, who was allthrilling with natural romance, within that charmed inner circle ofemotion and passion which is, though it is seldom visible, the centreand heart of life.
But Helen bore a very different aspect when she waited to receive MrsBurton's call from that which she
bore at the door of St Mary's Road,confronting Golden. Her flush of colour and glow of energy andvehemence were gone. She was seated, pale and silent, by the table nearthe window, with her dead white cap encircling her face, and someneedlework in her hand. It was not the same Mrs Drummond, was youngRivers' first disappointed thought. And when she invited the party tosit down, and began to talk about the weather and the country round, hewas so bewildered that he longed to steal away. The two ladies satopposite to each other, and said the sort of things which all ladies saywhen they call or are called upon. Helen's tone was low, and her voicefell; but these and her black dress were the only things that made itapparent that anything had happened to her. It was only when this littleartificial conversation flagged and a pause occurred that the real stateof affairs became even slightly visible. The momentary silence fellheavy upon people who had so much on their minds; and while they all satmotionless, the little mirror on the wall made a picture of them inlittle, which looked like a caricature, full of humourous perception andsignificance. Mrs Burton had been hesitating as to what she should say.Helen was a study to her, of which she had as yet made nothing; andperhaps it was as much from curiosity as any other feeling that she atlast introduced a subject more interesting than the weather or thelandscape. It was after a second pause still more serious than thefirst.
'It must be very strange to you coming back to Dura after all that hashappened. It must be--hard upon you,' she said.
'Yes; it is hard,' Helen could not trust herself to many words.
'If there is anything in which I can be of use,' Mrs Burton began, 'willyou let me know? If there is anything that can make it less painful foryou. I should be very glad to be of any use.'
Mrs Drummond made no reply; she gave a little bow, and went on with theneedlework she held in her hands, but not as if she cared for that. Shewas not like what he had thought, but yet young Rivers got up with acertain tremulous awe and approached her. She had not recognised him.She turned her eyes upon him wondering what he could have to do withher. Her heart was steeled to encounter all those words of routine whichshe knew would have to be said--but who was this boy?
'I think I will go now,' he said hastily to Mrs Burton; and then helowered his voice. 'May I say just one word? If I can ever do anythingto set things right, will you let me know? I shall never forget what yousaid--on Tuesday.'
'On Tuesday?' Helen repeated, in her great surprise looking at him. Sheran over Tuesday's proceedings in her mind; at first in vain, and then alittle flush came over her face. 'Ah,' she said, 'it was you who camewith--Mr Golden. I remember now.'
'But I shall never be with him again,' said the youth with energy, whichbrought the responsive blood to his cheeks. 'Of that you may be sure. Iam Cyril Rivers. I am not much good now, but I might be--afterwards.Will you remember me? Will you let me serve you if ever I can?'
'Thanks,' said Helen, putting out her hand, with a sudden softness inher voice.
The lad was young, romantic, chivalrous. She was to him like somemajestic dethroned queen in her sorrow and wronged estate. He stoopeddown, and touched her white fingers with his lips, and then, withoutlooking round, turned, and went away. His impulsive generous words, hisfanciful pledge of eagerness to help her, went to Helen's heart. She hadnot expected this, and it surprised and touched her. She was notconscious for a moment of her visitor's steady, investigating glance.
'What a romantic boy!' said Mrs Burton, with a smile.
'Yes,' said Helen, and she called herself back with an effort. 'Butromance sometimes does one good. It is a surprise at least.'
'At that age it does not matter much. I did not know you knew theRiverses,' said Mrs Burton. 'This is the eldest son, to be sure; butsince the late misfortune they are quite poor. They have not much intheir power.'
She said this with a charitable motive. It seemed to her as if Helenmust mean something by it. Everybody appeared to mean something in theeyes of this philosopher. And she was a little moved by the misfortunesof the woman beside her. She thought it was kind to warn her not towaste her efforts. Helen, on her side, did not know in the least whatMrs Burton meant; did not suppose she meant anything indeed, and satpatient, accepting this speech with the others as an effort to makeconversation, not ungrateful to Mrs Burton, but wondering when she wouldgo away.
Meanwhile Cyril Rivers hastened out full of emotion. He took the wrongturn in going out, and before he knew, found himself in the garden,where the two girls were 'making acquaintance,' as Mrs Burton had biddenthem do. Clara was big and fair, with her father's full form, and abeautiful complexion, the greatest possible contrast to little Norah,with her light figure, and faint rose tints. But Norah at this momentwas flushed and angry, looking as her mother had done that memorableevening at St Mary's Road.
'Oh, do come here, Mr Rivers,' said Clara, 'Norah is so cross. I onlysaid what papa says so often--that it would be wretched to live in thecountry without a carriage or a pony or anything. Don't you think sotoo?'
Norah flushed more deeply than ever. 'I am not cross. We did not come tolive in the country for pleasure, and what does it matter to us aboutcarriages and ponies? We are poor.'
'And so am I,' said the boy, with that instinctive adoption of 'ourside' which Norah had attributed to him. He thought how pretty she wasas she lifted her brown eyes. What a pretty child! and he wasapproaching twenty, a man, and his heart yearned over the helpless andsorrowful. 'I shall have to sell my horses and go afoot; but I don'tthink I shall be wretched. Everybody cannot be rich like Mr Burton, youknow.'
'But you are always Lord Rivers's son,' said Clara. 'You can have whatyou like everywhere. I think it is very cross of Norah not to care.'
And Mr Burton's daughter, foiled in her first attempt to secure her owncousin's envy and admiration, looked as if she would like to cry. YoungRivers laughed as he went away at her discomfiture. As he turned to findthe right way of exit, he looked back upon them with an unconsciouscomparison. He did not know or think what was Norah Drummond's descent.He took her unconsciously as the type of a higher class impoverished butnot fallen, beside that small representative of the _nouveaux riches_.And all his sympathies were on the side of the former. He pulled alittle white rosebud from a tree as he passed, and put it in his coatwith a meaning which was partly real and partly fantastic. They werepoor, they were injured, and wronged, and in trouble. He put theircolours, as it were, in his helmet. Foolish boy, full of romance andnonsense! one day or other in their cause he felt he might couch hislance.