CHAPTER IV.
And everything settled down, and Nature resumed her common round. Thisis what Nature does in all circumstances. There never was so bad a stormbut next morning the thrifty mother took heart and set to work again asbest she could to make amends for it. It is only when the storm affectshuman hearts and lives that this cheerful, pathetic effort to get thebetter of it becomes terrible; for the mending in such cases is so oftenbut superficial, the cure impossible. Other trees grow up to fill thegap made by the one blown down; but not other loves or other hopes. Yetgradually the tempest calms, the wreck is swept away, and some thingsthat are new are always better than some things that were old, eventhough the old can never be replaced while life goes on.
Of all the dwellers in the Gatehouse, it was poor Haldane who felt thisthe most. The reality of this life in the country was very differentfrom the anticipation. The fresh air which his mother had hoped to havefor Stephen--the cottage garden which they had all dreamt of (even hehimself by moments), where he could be wheeled in his chair to sit underthe apple-tree and smell the flowers--had vanished from their list ofpossibilities. All the fresh air he could have was from the open windowby which his chair was placed. But not even the garden and theapple-tree would have done so much for him as the varieties of thecountry road. Instead of the garden walls at Victoria Villas, the stripof dusty grass, the chance sight of a neighbour's child at play, or(more likely) of a neighbour's clothes hung out to dry, he had a genuinerural highroad, with all its sights. He saw the carts passing with ruralproduce, full of big baskets of vegetables for the London market; he sawthe great waggons of odorous hay, with a man asleep on the top,half-buried in the warm and fragrant mass, or cracking his whip on thepath, and shouting drowsy, inarticulate calls to the horses, who tooktheir own way, and did not mind him; he saw the carriages gleam pastwith the great people, whom by degrees he got to know; and then theRectory children were always about, and Mrs Dalton in her pony-chaise,and the people coming and going from the village. There were two of thevillage folk in particular who brought a positive pleasure into hislife--not a pair of lovers, or any pretty group, but only Clippings, thetailor, and Brown, the shoemaker, who strolled down the road in theevening to smoke their pipes and talk politics as far as the Rectorygate. Clippings, who lived 'up town,' was always decorous in his shabbycoat; but Brown, whose shop was 'at the corner,' came in hisshirt-sleeves, with his apron turned up obliquely to one side. Theywould stop just opposite his window when they got hot in theirdiscussion. Sometimes it was the parish they talked of, sometimes theaffairs of the state, and it was in Stephen's mind sometimes to invitethem to cross the road, and to have his say in the matter. They were notmen of education or intelligence perhaps; but they _were_ men, livingthe natural human life from which he had been torn, and it did him goodto watch them. After a while they began to look over at him and take offtheir hats, half with village obsequiousness to a possible customer,half with natural feeling for a soul in prison; and he gave them a nodin return.
But this vulgar fancy of his was not quite approved of within. 'If youare so friendly with these men, Stephen, you will have them comingover, and poisoning the whole house with tobacco,' Mrs Haldane said,with an expressive sniff. 'I think I smell it even now.' But his motherwas not aware that the scent of the tobacco was like an air of paradiseto poor Stephen, who had loved it well enough when he was his ownmaster, though it had become impossible now.
Mrs Haldane, however, did not say a word against Mr Dalton's cigar,which he very often smoked under Stephen's window in those summermornings, lounging across in his study coat. It must be remembered thatStephen was not a Dissenting minister _pur et simple_, but a man whosename had been heard in the literary world, especially in that literaryworld which Mr Dalton, as a 'thoughtful' and 'liberal' clergyman,chiefly affected. The rector felt that it was kind to go and talk topoor Haldane, but he was not so overwhelmingly superior as he might havebeen under other circumstances. He did not set him down at once at adistance of a hundred miles, as he did Mr Truston, the minister of thechapel at Dura, by the mere suavity of his 'good morning.' On thecontrary, they had a great deal of talk. Mr Dalton was a man who piquedhimself on his Radicalism, except when he happened to come in contactwith Radicals, and he was very great in education, though he left theparish schools chiefly to his wife. When anything had happened which wasmore than ordinarily interesting in public affairs, he would strideacross with gaiety to the encounter: 'I told you your friend Bright wasnot liberal-minded enough to see that distinction,' he would say; or,'Gladstone has gone off on another search after truth;' and then thebattle would go on, while Stephen sat inside and his interlocutor pacedthe white flags in front of the Gatehouse up and down under the windowswith that fragrant cigar. Sometimes Mary would come flying over from theRectory: 'Papa, papa, you are wanted. There are some papers to sign, andmamma can't do it, she says.' '_Pazienza!_' the rector would answer, forhe had travelled too.
And then on the Saturday there were other diversions for Stephen. OldAnn from the farm of Dura Den would whip up her old white pony and stopher cart under his window. She had her grandson with her, a chubby ladof twelve, in a smock-frock, beautifully worked about the shoulders,with cheeks as red as the big poppies in the nosegay which hisgrandmother made a point of bringing every Saturday to the poor sickgentleman.
'And how do you do, sir, this fine fresh morning?' she would shout tohim. 'I hope as I sees you better. Sammy, give me the flowers. It'sold-fashioned, master, but its sweet; and I just wish I see you able tocome and fetch 'em for yourself.'
'Thank you, Ann; but I fear that's past hoping for,' Stephen would saywith a smile.
The same colloquy passed between them every week, but they did not tireof it, and the little cart with its mixture of colours, the red carrots,and white cauliflowers, and many-tinted greens, was a pleasant sight tohim. He did not object even to the pungent odour of the celery, whichoften communicated itself to his bouquet. The white pony, and the redand white and green of the vegetables, and Old Ann with a small face,like a russet winter apple, under her deep bonnet, and her little redshawl, trimly tied in round her waist by the great, many-pocketed apron;and Sammy trudging behind, with boots like buckets, with a basket ofcrimson cabbage for pickles on his arm, and his puffy, peony cheeks,made up a homely picture which delighted the recluse. It was an eventfor him when the Saturday came round, and he began (he said) to be fondof the smell of celery, and to think double poppies very handsome,showy flowers to put into a nosegay. Miss Jane took an interest in Anntoo, but it was of a different kind. She would go out to the door, andhave long discussions with her on various subjects quite as interestingas the rector's battles with Stephen--whether the butter was rising, andwhat was the cheapest for her poultry; for Ann's butter and her poultrywere the best in Dura, and when she knew you, and felt that you were tobe depended upon, she was not dear, Miss Jane always said.
There was also another visitor, who came once a week, not to Stephen'swindow, but to make a call in all proper state. This was Mr Truston, theminister of the chapel, who was, like Stephen, a _protégé_ of MrBaldwin, but had not either done so much credit or given so much troubleto the denomination as Haldane had. Mr Truston was aware how his newacquaintance was spoken of by the community, and his mind was muchdivided between veneration for Stephen's powers and a desire to befaithful with his brother. If he could be the humble instrument ofsetting him quite right with the denomination and preserving theefficiency of the magazine, he felt that he would not have lived invain. But it was a dreadful trial to his modesty to assume an admonitoryposition to one whom he respected so much. He confided his difficultiesto Mrs Wigginton, the wife of the draper at Dura, who was a leadingmember of the congregation, and a very thoughtful woman; and she hadgiven him a great deal of encouragement, and put his duty before him inthe clearest light.
'The thing is to keep him to fundamental principles,' Mrs Wiggintonsaid. 'I would excuse a great deal if he preserved these. _We_ may besuperi
or to distinctions, and know that there is good both in church andchapel. But that will not do for the common mass. And we must supportthe denomination, Mr Truston. It has its faults--but, whatever itsfaults may be, we must stand by our flag.'
'Ah, I wish you would take him in hand,' said the minister with a sigh;but, all the same, such inspiration as this did not go for nothing. Hebegan to call on the Haldanes every week; and when he had screwed up hiscourage he meant to be very faithful with Stephen; but a man cannotbegin that process all at once.
Thus the Haldanes settled down in the Gatehouse; and their settling downaffected Helen with that unintentional example and encouragement, whichpeople convey to each other without meaning it. They were all verypoor, but Miss Jane, who had never been very rich, and who had beentrained to live on the smallest sum imaginable, made no hardship of herpoverty, and communicated a certain cheerfulness about it even to herneighbour, whose mind and training were so very different. Miss Janetook it as she had learned to take (though not till after manystruggles) her brother's illness, as a matter of course. She was awarethat there were rich people in the world. She saw them even, theBurtons, for instance, who passed her every day, and whose life was fullof luxury; but this did not move her, any more than the sight of a greatbeauty would have moved her to impatience of her own plain and homelyface. The wealth, like the beauty, was exceptional. The homeliness andthe poverty were the natural rule. And Helen saw that the lines of painwere softened in Stephen's face, and that he had begun to feel somethinglike pleasure in those alleviations of his loneliness which have beendescribed. All this produced a soothing, quieting influence upon her.She was hushed, as a child is who is not satisfied, whose cry is readyto burst forth at any moment, but upon whom the very atmosphere, thestillness of the air, has produced a certain calm. The wrong which hadburnt her heart like a fire was not extinguished; it burned low, not forwant of fuel, but because the air was soft and humid, and kept down theflame. And she herself was subdued. She was weary of suffering, and theroutine of the new life acted upon her like an opiate, and the sensethat all this was accepted as ordinary and natural by others, kept herdown. And then Norah had cast away those bonds which oppress achild--the bonds of conventional quiet, which remain when natural griefhas passed away in the order of things. Norah had begun to sing aboutthe house, to dance when she should have walked, to wake up like theflowers, to live like the birds, spending her days in a chatter andflutter of life and gladness. All this calmed down and suppressed thefeelings which had swayed Helen after her husband's death. Though herold sense of suspicion in respect to her cousin had succeeded themomentary relenting which his kindness had produced in her, even thatwas suppressed in the artificial calm. She blamed herself for shrinkingfrom his presence, for disliking his friendliness; she even made aneffort to go to his house, to overcome what she said to herself was hermean envy of his prosperity. She made friends with his wife, as far astwo women so different could make friends, and tried to believe thatReginald Burton himself had never meant but well. It was in October,when she had first begun fully to realise the strange quietness that hadcome upon her, that it was suddenly broken up, never in that samefashion to return again.
There were visitors at the time at Dura House, visitors of importance,great county people, potentates whom, it was said, Mrs Burton wasspecially bent on conciliating in order to open the way intoParliament--a glory upon which her heart was set--to her husband. MrBurton had himself taken a holiday from business, and on this particularday had gone up, after a long interval, 'to see,' he said, with thatcheerful, important laugh of his, 'how things were going on.' Thatevening, however, Dura village was disappointed of its usual amusement.The phaeton with the bays went slowly past, driven by the groom, with acertain consternation in every line of the horses, and in every splendidtail and high-stepping hoof.
'Has not your master come?' Mrs Burton asked, when she met this forlornequipage in the avenue. Such a thing had been known; sometimes businesswas so urgent that Mr Burton had lost his train, or waited for one thatwent later. But that which had happened this evening had never happenedbefore.
'He is walking, ma'am,' said the groom, with gloomy signification. Itgave even Mrs Burton a start, though she was usually so self-possessed;and as for the groom, he spread it about through the house that therehad been 'a smash' in the City. Nothing else could account for soextraordinary a step.
Mr Burton walked, and his countenance was clouded. There was a shade onit, which the people about Dura, stupefied in the first instance byseeing him afoot at that hour, interpreted as the groom did. Theythought 'something must have happened.' The Bank of England must havefaltered on its throne; half the merchants, at home and abroad, musthave fallen to the dust, like Dagon. Some one of weak mind, whosuggested that the ministry might be out, was snubbed by everybody witha contempt proportioned to his foolishness. Would Mr Burton look likethat for any merely political misfortune? But no one ventured even tosuggest that Burton & Co. themselves might have sustained some blow.Such treason might be in men's thoughts, but no one dared to hint at anevent which more than a revolution or a lost empire would haveconvulsed Dura. There are some things which it is impious even tospeculate about.
Mr Burton went direct to the Gatehouse. He had not his usualcondescending word to Susan, nor did he remember to wave his hand toStephen as he passed the window. He went straight into the drawing-room,where Helen and Norah were sitting. They had just come in from theirwalk, and were going to have tea; and such a visit at this hour startledthem. There was something more than gloom on his face; there wassuppressed anger, and he had the look of a man who had come to speak hismind. He shook hands in the slightest, most hasty way, not caringevidently to waste time in salutations, and he did not take the chairthat was offered to him. He kept standing, looking first at Helen andthen at Norah, with glances which he seemed to expect would beunderstood; but as Norah had been present at every discussion in thehouse all her life, it did not occur to her to go away, nor to hermother to send her. At last he was obliged to speak plainly.
'I am anxious to talk to you by yourself,' he said. 'I have somethingvery important to say. Norah, perhaps, would run out to the garden, orsomewhere--for half an hour, I should not ask for more.'
'Norah!' said Helen, with surprise. 'But she has heard everything thatany one can have to say to me. She knows as much as I do. You may sayanything before Norah.'
'By----!' said Mr Burton. He did not put any word in the vacant place.He swore by Blank, as we do in books, contenting himself with the'By----!' '_I_ don't mean to speak of my affairs before Norah,' he said,walking to the window and looking out. 'Send her away.'
He waited there with his back turned to the two, who gazed at each otheramazed.
'Go up-stairs till I send for you, Norah,' said Helen, with a tremblingvoice. It must be some new pain, some new terror, something aboutNorah's father. She put her hand on her heart to keep it still. This washow her calm was broken all in a moment. She put her child away with theother hand. And Norah, astonished, indignant, choking with sudden rageand mortification, flew out of the room and rushed up-stairs. The soundof her hurried, angry retreat seemed to ring through all the house. Andit was not till her foot was heard overhead that her mother found breathto speak. 'What is it?--tell me! There can be nothing now so very hardto bear.'
'I don't know what you mean about hard to bear,' said Mr Burton,turning pettishly round and seating himself on a chair in front of her.'Helen, I have done all I could to be kind to you. You will say it hasnot cost me very much, but it has cost me more than you think. I haveput myself to a great deal of trouble, and----'
'Is this all you have to tell me?' she asked faintly, still holding herhand upon her heart.
'All!' he repeated; and then, changing his tone suddenly, 'do you knowanything about this new folly Maurice has taken in hand? Don'tprevaricate, Helen; answer me yes or no.'
'I do not know what you mean,' she said, and paused for breath. Herfright, and the st
range assault that had been made upon her, confusedher mind. Then gradually with Maurice's name came a sudden gleam oflight.
'That is a pretence,' he said. 'I can see in your face that youunderstand. You that I have been, so to speak, nourishing in mybosom--you--Helen! There is still time to think better of it. Have yougiven your consent to it? Has he got your name?'
'If it is anything Dr Maurice is doing,' she said, 'yes, he has got myconsent, and more than my consent.'
'Good heavens, why? Are you in your senses? I thought it was someidiotic woman's notion. What good can it possibly do to rake up thatbusiness all over again? What the deuce do you mean by it? What can itever be to you?'
'What is it to you?' she said.
'To me!' She was looking at him, and his voice fell. He had begunloudly, as if with the intention of declaring that to him it was lessthan nothing; but he was caught by her look, and only grew confused, andstammered out again, 'To me!'
'Yes,' said Helen. 'You are not a Director. You have said you were aloser only, you had no responsibility. Then what does it matter to you?'
Mr Burton turned away his head; he stamped his foot slightly on thefloor in impatience. 'What is the use?' he said, as if to himself, 'youmight teach an elephant to fly sooner than make a woman understand aboutbusiness. Without being anything to me, it might be something to myfriends.'
'Is that man--that--Golden--is he your friend?'
'Of course he is,' said Mr Burton roughly, with a certain defiance. 'Youare prejudiced against him unjustly. But he is my friend, and a verygood fellow too.'
'Then it is better not to say any more,' said Helen rising, trembling inevery limb. 'It is best not to say any more. Oh don't venture to namehis name to me! If I had not been a woman, I should have--not killedhim. That would have been too good. Innocent men are killed, and youothers look on, and never lift a finger. I would have pursued him tillhis last breath--crushed him--made him feel what he has done. And Iwill--if I have the power!'
She stood up confronting her cousin, trembling, yet glowing with thatpassion which the name of her husband's slanderer always roused withinher. She was almost as tall as Burton was, and he felt as if she toweredover him, and was cowed by the strength of her emotion. He rose too, buthe shrank back a step, not knowing how to meet the spirit he had roused.
'These are nice Christian sentiments,' he said, with an attempt at asneer; but in his heart the man was afraid.
'I ask nobody what kind of sentiments they are,' she cried. 'If he hadwronged me only, I would have forgiven him. But no man shall say hisname before me--no man! I may not have the power; my friends may nothave the power; but it is that, and not the will, which will fail if wefail. I will never give up trying to punish him, never in my life!'
'Then you will be acting like a fool,' Mr Burton said; but he changedhis tone, and took a great deal of trouble to persuade her to take herseat again, and discuss the matter calmly with him.
Norah stood up-stairs by the window, watching till he should go. Thechild's heart was bursting with rage and pain. She had never been sentaway before; she had heard everything, had been always present whateverwas going on. Her father, Dr Maurice, Mr Haldane, every one of them hadspoken in her presence all that they had to say. And she rememberedwords that no one else remembered, scraps of talk which she could puttogether. She did so with a violent exercise of her memory as she stoodthere drumming on the window, and wondering when he would go. 'He thinksI am only a child,' she said to herself, in the fiery commotion of herspirits, and thought of a hundred things she could do to prove thecontrary. She would go to Dr Maurice; she would let 'everybody' know. Hewas no friend; he was a conspirator against them--one of those whokilled her father. Every moment that passed inflamed Norah more. Shestood at the window and watched, thinking would he never be gone,thinking, oh why could not she make herself grow--make herself a woman!What her mother had done was nothing to what Norah felt herself capableof doing. Every vein in her body, and every nerve had begun to thrilland tremble before she heard the sound down-stairs of the door opening,and saw him go hastily away.
This was what he said when he opened the door of the sitting-roomdown-stairs--
'You will do what you please, of course. I have found out before nowwhat it is to struggle with an unreasonable woman. Do what you like.Drag your husband's name through the dirt again. Throw all sorts of newlight on his motives. That is what you will do. People might haveforgotten it; but after what you are going to do, they will neverforget. And that is all you will have for your pains--you may be sureyou can do nothing to _us_.'
'Us?' said Helen. 'You told me you were not concerned.'
And then Mr Burton changed colour and lost his temper.
'You drive a man wild,' he cried. 'You make me that I don't know what Iam saying. Of course you know what I mean, though you pretend youdon't. I mean my friends. And you know that; and you know how much youowe to me, and yet the answer I get is--this!'
He slammed the door after him like an angry maid-servant; he strodehastily away to his own house, with a face which of itself gave a newparalytic seizure to old John at the lodge. He filled everybody withconsternation in his own house. And Helen stood still after he had lefther, half exultant, half stupefied. _Us!_ Had she found his cunningmanœuvres out?