CHAPTER X.
Mr Baldwin came back to Dura in the afternoon, worn out anddisappointed--foiled by the simple fact, which had never occurred to theold man as possible, that Clary--his innocent Clary--had wittingly orunwittingly given a false indication, and that St James's, Piccadilly,knew nothing of any such marriage. Mr Baldwin drove to all the hotels,to all the churches, he could think of, from St James's, Camberwell, toSt James's, Kentish Town, but in vain. Just when it was too late tofollow them further, he discovered an anonymous little chapel which hemust have passed a dozen times in his journeys, where the ceremony hadactually taken place. Charles Golden to Clara Burton. Then he had goneto the Northern Railway Station, and discovered that they had left bythe eleven o'clock train. All he had done had been to verify theirmovements. The poor old man aged ten years during this running to andfro. He went back to his daughter worn out and miserable. Little Clary,the pride of the family, with all her beauty, her youth, and thepossibilities that lay before her! 'Now I know that we may go too far incarrying out the precepts of Christianity,' he groaned, when hissympathetic sisters came to console him. 'We thought he had repented,and we took him back to our hearts.' In this, however, poor Mr Baldwindeceived himself. Golden had been received back into their hearts, notbecause he had repented, but because the scandal against him had diedinto oblivion, and because in their souls even the honest men admiredthe consummate cleverness of the rogue. And in this point, at least, MrGolden had not been mercenary; he had actually fallen in love with ClaraBurton, knowing the desperate state of her father's affairs--affairswhich were so desperate, when he was called on to help in regulatingthem, that he had been 'obliged to decline' the task. Golden had alittle Sybarite 'place' of his own on the shores of the Mediterranean.So many scraps of money had adhered to his fingers in his variouscommercial adventures, though these adventures were always unfortunate,that he could afford himself that crowning luxury of a beautiful wife;and then Mr Baldwin was a rich man and a doting grandfather, who after awhile would be sure to forgive.
As for Mrs Burton, she had expected her father's failure, and was notsurprised or disappointed. She had given her daughter up, not with anyrevengeful or vindictive intention, but simply as a matter of fact. 'Oh,don't curse her, Clara!' Aunt Louisa sobbed in the midst of her tears.And then indeed Mrs Burton was surprised. 'Curse her! I have nointention of cursing her,' she said. Clary had taken her own way; shehad pleased herself. What she had done was quite easily to be accountedfor; it was human nature. Mrs Burton was not subject to passionsherself, but she recognised them as a motive-power; and though perhapsin her inmost heart there was a sense of shame that _her_ child shouldbe violently moved by those lowest, almost brutal, forces (for so shedeemed them), yet her intelligence understood and allowed thepossibility. Clary had acted according to her nature; that was all thatwas to be said. She had laid an additional burden upon her family--orrather upon her mother, the only one of the family left to bear it; butthen it was not natural to Clary to take account of what other peoplemight have to bear. Thus Mrs Burton accepted it, making no complaint.If it gave her any additional individual pang for itself, and not merelyas part of the whole, she at least said little about it, and made noindividual complaint.
But there came a moment when actual feeling, emotion not to bedisguised, broke forth in this self-possessed woman. She had decided toremain at Dura till further news, and until her husband's affairs couldbe fully examined into; and though her aunts went home, her fatherremained with her. Two long days passed over without news. On the third,Tuesday, Mr Baldwin went to town to make what inquiries were possible.As yet there had been but vague hints in the newspapers--rumours ofchanges affecting 'a well-known name in the City'--and the old man hadhesitated to show himself, to ask any questions which might, as he said,'precipitate matters.' 'While we are in ignorance, quiet is best,' hehad said; but when the third day arrived, though Mrs Burton still borethe suspense like a stoic, Mr Baldwin could not bear it any longer. Whenhe was gone, she showed no signs of impatience; she went about herbusiness as usual, and she had a great deal to do. She had begun at onceto wind up the accounts of the house, to arrange with her servants, towhom she was a just and not ungenerous mistress, when they should go,and what would be done to find them places. But when the languidafternoon came, her energy flagged a little. She did not allow, even toherself, that she was anxious. She went into the great drawing-room, andsat down near a window from which she could see the avenue. Perhaps forthe first time, the impulse came into her mind to prefer a smaller room,to take refuge somewhere else than in this waste of damask and gilding;but if such was the case, she restrained and condemned the thought. Shewas herself so small, almost invisible, in the great, silent place, fullof those mirrors which reflected nothing, those chairs where no one sat.No marble statue with a finger on its lip was ever so complete anembodiment of silence as she, seated there all alone, motionless,looking out upon the road. It might have been hours before any one came.A summer afternoon, slow, languid, endless, one vast blank of drowsycalm and blazing sunshine, the wind too listless to blow, the leaves tooheavy to wave, everything still, even the birds. But at last, at lastsome one came--not Mr Baldwin's slow, heavy old steps, but rapid youngones, light and impatient. She gazed at the speck as it graduallyapproached, and became recognisable. Then her heart gave a greatunexpected, painful throb. Ned! Her last little gleam of satisfaction,her last comfort, then, was not to be. He was not out of it, safe, asshe had hoped, but here to bear all the brunt, to share all the shame.She tried to get up, to go and meet him, but sank back, faint andincapable, in her chair, trembling, sick to the heart; overwhelmed forthe first time.
He came in, bringing a gust of fresh air (it seemed) with him. He wasdusty, and pale, and eager.
'Mother!' he cried, as he came up to her.
She held up her hand with a gesture which was almost passionate,repelling him.
'Oh, Ned, Ned! why have you come here?'
'Don't you want me, mamma?'
He kissed her as he spoke, and put his arm round her. If she had beenanother kind of woman, he would have sobbed on her breast, for the lad'sheart was very sore.
'No, I do not want you,' she said. 'I thought you were safe. I thoughtyou were out of it all. I was ready to bear anything--it cannot hurtme--any more. But you, a boy, a lad, with all your life to come! Oh,Ned, Ned, why have you come here?' She had never done it before in allher life. She did not embrace him, but clutched at his arm with her twohands, and shed passionate, hot tears. 'I do not want you! I do not wantyou!' she cried, and clung to him. 'I wish you were at the end of theworld!'
'Oh, mother!' cried the boy.
He was fond of her, though perhaps she had never done anything todeserve it. And she--loved him. Yes. All at once she found it out, witha mother's passion. Loved him so that she would have been glad never tosee him again; glad to be cut in pieces for him; glad to suffer shame,and pain, and misery, and ruin alone, that he might be out of it. This,which she had scarcely suspected, she found out at last.
But when this moment was over, and the fact that he had come wasindisputable, and had to be made the best of, Mrs Burton recovered herusual calm. She was ashamed of herself for having 'broken down.' Shesaid it was fatigue and want of sleep which had made her weak, and thenshe told him all the circumstances dispassionately, as was natural toher. He himself had been summoned by a telegram from Golden. He had beenat Dresden when he received it, and he had travelled night and day. Butwhy from Golden, he asked, a man whom he hated? 'Your mother wants youhere. There has been a great smash, and your presence is indispensable,'was what the telegram had said. But I will not attempt to describe howthe little, pale, dispassionate mother told the tale, nor how the youngson, full of youthful passion, indignation, rage, and grief, heard ofhis family's downfall, and the ruin of all its prospects and hopes.
When Mr Baldwin came back, he brought news still more overwhelming. Thefact which had made further concealment impossible, and
had drivenBurton to flight, was the winding up of a trust account for which he hadbeen responsible. The property had been invested by him, and he had paidthe interest regularly; but it was found that not a penny of theoriginal capital remained; he had appropriated all. When it was knownthat he had disappeared, other inquiries had been at once set on foot,but kept carefully out of the papers, lest his escape might befacilitated; and then such disclosures were made as Mr Baldwin couldonly repeat bit by bit, as his strength permitted. The old man criedlike a child; he was utterly broken down. It had even come out aboutRivers's, he said. One of the missing books, which poor Drummond hadbeen accused of destroying, had been found in a private safe, along withother damning accounts, which the unhappy man had not been able todestroy or conceal, so quickly did his fate overtake him. The unhappyman! Both Mr Baldwin and Mrs Burton remembered the time when RobertDrummond had been thus described--when all the newspapers had preachedlittle sermons about him, with many a repetition of this title--articleswhich Burton had read, and shaken his head over, and declared were asgood as sermons, warning the ignorant. This flashed upon Mrs Burton'smind, and it came more dimly to her father. Fortunately, Ned's miserywas not complicated by such recollections; he had enough without that.
'But the general impression is that he has escaped,' said Mr Baldwin;and he repeated to them the vague account which had been given to him ofthe two futile detectives, who had watched the fugitive into a house,and kept in front of it, putting the inhabitants on their guard, whilehe was smuggled out by a side-door. No doubt he had escaped. And it wasknown that he had money; for he had drawn a large sum out of the bankthe day before.
'I am glad you have come back, Ned,' the grandfather added. 'It is youwho ought to manage all this, and not your mother. Of course she hasher settlement, which nobody can touch. And I think now, my dear, thatyou should leave Dura, and come with me to Clapham. You will have youraunts' society to make up a little, and it will be more convenient forNed.'
Mrs Burton looked at her son almost wistfully.
'Ned, is there any sacrifice I can make that will induce you to goaway?'
'None, mother,' he said, 'none. I will do anything else that you ask me.But here I must have a will of my own. I cannot go away.'
'Go away!' said Mr Baldwin. 'I don't know how he has got here; for yourmother would not let me send for you, Ned; but of course this is yourproper place. It will be very painful--very painful,' said the old man.'But you have your settlement, Clara; and we must hope everything willturn out for the best.'
'My mother will give up her settlement, sir, of course,' said Ned.'After what has happened, she could not--it would be impossible--What!you don't see it? Must not those suffer who have done the wrong?'
'Ned, you are a fool,' said Mr Baldwin, 'a hot-headed young fool. I seeyour sense now, Clara. That scoundrel, Golden, has sent for him only toincrease our vexation. Give up her settlement! Then pray how is she tolive?'
'With me,' said Ned, rising up, and standing behind his mother's chair.He would have taken her hand to sustain him, if he could; but she didnot give him her hand. He put his on the back of her chair. That, atleast, was something to give him strength.
'With you!' Mr Baldwin was moved by this absurdity to something of hisformer vigour. 'It would be satisfactory, indeed, trusting her to you. Iwill have no Quixotical nonsense brought in. This is my affair. I am theproper person to look after my daughter's settlement. It is the onlycomfort in a bad business. Don't let me hear any more of such childishfolly.'
'It is not folly,' said Ned firmly, though his voice trembled. 'I amsure my mother feels like me. We have no right to keep anything while myfather has been spending other people's money; or if we have a right inlaw--'
Mrs Burton put up her hand to stop him. It was the first time in herlife that she had allowed herself to be discussed, what she should orwould do, without taking any share in it. The fact was, the question wasa new one--the problem quite strange to her. She had considered it ascertain up to this moment that her settlement belonged to herabsolutely, and that her husband's conduct one way or other could haveno effect upon her undoubted right. The problem was altogether new. Sheput up her hand to interrupt the discussion.
'I have not thought of this,' she said. 'Ned, say no more. I want timeto think. I shall tell you to-morrow what I will do.'
Against this decision there was not a word to say. The old man and theboy gave up their discussion as suddenly as they had begun it. Let themargue as they would, it was she who must settle the question; and justthen the great bell rang--the bell which regulated the clock in thevillage, and warned all the countryside when the great people at thegreat house were going to dine. The ears which were accustomed to itscarcely noted the sound; but Ned, to whom it had become a novelty, andas great a mockery as a novelty, started violently, put up his hands tohis ears, and rushed out into the hall, where Simmons stood in all thesplendour of his evening dress.
'Stop that infernal noise!' cried poor Ned, in a sudden outburst of rageand humiliation. He felt tempted to knock down the solemn spy beforehim, who already, he saw, had noted his dusty dress, his agitated face.
'Happy to see you home, sir,' said Simmons. 'Did you speak, sir? Isthere anything as I can do for you?'
'The bell is not to be rung any more,' said Ned, walking gloomily off tohis room. It was the first sign to the general world that the grandeurof Dura had come to an end.
A mournful dinner followed, carefully cooked, carefully served, anassiduous, silent servant behind each chair, and eaten as with ashes,and bitterness, and tears, a few faint remarks now and then, a feebleattempt, 'for the sake of the servants,' to look as if nothing was thematter. It was Mr Baldwin chiefly, a man who never could make up hismind that all was over, who made these attempts. Mrs Burton, for herpart, was above all pretences. Her long stand against approaching ruinwas over; she had laid down her arms, and she no longer cared who knewit. And as for Ned, he was too miserable, too heart-broken, to lookanything but overwhelmed with sorrow and shame, as he was.
In the evening he strolled out, feeling the air of the houseinsupportable. His mother had gone to her room with her new problemwhich she had to solve, and Mr Baldwin was tired, and fretful, andanxious to get to bed early, feeling that there was a certain virtue inthat fact of going early to bed which might redeem the unusuallydisturbed, excited life he was leading--a life in which he had beenfatally entangled with ruins, and elopements, and sitting up half thenight. Ned, who had no mind for sleep, and no power of thinking whichcould have been of any service to him in the circumstances, went outdisconsolately, saying to himself that a stroll in the woods might dohim good. But when he had reached the top of the avenue, where the pathdiverged into the woods, some 'spirit in his feet' led him straight on.Why, he asked himself, should he go to the village? Why should he go tothe Gatehouse? Yes, that was where he wanted to go--where his foolishheart had gone before him, courting slight and scorn. Why should he go?If she had sent him away then with contumely, how much more now? At thattime, if she had but looked upon him kindly, he had thought he hadsomething to offer her worthy her acceptance. Now he had nothing, andless than nothing--an empty purse and a dishonoured name. Ned slouchedhis hat over his eyes. He would go and look at the house, look at herwindow. If he might see her face again, that would be more than he hopedfor. Norah could be nothing--nothing to him now.
So saying, he wandered down the leafy, shadowy way. The sun had set, thegray of the evening had come on; the moon was past the full, and roselate; it was one of those soft, tranquil, mournful summer evenings whichfill the heart with wistfulness and longings. The water came unbiddeninto poor Ned's eyes. Oh, what ruin, what destruction had overwhelmedhim and his since last he walked down that path! Then everything thatlife could offer to make up for the want of Norah (though that wasnothing) lay within his grasp. Now, though Norah was clearly lost,everything else was lost with her. He saw no hope before him; his veryheart was crushed; a beggar, and more t
han a beggar; a man who did notknow how to dig or how to work; the son of a father who was disgraced.These were miserable thoughts to pour through the mind of a young man oftwenty-one. There have been others who have had as much to bear; butthey, perhaps, had no Norah to complicate and increase the burden. As hedrew near the Gatehouse, his heart began to beat louder. Possibly shewould not care to speak to him at all, he thought; how quickly she haddismissed him last time, when he had no stains upon him, as he had now!
He drew his hat still more over his brows. He walked quickly past theGatehouse. The windows were all open, and Stephen Haldane sat within, inan interior faintly lighted up by the candles which Miss Jane had justset down upon the table.
'Don't shut my window yet,' he heard the invalid say. 'My poor window!My chief pleasure!'
It was strange to Ned to hear those words, which seemed to let him intothe very secret of the sick man's life.
'And a capital window it has been too,' said Miss Jane briskly, thinkingof the book, and the money it had brought in.
Ned slackened his steps when he had passed. There had been something atone of the windows on the other side--something, a shadow, a passinggleam, as of a pale face pillowed upon two arms. The poor boy turned,and went back this time more slowly. Yes, surely there was a face at thewindow. The arms were withdrawn now; there was no light inside to revealwho it was; only a something--a pale little face looking out.
Back again--just once more, once more--to have a last look. He wouldnever see her again, most likely. As far away as if she were a star inheaven would she be henceforward. He would pass a little more slowlythis time; there was no one about to see him. The road was quieter thanusual; no one in sight; and with his hat so over his eyes, who couldrecognise him? He went very softly, lingering over every step. She wasstill there, looking out, and in the dark with no one near her! Oh,Norah! If she could but know how his heart was pulling at him, forcinghim towards that door!
He thought he heard some sound in the silence as of an exclamation, andthe face disappeared from the window. A moment after the door openedsuddenly, and a little figure rushed out.
'Ned!' it said, 'Ned! Is it possible? Can it be you? And, oh, what doyou mean walking about outside like that, as if you knew nobody here?'
'Oh, Norah! I did not know if I might come,' said abject Ned.
'Of course you may come. Why shouldn't you come? Oh, Ned, I was solonely! I am so glad to see you! I did not know what to do with myself.Susan would not bring in the lamp, and I am so afraid of this room whenit is dark!'
'How you once frightened me about it!' he said, as he went in with her.
His heart felt so much lighter, he could not tell how. Insensibly hisspirits rose, and with a sense of infinite refreshment, and even ofhaving escaped from something, he went back to the recollections of hisyouth. Such an innocent, simple recollection, belonging to the time whenall was pleasure, when there was no pain.
'Did I? But never mind. Oh, Ned! poor Ned! have they brought you herebecause of all this trouble? I have so much to say to you. My heart isbreaking for you. Oh, you poor, poor, dear boy!'
This was not how he had expected to be spoken to. He could scarcely seeher face, it was so dark, what with the curtains at the windows and theshadows of the lime leaves; but she had put her hand into his to comforthim. He did not know what to say; his heart was torn in twain, betweenmisery and joy. It was so hard to let any gleam of light into thatdesperate darkness; and yet it was so hard to keep his heart fromdancing at the sound of her soft, tender voice.
'Norah,' he said, 'oh, Norah! it will not be so very bad if you aresorry for me. You would not speak to me last time. I thought I might,perhaps, never see you again.'
'Oh, Ned! I was only a child. How foolish I was! I hoped you would lookback; but you never looked back; and we who have been brought uptogether, who have always been--fond of each other!'
'Do you? do you? Oh, Norah! not just because you are sorry? Do youcare--a little for me? Speak the truth.'
'Ned, Ned!--I care for you more than anybody--except mamma.'
There was a little silence after this. They were like two children inthe simplicity of their youth; their hearts beat together, theirburdens--and both the young shoulders were weighed down by prematureburdens--were somehow lightened, they could not tell how.
After a while, Norah, nestling like a little bird in the dark, saidsoftly, 'Do you mind sitting without the lamp?' and Ned answered, 'No.'They sat down together, holding each other's hands; they were not afraidof the dark. They poured out their hearts to each other. All hissorrows, all his difficulties, Ned poured into Norah's sympatheticbosom; and she cried, and he consoled her; and she patted his hand orhis sleeve, and said, 'Poor boy! Poor, dear Ned!' It was not much. Shehad no advice to give him, not many words of wisdom; but what she didsay was as healing as the leaves of that tree in Paradise. Her touchstanched all his wounds.
'I have something to tell you too,' she said, trembling a little, whenall his tale had been told. 'Ned, you have heard of poor papa, my father,who died before we came here? Oh, Ned! listen. Stoop down, and let mewhisper. Ned, he did not die--'
'Norah!'
'Hush. Yes; it is quite true. Oh, don't be frightened. I can't helpbeing frightened staying here alone. Mamma went to him yesterday. Oh,Ned! after seven years! Was there ever anything so strange?'
'Poor Mrs Drummond!' said Ned. 'Oh, Norah, thank God; my father has notdone so much harm as I thought. Are you all alone, my own darling? Isuppose she was happy to go.'
He said this with a strange accent of blame in his voice. 'For her ownselfish happiness she could leave Norah--my Norah--all alone!' This waswhat the young man, in his haste, thought.
'I think she was frightened too,' said Norah, under her breath. 'She didnot understand it. It is as if he had been really dead, and come aliveagain. Mamma did not say anything; but I know she was frightened too.'
'Norah, most likely he hates us. If he should try to keep you from me--'
'Oh, Ned, do you mean that this means anything? Do you think it isright? We are all in such trouble, not knowing what may happen. Do youmean,' said Norah, faltering and trembling, 'do you mean that thismeans--Is it--being engaged?'
'Doesn't it, dear? Oh, Norah, what could it mean else? You would neverhave the heart to cast me off now?'
'Cast you off! Oh, no, Ned! Oh, never, Ned! But then that is different.We are so dreadfully young. We have no money. We are in such trouble.Oh! do you think it is right?'
'It can't be wrong to be fond of each other, Norah; and you said youwere--a little.'
'Yes; oh, yes! Oh, Ned! do be satisfied. Isn't it enough for us to carefor each other--to be the very best, dearest friends?'
'It is not enough for me,' he said, turning his head aside, and speakingsternly in the dark.
'Isn't it, Ned?' said Norah timidly. 'Ned, I wish I could see your face.You are not angry? You poor, dear boy! Oh! you don't think I could havethe heart to cross you? and you in such trouble. Ned, what must we do?'
'You must promise me, Norah, on your true and faithful word, that youwill marry me as soon as we can, whatever anybody may say.'
Norah in her alarm seized at the saving clause which staved off allimmediate terrors.
'When we _can_, Ned.'
'Yes, my own darling. You promise? I shall not mind what happens if Ihave your promise--your faithful promise, Norah.'
'I promise you faithfully, Ned--faithfully, dear Ned!--when we can--ifit should not be for years.'
'But it shall be!' he cried; and then they kissed each other, poorchildren! and Norah was sitting by herself crying when Susan brought inthe lamp.