CHAPTER II.
It was a long time before it was fully understood in Dura what hadbecome of Ned. At first it was said he had gone on a visit, then that hehad joined some of his college friends in an expedition abroad; butbefore spring it began to be fully understood, though nobody could tellhow, that Ned had gone off from his home, and that though occasionalletters came from him, his family did not always know where he was, orwhat he was about. There was no distinct authority for this, but thewhole neighbourhood became gradually aware of it. The general idea wasthat he had gone away because Norah Drummond had refused him; and theconsequence was that Norah Drummond was looked upon with a certainmixture of disapproval and envy by the youthful community. The girlsfelt to their hearts the grandeur of her position. Some were angry,taking Ned's part, and declaring vehemently that she had 'led him on;'some were sympathetic, feeling that poor Norah was to be pitied for thetragical necessity of dismissing a lover; but all felt the prouddistinction she had acquired by thus driving a man (they did not sayboy) to despair. The boys, for the most part, condemned Ned as amuff--but in their hearts felt a certain pride in him, as proving thattheir side was still capable of a great act of decision and despair. Asfor Norah, when the news burst upon her, her kind little heart wasbroken. She cried till her pretty eyes were like an old woman's. Shegave herself a violent headache, and turned away from all consolation,and denounced herself as the wickedest and cruellest of beings. It wasnatural that Norah should believe it implicitly. After that scene in theRectory garden, when poor Ned, in his boyish passion, had half thrownthe responsibility of his life upon her shoulders, there had been otherscenes of a not unsimilar kind; and there was that last meeting at thedoor of the Gatehouse, when she had dismissed him so summarily. Oh, ifhe had only looked round, Norah thought; and she remembered, with apassing gleam of consolation, that she had intended to wave her hand tohim. 'What shall I do? Oh, what shall I do?' she said, 'if--anythingshould happen to him, mamma, I shall have killed him! If anybody callsme a murderess, I shall not have a word to say.'
'Not so bad as that, my darling,' Helen said, soothing her; but Helenherself was very deeply moved. This was the revenge, the punishment shehad dreamt of. By her means, whom he had injured so deeply, ReginaldBurton's only son had been driven away from him, and all his hopes andplans for his boy brought to a sudden end. It was revenge; but therevenge was not sweet. Christianity, heaven knows, has not done all forus which it might have done, but yet it has so far changed the theoriesof existence that the vague craving of the sufferer for punishment toits oppressors gives little gratification when it is fulfilled. Helenwas humbled to the dust with remorse and compunction for the passingthought, which could scarcely be called an intention, the momentary,visionary sense of triumph she had felt in her daughter's power (as shebelieved) to disturb all the plans of the others. Now that was donewhich it had given her a vague triumph to think of; and though her tearswere not so near the surface as Norah's, her shame and pain were deeper.And this was all the more the fact because she dared not express it. Aword of sympathy from her (she felt) would have looked like nothing somuch as the waving of a flag of triumph. And, besides, from Ned's ownfamily there came no word of complaint.
The Dura people put the very best face upon it possible. Mrs Burton, whohad never been known to show any emotion in her life, of course madenone of her feelings visible. Her husband declared that 'my young foolof a son' preferred amusing himself abroad to doing any work at home.Clara was the only one who betrayed herself. She assured Katie Dalton,in confidence, that she never could bear to see that hateful Norahagain--that she was sure it was all her fault. That Ned would never havelooked at her had not she done everything in her power to 'draw himon'--and then cast him off because somebody better worth having came inher way. Clara's indignation was sharp and vehement. It was edged withher own grievance, which she was not too proud to refer to in termswhich could not disguise her feelings. But she was the only one of herhouse who allowed that Ned's disappearance had any significance. Hismother said nothing at all on the subject even to her husband and herchild; but in reality it was the severest blow that fate had ever aimedat her. Her hopes for his 'career' toppled over like a house of cards.The Merewethers, astounded at the apology which had to be sent in replyto their invitation to Ned for Christmas, suddenly slackened in theirfriendship. Lady Florizel ceased to write to Clara, and the Marchionesssent no more notes, weighted with gilded coronets, to her dear MrsBurton. So far as that noble household was concerned, Ned's prospectshad come to an end. The son of so rich a man, future proprietor of Dura,might have been accepted had he been on the spot to press his suit; butthe Ladies Merewether were young and fair, and not so poor as to bepressed upon any one. So Lady Florizel and the parliamentary influencesunk into the background; and keenly to the intellectual machine, whichserved Mrs Burton instead of a heart, went the blow. This was themoment, she felt, in which Ned could have made himself 'safe,' anddisentangled himself from the fatal web which instinct told her herhusband was weaving about his feet. There was no confidence on businessmatters between Mr Burton and his wife; but a woman cannot be a man'sconstant companion for twenty years without divining him, andunderstanding, without the aid of words, something of what is going onin his mind. She had felt, even before Golden's arrival, a certainvague sense of difficulty and anxiety. His arrival made her sure of it.He had been abroad, withdrawn from the observation of English mercantilesociety for all these years; but his talents as the pilot of a ship,desperately making way through rocks and sandbanks, were sufficientlywell known; and his appearance was confirmation sure to Mrs Burton ofall her fears. Thus she felt in her reticent, silent breast that her boyhad thrown up his only chance. The son of the master of Dura could havedone so much--the son of a bankrupt could do nothing. He might havewithdrawn himself from all risk--established himself in a sureposition--had he taken her advice; and he had not taken it. It was thehardest personal blow she had ever received. It did not move her totears, as it would have done most women. She had not that outlet for hersorrow; but it disarranged the intellectual machinery for the moment,and made her feel incapable of more thinking or planning. Even hermotherhood had thus its anguish, probably as deep an anguish as she wascapable of feeling. She was balked once more--her labour was in vain,and her hopes in vain. She had more mind than all of her family puttogether, and she knew it; but here once more, as so often in herexperience, the fleshly part in which she was so weak overrode the mind,and brought its counsels to nought. It would be hard to estimate thekind and degree of suffering which such a conviction brought.
Time went on, however, as it always does; stole on, while people werethinking of other things, discussing Ned's disappearance and Norah'sremorse, and Mr Nicholas's hopes of a living, and Mary's trousseau. Whenthe first faint glimmer of the spring began, they had another thing totalk of, which was that Cyril Rivers had appeared on the scene again,often coming down from London to spend a day, and then so ingratiatinghimself with the Rectory people, and even with Nicholas, the bridegroomelect, that now and then he was asked to spend a night. This time,however, he was not invited to the great house; neither would MrsDrummond ask him, though he was constantly there. She was determinedthat nobody should say she drew him on this time, people said. But thefact was that Helen's heart was sick of the subject altogether, and thatshe would have gone out of her way to avoid any one who had beenconnected with the Burtons, or who might be supposed to minister to thatrevenge of which she was so bitterly ashamed. While Cyril Rivers wentand came to Dura village, Mr Golden became an equally frequent visitorat the House. The city men in the white villas had been filled withconsternation at the first sight of him; but latterly began to makestiff returns to his hearty morning salutations when he went up to townalong with them. It was so long ago; and nothing positively had beenproved against him; and it was hard, they said, to crush a manaltogether, who, possibly, was trying to amend his ways. Perhaps theywould have been less charitable had he been living anywh
ere else than atthe great house. Gradually, however, his presence became expected inDura; he was always there when there were guests or festivities goingon. And never had the Burtons been so gay. They seemed to celebratetheir son's departure by a double rush of dissipation. The idea of anytrouble being near so pleasant, so brilliant a place was ridiculous, andwhatever Mrs Burton's thoughts on the subject might have been, she saidnothing, but sent out her invitations, and assembled her guests with herusual calm. The Rectory people were constantly invited, and so indeedwere the Drummonds, though neither Norah nor her mother had the heart togo.
Things were in this gay and festive state when Mr Baldwin suddenly onemorning paid his daughter a visit. It was not one of his usual visits,accompanied by the two aunts, and the old man-servant and the two maids.These visits had grown rarer of late. Mrs Burton had so many guests, andof such rank, that to arrange the days for her father on which theminister of the chapel could be asked to dinner, and a plain jointprovided, grew more and more difficult; while the old people grew moreand more alarmed and indignant at the way Clara was going on. 'Her dressalone must cost a fortune,' her aunt Louisa said. 'And the boy broughtup as if he were a young Lord; and the girl never to touch a needle noran account-book in her life,' said Mrs Everest; and they all knew byexperience that to 'speak to' Clara was quite futile. 'She will take herown way, brother, whatever you say,' was the verdict of both; and MrBaldwin knew it was a true one. Nevertheless, there came a day when hefelt it was his duty to speak to Clara. 'I have something to say toHaldane; and something to arrange with the chapel managers,' he saidapologetically to his sisters; and went down all alone, in his blackcoat and his white tie with his hat very much on the back of his head,to his daughter's great house.
'I have got some business with Haldane and with the chapel managers,'he said, repeating his explanation; 'and I thought as I was here, Clara,I might as well come on and see you.'
'You are very welcome always, papa.'
'But I don't know if I shall be welcome to-day,' he went on, 'because Iwant to speak to you, Clara.'
'I know,' she said, with a faint smile, 'about our extravagance and allthat. It is of no use. I may as well say this to you at once. I cannotstop it if I would; and I don't know that I would stop it if I could.'
'Do you know,' he said, coming forward to her, and laying his hand onher shoulder; for though he wore his hat on the back of his head, andtook the chair at public meetings, he was a kind man, and loved his onlychild. Do you know, Clara, that in the City--you may despise the City,my dear, but it is all-important to your husband--do you know they sayBurton is going too fast? I wish I could contradict it, but I can't.They say he's in a bad way. They say----'
'Tell me everything, papa. I am quite able to bear it.'
'Well, my dear, I don't want to make you unhappy,' said Mr Baldwin,drawing a long breath, 'but people do begin to whisper, in thebest-informed circles, that he is very heavily involved.'
'Well?' she said looking up at him. She too drew a long breath, herface, perhaps, paled by the tenth of the tint. But her blue eyes lookedup undaunted, without a shadow in them. Her composure, her calmquestion, drove even Mr Baldwin, who was used to his daughter's ways,half out of himself.
'Well?' he cried. 'Clara, you must be mad. If this is so, what can youthink of yourself, who never try to restrain or to remedy?--who nevermade an attempt to retrench or save a penny? If your husband has eventhe slightest shadow of embarrassment in his business, is this great,splendid house, full of guests and entertainments, the way to help himthrough?'
'It is as good a way as any other,' she said, still looking at him.'Papa, you speak in ignorance of both him and me. I don't know hiscircumstances; he does not tell me. It is he that enjoys all this; notme. And if he really should be in danger, I suppose he thinks he hadbetter enjoy it as long as he can; and that is my idea too.'
'Enjoy it as long as he can! Spend other people's money in every kind offolly and extravagance!' cried Mr Baldwin aghast. 'Clara, you must bemad.'
'No, indeed,' she said quietly. 'I am very much in my senses. I knownothing about other people's money. I cannot control Mr Burton in hisbusiness, and he does not tell me. But don't suppose I have not thoughtthis all over. I have taken every circumstance into consideration, papa,and every possibility. If we should ever be ruined, we shall have plentyto bear when that comes. There is Clary to be taken into considerationtoo. If there were only two days between Mr Burton and bankruptcy Ishould give a ball on one of those days. Clary has a right to it. Thiswill be her only moment if what you say is true.'
To describe Mr Baldwin's consternation, his utter amazement, the eyeswith which he contemplated his child, would be beyond my power. He couldnot, as people say, believe his ears. It seemed to him as if he must bemistaken, and that her words must have some other meaning, which he didnot reach.
'Clara,' he said, faltering, 'you are beyond me. I hope you understandyourself--what--you mean. It is beyond me.'
'I understand it perfectly,' she said; and then, with a little change oftone, 'You understand, papa, that I would not speak so plainly to anyone but you. But to you I need not make any secret. If it comes to theworst, Clary and I--Ned has deserted us--will have enough to bear.'
'You will always have your settlement, my dear,' said her father, quitecowed and overcome, he could not tell why.
'Yes. I shall have my settlement,' she said calmly; 'but there will beenough to bear.'
It was rather a relief to the old man when Clary came in, before whomnothing more could be said. And he was glad to hurry off again, withsuch astonishment and pain in his heart as an honest couple might havefelt who had found a perverse fairy changeling in their child's cradle.He had thought that he knew his daughter. 'Clara has a cold exterior,'he had said times without number; 'but she has a warm heart.' Had she aheart at all? he asked himself; had she a conscience? What was she?--awoman or a----The old man could have stopped on the way and wept. He wasan honest old man, and a kind, but what kind of a strange being was thiswhom he had nourished so long in his heart? It was a relief to him toget among his chapel managers, and regulate their accounts; and then hetook Mr Truston, the minister, by the arm, and walked upon him. 'Comewith me and see Haldane,' he said. Mr Truston was the same man who hadwanted to be faithful to Stephen about the Magazine, but never hadventured upon it yet.
'I am afraid you are ill,' said the minister. 'Lean upon me. If you willcome to my house and take a glass of wine.'
'No, no; with my daughter so near I should never be a charge to thebrethren,' said Mr Baldwin. 'And so poor Haldane gets no better? It is aterrible burden upon the congregation in Ormond Road.'
'It must be indeed. I am sure they have been very kind; manycongregations----'
'Many congregations would have thrown off the burden utterly; and Iconfess since they have heard that he has published again, and has beenmaking money by his books----'
'Ah, yes; a literary man has such advantages,' said the minister with asigh.
He did not want to favour the congregation in Ormond Road to thedetriment of one of his own cloth; and at the same time it was hard togo against Mr Baldwin, the lay bishop of the denomination. In this waythey came to the Gatehouse. Stephen had his proofs before him, as usual;but the pile of manuscripts was of a different complexion. They were nolonger any pleasure to him. The work was still grateful, such as it was,and the power of doing something; but to spend his life recordingtea-meetings was hard. He raised his eyes to welcome his old friend witha certain doubt and almost alarm. He too knew that he was a burden uponthe congregation in Ormond Road.
'My dear fellow, my dear Stephen!' the old man said, very cordiallyshaking his hand, 'why you are looking quite strong. We shall have himdashing up to Ormond Road again, Mrs Haldane, and giving out his text,before we know where we are.'
Stephen shook his head, with such attempt at smiling as was possible. MrBaldwin, however, was not so much afraid of breaking bad news to him
ashe had been at the great house.
'It is high time you should,' he continued, rubbing his handscheerfully; 'for the friends are falling sadly off. We want you there,or somebody like you, Haldane. How we are to meet the expenses next yearis more than I can say.'
A dead silence followed. Miss Jane, who had been arranging Stephen'sbooks in the corner, stopped short to listen. Mrs Haldane put on herspectacles to hear the better; and poor Mr Truston, dragged withoutknowing it into the midst of such a scene, looked around him as ifbegging everybody's forbearance, and rubbed his hands faintly too.
'The fact is, my dear Haldane--it was but for five years--and now we'vecome to the end of the second five--and you have been making money byyour books, people say----'
It was some little time before Stephen could answer, his lips had grownso dry. 'I think--I know--what you mean,' he said.
'Yes. I am afraid that is how it must be. Not with my will--not with mywill,' said Mr Baldwin; 'but then you see people say you have beenmaking money by your books.'
'He has made sixteen pounds in two years,' said Miss Jane.
Stephen held up his hand hurriedly. 'I know how it must be,' he said.'Everybody's patience, of course, must give way at last.'
'Yes--that is just about how it is.'
There was very little more said. Mr Baldwin picked up his hat, which hehad put on the floor, and begged the minister to give him his arm again.He shook hands very affectionately with everybody; he gave them, as itwere, his blessing. They all bore it as people ought to bear a greatshock, with pale faces, without any profane levity. 'They take it verywell,' he said, as he went out. 'They are good people. Oh, my dearTruston, I don't know a greater sign of the difference between thechildren of this world and the children of the light than the way inwhich they receive a sudden blow.'
He had given two such blows within an hour; he had a right to speak. Andin both cases, different as was the mien of the sufferers, the blowitself had all the appearance of a _coup de gr?ce_. It had not occurredto Mr Baldwin, when he made that classification, that it was his ownchild whom he had taken as the type of the children of wrath. He thoughtof it in the railway, going home; and it troubled him. 'Poor Clara! herbrain must be affected,' he thought; he had never heard of anything soheathenish as her boldly-professed determination to give a ball, if needwas, on the eve of her husband's bankruptcy, and for the reason thatthey would have a right to it. It horrified him a great deal more thanif she had risked somebody else's money in trade and lost. Poor Clara!what might be coming upon her? But, anyhow, he reflected, she had hersettlement, and that she was a child of many prayers.
Mrs Burton said nothing of this stroke which had fallen upon her. Itmade her fears into certainty, and she took certain steps accordingly,but told nobody. In Stephen's room at the Gatehouse there was silence,too, all the weary afternoon. They had lost the half of their living ata blow. The disaster was too great, too sudden and overwhelming, to bespoken of; and to one of them, to him who was helpless and could donothing, it tasted like the very bitterness of death.