CHAPTER III.
Mrs Burton said nothing about her troubles to any one: she avoidedrather than sought confidential intercourse with her husband. She formedher plans and declined to receive any further information on thesubject. Her argument to herself was that no one could have any right tosuppose she knew. When the crash came, if come it must, she would beuniversally considered the first of the victims. The very fact of herentertainments and splendours would be so much evidence that she knewnothing about it--and indeed what did she know? her own fears andsuspicions, her father's hints of coming trouble--nothing more. Herhusband had never said a warning word to her which betrayed alarm oranxiety. She stood on the verge of the precipice, which she felt a moralcertainty was before her, and made her arrangements like a queen in theplenitude of her power. 'There will be enough to bear,' she repeated toherself. She called all the county about her in these spring monthsbefore people had as yet gone to town. She made Dura blaze with lightsand echo with music: she filled it full of guests. She made herentertainments on so grand a scale, that everything that had hithertobeen known there was thrown into the shade. The excitement, so far asexcitement could penetrate into her steady little soul, sustained andkept her up; or at least the occupation did, and the thousandarrangements, big and little, which were necessary. If her husband wasever tempted to seek her sympathy in these strange, wild, brilliant dayswhich passed like a dream--if the burden on his shoulders ever so bowedthe man down that he would have been glad to lean it upon hers, it isimpossible to say; he looked at her sometimes wondering what was in hermind; but he was not capable of understanding that clear, determinedintelligence. He thought she had got fairly into the whirl of maddissipation and enjoyed it. She was playing into his hands, she wasdoing the best that could be done to veil his tottering steps, anddivert public attention from his business misfortunes. He had no moreidea why she was doing it, or with what deliberate conscious steps shewas marching forward to meet ruin, than he had of any otherincomprehensible wonder in heaven or earth.
The Haldanes made no secret of the distress which had fallen upon them.It was a less loss than the cost of one of Mrs Burton's parties, but itwas unspeakable to them who had no way of replacing it. By one of thosestrange coincidences, however, which occur so often when good people aredriven to desperation, Stephen's publisher quite unexpectedly sent himin April a cheque for fifty pounds, the produce of his last book, a bookwhich he had called 'The Window,' and which was a kind of moral of hissummer life and thoughts. It was not, he himself thought, a very goodbook; it was a medley of fine things and poor things, not quite freefrom that personal twaddle which it is so difficult to keep out of aninvalid's or a recluse's view of human affairs. But then the Britishpublic is fond of personal twaddle, and like those bits best which theauthor was most doubtful about. It was a cheap little work, published byone of those firms which are known as religious publishers; and nothingcould be more unexpected, more fortunate, more consoling, than thisfifty pounds. Mrs Haldane, with a piety which, perhaps, was a littlecontemptuous of poor Stephen's powers, spoke of it, with tears in hereyes, as an answer to prayer; while Miss Jane, who was proud of herbrother, tried to apportion the credit, half to Providence and half toStephen; but anyhow it made up the lost allowance for the current year,and gave the poor souls time to breathe.
All this time the idea which had come into Dr Maurice's mind on the dayof the picnic in October had been slowly germinating. He was not a manwhose projects ripened quickly, and this was a project so delicate thatit took him a long time to get it fully matured, and to accustom himselfto it. It had come to full perfection in his mind when in the end ofApril Mrs Drummond received a letter from him, inviting Norah andherself to go to his house for a few days, to see the exhibitions andother shows which belong to that period of the year. This was aninvitation which thrilled Norah's soul within her. She was at a verycritical moment of her life. She had lost the honest young lover of herchildhood, the boy whose love and service had grown so habitual to herthat nobody but Norah knew how dreary the winter had been without him;and she was at present exposed to the full force of attentions much moreclose, much more subtle and skilful, but perhaps not so honest andfaithful. Norah had exchanged the devotion of a young man who loved heras his own soul, for the intoxicating homage of a man who was very muchin love with her, but who knew that his prospects would be deeplyinjured, and his position compromised, did he win the girl whom he wooedwith all the fascinations of a hero in a romance, and all thepersistency of a mind set upon having its own way. His whole soul wasset upon winning her; but what to do afterwards was not so clear, andRivers, like many another adventurer in love and in war, left the morrowto provide for itself. But Norah was very reluctant to be won.Sometimes, indeed, capitulation seemed very near at hand, but then herlively little temper would rise up again, or some hidden susceptibilitywould be touched, or the girl's independent soul would rise in armsagainst the thought of being subjugated like a young woman in a book bythis 'novel-hero!' What were his dark eyes, his speaking glances, hisskilful inference of a devotion above words, to her? Had not she readabout such wiles a thousand times? And was it not an understood rulethat the real hero, the true lover, the first of men, was never thisbewitching personage, but the plainer, ruder man in the background,with perhaps a big nose, who was not very lovely to look upon? Thesethoughts contended in Norah with the fascinations of him whom she beganto think of as the _contre-heros_. The invitation to London was doublywelcome to her, insomuch that it interrupted this current of thought andgave her something new to think about. She was fond of Dr Maurice: shehad not been in town since she was a child: she wanted to see the parksand the pictures, and all the stir and tumult of life. For all these sixyears, though Dura was so near town, the mother and daughter had neverbeen in London. And it looked so bright to Norah, bright with all theassociations of her childhood, and full of an interest which no otherplace could ever have in its associations with the terrible event whichended her childhood. 'You will go, mamma?' she said, wistfully readingthe letter a second time over her mother's shoulder. And Helen, who feltthe need of an interruption and something new to think of as much as herchild did, answered 'Yes.'
Dr Maurice was more excited about the approaching event than they were,though he had to take no thought about his wardrobe, and they had totake a great deal of thought; the question of Norah's frocks was nothingto his fussiness and agitation about the ladies' rooms and all thearrangements for their comfort. He invited an old aunt who lived near tocome and stay with him for the time of the Drummonds' visit, aprecaution which seemed to her, as it seems to me, quite unnecessary. Ido not think Helen would have had the least hesitation in going to hishouse at her age, though there had been no chaperon. It was he whowanted the chaperon: he was quite coy and bashful about the businessaltogether: and the old aunt, who was a sharp old lady, was not onlymuch amused, but had her suspicions aroused. In the afternoon, beforehis visitors arrived, he was particularly fidgety. 'If you want to goout, Henry, I will receive your guests,' the old lady said, not withouta chuckle of suppressed amusement; 'probably they will only arrive intime to get dressed before dinner. You may leave them to me.'
'You are very kind,' said the doctor, but he did not go away. He walkedfrom one end of the big drawing-room to the other, and looked at himselfin the mirror between the windows, and the mirror over the mantelpiece.And then he took up his position before the fireplace, where of coursethere was nothing but cut paper. 'How absurd are all the relationsbetween men and women,' he said, 'and how is it that I cannotask my friend's widow, a woman in middle life, to come to myhouse--without----'
'Without having me?' said the aunt. 'My dear Henry, I have told youbefore--I think you could. I have no patience with the freedom of thepresent day in respect to young people, but, so far as this goes, Ithink you are too particular--I am sure you could----'
'You must allow me to be the best judge, aunt, of a matter that concernsmyself,' said Dr Maurice, with gentle s
everity. 'I know very well whatwould happen: there would be all sorts of rumours and reports. Peoplemight not, perhaps, say there was anything absolutely wrong betweenus--Pray may I ask what you are laughing at?'
For the old lady had interrupted him by a low laugh, which it was beyondher power to keep in.
'Nothing, my dear, nothing,' she said, in a little alarm. 'I am sure Ibeg your pardon, Henry. I had no idea you were so sensitive. How old maythis lady be?'
'The question is not about this lady, my dear aunt,' he answered in thedogmatic impatient tone which was so unlike him, 'but about any lady. Itmight happen to be a comfort to me to have a housekeeper I could relyon. It would be a great pleasure to be able to contribute to thecomfort of Robert Drummond's family, poor fellow. But I dare not. I knowthe arrangement would no sooner be made than the world would say allsorts of things. How old is Mrs Drummond? She was under twenty when theywere married, I know--and poor Drummond was about my own age. That is,let me see, how long ago? Norah is about eighteen, between eighteen andnineteen. Her mother must be nearly, if not quite, forty, I shouldthink----'
'Then, my dear Henry----' began the old lady.
'Why, here they are!' he said, rushing to the window. But it was only acab next door, or over the way. He went back to his position with alittle flush upon his middle-aged countenance. 'My dear aunt,' heresumed, with a slight tremor in his voice, 'it is not a matter that canbe discussed, I assure you. I know what would happen; and I know thatpoor Helen--I mean Mrs Drummond--would never submit to anything thatwould compromise her as Norah's mother. Even if she were not verysensitive on her own account, as women generally are, as Norah's motherof course she requires to be doubly careful. And here am I, the oldestfriend they have, as fond of that child as if she were my own, andprevented by an absurd punctilio from taking them into my house, anddoing my best to make her happy! As I said before, the relations betweenmen and women are the most ridiculous things in the world.'
'But I do think, Henry, you make too much of the difficulties,' said theold aunt, busying herself with her work, and not venturing to say more.
'You must allow me to be the best judge,' he said, with a mixture ofirritation and superiority. 'You may know the gossip of thedrawing-rooms, which is bad enough, I don't doubt; but I know what _men_say.'
'Oh, then, indeed, my poor Henry,' said the old lady, with vivacity,eagerly seizing the opportunity to have one shot on her own side, 'I canonly pray, Good Lord deliver you; for everybody knows there never was abad piece of scandal yet, but it was a man that set it on foot.'
Aunt Mary thus had the last word, and retired with flying colours and invery high feather from the conflict; for at this moment the Drummondsarrived, and Dr Maurice rushed down-stairs to meet them. The old auntwas a personage very well worth knowing, though she has very little todo with this history, and it was with mingled curiosity and amusementthat she watched for the entrance of Mrs Drummond and her daughter. Itwould be a very wise step for him anyhow to marry, she thought. TheMaurice family were very well off, and there were not many youngoffshoots of the race to contend for the doctor's money. Was hecontemplating the idea of a wife young enough to be his daughter? or hadhe really the good sense to think of a woman about his own age? AuntMary, though she was a woman herself, and quite ready to stand up forher own side, considered Helen Drummond, under forty, as about his ownage, though he was over fifty. But as the question went through hermind, she shook her head. She knew a great many men who had made foolsof themselves by marrying, or wishing to marry, the girl young enough tobe their daughter; but the other class who had the good sense, &c., werevery rare indeed.
There was, however, very little light thrown upon the subject by AuntMary's observations that evening. Mrs Drummond was very grave, almostsad; for the associations of the house were all melancholy ones, and herlast visit to it came back very closely into her memory as she enteredone room--the great old gloomy dining-room--where Norah, a child, hadbeen placed by Dr Maurice's side at table on that memorable occasion,while she, unable even to make a pretence of eating, sat and looked on.She could not go back now into the state which her mind had been in onthat occasion. Everything was calmed and stilled, nay, chilled by thislong interval. She could think of her Robert without the sinking of theheart--the sense of hopeless loneliness--which had moved her then. Thewound had closed up: the blank, if it had not closed up, had acquiredall the calmness of a long-recognized fact. She had made up her mindlong since that the happiness which she could not then consent to partwith, was over for her. That is the great secret of what is calledresignation: to consent and agree that what you have been in the habitof calling happiness is done with; that you must be content to fill itsplace with something else, something less. Helen had come to this. Sheno longer looked for it--no longer thought of it. It was over for her,as her youth was over. Her heart was tried, not by active sorrow, but bya heavy sense of past pain; but that did not hinder her from taking herpart in the conversation--from smiling at Norah's sallies, at herenthusiasm, at all the height of her delight in the pleasure Dr Mauricepromised her. Norah was the principal figure in the scene. She wassurrounded on every side by that atmosphere of fond partiality in whichthe flowers of youth are most ready to unfold themselves. Dr Maurice waseven fonder than her mother, and more indulgent; for Helen had thejealous eye which marks imperfections, and that intolerant and sovereignlove which cannot put up with a flaw or a speck in those it cherishes.To Dr Maurice the specks and flaws were beauties. Norah led theconversation, was gay for every one, talked for every one. And the oldaunt laughed within herself, and shook her head: 'He cannot keep hiseyes off her; he cannot see anything but perfection in her,--but she isa mere excited child, and her mother is a beautiful woman,' said AuntMary to herself; 'man's taste and woman's, it is to be supposed, will bedifferent to the end of time.' But after she had made this observation,the old lady was struck by the caressing, fatherly ways of her nephewtowards this child. He would smooth her hair when he passed by her;would take her hand into his, unconsciously, and pat it; would lay hishand upon her shoulder; none of which things he would have ventured todo had he meant to present himself to Norah as her lover. He even kissedher cheek, when she said good-night, with uncontrollable fondness, yetunmistakable composure. What did the man mean?
He had sketched out a very pretty programme for them for their threedays. Next evening they were to go to the theatre; the next again, to anopera. Norah could not walk, she danced as she went up-stairs. 'The onlything is, will my dress do?' she said, as she hung about her mother inthe pretty fresh room, new-prepared, and hung with bright chintz, inwhich Mrs Drummond was lodged. Could it have been done on purpose? Forcertainly the other rooms in the house still retained their dark oldfurniture; dark-coloured, highly-polished mahogany, with deep red andgreen damask curtains--centuries old, as Norah thought. Mrs Drummond wassurprised, too, at the aspect of this room. She was more than surprised,she was almost offended, by the presence of the old aunt as chaperon.'Does the man think I am such a fool as to be afraid of him?' shewondered, with a frown and a smile, but gave herself up to Norah'spleasure, rejoicing to see that the theatre and the opera were strongenough to defeat for the moment and drive from the field both Cyril andNed. And the next day, and the next, passed like days of paradise toNorah. She drove about in Dr Maurice's carriage, and laughed at her owngrandeur, and enjoyed it. She called perpetually to her mother to noticeladies walking who were like themselves. 'That is what you and I shouldbe doing, if it were not for this old darling of a doctor! trudgingalong in the sun, getting hot and red----'
'But think, you little sybarite, that is what we shall be doingto-morrow,' cried Helen, half amused and half afraid.
'No, the day after to-morrow,' said Norah, 'and then it will bedelightful. We can look at the people in the carriages, and say, ”We areas good as you;--we looked down upon you yesterday.” And, mamma, we aregoing to the opera to-night!'
'You silly child,' Helen said. But to eyes th
at danced so, and cheeksthat glowed so, what could any mother say?
It was the after-piece after that opera, however, which was what neithermother nor daughter had calculated upon, but which, no doubt, was thespecial cause of their invitation, and of the new chintz in thebed-rooms, and of all the expense Dr Maurice had been at. Norah wastired when they got home. She had almost over-enjoyed herself. Shechatted so that no one could say a word. Her cheeks were blazing withexcitement. When the two elder people could get a hearing, they sent heroff to bed, though she protested she had not said half she had to say.'Save it up for to-morrow,' said Dr Maurice, 'and run off and putyourself to bed, or I shall have you ill on my hands. Mrs Drummond, sendher away.'
'Go, Norah, dear, you are tired,' said Helen.
Norah stood protesting, with her pretty white cloak hanging about her;her rose-ribbons a little in disorder; her eyes like two sunbeams. Howfondly her old friend looked at her; with what proud, tender, adoring,fatherly admiration! If Aunt Mary had not been away in bed, then atleast she must have divined. Dr Maurice lit her candle and took her tothe door. He stooped down suddenly to her ear and whispered, 'I havesomething to say to your mother.' Norah could not have explained thesensation that came over her. She grew chill to her very fingers' ends,and gave a wondering glance at him, then accepted the candle without aword, and went away. The wonder was still in her eyes when she gotup-stairs, and looked at herself in the glass. Instead of throwing offher cloak to see how she looked, as is a girl's first impulse, shestared blankly into the glass, and could see nothing but that surprise.What could he be going to talk about? What would her mother say?
Helen had risen to follow her daughter, but Dr Maurice came back, havingclosed the door carefully, and placed a chair for her. 'Mrs Drummond,can you give me ten minutes? I have something to say to you,' he said.
'Surely,' said Helen; and she took her seat, somewhat surprised; but nothalf so much surprised as Norah was, nor, indeed, so much as Dr Mauricewas, now that matters had finally come to a crisis, to find himself insuch an extraordinary position. Helen ran lightly over in her mind anumber of subjects on which he might be going to speak to her; but thereal subject never entered her thoughts. He did not sit down, though hehad given her a chair. He moved about uneasily in front of her, changinghis attitude a dozen times in a minute, and clearing his throat. 'He isgoing to offer me money for Norah,' was Helen's thought.
'Mrs Drummond,' he said--and his beginning confirmed her in her idea--'Iam not a--marrying man, as you know. I am--past the age--when men thinkof such things. I am on the shady side of fifty, though not very fargone; and you are--about forty, I suppose?'
'Thirty-nine,' said Helen, with more and more surprise, and yet with thenatural reluctance of a woman to have a year unjustly added to her age.
'Well, well, it is very much the same thing. I never was in love that Iknow of, at least not since;--and--and--that sort of thing, of course,is over for--you.'
'Dr Maurice, what do you mean?' cried Helen in dismay.
'Well, it is not very hard to guess,' he said doggedly. 'I mean that youare past the love-business, you know, and I--never came to it, so tospeak. Look here, Helen Drummond, why shouldn't you and I, if it comesto that--marry? If I durst do it I'd ask you to come and live here, andlet Norah be child to both of us, without any nonsense between you andme. But that can't be done, as you will easily perceive. Now, I am surewe could put up with one another as well as most people, and we have onestrong bond between us in Norah--and--I could give her everything shewishes for. I could and I would provide for her when I die. You are notone to want pretences made to you, or think much of a sacrifice for yourchild's sake. I am not so vain but to allow that it might be asacrifice--to us both.'
'Dr Maurice,' said Helen, half laughing, half sobbing, 'if this is ajoke----'
'Joke! am I in the way of making such jokes? Why, it has cost me sixmonths to think this joke out. There is no relaxation of the necessarybonds that I would not be ready to allow. You know the house and myposition, and everything I could offer. As for settlements, and allbusiness of that kind----'
'Hush,' she said. 'Stop!' She rose up and held out her hand to him.There were tears in her eyes; but there was also a smile on her face,and a blush which went and came as she spoke. 'Dr Maurice,' she said,'don't think I cannot appreciate the pure and true friendship for Robertand me----'
'Just so, just so!' he interposed, nodding his head; he put his otherhand on hers, and patted it as he had patted Norah's, but he did notagain look her in the face. The elderly bachelor had grown shy--he didnot know why; the most curious sensation, a feeling quite unknown to himwas creeping about the region of his heart.
'And the love for Norah----' resumed Helen.
'Just so, just so.'
'Which have made you think of this. But--but--but----' She stopped; shehad been running to the side of tears, when suddenly she changed hermind. 'But I think it is all a mistake! I am quite ready to come andstay with you, to keep house for you, to let you have Norah's company,when you like to ask us. I don't want any chaperon. Your poor, dear,good aunt! Dr Maurice,' cried Helen, her voice rising into a hystericallaugh, 'I assure you it is all a mistake.'
He let her hand drop out of his. He turned away from her with a shrug ofhis shoulders. He walked to the table and screwed up the moderator lamp,which had run down. Then he came back to his former position and said,'I am much more in the world than you are; you will permit me toconsider myself the best judge in this case. It is not a mistake. And Ihave no answer from you to my proposal as yet.'
Then Helen's strength gave way. The more serious view which she hadthrust from her, which she had rejected as too solemn, came back. Theblush vanished from her face, and so did the smile. 'You were hisfriend,' she said with quivering lips. 'You loved him as much as any onecould, except me. Have you forgotten you are speaking to--Robert'swife?'
'Good lord!' cried Dr Maurice with sudden terror; 'but he is dead.'
'Yes, he is dead; but I do not see what difference that makes; when awoman has once been a man's wife, she is so always. If there is anyother world at all, she must be so always. I hate the very name ofwidow!' cried Helen vehemently, with the tears glittering in her eyes.'I abhor it; I don't believe in it. I am his wife!'
Dr Maurice was a man who had always held himself to be invincible toromantic or high-flown feelings. But somehow he was startled by thisview of the question. It had not occurred to him before; for the momentit staggered him, so that he had to pause and think it over. Then hesaid, 'Nonsense!' abruptly. 'Mrs Drummond, I cannot think that such aview as this is worth a moment's consideration; it is against bothreason and common sense.'
She did not make any reply; she made a movement of her hand,deprecating, expostulating, but she would not say any more.
'And Scripture, too,' said Dr Maurice triumphantly, 'it is quite againstScripture.' Then he remembered that this was not simply an argument inwhich he was getting the better, but a most practical question. 'If itis disagreeable to you, it is a different matter,' he said; 'but I hadhoped, with all the allowances I was ready to make, and for Norah'ssake----'
'It is not disagreeable, Dr Maurice; it is simply impossible, and mustalways be so,' she said.
Then there was another silence, and the two stood opposite to eachother, not looking at each other, longing both for something to freethem. 'In that case I suppose there had better be no more words on thesubject,' he said, turning half away.
'Except thanks,' she cried; 'thanks for the most generous thoughts, thetruest friendship. I will never forget----'
'I do not know how far it was generous,' he said moodily, and he gotanother candle and lighted it for her, as he had done for Norah; 'andthe sooner you forget the better. Good night.'
Good night! When he looked round the vacant room a moment after, andfelt himself alone, it seemed to Dr Maurice as if he had been dreaming.He must have fallen down suddenly from some height or other--fallenheavi
ly and bruised himself, he thought--and so woke up out of an odddelusion quite unlike him, which had arisen he could not tell how. Itwas a very curious sensation. He felt sore and downcast, sadlydisappointed and humbled in his own conceit. It had not even occurred tohim that the matter might end in this way. He gave a long sigh, and saidaloud, 'Perhaps it is quite as well it has ended so. Probably we shouldnot have liked it had we tried it,' and then went up to his lonelychamber, hearing, as he thought, his step echo over all the vacanthouse. Yes, it was a vacant house. He had chosen that it should be yearsago, and yet the feeling now was dreary to him, and it would never beanything but vacant for all the rest of his life.